by Jack Conner
Fria stared at her, shocked by this abrupt change in topic and by the frank manner in which Niara accomplished it.
But it was too late. Her face red, tears coursing down her cheeks, her one lazy eye rolling like a mad thing, she glared at Niara and said, “Just when I thought you had sunk to your lowest point, you bitch, this.” Her voice wasn’t angry anymore; she had moved past that. She spoke in icily calm tones now. “I don’t know what to do with you. My High Priestess, a liar, a traitor, trying to break up the royal family on the eve of battle. Yes,” she added, apparently pleased with her logic. “A traitor. A foul-mouthed Oslogon sympathizer. A spy.”
“No! Fria, I would never—”
“Guards!”
At all times, Fria was accompanied by at least a pair of soldiers. They were waiting outside the chapel even then. At her summons, they burst into the holy place, hands at the hilts of their swords, though obviously reluctant to draw them here. They stared from Fria to Niara, confused.
“Arrest her!” the baroness said, stabbing a finger at Niara. “Arrest her for high treason. The High Priestess is a spy!”
“This is madness!” Niara said. She looked desperately at the guards. “Don’t do this thing.” She was aware that she could slay them both if she had to, but if she did there would be no going back. The whole kingdom would turn on the priesthood.
The guards hesitated another moment. Finally, with great reluctance, they stepped forward and took Niara delicately by the upper arms.
“Take her to the dungeon,” Fria said. As the soldiers started to bear Niara away, the baroness added, “On the morrow she will be executed.”
“Fool,” said Niara. “There will be no tomorrow.”
With few exceptions, the dungeons below the castle had been out of use for some time and were dank and decrepit. The soldiers showed Niara to a cell dripping with moisture and overgrown with slime mold, its walls composed of large stone blocks and its bars black iron encrusted with age. The guards abandoned her there, leaving only a torch on the wall so that she wasn’t plunged into absolute blackness, and a bucket for her to void her bladder and bowels into when the time came. The senior guard apologized before he left.
When they were gone, Niara slumped against the cold wet wall, feeling the moisture seep into her dress, and tried not to weep. Think of Yfrin, she thought. He’s been down here for weeks. Where was the old duke? She had not seen him on the way in. He must be on another level.
The moist chill bit at her and she shivered. This turned into an uncontrollable shudder, and for a long while she was held in thrall to the fear and hopelessness which gripped her.
She told herself she could escape if she had to, though she was unsure. The truth was that she was not particularly powerful, or did not think she was. She’d undergone some training when she was young, but her human heritage complicated things and frustrated her teachers. She could not draw on the light as easily and in quite the same manner as her elvish friends, so she had been forced to create her own system, her own tools.
Could she bend iron bars and escape through a heavily-guarded castle? And if so, where could she go for safe harbor? The only place she could think of was the Temple, but Fria would surely seek her there, and if the priestesses hid her away, which they would, the barony would turn on them, and that’s exactly what Niara needed to prevent. Indeed, as High Priestess of Fiarth, it was her sworn duty to promote the ways of Illiana, not bring ruin to Her agents.
Trying not to weep, Niara sank down the wall and stared into the dimness of the chamber. Somewhere rats squealed and fought. A drop of water fell from the ceiling. The torchlight ebbed. Soon it would go out altogether, hurling Niara into blackness.
How could this have happened? How could she have done this to herself? And that Fria had been the one to put her here! Niara shook her head, horrified and yet grimly amused that Raugst could twist people so well. Oh, yes, her enemy was a worthy one. But even he must have his weakness. He was out on the edge, past the edge, a pretender in the land of his foes. Surely he couldn’t keep the pretense up forever. Even he must slip eventually.
By then it would be too late, though. Fiarth would have already fallen.
For the thousandth time, Niara wished that Giorn was here, that he could wrap her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right. Even if he lied, it would have meant a lot to her.
