The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  All along the wall, men waited breathlessly to see what their baron would do. Raugst swelled his chest and with a contemptuous sneer said, “We will never surrender, spawn of Gilgaroth! You are a plague upon the earth and when we have driven you forth we will salt the very ground where you stand!”

  Men shouted their approval.

  Vrulug bellowed in mock rage, and the Borchstog host roared at his back. Their rage was genuine. They likely didn’t know the details of the plan. Their roar was a thunderous, primal sound that jangled Niara’s nerves and made her grind her teeth. At last it faded, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Very well, lord of Men,” Vrulug called. “Then you have sealed your fate and the fate of your people!” He stalked off, and his eerie priests drew back with him, taking the standard-bearer with them.

  We’re doomed, Niara thought. Then she remembered her last reservoir of energy. She remembered her mad plan, and she had hope. But it was not much.

  The Borchstogs made their camps and tortured men they had captured during the fighting. The screams of the soldiers rose high into the night, and the eyes of the Fiarthan troops along the wall blazed with fury. Many argued that they should lead a charge out and scatter the Borchstogs, but their leaders cautioned against this; the Fiarthans’ numbers were too few. They had lost too many in the Vale of Irrys, while the Borchstogs were many and led by Vrulug.

  Niara stayed along the wall, helping tend to wounded soldiers as best she could and leading others in prayer until Raugst drew her aside. He had seen battle and was drenched in blood. His eyes twinkled. “Do you see?” he whispered. “Do you see now?”

  He had taken her wrist, and she jerked it away from him. “Why didn’t you surrender? Isn’t that what you’re here to do?”

  “As soon as I had given the order, my own men would have beheaded me. No, I have a different plan, but just as simple. Before dawn, Thiersgald will fall. Make your decision soon, and make it well, Niara, or it will be you up on the next pole.” With that he stalked away, and she glared after him. No. Soon it will YOU who submits, not me.

  She conferred with her priestesses and made plans for the night. From them she learned that her various talismans weren’t the only ones to have drained more swiftly than they should have. All of her sisters reported the same phenomenon. Something seemed to be blocking the light, even tainting it, yet none of the priestesses could posit a theory why.

  Niara had a suspicion.

  You are now irrelevant. She felt certain that the Moonstone was close. She could feel a great power, and though it did not radiate Grace and Light as it should, it felt like the Last Gift. She had been to Hielsly numerous times over the years, and she knew the Moonstone, knew how it made her feel, like a vibration in her soul. It was here. Vrulug possessed it. But it was . . . changed.

  Niara mounted her mare and prepared to depart for the Temple. She hated to leave the wall, but there was no more she could do there, not now. She needed to revive the charms on her stones, commune with Illiana and launch her most desperate plan. Raugst was drenched in evil, just as she was drenched in light. But if her light was finite, then so was his darkness.

  Before she left, she saw him climb into his carriage and ride off for the castle. Good, she thought. There she might catch him alone. My plan might just work.

  Astride her new white mare, Brieni, Niara rode for the Temple. As her horse’s hooves clattered on the streets, she saw townspeople and refugees gathered in groups, in courtyards, on terraces, in gardens and on rooftops. Some had their heads bowed, eyes closed; some had their eyes wide open; some chanted; some sang; some said nothing; but one and all prayed, prayed to Illiana and Brunril and Egran and Dulas and all the other Omkarathons, praying for deliverance from Vrulug and his hordes. Niara heard their prayers rising all around her, and they strengthened her, hardened her to her purpose. She would give her people the deliverance they sought, no matter the cost.

  It was a hot night, and she’d worked hard over the last few hours, so she was sweating as she reached the Temple, entered through the grand white archway and passed into the high main hall, gleaming and ivory. She wore the bloods of several men, as well as an equal number of Borchstogs, which she felt tainted the Temple much as Raugst had done, so she stripped and bathed in the hot baths in the temple interior, where she finalized her plan. She would commune with Illiana, then go to Raugst at the castle and end this matter. It would cost her half of herself and condemn her to a mortal life without Grace, bereft of the Light. She would no longer be the Niara she had known all her life. She would have to rediscover herself. Perhaps, she thought, she would then be closer to the people of Fiarth . . . if she dared reveal what she had lost.

