By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) Read online

  After a quick wash and a change of clothing, Dirk was refreshed, at least enough to return to Bessemer’s. He emerged from the building and was greeted, rather hailed, by Yvonne, a working girl who had grown up in that same neighborhood. “Oh Dirk! Sweetie!” she called with a friendly, exaggerated wave. “Why don’t you come over here?” Yvonne walked up to Candy and began rubbing the horse’s neck while Dirk spared the girl a half-hearted smile.

  “I have to get back to work,” he said with cold politeness.

  “Oh come on,” she whined. “Why are you so mean to me? I remember when we were little…when you were little…and you wanted to kiss me. Am I unattractive?” she asked, spinning around, her dress floating dangerously high as she twirled, revealing the very bottom of her slender buttocks. Unattractive? ‘No’, Dirk thought. But her brand of ‘lady’ had never appealed to him. Certainly those working girls and most women in general, were friendly to Dirk. But Dirk had always felt that a person, a man as well as a woman, should respect his or her body, sharing their love with only one other, not any other. Dirk found he was nearly alone in that belief and he longed to find that one soul he could love, but had no real belief he ever really would.

  “No, you look nice,” he said, climbing into the wagon. Yvonne still held Candy’s harness. “Now look out, I have to go.”

  “Dirky-poo,” she said, pouting her lips to no avail. When she saw no change in his dour attitude, Yvonne decided to try her charms again another day. “Well, cutie-pie, you know where I live,” she said, finally dropping her act of innocence. Dirk certainly liked it better when Yvonne did not try to act how she really wasn’t. But he still didn’t like her enough to grant her desires.

  “Bye,” Dirk said, and Yvonne released the reins.

  “See-ya,” Yvonne answered with a sigh, watching the husky man drive away.

  The night was still; the ever-present sea breeze that normally whirled through the city noticeably absent as the Fiend slipped from shadow to shadow. Its hunger was tremendous, uncontrollable. The great clock tolled ‘one’ as It looked to the stars, bright and twinkling above. It wanted to howl Its frustration at the all-revealing light, but no sounds came from Its throat.

  The Fiend slid into a doorway and sniffed the air, then opened the lock and went inside. It stood, smelling. Sensing. Alerted, It moved to the stairs and climbed; Its step light for such a tremendous creature. The Fiend paused, waiting, scheming, and then continued on Its path, hunger overcoming any attempt at planning and caution.

  It opened the door and saw her: the prey—soft, easy, gentle. It needed her. But then the Fiend caught another scent; the scent of man. But sleeping man was easy to kill, so It did, then fell drooling on the woman, the man’s bloody pillow in hand to smother her cries of pain. Though her death was not immediate, no scream was ever heard and she soon joined the man in cold, endless sleep, allowing the Fiend to move on numbed and sated, but only for the increasingly brief moment.

  Ginia giggled, her neck the victim of Selric’s biting affections. A deep kiss farewell and he was on his way. With a sigh, she watched him leave: his sack, blue eyes, charm, devastatingly good looks, and that gorgeous smile. Ginger and Anoria came running down the steps.

  “Did he leave?” Ginger asked.

  “Mm-mm,” Ginia affirmed, looking at them only after Selric had passed from her sight.

  “Why didn’t you wake us?” Anoria pleaded. Ginia returned a selfish grin, then pushed past them arrogantly and walked upstairs. Her friends followed, after a quick peek out into the street to make sure that he was indeed gone, and all three sat together and reminisced about the night before, wondering how long until Selric would return.

  The gate to the Stormweather villa swung open as Selric approached. “Master Selric,” the guard said in greeting, bowing low and smiling at the nobleman who spent as much time cavorting with the help than he did other aristocrats. He was one who seemed more at home in the guardhouse, stable, servant quarters (especially for the maids) than he did in the fine manor house.

