The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “You expect us to enter that lord-forsaken tavern?” Glade’s voice threw off a hollow twang from under his helm. “We’re likely to get skewered and ate alive in such an unholy dive. I hear sailors are grumpier than bloodsucking oghuls early in the morning.”

  Lindholf removed his helm. His corn-colored hair stuck out in matted, sweaty clumps. He breathed in deeply, as if the helmet had been suffocating him. “I also hear a drunken sailor would just as soon cut your throat as piss on you.”

  “Put your helm back on,” Glade said. “The sailors might rape your skinny arse is what they might do.”

  Lindholf jammed the helm back over his head. “I can’t rightly breathe in this damn thing. Or see, for that matter. Some deranged pirate could come creeping up on me from the side and I’d never know it.”

  “Even if you could see him creeping up on you, there’s not much you could do to stop him, you fumble-footed layabout.”

  “And I suppose you think you could best a pirate with a sword?” Lindholf said. “You’re not the fighter Hawkwood is. Nor could you best Seita, either.”

  “Aye, Seita,” Glade said. “That’s some wild cunny there.”

  Lindholf laughed. “I wager those nimble hands of hers could work miracles under the sheets.”

  “Can we not talk of such things?” Tala said, irritated. “Let’s just go into the tavern and deliver the message.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a dirt-crusted urchin of about five ran up and stood before her. The stick-thin boy wore naught but a soiled shirt, his tiny privates all a-dangle between his bony thighs. With brown smudges about his mouth, he looked like he’d just been sucking on the teat of a dung-covered swine. “A crust of bread to spare?” He held forth his hand.

  “Bloody Mother!” Glade shoved the boy to the ground. “Scat!” He reached for his sword, unsheathing it halfway. The boy scrambled to his feet and scampered off.

  “You didn’t have to be so rough,” Tala said.

  “Aye, he was just a child,” Lindholf followed. “Granted, a scruffy and rather naked child . . . with his pecker on display . . . and what appeared to be poop smeared about his face . . . but still, you oughtn’t have been so mean.”

  “I understand they are poor,” Glade said, ramming the sword home again. “But who gives a spit? Do they have to let their children run around pant-less? Do they have to live in such squalor? Can’t they at least clean this place up?” Glade threw out his arms and shouted to the street in general, “Have some dignity! Vermin!”

  “Shhhh.” Lindholf restrained Glade. “Or you’ll be the one buggered.”

  “Not likely. It’s I who does the buggering. Just ask Seita.”

  “Would you stop talking about her!” Pigeons scattered nervously out of Tala’s way as she stomped toward the Filthy Horse Saloon. Lindholf rushed forward, reaching the wooden door before Tala, and knocked loudly with a gauntleted fist.

  “You dolt.” Glade brushed Lindholf aside. “You let yourself into a tavern. You don’t knock.” The door swung open with a screech as Glade pushed against it. He stepped through and disappeared inside. Tala followed. The saloon was dark and heavy with the heady reek of mold, ale, stale smoke, and body odor. The place appeared empty.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed a floor full of drunken, snoring sailors. There was a loud thump thump behind her, and she turned to see Lindholf picking up an overturned chair. “I’m going to take my helm off,” he said. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “Act like a guardsman,” Glade hissed. “If you can.”

  “What’sh going on o’er there?” a gruff voice issued forth. “Thelia! Thelia!” the drunken voice slurred. “What’s sha fuck, Thelia!”

  “Shush it, Erik!” a female voice yelled. “It’s nothing but Guntar’s farting.” A girl appeared out of the darkness and took Tala by the hand. She wore what appeared to be a crown atop her head. Although in the dark, Tala couldn’t make out much.

  “Come. Sit. If it pleases m’lady.” The girl led Tala deeper into the tavern toward the bar. “I’ve been expecting you. Although I admit, I figured you and your friends would be in much sooner than this.”

  “Expecting me?” Tala’s blood turned to ice.

  The girl walked around the bar and lit a lantern. The light was dim, but was enough to illuminate the immediate area. The wooden bar was chipped and stained and showed signs of hard use. Liquor bottles lined the shelves behind the girl. Tala’s flesh prickled at the sight of the crown atop the girl’s head. It was a wreath of heather tied with white flowers—just like the one she’d twined for Squireck.