  But in all likelihood what she was about to attempt would kill her, so any speculation past tonight was wasted effort.

  She finished bathing, taking her time to caress her skin as she did so. She felt its smoothness, its perfection—and not in idle pleasure but in sadness. Soon, should she survive this war, this perfection would ebb, her skin would wrinkle, her body would wither and at last become dust like the rest of humankind. It was no small thing she was giving up. If it could save Fiarth, though, it would be worth it.

  She dried, dressed, and ascended the spiral stairs that mounted to the highest chamber of the most lofty tower of the Temple, its walls all of veined white marble. It was a smallish room, with a simple white altar at the far end, and ornate white columns lining the sides: her private sanctuary to Illiana. She lit all the candles in the room, and there were a thousand. Usually she used her powers to do this, but she must conserve them now, so she used matches instead. It took longer, but at last the sanctuary glowed with light, and she knelt before the white altar and sparked a white stalk of incense.

  She closed her eyes, clasped her hands, and sent out her thought: Illiana, Mother of the Moon, Goddess of my people, hear me if You would. Tonight shall be the last time I ever speak with You in such wise. I do not know if what I am about to do is right or if it will even work. If I fail, and I have given away my heritage for naught, then Thiersgald will not have my abilities in the days ahead and the people here will fall that much sooner.

  Even now, if she strained her ears, she could hear the screams of the Fiarthans borne on the hot night winds. Vrulug and his hellspawn were having a grand time, and Niara tried not to hear, tried to close her mind to it so that she would not lose her bond with her Mistress.

  And the Mistress was there, she could feel it. She was like a weight on the other end, a fullness. Excitement began to course through Niara, despite the direness of the situation. Rarely before had she felt that connection. Then something happened that she had never felt before.

  Illiana answered.

  It was like a gentle smile in Niara’s mind, and she imagined the Goddess’s face, beautiful but sad, blue eyes twinkling.

  Daughter, I am here.

  Niara’s mind went blank. It was only with difficulty that she remembered to breathe and take a deep lungful of air. Mother! I . . . She fumbled for words, thoughts. Then it was as though Illiana reached through time and space to touch her shoulder, and she felt lighter and cleaner, and clearer, all over.

  Be well, Daughter. Know that you do the right thing. At least, I can see no other course for you. Would that I could help, but I am weak and must stay here to safeguard the Sleeper. There was tenderness in her voice as she mentioned Him. She must love Him dearly, Niara thought dreamily.

  I understand, Mother, Niara sent. You’ve helped me enough. By the holy light of the Moon You created to plague the Dark One even at night, You have helped. Through Your teachings of peace but strength, You have helped. I can ask no more of You.

  Thank you, my daughter.

  But is it possible, what I aim to do? Am I mad to think it can be done, that the wretched filth that is Raugst can be salvaged and placed at Your service? Is it mere hubris to think I can do such a thing?

  There was a pause. He is a thing of Gilg
aroth. He has no Grace in him, and only one with Grace can serve me.

  Niara nodded. But I have Grace. If I were to give my Grace to him, every bit of it . . .

  You would have none left.

  But will it work?

  I do not know, daughter, but I am proud of you. Know that. Remember: for your plan to work, not only must Gilgaroth’s chain be removed from about Raugst’s neck but in that very instant a guiding hand must be placed on his shoulder. Everything hinges on teaching him the ways of the Light while he is still lost and masterless.

  I will do it, Mother.

  Good. Now go with my love. Your task comes upon you sooner than you had planned.

  What do You—?

  The connection faded. Niara could feel that the weight on the other end had vanished. Illiana had returned to her duties, tending to Brunril the Sun-God in his eternal slumber.

  A shadow spilled into the sanctuary. Niara could feel him, smell him. Like before, he was a stain, a cancer on this place. She would have felt him sooner had her thoughts not been distracted.

