The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Nail could not identify the clattering noise that woke him, and for a span of a few heartbeats he lay confused, dizzy, not knowing where he was, eyes cracked open. It was as if the world was tilted alarmingly. His head swam with panic. When his vision cleared, he found he was looking straight up at the dark spindly pine boughs overhead and the stars twinkling between them.

  He could feel the warmth of the campfire on the side of his face. Hawkwood, Godwyn, and the dwarf sat around the fire, talking. Nail rolled over, placing his back to the fire, breathing heavily, trying to repress the dream he’d just had. It was way past midnight.

  It had been a long day of hard travel from the abbey. He’d grown exhausted within the first half day of riding: sore, unaccustomed to the feel and motion of Godwyn’s piebald pony, Dusty. After the long day of riding he both appreciated and hated Dusty. Stefan, Dokie, and Liz Hen struggled with their ponies too.

  “I’d sooner stay here for a time,” Liz Hen had said when Godwyn first told her of their plans to leave the abbey. “I can tend the goats and ponies for you, bishop, while you and the others go back down to the coast.”

  “And I’ll help her,” Dokie piped up. “I dare not venture far from here, specially any place near the army of the White Prince, you know, lest they toss me in with the sharks and I dump in my britches again.”

  But the bishop would have none of it. “You will be safer with us, young Dokie. The abbey will be boarded up and the sheep and goats can roam for the summer. The ponies will bear us to Ravenker quickly. Fear not, Liz Hen, you will be given a stout-enough mount. You won’t have to hoof it yourself down the mountain. We will see you to safety at Lord’s Point and elsewhere. The abbey is not the place to stay.”

  Stefan was overly protective of the bow Shawcroft had given him. When Godwyn had tried to secure the bow onto the back of Stefan’s pony, he snatched it from the bishop’s hands roughly. “I will carry it.”

  Nail knew the bow meant a great deal to Stefan. Especially ever since his friend had carved Gisela’s name into its wood.

  For the journey, Shawcroft’s satchel had been tied to the back of Dusty along with the battle-ax. But he couldn’t search the satchel for Shawcroft’s note without drawing attention to himself. Since the start of the journey from the abbey, it was what he’d desired most. To see what was written there. To see if it answered any more of his questions that the men had failed to answer earlier. And if I ask Godwyn to just show it to me, I’m sure to get a lecture on faith or some such.

  Every time he’d tried to slow his mount and let the others pass him on the trail so he could read the note, something would foil his plan: Beer Mug would bound off into the woods after a fox, causing a commotion, or Dokie would stop and stare at one of the many standing-stones they passed. The bishop had given the boy a small sketchbook. Dokie had taken up the habit of sketching each new symbol he saw on the stones during their breaks from riding. Dokie was not an artist at all. But Liz Hen would flaunt his drawings in front of Nail, claiming with each one that Dokie was far better than he. Nail wasn’t sure if he had the stomach to ever draw again. Each standing-stone that they had passed was like another dagger in his heart. The ominous markers, with their familiar carvings sheathed in lichen, had seemed to call out to him. If he lingered near them, nausea soon overcame him. He could find nothing good or noteworthy about the stones or their carvings. They were home to the wraiths, he’d decided, wreathed in a thick pall of evil, dead set on making him ill—dead set on making him recall images best forgotten: bloody shark-infested water, mermaids, lightning, slave brands, a Vallè Bloodwood murdered by Shawcroft. There were still just too many things out of his control. Like a leaf fallen into a raging current, he was just spinning with the roiling waters into the vast unknown.

  Now they were camped for the night, and Nail couldn’t sleep more than a few winks without his dreams morphing into horrid, disturbing things.

  He tried to concentrate on sleep. But the men talking so near made it difficult.

  “It’s what was done to Alana Bronachell that I cannot forgive,” he heard Godwyn say, his voice filled with something not far from panic. Nail’s heart beat faster.

  “Leave it alone, Hugh,” the dwarf said.

  “I’ve paid my penance for past sins,” Hawkwood said.

  “I won’t have us bicker over the past, which cannot be changed.” The dwarf lowered his voice. “We are who we are. All of us.”

  “I fear for the lives of the young folk with us,” Godwyn said, “especially Ser Roderic’s ward. He is a danger to the others, a danger to us.”

