His father’s lips tightened as he nodded. “I believe so. The stories I’ve heard about this King-priest… they’re not even fit for a winter evening. He thrives on fear, and despair follows in his wake. He has to be stopped, and if it’s not now, it will only become harder to do so.”
“I understand, Papa.”
His father clicked his tongue and ruffled Jaiden’s hair. “You’ll be fine. Remember to visit Pendarin, and remember what I taught you about borrowing—”
“Better to go without than owe a favor.”
“That’s my boy. We’re free people, Jaid, and debts are a restriction of freedom. Honest work for honest pay – don’t take anything up front if you can help it.” His father looked over his shoulder out the ever-lightening window. “It’s time for me to go. Be good.”
After an uncertain pause, Jaiden stepped forward and embraced his father. “Come back with stories,” he muttered, his face pressed sideways against his father’s arm. He felt a hand in his hair once again, and the pressure of his father’s chest expanding with a deep breath.
“You know I will,” he said, before giving a brief squeeze and separating.
A thought surged past the early-morning fog in Jaiden’s head, reminding him of something important. “Oh, Papa, before you leave…” He ran back to his bunk and retrieved a small item from underneath his pillow. “I made this for you,” he said, holding out a carved piece of light-colored wood.
“You made this?” his father replied, accepting the polished figurine in his calloused palm and lifting it for inspection.
Jaiden shrugged. “I thought of mom and how you always say her spirit is protecting me like a shield, even though I can’t see her. I thought maybe my spirit could watch over you too, if you keep this with you.”
His father stared silently at the carved shield, running his thumb across its smooth surface as his eyes clouded up.
Jaiden didn’t know how to interpret his father’s speechlessness. “Do you like it? I worked on it a while, but I know I’m still not very good yet. I put my initials on the bottom so you’d know I made it.”
“It’s perfect, son,” his father finally answered, though his words were soft. “I’ll keep it close by.” After a brief pause he blinked hard twice, sniffed, and spoke with his usual, clear tone. “Farewell, Jaiden.” Without another word he turned and opened the door, stepping out and letting too much of the morning chill in before he closed it. Then, he was gone.
Jaiden sighed and decided to climb back into bed to get warm. He didn’t feel like venturing out and finding his friends just yet. Lying on his stomach, he closed his eyes, settling into the idea he was going to be on his own again, this time for probably quite a while. It bothered him to think too far ahead, so he let his mind drift over the possibilities of his first free afternoon while he skirted along the blurry line of consciousness, before eventually falling asleep.
Suddenly, the eye not smashed against his pillow opened. Jaiden was not aware of why it did so, but the light filtering through the dirty windows was noticeably brighter, and clearly within his line of vision was his father’s sword, propped up in its scabbard in the far corner of the room. He blinked purposefully in case his waking mind was playing tricks, but the weapon remained when he reopened his eyes.
Jaiden pushed himself up from the mattress and scurried down from his bunk, quickly covering the width of their meager quarters. He lifted the weapon with care, his hand slipping around the comfortable curve of its handle. How could his father have left without his sword? There was no way he would have forgotten it. Jaiden’s mind skimmed back over the morning’s conversation, trying to remember any ignored indicators that would explain such a choice. He had hinted at wanting his own weapon to practice with, but that was nearly a daily occurrence. Perhaps his father’s patron was wealthy enough to supply all his mercenaries with arms? That must be it.
Lifting the hilt a few inches, Jaiden basked in the sight and sound of the steel coming free of its cocoon. It was a glorious moment, full of promise, and he never tired of it. He let the blade slide back down and smiled. Jaiden knew how he would be spending the afternoon. He made a silent vow to master every fighting technique he could manage by the time his father returned.
Three months passed quickly without his father around, and Jaiden had all but run out of the silver saved up for his absence. Pendarin’s harvest came in weeks ago, but Jaiden had found more pressing things to do at the time than plucking vegetables from their stalks. He spent hours every day practicing with his father’s sword, and felt his improvement worth a tighter belly.
