Shiver the Moon

by Phillip M Locey

“Yes, Sir. What should we have them preparing for, exactly?” he asked with eager eyes.

  “We want the enemy entrenched,” Amurel explained. “We’ll creep south a bit through the forest, hopefully unnoticed, and circle around to their supply lines and reinforcements. I wouldn’t be surprised if the fiends fought better by night, so we’ll likely wait until dawn.”

  “Yes, Sir.” With that, the man directed the onlookers who had overheard to go spread the word, and started toward the next clearing to do the same.

  Amurel sighed. He already knew he was not getting any sleep tonight, though he prayed his men could. They would need all their strength for the morning’s charge. He nudged Bastion back toward the border of the Balewood, prepared to stare into the darkness until fatigue took him. Once the open field lay before him, he climbed from his horse, so Bastion could rest his legs. Amurel sat on a patch of uncut grass and looked for his moon.

  Criesha was falling away from full but still bright, and the steady blue of the smaller Hurn mixed with her light to paint nighted silhouettes a tranquil aquamarine. They chased across the northern sky, reminding Amurel that Jaiden was likely still far off in Selamus. “Help me fulfill the destiny you’ve planned for me,” he murmured, then closed his eyes to continue praying in silence.

  He must have found sleep after all, if only for a couple hours, as the moons had moved considerably when he caught himself tipping from his seated position. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, spotting an arc of red-orange light shooting across the sky, low to the horizon. At the end of its journey, it flashed brightly for an instant, accompanied by a distant, popping rumble. Another soon followed, and the truth dawned on him – the battle had already begun!

  Amurel scrambled to his feet, nearly falling in the process. He placed his foot in the stirrup and grabbed hold of the pommel, then stopped, staring back toward the castle. He realized the start of the assault changed nothing. Sticking to the plan, they would still have to wait until morning to move. The forces at Windhollow Rock needed to survive the night.

  Even though Amurel’s muscles twitched with longing to join the fray, he swung into the saddle under controlled deliberation. He could at least confer with his captains and gather information. Simply sitting idle for hours might be too hard to bear. No sooner had he pulled the reins left directing Bastion toward camp, then Thuriken’s voice in his head halted him.

  “Sir Golddrake, I bring urgent tidings!”

  Seconds later, Amurel caught the tint of the Aasimar’s metallic hair and wing-tips in the moonlight as he silently descended to the ground. “What is it, Thuriken? I already noticed that the King-priest has arrived.”

  “Not at the castle, Sir. We are besieged, yes, but only with the purpose of pinning us in, I fear. The King-priest broke off and is moving west with the majority of his troops.” Thuriken gestured emphatically across the open field. “The Duke of Rosegold fears he intends to sack the under-guarded Synirpa. He beseeches you to intervene.”

  “They have too much of a head start for the footmen to be of use,” Amurel thought aloud. Then, to Thuriken, “Will the castle hold?”

  “It is still early, but the Duke is confident. The walls are bombarded, but once the King-priest has moved far enough that his magic is no longer a threat, Illicurus intends to harry their siege engines.”

  Amurel nodded. The situation was far from ideal, but little was in war. “I will lead the cavalry back along the Tor March and try to cut them off. My ground troops will flank those who attack the castle at sunrise. Illicurus and the Duke can take advantage of that to initiate sorties if they choose.”

  Thuriken nodded his understanding. “Good speed to you, Sir Golddrake. May the righteous ever triumph.” Without another word, the Aasimar leapt into the air and thrust his powerful wings downward, feathers glinting like dancing stars as he receded into the distant night.

  The hour was late, but rest dwelled beyond reach. Amurel quickly returned to camp, summoning his knights with all the immediacy he could muster. They could reach Synirpa in an hour if they pushed – under two if he let the horses conserve strength. Either way lacked assurance of arriving before the King-priest.

  They rode hard to start, surging down the Tor March north of the embattled castle. Thundering hooves bore nearly three hundred warriors of the finest mounted force in the Cradle. Amurel tried to keep faith it would be enough to save the people of Synirpa. Once the distance was halved he slowed their pace, lest exhaustion dampen their prowess. The midnight journey seemed surreal with blue and green moonlight tinting the Order’s white tabards the shade of dreams. The warm night wind licked the sweat from Amurel’s neck as he passed orchard and field, still no destination in sight.

