The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  “Take me to him.”

  Kragt strode proudly ahead, eager to show his master to the Baron’s son. Raugst’s mind spun, trying to imagine some way he could save Giorn. He could think of nothing, except to keep him alive for torture, and that would be no kindness.

  Kragt led the way into the hospital wing and boldly stepped in through the archway that led into the infirmary. Stained-glass windows let in the night’s illumination, almost as if this were a chapel, but then the Wesrains would look to Illiana to heal their injuries, and it would be her priestesses who oversaw the healers.

  “Here he is,” Kragt said, sweeping an arm at a line of low beds that stood along one wall.

  “Where?” There was no one there.

  Kragt frowned. “But I don’t understand. Our men saw him. Fria was seeing to him.”

  “Fria . . .”

  They looked at each other. Raugst hated this, but he knew what would be expected of him. Trying to conceal a sigh, he marched back to the feasting hall, where Fria wept over one of the dead Fiarthans. “Hanen,” she was saying. “I’m so sorry.” She glanced up when Raugst approached her, and even through her tears Raugst saw defiance.

  “Where’s Giorn?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She wiped at her eyes, but there was no weakness in the movement.

  “You lie! Where is the secret passage?” That had to be where she had hidden him.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  He jerked her roughly to her feet, and her lazy eye spun like a tornado.

  “Speak!”

  A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Very well, I will show you.”

  He did not like the look in her eye, but he had little choice. “Lead on.”

  She left the chamber, and Raugst and several of his men followed close behind. Ambling and stumbling, seeming either mad or drunk, Fria led down a flight of stairs, then another. The air grew cold and moist, the tunnels dark. Raugst was obliged to light a torch. He could see well in the dark, but not that well, and it seemed his ability had diminished since Niara’s kiss. Fria ushered him past the wine cellars into the catacombs, where the Barons Wesrain had been entombed for centuries. Remembering the legends that spoke of their ghosts haunting these passages, the hairs prickled on the back of Raugst’s neck. At last Fria showed them into a small domed chamber containing in its center a large stone sarcophagus, pressed a panel along the wall, and a section of the wall swung away, revealing a black tunnel.

  “Have at it,” she said.

  Raugst thrust his torch into secret passage but saw only a tight, low tunnel. A fungus-like odor repelled him.

  “Where is he?” Raugst demanded. “I haven’t time to be sneaking about in rat-holes! These could go on for miles.”

  One of her fingers twirled a strand of hair. Her roving eye looked off to the left so that he could only see the white. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice carrying a singsong lilt. “Are you sure you would not like to venture in?” She cast her gaze at the square of blackness where the wall had been.

  “I’m certain,” he said. He had not wanted to find Giorn, not really, but at the same time he’d always prided himself on accomplishing what he set out to, and she had quite ably frustrated him. Ah, well. It was better this way. He tried to keep the relief out of his voice as he said to his guards, “Well, I don’t fear the likes of Giorn. He’s broken. He can be no threat to me. Still . . .” He looked to Kragt. “You and some men search these tunnels. If they do go beyond the wall, I may find use for them. We can cart the bodies out through here, for one.” That, too, would be expected of him, and Giorn—if he were in these tunnels somewhere—would hopefully have prepared for it.

  “But aren’t we going to open the Gates, my lord?” asked Kragt.

  “Perhaps there is another way.”

  “Another way, my lord? But—”

  “Just see to it.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Raugst leaned back, allowing himself to relax. Giorn was safe for the moment, though where he could be was anybody’s guess. Now all Raugst needed to do was figure out how to save the city.

  Or not.

  He let out a breath. “I need a drink.”

  Chapter 15

  As soon as Raugst—the bastard!—and his minions had gone, some into the tunnel, others accompanying Raugst back to the feasting hall, Fria, who had followed the latter group to delay suspicions, doubled back and reentered the catacombs. She took quite a different route this time, going even deeper into the dank, squat passages. I can’t believe it, she thought. They were right. Raugst is a . . .

