The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  Vrulug sipped his wine, and Raugst felt his blood cool as he waited. Vrulug was not a hasty decision-maker. He had to mull things over, and this was a big one. Trying to conceal his nervousness and impatience, Raugst sat back down, not wanting to loom over his master.

  “Tell me more,” Vrulug said.

  “Ha! I thought you’d like it. All right, here’s the best part: once I’m King of Felgrad, I can send her armies against her allies in the Crescent! The Crescent will be at civil war. Then, when they’re in shambles, we can attack them and bring them down for good and all.” He drained his glass, too excited to notice the taste. He wasn’t excited by the plan itself necessarily, but by the deception inherent in presenting it. Deceit was a heady game.

  Vrulug pursed his wolf-lips. “I don’t know . . . This is not the Master’s plan. I will need to commune with Him.”

  Raugst shivered. “As you will, my lord.”

  Fria heard voices as she passed the feasting hall.

  “. . . acting oddly, I tell you.”

  “Yes, I noticed it, too.”

  “Something strange going on . . .”

  She pressed her back to the wall beside the doorway and listened. She’d been on her way to find Giorn a cane and several other items he’d asked for, but that could wait.

  “Perhaps I should open the gates,” someone said. She thought it was the lean one, Kragt.

  Fria felt her spine turn into a rod of ice.

  Someone else was saying, “. . . good idea while he’s off with Lord Vrulug.”

  “Exactly,” the one who must be Kragt answered. “No one could stop me. I’m not afraid of him.”

  There was some murmuring at this, some in favor of it, some against.

  Gathering up her courage, Fria moved to the archway and stepped through. No one paid her any mind. To them, she was likely little more than a servant woman. She knew that now. She had been lied to. Deceived. Used. The word left a bitter taste in her mouth, but she must push past it. Perhaps she could be of some value yet.

  Kragt sat on a table, eating a leg of lamb with his bare hands. His men—Raugst’s men—busied themselves by loading Hanen and his hundred on carts. There were not enough carts, and Kragt’s men were forced to pile the corpses five and more deep, then rope them down so they didn’t spill off. It was taking some time, and it was a gory, nasty business. Fria tried not to look.

  “You cannot go against Lord Raugst,” one of the men said, holding down a body while he tied it down. There were several beneath it, and the body kept trying to slide off. “He’s the chosen of Master Vrulug.”

  “I know,” said Kragt, too sharply. His eyes strayed to Fria, looked her up and down. Nervously, she sank to her knees and began rubbing at a bloodstain with a nearby rag. There were maids about doing likewise; Raugst’s men were watching them carefully.

  Fria could feel Kragt’s eyes on her. Then evidently his thoughts distracted him, and he said to his men, “Normally I would never consider such a thing, of course, but I tell you, he was acting strangely. Not himself.” He ripped off a bite of lamb and chased it down with a swig of wine.

  “That’s true, sir,” one said. “I saw it, too.”

  “He was acting queer,” another agreed.

  “But he’s Lord Raugst!” said a third.

  “Aye. Who are we to gainsay him?”

  Fria scrubbed harder. On her hands and knees, she made toward Kragt. The stench in here was awful. How could these men stand it? They must be used to the reek of death. Perhaps they even enjoyed it. If they truly did serve the Enemy, they might not even be entirely human.

  She inched closer. She was surrounded by death and villains, at the mercy of forces much more powerful than herself, and Giorn was waiting for her. But this is important, she thought. The gates! They must not open the gates!

  “Like I said,” Kragt continued, “normally I wouldn’t even think of questioning Raugst. But . . . tonight . . .” He tossed down a gulp of wine. “Perhaps I should just give the order to open the gates.”

  “But he said there was a way to kill even more of the enemy.”

  “Aye, don’t do it, my lord,” said one.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said another. Fria looked up to see him run his grimy, blood-encrusted hands across his square bald dome. “Lord Vrulug might thank us for it. Raugst might not even be conferring with him, for all we know.”

  “What are you saying?”

