by Jack Conner
His hand fell away from the wine jug. “I think I know what must be done. I’ve been sitting here, playing my part with my men, but my mind has been concocting one plan after another, discarding them one by one, trying to figure a way out of this mess.”
“And? You’ve thought of something?”
“Aye, I have a notion. You won’t like it—I don’t like it—but it’s all there is. I can’t simply step down and let Fria rule. My men would kill her, and me, and one of them would replace me. Literally. One of my lieutenants, probably Kragt, would take this shape, or convince others that he had long enough to open the Gates for Vrulug.”
A trifle nervously, she asked, “So what is it? What’s your plan?”
His eyes glinted, and once more he was his lively, conniving self. “You shall see.”
She was not sure if she should feel reassured or horrified by his return to form. She took in a breath, held it. Now had come time to ask him the question she’d been dreading. “Giorn,” she said softly. “Where is he?” Giorn, I am so sorry. You were dead . . .
“I don’t know,” Raugst told her. “Fria’s hidden him somewhere.”
Niara breathed a sigh of relief.
The doors of the Throne Room burst open and in walked Kragt and several of his men. They looked dirty and weary, but excited.
“We did it!” Kragt announced. “We followed the secret tunnels to where they come out near a waterfall beyond Lord Vrulug’s camp.”
Raugst grinned. “Excellent. You’ve mapped it, I trust?”
“Yes, my lord. And it needs mapping. A windy way it is, with many side-tunnels going hither and thither. A few of my men are still down there, lost. They’ll miss all the fun.”
“Is this part of your plan?” Niara said.
Raugst ignored her. “Any sign of Giorn Wesrain?”
“Nothing,” Kragt said. “He must still be here in the castle somewhere, or down a side-tunnel.” His eyes fell on Niara and the priestesses. Hiatha and Cirais bristled. Niara could almost see the hairs standing up on their necks.
Kragt’s men, by contrast, hunched up and actually drew back their lips from their teeth, which were now sharper than they should be.
“Relax,” Raugst said. “These girls aren’t our enemies anymore.” He stroked Niara’s head as though she were a pet, and she flinched away. He laughed.
The action seemed to amuse Kragt, and his men stood straighter and lowered their lips. Niara, who had been gripping the white stone she wore about her own neck, ready to channel its power like her sisters had channeled theirs, let her hand drop away.
“Can we have a go?” Kragt asked.
“They’re all mine,” Raugst said, rubbing Niara’s lips with his thumb. She suppressed her rage, though she did think he was enjoying it a bit too much. “Now go and enjoy yourselves. But no raping or killing. We can’t have the people turn on us yet.”
Kragt seemed confused. “But isn’t tonight the night?”
Raugst pulled a face as though he were mulling things over. “Perhaps, perhaps not. There may be a way to increase our Lord’s blow against the Crescent, to make it even more damaging.”
Satisfied, Kragt bowed and withdrew.
Niara turned a concerned eye on Raugst. “Make it more damaging?”
“Yes, what is this?” Hiatha demanded.
He laughed at their looks of concern. “A pretty lie, do not worry.”
Niara worried.
Raugst stood, swayed, caught himself. He chuckled and stepped down from the dais, his crimson cape flowing behind him.
“Where do you go?” Niara said.
“The tunnels,” he called over his shoulder, his voice one of good humor. He was making for the door. “I go to meet with His Imminence, Lord Vrulug of Wegredon, favorite of the One. We will have a palaver wherein we will determine the fate of your world.”
He swept through the doorway and was gone.
Niara and her priestesses gaped at each other. Niara held her head in her hands. “What have I done? Have I neutered the monster or birthed him?”
Chapter 16
Raugst was glad of the chance to vent his problems. It made them lighter somehow, easier to bear. Yet it did not remove them. He was not sure anything could. Oh, he did have a plan, desperate and illogical though it was, but he was not sure it would save them. It might only make things worse. It might be . . . too successful.
He took the map from Kragt and appointed Kragt to act for him while he was away.
“You really go before Lord Vrulug?” Kragt asked, awe in his voice.
