By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) Read online

  BY MOONLIGHT

  WROUGHT

  by

  JOHN C. CRANDALL

  Copyright © 2014 by John Crandall

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems—without the permission of the copyright holder who is the copyright holder and publisher of this manuscript.

  To my own Andric Stormweather: I never knew how much you contributed to what I do until it was too late to tell you. Not only is a large part of Andric drawn from my memories of you, but the goodness and the perseverance prevalent in the heroes of this story are all drawn from the type of person you inspired in me. Thanks, Pop.

  Table of Contents

  City Map of Andrelia

  World Map

  Part I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Part II

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  City Map of Andrelia

  World Map

  Part I

  1

  The Maiden raced upon the wind. Selric Arnesson Stormweather, his hair whipped by the breeze, held the wheel steady and on course, guiding the ship home. Though his shoulders ached from piloting The Maiden, such labor was Selric’s best effort at keeping his mind off the last few hours of his exile.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Dalrin called over the sporadic, gusting wind and rippling sails as he climbed onto the deck. “You should go pack your things.”

  “Already done,” Selric said. “Two days ago.”

  “Let me take the helm anyway, Master Selric. It is my job after all,” Dalrin said, then changed subjects and tone, conversing with his superior and friend. “You’ve quite a life to return to. After two years you must be eager to get back.” Selric’s grin grew to a full-fledged smile as the first mate stepped up to take the helm. “Now let me get to work and you go get ready to dock. With these favorable winds, we’ll be there under three hours.”

  “Hours…it’s been so long since I've heard the clock tower I’m not sure I can even tell the hours anymore,” Selric sighed happily. “So Dalrin, did you enjoy your years abroad?” Selric asked, turning so the wind blew his hair back out of his face instead of across it, though it meant looking away from his friend while he spoke.

  “Aye. It wasn’t the life you lived, but was interesting. Lovely girls. And they know their place! Will take some getting used to: these headstrong Andrelian women.”

  “Andrelian women,” sighed the youngest Stormweather. “Aye. I have missed them. The women of the east are fine and demure and subservient, for sure. But I have missed the fire. The challenge. The hunt!” he finished, turning to grin at his mate.

  “Give me a subservient woman any day, Master Selric.”

  Dalrin glanced back to where Selric had deviously slid. “Don’t even think of doing it,” Dalrin warned. “I hate it. You know I hate it. Don’t. Don’t!” he screamed, avoiding Selric as best he could without losing grip on the wheel, and subsequently, their course. Selric succeeded in grabbing Dalrin’s neck where it met the shoulder. Using only his thumb and forefinger, he quickly immobilized the mate, leaving him unable to do anything but stand, though Dalrin could still laugh nervously. Selric beamed, leading the mate away from the helm and around in a small circle, as if he were on a leash. “You bastard. I hate those people for teaching you these things. Up there in that palace learning who knows what…and in that monastery. I always wondered what in the world you, of all men, would be doing locked up in a monastery with no women. Was it just to learn how to torture me?” he said with considerable gasping indicating his discomfort. “Now let me go before Perriwimple comes on deck!”

  “He won’t care,” said Selric, continuing to move his friend about playfully. Dalrin could only go where led; if he resisted, the pain became tremendous. “Haven’t I told you not to give me orders?”

  “I forgot,” said Dalrin sarcastically, “your daddy owns the ship. Now let me go,” he said louder, “I’m getting mad!”

  “Say please and...”

  “Selric Stormweather, cease this childish behavior immediately. Have you learned nothing in our time abroad?!” Selric relinquished his grasp, whirling to face Captain Perriwimple Suffolk who had emerged onto the main deck below and was at that moment striding for the stairs, stepping over the coiled ropes and tarp-covered gear in his path. Dalrin scuttled back to his post as Perriwimple stomped up the steps. “Eager are we gentlemen?” Perriwimple asked sternly.

