The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  She stepped back, and the wind whispered over the terrace. The eastern horizon grew red with blood. He wondered if it made her thirst, or if the few prisoners in his dungeon had slaked it for the nonce. He touched his fingers to his ribs and looked at them. No blood.

  “You needn’t have done that,” he said, lumbering toward her. “I didn’t need a reminder.”

  “Yes, you did.” She returned her attention to the panorama of Thiersgald. “It is a pretty city.”

  “Yes.”

  “It will be prettier still when we have taken it, when monuments to the Great One stand in the courtyards and the bodies of His enemies rot at their bases. Ancient Ulastrog will rise once more.”

  “That does sound glorious. But only if my plan is achieved and we bring the Crescent down entire, and the Age of Grandeur begins. Otherwise our efforts would have been mere table dressing.”

  “It is an interesting thing, this plan of yours. To install yourself as King of Felgrad. How will you accomplish it?”

  “I have my way.”

  “Is this Moon-witch whore part of it?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then why was she in your room? What is she to you?”

  “Nothing. Only my private jest, to corrupt a daughter of the Moon.”

  “You will stop seeing her.”

  “I will not.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You will obey me.”

  “We shall see.”

  Amusement touched her lips. Raugst became aware of two figures emerging from the shadows of the room to either side of her. Suddenly cold, he stared. They were the tall, charred corpse-things Vrulug used for his personal guard. Raugst wasn’t sure if the shadows clung to them, or if they clung to the shadows, but either way they seemed part of them. The creatures gave off a chill, and their eye sockets plunged through black holes into the Abyss.

  “My lord has given the Twain to me, to use as I see fit,” Saria said. “Cross me and you will regret it.”

  The creatures stepped forward, and the sweat on Raugst’s forehead turned to ice. They were cold.

  “So,” Saria said, “you will stop seeing the whore?”

  Raugst nodded.

  The Twain melted back into the shadows. He had no doubt Saria could recall them at will, however, noting her stroke a black jewel set in a golden ring on her finger.

  “They’ll keep an eye on you,” she told him.

  He sighed, trying to affect weary patience. “You needn’t doubt me, Lady. I don’t know why Lord Vrulug sent you with me.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  She nodded slowly. “We shall see. You have two weeks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It will take my lord two weeks to rebuild the bridge over the Pit of Eresine. Then he can bring his full might across the gorge and conquer Felgrad through main force. He will not need the likes of you. But . . . if you can become king of Felgrad before then . . . if you can make Felgrad a tool of the One . . . he will spare it.”

  “Two weeks to usurp the king . . .” He shook his head. “It’s not enough time.”

  “Then Felgrad will fall.” She did not seem to care.

  He moved to the doorway, his ribs still aching. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said.

  “Where are you going?”

  He forced a laugh. “I have a city to save, remember.”

  Giorn paused as he reached a crest and turned back to take in the sight of Thiersgald, his home, laid out upon the plain, just now receiving the first faint rosy light of dawn. Its domes and rooftops gleamed, and the rivers that cut through it sparkled molten red. The sight touched him, as always, and he tried to ignore the Borchstog army that befouled it. Thankfully, with the coming of the sun, the creatures were retreating inside their tents. Only a few hardy sentries would keep watch while the others slept. Even the screams of the Borchstogs’ victims had faded.

  “Would that I had my army,” Giorn mused. “Now would be the perfect time to strike.”

  At his side, Duke Dalic Yfrin nodded. “Don’t think of what could be, lad. Think of what will be.”

  Slowly, Giorn regarded the duke. “Are you sure you’re up to this, Uncle? It’s no shame to back out. I can escort you to your home and go my own way from there.”

  The older man seemed to sink within himself, thinking. At last he shook himself, sort of smiled, and said, “No, I will see this through with you, my boy.” He glared at the Borchstog army, coughed up some spittle and spat in their direction. “Death to the Enemy!”

  Grinning, Giorn spat likewise. “Death indeed.”

