Shiver the Moon

by Phillip M Locey

  For all his good intentions, Groscil still had orc-blood running through his veins, and knew how to fight. Even as he charged the guards, howling like a frenzied berserker, he prepared his next move. Seeing they were holding their ground and setting their polearms to impale him, Groscil pulled up short. A sweeping swing of his weapon cleft the wooden shaft of one guard’s glaive, striking the second with a loud thwack. With his superior strength, Groscil bore down on his weapon, pinning his enemy’s blade to the ground. For a moment, nobody moved. The guard struggled in vain to raise his weapon, but Groscil held firm. The half-orc broke into a tusk-revealing grin just as the door behind the guards opened. While Groscil was momentarily distracted, the empty-handed guard gave a shout and brought a heavy boot down upon his shaft, snapping it in two.

  Yennic almost pulled his trigger, but was able to hold back when he saw the new combatant was not the King-priest. Uvar, Ebon Khorel’s personal bodyguard, had joined the fray. Yennic knew from experience the odds had shifted against them.

  “To the Hells with this!” Yennic declared. He wasn’t about to see Groscil, his long-time prison-mate and only friend, slain for what was plainly becoming a useless distraction. Rogan would have to take care of the King-priest himself. Then, just as he lined up his shot, Yennic heard the chanting from the other side of the courtyard.

  With viper-strike reflexes he shifted his crossbow and let the poisoned bolt fly. Its course was true, silencing the War-priest in a choking gargle of agony as it pierced his neck. It was still a heartbeat too late; the god-bestowed curse had been invoked.

  Just as Groscil drew his sword from its scabbard, he heard a clap of thunder and his vision went dark. A wave of unrepentant nausea rose within him and he collapsed to the ground, vomiting the remains of what would be his last meal.

  Yennic saw Uvar raise his head toward the bell tower, and though his eyes were hidden underneath his spider-like helm, Yennic knew the look it concealed – one of pure hatred, born of a desire to inflict the greatest pain possible.

  “No!” Yennic screamed. With no time to reload his crossbow, he dropped it and scrambled down the ladder, jumping the final body length. As Groscil, blind and defenseless, wretched the contents from his stomach, the King-priest’s bodyguard lifted his axe and brought it swooshing down upon the half-orc’s exposed neck. His head landed with a damp thump in the pool of vomit.

  Yennic charged the guards that arrived with the fallen War-priest, though he had no weapon. Surprised by his brashness, they were slow to set their pole arms, and left them too high. Yennic somersaulted beneath their blades to the outside of the rightmost guard. As his momentum carried him past the guard’s hip, he reached out and pulled the short sword from his belt. The blade was made for thrusting and Yennic used it so, driving underneath the back of his enemy’s breastplate. That guard crumpled in a heap, and the one beside him dropped his glaive to draw his own sword, realizing close combat was inevitable.

  Yennic spotted Uvar fast approaching out of the corner of his eye, and knew he had to act fast. He purposefully thrust forward and to his left, wide enough so the guard easily dodged by pulling back his right side. This, however, put Yennic beyond the guard’s reach, and created more than enough of an opening for a former member of the blood-tear brotherhood. Yennic reversed the grip on his own sword and plunged it sideways into the guard’s neck, killing him before his body slumped to the ground.

  Yennic had just enough time to pick up his victim’s sword and back away before the King-priest’s bodyguard tried to level him with a mighty swing of his axe. Against another opponent, Yennic would have liked his odds – two quick blades against a man with a larger, slower weapon – but Uvar was rightfully feared. He wielded his axe with a fluidity that belied the rage behind it. He was strong as well; Yennic had once seen him sunder a man’s shield while swinging his axe one-handed.

  Uvar approached slowly, whirling his axe in a figure-eight pattern. Yennic was nearly mesmerized, so graceful was the motion, but he focused on finding a weakness to exploit.

  He had no idea who shot him in the back, or from where. The impact caused Yennic to stumble forward, and the loss of balance was the only opportunity Uvar needed. His axe plunged down across Yennic’s shoulder, its weight cleaving through muscle and bone as easily as a pudding. Yennic only had time to think of Groscil’s head falling from his body before the world went black.

