By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (42 page)

         After several minutes of chanting and
praying, Fiona announced that her ceremony was complete.  “We’ll leave her here
overnight.  The potion and my healing prayers will mend her just fine.  Marlo,
go over and replace me at the house.  Aldren, Relarius, and Donagee, take turns
standing in here.  If she wakes, get me.”  Fiona paused when they all stood
dumbly by.  “She’ll be fine.  Go!”  She pushed all of them out but Donagee,
whom she left on first watch.

         Dirk, Selric, and Will, who had not been
allowed into the temple by Selric, went with Fiona to her room and she looked
instantly exhausted.  She and Will sat on her bed while the men sat at a new,
highly polished mahogany table with four chairs around set it.

         “Nice table,” Selric said.

         “Thanks.  Just got it,” she said, lying
back with a sigh

         “I see you didn’t go to Bessemer’s,” Dirk
said, rubbing the glassy finish, no longer worried, now that “Missy” was in
Fiona’s competent care.  And if Fiona was calm and secure over her dear friend,
as she was, then Dirk was no longer worried.

         “Are you all right?” Selric asked and
Fiona sighed again, rolling to her side so she could look at them.

         “I am all right.  Channeling my goddess’s
power leaves me drained,” she said softly.

         “Well, thank you,” Dirk said.

         “Yeah, thanks,” Will echoed.

         “Mel’s in there...well...it looks like
she got lanced by a knight on horseback.  What happened?” she asked.

         Selric told Fiona the story in his own
flowery way, with many blunt interruptions from Dirk and Will.  When they were
finished, Fiona said, “I’ve felt something, but it wasn’t strong enough that I
could claim it with any true certainty.”

         “All right,” Selric said quietly, “I will
tell you something, if you wish, that could get you beheaded or imprisoned by
repeating it within earshot of any of the King’s men, or even the Watch.” 
Fiona sat up slowly, so Dirk was up quickly and offered his hand to her.  She
took it and rose, moving to the table with the men, eager for Selric’s tale,
though she had to rest her face in her hands, her weariness so great. 

         “Go ahead,” she said.  Dirk nodded in
anticipation and Selric told them all what he and Mendric had learned of the
Fiend, including what Will had told them.

         “It seems to me,” Selric surmised, “that
we did indeed meet the Fiend, as Duncan called him, this very night.”

         “That was him, or It,” Will added
confidently.  “Remember, I saw It before.”

         “Yes you did,” Fiona said.  “And you were
very brave saving Selric like that.”  She kissed his head.

         “Hey!” he cried, wiping his forehead. 
“Don’t punish me.”  Fiona looked in puzzlement at Selric, who chuckled softly
for a moment before clearing his throat professionally.

         “Punishment?” she asked.

         “Inside joke,” Selric said sternly.

         “Ah,” she said in understanding.  “Well,
now what do we do?”

         “We find him and cut off his head,” Dirk
said angrily.

         “Yeah,” Will shouted with true
enthusiasm, slapping Dirk several times on the back, as he stood next to the
large man, his face at the same height as the sitting store owner.  “That’s
right, Dirk, kill him.  Pow!”

         “We realize that,” Selric said.  “But
how?”

         “Well, if Will saw him in the sewer,
maybe we should start there,” Fiona said.  The thought of meeting the Fiend
again filled the boy with fright.

         “Uh, no.  I can’t,” he stuttered, then
thought of an escape.  “Yeah, that’s right.  Selric said that I can’t go into
the sewers again.”  Fiona looked at Selric who nodded in agreement.

         “You could just show us from a sewer
hole, and not go in at all.  I’m sure you could do that much for us,” Fiona
said.

         “I guess so,” Will said, shrugging.

