The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Have you infected Lawri with the plague?” Tala asked.

  “No.” There was soft amusement in the voice. “Not the plague. But like the plague, through affliction comes transformation.”

  “What have you poisoned her with? Why?”

  “You are both being prepared, Lawri for her task, you for yours. Everything has a purpose, my dear princess. Every task you complete serves a purpose in a much bigger plan—a plan that’s been in the works for centuries.”

  “Prepared? Tasks?” Tala was even more confused, but felt some courage build within her. “What if I don’t want to be a part of this plan? What if I decide not to play your game?”

  “But you want to play my game,” the voice said matter-of-factly, the icy blade at her throat now easing away slightly. “You want to complete the next task. I know you.”

  “You know nothing of me.”

  “I know that Borden’s brood is a fickle lot, spoiled to the last.” There was a mocking, almost lilting tone to those words. “And both of his daughters willing to fall for any reckless rogue or harebrained scheme—”

  In one rapid motion, Tala took a step back and clapped. She felt the palm of her right hand connect with the back of the Bloodwood’s gloved hand and the palm of her left connect with the boiled-leather wrapping of the inner wrist. The move was executed exactly as Seita had taught her, and the dagger spun free. Tala heard it clatter to the wood floor ten paces away.

  “You fool,” the assassin said, but the voice came as if from a great distance.

  There was nobody in front of Tala now. Somehow, she knew that she was alone again—the Bloodwood was gone. Her heart thundered as she dropped to her hands and knees, trying to catch her breath. She crawled to where she thought the Bloodwood’s knife had landed, hands groping at the floor, searching, her palms now a filthy mix of sweat and dust. She found the blade and clutched it to her chest with both hands as if having just discovered a great treasure. A Bloodwood dagger! her mind screamed. She could feel her heart pounding against her own clenched hands.

  “You are being prepared, young one.” It was the grand vicar’s voice. She heard it clearly. Her heart, once thundering in her chest, now stopped cold. “Being prepared to stand in glory at the side of the most holy of Laijon’s servants.”

  The vicar’s voice was coming from somewhere below. Tala leaned toward the few thin slivers of light sifting up through spaces between the wood planks and beams under her knees. She put her eye to each shard of light, searching for a knothole or crack, searching for one just big enough to get a clear view. The grand vicar spoke in hushed tones. “Everything I do for you is in preparation for Laijon’s return.”

  Tala found a wide enough crack—the burrowing and nibbling of mice had created an uneven crevasse between the beam and joist, forming a hole just big enough. She pressed her face to the dusty floor.

  What she saw froze her blood.

  She was looking straight down upon her cousin Lawri’s bedchamber, a small room with a high ceiling. Tala’s perch was perhaps twenty or more feet above the room.

  Thick woolen rugs covered the stone floor of her cousin’s room. There was an armoire against one wall, several stools and a velvet-cushioned chair in one shadowy corner, and a table and bench in the other; a fire crackled in the hearth. Lawri’s bed, draped in a wine-red velvet quilt and satin pillows, was directly under Tala. The four ornately carved bedposts of gold-inlaid wood stared straight up at her.

  And Lawri was lying on her back in the center of the bed.

  Her eyes were closed . . .

  . . . and she was naked.

  Grand Vicar Denarius knelt on the floor at the side of Lawri’s bed. He was now muttering incantations, the words of which were indiscernible. He held a bull-horn flask of consecrated oil at an angle over the girl’s still form as he prayed, the amber-colored liquid slowly dribbling from the flask over Lawri’s pale skin. Tala wanted to look away, for many reasons, but mostly because she knew that what she was doing was wrong—sinful. She had crossed a line here. Spying in the secret ways seemed like harmless fun. But this was different. This was spying on the private ministrations of the grand vicar—spying on Laijon’s holy prophet. If she were caught, it could mean her death. Then there was Lawri—she looked so helpless, so vulnerable, so sick and alone and naked. . . .

  Tala kept her eye to the hole. Denarius corked the bull-horn flask, set it aside, and with one puffy hand, rubbed the oil over Lawri’s flesh, touching legs, stomach, forehead, her breasts—

  —Tala jerked away from the scene, eyes blurred, tears flowing.

