The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Out of my way,” the sailor who had started the fight snarled, glaring at Hawkwood; chunks of vomit still dripped from his tangled red beard.

  “Would you like me to kick you in the balls too?” Hawkwood swung his boot up, then instantly pulled back, the move a mere feint. But the sailor covered his groin with burly hands. Hawkwood grinned—a cocky grin in the face of overwhelming odds that made Jondralyn’s heart race with excitement and desire, not just for him, but for the just cause he fought for. The rush was more intoxicating than mead. She pulled her shortsword from under her cloak, Hawkwood’s training fresh in her mind. She wanted part of this fight against inequality. She wanted to feel power, too. With confidence, she strode through the bar toward the fight.

  The fire flared up as someone pulled away the body of the dead man. The tavern was aglow again, but silent. The air was rank with the odor of burnt flesh.

  “Let’s kill this Vallè lover too,” the red-haired man growled, and lunged bare-handed toward Hawkwood. Hawkwood thumped the sailor on the head with the flat of his blade and the man staggered. Bloodlust swelled up in the tavern, death firmly planted in the eyes of the rest of the mob. As one they rushed Hawkwood.

  Jondralyn leaped to his defense. The man nearest Hawkwood fell dead, face pulverized by Roguemoore’s spiked mace, his drawn sword clanking against the floor.

  “Stop this madness!” the dwarf roared. “I refuse to have my dinner interrupted by the squabbles of the degenerate!” His mace came back up fast, bloody, and poised for another blow. Jondralyn pulled up, stunned at the brutality of the sailor’s death. So close. She’d seen men slaughtered in the arena and not so much as blinked. But this fellow had just been standing right next to her. Her hooded cloak was splattered with his blood.

  The room was silent save for the wretched gurgles coming from the faceless man who now twitched on the wood-plank floor under the dwarf. Roguemoore’s attack had been blunt and fierce and far less intoxicating than Hawkwood’s smooth fighting. Jondralyn’s heart thundered.

  “Now a dwarf fights us?” the red-haired sailor growled. “I suppose a bloodsucking oghul will come a-traipsing in here next?” He still looked convinced that the remaining sailors could rout these interlopers who had ventured unwelcome into their tavern. Hawkwood, Roguemoore, and the injured Vallè held their weapons up, ready.

  Jondralyn felt the blood roar up within herself as she moved toward the bar and joined her companions and the injured Vallè, her sword wavering before the sailors too. Now they were four. Roguemoore grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly behind him.

  The hood fell from her face.

  A murmur ran through the crowd as someone muttered, “It’s her.” Someone else stated loudly, “Princess Jondralyn.” A somber mood struck the room as all came to realize who she was. The red-haired sailor looked green as he bowed. “Pardon, m’lady.”

  “No pardons will be granted tonight,” Jondralyn said. Mustering her courage, she shrugged the dwarf’s hand away and stepped forward, feeling every eye upon her. There was real danger here. There was a man with a brutally smashed face lying right in front of her. But her mother had taught her, Face all challenges. Never run away from them. Especially if you are in the right. “Seems this Vallè was accosted for no reason within my brother’s city,” she said.

  The injured fellow atop the bar held his hand over his right arm, blood welling from the wound. “Come down.” She sheathed her weapon and held forth her hand. “The way is safe now.” She helped him down.

  “Thank you.” The Vallè bent his knee to her and sat gingerly on a stool. There appeared to be a hint of mockery floating behind his luminous green eyes. Hawkwood handed him a rag, which he used to stanch the flow of blood from his wound.

  Jondralyn turned. Her eyes were now trained on the sailor. “Foreigners, even Vallè, are welcome in Amadon. They are free to go about their business, unmolested.”

  The red-haired sailor quivered in anger. “Two of my friends lay dead, one from the Vallè’s dagger and one from the dwarf’s mace. Blood Price must be paid. Even kin to royalty are not immune to Blood Price. Murder was committed here tonight.”