Raugst smiled. “I do.” Vrulug might as well be an Omkar, such reverence did Kragt show him. But, then, Kragt and his ilk would never have met the wolf-lord. At best they had only seen him from afar, at some speech or gathering.
“What will you discuss?” Kragt pressed. “He’s attacking right now. What more’s there to talk about?”
Raugst clapped him on the shoulder, a familiar gesture but one that reminded Kragt of his place. “The future of the War,” he said. “But that is for us to decide, not you.”
For a moment Kragt fumbled for words, and it seemed he was reminded of just whom Raugst was, how high he was in the Master’s service. The fact that he could actually sway the course of the War obviously impressed Kragt.
“Yes, my lord,” was all he said, and he bowed his head as he said it.
“That’s better. Now I must go. It wouldn’t do for Vrulug to conquer Thiersgald without my leave.” Raugst laughed. “Remember, don’t open the Gates while I’m away.”
“As you say, my lord.”
“That is most important. Open the Gates and I will flay you alive and force you to devour the pieces as I do so. And that’s just for starters.”
Kragt visibly flinched, aware that Raugst had done worse.
“Good,” Raugst said, then departed, taking his handful of men with him. He led them into the catacombs and from there into the secret passageway. All carried torches, and the light shifted and flared, little blobs of liquid flame searing the darkness, the wounds healing as soon as the lights moved on. From time to time Raugst felt the reverberation of a crash as a siege engine roared above, but otherwise all was still and silent save for the drip of water or the screech of rats. His men kept silent at his back. Likely they both dreaded and anxiously anticipated meeting Lord Vrulug, but Raugst was the most anxious of all. What if Vrulug sensed the change in him? What if he knew?
Vrulug was a true son of Gilgaroth, the Dark One, and Mogra, the Shadow-Weaver. He was a veritable god in his own right, great and powerful. He was steeped in the Dark One’s shadow, a part of it, made of it, while Raugst had simply been surrounded and sheltered by it.
It was for that reason that Raugst had served Vrulug for hundreds of years, ranging as the leader of a pack of lurum-cruvalen that protected the forests around Wegredon. He had served Vrulug well and faithfully, and the wolf-lord had found occasion to send him on several vital tasks, similar to the one he was presently on, though this one’s import was greater by far. It had all been leading to this, he knew, this one glorious assignment, the assignment to collapse Felgrad and breach the Crescent Union. Then the Crescent would fall, and, without it to shield them, the northlands would crumble, and the world would belong to Gilgaroth, its rightful Heir. But now it had all gone horribly, horribly wrong, and Raugst was risking death and worse—much worse—by what he was about to do.
Still, he saw no choice, save to let Thiersgald fall. That in itself was tempting, and if Niara had not played on his all-too-human guilt he might have done it. But she had, and here he was. And Thiersgald was important, he did not lie to himself. Should Thiersgald fall, Fiarth, the most powerful barony in Felgrad, would buckle, and without Fiarth, Felgrad would collapse. And when Felgrad collapsed, the Crescent would be breached, the Alliance shattered, and the rest of the Crescent states would be easy pickings. It all hinged on Thiersgald. Should Thiersgald fall, so too would the world. It was up to Ra
ugst to avert this, the very thing he had been raised to desire above all.
As he passed beneath the city wall, he could feel and hear the great roar of armies clashing above. Dust rained down, the tunnel shook, and for a moment he thought it might cave in. When it didn’t, he wiped dust from his eyes and pressed on. The tunnel seemed to stretch forever, but at last he saw light ahead—dim and gray, but light just the same.
He emerged beneath a waterfall and took the opportunity to wash himself of the dust and grime and stench the tunnel had coated him with, and his men did likewise.
Dripping wet, he took them up out of the defile and appraised the rear of the Borchstog army, which was all a surging, roiling chaos, at least on first glance, but further observation showed shrewd formations and restless order. The Borchstogs and their generals lived for war. They studied it, trained for it, and practiced it with religious fervor. To them, it was a religion. War was the only thing to bring the Master’s enemies to their knees, the only way for Him to retake the world.
Not only did they exult in war, they excelled at it. Raugst watched the progress of the battle for awhile, saw the Borchstogs scaling the walls and assaulting the men with all their force, all their passion. It was breathtaking. Raugst had witnessed and participated in many battles, but none this grand.
