The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Gault drew his own sword and motioned for Mancellor Allen’s shield. The Wyn Darrè youth held the shield out grudgingly. So Gault made a point of snatching it roughly from the long-haired boy’s hand, nearly jerking him to the ground.

  Most sword fights ended after only a few swings. And Gault was one to end a fight quick. He wasted no time in attacking Stabler. The one-eyed man was skilled enough to block the first couple of blows. But Gault pressed on, backing Stabler down easily. There were no cheers among the onlookers as Gault lunged, and with a swift blow struck Stabler’s sword from his hand. The man did not flinch. Even when Gault raised his sword for the final blow, Stabler stood motionless. In a way, Gault wanted to spare his friend this death. But the years of growing well-honed in battle carried his blade downward in a sweeping arc—there was nothing that could stop Gault’s instincts to kill in battle, nothing he could summon up within himself to stop it.

  And so, as if of its own accord, his sword came flashing down into Stabler’s neck, digging a trench through his leather shoulder-armor and burying itself deep into his chest.

  Stabler crumpled silently to the ground as Gault pulled his sword free. Short, shallow breaths hissed from Stabler’s lips, but nothing would stem the gushing blood that now pumped over the grass.

  Gault looked at Ava Shay and felt nothing. The spell she’d held over him was broken. There was nothing like the intoxicating taste of battle and the killing of a friend to rid oneself of any soft spots left in one’s heart. It was like taking a breath of fresh air.

  “Well done.” Aeros took the shield from Gault’s hand and returned it back to Mancellor Allen. “I’ve always been curious about those tattoos under your eyes,” Aeros said to the Wyn Darrè fellow. “I insist you tell me of them.”

  “If it pleases my lord.” Mancellor touched the tattoo under his left eye with long, rough fingers. “In Wyn Darrè it is common that a warrior tattoos dark swaths under his eyes. Squid ink is the best, the blackest. It diverts the sunlight and cuts back on the blinding glare of armor and sword into our eyes. It is a great honor when the baron you’ve trained under finally offers you the ink.”

  “Oh yes,” Hammerfiss laughed. “Wyn Darrè proved to be just teeming with honorable and tattooed soldiers running about with the sun not in their eyes.”

  Aeros spoke again. “Let me ask you, Mancellor, whom do you worship now?”

  “I still worship Laijon as I did before,” Mancellor said, standing straighter. “But I no longer pay homage to the grand vicar in Amadon. I no longer pray to stone idols and partake in rituals of Ember Lighting as I used to. I now worship Laijon through the grace of his true and living heir, Aeros Raijael. You are my lord. I will follow you to my very death to prove it. I so swear.”

  The way he said it, Gault actually believed him.

  “You have proven your valor and more.” The eyes of the Angel Prince drifted from Mancellor to Jenko Bruk. “Listen well, young Jenko. Not less than five years ago, Mancellor Allen’s regiment was destroyed by my armies in Ikaboa. He was naught but a conquered Wyn Darrè captive, a lowly servant as you are now. But over time, and after throwing off the shackles of the Church of Laijon and ridding himself of the rule of the grand vicar and quorum of five, Mancellor found the truth. He is now joined to us heart and soul and has become a part of the covenant of Raijael.”

  Jenko Bruk seemed less than impressed.

  Aeros picked up Stabler’s sword from the grass and handed it to the young Wyn Darrè. “This, my servant, is now yours.” Aeros bent his knee before Mancellor and bowed low. “And I thus name you, Mancellor Allen, Knight Archaic. Stabler’s mount, Shine, is now yours.”

  Aeros’ bow and pronouncement were met with silence. Spades, copper coin unmoving in her hand, raised her eyebrows. Hammerfiss furrowed his. Spiderwood stared at nothing. Aeros stood back up and clasped Mancellor about the shoulder with a sly grin.

  Gault bent and cleaned the blood from his sword on Stabler’s pant leg. And once his sword was wiped clean, he rammed the blade home in the scabbard and resumed his spot next to the girl Ava Shay, who now looked upon him with fright-filled eyes.

