The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Nail’s eyes flew to Culpa and the other black-clad knight, Leif, thirty paces away and drawing near. Beer Mug growled.

  Hawkwood peered woozily from under dark locks of hair. He took Nail’s hands in his. “You and your sister were kept from each other for a purpose—”

  “Where is she?” Nail’s heart raced, mind suddenly spinning with confusion.

  “Listen, boy.” Hawkwood gripped his arm. “Your mother is dead. I wish it were otherwise. They will say she was Cassietta Raybourne, the younger sister of King Torrence Raybourne of Wyn Darrè . . . and Shawcroft your uncle. They will say you are from Wyn Darrè. That Raybourne blood flows in your veins, mixed with . . .”

  “Who will say?” Nail demanded through gritted teeth.

  Hawkwood’s eyes were glazing over quickly. “They will say your father is King Aevrett Raijael of Sør Sevier . . . that you are King Aevrett’s youngest son. And that only the . . . only the youngest Raijael can claim ownership . . . of the title . . . Angel Prince.”

  Hawkwood’s eyes rolled up. “But your . . . your destiny,” he mumbled, falling forward into Nail’s legs, clutching at him for support, “even they cannot fully fathom.”

  He thrust the reins of his roan into Nail’s hands. “Don’t let them . . . take my horse.” And with that, Hawkwood crumpled into unconsciousness and dropped to the ground. He landed with a thud between the blue-bladed sword, his horse, and Dusty, who stepped aside. Nail backed both animals away from Hawkwood. The two knights had reached them, Leif kneeling, rolling Hawkwood over onto his back, Culpa Barra gawking at Nail in mute wonder.

  And Nail stared back at Culpa. Here was Shawcroft’s young friend from Deadwood Gate, dressed in ominous black armor, a huge sword with a thick, leather-wrapped hilt and a black-opal-inlaid pommel sheathed at his side. Like Baron Bruk’s sword. Just like Shawcroft’s Dayknight sword.

  “Nail?” Culpa asked, a quizzical look on his face.

  Leif, Spiderwood’s sword now in hand, gazed up at Nail too. And what Nail glimpsed in Leif’s dark-rimmed eyes made him tremble with bitterness. He had seen the look before—in Jenko Bruk’s eyes that night not so long ago when they had agreed to spar in the Grayken Spear Inn. It was the look that men of station frequently gave him, that look that said, Whoever you are, you are of no account to me. With that one look from Leif Chaparral, Nail knew what he must do.

  He wheeled Dusty around, set heels to her flanks, and galloped away as fast as the piebald would take him, Hawkwood’s roan trailing.

  And with a short, sharp bark, Beer Mug raced after.

  * * *

  Behold Laijon whom you seek, whom you delight in. He shall come suddenly to the place of his death, that place where he banished the demons and winged serpents into the underworld. And the tree that he was hung upon shall become like unto a pillar of fire, and those five once hidden from sight will finally be revealed.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  AVA SHAY

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

  RAVENKER, GUL KANA

  In the waning light of the tent, Ava heard Jenko’s shaking voice. “We bring you treasure from Ravenker, my lord.”

  Ava carefully eased her way through the room toward the tied flaps of canvas that separated Aeros’ bedchamber from the rest of the tent. She set her eye to one of the narrow slits between the canvas drapes. Jenko Bruk, Mancellor Allen, and Aeros Raijael stood in the section of tent adjacent to the Angel Prince’s bedchamber. Jenko was handing Aeros a gigantic double-bladed battle-ax. Its edges gleamed in the faint light.

  To Ava, the monstrous thing looked sharp enough to cleave through someone’s leg just by dropping it. The ax had a thick haft of steel wrapped in black leather interwoven with Vallè runes and silver thread. Though beyond murderous-looking, the ax was the most magnificent thing Ava had ever laid eyes on. Its haft seemed to fit perfectly in Aeros’ two pale hands.

  Neither Jenko’s nor Mancellor’s eyes left the ax, even as Aeros spoke. “You’ve damage to your armor?” he addressed Jenko.

