The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  “By a hog,” she said through clenched teeth. Her small fists were white and trembling. “How could one so bright and fair be brought low by a hog?” The notion seemed to offend her on some deep level, and she did not bother wiping the tears that coursed down her face.

  The Baron merely pushed his food around, and from time to time he would stare at first Meril, then Raugst, and seem to sigh. He was a man who spent his days officiating and had little time for pleasure. Thus he lived through his sons, who were wild and free. Rian had been the wildest and the freest, and his carefree spirit would obviously be missed keenly.

  Raugst said little. He’d been given new clothes and his wounds had been cleaned and dressed, but he still seemed untamed, a creature of the forest. All these trappings of civilization must seem foreign to him.

  It fell to Giorn to tell the tale of Rian’s death, and he did so with all the energy he could summon, which was not much. He embellished a few details, making Rian’s death sound less random and more truly heroic, as he thought only fitting. As he told it, Rian had weakened the boar enough, fighting it with his tiny dagger, no less, to allow Raugst to slay later. To wet his throat for the tale, Giorn drank one glass of wine after another. By the time he finished, Giorn’s head swam and the black-stemmed candles seemed like fireflies dancing about the heaving, shimmering hall. A hammer pounded his temples, and he welcomed it, as it pushed the grief aside.

  Strangely, even though the dining hall swam, Raugst on his chair remained still and tall, dark and wild, and his eyes blazed with something Giorn could not place.

  And, occasionally, though Giorn couldn’t be sure, he thought he saw Fria even in her grief steal sidelong glances at the woodsman.

  For a time, Raugst did not seem to notice these glances, if glances they were, but at last he turned and stared her full in the eyes for several long moments. Apparently caught, for this time she had been undeniably looking at him, Fria turned her face away and did not look up again until the dinner was over.

  Grateful, Giorn bid his family good night and staggered from the room. He wanted to climb his tower, find his bed and sink into a dreamless sleep, but he had one thing to do first.

  He quit the castle through the rear and shivered suddenly, shocked by the cold night breeze. Blinking, he marched over to the stables, where the priestess waited beside her white horse. It was better here, out of the wind, and she smelled of rose and honeysuckle. Giorn approached her, feeling, as her fingers press into his hand, how warm she was, almost hot.“I came,” she said.

  He glanced cautiously around, seeing no one, not even the stable hands. The place smelled of hay and horse dung, and the beasts themselves were stamping and snorting in their stalls. Still, there was no place he’d rather be.

  “We’re alone,” Niara assured him.

  “Your women can have Rian tomorrow,” he said. “Let him stay with his family for one more night.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She moved in closer to him. Now their bodies were almost touching. “I’m so sorry.”

  He squeezed her hand tighter. With her he felt no pain. He breathed deep. “It’s been too long.” He placed a hand on the small of her back, felt her gasp.

  “Yes.” She tilted her face up, her lips parting.

  He bent down . . .

  A noise.

  Giorn whirled. A stable-boy was darting in from the cold, huddling his shoulders and rubbing his palms over a lantern hanging from the wall. He must have come to check on the horses. He hadn’t seemed to notice Giorn and Niara.

  Giorn stepped back. Niara looked away. Her fingers slipped from his.

  “I’ll send some sisters around tomorrow,” she said.

  “Yes.” His voice was choked.

  With fluid grace, she swung astride her mare. Then, looming over him like the moon, she smiled, and her smile was like the sun. It ignited something inside him, something that roared and blazed. Something dangerous.

  She spurred her mount and darted out into the night, the wind whipping her white robe, and then the darkness swallowed her.

  He watched the spot where she’d vanished, and that roaring thing in him begin to ebb. It was a perilous fire she had ignited in him. A high priestess of Illiana could not engage in pleasures of the flesh, not in pious Felgrad, and the man that so tainted her would be slain, and not slowly. Nobility was no shield.

  Giorn checked on the stable boy, spreading hay for Giorn’s stallion.

