The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Nail and Stefan removed their cumbersome breastplates but kept their leather leggings on. Zane, already asleep, stayed in his armor, closest to the fire, curled up with Beer Mug. Liz Hen lay next to her brother, Dokie enveloped in her bulky arms. Gisela fit snugly next to Stefan, but she still moaned in pain. Shoving his legs under the furs next to Stefan, Nail positioned himself farthest away from the fire, sitting, readying himself for first watch. Clumped together, they all shivered on a great nest of dark roots and frozen ground, the furs and hides provided by Shawcroft piled over them. It wasn’t long before Nail could hear Liz Hen’s loud snores.

  As he sat there, he pulled the makeshift blanket up around his shoulders, staring at the sky, Nail knew he would not be able to sleep. The still night sky now quaked with cold. The clouds had parted and the starry sky shimmered with a wan glow. Tendrils of shivering light began to form into crooked streaks of white flame that spread over the horizon. Though Shawcroft never talked much, he’d once explained that an aurora was just the moonlight dancing off the ice crystals floating in the sky, the way candlelight would through a clear jewel.

  Shawcroft claimed that an aurora on a cold night spoke of Laijon and his Warrior Angels. He would say things like this from time to time, genuine awe in his voice whenever he spoke of the misty lights of the heavens above. The only thing comparable that Nail had ever looked upon with anything approaching awe was how, with utmost grace, the tawny curls of Ava Shay’s hair would dance and glow in the candlelight of the Grayken Spear Inn. He could feel the necklace she’d made him still around his neck, the wooden turtle pressing into the flesh between his armor and chest. That it was still there with him was both reassuring and confusing. It angered him too. And filled him with guilt. He didn’t want to think of Ava Shay.

  A light wind kicked up again, freezing against Nail’s face. He lay back, resting his head against the pile of his armor. The clouds snuffed out the stars and borealis overhead. Soon the wind pounded through the trees and standing-stones, accompanied by the deep baying of silver-wolves somewhere in the dark.

  Nail emerged from sleep well after sunup. Light flakes of snow were lazily drifting down. The chestnut pony, Lilly, snorting pale puffs of vapor into the air, was standing in the dead coals of the fire pit for warmth. Nobody had stoked the fire during the night. Nail crawled from under the furs into a brittle, bone-chilling cold. His toes were numb and he could scarcely stand. His fingers were so cold they were nearly useless. He could scarcely grip a thing as he struggled into his breastplate and armor.

  Gently pushing Lilly aside, Nail began tossing wood onto the fire pit. He struck flint to steel, then lit a torch and jammed it into the pile of wood. Soon smoke rose up and the fire started anew. Zane crawled from the pile of bodies next, upper lip crusted with frozen breath and snot. He looked near dead and scooted even closer to the fire as if in a daze, glassy-eyed. Even Beer Mug looked uncomfortably cold. Soon Dokie joined them, wanting breakfast, complaining of hunger. When Liz Hen arose, she stood, wrapped herself in one of the furs, then grabbed another, revealing Stefan underneath, lying on the ground alone. “Where’s Gisela?” she asked.

  Stefan sat up, groggy-eyed, and stretched. Then he lurched to his feet and looked around frantically. “Where is she?” His voice quaked in the cold. “Where’d she go?”

  All eyes now roamed the campsite, searching for any sign of the girl. Stefan ran into the woods, shouting her name, then quickly returned, shivering. Flakes of snow hit his heated skin and melted off. He hastily fastened together his leather armor and breastplate, snatched the fur from Liz Hen, and ran off into the woods again.

  Nail, Dokie, and Liz Hen joined the search, leaving Zane and Beer Mug at the fire. They covered the perimeter of the camp, circling outward in a disorganized but ever-widening pattern.

  It was Nail who found her.

  Not far back along the trail that had brought them to the campsite, Gisela lay, stretched on her back, looking as fragile as a frosted figurine made of hollow glass. She was dead. Frozen. The icy air around her looked uncannily pure. The hatchet she always carried was on her chest, handle clutched tightly in one frost-covered hand. The other hand was clenched in a fist at her side. The fingertips of both her hands were black. Frostbitten. The rest of her exposed skin had taken on a sallow color in the cold. Her eyelashes were rimmed with ice. And vomit from both corners of her mouth was frozen down the sides of her cheeks. Here she was, Maiden Blue of the Mourning Moon Feast. Gone.