  “Blood Price?” She stepped dangerously within the reach of the sailor, but on purpose. “I think not.” She was used to most men cowering in her presence, intimidated by her looks alone—it was the one distinct advantage of being beautiful and tall. Her height and looks served her well. But more importantly, she wanted to intimidate this man with her station, confound him with the validity and virtue of her words, threaten him and show him she was not afraid. She had trained with Hawkwood for a year. She knew if it came to a sword fight, she could take him with ease. Plus Hawkwood, Roguemoore, and the Vallè fellow were behind her. The question was, could the four of them take on an entire tavern of angry sailors?

  She stared down the man before her. “You will treat all who enter this tavern as if they were royalty, be they Vallè, dwarf, or oghul, understood? Or do you dare question my authority?”

  Her gaze met that of Hawkwood. She could see the pride in his eyes at her words. She faced the rough patrons of the saloon a little taller now.

  The sailor looked for help amongst his friends. There were a few nods between the sailors. When the red-haired man turned back to her, a wide grin lit his face. “I challenge the Vallè to a pirates’ duel. Blood Price to make amends for the death of my comrades. That is how fairness is meted out.” A buzz of agreement traveled through the tavern.

  Pirates’ duel? Jondralyn had never heard of such a thing. She fought down a gust of anger at the sailor’s brashness. “Explain this pirates’ duel,” she demanded.

  The sailor only smiled at her, a rust-colored, toothy grin that rankled. She couldn’t fight her anger. “The Vallè is too injured for any duel.” She drew her sword a second time. The moment had come upon her so suddenly she was not quite aware of what she herself was even saying. “I shall fight you in his stead!”

  “Fight a woman!” the sailor sneered. There were guffaws and hoots from the onlookers. “I dare not kill the king’s sister. I will be a hunted man.”

  Roguemoore grabbed her arm again. “You do not know how to fight as they do.”

  The Vallè stood, pulling his dagger from the folds of his black leather armor, eyes trained on Jondralyn. “With all due respect, I can fight my own battles, thank you very much.” The entire room was staring at her now, waiting. She was shocked to her core by the look of cold anger now on the Vallè’s face. “It was kind of you to procure a duel on my behalf,” he said. “But now that you have, please stand aside. I fight my own battles, m’lady.” His words had a sharp, dangerous edge. His brow narrowed and he stared at her, eyes unwavering. The Vallè smiled, but it was an angry smile, dark green gaze fixed on her. The look the Vallè gave was startling, really, as though she had been playing with a harmless kitten that swiftly revealed it was a full-grown saber-toothed lion.

  “He’s right,” the red-haired sailor said. “The Vallè can fight his own battles.”

  “It’s settled then.” Roguemoore shoved himself between Jondralyn, the sailor, and the dark-haired Vallè, separating all three. “A pirates’ duel it is. Blood Price.”

  Jondralyn was swallowed up into the background as the crowd formed a circle and the two combatants prepared to fight. She couldn’t help but feel that something important had just happened here and she had missed it. Just moments ago, she had felt so sure of herself, felt the anger and the readiness for a fight burning within her, the power, and firmly believed in the justice behind it and her skill. Now she felt she’d just suffered a swift and humiliating defeat in the eyes of Roguemoore, and perhaps even Hawkwood. She’d made a mistake in letting the hood fall from her face and compounded it by acting a fool.

  Roguemoore tied a bar rag around the Vallè’s wounded arm and cinched it tight. The red-haired sailor removed a rope belt from around his waist and handed one end to the Vallè, who placed it in his mouth, clenching it betwe
en his teeth. The sailor placed the other end of the belt into his own mouth and stepped back until the rope was pulled taut between them. Roguemoore stepped away from the combatants and said to Jondralyn, “Witness the pirates’ duel and be glad you are not part of it.”

  “Ready?” the sailor growled between tightly clenched teeth, flipping his dagger from hand to hand, a gleam in his eyes. The Vallè nodded, but from shoulder to fingertip, his right arm was slick with blood and dangled near useless at his side. Still, he held his dagger low in that hand.

  “As they fight”—Roguemoore leaned toward her—“if one of them fails to keep the belt in his mouth, the other wins and gets free rein to finish the fight however he sees fit.” The dwarf drew his hand across his own throat. “Quick and easy, otherwise they hack away at each other with that belt stretched between them and nowhere to retreat. If the Vallè’s got any fight left in him, they’ll both be hacked to ribbons. And that’s a bloody long and painful way to die. Be glad this fellow likes to fight his own battles.”