  “Hello,” said Selric with a smile he had yet to holster as he passed the gate. He walked quickly across the court toward the heavy ironbound doors, waving at the half-dozen giggling servant girls who dangled out the windows of their dormitory building across the compound. Selric continued on and heaved open the great front door, walked through the foyer beyond and up to the hearth room doors. Straightening his appearance, Selric opened the portals and stepped through the threshold, still smiling.

  “Greetings from the East!” he proclaimed loudly.

  His father immediately cast him a baleful glance, stating, “Indeed.”

  “My baby, where have you been?” asked his mother, Violet, holding her arms out toward Selric as he walked over to where she sat pertly in her favorite chair. She was the woman Selric saw as the most beautiful in the world, and he melted in her loving embrace. He looked into her eyes; the same alluring blue eyes he had inherited, though hers were now the more blue and alluring because of the enamored tears welling up within them. With his deft touch, Selric surprised his mother by pulling from his bag a solid sapphire the size of her palm cut into the remarkable likeness of a unicorn. It was a prize from Emperor Quan Trang’s personal treasure vault; a gift to the mother of the young man who had so impressed him with his wit, charisma, and adaptability to his own culture.

  “I suppose that was bought with Stormweather money I sent specifically for trade goods, you whelp,” barked the gruff voice emanating from a once grand and powerful physique, a Stormweather trademark, now bent and weakened with age.

  “Grandfather! The love of my life,” Selric exclaimed, rising with smooth fluidity and approaching the elderly man in clearly feigned affection, smiling a goading grin, arms outstretched and lips puckered as if he would hug and kiss him.

  “Do not touch me. Where have you been? The Maiden docked nineteen hours ago,” his grandfather, Helmric, snapped.

  “Lost?” Selric tried, smiling even harder, antagonizing his grandfather as he loved to do, the young man’s eyes sparkling with wit, his cheeks glowing in mirth. Helmric scoffed and tried to ignore him. Andric, Selric’s father, walked up, his hand outstretched.

  “Welcome home, son, we are all glad to see you. Now your mother can stop blubbering about her baby being captured by heathen hordes or eaten by sea-monsters or ensnared in a kelpie’s net and other similarly nonsensical rubbish.” The men shook hands. “Capt. Suffolk tells me that you did an admirable job. You navigated the return voyage. That is outstanding, Selric. He said that you impressed the Emperor as well.” With an arm across his shoulder, Andric led his son to a small table that held several bottles of liquor and he poured them each a drink, patting Selric proudly on the back. As fit as Selric was, his father’s rapping upon his shoulders knocked him forward with every ‘tap.’

  “Yes, Emperor Quan Trang is an incredible man,” said Selric, again reaching inside the sack, but this time he pulled forth a sword of Eastern make and incredible workmanship. “A gift from his Emperial Majesty when I had completed my language studies with his wise men.”

  “An impressive weapon,” Andric admired, taking the sword and partially sliding it smoothly from the scabbard, the light reflected off the priceless blade.

  “You can’t carry that,” Helmric interrupted. “Stormweathers have a standard. We use Western blades. Can you not be more like your brother? Where is that boy? Mendric!” he yelled in obvious frustration. “Where are you?” Selric did not answer his grandfather, going not to his bag, but to one of the two sea chests he had instructed be delivered to his home and containing his clothing, navigation gear, charts, etc. Selric took a key from around his neck, opened a chest and pulled out a beautiful painting of an Oriental dragon, wrapped safely in a wool blanket, which when unveiled revealed a rare and intricately worked wooden frame. Selric knelt and offered the gift up to his grandfather.

  “Well...thank you,” Helmric replied, becoming uncomfortably moved. “
It is very nice...but it doesn’t excuse what you did!” he said, trying to remain firm. Selric saw his grandfather softening, as he always would with Selric, after his displeasure had been clearly stated. Both Helmric and his grandson knew that Selric had not done anything truly wrong, but it was understood that the older Stormweather wanted the younger to make the most of his heritage and viewed his flirtatious, irresponsible behavior as contradictive to that goal; honor above all else. Selric winked to Helmric, rose and walked to stand by his mother and took her hand. One of the several doors leading into the room opened and Mendric entered from his bedchamber suite. The brothers resembled each other very little. Mendric had the brown eyes of his father, and was a hand taller and more husky and broad-shouldered than his younger half-brother.