  Nail called out for the others. One by one they came shuffling toward him through the light drifts of snow, even Zane and his dog. Stefan dropped to his knees and sobbed at the sight of Gisela’s delicate, stiff body lying on the hard ground. Beer Mug whimpered. Dokie cried, face nestled in Liz Hen’s bosom. The big girl held tightly to him, tears streaming down her face. They all just stood there in grief, hovering over Gisela as feathery snowflakes lazily brushed her skin.

  “I should have held on to her tighter.” Stefan reached for the hatchet in her blackened hand. “She was so sick.” His fingers and palm instantly froze to the metal. He jerked away, ripping the flesh from his fingertips. With that, he ran back to camp, murmuring wordlessly.

  Liz Hen wiped her tears away, then walked up and punched Nail hard in the shoulder. “You didn’t wake us up in time for our turns at watch! I told you we shouldn’t camp so near those standing-stones, stupid bastard.” Then she and the other two boys and the dog followed Stefan, leaving Nail alone with the frosty, pale corpse.

  Nail tried to rub the pain in his arm away. He knew that the others depended on him to get them to the abbey safely. Yet he had failed them again. Nail also knew that he had to do something for Gisela—he just didn’t know what. The hatchet was attached to the girl for good, or at least until she thawed—unless they chiseled it from her hand, and Nail figured nobody would be up for that.

  Then he saw it from the corner of his eye, just a flicker of blue, but enough to draw his attention to Gisela’s other black-fingered hand, the one clenched in a fist at her side. He could see that her frozen digits were not clenched in a fist at all but rather wrapped around something—something that now shone like a dazzling sapphire gem between her fingers. Nail knelt, and with some effort, pried her blackened fingers back enough to let the blue stone slip from their frozen grip.

  The stone lay in the snow for a moment until Nail gathered enough courage to pick it up. It was surprisingly warm to the touch. He examined the stone closely. It was faint, but something like light glowed deep within it. He felt a spike of fear and stood quickly, slipping the stone into the pocket of his rough-spun breeches under his armor, wishing to gaze upon it no more. The thing is a curse.

  He shivered as he recalled the unholy carvings of the beasts of the underworld he’d seen at the base of the cross-shaped altar where he had found the ax and stone. It killed Gisela.

  He had the sudden urge to take the stone from his pocket and hurl it into the trees. But for some reason, he knew he could not.

  The girl needed to be buried, needed to be given proper priesthood rites to rid her soul of the evil that had taken her life, and to be laid to final rest with her head toward the east. But he hadn’t any priesthood power to cleanse her soul. Nor was a bastard even worthy of it, according to Bishop Tolbret. Besides, as Jenko Bruk said, Laijon’s powers were probably empty and false. Still, he made the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart and dropped to his knees. He began shoveling snow over the dead girl with his cold bare hands. But it was no use. The snow was too crisp and light and fine and did naught but sift fruitlessly through his fingers. In actuality, most of what he had tossed upon Gisela was brown twigs and dead leaves.

  Can I do nothing right? I make a mess of everything. All my artistic talents, all my dreams, and yet here I am, cold and alone and a failure. Letting what few companions I have die, alone, in the snow.

  He stumbled away from Gisela, the girl now half-covered in snow and twigs.

 
A bastard truly has no place in this world!

  * * *

  It is prophesied that in the last of days, pride and sin will bring about our destruction at the hand of Raijael, yea, even a Fiery Absolution. Only then will Laijon come again with his Warrior Angel companions. Thus, we have devised Ceremonies of Ember, Smoke, and Flame to honor Laijon, and taken to the building of great cathedrals that you may pay homage to the great One and Only as you await the day of his return.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  AVA SHAY

  6TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  GALLOWS HAVEN, GUL KANA

  Swathed in a hooded cloak, the man Hammerfiss called the Spider came for Ava Shay. Fear gripped her when she saw him. It wasn’t his black cloak or black boots or all-black boiled-leather armor that disturbed her. It was his eyes. Of all those in the Angel Prince’s horrendous army, it was this silent, raven-haired man who frightened Ava the most. There was nothing of value living behind his steely eyes—eyes that were streaked with red veins, almost glowing in color. It was as if he and his eyes had been bred for the specific purpose of creating terror in her soul.