  A fine night for a ride, he noted, under different circumstances. The land they passed was soft and tranquil, bearing no hint of the violence awaiting them. Eventually, however, the fires came into view. The eastern edge of the city was ablaze, and as Amurel drew closer he could see a steady line of dark shapes flowing north along the Dawn Way, parallel to the stream that abutted it. They were heading for the wide bridge that crossed it at the intersection of the Tor March, though their predecessors had already spilled out in force onto the field where the Order had recently resided.

  Taking the bridge would be Amurel’s first tactical goal. His men would ride down those pinned between them and the water, and prevent any more of the Chelpian invaders from crossing in peace. Even with the hindrance of night and the clamor of their own armies, some of the enemy horde had already spotted them – three hundred sets of hooves pounding the earth was far from subtle. But their tight ranks allowed little response.

  When Amurel was close enough to pick out individual limbs he drew his sword and initiated the charge. He gave a fearful cry, picked up by his followers, which turned into a roar that seemed to panic the section of soldiers unfortunate enough to stand in their direct path. The enemy attempted to scatter in either direction along the Dawn Way, pushing futilely against the continuing march of their unaware brethren to the south. The resulting stalemate doomed them.

  The column of Amurel’s knights flared out as they drove into the wall of black-clad foes, cleaving some with fast-arcing steel as their horses trampled and crushed the bones of others. They secured the bridge within moments, some spilling across into the field beyond while others pushed their way south, pressing the advantages of horseback and surprise. The Chelpians along the Dawn Way continued to fall back. With only around ten paces of room to maneuver on either side of the road – water flanked one side and thick trees the other – their superior numbers were rendered meaningless.

  Amurel had crossed the bridge with the first wave and led a frighteningly efficient attack on the far bank. The foot soldiers on the perimeter quickly fled toward the city, where the bulk of their allies congregated. Amurel followed their flight with his eyes, taking in for the first time the sheer volume of the Chelpian army.

  The exhilaration of the initial charge faded as the enormity of the task at hand sank in. At least a thousand black forms had already crossed ahead of him. His resolve returned, however, as he noticed an enemy unit on horseback breaking free of the masses, riding in his direction.

  “With me!” he called to nearby horsemen, rallying a contingent of his vanguard to follow against the approaching threat. Nearly a dozen knights gathered in formation and separated from the bulk of the slaughter, joining Amurel as he bolted toward the enemy cavalry. The two groups headed for a collision, led by Amurel in violet and white, and the Chelpian commander in chain armor and black furs, his face masked by a spider-like helm.

  The distance between them evaporated with every thunderous heartbeat. With the aid of Criesha’s light, Amurel noticed the opposing leader wielded a double-bladed axe and no shield, so at the last second he yanked Bastion to the right of the oncoming horse. The spider-helmed warrior had no time to shift his weapon to his left side, and Amurel extended his own shield-arm, slicing a gash into his
enemy’s left bicep as they passed.

  Then he ducked, avoiding a blow from the rider passing to his right, and whipped his own sword in a wide arc, catching the back of his attacker as he whisked by. The rest of the mounted warriors engaged a moment later, a cacophony of metal striking metal ringing up to the night sky as their weapons clashed.

  Bastion and Amurel were of one mind and the horse pivoted and leapt to the side, reversing direction quicker than any of the others could manage. Amurel was able to fell two of the Chelpians before they could even turn to face him. The enemy commander was soon upon him again, though, his heavy axe surging downward in a bid to separate Amurel from his arm. He parried the blow with his sword, but the force of it pushed the flat of his blade into the forehead of his own helmet.

  Another horse beside him fell with a vibrating scream, and Amurel barely had time to push away his opponent’s axe before Bastion leapt into the body of the attacker’s horse to avoid the crashing beast beside him. The impact knocked the spider-helmed Chelpian askew in his saddle, one foot slipping free from its stirrup. Amurel’s countless hours on horseback allowed him to recover a second sooner, which was all he needed.

