By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (2 page)

         “A beer, Busy.  Please.  Where’s
Malchor?”

         “Oh,” Barnabus sighed, “some ship from
far away came today.  One of those St…St…Stormweather ships.  It had some wine
and Malchor went to buy some.  He said that it was good and he would like to
sell it.  If rich people come, then they’ll buy it ‘cause it came from far
away.  You know?” he asked, smiling though obviously struggling to give as good
an explanation as he might.  Barnabus was undeniably slow, slightly above the
level of being an idiot, Dirk thought.  But the man was kind and sweet and Dirk
was fond of him.  Dirk quickly drank his beer, nodding to some of the familiar
patrons and saying ‘goodbye’ to Busy before heading out the door. 

         Dirk needed to stop at his apartment
before going back to work in order to change his sweat-drenched clothing.  On
the way up the steps to his third floor room, he bumped, literally, into some
of his fellow tenants; three surly dock workers.  “Hey look, it’s Dork,” said
Croon, the first and filthiest of the men.  Croon was in his mid-forties and
had more hair on his immense sideburns than on his knobby head.  He was
ill-tempered and unpleasant, but Dirk would let him press none of his dourness
onto him that day.  Grabbing Croon by the throat, Dirk’s arm muscles swelled to
fill his shirt sleeve; an arm as big as a normal man’s thigh.  Normally
patient, Dirk would ignore harassment from such men and instead keep on with
his business, as he had been taught to do at the orphanage where he had been
raised, and knowing the pleasure of staying mostly unknown and not needing to
look over his shoulder for danger at every turn.  Dirk chose his battles
carefully, but preferred to almost always shy from confrontations.  One never
knew when someone slighted, for real or imagined, might show up with friends
bearing sharpened steel.  Perhaps the heat was to blame, or perhaps it was a
strange wind that blew out of the East, but this day Dirk let his hatred of
bullies surface.

         “I don’t like that name,” Dirk growled,
pulling the man nose to nose with himself.  The other workers stood motionless
as Croon tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow, a soft gurgle emerging from his
throat.  Dirk squeezed harder for a moment then gently placed Croon back on the
steps before continuing on to his room.  Dirk was more worried about remaining
and letting his temper escalate the unnecessary situation than he was at
turning his back on them.  Croon, also worried about the mild-mannered Dirk
escalating the encounter, stumbled down the stairs holding his throat, out into
the street to try his bullying somewhere else, his friends close on his heels. 

         It was the first time Dirk had stood up
to Croon.  Perhaps it was more than simply the heat.  True, the city had been a
rougher place as of late, more than the temperature to blame.  It could have
been the weak trading season that shortened every citizen’s temper, or maybe
Dirk just imagined these things.  Perhaps it was because he had just come from
seeing Barnabus, a man much like himself in heart and kindness; a man always
being bullied.  Dirk would stand up for Busy, why not himself?  Perhaps it had
been his wishing upon the plethora of falling stars during the yearly
occurrence known as Triana’s Fall a few weeks earlier, hoping his lot would
change.  Or perhaps it was simply time for Dirk to start doing things for
himself instead of allowing things to be done
to
him.

         There was not one particular event or
thought that led Dirk to this transformation of will, but a host of small,
slight and unimportant ones.  Dirk had lived a solitary life for twenty-two
poor years (as close as he could count) with no ambition or hope that change
would come.  He would deliver furniture until too old then find himself either
in jail or cared for in a sick-house founded by one of the many wealthy cathedrals. 
Or, if lucky, he would take a wife he cared little for, as everyone seemed to
do, and be nurtured in his dotage by unloving children.  Little by little,
imperceptibly, Dirk had decided this outlook was no longer suitable.  What was
required was some ambition:  ambition stemming from the fact that he knew,
somehow, that he was different from everyone else around him; ambition that he
belonged if not above, at least away from the rest of those whose outlook he
had shared for so long.  Dirk was destined to be something else, and he felt
destiny needed a bit of a prod.

         After a quick wash and a change of
clothing, Dirk was refreshed, at least enough to return to Bessemer’s.  He
emerged from the building and was greeted, rather hailed, by Yvonne, a working
girl who had grown up in that same neighborhood.  “Oh Dirk!  Sweetie!” she called
with a friendly, exaggerated wave.  “Why don’t you come over here?”  Yvonne
walked up to Candy and began rubbing the horse’s neck while Dirk spared the
girl a half-hearted smile.