  Jondralyn could feel her face flush. She’d never admit it, but indeed, this pirates’ duel was beyond anything Hawkwood had taught her. She could see no honor in it.

  It started quickly. The sailor lunged, his dagger looping out in a wild arc. The Vallè danced aside. The crowd urged the sailor on. He swung again. The Vallè ducked and the blade whistled over his head. The Vallè swung, wincing visibly in pain. The sailor laughed through clenched teeth, jerking away from the Vallè with force, thrashing his head around, yanking violently on the belt. The much bigger sailor effortlessly whipped the Vallè about. Yet the lithe fellow managed to keep his feet, managed to hold fast to the belt with his teeth, his neck straining with the effort.

  Seeing he couldn’t shake his foe from the belt, the sailor stabbed out again. The Vallè leaped aside, swinging his own weapon, but to no avail; his swing fell woefully wide. The injured right arm was clearly hampering the Vallè’s fight. He was panting for breath, all limbs dragging. As the two fighters circled each other, rope belt taut between them, Jondralyn could see triumph in the sailor’s eyes and weariness in the Vallè’s.

  Another lunge by the sailor caught the Vallè by surprise. The dagger slammed into his already wounded shoulder with a meaty smack just above the bloody rag, and he folded to his knees. The sailor waggled the blade in the wound before jerking it free and striking again, aiming for the Vallè’s throat this time. But the Vallè jerked back and the blade plowed a shallow furrow into the black leather armor covering his chest. The sailor stabbed out again, nicking the Vallè’s armor a second time. The Vallè, still on his knees, swung in response, his blade scarcely rising above waist level. The Vallè’s attack was so slow and awkward the sailor easily clubbed the dagger from the Vallè’s hand. The weapon spun to the floor with a twang and skittered under a nearby table.

  “Pick it up and fight,” the red-haired man snarled, rope still clenched in his teeth. He kicked the dagger toward the Vallè, who scooped it up. As he slowly stood, the Vallè now gripped the blade firmly in his left, uninjured hand.

  Then the Vallè grinned, eyes now icy and sharp with a killer’s keenness. Any trace of weariness had instantly vanished. With a flick of his left arm, he lashed out, and a ribbon of blood opened up along the sailor’s forehead. A startled gasp rippled through the crowd. The Vallè no longer moved like one injured, sluggish and slow. There was now a bounce in his step, and his eyes burned with bright vigor. His left hand holding the knife flitted around in a blur, shaving a swatch from the sailor’s beard clear to the skin. With another flicker of the blade a second chunk of hair was gone, and another, and another. Soon the sailor stood stock-still, not even trying to duck the blows, blinking wild and nervous. He went quite pale, realizing his death was nigh.

  The Vallè planted the dagger straight into the sailor’s ear hole, burying it to the hilt. When he yanked the blade free, blood spurted from the sailor’s head and nostrils, splattering a nearby serving wench. An expression of astonished horror was on the man’s face as he crumpled to the floor, dead.

  “It’s over!” Roguemoore leaped to the Vallè’s side, his mace at the ready. “He won the duel fairly, we all saw. Blood Price is paid.”

  The dwarf led the Vallè through the tavern, shoving his way through the crowd and out the door into the dark street. Jondralyn followed, Hawkwood retrieving the Vallè’s cloak. Soon they were all hustling from the Filthy Horse through the cool night. Amadon Bay, a choppy glitter just a stone’s throw away, could be seen between the Filthy Horse and its neighboring, staggered buildings. The masts of many ships rose up just beyond. The Vallè stumbled and leaned into Hawkwood for help.

  “We must make haste,” Roguemoore said. “Just because it was a fair fight doesn’t mean they don’t still wish to thrash us. We’ve got to get him to the castle and properly dress these wounds before he bleeds to death.”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to haul him to the castle?” Jondralyn asked. “He hasn’t even told us who he is.” She looked at Hawkwood. “Trust no one, right?” Then she recognized her own hypocrisy. Now she was being the suspicious one.

  “Good idea or not, we take him to the castle,” Roguemoore said. “We owe him at least that. Of all of us, you owe him the most, Jon.”

