Ironcrown Moon (16 page)

May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon

“Farewell,” said Dobnelu the sea-hag. But instead of disappearing, her fragile form staggered as if from a blow, and her aura flared violet and flame-red, betraying sudden fear. “I cannot go back! The way is closed to me. Why? Source, what has happened?”

Ansel opened his arms to her and embraced her, while gazing at the Source with stunned disbelief. His own corona had dimmed and reddened.

The thing manacled by ice stirred, and its utterance was full of sorrow.

I did not see it happening! I was distracted. Oh, my poor dear Dobnelu! Your entranced body has died

.

The violet of her aura deepened and she spoke in a tremulous wail. “While my subtle body remains alive… trapped here in this netherworld beneath the ice cap? Oh, heaven help me! I didn’t think such a thing was possible.”

“It isn’t,” Ansel said. His face was now a raging furnace. “Unless the death wasn’t natural.

Source! Have the Pain-Eaters done this?”

No.

Now I perceive the truth. Share my envisioning, souls

.

“Good God—and the miserable maggot laughs about it!” The High Shaman of Tarn held the old woman tighter, clenching his teeth to forestall a volley of curses at their bad luck. His fury burned, drowning the crone’s emanation of stark terror. “One of Blind Bozuk’s damnable charms allowed this to happen, Dobnelu. I saw the thing clearly, hanging about the stripling’s neck. Both Bozuk and the murderer will pay for this.”

“What will happen to me?” The hag moaned.

Don’t despair, dear soul. There is a remedy, although it will not be easy to employ. Ansel, you must go to the steading as quickly as possible in your physical body, of course. This is not an occasion for subtlety

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—

.

“I left my boat anchored in the lee of Cape Wolf. It won’t take long for me to get to the fjord.

But are Maude and the child in danger as well?”

Not from him

… Go now. Bring the body-husk back to me, and be very cautious during the crossing so that it is not lost

.

He nodded, released Dobnelu from his embrace, and vanished.

She stood there forlornly. What remained of her aura was so dull a purple as to be nearly brown.

“It seems colder. And I suddenly feel very tired. May I be seated, Source?

Your vital energies are dwindling. It’s to be expected but in order to protect you from true death, I must change you for a while. Don’t

—

be afraid. If all goes well, you’ll awake later in your own home, quite restored

.

“And if it goes badly, will I die?”

Don’t think of that. Only come and touch me.

She cringed. “You always forbade it before this.”

Now it’s necessary. Come. Hold out your hand, close your eyes, and let me take care of you.

The dead black tentacle with its glowing blue chains reached out to her. She lifted her bony old hand and squeezed her eyes tight shut.

With a faint ringing sound, a tiny emerald sphere no larger than a pea fell to the cavern floor.

The One Denied the Sky was alone again. He picked up the sphere with great care, turned about, and pressed it into the ice of the wall behind him. It sank in until it was deeply embedded, joining scores of other glimmering little objects, all of them shining hopefully green.

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon

There is a remedy. If it works, you’ll live. If it fails, you’ll also live, my poor human soul.

But what a life.

==========

The slow-witted youth named Vorgo Waterfall had sense enough to follow the sarcastic advice of the bitch-princess who had slain his father. He floundered back to shore, stripped himself naked, and lay on a flat rock in the midsummer sun, shuddering and blubbering, until the encroaching tide forced him to move further inland. After his blood warmed and his skin dried, he wrung out his woolen shirt and trews and put them back on. They weren’t too uncomfortable.

He still had his belt and his sheath-knife and the little charm sack hung round his neck on a string. But nothing else—not even boots.

His father’s body had boots. Maybe other things. It was awash now, rolling a little with the wavelets that had appeared along with a rising wind. The thought of touching a dead man made his flesh creep with superstitious fear, and for a long time he held back, watching the ravenous, noisy mob of birds that dived and pecked, dived and pecked.

Finally he ran at them through the shallows, throwing stones and yelling at the top of his lungs.

Some of the birds flew away, but others attacked him with such viciousness that he was afraid they’d get his eyes. So he gave up, sobbing, and ducked his head in the water to wash away the filth they’d splattered on him, and the blood.

