By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (39 page)

         “Yep,” he said, “first winter off
in...oh...seven, no, eight years.  Roxanna is still up at her parents’.  I’ll
be basically locked in a small house for four to five months with the heavy
snowfall they experience up there.  And when you
can
get out the door,
there are only two hundred people to see in the entire village anyway.

         Brandon had met Roxanna as the army moved
through her village seven years ago, on his last campaign hunting down a band
of raiding northmen.  Brandon had gone there for at least a week, sometimes
two, once every year since meeting her, totally taken by the girl, and it
seemed to Selric and Mendric that he would wait forever for her hand.  Brandon
never really explained why he did not wed, but the brothers believed there to
be some village custom against marrying outsiders, and being a knight of
tremendous honor, Brandon had refused Roxanna’s request to secretly steal her
away.  He patiently played the family’s games and would soon—though ‘soon’ had
come and gone a long time ago—marry his love.

         Brandon could have avoided the long wait
if he had gone earlier to live in the village for one year.  But his oath and
loyalty belonged to the Stormweathers and though relieved of his obligations by
both Stormweather lords, he refused to shirk his duty.  Brandon was truly a
remarkable man who, other than the delay in his marriage, led a wonderful and
gifted life.  No ill ever seemed to befall him.  The sun always shone on his
life and Mendric admired him above all others, except his father.

         “Well,” Brandon sighed, “maybe this time
will do it, and I’ll come home with a bride,” he said hopefully, his handsome
face bright with optimism as he nervously swilled a great gulp.

         “You could always sneak into her
bedchamber,” Selric mused.  Both cavalier gents looked scornfully at him.

         “Impossible,” Brandon said.

         “Your honor?” Mendric asked.

         “No.  She sleeps in her parents’ room,”
Brandon said laughing.  It had broke many girls’ hearts when the news spread
that he would not marry an Andrelian because a girl from the north had captured
his heart.  “Yes,” he continued, “I’m sure you two will handle everything just
fine without me.  Mendric will handle the work, and Selric, you will handle the
fun, I’m sure.”

         “Sounds good,” Selric said.

         “Sounds
right
,” Mendric said, “but
not good.”  All three laughed.

         “I’ve gone over everything with Reznor. 
He’ll handle the Academy.  Sellore, of course, will handle his
House
. 
Mendric, that leaves you with the Inn and
The Unicorn’s Run
, as well as
rotating the guard shifts at the warehouses.  But you could just leave
The
Run
to Selric, since he’s always there anyway.”  Brandon cast Selric a sly
stare then looked back to Mendric.  “You should be able to handle whatever
servants don’t go with your parents.  You can do it.  Most things run
themselves.  This is the longest I’ve ever gone for:  I am staying
until...well, just until.  Remember, keep the help in line and the discipline
up.  Keep Selric out of the servant girls’ quarters, and keep the tacksmen on
top of the horses.  Make sure that they get exercised in the yard, at least.  I
don’t care if there’s snow over your head.  Have it swept away.  The animals
need constant work to stay strong.”

         “It’ll be easy,” Mendric agreed.

         “Speaking of
The Unicorn’s Run
,”
Brandon said, “I was in there the other day and tried to make conversation with
this pretty young, blonde, but insolent, girl.  Well, I told her who I was and
that she was about to be fired if the tone in her voice didn’t change, and do
you know what she told me?”  The boys shrugged.  “I’m Selric’s, leave me
alone.”  Selric and Brandon laughed heartily, but Mendric scoffed.

         “You’d better straighten her out,
Selric,” Mendric said.

         “Forget you,” Selric snapped.  “I like
her the way she is, so leave off.”  Mendric reached across the table and tried
to slap Selric in the head, but missed.

         “Settle down, Mendric,” Brandon said. 
“If Selric truly likes her, you’ll only cause dissension between you.”

         “Well, maybe it would be worth it, if it
would keep him out of wedlock.”

         “No way,” Selric said.  “If that’s what I
want, you can’t change it.  Give her a chance.  You don’t even know her.”

         “I know her type, and I
have
given
her a chance.  You bring her around and she bugs me and things from my person
or room go missing, and I find them in some place I never took them, and there
she is with a sly smile on her face.”

         “She’s just playing with you,” Selric
said.  “Relax.”

