Shiver the Moon

by Phillip M Locey

  As the wagon rolled up to the southern gate of the walled city, Rogan suddenly panicked. The armed guards stationed at the entrance were checking papers and collecting silver from a line of wagons ahead of them. Of course there was a tax; he chided himself for not considering this earlier. He had been so focused on the idea of actually killing the King-priest that he ignored the details of making it into the city. It appeared their mission would fail before he even set eyes on Ebon Khorel. The red and black cloaks may have dissuaded a rural farmer from interfering, but gate soldiers were another matter. He wasn’t sure what other form of identification a true Inquisitor would have.

  Rogan averted his eyes from the guards as they drew closer, his mind scurrying for solutions. Yennic’s hurried, sideways glances suggested he had become aware of the situation as well.

  “Any ideas?” the slim assassin whispered.

  Only one more wagon lay ahead of them, and the driver was already reaching for his coin purse. If Rogan had any money, the situation wouldn’t have been so bad. He was sure the gate guard was probably accustomed to being bribed, but he had nothing to offer save a heap of vegetables, and was about to be caught impersonating an officer of the crown.

  Yennic reached slowly for his crossbow and gently set a bolt in front of the already drawn twine. “I could take him down; just say the word.”

  Rogan shook his head as the guard called to him in a weary tone. He wondered if the Damper had a song to get them through this pinch.

  “Well, gents, looks like you just made it. Gate closes at sundown, you know.”

  That voice… Rogan recognized it immediately, though he hadn’t heard it in years. It belonged to a man named Merrick, Rogan’s trusted bodyguard in his previous life. He counted Merrick a friend back then, and just as importantly now, a man whose discretion could be relied upon. Deciding to trust him once more, Rogan turned to allow Merrick a clear look at his face.

  “And how much is the toll, my good man?” Rogan held his breath after asking, hoping his instincts would not betray him.

  “The same as always, sir. That’ll be…” Merrick faced Rogan directly and saw the familiar, hopeful eyes staring back at him. He muttered an oath under his breath, and time froze for Rogan as he watched his once-friend contemplating his next move. Merrick’s eyes shifted to the half-orc sitting in back of the partly-covered vegetable cart before returning to the visage of his former lord. “Of course, no tax for the House of the Inquisitor on official business,” he finally replied, loud enough for his fellow guards to hear. “Move it on through.”

  Rogan released his breath and managed a slight nod before snapping the reins to get the wagon started. He heard Yennic exhale as well, and caught him relaxing the hold on his crossbow.

  As a former baron, Rogan had made several trips to the capital, and once inside the gates, the geography came back rapidly. He bypassed the familiar taverns, continuing closer to the palace until he found what he was looking for. Deep into the merchant district they came upon a warehouse gutted by fire. Timbers hung at odd angles and the earth was covered with a thick layer of ash and soot. Behind the lot ran an alleyway and, at least in what tiny light remained of the fading day, the area looked deserted. The spot would do nicely.

  Once the wagon came to a stop, Rogan handed the reins to Yennic and thankfully stepped down onto the solid, unmoving ground. With deft fingers he unclasped his cloak and twirled it from his shoulders onto the wooden board that had been his seat for the better part of the day. He could see Yennic was about to ask a question and did his best to head it off.

  “I’ve got some scouting to do. I may still have a few contacts I can get information from without drawing too much attention. I’m going to need to know more about this ritual tomorrow and see where it’s being held with my own eyes before I can decide on the best course of action.”

  “Well,” Groscil put in as he drew the tarp back from the Damper, “there’s plenty here to snack on.” The half-orc picked up a long, green cucumber and snapped half of it off in one chomp.

  “Right, like I haven’t heard you eating the whole ride up here, muscles.” Yennic looked at the Damper, then to Groscil, and shook his head. “And what are we supposed to do in the meantime, mate? Weave a tapestry?” Yennic stood, his lean figure growing even taller as he stretched his cramped legs.

  “You can do as you like, I suppose,” Rogan answered. “Just don’t get noticed. I should be back in a few hours. You might want to get whatever sleep you’re able.” Rogan set off the direction they had come, toward the more-populated city streets.

