The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “If guarding Lawri is so important,” Glade said, “why are there no other Silver Guards with you?”

  Tala added, “You keep the Silver Guards away so you can be alone with Lawri, spy on her. Spy on the vicar.” Her tone was light and casual.

  “Preposterous.” Sterling tried to stem the embarrassing gout of laughter that burst forth uncontrollably. “Why would I wish to be alone with Lawri?”

  Tala’s mouth crinkled with distaste. “Why indeed?”

  Panic began to stir gently within Sterling’s gut.

  “There’s been talk of Jovan replacing you,” Glade said. “You’ve let slip your duties, Captain. Hawkwood’s escape. The serving wench Delia, too. Word is Jovan is sorely displeased. You may soon find yourself relieved of duty.”

  Sterling blanched in anger. Glade was coming close to outright taunting him now, almost throwing a challenge. The boy hadn’t even stopped whirling his ball-mace about.

  “Stop playing with that toy.” The tension in the air was as thick as smoke. Sterling set the palm of his hand back over the pommel of his sword. “I will never be replaced.”

  “Can you be sure?” Glade’s dark eyes were glinting with pleasure.

  He’s actually enjoying this, Sterling realized, taking a step toward the young man. Glade backed away, a sliver of fear creeping into his eyes. He stopped twirling the mace.

  “There are certain laws and protocols,” Sterling said, barely managing to quell his anger enough to speak. “And just so you are not mistaken, Glade Chaparral, let me remind you, it would take a consensus of both the grand vicar and the king along with all five in the quorum to relieve a Dayknight captain of his duty. And though what you say about Jovan’s displeasure might be true, Denarius would never give that consent. I am valuable to him in ways that you will never know.”

  Glade’s eyes were now downcast. And that seemed to be the end of it, until the young man looked up again. The glint of insufferable royal arrogance returned. “The post may not be stripped from you. But make no mistake, Captain, you can be removed.”

  The slow building of dread in Sterling’s gut was now a palpable, physical thing.

  “It would have been better had you just let us into Lawri’s chamber.” Glade strapped his chain-mace toy to his belt. “But you’ll soon be one less fool we need suffer.”

  “And what is meant by that?”

  “I only pass along a bit of gossip,” Glade said casually and confidently—too confidently for one his age. “You make of it what you will.”

  How Sterling wished to slap that smug look from Glade’s face. “And who might Jovan be grooming to take my place?”

  “My brother, Leif,” Glade shot back quickly.

  “That fop.” Sterling laughed aloud, then coughed nervously, the truth hitting him like a hammer blow to the gut. The lord of Rivermeade’s son and Jovan had been best friends since childhood. The bond between them was deep. But Leif Chaparral was no swordsman worthy of captain. He was middling at best. He was but a princely ornament to trot out occasionally to make the women swoon. Sterling composed himself, adding a gruff tone to his voice. “I hear your brother lazes around Lord’s Point like a dandy in heat. Truth is, he ain’t worth a silver-wolf’s ripe fart in a fight.”

  “He could take you,” Glade said, then laughed. “I could take you.”

  “You insolent child.” Sterling’s sword rang from its scabbard. “You dare speak to the Dayknight captain so? You risk being flogged.” He stepped forward, sword point now under Glade’s chin. “Or how about I just cleave your skull in twain right here and now?”

  “I am not worried about you,” Glade said, hands held forth, palms open in supplication. “Do to me what you must, Ser Prentiss. But before you do, know that I think of you as nothing but an incompetent fat fraud.”

  “You’re coming close to calling me out, boy,” Sterling said slowly. “Is that truly what you want? The sister of the king is witness to your insults. Perhaps Jovan would grant me favor to battle it out with you in Black Glass Courtyard on the morrow.”

  “What battle have you ever been in, Prentiss?” Glade shoved Sterling’s blade aside, turned on his heels, and walked away down the hall. He stopped at the end of the corridor near Lindholf, turned, and bade Tala follow him. But the girl just stood there, looking from Glade to Sterling in slack-jawed astonishment.

  Sterling resheathed his blade. The insolent chap had certainly unhinged his mind. He turned to the princess. “It’s best you follow Glade and get yourselves out of here.”