  Slowly, making him wait for it, she stood and turned to face him.

  He was tall and dark, covered in bloods, both red and black, and his black beard was wild and matted. His dark eyes blazed, and he stank of death as he crossed beneath the archway toward her. A draft swept in through the terrace doorway, driving some of the stink away, but it was a warm wind and Niara did not shiver. She felt hot, her blood a burning river within her.

  “Raugst,” she said. Has it really come to this? Can I truly go through with it? What would Giorn say?

  Tall and dark Raugst was, a thing of primordial passions and tempers, and there was no give in his eyes. After hours of spilling blood, his own blood was up. “Niara,” he said. He spoke it like a curse, as though the very word haunted him.

  He approached her, and she could feel his heat now more than ever. He loomed over her, letting his musk surround her, disorient her. The image of Giorn rose inside her. She pushed it aside. There is no Giorn. Giorn is dead. I must do this thing, for the good of the living.

  Raugst seized her in his arms and pressed her to him. In that moment, surrounded by his smell, she knew she had wanted him. She also knew that that was merely a physical response to his physique and manner that she could not control, though, and so she forgave herself. She held no love for him, no tenderness, for he was a fell creature, and so she still had her pride.

  “How was your Mistress?” he asked, his lips an inch from hers. His thick arms encircled her waist, crushing her against his body. He was warm. “Did she bid me hello?”

  He did not wait for a response but kissed her savagely.

  She could have resisted, could have fought back. She did not. She wanted to, she truly did, it was her natural instinct to fight, but she forced herself to relax, to open to him. More, she made herself respond, to kiss him back.

  And there, right there in the inner sanctuary of Illiana, a place of Light and Grace, surrounded by a thousand candles dancing in the hot breeze, he lowered her to the white marble floor and ripped off her silken clothes as though he were some savage beast on the hunt. Despite herself, she gasped as he kissed her breasts, her nipples, as he ran his tongue over her body, up to her throat, her cheeks, down her slim belly, down below her navel, kissing her white thighs, then tasting the cleft between them.

  “Yes,” she moaned, cupping his thick wavy black hair in her slender white fingers. “Yes.” No! Do not enjoy it.

  She helped him shrug off his clothes, and blood, kept warm and liquid by his body heat, spattered the holy floor, spattered her smooth white belly. At last he pried open her legs and plunged inside her. He filled her, and she cried out, both in pain and pleasure.

  “Yes,” she gasped.

  “Yes,” he moaned, staring down at her, lust and something more than lust in his gaze. “Feel me, woman.”

  He thrust inside her, and she cried out again. He thrust slowly, again, again, then more rapidly. She arched her back, pressing her belly to his. She rocked her hips, grinding against him, opening herself to him. He squeezed her breasts, bit them, kissed the hollow of her neck.

  A fire filled her, thrilled her, coursed throughout every inch of her body. In the sanctuary of her goddess, still aglow from the first commune ever with that same divinity, she allowed herself and the temple to be violated, gloriously, by this very demon of Illistriv, as outside his armies ringed the city and the screams of men rose into the night. At last she could hold out no longer, but shuddered long and well, even as he kept thrusting inside her.

  As if stimulated by her pleasure, he exploded inside her. Trembling, trembling, tears—tears, she marveled—standing out in his eyes, he collapsed on top of her.

  She ran her hands through his hair, kissed him, held him close.

  “I knew it,” he gasped. “I knew you wanted me.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Damn you, woman.”

  “Raugst.” She tilted his face up, stared into his eyes. He was weak, spent, his energies exhausted. Now, she thought. It must be now. This is what she had saved her energies for. This is what she had allowed herself to be profaned for. She had not planned on doing it here, in this light-fused place, but it would make it all the easier. It might not kill her as she had half-supposed it would.

  Yet she hesitated. If she did this thing, there could be no taking it back. She would never be the same again, and it might not even work. She sighed. I will just have to take that chance—it’s the only one we have.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  He pressed his lips to hers, and she tasted herself upon them.

