The Blue Moon - 5. Chapter 5

"Izaskar Ksellendor, your idea pleases me even more now that it is being implemented. The coal reserves of the Wintry North have long been an unattainable objective for the Empire. But you have built us a system that will finally allow us to exploit those riches. Even the best technicians at the university could not have done it. You are a genius!"

"Your Majesty, I have always been a loyal servant of the Negos family. Building a modern mining system and setting up a camp administration was not so difficult after all. A few calculations of costs, benefits and required resources..."

"Do not belittle yourself! At last, Andiol has de facto control over the Wintry North. Now we have a solution not only for overpopulation, but also for pacifying the enemies of the state - even on a family basis. Executions on a large scale are so cumbersome and messy".

"If you say so, my Emperor. The interests of Andiol are also in my best interests."

"Of course, but a patriot like you deserves a substantial reward for his efforts. How would you like to be compensated?"

"Your Majesty... since you asked. I need a safe place to live and practice my science. One where no one will interfere with my research. I also need to be surrounded by numerous subordinates."

- Excerpt from a conversation between Izaskar Ksellendor and Emperor Tarassis III in 1554.

* * *

Zdain
The river Frothy, Andiol Empire

His head was spinning. Everything was so confusing, it had been for a long time. It felt as if nothing made sense, as if there was nothing to hold on to, to pull oneself out of the overwhelming nightmare. Zdain remembered how Lurk's weapon had flicked, had struck and hurt. The weapon had caused him so much pain that it hurt just to think about it. And then the monster came in, opened its jaws and laughed, changed its shape and laughed again. Zdain did not know what or who the monster was, but it was the scariest thing he had ever seen.

After that, everything had gone black. When he had woken up, there had been echoes and bangs all around him. It had seemed as if a thousand deafening trumpets had blared simultaneously. Then the colours had flashed: lime green, crimson, brilliant blue - all mixed up. Zdain had felt like vomiting, the colours had burned his eyes and the voices had roared in his ears. It had been alternately cold and hot. His head seemed to be split in two and his whole body was racked with pain. Zdain had thought he would die. Soon the blackness had engulfed him again.

At some point, Zdain had awoken from the darkness for a while, but he could not remember the details. He knew he was now asleep, but he could not find the way back to the waking world. He simply did not have the strength to wake up.

He had slept, but he had not rested. In his dream those terrible colours and the howling horns continued to play. The same exhausting nightmare had repeated itself over and over again - perhaps a hundred times, perhaps a thousand. Zdain was tired of counting, too tired to be a part of a dream he could not escape. Each time the horns and colours had died down, he had been thrown back into the blackness. There was no room for rest or healing, only the consuming horror of the hallucinations.

Zdain could not estimate how long this had been going on. Had he been asleep for a week, a month or a year? At least it was no longer easy to remember where he had come from and who he had been. Even though the nightmare had eased after what seemed like an eternity, he still had not woken up. Perhaps he had finally ended his day, because the dreams were much more pleasant now. Confusing, sure, but not nightmares. Zdain had seen soft colours and heard gentle, murmuring sounds, a bit like music.

The next thing he knew, the dream was filled with hazy human figures. There had been a stern, handsome man, with a dark shadow looming over his face. The man in the dream had looked at Zdain coldly. Without saying anything, he spat on the ground and turned his back. Once so familiar, he had become a stranger. Father.

There were others that Zdain remembered as well. A beautiful woman who had held him in her arms, a long time ago. Before the embraces had stopped. Mother. And a cheerful boy who had invented the best games, taught Zdain swordplay and called him his little brother. Venr.

Those three he remembered, even though it shouldn't have been possible. After all, the dead were not supposed to remember anything, and the past did not matter to them. The eternal sleep was said to be nothing but darkness, like the bottom of a lake, where the deceased could sink without the weight of a life lived. It was said that death was an eternity of peaceful rest. But that was not Zdain's dream. Maybe he was trapped in the land of the living, like a ghost or something?

Zdain also had memories of another woman. An unsmiling, greyish woman bent over him. The same woman changed a cold pack on his forehead. He should have remembered this woman too, but no matter how hard Zdain tried, he could not bring her back to his mind.

He slipped away into his memories, into light dreams that made him smile. He remembered Ade. He remembered Ade's dark limbs wrapped around his own lighter body. Their shared nakedness. How Zdain had gasped with pleasure in Ade's embrace. How Ade had been able to touch him just the right way. Touching him softly and hard at the same time, while whispering words in Zdain's ear with his own tongue. Words that made him blush, even in his sleep.

One day Ade was gone. Driven away, banished. Father had shouted, bellowed and threatened to kill his son's corrupter. He had taken Ade away from Zdain. Taken him even though Zdain had cried and begged. His father had just looked at him with contempt, turning away.