         “I’ll try,” he agreed unhappily.  Brandon
smacked them both on the back.

         “Good!” he bellowed.  “Have it all fixed
up when I come back or I’ll knock your heads together.”  The Stormweathers
nodded and smiled. 

         The men drank into the early hours and
just after dawn, in the hearth room, Brandon bid the entire family good-bye,
with a special look and long handshake for Grandfather Stormweather.  With
that, he rode off on his courser, his great destrier acting as spare mount in
tow, his weapons and gold-engraved armor clanking and gleaming in the early
morning light. The sun was warm and there was hardly a breeze, very much in contrast
to the past frigid week and the boys stood in the sun several moments after
Brandon had turned out and gate, and out of view.

         As winter neared, and the nights grew
colder, prey for the Fiend steadily decreased as nighttime traffic was
curtailed by the snow and the cold.  It had gone two nights without finding
suitable prey:  It had killed several vagrants and two drunken mercenaries, but
no females.  The Fiend moved now through the noble districts, searching for any
desirable females It could find.  Its lust had grown to a nearly uncontrollable
state, and just before midnight, the Fiend spied a noble carriage wheeling down
the street.  Its keen vision peered into the dark interior and spotted an
attractive young woman.

         The Fiend almost let the coach pass,
knowing how dangerous killing a noble would be to Its ever fading mission.  But
when It smelled her as the coach drove by Its place in the shadows, lust
overtook the Fiend and It bound after the vehicle as it rounded a corner.  It
leapt aboard and pulled the coachman’s head back, driving a knife into his
chest.  The horse trotted a while longer, but without lead soon came to a stop,
waiting for a command.  The Fiend jumped down and approached the door. 
Da’reese Vincent, young wife of Lord Stignon Vincent, leaned to the window to
urge the driver on, but when she saw the large approaching shadow, she sat
back, pressing herself into the corner of the coach.

         Opening the door, the Fiend jumped in and
Da’reese tore off her jewels.  “Here, take them,” she said, terrified.  She did
not know why she feared for her life:  she could not recall hearing of any
noble woman being attacked in many years.  But afraid she was, as the shape
neared, paying no obvious heed to her jeweled offering.  She hurled the riches
at It, and then tried to flee out the opposite door.  Da’reese was so overcome
with terror, that when she tried to scream, no sound came from her throat.  It
seized the woman by the waist and hurled her back into the corner.  The
carriage rocked violently as It leapt onto her, viciously soothing Its lust. 
Da’reese struggled and wiggled, but was trapped by her heavy gown and the
Fiend’s iron grip. 

         Da’reese’s assailant continued for
fifteen Andrelian minutes, the cold air in the coach was alive with the steam
from Its hot breath as if the carriage were filled with fog.  Despite the
chill, her limbs soon began to grow warm, then numb altogether.  The force of
the Fiend, and the pain, kept Da’reese breathless and she could only manage
little whimpers of pain before she finally lost consciousness.

         It was after three bells when the watch
discovered the murder; Sergeant Hansel Selig was in charge.  As the patrol
rounded the corner they saw the carriage, the horse snorting steam in the cold
air.  Sgt. Selig broke into a run.  As he approached he noted the driver
leaning back, blood down the front of his jacket.  Hansel directed one of his
men to check the driver, and the rest to scour the area for a suspect, unsure
just how long ago the crime had taken place.  Hansel, himself, went to the
carriage door.  “Hello?” he called, but peering in the window he saw only
darkness.  Hansel put his foot on the step as he pulled on the handle, and the
door opened itself slowly.  Sgt. Selig heard a gush of liquid and saw a small
wave of blood flow out the open carriage and over his boot.

         Horrified and trembling, he opened the
door fully and light filtered in, illuminating the gruesome scene:  Da’reese
Vincent, was still propped in the corner, dress over her head, bloody and
mutilated.  Hansel Selig stumbled backwards, barely able to hold the vomit from
erupting from his throat.  He fumbled for his whistle, dropping it twice before
he placed it between his dry, trembling lips.  He blew repeatedly and fell to
his knees, staining his pants in the young lady’s fluids.