  I don’t want him touching me! Lawri had shouted earlier that day at the arena.

  In the fog that clouded Tala’s mind, one thing now glowed with certainty—the assassin had planned it all. The Bloodwood had planned that she would be at this spot at this time and witness this very scene.

  * * *

  We can say, “O cursed the day when Laijon was falsely enslaved.” Yet we must not. For his slavery had been foretold on totem and standing-stone alike. For it was within the filth of enslavement that Laijon met his four companions, villainous rogues each—Princess, Gladiator, Assassin, and Thief. And together they became as one. Together they became the Five Warrior Angels.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  NAIL

  4TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  GALLOWS HAVEN, GUL KANA

  It was near dawn. A few birds were beginning to make noise outside the tent. But Nail could scarcely hear them. Not far from where he sat, hunched over, head hanging, clumps of blond hair partly veiling his eyes, there was an erratic yet constant crying. Each harsh wail and muffled sniffle sent a peal of agony through his brain. He shut his eyes, but that brought only a small measure of relief so he opened them again.

  “Bloody Mother Mia,” Jenko Bruk snarled from somewhere in the darkness. “Cork it already, you whiny bitch.”

  “She’s only frightened.” The sound of Stefan’s voice was weak and didn’t carry far. “You must be quiet, Gisela, lest the guards come back in here. The worst is over.”

  Gisela Barnwell continued sobbing. She put her face into the crook of Stefan’s chest and arm, melting into him. That stifled her sobs some. Stefan laid a soft kiss on top of her head. Still she cried.

  “Bloody rotted angels almighty, I can still hear the bitch,” Jenko hissed.

  “Leave her be,” Stefan snapped. “Her family is dead. She saw them killed.”

  “We all saw death today,” Jenko’s voice rasped. “But none of you had to do what I did. I had it the worst.” The baron’s son was silent for a time. Then he angrily snarled, “None of us have slept ’cause of her damn blathering.”

  Nail closed his eyes again and forced them to stay that way. He also wished Gisela would quiet down. But he wasn’t sure if he could voice his opinion without slurring his speech or fumbling the words or just plain fainting. His memories were slowly returning, but they were unreal and difficult to sort through. In those few bleary instants of coherency were fleeting memories of the siege of Gallows Haven and its aftermath: Bishop Tolbret’s guts in the sea, Tylda Egbert stabbed in the throat, Baron Bruk screaming. He recalled the tattooed face of the red-haired giant who had slapped the helm from his head. And even worse, he remembered the face of the young Sør Sevier knight with the braided hair and dark war paint under his eyes, the one who had struck him down on the beach. He feared the inescapable images were forever seared into his brain.

  His hair was still caked with dried blood. His head ached with a dull throb. The wound on his scalp, he imagined, was raw. He had to fight back the urge to reach up and feel it. Even if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to. His hands were secured tightly behind his back with coarse rope, as were everyone’s. The ropes were tearing tracks of stinging flesh around his wrists. His feet were bound equally as tight. They ached. He could feel the scorching pain of
his newly branded wrist. And his vision wavered in and out. The lucid moments were growing fewer and further apart. He could no longer count on his instincts and senses to steer his mind right. Any movement sent a lance of pain clean through him. And the thirst! His mouth was so dry it burned with each breath. With his throat in such torment, just a swallow of water would work wonders.

  “Hands tied or not, I’m just about to strangle you myself, Gisela.” Jenko’s rough voice filled the tent again. It was clear that the baron’s son was not inclined to make anyone’s experience in captivity pleasant. “Shut up. Just shut your screeching hole now before I come over there and smash your whiny little face.”

  Nail opened his eyes and stared into the gloom. Only the faintest of pale moonlight rained in from the small hole in the roof of the tent. The peat fire in the center had died to embers. The tent was scarcely large enough to hold them all. A couple of dozen drab villagers were hunched along the grassy floor, all squashed together like sheep in a pen, all bound hand and foot. The ripe odor of their warm, sweaty bodies was inescapable. Some had soiled themselves. Those who slept were the blessed few, for they could rest despite Gisela’s crying. Nail could scarcely make out their faces—some of those nearest him were familiar. But their skin appeared dull and lusterless. Only a few of the faces were touched by the glow of the embers. An old farmer snored softly next to Nail. Thick swaths of dark blood covered the left side of the fellow’s rough-spun tunic and breeches. Nail still wore his own pathetic breastplate. Jenko and Stefan were still in their armor too—armor that in comparison to the armor of the Sør Sevier warriors was, to Nail’s estimation, complete and absolute shit.

