by Jack Conner
“Madness,” said the duke.
“I know.”
“But . . .”
“Please, Uncle. Just . . . leave us.”
Duke Yfrin sighed. Doubt in his eyes, he led the soldiers from the room. When they were gone, Raugst resumed his crawl, dragging himself over to Niara, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Now he and Giorn were close enough to touch, and they eyed each other tensely.
“I should kill you,” Raugst said.
“And I should kill you. We should kill each other. But not her. She, of all of us, should have lived.”
“Yes.”
As one, their gazes traveled to Niara. She was already cooling in Giorn’s arms.
“She loved you,” Giorn said, hearing the bitterness in his voice.
Silence. Then: “She loved you, too,” Raugst said, “though you don’t deserve it.”
“How can you say that?”
As they spoke, they had kept their gazes on Niara. Only now did Raugst raise his eyes, letting them bore into Giorn. “Because she could have let you come close to me when you first came in. She could have let you come in close, then picked up a sword from the ground and run you through from behind. But she did not. She chose to sacrifice herself to save the both of us.”
Giorn shuddered. “She would never . . .”
“No. I wish she had, but no, she wouldn’t. That’s what I mean.”
“I need no saving.”
“Is that right? Then what of the army that closes on us? Can you defeat them?”
“I can if anyone can.”
Raugst shook his head, resolute. “No. You can’t. Only I can save us.”
There was still a trace of warmth in Niara’s flesh, but it was slipping away.
“How?” Giorn asked.
Raugst told him. Giorn listened.
Raugst, he realized, much to his dismay, was right. Only the demon could stop Vrulug.
“But what if your plan fails?” Giorn said. “What if you have to destroy the Stone?”
“Then I will destroy it.”
“Do you even know where it is?”
Raugst opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.
“Well?” Giorn pressed.
Raugst grunted. “Do you know? I doubt it.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Really?”
Giorn nodded. “It’s in the belly of the beast. Vrulug swallowed it.”
“The cur! He never told me . . .”
“Why would he?”
An awkward moment passed.
“We’re wasting time,” Raugst said.
“Then let us be at it.”
As if to underscore the point, Duke Yfrin returned, looking even grimmer than before.
“It’s Vrulug,” he said. “He’s here.”
“Don’t worry,” said Raugst. “He won’t attack. We have a deal.”
Duke Yfrin glowered. “I don’t know what sort of deal you had with him, demon, but it wasn’t a very good one. He’s already launching his first wave.”
Chapter 24
The carriage wheels rattled on the roads, bumping Giorn up and down. The horses trotted, rushing Giorn to his destination. Over the sounds of hooves and carriage wheels he could hear the driver cracking his whip and shouting, “Ra! Ra!”
Giorn shoved the window curtains aside. Night had fallen, but bonfires, street-lamps and the moon lit the world quite well, at least for the nonce. The dark cloud over Vrulug’s host swept northward. Soon it would obliterate the sky.
They were passing through Inner Thiersgald, and the streets were so choked with citizens and refugees that the carriage could hardly navigate them. Raugst had had the outer city evacuated and now the entire population of Thiersgald—and the even greater numbers of refugees—were all packed into this one place. It was a beautiful quarter, with great towers and mansions and monuments all around, and there the magnificent golden dome that marked the Library, but it was not meant to hold so many. It was surreal and horrible, to see so great a number of people pressed so close together, in streets Giorn knew so well.
Everywhere people gathered in tight groups, praying silently or listening to sermons. The people thought their doom was upon them, that these truly were the opening days of the End Times. They thought Vrulug’s victory inevitable, that shortly the city would burn and Borchstogs would be raping the women in its ashes and torturing the men over its white-hot embers. Giorn knew they were right, too. Unless Raugst prevails. The notion did not sit well with him, and it especially galled him that he was forced to pray for the bastard’s success.
Giorn’s carriage passed through the beautiful, ornate inner wall of Thiersgald and into the outer city. It was supposed to have been emptied, but he saw that some stubborn townspeople had remained. Pale faces stared out through windows. Families gathered in gardens and on terraces to pray. A group of youths broke the window of a house, surely looking to loot the place. Giorn sighed.
