By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (45 page)

         Cinder’s eyes were as bright and innocent
as a child’s as she looked up into Dirk’s, feeling the flakes by the touch of
her lips alone and not needing to search them out with her sight.  Cinder
seemed so bright and happy to Dirk all that week, all the vileness of the Fiend
and his house seemed years ago.  Dirk was happy:  he and his friends were back
together, Cinder stopped dating as often, Melissa and he were closer than they
had ever been, and he had Tallow to brighten his life as well.  “Only if Selric
didn’t seem so preoccupied,” he thought, Selric’s worry was enough to stanch
Dirk’s complete bliss and make him realize that things were not as pleasant as
he wanted to believe.  Something was amiss, but he refused to let it bother him
that evening; not yet.

         Dirk began to hum, feigning boredom. 
Cinder’s twinkling laugh rose and fell like sweet music.  Her face was wrapped
in the dark ring of her hair that protruded from her hood.  The snow lit on her
locks, looking like fiery stars in the darkest sky, and her cheeks and lips
were red and full of life.  Dirk would remember this night, always.  She kept
hold of his cloak, keeping him pulled forward, bent at the waist so she could
attack his face, though he could have easily stood up, pulling her helplessly
along.  Then Cinder kissed him, slipping her tongue between his tightly closed
lips.  Her tongue was cold from the frosty snow; his was warm and the sensation
thrilled them both.  Then, Cinder shoved her hands down his pants.

         “That’s cold!” he screamed, seizing her
wrists.

         “No.  It’s
warm
,” she giggled.

         “Not to me.  Let’s get going.  I’m
cold.”  Dirk made his teeth chatter purposely.

         “You big baby,” Cinder teased.  “Kiss
me.”  A door opened down the alley, and a little round man began to haul crates
out into the snow-filled alleyway.  He smiled and waved briefly, shook his head
and laughed to himself at the thought of young love.  Dirk bent forward and
kissed Cinder ever-so-softly, causing her to smile, close her eyes, and sigh
contentedly.  When she opened them, they burned with her typical, playful
desire.  “I want to go home,” she said impatiently, smiling and pulling on his
arm.  “I want to go to your place.  I want to go anywhere.  I want it.  I want
you!” she called loudly and lovingly, her playfulness and lack of ability to
take anything serious enamored her even more to Dirk.  He teasingly refused to
move, yawning and turning away, ignoring her.  “I want you to take me and...” 
Her voice was cut off when they heard a sound like far off drum beats; a
rumbling.  Then it became clearer.

         Behind Cinder came a deep growling sound
from more than one throat.  Dirk saw the terror return to Cinder’s eyes, the
terror he had been so glad to see gone, and she broke from his startled grasp,
bolting off in the direction opposite the terrifying sounds, not even seeking
protection from Dirk or trying to see what it was.

         “No!” Dirk yelled.  “Don’t run, it only
makes them...”  Dirk turned back to the sound.  Creeping slowly into view, came
the two largest wolves Dirk had ever seen, or even heard of, and he stepped
uncontrollably back in horror.  They were the size of large ponies, and their
black bristly fur gleamed with a covering of light snow.  They looked at him
and seemed to grin, their snouts twisted with an evil delight.  Dirk drew his
sword and the beasts paused.  The most he could do was hold one off; the other
would run Cinder down for sure.  They sensed his uncertainty and crouched. 
Dirk fled just as they leapt in the air.  He soon overtook Cinder, her steps
short and choppy in her high-heeled boots as she slipped and slid on every step
through the snow.  He scooped her up like a child under his arm and in his
great strides covered the ground quickly to the little round man’s door.

         He, too, apparently saw what loped after
the couple and fled inside, trying to close the door, but Dirk held it open
long enough to step through.  He dropped the sword, still holding Cinder
tightly in his other arm, and pulled the door shut, just as the beasts hurled
their great bulk against the oaken buttress with a crash heavy enough to shake the
wall itself.  Repeatedly they leapt and the room shook, but the door held.

