By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (16 page)

         “How long?  He’ll find someone else,”
Melissa said sadly.

         “Then he really wasn’t meant for you, or
doesn’t deserve you either, frankly.  Besides, you can’t know him after one
month.  Give it a year or three.”  Fiona rose walked over to her.  “Give him a
chance to know and appreciate you.  Remember, he’s an orphan.  He’s probably a
loner and needs to find himself and his dreams before he can find a wife.  Really,”
Fiona said reassuringly.  “Give him a chance.  You can’t hoard what you don’t
have.  There is a bond between you.  I can feel it.  And I bet he can too.” 
She rubbed Melissa’s back, and to her surprise, Melissa turned around and
hugged her, nearly squeezing the breath out of Fiona.  They stood there several
minutes; Melissa clinging, Fiona stroking.

         “I’m tired,” Melissa finally said,
breaking away. “I think I want to go to bed.”

         “Sure, Mel,” Fiona said.  Though it was
early and Fiona had wanted to take Melissa back out on the town, and hopefully
talk religion, she left, smiling a comforting smile for the confused farm
girl.  Melissa undressed and went to bed, sobbing softly over her unsteady life
that she saw getting more and more out of control everyday, and she just knew
that it was going to get worse before it got better.

         Cinder walked down the street.  It was
late in the night.  There was no moon, and even if there had been, the fog
would have prevented any sight of it.  The conditions made the street seem as
if a tunnel with walls made of gray, swirling mist.  It was warm and damp, as
well as quiet, deathly quiet, so Cinder tried to whistle, but the tune died
inches from her lips.  The only sounds available were the ‘whoosh’ of her dress
and the ‘click’ of her heels against the cobblestones.  Then suddenly,
solemnly, breathing could be distinguished:  soft, slow breathing.  But then it
changed, it was no longer soft nor slow, but heavy and panting; hissing.  It
wasn’t her breath at all. 

         She stopped.

         There was not a sound in the world and
Cinder’s super-sensitive ears throbbed at the silence.  She felt something and
spun around, thinking then that she caught a glimpse of a shadow flitting
through the mist.  A breath of cold, musty air blew across her face and behind
her Cinder felt It:  something blacker than night.  She could feel Its dark icy
fingers reaching for her throat.  She twirled back again and there It stood; a
large black shape.  She caught the glint of steel in Its shadowy limb, the
steel of a small blade, and then
It
caught
her
.  It flashed out
and stuck her in the abdomen and Cinder couldn’t even scream.  She couldn’t
breath.  As the monster moved against Cinder, she felt Its blade rip her tender
flesh.  Her world spun as she was no longer on the street but lying on her bed,
looking up, the ceiling whirl-pooling above her as she bled out.

         “Cinder come home!” a feminine voice
screamed in her head.

         Cinder sat bolt upright in bed, her heart
pounding so fiercely she thought it would burst through her chest and she
sucked a long, deep and loud breath, like someone who had nearly been drowned,
into her heaving lungs.  Her hands tightly gripped her stomach and she looked
down expecting to see herself covered in blood.  With the relief that there was
none, Cinder brushed the dark locks away from her face and fell back onto her
pillow, terribly afraid.  The sheets were wet and cold from perspiration, so
she rolled over and put her head on his chest, but he pushed her back and
rolled away.  Cinder clung feebly to him, laying her head then on his back,
peering cautiously around the room.  It was vaguely familiar; she had been
drunk when she arrived and all memories after her arrival were still sketchy to
her.

         The only things she could firmly remember
were the ceiling with its large mirror, and the bed; especially its four
posts.  She looked at her wrists, the leather thongs were still wrapped about
each one.  She reached under the covers and loosened the straps of her shoes
and kicked them off and down into the corner of the bed.  She took her silk
encased feet and placed them between his calves, but again he pushed her away
and she lay there motionless the rest of the night afraid and staring into the
darkness until she briefly fell asleep just before sunrise, and the terrible
dream was pushed from her memory. 

