The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  One of the guards helped him up, and Giorn panted, recovering. “You have my thanks,” he managed. “All of you.” Sweat still stung his eyes. He could feel it mix with the bone dust on his cheeks.

  “My lord,” the guard captain said, “what do you here? What . . . what happened? Where did these things come from? Are there more?”

  Before he could answer, a gong peeled above. The guards started.

  “The call to arms!” the guard captain said. “What’s this?”

  “Are we under attack?”

  The soldiers looked around nervously.

  Giorn swore, his mind churning. He was all too aware of what the drumming must signify. Indeed, it was only moments later when Duke Serit Yfrin rushed into main hall followed by a score of knights, all of whom were bleary-eyed, their armor hastily and only partially thrown on. Obviously their master had roused them from sleep. Serit had discarded his ceremonial robes and wore his court finery. Wise choice, Giorn thought. The duke’s lip still bled where Giorn had struck him.

  Serit drew his sword and stabbed it toward Giorn. “Apprehend this villain!”

  The guard captain that had aided Giorn stared at the exiled baron fearfully. “What’s this, my lord?”

  Serit allowed no time for explanations. “Seize him!”

  With obvious reluctance, the captain of the guard drew his blade again. It was still coated in bone dust. Quietly, he said to Giorn, “Will you submit?”

  Still wearied from his exertions, Giorn nodded. The captain grabbed his arm and jerked him forward—not out of maliciousness but to assert his authority over Giorn so that the arriving knights would not be even more rough in their handling of him. Giorn realized this, and appreciated it.

  The guard captain brought him before Serit. “Here he is, sir. May I inquire as to what his crime is?”

  Serit glared at the captain and hesitated, as if unsure how to reply.

  Giorn did not give him time. “The crime is discovering Lord Serit’s worship of Gilgaroth.”

  The soldiers gasped. They stared from Giorn to Serit.

  “A lie!” Serit said. His sword was still drawn and he seemed honestly unsure of whether he should cut Giorn down right then and there. “It’s you who worship Gilgaroth! I caught you in the act and you tried to slay me. Oh, you are a foul one!”

  “I just arrived at the castle. How could I have known of the altar in the lowest level of the catacombs?”

  “An altar?” asked the guard captain.

  “Yes,” Giorn said. “A Black Altar.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Your duke and his mistress Histra were planning on sacrificing me to their new Master.”

  “Is this true?” said a new voice.

  All turned to regard Dalic Yfrin, standing in the doorway Serit and the knights had just emerged from. He had not taken the time to don formal attire but wore his nightclothes. Somehow he looked all the more regal for that, as though his very comfort at wearing such informal clothes bespoke his power.

  “All lies, Father, I swear it,” Serit insisted.

  “And would Histra, too, swear the same?” Uncle Dalic’s tone was grave.

  “Of course. Why, she’s sleeping in her chambers even now. As for being my mistress, why that’s—”

  “Enough.” Dalic stepped forward, a deep frown etched into his face.

  The guards looked from him to Serit and back. Giorn instantly noticed the shift in dynamics. The guards would do whatever the old duke said. No longer was Serit the ruler here. They would side with him whom they had served their whole lives, and some their fathers’ before them.

  “Please, Father, don’t even think that I would ever serve the Dark One,” Serit pleaded. “It’s absurd!”

  Uncle Dalic’s eyes shifted to Giorn, and Giorn was struck by the change in him. No longer did Dalic seem like a doddering oldster ready to watch grandchildren play in his garden. He seemed like a battle-hardened king ready to exact judgment on a hated foe.

  “Tell me, Giorn, and tell me true,” Dalic said. “Did Serit try to sacrifice you to the Wolf?”

  Giorn sighed and nodded. “He did. And Histra with him.”

  “I will have to survey the catacombs, of course, and find out if this altar exists, but if it does, I must believe you.”

  “No, Father!” cried Serit. “This is madness!”