  “Hello brother,” Mendric said with a smile just as Andric turned once more to Selric, resting his fists on the huge oak table now standing between them. Selric was healthy and quite muscular, but lacked the Stormweather stature. He would forever be Mendric’s ‘little’ brother. Violet had married Andric when she was seventeen, giving birth to Selric their first year of marriage; twenty-three years ago. Mendric, now twenty-eight years, was only eleven years younger than his new mother, but had been raised well enough to respect her and treat her as his own, especially since she had raised him since he was five.

  “You never answered your grandfather, Selric. Where have you been?” Andric asked his son.

  “I...I was busy,” he said, followed quickly by, “I had to see some people.” It had completely slipped his mind to make an excuse on his walk home. He was just too happy just to be back in Andrelia to have actually worried about any repercussions earlier. Standing there that moment, he saw his error.

  “You were lassing again, weren’t you?” his grandfather asked.

  “Grandfather!” Violet whined. “Such crudeness. I would prefer that you didn’t say that about Selric.”

  “I am sorry, Violet, darling. That boy just gets my blood boiling. Here he has a loving mother waiting and worrying. And where is he? He’s out giving those trollops...”

  “Father...” Andric interrupted uncomfortably, “...we get the idea.”

  “Speaking of girls, Angelique von Yelson has been asking for you,” said Violet brightly, the hope of her son settling into a well-bred and deserving marriage shining in her face as she stroked Selric’s hand. “She is such a nice girl and from a fine family. Pretty and...”

  “Mother,” Selric protested, rolling his eyes. “I will pick my own...” he paused, trying to think of the right word, “...girlfriends.”

  “Well, none the less,” she continued, “we are having a party to celebrate your return tonight.” She glanced at her husband. “Selric, why don’t you go over and ask Miss von Yelson if she would like to be your guest this evening?”

  “Mother...” Selric pleaded again, rolling his eyes, his face distorted in agony.

  “I would love to see her again…and it…it would make me very happy,” she said, a smile spreading across her face, sculpted eyebrows raised implicitly. “And I am sure that she will be equally thrilled. You have been friends for so long, and she has asked about you incessantly. We have had some wonderful talks about you.”

  “Do what your mother says, boy,” barked Helmric, followed by labored coughs.

  “Indeed,” Andric agreed sternly.

  “All right, all right,” Selric sighed, glaring at his grandfather. He turned again to his mother and forced himself to smile. She was a vision at which he could never frown. “Whatever brightens your face, my love,” Selric said, causing his mother to blush affectionately.

  “Now,” said Mendric, “may I take the baby?” He put his arm around Selric and led him roughly toward his room. Selric kissed his mother’s hand as he was led away and he smiled for her once more.

  “Stop touching your mother like that, or I’ll beat some manners into you,” said his father none-too-seriously. The brothers went to Mendric’s room and closed the door, leaving the elders discussing party plans of who had been, or had not been, invited and of all the last minute details. But Andric and Violet wasted no time in questioning Helmric about his failing health; again.

  “Just what is wrong with Angelique?” Mendric started.

  “Not you too? Nothing. Nothing at all,” Selric gasped hopelessly. Then he paused. “Well, if you truly wish to know, now that I think about it...if I had to answer, it would be that she is too proper. Yes, too proper. She is very pleasant, but no fun at all.”

  “You mean she will not compromise her morals for your decadent lust?”

  “No, that’s not it at all,” Selric insisted.

  “Then what?”

