The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  The rain fell heavier now as Obray Titan, Monster of the Lochs, strode into the arena. The man was seven feet tall and weighed over three hundred pounds. The thick ivory tusks of a glacier mammoth sprouted from either side of his helm, a helm that did not quite cover his sunbaked face. He also wore a thick cloak of tangled mammoth fur over scuffed ox-hide-leather armor studded with dull iron spikes. He carried a bulky, wide longsword. Tassels and fetishes hung from his braided beard. After Shkill Gha, he was the tournament’s second most feared fighter.

  Squireck Van Hester entered the arena to a chorus of boos from the crowd. As he’d promised, he wore no armor, just a leather loincloth. Even his feet were bare. He wore Tala’s twined gift atop his head. Seeing the wreath of heather she’d made was but another hard reminder to Tala of how she was failing in her quest to save Lawri.

  Rain was now falling in ponderous droplets on the awning above, echoing the droning movements of the orchestra. On the floor of the arena, the combatants slowly circled each other. Squireck, though big and muscular, was dwarfed by the Monster of the Lochs. The bigger man swung first, and the ringing clash of sword upon sword sang throughout the arena. The Prince of Saint Only quickly backed off, then lunged with a thrust. The Monster of the Lochs parried and plunged his own great blade toward Squireck’s stomach. But the Prince of Saint Only had already danced away. His initial thrust had been a trick to throw the bigger man off balance. As the Monster of the Lochs stumbled forward, Squireck struck at the man’s exposed neck. His blade sank deep.

  A scream tore through Obray Titan’s throat as Squireck tore his sword free and struck again. His blade sank through the bigger man’s woolly cloak and leather armor and deep into his collarbone. Squireck ripped the sword free and swung a third time in one fluid motion. His blade sliced into the unprotected flesh of the bigger man’s face, knocking the man’s helm askew and slashing open his jaw. The Monster of the Lochs stayed afoot. Squireck spun, his sword whipping down in a great arc, connecting with solid perfection. Obray Titan was smashed to the ground, his horned helm cleaved in half, skull split in two. A crimson torrent spurted across the floor of the arena as the Monster of the Lochs lay in the dirt, head flayed open. Tala recoiled at the sight.

  Squireck stood over his foe and chopped down with his sword. With a meaty crack, what remained of the gladiator’s head rolled free. Wordlessly, Squireck snatched up Obray’s mangled head by the hair and tossed it twirling into the stands. It split in two midair, one half landing atop the awning just above Tala. It slowly slid downward, leaving a smear of blood and brain on the tan fabric stretched above her head.

  A collective gasp rustled through the king’s suite as the partial head flopped to the ground at Lawri Le Graven’s feet with a wet slap.

  Tala regarded the gruesome thing with abhorrence, barely holding back the bile that filled her mouth. It took all the strength she could muster just to tear her gaze from the dead man’s empty eye.

  Below, Squireck Van Hester shouted, “May the Blessed Mother Mia shine on us all!” He struck a pose with his sword held aloft, blade pointing toward the cloud-covered heavens, raindrops now streaking his bronzed, muscular form. His skin glistened like rain-soaked marble. Statuesque, the Prince of Saint Only stood that way for but a moment; something in the peculiar way he posed tugged at Tala’s mind.

  Squireck was growing into a murderous beast to her. How could he not? After she’d seen him toss so many heads into the stands, he was becoming more and more a killer in her mind. But he soon broke his pose and took the wreath of heather from his head, bowing low. He stood straight and tall, his eyes boring into Tala’s before he saluted the arena, saluted all those who came to see him slaughtered. He walked from the battlefield to a great many calls of “Boo!” One of the Dayknights in the king’s suite moved to pick up the mangled head.

  “Leave it.” The grand vicar rose from his chair and made his way toward both Tala and her cousin. He spoke in a deep, honeyed voice. “I can see that the brutality of the Prince of Saint Only is disturbing some of the king’s guests.” He placed his hands over Lawri’s shoulders. “Keep in mind, the vile bloody mess at our feet speaks to Squireck’s guilt.” He bent over Lawri. “Perhaps I should escort you back to the castle, my dear, so you do not have to be party to such violence.”

