The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Their one-room log cabin sat in the foothills above Gallows Haven in a small meadow between rolling mounds of grass and aspen and was made of pine logs and covered with shingles of cut cedar. Outside were two small sheds filled with mining tools. An apple orchard and a garden were situated on either side of the cabin. A corral where Shawcroft kept Lilly and Bedford Boy was behind the cabin. In the trees above the corral was a small wood-and-wire-framed cage where Shawcroft kept two carrier falcons.

  Nail’s master held one of the falcons atop an arm gauntlet of black polished leather. Shawcroft opened a satchel slung at his hip. Made of dark-umber leather, the satchel had a flap that wrapped over the top and buckled on the side. The curving scrollwork inlays stamped into the leather were of a strange design. Many a time Nail had run across Shawcroft hunkered under a tree or lazing near a stream, studying the books and scrolls he kept in the satchel. Now Shawcroft sprinkled some gold dust in a tiny pouch, then tied it, along with a tube in which a rolled note had just been inserted, to the leg of the falcon. The bird, flecks of yellow and ebony in its plumage, fixed amber eyes on Nail.

  “She knows what lies at our feet,” Shawcroft said. “She’s spooked.”

  It was then that Nail noticed the rolled-up elk hide on the ground. It was tied with rope on either end and looked larger and heftier than any hide Nail had seen before. Something moved within it. He took a step back, gripping his sword. His eyes flew to Shawcroft questioningly. The man whistled and the falcon took flight and soared away eastward. The sun was going down and the falcon disappeared into the last streaks of sunlight carving through the jagged peaks of the Autumn Range.

  Nail marched forward and kicked the elk hide, then prodded it with the tip of his sword. “Don’t do that,” Shawcroft said sternly, pulling him away.

  “Something in there moved. What is it?”

  But the sound of a heavy horse clomping hollowly up the path behind them stole their attention. Shawcroft bade Nail follow as he made for the approaching steed. Nail was half expecting to see a horse with red-glowing eyes appear out of the dusky night air. He gripped his sword, feeling the cold reassurance of the blade. But the mount was a familiar dapple-gray draught mare, its mane braided with ribbons of white. Its broad chest and powerful hindquarters glistened in the firelight. Baron Jubal Bruk sat tall upon it. He wore his sword with the black opal–inlaid pommel at his side. Nail’s heart thumped with anticipation, the sword in his right hand forgotten, left hand nervously caressing Ava’s turtle carving, which lay under his shirt against his thudding chest.

  “I’ve come to ask permission to employ your ward.” The baron’s voice cut through the stillness of the night as he reined his stout mare up before them.

  “Nail stays with me.” Shawcroft’s answer was quick in coming.

  At his master’s casual dismissal of the baron’s offer, rage blossomed in Nail’s heart. “Do I get a say in this?” He looked at Shawcroft accusingly.

  “You do not,” the man answered.

  Jubal looked at Shawcroft. “Nail deserves more than the pointless toil you offer.”

  “Even so, he stays with me.”

  The baron sat up straighter in his saddle. “There’s been talk of a dark-cloaked stranger on a curious-looking charger seen about town.”

  Shawcroft met the other man’s gaze without speaking.

  Jubal Bruk leaned and spat on the ground. “Curse you, Shawcroft. Have you brought danger to Gallows Haven? Don’t think I cannot tell who your ward resembles. Nail bears their look about him. Don’t forget, I fought in Wyn Darrè at Borden’s side. I know what I saw there, who I saw there.”

  I look like who? Nail felt his whole body shiver as if he’d just crawled out of an icy river. I look like who?

  “You fought at Borden’s side?” Shawcroft said coldly. “Or did you run like Jovan and Leif Chaparral?”

  “Unlike you, Shawcroft, I’ve seen war. I haven’t been wasting my days away digging for treasures that don’t exist. Need I remind you of your duties as an—”

  “You know naught of my duties,” Shawcroft cut him off.

  “The dwarf has seduced your brain with goddess worship and relic digging, as he’s done with Squireck Van Hester, as he now does with Princess Jondralyn. As he did with your brother.”

  “Roguemoore is the only one with a reasonable plan for fighting off the Sør Sevier invasion, while King Jovan does nothing.”