When this nasty disgrace was revealed, Dareis Monteilon's gaze had turned dark with disappointment, Elyssa Monteilon had never again held her son in her arms, and Venr Monteilon's laughter had taken on a sad twist. And Ade was no longer there.

"The honour of the governor's son is now gone. In your sick lust you have stained your family. I can't beat that filth out of you, even if I wanted to. Your kind, disgraced boy is not my son at all."

Zdain was writhing on his bed. He remembered more, remembered too much, and it hurt. The dream was almost as bad as the nightmare of swirling colours and blaring horns. Zdain wanted out, he wanted to stop being dead, he wanted to wake up. This time it worked!

He opened his eyes slightly, but the blinding light made him hastily close them again. Zdain heard voices beside him: someone, or several people, moving. He also felt himself lying on something soft. It had to be a bed! But where he had last been awake, there was no bed. Where am I?

Ignoring the dazzle, Zdain opened his eyes again. Then he saw someone in front of him. Big blue eyes that looked straight into his own. As Zdain remembered who those eyes belonged to, he suddenly felt better.

"You're awake!" Josel shouted with excitement, and Zdain tried to smile in response. He really was awake!

* * *

Franz
Province of Paidos, Andiol Empire

The night was unseasonably gloomy and cold, made worse by the drizzle that began shortly after they left the Pale Wanderer Inn. But Franz did not complain or feel cold. He was still excited about everything that had happened at the inn. So excited, in fact, that he was not even tired, even though he had not slept for who knows how long.

The old drunkard rode ahead at a steady pace on his nag. Despite its miserable appearance, it had proved to be quite a runner. The old man called the horse 'Windy Leap', which surprisingly suited the strong and swift animal. Franz shook his head in wonder before urging the steaming, warm Sowthistle to keep up.

Kharl had ridden all the way behind Franz, unusually quiet. Perhaps the troubadour needed his own moment of peace to play his madcap role in front of the others.

Franz was still somewhat dazed, partly because he had just agreed to go on a journey with two strangers. The alternative would have been to fall into the clutches of the Shadow Cross, but even so, it seemed a risky decision. What did he really know about either of them? Nothing, not even their names.

It really was a fine mess of things, and Franz had been added to it without his permission. There would be a lot to talk about back home...

The thought of Mom caused a hollow feeling in Franz's chest. Ginnavere Landez was probably awake in bed, missing her son. As if she did not already have enough to worry about with the shop and Franz's younger siblings.

A guilty conscience knocked at the back of his mind, but Franz could not think of a solution. Returning to Paidos was not an option. He pushed his mother out of his mind and concentrated on the present, on the ride, on the night - on what he could increasingly call an adventure.

The rain was pouring down miserably in his face, but the old man riding in front had no intention of stopping. The pursuers were definitely on their trail, Franz believed. Word of the skirmish at the inn had surely reached Paidos by now, and the Shadow Cross would have little trouble linking Franz's escape to the events of the Pale Wanderer.

It would have been much better if Kharl had killed all the shadow sentries at the inn. That would have given them a bit more of a head start. The villagers alone would not have been able to hunt down the fugitives, no matter how much they sympathised with the Shadow Cross.

Still, Franz thought he understood why Kharl had left the men alive. A true adventurer was supposed to be good-hearted, just like Troubadour Kharl in Andreuz Sandkan's books. The main character did not even have the heart to slay the wretched Masked Thief, although he was his worst enemy. Franz guessed it was because Josel's father did not have the imagination to write a new villain to replace Masked Thief.

There was something more in Kharl's philosophy that fascinated Franz. By refusing to kill the shadow sentries, Kharl had also made the escape much more exciting.

"Adventure without danger is like dough without yeast," Kharl had said. Or had it been Kharl in the books? The man and the character in the book kept getting mixed up in Franz's head.

In any case, there was a strange thrill to ride in the countryside by night, knowing that a group of shadow sentries could chase them down at any moment. Just as yeast rises the dough, so does danger rises the adventure, Franz said to himself, suddenly finding himself very excited about it all.

* * *

It was already dawn when they arrived at the place where the old man had planned to take them. They had been leading the horses for some time, winding through narrow forest paths. The trees had grown thick, almost resisting the urge of three riders to penetrate the thicket. Franz had to keep moving twigs out of the way with his hand, and roots tried to trip him up all the time.

But the difficult forest path did not bother him. If they were still being chased, the shadow sentries would never find them in the middle of a thicket. Or so he liked to believe.

When the path made a sharp bend after a large rock, the old man raised his hand and called out: "Here we are!"

Franz patted Sowthistle encouragingly. He craned his neck to get a better view of the place they had come to.

In the middle of the forest was a small clearing, already quite grassy and beginning to grow into a coppice. On one side of the clearing was a low, wooden cabin that was hard to describe with any other word than 'ugly'. It was a shabby grey and obviously rotten. A little further on, an almost crumbling shack served as an outhouse. The crowning glory of the shabbiness was the rags hanging on strings across the yard. Franz assumed they were clothes the old man had left out to dry.

