By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (38 page)

         “What do you think is the matter with
him, oh omnipotent one?” Selric said to Fiona.  She laughed and looked at him.

         “I don’t know,” Fiona said.  “Maybe my
religion.  Maybe that Melissa wants to marry him, or Cinder doesn’t, or that he
finally got the money and recognition he aspired for, and now he doesn’t need
us anymore.  Maybe, like you, he thinks he’s in love.”  She bit her lip, but
too late.  Melissa rose and went to the bar.  “Mel, I’m sorry.  Come back.” 
Fiona saw the futility of her apology and fell silent.  Selric turned and
watched as Melissa sulked alone with her beer.  A man came up and placed a hand
on her backside, though by her attire (pants, simple shirt and low-heeled
boots) she could not be mistaken for a pleasure girl.  But to her credit, her
garments were fine and new and her hair was clean and fashioned more feminine
than she customarily wore it, a sign of Fiona’s growing influence on her. 
Cinder was talking to Selric; he didn’t catch what she was saying, but she
distracted him enough that he acted too late to stop Melissa. 

         With the hand on her rump, Melissa put
her beer down and said something to the tall, well-built man; a man Cinder had
been eyeing and with whom she had tried to leave earlier.  The man rubbed his
hand slowly across Melissa’s well-rounded bottom, smiling and undaunted by her
angry glare.  Melissa, however, belted him in the jaw, knocking the patron back
three steps.  It would have ended there, but he was furious at being hit,
especially so hard and by a woman.  He stepped forward and if Melissa ever
thought of herself as a lady there was no trace of it in her actions.

         When her assailant was within reach,
Melissa hit him twice more while ducking under his curving blow.  She brought
her knee up into his groin and he fell straight to his knees.  “Bitch!” he
said, and Melissa drew back, ready to drive her knee into his face when she was
grabbed by two guards.  They were barely able to restrain Melissa in her
ferocious rage.  “You bitch!” he repeated, spitting blood from his lip onto the
floor.

         “Bastard.  Men are bastards!” she
screamed, jostling the guards this way and that.  “I’ll cut your balls off. 
Let me go!”  With her last word, Melissa raised her foot and drove her boot
heel into the man’s forehead.  Selric’s eyes bulged and he took a large gulp of
beer as he rose and sped over.  He arrived just as Melissa elbowed a guard and
broke her arm free and was about to flatten the second Stormweather man who
still clung to the wildcat’s other side.  Selric slipped behind Melissa and put
an immobilizing grip on her neck.  She immediately ceased her fighting, but did
not calm.

         “Now, now, Mel.  Come and sit down,”
Selric said as he guided her over.  Fiona came and took her arm and led her to
the table.  Selric held his grip until she had sat down.  Meanwhile, he
motioned with his other hand to toss the gentleman out.  “Another round, on the
house,” he called, noting the silence and the stares.

         “You’re gonna have to stop drinking,”
Fiona said, “if you can’t control yourself.”

         “Oh, shut up!” Melissa snapped, glaring
off angrily at nothing.  “Just shut up, Fiona.  You think you know everything. 
Well, you don’t.  You don’t know me, and you don’t know Dirk.  So, shut the
hell up, or I’ll flatten
you
,” she finished, turning her icy stare to
her friend.  Selric reapplied his grip.  “Ouch!  Stop Selric,” Melissa whined
angrily.

         “I’m sorry, Mel,” Fiona said.  She
paused, but could think of nothing she could immediately say to make her
dearest friend feel better.  But she did think, rather sadistically, of what
Melissa would do to Tallow if she were convinced Dirk
was
falling in
love with the whore.  Fiona thought, with a touch of sincerity, that she might
even kill Tallow and
make
Dirk love Melissa.  Fiona cared deeply for her
girlfriend and it hurt her to see Melissa miserable.  She could sacrifice
anyone and anything, but herself, to make her friend happy, but she needed a
way to do it so that she would not be found guilty.  She knew she’d be the first
suspect, especially in Dirk’s eyes.  Fiona, secretly, admired Dirk and his
purity, and her plotting against Tallow wasn’t aimed at hurting Dirk:  Fiona
believed he and Melissa belonged together and he would be as happy as Fiona
knew Melissa would be if they were to become exclusive.