  “A scratch,” Jenko answered. Ava saw it—a long gash in his plate armor just below the ribs—and gasped. It appeared some blood had leaked from it.

  “I send you two off on a fool’s errand of the Bloodwood’s making, and you return bearing one of the five greatest gifts known to mankind.” Aeros leaned the magnificent ax against his divan. He then took up the leather satchel at Mancellor Allen’s feet.

  The satchel was dark umber. A flap wrapped over the top and buckled on the side. The scrollwork inlays decorating the leather were of a unique design entirely—of Vallè workmanship, Ava surmised.

  Aeros opened the satchel’s flap and pulled forth an old collection of bound scrolls and an ornate prayer book. He gave them only a cursory glance and set them aside. The object he took from the satchel last was a black swatch of silk. Aeros unwrapped it. Buried within was another brilliant stone—an exact replica of the stone he had shown her and the Bloodwood before, but this one was a radiant, sparkling blue. It rested graceful and perfect in the White Prince’s hand. Mancellor Allen’s eyes widened at the sight.

  Aeros held the stone out for Jenko. But Jenko recoiled as smoky waves of dazzling blue color passed over the stone’s smooth surface.

  “You’re lucky.” Aeros wrapped the stone into the black silk. “For your feeble wit comprehends none of what you’ve seen.”

  “What are they?” Jenko asked with a blank-faced stare.

  “Plunder. That is all. May I ask where you two found such treasures?”

  “We took them from a boy,” Mancellor Allen answered.

  “I took them from Nail.” Jenko looked at Aeros with some emotion now.

  “The boy is with the Spider,” Mancellor finished.

  Aeros’ eyes were alight. “You bear most excellent news. For the gifts, and the tidings you bring, I offer you both anything you desire.”

  With Aeros’ words, hope was not lost in Ava. This was what she had prayed for all along. Jenko would now demand her freedom. He would demand freedom for them both. After the other day, she knew that Gault was not her savior. But now, finally, she and Jenko could escape this nightmare and be together forever. They would travel back to Gallows Haven and start anew. She would finally have her husband and family.

  Yet it was Mancellor Allen who answered first. “I need no further gifts. For I have seen the truth and desire to grow in the ways of Raijael. I am your Knight Archaic. I serve you. Beyond that I have no other desire.”

  “Surely there must be one thing,” Aeros said, placing the stone back into the satchel. “Not one?”

  “Not one, my lord.” Mancellor bowed.

  “And you, Ser Jenko Bruk?”

  Ava’s hopes rose—it was now that Jenko would demand her release.

  “I felt something when I held the ax.” Jenko was staring again at the large weapon leaning against the divan. “There is some power within it.”

  “You felt something?” The Angel Prince’s eyebrows rose. “Only those most loyal can know the secrets of the ax.”

  “I wish to wield it in battle.” It seemed Jenko wanted to devour the double-bladed weapon with his eyes.

  “Only those most loyal, Ser Jenko.”

  “I wish to fight alongside you, my lord.” Jenko bowed. “I desire to prove my loyalty. I wish to be made a Knight of the Blue Sword.” As he spoke, his eyes never once strayed from the battle-ax.

  “You are an opportunist, for sure.” A curving smile was playing over Aeros’ lips. “But you have not even taken the oath of the Hound Guard, or blooded yourself as a Rowdie. Yet you still want to be made a Knight of the Blue Sword?”

  “I mean to prove myself.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  A rising tide of both panic and deep sadness filled Ava’s soul. To her, Jenko was now wreathed in total darkness. She had prayed day and night he would not succumb to
this evil. But now it appeared those prayers were going to go unanswered.

  Throughout her torment of the past weeks, the one hope she had clung to was that Jenko would one day rescue her from the demon, Aeros. Instead Jenko offered him allegiance. The wraiths now assailed her from every side. They wailed in horrific song, tightening their grip around her soul. She had never felt such despair, such absolute hopelessness. She had never dropped so far down into the darkness with the wraiths and known, deep in her heart, in her soul, that it was never, ever going to get better.

  Hope had been lost forever. It was never coming back. And she wasn’t sure that she cared. She was so tired. So bruised and exhausted.