         Dreaming was something new to Cinder. 
Elves dreamt while awake, actually never needing sleep, only requiring a
dream-time state in which to rest their minds and recall things from so many
years ago.  Cinder’s human blood was turning her, as she wished, more into one
every day.  But a lack in her development or the fact that fear was something
which was not elven at all, forced this terrifying dream from her mind and
Cinder later could not even recall it.  At first light, Cinder dressed and left
the man’s home, never to go back, though she could consciously never recall
why.

         It lifted the manhole cover and peered
out into the waiting night; a night set with ominous clouds low in the sky
which seemed barely above the tallest buildings.  The Fiend slid the cover back
into place as It stole into the shadows.  It stalked the darkness slowly and
silently this night, like a great cat prowls its jungle.  Andrelia was the
Fiend’s territory, and It looked to clear it of all fellow predators, leaving
only the prey.  It could sense that prey was close, and there was no need to
fly with speed this night.

         It slid through the streets
slowly...until It heard her coming.  It watched.  She walked down the wooden
sidewalk along the cobblestone street.  It followed her silently; watching her
dark hair sway from side to side as she walked, and soon she came to a door and
walked through it.  It listened, It’s keen ears hearing her move down the hall
a short distance and then through another door.  Just then the weather broke,
and torrents of rain came down.  The Fiend was so engrossed in Its upcoming
pleasure that It was nearly surprised by a venerable, one-armed vagrant
unfortunately trying to take cover from the rain in the same alley.  He looked
up at the Fiend.  It reached out and grabbed him, snapping his neck and hurling
him thirty feet down the alleyway all in one violent, hate-filled and fluid
motion.

         After waiting a short time, no one else moving
by, the Fiend ventured inside the building and there found three doors. 
Breathing heavily It went to the closest portal, stooped and picked the lock,
but the door still did not budge.  The door was bolted and stealth would no longer
be possible.  It raised Its limb to smash the barrier in, when there came a
sound up the hall.  The Fiend ducked back silently, blending into Its friend,
the shadows.  A man came into the hall from another door.  He looked down
toward the Fiend, did not see him, then, with a shiver, hurried out into the
downpour.

         The Fiend waited a moment then went back
to the door.  It listened, heard soft breathing, then raised Its hand and
struck the door with a mighty blow that forced the barrier open, sending
splintered wood showering throughout the room.  The prey sat up, rubbing her
eyes, hurriedly trying to shake off sleep.  The Fiend looked about, saw her
then leapt across the room to land on the bed.  She tried to roll off, but It
caught her by the hair and throttled her neck, choking the air from her.  She
clawed at the rough, leathery hands, but to no avail, and mercilessly slow,
darkness came to her.  But It did not kill her; not yet.  The Fiend took her
beauty home to enjoy for as long as she could withstand Its tortures.

         The door flew open, and Maria sat up. 
With her one good eye, she saw It drop a delicate figure onto the floor.  Then
It came to her.

         She could not remember how many days she
had been there since the morning she was dragged from her window, or how many
occasions It had abused her.  Her time had been spent in a plain room, with
thick knotty floors and walls, no windows, no furnishings whatsoever.  She had
tried to escape, once, when the Fiend opened the door, but a large dog chained
at the top of the stairs just outside, nearly tore out her throat.  It had
pulled the beast off of her, then beat and raped her severely for her attempt.

         Now, for reasons she did not understand,
It did the same, but worse, pinning her then to the floor.  It moved It’s mouth
to her throat as It ravaged her, to a spot just under her chin.  She thought,
maybe, It might kiss her, as It had rarely done on occasion.  It did not.  The
Fiend, instead, opened Its jaws, still molesting her, and bit viciously down,
so hard that she could no longer breathe.  Maria heard a snap and felt her
throat collapse, her wind pipe being crushed, though she knew nothing of it. 
Maria began to heave and choke, but It held her tighter.  She flailed her arms,
beating It, but could make no escape despite her panic, and peace soon came: 
for Maria.

         Jestell Andrews was lurking in the
shadows when she heard footfalls.  Pulling the mask down over her face, drawing
her small sword and stepping out into the light, she purposely confronted a
short, thin, gentleman, probably a merchant judging by his well-made but not
opulent attire; his lean face strained from his quick steps.  For her exquisite
luck at gaining such a rich purse, Jestell smiled under her veil.