  Lawri jerked to her feet, throwing off the vicar’s hands. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her words weak, but under her lilting voice was anger, her face showing visible strains of illness.

  “I only fear for your well-being,” Denarius said, placing the palm of his hand over her forehead. “You’ve been ill as of late. You’re as hot as the bottom of a teakettle.”

  Lawri slapped his hand away. More than one person gasped, including Dame Mairgrid, who let out a sharp squeal and tried to grab Lawri. But Lawri took a quick step away from her. All the Dayknights stood as one.

  Sterling Prentiss stepped forward. “Young lady, your crudeness is an affront.” But Lawri just glared at Denarius. Sterling bristled, hand on the hilt of his sword. Tala sensed the weight of everyone’s eyes on her cousin now.

  “Behave yourself, dear.” It was Mona Le Graven who spoke. Horror registered on her face, eyes darting from Denarius to Jovan to the Dayknights before drifting back to Lawri. “Our holy vicar has prayed for you nightly. He has blessed your sickbed and sat at your side as you lay in fever. He’s watched over you even more so than your sister, Lilith. We owe His Grace a great deal of gratitude. If fortune shines upon our family, it will be Denarius himself who administers your Ember Gathering Rites.”

  “I don’t want him touching me,” Lawri snarled, “or touching Tala.”

  “But he must, if he is to bless you,” Mona said. “His Grace has been administering the priesthood oils to you nightly without rest for himself.”

  Tala knew it was common for the grand vicar to minister to the sick in Amadon Castle—if they were royalty, or of the king’s court.

  “He shan’t bless me again.” Lawri’s face twisted into ugliness. “Not at my Ember Gathering. Not ever. I won’t have it!”

  Now realizing that Lawri had strayed onto perilous ground, Tala braced herself for what might come. Denarius was taken aback too. His bulbous face flushed whilst thready veins pulsed atop his fleshy forehead. Still, with a wave of his hand, he ordered the Dayknights near him to stand down. “She is feverish, babbling,” he said. “I will minister to her as soon as we reach the castle.”

  “You will not touch me.” Lawri’s eyes glazed over, and she began weaving on her feet as if drunk.

  “Your daughter insults His Holiness.” Jovan was standing now too, eyes boring into Mona’s.

  “I apologize, Your Excellency.” Mona’s voice was pleading. “Our holy vicar is correct, she has been sick as of late.” She turned to Lawri. “Aren’t you, dear, you have been afflicted with much sickness?”

  Lawri’s eyes looked bleak as she nodded halfheartedly. “I do not feel good.”

  Mona looked at Tala. “You spend time with her. You, Lindholf, Lorhand, Lilith. All of you tend to her daily. The wraiths have been eating at her mind. Is she not sick?”

  Tala stood there, not knowing what to do.

  “Well, answer her!” Dame Mairgrid ordered from somewhere behind her.

  “She is sick.” Tala maintained the facade of politeness and nodded as she spoke, knowing Dame Mairgrid’s bulging eyes were probably boring holes into the back of her head. Tala was deathly concerned for Lawri’s safety, recalling what had happened to Hawkwood when he had challenged Jovan and Denarius. “She has been sick for a while.”

  “Keep her from me.” Jovan recoiled. “Quarantined. I won’t risk the plague.”

  Tala’s heart almost stopped at the mention of the plague. She had not considered such insidiousness possible.

  “Her symptoms are not that of the plague,” the grand vicar said. “They are more akin to the sweating illness or the fever. But you are right. The arena is not the place for her. She shall remai
n tucked warmly in a bed near a roaring fire to sweat out the sickness.” Denarius fished a small leather-wrapped box from the pocket of his long cassock and opened it. Inside was a Vallè-worked bracelet of intricately carved silver etched with crescent moons and a bright ruby stone set in its center. “For you.” He held the bracelet out for Lawri. Tala was not surprised by the gift. The vicar gave the children of royalty presents from time to time. But now seemed an odd time for gift giving.

  Tala’s older cousin just stared at the trinket. Her eyes, now lazy and roving, gave her face a crazed look. Then Lawri did something terribly unexpected. She stooped and picked up the mangled head of the gladiator that still lay at her feet. Clenching a handful of ratty hair, she thrust the hideous prize aloft.