  Tala placed the gunnysack with the red helmet down on the floor and sat at one of the many bar stools, but not before looking upon the stool with trepidation, grimacing at the thought of getting anything gross on her. It was one thing to secretly crawl around through the dusty, unused corridors of Amadon Castle, another to infect oneself with the unsavory filth of a dockside tavern. Glade and Lindholf remained standing on either side of her, their armor now agleam with the yellow light flickering from the lantern.

  “I’m Delia,” the girl said. Tala did not offer her own name, just looked at the girl.

  Delia wasn’t exactly pretty, but she had dimples and freckles and thrust out her chin and chest proudly. She wore a startlingly low-cut corset. Her eyes were grayish-blue and completely alive and flirtatious as she looked upon Glade and Lindholf standing in polished armor near Tala. The barmaid was just the kind of common trollop Tala disdained, supple and full and all abloom with sexuality. The girl’s large breasts nearly jiggled free of her corset as she bent to retrieve three mugs from under the bar. She set the mugs out and began to pour from a large brass pitcher. As Tala watched the brownish-gold-colored liquid flow into the mugs, she immediately felt inadequate near this tavern girl. First Jondralyn and Seita, now Delia—all three, it seemed, trumped Tala in overall womanly appeal. She imagined both Glade’s and Lindholf’s hungry orbs were planted right in Delia’s cleavage.

  “You were expecting me?” Tala asked again, apprehensively.

  Before Delia could answer, the bulky shadow of a sailor at the far end of the bar stood and moved toward them. “Silver Guards must remove their helmets to drink in the Filthy Horse.” The man’s voice vibrated through the room as he stepped into the light. He was a wide-faced, tall fellow with a slow, deliberate manner about him. He sported a wild beard and a head of tangled hair that smelled of salmon. And he was definitely sounding more sober than drunk, his voice deep and unhurried, not slurred, but matter-of-fact. “It’s an insult to wear a hat of any kind in here.” The sailor stepped toward Lindholf. He was so large and burly Lindholf had to step back. “Remove your helmets,” the sailor commanded, his coal-black eyes unreadable. “There’ve been too many come in here with their faces covered.”

  “We are Silver Guards.” Glade shoved his way past Lindholf. “We don’t take orders from commoners who dwell in swill-infested shit holes like this.”

  The sailor raised one eyebrow. Thick silence now infused the tavern and fear twisted gently inside Tala. She felt Glade’s presence behind her and let out a breath she had not realized she was holding in.

  “Remove your helm if it will ease his mind,” she said.

  Glade looked from Tala to the barmaid and back. Delia nodded for them to take off their helms. Lindholf took his off first. His eyes were as wide and round as dinner plates on his thin, scarred face, and his matted yellow hair curled into wild clumps and spikes. With his goofy, doe-eyed expression, Lindholf looked all of ten years old. Glade removed his helm, looking far more regal, dark eyes glaring at the sailor.

  The man laughed. “You two look to have the makings of very poor soldiers.”

  “It’s a wonder we can even buckle on our armor some days,” Lindholf chuckled.

  “Fiery dragons,” Glade hissed. “Keep your mouth shut.”

  Tala’s eyes widened at Glade’s profanity.

  “Don’t spew such filth a
round me, young pup,” the sailor growled. “The curse of the nameless beasts will not be spoken here. I’ll have your tongue for such blasphemy.”

  “You dare threaten the Silver Guard?” Glade squared his shoulders to the sailor.

  “If you’re a Silver Guard, boy, then the dough-faced lad standing next to you must be Laijon himself.” The man laughed as he appraised Lindholf.

  “They removed their helms, Geoff,” Delia said. “Now leave them be. They are guests of mine.”

  “Aye,” the sailor grumbled, then threw Tala a dark look. “Show yourself.” He motioned for Tala to remove her hood. Delia nodded for her to do so. Reluctantly, Tala pulled her hood back.

  “Cute little thing.” The sailor appraised her. “But watch yourself, lassie. The men around these parts are always on the prowl for a fresh bit of pussy to squeeze into.”

  He turned and strolled back to his place at the end of the bar, boots clomping heavily.

