Voyage of the Shadowmoon

When the passengers and crew of a small wooden schooner witness the power of an uncontrollable doomsday weapon, they realize they must act before it rains destruction across their entire world.

Sean McMullen is one of the leading Australian SF authors to emerge during the 1990s, having won more than a dozen national awards in his homeland. In addition, he has sold several dozen short stories to magazines such as Analog, Interzone, and Fantasy & Science Fiction, and was co-author of Strange Constellations, a History of Australian SF. He established himself in the American market with the publication of the Greatwinter trilogy (comprised of Souls in the Great Machine, The Miocene Arrow, and Eyes of the Calculor). His fiction has been translated into Polish, French, and Japanese. The settings for Sean's work range from the Roman Empire, through Medieval Europe, to cities of the distant future.

He has bachelor's and master's degrees from Melbourne University, and post-graduate diplomas in computer science, information science and business management. He is currently doing a PhD in Medieval Fantasy Literature at Melbourne University, where he is also the deputy instructor at the campus karate club, and a member of the fencing club. Before he began writing, Sean spent several years in student reviews and theatre, and was lead singer in three rock and folk bands. After singing in several early music groups and choirs, he spent two years in the Victorian State Opera before he began writing.

He lives in Melbourne with his wife Trish and daughter Catherine.

Voyage of the Shadowmoon
Chapter OneVOYAGE TO ZANTRIASThe walls of Larmentel had withstood the invading army of Emperor Warsovran for five months. Stone gargoyles poked tongues and bared buttocks at the besiegers beyond the outer walls, as its nobles sipped wine from glazed pottery goblets shaped in the likeness of the severed head of the invading emperor. Their confidence was justified. Larmentel had stood unconquered for the entire six hundred years since its foundation.The city lay at the center of the continent of Torea. It was both beautiful and massive, with a high, crenellated outer wall circling the cisterns, market gardens, and storehouses that supplied its citizens. The citadel wall protected the inner city, where temples, palaces, and mansions built of white stone blocks rose in terraces to look out over the surrounding plain to distant mountains in the northeast. Larmentel was rich as well as powerful, and had been built to be pleasing to behold as well as strong. The warehouses were mighty domed cathedrals to honor prosperity, all built of white stone. They were clustered in the center of the city, as if they were palaces in themselves.Einsel and Cypher watched the progress of the siege engines in the predawn light. They were standing just outside the range of a good crossbow in competent hands. Having lost a lot of men to direct assault, and several unwisely rude diplomats to direct negotiation, Warsovran's commanderwas resorting to machinery to take the walls. The three siege engines were towers of wooden beams, armored on three sides and crowned by a hinged bridge that would let the cream of Warsovran's storm climbers charge across and establish a bridgehead on the walls. The three towers were rolled forward together, approaching the wall like ponderous, powerful titans."When I see engines such as these, I sometimes doubt the power of our leaders' brains," admitted Einsel, who was Emperor Warsovran's court sorcerer."When I see engines such as these, I always doubt the power of our leaders' brains," Cypher replied.Both men were dressed in drab armor, with only the colored plumes fixed to the back of their helmets to distinguish them as nobility. After all, there was no sense in calling attention to oneself on a battlefield, where officers and nobles were prime targets for marksmen. Einsel's armor was illfitting, as he was somewhat shorter and thinner than most warriors. Indeed, he reminded many of a child dressed up in his father's war gear, but nobody said it aloud. This was actually his first time on a battlefield, which was a sign of how desperate the situation had become. On the other hand, Cypher was as concerned about his identity as his safety. Beneath his helmet his face was veiled with maroon cloth, leaving only his eyes visible.The towers were almost close enough to drop their bridges onto Larmentel's walls when the thing appeared, a delicate-looking structure of beams and ropes, rather like the head and neck of a gigantic wading bird. It hoisted a huge beam of wood with stylized eagle talons on one end, and lowered it between the middle tower and the wall. Moments later two similar cranes stopped the two other towers in exactly the same way."The problem would seem to be that the honorable profession of applied engineering was invented in Larmentel's university," Cypher said."Ah, the University of Larmentel, I did my degree in etheric shaping there," sighed Einsel, whose mind had drifted away from the battle. "A truly lovely place."Larmentel contained one of the five universities in Torea, but rather than being all dingy halls and overgrown, rambling colleges, the University of Larmentel was a cluster of slender, graceful towers joined at several levels by suspension walkways."I can see its towers from here," said Cypher. "Who would think that they are more deadly than all the spears of an army?""Did you know that the towers were meant to symbolically put learningabove everyday life?" asked Einsel. "Some of the finest scholars in Torea's history were taught within them. The university shares the citadel with the royal palace--it's that great pile of domes, balconies, and towering archways. Part of the palace is set aside for citizens of Larmentel to visit, so anyone can walk the balconies of royal splendor and fancy themselves to be kings and queens for a few moments as they look out over the city to the plains beyond.""Beautiful towers, but deadly," said Cypher."True. Even though they hide no weapons, and they are not even fortified.""Indeed. The engineers trained therein are better than ours."As if to confirm his words, an immense dragon's head on a long green neck appeared, dangling from another spindly crane. The mouth trailed smoke as it was swung over the wall, to reach out past the middle tower. The head swiveled, and a stream of smoky fire poured out of the dragon's mouth and into the open and undefended back of the tower. The two hundred storm climbers and archers within were set ablaze within seconds by the cascade of lamp oil, pitch, and sulfur. The tower was blazing and beyond recovery as the dragon head turned toward the next tower. The engineers controlling it need not have bothered, for those inside were already flinging their weapons away and leaping for their lives.A torrent of flame poured into the back of the next tower, while those who had been pushing the third tower forward were now straining to pull it back away from the wall. Grapples had already been flung out over the wall, however, and the tower was immobilized. The dragon head slowly moved back toward the tower, which by now had been completely abandoned. Moments later it had become a pyre of bright flames, like its two companions."Only those storm climbers and archers who began fleeing when the first tower was burned have survived," Einsel pointed out."Cowards," sneered Cypher. "War is for heroes.""War is the way that gods breed cowards," said Einsel."How so?""Cowards are less likely to die, so they survive to breed.""They go home conquered.""The cowards of both sides go home alive, which is what I hope to do. There they breed. Only the victorious heroes do that."As they stood watching the rout of their own forces, a despatch rider came up at a canter and reined in."Most Learned Rax Einsel, your presence is required by Commander Ralzak," he called. "And sir, are you the one known as Cypher?""That is my name.""Commander Ralzak requires your presence as well."The young officer continued on as Einsel and Cypher returned to their horses."Ralzak must be growing desperate," said Einsel. "He despises his sorcerers even more than his engineers." 
 
