By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (51 page)

         “Why are we drinking from
that
?”
Dirk asked.

         “I don’t know,” Selric said simply. 
After a long pause during which they all looked at the grape nectar, Selric
continued, “A tribute, I suppose.”

         “Here, here,” Fiona said, being the first
to grasp her drink and raise it.  “To a... well...a little goofy, but loving,
friend, whom we all miss.  We will all miss sadly.”  She waited for the others
to pick up their drinks.  Dirk was the last to do it, but they all toasted
Cinder’s memory.  Even Dirk was surprised at the quality of the drink.

         Each friend, now more at ease and
relaxed, revealed their fondest memories of Cinder in an attempt to reconcile
their souls with the half-breed’s absence.  Selric remembered the night he and
Cinder had spent months ago, making love and talking; but mostly talking.  That
was the night they had discussed whether or not they should marry.  Dirk sat
dumbfounded, not knowing they had ever been so close that they would have had
to discuss it. 

         Fiona recalled a similar evening, where
they talked, unknown to any of the others, about the differences between human
and elven philosophies.  Cinder knew how Fiona understood people like no other
being, and could help her understand the short-lived humans.  It was one of the
very few times Cinder accepted someone else’s observations and opinions, so
much was her trust in Fiona’s insights.           Dirk sat in thought of the
recent night where they stood in the snow, her face aglow.  Then, painfully, he
recalled the night she died; the night she warmly said “I love you.”  Melissa
remembered the day Cinder had braided, colored, and lengthened her hair, back
during the long, warm, days of summer, as they sat close upon the beach waiting
for Fiona:  the day Melissa first let herself become attached to the Faerie.

         They all shared their memories and
recollections, and though painful, each felt the need to cleanse their systems
of the hurt and go on.  Though it pained them, the tears felt good.  To hold it
in, as anyone who has ever lost someone dear knows, is the worst and truly most
painful thing.  Fiona was a great help in alleviating the worst of the pain,
those first few days of shock and denial.  But maybe even a greater aid was
their intense rage to see her death avenged.  They spent that night however,
talking, smiling, even laughing in their attempts to live on.  Selric was the
first to say good-night then Dirk hurried back to Tallow, where he spent his
personal funds to not double, but quadruple the guards on Bessemer’s.  Fiona and
Melissa sat awhile together then walked back to their house.                       

         Selric found Alanna asleep before the
fire and carried her up to her room.  She opened her eyes slightly and gave
Selric a sleepy grin.  He undressed her, tucked her in with a kiss on the lips
and lay down beside her for comfort, ending up sleeping there the entire night
comforting himself.

         Melissa walked down the dark alleyway,
her arm straining as she held her bow drawn.  Selric moved deftly ahead of her,
his sword raised, his head looking this way, then that, as they moved between
the tall warehouses.  She could hear, somewhere behind her, Dirk’s heavy boots
scuffling through the snow.  Fiona walked before Dirk, but more silently.

         Cinder had been laid to rest four days
ago; four days spent searching for the Fiend and little else.  Only eating and
occasional sleep broke the monotony of clue finding, sewer trudging, checking
with the Watch, and talking with various sources, usually of Selric’s
acquaintance.  With leads which went nowhere and valueless clues, the search
was not productive until they received an anonymous note, telling them where
the Fiend had been seen several nights in a row.  So they went there:  the end of
Bigelow street, near the northern portion of the east wall of the city.  Selric
had waited for Mendric, who had been out himself using his influence and the
note from the Head Constable to try and gather some leads.  But Mendric never
showed, so Selric left him a note informing him of where they had gone.

         Before the group could find anything on
Bigelow street, It found them.  They had not gone more than two blocks when a
shutter above and behind them was thrust open.  They were still two blocks from
the city wall ahead, and consequently, the dead-end of the street.  It was
after five bells and just as the sun dipped over the horizon, as if on cue, the
Fiend appeared.  In the window, revealed by the open shutter, a black form
materialized, pointing something down at them.  Just as Melissa whirled and
brought her bow to bear, they heard a light “clink” and a crossbow bolt hurtled
down, striking her in the shoulder, piercing her shirt of light chain links,
and sinking deep into her flesh.  Her arrow went off aimlessly and Melissa fell
into the snow with a cry of pain.  Dirk whisked her up and into a recessed
doorway.  Selric and Fiona dashed into an alcove across the street, a bolt
nearly striking Fiona in the head, but hitting the door sill instead as she ducked
for cover.

         “He’s removed our missile fire.  He
probably thinks he can pick us off,” Selric said loud enough for Dirk to hear
him across the street.  He peeked out but the window, half a block away, now
stood empty.  Dirk and Melissa were on the side with the Fiend, so Selric and
Fiona raced across to join them, diving quickly for cover.  Melissa was already
unconscious and sweating when Fiona pulled the shaft from her shoulder, dressed
the wound and said an incantation, gesturing and praying to her goddess.  The
blood flow stopped, but Melissa remained comatose.  Fiona looked closely at the
bolt; the tip was coated with a black, gummy resin Fiona recognized as the
poisonous sap of the Gondala tree, found in the tropical south.