  By the look in his eye, Glade wanted nothing more than to stab the man.

  “I assume that you have something in that bag that belongs to the Filthy Horse?” Delia motioned to the gunnysack on the floor.

  Tala’s heart pounded. She reached into the bag and handed over the red helmet, glad to be rid of the ungainly thing. Delia held the object up and studied it closely, turning it over and over in her hands, perplexed, as if she’d never seen its like before. Then she saw the wording stamped inside the helm, raised her brow, and set the red spiky bulk on the bar with a heavy thump.

  “Leave us,” the barmaid said to Glade and Lindholf. “I need to speak to your friend in private. You can stand near the front door if you wish.”

  A disapproving look had come over Glade’s face.

  “She’ll be within eyesight,” the barmaid said. “I won’t hurt her.”

  “I will be okay.” Tala nodded to Glade. “I need to speak to her alone.”

  Reluctantly Glade and Lindholf retreated to the front of the saloon and settled into two chairs near the front door.

  Delia’s sea-blue eyes focused on Tala. “Near a week ago, a Vallè thief came in here and started a fight. Princess Jondralyn Bronachell and two others from the castle, a dwarf and a handsome dark-haired man, were at a back table. They broke up the fight. Three sailors were killed in the scrum. Then there was a pirates’ duel, and the Vallè killed one of my most loyal customers.”

  Delia paused, staring. Tala fidgeted under the barmaid’s scrutiny, mind awhirl, wondering if this wild story was true.

  “Anyway,” Delia continued, “I was hoping that perhaps you might know what they were all doing here, you know, considering you live in the castle with these people.”

  “What makes you think I live in the castle?”

  Delia did a quick sweep of the tavern with her eyes and leaned forward against the bar. “To my recollection, this pirates’ duel seemed more a distraction than anything else. You see, during the duel, while no one was paying attention, I was approached by someone who asked me to hold something for you. In fact, this person paid me rather handsomely to hold something for you.”

  “Something? What do you mean? And how do you know it was me you were paid to hold this . . . thing for?” Tala asked. Despite the dread in her heart, her curiosity was piqued.

  “I know you’re the right person because the one who paid me said you would be dark-haired, about sixteen, and bearing a red gladiator helmet with the name of the Filthy Horse stamped on it. I was also told that you would be escorted by two young men posing as Amadon Silver Guards. That you would be none other than Tala Bronachell, princess of Amadon.”

  Tala’s mind reeled. How could the assassin have known a week ago that she would ask both Glade and Lindholf to accompany her and that they would both be wearing stolen guardsman armor? Tala felt her heart squeeze. “Was the note given to you by my sis—by anyone in Jondralyn Bronachell’s group?”

  “I was also told that you would ask that very question,” Delia said, but now there was no kindness in her face, but a hardness, a resolution. “I was also paid not to answer it. So I will not. But why do you assume it is a note I have for you?”

  Tala’s eyes darted about nervously. “What else would it be?”

  Delia put both elbows up on the bar and tented her fingers against her lips. “I can only give this thing to you if you promise to do me a favor.”

  “A favor?” Tala absorbed this and asked, “Is the favor part of what you were paid, or a merely personal request?”

  “You must get me into Amadon Castle for the last night of the Mourning Moon Celebration . . . as a cook, or a dancing girl, or a serving wench, whatever, but I must attend.”

  Again, Tala felt her heart lurch. The last night of the Mourning Moon Celebration was the grandest event in all of Amadon Castle. Throughout Gul Kana, the Mourning Moon Feast was a one-night affair celebrating the beginning of spring and the upcoming planting season. In Amadon Castle, there was not just the Mourning Moon Feast, which had taken place last night, but two more days of festivities ending in the final night’s celebration with the grand vicar and the final four gladiators.

  “Why do you wish to attend the final night of Mourning Moon?” she asked.

  “Let’s just say I have to collect a debt.”

  “Can you not tell me more than that?”

  Delia adjusted her corset and straightened the wreath on her head. “Jondralyn Bronachell has yet to pay her tab.” Delia’s eyes scanned the saloon as she continued, “The three of them, along with the Vallè, just ran out of here, you know . . . after killing my friends. Without paying.”

