Voyage of the Shadowmoon Read online

  “Father?” Darric exclaimed, looking puzzled as he stood between the guards.

  The squad captain nodded to Darric, and his shoulders gave the trace of a shrug.

  “Yes, it really is me,” Warsovran laughed, holding his arms out to embrace his son.

  “But, Father, you are so, er, young.”

  “Hah, just the result of clean living, staying out of the sun, and bean-curd cheese.”

  “And some etheric sorceries.”

  “Oh yes, but only natural etheric sorceries.”

  They finally embraced.

  “I’m sorry, I was away hunting when you returned to Narmari,” said the prince. “Mother did not tell me; she tells me nothing.”

  “Then you must be growing up,” replied Warsovran, looking the prince up and down. “Well, now, here’s a laugh. I am nearly a youth, and you are nearly a man.”

  Darric laughed. He knew when it was expected of him.

  “There have been reports coming back from the army,” he said, again staring at his father’s face. “You were said to be englamored, and could slay a dozen warriors with your bare hands.”

  “Oh, I can do that without being englamored,” laughed Warsovran, who was in a very good mood by now.

  “They said you can call lightning from the skies.”

  “Anyone can do that. Just carry a spear in a thunderstorm.”

  “They say you destroyed Larmentel.”

  “Walk with me,” Warsovran said, gesturing down the corridor. He put an arm over his son’s shoulders. “I made use of a device, Silverdeath, a machine of immense power. It destroyed the citadel area of Larmentel. By its nature Silverdeath is difficult to control, yet it did what I needed. It saved my army as many as a hundred thousand casualties. Larmentel would not have fallen easily.”

  “The reports said that it was an awesome sight.”

  “Oh yes. More awesome than your mother being served dinner on an unclean plate.”

  “I wish that I could have seen it.”

  “At the rate kingdoms are swearing fealty to me, I may never have to use it in anger again.”

  “Yet I hear that you did use it again.”

  “Oh yes, but just as a test, over Larmentel’s ruins. As I said, the use of Silverdeath needs to be refined before it is turned toward any other city. It might just as easily have destroyed my own army, but this time luck was with me. Now, then, I have a new campaign planned, but this time you are going with me.”

  “Me?” Darric exclaimed. “I cannot believe it.”

  “You question your emperor’s word?” chuckled Warsovran. “Arrest yourself for treason!”

  Darric laughed, then drew his ax and swiped the air with it. Tiny whistles in the ornamented blade piped out chords in fourths and fifths.

  “All these years I have pleaded for a chance to fight, yet you have kept me here, penned up and protected from everything but the lapdogs,” Darric said with undisguised annoyance.

  “‘All these years’ began on your tenth birthday, and even now you are only fourteen. Consider yourself lucky.”

  “So am I really going to fight?”

  “Not.”

  “But I’ve killed two of my training partners.”

  “Both of them knew that your death would result not only in theirs, but those of everyone in their family, extended family, hometown, and province, along with anyone in Torea even sporting the same haircut. In battle, the enemy has no such inhibitions.”

  The prince put his ax back into his belt and stared at the path they were walking, shaking his head. “Then why send me anywhere?”

  “You are going on campaign, rather than into battle,” said Warsovran, patting his son on the back. “You will travel in one of my best galleys. I am planning an experiment.”

  “A new method of fighting?”

  “A new method of not fighting. I have a theory that overwhelming displays of force can destroy any enemy’s morale so completely that they surrender without a costly fight. To that end I am assembling the largest battle fleet in the history of Torea, seven hundred ships—”

  Warsovran stopped as the empress stepped out in front of them. She had the bearing of one who had been brought up in the corridors of power, and could not display deference even if her life were to depend upon it. She did, however, cry out with surprise at the appearance of Warsovran. He looked scarcely five years older than his own son.

  “My lady,” said Warsovran, as he bowed to his wife.

  “So, it is true,” she said breathlessly.

  “What your spies say about me? Quite probably.”