  All in the king’s suite gasped as blood and chunks of gray matter dribbled down her arm. Then Lawri unleashed a shriek from her throat that scorched everyone’s ears.

  Reeling with fear and revulsion, Tala felt faint. It was all coming true: the note from the assassin had warned of just such a thing—the slow dementia of her cousin.

  Lawri swung the head at Denarius. With a meaty slap it lit against the front of his cassock and gold chain accoutrements and slid to the stone floor at his feet.

  Immediately, every Dayknight converged on Lawri.

  Jondralyn was instantly at Lawri’s side. “Let me spare you a clumsy fray with a sick court girl,” she said. The tips of the Dayknights’ swords now balanced a finger’s width from her throat. Undaunted, Jondralyn took Lawri under her arm and began to lead her away. But Lawri shrugged off Jondralyn, too. She stepped out of the king’s suite under her own power, madness in her eyes as she walked toward the exit with Jondralyn in tow. Tala was lost in a sea of horror at having just witnessed her cousin’s deranged actions; she was proud of Jondralyn’s bravery, and ashamed of her own fear and revulsion.

  Jovan turned to Mona Le Graven. “Cursing the holy vicar of Laijon is treason. Your daughter just ventured within a hairsbreadth of being hung. Now that Hawkwood’s escaped, we need someone to hang in his place. Pray it is not your daughter.”

  “Again, my apologies, Your Excellency.” Mona bowed deeply. “It won’t happen again. I swear it. As Laijon is my witness, I swear it. I will pray and flagellate myself at Laijon’s feet in the temple all day and night to make it right.”

  Despite the confusion and terror swirling through her head, Tala imagined her aunt prostrate before the great Laijon statue, praying for forgiveness on behalf of Lawri.

  The image struck a chord in her mind. The Laijon statue!

  The peculiar way that Squireck had posed flashed into her mind—sword held aloft, wreath of heather crowning his head . . .

  Then she had it—Tala had the answer she’d sought since entering the Filthy Horse Saloon. Blood rushed to her head. Lawri’s defiance of Denarius combined with her aunt Mona’s words about the statue of Laijon and Squireck Van Hester’s pose at the end of the match were the sparks that jogged her memory.

  The Temple of the Laijon Statue. That was where the assassin wished her to go! Squireck had posed with his sword aloft, eyes cast heavenward, wearing the wreath of heather about the crown of his head.

  * * *

  It has been spoken in the darkest of corners, that a Vallè maiden of royal blood can foresee the future. But I say unto you, any such Vallè prophecy is like unto a spring of poison waters that ought not be swallowed. So beware that Codex of Angels, hidden deeper than even the stones, hopefully never to claw its way up to the light.

  —THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  JONDRALYN BRONACHELL

  3RD DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  With a toss of her head, Jondralyn flicked the hair out of her eyes and refocused on the bear-shouldered oghul before her, Anjk Bourbon. The oghul hefted a giant sword with one brawny arm and flexed. The padded blade quivered in Anjk’s grip as corded muscles swelled in ridges along his coarse gray arms. The beast stood a good two hand spans taller than Jondralyn and was thrice as wide.

  Jondralyn was poised on the balls of her feet, her own padded sword held out, steady. She wore leather greaves and a jerkin of stiff ox hide across her chest. The studded leather wraps tied around her forearms were cinched tight. Despite the exhaustion that had moments ago coursed through every fiber of her being, the urge to triumph over her torturer was now flowing hot in her veins.

  But the oghul’s opening charge was fierce. His sword arced out in a series of wide, but surprisingly fast, strokes. Each connected. Jondralyn had scarcely parried the first blow and was knocked flat onto her back in the sawdust at the second. She heard clapping and cheers from those gathered in the little courtyard. She stood slowly, glaring at the curious faces lining the crumbling wall that ringed the small makeshift training yard in the rear alley behind Anjk’s smith shop and armory. The audience was naught but dirty street urchins and other scum-covered oghuls in Anjk’s employ.