  As he wordlessly untied her bonds and led her from the tent, Ava caught a scent of him. It was the second time. The first was when he’d held the knife to her throat the day before.

  He smelled of cloves and newly polished leather. This man was no dirty soldier, rather something vastly different. As he led her past Polly Mott’s rotting head, Ava tried not to look up, knowing that looking would merely add more trauma to her soul. Only the wraiths lived for such ghastliness. But she could not help herself and risked a glance. The crows had picked clean Polly’s eye sockets. Ava quickly looked away.

  The Spider guided her toward his oily-looking horse, which had eyes of molten fire. His steed was eerily similar to the horse she’d seen on the Roahm Mine Trail with Stefan Wayland and Nail. He effortlessly lifted her onto the back of the dreadful beast, then smoothly mounted the horse himself, sitting behind her. His leather-covered arms enveloped her, pulling her close. At any moment she expected that cold blade at her throat. The sweet and pleasantly revolting scent of him struck her like a fist. She tried to lean forward and away from him as he took the reins and clicked his tongue. She felt the rippling and bunching muscles of the powerful red-eyed beast under her as they galloped away from the prisoner tent. As Ava steadied herself with her hands, she noticed that the demon’s hide was not oily but rather as clean and polished as its master.

  As they wended their way through the vast Sør Sevier encampment, which reeked of death and was plagued with bugs, Ava kept her eyes on the sky and the noisy seagulls wheeling overhead, trying her best to ignore her own dark thoughts. She silently prayed to Laijon. The wraiths, if you allowed them, were capable of taking a person to many evil places, some places lacking even the substance of light, devoid of hope. In this profound gloom, one could become subject to the lord of the underworld himself, and, as The Way and Truth of Laijon said, Empty was his domain and nameless were his beasts. Ava had seen her own mother overtaken by the wraiths. She had watched the white foam frothing from her mother’s mouth as the wraiths possessed her convulsing body. As a young girl, Ava had vowed never to become like that, never to allow the wraiths a foothold into her head. The wraiths had taken her mother shortly after Ava’s father had been killed in a logging accident high in the Autumn Range. Ava knew there was a correlation between the wraiths, trauma, death, and slaughter. Her whole family was dead now. All her siblings burned. It just didn’t seem real.

  The encampment they traveled through was massive—more people and horses and flying gnats gathered in one place than Ava had ever seen. Their numbers dwarfed those of the entire town of Gallows Haven. And hundreds and thousands more were arriving by ship daily. Tents, campfires, wagons, mules, more tents, stacks of weaponry, and moldering piles of horse dung stretched as far to the north of Gallows Haven as she could see. And the warriors: grim, brutal-looking folk. Not a kind face among them. Killers all. Their painted war chargers too. Beasts. Even the women. It was all immensely ugly and murderous and wrong.

  As the demonic steed carried her onward, Ava closed her eyes to the hordes that surrounded her and prayed more fervently to Laijon. But thoughts of Jenko filled her mind. It had been only yesterday the White Prince had taken her and Jenko to see Shawcroft’s dead body. Ava was proud of Stefan Wayland and the others for managing to escape and to kill so many of the enemy. She also felt bitter. She had seen the cold hurt in Nail’s eyes. He could have cut her and Jenko loose, yet had not. Her anger at Nail would come and go. But she wanted to be like Laijon. Forgive all, The Way and Truth of Laijon taught. For the wraiths thrive in hateful souls. Jenko Bruk would not abandon her as Nail so cruelly had.

  With another click from the Spider’s tongue, the horse slowed its pace and stopped. Ava opened her eyes and fear rippled through her heart. A white tent almost as large as the Grayken Spear Inn dominated the center of the Sør Sevier camp, and the White Prince stood before it. Aeros Raijael was dressed in leather breeches and a white shirt laced at the front. A slim dagger was tied to his dark leather belt. He was blowing into a thin whistle but making no noise.

  A black kestrel came zooming in from the east and landed on his outstretched arm. He untied a silver tube attached to the small bird and opened it, pulling forth a scrap of parchment, reading. Done. He crumpled the paper and motioned for the Bloodwood.