  Darric knew that relations between Warsovran and his empress had been less than cordial for a very long time. Darric also preferred simple situations, where the outcome could be settled with a choice of suitable weapons and a tourney marshal. This situation was very complicated. Rather than be part of a characteristically chilly reunion, he bowed to both of his parents, then turned to hurry away.

  “Stay!” barked Warsovran, seizing him by the arm.

  “Welcome home, my daring and devoted lord,” said Empress Darielle, with all the warmth of a fish on a market slab.

  “Returning to your side is always my greatest pleasure,” Warsovran replied.

  “Not so great as spending a half day in the shipyards and docks before rolling up to the palace, it seems.”

  “That was urgent business, where every minute saved was vital.”

  Darielle stared at his face, almost mesmerized. He seemed incredibly young. She wanted to touch his skin, to confirm that it was real, but they had not been in physical contact for fourteen years and Warsovran’s orders to his bodyguards were very specific where his wife was concerned.

  “Will you be sharing the secret of rejuvenation with your devoted family?” she asked pointedly.

  “Once you are dead, certainly.”

  “Ah, so the secret will perish soon, and unspoken.”

  He folded his arms and looked down at the tilework of the floor for a moment. Dangerous thoughts entered his head. Darielle had been a princess when Warsovran was a minor noble with a small inheritance but large ambitions. He had turned the tide of an otherwise hopeless battle, and in return was granted the hand of the king’s only daughter in marriage. The princess was a very accomplished sorceress, however, and just as ambitious as Warsovran. She also had been implicated in a string of assassinations, and soon after their wedding, the king had died in suspicious circumstances. Darielle became queen. By now she and her husband had developed a most intense dislike for each other, so she had sent him off on a campaign against several much larger kingdoms. She had hoped that he would soon be killed, or lose some important battle and thus become a candidate for execution. Instead he brought home a string of victories and declared himself emperor of an area several times bigger than Darielle’s kingdom.

  Darielle needed Warsovran’s military genius to ensure new conquests, yet the heart of Warsovran’s army was the Damarian nobility, who were loyal to Darielle. Being a good strategist, however, Warsovran had built up his personal control in the new territories and royal navy, so that Darielle was by now the lesser partner. Several very professional assassination attempts had been made on Warsovran over the past year, and he was in no doubt of who had been the sponsor. The dangerous thoughts in his head suddenly locked together into a vast and flawless plan, and he fought down an urge to smile that threatened to tear the muscles in his face.

  “My loyal and dutiful empress, I suspect you are bored,” he ventured.

  “You suspect? You suspect? Do you also suspect that there is a hole in your—”

  “Of course there isn’t; emperors do not do that sort of thing.”

  “Very well, then. Get to the point.”

  “Darric and I shall be away with the fleet for two months. I think you should take my place, and administer the entire empire.”

  For once Darielle was speechless. On the only other occasion when she had been granted control beyo
nd the borders of her own kingdom, a civil war had resulted.

  “Mother, that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Darric.

  “Where are you sailing?” she asked, incapable of bringing herself to make a display of gratitude.

  “There are several small islands around the Placidian Ocean where my—our—enemies are harboring privateer Vidarian fleets that attack our traders and steal our cargoes. They cost us dearly in trade, and I intend to annihilate them with a single, mighty blow.”

  Darielle frowned. “I cannot believe this! Only doomsday itself would force you to place your precious empire in my hands.”

  Warsovran put a hand to his ear and turned his head about. “I do not hear the heavens falling. Perhaps doomsday is not all that it is cracked up to be. Did you catch that one? Doomsday—cracked? Crack of doom … ? Oh, never mind.”

  The empress stood with her arms folded tightly, her lips a mathematically straight line between the edges of her mouth, and her foot tapping the ground.

  “I cannot believe you would do anything that would not help me along that path which ends at a large wooden block, a big, hairy man wearing a black hood, and an exceedingly sharp ax.”

  “I swear I would never have any man strike off your head, my lady.”