  She couldn’t quite bear to think it. It was too awful, too monstrous. She had loved him. Cared for him. Slept with him. She had even looked the other way when she knew he was bedding others. She would have done anything for him. She had been hoping, praying she would get with child, that she could bear a fine strong son by him and renew the Wesrain line. Oh, he would have been such a handsome boy, with broad shoulders like Raugst, maybe with Giorn’s dark blond hair and lithe muscles, and Raugst’s strong jaw . . .

  But no. He would have been a monster. Her baby would have been . . . tainted.

  She realized she was trembling and leaned against a wall for support. She couldn’t catch her breath fast enough. She just wanted to slide down the wall and weep. But she was a Wesrain, a descendant of Orin Feldred, and she pushed herself off and forced one foot in front of the other. Revenge. I can’t undo what’s happened, but maybe, just maybe, I can get revenge.

  It had to be more than that, though. Vrulug had besieged Thiersgald, and Raugst, the traitor, was positioned to open the gates for him. No, she remembered. Raugst had said he had something else planned. What could be worse than opening the gates?

  She came upon a certain shrine to one of the first Wesrains: Soran Wesrain, the first of the family to be crowned king. It was here, behind the great statue of a smooth-faced young man with flowing locks, behind the bulky sarcophagus, that Giorn lay gasping and feverish, with one of the nurses tending to him. Mushrooms grew in the corners.

  Fria knelt over him and kissed his forehead. “You were right, Gi. You and Niara both.” She clenched her hands into fists. “How could I have been so blind?”

  Giorn, even through his fever, reached out his good hand and clasped hers. “It . . . will be . . . all right.” Each word obviously cost him. He shook and sweated, and his hand was hot to the touch.

  Fria smiled, cheered more by the fact that he still had the strength to lie for her than by the lie itself. “I know,” she said. But how?

  The fever overcame him. His hand slipped away. Fria exchanged a nervous look with the nurse.

  “He needs the proper medicines,” the nurse said. “Access to facilities . . .”

  Fria sighed. As soon as she had been released from her old bedchambers, she had gone to the nurses and instructed them to bring Giorn here, knowing that Raugst would search the hidden tunnels now that he knew of them. She wondered if she had done the right thing. Certainly she had saved Giorn from instant death, but now he might die a slow, agonizing one.

  “He’s strong,” she insisted. “Both in will and body. What one lacks, the other will supply.”

  Her words firmed the chin of the nurse, but they struck hollowly inside Fria herself. They were in dire straits indeed, the capital of the barony besieged, a demon on the throne, the true baron ill, crippled, perhaps dying, the priestesses without their powers . . .

  Realizing that she’d laid her head on Giorn’s slowly rising and falling chest, she jerked up. I will not be the helpless maiden.

  She pushed herself to her feet.

  “My lady?” said the nurse. “What do you intend to do?”

  Fria wiped the tears from her eyes. “As of now, I am the rightful ruler of the barony. When Giorn is better, I’ll relinquish the throne to him, but for now there’s only me. The fate of Fiarth rests solely in my hands. And I will not suffer that
traitor to live!”

  The nurse stared. “You mean to kill your husband?”

  “He is not my husband. He’s a demon spawned in the Abyss. And I will return him thither.”

  It felt good to say that. Of course, the question of how was a bit more dicey. She could perhaps poison Raugst in some fashion, but what would prevent his lackeys from instantly killing her and then going through with Raugst’s plans anyway? No. She needed to end Raugst and his lackeys together. Only then could she reclaim the throne and steer the fate of Fiarth herself.

  She sagged against the statue of Soran. The face of the nurse, which had begun to blaze with hope at Fria’s words, lost its luster.

  Giorn half sat up. The movement startled Fria, who had to strangle the cry that rose in her throat. “Lay down, Gi, you need to conserve your strength.”

  He waved her words away with his bad hand. Blood stained the bandages, but it was old blood. The wound was scabbing over.

  “Tell me,” he rasped, “does Hanen still live?”

