Voyage of the Shadowmoon Read online

  Neither had anyone else, however, except for the cream of his fighting men and the ships that were now their only refuge.

  There were few things Warsovran really loved—Forteron knew that was no secret: power, his son, his armies, and his fleet. The latter three he had preserved; yet if Torea had indeed been destroyed, then the emperor had been reduced from one of the most powerful monarchs in the known world to a mere refugee. A very dangerous refugee, in command of the largest battle fleet the world had ever seen, it was true, but a refugee nevertheless. No, Warsovran would not have destroyed his own empire. Some Larmentel sorcerer or engineer must have grown desperate during the siege of the city and unleashed hellfire itself. Of course! They had been destroyed by their own weapon, but then Warsovran had claimed credit. Any sensible tactician would do as much.

  Duke Parthol, who was also Commander of Marines, emerged from a hatchway, looked around, then made for Forteron. “The men are going to be very disturbed by this,” Parthol said doubtfully. “We will be fighting halfway across the world, with no chance of support. And for what?”

  “Torea is definitely gone,” replied Forteron.

  “What?”

  “Gone. Destroyed. Annihilated.”

  “But how can you be so sure? The despatch merely said that the emperor was turning back to investigate.”

  “I am not supposed to know anything, but I have ways of finding out. The emperor sought to have the final battle out here, far away from Torea. The fools of the southern kingdoms must have lost control of some weapon before they could bring it to bear.”

  “Our families, wives, mistresses, friends, estates—”

  “All gone. Only hope remains, and that is hope of a new life in Acrema. With each day that passes, our stores diminish, and our ships have more need of servicing. So do our men, if it comes to that. We must make for Diomeda with the greatest possible haste, and win soil where our strength and numbers can grow again.”

  “But what of the emperor? Surely he should lead us.”

  “In this case speed is more important than the leader.”

  With that, Duke Parthol set off down the deck, calling for his scoreboat to be brought alongside. Forteron allowed himself a little grin. Warsovran had known; he was even more certain of it now. A fleet crammed with fighting men was a lot more effective than a fleet crammed with fighting men, their wives, and their children, however. Admiral Forteron was unmarried, an only child, and both of his parents were dead. The fleet was his homeland and family. Nearly everyone else would be somewhat less understanding if they thought the emperor had sacrificed their loved ones for the sake of optimizing the fleet’s fighting strength. He looked to the west, toward which the fleet was now ponderously turning. When Warsovran eventually reached Diomeda they would have to have a long and discreet talk.

  Aboard the galley Kygar, the emperor’s son had been briefed on the orders coming from the signal flags. The fleet was leaving for Diomeda, the fleet was going to attack Diomeda. All marines were to train and prepare for a battle in about ten days, depending on the winds. Siege engines were to be tuned and tested, ethersmiths were to practice their castings, and there were to be daily meetings of the fleet council to determine tactics. The youth had listened to everything that was said, then thanked the captain and retired to his cabin.

  “Something wrong with that boy,” Mandalock told his first officer as they watched the galley’s mast being raised.

  “I agree. He is far more quiet than I remember him. It could be seasickness, but the emperor has always said that he’s a good sailor.”

  “Well, you know how rulers are about their children. Contradicting them is not a good idea, either.”

  “You don’t think he may be lovesick over the whore he brought with him?”

  “She looks twice his age.”

  “Maybe it’s what she knows.”

  Down in the master cabin, Prince Darric’s decoy was relating all he had heard to the empress.

  “Something very strange has happened in Torea, and we have broken off the blockade of Helion. Our orders are to attack and seize Diomeda, on the Acreman coast.”

  “Diomeda? As in the large and prosperous city, and whose royal palace has never fallen to attack?”

  “The very same.”

  “No wonder he gathered the entire fleet. But why attack another continent when half of Torea remains unconquered?”

  “I was not told, Empress.”