Agarif Ralzak was Warsovran's commander-in-chief. He had watched his siege engines and storm climbers thrown back from Larmentel's beautiful but solid outer walls in every attack so far, and those defeats had cost him dearly. The kingdoms of the southwest had been biding their time to see whether Larmentel would fall to the invaders' onslaught, but now they were beginning to lose their fear of Warsovran's forces, and to rally. Sitting on the thick Vidarian rug in his tent, Ralzak read the reports of his diplomats and spies while Silverdeath stood beside the open flap, gleaming with the sheen of quicksilver and somehow seeing through blank, reflective eyes. The walls, terraces, domes, towers, and spires of Larmentel were plainly visible in the distance, blushing red with the sunrise.Ralzak looked from the city to Silverdeath. Silverdeath had the shape of a man, and was wearing Warsovran's band-plate armor and battle-ax over a black tunic. In the five months since he had become Silverdeath's master and assumed command over Warsovran's forces, Ralzak had been afraid to use his strange new warrior. For three years Warsovran had devoted fifty thousand slaves and ten thousand men-at-arms to digging it out from under a rockslide in the Seawall Mountains. Thus whatever it was, it had value and probably immense power, but Ralzak was just as unhappy fighting alongside the unfamiliar as against it.When discovered, Silverdeath had had the form of a strange metal tunic of circles, hooks, and mirror facets, but when Ralzak had helped Warsovran to put it on, the fabric had melted and flowed to become a skin of flexible metal that covered the emperor completely. What remained of the emperor was his shape alone. A hollow, ringing voice had declared that its name was Silverdeath, and that it was ready to do Ralzak's bidding.Ralzak was totally unprepared for this magical warrior. He hurriedlyannounced that Warsovran was wearing a new type of armor, and everyone but Ralzak thought Warsovran to be alive and still in charge within his fantastic skin of living metal. His famed judgment and acumen were gone, however, and the alliances that had been formed by the brilliant and charismatic emperor were rapidly weakening. Warsovran was now only a figurehead, and he gave no commands. For the past five months Ralzak had been discovering that he, too, was not Warsovran's equal."I never asked to become the supreme commander," Ralzak confided to Silverdeath. "I'm just a soldier. I know my place and my place is not here.""Agreed," replied Silverdeath in a flat, metallic voice.Is it mocking me? Ralzak wondered helplessly. "Defeating a few of the homeland's neighbors, expanding our borders to advantage, that was my forte. Conquer a continent? I know neither why nor how. What would you do?""I cannot advise. I am only to be used."Ralzak had heard those words before. He considered carefully, looking back to Larmentel. The city had to fall, but he did not need its people or wealth. Nor did he want the luxury of its mansions and towers for his own dwellings. In his own way he was a simple man, fond of life in the field with his troops, and politically unambitious."Can you destroy my enemies?" asked Ralzak, gazing over at Larmentel again.His voice was muted, as if he were just muttering his thoughts aloud. Silverdeath regarded him with the blank, metallic sheen of its face."The feat is at the limit of my powers," Silverdeath explained in its flat yet ominous voice."So, you can do it," replied Ralzak."Yes."Ralzak stood up and glared out through the tent flap at the distant walled city. "Larmentel is the strongest city in all Torea. With Larmentel gone, my other enemies are mere chaff to be swept up and burned. How quickly could you break Larmentel?""In minutes."Ralzak turned and blinked, his lips parted slightly. Silverdeath remained impassive. The metallic sheen that enclosed the head of what once had been Ralzak's master had the outline of human form, and Ralzak wondered if the man beneath was still aware of what was happening."So when can you, ah, strike?" Ralzak asked tentatively, when the silence began to lengthen."Now," replied Silverdeath, taking a step toward the tent flap."No, no," Ralzak said, with a hurried wave of his hands. "I want my troops positioned, ready to take whatever advantage you can give them.""Not necessary," Silverdeath assured him."I still want to be prepared in my own way before you strike," Ralzak insisted."I am yours to command," replied Silverdeath.Ralzak considered the incredible offer as he began pacing before the flap of his tent, favoring Larmentel with a scowl at every pass. What was there to lose? Silverdeath had said that conquering the city was at the limit of its abilities, so it would be exhausted and harmless when done, regardless of whether or not Larmentel had fallen. At last he beckoned to Silverdeath and they went outside together. Cypher was there, still wearing nondescript robes and armor, with his face obscured. Einsel stood beside him, looking fearful."Learned Einsel, I am about to give Silverdeath its first real test," Ralzak announced. "Do you have any advice?""Ah yes, esteemed lordship," replied Einsel, bowing and rubbing his hands together."And that is?""Don't.""You have been giving that advice ever since Silverdeath was found. Can you not say anything new?""Ah, take it to the mountains, leave it at the bottom of a very deep ravine, and bury it with a very large rockslide.""That is what the previous master of Silverdeath did.""Very sensible of him," said the little sorcerer, bowing yet again to emphasize that his reply was not sarcasm--even though it was."Einsel, I want to hear you say something other than 'Don't'!" snapped the commander."Well, then, what about, 'Do not use it, esteemed lordship'?""I am rapidly losing patience! What operational advice do you have regarding Silverdeath?""Stand well back," said the sorcerer with a shrug."Cypher, do you have any suggestions?" Ralzak asked, turning away from the nervous and miserable little man."No, esteemed lordship," the masked man replied with studied deference."But you located it for us.""I'm learning, too. From your mistakes."Ralzak scowled. Cypher's expression was not visible beneath his mask and hood."Experience is an expensive school, yet fools are always clamoring to get in," Einsel cautioned."Are you mocking me?" demanded the commander, rounding on him."No, esteemed lordship, but I am trying to warn you," responded Einsel, staring the noble in the face this time.Ralzak blinked. It was the first time he had known Einsel to stare anyone in the face for the entire fifteen years he had known him. "I cannot understand why you are so frightened," he said, folding his arms behind his back and turning away to scowl at Larmentel again."Commander, we barely understand the most basic features of this thing," cautioned Einsel. "All the ancient authorities do agree that it is immensely powerful, however.""Rax, we don't understand why fire burns wood but not rock," said Ralzak dismissively, "yet we still use fire to cook, light our way at night, warm ourselves, and burn the towns of our enemies. The test will go ahead. Is there anything you would like to do?""I would greatly desire to stand well back.""I meant, in the way of magical tests?""I should like to stand well back behind a very large rock, to test its ability to keep me safe."Ralzak's preparations took two hours. Men on active, relief, and sleep shifts were all ordered to strap on armor and stand ready. The infantry were deployed at five strategic points to prevent the escape of anyone from the city, while elite lancers were stationed to ride for any breaches the enemy might make. Storm climbers with ladders and water-shields stood in closest of all. It was the eighth hour of morning before Ralzak was ready. Wearing his full skirmishing armor and standing with his battle-ax drawn, he faced Silverdeath before a small group of senior officers and nobles."Do your worst, destroy my enemies," he commanded, pointing with his battle-ax to the undefeated walls of Larmentel. "Today I will walk into the royal palace of Larmentel and spit at the feet of its king as the allconquering victor."Those close enough to hear began to cheer his words mechanically. Silverdeath's skin began to shimmer, then crawl, as if tiny silver ants were swarming over it. Its head slowly expanded, transforming into a shimmering silver globe. Those nearby began backing away, and Ralzak noticed that its hands had become white. Even as he watched, white skin was alsoexposed at the neck. Warsovran's jaw became visible, and by now the globe had expanded into a sphere the size of a small tent. Commander Ralzak stood his ground, watching as the mouth, nose, and eyes of Warsovran, the mighty emperor himself, were exposed. As Silverdeath detached itself from its host, Warsovran's body toppled to the ground and lay still.Silverdeath floated free, a globe that shimmered and trembled like a soap bubble, and when it was the size of a house it began to drift upward and over toward the besieged city. Ralzak thought it was growing translucent, and soon it was so high and insubstantial that it was no longer visible at all. The sky was blue over Larmentel, and all seemed serene and calm. Ralzak began to wonder if Silverdeath might be playing some humiliating hoax on him. A half hour passed, then another quarter hour. All through the besieging army, the rank and file began to mutter."Can't wait to loot it," drawled Colcos as he stood ready with his spear, gazing wistfully at the distant towers."Its women are famed throughout Torea," added Manakar, licking his lips."They say its cellars hold enough wine to float a deepwater trader," sighed Lurquor."Their windows have glass in 'em," said Colcos. "You ever broken a glass window?""Can't say I have," conceded Manakar."Grand sound, so satisfying.""You never broke one.""Yes I did! I spent two years as a slave in a salt quarry to pay back its value.""They say it could be today," interjected Lurquor."What could be today?" asked Colcos."The big attack, the big one that cracks 'em.""It's already happened," Manakar pointed out. "Their armored engines burned our towers down to the wheels.""Burned the wheels, too," said Colcos."Any city that can afford to pour boiling wine on us as we climb the siege ladders is a long way from being cracked," Manakar concluded with a sneer."They say Warsovran and Ralzak have a new weapon," Lurquor protested. "The thing that floated up from the command tent and over to the city.""'They,' 'they,' 'they'--who are 'they'?" demanded Manakar."Folk who knows.""Well, if it's that small, then it's not going to be any use against--" Colcos began.With the abrupt, shocking swiftness of a bolt of lightning, a huge, circular rent burst open in the sky above Larmentel, spilling a curtain of brilliance that swept outward from a point above the palace. Abruptly it winked out. In its place was a towering column of yellow-and-crimson flames as a firestorm burst through roofs and poured through windows and archways. A blazing-hot wind flung heavy tiles about like leaves and turned great wooden beams to ash within the moments it took for the shattering thunderclap to reach Ralzak's army and shake each warrior like a blow from a mace. Most men flung themselves down in reflexive alarm, others stood petrified with fear. Breakers of flame cascaded outward, sweeping along the streets and out to the citadel walls where they burst like waves on the shore, then rose high into the sky. To the amazement of the besieging army, the circular wall of fire then curled back upon itself to focus above the very center of Larmentel. All that was left was smoke, which boiled up into the sky above the city like a mighty, malignant tree. The heat had been so intense that it scalded the faces of the nearest besiegers. Larmentel's heart was burned out. The circle of fire had spilled across a third of a mile at the center, its edges rolling upward, then backward. It was as if the flood of burning had been on a spring that had reached its limit.The thunder's echoes took many moments to die away across the plain, then for a short time there was complete silence."Shit," said Colcos."Shit me," said Lurquor."Shit me senseless," said Manakar.Someone nearby gave a strangled squawk that may have been a gasp for breath, but which those around him took to be a cheer. Their cheers quickly spread in both directions around the army encircling Larmentel as the troops realized this thing of hellfire was not to be feared, but was on a leash held by their commander. They cheered their invincibility under the command of Ralzak and Warsovran, they cheered the fall of Larmentel, and they cheered the end of a siege that would waste not one more of their lives."Brilliant!" shouted Ralzak. "The greatest of strongholds in all of Torea, annihilated!"Riders were immediately despatched with a demand for surrender, but all gates were already open and the surviving defenders streaming out of thecity. Larmentel had been stabbed through the heart, and its citizens were bleeding out through its walls.Suddenly Ralzak realized that Warsovran was standing beside him, pale and thin yet somehow looking very healthy--even youthful. Ralzak dropped to his knees."You did well," the monarch who had brought down a dozen kings said hoarsely."Emperor Warsovran!" exclaimed Ralzak, now standing again to support his unsteady and swaying leader. "Sire! Are you all right? At'rik! Here, bring a medicar, now!""No medicar," whispered Warsovran, waving the man back. "Silverdeath was medicar enough. It is good to its host bodies, Ralzak.""Your Majesty, how can I ever apologize enough for commanding you for all these months past?" moaned Ralzak, genuinely mortified."You commanded the machine, not me," replied Warsovran as he glanced across to the writhing nightmare of smoke and dust that was rising above Larmentel. "And no harm was done.""Oh, indeed, Emperor, and many of your men have been saved by Silverdeath's magic. You can now enter Larmentel in triumph.""No, I must return to my capital," said Warsovran as he beckoned for a horse. "You will remain here.""But ... But Larmentel has fallen. Sire, the triumph--""Is yours, Commander Ralzak. Stay here, do what you will with the city. Make an example of it for all others to know and fear. You are Silverdeath's commander, after all."Ralzak glanced about for a figure with his face veiled with maroon cloth, but Cypher was nowhere to be seen."When Silverdeath first made you its host, Cypher was shouting at you to obey him," Ralzak confided to his commander."Was he indeed? And what did you do?""I had him thrown out of the tent for insolence.""And Silverdeath accepted you as master? Curious. What did you do that Cypher did not? No spells, chants, castings, incantations ... Curious, very curious."For all his feigned puzzlement, Warsovran did know Silverdeath's secret. One did not wear Silverdeath to become its master, one provided it with a host, then commanded it. Ralzak had helped Warsovran to put on Silverdeath. The person who puts it on the host becomes the weapon'smaster. Warsovran said nothing. There was a great deal Ralzak did not need to know."Is Cypher nearby?" Warsovran asked."Yes," replied Einsel. "I was speaking with him only minutes ago.""Have him killed, Ralzak. He knows enough to be dangerous.""Consider it done, sire," declared Ralzak.Cypher was in fact quite close, but hidden from view by those crowding around. Upon hearing his death sentence he slipped away, reversing his trail cloak to display military blue as he walked, and removing his helmet and masking of cloth. He had not concealed his face to hide his identity, but to be able to flee unknown when he removed the mask. He secured a new plume for his helmet and a fresh warhorse at the cost of two lives. Within a minute of hearing his death ordered, Cypher had become just another despatch rider. Many such officers were riding about with messages and orders, so nobody thought it odd that one more was riding away west. By this time Warsovran was pointing above the city."Silverdeath is still up there," he said to Ralzak."I do not understand, sire.""I shall write out a series of incantations for you to make just before the eighth hour of morning on certain days over the months to come. They will invoke Silverdeath in ever more powerful and frequent fire-circles. You must invoke it again and again until its energies are exhausted, and then it will fall from the sky above the city in its original form. When that happens, find it and bring it to me. Einsel, you will ride with me now.""But, Your Majesty, how do you know all this?" asked Ralzak."I wore Silverdeath for five months, Commander, and in that time I shared some of its thoughts."The ink was still wet on his scroll of instructions as Warsovran set off with Einsel, accompanied by a strong escort from Ralzak's personal guard. Ralzak rode in triumph through the main gates of the city's outer wall at the head of a squad of heavy lancers. Larmentel now reminded him of a powerful and exquisitely beautiful queen in the grip of a deadly wasting disease. Except for the inner citadel, the place was intact and brimming with wealth and potential slaves, yet its spirit had been burned away. Welldressed families hurried along with whatever they could carry down the straight, clean streets and across pretty, ivy-smothered plazas, all prey for the long-frustrated and unsympathetic troops of Warsovran. There were occasional piercing screams and cries of pain mingling with cheers andhearty laughter, and fires burned that were nothing to do with Silverdeath's stunning feat of martial magic.Closer to the center, Ralzak looked toward the ruins of the citadel walls ... the long, straight avenue was lined with the burning stumps of trees. The mighty ironbound gates of oak had been blown out and burned to ash, and beyond was a glowing ruin. The stubs of the university towers looked like burned-out candles, while the palace domes might have been a nest of huge, smashed eggs. Ralzak rode as close as he could urge his horse, noticing that the buildings touched by Silverdeath's fire were not just smashed, but partly melted as well, and heat radiated out from them as if from a baker's oven. Nearby houses had been set ablaze by the radiant heat, and the roadway was littered with the charred corpses of those who had been too close.Finally Warsovran's commander dismounted and, wrapping his cloak about his head, strode toward the citadel's gates while a retinue of guards and aides begged him to come back. The hot air was barely breathable, yet oddly free of fumes. The soles of his warboots smoked as he trod the hot stones of Larmentel's devastated heart. Ralzak finally stopped just within the palace gates, spat, and turned back."I vowed I would spit in the royal palace as victor, and I have kept my vow!" he declared to the officers, guards, and aides around him as he swung back into the saddle. Parts of his clothing were singed where they had brushed hot stones, and the soles of his boots were charred and crumbling, yet standing in the palace and spitting on the royal sanctum was all the reward the dour, steady commander had wanted.Upon leaving the city, Ralzak declared his eyes closed for three days, then gave his men the freedom of what was left of Larmentel. 
 