  “Nonsense!” the baron shouted. His horse skittered to the side. He gained control of the dapple gray and reined around. “What would help against the Sør Sevier invasion is if Ser Roderic Raybourne was to cease his treasure seeking and teach these Gallows Haven conscripts what sword craft he knows.”

  Ser Roderic Raybourne? Nail looked at his master.

  “That’s right, Nail, how much do you really know of ‘Shawcroft’?” Baron Bruk snarled Shawcroft’s name this time as if he loathed hearing it even pass through his lips. Nail was startled at the venom in the baron’s next words. “To think Borden Bronachell trusted so much to a traitor like you. I should behead you myself here and now.” The baron threw back his hood and drew his sword—the weapon threw shards of orange from the light of the nearby bonfire. His dapple gray neighed and took a few steps back.

  “Our disagreement need not come to blows.” Shawcroft’s voice commanded the night as he stepped toward the baron’s horse. He grabbed the reins near the mare’s jaw and pulled the animal’s head straight to the ground. As Baron Bruk tumbled forward, Shawcroft snatched the sword from the man’s grasp. The baron hit the ground with a clatter. Shawcroft calmed the dapple gray with a soft word in its ear. The draught mare knelt there, head pressed to the turf for just a moment before Shawcroft let go its reins. The horse jerked upright and galloped down the path.

  Nail found it hard to believe, but in one fluid motion his master had brought the thick-necked mare to her knees and disarmed the baron. How well do I really know him?

  Sputtering, the baron scrambled to his feet. “Perhaps you forgot, Ser Roderic, I was once a Dayknight too. I am not impressed by your tricks.”

  “A good Dayknight would’ve been ready for my tricks.” Shawcroft threw the sword down at Jubal’s feet. “And you were hardly a good Dayknight, Jubal.”

  “At least I was discharged with honor.” The baron’s voice had lost its edge and was bordering on a whimper now. Still, he snatched his sword and held it out, steady, poised to strike at Shawcroft, who was unarmed. “At least I was given lands and title and a ship.”

  “And with those lands, orders to spy on me.”

  “Jovan knows of the Brethren of Mia. He knows of your heretical beliefs.”

  “This is a battle you cannot win,” Shawcroft said, seemingly unconcerned with Baron Bruk’s weapon. “If you swing that sword, I will kill you. And what purpose would that serve the village? They need your training. Don’t waste your life because of our differing views. Don’t find so much offense in Roguemoore and his followers. The dwarf made many promises to Borden, as did we all. The vagaries of The Way and Truth of Laijon have always been a problem between some. We in the Brethren of Mia, what we do, what we seek, are none of your concern.” He turned away and dusted his hands.

  Baron Bruk pointed his sword at Shawcroft’s back. “I only want you to fulfill your duties as a former Dayknight and help these boys learn to fight. Aeros Raijael is aiming for Gul Kana! These young men are under my charge. I must train all of them. Including Nail. That alone should make you see things as I do.”

  “Nail is no longer your concern.” Shawcroft turned toward the baron. “I will train him myself.”

  “Will you, Ser Roderic?” Baron Bruk snarled. “You treat Nail with an indifference bordering on contempt. You’re not half the man your brother was. A real warrior was King Torrence. He would have raised Nail proper.” The baron sheathed his sword. “Do what you want, Shawcroft. But as a sworn Dayknight, it’s my duty to help train these young men, Nail included. I will expect him on my
training field with every other boy in Gallows Haven.” With that, Baron Bruk trudged down the path toward his horse. And with him went Nail’s chance to join the grayken-hunting crew.

  “Fellow’s had a bug up his arse ever since we arrived in Gallows Haven,” Shawcroft muttered. “He is hot-blooded and far too quick to anger. He is no leader of men.”

  Resentment and confusion grew within Nail. “He called you Ser Roderic. What did he mean? He talked of King Borden Bronachell. Isn’t he dead? Who are you?”

  “We’ve more important issues at hand,” Shawcroft said. “I’ve something you need to see.” He led Nail back to the cabin, stopping short of the bonfire near the rolled-up elk hide. “Help me untie it,” Shawcroft ordered.

  He’ll never answer any question I ask. Nail, not in the mood to do anything his master wanted, scowled. Still, he jammed his sword into the dirt and reluctantly knelt before the tanned hide. It took some work, but he loosened the rope, pulling it free. Shawcroft threw back the flaps of stiff hide. Hidden within was a person. Nail scrambled back in fear.