Suddenly the screeching of the fighting rats cut off. The torchlight had burned down to an ember, and from its vague light she saw a tall shadow with flaming eyes approach the bars.
“Raugst.” She nodded her head to the shadow, not quite a bow, but acknowledging his victory.
“Darling.” There was irony in his voice, but also honesty. It was a disturbing combination.
“It must please you to see me like this.”
“Perhaps. A little.”
“Just go away. Leave me.”
“You’re to be executed on the morrow, my good wife tells me.”
“Did she tell you why? To save your honor.” Niara laughed sourly.
Oddly, his voice held a note of sadness. “She told me. Apparently you were spreading lies about me.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Lies.”
He paused. Then quietly, he said, “You know, all this could’ve been avoided if you had only said yes to me that night. If you could have only yielded to what you and I both know you desire.”
“Never!” Niara felt her cheeks grow hot.
He gripped the bars with his large hands. “You know it’s true. Why deny your heart?”
“My heart? My heart?” She glared at the dark shape that was Raugst. “If I felt anything for you, you monster, it wouldn’t come from my heart.”
“Then you do feel something.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Leave me alone. I prefer the company of the rats.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“At least they’re honest about what they are.”
“I’m honest.”
“How can you say that?”
The dark shape that was Raugst leaned against the bars, as though straining to be closer to her. She could feel his heat from where she squatted along the wall.
“I am honest with you,” he said. “In fact, I do not recall ever lying to you. Not once.”
That was possibly true, she thought, strangely disturbed by the idea. “I hope you don’t think that impresses me.”
He leaned back. “You are a hard one.”
“I am. I really am. I hope when your friends are overrunning Thiersgald, when they’re raping and torturing and burning the city to its foundations, and you’re likely joining them, that you remember how hard I was, that you remember that I didn’t yield, and that it brings you some twinge of pain, some minor pang of dissatisfaction. I hope it tarnishes your victory, just a bit. Maybe then my life will have counted for something.” She closed her eyes and prayed that he would leave.
His voice was cold now, but not cruel. Had she wounded him? “Very well, then,” he said. She could feel him, could smell him, drawing back from the bars. “But that time may be sooner than you think.”
She opened her eyes. The torch took just that moment to go out, and she strained her gaze into the darkness. A few embers still burned, but all that she could see of him was a red-gilded silhouette. She could still feel him, though, like a burning hole in the blackness.
“What do you mean?” she asked. But she already knew.
“Vrulug has arrived.”
A heavy weight descended on her. “Dear Illiana ...”
“If you must. But he is here. Even now my old friend launches his first wave against the city.”
“Then I must get out of here!” She stood and pushed herself away from the wall. She would use her powers if she must. She had to free herself, however she could.
“That’s why I have come,” he said. “I hoped you would join me. Together we can watch the sacking of Thiersgald. It shall be a glorious night.”
“But ... how can you release me? I’ll only fight you.”
There was no victory in his voice. “There is nothing you or your priestesses can do, Niara. You are now ... irrelevant.”
“What do you mean? How?”
He did not answer. Instead, he held up something in his right hand. In the fading light of the torch’s embers, the key shone the color of blood.
Chapter 12
A cold breeze gusted up from the south, rustling Niara’s hair, but she barely felt it as she stood atop the wall near the South Gate. To either side of her, peppered throughout the soldiery, her sister priestesses waited as well. Her gaze fastened on the sickly, glistening masses of the Borchstog host as it closed on the wall of the city—a great, devouring shadow against the gently rolling plain, a shadow that grew closer with every heartbeat, so that she could all but taste it on her tongue—and could not look away.
“Dear Illiana,” she whispered. They were more numerous than she had supposed, perhaps twenty thousand. And this is just an inkling of their true number. When they’ve rebuilt the Eresine Bridge ...