         Bright sunlight streamed in through the
high glass windows of the King’s council chamber, as the counselors sat around
the polished marble table, drinking from golden flagons.  At the end of the
table the largest chair was empty, as was the one to its immediate right.  The
counselors were:  Andrelia’s two highest-ranking generals, the Captain of the
Palace Guard, the Chief Constable of the city, a triumvirate of merchant guild
masters, the King’s High Priest, as well as the Head of the Secret Police, who
knew the back streets as well as any thief (he had been one).  These members,
plus the King and his personal advisor, brought the number to eleven.  The king
and Ponjess Thunderstaff, his mage and advisor, entered the room as all members
stood and raised their glasses in salute to His Royal Majesty, King Alhad
Buchevelt, twenty-third ruler of his line.

         King Alhad walked briskly to his chair
and sat down.  Sir Thurmond, Captain of the Guard, positioned to the King’s
left, pushed in his liege’s chair.  Then Ponjess sat, followed by the rest of
the council.  “Has all been done as I commanded?” the King asked, his young face
awaiting an answer of yes, and only yes.  He was young, at thirty-eight years,
and had been king just eleven of those years.  His father, a great warrior and
ruler, died of as the result of a wicked curse, incurable even by the most
prominent wizards and priests in the city, brought on during The War in a last
attempt by the Baltians to win as their armies were defeated on all fronts. 
Until the problem with the Fiend, King Alhad had no chance to be a poor king. 
Things had run smoothly for ten years.  But now his indecision brought dissent
to his advisory council.  His priest, the Chief Constable, and the guild
masters urged the King to tell the people, while those in the military and
Ponjess all recommended caution and suggested that the Watch could handle the
affair secretly.

         Actually, Ponjess had known about the
coincidental murders nearly a year earlier, but neglected to inform the King
until just three months before that current meeting.  He forced Faldir, the
Chief Constable, to remain silent on what Lord Thunderstaff called his
“hunches,” until the matter was for certain.  The slaying of Lady Vincent was
the final act that now forced the council to meet with action in mind.

         “Yes, Your Majesty,” Faldir answered,
rising.  “All has been done.  The gates will not open past dark for anyone to
enter.  And no one will leave at any time.  All this has been done as of this
very morning, to keep the city sealed.”  He sat down again.

         “Thurmond?” King Alhad asked and the
Captain rose.

         “Alistair Duncan is locked away.  We
believe that he had not the chance tell the Stormweathers anything.  Is that
correct, Rolandar?”  Thurmond sat and Rolandar, Chief of the Secret Police,
stood.

         “Correct, Thurmond.  We’ve seen or heard
no indications that they know anything regarding our problem.  They’re truly
puzzled,” he chuckled, sitting once more.

         “Jestul, my priest,” said the King, “did
you send condolences to the Vincents, conveying them our deepest sympathy?” 

         Jestul stood.  “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

         The king waited for him to sit.  “Yes,
Jestul?”

         “Your Majesty, forgive my
straightforwardness...but, but may we not tell the citizens, now that this
beast is sealed inside the city?”  He humbly sat, head bowed.

         Quickly, Anthony Bigelow, guild master of
the money lenders’ guild, rose.  “Your Majesty,” he said bowing. “I believe we
may have a demon from the Abyss in our beloved city.  The closed gates will not
keep him in.”  Bigelow sat as hurriedly as he had risen, fearful of the king’s
rage.

         “Ponjess?” the King asked wearily and
expectantly, who rose in turn.

         “No, Master Bigelow.  I do not believe
so.  This...
creature
...has done most of Its deeds in a corporeal,
physical
if you will, manner.  It is difficult to explain in layman’s terms, but suffice
it to say that a demon would have used more plane shifting, mind control,
direct impersonations, etc.  Our villain seems content with butchery in the
night.  It is a very carnal-minded creature.  No, it is a being of
this
world, undoubtedly.”  He sat.

         Bigelow stood again.  “A vampire, maybe. 
Werewolf perhaps.  Gronga?”

         “Perhaps, but those creatures
are
of this world, are they not?” said Ponjess.