What am I going to do now? he asked himself. The lugger had long since gone away, its escape from the shoaly bay assisted by the rising tide. The bitch-princess hadn’t even bothered rowing
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with the sweeps. She’d just hoisted the sail and jibed out through the reefs slicker’n eel slime!

Cursing monotonously, Vorgo Waterfall trudged along the shrinking beach. He knew he wasn’t clever. Dad’d told him that often enough, sometimes with a curse and a smack on the ear. “But you be a crafty one, Vorgo,” he’d also said. “You got a nose for the main thing, like a cur pup.

You can do lots worse than follow that nose o‘ yourn.”

Right now, his nose was leading him back the way the women and the boy had come, toward the sea-hag’s steading. The tide was half-high, and in many places the going was hard, even dangerous, until he rounded the point and came to the fjord beach. There all he had to do was slog on. He tried to come up with a plan.

Dad always had a plan. But now the bitch-princess who would have made them rich was gone.

Only the sea-hag was left.

She was a witch, a very powerful one. All of the fishermen of the northwest shore knew that it was death to enter her fjord. But why should that be? He thought hard about it as he tramped and waded along. Why didn’t she want visitors? Other magickers were glad to sell their potions and amulets and spell-dollies to orn’ry folk, but not old Dobnelu. Why?…

Maybe she had gold hidden in her house!

He touched the bag of charms hanging at his throat. What was it they were supposed to do?

Make him invisible once he entered the circle of magic stones? Fend off the sea-hag’s sorcery?

He couldn’t recall. But the charms had to be strong, because Dad had paid a lot for them, and they were good only on Midsummer Eve.

So he had to get on with it. Find that gold!

He climbed the cliff path, crossed the meadow, and stopped at the boundary of stones—ordinary-looking things with nothing special about them at all. He clutched the charms and held his breath as he stepped between them, but nothing happened.

Am I invisible now? he wondered. No way to tell. There was a tiny hut not far away, near the vegetable garden. He decided to start looking for the gold inside it. People often hid things under the floor of sheds.

When he pushed the door open he gave a yelp of fear and froze in his tracks. The sea-hag herself was in there, lying on a low cot! She didn’t move but he could hear her raspy breathing. He was amazed at how small she was and how frail. The sorceress who’d terrorized the entire coast of Tarn was just a little old bag of bones dressed in a ragged robe!

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon

Why, he could wring her neck like a chicken…

Vorgo bent over her and very carefully touched the hag’s sunken cheek. She slept on, so he screwed up his courage and did it, and she never squirmed or cried out or even opened her eyes, but only ceased to breathe. He let go of her and lurched away. Sweat ran from his hair into his eyes and he was shivering in spite of the day’s heat.

Dead! The awful sea-hag was dead, and her treasure was his for the taking. All he had to do was find it.

He searched inside the farmhouse for four hours.

But he found no gold, no money, no jewels, hardly anything of value at all save a dented silver cup and a string of agate beads and a finely wrought little dagger with a carnelian pommel.

Frustrated and furious, he kicked a wooden bucket across the kitchen. Now what?

He’d have to hunt more carefully, try the byre and the hen coop and the backhouse. But first he’d have something to eat from the well-stocked larder—

The outside door opened.

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Standing there was a robust man of medium stature, clad in a simple brown deerskin tunic and matching gartered trews. He wore crossed baldrics having many small bulging compartments, and on his breast was a massive pectoral of gold inset with Tarnian opals. His hair and beard were as red as fire-lilies and his deep-set black eyes glittered with unshed tears.

“Did you do it?” he asked.

Vorgo had heard of him: all Tarn had, although few had ever seen him face-to-face. This was Red Ansel Pikan, the High Shaman, leader of nearly all the other magickers in the sealords’

realm, the most famous wizard of the northland. Too shocked to speak, the youth stood stock-still with his mouth hanging open.

The shaman lifted a small baton of carved unicorn-ivory. There was a soundless flash. Vorgo gave a despairing wail and his legs folded under him. He knelt on the scrubbed wooden floor with his hands clasped in entreaty. “I didn’t kill her! I never did!”

