by Jack Conner
Noises led him from the laboratory down a hall. He heard chomping, grunting, ripping. Moans of pleasure. What could it be? There was a stench of rotting meat . . .
Dreading what he would find, Giorn followed the hall until it terminated in a stone doorway. He paused at the doorway and peered into a large, circular, domed room, all of stone. Vertical niches at regular intervals lined the walls, black recesses from which one could come and go if one knew the way. Comely, naked girls with collars about their necks were chained to the walls between recesses. Some drowsed, but most stared toward the center of the room. Giorn could not stop his jaw from dropping open at the sight at what stood there.
It was a great mound of bodies of all races—some whole, some in pieces, a mountain of dead flesh giving off an awful reek. The mound rose up and up, high overhead, and on the crest of this gristly hill sprawled Vrulug, lord of Wegredon. In one hand he held the Moonstone—glistening and black. The other encircled the waist of a woman. She had large, high breasts, long legs, flowing black hair, and haunting green eyes.
It’s her, Giorn realized. The woman who had stolen the Moonstone. He remembered the feel of her lips against his, the feel of their bodies joining.
She and Vrulug both lay on their sides, her back to his front. Her white limbs were adorned with golden baubles, and they flashed by the lights of the torches along the walls. Vrulug, covered in blood, flies buzzing about him, had evidently been rolling about in his mound of death, and he was a horrid sight, tall and wolf-like, but upright like a man, with long, claw-tipped arms and black batwings spread out behind him. He grunted as he rutted with the woman, she seeming enjoying it every bit as much as he. He squeezed one of her breasts, and she gasped in and thrust her buttocks against him.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
At last Vrulug arched his back and bellowed loudly. He groaned, long and loud. Red-tinged drool ran from his lips. The woman gasped and collapsed, her sweat-stained breasts rising and falling.
“Oh, Vrulug,” she sighed.
“Saria . . .”
Giorn started. It can’t be, he thought. Saria—the Temptress. The bride of Orin Feldred, Giorn’s ancestor who had died leading a rebellion against Vrulug. Saria was the wife who had betrayed him and doomed his revolt, the one who had chosen Vrulug over her husband. Giorn could hardly believe it. And he had slept with her! He felt like he had walked into a fairytale.
Vrulug withdrew from her, and his thick, dark juices ran across her thigh and dripped from it over the mound of death. His black, slick member stood stiff and proud, then gradually wilted.
Saria wiggled around to face him, ran her delicate white hands through his fur and kissed his chest. “It’s been too long,” she said.
“Yes.”
She looked up at him. “But I did it, didn’t I? I got the Stone.”
“That you did, my little minx.” He lifted the Moonstone so that the torchlight stroked its dark whorls and glimmers. Most of it was charred and rough, but smooth, glassy sections poked through.
“What will you do with it? Perhaps you should forge a chain and wear it around your neck, or give it to your priests . . .”
He chuckled. “No. There is only one place it shall be safe. One place alone.”
“Where?”
Giorn strained his ears to hear the answer, but he needn’t have bothered. Vrulug simply opened his wolf-like maw so that his red-pink insides glistened, and Giorn fancied he could see bits of human flesh clinging to sharp teeth; he could almost smell the fetid odor— Vrulug opened his mouth and shoved the Moonstone down his gullet. Giorn watched, transfixed, horrified. Then Vrulug pulled his hand free—now wet with his juices—and burped.
“There,” said the wolf-lord. “It is safe.”
It was more than that, Giorn supposed. Now Vrulug could absorb its power.
Saria kissed the wolf-lord’s chest again, then rose. She seemed quite steady atop the mountain of corpses.
“Be well, my love,” she said. “There’s a prisoner waiting for me to torture.”
“Enjoy yourself.” There was something rueful in his voice. He watched admiringly—and so did Giorn, for that matter—as she picked her way down the mountain of death with ease and entered one of the dozen narrow doorways that led off from the chamber.