  The bald one shrugged. “Could be Raugst is over with the true generals, the Fiarthan loyalists, conferring, conspiring, meaning to bring down Lord Vrulug. We only have his word he was going to the wolf-lord, and that’s a fact.”

  Angry murmuring rose from most of them, but some just looked thoughtful. Kragt ripped another bite off the lamb and smacked his lips noisily.

  Fria, still scrubbing, moved closer.

  “That’s a point,” Kragt admitted. “He could be with the enemy.” He drained his cup of wine, burped. “All I know is that our ‘stogs are attacking and they need those gates open.”

  “Lord Raugst ordered you not to,” growled one of the men, spreading a corpse across an over-laden cart.

  “Yes, and that’s just why I consider him so suspect.”

  “That’s Master Vrulug’s decision to make, not yours.”

  “Raugst left me in charge. It’s my decision.”

  They stared at each other. At last the man standing over the cart began tying down the corpse. “As you will,” he muttered.

  Kragt nodded. Again his eyes fell on Fria. She was quite close now. “And what do you here?” he asked.

  Hesitantly, she raised her face to him. She closed her left eye, not wanting it to distract him. Or, more properly, she wanted the rest of her to distract him. He was vacillating, swinging one way, then the other. If she could get his mind on other things . . .

  “Just cleaning, my lord,” she said.

  “I’m not your lord, and you are not a servant.” He climbed down from the table. One of his hands grasped her upper arm and hauled her almost gently upright. “What does a baroness do, scraping up blood from a floor?”

  She stared up into his lean, wolfish face. “I just . . . just wanted to be of service. It seems I have no place now. I was only trying to create one. To be useful.”

  The bald man snorted. “Likely! She was spying on us, or I’m a fool.”

  “You are a fool,” said another, “but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t spying.”

  Kragt looked down into Fria’s face. “Is that true?”

  She hung her head. “I . . . I did want to know what’s going on.”

  “And? What do you think? Is Raugst genuine or false?”

  “I . . . I do not know what you mean . . .” She was trembling, and she wanted to faint dead away. Her knees shook, and her head buzzed. They were all staring at her.

  “What are you asking her for, anyway?” said one of the men. “She can only answer one way.”

  “True,” said Kragt. He reached out and stroked her cheek. His fingers were grimy, but warm. “She is a daughter of the men of the North. A fair one, though.”

  They laughed.

  She studied him. There could be no mistaking the desire in his eyes. Had he always wanted her?

  “She’s Raugst’s,” someone said.

  Kragt’s eyes did not leave Fria. “Yes. She is.”

  That’s what he liked about her. He ran a hand through her golden hair, and again several of the men chuckled. She trembled but kept herself from pulling away.

  “There is one thing,” she said, trying to suppress the quaver in her voice.

  “Yes?” His voice was thick. She half feared he would take her right then, in front of the others and surrounded by death.

  “If you open the gate,” she made herself say, “what will Raugst do to you?”

  “Let him try his worst. I’m not afraid of him.”

  She hesitated. Saying anything else would reveal that she knew whose side they were on. Th
en again, they didn’t seem too concerned about that any more. Likely they counted on fear to keep their secret . . . for however long it needed to be kept.

  “Well,” she said, “then if you do open the gate, and Raugst is acting on Vrulug’s behalf, what do you think Vrulug will do to you?”

  Slowly, he removed his hand from her hair, and a speculating look came into his eyes. The others waited. Please, Fria thought. Please let this work.

  At last, grudgingly, Kragt nodded. “Fair . . . and smart.” His eyes ran her up and down. “Too good for the likes of Raugst. What is his . . . could be mine.”

  She dropped her gaze demurely. Let him think what he would.

  “So you’ll leave the gates alone?” one of the men said.

  Kragt paused, then gave a single nod. “To hell with them. I’m not afraid of Raugst, but Vrulug . . . Let this little charade continue, if that’s what must happen. There are interesting . . . diversions . . . here.” Again his gaze strayed to Fria.

  She retreated from the room. She thought Kragt might call out to her, might halt her and ravish her, but it seemed being the wife of Raugst still had some meaning, and when she turned her head to look back she saw Kragt loading bodies onto the carts once more, though not without a glance in her direction. Fria breathed a sigh of relief and slipped away.