  * * *

  We have given unto you a Quorum of Five Archbishops to govern the Church of Laijon in Amadon. And only through the quorum of five will the name of Laijon’s holy prophet be revealed. For the grand vicar of the Church of Laijon will never be self-sent.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  NAIL

  15TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  SWITHEN WELLS TRAIL ABBEY, AUTUMN RANGE, GUL KANA

  Stefan Wayland instructed Nail to hold the bow gently in his hands. “You don’t have to crush it with your fingers,” he said. “When you draw back, hold your hand at the corner of your mouth and sight down the shaft. Let the string just slide from your fingers. Don’t let it snap. Relaxing is the key.”

  Nail flicked the hair from his eyes, aimed, and fired. The arrow skittered through the grass and kicked up a puff of dirt a good ten paces in front of the target—a large sack of grain with a red circle painted in the center a hundred paces away. He handed the bow back to Stefan, who picked an arrow, aimed, and fired. The arrow whistled through the air and struck the sack of grain a foot above the circle, punching deep, quivering.

  Dokie, standing near a crackling fire in Godwyn’s firepit by the fence, clapped in approval. He then hopped on the stone fence with Liz Hen, who was knitting a wool shirt. “Just you try and better that shot,” he said to Bishop Godwyn. “Stefan is the best bowman in all Gul Kana.”

  The bishop nocked an arrow into his own bow, sighted down the shaft, then let it fly. With a musical twang, his arrow sang through the air and struck just under Stefan’s in the center of the grain sack. Godwyn turned and winked. “Lucky shot, that.”

  Most days, the bishop would forsake his priestly cassock and white robe for knee-high boots, leather breeches, and a green woolen shirt edged at the elbows with elk hide. His hair, a listless shade of watery gray, was a scraggly mess no matter the clothes he wore. With his garb, amiable mug, and unkempt hair, Hugh Godwyn looked more the part of a rootless bard or vagabond than a bishop.

  Godwyn’s bow was similar to Stefan’s. Dayknight made, constructed of witch hazel and ash wood. The bishop claimed to have been a Dayknight when he was younger. At night he would recount many of his adventures, stories colorful and bawdy. Baron Bruk had been in some of those tales. But whenever the baron’s name was mentioned, a pall fell over Dokie, Stefan, and Liz Hen. None of them liked to be reminded of their life before in Gallows Haven. None of them wanted to recall what had happened to the baron.

  For Nail, the past seven days at the abbey with Bishop Godwyn had been some of the most contented of his life. Their first feast upon arriving had been wonderful: salted trout, peas, beans, cheese, bread, turnips, and birch wine. The abbey was a cozy place in the middle of a sun-dappled glade, and Nail liked it greatly. After all, it possessed the grand virtue of keeping out the hail and wind. After their harrowing journey through the icy mountains, Nail would never take simple shelter for granted again. The abbey itself consisted of a tiny chapel, scarcely large enough to seat ten or twelve worshippers. Next to the chapel was a dormitory with a small kitchen and several rows of bunk beds. On the far side of the chapel was a library stacked with books. Between the abbey and dormitory was a small walled-in garden, and beyond that the stable. Inside the stable were ten large pigs, six small piebald ponies, and one dun-colored draught mare.

  Hugh Godwyn tended to the Swithen Wells Trail chapel and grounds by himself. Nowadays, the remote abbey was merely used as a way station for those traveling between Swithen Wells and Tomkin Sty, or for those taking the north fork road toward Ravenker. But in days long past, the abbey had been the main place of worship for the miners who used to call these mountain peaks their home, or so Godwyn had claimed.

  Nail was drawn to the walled-off ga
rden. As the weather had warmed over the past few days, it was becoming bright with clover. The small garden was a peaceful place to huddle under a cloak and read one of the bishop’s books or draw on clean parchment with Godwyn’s quills and ink. The pictures Nail drew were of fields of flowers or groves of aspen, a blonde-haired girl the focal point of every composition. He’d thought his life as an artist was over. But the abbey had rekindled his dreams.