         It was dawn before the black robed
priests led the horse and carriage away to the temple of Aug, God of the Dead. 
The Watch dispersed the crowd that they had not been able to keep away during
the affair, which was to them, unbelievable excitement.  But even with the
carriage gone, the people refused to leave, mumbling of the Gronga and about
their inept police force.  Constable Ishka Sandwerks, replacement for Alistair
Duncan, warden of that district, pronounced to his aide, who stood nearby
taking notes, “Yep, sure looks like assassination.”  The word “assassination”
rushed through the crowd.  “Well, let’s wrap it up and get back to the
barracks.”  The watchmen gathered their clues and did as ordered.  None had
been allowed to look into the carriage, and Sgt. Selig had been led away as
soon as Constable Sandwerks arrived.  Sandwerks had himself gone into the coach
for several minutes, allowing no one else near under threat of imprisonment,
claiming that he needed to examine the carriage personally.

         A heavily wrapped figure lurked in a
nearby alley, mumbling incoherently and drinking from a bottle he kept
concealed in his cloak.  He looked around nervously and fidgeted often,
shifting his weight from leg to leg.  Watchman Dan Bexton, one of the original
lawmen on the scene, went to the figure.  “All right, move along,” he called
loudly, under the eye of Constable Sandwerks, but as he approached, he spoke
softly, noting the apparent agitation in the man.  “Are you all right, sir?” 
The figure nodded quickly.  “It’s like you said, sir, a real mess.”  Dan had
looked into the carriage before the arrival of the constable, but denied it to
him, feigning ignorance.  The secret figure seemed to stagger at the news, then
turned and walked slowly away, mumbling about the need to stop something.  Dan
tried to steady him, but had to turn and hurry back to his post before
suspected.

         That morning the courtyard was not so
sunny, nor warm, and the farewells were held in the foyer.  “Well, we’d better
be off now,” Andric said.  “We don’t want to be caught in the first big winter
storm while still at sea.  We’ve waited too long already.  Now we’ve gone over
everything...”

         “A hundred times,” Mendric said.

         “Yes, and now it’s all yours.”

         “Yes sir, Selric and I will be fine.”

         “I still think you should convince Alhad
to let you use a few of his winged horses and fly down there in a day,” Selric
said with a grin.

         “Those are only for official messenger
business,” Andric said, smiling himself.  “Besides, the king doesn’t have
enough of those steeds to get your mother’s traveling trunks to Gelton.”

         “Oh, my babies,” Violet said, ignoring
her husband, her beautiful face stained with tears.  She took Selric and
Mendrick’s faces and kissed them several times each.  Selric wrapped his arms
about her waist and hugged her long, smelling her hair and feeling her soft
hands rubbing his back while she whispered in his ear:  “I love you.  You had
better take of yourself, my darling.  If anything were to happen to you, I
would truly die of grief.  Do not do anything dangerous while we are away!” 

         Selric fought back tears as his father
went over the last minute details with Mendric:  when they would send word,
when they planed on returning and when new recruits were due at the Academy. 
The men shook hands farewell.  Violet kissed Selric on the lips and patted his
cheek softly before going to Mendric and hugging him.

         “Do not forget to leave gifts for the
brownie.  You know how he loves cream.  I don’t want him angry and mischievous
when I return,” Violet reminded the boys, speaking of the house sprite Violet
was convinced lived in the home, helping with chores.  She had claimed to see
it and speak with it on occasion.  No one else was so certain, though a few of
the staff and Selric had sworn they had seen something small and man-like once
or twice, but never got a good look at it let alone held a conversation.

         “Good-bye, Selric,” his father said,
shaking his hand firmly.  “Help your brother and mind what he tells you.  He is
in charge.  And don’t get married while we’re gone; I don’t care who it is. 
The princess herself could propose to you, but forget it.  We’d like to be
here, regardless of how we feel about your decision, understand?  Good-bye.” He
clasped the back of Selric’s neck briefly then took Violet out to the carriage.

         Helmric came out from the hearth room,
Bennings, his manservant following close behind carrying the box of Helmric’s
most important papers, two fancy scrolls resting atop the box.  Grandfather
stuffed his cane under his arm as he pushed the boy’s faces down so that he
could kiss their foreheads.

         “Now, Mendric,” he said, “do what you
feel is right.  You’re a good lad and will make a fine lord Stormweather.  But
here is where you start your responsibilities.  Do well.”  He smacked Mendric’s
face lightly with his trembling hand and gave him the first rolled parchment. 
“Some last minute things I’d like done while I’m gone.”  He winked.