         Dirk bolted the door and held Cinder: 
she trembled fiercely, maybe from the cold, maybe from the fear, or both, Dirk
did not know.  She did not relax for over an hour as all three sat in the tiny
storage room, not speaking, unable to even go in to the house proper.  The
little round man had piled crates in front of that door too, when they heard
the shutters there battered in, followed by heavy growling.  Then it sounded
like the beasts tore the place to bits, something very odd for any normal
wolves to do.

         The humans and half-elf slept restlessly
and did not wake until daylight.  More snow had fallen, and when Dirk opened
the door, no prints could be seen outside.  Cinder had the resilience of
innocence, and though terribly shaken one moment always seemed to recover as
she did that morning.  She had nearly forgotten the entire ordeal and went
outside, strengthened by the clear morning sky.

         Selric stirred from sleep.  “What time is
it?”

         “Just past eight bells,” Alanna said. 
“Get up sleepy head, there’s a man here to see you.”  Selric rolled out of bed
and slid his pants on; Alanna tickled him playfully as he tried to hurry.  She
was completely dressed, having been sleeping in her own quarters:  Brandon’s
room above.  Alanna was up at dawn and had been in the hearth room, alone, when
Elgorn admitted the guest to the foyer.  Then, she went to wake Selric, sending
Elgorn to fetch Mendric who was out in the stable seeing to the grooming and
exercise of the horses.

         Selric splashed water over his face
before slipping his shirt on.  He brushed his hair and, taking her hand, went
to greet his guest.  “Who is it?” he asked Alanna as they crossed the foyer,
pausing outside the hearth room door.

         “He didn’t say, and I didn’t want to
pry.  I
am
just a guest myself.”

         “For now,” Selric said, grasping her chin
with his fingers and kissing her soft lips.  She wanted to believe him, but
thought such too good to be true.  Selric tucked in his shirt, threw both doors
open wide and with a deep breath and exuberantly charismatic voice said, “Good
morning.  And what can Selric Arnesson Stormweather do for you, Sir...?  I’m
sorry, I wasn’t given your name.”

         “Faldir.  Faldir is my name, Master
Stormweather.”  Selric looked hard at the man.  He seemed haggard, dressed in
an old, heavy cloak, as much a disguise as a shield from the weather.  His face
was heavy with beard, and weary, as if sleep were a battle to be fought by him
each night.

          Selric remembered the array of clothing
at the Fiend’s house; Selric remembered the Fiend constantly.  He could not get
him out of his mind and wondered if Olaf had come in a disguise.  And though
this ‘man’ felt nothing like the taint Selric had felt in that horrible place,
dreams and nightmares had him on edge constantly for the ‘fiend.’  Selric felt
naked there with that stranger, realizing he did not have his Eastern sword. 
He turned to Alanna and whispered, “Will you fetch my sword Darling.  I seem to
have forgotten it.”  He smiled at her and she nodded, going away and suspecting
nothing.

         “Yes, Faldir.  And what is it I can do
for you?”

         “I will wait for your brother, if you’ll
forgive me.”  He bowed slightly.  Selric poured Faldir a drink of brandy, as
requested, though odd for such an early hour, and he led him to the guest seat
in front of the hearth which was aglow, burning constantly from late autumn to
early spring. 

         Directly, Mendric came in and hung his
cloak in the foyer, meeting Alanna as she returned, carrying the blade in both
hands before her, as if it were a delicate artifact.  He looked at her and
finally spoke.

         “What are you doing with that?”

         “Taking it to Selric.”  She smiled kindly
at him, as she did every time, no hostility evident.  It was more manners than
any other thug might show, and actually more than Mendric ever expected from
her.  He nodded and grunted, allowing Alanna to enter the room first.  He
closed the doors after he was inside and Faldir rose as the two walked forward,
eyeing Alanna suspiciously.  She walked to Selric, and gently handed him the
weapon, then went and sat away from the men.  Faldir shook Mendric’s hand.

         “Which one, or was it both of you, that
Alistair Duncan tried to contact?” he asked brusquely.  Selric went to speak,
but was cut short by his brother.

         “First, Faldir, I wish to know your
business,” Mendric said, obviously knowing the man.  “May I remind you, you are
on Stormweather ground, not that owned by His Majesty.”