  “Oh, so now you are pioneering the use of female executioners?”

  “Think what you will—the offer stands. Without delegation I could never run the empire, could I? I shall be fascinated to see what you can do while I am away.”

  That night Empress Darielle lay awake, unable to stop thinking about what had been granted to her. Warsovran did not trust her—with good reason—yet he was about to hand absolute power to her. Warsovran was also taking their son with him on the fleet. The royal navy was her area of least influence, and it was not much better with his marines. Nothing made sense, but anyone could see that if she was being given a short term as supreme commander, then the position would be unimportant for that period.

  What was really worrying the empress was what had not been discussed. Warsovran was forty, but now looked twenty. Darielle was forty-five and looked forty-five—a very healthy and well-groomed forty-five, but forty-five nevertheless. In days, weeks, months, or years he would become powerful enough to leave her for someone younger and more agreeable. One did not just leave an empress, however. One remarried after an empress died of some strange and inexplicably swift disease that generally manifested itself ten minutes after dinner.

  Fontarian was the northernmost port in Torea, and at the center of the coastline under Warsovran’s rule. Captain Mandalock leaned over the forward railing of the trireme galley Kygar, smiling with satisfaction as a fifth broken ship was painted in yellow on the bow. The oceangoing galley might not have been the biggest in the known world, but with two hundred rowers, a hundred and fifty marines, and thirty sailors and officers, it was a force to be reckoned with. The captains of enemy deepwater traders did not expect to encounter war galleys on the open ocean, and the Kygar had been invincible there. Five traders had been rammed and sunk, eleven burned, and fifteen captured.

  All along the pier were jugglers, tumblers, and ether magicians, all paid for by Captain Mandalock for the entertainment of his men. Moored next to the Kygar but ignored by all, a tiny, squat schooner was taking on a load of lamp oil. Roval, the deckswain, and a crewman stood watching the show from the deck of the Shadowmoon, while discussing matters that would have had the Shadowmoon sunk instantly, had Captain Mandalock been able to hear.

  “I shall be leaving you at Narmari,” said Roval as he ticked off jars on a slate.

  “And taking Laron with you?” Norrieav asked hopefully.

  “I’m afraid he stays.”

  “Not half as afraid as the rest of us be,” said Hazlok. “Every port where we’ve called there’s been a terrible murder.”

  “But none aboard the Shadowmoon, you have to admit.”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Laron knows how to behave. He has a strong sense of chivalry, and he attacks only bad or churlish people. Merely ensure that all the crew behave in a virtuous manner, and Laron will not take the slightest interest in you.”

  Fontarian was built on the edge of a vast plain, with no hills or mountains as far as the eye could see. The tallest building in the port was a four-hundred-foot lighthouse tower, at whose summit a pyre burned from dawn until dusk. It was built of sandstone blocks, and stood at the edge of the water. At its summit were loading beams for hauling fuel up for the pyre. It was at the base of this tower that a crier began bawling for attention.

  “Attend if you will, brave and stout warriors of the Kygar, the Mighty Bendith!” the man shouted, and there was a scatter of applause and cheers.

  The Mighty Bendith was tanned and muscular, and stripped to the waist. There was an ax at his belt and a crossbow strapped to his back.

  “Today is a dark day for the fair princess of Fontarian, who has been captured and imprisoned in a mighty tower by an evil privateer,” announced the crier.

  The crier gestured to a girl with long blonde hair, waving from a window near the top of the tower, then to six figures dressed in black and waving axes, who were standing at the base. Those on the Kygar and the crowd on the wharf hissed and booed.

  “What, O what can the Mighty Bendith do?” asked the crier.

  “Climb the tower an’ give ’er one!” shouted Hazlok from the deck of the Shadowmoon, and everyone except the performers laughed.

  “See how the Mighty Bendith storms the very stronghold of the privateer chief himself.”