Nearly two months later, at the western port city of Gironal, Roval Gravalios stood waiting in the shadows of a dockside street, his tricorner hat pulled low over his face and the black lace collar of his cloak turned up. The air in the port was chilly, but there was something else nearby that was making him shiver. He was by now no stranger to the feeling. Miral was rising in the east, and its huge, ringed disk cast green light and inky shadows all along the street.From one of the terrace cottages in the distance came screams and curses.Roval strained to hear the words as he waited. The gist of it involved hidden money, drinking, feeding the children, and someone wanting to go back to the tavern. Somewhere nearby a crier rang two hours before midnight and added that all was well.The argument became screams and thumps, then the screams faded to silence. Presently a burly docker about a head taller than Roval came swaggering down the street, and he tipped the brim of his cap deferentially as he passed the ship's officer. Roval caught the scent of ale as the docker walked on.Suddenly a dark shape detached itself from a balcony and dropped onto the big man. The attacker had planned the ambush well, as the place was within deep shadows, and further obscured by a row of parked wagons. The fight was a flurry of darkness against darkness, and curiously quiet. As Roval hurried over, he saw the docker pinned to the cobblestones and a dark shape bent over him. Traceries of etheric energy gleamed and writhed amid the shadows as the blood and vitality was drained from the big man. He struggled, grunted, wheezed, then lay still, but lights and sparkles still danced about his neck, and the face of his attacker, who was dressed the same as Roval."For pity's sake, Laron, what if somebody comes?" pleaded Roval.The dark shape ignored him. After what seemed like an eternity Laron sat up, carefully wiped his lips, then fumbled for his victim's purse."Dammit, Laron, if you just wanted a couple of silver crowns you could have asked me for a loan!" snapped Roval as he knelt beside them. "That was the most disgusting thing I've seen since I walked in on my grandfather while he was treating his piles with leeches.""Well then, next time do not watch," replied Laron softly."Our ship sails within the hour and--This man is dead!""I drank all his blood, that usually does the trick.""But, but, but--""We are to be at sea for some time. Would you rather I fed on the crew?"Laron stood up and moved out of the shadows. In Miral's light he began taking patches of hair from his face, licking their resincloth base and reapplying them to his cheeks."How does my beard look?" he asked as he finished."Ridiculous. Now, can we go to the ship?""Not yet," said Laron as he began walking away."What do you mean?" Roval demanded as he hurried after him. "The tide waits for neither live man nor dead."Laron stopped before the door of a neat but shabby terrace cottage, then knocked smartly. Presently, a woman with a build not much different from that of the late docker, opened the door a fraction and warily peered out."I told ye, I don't 'ave any more in--"She stopped when she saw the two cloaked officers, then opened the door to admit them. The bruises on her face were fresh and ugly in the light of the candle she held."Ma 'yie Hulmork?" asked Laron."Aye, but me 'usband's not 'ere."Laron held up the dead man's purse. "Your husband has just had a seizure of both hearts," he said solemnly."He's seized what?""He never knew what hit him," said Roval, somewhat more accurately."People's always 'itting 'im. Then 'e comes 'ome and 'its me.""Please accept our condolences on his death," added Laron.Suddenly catching on, the widow Hulmork swooned. Laron caught her and carried her to where a small fire of offcuts was burning in a stone grate. Five children in patched nightshirts sidled into the room as Laron held a vial of something sharp-scented beneath Ma 'yie's nose. She revived with a jolt, then began rocking back and forth while moaning her dead husband's name over and over. Roval donated his kerchief to her."Your father is dead," Laron announced to the children when it became clear that Torea's most recent widow was not going to say anything coherent for now."Ooh ... promise?" a boy of about five responded. A girl no more than fourteen smiled darkly for a moment, then put a hand to her face. "Can I 'ave 'is dinner?" asked a spindly child of about eleven. At that suggestion all five children turned and scrambled for the kitchen door."This is for the funeral of your much-lamented husband," Laron said as he dropped half a dozen silver crowns beside the purse on the table. After a sidelong glare Roval added two more. "And now we really must be going.""Ye're true gentlemen," sniffled the widow. "Ye're too, too kind."They swept off their tricorner hats, bowed, then left the household to cope with its loss."What was all that about?" demanded Roval as they hurried along."Hulmork drank his wages," Laron explained. "His wife's washing paid the rent and put food on the table. The family will eat better now, and live in peace.""Obviously, but--""I always try to spread a little happiness when I select my prey.""A chivalrous vampyre?""I was raised in the way of chivalry. In a sense, it is all I have left.""Can't you prey on dogs, or maybe sheep?""The vitality of animals can sustain me, but the taste is foul. Imagine having to drink a jar of vinegar when a goblet of chilled Angelhair 3138 chardonnay is at hand."The analogy struck a chord with Roval, who was five thousand miles from home and unimpressed by the local wine."I thought you can't have the food or drink of mortals.""On the voyage from Scalticar there was a wine fancier aboard who could talk of nothing but wines, grapes, and famous vintages," Laron explained. "An intensely annoying man, but I learned a lot from him before I yielded to temptation. After I had drained him and flung his body to the sharks, I became unsteady on my feet, and the next day my head hurt. Something strange was in his blood and vitality.""Can't you just drain off a little vitality?" asked Roval, who was not looking forward to traveling on the same ship as Laron. "Must you kill your victims?""Once I bite I am no longer in control. It is a type of frenzy."Roval shivered, remembering the look on his face as he glanced up from Hulmork's neck. Do not disturb while feeding, he noted mentally."Now then, our bags have been put aboard the Shadowmoon, upon which you are to act as medicar and navigator," Roval said as they walked out along the breakwater."The Shadowmoon?" exclaimed the vampyre."Is that a problem?""The Shadowmoon is a tubby little schooner with a crew of six and the speed of a constipated jellyfish.""Nevertheless, it is the most advanced vessel in Torean waters, and probably the world.""And one of the smallest. What about my needs? I must have somewhere private and secure to sleep when Miral is below the horizon."He gestured to the huge, ringed planet that loomed pale green in the eastern sky."A cabin has been added beneath the quarterdeck, although it is little bigger than a coffin," explained Roval."How appropriate. Are we liable to be at sea for more than a week? Longer than that, and my self-control begins to slip."The word "slip" was like a dagger's blade being drawn clear of its scabbard. Roval shivered."After what I just saw, no way! I'll tell the boatmaster that you have special needs, like sleeping while Miral is down and going ashore weekly for fresh food.""Weekly," sighed Laron. "I shall get ever so hungry."As they walked Roval noticed that Laron cast no shadow in Miral's light, although in torchlight the vampyre's shadow was no different to his. The Shadowmoon was ready to cast off as they reached its berth. The schooner was short, broad, and squat, with two lateen-rigged masts, and a cargo gigboat clamped upside down to the maindeck. Instead of a steering oar there was a hinged pole projecting through the quarterdeck."That is the most advanced weapon the cold sciences can produce to counter Silverdeath?" asked Laron as they paused at the gangway."Yes.""You are doomed.""Then why are you here?""I was told to help."Down on the middeck a couple was embracing in Miral's light while the crew made ready with the sweep oars and rigging."That is boatmaster Feran," explained Roval. "He has something of a way with the wenches.""Given my circumstances, I shall not be competition.""What do you mean?""I am liable to bite anyone that I come close enough to kiss, and being cold-blooded and dead is something of a social liability. I also have the body of a pimply, fourteen-year-old, pigeon-chested wanker, and after seven centuries I am getting mightily sick of it."Roval noted the annoyance in Laron's tone. By now Feran was escorting his most recent lover up the gangplank. Laron and Roval swept their hats off and bowed to the girl, who giggled before embracing Feran one last time. They stood watching as she went mincing off along the breakwater."Is the special cargo aboard?" asked Roval."Carried on in a sack this afternoon," replied Feran. "Is this our new officer?""Boatmaster Feran Woodbar, may I introduce Laron Alisialar, accredited deepwater navigator with the Scalticar Marine Traders, and certified medicar with the Sargol Academy of Healers."Feran looked him up and down. "Impressive credentials, but a littleyoung to have been long at sea," he concluded in spite of Laron's carefully applied beard. "And I have been told that you are also sickly and have special needs. Do you have the strength to pitch in and be a useful member of my crew?"The crew of the Shadowmoon paused to watch and listen. Laron removed his glove and extended his hand. Feran grasped it firmly and squeezed hard. Almost immediately he gasped at the icy chill of Laron's skin. Laron squeezed back. Feran tried to pull away, then cried out and fell to his knees. Laron's lips began to curl back and his eyes bulged as Roval picked up an oar and struck at Laron's wrist. At the third blow Feran rolled free."Laron has the strength of five extremely strong men, and tends to become a little excited when challenged to such crude contests," Roval explained. "I trust you will take pains to spare him from any initiation roughhousing or ... well, I cannot answer for the consequences."Not a single man aboard the Shadowmoon required further convincing."Is--is there anything else?" asked Feran."Never stay at sea for more than a week, and never, never disturb Laron while he is asleep," said Roval. 
 