  “Oh yeah, right. ‘Don’t get noticed,’ he says. Pretty bloody impossible with these two, now itn’t it?” Yennic raised his voice just loud enough so Rogan could hear, but the baron merely shrugged in response, not bothering to turn around.

  Dawn was less than an hour away when Rogan returned. The others were lying across the wagon, still awake.

  “Is everyone ready to move? I want to be in position before sunrise.” Rogan’s voice was a touch more than a whisper.

  “Ahhh.” Groscil smacked his lips before giving a throaty sigh. “I thought you’d never get back, Baron. You know, patience has never really been one of my strengths.”

  “Excellent trait for a man in prison, eh?” Yennic sat up and within seconds had all his gear strapped and slung in place. “Somebody give Drowsy L’Gooey a kick, would ya?”

  “I am ready.” The response surprised them all and was followed by a sweet melody that drizzled over them like a refreshing spring rain, washing the exhaustion of their sleepless night from mind and body. The singing did not last long, but Rogan could actually feel his anxiety dissipate, evaporating on the wind with the remnants of the last note. The Damper stared directly at him, giving the impression the next words were for his mind alone, “It is a day of days.”

  After he and Groscil fastened the longswords to their belts, Rogan instructed them to leave the cloaks behind. “With pleasure,” Yennic said, tossing his into the wagon before spitting on the ground.

  “We’ve got some ground to cover, so I’ll fill you in as we walk,” Rogan said. “The bad news is the ceremony is performed indoors, so there’s no chance of just a simple, straight shot.”

  Yennic groaned his disappointment. “And the good news?”

  “I still think a well-placed bolt by surprise is the best chance we have. How potent is that poison, Yennic?”

  “A clean shot – it’ll get the job done. I’d wager even this horse wouldn’t last two minutes,” Yennic jested as he nudged Groscil. His pride settled Rogan’s speculation about who was responsible for the toxin.

  “More bad news; the King-priest never appears in public without wearing full armor. Do you think that crossbow can penetrate plate mail?” Rogan supposed it could, but wanted to test Yennic’s confidence in his role.

  “All armor’s got weak spots, sir.”

  It was the first time Rogan had heard Yennic sound sincerely respectful. “Good,” he continued. “Then you’ll have to find them. There’s a bell tower outside the building where the ritual’s taking place, overlooking a huge sundial in the courtyard. A sentry rings out the hours, so you’ll have to take care of him once we get there. We’ll wait for the new watch to start at dawn.”

  “We’re going to need to give Ebon Khorel a reason to go out in that courtyard. That’s where you come in, Groscil.” The half-orc nodded silently. “There’s a half-dozen guards within shouting distance of the sundial. I know it’s dangerous, but I need you to pick a fight with them. Make it loud. Keep them occupied long enough to raise the alarm, then retreat if you can. We don’t care about the guards, so don’t get yourself killed.

  “By all accounts the King-priest enjoys inflicting pain and might be tempted outside by the promise of delivering some upon those who dare interrupt him. The Damper and I will sneak inside and watch as we can; we’ll have to deal with him if he doesn’t take the bait. In his mind he’s the divine vessel of his
god and impervious to normal threats; we shall become an extraordinary one. ”

  By the time Rogan explained the plan they were almost to the bell tower, and cock crows were rising from the city’s outlying farms. “All right, there it is.” Rogan pointed out the tower. “And there’s the morning shift. Sorry Groscil, but there’s more waiting to do. The ritual won’t begin for some hours, so you’ll have to stay out of sight until you get the signal. Yennic, once you take position, you’ll have to ring out the hours on schedule. When he rings out the noon hour, Groscil, do... what you do.”

  Rogan looked into each of their faces. He had only known them a couple of days and here he was, feeling as though he was saying farewell to two longtime friends. He didn’t even like Yennic that much when he thought about it, yet he understood him, somehow, rough edges and all. “Does everyone follow?” he said, suddenly struggling with tightness in his throat.