  Tala tried to sort out what was being said, but deep down felt that this tavern girl was manipulating her in some way. “So the only reason you need to attend the last night of the Mourning Moon Celebration is to collect a bar tab? I’m sure I can make other arrangements for the debt to be paid.”

  Delia’s nervousness was scarcely visible as she asked firmly, “Can you get me into the celebration?”

  Tala sat back, eyes on the red gladiator helm. If this debate with Delia was part of the assassin’s game, it certainly had the effect of vexing Tala to the point of utter irritation. “I suppose I could secure a position for you in the kitchen, but not without being subject to a host of questions by the castle staff. I need to know the real reason for your interest in attending the final night of the Mourning Moon Celebration.”

  Delia cast her eyes to the floor, then looked up, fidgety again. “Maybe it’s because I am interested in the princess, your sister.”

  “Interested in Jondralyn?” Tala was not expecting that. “Interested how?”

  It seemed Delia sensed Tala’s apprehension. She glanced down and said, “Your sister is most beautiful,” then raised her face shyly. “I want to meet her again.” She was now looking at Tala unflinchingly. “I want to seduce her.”

  Shocked, Tala shook her head in distaste.

  “I can’t stop thinking about her,” Delia continued, her voice rising in excitement. “And I’m sure she would be grateful to see me again. She flirted with me when she was here. I’m sure she would be grateful if she were to see me again in the castle—”

  “It’s out of the question.” Nothing about this journey to the Filthy Horse was going at all like Tala had envisioned. She didn’t know whether to believe anything the woman had to say. “Jondralyn flirted with you?”

  “Yes. Flirted. That’s a big deal for someone like me. Please, you must help.” Delia looked near tears now, her eyes roaming to the darker corners of the tavern, as if she expected whatever lurked there to leap out and slice her throat. Tala looked about nervously too, almost thinking that there was someone watching them.

  Delia, her expression wavering between trepidation and resolve, leaned in and whispered, “You must grant my request.”

  “No.” Tala said, irritated. Confused.

  “But I cannot give you what I am supposed to give you unless you agree to get me into the last night of the
Mourning Moon Celebration.”

  Tala stewed, angry, fed up with the entire game. “Fine,” she blurted. “I’ll get you into the castle for the celebration.”

  “Excellent.” Delia’s face lit up.

  “I’ve returned the gladiator helm,” Tala spouted with impatience. “Now what do you have for me?”

  Delia removed the wreath of heather twined with white flowers from her head.

  “I was to give you this.”

  Shkill Gha effortlessly killed his foe, sucked a mouthful of blood from the dead man’s neck, then refused to vacate the field of battle until he’d untied his armored-leather breeches and pissed on the dead man under him. Then with a guttural roar he exited the arena, bloody broadsword awhirl above his head in a showy display. The arena crowd brayed and thundered. Most had heard rumors of the oghul Hragna’Ar raids in the Gul Kana northlands, including Tala. She wasn’t sure if there really was such an oghul prophecy as Hragna’Ar, but to imagine a war with such creatures made her shudder. The oghuls weren’t at all like the peaceful dwarf farmers of the Iron Hills in Wyn Darrè. The dwarves never caused ill to anyone, traded freely and fairly, had no armies, wanted no fight. In fact, it was rumored, Aeros Raijael’s merciless host had skirted around the Iron Hills entirely, not even bothering the dwarves in his riotous crusade.

  A cool westerly breeze began blowing, and several drops of rain pattered on the tan awning above Tala. As the second match of the day drew nigh, she sat next to Lawri in the king’s suite, preparing to ignore the carnage soon to be raging below. But Tala knew Dame Mairgrid would bark at them to act like royalty and watch .

  Ever since she’d collapsed in Greengrass Courtyard, Lawri’s face had grown more gaunt and sickly. Tala no longer harbored much hope of gaining the antidote and saving her cousin. Earlier that day, after returning from the docks, she’d examined the wreath the barmaid Delia had given her, looking for a note, a clue, anything. She’d shredded the wreath until every petal was naught but white confetti strewn about her bedchamber. The wreath was worthless. Not a clue at all. As the truth of the situation hit her, Tala knew the Bloodwood was playing her for a fool.