The Temple to Illiana rose into sight ahead, its windows shining with golden light. The white edifice seemed to glow. Strangely, though, it was dread that welled up in Giorn as he neared that splendid structure, and for a moment he didn’t see the temple at all but Niara’s face, lovely and anguished. He could still feel the thunk that had coursed up his arm when he struck her—could still see her blood, bright as the sun. With a shudder, he closed the drapes and turned to his fellow passenger.
“We won’t be long,” Giorn assured him.
General Levenril frowned. “Are you quite certain the priestesses will be necessary? They’re useless now.”
“If all goes well, they won’t be useless for long.”
The procession rolled up to the Temple, where Hiatha and several other priestesses were waiting. They must have seen and heard the royal procession and come out to meet it. Hiatha was at the forefront of their circle, looking like someone trying to struggle for calm despite overwhelming worry. She kept raising her hands as if to wring them, then, realizing what she was doing, she would drop them, square her shoulders, and lift her chin.
Giorn sprang from the carriage before it was completely stopped, not minding that he nearly tripped and fell on his face. Even before soldiers from the carriage behind his could come to his side, Giorn hobbled forward, and Hiatha and her sisters converged on him.
Hiatha clutched his hand and stared deep into his eyes. “We felt something,” she said. “Something terrible. Tell us, is it true? Has Niara fallen?”
Wordless, he nodded.
The priestesses gasped or exchanged horrified looks. Tears built up behind Hiatha’s eyes, but she did not release them. “I’d hoped it was just Vrulug’s presence that darkened our thoughts, but—” She stared up at the black sky, at the moon that hung overhead, proud and dazzling, then focused on Giorn. Only then did she seem to notice to whom she spoke. Grief over Niara had blinded her. Now her eyes widened. “Why, could it be? Is that you, Lord Wesrain? Dear Illiana . . .”
“I know. I know. Now listen, I need your help. Are you the High Priestess now?”
Warring emotions flashed across her face, but she reined them in. “Rites must be performed. There is ceremony, ritual—”
“But you are the leader?”
“Yes. I suppose. What would you ask of me, my lord?”
“Gather your most powerful sisters and your weapons of light and meet me at the South Gate.”
“But Vrulug blocks us. We cannot aid you.”
“Not yet, but hopefully soon you’ll be able to. I can’t say for sure, but I know we won’t win without you. Now go. Prepare for war. That is an order from your baron and king. Raugst is gone. I’m the leader now.”
There were more gasps at this, but Hiatha consented to his demands and withdrew into the temple, her sisters with her. Giorn returned to his carriage.
“Ra!” the driver shouted, cracking his whip. The horses neighed and pulled. The wheels rolled.
Giorn, settling himself in, breathe
d out heavily. Niara was gone from this world, but the temple still stood. It was a living reminder of the Grace of the Omkar, a symbol of the sacred. There was hope left yet.
General Levenril evidently misinterpreted his distraction, as he said, “Fear not, my lord. The other generals of Fiarth will take your orders. They will be most glad to know that a true Wesrain has returned.”
“Will they? Good.” It had been a strange scene at the castle, when Raugst, newly clothed and drinking from a goblet of wine laced with the blood of his victims—to strengthen him for his coming endeavor, he said—had told General Levenril that he was abdicating the throne to Giorn. The General, who had brought the news of Vrulug’s arrival personally, meaning to brief Raugst in full on the situation on the ride back to the wall, had been quite shocked at Giorn’s return and Raugst’s ill state. He had been further shocked when Raugst had, without ceremony, handed Giorn the crown. Giorn had yet to put it on. Even now it rested on the general’s lap, waiting to be claimed.
“And what of King Ulea’s men?” Giorn asked. “Will they accept my orders?”