The lateen-rigged schooner crept past the sleek, moored galleys of Warsovran's navy under full sail, keeping between the torch buoys. Feran stood at the steering pole, enduring jeers from idle marines and sailors aboard the galleys while his crew prepared to trim the sails once they passed the breakwater and reached clear winds. Feran was short, clean shaven, had curly brown hair, and looked younger than his age even though he was brawny. Some of the insults were about cabin-boy boatmasters. Most were far worse.It was only when they were well out to sea that a passenger emerged from below and walked haltingly over the rolling deck to where Feran stood with Laron and Roval."You're safe for now," said Feran to his charge. "This is Roval, from the Special Warrior Service of Scalticar. He is here to protect you. Laron, here, is acting as the Shadowmoon's medicar and navigator."Laron's eyes gleamed green in Miral's light. The passenger scrambled backward and stepped behind Feran."He is also here to protect you from your enemies," Feran concluded."I never thought I'd feel sorry for my enemies," said the Shadowmoon's only passenger, regarding the hawkish youth with suspicion and unease."Don't worry, he doesn't bite," said Feran."Much," added Roval."A Scalticaran name," the man said slowly."It is something to do with being Scalticaran," replied Laron, with good grammar but an old-fashioned accent."Part of his beard is peeling off.""He can be trusted," Feran said dismissively. "How do you want to be known to my crew?""Lenticar is my real name," he replied as he gazed at the receding port's lights with relief. "I have had so many assumed names that I sometimes wonder who I might really be. Yes, let me be Lenticar for a while."Lenticar was lean, tanned, and stooped from years of hard work in the open air and sun. He also had the fearful, furtive gaze of one who had been the slave of brutal masters for too long, and he wrung his hands and bowed involuntarily each time he spoke."How long before we reach Zantrias?" he asked, snatching at the wooden rail as a large wave rocked them."Fifty days would be a fair estimate," said Laron, examining his beard with his fingertips.Feran nodded in agreement."Fifty days!" Lenticar exclaimed. "I could swim there faster.""Then I suggest you dive overboard," said Laron. "We need to collect and discharge cargo to maintain the guise of a coastal trader."Laron removed a strip of beard and licked the backing. Lenticar saw two long, gleaming fangs. The officer stuck the patch of beard back."But fifty days may be too late.""Fifty days is all we can offer," agreed Feran."Is it about that fire-circle weapon Warsovran used to break Larmentel?" asked Laron."It may be.""Did you know he used it again?"Lenticar's eyes widened. "No. Which city was burned?""It was only a test over Larmentel's ruins, and apparently no lives were lost. It may have been to impress a prince from Zarlon who was in the area, but that's just rumor. In a circle of over a half mile across, there was not a scrap of wood, cloth, flesh, or food left.""So it was bigger than the first time?""Oh yes, everything improves with practice," said Laron.While they were speaking, Roval had breathed a tangle of etheric energies into his cupped hands, then spoken directive and formative words into it. Now Laron went to a wicker cage and took out a seagull. Roval spread the etheric energies over the bird like a tight-fitting net, and it ceased struggling. Laron put it on the warrior-sorcerer's arm."Messenger auton, listen carefully," said Roval. "'Cargo loaded, sailed with the tide. Arriving in fifty from twenty-fifth of second.' Speak this to Elder, Metrologans, at Zantrias. Now go."The englamored seagull took off at once, climbed into the darkening sky, then turned east under the messenger auton's control. It was soon lost to view. A steady wind filled the sails and drove them through the waves. The Sbadowmoon was too small to be a warship, and sufficiently like a fishing trawler to move freely between the ports of all alliances. With so many of Warsovran's warships on the waters around Torea, the Shadowmoon's company had little to fear from privateers. In a sense it was the emperor himself who gave them safe passage to Zantrias. 
 
At that very moment Warsovran was in the port of Narmari, on the other side of the continent. The port was the base of his fleet, and contained the largest shipyards in the world. Admiral Forteron was a very junior member of Warsovran's Council of Advisors, but was a particularly brave and capable leader. He was from an old but respectable seafaring family; in fact, his ancestors had founded the port of Fontarian six hundred years ago. These qualities are precisely what are needed just now, Warsovran thought as they walked along a pier where a squadron of battle galleys was tied up. Behind them were the three sorcerers and three marines of the emperor's personal guard."I have been giving orders in the shipyards," the monarch said. "No new ships are to be commenced, and all hands are to work on ships currently under construction. Provisions for a campaign of four months are to be assembled, and fifty thousand elite marines are to be equipped and kept ready."Forteron did not comment. Warsovran was the emperor, after all. They reached the flagship of the Damarian fleet, the Thunderbolt, and the deck crew stood to attention as they came aboard. The ship was an oceangoing battle galley, and could carry six hundred rowers, sailors, and marines. Warsovran did a tour of inspection, then climbed the stubby commandtower at the rear of the big ship. For a moment the emperor gazed out over the vessels moored or at anchor on the placid waters of the bay, then he looked west to the horizon."Admiral, I want you to blockade Helion," he ordered."Helion?" Forteron exclaimed in surprise."Yes. The weather is mild at this time of year. The sailing should be easy.""Emperor, do I have permission to speak my mind?""I would treasure true words, no matter what they be," replied Warsovran "One hears so few of them.""With respect, Emperor, Helion is no prize. It is just a pair of volcanos, two miles long and a mile across.""It is under the rule of my enemies.""Emperor, half of the continent is under the rule of your enemies.""Maybe so, but Helion is well placed between Acrema, Lamaria, and Torea. Whoever rules Helion will dominate trade in the Placidian Ocean."That is certainly true, thought Forteron. But why the sudden interest in controlling the ocean? Is he losing control of the Torean continent?"Your orders are mine to obey, Your Majesty," replied Forteron. "I shall take a squadron and secure the island. Do you want the prisoners brought here or sold as slaves in Lamaria?""Not a squadron. My entire fleet.""The whole fleet?" Forteron exclaimed before he could stop himself. "Emperor Warsovran, it is scattered right around the Torean coast. It would take over two months to gather all ships together.""You have one. Have the despatch vessels sailing within the hour.""But, but ... Helion? You could take the place with twenty ships and a thousand marines.""Admiral, I said blockade Helion. Under no circumstances are you to attack the place. Any approaching deepwater traders are to be turned away. Any trying to leave are to be seized, but not one single sailor or marine is to set foot upon the island.""Emperor, I do not understand," Forteron admitted."Splendid, that means that my enemies are unlikely to understand, either. I have already sent riders and carrier autons ordering some of my warships around Torea to assemble here, so it may not take even two months. On the twenty-fifth day of next month, and not one single day later, the fleet is to leave for Helion with every marine, sailor, weapon, sack of biscuit, and barrel of water that can be crammed aboard. Blockade the island as soon as you arrive. After another two weeks you shall receive further orders."Warsovran paced the deck in silence for a time. Forteron paced respectfully beside him, but he was frowning. Not the face of a man just granted a massive advantage over his peers, .thought Warsovran, with a glance to his admiral."You look troubled, Admiral Forteron," he observed."I am only ninth in rank among your admirals, Your Majesty. This appointment will breed ill will.""Let me take care of that. Just get the fleet to Helion and have it battleready."Forteron considered both his orders and position carefully. Warsovran liked his commanders to think as he did, and to act as he would if they ever found themselves cut off from the line of command."Would I be correct in assuming that Helion is not the real objective, Your Majesty?" he asked."If you were, I would not tell you."That told Forteron all he needed to know. He bowed and set off to carry out his orders.Within the hour the first swift, high-masted despatch clippers and dash galleys were sailing out of the harbor with Warsovran's orders. By then the Thunderbolt was being prepared to be beached, careened, and tarred, and Admiral Forteron was in his villa at the edge of the port, studying charts of the Placidian Ocean. Diomeda, he decided. Diomeda was a large port on the Acreman coast, and eight days due west of Helion. Diomeda was an important trade center; in fact, it was the hub of all commerce up and down the Acreman coast, but why Diomeda? There was still half of Torea's coast to conquer. Larmentel had fallen, monarchs everywhere were falling over themselves to negotiate treaties with the empire. Still, a promotion is a promotion , Forteron thought as he unrolled a scroll of common Diomedan phrases. Tomorrow he would visit the slave market, and the girl he selected as his companion for the voyage ahead would just happen to speak Diomedan, the common trade language of the Acreman east coast. 
 
