by Jack Conner
“My lord,” she said, leaning over. He could smell the wine on her breath.
Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed a breast. Instantly he drew his hand back. Suddenly sober, he sat up and backed away from her.
“Who are you?”
“Why, don’t you recognize me, my lord?”
It was Hallys, he saw, the girl who had fallen for Mikel. “Hallys. Why are you up here? You should be downstairs, with Mikel ...”
She giggled and sipped her wine. Some of it trickled down from her lower lip and over her right breast. Niara, he thought. Think of Niara.
“I should,” she agreed happily, “but instead I’m with you. I decided Mikel was too young.” Her shoulders sagged. “Besides, he took up with that slut, Santha. Anyway, he isn’t a lord. He’s just some foolish boy who can barely hold a sword. You’re a baron.” In a smaller voice, she added, “A hero ...”
She edged closer to him and draped herself along his side. Casually he took her goblet from her and downed a sip. The bittersweet liquid parched his thirst, stung his throat. “Hallys,” he said. “You must go.”
“Why?” She stroked his bare chest with her light, small fingers, running them through the hair that covered his belly. “Do you like it all alone up here, all alone in the Roost?” She giggled again. “That’s what people are calling it, you know. The Roost.”
He shoved her hand away, setting the goblet down. “Yes,” he said. “I do. Now, if you’ll go.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. Despite himself, it felt good there. Her hair smelled clean. “You don’t really mean that,” she said.
He did not immediately push her away. Wind whispered over the edges of the crumbled wall, and clouds streamed across the jewel-laden sky.
“Hallys,” he said.
She turned her face up to him. He didn’t know if it was the wine, or something else, but when she parted her lips, just slightly, he bent his head and kissed her. She tasted sweet, with just a hint of bitterness, the exact opposite of the Borchstog wine. He found himself squeezing one of her breasts again, and she moaned in his mouth.
Then she was pushing him back onto his nest. Her hands fumbled at his breeches, jerked them down.
“No,” he said. “Niara ...”
“No,” she answered. “I am Hallys.” She giggled.
His member popped out, stiff and proud. The breeze felt good against it. Then he couldn’t feel the breeze, for Hallys had slid down upon it. All he could feel was her tight, wet, warm embrace. She rose up and down on him, her curves framed by stars and clouds.
“Oh,” she said.
“No,” he said. “This isn’t ...” His head swam. She towered over him, huge, a goddess. Her eyes gleamed strangely. His head spun. That wine is no good ...
Despite himself, he thrust inside her. He cupped one of her buttocks, and she moaned. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
She rocked her hips, sliding herself up and down. She closed her eyes and arched her back, gasping with pleasure.
“Yes,” he said, and the word felt as though it were torn from him. The stars blurred and danced behind her. His mind reeled.
She rocked her hips, faster, faster. He couldn’t take it anymore. Suddenly, he erupted inside her, and all his strength fled him.
“Where is the Moonstone?” she said, panting.
“Over there.” He gestured to the corner of his roost. “Under that mound, there’s a stone. It’s beneath it.” Why did I say that? The wine ... But there was a blurring in his mind that did not feel as though it came from wine.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “I never would have found it otherwise.”
She slipped off him, his juices running down her thigh. She bent, shoved away the pile of debris that Giorn had erected, pulled up the stone he had so cunningly placed, and revealed the ancient chest that held the Moonstone. The Last Gift. The salvation of Man. Still quivering in ecstasy, Giorn tried to rise to his feet and stop her. His legs folded like jelly. The stone floor rushed up and slapped him. Groaning, he crawled over to her. She was staring down at the chest.
“I can’t open this,” she said. “Not here.”
“No,” he said, crawling closer.
“It will have to be Wegredon ...”
She turned to him. She was no longer Hallys, but some stranger, tall, voluptuous, beautiful. A cascade of black hair fell across her white shoulders, and her eyes flashed emerald green by the light of the moon.
“No,” he said again.