Vrulug stretched himself out on his grisly bed and closed his eyes. Giorn waited. Time passed, and he heard the whimpering of the slave girls and the slow drip of water, or perhaps it wasn’t water but putrefying flesh. A shudder worked its way up his spine. All the while, he stared up at Vrulug, wondering if he could really go through with this. At the very least, it was unwise. And yet, what were his choices? He had come here to take back the Moonstone and could not leave without it.
Vrulug snored, a low, rhythmic sound, interspersed with what sounded like small growls. A furry leg kicked occasionally. Every now and then one of his claws would twitch.
Giorn stared up at him, knowing what he had to do.
It’s madness!
He rose from his hiding place and crept into the chamber. Immediately, the slave girls scurried away from him, as far as their chains would permit. He placed a finger to his lips, and they nodded, eyes wide. He could save them, set them free. He would slit open Vrulug’s belly, steal the Moonstone, and they would be slaves no more.
Giorn approached that towering mountain of corpses. It reeked of rotting meat and offal, and the stench overwhelmed him so much that it was all he could do not to retch. At the base of that awful, grisly mountain, he stared up at the slumbering, gore-coated demon sprawled at its peak, then steeled his nerves and began climbing. Bodies shifted and slid, some even breaking open at his touch, and he winced at every glop and rasp and glug and rustle. Quiet! He reached for a hand, meaning to haul himself up on it, but the arm the hand was attached to had been severed below the elbow and there was nothing to anchor him. He flailed, nearly fell, then stuck his fingers into the eye sockets of a corpse so old its flesh had liquefied. It made slurping noises when he pulled his fingers free.
At last, tasting bile on his tongue, sweating and covered in unnamable filth, he reached the top of the mountain and stood, chest heaving, over the inert body of Vrulug. He stared down at the beast, slicked with blood and gore and sex, and hate surged through him. This was the monster that had once ruled Felgrad, long ago, and now sought to raze it—for thousands of years and more he had done so, and nearly had more than once. This was the monster that had ordered Raugst to infiltrate Giorn’s family and destroy the Wesrains, one by one. It must be.
Giorn, lip lifting, raised his sword in both hands, ready to hack open the beast’s belly and recover what he had come here for.
Vrulug’s eyes snapped open. It happened so fast Giorn nearly stumbled backward. One of Vrulug’s arms lashed out, and a claw slashed Giorn across the belly.
Gasping, Giorn dropped the sword and reeled back.
Vrulug laughed. Nonchalantly, he climbed to his feet and towered over Giorn, and Giorn was overwhelmed with the reek of his awful breath, which was worse even than the mound. And there was a great power about him, as well. Giorn did not know if it was his naturally or if it came from the Stone, and supposed it didn’t matter, not at the moment. What mattered was keeping his guts from falling out.
Vrulug approached, a smile on his lips.
Giorn took a step back—
Into nothing. He lost his balance and fell, rolling and bouncing and sliding down the mountain of death. He struck a body, dislodged it. It struck another, and another, and soon the whole side of the mount was sliding down after him, and the new reek this unleashed finally did make him retch, even as he was being borne down the side of the hill on a crest of death. Above, Vrulug alternately laughed and swore at Giorn for rearranging his lair.
At last Giorn found himself under a pile of bodies on the chamber floor. Shaking in nausea, he shoved his way out of it with his right hand, as his left was pressed against the thin line Vrulug had drawn o
n his stomach. He didn’t know if it was deep enough to release the tangle of his guts, but it felt deep, and a torrent of blood gushed through his fingers.
He pushed himself free, spilling out onto the floor near the entrance of the room. The slave girls stared at him pityingly. Had they been in on it too? He knew he’d been toyed with, played with. Vrulug, and perhaps even Saria, had known he was there all along. The archway . . .
Figures stirred from the dozen narrow side entrances to the room. To Giorn’s shock, a dozen robed figures emerged from them, and his skin crawled at the sight. Cowls drooped over their faces, but despite the darkness he saw that they looked human, or at least they looked like things that had been human once. They were maggot-white and ghastly, and their noses had been severed, giving them a skeletal, alien look. Their teeth had been filed to sharp points and their eyes glowed amber when the torch-light struck them.