  “Well, you kind of skipped the part where we all meet up for an ale afterwards and tell our sides of the story.” Groscil gave a big, toothy grin, and Rogan helplessly cracked a smile as well.

  “Anywhere you like, big guy.” Rogan clasped his oversized shoulder as he added, “And the ale’s on me.”

  “Yeah, with what coin?” Yennic contested. “We’re free after this, right?” he called as Rogan and the Damper started to walk away.

  Rogan swallowed through the lump in his throat. “That’s right. I’m sure our patron has agents who will relay the completion of our task, if he’s not watching himself. I believe we’ll have no more to fear after today… assuming we succeed.”

  Yennic simply nodded, and Rogan turned to take the Damper to a place where they could hide for a few hours. He was sure they could all sense the weight of the moment upon them, but what could they do but try? Dying in the pursuit of freedom couldn’t be held as folly, when the alternative was a lifetime inside Blackthorn.

  The priesthood of Gholdur favored darkness, which worked to the would-be assassins’ advantage. Aided by a song of concealment the Damper draped over them, they had little problem sneaking through a side portal into the dimly lit temple. The building was a domed hemisphere, made of the black rock favored in Lucnere. It stretched to a height of forty feet at the apex, and was cleverly constructed so the support pillars left the middle of the floor open. These columns were half-again as wide as a man from shoulder-to-shoulder, carved with the likenesses of gargoyles and other monstrous, obsidian shapes. Rogan’s contact had referred to the temple as the “Skull Dome,” with open disgust.

  In the center of the floor was an altar and Rogan could see, even from a distance, the dark stains on its surface. The smell of decay lingered in the stale air. Three steps led down from the central platform in each cardinal direction, and rows of long, wooden benches extended beyond. At each corner of the altar stood a tall, brass spire, tipped by a lit candle. A hole, perhaps an arm’s length across, lay at the peak of the dome, allowing a meager beam of sunlight to enter the dreary structure. It shone down upon the altar when the sun was overhead, immediately drawing the attention of anyone who entered.

  Weary from his long night of scouting, despite the Damper’s previous revitalizing song, Rogan eventually drifted off, concealed behind one of the large, gargoyled pillars. Just before the noon hour the Damper nudged him to alertness. It was the first time the creature initiated contact, and Rogan’s shoulder prickled with a deep chill for several seconds after the touching ceased. Startled, he followed the Damper’s gaze to the other side of the temple.

  A procession of six, black-robed men appeared from the direction of the palace, holding lit candles before them. Their hands were the only skin visible, as hoods concealed their faces in shadow. They took places on the floor below the raised altar, nearly encircling it in a wide crescent. In their wake, the King-priest entered.

  Tall and completely encased in a suit of black plate armor, his was a commanding presence. The mail was perfectly fitted so as not to hamper movement. Its shoulder and knee guards were crafted in the likeness of horrible skulls wearing crowns of thick thorns. The King-priest wore a full helm, whose front was fashioned to appear like the gaping maw of some feral beast, lined with sharp teeth. From the sides of the helm sprang curved horns of ebony. In place of a scepter, the King-priest carried a long-hafted mace of black metal, whose head sprouted a dozen sharp spikes.

  A few steps behind him followed a second man, who appeared to be the King-priest’s personal bodyguard. He wore a chain hauberk without sleeves, leaving his muscular shoulders and arms visible. Covering his head was a helm crafted to look like a spider – holes for vision and breathing peeked out from between eight spindly legs. He carried a sharp, double-bladed axe in his right hand.

  When the King-priest neared the altar, Rogan watched the candles dim considerably, as if his presence drained the light from the room. Remembering his own dagger, he realized Ebon Khorel’s armor or mace must also be crafted of uril-chent alloy. He propped the latter against the altar, then raised an arm to begin the ritual.

  As he had done the last six hours, Yennic rang the bell in his tower as the shadow of the sun dial reached the next notch in the stone. The difference was that this ring was accompanied by a surge of adrenaline, as he anticipated making his most prestigious kill – Ebon Khorel, his one-time employer. His crossbow lay loaded at his feet. He made sure its quarrel had an ample coating of his special poison. No harm in over-doing it, he thought. Now, he had only to wait for Groscil to lure out their prey, and make sure his one shot counted.