         “Your money, mister,” she said,
confronting him with bared steel.  When the man hesitated, she jabbed her sword
at him and up went his arms.  Jestell reached over and drew his dagger out,
hurling it into the gutter far away, where it skittered to a stop somewhere in
the dark.  Next she pulled out his purse and cut the string holding it to his
belt.  “Thanks,” she said, then wheeled and ran down the street, laughing. 

         “Help!  Thief!” the merchant called
repeatedly as she ran on, and slowly his cries died away in Jestell’s ears.

         Melissa and Fiona came to Bessemer’s and
roused Dirk from his bed early in the morning; it
was
his free-day after
all, they reasoned.  Fiona cast open the shutters, allowing the brilliant light
to rush in.  Outside a beautiful day was dawning and they could hear the crash
of the surf on the beach just beyond the city walls.

         “Get up, Dirk,” Melissa said brightly. 
“We’re going on your first adventure.”  Dirk opened his eyes and sat up, a look
of puzzlement on his face.

         “What?” he asked curiously.

         “An adventure,” Fiona said, going boldly
into his dresser and pulling out some suitable work-clothing for him.  “We’re
going outside the gates.”  Long ago Dirk had told Melissa he had never been
outside the city; he had never had any reason to.  Everything he had ever
needed could be found within the walls.

         “Where to?” he asked, but received no
answer as he lifted his arms, allowing Melissa to pull the shirt Fiona had
selected down over his head.  But he did not let her put his pants on him:  he
took them and dressed under the covers.  “How did you get in?” he asked
sleepily as he worked.

         “Oh, don’t worry,” Fiona said slyly. 
“Let’s just go.”  Dirk rose, yawned, then pulled on his socks from the day
before, then an old pair of boots which lay near.

         “It’s not really an adventure,” Melissa
said secretly as she opened the trapdoor.  “We’re just gonna go out for a walk;
maybe see the farms and things.”  Dirk nodded and let himself be led along in
his currently disorganized mental state.

         Dirk paused at the threshold of the East
Gate, looking at the land that stretched out below him.  The girls turned and
looked back and Dirk drew a deep breath and took his first step out into the
world.  Before long they were off the road and walking down the steep
embankment upon which the city had been built.  They had forsaken the road for
the fertile fields, and walked across the lushly grown acres through small
copses of trees dotting the landscape and separating the fields of one farmer
from the next.  They had walked many miles this way and that, and were still
less than a mile from the city walls, which were clearly visible to the west,
when they heard a low moaning; a call of some sort unfamiliar to Dirk.

         “What’s that?” he asked in shocked
curiosity.  Melissa laughed so hard, she nearly fell over.  “What?  What is
it?” he said, growing angry with her frivolity.

         “A cow,” she said, still laughing.

         “No it isn’t.  I’ve heard cows a lot of
times in the city,” he said with a scowl.

         “Well, it is,” she insisted.  “Believe
me. 
I
know.  Maybe it just sounds different out here over the
distance. 
Maybe
.” 

         “
Maybe
, it’s just you being afraid
of being outside the city,” said Fiona teasingly.  Dirk ignored Fiona, but he
did believe Melissa.  He had never imagined that things could be so different. 
It was just an example of how different one thing could seem to Dirk depending
on where it was encountered.  It was strange not seeing a wall every place that
his eyes came to rest.  Dirk wondered if he were a fool to think that he could
go out on his own on an adventure miles away from civilization.  This little
experience was enough to show him that perhaps he had been a little naive.

         Just after midday they stumbled onto a
farm appearing suddenly before them as they emerged from a thick forested
track.  Two dogs ran eagerly toward them and Melissa knelt down, patting their
ribs roughly and talking to them as if they were her own pets.  They, in turn,
replied with a light barking enthusiasm, and soon a man, wiping the sweat from
his brow, came around the corner of the long low barn which stood across the
yard.  He was small and slight, the age on his face clearly shown by his many
deep wrinkles.  Dirk prepared to run as Melissa stood, knowing what trespassing
could lead to in the city.  But Melissa walked instead toward the man, smiling
and waving as she moved.