  “’night, m’lord,” said the boy, glancing at him. Giorn studied that glance tensely. It seemed idle enough.

  “Good night,” he returned.

  He turned about and left the warmth of the stables for the cold outside. The castle reared up black and forbidding before him, and he imagined Raugst, the wild man, staring out at him through a window, and he thought of Fria, grief-racked but with eyes wide and adoring, and suddenly Giorn shivered again, but this time not with the cold.

  A rider lit out from Thiersgald that night and traveled swiftly south, over the Eresine Bridge, through Feslan, finally leaving Felgrad altogether and coming after many days upon the endless peaks of the Aragst Mountains. There the rider brought his message to Lord Vrulug in the wolf-lord’s great fortress of Wegredon.

  Vrulug took several slaves and journeyed through secret passageways, coming deep into the mountain, where the walls dripped with moisture and thick black columns held up lofty ceilings. Here was Vrulug’s private temple to the Great One, Gilgaroth, Lord of the South.

  Vrulug forced the slaves onto the high black slab that served as Gilgaroth’s altar and slew them, one by one. They could not resist, such was his power, and he watched as their souls like wisps of smoke left their bodies and were drawn up into the mouth of the huge wolf-like statue that loomed over the altar. The massive stone wolf head swallowed the shades, one by one, and fire suddenly blazed from its eyes, and true smoke curled up from between its fangs.

  The fiery eyes fixed on Vrulug, and the wolf-lord swallowed, bowing.

  “It has begun, my Lord.”

  Chapter 2

  Stormclouds crowned the skies the day Fria and Raugst were wed. Thunder shook the rafters of the castle chapel and vibrated the long stained-glass windows depicting the creation of the moon and of its Stewardesses, the Niethi. It was with one such window behind her, glowing intermittently with lightning, that Niara presided over the ceremony. Seeming to glow herself—and perhaps she did, for if rumor held true she possessed some elvish blood—she sang and spoke, her smile serene, as she joined Raugst Irasgralt and Fria Selira Wesrain in holy matrimony.

  It had not been long in coming. According to whisper, Raugst had made many private visits to Fria in the wee hours of the night, and she to him. They’d kept it very quiet, but a castle is a small place and tongues will wag. Still, Giorn did not think his father had heard about the romance, and that was just as well; it wouldn’t do for the Baron to kill his son’s savior so soon after the saving.

  Just the same, the Baron had been ill-pleased when Fria had come to him two months ago and begged for him to allow her to marry Raugst. Normally it would have been the man that came to the father, but in this case, with him being a commoner, tradition was stood on its head, and Giorn had heard the Baron grumbling about it for weeks afterward. Lord Wesrain didn’t want his daughter to marry a woodsman, savior or not, but he could not rightfully deny the hero of the realm, and he doted on Fria and would give her anything she asked for besides. Even so, the Baron wore a slight frown as Niara concluded the ceremony by asking Fria to sing the Song of Beginning.

  Fria, smiling at Raugst with purest love, sucked in a breath and launched into song. Her voice was slender and fragile, like her body, yet it achieved a level of delicate grace that surprised Giorn, who smiled. Even the Baron visibly softened a bit. Fria was not known for her voice, but in this tradition she held her own admirably.

  Afterwards, Raugst took out his hunting horn, threw it on the floor and ground it to shards beneath his heel. Men groan
ed raucously. The horn was supposed to symbolize his bachelorhood, and with its destruction came a new beginning. Only then did he take Fria in his arms and kiss her.

  The musicians opened a merry tune and the newlyweds danced, ignoring the lightning and thunder that shook the hall around them. After, the guests of the wedding rose from their seats, shoved the pews back against the walls, and joined in. Someone passed a glass of wine into Giorn’s hands, and he drank it down in one swallow. He caught a fair girl’s arm, and they spun about the floor. He drank more wine, and the world blurred.

  Through merriment he saw a tall womanly figure, white and dazzling, and she lifted her head and laughed, a sound that warmed some place deep inside him.