         “Now you, Selric.”  He handed him the
second scroll as well and whispered in his ear, “This is that sum you said was
required for your venture.”  Selric had often talked with his grandfather about
how, if given an account, he could set up a trade route he had devised that
would make the Stormweather’s both richer and more famous.  “Now, you do good
with this money and earn that Stormweather name.  Make me proud.  Make your
father proud.”  He slapped Selric’s face as well, and turned about to leave. 
“Well, come on, you old codger,” he said to Bennings, who was even more old and
bent than Helmric.  “Don’t make me miss the ship.”

         “Yes m’ord,” Bennings said and nodded
farewell to the boys with a slight but friendly and tired smile.  Selric and
Mendric followed them out and stood upon the broad top step.  Four heavily
armored knights, the Stormweather bodyguards hand picked and trained personally
by Sir Brandon, would accompany the adults south; two rode before the carriage
and two behind.  Their black full plate armor gleamed in the dawn as the sun
finally peeked over the stable.  A host of men-at-arms would also go to the
southern estate as escort, and they waved farewell, laughing and joking with
their compatriots in the barracks across the yard who were required to stay in
the snowy north for the winter.

         Just as the carriage pulled out, Helmric
stuck his head out the window.  “Selric,” he called, “that’s a good girl. 
You’d better be nice to her.”  He ducked back inside and the procession,
complete with a wagon-load of servants, some two-thirds of the staff, trailing
behind, pulled out and away; the supplies had been loaded onto the ship in the
previous days.  On his grandfather’s words, Selric gave Mendric an arrogant
look which silently stated, “How do you like that?” and Mendric turned his face
away. 

         The gates opened and the brothers danced
on the step like clucking hens, slapping their thighs and clapping their hands
in jubilation at their freedom.  Then Selric stopped and thought about the
words his grandfather had said, as he would do many times in the future.  He
would always remember the advice, as well as Helmric’s face peering
thoughtfully out of the coach.  As the last wagon left the courtyard, Mendric
turned to go back into the manor but was grabbed by his brother who stood
pointing toward the gate where a staggering cloaked figure rushed forward, but
could not get in before the gate was closed.  Both boys watched curiously.  The
figure dropped a bottle as he grabbed the bars with both hands, shaking them. 
A guard advanced to push him back when the man spoke.

         “Mendric, Mendric!” he called, motioning
him to come near.  But just then, several palace guards, not simply city
watchmen, rushed forward and grabbed the sad figure.  He struggled with them
and his hood fell back.  It was Alistair Duncan, disheveled and unkempt, barely
recognizable as a man and more like some pitiable abomination.  “Mendric.  It’s
me, Alistair.  I must talk to you.  Help me!”  Mendric ran down the stairs.

         An armored knight, one of the King’s
personal guards whose word was law, rode forward and struck Duncan with his rod
of office.  “Mendric!” Duncan called.  “The Fiend.  The Fiend!”  The knight
struck him down repeatedly, blood erupting from the former constable’s head. 
Mendric broke into a run; Selric could not hold his charging brother back as he
rushed to the aid of his old friend. 

         The guardsmen dragged the unconscious
Alistair Duncan into a nearby wagon and carted him quickly away.  The knight
rode to the gate, his face concealed by a full visor, waiting, and Selric knew
what for:  he waited for Mendric, in his anger, to slander the King so that he
could drag the nobleman off to the dungeon as well.  The Stormweather guards
were also aware of this and three of them ran to their leader and, with
Selric’s aid, they were able to carry the bullish Mendric back into the manor,
as the knight waited arrogantly in the street.  This only further enraged
Mendric who swore foul oaths of every kind upon the knight, but he refrained
from saying ill of the King, which would have meant his immediate, even if very
brief, imprisonment.  The resulting slander on the Stormweather name would have
been the most severe and lasting punishment for the offense.

         During the next several days, Mendric and
Selric both tried unsuccessfully to gain admittance to the dungeon to speak
with Duncan.  They called on favors owed them by other nobles and officials, as
well as having Cinder, even Amber, try their lofty admirers for help.  However,
no one who was willing to help could, and those powerful enough to assist, were
too afraid of the King.