         “Melissa,” Dirk whispered urgently,
looking at Fiona for support.  “Come on,” he urged quietly, but Fiona simply
smiled.

         “Hello,” Melissa called, ignoring Dirk’s
alarmed requests.

         “Hello,” the man called back.

         “How are you today, good-man farmer?”
Melissa asked.  “How’s your work?”  The farmer assumed a friendly posture.  Though
alarmed, as any man would be by a stranger the size of Dirk showing up
instantly and unheralded from the trees, the aging farmer was disarmed by
Melissa’s friendly demeanor and Fiona’s childish looks, at least from afar. 
Besides, no true bandits ever came this close to the city, living, instead,
dozens of miles away, and only in the heaviest snows of winter did beasts more
foul descend from the hills or emerge from deep caves to crowd in on the nearby
lands known as the Inner Kingdom.

         “Well,” he said slowly, almost
hesitantly, “I’m having a little trouble.”  A pained look crossed the man’s
weathered face.  Dirk and Fiona walked slowly up, moving to where they could
hear the conversation but still remain a polite distance away, while the dogs
leapt playfully around them, trying to run under the humans’ hands in hopes of
getting just a single pat of affection.  Fiona and Dirk could soon hear the
conversation:  the farmer was in the midst of a detailed story telling how his
wagon had become disabled.

         “...stopped Butch and climbed down.  The
wheel had come all the way off by now and the wagon teetered, ready to fall. 
Same thing happened to young Denny Strickler last summer.  It’s these damned
rutted roads,” he paused momentarily, nodding unemotionally at Dirk with the
word “Hi,” and tipping his straw hat to Fiona saying “Afternoon, Miss.”  Then
he continued, “Don’t the King collect enough taxes to fix the road?  Anyway,
I’ve got a load to get into town right now and the missus can’t help.  Young
Deny is already in town.  Farmer White’s waiting for his mare to birth, and...”

         Melissa interrupted, “We’ll help you.”

         “I’d be most appreciative, dear,” he
said, taking his hat off and holding it humbly to his chest, revealing a great
mound of light hair, much like straw in its brisk appearance.  Dirk was
surprised by the gentleman’s manners; he thought all farmers had to be slow and
unsophisticated, but could tell by the sparkle in this farmer’s light blue eyes
that he was intelligent and as feeling and aware of his surroundings as anyone
born and raised in the city, regardless of formal education.

         “Show the way,” Melissa said brightly.

         “I’m Varley Astin,” he said, bowing his
head and shaking hands with them in turn, surprising each with how his gentle
grip contrasted with his rough, calloused hands.  He then turned and stalked
off methodically around the barn, as if he had done it thousands of times.

         “Daddy and I had the same problem once,”
Melissa said.  Varley looked attentively at her while she explained, “Our wagon
took one hole real bad and snapped the front axle like kindling and we both
flew forward onto the ground.  Well, the wagon was empty, so we didn’t lose any
goods, but it took three days to have a new axle made and put on.”

         “Ah,” Varley said, “I’ve not been that
unfortunate yet, lass, but the load does make the matter very pressing.  I was
just about ready to unload the whole thing so as I could lift it and remount
the wheel...when I heard the dogs.”  The three friends all moved to the wagon
and saw that it was so full of potatoes that the bed was actually bowed.  Dirk
sighed; he could feel his back aching already and Varley cast him a keen
glance, a friendly smirk passing Dirk’s lips at the encounter.

         Varley had several crates piled about,
and two logs, one splintered, lay nearby.  He had been trying to use the levers
to lift the wagon onto the crates, but was unsuccessful.  Melissa immediately
started giving orders.  “Dirk get right behind the axle.  Fiona, you in front. 
I’ll get here,” she said, moving to the rear of the cart.  “Now, we’ll lift it,
and Farmer Astin, you slide the crates under the axle.  Now, we only need to
lift it a few inches for him to get the wheel on.  Ready:  one, two, three
lift,” she commanded.