By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (30 page)

         “You and I can do things, too,” Fiona
whispered in her ear, trying to cheer her up, nudging her playfully.  Melissa
pushed her away with a disgusted expression.

         “Never mind her,” Dirk said.  “We’ll
decide later.  Right now we need somewhere to explore before snowfall.”

         “I said I’d do it,” Fiona said.  “Now
take us out, Mr. Bessemer.  Treat us richly with all your money.”  She pushed
him out the door and locked it behind him, then spoke through it.  “We’ll be
down when we’re ready.”  She and Melissa brushed their hair and Fiona put on
her face and lip paints, then they joined Dirk for the evening.

         It was two nights later, when returning
from work, that Dirk found Melissa and Fiona sitting on his bed.  “How are my
little cloak thieves today?” Dirk asked curiously then he saw the map laid out
before the girls on his blanket and hurried over.  “Hello?”

         “Hello,” Melissa said.

         “Hi, sexy,” is what Fiona said, grabbing
his buttocks.  He smacked her hand away.

         “Well?” he asked.  “Where?  Where!”

         “Here,” Fiona said, pointing at a spot,
placing her other hand on his butt again.  This time it was Melissa who slapped
her hand, casting Fiona a baneful glance as well.  “It’s called the ruins of
Tiladir.  I haven’t heard of any expeditions there recently.  We should be able
to find
something
.  The ancient city was founded by King Thegoric, the
leader of a semi-nomadic people called the Lusfarrens, who long inhabited The
High Moors.  He led them there and built the city, believing that Halicor, the
patron deity of his people, had called for them to settle down.

         “Wow!” Dirk said.  “Real ruins.  Real
adventure.”  He took out his sword and swung it around.  And so, Dirk’s first adventure
started. 

         It was a week before everyone in the
group was ready.  Selric and Cinder were invited, and Melissa did not argue
when pressed by the others as to Cinder’s accompaniment.  Cinder was unable to
take time away from her job so she quit when Dirk promised he would hire her at
Bessemer’s upon their return, if she would accompany them.  She was reluctant
at first, but thought it might be “neat” to be out in the Wild again,
especially with Dirk and Selric.  She was curious to see what so interested
them about old ruins of ancient civilizations, civilizations her own mother had
seen in their prime.

         Fiona and Melissa asked for, and
received, vacation time from their employer, provided they found at least one
replacement.  Delsenar was not happy, but if he wanted to retain skilled
fighters, he had to let them go once in a while to hone their craft, or so
Fiona warned him:  she was very convincing.  And due to recent circumstances in
Andrelia, he wanted his most loyal guards back.  Fiona and Melissa hired a dog
and two man team, as Dirk had done, with their own money, so that they could
keep their jobs.  They had to pay them nearly what they would have made and so
spent what little money they had saved up, counting on finding some type of
treasure on their adventure. 

         When Dirk finished packing the night
before they were to leave, he went to check on Melissa and Fiona.  It was here
that he discovered the change at the house.  When he was let in by Marlo, Melissa
and a man Dirk did not know were sitting on the couch talking, each with a
beer.  Dirk walked in, angry.  Melissa and the man looked up at him, but Dirk
did not say anything.

         “Hi, Dirk.  This is Aldren,” said
Melissa, rising to hug him.

         “Hi,” said Aldren, standing and holding
out his hand.  Dirk shook it.  Aldren was nearly as tall as Dirk, hard but
lean, his hair brown, and his skin deeply tanned.  Dirk guessed him to be an
outdoorsman of some type.  He bore that rough, backwoods-ish severity about him,
yet a strange regality.

         “Aldren is Anna’s replacement,” Melissa
said, but as she looked at Dirk, her smile faded and she looked away.  Dirk
knew she was hiding something.  She could never lie to him; her conscience was
too strong; her affection for him too moving.  “I’ll get you a beer,” she said,
hurrying into the kitchen.

         Melissa filled a mug and when she turned,
Dirk was right behind her.  “Who is he?” he pressed.

         “I told you.”  She handed Dirk his drink.

         “You’re lying to me.  Did you do
it
with him?” he asked jealously.