  Nail’s ears perked up, straining to hear the men talk over the crackling campfire.

  “I see great strength in him,” Hawkwood said.

  “I do not share your optimism,” the dwarf said. “He is teetering on the brink.”

  “Shawcroft did not raise him to be weak,” Godwyn said. “Don’t forget, he has been told his entire life that he was nothing. A bastard. And now we’ve hinted that he can be part of something far greater than anyone could have ever imagined. What is the precedent for such a thing? How should he react?”

  “I sense his eagerness to pledge loyalty to us is but an act,” the dwarf huffed.

  Hawkwood interjected, “I have always respected your instincts when it comes to assessing one’s character, Roguemoore. But with Nail we should reserve our judgment for a while. The bishop is right. How should the boy react to all we’ve said? Let him make his own decision. It is only fair. I say we tell him exactly why we need him.”

  “Keeping secrets may be a mistake, yes,” the dwarf mumbled. “But I fear all would come to ruin if we were to tell him everything now.”

  “Ser Roderic was a hard, unfeeling man,” Godwyn said. “He never wanted Nail. Never thought the charade was a good idea. Roderic resented the Brethren’s decision and how it placed such strain on his life. As a result Nail has been treated with one part kindness and two parts meanness. The boy knows not what to believe. He has calluses on his heart that may never heal.”

  “He longs for friendship,” the dwarf continued. “More than anything, I sense that in him. And it is just that kind of loyalty and longing for acceptance that could prove to be our biggest quandary. He wishes for the well-being of his friends. But someday he will come to know just how much of a danger he has always been to them . . . and to us. In knowing the truth, he may very well walk away from us without suffering a moment of remorse. One thing is certain. If his friends stay, they will all die because of him.”

  An ominous pall hung over the camp at the dwarf’s statement. The campfire popped and hissed. For Nail, Roguemoore’s last words were like a knife plunged inside of him, twisting and ripping at his innards. His heart burned with anger, yet he lay there under his blanket as cold as a rock, the dwarf’s words sounding over and over in his head.

  Even these men hide secrets from me. . . .

  He was truly lost and alone. I was responsible for the slaughter of Gallows Haven. His mind spun. What crushed his soul the most, though, was the thought that he had finally found a place for himself in the Five Isles with these men, a cause to believe in. But during today’s travel with them through the Autumn Range, he now felt a fool for his want to become a member of the Brethren of Mia. These men who he had pledged loyalty to had not been honest with him. So soon they had betrayed him. Now they claimed he was truly a danger to his very own friends. Shawcroft never wanted me.

  The dwarf was right, Nail could walk away from his pledge to them without a moment’s remorse, and, he vowed, on the morrow he would.

  The wind’s soft breath drifted from the ocean and up the mountainside. Nail, Stefan, Liz Hen, Dokie, even the dwarf, the bishop, and Hawkwood watched in dismay as the morning sun danced off the rippling waters of the bay like polished gold. Ravenker lay far below, nestled between the Autumn Bay to the east and the Autumn Range to the west. To the south of Ravenker along the coastline, the White Prince’s army had destroyed all. Far
mhouses were smoking ruins, fields trampled under by horse and soldier. It was a wasteland.

  North, as far as the eye could see, unspoiled farms and cottages and hamlets dotted the landscape, random as seeds scattered in the wind. Patches of lush meadows, woodlands, and rock-fenced fields bordered the farms. A broken wall circled the northern half of town. Villagers streamed in lines from it, many leading oxcarts loaded with possessions, many walking singly and in groups. The mournful hymns they were singing floated with the breeze, high up the slope to where Nail sat atop Dusty. But he saw little meaning in their sad song. Too many dead spots were taking root in his emotions now. That the townsfolk below were about to lose their homes barely pierced his sense of sorrow. Their deaths are probably my fault too. The bishop had been correct. Shawcroft had raised him to be unfeeling and hard as nails inside. And everyone is full of lies.

  The Swithen Wells Trail from the abbey to Ravenker was wide enough for wagons, as it was here. In the short time the piebald had lumbered down the trail since they had awoken and tore down camp near an hour ago, Nail’s legs, still unaccustomed to riding, had begun to burn. His thighs were already tight and cramping. He brooded in the saddle, unhappy about a great many things.