She almost seemed to have forgotten him. But now she remembered, and her foot lashed out and kicked him in the face.
When he awoke, the woman was gone, and so was the Stone. Groggily, he roused the castle. Ystrissa shrieked and slapped him when she found out the Stone had been stolen, and she slapped him again when she found out how. The girl Hallys was quickly found, nestling with Mikel, and questioned thoroughly. She knew nothing. Giorn hadn’t expected her to. When the woman that seduced him had turned to him, her hair had been black as death, not blond like Hallys’s.
Where had she gone? He scoured Balad’s Folly, but she was nowhere to be found. The search could take days, for it was a massive fortress, made to contain the entire population of Fenmarth.
It was hours after midnight when he received the first report of Borchstogs coming through the passes. His sentries, posted on cliffs throughout the area, had seen them coming, a great host of them.
“She told them,” Giorn said, balling his hands into fists. “Omkar curse her, she stole the Stone, escaped the Folly, then she told them where we were ...” He wanted to punch something, principally himself.
“What shall we do, my lord?” asked Hanen.
Giorn mashed his eyes shut. “We will have to go through the caves. They will be expecting that, I’m sure, but the caves are vast and many. If we send scouts ahead, we should be able to slip through them, and our sentries have already mapped them to a large extent.”
He saw to the preparations, and within an hour he was leading his ragged band through the winding caverns below the mountain. He’d had his men light a score of great bonfires in the courtyards of Balad’s Folly so that the flames would be seen by the oncoming hordes. Hopefully that would give the Borchstogs some pause.
It was a grim, silent procession through those subterranean passages. So quiet was the gathering that Giorn could hear the drips of water from stalactites overhead. Somewhere water dripped on water. He pictured vast black lakes, slumbering under the mountain.
“What shall we do?” Hanen whispered suddenly.
The sound startled Giorn. It had been the first anyone had spoken in hours. “We’ll emerge from the caverns on the other side of the mountain,” he said. “Then you’ll go north.”
Hanen made a face. “I’ll go ...”
Giorn drew him aside, under an ancient arch of stone. They were near a black pool, and the light from the procession’s torches made it glimmer and sway. Giorn wondered how deep it went.
He looked into his friend’s eyes. “I must go a different direction. The Stone has been taken. Even now it travels south.”
“We will go with you, my lord. Our swords are yours.”
“I appreciate that, but the Borchstogs are too thick in that direction. They’re everywhere, occupying every keep, and their patrols are like nets between them. There’s no way a band of us could slip through. But perhaps one ...”
“That’s madness, my lord. And where will you be going? Do you even know where the Stone is?”
“Wegredon. She said she was taking it to Wegredon.”
“The Keep of Fire.” Hanen sounded awed. “You’ll need swords.”
“It would take the whole army of Felgrad to storm Wegredon, Captain, and even then their chance of success ... but, again, maybe one man ...” He let out a breath. It truly did seem hopeless, but he saw no other choice. He could not let Vrulug have the Moonstone. Whatever the wolf-lord wanted it for, he wanted it desperately, and that could only
mean death and worse to the peoples of the North if he got it. “You’ll lead our people across the Eresine,” Giorn said. “And I’ll travel south. Hopefully I can catch that witch before she reaches Wegredon, but if not ...”
“The wolf-lord will catch you, sir. He will catch you and he will feed your soul to Gilgaroth.”
For the thousandth time, Giorn cursed himself. “That is the risk I must take.”
Chapter 7
Silently, Raugst rode through the forest, Niara sitting behind him in the saddle. He rode fast and she was forced to wrap her arms about his waist or be thrown off. He seemed to enjoy it, but her flesh continued to crawl at the touch. The wind whispered through the trees, and she tried not to think of Meril’s red-rimmed eyes.
At last they reached Thiersgald, and Niara’s heart wrenched when she heard bells tolling from all the temples in the city. A royal has died. Meril ... She almost wept, but she would not give Raugst the satisfaction.