The Borchstogs swept northward, a vast host that covered the rolling plains like locusts. Only each one was tall and strong and proud, steeped in shadow. They lived for, and would happily die for, Gilgaroth. They would laugh as they raped the women of his enemies, as they flayed the skin from enemy warriors, as they redecorated Thiersgald with the viscera of the fallen so that vultures wheeled overhead and maggots wriggled through mounds of flesh, and the reek of it all rose to the impotent heavens with the smoke from the ruins.
That is what they wanted, Niara knew—what they had been raised to achieve. They marched in time, each one in step with the other, so that she could almost feel their footfalls shake the earth. The closer they drew, the more she felt cold, and ill, and the air turned sharp and bitter. Someone powerful is with them, she thought. Someone, or something.
They didn’t march in total darkness. They trampled through the flaming ruins of the farms that checkered the lands south of the wall. Even now the refugees from those farms flooded the streets of the city. Some of the soldiers even then watching the Borchstogs advance hailed from those very farms. Not all of the farmers would have fled, of course. Some particularly obstinate ones would have remained, and even now the Borchstogs would be amusing themselves with them.
The creatures came on, beating their drums as they went. The beats were steady and rhythmic, going before the army like a chill, stilling the limbs and numbing the minds of the Fiarthans. Niara drew on the power of the stone she wore about her neck and fought against it, but it was too powerful to throw off completely.
The Borchstogs marched closer. Closer.
Niara found herself holding her breath. The soldiers around her muttered prayers, and, hoping to soothe them, and perhaps herself, too, she recited an old standard: “Father and Mother, hear us in our hour of need. Darkness comes upon us, but through You we have Light. Bless us now as woe becomes us. Bless us as we are tested. Bless us now in this time of torment, for through us You shine anew.”
“Bless us,” the soldiers repeated. Several bowed to Niara, and she inclined her head back to them.
The Borchstogs came on. Niara could smell them now, filthy and foul. Rancid, like rotting meat. The drumbeats thundered around her, shaking the earth in time to the demons’ footsteps. At last they came within bowshot range, and Raugst shouted, “Fire!” He occupied one of the guard towers that rose to either side of the South Gate. As with any city of the Crescent, the southernmost gate was the most heavily fortified, and the towers were high and thick. “Fire!” he said again, his voice rolling down from the tower to be repeated by his captains all along the wall.
The archers obeyed. Arrows thrummed through the night, dark blurs against the stars, and Borchstogs fell twitching to the ground, though for the most part the shafts simply embedded in their broad shields or glanced off their armor. The Borchstogs walked right over their dead, not stopping.
The air turned more bitter, more cold. Vrulug. He is truly with them. And he has the Stone. Niara pushed the thought aside. The moment for her to lead her order against the Borchstogs had come, and she must let nothing slow her.
She didn’t summon the light within her, didn’t use the Grace that was her elvish heritage. That she was reserving, and strengthening, for a special purpose—should she live long enough to carry it out. All other options had been discarded; she must launch her desperate plan, the plan to rid Fiarth of Raugst, once this battle was over.
She drew strength from the white stone she wore about her neck, blessed long ago by a powerful elf, and sent a beam of light deep into the advancing Borchstogs. Screams rose up and many of the demons crumpled. At the signal of her initial salvo, her priestesses drew on the power of their own elvish artifacts and blasted the approaching Borchstogs. It was an awesome sight, the white-garbed priestesses of the Light arrayed along the jutting arc of the wall smiting the demons of Oslog that surged forward like a dark, devouring sea. The Borchstogs wore helms with masks shaped like monsters, bulls, wolves, rotting human faces, and they stopped and wilted when struck by the light.
On their host came, steady and inexorable. Borchstogs reached the walls, flung up ladders and gave battle to the men. Niara tensed as the first wave swarmed up, and the knights about her set upon the demons. Then her veins filled with fire. She flung out her hand, light flashed, and a Borchstog fell away. Then another.