  “‘Mother’! Always ‘Mother’! Remember your role, and who you are meant to be. Go back on deck. Say little, but listen to everything that anyone within earshot says.”

  The empress looked out of the cabin window and saw that the Kygar was moving to flank the deepwater traders. At last she was slipping below the surface lies and deceits of Warsovran’s schemes. She would claw back the power she had lost to him as he had expanded the empire, and she would be ruler of Diomeda by the time he arrived.

  By the time the Shadowmoon was nearing the outer edges of the huge fleet, Terikel and Velander were again dressed in sailcloth, and standing among the sailors with their hair tied, braided, and slicked down with oil from the arcereon. The closer they got, the more activity was evident. Signal flags were being waved or hoisted on every ship, signal trumpets were sounding, and the crews were unfurling the sails and rowing galleys. By the time they had reached the harbor entrance, Warsovran’s fleet was in motion and sailing west.

  The Shadowmoon nosed into the harbor after being met by a pilot, and was soon berthed amid the galleys and armed traders of the exiled Vidarian navy. Helion was almost a double island, with two volcanic peaks joined by a narrow isthmus of sand and rock. The harbor was built into the waist of land, and Port Wayside clung to the side of the larger volcano. The smaller volcano was eroded into more of a gentle mound, and most of the island’s farms were here.

  “There must be ninety ships here,” said Feran as they made for the quay, “and at least seventy are Vidarian traders and warships.”

  “Helion is a Vidarian outpost,” Laron pointed out.

  “True, but that fleet we saw departing could only have been Warsovran’s,” said the deckswain. “In ships they outnumbered the Helionese fleet by ten to one and they probably carried more marines than Helion’s entire population. Helion should have been conquered in all of half an hour, yet those pennons flying from the masts and wharf towers are Vidarian, and the pilot said that they repulsed the blockade.”

  They tied up at a wharf of volcanic blackstone, and were met by the local governor, Banzalo. There had been a blockade, he explained. Seven hundred battle galleys and deepwater traders had blockaded the island for five days, then a single trader had appeared in the east. It had had Warsovran’s arms on its mainsail, and made straight for the flagship of the mighty fleet. Almost as soon as it drew alongside, signal flags were hoisted and trumpets blared messages in intricate codes.

  “As you saw, the ships began to get under way, hoisting sails and forming into convoy order,” he concluded.

  “I believe we can explain,” said Feran.

  In the meantime Terikel and Velander had changed back into their blue robes. They were quickly cleared to go ashore, and the governor’s steward pointed out the Metrologan shrine, which was on the southern part of the island. The Metrologans managed the vinyards, and were Helion’s biggest single landowner.

  “But perhaps you ladies would like to clean up a little before you go to the shrine,” suggested the steward. “Governor Banzalo is anxious to extend his hospitality to you, and his mansion is not far.”

  Terikel accepted the invitation, which offered her the chance to regain a little dignity before meeting with the rest of the surviving Metrologans.

  “The mission here is ruled by Aspiring Serionese,” Terikel explained as they set off for Banzalo’s mansion. “She is eight years my senior as a priestess, but has had her title of ‘Worthy’ suspended.”

  “She must have done something serious to deserve that,
” Velander replied.

  “Not really. She was in the Zantrias temple when I was a novice, but had a tendency to stab backs to gain power and influence. One day she stabbed the wrong back, so her title was suspended and she was sent here to minister to the harlots of Port Wayside, and to convert Acreman sailors and merchants to the Metrologan path of knowledge and love.”

  “Without a title she cannot act as a priestess,” said Velander. “We need three priestesses to ordain any deaconess as a priestess.”

  “The Elder can restore her title, and I am the Elder. It will be my first act when I meet her.”

