The Forgetting Moon (Five Warrior Angels #1)

by Brian Lee Durfee

For all firemen, paramedics, nurses, and law enforcement officers across the world, much appreciation for the noble work you do,

MAP

Trust is fleeting, while betrayal is timeless.

The lost and lonely ship finally berthed in Avlonia, thousands of days adrift. What few were left stumbled ashore, the Firstlands lost to them forever. Desperate souls all, starving and weak, half-naked, garbed in animal skins, still these newcomers to the Five Isles offered up alms and blood sacrifice to the gods of their Firstlands.

’Twas an age when man wandered soulless and lost, until the images of glorious prophecy took root: standing-stones with carved crosses, circles painted green, red, blue, black, white, images of a boy with a spear, a young man in slave chains, a warrior with a sword, an ax, a crossbow, and a helm, killing winged demons; a man nailed to a tree, a man laid out on a cross-shaped altar.

Gault had come to realize that if a man wasn’t killed in war, then that man’s mind, spirit, and emotions decayed, or, even worse, were willfully buried because of it.

War was a swift death for some, a gradual death for others.

The prophets foretold that the carvings on the standing-stones would be the same signs found upon his flesh, and such symbols would give him dominion over all.

In the end, Gault knew, it was better to see a mole-faced girl’s head on a stick than your own.

There were symbols: squares, circles, crosses, broken S’s, what looked like jagged rows of teeth or mountains.

Nail shuddered. Many of the carvings were similar to the marks he had on his own body. Many similar to the red-glowing symbols I saw in the bloody water with the mermaid.

Upon a cross-shaped altar she did lay him, weapons at his side, five angel stones thrust into his wounds, Ethic Shroud atop his chest.

I was born at his side. Heir of Laijon. Dragon Claw. As for my birthright… you will see what Lady Death hath stolen.

There were markings carved into the rock at eye level, barely visible, blanketed in layers of lichen, moss, and snowflakes.

Indeed, it was in the shape of a cross. Next to that was the Sør Sevier slave mark—the broken S—just like the one on the underside of his wrist. And under those two carvings was what looked like a row of shark’s teeth, exactly like the tattoo on his bicep.

After the lightning strike, crosses just like that were burned all over my skin, from my armor. And the shark bites too. Do you know I have dreams of such markings, Nail?

Luck lasts not. Skill endures.