  While Raugst waited without the wolf-lord’s tent, Vrulug sent runners to confer with the Borchstog generals, and the host moved back from the walls. The battle, for the moment, was over. Raugst told himself that at least he had bought Thiersgald some time.

  The Borchstogs returned, bearing thrashing Fiarthans in their nets—soldiers caught during the fighting. As Raugst watched on helplessly, they were tortured on the spot. Some survived long enough to be nailed onto the poles. They were stripped, whipped, beaten, and then the Borchstogs truly proceeded to make sport with them.

  Ol Undracost, it was called. The Art. Borchstogs were cruel, malicious things, but it was more than that. To hear the screams of their victims was to know the impotence of their victims’ gods. The Omkarathons, the gods of the light, such as Brunril and Illiana, were weak and scattered. They could not even save their own worshippers. As the Fiarthans screamed in pain, the Borchstogs laughed and made gestures of blessing. By torturing their victims, they honored their Master and shamed His enemies.

  Raugst watched them with their needles and knives and turned away. He heard the screams of women, and men too, boys mostly, from the larger tents as higher-ranking Borchstogs enjoyed their personal captives. Raugst ground his teeth.

  “My lord, are you all right?” It was one of his men.

  Raugst realized he was shaking and sweaty. Steady, Raugst, he told himself. Steady. Screams and torment are mother’s milk.

  He laughed. “Just a bit tense. I stopped the battle because I had a plan. What if the Great One disapproves?”

  The others paled. If their leader was taken for torture and sport, it was possible they would be considered guilty by association. They asked no further questions about Raugst’s anxiousness, but several did ask to be excused so that they could participate in ol Undracost. Raugst refused under the pretext that they might have to leave at any moment.

  He didn’t follow his own orders. A pair of nearby Borchstogs had nailed a cursing Fiarthan soldier to a post and were flaying the skin from his thigh. They laughed as they shoved the bloody wad between his lips. The man snapped at them, but they were too quick. “Eat it!” they shouted. “Eat!” He tried to spit out the wad, but they cuffed him and threatened to peel the skin from his privates next.

  Raugst stalked over. “Fools! You’re doing it all wrong.”

  The Borchstogs were large, nasty creatures, taller than he was, their shoulders broad, their arms and legs thick with muscle. Their skulls were heavy, their heads hard, and their red eyes were set deep so as to be difficult to gouge. Thick, sharp teeth glistened in their mouths. Their flesh was as black as tar, and covered in drying red blood. Flies buzzed about them.

  Raugst ripped the flaying knife out of the larger one’s hands. “Let me show you.”

  They grumbled but stepped back.

  “The skin on the neck is very tender,” Raugst explained. “It causes much more pain than the skin of the thigh. Look.” He raised the flaying knife to the man’s neck. The soldier thrashed and cursed him. Beads of sweat ran into the man’s eyes. Raugst grabbed him by the hair, stilling his head, then pressed the blade down. “Like this,” he said over his shoulder. He pressed down . . .

  Blood spurted him in his eye. A stream of crimson erupted from the soldier’s neck.

  “Curse it!” Raugst said. “I’ve hit his jugular.” The man sagged, dying, his lifeblood spraying the muddy ground. His agonies were ending, instead of beginning. “Well, you get the idea,” he said to the Borchstogs, shoving the knife back into its owner’s hands.

  The demons cursed him as he walked away.

  Vrulug emerged from his high, sharp tent and approached Raugst. Smiling hideously, he bowed slightly, and Raugst returned the gesture, wiping the blood out of his eyes. Fear made his throat dry. Was Vrulug smiling because Gilgaroth had accepted the plan or because Vrulug would get the chance to torture a spy? Agents of the Great One loved little more than torturing enemy agents.

  “What says He?” Raugst asked, hearing the raggedness in his voice.

  Vrulug’s smile widened. He let the suspense gather a moment longer, then let out a breath. “He says He appointed me to lead this campaign and I can alter it how I see fit.”