  Predictably, the news brought by the Shadowmoon caused a sensation that was followed by an outpouring of grief across the little island. Except for a few Acreman sailors and merchants, nobody on the island had been spared the loss of relatives, loved ones, and friends when Torea had been obliterated. Services that had begun in the island’s eleven shrines and chapels as thanksgiving celebrations for deliverance from Warsovran’s fleet, quickly became the first remembrance services for the murdered continent. Banzalo was curiously unmoved, however. Feran and Laron were also invited to his mansion for a more extended briefing, and just two hours after coming ashore they were sipping the local wine on a stone balcony under the blue but strangely dusky sky. Laron was visibly restless, and his hands were trembling so much that there were standing waves on the surface of his wine.

  “So, Laron, you were the first living man to set foot on the continent?” said Banzalo.

  “In a manner of speaking, sir,” replied the vampyre, who then feigned to sip at his wine.

  “And what was it like? What survived?”

  Laron took a misshapen splash of silver and handed it to the governor.

  “This is all that is left of some merchant on the stone pier at Zantrias,” he explained. “Apart from his copper belt buckle, of course, and I did not think to scrape that up.”

  “Fascinating. The people have been turned to ash, yet their wealth is untouched.”

  “Your pardon, Governor, but their wealth is a rather ugly mess,” said Feran.

  “But their wealth is still silver—and gold. The whole of Torea must be littered with gold and silver, just waiting to be picked up.” The governor turned to Terikel. “You are now the Elder of the Metrologan Order,” he said, again acknowledging her status. “In fact, you and your two priestesses are the only ordained Metrologans left in the world.”

  “That is right,” Terikel agreed, putting her goblet down. “Our Brother Order had only two deacons in their mission in Diomeda.”

  “So your Brother Order may be considered dead?”

  “As we speak, yes. However, three ordained priestesses can ordain a deacon. It has never been done, but I intend to begin the practice and create a single Metrologan Order under a single Elder.”

  “So, Torea’s most powerful and respected scholarly Order is now based on Helion.”

  “Well, yes, and I shall be having the island’s deaconesses ordained as a matter of urgency. The shrine already has an eternal flame, signifying that the light of knowledge and the warmth of love can never die, but we need to convert the shrine into a temple.”

  “A temple, yes, indeed,” agreed Banzalo, rubbing his chin. “With the island’s mason, three carpenters, and a dozen laborers, how long would it take to change your chapel into the most basic of temples?”

  “Only as long as it takes to carve a vigil hearth in the shape of a clawed hand, set up some partitions, and erect a stone arch with ‘MEASURE—CARE—TEACH—LOVE’ chiseled in Oromac. The work of a week, no more.”

  “Splendid. It will be done.” Banzalo turned to Feran again. “You say that a few feet of water was enough to shield you from the fire-circle’s effect?”

  “For us in the Shadowmoon, yes,” Feran replied.

  “That means silt survives in the river esturies. Rich, fertile silt. We can dredge it and grow crops. Shellfish, sea cabbage, lobsters—all of the ocean’s bounty is still there for the taking, yet Warsovran and his armies are now dust on the face of the sun.”

  “Along with all other Toreans, sir,” added Laron, whose hands were still trembling, and, who now had a nervous tic at the edge of his left eye.

  “Well, yes, but we must look to the future. All Toreans are dead, you say?”

  “Yes, Governor,” said Feran. “With the exception of us on Helion, a handful of merchants and adventurers in foreign ports, and those in Warsovran’s fleet.”

  “So, I am thus the most senior surviving Vidarian noble from our late and sadly lamented continent.”

  There was a long pause as Banzalo’s guests began to assimilate his line of reasoning.

  Late in the afternoon the Searose appeared out of the east. Although the deepwater trader was faster than the Shadowmoon and had left Torea earlier, the shipmaster had turned back upon seeing the edge of the last fire-circle in the distance. They had reached the coast and sent boats ashore. All those aboard confirmed what Feran had reported. Terikel immediately ordered Druskarl to unload the precious archives that had been destined for safekeeping in Diomeda.