  It was dark. Everything was dark. Everything was naught but darkness and despair.

  But who am I to be worthy of such despair? Who am I?

  * * *

  Woe unto Amadon, O Amadon, dread city where Laijon was slain. Wilt thou be distressed with heaviness and sorrow during your final Absolution? Wilt thou be smote with pillars of fire and rivers of blood? Only Laijon can return to save thee, O Amadon.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  TALA BRONACHELL

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

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  There was one last note from the Bloodwood on her mantel.

  Bravo! You succeeded in every task.

  Thanks to your devotion, the downfall of Gul Kana and the entire Five Isles is now underway. Just a few more tasks and Lawri’s transformation will be complete. And only then will your destiny also be secured.

  Do any of us ever truly show our true selves?

  Here is what I need you to do—

  Tala stopped reading and crumpled the paper, stuffing it into the folds of her cloak as Lawri entered the chamber. She was flanked by both Seita and Val-Draekin.

  The two Vallè had shown much concern over Lawri as of late, practically fawning over the girl since her sudden recovery. And Lawri reveled in their company.

  At the sight of the three, Tala’s heart hammered in dismay. Her mouth was unexpectedly dry and her heart clogged her throat. She swallowed, feeling the pulse in her temple increase. I saved Lawri! But this new note swept away all pleasure and sense of accomplishment that was hers. What have I done?

  “Everything okay?” Seita asked.

  No! She wanted to slap the Vallè princess. Things are not okay!

  Tala searched her cousin’s pale, innocent face in the pitiless torchlight of her room. She is so beautiful. But Tala knew the game was not over. What foul green potion did I feed her? The game had just begun. She could see it in Lawri’s eyes. Those eyes!

  Those once wide, dark, dark Le Graven pupils, they were lit luminescent jade from inside, as if some cursed magic had been let loose in Lawri’s brain, and her eyes were crystal windows to the raw green mayhem within. Or was it some trick of light?

  No. Tala studied Lawri’s smiling face. It was no trick of light. She could clearly see . . . the flecks in her cousin’s dark eyes were mostly green. . . .

  * * *

  Oh, that I were once again pure Vallè and could recapture the dreams of mine heart. Oh, what did I give in exchange for mine own heritage? Behold, I confess unto you now my greatest wish. For I desire that the Adversary of Laijon, that Assassin, that Fifth Warrior Angel, that great Betrayer, whoa, even that Last Demon Lord, had not taken up quill and ink and written that dread tale, that Book of the Betrayer. For some things best hidden may soon be discovered before that last fiery day of Absolution.

  —THE ANGEL STONE CODEX

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN

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

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Lindholf felt the rough scars on his own left ear with trembling fingers, wishing he were whole. The burns and scars were a plague and a curse. But they had brought him here today. He had dreamt of this moment, glimpsed it within those fleeting and foggy images always hiding near the darker places of his mind.

  He gazed up at the statue of Laijon and remembered his own words. Tala, know that I would defile a thousand Laijon statues at your whim.

  Even now, his hunger for Tala’s affection burned in his soul as fiercely as ever. Even now as he stood before the statue, caressing the thin black dagger buried deep in the pocket of his cloak—caressing it as a man would caress the delicate hand of a lover—he thought of her. Tala. He thought of what she had done. Sterling Prentiss had not been seen for days. But Lindholf knew where the Dayknight captain was.

  He was dead. Rotting on a cross-shaped altar.

  How Sterling Prentiss had come to be there, Lindholf would not hazard a guess.

  But there were a few things he knew for a fact. Glade had killed Sterling—he had run a knife across the man’s throat—and then Tala had reached her hand into the man’s guts and pulled forth a vial of glowing green liquid.

  After Tala and Glade had left Sterling, Lindholf had slipped from his hiding place into the hazy red room. Moving silently, he had drifted warily toward the altar and snatched up the black dagger—the strange weapon that his darling cousin had knocked from Glade’s hands when he had threatened her. He fondled the thin blade now. It was his prize, his evidence against the two of them. He had followed Tala and Glade into the secret ways and had watched Glade murder the captain of the Dayknights and then threaten Tala.