  Tala made her way down the corridor toward Glade and Lindholf. Sterling expected to see them disappear around the corner and out of sight, but instead they huddled together in discussion. Sterling groaned.

  It was Glade who returned alone, chain-mace twisting slowly at his side again. The two balls, each about the size of a child’s fist, spun up and around in a strange dance. It was a Vallè construct, of little use in real battle. Sterling had only ever seen such weapons used by Val-Auh’Sua, the Vallè acrobat troupe.

  “They’re not good for much.” Glade lifted the small chain, his wrist working it back and forth, and the speed at which the balls spun around in front of him increased. “They seem to be the only thing that can relax my nerves lately. A gift from Seita.” He flicked his wrist a couple of more times and the balls did a quick reversal and really got to whipping about, almost in a blur, humming. “I’ve taught myself a lot of tricks.”

  “That’s nice.” Sterling shrugged. “Now git.”

  “Well, I won’t git, because I aim to visit Lawri in her room.”

  Sterling took a step back, hand on his sword again.

  As the young man whirled his small chain-mace about, there was a peacefulness and certainty of purpose about him that was nearly unsettling. “Tala and Lindholf insist on seeing Lawri. I don’t know why, but they are my friends—”

  There was a slight flicker in Glade’s wrist movement followed by a thin, keening wail. Then a sudden explosion of pain erupted in Sterling’s groin.

  His legs gave way and he dropped to the floor like a felled oak as the wind was sucked from his lungs. It was paralyzing. The deep-rooted pain that flared within him was so excruciating he forgot to breathe. This blaze of unrelenting agony clawed its way from his balls clear out to the tip of each and every one of his extremities. His mind swam with nausea and dizziness.

  “Do you dare have me flogged?” Glade looked down upon him and smiled a sweet, strangely innocent smile; and with his weapon, he whacked Sterling again right in the throat. Sterling’s head snapped back from the blow he didn’t even see coming.

  Wondering if his larynx had just been crushed, Sterling felt tears seeping from his bulging eyes, blurring his vision. He saw the wavering silhouettes of Tala and Lindholf running up the hall toward him. Sterling screamed, but no sound save a strained gurgle issued from his throat, which flamed in pain.

  Glade spit on him. “You foul scrap of stoat-shit,” he said as Lindholf and Tala pushed their way into Lawri’s chamber. Glade stepped over him last, saying, “What Tala told me about you sickens me, Prentiss. Your days are soon at an end.”

  As he reached for Glade Chaparral, confusion clouded his mind. He felt his grip on reality slipping away. The young man squirted from his grasp easily enough and darted into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Sterling thought he heard the door’s locking mechanism click in place.

  A blessed darkness was creeping up on him, overtaking the agony. He thought of trying to stand. But he could barely muster a breath. So he just lay there on the cold stone floor, curled up, praying that the pain would go away. He stayed that way until the dizziness swamped him and he slumped back against the wall, unconscious.

  * * *

  After Laijon’s death, ’twas the wraiths that would eat at a man’s soul, devour him from inside. The wraiths would launch their escape, stabbing at a man from within until he was naught but a slobbering fool. To stave off the wraiths, some
become worshippers of the sun, moon, or stone. The abhorrent worshipped trees that could bleed, whilst the truly disgraced sniffed white chalks of the Vallè, chalks that would alter the mind and burn like flame.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  NAIL

  8TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AUTUMN RANGE, GUL KANA

  Dawn declared itself with a soft brightening of the icy air. It wasn’t long before Nail had to squint against the glare of the sun as it danced off the sparkling snow. It was a relief to travel again under skies not constantly smothered in clouds. Still, no amount of sunshine could lighten his mood. His heart was laden with sorrow over the death of Zane—along with abandoning Ava Shay and the death of Gisela, another failure to add to a long list of failures.

  But his one solace was, he finally knew where they were.

  The towering stones that marked the beginning of the Swithen Wells Trail were outlined against the cold morning sky. Nail could see the scarcely defined trail of steep switchbacks, which led fifty-odd feet up toward a saddle between two snow-covered peaks. Near a half-dozen streams of water fell over the lip of the saddleback and tumbled down the winding switchbacks—runoff from the melting snow. These twining branches of water cascaded over the steep path like skeletal white fingers.