  No sooner was Jondralyn back on her feet than the oghul cuffed her brutally across the face with a strong backhand. She was flung to the ground again, her padded sword spinning from her hand. She lurched to her feet, every previously tired muscle in her body now coiled in anger. “How dare you strike me unprovoked,” she snarled, gathering her wrapped sword and holding it up. “That’s not how to train someone!”

  “You weak-spirited,” Anjk said, his voice a deep growl. “I train you to fight like warrior. Not princess. Now shut up. Else go home.” Unlike most oghuls, Anjk had mastered the human tongue; his speech, though choppy, was mostly unslurred. Jondralyn did not like him one bit, but she needed his expertise.

  Through a series of underground couriers from his cell under the arena, Squireck Van Hester had sent word to Anjk that Jondralyn was worthy of being trained. The Prince of Saint Only had gone to great effort on her behalf, and Jondralyn did not want to disappoint him. Feeling the red imprint of the oghul’s hand swelling on her cheek, she swiped away the twin ropes of snot hanging from her nose and bowed in apology. But the oghul merely stared back at her, his expression always gray and blank, his gaze unreadable. He reached out and took her chin in his leathery hand and peered at her. “You pay double my fee today. Only ’cause you such awful fighter.”

  Jondralyn shuddered under the terrifying grip of Anjk’s hand. She looked down at the stout strips of leather wrapped around the oghul’s mighty wrist and up the ridged rinds of his arms to the thicker muscles supporting his broad shoulders and neck. Anjk’s face, like that of all oghuls, was a fearsome mask, rugged as a storm-battered rock. He was a man, and yet he was not. With bulky ears more pointed and Vallè-like than human, a flat nose, cracked leathery lips, and thick brows that protruded prominently and were pierced through with several clunky iron rings and studs, Anjk was a monster.

  His expression could become untamed and formidable without warning. His gusty shouts and growls had injected a hustle into Jondralyn’s step all afternoon. He had ripped out sulfurous oaths, cursing Laijon and the Fiery Demons of the underworld in the most heinous ways. His gums were warped, sick-looking things, and made Jondralyn feel green with loathing. Whenever he yelled, his rancid breath burned the flesh of her face.

  Right now, as he ordered her to drop and do a hundred push-ups, spittle flew from between the fangs that jutted from both his upper and lower jaws. It stung as it hit her brow. She knew of Anjk’s need to drink blood. The entire oghul race had a lust and thirst for its sustenance. She also knew that their lips and gums would become swollen and inflamed if their thirst for blood was not sated weekly.

  As she dropped to her hands and knees in the sawdust and began her push-ups, she wondered if this monster that stood over her wished to sink those four long teeth into her neck and drink. And to think, I left today’s gladiator matches early for this. She could hear the occasional roar of the crowds in the distance. The immensity of their sound carried throughout all of Ama
don.

  She had left the arena early with Lawri Le Graven. Her crazed cousin had actually thrown a partial severed head at the grand vicar. Jondralyn was missing the final matches of the day but took solace as she did her push-ups. Helping Lawri had been the right thing. Anyway, soon she would be a gladiator. Soon she would be the show.

  Anjk’s conditioning regimen alone was enough to crush any man, or woman. It had all started when Jondralyn arrived, black scarf tied about her nose and mouth to avoid recognition as she searched for the oghul’s blacksmith shop. It had taken a while to find his shop and convince him that Squireck Van Hester had sent her. But he’d finally agreed to train her—something that probably had more to do with the many silver coins she paid him than anything else. Training began with a series of exercises that had tested Jondralyn’s muscles to the point that she nearly fainted from the pain. That was followed by weight training that left her arms and legs quivering. Next Jondralyn had found herself running up and down the two flights of stairs behind Anjk’s shop with forty-pound sacks of wheat slung over each shoulder, followed by a never-ending series of push-ups. At one point, she had collapsed in the sawdust, only to have the oghul place his heavy foot against her back and demand she do more, to the very moment of complete exhaustion. The worst had been standing, arms outstretched, with a rock the size of a baby’s head in either hand. If she dropped the rocks or lowered her arms, Anjk would punch her in her straining gut and shout, “You welcome pain!” Then came the running—hundreds of circles around the tiny courtyard, lumbering through the sawdust in heavy leather armor. A sluggish wind had dragged over her sweat-drenched leathers like an oily rag.