  At the sound of the signal, Groscil made his move. After some scouting of his own the past few hours, he knew the best escape routes and had already overpowered some of the lone, intermediate sentries to clear the way. The numbers in the courtyard, however, were still not in his favor. Surprise would help even the odds, but after that initial stealth the plan called for him to become as openly threatening as possible.

  Everything was backwards from how he had envisioned it. He wanted his life back, yes, and this task would help him earn that. Still, he couldn’t ignore the fact that these guards were just doing their job. They were not evil men as far as he knew, and it was a shame either of them had to die. There was no turning back now, though.

  He started with the pair of guards stationed at the gate across from the temple. Groscil lurked in the shadows of one of the stone towers to which the gate hinged. With quickness belying his size, he leapt upon the guards, seizing each of their heads in his massive, taloned hands. He smashed them together, only their metal-capped helms preventing one skull from crushing another. While the guards were stunned, Groscil snatched a glaive from one of their grasps. Using the pole arm’s shaft, he struck them behind their knees, collapsing them to the ground. After a moment of hesitation he drove the blade into the upper thigh of each, wounding them enough to reduce them to crawling, limiting their threat.

  The deed done, Groscil turned his attention to the pair guarding the doors of the Skull Dome. They spotted him across the courtyard and readied their glaives, but did not leave their post. As Groscil charged, they called out to the tower guard to sound the alarm.

  Yennic took advantage of the opportunity. “Look out!” he answered. “There’re more of them coming from the south.” Then he rang the hour bell over and over, until he thought he might become deaf.

  The ritual of the Midnight Sun was not a lengthy one. The priests around the altar each recited a prayer to Gholdur in turn, then blew out their candles. Ebon Khorel stood at the altar, waiting for the last to finish. His lone bodyguard stood in the ever-thickening shadows of one of the large pillars. As the final priest extinguished his flame, the King-priest lifted his arms in preparation to speak.

  He was interrupted by the sound of shouting from outside. Rogan’s ears strained to catch any words, but they were too muffled. The shouts were quickly overcome by the vigorous clanging of the alarm bell. Rogan’s hand closed around the hilt of his dagger as he turned to see what the King-pr
iest would do next.

  Unwilling to halt the ritual, Ebon Khorel merely turned his head toward his bodyguard and bellowed through his great helm, “Settle it.” The man in the shadows answered with a simple nod, and crossed the floor to the double doors leading outside. The ringing of the bell had ceased by the time he swung the doors open, though there was still plenty of shouting. A bright square of sunlight pierced the room, and Rogan was relieved to make out the resonant snarling of a certain half-orc before the light and shouting were snuffed by the slamming of the door.

  The King-priest waited for silence to reclaim the room before continuing. Some design of his helmet amplified his voice, leaving it deep and menacing, even in prayer. “My dread Lord Gholdur, you show us the path to might and cleanse the world through your hatred. In darkness we prepare for your coming, and through your favor we fulfill our destiny to rule over the weak. Today, on Midsummer, we blot out the sun and dwell in darkness, as shall the whole world upon your return.”

  One at a time, the light of the four candles surrounding the altar turned from yellow to dark blue as the King-priest stretched his hand in their direction. Then he clasped his hands together and slowly drew them apart. In the space between, growing with the distance of his palms, was a disc of solid shadow. Once he had broadened his reach beyond the width of his shoulders, Ebon Khorel threw the disc upward. Straight and swift it rose until it had sealed the hole in the ceiling, completely blocking out the sun.

  The candles bathed the King-priest in their ghoulish blue hue, causing him to appear even more sinister in his elaborate armor. The priests once again filed in procession toward the palace, Ebon Khorel at their rear.

  Outside, the courtyard was chaos. Once the alarm sounded and the fighting began, merchants and bystanders scurried to get themselves and their wares out of harm’s way. Yennic knelt down and picked up his crossbow, resting it on the rail of the tower enclosure, aimed at the doorway of the Skull Dome. “Come on, don’t make me wait, you treacherous bastard.”