  “We dare not risk taking the stone and ax so near the army of the White Prince,” Godwyn said. For the journey, the bishop had again forsaken his cassock and robe for knee-high boots, leather breeches, and a woolen shirt. With his Dayknight bow strapped across his back, he now looked the part of a deadly archer. It was hard for Nail to imagine the man had ever worn a bishop’s cassock at all.

  Roguemoore, face gruff and weather-beaten under his bushy beard, sat atop his swaybacked pony. Mountainous peaks still crowned with snow rose high over the dwarf’s shoulder. “We may have no choice,” he said.

  Their road, now skirting an overgrown limestone quarry, dropped down abruptly into a series of steep switchbacks to Ravenker below. Nail’s own mount shuffled sideways along the rutted-clay road. He pulled the reins, calming Dusty before she bumped into the back of Godwyn’s taller draught mare.

  Stefan, Dokie, and Nail had kept their own Gallows Haven armor for the journey. Nail somehow felt the old scrap of metal had just become a part of him. He wished he had a sword. Underneath, all three of them wore shirts and tan leggings of good wool edged with dark leather that the bishop had given them. They were all four wrapped in warm fleece-lined cloaks, also gifts from Godwyn.

  Now here they sat above Ravenker, looking down upon the White Prince’s army again in dismay. Stefan, Dokie, and Liz Hen looked ill. This was what they’d feared most. Stefan held his bow in anxious hands, fingers nervously caressing Gisela’s name carved there.

  “I see the king’s banner.” A stout wind lifted dark hair off Hawkwood’s shoulders. He sat atop his roan between the bishop and Dokie. “North of town, I see it. But there seem to be only about fifty or sixty Gul Kana knights, all in blue livery.”

  “Lord Kronnin’s Ocean Guard, no doubt.” The dwarf looked at Hawkwood. “We risk capture if either Jovan or any of Sterling’s men are down there with them.”

  “Our trail leads straight through Ravenker,” Godwyn said. “I do not like this.”

  “There is no other road north,” Roguemoore said. “It would take us a week to skirt around Ravenker through the cliffs and mountains. They are too rugged and steep. Our only path is through Ravenker.”

  “We can still slip through unseen,” Hawkwood added. “We can easily pass ourselves off as just another group of fleeing villagers.”

  The dwarf nodded. “That would work, if we stow our weapons. Cover the ax. Stefan, you’ll have to hide your bow.”

  Stefan’s eyes widened in fear; whether it was fear of giving up his bow for a while, or fear of journeying so near the armies of Aeros Raijael again, Nail couldn’t tell.

  “Laijon be with us,” the bishop said. “I still do not like the idea of traveling through that town, lest we become separated.”

  “If we become separated,” the dwarf said, looking at them all one by one, “make your way to the Turn Key Saloon in Lord’s Point, where my brother, Ironcloud, is to meet us. It will be our rendezvous point.”

  * * *

  Luck lasts not. Skill endures. Laijon is on the side with the strongest warriors. Laijon is on the side of those willing to look into the eyes of the men they kill. For death cannot get more personal than face-to-face and blade to blade. Laijon is on the side of those who do battle in the name of his son Raijael.

  —THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL

  * * *

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  GAULT AULBREK

  21ST DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  RAVENKER, GUL KANA

  It was first dawn now, but Leif Chaparral, the prince of Rivermeade and son of Lord Claybor Chaparral, had come to them in the middle of the night, bearing a banner of truce along with news from Jovan Bronachell. Leif claimed it was he himself who had escorted Baron Jubal Bruk from Lord’s Point to Amadon. He’d assured Aeros that Jubal had delivered the Angel Prince’s message to the king. Then he’d told them that Jovan had been sorely injured in an assassination attempt and could not meet them in Lord’s Point as requested, saying, “In his stead, he sent his sister, Princess Jondralyn. She desires that you meet her at noon in the center of Ravenker. She has traveled with but sixty knights to show her good faith. She asks that you bring sixty of your own knights. There, she will deliver you Jovan’s terms of war.”

  “Jovan does not wish to surrender?” Aeros asked.

