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               Crescent Moon

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               --- A Novel By ---

               Merak Spielman

Whether or not they yet have an end,
And no matter what their length,
All things, I soon discovered, have a beginning,
And therein lies their strength.

From the Cilid, "Times of Learning," Verse I

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"I suppose, if you view things chronologically," The man told her, relaxing back into his velvet chair, "And people usually do, the first of the Avatars to appear on the worldwide scene did so in Silleria, on the continent of Tharian." "Which Avatar was it, my teacher?" the girl asked him, her green eyes brimming with the curiosity of the young. She was a very pretty young girl, and judging by her features would someday be counted among the greatest beauties of the world. Such things were not on the man's mind, however, for he was concentrating on the lesson. The man chuckled, emptying his exhausted pipe into the fireplace and setting it aside, "You don't know? I thought everybody knew such things by now." "Well, you said it happened twenty years ago," she pouted, "and I'm only ten. You can't expect me to know everything." "Quite right, quite right," the man sighed, "Sometimes I forget. Very well then, make yourself comfortable. I shall tell you the tale." She climbed happily up onto the couch opposite him and snuggled up against the blue goose down pillows, taking one of them and hugging it against her chest. "Let's see, let's see, where to begin," the man murmured, "I suppose things only started getting interesting after he got to that castle. Now, what was it called again?"

-Part One-

Larsos Keep

Chapter One

I rode from fire in the night,
With but the stars to guide me.
Chasing sunshine by their light:
With my soul beside me.

From the Cilid, "Times of Terror," Verse II

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Jaros awoke at a sudden change in the sound of his family's wagon. Instead of the steady crunching of the graveled main highway, there was now the hollow rumbling that could mean only one thing. Their nightmare flight was at an end. Against all odds, they had managed to reach the only star in a suddenly midnight sky. The cart was moving over the thick, oaken drawbridge of Larsos Keep. Though awake, the boy kept his eyes sealed, offering up a silent prayer to any God who might still be listening in these ungodly times. He heard the voices of his mother and stepfather drifting to his ears. They were relieved, thankful of their good fortune in reaching the Keep alive. They were at the one place they still considered a haven, and needed fear the rising tide of shadows no more. They were entering a sheltered cove just ahead of the worst hurricane ever spun by the winds of fate. Jaros saw a sudden darkness through his closed eyes, and the wooden clatter of the wheels echoed slightly. They were passing through the massive outer walls, their thickness cutting off the light of the evening sun. The boy lay silently in the back of the crude, two-wheeled wagon, his family's meager possessions piled about him, shielding him from the sharp bumps and jolts of their journey. Their scant other worldly goods had been left behind for the advancing darkness. They would have been useless baggage.

The light brightened again. They were now inching their way through the crowded main courtyard. Voices drew near: firm, authoritative. The wagon creaked to an unsteady halt. Jaros opened his eyes and looked for the second time in his life upon the glory of Larsos Keep. The first time had been ten years before, a long time for somebody so young, but Jaros had clung to every sight, sound, and smell of the experience as if the memory of Larsos, of it's beauty and grandeur, would have somehow softened the harshness and fruitless sweat of his life. The Keep had changed since that happy time. The granite walls and towers still stood tall, holding their cold faces high with remembered pride. The yellow and gray banners still snapped as loudly atop them. But even the mighty Larsos had not escaped the tarnish that sweeps the way for war. The gentle lawns had been trampled into the earth by the weary feet of other soldiers and by the uncaring leather boots of drilling soldiers. The dust from the empty plot that had once held the daffodils hung heavy in the evening air. Babes wailed, but they were ignored amidst all the bustle and confusion. Crude tents and lean-tos had been erected against the cold, stone walls. People huddled in them, blankets wrapped around their lean forms to ward away the encroaching chill of the day's end as they gazed solemnly out at the activity in the courtyard. Jaros searched the weary countenances with his gaze but saw none that were familiar. It was apparently as he had feared. Out of the thriving, though often cruel, serf farm he and his family had lived in for twelve years only they had managed to escape. One thing he did recognize, however, in the dozens of pale faces surrounding him. He saw the pain, shock, and terror that he knew all too well, having seen it in himself as he peered mournfully into the muddy puddles of melted snow as they traveled. It was a sad thing to see, especially here. Larsos had always been a wellspring of hope, a lone jewel winking from the torn and trodden earth, but it was no longer enough to raise the spirits of those whose spirits had fallen and shattered amidst graves of loved ones.