“Back,” Vrulug said. Giorn understood that these must be Vrulug’s priests. He was worshipped in Wegredon like a god. Indeed, Giorn had heard that he was Gilgaroth’s son, and as such he was a god. “Back,” Vrulug said again. “He’s mine.”
The priests bowed and withdrew into their recesses. Giorn returned his gaze to Vrulug, just in time to see the wolf-lord spread his bat-like wings, shake the blood and filth off them, and launch into the air. He coasted down and Giorn felt the stir of air, then the coldness of Vrulug’s shadow falling over him.
Giorn scurried back, still on the floor, toward the main entranceway. Vrulug alighted before him, claws clicking on stone.
“You’ve caused quite a mess, haven’t you?” Vrulug said.
“Bastard,” Giorn said, even as he inched backward.
Flames gathered in the back of Vrulug’s throat. Giorn smelled sulfur, and he watched, entranced, as the flames built. Vrulug opened his maw wide, and the fire rushed out, a great leaping, frothing tide of it. Giorn just barely rolled aside in time. Smoke wreathed up from the place where he had lain.
Frantically, he scurried back, feeling the rasp of the floor against his back. The reek of charred stone filled the air, driving back the stench of death. Back he went, along the tunnel leading from the chamber. Suddenly, he sensed a shadow behind him, blocking the way, and turned to see the torchlight illuminating green glints where the eyes should be.
“Saria.”
“Yes,” she said.
It was then that he realized who the prisoner was that she had gone to torture.
“Get you back, bitch! You won’t be torturing me. I’m a Wesrain. I’ll die first.” He knew that if he had to he could bite off his tongue and bleed out. He would not give them the satisfaction of making him a plaything of their torture-masters as they had his ancestor.
He yanked his hunting knife free and staggered to his feet, one hand still pressing against his stomach. Waving the blade before him, he staggered toward her. Smiling—he could see her teeth shine by the light of the torches—she backed away from him, into the hall beyond. Snarling, swearing, Giorn followed, knowing what a pitiful figure he looked.
“Saria,” he gasped, hearing the rage in his voice. “Temptress. Bane of men.”
“Yes . . .”
“Die.”
The clicks of claws on stone told him Vrulug was coming. Giorn moved away.
“Flee, Wesrain!” Vrulug laughed. “Flee before me!”
Giorn saw moonlight spilling in from a terrace and staggered over to it. Blood still dripped between his fingers and down his stomach. He did not think his guts would fall out, but he wasn’t sure. He remembered his brother Rian with his entrails spilling across the leaves and resolved not to die like that.
Behind him, Vrulug laughed some more. “And where will you go, Wesrain?”
Off-balance, wobbling, his vision blurring, Giorn made toward the terrace. Saria sauntered before him. Hells. She’s going to block my way.
Instead, she opened the door for him, smiling.
He snarled at her as he hobbled past, onto the terrace. Wind rustled his hair, driving some of the stink away, but not enough. Not near enough.
“Flee!” Vrulug roared. “Flee! Perhaps you can fly, little Wesrain. That I would like to see.”
A small ledge wrapped the building, and from it a flying buttress led to an adjacent tower. Giorn flung his dagger backward, aiming at Saria, but she nimbly stepped aside, smiling that infuriating smile.
Giorn climbed over the balustrade gently, awkward with only one hand, and pressed his back flat against the stone wall. The frigid wind blasted him. The stone froze his back. The ground dropped a long way below. He tried not to look.
Vrulug stepped out onto the terrace. When he saw Giorn on the ledge, he smiled. “Never give up,” he said. “That’s the spirit. I knew you would come. For many years I’ve plotted and warred against your family, Orin’s famous scion, but I was never able to duel one.” He shook his head, grimly amused. “One swipe! It was hardly what I was hoping for. But this . . . this almost makes up for it.”
Giorn edged around the building, making for the flying buttress, then reaching it. The drop below sucked at him, and he tore his gaze away from it.