  He was conflicted. His sister was again alive and healthy. The green vial Tala had pulled from Sterling’s guts had saved Lawri. He’d been there. He knew shortcuts through the secret ways. He’d hurried from the room with the cross-shaped altar and been there in Lawri’s room waiting, breathless, for his cousin. He’d watched Tala’s eyes grow cloudy with tears as she’d fed Lawri the strange green serum. And somehow, his sister’s sickness had vanished. Some witchcraft was now at work within Lawri, even within Tala, within Glade, too, and Lindholf meant to find out what.

  Tala wasn’t alone in her skulking through the secret ways. Despite his cousin’s warnings, Lindholf had done his share of sneaking about the castle too. Val-Draekin and Seita had been tutoring him in the ways of pickpocketing and thievery and creeping about unseen. Alone, he’d snuck into places he shouldn’t have. Heard secret conversations, too. Words not meant for his ears. Things said between Hawkwood and Roguemoore, things about the Brethren of Mia and angel stones hidden under Amadon. He was privy to events and matters even Tala and Glade were not.

  But Hawkwood, Roguemoore, Tala, hidden treasures; those were not Lindholf’s concerns today. Today was for Laijon. Lindholf’s eyes wandered about the Temple of the Laijon Statue. The domed interior blazed with the light of a thousand candles. Worshippers prayed at Laijon’s feet, their eyes gleaming in the shimmering light.

  As Lindholf looked at the statue, his heart pounded.

  Upon a dais of pale gray stone stood the great Laijon, carved of Riven Rock marble, one muscular arm held aloft, great silvery sword in hand pointing skyward. His face was surrounded by bright, dancing motes of dust that filtered through the sunlight beaming down from the stained-glass windows high above. His intricately carved chain-mail armor glittered, sending sparkling shards of glorious light raining down upon all. A wreath of heather crowned his head, and his gaze was fixed forever heavenward. This was the statue of the great One and Only.

  And it was curiously flawed.

  Lindholf stared up at the exquisitely carved face of Laijon; so aesthetic it was, so precise in its symmetry and elegance. To behold Laijon’s peerless physique was an honor. This spectacular perfection in marble was, Lindholf believed, why men followed Laijon, why soldiers and gladiators were inspired to hone their own flesh in his likeness and perfection. For this massive sculpture was, indeed, almost perfection.

  Lindholf studied Laijon’s squared yet supple chin, the smooth lines of his sublimely carved mouth and nose and the fine lines of
his jaw. The subtly aquiline, beautiful features were unmistakable now. They stood out so strongly, so overwhelmingly. Laijon’s marble eyes, though they gazed toward the dome of the ceiling, emanated softness and caring and bravery at the same time. Lindholf looked upon the graceful sweep of Laijon’s brow leading to the wreath just above the flaw. . . .

  His heart skipped a beat as he spotted it there again.

  That he knew of the hidden blemish—when nobody else did—filled him with a silent, almost panicked pleasure. And he only knew of the flaw because he had been atop the statue. He had climbed its smooth surfaces, stood on those broad shoulders and felt the perfectly sculpted marble face of Laijon with his own hands. Felt the nose, the eyes, the hair . . . and the ears that bore that one mysteriousness of which no one knew.

  Lindholf had felt the chisel marks atop those ears—ears that used to be pointed.

  So it was: he alone knew that this glorious likeness of the great One and Only—this holy visage of Laijon that all humankind throughout the breadth of the Five Isles had bowed down before in supplication and flagellation and then prayed to—was a fraud.

  Only he knew that it was no likeness of a human at all.

  It was the likeness of a Vallè.

  TO BE CONTINUED IN THE BLACKEST HEART, VOLUME TWO OF FIVE WARRIOR ANGELS

  APPENDIX

  Seasonal Moons of the Five Isles

  A year is 360 days.

  There are fifteen moons (months) per year.

  A moon (month) is twenty-four days long.

  A week is eight days long. There are three weeks per moon (month).

  Afflicted Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Winter

  Blackest Moon