Warsovran did not go to his palace until the gathering of his fleet had been ordered and set in motion. He was met at the inner gates by his son Darric, who had just turned fourteen. Unlike a certain seven-hundred-year-old teenager aboard a schooner on the other side of the continent, the prince was already tall, handsome, and well proportioned."Father?" Darric exclaimed, looking puzzled as he stood between the guards.The squad captain nodded to Darric, and his shoulders gave the trace of a shrug."Yes, it really is me," Warsovran laughed, holding his arms out to embrace his son."But, Father, you are so, er, young.""Hah, just the result of clean living, staying out of the sun, and beancurd cheese.""And some etheric sorceries.""Oh yes, but only natural etheric sorceries."They finally embraced."I'm sorry, I was away hunting when you returned to Narmari," said the prince. "Mother did not tell me; she tells me nothing.""Then you must be growing up," replied Warsovran, looking the prince up and down. "Well, now, here's a laugh. I am nearly a youth, and you are nearly a man."Darric laughed. He knew when it was expected of him."There have been reports coming back from the army," he said, again staring at his father's face. "You were said to be englamored, and could slay a dozen warriors with your bare hands.""Oh, I can do that without being englamored," laughed Warsovran, who was in a very good mood by now."They said you can call lightning from the skies.""Anyone can do that. Just carry a spear in a thunderstorm.""They say you destroyed Larmentel.""Walk with me," Warsovran said, gesturing down the corridor. He put an arm over his son's shoulders. "I made use of a device, Silverdeath, a machine of immense power. It destroyed the citadel area of Larmentel. By its nature Silverdeath is difficult to control, yet it did what I needed. It saved my army as many as a hundred thousand casualties. Larmentel would not have fallen easily.""The reports said that it was an awesome sight.""Oh yes. More awesome than your mother being served dinner on an unclean plate.""I wish that I could have seen it.""At the rate kingdoms are swearing fealty to me, I may never have to use it in anger again.""Yet I hear that you did use it again.""Oh yes, but just as a test, over Larmentel's ruins. As I said, the use of Silverdeath needs to be refined before it is turned toward any other city. It might just as easily have destroyed my own army, but this time luck was with me. Now, then, I have a new campaign planned, but this time you are going with me.""Me?" Darric exclaimed. "I cannot believe it.""You question your emperor's word?" chuckled Warsovran. "Arrest yourself for treason!"Darric laughed, then drew his ax and swiped the air with it. Tiny whistles in the ornamented blade piped out chords in fourths and fifths."All these years I have pleaded for a chance to fight, yet you have kept me here, penned up and protected from everything but the lapdogs," Darric said with undisguised annoyance."'All these years' began on your tenth birthday, and even now you are only fourteen. Consider yourself lucky.""So am I really going to fight?""Not.""But I've killed two of my training partners.""Both of them knew that your death would result not only in theirs, but those of everyone in their family, extended family, hometown, and province, along with anyone in Torea even sporting the same haircut. In battle, the enemy has no such inhibitions."The prince put his ax back into his belt and stared at the path they were walking, shaking his head. "Then why send me anywhere?""You are going on campaign, rather than into battle," said Warsovran, patting his son on the back. "You will travel in one of my best galleys. I am planning an experiment.""A new method of fighting?""A new method of not fighting. I have a theory that overwhelming displays of force can destroy any enemy's morale so completely that they surrender without a costly fight. To that end I am assembling the largest battle fleet in the history of Torea, seven hundred ships--"Warsovran stopped as the empress stepped out in front of them. She had the bearing of one who had been brought up in the corridors of power, and could not display deference even if her life were to depend upon it. She did, however, cry out with surprise at the appearance of Warsovran. He looked scarcely five years older than his own son."My lady," said Warsovran, as he bowed to his wife."So, it is true," she said breathlessly."What your spies say about me? Quite probably."Darric knew that relations between Warsovran and his empress had been less than cordial for a very long time. Darric also preferred simple situations, where the outcome could be settled with a choice of suitable weapons and a tourney marshal. This situation was very complicated. Rather than be part of a characteristically chilly reunion, he bowed to both of his parents, then turned to hurry away."Stay!" barked Warsovran, seizing him by the arm."Welcome home, my daring and devoted lord," said Empress Darielle, with all the warmth of a fish on a market slab."Returning to your side is always my greatest pleasure," Warsovran replied."Not so great as spending a half day in the shipyards and docks before rolling up to the palace, it seems.""That was urgent business, where every minute saved was vital."Darielle stared at his face, almost mesmerized. He seemed incredibly young. She wanted to touch his skin, to confirm that it was real, but they had not been in physical contact for fourteen years and Warsovran's orders to his bodyguards were very specific where his wife was concerned."Will you be sharing the secret of rejuvenation with your devoted family?" she asked pointedly."Once you are dead, certainly.""Ah, so the secret will perish soon, and unspoken."He folded his arms and looked down at the tilework of the floor for a moment. Dangerous thoughts entered his head. Darielle had been a princess when Warsovran was a minor noble with a small inheritance but large ambitions. He had turned the tide of an otherwise hopeless battle, and in return was granted the hand of the king's only daughter in marriage. The princess was a very accomplished sorceress, however, and just as ambitious as Warsovran. She also had been implicated in a string of assassinations, and soon after their wedding, the king had died in suspicious circumstances. Darielle became queen. By now she and her husband had developed a most intense dislike for each other, so she had sent him off on a campaign against several much larger kingdoms. She had hoped that he would soon be killed, or lose some important battle and thus become a candidate for execution. Instead he brought home a string of victories and declared himself emperor of an area several times bigger than Darielle's kingdom.Darielle needed Warsovran's military genius to ensure new conquests, yet the heart of Warsovran's army was the Damarian nobility, who were loyal to Darielle. Being a good strategist, however, Warsovran had built up his personal control in the new territories and royal navy, so that Darielle was by now the lesser partner. Several very professional assassination attempts had been made on Warsovran over the past year, and he was in no doubt of who had been the sponsor. The dangerous thoughts in his head suddenly locked together into a vast and flawless plan, and he fought down an urge to smile that threatened to tear the muscles in his face."My loyal and dutiful empress, I suspect you are bored," he ventured."You suspect? You suspect? Do you also suspect that there is a hole in your--""Of course there isn't; emperors do not do that sort of thing.""Very well, then. Get to the point.""Darric and I shall be away with the fleet for two months. I think you should take my place, and administer the entire empire."For once Darielle was speechless. On the only other occasion when she had been granted control beyond the borders of her own kingdom, a civil war had resulted."Mother, that's wonderful!" exclaimed Darric."Where are you sailing?" she asked, incapable of bringing herself to make a display of gratitude."There are several small islands around the Placidian Ocean where my--our--enemies are harboring privateer Vidarian fleets that attack our traders and steal our cargoes. They cost us dearly in trade, and I intend to annihilate them with a single, mighty blow."Darielle frowned. "I cannot believe this! Only doomsday itself would force you to place your precious empire in my hands."Warsovran put a hand to his ear and turned his head about. "I do not hear the heavens falling. Perhaps doomsday is not all that it is cracked up to be. Did you catch that one? Doomsday--cracked? Crack of doom ... ? Oh, never mind."The empress stood with her arms folded tightly, her lips a mathematically straight line between the edges of her mouth, and her foot tapping the ground."I cannot believe you would do anything that would not help me along that path which ends at a large wooden block, a big, hairy man wearing a black hood, and an exceedingly sharp ax.""I swear I would never have any man strike off your head, my lady.""Oh, so now you are pioneering the use of female executioners?""Think what you will--the offer stands. Without delegation I could never run the empire, could I? I shall be fascinated to see what you can do while I am away." 
 
That night Empress Darielle lay awake, unable to stop thinking about what had been granted to her. Warsovran did not trust her--with good reason--yet he was about to hand absolute power to her. Warsovran was also taking their son with him on the fleet. The royal navy was her area of least influence, and it was not much better with his marines. Nothing made sense, but anyone could see that if she was being given a short term as supreme commander, then the position would be unimportant for that period.What was really worrying the empress was what had not been discussed. Warsovran was forty, but now looked twenty. Darielle was forty-five and looked forty-five--a very healthy and well-groomed forty-five, but forty-five nevertheless. In days, weeks, months, or years he would become powerful enough to leave her for someone younger and more agreeable. One did not just leave an empress, however. One remarried after an empress died of some strange and inexplicably swift disease that generally manifested itself ten minutes after dinner. 
 