  At first she could not answer, but she summoned her strength. “I’m sorry, Gi, but Raugst slew him and his men. Not one survived.”

  His shoulders slumped. Half to himself, he said, “Hanen, I’m so sorry . . .” He looked up. “What of Duke Yfrin?”

  “Yes, he lives. As soon as Raugst took the throne, he announced to the people that the duke had been executed for killing Father, but he never saw it through. Niara spoke with him, though I don’t know what they spoke of exactly. Afterward he said he’d rather have the duke alive in case he needed something from him, perhaps to use as a pawn against his family.”

  “Good,” said Giorn, clearly speaking through his pain. “His own craftiness will be his undoing.” Wincing, he swung his legs round. “Bring me a cane. We’re going for a walk.”

  Niara approached the castle warily. She and the other priestesses dismounted. Servants took their horses and led them away. The breeze whispered eerily. Niara glanced at her sisters, who looked nervous as they stared up at the towers of the keep.

  “It will be all right,” she told them. “He’s one of us now, even if he doesn’t realize it.”

  They nodded doubtfully. Niara felt a different source of dread. Giorn. He was in there somewhere. Does he live?

  She moved up the stairs toward the high doors, where a pair of guards stopped her. She wasn’t sure, but she thought they were Raugst’s men.

  “Admit me.” She made it an order.

  “Lord Raugst said you might be following him,” one said. “He ordered us not to let you in.”

  Yes, Niara thought. He was very angry when he left the temple. Hopefully he’s calmed.

  “I am High Priestess,” she said, straightening her back and leveling her gaze like a weapon. “You will do as I say. Now let me in!” Ignoring the pain that flared from her hips, she strode forward, as if confident they would step aside.

  They moved closer together and crossed their spears before her.

  “No.”

  She nodded to her priestesses. They returned the gesture tersely, grabbed the white stones about their necks, muttered a short prayer, and began to glow.

  The guards swore. One coiled his arms, ready to thrust his weapon through Hiatha. That shocked Niara; she knew they were Raugst’s men, but that he had given them permission to slay a priestess could only mean that he was ready to end this farce. Thiersgald’s time was almost up.

  The priestesses blazed with white light and threw a flash toward each soldier. The soldiers cried out, dropped their weapons and fell to the stairs, where they twitched and groaned, drool running from their mouths. Niara made a sign to ward off evil. Only complete devotion to the dark powers could bring about such a response. Hopefully these guards were men Raugst had brought in from outside and not true Fiarthans; Niara could not bear the thought that Fiarthans would succumb to evil so thoroughly.

  Hiatha wiped sweat from her brow. “We cannot . . . the light . . .” Both priestesses breathed heavily.

  “I know,” Niara said. “Whatever’s weakening us is getting stronger.”

  “Even the stones emanate a . . . a darkness. So weak . . .”

  “Come.”

  Niara shoved open the doors and led the way down the main hall. She followed voices to the feasting hall, where Raugst’s lieutenants were piling dead bodies—scores of them—onto carts, then draping the carts with sheets to hide the contents. Niara clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from gasping and indicated that her priestesses should keep silent. She led on, past the feasting hall, sticking to the shadows and moving carefully to avoid being seen. Her pelvis pained her still, and she winced at every step. I’d best get used to aches and pains. I’m truly mortal now. Before she might have lived for hundreds of years, perhaps even forever, there was no way to be certain, but now . . .

  Who were those dead men in the feasting hall? Where was Raugst? Giorn? It was like an alien place she was walking into, a dreamscape, not a place she had been a thousand times and more.

  Footsteps around the bend. Perhaps a dozen soldiers. Niara and her priestesses shrank into an alcove and waited till they passed by, then continued on toward the Throne Room. At the high archway, two more guards waited.

  Niara didn’t bother to engage these two in conversation. At her order, light flashed from her sisters and the guards crumpled mewling to the floor. Again, their reactions dismayed her.

  “No more,” Hiatha gasped. She looked wan.