He felt a frightful pang of agony in his right ear. He shrieked and writhed as something small fell from his head, bounced off his shoulder, and smashed into white shards on the floor.

Ansel’s black eyes had grown enormous and they held no pity. “Tell me your name. Explain what you’re doing here. If you lie to me again, your other ear will freeze solid and fall off. More lies will cost you your nose and your lips-”

“No!” Vorgo howled. “I’ll tell!” The sordid tale poured out, disorganized and half-coherent; but Ansel understood it well enough.

Dobnelu’s physical body had been casually slain by a half-wit, barely sixteen years of age for all his brawny build, corrupted by his venal father, hardly knowing right from wrong.

He sighed. “So the princess and the maidservant and the boy sailed away in your boat?”

“Yes, my lord.” Vorgo hung his head and bawled. Strings of snot leaked from his nose.

Ansel’s eyes lost their focus and he windsearched the sea south and east of Useless Bay. Found her almost at once, handily steering a fishing smack under a louring sky. What a woman!

Rusgann and Dyfrig were with her in the cockpit. The maid was honing a long kitchen knife with an oilstone. Maude wore an even larger blade on her belt. They had tied up their skirts to simulate trousers, donned tattered oilskin jackets, and wrapped their heads in grubby kerchiefs.

They’d reach Northkeep late tomorrow, with the wind light and fitful.

Here’s a pretty mess, Ansel thought. I must take Dobnelu’s body to the Source without delay.

The tricky crossover is bound to take hours, and only the Three Icebound Sisters know how long I’ll have to tarry in the cave once I do arrive. Meanwhile, Maude is giving me the slip as nicely as you please! I can’t becalm her with the weather brewing up as it is, and I certainly can’t capsize the boat with a windblast. So she’ll take refuge with her brother Liscanor at the castle.

And he’ll use his resident windvoice to inform High Sealord file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/May,%20Julian%20-%20[Bor...0-%20Boreal%20Moon%202%20

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon

Sernin of the news about Maude and her son—and a talented Sovereign sitting on Blenholme’s throne. The gaff will be well and truly blown—and how will Con-rig Wincantor survive to play his part in the New Conflict?

Shall I abandon Dobnelu and transport my subtle self to Maude? I could subdue her and the others and sail their boat back to the steading.

But she might arrive at Northkeep before I finish the drumming ritual and am able to transport myself

.

Shall I carry on trying to save my friend and let the Source sort out the others?

He’s not omnipotent. Once Maude lets Conrig’s cat out of the bag, it’s out to stay

.

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God of the Heights and Depths! Is there any other way I can salvage this situation?

Why not bespeak Liscanor’s windvoice, scare him silly, and command him to keep his mental gob shut

?

“Workable!” Ansel Pikan exclaimed out loud.

“M-my lord?” the wretched youth mumbled. He sat slumped on his heels. A thin trickle of blood from his amputated ear stained the shoulder of his shirt.

Ansel had nearly forgotten the murderer’s presence. Time to deal with him.

“Vorgo Waterfall, you have committed a grave sin by taking a human life and you must atone for it. You are young, however, and sadly lacking in brains. And as it happens, I can use you.”

“Me?” The dullard slowly lifted his head.

“You. I’m going to attempt to bring back the woman you slew. Restore her life. It may take a fairly long time. If she does return, I want her to find her house and her livestock just as she left them. So you will stay here and take care of them as if your own life depended upon it.

Because it does

. Do you understand me, Vorgo?”

“You’re not gonna kill me?” Dawning hope.

“Not if you work hard. Can you do that?”

“Oh, yes, my lord!”

“I can’t promise to let you go, even if the sea-hag lives. She’s a very old woman and needs help to survive in this place. You’d have to stay with her until her natural death occurred. Natural, Vorgo! It could take years. After she passed on, I’d come and take you back to your people in Northkeep Port. What do you say? It won’t be an easy life, and if you can’t bear the thought of it, I’ll just freeze you to death right now. You won’t feel a thing.”