Fontarian was the northernmost port in Torea, and at the center of the coastline under Warsovran's rule. Captain Mandalock leaned over the forward railing of the trireme galley Kygar, smiling with satisfaction as a fifth broken ship was painted in yellow on the bow. The oceangoing galley might not have been the biggest in the known world, but with two hundred rowers, a hundred and fifty marines, and thirty sailors and officers, it was a force to be reckoned with. The captains of enemy deepwater traders did not expect to encounter war galleys on the open ocean, and the Kygar had been invincible there. Five traders had been rammed and sunk, eleven burned, and fifteen captured.All along the pier were jugglers, tumblers, and ether magicians, all paid for by Captain Mandalock for the entertainment of his men. Moored next to the Kygar but ignored by all, a tiny, squat schooner was taking on a load of lamp oil. Roval, the deckswain, and a crewman stood watching the showfrom the deck of the Shadowmoon, while discussing matters that would have had the Shadowmoon sunk instantly, had Captain Mandalock been able to hear."I shall be leaving you at Narmari," said Roval as he ticked off jars on a slate."And taking Laron with you?" Norrieav asked hopefully."I'm afraid he stays.""Not half as afraid as the rest of us be," said Hazlok. "Every port where we've called there's been a terrible murder.""But none aboard the Shadowmoon, you have to admit.""It's only a matter of time.""Laron knows how to behave. He has a strong sense of chivalry, and he attacks only bad or churlish people. Merely ensure that all the crew behave in a virtuous manner, and Laron will not take the slightest interest in you."Fontarian was built on the edge of a vast plain, with no hills or mountains as far as the eye could see. The tallest building in the port was a fourhundred-foot lighthouse tower, at whose summit a pyre burned from dawn until dusk. It was built of sandstone blocks, and stood at the edge of the water. At its summit were loading beams for hauling fuel up for the pyre. It was at the base of this tower that a crier began bawling for attention."Attend if you will, brave and stout warriors of the Kygar, the Mighty Bendith!" the man shouted, and there was a scatter of applause and cheers.The Mighty Bendith was tanned and muscular, and stripped to the waist. There was an ax at his belt and a crossbow strapped to his back."Today is a dark day for the fair princess of Fontarian, who has been captured and imprisoned in a mighty tower by an evil privateer," announced the crier.The crier gestured to a girl with long blonde hair, waving from a window near the top of the tower, then to six figures dressed in black and waving axes, who were standing at the base. Those on the Kygar and the crowd on the wharf hissed and booed."What, O what can the Mighty Bendith do?" asked the crier."Climb the tower an' give 'er one!" shouted Hazlok from the deck of the Shadowmoon, and everyone except the performers laughed."See how the Mighty Bendith storms the very stronghold of the privateer chief himself."With that, the Mighty Bendith sprang forward, engaging the privateer guards with much clanging of axes, and acrobatics. One by one the guards took mortal blows, pulled red cloths from their tunics to show they werenow bleeding to death, and collapsed to the timbers of the wharf. At last only the privateer chief was left. He turned to run as the crowd booed and flung fruit peelings, then he stopped at the door in the base of the tower."Ha-ha, Mighty Bendith, you think you have thwarted me, but my tower has forty floors, and each one has a hundred brave privateers to stop you. You shall never rob me of the fair Princess of Fontarian."He slammed the door shut, and a voice from the Kygar called, "Madame Nymphania's place is easier to enter!" There was more laughter, and the distant figure at the top of the tower screamed theatrically for help. The Mighty Bendith clipped his ax to his belt, unslung his crossbow, and with the aid of a crank bar drew back the heavy bowstring and loaded a barbed dart. He now began breathing a tangle of ether energies into his cupped hands while the crowd cheered. Finally he plunged his left hand into the ether and drew out a filament, which he attached to the crossbow's dart.The crowd went silent as the Mighty Bendith lay down on his back, steadied the crossbow on the back of his left arm, and gripped the release with his right hand. He aimed straight up, paused for theatrical effect, then fired. There was no wind just then, and gravity merely slowed the dart rather than deflecting it. It struck a loading beam close to the window where the blonde girl was waiting, stringing a filament of ether all the way down to the Mighty Bendith. The audience cheered lustily. The Mighty Bendith handed the crossbow to the crier, did a casting to the filament, then began to be drawn slowly straight up."Hey, now, that's a mighty sorcerer," said Norrieav, nudging Roval and pointing to the ascending figure."That is an ethersmith of about level eight, with no more skills of sorcery than you have," Roval replied with a sneer."Esteemed sir, you have to admit that he has skill.""Esteemed deckswain, a wharfer might be far stronger than a carpenter, but strength alone does not allow him to build boats.""Look how high he is! Roval, you just have to be impressed.""Two years ago I was at the Warrydale Plough Festival, where the farmers compete in an annual poo contest. They eat like pigs for days, without visiting a privy, then try to lay the heaviest turd in Warrydale. The winner's offering weighed in at just over ten pounds and I was impressed, just as I am impressed now. However, I had no urge to participate in Warryside, and my feelings are unchanged today."By this stage the Mighty Bendith had reached the level of the girl's window.He reached out his hand, taking the girl's in his. The girl pulled him toward the window."Bet 'e pops in fer five minutes to give 'er one!" said Hazlok to Laron."Could you do that?" Norrieav asked Roval."If I really had to," replied Roval.Unfortunately for the Mighty Bendith, he was an extremely good shot. Far too good for his own welfare, in fact. His barb had struck in exactly the area where his seventeen earlier shots had impacted over the previous month. The area looked solid, but had been reduced largely to splinters. The barb pulled free, just as he was about to enter the window.The girl's life was saved by the fact that she had sweaty hands. The Mighty Bendith fell, screaming the entire four hundred feet until he crashed down to the cobbles, narrowly missing the crier. For a few moments the crowd cheered wildly, then they realized that anything resembling the crumpled mess that was now the Mighty Bendith could not possibly be alive."There are, of course, good reasons for not attempting that sort of thing, except in extreme emergencies," added Roval in the moment of utter silence between the end of the cheering and the beginning of the collective gasp of horror.With the entertainment over, the onlookers went about their business, most of which involved loafing in the sun. Roval and Laron climbed to the top of the Shadowmoon's mainmast and began to tighten the braceline to the foremast, which had stretched in the heavy seas they had endured for the past week. At the base of the tower, the woman who had been playing the imprisoned maiden was staring down at the mortal remains of the Mighty Bendith with her hands pressed against her cheeks."Would that I was in some lady's service," said Laron, wistfully gazing across at her."Been awhile since I serviced--" Roval began."Not that, you boorish oaf!" snapped the vampyre. "I meant being in the service of a lady.""Ah, as in serving. But you have been in Learned Wensomer's service.""Learned Wensomer? She needs the service of a champion about as much as a battle galley jammed full of marines. She is a very senior and powerful sorceress, and would be the Consolidator of the Scalticarian High Circle if she did not spend so much time around cake shops, pastry markets, and gourmet wine vendors.""Actually, I heard she has moved to Diomeda to lose weight by learningbelly dancing, so there may be hope. But getting back to you, Laron, think more on your own achievements. You are in the elite Special Warrior Service, just as I am. You were the first dead person to be admitted.""I am the only dead person to do practically everything that I do. What sort of existence do I have? Drinking nine pints of blood at every meal, always on the run.""Anyone who drinks nine pints of anything would certainly be on the run.""Very funny. Roval, I just want to be settled with a lady, to be her loving and devoted champion."Roval laughed mirthlessly, then hauled in the stayline with all his strength. "Tie that fast, will you? Just a timber hitch, that's it. Laron, once upon a time I nearly married my beloved. Then I thought about what being settled would really be like. I realized that she had a voice that could shatter ax-blades, a temper that could set water on fire, and a social circle full of people who could talk very loudly for an entire week about nothing whatsoever. Why do you think I tried so hard to get into the Special Warrior Service? It was a stunningly good excuse to get out of my betrothal--I cannot even remember what the reason I actually gave was. Some vision from some god that I do not believe in anyway.""How did she take the news?""Badly. Months later my head was still ringing from her tirade.""It sounds like you made a good decision.""My first tour of duty took me thousands of miles from her, and when I returned she was married to someone who ... Well, let us just say that you could not have strangled him.""Really thick neck?""No brain to starve of blood. Laron, Laron, even if a week seldom passes without having to fight for my life or endure great danger, it is still far more peaceful than living with her would have been. Now, you haul on the line and I'll do the final tie-down."Laron hauled the stayline tighter than any mortal could, then Roval secured it to the top of the mast."Haul in the bracebar lines," Roval called to the men below, then he watched the knots for any slippage as the ropes of the rigging tightened."I want a lady who depends upon me, someone who adores me," said Laron, staring wistfully at the distant actress, who was now explaining something to a port constable and waving her hands a great deal. "Someone I may worship, someone I may love with the most pure and gallant of motives.""Consummation is more pleasant--unless the lady concerned is Wensomer, of course. I have had the occasional dalliance, I must admit. The Special Warrior Service forbids members to make the first move, so the lady must always ask me first, and most ladies are depressingly coy about that sort of thing. Still, being tumbled infrequently is better than not at all.""My motives are above such things.""Your motives sound like a bit of a bore. Why cultivate a favored lady without some bounce and giggle as a prospect?""What a crass outlook. You do not understand purity in love.""Laron, you have been fourteen years old--and dead--for seven centuries. You have no choice in matters involving women, so you are stuck with virtuous motives. Were you alive, you would be a dirty little boy with no more chivalric purity and self-discipline than--""You are wrong!" insisted Laron. "Were I alive, I would feel the same way.""Were you alive you would be making up for seven hundred years of enforced celibacy, and every girl, woman, and sheep for a hundred miles around would be reaching for their chastity belts.""This is pointless," said Laron. "I know my motives have the strength of steel and the purity of freshly fallen snow, yet nothing will convince you of that.""True," said Roval, patting the now-taut stayline with satisfaction. "Let us descend.""Nevertheless, I still desire a lady to serve.""Laron, with your preference in food, not to mention some rather worrying table manners, you do not have a hope.""I know, I know. I am doomed to be alone and misunderstood, yet I shall try to do good nonetheless. That also is the path of chivalry." 
 
Half an hour later the body of the Mighty Bendith had been loaded onto a cart and removed. Captain Mandalock was sitting in the sterncastle cabin of the Kygar with Dovaris, the commander of marines."I don't like entertainments that go wrong," Mandalock confided as he poured himself a drink."Oh, I don't know. The men say it was the best show you have ever put on.""Carnival accidents are little hints from the gods about real life. I don't like them."The officer of the watch rapped at the door and reported that a courier dash galley was entering the harbor and flying flags of the emperor's Service. Mandalock went outside, and saw that the little galley was stripped of its weapons and shields. It was docked with the highest priority and Mandalock was waiting on the pier as the courier captain presented his credentials to the harbormaster."I am Captain Esar, and I require fresh rowers and supplies for departure within the hour." He turned to Mandalock. "You are the captain of the Kygar?" he asked Mandalock."Captain Mandalock, at the emperor's service," Mandalock replied smartly.Esar called his clerk, who came running with a bag of scrolls. The captain selected one, broke the seal, and scanned what was written."Captain Mandalock, you are to assemble all fifteen galleys and dash galleys stationed in Fontarian into a squadron, requisition all deepwater traders in the harbor, and gather all available marines onto the traders. You will then escort them to the port of Narmari.""Sir! I hear and obey."Before the astonished harbormaster could protest, Esar turned back to him."Harbormaster, you will begin raising a town militia for the defense of Fontarian, and set the shipwrights building six dash galleys to patrol local waters. All expenses are to be charged against the treasury of the emperor, and you are hereby elevated to the rank of military governor."The exchange had been conducted quite loudly, before a crowd of sailors, dockers, and wharfers. There had been no attempt at secrecy. Within earshot were Roval and Feran."I think that I should seek work aboard one of those deepwater traders," said Roval."For general advancement, or to get away from Laron?"The one factor the Shadowmoon had in its favor was its lack of desirability in any sort of obvious military sense. It was too small to carry more than three or four marines and of no use in any harbor defense force, so it was ignored. By sunset Mandalock was the proud commander of thirty ships that were following the Torean coast southwest, his forebodings about the Mighty Bendith's death forgotten. Ignored by all was a tiny schooner, following in the wake of the fleet."With luck we can shadow them all the way to Narmari," said Feran with satisfaction. "No privateer will go anywhere near a force like that.""But after that we may encounter convoys going the other way," said Laron."Then we will stand closer in to the coast, out of their way. I wonder why Warsovran has ordered this?""Doubtless Roval will find out. He is a spy of great skill and resource.""Speaking of spies, have the boat's name painted over and changed to, er, Arrowflight.""Arrowflight?" echoed Laron."Warsovran seems to be gathering ships together from the most remote of quarters, and someone from Gironal may wonder what brought a little trader like the Shadowmoon halfway around the continent so very quickly.""Arrowflight?""Yes.""Arrow? As in the small, pointy thing that moves really, really fast?""Yes.""Are you not worried that such a name will seem suspicious when applied to the Shadowmoon?"Feran stared at Laron for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he was worth a sneer."People are seldom suspicious of what is ludicrous," the boatmaster said patiently. "I want people laughing, and not asking questions." 
 