  The Spider dismounted behind Ava. Aeros handed the kestrel to the black-clad man, then glided toward Ava and helped her from the horse. His hands were gentle but cold. Ava felt only faint relief as she slid from the back of the fire-eyed horse and into the arms of what she considered the most evil being that had ever walked the Five Isles—the White Prince, Aeros Raijael.

  The knight named Gault stood guard at the entry of the tent. He watched, eyes aimed at her, as Aeros led her by the hand. She was careful not to stare at Gault too obviously. She’d first learned his name when that horror, Spades, had teased him about her. Of all those in the White Prince’s gruesome army, it was only this knight Gault whose aura exuded a small measure of kindness. It was in his eyes—cool blue eyes flecked with silver-gray. His lean, muscular stature and clean-shaven head gave him an almost predatory look, but it was those eyes that softened his overall demeanor. As she followed the White Prince into the tent, she felt Gault’s hand on her shoulder. She turned and looked up at him. He gave her a nod of reassurance. But there was a hint of sadness in his look too. Even so, the bald knight’s small gesture touched her anguished heart.

  The tent was warm. In the entry was a round wooden table, circled by high-backed chairs with dark velvet upholstery; a ceramic bowl of fruit was at its center. Candelabra were positioned everywhere, lit and glowing. Aeros led her through several hanging partitions that created numerous rooms. Many of the colorful partitions were heavy woven tapestries depicting battle. Thick bearskin rugs adorned the floor, yet these were pure and white as new-spun wool. She’d heard stories of the large white bears of the Sør Sevier Nordland Highlands and figured the rugs under her feet were made from such beasts. Elaborately carved furniture was set about in nooks and alcoves, numerous painted vases rested atop stools. Several iron braziers and an ornate thronelike chair on a stone dais were in the central room of the tent. Everything was spotless and clean. Ava realized with sadness that this tent was the most opulent thing she had ever seen—ten times bigger and nicer even than her own home. The Angel Prince led her into the largest of the partitioned rooms. This area was lit with numerous candles and had a massive bed in the center. Near the bed was a large wardrobe of dark lustrous wood. He motioned for her to sit on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed. She remained standing.

  “Please relax,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”

  Ava had resolved not to speak to this pale-faced demon. Nor would she follow any of his commands. Yet she cou
ld not take her eyes off him—so near he was to her now. At first glance, his bearing was beautiful, like white marble. Even his eyelashes were pale. His lank blond hair, white as the bearskin rug he stood upon, shimmered in the candlelight. It was the blue veins pulsing under his translucent skin that changed his overall manner from appealing to grotesque. His eyes held her captive, though. Dark and wild and empty they were.

  “You will soon change your mind about me.” He picked up a ceramic cup and poured water from a sparkling pewter goblet into it. He held the ornate cup out for her. Ava’s mouth was dry. Yet she would not take what he offered.

  The White Prince gulped the cup of water down, then asked, “Tell me what you know of Shawcroft.” Ava looked away, gritting her teeth.

  “This boy that Shawcroft kept, what was he like?”

  Her gut churned. She wanted to remain silent, but couldn’t. “Is it truly Nail you are after?”

  “Well.” He paused, reflective. “Yes. In a way. The one named Nail is but a diversion to the greater prize.” He moved closer. “And it looks as if I have found that prize.” His fingers gently brushed her hair, her cheek. She recoiled. He tilted his head, dark, piercing eyes now softening some. “Tell me of Shawcroft and Nail.”

  She decided then and there she would not speak to him. Ever.

  Aeros poured himself another drink. “Let me tell you of a young Wyn Darrè man, Mancellor Allen. He was about the same age as your friend Jenko when we took him captive in Ikaboa. Mancellor was stubborn like you. But he eventually came to the realization that the light of Raijael is right and true. And once he came to that realization, he rose from the ranks of slave quite rapidly. Now he’s spent almost four years fighting at my side, having risen in the ranks: squire, Hound Guard, Rowdie, Knight of the Blue Sword. He’s become such a prize. I’m considering making him one of my personal guards, even. There is growing discord among my Knights Archaic. Sure, they bandy about harmless insults at times. As do all soldiers who wage battle for as long as we have. They try not to do it around me, though. But I hear them. And I fear there is genuine hatred growing between them. Oh—I don’t know why I share this with you now. I suppose I feel some sort of kinship with you. And I see us becoming friends in the days to come. I don’t come upon friendship easily, or often. But I do desire it. Do you?”