         “No!  And no, I’m not lying,” she said,
growing upset.  “I’m not lying about him.  Why?  Are you jealous?  How’s it
feel?” she said, the spite in her voice stinging Dirk.

         “I’m not jealous,” he lied.  “Then what
about Anna?” he asked, changing subjects.

         “She’s dead,” Melissa said, turning and
seizing another mug.  Dirk spun Melissa back around and she set the drinks
down.

         “Don’t turn away.  I want to see your
face,” he said.  “Fiona put you up to something, didn’t she?”

         “Stop it!” Melissa screamed, covering her
ears, her guilt growing.

         “Tell me!  How did she die?”

         “Delsenar was ambushed.  Anna was shot
with an arrow.”

         “Why?” Dirk asked.  “Who did it?”  He
shook her.  Melissa kept her ears covered and ran out like a stubborn child,
breaking his hold.  He followed her past Aldren, who watched them curiously,
and up the stairs where she ran into Anna’s old room and slammed the door.

         Dirk went inside.  Fiona was there, in
her bed, resting.  Dirk could tell by Fiona’s personal items lying about, that
she was now living in the room.  Melissa sat next to her, looking mournfully at
Dirk, her brown eyes large and sad.  Dirk then noticed Fiona’s arm was in a
sling.

         “Where’s Anna?” he demanded.

         “She died,” Fiona said.  “We were
ambushed.  She was killed and I was wounded.”  She held up her arm in evidence.

         “Why don’t you heal yourself,
priestess
?”
Dirk asked gleefully, feeling he had caught her in a lie, pointing at the young
woman triumphantly.

         “I did,” she said, leaving Dirk momentarily
speechless.

         “Then why the sling?”

         “I don’t want everyone, especially my
boss, to know I’m a priestess.  Aura Painbliss is not a well understood goddess
and the temple is still a secret outside of this house.”

         “No,” Dirk agreed, “goddesses of perversion
usually aren’t well liked.”  He softened.  “I’m sorry, Melissa, and I hope
you’re all right, Fiona.”  Unseen by Dirk, Melissa glared at Fiona then left
quickly.

         “Why don’t you kiss it and make it
better?” Fiona asked, as Dirk started after Melissa.

         “Where?” he asked, walking back over to
her bed compassionately, remembering her care of him during his recent beating. 
As he stood near, she rubbed her right breast.  “You got shot in
the...the...thing!” he stumbled, aghast.

         “No, but if you kiss it, I’ll feel much
better.”  Dirk laughed and kissed her forehead, feeling strangely close to this
devious and playful woman in a girl’s body.  Then he turned to leave.  Fiona
called to him as he went out.  “By the way,” she said, “you didn’t knock
again.”  He smiled, knocked twice then closed the door softly on his way out.

         Dirk sat on the couch and talked to
Melissa and Aldren for over an hour.  Aldren was indeed a ranch hand who tended
horses all summer in the North, and after driving them south for this coming
winter, decided to stay in Andrelia instead of a cabin with the other hands, as
he had done for the past three winters.  Dirk and Aldren got along well and
Dirk’s jealousy was soon quenched, mostly by the fact that Melissa would be
going away with him in the morning.  When he heard Fiona would be well enough
to travel the next day, and he had visited long enough, Dirk said good-night
and went home.  He stopped to make sure Cinder was ready also, and surprisingly
to him, she was.  She convinced him to stay for a “few hours” on their last
night in the city and Dirk reached home later than he had wished.

         Over the past week, Dirk, Melissa and
Fiona each purchased a horse.  Selric had his own mount and Cinder insisted
that they buy her a wagon, refusing to ride a horse.  Such a request was not
too outlandish, since the wagon could be used to carry supplies out and the
expected loot on the return trip.  All the mounts were kept with the other
animals in the Bessemer stable until the departure. 

         Dirk bought a huge roan destrier:  twenty
hands high and weighing almost a ton.  Dirk named him Thegoric, after the king
whose city was the objective of his quest for glory.  The animal was young and
full of spirit and challenged Dirk at every opportunity.  Melissa rode a brown
mare she called Gem, nearly as large as Thegoric.  Gem was fierce and fleet
footed, resembling a regal, proud farm horse more than a steed of war.  Fiona
bought herself a good-sized horse, though not nearly as large as the other two,
white with black splotches, so Fiona ingeniously called her Spot.