  “Only a few miles more.” His voice cracked. “Then we reach the abbey.” He hitched Shawcroft’s satchel a bit tighter to his shoulder and led the march toward the saddleback ridge.

  “Laijon save us,” Liz Hen mumbled, clicking her tongue, tugging on Lilly’s reins, helping the pony along. With Zane no longer with them, Lilly carried all their gear and the heavy battle-ax, too.

  They had spent the night wide awake, plodding through the snow and clouds and dark. Nail had grown worried that he was leading them farther astray or into a snow-covered bog or over a cliff. The surface of the snow was hard, icy, having frozen overnight, yet it was soft underneath. Lilly kept breaking through. Soon her legs had begun to bleed, rubbed raw by the crusty shards of solid snow, and her progress was painful and slow.

  There was scant mention of Zane. They were all somber with weariness, weaving on their feet as they went. Cracked lips and parched stomachs. They all knew the ache of hunger and the heaviness of a night without sleep. Just before dawn, they had spotted a rabbit. Stefan refused to shoot at it. So Nail had spent a good portion of Stefan’s arrows trying to kill it himself. But his cold fingers could scarcely pull the bowstring taut. The arrows he launched were lost in the snow. It was then that Nail came to realize that the higher reaches of the Autumn Range were not a gift from Laijon to be enjoyed. They were an enemy to be battled, grimly, miserably, unremittingly. These mountains sought to crush his spirit and resolve. Still, he knew, the others would plod along behind him until the last scraps of stamina that were holding them upright gave out and they just collapsed. Now they’d finally reached the switchbacks leading to the Swithen Wells Trail. Nail led them up. Liz Hen held Dokie’s hand as together they hiked up the trail behind him, Lilly with them. Stefan brought up the rear. The normally sure-footed pony stumbled as she climbed the first few doglegs of the steep path. Nail knew the chestnut was nearing the end of her strength. She plodded up the path on weary legs. The water cascading over the switchbacks, combined with patches of melting snow, were making this last leg of their journey difficult.

  They were about three-quarters of the way up the trail when Nail first glimpsed the six Sør Sevier knights. He sensed them before he saw them. And when he turned and looked down into the small valley below, there they were. When the knights came out of the pine-filled draw one by one, his heart skipped a beat. Holding his breath, he looked away, careful not to gaze directly at them in fear he might spark their attention.

  Of course, Liz Hen saw the men at the same time and gave a quick shout. She slapped Lilly on the rump, causing the pony to whinny and bolt up the switchback.

  The six men filed out of the forest and into the light of day, all afoot. There were no dogs with them now. But Nail’s group had left a clear trail in the snow below for the men to follow.

  The knights quickly spotted Nail and the others near the top of the switchbacks and were now running toward them. “Why do they still chase us?” Dokie asked, eyes round as dinner plates. watching the men advance.

  Is it me they want? Nail wondered. If I just surrender, will the others be spared?

  Looming dread now hovered over them all like a cloud. “Hurry it up!” Liz Hen shoved Dokie up the trail. “They’re liable to kill us if they catch us!”

  “We cannot outrun them this time.” There was a grim look on Stefan’s countenance as he pulled his bow over his shoulder and an arrow from his quiver. “They’ll scurry up the trail much quicker than we.”

  The knights looked warm and well fed and strong. And the switchbacks, though steep, would give the Sør Sevier knights scant challenge. They came in chain mail and leather—cloaked and armed, longbows strapped to their backs, the naked steel of their drawn blades sparkling bright with danger in the sun. Nail had seen these men slaughter an entire village. It was clear to him: their flight to the abbey was at an end.

  Stefan, tears forming in his eyes, began nocking the first arrow to his bow. He took careful aim as the knights neared the bottom of the switchbacks and sent a shaft slashing down through the air. The bolt caught the first knight at the top of the shoulder in the neck, staggering him. Then he fell dead. Liz Hen gave a triumphant shout as Stefan nocked his second arrow. The men, wary that one of their own had been killed so swiftly, began to draw their longbows and take aim. Stefan’s second shot missed the lead knight by a hairsbreadth. Soon there was a volley of arrows soaring up toward their perch on the trail. Nail dropped facedown onto the path, as did the others, as arrows clattered against the hillside above.