         “She’s been poisoned.  He’s using
poisoned quarrels,” Fiona announced with some worry.

         “How bad?” Dirk asked.

         “Not fatal.  Its main effect is
unconsciousness for a day or two followed by sickness and weakness for anywhere
from one to three days,” Fiona said.

         “But effective enough to remove her with
one shot as a threat to him if that lone quarrel failed to kill her,” Selric
said, peering down the narrow street.  “We’ve got to find the door that leads
up to that window.”  Then from around the corner of the next street, they heard
the sounds of pounding hooves, a neighing horse, and clashing metal.

         Mendric had returned just before sunset
and found the note.  He was furious that Selric hadn’t waited, and he rushed
out to his horse after fetching his helm and shield, the items he wore only for
practice sessions or actual combat.  He was not familiar with the neighborhood through
which he rode and was hindered by the falling darkness, but it was not far from
the Stormweather estate to the east wall, and he rode on furiously.  He came
upon two men busy unloading a wagon by lamplight and raised his visor as he
pulled up.  “Where’s Bigelow Street?” he asked as his horse, Bullward, stomped
anxiously.  One of the men ceased his work, scratching his head.  “Hurry man!”
Mendric urged.

         “You missed it by two streets.  Go south
two blocks and you’ll cross it,” the worker said, pointing in that direction.

         “Thank you,” Mendric blurted then urged
Bullward on, who was only too eager to please as he bolted off.  Mendric had
gone only one city block when he spied a dark shape slinking up the street
toward him.  When this shape heard the hoof beats, It pulled out a crossbow and
quickly fired.

         The quarrel struck Mendric’s breastplate
and snapped, falling harmlessly away and Mendric drew his huge sword, spurring
his tremendous steed onward.  The Fiend reloaded and pointed again.  Mendric
leaned forward, his sword drawn back, ready to strike.  Firing, the Fiend hit
Bullward in the neck, but the beast barreled on as Mendric brought his sword
down mightily.  The Fiend blocked the strike with Its crossbow, saving It’s
life, but the weapon was shattered in the effort.

         The Fiend crouched to spring, as Bullward
reared, his hooves prepared and capable enough to crush the Fiend’s skull.  The
steed whinnied and fell to the side, succumbing to the Gondala sap.  Mendric
kicked free of the horse before becoming pinned, Bullward lying in the snow,
snorting and breathing heavily.  The Fiend drew Its scimitar and rushed the
knight, the most formidable single foe It had ever faced.  Steel rang as their
great blades clashed.  Though much larger, Mendric’s ancient family blade could
not shatter the enchanted weapon of the Fiend.  They grasped free arms in a
test of strength, as their other hands locked steel.  Mendric, though immense
for a human, was no match for the Fiend, and Its grip on his arm was crushing.  But
the Fiend knew It stood little chance in a toe-to-toe sword fight with a fully
armored warrior as skilled as the Stormweather, and It hurled the knight aside.

         As Mendric rose, The Fiend barreled full
strength into him like a charging bull, knocking him into a snowdrift.  Then,
It drew a poisoned bolt from It’s quiver and leapt upon him, viciously shoving
the quarrel into a gap in his armor, where the thigh piece met the groin
guard.  The shaft pierced the chain links filling the gap between solid steel
plates and sank into Mendric’s hip and he cried out.  Desperation brought on by
pain spurred Mendric and with a heavy gauntlet blow, he knocked the Fiend off
and quickly rose.  His sword was buried somewhere in the snow, so he drew his
dagger and limped after the Fiend, struggling to keep the poison from
overcoming him.  The Fiend charged and with a mighty strike of Its scimitar,
cracked Mendric’s great helm and increased Mendric’s dizziness, making his
world spin. 

         Sir Stormweather grabbed the Fiend in a
tight hug, using his height and the weight of his body and armor, making him
heavier than the Fiend, and he overbore It to the ground, repeatedly slamming
his knife into the black form.  The Fiend bellowed and felt pain as never
before.  With all Its massive strength, It pressed Mendric clear off It’s body
and used It’s legs to propel him across the street and into a wall.  Mendric
could only stand slowly; the poison now weakening him and making his legs
unsteady.

         The Fiend had not come to fight with the
group, only to lay Its plans:  and It certainly did not come to fight a man who
felt no fear.  The Fiend had felt fear in everyone It had ever attacked, even
the great wizard; all excepting this knight.  The Fiend checked Its abdomen: 
there were several deep, terrible wounds.  Then It heard the others coming.  It
picked up Its scimitar and rushed into the nearest alley and found the closest
sewer entrance, where It disappeared once again.