Although the drunkard's dishevelled appearance had not given much promise of the standard of accommodation, Franz had at least hoped for something better. As he led Sowthistle towards the cabin, he wondered what the old man's food would be like. Under the circumstances, it was hardly worth waiting for a great meal.

A patch of cleared land was set aside for the horses to graze. Once the animals had been watered, Franz followed Kharl's example and set about brushing Sowthistle. Tired and his stomach rumbling with hunger, it was an arduous task, but eventually Franz put down his brush and followed the men into the cabin.

As soon as he entered the doorway, he smelled the same pungent stench that emanated from the drunkard. Would they have to sleep in this reek for the next night, or possibly even longer? Hadn't the master of the shack noticed that he needed a wash?

It was dark inside because the windows were small and dirty. The old man grunted to himself, then took an oil lamp from the edge of a rickety looking shelf. As he lit the lamp, Franz explored the interior of the dwelling.

The cramped cabin was at least a little more cosy than one might have imagined from the outside. The walls of the single room were lined with a couple of simple bunk beds, and the back wall was adorned with a fireplace that was apparently serving as both a heat source and a cooking area. There was also a small table, two stools and a large battered cupboard. The feeling of cramped space was highlighted by the things lying around, heaps of clothes and animal skins stacked on one of the bunks.

"If you dare say anything unkind about my nest, I'll throw you out," growled the old man, still tinkering with the oil lamp.

"Your home is as beautiful as a bride in bloom," Kharl said, bending his upper body in a bow.

He was rewarded with a scowl from the old man. "It's not a home, it's a nest! I have many nests all over Andiol, but no home."

"I apologise for my slip, my irritable host."

"You might as well apologise for the fact that I've had to drag myself to that damned inn every blasted night for over a week to drink, just waiting for you to arrive. And then when you finally bother to show your face, you bring a pack of shadow dogs and that goddamn whelp with you!" the old man snarled, pointing a dirty hand at Franz, who was sitting on the edge of a bunk bed.

"Sorry about that too, my friend," Kharl said. "I just couldn't make it to the Pale Wanderer earlier. I would have sent a message, but your incomparable nest is not on the stagecoach route."

Franz listened with interest to the exchange of words, waiting for something new to be revealed. Among adventurers, nothing was as it seemed at first glance. I still have a lot to learn, Franz thought.

The old drunkard muttered something indistinct and banged a dented and sooty teapot against one of the equally sooty edges of the fireplace. Then he started to light the fire in the fireplace, snorting quietly to himself. Kharl watched him with an amused look on his face, but the old man did not seem to need any help or company.

Meanwhile, Franz had made himself a reasonably comfortable place on the straw mattress of the bunk bed. He leaned his head against the wall and let out a long yawn. Just waiting for fleas and bedbugs, he feared, but couldn't resist as his eyes began to close.

* * *

He stood on a rocky beach and watched the waves sweep over the rocks. The sea was churning, and even the cloud-covered sky was dangerously dark. The gale caught Franz's clothes and ruffled them as if it wanted to take him away.

Franz laughed with glee, oblivious to the storm around him. He sucked the strong-smelling air into his lungs and tried to catch the taste of sea salt, the same taste that always lingered in sailors' stories. Then he leaned into the wind and imagined he could fly through the air. This was the real sea he had dreamed of for so long.

Then something dark flashed in the corner of his eye. Franz turned round and shuddered with fear. A tower had been built on the cliff, right at the highest point of the island. It was like a tree trunk scorched by a forest fire, a black, towering pillar with no light coming through the windows.

There was something weird, something hostile about the tower. Suddenly, Franz did not want to stand on the beach rejoicing to the beat of the storm. Now there was a chill in the wind. It blew with full force, driving Franz away from the beach and towards the tower.

No matter how much he struggled, the wind was stronger. Suddenly his feet reached the carved stone steps that led up the rocky slope to the tower path. And soon the tower loomed before him in all its grandeur. The path ended at a doorway, from which sheer darkness shone against it. Franz took his last, stiff steps and…

* * *

"Whelp! Let's eat!"

Franz flinched at the shout. He blinked his eyes and found himself on the same bed he had fallen asleep on. The sweat of the old drunkard still hung in the air, but the clatter of dishes promised food.

The nightmare... the tower. It had seemed so real a moment ago. Franz shook his head, dazed from dozing, and moved closer to the dining table. Three badly washed teacups, dark bread, suspicious-looking jam and a chunk of corned beef were laid out on it. The servings were not very different from the style of the residence.

At the old man's insistence, Franz went to eat. The bread was reasonably fresh and the jam sweet enough to be bearable. But he had to gag to get that meat down his throat. The old man, of course, noticed Franz's disgust and gave him a look accompanied by a grunt.