  “Come down from there and we will spare you!” the lead knight shouted up to them. He was the same bearded man with the menacing black eye patch they had seen before at the bottom of the Dead Goat trailhead. The man who had ordered the knights to attack Shawcroft. “We don’t wish to kill you, just take you back to the White Prince! You will not be harmed!”

  “Fuck you and the butt-fucked whores who spawned you!” Liz Hen shouted, and picked up a nearby rock the size of a baby’s head and hurled it down into the midst of the five knights. The rock shattered on the trail between two of the men, nearly knocking one from his feet. Unfazed, the knights started up the trail. Liz Hen picked up a second rock and flung it. It was a lucky shot. It crushed the head of the second knight in line, sending him stumbling into the legs of the man with the eye patch, dropping both face-first onto the muddy trail. As the man with the eye patch climbed from under his dead friend, he shouted. “We will not be so merciful now, you fat bitch!”

  The four remaining knights dashed up the trail.

  Liz Hen roared at her own success and hefted a third rock, launching it over the side. Dokie began throwing rocks too. Stefan was firing arrows at the remaining knights. But his arrows flew wide and he quickly ran out. Nail cursed, realizing he had wasted far too many precious arrows trying to kill the rabbit last night. Stefan dropped his bow and began searching the trail for rocks to throw.

  Nail whirled and untied the battle-ax from Lilly’s back, its cumbersome weight now welcome. It felt right in his hands—hands that now grew tingly and cold. His red scars flared in pain: the cross, the slave mark, scars from the mermaid’s claws, even the tattoo on his bicep. It seemed wisps of smoky blue light played over the battle-ax’s silvery, smooth shine.

  The four knights were advancing rapidly up the switchbacks, to the dogleg only twenty feet straight below them now. Nail could see their faces, gruff men all—the first in line, the one with the black eye patch, had a grim determination in his eye. A boulder, pulled from the mud by Stefan, rolled down the hill and crashed among the knights, doing little harm but forcing them to clump
together on the trail.

  With a bellowing shout, Liz Hen took a running start and launched the full weight of her portly body into the side of Lilly, sending the pony over the edge. Lilly, still laden with heavy saddlebags, wolf-hide blankets, and torches, dropped straight down atop the Sør Sevier men. One of the pony’s hooves cracked the man with the eye patch square in the head, knocking him flat, whilst the weight of Lilly’s body swept two of the other knights over the edge with her. With a clatter, the two men and the pony tumbled forty feet down the steep and rugged switchbacks like rag dolls, sending swords, armor, and all the gear strapped to Lilly scattering.

  Only one knight remained standing. He shouted a bloody curse and sprinted up the trail, taking the sharp turn in the switchback in two strides, sword poised to strike.

  Liz Hen screeched like a wild boar. She flew by Nail and down the trail to meet the charging knight bare-handed. Bloodlust was in her now.

  The knight, having the disadvantage of coming at them from below, took a wild swing with his blade at the girl, barely missing her legs as she launched herself through the air. The great bulk of Liz Hen’s body enveloped the knight about the chest and head, sending the two of them rolling and sliding down the slick and muddy trail. The knight lost his sword.

  Dokie, quick on Liz Hen’s heels, grabbed up the man’s fallen blade and began awkwardly hacking at the knight as he wrestled with the girl. The much stronger knight heaved her off. Liz Hen tumbled away, but bounded to her feet. Not finished with her attack, she scrambled back toward the knight, who was now trying in vain to stand in the slick mud. Liz Hen beat on the fellow with her fists, whilst Dokie pricked at him with the heavy sword. For a moment the knight fought back furiously, until he slipped to his knees in a patch of melting snow. Then Dokie plunged the tip of the large sword into the man’s throat and shoved. The Sør Sevier knight fell back, blood oozing from the wound in his neck. And when Dokie withdrew the sword, it was over. The knight toppled over, dead.