They rode through the East Gate into the city. Bells tolled, slowly, sadly, and people wandered the streets in black, heads bowed. Raugst took her to the Castle, and they dismounted and strode through the halls to the Throne Room, where Meril was laid out upon a bed of white roses. Candles surrounded him, save for a space left open for visitors. At the moment only family and nobility were being allowed to see him.
He was dressed in his richest finery, a burgundy tunic under a dark green jacket trimmed in white. He had not died in combat, and so no sword depended from his crossed arms. Not bothering to hold back her tears any longer, Niara went to him and ran her hands through his blond hair. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks were smooth and soft. He almost seemed to be living still, but his flesh was cool, too cool. The smell of the roses was sickly sweet.
“Oh, Meril,” she said, and lay her head on his breast. The last of the Wesrain men, she thought. Now there is only Fria.
Fria was there, hunched against a pillar at the edge of the room, staring at Meril with watery eyes. For her sake, Niara straightened and tried to stand firm. When Niara went to her, Fria flung her arms about her and wept into her bosom.
Niara stroked her hair. “It’s all right, dear,” she said. “He is beyond the Lights of Sifril now. He is beyond the cares of our world. He’s at peace.” She had said the words a thousand times, and each time she had to find a new way to say it, or else it sounded rote.
Fria drew back. To Niara’s surprise, there was as much anger as sadness in the girl’s face. Her left eye rolled restlessly in its socket. “Poison,” she said, and the word was almost a snarl. “Poison. That’s how he did it. A craven’s escape. How could he have done it? How could he have left us, and now?” Her voice was raw and ragged.
Niara stared at her, the truth bubbling on her lips. He did not leave you willingly, she wanted to say. He was slain by a jackal in human skin, or at least by his agents. Likely it had been a cup of wine, she thought, given to him casually by one of Raugst’s men.
Raugst was within earshot, though, so she could say nothing. To her horror, she realized she must let Fria believe Meril had sought solace in death, at least for the moment.
“Do not judge him too harshly,” she heard herself saying. “These are dark times, and perhaps—”
Fria broke away. “No. No, there can be no excuse.” Over her shoulder she added, “Don’t look for me to attend his funeral, Mother. I ... I cannot ...” She paused when she reached Raugst, patted his chest, then vanished from the room.
Raugst appeared sad, but it was just a mask. Niara glared at him as he approached.
“Bastard,” she hissed, when he was close enough. “How could you? He was your friend. You sparred together, rode together, drank together. Rumor even had it that you shared your whores. He considered you a brother.” She couldn’t help herself. She beat at his chest. Once. Twice. Then she flailed at him in a fury of hate, and he did not stop her.
At last, though, he stepped back, and she collapsed to her knees before him, sobbing wretchedly.
“How?” she demanded again.
He seemed to sag, just a bit. “Not easily,” he admitted, and she sensed some honesty in his words. “He was my friend.” He glanced about to make sure no one was listening. No one was, save his agents. The Throne Room was all but empty. He returned his gaze to her, then knelt beside her. “But he stood in the way of the One.” He took a deep breath, let it out. “Now the way is clear. I am baron. And the Age of Grandeur shall begin.”
She ground her teeth. “No! I’ll go to the priestesses and rouse them against you—”
“And I will be forced to declare the priesthood an enemy of the barony, and the army will slaughter them all. Save you.”
“They would never—”
“Oh, they won’t like it, but they will obey their baron, especially after they discover evidence that you were colluding with the Enemy. Much like poor Duke Yfrin.”
“Then I’ll tell the people, and they will—”
“They will say you lie. I’m a hero of the people—and their last hope. And again I’ll have the army turn on your priesthood. Any move you make against me will have the same result. There’s nothing you can do, Niara. Nothing. But ... there is a place for you at my side when this is all over.”
“Never.” She stormed from the room.