  He saw a stirring. Dalic turned to look, too. It was a great, glittering mass of soldiery sweeping out from the North Gate. The Borchstogs were camped near the South . . .

  “What’s this?” Giorn asked.

  The host of men circled around the great wall of Thiersgald, coming upon the Borchstogs unexpectedly. The Borchstogs had obviously thought an attack would come from the South Gate, not the North. As well, the sun disoriented them. The men were rushing down upon them when they were weak and tired and hiding in their tents.

  Raugst was attacking, Giorn realized. The demon was attacking his own side. Giorn and Dalic stared in amazement as the mass of men formed a wedge and drove deep into Vrulug’s camp, scattering and slaying the invaders. They set fire to the tents, inciting panic, and prevented the Borchstogs from reaching their horses and murmeksa, then scattered the mounts and glarums, causing more chaos. The Borchstogs fought back, but they had fallen into disarray. Giorn watched as dust rose to obscure the action, and minutes gave way to hours, and mounds of bodies littered the ground. Giorn and Dalic watched it all, transfixed. At last a horn called out, great and low, and Vrulug’s host . . . fell back. The Borchstogs fled Thiersgald, with Raugst’s men chasing them over the hills.

  “I don’t believe it,” Dalic whispered.

  “This is it,” Giorn said. “This is part of what Raugst planned.”

  “What do you mean? He saved the city!”

  “No. He’s up to something, just as Fria said. Remember, she said he had a way to cause even more damage to the Crescent. That’s what he went to confer with Vrulug about. Vrulug has the Moonstone, remember. He could have destroyed Raugst and his men—if he wanted to. For some reason he didn’t. This battle was all a show.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. But now Raugst controls the city, and he will be thought a hero even more than before.” The idea infuriated Giorn. “Come. Thiersgald is Raugst’s. We can’t return, not until I’m well and we have some men to support us. Perhaps then we can stage a coup.”

  “Let us hurry. There will be scattered Borchstogs about, and they won’t be feeling friendly.”

  Giorn continued west and north, hobbling over the low hills, and Dalic walked with him. It only got hillier in the direction they went, and with every step fire coursed up Giorn’s leg. If only he could survive long enough to reach a hamlet, where a healer or priestess might be able to aid him . . .

  With the rising sun at their backs, the two men picked their way through the low hills to freedom. With every painful step, Giorn plotted Raugst’s downfall.

  There was a great festival in Thiersgald that night, though the city guard kept watch. At any moment Vrulug could return. But while the soldiers stood on the blood-stained wall and stared out into the darkness, the rest of the city celebrated. Thiersgald blazed with light. In every courtyard, there was a bonfire, and over every one cooked a stag or a hog or a dozen chickens. Each courtyard thronged with people—old men and boys, women of all ages. Many were refugees. In every hand was a glass or a mug.

  They all toasted Raugst. Again and again, as he wandered the city atop his black horse, the people of Thiersgald and the refugees that filled its streets and alleys lifted their glasses to him and bellowed out their love and gratitude.

  Feeling sick, he smiled back. He would climb off his horse and circulate among the
gathering, jesting at Vrulug’s expense and telling lies about the day’s combat. The people loved it. Loved him. Never would Harin Wesrain have gone amongst the people so. The old baron had been aloof, cerebral, comfortable atop his dais. He would never do this. But Raugst would, and they adored him for it.

  The sight of their laughing, cheerful faces made him wilt inside. This is no true victory, he kept thinking. Only a short reprieve. Two weeks, and Vrulug will destroy you.

  Unless—

  Raugst drank mug after mug of ale. His feet turned to jelly, and his head swam. Memories of the battle surfaced, and he saw Borchstogs fleeing before him, and it felt good. It had been a long, wearying battle, though the outcome had never been in question, at least to Raugst and Vrulug. Vrulug only held out long enough to make it look good. Then, with no undue haste, he had wheeled his army about and slipped away into the nearest bog. But he would be back. Oh, yes, he would be back.