  In fact, life was shit. He did not want the morning to come. Baron Bruk had offered him a spot aboard the Lady Kindly. And now all of Gallows Haven was gone, dead, the baron’s vessel naught but charred wood at the bottom of Gallows Bay. Shawcroft was likely dead. Shot with a crossbow bolt. Trampled by heavy horses.

  Gisela Barnwell, former Maiden Blue of the Mourning Moon Feast, continued to cry on Stefan’s shoulder. Was it just last night that I watched her walk arm in arm from the feast with Stefan, both admiring his new Silver Guard bow? Where was that bow now? Destroyed. Just like everything else good and wholesome.

  The farmer’s snoring was taking on a trancelike rhythm, breaking Nail’s line of thought. He fixed his eyes on the dampened fire pit and tried to regain focus. He let his awareness of the uncomfortable ground beneath him fall away. “Will they feed us?” he heard Liz Hen Neville ask. His own stomach growled.

  “You best pray for your food, you fat pig,” Jenko said. “Or better yet, have that fool of a bishop pray for your food.”

  “How ’bout I shove my fist up your arse,” Liz Hen said.

  “Fiery dragons take you, bitch.”

  “No blaspheming,” Polly Mott spoke, a feigned strength in her voice. “I won’t hear that kind of talk.”

  “Fiery dragons take you, too, you mole-faced cunt,” Jenko said.

  “Leave everyone be, Jenko,” Stefan said.

  “It was you who always talked of leaving for Bainbridge, Stefan. With such talk, you’re no better than a deserter. And in the end you ran with the rest.”

  “I stayed and fought. We all fought. Eventually.”

  “You ran!”

  “Stop bickering.” Ava Shay spoke so softly it was barely audible. Her voice sounded like a light fluttering thing in her throat. The sound of it tugged at Nail’s heart.

  “Stefan fought in the village,” Polly Mott said. “May the wraiths take you, Jenko, I saw him. He did not abandon us.”

  “No. It was Bishop Tolbret who abandoned us,” Jenko said, the bitterness in his voice cutting through the darkness like a knife. “This shit-smelling tent is grim testament to our bishop’s holy powers.” He snorted out a sharp laugh. “It’s all empty and false. The Way and Truth of Laijon. The Ember Lighting. And that robe Dokie Liddle believed would protect the bishop. He was a fool. Dokie’s only usefulness now is to pray Laijon may smite the enemy for us! He made a fool out of the lot of us with his going on about the bishop’s priesthood robe. Bloody shit! Got the bishop killed is all he did!”

  “The bishop was unworthy in the eyes of Laijon, you clodpole,” Liz Hen countered. “Otherwise his silk robe would’ve protected him. Tolbret should have taken it off and flagellated himself before Laijon, you know, before he was crossbow shot.”

  “It seems it’s the White Prince we ought to worship now, you stupid sow.”

  “I ought to smother the life out of you, Jenko, for saying such.” Liz Hen’s voice simmered. “Such foul thinking is wrong in the eyes of Laijon.”

  “Fuck you, you fat whore,” Jenko spat. “And fuck Laijon, too!” The tent was quiet for a moment. Nail took a deep breath, trying to stifle the pain still thrumming through his head. In most ways he agreed with Jenko Bruk. To believe in Laijon was a fool’s hope. The entire church could rot for all he cared.

  “Laijon struck Dokie Liddle with lightning.” Liz Hen’s voice cracked the silence. “But it was Bishop Tolbret’s blessings that brought him back from near death. But for what? To make us all look like fools? I don’t think so. There must be some divine plan in all of this we don’t understand yet.”

  “It was that Sør Sevier woman who made us all look like fools,” Jenko said. “Not Dokie Liddle.”

  “Dokie was unworthy too.” Liz Hen’s voice was grim. “Full of sin. Otherwise, Laijon would have spared the bishop. They were both sinners, Dokie and Tolbret.”