         “I’ll take care of it, Mel,” Fiona said,
hugging Melissa’s head to her chest.  “Fiona will take care of everything.” 
Melissa relaxed and Selric released her, looking at Fiona.  She met his gaze
and quickly turned away, afraid he might guess her own thoughts.  Meanwhile,
Cinder had slipped off to another table, and Selric went to retrieve her...

         Dirk walked on through the night.  Twelve
bells had just sounded, and he was cold, even though he had the hood of his
heavy woolen cloak pulled up over his head.  He didn’t know why he had no
parents, or why he liked Tallow, or even why he didn’t want to see the friends
who helped him achieve the life he had always dreamed of having.  He knew that
he didn’t like what Fiona did, and that she had corrupted Melissa into doing
her bidding.  Fiona had always been nice to him, even healing him and,
probably, saving his life.  But he still felt betrayed.  All the tricks and
deception.  Fiona knowing what he thought and her sly looks and flirting; her
manipulation, as if he were a pawn made him feel dumb and expendable in a way. 
Cinder manipulated him even more, though with a sweeter result.  “When will
they betray me for real?” he wondered.  He was tired of defending Fiona’s religion
and of letting her do it:  Tired of Selric seducing every woman who came along,
tired of Cinder being promiscuous, and tired of Melissa trying to use guilt to
lasso him into marriage.

         He pondered all this; all he didn’t like
about his old friends.  Then he realized what he
did
like.  They worked
well together, they were always there when he truly needed.  Selric let him use
the academy with no strings attached.  Melissa listened for hours upon hours as
he spoke of Andrelia as if he were the most knowledgeable tour guide in the
city.  Fiona taught him history and during those times she never harassed,
teased or made him feel dumb or slow, but nurtured his love for one of her few
passions.  And Cinder, Cinder made him realize what life was for:  its
richness, diversity, the power of the sun or cold sea spray on your face or
being drenched to the bone in a warm summer rain or listening to the bells in
the harbor or the simple smell of your lover’s skin.  Basically, his life
seemed empty without them. 

         While he sought to avoid them at that
moment, he knew that if didn’t see them at least every week, his life would be
very lonely.   Thinking of never seeing his friends again, made Dirk want to
turn and run back to
The Unicorn’s Run
and take his seat with them,
where he knew they would be that moment; sitting and drinking and laughing…without
him. 

         Dirk had no basis for his distrust:  they
had always been there when he needed them most.  Selric’s confidence and
charisma guided them all; his leadership and their trust in him.  Fiona’s
knowledge and her sense of humor, sometimes dark and strange, kept Dirk loose
and certainly from being bored.  Melissa’s fire, determination, and
country-wise straight forward approach to issues guaranteed that they never
lost sight of what important values the group members should all have as
people, either rich or poor, famous or common.  She was never-changing, except
for Fiona’s reins on her.  But Cinder was different.  She offered nothing to
their group, but without her, they would not be what they were.  She was the
glue which bound them, the catalyst for the closeness that they felt.  She was
a rally point, a banner around which they gathered for unity and defense; a
mascot of sorts, their treasure to be guarded.

         Dirk brightened.  His friends were worth
accepting what he did not like, simply for the fact that they were friends,
bound by feelings none could explain, but that each day seemed stronger.  He
realized then that he missed them and it was time to go back.  Looking around,
he had no idea where he had gone in his aimless wandering.  He saw a group of
four men huddled under an overhang, talking and laughing.  Dirk walked past,
peering into the shadows to see what they looked like, out of empty curiosity
only, as he tried to retrace his steps to a street he recognized in the dark.

         “What are you lookin’ at?” a voice
snarled.  The tone and the words hit Dirk like a gauntlet and he reeled, his
mind flashing back to his youth.  He remembered a scrubby youth:  pock-marked
face, stringy black hair, and wicked gray eyes.  He would taunt and push a
chubby, sweet, and harmless little boy named Dirk everyday at the orphanage. 
If Dirk complained or cried out, he was beaten worse.  As Dirk remembered this,
a man stepped into the light.  Dirk saw a scrubby beard struggling to grow over
the man’s scarred cheeks, and dark locks dangled from under his hood.  But what
caught Dirk’s attention were the gray eyes.  They seemed to glow, to pierce
Dirk’s heart, sending him back fifteen years.  Dirk felt fear and stepped back,
tensing up, preparing for the blow.  But by tensing, Dirk felt his immense
muscles bulge and he realized he was no longer a little fat boy.