  “Most definitely,” Selric said, not intimidated, but spry, as he walked to meet the captain. Dalrin, a simple, studious mate, could do nothing but stare ahead, hoping above all to avoid the captain’s wrath: unlike Selric, whose sailing days were likely over, Dalrin would be working for Perriwimple for many years to come.

  “I think that your father will be pleased,” Perriwimple said, his face as stern as it invariably seemed, though showing no anger for Selric’s lack of professionalism. “I believe that you have finally found your trade. You are a very promising navigator, Selric. With this journey you have proven your ability. Now all that has to follow is the desire to pursue it,” he said, his brows raised.

  “It was an enlightening experience,” Selric said, barely able to hide his sarcasm. While Selric did actually like the sea, navigating and the new lands he encountered, months, even years, away from his life in Andrelia was too heavy a price to pay.

  “Well, carry on,” Captain Suffolk said as he turned to leave, “with your work that is.” He stopped and cast the younger men a warning glance, for while he knew that the young nobleman might one day be his employer, Selric’s father, Lord Stormweather, would support the ship’s captain in making sure that order and discipline had been obeyed.

  Selric turned toward the seacoast several miles off to the east and watched it roll by, his mind flooded with thoughts of his Andrelian acquaintances. He could never have imagined how much his home had changed in his absence.

  Selric had washed in his room as the crew docked the ship so that he could depart as soon as the gangplank went down. Selric was normally hard working and not one, despite his station, to shirk his duties. But in this one instance, his eagerness bursting within his…chest…Selric allowed his employees to complete the journey’s last few tasks. So, with a sack weighted down with assorted treasures collected from his ports-of-call thrown over his shoulder, Selric sprang down the plank and sped up the dock as quickly as his unsteady sea legs allowed.

  Andrelia was a tremendous city of over a hundred thousand souls—several hundred thousand at the height of trading season—that lay on the northwest coast of the most settled continent on its world. It was the capital of one of the last remaining true kingdoms, Mendanar, and was ruled by a true royal family, with power passed from father to son, generation after generation for over four-hundred years. Most often these kings were good and kind and liked by the people, if not loved, and all was well. When the monarch was not so loved, there were perhaps a dozen noble families of worth who banded together to steer the floundering throne off any course seen destructive or even disruptive for the nation.

  These nobles held little power in government, the king reigning supreme. But together these landed knights and gentry fielded nearly as many men as were in the royal army itself, and commanded these men during battle at the king’s orders aga
inst enemies of the realm. When joined strongly together for one common goal, this feudal class could often persuade their ruler to look more closely at any actions that seemed to threaten stability.

  They were warlords and protectors, politicians and social animals of the highest caliber, as unable to resist a good party as they were a good war. These families dictated fashion and mannerisms and provided the commoners with almost as much employment as they did gossip. Most of these self-interested families were tolerated for all their ancestors had done in establishing and protecting the kingdom during past wars, but a few families were not only respected, but revered as noble not only in blood and title, but in honor and deeds as well. It was to one of these families, perhaps the kingdom’s foremost, that Selric belonged.

  Andrelia was home to most of the kingdom’s ruling noblemen, even if the majority of their holdings lay elsewhere in the vast realm, and they all possessed at the very least small manorial estates in the city for when they needed to attend the king at court. These homes and manor houses lay on the prosperous upper side of the city, away from the air and the manner of the waterfront that looked then so wonderful to Selric’s eyes that he gazed all about with glee, scampering on his roundabout way home.

  His eyes drank up the old, leaning buildings; lapped the crooked cobblestone streets; imbibed the prostitutes who accosted him: some knowing him by name and welcoming him home. In fact, his name was soon ringing up the streets and echoing off the mostly wooden structures there on the seedy waterfront. “Oye, that looks like Master Stormweather ‘is self, don’t it?”

  “Master Stormweather is home?” the cries went up, and many more.