  With that, the Mighty Bendith sprang forward, engaging the privateer guards with much clanging of axes, and acrobatics. One by one the guards took mortal blows, pulled red cloths from their tunics to show they were now bleeding to death, and collapsed to the timbers of the wharf. At last only the privateer chief was left. He turned to run as the crowd booed and flung fruit peelings, then he stopped at the door in the base of the tower.

  “Ha-ha, Mighty Bendith, you think you have thwarted me, but my tower has forty floors, and each one has a hundred brave privateers to stop you. You shall never rob me of the fair Princess of Fontarian.”

  He slammed the door shut, and a voice from the Kygar called, “Madame Nymphania’s place is easier to enter!” There was more laughter, and the distant figure at the top of the tower screamed theatrically for help. The Mighty Bendith clipped his ax to his belt, unslung his crossbow, and with the aid of a crank bar drew back the heavy bowstring and loaded a barbed dart. He now began breathing a tangle of ether energies into his cupped hands while the crowd cheered. Finally he plunged his left hand into the ether and drew out a filament, which he attached to the crossbow’s dart.

  The crowd went silent as the Mighty Bendith lay down on his back, steadied the crossbow on the back of his left arm, and gripped the release with his right hand. He aimed straight up, paused for theatrical effect, then fired. There was no wind just then, and gravity merely slowed the dart rather than deflecting it. It struck a loading beam close to the window where the blonde girl was waiting, stringing a filament of ether all the way down to the Mighty Bendith. The audience cheered lustily. The Mighty Bendith handed the crossbow to the crier, did a casting to the filament, then began to be drawn slowly straight up.

  “Hey, now, that’s a mighty sorcerer,” said Norrieav, nudging Roval and pointing to the ascending figure.

  “That is an ethersmith of about level eight, with no more skills of sorcery than you have,” Roval replied with a sneer.

  “Esteemed sir, you have to admit that he has skill.”

  “Esteemed deckswain, a wharfer might be far stronger than a carpenter, but strength alone does not allow him to build boats.”

  “Look how high he is! Roval, you just have to be impressed.”

  “Two years ago I was at the Warrydale Plough Festival, where the farmers compete in an annual poo contest. They eat like pigs for days, without visiting a privy, then try to lay the
heaviest turd in Warrydale. The winner’s offering weighed in at just over ten pounds and I was impressed, just as I am impressed now. However, I had no urge to participate in Warryside, and my feelings are unchanged today.”

  By this stage the Mighty Bendith had reached the level of the girl’s window. He reached out his hand, taking the girl’s in his. The girl pulled him toward the window.

  “Bet ’e pops in fer five minutes to give ’er one!” said Hazlok to Laron.

  “Could you do that?” Norrieav asked Roval.

  “If I really had to,” replied Roval.

  Unfortunately for the Mighty Bendith, he was an extremely good shot. Far too good for his own welfare, in fact. His barb had struck in exactly the area where his seventeen earlier shots had impacted over the previous month. The area looked solid, but had been reduced largely to splinters. The barb pulled free, just as he was about to enter the window.

  The girl’s life was saved by the fact that she had sweaty hands. The Mighty Bendith fell, screaming the entire four hundred feet until he crashed down to the cobbles, narrowly missing the crier. For a few moments the crowd cheered wildly, then they realized that anything resembling the crumpled mess that was now the Mighty Bendith could not possibly be alive.

  “There are, of course, good reasons for not attempting that sort of thing, except in extreme emergencies,” added Roval in the moment of utter silence between the end of the cheering and the beginning of the collective gasp of horror.

  With the entertainment over, the onlookers went about their business, most of which involved loafing in the sun. Roval and Laron climbed to the top of the Shadowmoon’s mainmast and began to tighten the braceline to the foremast, which had stretched in the heavy seas they had endured for the past week. At the base of the tower, the woman who had been playing the imprisoned maiden was staring down at the mortal remains of the Mighty Bendith with her hands pressed against her cheeks.

  “Would that I was in some lady’s service,” said Laron, wistfully gazing across at her.