Dark Moon Daughter Read online

  Dark Moon Daughter

  Book II in the Tyrants of the Dead trilogy

  J Edward Neill

  This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the reader. It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

  Cover by Alisha

  2014 Tessera Guild Publishing

  http://downthedarkpath.com/

  Table of Contents

  The Journal

  The Thillrian King

  A Sight for Sore Eyes

  Four Goblets

  Journal, Part II

  Odd Man In

  The Calling

  The Voices

  Wkhzl

  Journal, Part III

  Puppets

  Temptation

  Ghost of a Girl

  Hadryn

  Journal, Part IV

  The Awakening

  The Bone People

  Dance with the Dead

  The Pages Black

  Journal, Part V

  Ona

  The Black Kiss

  The Warlock

  Into Shadow

  Journal, Part VI

  Midnon

  Shadow Sister

  Undergrave

  Darkness between the Stars

  A Door Never Dreamed Of

  Journal, Part VII

  Hunted

  Chains for a Champion

  Grey Grass

  The Falling

  Bones

  Journal, Part VIII

  Silhouette

  Not the Old Ande

  Old Blood

  Isle of Glass

  Invocation

  Emptiness

  Nemesis

  To the Victor, no Spoils

  Burning Water

  Leaflets

  Judgment

  Like Daughter, Like Father

  Nevermore

  Forget and Forgive

  The Letter

  Journal, First Entry

  To G

  To Uncle John

  To the End of all Things

  In the long, slow era before the birth of the sun, they existed. They were named the Ur, the keepers of twilight, the shades between this world and the nether. Before men awoke and tamed the fallow earth, it was the Ur who roamed: invincible, restless, their every movement shaped by the gloom in which they lived. Nomads of the eternal night, beings of half-shadow, you may yet perceive them today, perhaps in your reflection upon the surface of dark water, in the lightless shade of the waning moon, or during a moment of profound grief.

  I tell you truly; the Ur shaped the evil in men’s hearts. The Ur created magic. They sleep now, banished by our ancestors, but mortal man must beware what they left behind. We must not rebuild the relics of the night. We must never recover the nightmare book, the Pages Black, whose resting place I dare not name. The world cannot abide such things to be remembered, for therein lies the way for the Ur to come again…

  - From “Letters to the Lords of Grae” by the warlock Dank

  The Journal

  Year 12, date unknown

  It is cold outside, as ever it is in Shivershore. The sea’s salted foam crashes outside my window. The sun sets beneath a dreary, unhappy sky. Save for my lonely candle, my little friend who likes to dance with each draft of air seeping between the shutters, I have little light to write by. I sit here, inking words no one will ever read, squinting to see the page before me. I am too anxious. This will be my final entry. I wonder if I am ready.

  Today will be my last day in the tower. This crowded pillar of tired, sea-bleached stones has been a good, if humble home. The corner hearth keeps it warm enough, while the tower’s perch amid the tangled rocks and battered shoreline cliffs affords me the sort of privacy and solitude I have found nowhere else. Though my comforts are few, my years here have been useful. I have unraveled the secrets I sought and brought many intangible truths to light. I have sacrificed much in living here, but soon all of it will be worthwhile. Today marks winter’s last gasp. Tomorrow a new season begins. And so I bid you a fond farewell, good tower. I hope to never see you again.

  I packed my things yestereve. I slid a few important sheaves of paper, a loaf of bread, some wine, and an extra set of boots into my weathered satchel. I suppose I might even find room for this journal, though it seems rather meaningless, considering I will not tend to it again. Looking at my bag, small and crumpled as a peasant’s hat, one would never know the places I am bound for.

  I dreamed again last night. I have dreamed often of late, too often, suffering many doubts while I sleep. My nightly imaginings have been particularly dark, twisting my life’s hopes and ambitions into nightmares, poisoning my mind with images of death and failure. Even so, every time I wake I feel no weakness or perturbation. This strikes me as comforting. Perhaps my dreams are trying to send me a message, whispering horrors into my ear and reminding me of my simple beginnings, while at the same time fortifying me. Though I tremble as I slumber, the very moment I wake I feel strong again.