  Niara met his eyes, and for a long moment neither looked away. But there were too many people here, too many that might notice something amiss. Giorn dared not dance with her. It might betray them both. He danced with one girl and then another.

  He saw his father off to the side, conferring grimly with his generals, and some of Giorn’s gaiety left him. Over the last few weeks, the Borchstogs had grown bold, launching numerous raids on the states of the Crescent, striking swiftly from the Aragst and then retreating. Felgrad, at the very center of the Crescent, had been attacked most ferociously. None knew exactly why the Borchstogs were conducting these raids, though whenever they were captured, they would brag that the Age of Grandeur was at hand, the time when the foes of Oslog would fall. This had caused much consternation throughout the Alliance, as the prophesied End Times had been feared for ages. Doubtless the Baron and his generals were debating it even now, and planning strategy against it.

  The End Times . . . Giorn tried to dismiss the thought and enjoy the festivities. An extra glass of wine helped.

  At last he reached his blushing sister and danced with her. Her eyes sparkled, even the rolling one, and she was beaming so broadly.

  It was infectious. He found himself grinning and shaking his head.

  “A woodsman!” he said. “Really!”

  She laughed. “You had better not ask him to chop you any wood.”

  “And why not? We all enjoy showing off our strengths.” He leaned in closer and said, “I’m very happy for you.”

  She smiled again, but it was a different smile this time, a more intimate one. “Thank you, Gi. I love him so.”

  “I know.”

  She sighed, and lowered her one good eye. The other stared far off to the left, almost so that only the white was showing. Something was bothering her.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s . . . nothing. Only . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Her good eye fixed on him. “Raugst needs something to do. Some position. I’ve asked Father, but he won’t see it. But Raugst isn’t cut out to be a courtier, or some minor functionary, and certainly he’s not one to loiter about all day. He spends much time riding and hunting.”

  “I know. We’ve ridden together several times. He’s quite the marksman.”

  “Then you know what I mean. He’s a man of action. He needs something to occupy him. Something Father would respect.”

  “The military! He would be a natural, if his independence could be curtailed.”

  “No no. I don’t want him doing something dangerous.”

  He looked at her seriously. “Fri, remember, he came to us through danger. He grew up on the border. Danger is likely quite natural to him. And he takes to it well, as I have seen. He could be a great asset.” As commander of the barony’s militia, Giorn could place Raugst in any number of positions.

  She bit her lip, and at last nodded. “Perhaps. If that is all you can find. I was thinking of something more like weapons master. A teacher.”

  Giorn couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “Raugst’s weapon is an axe! Maybe a bow, if he’s feeling extravagant. No, he is no trained warrior, and could not train others. He came by war another way.”

  She sighed again, this time in resignation. “Very well. Just find something for him. I cannot stand the way Father looks at him, as if he’s just some vagrant!”

  Giorn decided not to point out to her that Raugst was in fact a vagrant. Just a few months ago, he had been living by his wits in the forest, selling skins and meat when he needed money for clothes and arms and women, and sometimes a drink or two, but generally living off the land. Now Giorn supposed it was his responsibility to find something productive for the man to do.

  It was not long before something occurred to him.

  Done with his generals, Father arrived and asked for a dance with the bride. Smiling, Fria took his hand and they whirled away. Giorn watched them for a few moments, content, then moved off. He declined several offers to dance and at last came upon Raugst. The groom was speaking quietly to Niara, gesturing toward the dance floor. Smiling, she shook her head.

  “Please forgive me,” she said, “but my legs are tired. I’ve been presiding over ceremonies all day and half the night. What with the recent attacks, people are fearful, and it’s been one prayer ceremony after another, blessing this house or that village. All have friends or family to the south, and all want to protect them.”

  “As you will, of course,” Raugst said. Despite the words, there was a trace of disappointment in his voice.

  Giorn approached. Nodding first to Niara, he caught Raugst’s attention and said, “May I have a word?”