  “And so? What have you decided?”

  Vrulug clapped him on the shoulder. Raugst started. “You may do it,” the wolf-lord said. “I don’t know how you plan to gather the support of the other barons and dukes, especially against their beloved King, but if you can do what you say . . . it would be, ah, amusing.” His smile widened to show sharp, slaver-coated teeth.

  “Excellent.” The knot in Raugst’s chest began to unwind. “There is a way you can help.” Quickly Raugst outlined what he needed, and it wasn’t long before he had the papers he required.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will make you proud.”

  “I have no doubt.” Vrulug gestured to a comely young woman in chains being ushered toward Vrulug’s tent. “Would you like to amuse yourself before you return? It’s a while still to daybreak.”

  Raugst shook his head, half smiling. “I’d best get back. With the battle over, I’ll be expected to oversee the clean-up.”

  Now doubt did touch Vrulug’s eyes. The claw that lay on Raugst’s shoulder tightened, drawing blood. His dark eyes bore deep into Raugst, and the wolf-lord’s nostrils widened, as if trying to actually smell deceit.

  “Are you sure?” he said, his voice unnaturally mild. “If not a girl, then a boy, perhaps?”

  Raugst glanced at the girl. Her eyes were red with tears, and her shoulders hitched. Still, she had not been used too terribly. It was obvious that she had been saved for Vrulug. She was beautiful. Perhaps . . .

  “No time,” Raugst said. “If I don’t return, my people will get suspicious.”

  “Your people?” That look of doubt intensified. “Are we not your people?”

  Raugst cursed himself. “Of course, my lord. You know that’s not what I meant. I suppose I’m letting this whole notion of being king affect me.” He laughed at himself.

  “Yes,” Vrulug said, but he said the word very slowly.

  Raugst tried to look as indifferent as he could.

  Wind hissed and sighed. Tents flapped. Women wailed, and Borchstogs grunted rhythmically. Men on poles screamed.

  “You know,” said Vrulug at last, “I think it might be wise for one of my people to go with you. To help you out, as it were.”

  Raugst tried to hide his dismay. “I’m quite capable of handling things on my own, I assure you.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt. But you never know when an extra pair of hands can come in handy.”

  “Truly, I—”

/>   “No.” Vrulug’s voice brooked no argument. The laughter was gone. “You will accept one of my lieutenants into your fold, and he or she will speak directly for me, even if that means countermanding your own orders.” He flicked his dark eyes to the men Raugst had brought with him, making sure they understood the ramifications of this. Nervously, their gazes going from Vrulug to Raugst, they nodded.

  Vrulug withdrew.

  Raugst scowled at his men, finding that they couldn’t meet his gaze. Nevertheless, they did not seem about to cow to him, either, which in itself was disturbing.

  Presently Vrulug returned, at his side what appeared to be a human woman, tall and beautiful, with long black hair and green eyes, clad in exotic clothes that seemed composed in large part of sparkling green scales, though Raugst could see this was just a trick of her tailor.

  She curtsied to him. “It’s been awhile,” she said, almost purring.

  “So it has,” he agreed, inclining his head. Saria! Omkar damn me! She was nearly as powerful as Vrulug.

  “Saria will accompany you,” Vrulug said. “She’ll merely be an observer unless the time comes when she must step forward. When that happens, she acts on my behalf.” He lowered his long, wolvish head, letting his eyes bore deeply into Raugst’s. “Act wisely, dear friend.”

  Raugst tried to swallow, but the spittle would not go past the knot in his throat.

  Chapter 17

  The scuffle of footsteps echoed loudly in the tight confines of the catacombs, and they were all Giorn could hear, save his labored breathing and the tap of his cane.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  They’d come to a squat hall with rooms to either side. These had been empty rooms when Giorn had left, but now he saw tombs on each side. Feeling something tear in his heart, he limped into one room and stood over the stone-carved sarcophagus, fashioned to resemble a bearded warrior king—Harin Wesrain, as he had been years ago. Though the representation was idealized, and Harin in life had not been particularly war-like, Giorn recognized him instantly.