Bloodmoon: The Cycle of the Second Founding: Book 1 Read online

  BLOODMOON

  THE CYCLE OF THE SECOND FOUNDING

  BOOK I

  BY

  GABRIEL M. COLE

  &

  MIRIAM L. COLE

  Copyright page:

  Copyright © 2007 Gabriel M. Cole

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-4196-8112-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1419681127

  Orion Press

  Special Thanks and Dedication:

  Very special thanks for this novel go to James F. Morris (the ChevetteMan) for being our Saturn V’s first stage.

  And to Joshua C. Shaull, whose pens, pencils, and paints have given the breath of life to our dreams.

  This book is dedicated to Those Who’ve Gone Before.

  PROLOGUE: THE WOLF OF DYREDIN

  CHAPTER I: THE GATHERING OF FORCES

  CHAPTER II: WHERE THERE ARE RAIDERS

  CHAPTER III: THE SWORD OF THE SOUTHLANDS

  CHAPTER IV: GRIM TIDINGS

  CHAPTER V: NIGHTMARE’S END

  CHAPTER VI: PLANS AND PREPARATIONS

  CHAPTER VII: THE CONFESSIONS OF LORD TREVOR

  CHAPTER VIII: THE BATTLE OF STORM PASS

  CHAPTER IX: FEKADU’S FALL

  CHAPTER X: A STARTLING DISCOVERY FOR MIRIAM

  CHAPTER XI: THE HORROR OF GHOL’GHERIM

  CHAPTER XII: BLOODMOONS’ DANCE

  CHAPTER XIII: KNIGHTAPULT

  CHAPTER XIV: FORTUNES OF WAR

  CHAPTER XV: AXE MOUNTAIN

  CHAPTER XVI: THE DAUGHTER OF IBERIAN

  CHAPTER XVII: THE HAMMER STAND

  CHAPTER XVIII: THE QUEEN OF KHATHIA

  Prologue: The Wolf of Dyredin

  Second Eraon of Men, Year 2201

  . . . and with a single blow of his great dark sword, Enceladus shattered the walls at the gate, and his Gobliks and Demons poured into the Caer and the world wept in anguish, for Khathia was no more. Enceladus the Woebringer had come at last.

  -From The Fall of Khathia

  The woman clutched at the deep wound beneath her left breast and knew that it would kill her. She could not even get enough breath to scream, though with all the thunder outside and the pouring rain it was doubtful that anyone would hear. She waved the fire poker back and forth slowly and tried to watch all of the black clad men at the same time. But there were five Assassins and there was only one of her to protect the children inside the room she was guarding.

  “I will not let you have my babies!” she rasped. She took a swing at one who edged too close but he laughed and stepped back out of the way.

  “We will take what we want, woman,” one of the others sneered derisively. The five Assassins advanced together, their swords held out threateningly. The woman gritted her teeth and raised the poker, ready to fight until her last breath to keep her twin children safe. Suddenly her mind became clear, for as she felt the certainty of death wrapping its black arms around her, she felt the fire of life that still burned in the hearts of her children. Her spirit reached out with a desperate strength toward the young lives that meant everything to her, and somehow she stood her ground, her eyes lit with a maternal flame. “Ret,” she gasped, her dark eyes never leaving the five slinking forms, “Protect them.”

  That was when the bedroom door behind her—the door to the room the children shared—opened suddenly.

  She did not realize that she was leaning on it for support so much until she felt herself falling. There was the sound of small silver bells, soft and sweet, like those that decorated carriage harnesses at Yule. She found herself on the floor in the doorway; saw a glimpse of a tall black boot and a black and white checkered pant leg. The bells kept singing to her though—a soft chiming lullaby—telling her she was safe now, that all was well. With the last of her strength she tried to sit, to see what was going on. There was a dull thud which she felt through the planks of the floor as a black-clad body crashed face up next to her, eyes wide and staring above a throat rent open. There was another dull thud—and another—then two more so close together that they sounded almost as one.

