At the Table Of the Half-Moon

by Mike Mayak

(January 13, 2025)

There was in ancient Averoigne a sheltering spot, well-known to travelers and available to all, with a fireplace that was always tended. Food and drink were ready, prepared by grey-robed monks who were hooded and veiled so their faces were never seen. The shelter’s roof and walls protected visitors from the elements, though the style of architecture indicated no human builder.

The table by this fireplace was marble and made in a semicircle like a half-Moon with a similar divan surrounding that half, with cushions and blankets. The flat center of the table was where platters of hot tea, wrapped meats and cups of broth were placed.

To this spot, one wintry day with a cold rain driving down, came two sets of travelers; one pair down the road that led from the mountains of the far North. The other across the barren plains of the East. The Northerners were garbed in furs, the larger man carrying two huge swords at his belt. His brawny arms seemed ready to wield both swords in battle and have no problem with their heft. His brown beard trickled with rainwater.

His companion was smaller, leaner and was carrying a large bundle in each arm, with another strapped to his back. The smaller man saw to it that their furs hung by the fireplace to dry.

The other pair was the mirror-inverse of the first. The tall one, skinnier but with muscles beneath his layered robes. He had a stubble of beard and his greying hair belied his youth. His servant was squat and fat but gave the impression of being equally adept in battle. He was wrapped in robes similar to his master and was carrying their belongings in two large, oilskin bags.

The taller man had a long, thin sword at his belt. The squat servant had a knife.

The robes were likewise hung to dry by the fireplace.

The two pairs of warriors eyed the others carefully, until the servant of the taller man said plainly “Master, I smell no hostility from this pair, at least none towards us. We should find kindred spirits here. Their weapons have the scent of enemies blood and ichor, doubtless drawn in battle.”

The servant of the fur-clad warrior stepped forward and bowed to the other pair.

“This is Iodos, the grand Warrior of the Mountains of the North, his soul forged in a hundred battles. I am his loyal servant Thal. I am ready to serve my master to the last drop of blood.”

“I am Ahmodrias,” the other servant replied with a bow. “I serve Nobie, he of the silent sword. We have traveled from Pengtousha, across the arid plains and through jungle worlds. Ever ready to meet in battle those who would strike against us.”

“I believe for now we should strike battle with the foodstuffs that have been laid out for travelers,” Iodus said, stroking his long brown beard.

The four men, warily at first sat down on the couch that was in a semicircle at the table. Without a word the servants sampled the food and drink first. No ill effects produced they nodded at their masters and they all partook of the offering.

“Thal is ready to serve me to the last drop of food,” Iodos said with a laugh.

The servant smiled and began eating another of the meat rolls, which were succulent pig wrapped in one of the vegetables native to the province. There was, for a while the sort of convivial talk from warriors who have sat down at table instead of battle. Mixed in with the sounds of rain on the roof.

“A fine repast,” Iodos said. “Perhaps our servile ones should entertain us by copulating for our amusement.”

Nobie shook his head. “Amodrias has been slow to follow orders in the sleeping chamber so a fortnight’s deprivation is his punishment.”

Amodrias busied himself with a cup of broth and Thal gave him a sideways glance and Iodos smiled in his beard.

Ahmodrias suddenly stiffened and sniffed the air.

“Master, beware!” he cried jumping to his feet and grabbing the knife at his belt with a fluid grace that belied his girth.

The scraping of feet on the floor and the ringing unsheathing of swords was background to the shuffling of the eight monks stepping silently forward, cowls withdrawn revealing faces of rotted flesh, partly exposing skeletal mouths, mouths that had been nothing human in life. Teeth that looked used to devouring what they wanted.

One of the monks dove for Thal who seemed unprotected but the servant swung his staff in a swift arc which connected with the robed abomination with a harsh crack, a crack which was not the sound of the sturdy staff shattering.

Another monk went for Ahmodrias who slashed at the grey robe with the small knife in his left hand, then with a longer knife which had been concealed up the right sleeve. He swung back and forth, shredding cloth and bone with eye-blurring speed until with a sudden popping sound the skull and right arm of the monk fell clattering to the floor, the hand still reaching to clutch as Ahmodrias made short work of the rest of the robed nightmare.

Nobie took on three of the monks who surrounded him, slashing out with his long sword. One of the skeletal monks gripped it, stopping its swing in midair; it’s skeletal grin seeming to widen. But with a triumphant roar Nobie flung the monk at the end of his sword into the two of its fellows before it could let go. Nobie then skewered the skeletal trio and with a mighty heave exploded them in a burst of robes, bone and dried flesh.

Iodos did not bother with preliminaries; huge sword in each hand he threw himself at the remaining monks and spun and bounded until his adversaries were shredded to pieces.

For a moment, there was quiet. Then, Ahmodrias spoke, sniffing the air.

“Master, I believe that is all of them.”

Nobie smiled. “His nose never fails!”

“A wonder he can smell anything else with the stench from our playfellows,” Thal said gazing at the wreckage that had been the animated monks.

“I have seen too many battles, witnessed too much thaumaturgy to believe that the originator of this might be either traveling hence or reading another assault by something from someplace worse than the grave.” Iodos said, not bothering to wipe his swords as he sheathed them.

“I agree, Master,” Thal said helping Iodos into his furs and grabbing their belongings.

“We had best head away from here,” Nobie said. “What is your destination?”

“The Southern Mountains,” Iodos said. “The ‘Witched Mountains.”

“Ours too,” Ahmodrias said helping Nobie with his robe and sword, only pausing when Nobie kissed him.

“I fear they know of our intent and this may have an origin in their Mountain witcherey,” Iodos said.

“So we take this battle to them,” Nobie said, patting his sword.

“Look, the rain stopped!” Thal said.

“If it was ever there,” Ahmodrias said sniffing the air.

The four warriors stepped out of the shelter, headed for the road south.

—end–

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The prompt pic is part of what was once a dorm lobby at my old college and I imagined a contemporary story, but then I noticed that January 13^th (when I wrote most of it) was the birthday of the legendary fantasy writer and poet Clark Ashton Smith. So I set out to write a Smithian tale, remembering that it had been said that nobody since Poe “loved a rotting corpse” as much as Smith did in his fiction. One of his settings was Averoigne, a mythical version of a region of Medieval France.

My meager effort is dedicated to Clark Ashton Smith.—–mike mayak, January 14, 2025.