         Selric brought his Stormweather stallion
on the overland journey.  It was a grand, intelligent, swift runner which would
only let Selric mount him.  Typhoon was his name, and he was black as the Pit. 
Cinder rode in the wagon drawn by a draft horse and Candy, who, while under
Melissa’s care, had grown strong and seemingly young again.  Selric, Fiona, and
Dirk took turns driving the wagon, which carried their friend and their
supplies for the journey.   On a bright, warm afternoon they rode out the south
gate and across the land as summer drew to a close. 

         The Fiend went on; the coming of autumn
did not cool Its hunger.  It had just finished devouring another sweet urchin: 
the Fiend caught her and ripped her apart, leaving only tiny bits and a pool of
blood which the vermin and dogs would consume by morning.  The Fiend did not
make it a habit of killing the young; their fear was common and weak.  They
never knew the hopelessness that they faced.  But older humans did, and the
Fiend grew from their fear; It killed the young not only to satisfy Its lust
for taking life, but for the fear, despair and anger that such a deed spread by
word throughout the city.

         As It passed through a dark alley, the
Fiend spied a radiant figure, flitting from window to window of an old
abandoned house.  The Fiend hoped that an elven female was within range, though
oddly It smelled nothing of flesh.  There was, however, the slight tingle of
magic in the air.  It slid closer in the shadows, sniffing the air for her
smell, but still detected nothing.  The Fiend sprang through the window, ready
to snatch her, but found it no female; no living creature at all!  It had never
seen anything like the figure standing before Its eyes; some sort of specter,
an apparition.  The wraith, once a human, now had the appearance of a slim,
silvery man dressed in heavy clothing common a century earlier.  He
acknowledged the Fiend, and they studied each other for several minutes, the Fiend
still sniffing hopelessly for a scent long ago dead.  The ghost beckoned It to
follow down into the cellars.  Fearing naught, the Fiend followed, curious
about what this creature was that felt no fear from It.

         The ghost passed through a basement which
appeared very normal, and from there through an old door leading to a dark
stair.  This way led down to an old and unused sub-cellar that was more than
dusty, having been literally overtaken by the fine powder.  While the spirit
passed through without disturbing anything, the Fiend’s heavy feet stirred a
great cloud and It coughed and sneezed the particles from It’s sensitive nose. 
The apparition sat in an ancient chair which clearly would not have held any
living weight, then began to speak, though his mouth did not move.  “I’ve felt
you.  You have given me the strength to form that I have not had in a very long
time,” he said.  The Fiend grunted and moved closer.  “We’re allies, of sorts. 
I know what you’re trying to do.  I tried the same thing, but was betrayed, and
I shall stay in this world until I have my revenge.”  The Fiend stood then,
wondering what it was that the odorless, bodiless, creature wanted from It.  It
certainly had nothing to offer the Fiend, not in the way of fear or blood.

         “I want you to succeed,” the spirit
continued.  “If you do, then I will be able to fulfill my needs, and be set
free.  I need to end this wicked line of kings, but he is too heavily guarded
with magical wards which prevent my approach into his home.  Your success will
chase him out, and then...then I will have him.  I will help you, if you let me
feed off of the life souls of those you kill.”  The Fiend looked confused.  “I
will come with you to your lair, where I can protect it, and where I can steal
the souls of the dying.  I hunger for souls the way you hunger for death and I
cannot linger much longer without some.  I will be doomed to roam the
netherworld with no place for my soul if I cannot complete my life’s task
before my aura fades.”

         “I don’t need you,” the Fiend growled,
It’s voice like death itself.

         “You will.  All I ask in exchange for
watching your home while you’re away, is souls.  You can’t use them.”

         The Fiend seemed to relax momentarily,
then without warning It leapt at the apparition.  The Fiend slashed at the
ghost and clawed and reached, but he simply passed through strike after strike,
blasting the ancient chair to splinters.  The Fiend raged, screaming Its growl
as It came on again and again.  The ghostly man laid a hand upon the Fiend, but
his chilling touch, enough to draw the life from a living being, had no effect
upon the massive murderer.  The Fiend, exhausted after his relentless attack,
crouched on the floor, dust filling the chamber with a choking thickness, every
bit of rotten furniture in the room shattered into useless, unidentifiable
shards. 