The last rays of the setting sun shot through the open gates, immersing Jaros in light and creating the illusion of blood as they caught the dust hanging in the courtyard air. The massive gates boomed shut, reverting the world to it's natural shades of gray and brown, and splitting the thread of Jaros' life in twain.

Chapter Two

I once walked humbly into a town,
And people knelt at my approach.
But when I strode back, in jewels, with crown,
I was treated with reproach.

From the Cilid, "Times of Learning," Verse XIV

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The first sight that greeted Jaros' eyes the following morning was a songbird trilling in an apple tree. He looked at it in wonder from the open end of his tiny, makeshift tent. Amidst the forlorn desolation of the now empty main courtyard, the single speck of yellow perched on the highest twig of the leafless tree, emptying it's heart into the crisp air. Jaros had usually ignored birdsong before - it had only been a background noise as he tilled a field or dug an irrigation trench under the blistering sun - but today it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, and it never seemed to end.

On and on the song flowed, ebbing and rising, seeming to lift above the battlements and fill the world note by note. All at once the bird spread it's wings and leapt into the air. It circles the huge courtyard in a matter of seconds, pausing not a second in it's song. It began to spiral slowly upward, gradually increasing speed, rising above the towers and into the rosy morning sky, and then it was gone. The final note of the bird's music seemed to echo from the very stones.

Tears of wonder pooling in his eyes, Jaros emerged slowly with his heavy peasant cloak wrapped tightly around him. He walked to the base of the apple tree like a blind man, who after years of darkness, could suddenly see. He touched the cold, dormant trunk almost reverently and looked upward at it's branches, then past them, into the sky. Was that a golden speck vanishing into that cloud? He could not be certain. Something caught his eye near his feet. Jaros knelt down and picked up a single yellow feather. Barely half the length his middle finger, the offering of nature was completely symmetrical and flawless. He placed it gently into the inner pocket of his peasant robe.

"Beautiful, aren't they," commented a pleasant voice. Jaros, remaining strangely without any surprise or concern, turned to face the speaker, who turned out to be a tall man with very long, straight white hair. He was garbed not unlike the boy, wearing a robe with a length of rope substituting for a belt and tall, leather boots. Despite his snow white hair, his face was unlined and could not have belonged to a man over thirty.

"The birds, I mean," His voice was vibrant, almost musical, "There are so few of them in the winter." "There seems to be so little beauty." Jaros remarked sadly. He was surprised to find himself talking to this stranger so easily. He was usually a shy, quiet boy, talking only to his parents and the other serfs on the farm. The man certainly didn't find it strange to be talking to Jaros. His pale blue eyes were unblinking as they seemed to delve into Jaros' soul. "You just don't know where to look for it," the man replied, "Beauty is often found in surprising places." Jaros was looking directly at the man's eyes when it happened, so he had no choice but to accept it as reality when the pale blue eyes paled rapidly to a pure silver hue. The boy was suddenly reminded of the way the reflection of the moon shatters in flowing water, for the eyes were of precisely the same sparkling shade. The waters swirled in his mind, pulling him underneath, into their shimmering depths. Or was the reflection of the moon pushing him down? It didn't seem to matter. The water was warm, comforting. It wrapped itself around him, murmuring into his mind, soothing . . .

Jaros snapped his eyes open. Had he fallen asleep? He did not understand what had just occurred. He was, once again, lying in his tent, his blanket tightly about him. It was still night, and the stars were winking at him from their lofty seats in the heavens. He got a brief glimpse of the edge of the moon just before it slipped behind the battlements. It was full, Jaros remembered, having seen it the night before a mere sliver away from it's complete glory. He crawled out of the canvas and cloth frame for the second time that night. Or was it the first? He was not entirely sure. The apple tree was nowhere to be seen, and there was no trace of the silvery-eyed man. Jaros walked over to the spot where the tree had been standing. He saw only a short, slightly charred stump, saw off close to the ground. It looked as though no tree had stood in that spot for a long, long time. If it were not for the brilliantly colored feather he found in his pocket he would have thought it to have been a dream.

Chapter Three

I turned my back on my shattered home.
The light and love now stilled.
It was but a tooth upon the comb
With which my life was tilled.

From the Cilid, "Times of Loss," Verse XXI

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"Believe me lad. We have more than enough soldiers to fight off that rabble." The recruit officer, decided Jaros, was confident to the point of insanity. He tried to correct the problem. "Rabble?" He protested, "You have not seen these creatures, sir. They are like nothing your men could have possibly been trained to fight. You will need every sword you can get."