         “I have to get back to work,” he said
with cold politeness.

         “Oh come on,” she whined.  “Why are you
so mean to me?  I remember when we were little…when
you
were little…and
you wanted to
kiss
me.  Am I unattractive?” she asked, spinning around,
her dress floating dangerously high as she twirled, revealing the very bottom
of her slender buttocks.  Unattractive? ‘No’, Dirk thought.  But her brand of
‘lady’ had never appealed to him.  Certainly those working girls and most women
in general, were friendly to Dirk.  But Dirk had always felt that a person, a
man as well as a woman, should respect his or her body, sharing their love with
only
one
other, not
any
other.  Dirk found he was nearly alone in
that belief and he longed to find that one soul he could love, but had no real
belief he ever really would.

         “No, you look nice,” he said, climbing
into the wagon.  Yvonne still held Candy’s harness.  “Now look out, I have to
go.”

         “Dirky-poo,” she said, pouting her lips
to no avail.  When she saw no change in his dour attitude, Yvonne decided to
try her charms again another day.  “Well, cutie-pie, you know where I live,”
she said, finally dropping her act of innocence.  Dirk certainly liked it
better when Yvonne did not try to act how she really wasn’t.   But he still
didn’t like her enough to grant her desires.

         “Bye,” Dirk said, and Yvonne released the
reins.

         “See-ya,” Yvonne answered with a sigh,
watching the husky man drive away.

         The night was still; the ever-present sea
breeze that normally whirled through the city noticeably absent as the Fiend
slipped from shadow to shadow.  Its hunger was tremendous, uncontrollable.  The
great clock tolled ‘one’ as It looked to the stars, bright and twinkling
above.  It wanted to howl Its frustration at the all-revealing light, but no
sounds came from Its throat.

         The Fiend slid into a doorway and sniffed
the air, then opened the lock and went inside.  It stood, smelling.  Sensing. 
Alerted, It moved to the stairs and climbed; Its step light for such a
tremendous creature.  The Fiend paused, waiting, scheming, and then continued
on Its path, hunger overcoming any attempt at planning and caution.

         It opened the door and saw her:  the
prey—soft, easy, gentle.  It needed her.  But then the Fiend caught another
scent; the scent of man.  But sleeping man was easy to kill, so It did, then
fell drooling on the woman, the man’s bloody pillow in hand to smother her
cries of pain.  Though her death was not immediate, no scream was ever heard
and she soon joined the man in cold, endless sleep, allowing the Fiend to move
on numbed and sated, but only for the increasingly brief moment. 

         Ginia giggled, her neck the victim of
Selric’s biting affections.  A deep kiss farewell and he was on his way.  With
a sigh, she watched him leave:  his sack, blue eyes, charm, devastatingly good
looks, and that gorgeous smile.  Ginger and Anoria came running down the steps.

         “Did he leave?” Ginger asked.

         “Mm-mm,” Ginia affirmed, looking at them
only after Selric had passed from her sight.

         “Why didn’t you wake us?” Anoria
pleaded.  Ginia returned a selfish grin, then pushed past them arrogantly and
walked upstairs.  Her friends followed, after a quick peek out into the street
to make sure that he was indeed gone, and all three sat together and reminisced
about the night before, wondering how long until Selric would return.

         The gate to the Stormweather villa swung
open as Selric approached.  “Master Selric,” the guard said in greeting, bowing
low and smiling at the nobleman who spent as much time cavorting with the help
than he did other aristocrats.  He was one who seemed more at home in the
guardhouse, stable, servant quarters (especially for the maids) than he did in
the fine manor house.

         “Hello,” said Selric with a smile he had
yet to holster as he passed the gate.  He walked quickly across the court
toward the heavy ironbound doors, waving at the half-dozen giggling servant
girls who dangled out the windows of their dormitory building across the
compound.  Selric continued on and heaved open the great front door, walked
through the foyer beyond and up to the hearth room doors.  Straightening his
appearance, Selric opened the portals and stepped through the threshold, still
smiling.