  The abbey was remote and relatively safe. Still, the bishop had advised Nail and Stefan to keep their armor close at hand. He had fitted both boys with shirts and leggings of good wool. Liz Hen still wore what she came with, as did Dokie. But they were all four of them given warm fleece-lined cloaks. Liz Hen would not part with the sword she had taken from the knight she and Dokie had killed. She toted the thing about everywhere, chopping twigs with it, swinging it about in great arcs, slaying invisible foes. It was a magnificent blade. Bishop Godwyn had taken to teaching both Liz Hen and Dokie a few simple block-and-parry moves that they both repeated for hours on end. Dokie showed no lingering ill effects from the lightning strike, the crossbow bolt to his leg, or the shark bites. He was almost completely healed. Nail wondered what twist of fate was keeping Dokie alive, free of infection, whilst Zane Neville, hit once with an ax, had succumbed to his wounds. Gisela had died from cold, or who knew what. Yet Dokie roamed the abbey grounds as healthy as the day he was born. Lady Death is a fickle mistress, Shawcroft was fond of saying. And he’d been shot with a crossbow bolt too, then nearly died of a dog bite, before the Bloodwood finished him. It all seemed so random.

  Godwyn and Stefan continued their archery practice. Keeping Stefan focused on archery was the only thing that kept him from plummeting into bouts of deep depression. Since arriving at the abbey, Stefan had been a mournful mope. Not even the bishop could console the boy. One night Stefan took a knife and carved Gisela’s name into the stock of his Dayknight bow. This act boosted his spirits some. He named the weapon Gisela and from then on, like the sword that Liz Hen carried, the bow never left his side. Sometimes, at night, Nail could hear Liz Hen praying with Dokie. The big girl’s prayers were all tears for Zane and despair over the loss of Gallows Haven and wishing death to the white devil from Sør Sevier. Dokie scarcely uttered a word, unless it was in his sleep, and those naught but horror-laced mumblings about lightning, sharks, and soiled skivvies. Liz Hen and Dokie were constantly together, frequently holding hands. These last few days at the abbey had seen the two grow close. “I daresay they are in love,” Stefan once mumbled. “It’s nice they have each other.” Then he would caress the spot where he had carved Gisela’s name into the stock of his bow.

  Liz Hen was always in a chatty mood with Dokie and Stefan. She was even opening up to the bishop some. But everything she tended to say to Nail was crisp and cold and more than just a trifle unkind. A simmering rage was boiling up within her day by day. She blames me for everything. Right now she was sitting atop the stone fence, knitting, but her eyes were not on her work; instead they were glaring at him. There was no reason for it. Tonight the early evening air was moving cool and fragrant around him. The fire was a soothing warmth on his skin. He tried to ignore Liz Hen’s gaze, but it kept burrowing into him until he found he couldn’t look away from her at all.

  “Why do you stare at me?” he asked.

  “Because you disgust me, Nail.” She plopped down from the fence and waddled toward the fire pit, knitting needles and wool shirt in hand. “You’ve done naught but lay about this abbey, content and comfortable, since we arrived. You act as if nothing awful has happened to us at all.”

  “How would you have me behave?” Nail asked defensively.

  “I would have you behave like you cared.”

  “Cared about what?”

  Liz Hen grunted. “I was a fool to think it was within you to save Zane, even for a moment. You couldn’t have carried him even two steps. Bastard.”

  Nail didn’t know what to say. Liz Hen had placed both fists on her thick hips and was staring down her bulbous nose at him. “What have you to say for yourself? You’ve yet to shed a single tear for any of us. Not me. Not Dokie. Not Gisela. Not Zane. Not the dead left in Gallows Haven. Not even your master, Shawcroft. May the wraiths take you. Do bastards truly have no soul?”

  He wished she would stop calling him that. “I only did what you bade me do. I could have carried Zane had you only helped, only given me a chance.”

  “Don’t you be blamin’ me for my own brother’s death.”

  “It was Laijon’s will that Zane perished.” Dokie slid from the fence. “And that is the only comfort I take. Laijon’s will.”

  “You’re wrong, Dokie,” Liz Hen said. “It was Nail who killed him.”