  Raugst looked slightly annoyed, but he came away readily enough as Giorn found a quiet place near an ornate column to talk.

  “Congratulations, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” Raugst said. Clearly he was curious what all this was about.

  “I’ve been thinking that, now you’re officially a member of the family, it’s time you had a real position in the barony.” Giorn studied Raugst for a reaction, but the big man was impassive. Giorn continued. “It seems to me only natural that you assume Rian’s role as head of castle security.”

  Raugst raised his thick eyebrows. “This castle?”

  “Of course. As I said, it was Rian’s post before his death. It seems only fitting for his avenger to hold it now. And don’t fear your lack of experience. General Hathorn provided Rian with his full counsel when Rian needed it, and I am sure he will be only too glad to do the same for you. You would have power, prestige, and a true place within the family and the barony. You could even appoint your own men and make the post your own. What say you?”

  Raugst’s eyes glittered. “I could place my own men?”

  “Naturally.”

  Raugst thrust out his hand. “I accept, with honor. May I not shame Rian’s memory in the doing.”

  Giorn clutched his wrist, and they shook. Raugst slipped away, taking Fria in his arms. With a smile, Giorn watched them dance.

  Niara came to stand beside him. She smelled of lilacs today. “A handsome couple, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” he said, but when he turned to look at her something nervous shone in her eyes. “All you all right?”

  “What? Oh. Yes.” She patted his arm, lingering a little too long. “It’s just the recent attacks, I think.”

  “We’ll be safe. Our army is ready.”

  She smiled, but it was a thin smile. “I’m sure. And the Moonstone still protects us.”

  “So it’s true, then. The Stone does exist?” To him it was just a fairytale.

  “I’ve seen it myself. Legend says that as long as the priestesses in Hielsly possess the Moonstone, Vrulug’s hordes will be spent in vain. It should protect us, if anything can.”

  He took a drink off a passing tray. “There’s some doubt?”

  “My sisters and I have spent long hours communing, Gi. Meditating. Something brews to the South. The Dark One is up to something.”

  “When is he not?”

  This failed to reassure her. He wanted to squeeze her hand or place an arm around her shoulders, but he didn’t dare.

  “It’ll be all right,” he told her. “I’ll see to it.”


  Overheard, thunder cracked, and lightning lit the windows. Niara said nothing.

  Horns blared.

  “There!” someone shouted, Giorn thought it might be Raugst. “There it goes!”

  Then, unmistakably, the Baron: “After it!”

  Giorn saw the movement. Instinctively, he spurred his horse and lit out after the fox. The hounds, newly trained, ran ahead in pursuit. The fleeting red shape of their quarry darted into the undergrowth.

  Hot blood coursed through Giorn. This was living. Beside and behind him came the others, his father and brother, the many nobles and courtiers. It was the annual Baron’s Hunt, where Lord Harin Wesrain and the elites of Fiarth gathered at the Wesrain country manor for sport and companionship. It was a much more relaxed atmosphere than the Royal Hunt that King Ulea put on every year, and it was a welcome distraction from the constant Borchstog attacks to the south.

  Giorn readied his bow, his hands steady even atop his stallion. Branches and leaves whipped at his face, but he dodged them easily. He kept his eyes on that darting red shape. All his senses strained to their limits. The fox would not escape him. It was the center of his world.

  The baying of the hounds, the thunder of the hooves behind him—all behind him now; he was in the lead—faded from his awareness. All he could see was that speck of red and the greenery it was vanishing into. The forest sprawled in all directions, green and lush, awakening after the bitter winter.

  There! The fox flashed to the side, under an overturned log, through thick bushes. The hounds, momentarily stymied, sniffed the ground, searching.

  Giorn ducked his head, evading a branch, and guided his horse around the bushes. All he saw was green. No! He couldn’t lose it.

  The little bobbing red shape flashed through two great cypresses. Giorn charged after. He leaned backward in his saddle as his stallion ran down a muddy slope, splashed through a small stream, then hunched forward as he pressed up the opposite bank.