Exactly one hundred twenty days after the first fire-circle burst out of the sky above Larmentel, the Shadowmoon tied up at one of the long stone piers in the port of Zantrias. Its name was now the Arrowflight, and its rigging had been rearranged to present a new profile.A large temple was visible in the distance, perched on a verdant hill three miles back from the coast. Feran escorted his passenger through the port to the safety of the temple complex, and at the hospitalier's portico they were received by the Elder's steward. Here Feran was told that his work had been well done, but that he was no longer needed. As he made his way back through the empty Gardens of Contemplation, someone hailed him. A bluerobed priestess with a pale face and tightly bound black hair was approaching,attended by a shorter student girl who wore the green robes of a deaconess, and whose dark brown, wavy hair was unbound."Worthy Terikel, how delightful to see you again," he said. "And Deaconess Velander, I see that you are still a deaconess.""But you are now a boatmaster," Velander observed by the red shouldertassels of his deck jacket and his three-cornered hat. "Congratulations.""Will you be in port for long?" Terikel asked."The Shadowmoon is temporarily the Arrowflight, and the Arrowflight is to be careened. There is also other work ... maybe eight days.""Velander and I need more practice with spoken Diomedan.""Ah, so you are still studying that exotic tongue?""Oh yes. Are you available?""For Terikel and Velander, always. Why not walk back with me now, speaking Diomedan?"Once through the gates and past the guards, Feran softly asked, "Have you any more news of Warsovran's weapon?""There have been two more tests," Velander replied. "One of them was a week ago, and it burned a circle two and one-third miles in diameter. Some nobles from nearby kingdoms were invited to see it happen. The other was sixteen days earlier, and smaller.""That's four tests. What have you learned?""The first fire-circle was a third of a mile in diameter. I learned that from a slave we carried on commission. As for the second test, we know almost nothing, just tavern talk by Warsovran's troops. Maybe he was not sure why it worked the first time, and did not want witnesses if it failed.""All of this makes me wonder. The emperor is assembling a lot of warships at Narmari. He may be so confident that his weapon can smash any inland city, that he intends to claim the entire coastline.""Can he do that?""He has the largest fleet in Torean history, but even that is not enough ships to beat the combined might of the southern seafaring kingdoms. Besides, privateers will play merry hell with his unescorted trading ships while the warships are away. Those fire-circles are impressive against cities, but not all Warsovran's enemies are to be found inland."All the way to the docks they discussed the statistics of the fire-circles, figures that encompassed destruction combining the swiftness of lightning with the power of a volcano. Velander talked earnestly about the fire-circles and smiled continually, yet within her hearts she was resentful. Feran wasan intruder, introduced into her intensely monosexual society by her own mentor. The relationships and politics of the temple were balanced with exquisite care, and into this the boatmaster had intruded with all the delicacy of a stallion loose in a mustering yard full of mares. Who are you, and why is my soulmate paying you so much attention? she thought as they walked the neat, narrow streets down to the waterfront. His speech was deep and harsh to her ears; even his smell was sharp and nauseating. All she could do was stay with Terikel, weathering the barrage of strangeness, but angry and resentful."What can doing, ah, to fighting ... fire-circle?" Velander asked, her Diomedan tortured and slow, yet almost aggressive in tone."Just what we are doing," Feran replied easily. "Study, record, and learn. My thought is that they don't work well over water.""Perhaps Warsovran is going to put one mighty effort into smashing the coastal kingdoms, then use fire-circles on defiant cities inland," said Terikel."True, the fire-circles are invincible on land," said Feran. "No man can stand against them.""But men are soft," said Terikel. "They boast of their prowess and power to impress mere women like us, do they not, Velander? We know their weaknesses.""Oh yes, they are no match for us," replied Velander, trying not to sound appalled at the thought of seducing men as a strategic tactic.The narrow streets suddenly opened onto the wharf area, with cool but mellow sea air and a forest of masts. Velander felt herself relaxing as they approached the Arrowflight along the pier. The ordeal was almost over."Arrowflight here, being, is!" Velander declared in triumph, pointing to the name."Ah yes, and it's a special design," said Feran with a wink to Terikel. "Its masts can be lowered to pass under low bridges, for working in rivers.""Just like, ah, old ship, Shadowmoon," Velander managed, trying to disguise her mood with an attempt at a joke."If you please, keep your voice down!" Feran hissed in genuine alarm.Velander swelled with triumph at having discomfited the male invader, but she said no more. The little schooner was being unloaded, and the air was full of the curses of wharfers. Terikel searched for something flattering to say about the Arrowflight, failed, then Velander suggested that they should return to the temple."So soon?" said Feran, sounding disappointed."Velander has to prepare for ordination," Terikel said."Ah, how wonderful for you," Feran responded, still speaking Diomedan. "How many days more?""Eight, but five of, ah, being vigil," managed Velander, stubbornly refusing to revert to their native language. "Must fast, drinking, er, water of rain. Only. Endure, I must ... ordeals alone.""Ordeals?" asked Feran."Being interrogated by the Elder," explained Terikel, coming to Velander's aid."Hah, it's brave of you," laughed Feran. "Five days with only that old bat for company.""Shall not alone, totally," Velander now added."One's soulmate customarily endures a fast nearby to give comfort," said Terikel."Worthy Terikel, fasting, nearby, will be," said Velander, as slowly and distinctly as she could."Yes, I shall be in the Chapel of Vigils while Velander fasts in the temple's outer sanctum.""And then you become a priestess with twelve years of celibacy before you," Feran sighed. "Who could endure such a wait as that?""Not you, boatmaster?" asked Terikel."Not I, celibate and esteemed ladies."Two of the crew paused to stare as the two women walked back down the pier."So which do you fancy of 'em?" asked the deckswain.Laron put a hand on his chest and stroked it with the other."Me?" asked Feran innocently."You," chorused Norrieav and Laron."Velander's just a serious puppy--but Terikel! Ah, she's like a queen.""They both have ... allure," Laron said, his arms now folded and his head inclined as he stared at the shapely pair of departing figures. There was something about Velander that annoyed him, and he suddenly caught himself licking his lips. He hastily clenched his teeth."No chance. Ye look too small, pale, gaunt, and scruffy," said the deckswain, who was also looking at Terikel and Velander. "Besides, wash off that beard and ye'd look fourteen.""I'm a qualified navigator and medicar!" Laron replied."Aye, and ye'd probably be stronger than the rest of the crew put together, but ye still look like a cabin boy.""So does Feran," retorted Laron."But Feran has curly hair, blue eyes, and body. It gets 'em every time.""Well, not quite every time," Feran demurred."Tread careful, boatmaster," warned Norrieav. "Ye can see that the little one adores the priestess, while the priestess is as protective as a mother cat. I'd not like to come between them.""I would," admitted Feran. "Without a tom, there'd be no kittens."The two women reached the end of the pier, passed between some stalls and vendors, then vanished into a lane."I've been asking around, as I always do," said Laron, turning away and stroking his beard to check that it was still all there. "There is far more to Velander than meets the eye. Just three years ago she was in deep trouble. She had killed several men, apparently agents of Warsovran.""At seventeen?" exclaimed Feran."So it seems. She was also orphaned by agents of Warsovran. Terikel's sister Elasse got her into the temple academy. When Elasse died on a voyage to Acrema, Terikel made Velander into a sort of foster sister. She became her mentor, and even found sponsors for her years of study. As far as Velander is concerned, Terikel is her friend, sister, saint, and queen. She would die for Terikel, and probably kill for her, too.""Kill?" said Feran. "As in, kill me?""You, in general, as opposed to you specifically," explained Laron. 
 
With the unloading done, Laron went into the port and sought a merchant house not far from the water. The back room was nothing like an importer's office, however. Kordoban's Sacking and Cord was no more than a front for Kordoban the trafficker in machineries of doubtful ownership. Unlike sorcerers who studied the arcane arts for power or scholarship, Kordoban specialized in obtaining very powerful etheric machines for the use of others. Socially frowned upon, he was nevertheless much in demand, and fairly rich."This is a mock-up of your quarry," said Kordoban, holding a small, violet sphere up before Laron's face.He dropped it into Laron's palm. Laron examined it for a moment, noting that it was very light, and probably hollow."I need an advance," Laron said. "The sanctum of the Metrologan's Elder will not be easy to breach.""No advance, only results."Unused to being denied anything, Laron growled and bared his fangs. Kordoban immediately drew two silver daggers and held them ready in the manner of a skilled fighter. Laron's growl subsided to a rumble as he backed away two paces."You are a fool, not helping me to help you," Laron warned."If I paid advances to everyone who claimed to be a master thief, I would soon be a master pauper. Now, then, this mock-up oracle sphere is nothing. You can get as many made as you want for five silvers each at Lapidor's. The internal structure and contents are another matter entirely.""My price is three hundred gold circars," Laron said firmly."Produce, and I shall pay."A quarter hour later Laron was standing before a stall in the market. "I am told you can make another of these for five silvers, Lapidor," he said as he held up the mock-up oracle sphere."That I can, squire, and I can provide discretion for another five.""I shall take that option.""Can you wait?""I certainly can." 
 
That same day the Councilium of the Metrologan Order met the agent Feran had delivered. The man was by now wearing the earth-brown robes of a lay scholar."This is Lenticar," said the priestess who was Councilium Elder. "He was captured early in Warsovran's wars of expansion, and worked in slavery for three years. Lenticar, tell the Councilium what you told me."Lenticar bowed to the Elder, then to each Councilium member in turn, wringing his hands all the while. The six priests of the Brotherhood and six priestesses of the Sisterhood were all attentive and alert, which made Lenticar more anxious still."The, ah, essence is that I spent three years in an army of slaves, digging out a collapsed ravine in the Seawall Mountains. One day, late last year, there was a great commotion down at the base of the diggings. We had reached the rocks of the old riverbed, you see. The area was sealed off, and the six hundred slaves who had been working down there were put to the ax. Just like that! No reason, no mercy, just, just--But no matter. The other fifty thousand of us were marched off to build a fortress in Vidaria. Iescaped as we traveled, because the guards were by then a lot less careful. I ... cannot say why. Not precisely, but ... something had been found. I just knew it. We all did. Sometimes we whispered it to each other.""Did you see what had been discovered?" asked a priestess."No, but I heard rumors that even the guards of the slaves closest to whatever it was were killed. We heard the word 'cypher' whispered among the guards. Nobody knew what was meant by it.""Worthy Lenticar, do you have anything else to report?" asked the Elder.Lenticar squirmed restlessly. There was so much to tell, but it was not important here and now."I could report suffering, cruelty, death, and selfless kindness in the face of all those three, but those things have no place here. I have given all that I was able to harvest from three years of toil. Now it is up to you, most Learned and Worthy company, to grow what you can from it."The Elder stood up again now, and gestured to a seat rather than the door. Lenticar sat down."Worthy Lenticar, you have as much right to what the rest of us know as anyone else. Perhaps you may even be able to make better sense of it than we who have not been digging for three years. Worthy company, we have learned that within a few days of the discovery in the ravine, Warsovran rode in with Commander Ralzak and a man named Cypher. Cypher is rumored to be one of the original thieves who stole Silverdeath from its shrine. Just over a month after digging ceased in that ravine, the fire-circle casting burned Larmentel's heart out. Now Warsovran is testing it on what is left of the city, and is learning how to refresh it more quickly. Word arrived by messenger auton bird this morning that a fifth test scoured the life from an area four and two-thirds miles across. That is enough to destroy any army, and is probably adequate to conquer this whole continent."There was a hurried, alarmed murmur among the members of the Councilium."Then why does he just detonate it over Larmentel, over and over?" the Examiner asked."Larmentel is a shell, and now worthless," said the Elder. "He wants the other cities intact, so he seeks to frighten his enemies with these obscene demonstrations of raw power over Larmentel's ruins. Worthy Sisters and Brothers, Warsovran has sworn to wipe out our Order, both priests and priestesses. Clearly we cannot fight this fire-thing, so it is now time for us tofade from sight, as we have often done in earlier times of tyranny. For a few of us, it is time to flee with the Order's records and treasures." 
 
Laron sauntered through the twilight market alone, inspecting the stalls but making no attempt to haggle seriously. This was the market where goods of suspicious origins were offered by even more suspicious vendors, but Laron was in the market for nothing tangible. He stopped before a stall whose ragged banner declared, FARUGIL'S POISONS. The words were underscored with a line of little skulls, for the benefit of the illiterate."Dragon tears--would you have that?" Laron ventured softly."There is little call for it," replied the vendor."Could you get it for me?""I could show you where to get it, but the price is high.""What is that price.""Thirty-five gold circars.""Thirty-five! For that, I could buy your soul.""My soul is not for sale."Their coded exchange over, Laron counted out the price and handed it to the vendor. He was given a vial of cloudy blue glass, which he inspected briefly. Something like a small scroll seemed to be within."Transcripts of the Metrologan Elder's guard autons," said the vendor."They had better be genuine," warned Laron. "You know what happens to those who cheat me.""If you wish to complain, I am here every night."The transaction complete, they bowed and Laron casually walked on. Moments later he was slipping through the crowds like an eel through long grass, and by the time he reached the docks he was running. Only the tip of Miral's outermost ring was above the western horizon as he scrambled into his cabin on the Arrowflight and slammed the shutter closed. 
 