As he moved toward the Borchstog positions, roars, screams and thuds sounded in the distance. This isn’t wise, Raugst old boy. With every step his mind spun, fleshing out his mad scheme.
Vrulug had established Borchstog positions to guard the rear, and it wasn’t long before dark shapes leapt out and surrounded Raugst’s party. Anticipating this, he had ordered his men not to move when it happened.
“Who are you?” the Borchstog leader demanded in Oslogon. He seemed calm enough, even relaxed. War was his natural element.
“I am Raugst, Baron of Fiarth,” Raugst answered in the same tongue. He drew himself up to his full height, though this was still less than the Borchstog’s, and let his cape swirl about him. “I’ve come to barter with Lord Vrulug.”
The Borchstog drew back. Raugst wondered how much of the plan Vrulug had told his soldiers. It was possible the Borchstogs didn’t even know that Raugst was on their side.
“Come with me,” the Borchstog captain said.
Raugst and his men fell in with the Borchstog captain, and the Borchstog troops flanked them—herded them—both protectors and captors.
The breeze gusted up from the south with sudden violence, hot and vile, bringing with it the stench of Oslog. Before tonight, Raugst had basked in the southern winds. Now they disgusted him. He tried to hide it.
The Borchstog leader, whose name was Uvrastig, led Raugst and his men into the Borchstog camp, and Raugst struggled not to gag on the stench of rotting meat. They passed countless rings of black tents, all empty now, their occupants battling along the city wall, and edged around a courtyard filled with poles rearing toward the black sky. On each was tied or nailed a naked human, man or woman, for when the Borchstogs were not warring, they enjoyed torturing their enemies. The women must have come from the townships this company had attacked prior to Thiersgald. Raugst saw that there must be more than a thousand humans. He had known he’d see this, but it was still a shock. Before, he might have been pleased by the sight, even asked the opportunity to skin a human himself, but not now. He couldn’t even meet the gazes of the people on the poles.
Uvrastig showed him into the inner rings, where the tents were high, sharp and blood red. Many of them were occupied by the Borchstog sorcerer-priests, the leaders of the Borchstog communities. Inside their circles stood a circle of off-white tents, the abodes of Vrulug’s personal priests with their maggot-white skin and nose-less faces. At their very center stood the highest tent of all, crimson and guarded by demons.
“Vrulug’s command tent,” Uvrastig said. “Here we wait.”
They waited. Raugst studied the horrible, demonic guards, worse than Borchstogs, that stood to either side of the tent’s entry, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. The guards looked somewhat like charred human corpses with roaches and maggots crawling over them, but their eyes were hollow, looking into black gulfs. The creatures seemed empty, mere husks, their bodies kept upright and moving only by the sheer will of their fell souls. When Raugst looked closely, he could see a faint dark wisp rise from their empty eye sockets, their nostrils, and their mouths, as if smoke filled them—smoke, or the Abyss. They remained immobile, and because they did not have true eyes Raugst could not tell if they even noticed him.
He sat down on a troll skull and waited. Crows and vultures wheeled overhead, from time to time descending to pick at the men and women tied to poles, some of whom were able to frighten them off, or alighting on the ground to nibble on the corpses or pieces of corpses the Borchstogs had casually strewn about the camp.
This place made Raugst edgy. It smelled of death and offal and sulfur; this last issued from the tents of the necromancers. The Omkar alone knew what sorceries they practiced.
To Uvrastig, he said, “Send a runner to Vrulug. Tell him that I’m here, and that it’s urgent I speak with him.”
Uvrastig grumbled but complied. At last a company of Borchstogs detached from the battle and marched into camp. At their head strode a gaggle of black-robed priests with ghastly white skin, all grouped around Vrulug. Steam poured from his wolvish mouth when he exhaled, and his bat-like wings flexed restlessly behind him, spraying blood. Raugst did not see the Moonstone anywhere on him. Where was he keeping it?
Raugst bowed, while his men dropped to one knee and lowered their heads.
“Raugst,” Vrulug said. He touched Raugst's head, honoring him, and Raugst could feel his heat as he neared.