  “Jondralyn will answer to the particulars of that. She seems eager enough to. And I would hate to spoil her moment.” Leif had appeared almost bored with the whole conversation. “I would take my leave now.” He bowed. “I ventured into your camp at great risk to myself. If I do not return by first light, Jondralyn will make haste back to Lord’s Point and you will not get to speak with her.”

  Aeros had studied the prince of Rivermeade with an amused glint in his eye. The prince of Rivermeade appeared unruffled. He was a long-haired, athletic-looking, and confident fellow with dark-rimmed eyes. Aeros said, “Before I grant you leave, Ser Leif, answer me this. What happened to the three knights I sent with Jubal Bruk: Marcus, Patryk, and Blodeved? Will they be returned to me?”

  “They accompanied the baron to Amadon, true. From there I know not where they went. My king did not detain them, if that is what you are asking.”

  And that was the extent of the conversation before the prince of Rivermeade was escorted back to his camp by the Bloodwood.

  Now, at the break of dawn, all five Knights Archaic stood in front of Aeros’ tent: Gault, Spades, Hammerfiss, Spiderwood, and even Aeros’ newest bodyguard, Mancellor Allen. Plus one unexpected soul, Jenko Bruk, there at the behest of Aeros.

  The flaps of the Angel Prince’s tent folded back and Aeros stepped out into the cool morning air. Gault and the other Knights Archaic bowed before him. Jenko Bruk even dipped his head slightly. As Aeros drew closer, his pace almost a saunter, he twirled a thin gold chain in his hand, his skin, as always, cold-looking and pale. His mouth quirked slightly as he spoke. “I am most unhappy about the coming meeting with this princess.”

  Spiderwood said, “I talked to the prince of Rivermeade at length as I escorted him back to his camp. I got the sense that Gul Kana has little will to fight. And Leif claimed Jondralyn Bronachell is ill equipped to deal with much of anything. Meeting with her would accomplish little in Leif’s eyes . . . and mine.”

  “I imagine she is meek in spirit.” Spades smiled, fingering the copper coin in her hand—her Gul Kana trinket with the image of the woman she so hated minted upon it. “Let me crush this princess and her sixty knights.”

  Gault knew Spades was like a coiled spring, ready to leap from Aeros’ tent and pounce on this Gul Kana princess who had stolen Hawkwood’s heart. She hadn’t carried the coin with Jondralyn’s likeness across the breadth of Wyn Darrè for nothing.

&n
bsp; “Jovan’s weakness is an affront,” Hammerfiss snarled. “He could not even bother to come meet with you himself. Instead he sends his sister. I beg of you, let me parley with this Gul Kana bitch. I will gladly send her back to her older brother in a hundred finely carved pieces fit to barbecue.”

  Aeros paced before them, gold chain still twirling, faster now. Gault knew Aeros loathed trifling matters. And this meeting with the princess was clearly a trifle to him. Whenever the Angel Prince’s eyes met his, Gault tried to read what he saw there. But Aeros’ eyes were stone. Gault wondered if the guilt for what he’d done with Ava Shay was written all over his own face.

  “That Jovan has not come himself is indeed an affront.” The weblike veins under Aeros’ pale, stretched skin pulsed in anger. He looked at Spiderwood with cold eyes. “Leif spoke of an assassination attempt on Jovan. With that I am most displeased. The king was not to be touched by any in Black Dugal’s Caste.”

  “If there was an attack on Jovan, it was not the Bloodwoods’ doing.”

  Aeros’ face grew taut, veins now swelling along his neck and forehead, the chain still twirling in his hand. “If the king of Gul Kana cannot speak with me himself, why should I bother speaking with one of his underlings, one of his siblings?” Having seemingly asked the question of himself, Aeros looked to the ground, not expecting an answer. “I will send one of you in my stead.” Again, he shot icy eyes at the Bloodwood.

  “Send me,” Spades growled, fist tightly clenched over the coin now, as if she meant to crush the princess of Gul Kana’s image into pulp.

  “That,” Aeros said, watching the coin spin in Spades’ hand, “I most certainly will not do. I do not want Jondralyn killed, leastways, not yet. And you would likely gut her from navel to throat and then slice her face off and send it back to Hawkwood in a box.”

  Fire burned in Spades’ eyes. “Do not deny me this honor, my lord.”