         The Fiend slowly nodded Its consent, as
long as the creature did not try to share in Its killing:  there was no reason
It should not have an ally to help trim the herd of humanity.  The ghost rose
and passed through the wall, and the Fiend leapt at the sight.  Soon he came
back, bearing a dusty old scabbard and sword.  He held it out and the Fiend
took it.

         “An ancient and enchanted blade.  It will
help you.  Succeed and set me free.  Kill him.”  The Fiend looked at the ghost
with suspicion and quickly drew the sword, raising it over his head, ready to
strike.  “No!” the ghost cried, “If you strike me with an enchanted weapon, you
will destroy even this form, and I will be doomed forever, or until granted
peace by Aurauch.  Please, we are so close, you and I.  Our path lies
together...can be completed together.”  The Fiend stopped, content, only
wanting to test the creature’s loyalty, and fear.  He did fear It, now, and
that was enough for the Fiend.  Their relationship, the first in the Fiend’s
life since Its master, could now advance.

         The warmth of the sun was tempered by the
cool wind blowing in off the Great Sea as the group approached the gate.  They
had not seen those familiar walls in over month.  Cinder looked over to the
rocks; the rocks where she and Melissa had sat, waiting for Fiona to return
from her swim.  Dirk sat beside her, driving the booty-laden wagon, Thegoric
trotting along behind, trailing on a long tether.  They were returning, most of
them wiser and all of them wealthier by far.  They could now face, especially
Dirk, the long, boring winter days ahead with some contentment.

         “All right, Dirk,” Selric called back
from his horse a short distance ahead, “when the gate closes, you can let her
go.  But wait til it closes, we don’t want to lose her again.  Who knows how
far she’d get this time.”  They all laughed, except for Cinder, who wrinkled
her nose at him in her characteristically bratty fashion.

         “Maybe if I’d been protected, nothing
would have happened,” she said.

         “You’re right,” Fiona said.  “But you
make too good of bait.  “Cinder and the Rat-Men.”  What a story that is.  I bet
you would have liked it better if the ogres would have gotten you.  They’re so
big and strong,” she mocked, imitating Cinder’s voice.

         “And ugly,” Cinder added.

         “You’re stupid, Fiona,” Dirk said, taking
an apple from one of the three full bags behind the seat that they had gathered
from an orchard a day’s ride back.  He took a bite, nearly half the apple, and
let the rest fly at Spot, striking the horse in the flank and causing it to
buck and kick.  “Just like “Fiona and the wild horse,”” Dirk yelled as Fiona
struggled to bring her mount under control.

         After they rode under the gate, Selric
stopped.  “I’d say...tomorrow night,” as he thought, “at
The Unicorn’s Run
. 
No, let’s make it the
Harvest Hearth
, for dinner:  my treat.  Right?” 
All agreed and Melissa and Fiona rode north with the youngest Stormweather. 
Dirk went with Cinder to Bessemer’s where he locked the wagon, loaded with
booty, in the warehouse and then walked her home.

         He unlocked her door and stepped over
what must have been hundreds of notes that had been slid under the door.  Then
he checked to see if all was safe and unchanged.  That is when he noticed the
empty bird cage.  “Where’s that bird?” he asked.

         “Amber’s,” Cinder said as she gathered
all the paper, with Dirk’s help.  He then kissed her goodbye on the top of the
head.

         “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

         “Yes,” she chuckled, sorting the
letters.  But then Cinder glanced up from her knees with that look in her eye
that let Dirk know what was next.  Though eager to check the store, the thought
of being in Cinder’s bed was extremely inviting; not on the ground or in the
wagon, or even in an inn room, but back in
her
bed where he had first
learned how marvelous she was for, and to, him.

         Selric waved farewell as he turned off
eastward.  Fiona and Melissa continued north and home.  He leapt off his
stallion before it had come to a stop in the compound, and strode in, throwing
open the doors to the hearth room.  “I’m home!” he called as the doors hit the
walls with a “boom” resounding through the empty hall.  He had never imagined
no one being present for his grand return.  Soon, however, Violet, his mother,
came into the room through the door on the opposite side of the hall. 