Jaiden held out hope his father would return before the situation turned drastic, but a creeping notion he would be on his own for a while was gaining strength. This feeling, along with the steady rumbling of his stomach, led him to the First Hill Market. Scores of merchants displayed their wares for potential customers, and the milling bodies created the right amount of chaos for pickpockets to thrive.
Food was his first concern, though he had friends making a nice profit from lifting coin purses and fencing small, precious objects. They had been recruiting Jaiden on and off for seasons, though the temptation was more easily fought off when his father was around. While on his own, immersion in his training was the only thing working to keep him honest.
Yet, here he was, shadowing the stalls and carts of the vendors like a half-dozen other urchins, looking for a chance to lift what he needed. Though it was clear why he was at the market – it wasn’t as if the First Hill was near any of his usual haunts – Jaiden still wasn’t fully committed. He knew his Papa would disapprove, and thoughts of the lecture he’d receive if his father ever learned of such a devolvement battled with the persistent persuasion of his peers and the gnawing hunger, which were more immediate.
Jaiden tried to appear casual while strolling into the section of the market designated for southern goods. He circled displays of colorful, exotic fruits, promising both sustenance and sweetness. Watching the merchants with occasional sideways glances, waiting for an opportunity and the courage to seize it, he feigned interest in a collection of trinkets stacked on a terrace of wooden shelves on an adjacent cart.
His fingers touched a familiar object while his attention was still focused on the fruit vendor. Jaiden’s heart skipped a beat when he turned and saw that the object his palm had settled upon was none other than the carving he had given his father on the morning he left. He lifted the figurine from its shelf to inspect it closer.
The top of the shield had picked up a nick in its travels, but the unicorn’s head carved into its surface was the same. Tilting the figurine to expose its base, Jaiden’s stomach tightened even further when his initials confirmed his handiwork past any doubt.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded of the merchant, a wiry man with skin the darker hue of the jungles.
The man squinted and shrugged his shoulders, “All of my wares come from Chelpa. It is nice work, but I will make you a deal – one of your Duke’s silver coins.”
“I made this!” Jaiden hissed back, anger unsuspectingly taking hold. His head swiveled as he looked for nearby guards, and noticing none, he suddenly bolted into the maze of the busy marketplace.
Cries for justice rose behind him, but Jaiden ran without looking back, ducking around wagons and pavilions until he left the market far in his wake. As he ran, tears sprung from his eyes, washed away by the wind as he fled down the slope of the First Hill. Once he reached the valley he finally stopped to catch his breath, but grief caught up with him and an uncontrolled sobbing stole it again.
His father was dead – he felt it in his bones. No reports of the campaign had reached this far north yet, but he knew his Papa would never have parted willingly from this gift, from the last thing his son had shared with him.
Jaiden wiped his eyes and struggled to calm his seizing chest; such a reaction was unbecoming for a warrior. He thought back to his father’s sword. Was it possible he left it
for Jaiden on purpose, knowing he was unlikely to return? He clenched his fists, nearly snapping the carving in two. He made a silent vow to take vengeance on the armies of Chelpa, if it was the last thing he did.
Chapter 3
A Motley Crew
R ogan wondered if he had come so far only to be caught, or if this lean man with the raspy voice was one of the other escapees. “I am a hungry man, who has traveled a long way.” As he spoke he twisted his right arm, revealing the raised tattoo branded into his forearm: a skull wearing a crown of thorns, weeping tears of blood – the mark put on every prisoner of Blackthorn.
The other man seemed to recognize this, and lowered his crossbow. “Aye, so you’re him,” he said, matter-of-factly, shifting his arm to reveal his own brand. “Well, come get some breakfast.” He turned and bounded from the log with feline grace. “We were only waiting one more night for you, you know. Good thing you showed up during the day, too. This place is near-impossible to find by starlight.” Rogan followed the man in a winding path around some broad-leafed trees, and over a rise. He noticed a second tattoo on the back of the man’s neck: a dagger, blade down, from which fell a single drop of blood – the mark of the Blood-tear Brotherhood. An elite group of assassins and spies loyal to the King-priest, the Brotherhood perpetrated the vilest tasks of the Empire. The men who raped his wife bore the same mark. Rogan fought to subdue the sudden wrenching of his stomach. At the top of the rise the ground dropped away quickly, revealing the mouth of a surprisingly deep cave. Small stone steps descended steeply to the entrance. Two other men, silhouetted by candlelight, sat on rocks within.