  Selric recognized every brilliant spire of the dozens of cathedrals making up most of Andrelia’s crowded cityscape and the towering palace in the midst of it all, visible above the behemoth walls for leagues in all directions. Around him, beggars rooted through heaps of garbage for some scrap to eat and dogs tore one another’s fur for a dead and potentially diseased, rat.

  But this youngest Stormweather swilled the very air and sounds of bustle, and argument, and pleasure, and displeasure, and toil, and decadence, and prosperity and a host of other worldly things common to such a place of habitation; the squeal of children at play, the rumble of carriage wheels, the creak of laden axles, the arguing voices of two merchants plying themselves to their trade of bartering, red in the face and wet in the armpits, their eyes aglow with eagerness for the game itself.

  Several times day and night while on his voyage, Selric had rehearsed, in his mind, the exact path he would take, winding his way to the family estate: the route picked so that he could most efficiently “touch base” with his most memorable acquaintances and friends. So, Selric hurried, though attentive, through all this that he had not seen for many months and he did not slow until he had reached the architectural firm of Benjamin Orlitz. “Is Ben in, beautiful?” Selric asked the assistant, Sandra Arlow, with a wink as he came to stand before her counter. Sandra’s eyes sparkled when she looked up and saw who it was who had come through the door.

  “No, Master Stormweather. He’s working on a project up on Page Street. He won’t be in until after dark.”

  “I’ll stop in to see him another day. It wasn’t important.”

  “Welcome home,” Sandra said softly with a smile to which Selric produced a small but precious stone, placing it on the desk with another wink, bending over and kissing her cheek softly. Then he turned and walked quickly out, an extra skip in his step. Selric was hoping that Benjamin Orlitz would not be in: he seldom was, but Selric needed to be sure. He walked to the nearby alley and through it to the back of that same building, then laid his sack aside, knelt down, and produced a lock pick hidden in the seam of his sleeve, using it on the door. In a moment the portal nudged open. Selric looked left and right down the alley then slipped inside, closed the door, set his bag by the coat rack then headed for the stairs; the familiar stairs.

  Stealing up the steps, Selric’s ears strained for any sounds indicating that someone was home. He checked the first door he encountered after mounting the stairs; the sewing room. Empty. Next, the bedroom. He opened the door, peeked inside and, seeing it empty as well, closed it once again. “Where?” he thought. Then it hit him. “Bath time,” he murmured, opening the bedroom door again and going inside. He crept past the neatly made bed; past the nightstand covered with cosmetics; past the dressing screen draped with feminine finery; he turned and went past the wardrobe that sat next to the mirror. Smiling at his reflection, Selric quickly undressed, fixed his hair and stepped to the door. Bursting with anticipation, Selric opened it. Sitting in the bath and facing away from him was a petite figure, blonde hair in a bun, humming happily. Slowly, silently, Selric slid up to her and placed his hands over her eyes.

  “Ben?” she giggled. Selric swung around before her and plopped into the tub and into her lap, lying like a babe in the woman’s arms. She gasped; astonished. “Selric, great gods! What are you doing here? My husband?” She tried to sit up.

  “He won’t be back for hours, my dear, dear Alicin,” Selric assured her, batting his eyelashes playfully.

  “You’re back?!” she then asked with a surprised smile. Alicin’s expression softened, then brightened as she wrapped her arms around him then puckered her lips, eyes closed, awaiting the kiss she knew forthcoming. Selric Arnesson Stormweather, second son of Lord Andric Stormweather, was now officially home.

  Sweat ran down his face, the summer heat and humidity pressing down on him as he stroked her nose. “Ready to go home,” Dirk whispered in her ear. Candy simply snorted as he climbed up into the wagon, and with a light flick of the reins the old draft horse started off once more.

  Dirk had to get back to work; back to the largest store in all of Andrelia to finish delivering its goods to customers. The heat was stifling, so on the way he stopped for a drink at a place where the sign over the door read, Grizzly Bar. He set the wagon’s brake, leapt down and strode inside, having made sure that Candy was resting in the shade. The shop was still warm despite the shade and the open shutters, so Dirk was all the more eager for a drink. He was surprised to find Barnabus tending the bar. More often, Malchor, the owner, worked days, using Barnabus on the night shifts.