         “I know where I am.  And as
you
know Mendric, I am Chief Constable of the Watch,” he said.   Selric quickly
glanced at his brother.

         “Duncan was my friend,” Mendric said. 
“I’m sure he was here to see me.  I was, after all, the one he called out for.”

         “Did he tell you anything?  Anything at
all?”

         “He didn’t have a chance.  He was
unnecessarily beaten and hauled away by the palace guards,” Selric said. 
Faldir turned to him.

         “I have heard that you’ve been quite busy
lately, off in the Wild and all that kind of business.”

         “Yes?” Selric said curiously.  “I would
think with all the business going on lately that my travels would be
insignificant.”

         “You wouldn’t happen to have had any
adventures recently; say, in the last week, near Silvershot Way?”

         “Not that I can recall,” Selric lied. 
Mendric knew of his brother’s trip to the Fiend’s house.

         “If you have accusations,” Mendric said
sharply, rising from his seat, “state them in court, before the King, as is our
right as born and titled nobility.”  Faldir fidgeted, then cleared his throat. 
“Should I send word to my father…and grandfather…that the Stormweathers are
suspect in strange happenings?”

         “Sir Stormweather, please sit down.  I’m
afraid you misunderstand me.  I have come to beseech the great Stormweather
family for aid.  I have been given a task to catch a criminal I cannot find.” 
Faldir rose and looked at Alanna.  “My dear, would you please come over here?” 

         She looked up from where she sat,
genuinely surprised.  “Me?”

         “Yes,” he said, smiling wearily.  “You
have nothing to fear.”  She approached and he sniffed her neck, causing her to
giggle and step back slightly.  Faldir stood as if thinking, then pulled a
piece of vellum from his cloak.  He unfolded then smelled it, then sniffed the
air near Alanna another time.  The Stormweathers looked at each other
curiously.

         “Is this your writing?” he asked her,
holding the note before Alanna, without giving her enough time to read it.  “Is
that your perfume?”  She denied both, but Selric recognized the paper, and the
flowing script.  He could tell from where he stood that the letter was the note
he had watched Cinder pen in her room after they returned from the Fiend’s home
and its simple creation in her room lent it her aroma. 

         “Do you know anything about it?” he asked
Selric, who played coyly ignorant.  Mendric truly was ignorant in that part of
the tale.  “Please, I beg you Master Stormweather.  If you can help, I need
it.  Desperately.  The King will have my head if I do not find this villain
very soon.  And our people are dying.”  He looked pleadingly, his face lined
with wrinkles of immense worry.  “I received this letter last week.  It had
been wrapped around an arrow and shot into the wall of one of our barracks.” 
He raised the letter and began to read it aloud.

         “To the Watch:  The man you should be
looking for is known as Olaf Svenson.  He lives at 232 Silvershot Way and owns
a leather shop.  When I was there, the Fiend, Olaf Svenson, had just fled.  I
found three dead bodies there, freshly killed.  Put out the word, gentlemen,
and stop the murders.”  He handed the note to Selric.  “It isn’t signed,”
Faldir said, “as you can see.”  Selric could smell the perfume.  While actually
in Cinder’s room, one could notice the smell of perfumes, lotions, and
powders.  “Everything must come out tainted,” he thought with a chuckle, since
they had not purposely scented the note.

         “I will not ask for a confession,” Faldir
continued, “but all my years as a constable have taught me intuition.  I
believe you know something.  This note was a great help, and as of last week we
were finally able to stir the King into action.  Hopefully, it is not too
late.  But we need more.”  He pulled forth another letter and handed it to
Mendric.  “This is a writ, signed by me, giving the bearer practically free
reign throughout the entire city, except, of course, the palace and the noble
villas.  Use it if it will help you to investigate more quickly without
hindrance.  If any resist you, show this to any member of the Watch, and they
will do as you bid.  Anything you find will help my investigation.  Now, thank
you for your time, and, by the way, if you truly know nothing of this,
spreading any of the privileged information is punishable by death.”  He took
Cinder’s note.  “Good-bye.  I can see myself out,” he said, turning and
marching away, pulling the doors closed behind him.