Niara oversaw the funeral the next day in the great square before the castle, and it seemed as though everyone in the city came to attend. Everyone but Fria. True to her word, the new baroness refused to grace the gathering with her presence. Raugst, of course, was there. With Fria absent, the people looked to him for a new beginning, and it was clear that they considered him their leader. Indeed, by custom, since he was male, his authority was greater than Fria’s, even though she was the true Wesrain.
It was a somber ceremony, even though the sun shone down from a blue sky and birds sang from their perches on the buildings overlooking the square. The people kept silent, their faces ashen. They had suffered much through the loss of the Wesrains, and their gazes were distant and faraway. Niara resolved to go amongst them and counsel them in the days ahead, to give them hope and encouragement. She wished there was someone to give her the same.
But he was dead. He was dead, and she could not name him.
Over the next few days, more reports of the Borchstog raiders began to circulate, and word spread that Raugst meant to challenge them.
Almost immediately, Niara’s days grew hectic. It seemed half the men in the city chose that time to get married. They knew war would be upon them soon and they wanted the chance to have been wed before they died, perhaps to father a son so that their line could live on. Niara’s days were full of preparing and presiding over bathing ceremonies and marriages. She often performed as many as five weddings and five bathing ceremonies a day. Normally she loved such duties, but not now. With each wedding, she saw a death. The men and women she joined together wed not out of love, but fear. To Niara the ceremonies were hollow, cold, and she could not join in the dancing afterward but stood on the dais looking down on their dancers, trying to hold back tears.
All the while she thought on Raugst and how to destroy him. She confided the truth to her inner circle of priestesses, and they discussed the matter endlessly. But none could agree on a way to remove the demon, and at last Niara resigned herself to assassination. She would go to him, pretend to give herself to him, then use her powers to destroy him. His lieutenants—the wolves, she thought, the murderers of Lissia—would surely kill her for it, but at least the traitor would be no more.
Raugst came to her first. She was in the gardens behind the Temple, enjoying a peaceful moment between ceremonies, when a novice ran up to her, breathless.
“Mother! Mother! Lord Raugst is here.”
Niara noted how the young girl smiled, as if Raugst’s unholy presence in this holy place were a blessing.
“He wishes an audience with you,” the girl continued. In a whisper, she added, “They say he’s massing a great host b
efore the South Gate.”
Niara had heard the calling of military horns and guessed that something like that had been occurring. “Very well. I’ll meet him in the Audience Room.”
Beaming, the girl darted off, happy to relate the news in person to Lord Raugst.
Niara quit the garden and assumed her white throne in the long, narrow, white-columned Audience Room, with the mosaic on the white marble floor depicting the Niethi dancing about the Moon, helping to guide it in its long trek through the Void. As soon as she sat down she heard heavy footfalls echoing from the walls, and presently the tall, masculine form of Raugst appeared, with wild black hair and a newly-grown grizzled beard, a veritable wolf at the door. As soon as his black-booted feet crossed the mosaic, actually stepping on the face of an angel, Niara shuddered. His presence was profane, unnatural, a cancer on this place.
He bowed, but his face wore no mocking expression. He seemed serious and business-like today. Strangely, when he lifted his gaze and looked her in the eye, there was something in his face, some sense of ...
No, Niara told herself. She was imagining things. Raugst was evil. Love and affection had no place in his soul. Lust, perhaps, but no more. Yet he had kept her alive for a reason.
“Why have you come?” she asked. She kept her back straight and her gaze steady. She was in control here.
He drove straight to the point. “I ride to war, High Mother. The band of Borchstogs that crossed the Eresine Bridge before its firing has made its way north, and they are no longer hiding in the bogs and caves. We must rout them.”
“We? But you are one of them.”
His eyes widened, and now he did give a sly smile. “You speak in riddles, Mother. I cannot see through your screen of words. Whatever can you be implying?”
She narrowed her eyes, said nothing.
He cleared his throat. “At any rate, I ride to counter the Borchstogs and would beg the aid of a powerful priestess. Perhaps you can assist me.”