         General Derek Silverspear rose and
saluted his liege.  “Your Majesty,” he said respectfully, then turned to the
others.  “And if it is of this world, then it can be slain by men,” he said
proudly, then sat.  Faldir was in charge of the police force, or constables and
the City Watch, and responsible for the safety of the citizenry, while the
generals only responded to massed, armed confrontations.  Thus, it was Faldir
who was under the most pressure to succeed, so when addressed next, he felt his
pulse quicken.

         “Can he be killed, or at least stopped,
now that he is trapped?” Alhad asked slowly, implying Faldir’s inability to
catch their “problem.”

         “I believe he can,” Faldir answered and
the King grew angry.

         “Yes, but
will
he!”

         “I will do what I can,” he answered
nervously.

         “No!” yelled the King, growing out of
control, as he often did.  “You will catch this thing, or you will hang in its
place.”  All grew quiet.  King Alhad cleared his throat and sighed.  “Now, you
have all winter.  That should be enough time, no?”  He waited, ready to explode
if the answer he demanded did not come.

         “Yes,” Faldir answered slowly.  There was
a collective sigh throughout the room.  The King rose and, followed by his
advisor, hurried out.  Jestul had never had his question answered, but knew not
to ask it again.  The people would stay, for now, ignorant of their imminent
peril.

         “Tea?” the king asked as the two passed
out of the room.

         “Yes, I’d like that Your Majesty,”
Ponjess replied.  Faldir slumped in his chair.  Those near him, patted his back
in support, but one by one, all walked out, leaving him alone to his fate.

         “Yep,” Will said, “that should be about
right.”  He pointed at the sewer cover.

         “What are we doing here?” Cinder asked,
hugging herself and stomping her feet against the cold, though she never really
felt chilled; with her Elven blood the elements seldom bothered her.  She was
more bored than anything else, imitating the human behavior she was so fond
of.  The other four heroes looked at each other; none of them had told Cinder
that they were all going into the city sewer system.  And no one had mentioned
the Fiend.  “Well?” she pressed.

         “Down there,” Selric said grabbing her
arm just as she tried to run away.

         “No.  Never.  It stinks. 
There’s...there’s...
things
down there.  Garbage and ikier stuff.  No. 
No way,” she said, sounding much like Will.  She continued to pull her arm, trying
to get loose from Selric’s grasp.  It was not fear she exhibited, but a
reluctance to begrime herself.

         “Come on Cinder,” Fiona said.  “You’ve
got the keenest senses of us all.  You might catch something that we humans
would miss.”

         “That’s right.  My senses
are
keen, because I stay out of sewers.  And with my senses I’ll get utterly sick
down there.  You are all completely crazy if you think I’m going.”

         “We can’t make her go,” Melissa said. 
“Come on.”  Melissa had risen from her sickbed three days earlier, her wound
healing well.  Though she had not been able to eat until yesterday and was not
yet at full strength, she greatly desired to go with her friends.  As a
reminder of her first encounter with the Fiend, Melissa bore a narrow, pink,
three-inch long scar on her abdomen and despite the magical healing, the wound
would trouble the huntress the rest of her days, but its effects find place in
later tales.

         “That’s right,” Cinder insisted, pouting
arrogantly.  “You
can’t
make me go.”

         “Please,” Selric said sweetly.  “I’ll
even hold your hand.  I promise you won’t fall in or get hurt.  I swear.  I’ll
even carry you on my back.”  Cinder softened.  She never had been able to tell
Selric “no.”  She shrugged and Fiona pulled out a pair of pants, a shirt, and
some low-heeled boots.  Dirk snickered, thinking of Cinder in such plain
clothing.  Cinder glared quickly at him, insulted at what she knew he was
thinking and likely to say.

         “Dirk,” Selric said sternly, then looked
to Cinder again, who was backing away.  “Come on, sweetheart,” he said.  She
reluctantly took the articles to the nearest shop and with a few flicks of her
long lashes, convinced the shop keeper to let her change in the back of his
store, constantly entertaining the thought of fleeing out the back door while
Selric waited for her out front.