  The woman caught a glimpse of a long silver mane, and a flash of a bright claw, and then she laid back, eyelids sinking shut over the eyes of a woman with a warrior’s heart, and let the sound of the silver bells put her to sleep.

  The Jester looked at the bodies arrayed in front of the doorway with eyes of molten silver. He spied the one he was looking for and rushed to it, but she was gone. His brow furrowed in quiet anguish—though only briefly—as he too felt the force of the children’s souls call to him. Gently, he lifted her up, and bore her away from the bodies of her murderers. He laid her on her bed and said a quiet prayer for her.

  “Rest now, in the peace of the Heavenly Place.” he began, his raspy voice falling oddly against the walls of the quiet room.

  “You have proven that you carried the blood of your ancestors, and you have fought well to give your children life. This act has not only earned you great reward in The Father’s eyes, but has set into motion that which will be great hope for this world, as The Creator intended.”

  He turned and made his way to the children deliberately stepping on the corpse in the doorway. The boy was sitting up so the Jester sat next to him and said a few soothing words. Without hesitation the child lie down again and fell back into slumber. The girl, his twin sister, slept on without even a whimper. The Jester gathered clothes for the children out of the chest in the corner and folded them into a bundle. He tucked the bundle into his pouch and carefully lifted a sleeping child in each arm.

  He left the house with them and began to run toward Great Galadarn far to the northwest of Ranporkin and the scene of their mother’s murder. He moved in the peculiar way of the Jesters; the city of Ranporkin was behind them in a flash. Every so often one of the children would stir and he would sooth them gently back to sleep. The bells on his clothes sang their sweet lullaby to the toddlers; they slept on peacefully as the Jester ran. Stars wheeled overhead as the rest of the world drowsed; unaware that something long awaited had at last begun. The silver-haired Jester smiled to himself. He was known to many as the Wolf of Dyredin, the Protector of Children, and he would ensure that the two Blessed Ones in his arms would grow up safe and strong in The Great City.

  He was approaching Binda on the Fool’s Road when a voice he was compelled to heed suddenly spoke loudly in his head.

 

  The Jester came to a halt on the deserted road.

  His master, who had graciously—in his mind—referred to him as Brother stepped into the moonlight in front of him. Of the storm that was beating its fury upon Ranporkin, there was no sign; here the light of the three moons shone softly upon the world.

  “Why was I too late to save their mother?” the Jester quickly demanded, his face set with an angry frown as he adjusted the weight of the two children on his hips.

  “Be easy, Brother,” said his Master’s rich deep voice, the bells on his sextant hat singing as he shook his head sadly. “This is as it was written. She is with Ret.”

  “These children must be three years old,” the Jester returned angrily. “Old enough to know that their mother is missing.”

  “Indeed they are,” replied his Master, his voice solemn. “But this is what must be.” He turned his face upward, head cocked as if listening. The Jester could feel the power of his Master’s exchange and he shuddered in spite of himself. Then his Master turned back to him, his violet eyes glinting sharply in the dim light.

  “Take them back to Ranporkin,” he commanded.

  “But—,” the Jester was stunne
d. “Why?”

  “Because that is where they must be. It is as He wishes it and so it shall come to pass. Our Father is looking after them. They will grow to greatness and they shall do his will.” There was a moment of silence as the Jester raged without a sound against the words his Master spoke. Neither being noticed the growing silence as crickets and frogs hushed their voices in the presence of such power. The Jester had wanted to take them to Galadarn, where all Jesterkind could look after them and see them into adulthood with the nurture and the skills they would need to do their work in the world. To take them back to such a violent and corrupt city as Ranporkin seemed beyond comprehension. However, the Jester knew that his Master was only doing as Great Ret had bid him do. Not even a Jester could match the Will of the Godking.

  “Where am I to leave them?” the Jester asked, he raspy voice sharp. “Their only relative is dead.”