  His enemy’s arms raised automatically to regain his equilibrium, and Amurel struck, extending his sword tip-first into the man’s ribs. Once he broke past the chainmail, flesh offered little resistance. Bastion lunged forward to break clear of the clutter, and Amurel’s weapon slid free of the warrior’s body, opening a wound that surely included a punctured lung.

  The man slumped over at first, clutching the gash with his left hand before simply sliding off his saddle to the ground. Amurel caught the last of their mounted foes being cleaved from either side by two of his men, of which he had only lost three. They were given no time to rejoice or recover the bodies, however, as a volley of arrows suddenly rained down.

  The darkness made it difficult for the archers to assess distance, which may have been all that saved them. Even so, Bastion caught an arrow in his front shoulder, while another deflected harmlessly off the greave covering Amurel’s right shin. He raised his shield and frantically searched for cover, but found none. Their best defense would be to keep moving and engage more of the enemy as soon as possible. Such worries soon passed, for once again the enemy found him.

  In the distance, warning bells assured the entire populace of Synirpa was roused, and for a moment, everything else seemed frozen by their somber cadence. The Order had mowed down scores of enemy soldiers, and all near the bridge who had not fled perished. Half of Amurel’s cavalry gathered behind him, forming a line that awaited the signal to charge. The other half battled steadfastly on the other side of the fast-flowing stream, stemming the advancing tide of soldiers.

  Though he expected more arrows, another cluster of riders galloped forth from the midst of the dark mass laying between Amurel and the walls of the city, coming to a halt a hundred paces short of his position. Their bodies were blacker than the night around them, though the glint of moonlight betrayed metallic forms atop the horses – if that’s what they were. The distance was too great to be certain, but both the steeds and their riders seemed to exhibit flashes of red flame where otherwise eyes would have been.

  The figure in their center raised an arm, palm to the sky, and the gesture was answered seconds later by a thick column of red-gold fire surging down to Amurel’s right, directly into his line of knights. Those struck directly were incinerated by the blast, while the horses nearby broke into a panic, screaming and bolting from the heat as best they could.

  “Merciful Criesha!” Amurel cried, then responded with action. He gave no order but dug his heels into his horse’s flank, spurring him forward. Bastion obeyed, bravely ignoring the arrow embedded in his shoulder. Amurel’s men who still controlled their horses followed suit, forming a wave of thunder set to crash upon their enemies, outnumbered though they were.

  The group of outlying black riders was not large, numbering only seven, though they made no move to retreat. Amurel considered whether they foolishly thought magic would protect them from the charging hooves and steel, but as he drew closer, his bravado quickly shifted to doubt.

  The central figure was none other than the King-priest of Chelpa. He wore uril-chent armor and a glowing red pendant sat upon his breast. The six knights surrounding him were not men at all, but rather the living statues of uril-chent Rogan had warned them of! Their chiseled black forms held barbed spears, and a slit across their faces burned with malevolent red light.

  What’s more, each of their horses appeared not made of flesh, but ethereal shadow and smoke. Fear of that beyond his understanding seized Amurel, but he remained resolute, asking his Goddess’s protection from the Dread Tyrant’s devilry. He drove directly for Ebon Khorel, who held a wicked morning star in his right hand and was ringed by his unnatural servants.

  One of the uril-chent golems urged his steed forward to block Amurel’s charge, thrusting his spear forward as he drew within range. Amurel deflected the attack with his shield, and as Bastion drew up on his hind legs to avoid crashing into his shadowy counterpart, Amurel brought his sword down heavily upon the golem.

  The vibration of the handle jarred his hand as the blade shattered against the body of dark metal. All around him, the shouts of his men and the sounds of horses and steel rose as his knights joined the attack. As his sword broke, Amurel realized he had made a mistake, that this was exactly what the King-priest wanted.

  The Order of the Rising Moon had Ebon Khorel surrounded by a collection of its most competent mounted warriors, but victory was not nearly as close. As Amurel discarded the broken hilt and drew the dagger at his side, he caught his brethren encountering his same futility. Blow after blow struck their foes, but neither metal nor smoke suffered injury.