The next two days saw the Arrowflight dragged up onto a slipway at high tide, and scrubbed clean of barnacles and seaweed by laborers. After a wash with hot tar it was floated again, then rowed back out to the pier. Velander sat on a stone bollard and looked down at the deck of the moored Arrowflight, slowly combing and repinning her dark brown hair back fromher face with little ornamental combs. Terikel was nearby, bartering for something at a pier stall.Feran and Laron emerged through the deck hatch. Both were stripped to the waist, but Laron's skin was as white as fresh parchment, and his chest was painfully thin. He was also wearing black kid-leather dress gloves."Deaconess, should you not be keeping a vigil for your ordination?" Feran asked in Diomedan."As of noon, yes," Velander replied, choosing and phrasing her words slowly.They strode up the gangplank and stood beside her, smelling of sweat, sacking, tar and resins."Have you had a good breakfast?" asked Laron, also in Diomedan. "There are five days of fasting ahead.""Have hungered for longer," she replied enigmatically."In your travels?" asked Feran."Ah, yes. How is Diomedan sound? Could pass for, er, speaking native?""You sound more like a foreign scholar, but speak confidently," replied Feran. "Why do you ask?""Curious, only," she said, then her eyes narrowed. "Knowing about fifth fire-circle?""That's not common knowledge," Laron said slowly and uneasily, avoiding Velander's eyes."So, is true! I am hearing, four and two-thirds miles, across. How are you knowing?""I move among common folk," said Laron. "They have ways of finding out, just as priestesses, nobles, and kings do. They note odd things, Deaconess Velander, like the fact that you ask about your spoken Diomedan. Could it be that you might go to Diomedan soon?""Idea is, er, lacking, ah, lacking undergarments.""I think you mean foundation," said the vampyre, smoothly switching to Velander's language for a moment. "The Diomedan for 'foundation garment,' as in 'corset,' and for 'foundation,' as in what a building is built on, are rather similar. Now, try it in Diomedan.""Idea lacking the foundations.""Close enough, for now. A few weeks in Diomeda will fix all that. Speaking of Diomeda, this morning I noticed crates from the temple being loaded onto a deepwater trader bound for Diomeda. The Searose, that big one with three masts.""I know nothing," Velander replied, unconsciously squirming."Is it because of the fire-circles?" asked Feran."No!""Just no?""Worthy Terikel say speak Diomedan, I speak Diomedan. For her. Very well, am learning.""But why would she say that?""She saying, ah, I am study too much of mathematics," Velander improvised. "Saying I am need balance of exotic language. No fire-circles then, when she say."Feran conceded to her logic. "Well, it's meant your charming form and company whenever we dock here, so why should I complain?"Nothing could destabilize Velander quite so readily as a man's opinion of her figure. Without any attempt at subtle wordplay, she instantly changed the subject--with a glance in Terikel's direction to see why she was taking so long."I cannot make sense, ah, of driving energies ... that fire-circles having," she managed with considerable effort."I'm puzzled, too," said Feran. "Magical ether, one supposes.""Magical castings are too limited in terms of sheer power," interjected Laron, "while hellbreath oil must be pumped out of a hose and does not burn hot enough to melt stone. A powerful and exact convergence of etheric and mundane energies is needed.""What would you know of magic?" muttered Feran, surprised and a little annoyed that his strange navigator knew something of the cold sciences as well."I read a lot," replied Laron.They were interrupted by Druskarl, a senior eunuch of the temple guard. He strode down the pier from where the deepwater trader was being loaded. Like the Arrowflight's deckswain, he was a black-skinned Acreman, and was wearing the tunic of a pilgrim instead of his usual armor. His black, braided hair was covered by a sunhood."Deaconess, your vigil starting today," Druskarl said in sharp, heavily accented Damarian."I am under the escort of the Worthy Terikel," Velander replied, dropping back into Damarian, and with quite a good parody of Druskarl's hard, flat voice. She gestured to where Terikel was holding up a pilgrim's pack and arguing with the stallholder."Deaconess! Ordination vigil starting noon," Druskarl insisted."Nobody knows that better than me, Druskarl," she replied firmly.By now Laron had noticed that Velander was under siege. Almost without realizing it, he found himself coming to her aid. "I note that the temple is shipping books to Acrema with you as escort," he said casually to Druskarl."No books," muttered Druskarl."I smelled the scent of old books as your crates were carried past to the Searose.""What you know of books?""I am no stranger to libraries."Velander nodded approvingly. Feran smiled and Druskarl frowned."Druskarl no stranger to ships, noting Arrowflight's masts hinge between brackets," he countered. "Can lie flat.""We need to pass beneath bridges when trading on rivers," said Feran."Arrowflight riding high in water.""The Arrowflight is nearly empty, and our bilges are being bailed and scrubbed," Feran explained with a trace of condescension in his tone; when speaking with Druskarl, that was a mistake. "So, are the Metrologans moving to Acrema before Warsovran turns his fire-circle on Zantrias?""What are strange hatch-covers below load waterline?" Druskarl countered."They are for looking through," Laron answered smoothly.Druskarl frowned, neither believing him nor seeing the joke. "Below waterline?""Yes, in an hour there will be cargo aboard, and they will definitely be below the waterline," said Feran."Druskarl say masts of Arrowflight easy for lowering. Arrowflight easy to sink, also. Arrowflight pretend sinking in shallow water when chased. Low tide coming, hatches closed by crew, crew bailing, then ship floating.""But we are not fishes," said Feran. "We would drown.""Gigboat bolted upside down to frame on deck.""It would fill with rain otherwise.""Gigboat holding air for breathing when Arrowflight sinking."Feran's eyes narrowed. "Some people have minds so sharp, they could slice precious parts of themselves off," he said sullenly to the tall, powerfully built eunuch."They like to people having sharp noses, yes?" asked Druskarl."Well-parried," said Laron, standing back with his arms folded."Good sirs, we need to bid you both farewell," called Terikel, returning with the canvas pack. "Velander has to prepare for her ordination."Terikel crossgrasped hands with all three men in turn, but only Feran felt a scrap of paper being slipped between his fingers."The guard knows our secret," Feran said softly to Laron when they were alone again. "The most advanced vessel on the waters of the world, and he knows what it really is.""But he told us that he knows," replied Laron, who seemed calm about it. "Had he been an enemy, he would have said nothing. Besides, he does not know all the other secrets of the Shadowmoon.""Arrowflight! Who is he?""Our next contact, perhaps. This could be his way of introducing himself."Laron looked to the west, where the ringed disk of Miral was pale in the blue haze, just above the horizon."Miral is setting. I must go to my cabin.""Perchance to sleep and dream?" asked Feran."I never dream, boatmaster. Neither do I sleep."Laron walked down the gangplank, stepped down onto the middeck of the Arrowflight, then slid the hatch to his tiny cabin aside and crawled in. When he had slid the hatch shut again, Hazlok came up beside Feran."I allus feel easier when he sleeps," he declared."Apparently he does not sleep, matey.""Then what's he do?""I have been assured that we are safer not knowing."Hazlok folded his arms and shook his head. "I'se glad he be on our side." 
 
The Arrowflight's master cabin was about the size of a privy laid on its side, and the bunk, desk, chart locker, lamp, and weapons rack were designed to fold back against the wall. Feran sat on his watertight seachest, examining the scrap of paper Terikel had given to him. It was a scroll of tissue, the kind used on primitive messenger auton birds, the ones that could not speak. There was a preamble that was not easy to follow, but it eventually became clear the authors were two priests of the Metrologan's Brother Order. They had been disguised as peasants and were helping Warsovran'svictorious army to strip everything of value from the ruins of Larmentel. They had also witnessed Warsovran's weapon being used. Included on the scroll were secondhand descriptions of the first four tests and quite accurate figures on the destruction's extent. Each test had been at the eighth hour of morning, and every time, a perfect circle had been blasted and scoured by the most intense fire imaginable. Many stones had partly melted or crumbled, and the fire had penetrated to the deepest cellars and tunnels. Not a scrap of wood, food, or even charred bone had survived, but they noted that the fish in a deep ornamental pond, while boiled, were at least whole and uncharred."It is our feeling that Warsovran's Commander Ralzak has a weapon of such potency that no city or army could stand against him," the report's minuscule writing concluded.Total annihilation in a hopeless cause is far less constructive than surrender in the knowledge that Warsovran's day will pass. Our Order can continue to work in secret until more enlightened times return and--There was a short pen-slash, as if the writer had had his arm jolted, then the fine writing commenced again.We have just seen a fifth wall of fire over the city, one reaching right to the city's outer walls. It burst from the sky at the eighth hour in the form of a torus about a half mile above the center of Larmentel, spilling fire down the center to blast all before it, then rolling back into the sky and down its own center again. It covered a radius from the center to the outer walls in the time one needs to draw a deep breath, and made a sound like a continuous peal of thunder. The degree of annihilation was the same as before on the ground. Make what you will of this ghastly nightmare. We shall release an auton bird with this message and send more news as we are able.Worthy Deremi and Worthy TrolandicFeran studied the figures and dates for the five detonations of Warsovran's weapon over the past one hundred twenty days. He was intrigued by the fact the fish in the pond had remained uncharred. Appended in more elegant handwriting was the name of a dockside tavern, "Stormhaven," and the word "dusk."He gazed through the cabin window's fretwork at the port. Were the fire-circle weapon to be used on Zantrias, the Arrowflight could be sunk with its crew, and with the air in the gigboat they could last as long as six hours. The only drawback was that the schooner needed several minutes to sink, while the weapon could raze the port in mere seconds."On the other hand ..." Feran said to himself, then went out onto the deck."Norrieav, I want the, ah, Arrowflight taken through a practice dive drill tomorrow morning," he announced to the deckswain."Here, sir? In the harbor?""Just the drill, not a full dive. At dawn tomorrow, have the men secure and seal all goods that might spoil, and at, say, the seventh hour, have us standing over deep water with the masts down.""There is a deep spot about a hundred yards straight out from the side of the pier. The big ships use it as a turning basin.""That will do nicely. There we shall hold ready until I order a return to the pier. Nobody will know our secret unless we actually open the underwater sink hatches, and, of course, we shall not do that.""Very good, sir. The worst time to practice is in a real emergency.""Too true, Norrieav, too true."Copyright © 2002 by Sean McMullen