         Selric was the first to round the
corner.  His first sight was a large horse lying in the street, then his eye
was drawn to a knight he recognized by his armor and Stormweather crest.  His
brother kept standing, only to fall feebly again to the street.  Blood was on
his breastplate and ran profusely down his thigh, staining the snow all about
him a deathly crimson.  The knight teetered then fell once more, this time the
last.

         Selric never saw the Fiend slip away, but
Fiona did and she ran after him, but when he entered the underworld, she
stopped and returned to her friends.  Dirk had come up, carrying Melissa in his
arms, as he had the first time the Fiend wounded her.  “Get over here,” Selric
called urgently to Fiona.  She did as ordered and quickly ministered to
Mendric’s wounds.  Selric already had his brother’s helm, coif, and thigh guard
removed.  Fiona plied her magic, significantly healing his wounds, but then
became woozy herself; the repeated use of her powers slowly draining her life. 
“Great!  Not you too,” Selric sighed, steadying her.  “We can’t carry everybody
back.”

         “I’ll be fine,” Fiona lied wearily.

         “Where’s the Fiend?” Dirk asked, rocking
Melissa back and forth as if she were a fussy infant, his eyes darting this way
and that warily.

         “Disappeared into the sewers,” Fiona
sighed, lying against the youngest Stormweather.  “I could not, and did not
want to, go alone.”

         “What about Bullward?” Selric asked
Fiona.

         “What about what?” she asked.

         “Bullward.  Mendric’s horse,” Selric
said.  Fiona nodded, rolled to her knees and crawled to the steed.  The wound
was easy to patch physically, but the beast’s huge heart labored under the
comparatively small dose of poison.

         “I don’t know,” she called to Selric. 
“Mel would know better.  It’s the poison from the crossbow bolts.  He’s been
shot in the neck, but the wound is minor.”

         “Well,” Selric said, looking at Dirk. 
“I’ll get some men and a wagon from the estate.  You move them inside and try
to keep them warm.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”  He stood, took three deep,
slow breaths, and then bolted off, unbelievably fast, down the street,
disappearing around the corner and heading west, moving like the East wind.

         Dirk kicked in a door of one of the dozen
warehouses, and went inside.  He searched until he found a stove, which he
filled with crates he didn’t hesitate to smash to pieces.  Dirk lugged the
injured inside, while Fiona gathered her own strength and cleared away the snow
from around the steed and made her own fire out in the street nearby.  Not more
than twenty minutes had passed when Selric came careening around the corner in
a huge wagon.  A dozen armed horsemen rode behind him followed by a second,
smaller, wagon.  Fiona directed the men to Melissa and Mendric, and they loaded
them, heavily blanketed, into the small wagon.  Afterwards, when Dirk—at the
reins of the wagon now—had raced away, the men pulled supplies from the large
wagon and with the store of poles and cloth, constructed a tent over
Bullward.   While many would have thought that rather extravagant, a warhorse
was an expensive investment, aside from the fact that the horse was a favorite
of Mendric, lord-to-be of a great noble family.

         Two small fires were built within the
tent and soon three animal trainers from the Stormweather animal training
facility arrived to tend the horse, and several guards were posted outside as
well.  In the morning, when the Watch happened by and asked why the street was
almost entirely blocked, the head animal trainer, Bellock, showed them the note
given the family by the Head Constable.  Bellock told them that it was
important business, as explained in the writ, and that they should continue on
their rounds.  The Watch had no choice but to comply.

         Alanna had been reading several books of
lore in the hearth room, when Melinon, household servant, came rushing past
her.  “What is it?” Alanna had asked, seeing the urgency in his face.

         “Master Selric informs me that Sir
Mendric has been injured.”  Alanna’s heart began to race nervously then she
thought of Selric.

         “And Selric?”

         “He seems unhurt.  I do not know more.  I
am just supposed to prepare the household for Mendric’s return.”  He looked
worried.  “I must find Elgorn.  Please excuse me, Mistress.” 

         “Where is Selric?” she asked.

         “He went to the guardhouse,” Melinon
said, pausing in the doorway.  After answering, he bowed, then continued on
through the kitchen, to the quarters of the most valued and important servants,
all of whom lived in the manor itself.  Those of lesser status were the ones
who were given lodging in the building across the court.  Alanna donned her
cloak and rushed out into the snowy courtyard.  Selric was mustering a squad of
men near the stable. 

         “Selric!” she called, running up and
embracing him.  “What’s the matter?  Is Mendric all right?”

         “I’ve got to go, dear.  I have to get two
wagons from our warehouse on Simon Way and get back to Mendric.  He’s been
hurt, but he’ll be just fine.  I’ll be back soon and explain it all then.”  He
held her shoulders firmly while he spoke, and his strength comforted her
somewhat, then he kissed her forehead and leapt atop a horse and sped out
through the gate, followed closely by his loyal men.