A knight stumbled backward, a sword protruding from his abdomen. Blood fountained and slicked the stones at his feet. The knight nearly collided with Niara, and she had to step out of the way. The Borchstog that had stuck him lunged for her. She drew on the strength of the jewel, and a white-hot beam burst forth from her and consumed him utterly so that he was ash and blackened bone by the time he crashed into her. She barely felt the impact, though she felt its heat singe her clothes. The knights around her screamed and scurried away from the sudden blaze. Breathing heavily, Niara turned to face the next threat.
Swords clanged, sparked and shattered all along the walls. The great cacophony of war overwhelmed her. At any moment she feared a Borchstog might slay her, and several times she was forced to dodge and strike, and twice she was obliged to reposition herself along the wall. Fortunately, the soldiers around her, devout lads all, shielded her from the worst of it, and she in turn did what she could to aid them—blinding the Borchstogs with her light-stone, smiting them with beams of energy, fogging their minds when she could.
Hours passed. Two generals led thousands of riders out from the eastern and western gates, and these drove their forces deep into the Oslogon ranks, breaking their formations and stymieing their advance.
Legions of glarumri swept down from the skies and rained arrows, some flaming, some poisonous, into the men below. Some of the glarum-riding Borchstogs sent their flaming shafts into the houses of the city, and fires rose up into the night. Quickly bucket brigades formed and quenched the flames. Priestesses helped. Archers in the high towers drove the glarumri back, and many of the black-feathered birds plummeted to the ground.
Niara drew on the white stone until its energies were exhausted, which happened much sooner than it should have. Indeed, she was having a great deal of difficulty harnessing the light, as though something were blocking it, weakening it. She had never felt the like before.
You are now irrelevant. What did that mean?
Fortunately, she had another stone, and another. Such artifacts were limited in quantity, and she began to fear that she would run out. Every single one lasted for less time than the one before, as if whatever strange force opposed her grew in strength. What could it be? Without Grace to aid them, the forces of Thiersgald were vulnerable.
For the moment the men held strong. With the aid of the generals who had stymied Vrulug’s advance, the Thiersgaldian forces repelled the Borchstogs, and to much cheering along the walls the Borchstogs drew back, out of arrow range. They began to
pitch their tents and make camp.
Thiersgald was under siege.
The withdrawal of the Borchstogs wasn’t the end of the drama. It wasn’t long before their ranks folded away and Borchstog drummers began beating their drums again, slowly, rhythmically. Men along the wall stirred and muttered.
A ghastly procession stepped from the line of Borchstogs and approached the South Gate. A tall, dark figure strode in the middle, but Niara could not get a good look at him at first. A dozen black-robed priests escorted him and lit the way before him with red jewels that glowed with hellfire. The priests looked like men, but their flesh was a pale, worm-belly white, and their noses had been severed. And their teeth, their needle-sharp teeth ...
A Borchstog standard-bearer strode before the procession, holding aloft on a sharpened pole the dismembered carcass of what had probably been a Fiarthan soldier. A fat black snake coiled about him, its scales glimmering by the light of the torches along the wall.
With each footfall of the members of the procession, the Borchstog drummers beat their drums. Boom, step. Boom, step. Drawing closer with each beat, so that Niara winced with every throb. She had to steel herself to see that hideous standard. She knew that the snake represented a victorious Gilgaroth and the dead man his fallen foes.
The surreal procession drew the attention of the men, who they murmured fearfully along the wall. “Vrulug!” they whispered. “The wolf-lord comes.” They made signs to ward off evil, and so did the priestesses in their midst.
It was the wolf-lord. As the procession approached the wall and the torch-light that bathed it, Niara saw the tall dark figure in the center of the procession, his eyes reflecting the light of the fires. At first he was just as shadow, then she caught the fire-light gleaming off his fur on one side, and his black armor. She saw firelight stroking his long claws, and turning his sharp teeth red. He remained half in shadow, half in fire-light, but even so she could see his wolf-like head, grim and terrible, a living reminder of Gilgaroth, the Breaker, the Great Wolf.