  Last night while cleaning out my cupboards, a number of unexpected questions tumbled into my mind. I suppose I had been concerned with the execution of my plan for so long that certain possibilities escaped me. I sat at my lonely table, chewing on a brick of hard, stale bread, and the questions struck me just as the sun began to set. I wondered; how will my coming be perceived? How will my subjects view me? When I stand on my pulpit at the world’s twilight, what will they think? Will I be adored and praised or feared and reviled? Will they see me as a savior from their daily futilities or will they look upon who I am and what I have become and turn their cheeks with wordless scorn? Kneeling upon the earth, stretching fearfully from meadow to sea, what will they whisper? Tyrant, I wager they will name me, destructor of the earth. But it is not certain, not knowable for now.

  These questions and more pummeled my mind for too much of the night. As I swallowed my bread and dwelled upon them, I came to no meaningful conclusion. I decided I did not know the answers. I cared not. I cannot fathom the emotions of others, nor do I wish to. What the people will think at the end does not concern me, nor will it when I become king.

  King. It has a pleasant taste to it. I say it often to myself, and it snaps so easily off my tongue. No wonder the term is so often misused. The local lord risen to power, the snot-sniffling heir, the winner of some inconsequential military affair, they all think they are kings, and that they above all others know what it means to possess power over mankind. If only they knew what I know, they would not think themselves so wise. They would wet their gilded chairs by day and shiver in their beds by night. They would beg for a taste, a single lash of their tongues just to lavish their minds with a fragment of what I know. What horror would befall their minds were the truth to strike them? But now I am rambling again. I do it too often. I am nothing if not someone who talks too much.

  Each time I reflect upon my long, slow years of study, I realize my greatest sacrifice has been living here in this tower. Because of my choice, I have had no one to talk to, no one to share a cup of tea with or sit beneath the night with and discuss the meaning of the stars. During the endless days, this journal was all that kept me from madness. I have been drawn to it every night, dithering for a moment before penning to paper the least significant parts of my day. How quaint it seems, a child’s diary. How ordinary. How weak.

  My things are packed. My cleaning is complete. I am ready for a last night’s sleep. As I stretch upon my sagging bed, I feel a moment of longing. It is a strange sensation. I almost wish someone else were here, a woman perhaps, a pretty thing with a sympathetic ear. I wonder how pleasant it must be to lie with a beautiful girl or to be
a man with many friends. But what do I know? These things are forgotten to me. Rather than sit and pine for the world to comfort me, I must remember my chosen path. My own thoughts are the only ones I shall ever know. I will be alone from now until the end.

  The winter fails. The sea rages outside. I am weary of writing. I have come to it at last, the end of my preparation. My candle, my only companion, is dying, the victim of too many nights spent watching over these sad little pages. When I lift my pen, my hermit’s life shall end. Not long from now, perhaps on an evening not so different than tonight, the skies will fall, and I will be the last living soul in all the world.

  - D

  The Thillrian King

  Like a bear waking from a winter’s worth of sleep, King Orumna sat up in bed with an earthshaking yawn. No matter that the cold season was three weeks dead, the sun shining brightly, and the cool morning air gliding like spirits into his tower window, he came to consciousness with a scowl. His head hurt, his nightclothes were damp with sweat, and his back ached as though the whole of Thillria had stomped over him in his sleep. Another morn... He rubbed his eyes with swollen knuckles. And me without a queen. How much will Thillria complain today?

  Through his windows and onto the floor the early sunlight splashed. Like a chamber pot spilling, he mused. Yellow and only a wee bit warm. Grunting from the effort, the old king swung his legs over the side of his bed and wiggled his toes at the edge of the light. Waking was always a sour affair for Orumna. As ever, his dreams had been filled with shadows, of all the opportunities that had long since passed him by, and of all the whisperings behind his back. He had only just awoken, but already he was tired, not just of body, but of mind, as if life itself was a wearying thing to endure. But endure it I must, he thought as he struggled to stand. Until I trip and fall and roll to my death at the bottom of the sea. And won’t that be a sight?

  Thillria’s eighty-fifth sovereign, Orumna had inherited the throne from his father at the tender age of fifteen, and had ruled without fanfare or turmoil in the thirty-five years since. He knew what his people thought of him. A recluse, an enigma, an ambitionless old blob who had long ago locked himself in Aeth and threw away the key. Above all things, Orumna was old-fashioned, concerned more with keeping the peace than prodding Thillria into anything glorious. He maintained only a small army, emptied his coffers freely for festivals and charitable causes, and kept neither treaty nor dialogue with Thillria’s western neighbor, the enviable folk of Triaxe. In all his reign, he had done nothing to either harm or advance his people, which some respected him for, but most detested.