  “Dokie swam with sharks and lived. Escaped. You’re a fat fool with no logic.”

  “We are all unworthy,” Liz Hen said. “We must come to Laijon with broken hearts and humbled spirits if we wish to be saved.” She paused, face gently twisting in concentration as she said, “They sent your father away in a box.” Jenko’s gaze sharpened at the news. Liz Hen continued, “I saw it with my own eyes. They sent him to Amadon with a message for the Silver Throne. The White Prince said he was going to conquer all of Gul Kana. Said he would kill all who refuse to pray to Raijael.”

  “See,” Jenko muttered. “Who’s the true God now?”

  “You just bragged of escape not a minute ago,” Liz Hen said. “Have you so soon converted to Raijael? You, who chopped off your own father’s limbs? Who does such a thing? Who but a traitor?”

  “I’m no traitor.”

  Liz Hen grunted. “The White Prince is capable of marching straight to Amadon and destroying all in his path, Jenko. And it now seems you’ll likely be his lackey and errand boy along the way, chopping the limbs from us all. Unless you repent.”

  Jenko’s silence was sobering, but Liz Hen wasn’t done. “Make up your mind, Jenko. You’re a tough one, right. Which is it? Escape? Or do you wish to become a slave to these scum? It seems you’re the only one doing the whining now.”

  Despite his bonds, the baron’s son lunged over the fire pit straight at the red-haired girl. But Liz Hen rolled aside and Jenko landed on nothing. The big girl, now on her back, ankles still tied, kicked Jenko in the ribs as he tried to right himself. Her stout feet and legs were thudding heavily into the armor about his midsection, denting it, punching away his breath. Soon Liz Hen was sitting atop Jenko, his bound wrists caught under his own awkwardly twisted body. The boy was soon struggling for breath under the bulk of the much thicker girl.

  “Let him up.” Ava Shay was scooting across the tent toward the two. “He can’t breathe. You’re too fat for him! Let him up!”

  Liz Hen eventually let Jenko go. “I told you I could smother you,” she said.

  Jenko rolled over, coughing and spitting in the dirt. The few who had been asleep were now awake and voicing their complaints about the commotion.

  “The White Prince was asking the baron about Shawcroft,” Liz Hen said over Jenko’s gagging coughs. Her eyes fell on Nail, and they glowed a darkening orange hue from the embers of the fire pit. “He was asking about a boy who lived with Shawcroft.”

/>   Jenko grunted, “If they attacked us because of that bastard—”

  But Jenko was interrupted by a sound from just outside, and the tent flap sprang open, a swath of moonlight burst in. “Quiet down!” a Sør Sevier guardsman yelled, then punctuated his warning by flashing the cold steel of his sword for all to see before stepping back out. The tent flap closed behind him, blanketing them in darkness. They all listened intently as the guard’s heavy boots clomped away, followed by a long moment of silence. With dread, he thought of what Liz Hen had said. Aeros asked about me! A lump was growing in his gut, clawing its way up his throat. Was the death of everyone in Gallows Haven my fault?

  “You’re so tough,” Liz Hen finally said. “You should have fought that guard, Jenko.”

  “Shut up and leave me alone.”

  There was a sudden rustling of canvas opposite the tent’s main opening. Then, as if the tent were being torn open from the bottom up, a sliver of moonlight shone in from where the canvas had parted in a pale shard of light. Someone from outside spread the canvas open, and the space was filled with a hulking form. The opening closed, leaving a darkness more powerful than before. Nail felt a sudden rush of fear and dared not shift or stir. No one moved. All was silent.

  Nail watched as the shape of a man formed itself out of nothing directly in front of him. It took a moment for him to realize, but it was Shawcroft. He’s alive!

  The man had his thin boning knife in hand, a glinting orange shard in the dying embers of the fire. He crawled behind Nail and began cutting the rope around his wrists. He showed little outward signs of having been shot with a crossbow bolt earlier that day. But Nail could tell his master’s face was sickly pale, and he winced in pain when he spoke.

  “I had thought you dead,” Shawcroft whispered as Nail’s hands were freed. “But Dokie Liddle informed me otherwise, bless his soul.” He sliced through the rope binding Nail’s ankles and handed him the knife. “Take this. You may need it.”