  “Only because that is what you wanted.” The words tumbled from Nail’s mouth before he could rein them in. But for as much as his words might’ve hurt Liz Hen, they were like a cold spear plunging into his own heart. He would never forget the look on Zane’s face as he had slipped the dagger up and in. He would never forget the feel of his friend’s warm blood pumping over his hands, or forget the mournful sound of Beer Mug. He’d saved his friend’s life during the grayken hunt, only to have to take that same life in the cold of the mountains. Nothing about it seemed right or fair. He blinked back the tears he now felt welling in his own eyes. They all think it’s because of me that Gallows Haven was destroyed. He did not want them to see him cry, especially the bishop, who, along with Stefan, was looking at him now, bows forgotten in their hands.

  “You’re heartless.” Liz Hen clutched her knitting to her chest. “Like I said, you have no soul. Shawcroft died for us and you don’t even care. You’ve not said a good word about him. The man raised you and yet still you remain quiet. Not one good word. How is his soul to rise up and live with Laijon if nobody speaks for him?”

  “What would you have me say?” Nail felt the anger broiling within him. Tears were long gone now. It was true. He had detached himself emotionally from Shawcroft. But the man’s death had hurt. In some ways, it didn’t really seem like his master was dead. He expected Shawcroft to come walking up at any moment and angrily order him to pan the stream near the abbey for gold. But Liz Hen was correct about one thing: Nail had enjoyed his time at the abbey. It was relaxing. Nobody was giving him orders. Nobody was watching how he held a pickax, or criticizing how he set his feet as he swung at a solid wall of stone in some dark cave. Nobody was treating him cruelly—until now. Thinking back on the days upon days of working the dark mines with Shawcroft, or panning for gold in the mountains, was now almost too much for his mind to bear. He felt nauseated and slumped down on a nearby stump. He sensed everyone’s eyes on him, their faces blurry. “Don’t any of you understand how much I hated working those mines and streams for naught but a few nuggets and a handful of dust? Do none of you know how frightened and alone I was my whole life?”

  “You were never alone,” the bishop said. Nail looked up and tried to focus on the man before him through the strands of blond hair that hung over his face. Godwyn’s eyes, under his sharp brow line, were like a silver-wolf peering from a dark cave. “Your master knew what kind of boy you were: hardworking, determined, crafty in the wild. The type of son who would make any man proud.” It looked like the bishop wanted to reach out to comfort him but restrained himself. “He was proud of you. Put your mind at ease.”

  “How would you know?” Nail flicked hair from his eyes and studied Godwyn, trying to decide whether he liked this odd man with the curling, gray mustache or not. “How would you know what Shawcroft thought of me, how he treated me?”

  Bishop Godwyn set his bow aside, picked up a long stick, and stirred the fire. He gave Nail a frank yet soft look and said, “Shawcroft was a man who could go about his business with a harsh efficiency that was both admirable and disappointing at the same time. His bluntness carried over into his care of you. I once questioned his hard way of raising you. But he wanted you to be a strong, independent-minded young
man.”

  “But what does it matter?” Nail mumbled, his halfhearted, wounded reaction impossible to mask. “Most days it seemed he didn’t care for me much at all.”

  Godwyn lifted his eyes from the fire and spoke forcefully this time. “Shawcroft gave up all that he wanted to strive for a better future for you. Assassins hunted him the last seventeen years because of his devotion to you. Assassins took his wife because of his devotion to you. He was a tormented soul.”

  Shawcroft had a wife?

  Godwyn continued, “Shawcroft gave up every single thing in his life that was important to him: his chance to rule a kingdom, his chance to have a family of his own. He sacrificed all for you.”

  “Why?” Nail said through gritted teeth. “That is all I ever wanted to know from him. Why? Why was he watching over me? Who was he? Who am I? He would never tell me any of it. Not about my sister, my mother, my father. None of it.”

  “Well, there are worse things than not knowing who you are, or where you came from, or what your purpose is. There are much worse things than not knowing.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like knowing.” The bishop’s eyes bored into his. “You think your life with Shawcroft was unfair? Sure, he was stern with you. Perhaps even cruel at times. Well, let me ask, were you ever beaten? Were you ill fed? Most orphans live a life of squalor in the lice-infested slums of Amadon. You had it rather easy, I say. Have you ever had bugs crawl in your ears as you slept? Because that is what most fatherless bastards have to deal with. A filthy bed full of bugs. Crawling up into your nose. Your anus.”

  Dokie squirmed at the word anus.