  It was now or never, Rogan thought. The King-priest was walking past his hiding place in the shadows, and in a moment more he would be back in the palace, out of reach. And yet, Rogan hesitated. Was it fear, uncertainty, hopelessness? He owed it to his murdered wife and son to act. He owed it to Groscil and Yennic, who were playing their part out in the courtyard. Rogan looked at the Damper, barely visible in the pale blue light; he owed it to him too, for all the suffering his kind had seen at the hands of men. All this Rogan knew, but his feet still dragged like they were made of lead.

  Then he heard the singing. It broke out in a clear and crystalline voice beside him, and although he didn’t know the language of the song he understood its meaning – it was a song of courage, urging him to action. The priests heard it as well, and to a man they turned and stared, frozen by the realization of interlopers in their church.

  With sudden determination, Rogan drew his dagger and stepped out from behind the pillar, ready to pounce. The King-priest reacted by raising his left arm skyward and extending his mace in Rogan’s direction. Upon chanting a few words, shrouded by the Damper’s song, a column of red-gold fire roared downward from the ceiling above Rogan’s head, threatening to engulf him. At the last moment the column curved to strike the Damper instead, outlining his dark body in a wreath of bright flame.

  The singing ceased, and the lesser priests fled toward the palace. Rogan looked at the Damper in amazement, and though he appeared stunned by the blast, he still lived. The King-priest, however, didn’t hesitate.

  “Mornus alto!” he cried, thrusting his open palm in Rogan’s direction. Three blade-like shards of crackling blue energy, the same color as the distorted candlelight, shot forth, but again swerved to strike the Damper. This time, Rogan didn’t wait to count his blessings. He closed the distance quickly and slashed at the King-priest’s leg, trying to stay clear of his mace. Ebon Khorel appeared startled by his charge and was slow to react. The dagger found its mark, but glanced off his armor with an impotent clang.

  Perhaps spurred by this impudent assault, the King-priest abandoned magic for his mace. He swung two-handed at Rogan, who barely managed to back out of reach. “Your Damper won’t save you from this,” he mocked in a bellowing voice. “I am your doom!”

  Rogan fought to stay calm, but couldn’t imagine how to penetrate that armor with his small blade. If he could wrestle the helmet off, maybe he could slice his throat? Just as the thought crossed his mind he saw his opening. The King-priest took a step back and lowered his weapon to chant again.

  “Illian turong!”

  Rogan dove forward as the King-priest spoke, encircling his neck with his arms. Shockingly, Rogan passed through the King-priest as if he were no more substantial than shadow. His amazement, though, was soon drowned out by pain.

  He actually heard the muted crunching of his vertebrae being smashed before he felt it. Rogan fell face-first to the ground, spasms of fire surging through his upper body. He tried to roll over, but his limbs resisted. Resigned, he waited to be put out of his misery.

  Instead he heard music – beautiful music – a song much like the Damper’s from before, but accompanied by an entire chorus of voices. Its harmonies rose and fell like the eternal rolling of waves toward the shore. Wrapped in its comfort, he could taste its sweetness, and Rogan could not help but weep for joy, his own pain forgotten. A white light filled the room and Rogan felt a soft breeze upon his skin, as if he were lying at peace in a spring-touched meadow.

  Abruptly the music was gone and Rogan felt his body being moved. Once on his back he could see
that the disc of shadow previously blocking the sun had melted away. Above him crouched a beautiful creature, an angel perhaps, flawless and feather-winged with iridescent, pearl-white skin.

  “Rogan, my friend.” The voice in his head was melodious and familiar. “You are hurt; the blood of life leaves you.”

  “No.” He hoped he spoke the truth – that the joy of the music had repaired his injury. Yet, Rogan felt the pain creeping back, and neither his arms nor legs responded to his urgings. “What has happened?”

  “I owe you an explanation, I realize, but I have also realized a great many things and must be brief, for you are not safe here. The power I absorbed from the King-priest’s channeling revealed the Song of Redemption to me, as I hoped. Rogan, this body before you is my true form. Recovering this elusive memory was my true goal through all of this. I am sorry to have deceived you so. When I put my plan in motion, I didn’t think much about leaving a group of criminals to a cruel fate. After all, it seemed little next to the cruelty my kind has been subjected to.”