  Dalic’s eyes turned hard as they appraised his son. “I never would have thought it of you. But Giorn is right. He could not have known of the altar. I did not know of it.”

  “Histra did,” Giorn said.

  Dalic rubbed his chin. “Yes . . . I recall the tales. Old wives’ tales, I thought them. As a child, my brothers and I would dare each other to venture into the lowest levels of the catacombs. Once I lied and said I did. But . . . so, there really is an altar down there?”

  Giorn nodded. “And there’s more you should know of.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s possible other dukes and barons have been seduced by the dark powers. Serit may know which ones have succumbed, and we should question him—though, truth be told, I’m not sure how much of what he says we can trust. Still, perhaps he has some letters or articles in his chambers.”

  “Yes.” Dalic shook his head in disgust. “What times we live in . . . my own son . . .”

  “No, Father, don’t listen to him!” Serit said.

  Giorn had been waiting for it, and he was not disappointed. All of a sudden Serit leapt forward, his sword a blur of steel. Giorn twisted. He just barely dodged the blade as it sped past.

  Instantly, guards tore the weapon from Serit’s hands. Others restrained him.

  But it was Dalic himself, wrenching a sword from a soldier’s grasp, that struck his son on the head with the flat of the blade. Serit, who had been thrashing in rage, went limp, and guards lowered him gently to the floor.

  Dalic looked unutterably sad, staring down at his son. The old duke’s eyes were very moist, but he did not release his tears, not before his men.

  Giorn squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

  “Yes. Me, too.” Yfrin paused. “I’m almost glad Elira did not live to see this. She would have been devastated.” He sniffed wetly. “I won’t know what to tell his brothers and sisters. And the people! How to explain this to the people?” Dalic looked sideways at Giorn. “And you say there are more?”

  There were more. A search of Serit’s rooms yielded a bundle of letters from various nobles of Felgrad in which they discussed their painful decisions to accept Raugst’s overtures and turn to the worship of Gilgaroth. Giorn and Dalic found one half-finished letter by Serit himself speaking of how his own decision was eased by the knowledge that an ancestor had gone down that path before him and had even erected a Black Altar in the deepest level of the catacombs. The search also turned up a newly-arrived invitation from none other than Baron Raugst Irasgralt Wesrain himself. It was an invitation to a summit meeting of the available aristocracy of Felgrad, but this particular invitation revealed that many of those attending would be among Raugst’s recent converts, of which Serit was a prominent member.

  “A gathering of traitors and jackals,” Duke Yfrin muttered, staring at the invitation. He and Giorn were in the duke’s study, sipping wine and pondering the situation. A fire blazed in the hearth. “I wonder what they’ll be discussing.”

  “The letter mentions something about the King,” Giorn said.

  “So it does.” Dalic held the letter up and peered at it through his spectacles. “‘. . . in which we shall discuss the fate of Felgrad and, indeed, its current and future leadership . . .’”

  Giorn arched his eyebrows. “Raugst plots to overthrow King Ulea.”

  “Yes, and he’s using Serit and the other converts to help him seduce the faithful nobles into aiding his doing it. What’s more, the meeting is in three days.” His voice was grave. “We haven’t time to prevent it.”

  Chapter 20

  Niara smiled as the cast
le neared. The sun beat down from blue skies overhead, the wind whipped her hair, and her horse rode steadily along, and though its rhythmic bumps and the sounds of its clattering hooves reassured her, she was not lulled. She went into the lion’s den.

  Drawing rein before the great doors, she dismounted.

  “I wish to see Lord Raugst Wesrain,” she told the guards. It was still odd to think of him as a Wesrain.

  The shorter, broader guard shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lady, but we have orders not to admit you.”

  “There must be some mistake. Raugst would wish to see me.”

  “Nevertheless, we are not to admit you.”

  She frowned. She needed to see Raugst, and not simply for herself. She had driven the evil from him and had partially guided him toward the light, but he needed someone to teach him, to instruct him in the ways of the good. Now, with Saria hovering over his shoulder to reinforce his own dark past, this was even more important.