Well, not men exactly, he noticed as he drew closer. One was a hulking, hairy mass with feral features. As he spotted Rogan his face lit up in a toothy grin, revealing two over-sized, tusk-like incisors that protruded over his bottom lip. “Welcome, comrade. Name’s Groscil.” He reached out his huge paw-like hand in greeting. Rogan took it, somewhat alarmed at Groscil’s size, but mostly caught off-guard by his ebullient nature.
“Call me…” he paused, surveying the group of criminals before him, then took a chance, “Rogan.”
“That’s Baron Rogan, isn’t it?” The voice was clear and almost musical, but he did not hear it with his ears. It was as if he thought the question himself. He turned to the cave’s other occupant. To his surprise, it was a Damper. How could the serene voice in his head belong to that… creature?
Frail and misshapen, Dampers were a strange race kept as slaves in the uril-chent mines. Their skin was cold and black as coal, gnarled like knots in an oak tree, and oozed thick, sticky mucus. Slim hands ended in extraordinarily long and slender fingers. With joints allowing their extremities to move in any direction, their limbs often bent at strange angles. Dampers’ bodies held little symmetry, and were too weak to lift or dig, yet somehow absorbed the harmful energies emanating from the ore. Prisoners had gotten sick from working in the mines until the Dampers, who didn’t seem to have problems being near the ore, were brought in. Still, other prisoners hated them because their weakness meant no labor, and the guards hated them because they couldn’t stand much punishment without dying. Everyone hated them for their grotesqueness. Rogan had never known one to speak, and assumed they could not.
“I’m sorry; I suppose telepathy can be a bit unnerving at first,” it added, likely reading the astonishment on Rogan’s face.
“I trust from that look Creepy L’Fingers there has introduced himself,” the man with the crossbow stated as he slung it over his shoulder. The cloth obscuring most of his face also muffled his voice. The eyes were dark and sure, taking note of everything. “I guess that leaves me then, eh? I’m Yennic. As much as I hate to break up these touching introductions, are you going to tell us what the plan is?”
“The plan?” Rogan asked, still distracted by the voice entering his mind.
“Yes, the plan; the assassination. We were told you would be leading this little expedition, and that if we did our jobs, we would be allowed to remain free.”
Rogan sighed. “I haven’t come up with a plan yet. All my energy has been spent escaping alive and finding this place.” He tried to quell his annoyance of their expectations. Starting off with animosity was unproductive. “I suppose, if I’m the leader, I’ll need to take stock of our supplies and the group’s abilities. What do we have here?”
Groscil shuffled over to where sacks of various items had already been rummaged through and laid out. He gestured toward the pile with a sweep of his arm, as if presenting a valuable treasure or important diplomat. “At your service, sir.” The politeness of his manner belied the deep, menacing voice behind it. Rogan assumed Groscil couldn’t help it, though it could’ve been the creature’s disturbing attempt at sarcasm.
There were rations of bread and cured meats, as well as full waterskins for each of them. Rogan couldn’t help himself and immediately took a long drink. The cold water revitalized him. Red cloaks were folded and stacked, each emblazoned with the Imperial insignia. No doubt they would help avert trouble from the public, and maybe more official personnel, if they could avoid in-depth interactions. Finally, he came to the weapons. He had already seen Yennic’s crossbow, and here was a case of quarrels for it, though some had already been claimed. He inspected one of the bolts more closely, noticing it was tipped in a greenish substance – probably poison of some sort. Whether they had come prepared, or this was Yennic’s doing, he didn’t care to speculate. Two long swords in scabbards leaned against a rock, though a quick check revealed they were made of steel and not fashioned of the same uril-chent alloy as his dagger.