  “It’s just that...I don’t know,” he sighed. “She’s a nice girl. I don’t want a nice girl.” The brothers fell silent. Selric paced about, his hands folded as he repeatedly lifted his arms in frustration, as if by working his arms and hands all about some cohesive thoughts could be forced from his throat. “You know that I despise the nobility; the gossip; the pomp and the parties; the restrictions. It might be all right for you, but I want nothing to do with it. Angelique stands for that. She deserves it. Not in a bad way,” he hurriedly added, “but a good one. She truly deserves nice things. I like seedy taverns, gambling, throwing chamber pots out windows onto the heads of snotty priests...”

  “You’re repulsive.”

  “Maybe, but that’s me. Angelique deserves better.” He looked at the ground. “But I will ask her to the party tonight.” He then brightened as he said, “Well, what is new here? I have been gone so long…I can hardly believe I am home…”

  “Nothing. I have to go over to the Academy to train some Stormweather recruits in swordplay. You’re a passable swordsman, or you were two years ago. You should assist me. We’ll stop by the festhall. Hired some new girls recently...you can help your wicked soul fester a bit more,” he laughed, eyebrows raised, laying the bait his brother’s amorous nature could not let lie. “And even Grandfather can’t complain about you spending time at our own hall!”

  “I’ve got to see Angelique.”

  “First, we have some lunch. Then you see Angelique. Then, after that, you come over and show me what you learned since you’ve been away, little brother,” Mendric said, throwing Selric over his shoulder, and carrying him back into the hearth room, to the worried gasps of their sensitive mother.

  The von Yelson household was, in many respects, more impressive than the Stormweather villa. Decades earlier the noble villas lay on the outskirts of town, expansive grounds and gardens surrounding them. But with the growth of Andrelia’s population, the nobles walled their estates to preserve their privacy from the growing populace and built upon the outer lands they had once enjoyed for their solitude, renting the new buildings on those properties to the common citizens. The von Yelson family had maintained more gardens within their walls, keeping fewer guards and servants and thus needing fewer buildings to house and feed them. The von Yelson manor was more beautiful and less military, understandably, than the Stormweathers, whose main interest was in their two military academies that trained warriors as bodyguards, caravan escorts, soldiers, etc. The von Yelson’s, however, owned great businesses in mining and the selling of the resultant ore and minerals found within; a very profitable life. They did not need, nor desire, a fortified household: militarism was not in their nature or their history.

  Selric walked across the compound that contained the manor, servants’ quarters, small stables, and guesthouse, making his familiar way straight to the main house. He was admitted by Lorin, the von Yelson’s head valet, and was asked to wait in the foyer while his presence was announced. Very soon Selric was escorted to the parlor where Lady von Yelson, Angelique’s mother, sat drinking tea. The room, the entire house in fact, was decorated as only a delicate member of the aristocracy could overdo, with no space left empty for the eye to rest from the opulence all about.

  “Selric Stormweather, how nice of y
ou to visit! You look well,” the lady said, admiring him top to bottom. “Yes, very well indeed. You are maturing nicely,” she affirmed with definite, almost improper infatuation. “As handsome as your father ever was. Nonetheless, we are all expecting a party in honor of your return. Will it run as scheduled?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Selric replied, knowing how all the gentry in Andrelia would be awaiting the festivities, desiring any chance to come together in their finest gala attire. He strolled around the room, examining the fixtures as he had done dozens of times before, and felt Lady von Yelson watching, spying him.

  “Would you like something while you wait? Some tea, perhaps?” she asked. Selric turned to her from where he had paused across the room, smiling still.

  “No. Thank you,” he said. “You look beautiful today, as always, Lady von Yelson,” Selric added, as if in afterthought. He went to her and, bowing, took the lady’s hand and gently pressed it to his lips. “You have not aged since last we visited,” he said. Selric rose again and walked back to the doorway, then across the room to the window, pacing.

  “Angelique has not seen you in a long time,” Lady von Yelson said. “She may be a while making herself presentable.”

  “She knew that I had come home yesterday, did she not?”

  “And she’s been expecting you,” Lady von Yelson urged, “but she did not know exactly when...” She paused in frustration. “Please indulge a lady her right to prepare herself for those she cares about.”