  “Your plan?” Rogan was awash in confusion.

  “Yesss, my friend.” The creature spoke from his lips, and Rogan heard with his ears and not just his mind. “Your tongue wasss not eassy to masster.” Rogan’s eyes widened at the sound of this voice, and the Aasimar returned to speaking telepathically. “I meant to serve the greater good by learning the Song of Redemption and teaching it to my brethren. But I now also remember the path we took to our fall, and realize there is no greater good. There is merely good… and evil. I have done evil to you and the others, Rogan. They are falling,” the Aasimar lifted his eyes in the direction of the courtyard, “and I cannot save them. But I can save you.”

  “What of the King-priest?” Rogan blurted, though he had many questions he could not find words for.

  “He fled when he saw my transformation, but he may return with others. Do not think on his destruction now, Rogan; there will be time for that later. Here, hold your dagger.” The Aasimar placed the uril-chent blade in Rogan’s hand, and helped tighten his fingers around it. “I wish I had a song to remedy this, but my life-blood shall have to suffice.” With that he tilted Rogan’s arm upward and held it firm, the dagger’s tip inches from his heart.

  “What are you doing?” Rogan cried, horrified by the creature’s apparent intentions.

  “There is no time, friend. The bodyguard returns. Do not despair; although this body allows me to remain here, my spirit is free, and will return to Mount Celestia. You do not destroy me… although I would have liked to stay and teach the others. Still,” the Aasimar gave a smile full of solace, “Fate will run its course for all things. Take heart in that.”

  The words spoken, he let his body sink onto the dagger. Rogan felt warmth surge from the weapon, down his arm and into his back, healing him. A few breaths later he could move again on his own and looked to the Aasimar, but there was no life left in him. He thought he saw a tiny globe of white light ascend from the body and escape through the hole in the ceiling, but couldn’t be sure it was real.

  A rage welled within and Rogan longed to go after the King-priest, for the world seemed made of injustice. He agreed with the Aasimar’s words, however – there would have to be another day for vengeance. He knew there were others who longed for it, and he would search until he found them. Rogan made a silent vow to unite them, and return one day to make it right.

  He crept out the side door they entered through, just as Uvar returned to find the curious, winged body slumped on the Skull Dome floor. Rogan kept to the back alleys and avenues as best he could while making his way to the stolen wagon. He would find a way to help the other Dampers, he decided – help them remember their former glory, and set them free. Once they had their songs, perhaps true justice could be done, and a new age ushered in.

  Chapter 5

  Expanding the Empire

  J aiden Luminere fastened his baldric as he pushed his way through the mass of soldiers huddled inside Halidor Keep. Twelve miles on foot in the last three hours had brought him just in time for his first battle and the glory awaiting him. Though most of those gathered were the Duke’s own men, Jaiden had answered the general call-to-arms issued throughout the province. Rumors had reached most corners of the Cradle, luring Jaiden toward the oncoming doom from the south and the supposed return of the Dread Tyrant, Gholdur.

  As he pushed up the winding stairs toward the outer wall of the southern battlement, Jaiden adjusted his tunic and nestled an iron cap over his thick, dark hair. He muttered insincere apologies as he forced his way to the edge of the wall and looked outward.

  The vista was spectacular. At seventeen, his young eyes, closely mirroring the tint of the afternoon sky, had rarely seen such a view. Mountains rose steeply from eastern and western sides of Halidor Keep, which was strategically nestled at the base of two ranges. A brisk wind cooled the sweat from Jaiden’s skin, and the rocky plane to the south seemed to stretch on forever. The Duke’s flag whipped in the wind from atop a turret, practically the only sound to be heard as the entire Keep held its collective breath.

  A galloping horse and rider cut toward the stronghold from the horizon – a scout, carrying news of the enemy’s numbers as they marched north to lay siege. Jaiden could see the tension in the rigid postures of his fellow soldiers as they awaited the tidings. Did no one else relish the promise of approaching battle? He’d travelled far from home for a chance to finally use his swordsmanship for something other than performance.