“They’ll have to. They’ll be confused, especially if you insist on arresting some of your own officers—”
“Raugst’s appointments must be seen to before they can cause any further damage.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Levenril looked troubled. Like everyone else of a certain station, he would have heard the bizarre rumors circulating about Raugst and the company he kept, but it would still be difficult for him to credit. “But yet another change of leadership on the dawn of war, and the arrest of key generals and officers—it will undermine our troops’ morale even further.”
“There’s no other way. Raugst appointed unnatural beings in the guise of men, things loyal to Oslog. They cannot be allowed to lead our soldiers in combat, especially when they discover that Raugst is no longer in command.”
“Yes. Yes, I see what you mean, but I still can hardly believe . . .”
“Remember the claw, General. Remember the claw.” To convince Levenril of Raugst’s true nature, Giorn had asked Raugst to give a demonstration, and Raugst had turned his right hand into a claw. The General had gone even paler than he was now.
“Y-yes,” he said. “I had not forgotten.”
“Good.”
The rest of the trip passed in silence save for the cracking of the whip, the thunder of the hooves and the grinding of the wheels. When the procession slowed, Giorn disembarked. Soldiers were all over the place, milling about or forming groups. Some saw to the horses. Others sharpened blades or engaged in silent prayer. Many shot Giorn curious glances. Some pointed to him, and he heard the words “Giorn” and “Wesrain” mentioned again and again. The soldiers began whispering to each other, excitement—but also, he was not surprised to see—consternation in their faces.
Giorn did not pause to explain or proclaim. Side by side with General Levenril, he ascended one of the thick towers flanking the South Gate. There he met up with a group of generals and other officers. This tower had become the center of command. When Giorn arrived, all those gathered were staring out at the oncoming horde.
He hobbled to the parapet. The rolling fields south of the city were dark, but a greater darkness rolled over them, shielded from stars and moon by the black clouds over Vrulug’s host. It was as if Giorn were staring into the Void itself, hungry and devouring, and coming closer, like a great black maw opening, and here he was, unable to flee, a fly trapped in amber, like something out of a nightmare.
And from the darkness came drumming, steady, rhythmic, like the throb of some monstrous heart. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
He swore. At the sound, the others turned to him.
“Giorn Wesrain!”
“It can’t be!”
Giorn waited for the expected confusion to run its course, then smiled grimly and said, “Well met, friends. I’m back. Raugst is gone and I have taken his place.” He nodded to General Levenril, who handed him the crown. Giorn took a deep breath, then shoved the crown onto his head. It was heavier than he had expected. “For now, I’m King. I won’t hold the office, but I do hope to preserve it.”
The officers stared at him, jaws open. Then one dropped to his knees. Another followed, then another. Soon all knelt to Giorn save for two generals in the rear, who hunched their backs.
“Where’s Raugst?” one demanded.
Giorn gestured to the soldiers that had accompanied him into the tower. “Seize those two.”
The soldiers obeyed and in moments the two struggling generals were cornered. One of them tried to change shapes, becoming something wolf-like and monstrous, but he was cut down and dismembered before he could complete his transformation. The other tried to leap out the window, perhaps meaning to fly away, but a soldier, unnerved by the first general’s transformation, hacked halfway through his head and the creature fell unmoving to the floor, brains and blood pooling about him.
The others in the tower muttered fearfully in outrage and terror.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“What were they?”
“What they were doesn’t matter. They are dead,” Giorn said firmly. “And so shall the others be.” He turned to General Levenril. “You have the list of names Raugst drew up for us. I need for you to find all those that he appointed and remove them. I don’t know if all of them are demons or not, but if they put up a resistance slay them. Dismember them. Burn the bodies.”
“Aye, my lord.” The general took a last look at the half-changed thing on the floor, made a sign to ward off evil, and departed.
Giorn ordered the soldiers to remove to two dead ones and instructed them to burn the corpses. The soldiers were loath to touch the one that had attempted to change, but they carried out their new lord’s orders.
Giorn turned to the gathering. “Who here represents the royal forces?”
“I do, my lord,” said a short, broad man with a full black beard. “I’m General Miled, Lord Ulea’s chief general.”