  She stared steadily at the shorter guard. “Nisben, I see you at temple twice a week, as it should be. How can you deny your High Mother access? It is the High Mother’s right and duty to give counsel to the Baron.”

  He paled. “I cannot, my lady. I’ve been commanded.”

  “Commanded by Raugst?”

  He wiped sweat from his forehead. “No, Lady. It was . . . the other.”

  “Saria.” She spoke the name like a curse.

  Nisben nodded. “It is so, my lady.”

  “And is Saria lord here?”

  Again the guards exchanged worried glances. “It’s Lord Wesrain, of course,” said Nisben. “Only . . . only he has commanded that Lady Saria’s orders be followed in all aspects.”

  Niara knew Raugst would have little choice; Saria was simply too powerful. “Does it not disconcert you that your new mistress bears the same name as she who betrayed Lord Feldred all those years ago?” she said.

  “That’s not all that disconcerts us about her, my lady.” Nisben’s voice was ragged, but his intent unwavering. “We still can’t let you in.”

  She saw she would make no further progress. She climbed astride her mount, wheeled about and departed. Saria had won this round, perhaps, but she would not win the war.

  When Niara reached the Temple, she found Hiatha meditating in the White Room.

  Hiatha looked up. “Yes, Mother?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Raugst stopped and strained his ears. Was that a footstep? He waited. Nothing came. He continued on.

  The chill wind groaned as it drove through the garden in the rear of the castle, waving the rose bushes that lined the path, rustling the water lilies that erupted from the ornamental ponds, even shaking the high banks of the hedge maze ahead. Everywhere was darkness and shifting shadows. Dark clouds scurried across the sky, almost furtively, at times reaching out their smoky talons and clutching the moon in their grasps.

  Raugst told himself to relax. Shoulders squared, he entered the hedge maze. The hedges rising on either side of him trembled. He focused on the smell of the roses, the delicious chillness of the wind.

  It grew darker and colder as he pressed deeper into the labyrinth. He glanced up. From here he could just barely see the tip of the castle rising to the right. Good. Hopefully no one could see him from there. He’d been forced to climb out of his own window, scale the side of the castle, reenter another window and pass through the servants’ quarters to make this meeting. He couldn’t afford to be caught. Fiarth could not afford for him to be caught.

  Something emerged from the shadows. Raugst jumped. A hand flew to his sword.

  “It’s only I,” said Duke Welsly.

  “Wear bells, for the gods’ sakes. Were you seen?”

  “No. I came here hours ago, just as your letter instructed. I haven’t moved from this spot. Now will you tell me what all this is about?”

  Raugst sighed. The duke had been Raugst’s guest ever since Hasitlan had been overrun, but he had had little to do save visit his surviving flock from time to time; they were residents in scattered hotels and hostels and orphanages throughout Thiersgald. The duke would visit with them and see to their needs as much as possible, and he had even participated in the fighting when the city was under siege. Now he looked weary, his face lined and his back slumped. By the light of the moon Raugst could just barely see the golden head sewn into the breast of his jacket.

  “I have a request for you,” Raugst said.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s important. The very realm depends upon it.”

  A look of wary eagerness came into the old man’s eyes. Raugst could tell this is what he had been wanting, needing. Purpose was a powerful thing.

  “What may I do for you, my lord?”

  Raugst clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s that sword of yours. The one Lady Niara blessed for you. You did bring it?”

  The old man patted the sword; it hung at his side. “Just as you asked, my lord. But I still don’t understand. What do you want of me? Of it? And why is there so much strangeness here lately? Those guards that follow you about, there’s something not quite right about them, and that woman, Saria—what a name . . .” He shuddered. “People say prisoners are sent to . . . amuse her . . . Some even say they never leave her rooms, that she keeps them there and does unspeakable things to them. Where did she come from? What’s going on? Why this sneaking about? Why did you have to use the kitchen staff to communicate with me? Don’t you trust your own men?” He shook his head, obviously at a loss.