  Despite all the abuses Jovan had heaped upon her over the years, there were few times in her life when Jondralyn had felt less significant and more foolish than now.

  She hurried her pace and stepped in front of the injured Vallè. “Who are you?” she demanded. “You are welcome in my family’s castle, but I must know who you are.”

  The Vallè hung his head. Blood flowed freely from his injuries, and his large eyes were fogging over. “I fear I’ve fouled up my own plans and become fatally wounded here. I do admit I need help with these injuries.”

  “What is your name?”

  When the Vallè answered, his eyes never wavered from her. “I hail from the Val Vallè village of Vitali. I have come to Amadon to find Val-Korin’s daughter Breita. We were to be betrothed. Yet I have not seen her in five years. My name is Val-Draekin.”

  “An inauspicious name.” Roguemoore’s thick brows furrowed. Then he let out a big, hearty guffaw. “Breita, huh? Foolish behavior becomes the heart. But you will be sorry to hear, lad, that Breita did not return with her sister, Seita. She is not at court.”

  The Vallè smiled weakly. “That is what I feared. Perhaps Val-Korin can tell me where she went. Where she’s been. I am most desirous to know.”

  “Perhaps you’re telling the truth. But what if we had not come to your rescue?”

  “Had you not come to my rescue, dwarf, many questions would have been answered for me.” Val-Draekin met the dwarf’s gaze, unflinching. “And then I would’ve been forced to kill every sailor in there, I suppose.”

  “And then you’d have been thrown into the dungeons under the Hall of the Dayknights for the effort. Most likely.”

  “Not even Purgatory can hold me long.”

  Roguemoore laughed. “I’m beginning to like you. You remind me of Hawkwood. Life’s a game to the likes of you two.” But the laughter quickly drained from his face, as if he could mask his irritation no longer. “No. All is a ruse with the likes of you two.”

  “You misunderstand my motives, dwarf,” the Vallè said. “I realize I’ve caused much trouble for you tonight. I promise to repay your kindness.”

  “It’s more like those sailors from the tavern will repay us,” the dwarf said, shaking the Vallè’s cloak. The pockets jangled with coin. “Now, what is your real purpose in coming to Amadon?”

  The Vallè gingerly reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled forth a gold coin, handing it to Roguemoore. “This should assure you of my true purpose, dwarf.”

  The dwarf looked the coin over and fixed his cold eyes upon the Vallè. “Borden was wise when he chose you. Laijon save us. Be it ill fate or Mia’s fortune that has brought you to us, Val-Draekin, Laijon save us.”

/>   Frustrated, not understanding much of what the two were going on about, Jondralyn pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and cinched it tight around her neck. Her hands came away slick with blood—splattered blood from the sailor’s head Roguemoore had earlier smashed. She unhooked the cloak and tossed it away into the gutter and followed Hawkwood, Val-Draekin, and the dwarf back to the castle.

  * * *

  As with the fairy and fey creatures of the Firstlands, man is commanded to consider the Vallè of the Five Isles an indolent race full of mischief and guile. Some claim the Vallè are like unto witches that can pull at a man’s will and read a man’s mind. Some say a Vallè maiden of royal blood can foretell signs and prophesy the future. But who would dare believe such foolishness?

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  NAIL

  17TH DAY OF THE SHROUDED MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  GALLOWS HAVEN, GUL KANA

  Come.” Shawcroft beckoned. “There’s something you need to see.” His face disappeared as he let the cabin door swing shut.

  Nail rose from his bed of straw in the loft, grabbed his sword from under his pillow, and descended the ladder to the bare stone floor. There was one window to the left of the door and another window in the loft where Nail slept under a deer-hide blanket. Both windows were covered in oilcloth. A brazier filled with coal, its smoke drifting to the thatched roof above, sat by the cupboards near the door. Shawcroft’s bed was under the loft and framed in logs, upon which lay blankets of silver-wolf fur and elk hide.

  The first thing Nail noticed when he stepped out of the cabin was the bonfire raging in a clearing just beyond the corral. Its glow illuminated the yard in an orange haze. He’d heard his master hacking away at deadfall in the woods earlier that evening. The man had since piled the wood and set it ablaze. Despite the nearby fire, it was a cool evening. Nail was glad for his shirt and woolen breeches.