“Well met, General Miled. Will you accept my direction until this crisis is over?”
The general glanced at the bloodstains on the floor, swallowed, and nodded. “I will, my lord.”
“Good.” They clasped wrists. “Now,” said Giorn, “what we need is to break Vrulug’s momentum. He’s almost near enough now to unleash his gaurocks, and without our priestesses to aid us they will surely breach the wall. We can’t prevent that, but we may be able to delay it.”
Quickly, he outlined what he would do. Over his words came the incessant pounding of the Borchstog war drums, coming closer and closer and closer, almost seeming to shake the room. Giorn left the officers under the direction of General Miled, gathered to him three thousand riders in the great square before the South Gate, made his plans, and issued forth.
With a horse beneath him and the wind in his hair, Giorn rode out. He could see the endless ranks of the Borchstogs ahead, with the great dark shapes of the gaurocks among them, slithering along at amazing speed. The behemoths wore iron helms on their heads with long iron spikes jutting forward. When Vrulug gave the order, the Serpents would charge forward and ram the walls with their iron spikes, just as they had at Hielsly. The impact would disorient and perhaps kill the creatures, but if they were successful the wall would be breached and Vrulug’s hordes could pour in through the gaps. Normally the priestesses could help counter these threats, but until the Moonstone was destroyed they were all but useless.
You will not end us, Giorn thought, watching the ravenous hordes close in. There will be no Age of Grandeur for you.
At the forefront of a V formation, he led his men forward in a rush. The Borchstogs’ red eyes narrowed as Giorn’s company neared, and many lowered their spears to rebuff the mounted men. Riders of Thiersgald were well-trained, though, as were their horses, and Giorn gritted his teeth and pressed forward.
Arrows streaked out, and he lifted his shield high, using his right arm to manipulate it. He still had a thum
b and a palm and could grip the strap. Arrows thunked into the wood, but none got through. His horse cried out but kept going. A glance told him that his mount had been struck in the flank.
The line of spears shot toward him. Giorn hunkered low and trusted to the horse’s training. The animal leapt high, through the line of spears, and Giorn knocked aside spear-points with his sword, as he had been trained to do.
He was through.
His riders followed behind him, breaking the orderly formation of Borchstogs. Giorn shuddered as the black shadow of Vrulug’s clouds fell over him. The host of Borchstogs stretched before him, a great dark mass. Their helms glinted. Their eyes burned. There was enough light for him to see by, and the clouds occasionally flared with strangely-colored lightning overhead. A fine, bitter mist fell.
Giorn’s sword swept out, hacking off a Borchstog’s head. A spear jabbed at his middle but scraped off his armor. He brought his blade down with all the strength his left arm could muster, cracking his foe’s helmet and splitting his skull to his teeth.
A troll reared above, roaring its rage. In the darkness it was simply a huge, foul-smelling shadow. Lightning glimmered off its great sharp teeth.
It stomped down at Giorn. Giorn jerked the reins, and his horse swept aside. Giorn’s blade lashed out at the troll’s heel, meaning to cut the tendon there. The heel was armored. Giorn’s blade glanced off.
He rode on, leading his riders deep into the Borchstog host. Glarumri wheeled overhead, showering his men with arrows. The riders did not pause.
Giorn lifted his horn to his lips and blew, signaling the second charge. His force had distracted Vrulug’s host and compelled it to shift its focus, realign its warriors. Now the second group of riders stormed out through the South Gates and bit deep into Vrulug’s host from the opposite side, where the defenses had faded. Borchstogs screamed. Giorn grinned tightly.
He hacked and slashed, slaying Borchstogs all around. A corrupted giant came on him from the rear. He had been surrounded with a solid wall of Borchstogs to the fore and had been trying to hack his way through them, when he felt the earth shake behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the giant looming over him, eclipsing the lightning overhead. Giants were huge, taller even than the trolls, and if they were corrupted by Gilgaroth they became monstrous. This one seemed to have no skin, and it had strange tendril-like limbs protruding from its middle.