“Master,” Raugst said.
“Why are you here?” Vrulug asked. “You should be in the city. You should have opened the gates by now. I was beginning to wonder what kept you. And now I find you here?” He shook his head. “Speak”
Raugst forced himself to smile with his old, devilish charm. “I have a plan.”
Vrulug stared, and Raugst did not like the appraising, measuring look in his eyes. There were bits of flesh matted in his fur. The wolf-lord sighed and gestured to the tent flap. “Let us talk in private.”
They entered the tent, passing between the charred demon-things. The creatures radiated coldness where Vrulug radiated heat. Raugst had seen them before at Wegredon, but they kept mainly to the shadows and had never posed a threat to him. Now, though, with the change that had come over him, they worried him greatly. Inside Vrulug’s tent the air was warm, even hot, and darkness hid most everything. Raugst received only dim impressions of strange machines rearing all about, and huddled, feminine (and a few masculine) forms lying naked here and there, bound by chains to the floor. Raugst could not tell if the dimness was due to his change or Vrulug’s sorcery; Vrulug might want none to be able to see his chambers. Perhaps he kept the Moonstone somewhere here—or wanted others to think he did. There was no way to know for sure.
“Sit,” Vrulug said, and Raugst took a seat on the furs that lined the room, careful not to fumble about.
Despite his blood-covered appearance, Vrulug sounded patient and warm, and he spoke as one equal to another. “Drink,” he said.
Raugst accepted a glass and took a sip: spiced wine laced with elvish blood. He tried to hide his grimace but was not sure if he succeeded. Omkar damn that woman! Previously this had been his favorite drink, and Vrulug knew it well, was catering to him. Many times over the years Raugst and he had dined together, Raugst taking his human form and coming to feasts and gatherings held by the wolf-lord, sometimes even coming to visit Vrulug in private. Raugst was the wolf-lord’s protector, one of his highest and closest servants.
Vrulug was a friend.
Raugst sighed, tasting the wine, looking through the darkness at the dim shape of the wolf-lord and reflecting on what he’d lost.
“So what is this plan that’s important en
ough to delay the battle?” Vrulug’s voice sounded friendly, but beneath the surface lurked an unmistakable threat. Raugst was aware that Vrulug did not have the numbers to take Thiersgald by force, not until the Eresine Bridge was rebuilt; he needed Raugst to open the gates for him. Even now, while the battle raged, Vrulug was wasting good soldiers.
“It’s simply this,” Raugst said, taking another sip. “If I open the gates and admit your armies, Thiersgald will fall. But what about the rest of the barony?”
Vrulug shrugged. “With Thiersgald fallen, Fiarth will fold. And with it gone, and with the armies that will come across the Eresine shortly, the rest of Felgrad will be washed away. Not even the priestesses of the Moon-witch will be able to stop us now that we have the Stone.”
And where is that? “Yes, but that will get many Borchstogs killed. We won’t be able to withstand Felgrad’s allies when they come to her aid.”
“If they ever do. We are harrying their borders, as well.”
“Yes, and even more Borchstogs die.”
Vrulug frowned, visible even in the darkness. “Raugst . . . my friend . . . what is this plan of yours?” He did not need to add that it had better be good.
Trying to appear relaxed, at ease, Raugst said, “A Borchstog’s duty is to die, and I do enjoy watching them fulfill their lot. They’re dirty and loud. I’ve been a wolf for too long, perhaps. I enjoy the cleanness and quiet of the forest. Still, even I have to acknowledge they have their uses, and I think it imperative that we preserve as many of them as we can in case our foes to the north are tougher than we think.”
“Yes?”
Raugst laughed. “Don’t you see, my friend? We don’t need for them to die. Let the humans die for us.”
Vrulug’s stare turned curious. “How?”
Raugst shook his head ruefully. “You really don’t see, do you? I’m Baron, Vrulug. Baron. Ruler of the largest barony in a land of large baronies. I wield a powerful force. And Fiarth is a popular barony, well-liked by the others. If I can get the other baronies on my side, and array them against the King, I can topple Felgrad itself without losing a single Borchstog life!” He stood up, chest heaving. “I will be King!”