  Cirais nodded. “We’re too weak, Mother. The stones . . . they’re like anchors, dragging us down . . .”

  Niara nodded. “Hopefully we won’t need to use them anymore tonight. Now come, we’re almost there.”

  She stepped over the still-twitching bodies of the guards and into the Throne Room. High, thick columns lined the chamber, hung with tapestries depicting great battles against the shadow, as well as simpler ones depicting hunting scenes or marriages, or particular heroes of lore.

  And there, hunched upon the throne and drinking from a bejeweled goblet, was Raugst. He looked weary and troubled. Good.

  A half dozen of his lieutenants grouped around him, taking orders, but they spun as Niara and her sisters marched up. Hands flew to sword hilts. Niara halted, alert, and her sisters tensed to either side.

  “Stay your hands,” Raugst said. “They’re not a threat to me.”

  “But tonight is the night!” said one. “We can risk no interference.”

  Raugst smiled patiently. “Stay your hand, or I’ll take it off.”

  With obvious reluctance, the soldiers assumed more relaxed positions, but they did not take their eyes off Niara and her sisters.

  “Perhaps we can have some privacy,” Niara said.

  Raugst nodded. “So be it. Lads, you have your instructions. See to them.”

  Grumbling, the men moved off, casting backward glances at Niara as they went, and when they were gone she relaxed.

  “Pull up a chair,” Raugst told her. “And some for your lasses.”

  “We’re not tired,” Hiatha said, though she still looked sickly.

  Niara allowed herself a small smile. “Some might not be.” Approaching Raugst, she saw that he appeared disheveled.

  For a long moment, they just stared at each other. There was no malice in his dark eyes, only sadness and a sense of . . . confusion.

  He let out a sigh. “What did you do to me, woman?” It had become a mantra.

  Gently, she laid a hand on one of his. He did now draw it away. “I released you from the Dark One’s power. His hold on you is gone.”

  He frowned, raised the goblet to his lips, downed its contents in one swallow and refilled it from the jug on his armrest.

  “And who said I wanted it gone?” he said. “Now I’m no one. I have no home. No purpose . . .” He took another sip and grimaced. “Even the wine’s not as sweet.”

  She knelt beside him, ignoring the muttering from Hiatha and Cirais behind her. They would not like her apparently k
neeling before Raugst. They did not understand that she needed to show support for him, not arrogance. She should not be standing over him now.

  “You do have purpose,” she said, “now more than ever. You must do what’s right.”

  He sneered. “And what’s that?”

  “You know what it is.”

  He looked away. “To save the city . . . to betray my people.”

  “They are yours no longer. We are.”

  His eyes focused on her again, as if just seeing her. “You . . . my people?” He snorted. “I think not. You’re a child of the Larenth—or you were. I’m a son of Oslog. I was raised in a city of men deep in the heart of that great empire. I prayed and worshipped to the Great One every day of my life, and every day I attended sacrifices in His honor. All my life I was assured of a place beyond life, a place in the Master’s service. And so it was. I died, but my spirit went to Him, and He gave me new bodies, new tasks, and always it was for Him. Everything—for Him! My whole life, and beyond, wrapped in His shadow, His loving shadow. And now here I am, ripped violently from it, from Him. And told by one of His enemies to betray my mission and save this pitiful city!” Glaring, he downed this cup of wine as well and reached for the bottle.

  Niara stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Easy, Raugst. I know this is hard for you. Of course it is. But don’t pretend that I don’t know hardness, as well. Do you know what I gave up to take you from His shadow? Do you know what I sacrificed to make you free?” She heard the brittleness in her voice and made herself take a breath. “I gave up eternity, Raugst. Eternity. Immortality. For you. All of my grace, my light. For the good that you can do.”

  Hiatha and Cirais muttered at her back.

  This time he did not look away. He studied her, grave and sad. “Then you are a fool. I can do no good. I am—”

  “You are baron, and you’re the only one who has any sway over your agents, or Vrulug for that matter.”