  She plumbed that well of Grace within her, dredged up all that Light, all that power, harnessed it in one great shining, golden wave that threatened to tear her apart at the seams it was so bright, and channeled it into him through their kiss, through her fingers, through their carnal union.

  She could not kill him, she knew. He was too powerful for that. His darkness was simply too strong. Instantly, it rose up inside him and fought her, shielding him from the assault.

  She had anticipated that, and so she did not attack him. She attacked the darkness.

  It hadn’t expected that. Neither had he. As soon as she funneled her light into him, letting it flow from her mouth into his, and from her palms into his chest and shoulder, he started, then relaxed, a lazy half-grin on his face. She could feel it against her lips. Doubtless he thought she was repeating the same attack as before.

  But no. This time she tried something new. She blasted his darkness with her light, flooded him with it, even as she was still flooded with his juices. Indeed, he was still inside her.

  She blasted the darkness. Spent as he was, weakened by his exertions, his emotions, and by the very nature of this place, he could not prevail. He was infused with the taint of Oslog. It drenched him, every particle of him. He was literally soaked in evil. She disintegrated it.

  She kissed him, cupping his head in her hands, shoving his lips against hers, wrapping her legs tight about his middle, not letting him tear himself away, as he now tried to do, struggling, thrashing—she pressed him to her and flooded him with the Grace of Illiana. She shone a lantern into the dark caves of his being, and the shadows retreated. She summoned all of her energies, every last ounce, for he was mightier than she was, and poured it all into him.

  At last she felt it go out of her, all of it, and she sank back, exhausted.

  Stunned, confused, Raugst jerked away, gasping and staring wide-eyed about him.

  “What . . . ?”

  She tried to speak but could not. She was simply too tired. Tired . . . and mortal.

  She had given him her Grace, and now she had no more. She was human. She felt the difference as soon as it came upon her. A weakness . . .

  His scared gaze went from her to his hands. He flexed them, as if just seeing them for the first time. She wasn’t sure why, but it made her smile.

  “Your eye
s are open,” she said.

  Then, pitying his helplessness, she crawled—too weak to stand—over to him. For a moment he looked as though he might strike her, but he did not. Gently, she laid her head on his sweaty, hairy, bloody chest. He started to shove her away, but hesitated. She felt him tense, then unwind. He let out a long sigh.

  “What did you do to me, woman?”

  Now it came, the time Illiana had prepared her for. Gilgaroth’s chain had been removed; now Niara must put her hand on his shoulder, must guide him in the ways of her people. Everything hinged on this one moment.

  She was about to answer him, framing her response according to her task, but, just then, at the worst possible moment, when she and Raugst were naked and sweaty, smelling of each other’s juices, his arm about her shoulders, she heard a sound behind her.

  A man stood in the doorway.

  He was tall, gaunt and bearded, but with an earnest vigor in his eyes, and a nobility to the way he carried himself.

  He stared in horror at Niara and Raugst. Immediately she felt consumed with shame, but also fear. The man in the doorway was Giorn.

  Chapter 13

  Giorn had nearly died when the lightning-struck glarum fell from the skies. Flaming, smoke trailing from its wing, it had plummeted to the snow-covered treetops. The thick branches had slowed its fall but had also knocked Giorn off its back and dealt him severe cuts. Shaken and bleeding, he’d climbed down from the trees, taken a few necessities from the satchels of the by-then-dead glarum and taken off through the forest.

  Freezing and wounded, he had pressed through the woods. The slash Vrulug had dealt him across his abdomen pained him. Worse, Vrulug’s claws must have been crawling with filth, and some nameless infection made the cut turn red and enflamed, and black lines radiated from it. Giorn felt sick, and his will seemed to drain from him. Nevertheless, he pushed on. He was able to go on for several days, hiding at night and traveling when it was bright, before he had felt a powerful presence and looked up to see a squadron of glarumri fly through the black skies above, and at their head, bat wings pumping, had been Vrulug—and inside him, the Moonstone. He wants it for the war, Giorn realized.