         “Greetings from the East!” he proclaimed
loudly. 

         His father immediately cast him a baleful
glance, stating, “Indeed.”

         “My baby, where have you been?” asked his
mother, Violet, holding her arms out toward Selric as he walked over to where
she sat pertly in her favorite chair.  She was the woman Selric saw as the most
beautiful in the world, and he melted in her loving embrace.  He looked into
her eyes; the same alluring blue eyes he had inherited, though hers were now
the more blue and alluring because of the enamored tears welling up within
them.  With his deft touch, Selric surprised his mother by pulling from his bag
a solid sapphire the size of her palm cut into the remarkable likeness of a
unicorn.  It was a prize from Emperor Quan Trang’s personal treasure vault; a
gift to the mother of the young man who had so impressed him with his wit,
charisma, and adaptability to his own culture.

         “I suppose that was bought with
Stormweather money I sent specifically for trade goods, you whelp,” barked the
gruff voice emanating from a once grand and powerful physique, a Stormweather
trademark, now bent and weakened with age.

         “Grandfather!  The love of my life,”
Selric exclaimed, rising with smooth fluidity and approaching the elderly man
in clearly feigned affection, smiling a goading grin, arms outstretched and
lips puckered as if he would hug and kiss him.

         “Do not touch me.  Where have you been? 
The
Maiden
docked nineteen hours ago,” his grandfather, Helmric, snapped.

         “Lost?” Selric tried, smiling even
harder, antagonizing his grandfather as he loved to do, the young man’s eyes
sparkling with wit, his cheeks glowing in mirth.  Helmric scoffed and tried to
ignore him.  Andric, Selric’s father, walked up, his hand outstretched.

         “Welcome home, son, we are all glad to
see you.  Now your mother can stop blubbering about her baby being captured by
heathen hordes or eaten by sea-monsters or ensnared in a kelpie’s net and other
similarly nonsensical rubbish.”  The men shook hands.  “Capt. Suffolk tells me
that you did an admirable job.  You navigated the return voyage.  That is
outstanding, Selric.  He said that you impressed the Emperor as well.”  With an
arm across his shoulder, Andric led his son to a small table that held several
bottles of liquor and he poured them each a drink, patting Selric proudly on
the back.  As fit as Selric was, his father’s rapping upon his shoulders
knocked him forward with every ‘tap.’

         “Yes, Emperor Quan Trang is an incredible
man,” said Selric, again reaching inside the sack, but this time he pulled
forth a sword of Eastern make and incredible workmanship.  “A gift from his
Emperial Majesty when I had completed my language studies with his wise men.”

         “An impressive weapon,” Andric admired,
taking the sword and partially sliding it smoothly from the scabbard, the light
reflected off the priceless blade.

         “You can’t carry that,” Helmric
interrupted.  “Stormweathers have a standard.  We use Western blades.  Can you
not be more like your brother?  Where is that boy?  Mendric!” he yelled in
obvious frustration.  “Where are you?”  Selric did not answer his grandfather,
going not to his bag, but to one of the two sea chests he had instructed be
delivered to his home and containing his clothing, navigation gear, charts,
etc.  Selric took a key from around his neck, opened a chest and pulled out a
beautiful painting of an Oriental dragon, wrapped safely in a wool blanket,
which when unveiled revealed a rare and intricately worked wooden frame. 
Selric knelt and offered the gift up to his grandfather.

         “Well...thank you,” Helmric replied, becoming
uncomfortably moved.  “It is very nice...but it doesn’t excuse what you did!”
he said, trying to remain firm.  Selric saw his grandfather softening, as he
always would with Selric, after his displeasure had been clearly stated.  Both
Helmric and his grandson knew that Selric had not done anything truly wrong,
but it was understood that the older Stormweather wanted the younger to make
the most of his heritage and viewed his flirtatious, irresponsible behavior as
contradictive to that goal; honor above all else.  Selric winked to Helmric,
rose and walked to stand by his mother and took her hand.  One of the several
doors leading into the room opened and Mendric entered from his bedchamber
suite.  The brothers resembled each other very little.  Mendric had the brown
eyes of his father, and was a hand taller and more husky and broad-shouldered than
his younger half-brother.