Again it was Kharl who opened the conversation. "My dear friend, have you heard any news of our enemy? Has your sharp nose caught the scent of the dishonest robber?"

The old man burped ill-mannered and began to speak: "Yes, I followed that son of bitch for three days. Many times he shook me off and each time I got back on the trail. On the road to Eastkeep, I had to give up and hurry back to the Pale Wanderer. That was a week and a half ago. You didn't show up then, so Masked Thief has a couple of weeks' lead."

"Masked Thief!" Franz cried out and the men turned to him.

"Yes?" Kharl looked questioning.

"There is no such person as Masked Thief. It is a character... created by Andreuz Sandkan. Just like Troubadour Kharl!" Franz exclaimed, a little annoyed. It didn't make any sense. Were those two playing a joke on him?

The drunkard snorted angrily, and Kharl's face flushed as if insulted. "I feel that I am the real and living Troubadour Kharl, and my enemy Masked Thief is just as alive," the man said in a very annoyed voice.

"Damn you, Whelp! You hurt his feelings!" the old man huffed.

Unable to say anything, Franz stared ahead. Suddenly it was clear: the moustached man had lost his mind and really thought he was Troubadour Kharl. Franz had the whole picture in front of him, down to the last detail. Kharl of the books also had a horse called Gingerbread, and had also been adventuring in Dafrenheld's castle, as the strange man had told Franz right after they had escaped from prison. Then all those poetic hymns and musical notes - straight from the pen of Josel's father.

Franz blamed himself. The clues had been there all along, but he had not been able to put them together. He should have known that the man was insane. Why hadn't he fled when he had the chance?

Trying to think clearly, Franz took a deep breath. Such madmen could be not only unbalanced but also violent. So he began soothingly: "I'm sorry if I offended you. But it is a fact that my friend's father, Andreuz Sandkan, has written several adventure novels starring Troubadour Kharl and his enemy, Masked Thief."

Having said that, he looked first at the old man, who was sniffling and rubbing the bump on his nose. There would be no help from that direction. The poor drunk was probably as screwed up as Kharl.

In the meantime, Kharl had pulled himself together and no longer seemed upset. "Your apology is accepted, young Franz," he said, nodding theatrically. "I should have understood earlier to discuss the matter with you. But I suspected that your faith might have been put to the test. Now I see that I was right. It is true that the illustrious fellow, Andreuz, has written a book or two. But guess where he got his ideas! From me, the real and true Troubadour Kharl."

Crazy, thought Franz, but he did not answer.

Kharl continued: "A good adventurer must suspect everything, of course, but not his own companions. Never ever! But let's put this unfortunate incident behind us. It's time to plan together how we can catch the wicked Masked Thief!"

Franz shook his head in frustration. There was nothing he could do but adapt to the nutcase's whims, at least for a while. Where could he go alone? So he asked, half out of curiosity: "Why do you want to catch Masked Thief?"

The man who called himself Troubadour Kharl smiled. "Ah, a good question, my boy! Let's just say we need to convince him of something."

"Convince?"

"Yes, and for that I need your help, Franz Landez."

"My help?"

"Yours and no one else's!" Kharl chuckled to himself for a moment, gave a quizzical wink, then added: "A great adventurer never reveals his secrets too soon."

Franz sat down on the bunk, stunned. Was the Masked Thief a real person, or would they ride around Andiol in search of an imaginary character? And Kharl had decided that Franz had to go on this extraordinary expedition. Which meant that he would not be able to get away from the men easily.

The situation was suddenly more complicated than Franz had imagined. To make matters worse, he began to feel that adventuring was not for him after all. If only he were still in Paidos and things were as they had been.

For some reason, the recent nightmare came back to him. Where did that dream come from? A black tower on a rocky island - Franz could not remember ever seeing anything like that. Dreams were certainly strange and sometimes quite unpleasant.

He knew he looked glum and hoped the men wouldn't notice. That did not work either, for after a while the old man bent up from his stool and sat down on the bunk beside him. The familiar pungent smell stung Franz's nose.

He cleared his throat and pushed a mug of beer into Franz's hand. "Have some, you'll feel better."

Franz looked at the old drunkard a little confused. This was not the kindness he had expected from him. He tasted the beer carefully. It was wonderfully good.

"It's my own brew," the old man uttered, offering Franz his calloused hand. "I'm Ikarr Knobnose, by the way, but you can call me whatever you want, because I'll call you Whelp."

"Okay, Old Fart," Franz said.

After hearing the answer, the old man's wrinkled face lit up with a broad smile. Then he breathed and coughed his foul-smelling laughter in the boy's face. To cover the stench, Franz took a big gulp of beer and found himself in a much better mood, at least a little.

* * *