Finally, Rogan noticed a rolled-up piece of parchment, which he carried to the edge of the cave for better light. On one side was a map, showing the best route from the cave to the King-priest’s citadel in Lucnere. The other side contained script, written in a language Rogan had not seen since his studies as a youth. The words were penned in a complexly beautiful hand, in ancient Thurese no less – a dead language of the people who first migrated to the region from beyond the Fire-Wall Mountains. Their enigmatic patron had certainly done his research, for it was unlikely another reader would have been tutored in their distant ancestor’s script. Rogan wondered how much of his past was known. Was it the same for the others? He did his best to decipher the text, his Thurese admittedly rusty.
“Baron Rogan, congratulations on making it this far; it means your escape went well, and my part of the bargain has been fulfilled. I trust you are now ready to perform yours. You know from acute experience that Ebon Khorel is a tyrant whose rule has crushed the spirit and lives of many in Chelpa. He does as he wishes, and those who serve him abuse his subjects daily in his name. His regime must come to an end if anything here is to be good again. It is time for justice, time for vengeance, time for a new King. You need not know who I am, only what I want, which I trust is the same as you. Ebon Khorel will be out of the palace and vulnerable while performing the Ritual of the Black Sun on Midsummer. His power is great, so you must be resourceful. You have no doubt assessed the skills of your new companions; they were chosen carefully. As for the Damper, you will need him close if the King-priest calls down divine power against you. You will be watched, so please do not think too hard on giving up. There would be harsh consequences if you were to do so, though it’s not what either of us wants. If you are victorious, there will be grand opportunities for you in the new order. Good luck to us, Kingmakers all.”
The intricate seal at the bottom of the letter was not one Rogan recognized. Midsummer – that only gave them two days. Two days to devise and execute a plot against the most powerful regent in living memory. He was hardly likely to succeed, but what if he did? In his heart, Rogan knew his reasons were selfish. Part of him died when his wife and newborn son were lost, leaving a hole all too easily filled with hate. Rogan often dreamed of killing those who had wronged him, feeling their warm blood cool on his bare hands. Sometimes they weren’t dreams at all, but visions that came whil
e he toiled endless hours in the mines beneath the bleak prison fortress. Apart from the personal satisfaction, a regime change would benefit his country in innumerable ways. The oppression, constant warmongering, and cruelty perpetrated by Ebon Khorel destroyed the morale and culled the sons of too many families.
“So what does it say, mate?” Yennic questioned.
“It says we have to be in Lucnere in two days, and that we are being watched to make sure we carry out our mission.”
“Two days – is that all, then?” Yennic stood with most of his weight on one leg, and his crossbow slung over the opposite shoulder.
“Yes, the King-priest will be performing a ritual at Midsummer; that’s our opportunity. Our benefactors seem to know a good deal about us, and I suppose I shall have to trust that. There’ll be time to learn about your strengths as we travel.” Rogan rolled up the parchment, adding, “We should wear these royal cloaks over our clothes. They may not be enough to fool seasoned guards, but should at least keep the general population at bay. Come along then.” He snagged a length of jerky before checking the ascending sun to get his bearings. “Groscil, grab these supplies, will you?”
“Is it better to be thought of as Royal Inquisitors or escaped criminals?” Groscil mused while slinging the heaviest pack of gear over a broad shoulder.
“What about Stinky L’Slimeface, there?” Yennic nodded in the Damper’s direction as he secured one of the red cloaks over his shoulders. “I think he might stand out even a bit more than ‘ol tree-legs there. A half-orc as a Royal bodyguard – that might pass. But a gods-forsaken stinking Damper – not likely.”
Rogan watched as the Damper turned its gaze upon Yennic, and wondered what thoughts he might be projecting. If he had words to share Rogan couldn’t tell, and no other response was evident.
“We’ll keep out of sight as much as possible and, if we’re confronted, pretend he’s a prisoner.” The presence of a Damper might be enough to keep anyone from approaching them in the first place, Rogan thought. “Now, let’s to it.”
Shiver the Moon Page 3