         Selric could see the sparkle in her deep
blue eyes from across the way.  She moved quickly, but no footfalls could be
heard and her long dress hid her feet from view; she seemed to glide across the
room, as if floating.  He took her hand and helped her into her chair at the
table, kissed it several times, touching it softly to his cheek.  Violet pulled
Selric close and hugged him to her breast; her heart beating quickly, but still
softly and he relaxed against her warmth.  His mother, despite how beautiful he
thought her, was the only woman he could hold and not long for sexual pleasure
with:  his love for her was pure and true.

         His brother, Mendric, came in from his
room.  “Well if it isn’t Selric the Adventurer?” he quipped, a faint tone of
jealousy in his voice.  Selric nuzzled deeper into his mother’s bosom, smiling
at Mendric.

         “That’s right,” Selric said smartly.  “I
have the most beautiful mother in this world,
and
I adventure.” 
Mendric’s mouth curled at the corner.

         “Now Mendric, you know you’re too
important to go off on dangerous games.”  Violet said then she realized her
words and looked down at the only child to grace her womb.  “I mean...” she
stuttered, “...to your father...being the heir.”

         “I know, mother,” Selric said, smiling as
he rose, still holding and stroking her delicate hand.

         “She’s my mother, too,” Mendric said,
almost childlike.

         “Sort of,” Selric replied, not
understanding his own cruelty.

         “Boys!” Violet snapped, her tender voice
barely able to top their talking.  Selric picked up a cup from the table and
hurled it at his brother, who caught it and threw it immediately back.  Selric
caught it.  “Now stop it,” she said.  “Take the rough play outside.  Aren’t you
too old for this, anyway?”  Mendric stalked Selric around the massive table,
smiling wickedly.

         “You might have those things, but I have
Angelique,” Mendric said with a grin.

         “No you don’t,” Selric snapped. 
“Mother!” he cried, looking at her.  “Is he lying?”

         “He’s just kidding you dear,” she said. 
As Selric relaxed at the news, his momentary relief gave Mendric a chance, and
he rushed at Selric.  Selric nimbly leapt onto the table, eluding his large
brother’s grasp.  But Mendric, the great warrior he was, anticipated Selric’s
next move, and as his brother came down onto the floor on the opposite side of
the table, Mendric dove underneath, between two great chairs, and grabbed
Selric’s legs, dragging him to the floor.

         The brothers had only been showing their
affections in their rough and tumble way, but with each word and grapple, the
smiles faded and their anger, stemming from natural sibling jealousy in the
other, grew.  Mendric repeatedly punched Selric’s stomach, ever more roughly. 
Selric became annoyed, and he kicked Mendric right up and over his body, and
onto his back.  Selric rolled and applied an ineffective hold on his brother,
causing Mendric to scream at the pain and he stood, dragging Selric with him as
he jumped and twisted, trying to break the painful grip.  Violet pleaded with
them to stop, unable to do anything else but plead.

         As Selric tried again for a better hold,
Mendric flipped him across the room and he landed at the foot of a vase stand. 
The expensive pottery teetered then fell.  Selric caught the vase just before
it the floor, but to no avail.  Mendric dove onto him and the pottery flew from
his hand, smashing into a hundred shards.  Violet squealed as if stabbed, then
rose and fled from the room screaming.  “Andric!  Father!  Andric!  The boys
are killing each other.  Help!  Help!”

         Selric pulled his head forward and
removed the meat from his blackened eye, placing the steak on the table,
calling for another round.  Mendric rubbed the bump on the side of his head; a
bump caused by Selric’s boot.

         “So tell me brother:  how was your
‘adventure’?

         Selric laughed for quite a while before
he shook his head several times, looked his brother in the eye and said,
“Interesting.”

         “Oh?  Do tell.”

         “Well,” Selric said, as if he—for
once—was tongue-tied.  “You know, I have some close friends,” he preempted,
nodding slowly, his eyes serious and loaded with affection.

         “So lots of action?” Mendric asked
eagerly, wanting to hear of the martial conflicts and the glory and the
treasure.