  It was the shadow from his nightmares. The Vallè rider on the trail!

  He could tell it was her from the black leather armor, pale young face, and astonishing silken hair. Her eyes opened, almond-shaped green pupils darting between Shawcroft and Nail. There was not a hint of fear in those cold jade orbs. Her mouth was bound and gagged with a bloody gray rag. A thick-twined rope was spiraled tight around her body from head to toe, keeping her secure. There was an arrow jutting from the top of her shoulder, most of its shaft buried straight down deep in her leather-clad body, the side of her head almost resting against its blue-feathered top. Another arrow was lodged in her chest, its shaft bloodied and broken off a few inches above her black leather armor. Even injured, there was a serene beauty to this creature that left Nail breathless. Where’s her demon-eyed steed? Nail looked around frantically.

  “A Vallè Bloodwood,” Shawcroft hissed. “Black Dugal’s Caste is long reaching if he’s trained a Vallè. Some prophecies are coming to fruition, Nail. There are things you may see and hear tonight you best keep to yourself.”

  Nail stepped up to the elk hide. In the light of the nearby bonfire, he could detect a hint of pointed ears under the silvery nest of the Vallè woman’s hair. He recalled her words to him on the trail. You are not of my blood. Still, they will be coming for you.

  “Her daggers,” Shawcroft said, “her cloak, all of it I left with her horse, dead and rotting at the bottom of that old elk trap we dug years ago.” A hint of pain filled the Vallè woman’s eyes as Shawcroft touched the broken shaft of the arrow lodged in her chest. “Luck and fortune that I was able to capture her at all. One does not simply catch a Bloodwood. Foul demon-spawned filth.” Anger flared in her pain-drenched countenance.

  “Still, a Bloodwood can be killed.” Shawcroft pulled the small boning knife he used on salmon and muskrat from his belt and knelt at the Vallè woman’s side. “They’re not invincible.” He cut through the gray rag tied over her mouth. “I’ve killed them before.”

  “Killed them before?” Nail’s heart was beating a little faster now.

  “I doubt I can get her to talk.” Shawcroft pushed the hair away from the Vallè woman’s face and placed the blade of the knife to one of her ears. “But I aim to try.” The Vallè woman’s eyes changed from angry to fearful. And with that fear Nail realized how young she was, perhaps not much older than he.

  “Ears are the one thing that makes a Vallè a Vallè.” Shawcroft pressed the edge of the boning knife against her flesh, pushing. “Tell me your name and you can keep yours.”

  The Vallè woman said nothing as Shawcroft pressed down with the knife. Dark redness welled from under the blade and soaked downward into her white hair as she struggled against her bonds, trying to pull away from the pain. From the rapid rise and fall of the leather armor, Nail could see she was panicking now.

  “Stop!” he shouted, never imagining Shawcroft capable of such cruelness. In a lifetime spent with the man, he’d never seen such brutality. “Leave her alone!”

  Nail lunged for the knife. But in a flash, Shawcroft tossed the blade aside. Nail felt his arms instantly pinned to his chest as his master picked him up in a barrel hug and then dashed him straight to the ground. Air whooshed from his lungs as he hit hard. Dazed, he tried to stand. The old man was stronger than he would have ever imagined.

  “We must see this through, boy!” Shawcroft roared, eyes ablaze. “This creature before us is pure evil, a Bloodwood, deadly and fierce. She must not be allowed to live.”

  Nail lunged at Shawcroft’s legs and they both hit the ground. As they wrestled in the dirt, the rage against the world’s many injustices boiled within Nail’s heart, feeding him. Shawcroft had denied him his due on Baron Bruk’s ship. Now the man was going to mutilate a Vallè woman for no reason. Nail drew strength from his anger and pinned the man to the ground underneath him. But Shawcroft threw him off and stood. Nail rose to engage him again, only to be met by a hard slap to the face that sent him reeling against the cabin, head throbbing as he slid to the ground, vision blurred.