  As soon as the governor had dismissed them, Laron went out and about in Port Wayside, which was the capital of Helion’s three towns, five farms, and one vineyard. Of all those on the Shadowmoon, he had not yet eaten. The presence of so many potential meals going about their business had put him decidedly on edge. As the sun touched the horizon he made for one of the dockside taverns, ordered an ale, and sat down to watch the other patrons. Before long one of those patrons sauntered over with a mug in his hand.

  “Assessing potential meals already?” he asked softly, sitting down opposite the vampyre.

  “Roval—so, you escaped,” Laron responded, moving no more than his eyes and lips.

  “After a fashion. I was aboard one of Warsovran’s ships, engaged in my usual trade.”

  “Spying.”

  “Correct. The captains decided to show some initiative and sent three scouts ashore here, dressed as Scalticarians. Because I speak Scalticarian like a native, I was chosen.”

  “Something to do with being born in Scalticar?”

  “True. I posed as a Scalticarian merchant selling medicinal essences, borrowed from the ship’s locker. I’ve made twenty-seven silvers in two days.”

  “And the others?”

  .“Caught, almost as soon as they entered a tavern called the Wayside Arms and tried to order two beers. One died of his wounds: he had put up quite a fight. The other was held for torture and questioning, but he managed to get a hand free and lick his fingernails. Their coating killed him within half a dozen breaths.”

  “I trust you have washed your hands?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Roval took a sip of the island’s wine, while Laron merely sat with his hands folded beside his untouched ale.

  “It’s also dangerous to be Acreman,” said Roval. “Just now. On Helion.”

  “Why?”

  “Silverdeath came from an Acreman shrine.”

  “But it was originally stolen by Damarian mercenaries from Torea. Besides, it was Warsovran who used it to turn loose those fires from hell.”

  “The Helionese are not particularly amenable to reason, logic, history, fact, or any other form of clear thinking just now. Nine Acremans have been murdered since you arrived. Even the Metrologans’ big guard Druskarl has taken refuge in their shrine.”

  “Just who is Druskarl?” asked Laron, gazing through the window at the shrine on the crater hill, which was ruddy in the setting sun. “I notice things, and in Zantrias I noticed several very important people treating him with the deference worthy of a king.”

  Roval sipped at his drink. “Once he was a king, and his armies would have been a match for even Warsovran’s. He was briefly captured by his enemies during some skirmish. Unfortunately for him, those few hours were sufficient for some, ah, creative modifications to be made to his genitalia. He decided to abdicate in favor of his son. Now he roam
s the world, seeking to restore his balls.”

  “An understandable but futile quest.”

  “Silverdeath can do it.”

  “Silverdeath? Silverdeath just reduced an entire continent to furnace tailings, yet he wants to use it to order a new pair of testicles?”

  “According to some very ancient chronicles that I have read, Silverdeath needs a host to become active, and its host must have a whole and healthy body. When it is presented with any body that is less than whole, it conducts repairs. It can strip away decades of age, cure any disease, heal the most ghastly of wounds, restore the recently dead to life, and, of course, grow back severed testicles.”

  “While detonating a progression of fire-circles.”

  “Well, yes, the price was a little extreme this last time. Still, Warsovran emerged from Silverdeath’s service two decades younger.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Druskarl told me. Kings know these things.”

  Laron was staring at a sailor who was particularly drunk and had just vomited over the table where he had been playing cards with three locals.

  “He did that deliberately, he was sure to lose,” said Laron. “I could see the hand he held from here.”

  “So, his name is Dinner?”

  “Seaman Dinner, second class, if you don’t mind. I look upon it as my contribution to the public good.”

  “Speaking of the public good, what about Silverdeath?”

  “It is gone, and a good thing, too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “How could it survive the fire that burned out a continent?”

  “Did you check?”

  “Check? My clogs were charred by walking a few hundred yards on the surface of Torea. Larmentel was over a thousand miles farther away. I may be immortal, Roval, but I am not invulnerable and I can be destroyed. Burn me to ash, or starve me for enough months, and I shall lose my grip on this body and fade to nothingness.”