  “A beer, Busy. Please. Where’s Malchor?”

  “Oh,” Barnabus sighed, “some ship from far away came today. One of those St…St…Stormweather ships. It had some wine and Malchor went to buy some. He said that it was good and he would like to sell it. If rich people come, then they’ll buy it ‘cause it came from far away. You know?” he asked, smiling though obviously struggling to give as good an explanation as he might. Barnabus was undeniably slow, slightly above the level of being an idiot, Dirk thought. But the man was kind and sweet and Dirk was fond of him. Dirk quickly drank his beer, nodding to some of the familiar patrons and saying ‘goodbye’ to Busy before heading out the door.

  Dirk needed to stop at his apartment before going back to work in order to change his sweat-drenched clothing. On the way up the steps to his third floor room, he bumped, literally, into some of his fellow tenants; three surly dock workers. “Hey look, it’s Dork,” said Croon, the first and filthiest of the men. Croon was in his mid-forties and had more hair on his immense sideburns than on his knobby head. He was ill-tempered and unpleasant, but Dirk would let him press none of his dourness onto him that day. Grabbing Croon by the throat, Dirk’s arm muscles swelled to fill his shirt sleeve; an arm as big as a normal man’s thigh. Normally patient, Dirk would ignore harassment from such men and instead keep on with his business, as he had been taught to do at the orphanage where he had been raised, and knowing the pleasure of staying mostly unknown and not needing to look over his shoulder for danger at every turn. Dirk chose his battles carefully, but preferred to almost always shy from confrontations. One never knew when someone slighted, for real or imagined, might show up with friends bearing sharpened steel. Perhaps the heat was to blame, or perhaps it w
as a strange wind that blew out of the East, but this day Dirk let his hatred of bullies surface.

  “I don’t like that name,” Dirk growled, pulling the man nose to nose with himself. The other workers stood motionless as Croon tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow, a soft gurgle emerging from his throat. Dirk squeezed harder for a moment then gently placed Croon back on the steps before continuing on to his room. Dirk was more worried about remaining and letting his temper escalate the unnecessary situation than he was at turning his back on them. Croon, also worried about the mild-mannered Dirk escalating the encounter, stumbled down the stairs holding his throat, out into the street to try his bullying somewhere else, his friends close on his heels.

  It was the first time Dirk had stood up to Croon. Perhaps it was more than simply the heat. True, the city had been a rougher place as of late, more than the temperature to blame. It could have been the weak trading season that shortened every citizen’s temper, or maybe Dirk just imagined these things. Perhaps it was because he had just come from seeing Barnabus, a man much like himself in heart and kindness; a man always being bullied. Dirk would stand up for Busy, why not himself? Perhaps it had been his wishing upon the plethora of falling stars during the yearly occurrence known as Triana’s Fall a few weeks earlier, hoping his lot would change. Or perhaps it was simply time for Dirk to start doing things for himself instead of allowing things to be done to him.

  There was not one particular event or thought that led Dirk to this transformation of will, but a host of small, slight and unimportant ones. Dirk had lived a solitary life for twenty-two poor years (as close as he could count) with no ambition or hope that change would come. He would deliver furniture until too old then find himself either in jail or cared for in a sick-house founded by one of the many wealthy cathedrals. Or, if lucky, he would take a wife he cared little for, as everyone seemed to do, and be nurtured in his dotage by unloving children. Little by little, imperceptibly, Dirk had decided this outlook was no longer suitable. What was required was some ambition: ambition stemming from the fact that he knew, somehow, that he was different from everyone else around him; ambition that he belonged if not above, at least away from the rest of those whose outlook he had shared for so long. Dirk was destined to be something else, and he felt destiny needed a bit of a prod.