  Raugst pushed it from his mind, or tried to. He found himself dancing with one girl and then another, despite the fact that he could barely stand upright, but he never got close to any of them. There was someone else . . .

  Often he looked toward the Temple of Illiana and saw a light blazing in the uppermost, central spire, which seemed to bask in the starlight. Niara was in the Inner Sanctum again. Praying for guidance? Telling Illiana that the plan had worked? Weeping and wishing she had never been born? Whatever it was, Raugst discovered that he had a powerful urge to visit her. Only she knew who he truly was. It was only to her that he could confide.

  But it was more than that, and he knew that, too. And, in the inner workings of his own mind, he accepted it, admitted it. She was lesser now, she was human, but the feelings he’d had for her remained. It had not been her grace he had been attracted to, after all. He could not get her beautiful face and fiery blue eyes out of his mind.

  His feelings could hold no place in his life. Not publicly. The people would rise up against him. And not in private, either. She had spurned him, after all.

  Still, he could not banish the thoughts, and the drink and the dancing was only making it worse. Her face swam, doubled, quadrupled, in his vision, her delicate white features framed by curling black hair, blue eyes wet, cheeks stained with tears—

  He tore himself loose of the girl he was dancing with, climbed astride his horse and made for the temple. His horse’s hooves clattered on the road, and he winced at every step. His ribs still stung from Saria’s embrace, and that worried him. Just how mortal was he now? He hadn’t tried to shift shapes since his change and feared the worst. Also, it seemed he could no longer shrug off wounds.

  He laughed bitterly. Niara had given up her immortality to make them both mortal.

  As he drew close to the temple, he slowed. The hot breeze had turned cold, and it whispered sinister things as he climbed down from his mount. He ignored it, stepped forward, expecting a priestess to emerge and take his horse.

  Instead, something else emerged—from the shadows.

  “Hells!” Raugst reeled backward, a hand flying to the pommel of his sword.

  A tall dark shape glided out, and slowly the starlight and moonlight revealed its blackened husk of a face. Its withered limbs lifted toward him, moving with power they should not have possessed. Indeed, as it stepped forward, it was not slow or awkward—as it should have been, lacking the requisite muscles and tendons—but fully mobile and capable, almost fluid.

  “You,” Raugst said.

  “We.”

  The other slipped from the shadows, its empty eye sockets looking inward to the endless depths of its own foul soul, or perhaps to the Void which birthed it.

  Raugst swore again. Saria had not been bluffing. The Twain, if that’s what they were called, kept a close watch on him.

  “What do you here?” he demanded.

  The first one stepped forward again, and Raugst could feel the burning cold emanating from it. He feared to touch it lest his hands turn to ice.

  “You may not visit the Moon-witch whore,” it hissed. Its voice was the soul of the Void, cold and cruel.

  Raugst drew his sword. “We’ll just have to solve this the old-fashioned way.”

  He sliced at the first one’s skull.

  He did not even feel the blow. The thing did not move. Raugst’s sword struck its skull, shattered and sprayed him with its shards.

  Screaming, he flung his hands before his eyes and stumbled backward. When it was over, he marveled at his bloody hands and arms and glared at the demon.

  “You’ll regret this, whatever you are,” he said.

  “We . . . are servants . . . of the One.”

  “You’re also corpses, and that’s half my work accomplished. Now out of my way!” Ignoring his wounds, all of which seemed minor, he strode forward, ready to strike the foul things down if need be with his bare fists.

  They stepped toward him, opening their mouths wide, and as if summoned from the Void itself a cold wind gusted from their depths and knocked him backward, actually picking him up off his feet and hurling him to the road beside his horse, which reared and trotted off a ways.

  Feeling pebbles dig into his back and blood trickle down his arms, shivering from the cold, Raugst climbed to his feet and studied at the Twain.

  The normal breeze blew, and in the distance people cheered his name.

  The creatures stepped back into the shadows as if they had never been. Raugst stared into the darkness, trying to find them and failing. They could be anywhere. They possessed strange powers, even stranger than those he had wielded for so long.