  The uril-chent golem before him callously drove his spear into Bastion’s chest, eliciting a sound of desperate pain Amurel had never heard from his faithful steed. All too quickly, his horse’s head collapsed, inevitably followed by his entire body. Amurel lost the grip on his dagger as his horse plummeted to the earth, and felt his own surge of agony as Bastion’s considerable weight crushed his most useful leg beneath him. His shield impacted the turf instantly after, and his head whipped sideways into the ground, jarring his senses.

  Through his daze, Amurel let out a moaning cry, summoned from his broken heart. In that moment he lost all concern for victory, danger, or the future. Bastion had been taken from him, and that was all he knew. A wayward hoof clanked against his helmet an instant later, sparing him from the decimation of his loss.

  Something cold and wet suddenly soaked Amurel’s face, and his tongue protruded from a parched mouth to taste it. His eyes opened slowly, squinting, though the room around him was dim. Everything ached, though the pain of his broken leg was most acute. Metal pinched his wrists, and his head throbbed as if he had been hung upside-down for a week.

  He was bound, he realized, strung vertically by iron manacles upon crossed, wooden beams. A rectangle of light marked an open doorway, but the walls were hewn from stone. If he had to, he would guess he was somewhere in Windhollow Rock. Whoever splashed him must not have been satisfied, for another bucketful smacked him square in the face. This time his senses responded more quickly, and through the dripping water he saw a bald man dressed in a plain, gray shirt.

  “Leave him alone!”

  The familiar voice came from across the room to his right. Scratchier than normal, he had no doubt it belonged to Sir Kilborn. Amurel tried to lift and turn his head to see his friend, but the motion redoubled the pain, and he let his chin fall back to his chest. The man in front of him grunted then backed out of sight, and a second voice spoke from directly across the room.

  “It is quite remarkable we were able to find you.” An accent tortured the vowels, similar to the way Baron Rogan spoke, but more exaggerated. He surmised the speaker was Chelpian as well. “I was told the Master of the Order was a cripple, but did not believe it so until
they brought you before me. Why would anyone follow a man with such a… deformity as yours? You must make up for it somehow, no?”

  The man remained far enough away that Amurel finally forced himself to raise his head in order to see him. When he did, he immediately recognized the ornate black armor and ruby pendant around the man’s neck – none other than the King-priest, himself. His olive-skinned face bore a black goatee, flecked with gray, and a small, curved scar marred the cheek below his left eye.

  “You are Sir Golddrake, yes?”

  Amurel did not bother to answer, but wondered who besides Sir Kilborn might be present.

  “Don’t feel like speaking, eh? Perhaps I can change your mind.” The King-priest finally stepped forward, and once he closed within a body-length, Amurel was seized by a new pain. The skin over his entire body seemed to tighten and itch, and when he looked up at his right hand, he saw it shriveling before his eyes, his flesh withering on his bones. After a few seconds, Ebon Khorel stepped back and the sensation ceased, though the effects remained.

  “What have you done, monster?!” Sir Kilborn shouted, though Amurel could not break his gaze from his emaciated limb.

  Ebon Khorel ignored the outburst and spoke calmly. “I will be honest with you, and perhaps you can be the same. Your end will not be pleasant, Sir Golddrake of the North. There is nothing you can do to escape your fate, but perhaps, after today, we might understand one another better. Let me take this off – I do not wish our time to end too quickly.”

  Amurel lifted his eyes enough to watch the King-priest removing the pendant from his neck. Ensconced in a setting of gold and steel, the crimson jewel at its center burned with a light of its own. Everything beyond it seemed shrouded in a gray, color-dimmed haze. The King-priest turned and placed the Living Fire somewhere beyond his field of vision, then returned with what looked like a long band of leather in his hands.

  “When I was a boy, my father’s first love was ale,” Ebon Khorel began as he knelt to encircle Amurel’s shattered legs with the band. “His second was proving what a powerful man he was by thrashing me with a whip like I was livestock. If not that, there were always plenty of knives or heavy objects around. See this?” the King-priest pointed to the scar below his eye, after cinching the leather tightly above Amurel’s knees and fastening it with a buckle.