  “Those are all good questions, my friend, but I cannot answer them now. But here, let me see the sword.”

  Welsly removed it from its sheath and passed it to him. Raugst held it up, and the moonlight glimmered off it, seeming to awaken an echoing light within it. Holding it, he felt lighter, cleaner, clearer than he had before. But he also felt a threat. This blade was now a weapon of some power, and it had been blessed to be used against creatures of darkness. Like me. But like Saria, also. Yes, he thought, this should do.

  “Take it,” Duke Welsly said. “It’s yours, if it can aid you.”

  “No.” Saria would sense it on him. He passed it back to the duke. “But I may need to call on you soon, and I want you to be ready to wield that blade when I do.”

  That eager look stole back into the duke’s eyes. “Against Saria?” He paused. “Normally I would not dream of striking down a woman, but her . . .” He stuck out his chin. “You and I both know she is not . . . right.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  The duke frowned, looking afraid to ask his next question, and finally summoned his courage. “If I may ask, my lord, why have so many nobles arrived today? I’ve heard rumors that there is to be some sort of feast tomorrow night.”

  “There is.”

  Welsly looked perplexed. “Then why, my lord, if I may ask, was I not invited?”

  Raugst almost smiled. Because YOU would not betray the King. “I have my reasons, good duke. Just trust me.”

  After he saw Welsly off, Raugst descended through the castle to its catacombs, where he found the secret tunnels, but as he entered them, the hackles on the back of his neck stood up. His agents were down here, waiting in the darkness. Raugst had placed them here to ambush Giorn and his men should the young baron attempt another strike at Raugst. But none of Raugst’s agents were really his any longer, he knew. They were Saria’s.

  Curse that witch. I’ll kill her yet. Duke Welsly’s light-blessed sword should help.

  He fantasized about hacking off Saria’s head as he made his way through the darkness below Thiersgald, lighting his way with a torch. Smoke choked his lungs and teared his eyes, but he did not stop, even when he was obliged to skirt the sewers. At any moment he expected one of his men to lunge out at him, but he made it to his destination safely, and it was with great relief that he emerged from a gutter and into the open air once more. Wind gusted down the street, driving away some of the stench of the sewers. He hoped the smoke of the torc
h masked the rest of it. He didn’t want Niara to blanch at his smell.

  He doused the torch and left it behind. Smiling despite himself, he straightened his tunic and ran a hand through his hair as he made his way through the dark streets. The fine shops of the inner city rose on both sides of him, and the well-cobbled streets were lit at intervals by street-lamps. As it was the dead of night, everything was deserted. Raugst heard noises ahead and ducked into an alley as two horsemen rode by—the city watch.

  When they were gone, he resumed his trek, coming at last on one of the many parks in the city, actually a small island in the Halyd River, and Raugst had to cross a delicate, lacy bridge to reach it. On both sides of the River stretched a walkway, with occasional shops and restaurants along it. Thiersgaldians loved to walk and enjoy the outdoors, and were known to take frequent strolls along the River. The island Raugst crossed to was known as Branad’s Isle, and it was a famous place for lovers to meet, full of high hedges and gazebos. During the time leading up to Vrulug’s siege it had become a place for outlaws to take advantage of the unwary, but Raugst had painstakingly hanged all the outlaws he could and had driven the rest away.

  With light steps, he slipped through the hedges, and for some reason he was even more nervous in this hedge maze than in the one behind the castle. Saria is far away, he told himself. But that was not the reason he felt nervous. No, it was Niara that made him so. It amused him and chagrined him at the same time.

  At last he rounded a corner and came on a gazebo shining whitely under the moon. There, in its center, stood a slender figure clad in white, black hair glimmering down her back.

  Raugst smiled. He had not been sure she would come, not sure that she had even received the message. Saria watched him carefully, and he had been forced to be extra cunning in sending the message to Niara asking her to meet him here. He had not even been certain she would come if she had gotten it. But she had, and here she was.