  Swearing, picking shards of what he now saw to be ice out of his arms and chest—they had turned his sword to ice—he strode over to his horse and swung himself astride. The night grew dark about him.

  Niara knelt before the white altar of Illiana and prayed for hope and guidance. Nothing greeted her on the other end. Illiana was gone, beyond her reach. Niara was truly mortal now, bereft of the Grace of the Omkar. She told herself that at least her sacrifice had not been in vain, that it had saved Thiersgald, but in her heart she knew it was only a temporary fix. Vrulug would return, and she did not like to think on what would happen when he did.

  As she rose, her knees and lower legs prickled. They’d gone asleep she had knelt for so long. The sensation made her smile, but it was a sad smile. Her legs had never gone to sleep when she had knelt before.

  Resisting a sigh, she crossed to the terrace, feeling the wind on her cheeks, relishing the feel of it in her hair. The sounds of revelry drifted up to her, and she gazed fondly down on the bonfires of the celebrants. They deserved their festivities. Part of her was tempted to go down and join them. But no. She was in no mood, and what if they sensed the change in her? She did not think they would stop loving her if they knew the truth, but they would want certain questions answered, answers which she could not give lest she betray Raugst.

  She saw a dark rider at the gates, wheeling his horse about, then clattering away. Could it be . . . ?

  She was imagining things. And did she really want to see him again?

  Giorn, I’m so sorry.

  Where was he now? Was he even still alive? And why did she hope that that dark rider had been Raugst?

  She had to laugh at herself. These were silly questions, a girl’s questions. She had more important things to worry about. Vrulug would return, bringing the End Times with him, and Niara did not know how she or Raugst could stop him, especially with Saria watching their every step.

  Once more she looked to the altar. Now she did sigh. Rubbing her knees, she made her way back to the white marble slab and sank before it.

  Illiana, she prayed. Illiana, Lady of the Moon, hear me in my hour of need . . .

  As wind howled about the tower, she prayed on.

  Chapter 18

  Three days later, Giorn and Duke Dalic Yfrin entered the small township of Thrais. It had been a long, weary three days, and Giorn was hot and feverish by the end of it. Puss seeped
from the wounds in his leg, and he trembled with such force that he could barely walk. Fortunately his gold secured the services of a reputable healer, who was able to treat Giorn before he succumbed to his ailments.

  Giorn had been existing only partly in the waking world, spending most of his time submerged in hallucinations and dream-fancies. Now he saw Thiersgald burning, and Niara raped by Vrulug on the altar of Illiana. He saw a darkness growing in the South, a great and terrible Being with a burning core of shadow, stretching out Its hand to Fiarth, and everything It touched withered and blackened—

  Gasping, Giorn shot up from a narrow bed. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and stared about the small wood-paneled room. Morning light filtered in through the drapes over a small window. The scent of old pine perfumed the air. And, in the distance, eggs. Someone cooked breakfast.

  Instantly his mouth watered, and he realized that he was ravenous.

  He only dimly remembered hiring a healer and supposed that he must be at the house of healing. Where was the duke?

  Giorn swiveled in bed and prepared to stand, and it was then that he saw his right leg was splinted and braced. An herbal-smelling ointment had been rubbed all over it, and it burned faintly. Some of his enthusiasm for breakfast died. I will never be able to run again. It was a bitter thought. He had been athletic all his life, a lover of the outdoors, of riding and hiking. Now here he was, the great Giorn, beloved heir of Fiarth, a cripple and exile. Pain still radiated from the livid scar across his abdomen, a living reminder of his failure at Wegredon.

  Tears built up behind his eyes. No. If I start I might never stop. Niara, how could you have DONE this to me?

  With an effort, he rose to his feet. He grabbed his cane and hobbled to the door. His leg throbbed, but he ignored it. He reached for the door, but before he could touch it, it opened. Startled, he leapt back, nearly falling.