  “Bloodwood assassins have hunted us your entire life, boy!” Shawcroft hauled him to his feet and forced him to his knees beside the Vallè woman. His hand on the back of Nail’s head, he made his ward look. Her eyes were wide as she stared back at him. Blood swelled from the cut under her ear and pooled under her hair. Dazed, Nail could feel his own warm blood trickle from the lip his master had split. Shawcroft had never struck him before. That was shocking enough, but it was the man’s words that had their effect. Bloodwood assassins have hunted us your entire life, boy! His head pounded. It felt as if the back of his skull had been caved in. His chest felt on fire—the same feeling, he imagined, as when Dokie Liddle had been struck by lightning. Agony coursed through his body, and his lungs felt raw, mouth parched. As Shawcroft’s words churned over and over in his head, the inside of his skull began spinning with unholy images he’d thought long forgotten: fiery forms of the nameless beasts of the underworld, mermaids in the deep, red eyes and red-glowing symbols, a pale-haired girl on a white stallion, her hand a metal claw.

  There was danger here. Is this Vallè Bloodwood evil? Nail felt his entire body grow slack in Shawcroft’s hands. He slumped against his master in exhaustion, head swooning, aching.

  “Has the fight gone out of you yet?” Shawcroft released his grip on the back of Nail’s neck.

  “Why torture her?’ Nail breathed heavily, face beading with sweat as he fell forward to the ground, struggling to rise and giving up.

  “You are right.” Shawcroft’s voice was strained, growing hazy and seemingly distant. “She will never divulge her secrets. And we must set off for the abbey and Bishop Godwyn soon. It’s only by chance this Bloodwood lies at our feet. Who knows what information she’s gathered? There are some who wish this farce to be over.” Deep breaths filled his lungs. “I too wish this farce to be over. It has cost me dearly and has gone on too long. There are some who still wish you dead.”

  Face pressed sideways in the dirt, Nail felt his heart plunge to the depths of his gut. It was all hazy, though. Shawcroft was speaking of him, and people who wanted him dead! He couldn’t move. The slap from Shawcroft. The blow he’d taken to the back of the head when he’d struck the cabin. Both had rendered him immobile, nauseous. He couldn’t even sit up and ask the questions he wanted to ask.

  Nail bears their look about him, Baron Bruk had said earlier.

  As he rose up and looked at the Vallè woman next to him, Nail realized much had been opened up to him now. Yet at the same time, more questions arose. We must set off for the abbey and Bishop Godwyn soon. Bishop Godwyn was the old hermit who tended to the Swithen Wells Trail Abbey high in the Autumn Range. Feeling hollow, sick, Nail knew he should pose more questions to Shawcroft, but it would likely get him nowhere, and then the man’s lips would become even more tightly sealed. Why was Shawcroft doing this? Why was he taking c
are of me at all? Or is he taking care of me? Perhaps he is keeping me from the family I never knew? Or perhaps it is the Vallè woman wrapped in the elk hide who knows my true parentage!

  “I daresay I’ve lost more to Black Dugal and his Caste of Bloodwoods than any man alive.” Shawcroft jerked the white arrow lodged in the Vallè woman’s shoulder straight out. Her mouth opened in silent agony as the arrow’s barbed tip pulled strands of muscle and sinew from her wound. Dark blood blossomed and gushed. The barbed arrow had severed an artery in its removal. Shawcroft left the broken arrow in her leather-armored chest. He then folded the stiff elk hide back over the Vallè woman’s bound body, lifted her up, and carried her straight to the bonfire and tossed her in.

  Nail sat there on the ground and watched him do it—watched her burn.

  Before he passed out completely and remembered no more, he heard the Vallè woman’s screams above the crackling of the flames.

  * * *

  For the sword of Raijael is bathed in heaven. There are some sins unforgivable in the eyes of Raijael. Grace is not sufficient. Only by the shedding of one’s own blood can forgiveness be attained. ’Tis only by the Chivalric Rule of Blood Penance that one’s station can be restored at the side of Raijael.

  —THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL

  * * *

  CHAPTER TEN

  GAULT AULBREK

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

  AELATHIA PLAINS, WYN DARRÉ

  The storm was one of those quiet hammerings, the snow so thick it felt as if the cloudy sky might cave in under the burden. But the heavy squall had mostly passed over them now. Gault and Beau Stabler lingered near the fire, awaiting their turn at watch. Gault’s destrier, Spirit, tied in the birches behind them, nickered in the cold. Shine, Slaughter, and Battle-Ax, the white Archaic stallions belonging to Stabler, Spades, and Hammerfiss respectively, stared out into the snowy darkness beyond the camp.