  Even so, the Duke’s coin wouldn’t hurt. These past few years of fending for himself had been difficult. His father never returned from the campaign against Chelpa, and the streets of Selamus were fraught with temptations and their own kind of danger. Money hadn’t come easily, since he was too focused on perfecting his swordsmanship to learn a viable trade.

  What’s more, Jaiden was selective about taking assignments. His father had never owed fealty to any lord, and taught him to choose sides with care. “You can’t escape yourself,” he’d say. “Silver might keep you fed, but you still have to wake up every morning and live with the decisions you’ve made.” Jaiden was certain his choice to face his father’s final enemy was one he would not regret.

  Once the scout finally entered the keep and dismounted, the news he brought spread through the ranks of the assembled defenders like wildfire. Outnumbering them at least five-to-one, the army of Chelpa was superior in more than just size. Their infantry was better armed and outfitted, for war was the modern birthright of every able-bodied Chelpian man.

  Furthermore, the King-priest employed beast-masters who trained exotic and devastating creatures. Jaiden reasoned their true value was more likely demoralization of foes than tactical combat, but even more potent was the Blood Tear Brotherhood: a team of elite spies and assassins who studied the deadly arts and coated the tips of their weapons with poison.

  Finally, there was the King-priest himself. Ebon Khorel relished riding into battle at the head of his cavalry, and he was enveloped by the Dread Tyrant’s devilry. His armor was reportedly crafted of powerful uril-chent alloy, which the King-priest coveted. It was hard enough to shatter steel blades, and absorbed light. The world dimmed wherever he rode, and tales of his invulnerability spread in his wake.

  Jaiden didn’t care about any of it. He had grown up in the shadow of his father, dragged from one conflict to another, his Papa’s sword his favorite plaything. Endless hours of practice had earned him quite a reputation.

  He could whip a blade from one hand to another, behind his back and over his head, like a juggling magician performing sleight-of-hand to mesmerize a crowd. But his talent wasn’t merely for display; Jaiden Luminere’s father had taught him fighting techniques from all around and even outside the Northern Provinces. Since his fourteenth summer, he’d defeated every man who tried him in single combat.

  Fear of a fight might paralyze some of the soldiers around him, but Jaiden was not afflicted. He waited impatiently along the b
attlements of Fortress Halidor, looking forward to repaying the enemy who had taken the only person he cared about. The upcoming battle held more significance than his personal grudge, he knew.

  The Empire of Chelpa was expanding under the reign of the King-priest. The Northern Provinces shared a similar culture and a desire to remain free, but were no longer unified by leadership. They’d heard of the oppression choking Ebon Khorel’s kingdom, and feared its spread to their lands.

  The Keep stood as a gateway into those lands, and if it fell they would be vulnerable to the insistent march of the King-priest. Knowing the strategic importance of his territory, the Duke of Halidor put out a plea for other Dukes to send troops – few had come. Halidor resorted to hiring what mercenaries he could beyond his own mustered forces, but Jaiden was a rare nugget among a scattering of false gold.

  There was naught to do now but hold out as best they could, short of surrendering straight away and hoping for mercy. Mercy, however, was not something the King-priest of Chelpa was known for. Tales of other engagements already circulated amongst the soldiers, echoing of cruelty and a distinct lack of quarter given.

  It seemed Ebon Khorel was not only interested in defeating his opponents, but in making the idea of standing against him so harrowing others wouldn’t dare. His cavalry rode down any who sought retreat, and his soldiers speared the fallen to make sure they never arose again. He fed live prisoners to the charges of his beast-masters, and employed torture without a second thought to squeeze out useful information.

  Jaiden tapped his finger on the hilt of his sword, scanning the horizon for his promised enemy. Though he’d participated in a few skirmishes, this was his first real battle. He hoped too much time wouldn’t be wasted on siege engines and archery; he wanted to see the eyes of the men he bested, and lose count as they fell to his whirling blade. That was going to be hard to do from the battlement – unless they brought ladders, of course. The thought kept him optimistic.