  Blustering to himself, Orumna made his water, wrapped his broad shoulders and burgeoning belly in his royal azure robes, slicked back a few greying strands of hair, and sauntered out of his bedchambers. Alone, he made his way down the curling tower stairs and into his royal hall, the great circular room lying at the junction of Aeth’s six tower hallways. He leisured about the room for a time, poking at the statues and toying with the swords on his tables, and then he plopped like pudding into his throne. The tall-backed, pillow-laden chair groaned beneath his globular mass. Once adjusted in its depths, he gazed down the long table stretched out before him and managed a smile for what he saw.

  “Ah!” He boomed at the three woman servants standing at the table’s far end. “My ladies, my friends! Some bread and tea, please. For all of us, of course.”

  It was no unusual thing he did. For the last fifteen years, he had shared his morning morsels with all his servants. Many had come and many had gone, but his current three ladies were his most favorite of all. Tinali, Harra, and the best of them, Reya. He liked to think of his women servants as his only friends, the ones who knew him best. They seemed to know and accept his many moods, and he felt comfortable sharing his mind with them, no matter that they were peasants and he the King.

  Reya, eldest of the three ladies, had known what he would ask for. Even as he folded his fingers over his belly, she presented a tray of bread, sweetmeats, and four steaming cups of tea.

  “Thank you, my sweet.” He smiled at her, she who was nearly the same age as he. “You are gift from the stars, you are.” After plucking off his desired treats, he pushed the tray down the table. “Take what you like,” he bellowed, and they obliged.

  While the ladies sipped from their tea and nibbled at their bread, he devoured seven sweetmeats and drained his cup dry. “I think I shall remain inside today,” he announced at the end of it. “This weather does not agree with me. It is too chilly, and the wind nips at my ears like a wet-tongued pup.”

  “Again?” Reya arched her eyebrow. “Orum dear, it is not so cold. Why not take a walk down to the bazaar? A new galley full of tealeaf and spice arrived last night. Some of your favorites await you, if only you will go.”

  “Oh no, no, no. Not today,” he huffed. “What do I have servants for, if not to bring these things to me?”

  “What about a skim about the harbor, Sire?” the lass named Harra chimed in. “We could bundle you up like a bear. I heard from the quartermaster that the ice has melted and your sail is ready.”

  “Yes, m’lord. Tis true,” added Tinali, Reya’s daughter, the most comely of the three. “And we’ve seen merchants from Triaxe. They’ve brought such pretty horses and sharp, sharp swords.”

  Their coddling made him smile. For years, he had laid the same trap, and they had always taken it, doting on him no matter his stubbornness. “No, no, no.” His belly jiggled when he laughed. “No ships. No merchants. No rough, gruff Triaxe knights. What about lunch? Are we expecting any early guests? Are we having a roast, or is it fish and seaweed again?”

  “Orum dear…” Reya pushed a stray strand of grey hair away from her eyes. “You’ve only just eaten breakfast, and already you plead for lunch. Your belly is too wide as is, which you might cure if you took a walk once in a while.”

  Other sovereigns might have ordered the woman clapped in chains and thrown in a cell, but Orumna merely grinned. “My belly, eh?” He clapped both hands around his cauldron of a gut. “It’s not so huge, is it?”

  “It is, my dear, and you well know it,” said Reya. “The people are worried for you. How can you quell them if you do nothing but lock yourself away in these dusty old halls? We can clean and cook and scrub for you till our fingers are naught but bones, but none of that will produce an heir. The country wants a queen, and soon.”

  Ah, that again. The mention of his greatest failure touched a nerve inside him. All these years, and he had yet to take a queen, or even a worthy mistress, and thus Thillria had no heir. Orumna had no brothers, no sisters, and no cousins of royal value, for which all of Thillria was mournful. He might have been angry at Reya for raising the subject, but no, she is right, he thought. I am old and fat and sour. What woman would even want me?

  “No matter.” He sank into his chair. “I will not go outside today. Perhaps next week, if the weather is warmer. If you would, now that we are finished with breakfast, bring me my books. I will read today. Tell everyone to leave me be. Even the guards.”

  The ladies’ cheer fell from their faces like rain from three rooftops. Reya snapped her fingers, summoning Harra and Tinali to her side, and led her unhappy procession toward the kitchen door.

  “Wait!” he rumbled before they could escape.