  “I know,” replied his Master, shifting the length of black oak in his right fist. The red panels on his costume seemed to glow as Iritar, the Bloodmoon, rose slowly toward its apex above them. “She is to be left with the Docker’s Guild.” His master paused and looked long at him with his unearthly violet eyes. “He is to be left with the Lily.”

  “NEVER!” snapped the Jester, his fury overcoming him. Unconsciously he clasped the boy-child closer to his side.

  “It is what Our Father wishes and wills. You will do as I ask.” The voice of his Master was unyielding.

  The Jester knew that he had no choice, and he snarled in helpless rage. “The Lily killed his mother!”

  “I know this as well,” replied his Master, patiently. “And I trust that the five who knew that he was to be a victim are visiting their Dark God now.”

  “They are,” replied the Jester sullenly. “But why must they go to separate Guilds? This makes no sense to me. They are all one another have in this world.”

  “There are things that each must learn, so that what was set forth by our Father may come to pass when the time is appropriate. Things that can only be learned in the Guilds I have instructed you to entrust them to.” His Master took a breath and looked kindly at the twins. “She must learn to lead and fight. He must learn to avenge and protect against that which he will become.”

  “I will do as you say. But I will not be returning to Galadarn for a time. I—I need some time to think.”

  “I understand. The plight of children has always weighed heavily upon your heart.”

  “I can’t help it, and wouldn’t if I could. I feel that I was put here to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

  “I know, Brother,” replied his Master. “Sleep child,” he said softly and reached out with a gloved hand to gently close the soft brown eyes of the curly dark-haired girl-child that had been staring at him in surprise and wonder.

  “Make haste,” his Master said withdrawing his hand from the now sleeping little one. “Place them where they are to be before dawn.”

  “It will be as you say,” the Jester said again, his Silver eyes yet hard, his face still coated in protest. He turned, and ran back toward Ranporkin as his Master watched, an unreadable expression in his unworldly violet eyes.

  **

  Far away, at Avindrin Manor in Ranporkin, the Magus watched the Jester slaughter his assassins in a pool of blood on the floor. With a cry of frustrated rage, he kicked the corpse of the girl who had provided his scrying pool and fled, already making plans for the day he would fulfill his Master’s wishes and kill the twin children he had so foolishly fathered, putting an end to any and all of the prophecies that had begun to surround them.

  Chapter I: The Gathering of Forces

  Second Eraon of Men, Year 2224

  There shall come a time of fear, when the once mightiest nation in the

  High Kingdom of the Men of the Westengaard will be a home to evil and a bane on those lands that had been her sisters.

  -From The Book of Loss

  It was a bright morning and the early summer birds had been merrily chirping away in the candlepiece since dawn. The warm sun of Jindevin penetrated even the thick canvas of the tent wherein the occupant reluctantly stirred. The sounds of a camp already well alive made her groan into her well-loved pillow and roll over. Miriam Bloodmoon opened her bleary brown eyes and looked toward the flap, gauging the lateness of the morning to be past her usual rousing time. She tossed back her blanket and rose from her bedroll, stretching the kinks out of her slender, muscular back. She ran her hands through the mop of curls adorning her head and sighed. She had long ago given up trying to tame them; the only brush she ever used was for her horse. With a broad yawn, she reached into a nearby saddlebag and drew out a clean halter and short-tights, tunic and leggings and dressed stiffly. There were definitely better places to camp than the southern Steppes of Pain.

  She turned toward her armor rack and managed to crack her head yet again on the lantern that Vail had hung so thoughtfully for her, in case she might need to see in the night. The young woman seemed not to realize that if one needed a lantern in the night it ought to be close to hand, not hanging suspended from the tent poles. Of course, Vail was also a good five inches shorter than she; indubitably the lanterns she hung were always far too low for most people to safely clear.