"Our best estimates," the officer snapped, "and our most generous calculations indicate that there couldn't possibly be more than twelve thousand individuals in their army. They couldn't have landed more troops than that in the time they had, no matter who or what they are. This Keep, pretty though it may be, was designed to be able to withstand the siege of an army twice that size. We could handle them with fewer troops than we have right now if we needed to. In my opinion, we're over prepared for the Uoan-Ti onslaught. We have enough food in the granary for months. They will dash themselves to very small pieces against these walls if they are foolish enough to attack," The man was slowly advancing on Jaros, punctuating every point with a sharp gesture. The boy retreated backwards toward the door at the same pace.

"But..." He tried to say. "Silence! I wouldn't let you fight in the army with my soldiers if you were the last able-bodied man in the Keep. The last thing trained soldiers need in the heat of combat is some untrained farm boy stumbling in waving his sword around like it was a scythe! In battle, troops depend on their fellows to protect their flanks. You think they would feel very safe with you bumbling along next to them? No!" The man whirled around and sat at his paper-laden desk.

"We had a garrison at the farm," Jaros was still trying to explain, "They were experienced soldiers! A mere handful of those things cut through them like they were not even there." How could he make the man see? "Mercenaries!" The recruit officer spat, "A collection of motley peasants who have picked up swords and fancy themselves warriors. I have run into standard serf farm garrisons! Often they would be better off putting the weapons in the hands of the workers. Those people are nothing compared to the Larsos garrison. Our men are carefully trained by the best warriors in Silleria, and they are all hand picked by me! If we were short on men and if we were not probably about to go into battle and if you were a little less hot-blooded and eager to fight, then I might consider letting you into basic training. After three years, you might even qualify for the Larsos garrison." He turned away from Jaros and began shuffling through his paperwork, "Get out of here boy. I cannot believe I have wasted so much time on you already. I have work to do."

":I'll be back in a week," Jaros promised, "After the Uoan-Ti arrive. You might not be so reluctant then." "Talk to the craftsmen," the thick-skulled officer called after Jaros as he left, "They always are looking for strong laborers." All I am to him, thought Jaros as he strode away from the recruit building, is an unskilled collection of limbs. He took the mysterious golden feather from his pocket and twirled it absently, admiring the way the sunlight splashed off of it. There did not appear to be any way to convince the officer of the direness of the Keep's current situation. Very grim times were ahead, times of death and of justified fear of the night. Did these people not realize what a threat the Uoan-Ti were? The inhuman armies had already raged across the entire western third of the country. He wondered for a moment where they had come from, for nothing like them had ever been seen or heard from before, as far as he knew, anyway. Yet, they had, without any warning or provocation of any kind, sent hundred of their dark ships to the shores of Silleria, each one carrying scores of bloodthirsty creatures. The coastal fishing villages had fallen instantly, the port cities a short time later, unable to put up any significant resistance. The invasion had been utterly swift and brutal.

Jaros remembered the night they had destroyed the farm that had been his home. Life as a serf-boy was far from pleasant, but it had had it's occasional moments. Sometimes, while harvesting the fields and when the wind was right, he could hear strands of the tunes played by Sir Lul's personal musicians. He would imagine that it was the music of the pixies his mother used to tell him stories about when he was a very small child. He tucked the feather away, sighing for the loss of his difficult, but stable, life. It had ended so quickly . . .

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Jaros opened his eyes to see his mother above him shaking his shoulder. "Mother," He cried, suddenly awake, "You must leave. If the Forman sees you here, he'll beat both of us." "We're leaving this place, Jaros." Seeing his confusion, she added, "No time for explanations, my child. Come with me!" He grabbed his tiny bundle of belongings from underneath his cot and raced after her, being careful not to trip over any of the other sleeping serfs. When he got outside the dormitory, he saw that it was still hidden by the shadows of night, with no trace of light on either horizon. Why would his mother decide to flee the farm in the dead of night? She couldn't possibly have obtained permission from Sir Lul, so this journey was obviously illegal, punishable by mutilation or death. Runaway serfs were not dealt with lightly. In the darkness, he stumbled over an unseen obstacle. All of his worries fled his mind as he realized that it was the mutilated body of one of the hired mercenaries. He gasped with revulsion, "By Nulcin, what is going on?" "Silence, child," his mother hissed close to his ear, "If we are sufficiently careful and lucky we might avoid his fate." He ran with his mother to a low building a short distance away. In the shadow of the structure he made out a dark form, which, as he approached, turned out to be his stepfather, who was hurriedly harnessing two sleepy plow horses to a cart.