He forced himself to remove his palm from his belly. Blood came out, and there was a sense of weakness in his abdomen, as if his guts might indeed spool out of the opening . . . but they did not. The cut was deep, yet it had not severed all the walls of muscle that protected him.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the flying buttress that spanned the void to the neighboring tower. Even that was not good enough. The wind blasted him, nearly knocking him off. He had to put his belly to the stone—which was very cold—and wrap his arms and legs about it. Then, crawling like an inchworm, shivering, the grain of the buttress rasping his wound, tearing it wider, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, he made his way along it to the next tower. From there he followed the same procedure, going toward the tower that housed the glarums. He could hear their cantankerous caws and smell their stench from here. The wind howled all around him, nearly blasting him off.
All the while, Vrulug laughed, and sometimes Saria joined him. “Flee!” Vrulug shouted between gales of laughter. “Flee for your life!”
Below him Giorn saw a courtyard where Borchstogs were torturing men on poles. If he fell he would drop right in amongst them. Convenient. But no, he knew, he would die when he struck the ground.
An arrow whizzed by his ear. Another struck the stone near his hand, sending fragments of stone into his fingers. More Borchstog arrows thrummed around him, clattering off the stone.
No, he thought. I cannot die! I promised Niara I would return.
More of the demons were scaling the walls and flying buttresses behind him. He must hurry, before the vampires and various sorcerers that dwelt here could be roused against him.
“Halt!” Vrulug said. “Halt, you fools! I won’t have this show denied me.”
He was not even sport, Giorn saw. He was a show.
Gritting his teeth, he crawled on. He could not give up. He reached the glarum tower and slipped in through one of the many vertical niches that provided fresh air for the huge, black-feathered birds. He found a glarum already saddled, a Borchstog in the armor of glarumri standing near it. Staggering forward, half numb from the cold and weak from blood loss, he caught the Borchstog by such surprise that he was able to yank its hunting knife from the sheath on its chest and plunge it into the creature’s throat before it could stop him or cry out for aid. It fell back into the straw, gurgling and twitching pathetically. Black blood sprayed the dried grass.
Giorn climbed into the glarum’s saddle and prodded the bird out onto a windswept terrace. The bird cawed and twisted its neck to snap at his feet, but he only kicked it and cursed it, and it eventually relented.
“Away!” He kicked its flanks, and with a nasty caw it took to the black skies. Giorn’s stomach lurched, and he mashed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the heaving, rolling scenery all ar
ound.
He knew they would be upon him soon, vampires and glarumri. He only hoped his glarum was fast enough to outrun them.
“North,” he whispered, pulling on the reins. “Take us north.”
Still he could hear Vrulug’s laughter.
Giorn noticed the black clouds massing above. Lightning flickered within them, illuminating one smoky roil, than another. No, he thought. No. I’ve not come all this way to—
“DIE!” Vrulug said, and Giorn turned back to see him standing on the terrace, gesturing at the skies.
Lightning flicked down from the blackness above. There was a great roar of sound, and Giorn felt a terrible heat, smelled something burning, and then his world turned white.
Chapter 11
The remains of Raugst’s host marched northward, through the hills and plains, herding the refugees of Hasitlan. Among them were several priestesses of Illiana. Niara led them and Hiatha in prayer every day, and every day she sought to meditate and commune with the light. But the light was fading, or else her powers were. She could still feel it, still wield it, but it was weaker than it should have been . . . and, for some inexplicable reason, growing weaker.
When the host reached Thiersgald, Niara and her sisters saw to the refugees, finding them places to camp and procuring food for them. It was tiring work, but she stayed with the refugees, sleeping in their camps for several days while she tended to their needs. She healed them, fed them, placed them in inns and hostels when she could, helped them erect their lean-tos when she couldn’t. Many of the younger ones she placed in the orphanages run by her order. At last, however, she was grateful to retire to the Temple.
He came to her in the night.
He was a black shadow slipping through the doorway, gliding across the marble floor to her bed. He loomed over her, a monstrous shadow in the darkness—breathing, breathing.
She had been dreaming of Giorn. Somehow he had been with her during the fall of Hasitlan, smiling and laughing, and the flames had been reflected in his brown eyes, and then he had turned into the Wergild Head, and it too had been laughing, even as gold sloughed off it like the skin of a snake, and when the skin sloughed away there was no rotting head but Raugst instead. He had not been laughing, but smiling, and there was something of the serpent about his eyes.