         “I said, what are you lookin’ at?” the
man snarled.  “Give us your purse and maybe we won’t thrash you.”

         “Maybe,” laughed one of the others.  Dirk
stepped forward, years of abuse which had welled up inside exploded through his
arm without so much as a thought.  With a bone shattering snap, Dirk broke the
man’s jaw and spun his head around to the side, knocking him to the street. 
His friends stepped forward, but Dirk paid them no heed.  He leapt on the man
and straddled him, pulling him by the hair to look at his face.  Dirk threw his
own hood back.  “I’m looking at you, Rolar!  That’s what I’m lookin’ at!” he
bellowed.  “Do you recognize me?  It’s Dork, the little fat boy from
Aurauch-home.  I bet you never imagined my revenge hurting so bad.  I never
hurt you, never threatened you, never promised to get you back, but I am
hurting you.  I am threatening you and I am getting you back!” he said, shaking
the bully and slamming his head back onto the stones, tears rolling down Dirk’s
cheeks as he shed his fear of intimidation forever.

         Rolar’s friends attempted to pull Dirk
off, but the first to feel his rock-hard muscles beneath the cloak fled.  Dirk
shrugged off the other two as they grabbed him, then he stood up and stepped
forward.  The second thug ran off and the third held his hands up in peace. 
Dirk looked down at the bully and resisted the temptation to kick him, saying, “Ten
minutes ago, I would have hacked you to pieces, you...you
asshole
.”  Dirk
stepped over Rolar without another glance and walked home, howling once with
fierce exultation as he looked down at his huge, clenched fists, now spattered
in blood, his spirit raging and his pride swelled and vindicated.

         The shutters in the high tower windows
were closed against the blowing wind.  Selric and Mendric sat at the table with
Brandon, Marshal of the Stormweather estate.  Brandon was only five years
Mendric’s senior, but at the age of twenty, distinguished himself most
honorably in the war.  By twenty-two, he was a general, the second youngest in
Andrelia history.  The only one younger, Andelar the Bold, lived over four
hundred years earlier. 

         Brandon received much of the credit for
bringing The War to a victorious end.  But then, in a controversial move, he
left the new King’s service after only five years as general, claiming that he
had done his duty in the war and was tired of the military life.  His great
respect for a fellow officer in the war, Lord Andric Stormweather, who had been
one of Brandon’s officers after he became General of the Army, caused him to
seek employ in the lord’s service.  Starting only five years earlier, he took
the reins of the estate security, as well as the protection of all holdings
like the
Harvest Hearth, The Unicorn’s Run
, two apartment buildings, and
several warehouses, as well as overseeing the entire operation of the
Brawny
Arms Academy
.

         Brandon saw to the ordering and training
of the personal Stormweather guards and thus was responsible for the protection
of the family itself.  He had a good rapport with the Stormweather boys and
became close friends with Mendric.  Selric had been away for most of the past
five years and this did not allow for much friendship, but like Mendric,
Brandon was proud and protective of the flighty younger son.  Mendric and
Brandon were both knights of great strength and stature, though Brandon
exceeded any man in Andrelia in skill, including Mendric.  He was a warrior of
great renown and won his valor through his sword as well as his charisma and
leadership.  He would claim til his death, however, that Andric Stormweather
had been the tactician behind the plans, and he was only the sword which led
the way.  Brandon would always be remembered for defeating champions of
opposing armies, as well as single handedly slaying beasts such as war
elephants and lions, winged griffons, minotaurs, ogres, trolls, demons from the
Abyss and, in a great victory on the field, a dragon.

         Now all three young warriors sat at the
table in Brandon’s room, directly above Selric’s own, talking and drinking from
a cask of Thrillian ale, the finest in any land, which they had directed the
servants to haul up to the room.  Brandon’s walls were decorated with a vast
amount of trophies; being only the most memorable of the hundreds he had
garnered in his military career which started at age sixteen.