"Luna! Jaros! I was beginning to worry," the dark skinned man whispered urgently, "Get in. There's no time to lose." Jaros tossed his bundle into the wagon and jumped in after it. A bloodcurdling shriek rose in the distance, only to be cut off an instant later. "That is the first one who managed to get out a sound," observed a pale-faced Luna. "What's happening here?" Jaros needed to know. She looked at him sadly, " The Uoan-Ti." It was all she needed to say. Jaros stifled his sharp intake of air before it could surface. The Uoan-Ti were far away, in the cities along the coast. How had they managed to get this far inland so quickly? His stepfather gave the leather straps a final tug. "Let's go."

Lights were beginning to come on around the complex. The clash of steel on steel could be heard faintly, accompanied by startled shouts. His stepfather helped his mother up into the long driver's seat, then clambered in himself. He quietly slapped the reins, seeming to take unusual caution to lessen even that minor sound. Any benefit of silence was lost instantly, however, as the wagon moved forward, making what seemed to be an awful clatter on the flagstones. Jaros' stepfather was no stranger to directing a team of horses, and led them quickly toward the farm gate, which was already open. As they passed through, Jaros noticed with amazement that the heavy oaken bar that was normally used to bar the gate had been shattered as though it had been a mere rod of glass.

"Faster, Indoson," Luna urged as they cleared the gate. Indoson urged the team to a gallop, normally quite an unsafe speed for a wagon, but necessary in the current situation. "We're safe," he breathed. Jaros looked back at the cluster of buildings surrounded by a palisade which comprised Sir Lul's farm. In the span of a few minutes, it had ceased to be his home. I wonder, he reflected with strangely passive emotion, if I'll ever have a home again. As he glanced reminiscently back at his past life, a dark shape detached itself from the moon-cast shadow of the palisade. As the boy watched, it moved up the dirt road after the fleeing cart, faster than any man could run. As it drew closer, Jaros observed that it was man-shaped, but utterly and somehow horribly silent. Jaros knew that the reasonable thing to do was alert his parents, but he remained captivated, fascinated by the soundless death approaching him, for the vaguely man-shaped form was almost certainly a Uoan-Ti.

It leapt at the cart. Jaros blinked. He had not realized exactly how close the creature had become. The creature dug it's inhuman claws into the wood of the vehicle and pulled itself up. It brushed Jaros aside with a contemptuous sweep of it's arm and leapt for his unsuspecting parents, claws extended. In that one instant that the Uoan-Ti's skin came into contact with his, he felt to unusual chill of it's body. It was reptilian, he felt the tiny scales, but possessed of a strength and hatred he knew that no true reptile could ever embody.

He tried to cry out, to warn Indoson and Luna of the impending threat, but the casual brushing of the Uoan-Ti had been enough to knock the wind out of him. He reached with right arm out in a vain, childish attempt to stop the Uoan-Ti, to pull the reptilian thing back. There was a strange, electric tingling in that arm. As his spread fingers brushed it's scaly hide, he felt it stiffen. Jaros' hand exploded in silent, silvery light for a single instant. Somehow, that simple touch had become much more. The Uoan-Ti turned on him, red eyes flashing with newly directed malicious intent. Jaros prepared himself for death as the silent man-lizard leaned over him. It's features could have considered manlike, had it not been for the layer of iron-hard translucent scales which covered it. It's expression was one of extreme pleasure: the creature was evidentially anticipating tearing the boy apart. Then, that expression changed. Instead of bloodthirst, it's eyes reflected sudden, overwhelming terror. It backed away from him, bumping silently into the far rim of the cart. It let out it's only noise, a single fearful hiss, and threw itself off the wagon and sprinted away. "Did you hear something, Jaros?" asked his mother. Amazingly, his parents had remained ignorant of the entire attack. The silence of the creature had been unearthly, almost certainly induced by magic. It had not even created a noise when it's claws dug into the framework of the wagon. "No," the shaken Jaros replied. He knew it would be pointless to attempt an explanation of what had just occurred. They would never believe that the creature had been so close to them without them noticing, or the unusual way in which it departed. Jaros was curious why they had not seen the mysterious flash of light which his hand had emitted. The boy opened his hand slowly, peering at the palm from which the flash had come. It seemed for an instant that he could see a faint, circular pattern glowing with no more light than that cast by a feeble star, but when he blinked, it was gone.

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