  “A swordswoman’s grace have I,” Miriam grumbled, rubbing her forehead and reaching for her armor. She donned her leather under jerkin and pulled her scaled mail on over it. She settled the weight of the steel about her shoulders, took up her sword in its worn leather scabbard, and unlaced her tent flap. The morning was as bright as she had expected as she made her way to the camp cook fire. She was greeted with good-natured calls and teasing; grinning, she made a point to return as good as she got.

  She yawned again and stepped to the side to avoid a group of new recruits coming off the night watch. Her camp had grown quite a bit in the recent year, and she paused a moment to watch one of her lieutenants putting some of the soldiers through drills with the sword and shield. The increase in Raider attacks had driven many from their homes; there was no shortage of young men willing and wanting to fight back. Miriam smiled and nodded to herself in a rare moment of self-congratulation. There was no shortage of able-bodied, willing young women either, and Miriam was all too happy to give anyone, male or female, who came to her a chance to fight.

  An eerie moan flowed through the camp, stirring suddenly from nowhere before rising to a peak and slowly fading off. The hairs on the nape of her neck tried to stand up and her smile quickly faded. She had been listening to the sound of wind through Sabregrass for years now; yet still she felt that gut-wrenching sensation she had experienced the first time she had heard it. The Steppes of Pain could not be more aptly—if unimaginatively—named. The same Sabregrass that moaned like the dead could slice a man or woman to ribbons if they were unfortunate or careless enough to walk or ride into a patch of it. In this part of the Steppes, there were only small patches dotted frequently over the landscape. Farther north, where settlements were fewer and further between, Sabregrass could and did easily cover whole leagues of ground.

  “Morning, Captain,” called a female voice, and Miriam shook herself slightly and smiled again as her friend Fekadu came walking toward her from between a row of tents.

  “Morning, Lieutenant,” Miriam replied lightly, “Why so formal today? You got a nit in your breeks?”

  Fekadu laughed and shook her head. Her thick brown braid glinted coppery in the morning light. She regarded Miriam, her large mahogany eyes dancing merrily. “A nit in my breeks? Really—you are just cranky because you had to get up.”

  “I am the Captain,” Miriam replied with a sniff. “I do not have to do anything.”

  Fekadu made a grunt of agreement, and shook her head at her friend’s impish smile. They were of an age—each of them twenty-seven summers—and Fekadu prided herself on looking damn good for her years; but Miriam looked not a day over nineteen. Fekadu still felt disconcerted from time to time when looking at h
er friend and the Captain of their Mercenary Company; Miriam was undeniably one of the most confident, capable women she had ever met but her strong, competent attitudes did not always seem to match her youthful face. There was no other way to describe her—Miriam was almost devastatingly beautiful. She was slender about the waist and richly curved, with a pale, oval face, rosebud lips, and wide, expressive brown eyes over a dusting of freckles across her button of a nose. It was a face that belonged on a porcelain doll, with a catastrophically deceptive look of fragility. But anyone with sense in his or her head could take one look into those deep chocolate-colored eyes and see the cool, sharp intellect that was the only outward betrayal of Miriam’s true age.

  “That is true enough I suppose; you are the Captain.” Fekadu retorted after a moment, her easy grin sliding onto her face. Before Miriam could reply, a gust of wind whipped the tents and another eerie moan flowed through the camp. “Damn Sabregrass,” snarled Fekadu and Miriam simultaneously. They looked at each other for a moment, and then burst into laughter. Their friendship had grown vastly in the nearly five years since Fekadu had joined Miriam’s Free Company, and they were so close in shape and manner that those who did not know them often thought that Fekadu was Miriam’s older sister.

  “What is so funny?”

  They turned and looked at the tall, tanned, dark-haired man walking toward them. He was a solidly built Ranporkiner, with long light-brown hair that was tied back in a fraying ponytail. Fekadu laughed again as he sauntered up to them.

  “Why, I am laughing at you, Ginemad,” she catcalled. “And you call yourself a soldier.”