by Jack Conner
One of its massive hands grabbed Giorn’s horse and wrenched horse and rider up off the ground. The other hand grabbed the horse’s rear legs. The giant pulled in opposite directions. The horse screamed.
Giorn managed to leap onto the giant’s arm. He crawled up the limb, hacking at the tendrils that strove to ensnare him, and crawled onto the giant’s shoulder. From there he plunged his blade into the giant’s horrid, skinless face. He shoved his sword through its eye, into its brain, and the monster gave one last groan and fell. Giorn clung desperately to a tooth as it went down, his stomach rising. The impact knocked him loose, and he found himself on the ground beside the giant’s head. His horse, still living, was trying to kick and thrash its way out of the giant’s lifeless hands.
The circle of Borchstogs converged.
Swearing, limping, his shield lost, his sword still in the giant’s eye, Giorn backed up until he bumped against the giant’s skull. The Borchstogs swarmed in.
Giorn jerked his blade free and thrust it through the throat of the nearest enemy. It gurgled, black blood spurting, and crumpled to the ground.
The others howled and fell on him.
He set to right and left, ducking and weaving, hacking and slicing. Forced backward, he managed to crawl atop the giant. The great corpse was thronged by demons, an island in a sea out of nightmare. The Borchstogs surged all around, climbing up after Giorn. Giorn thrust and parried furiously, and blades clanged and sparked.
By then Giorn’s horse had freed itself. Giorn whistled, and it came. He swung astride, deflecting one last blow from a Borchstog’s blade, then rode off, trampling the demons in his path. The Borchstogs howled in fury behind him.
Giorn found his company once more and led them against the enemy, at last merging with the second group of riders and striking even deeper into the heart of Vrulug’s host. Ultimately, though, unable to ward off the arrows from the glarumri and beset all around by demons, Giorn led the riders in breaking free of the enemy ranks. Returning inside the wall, they streamed through the sally ports.
Covered in black blood but his own blood on fire, Giorn mounted the stairs of the gate tower and conferred with his generals and officers. As per his orders, General Levenril had arrested or slain all of Raugst’s appointments. Hiatha and her priestesses had arrived, and she was waiting for him.
“Soon I hope we’ll have need of you,” he told her. Raugst, be swift.
He returned his attention to the oncoming army. His raid had slowed and disrupted Vrulug’s host, but, as he had predicted, it had not stopped them. Vrulug came on, more wrathful than ever. If anything, the shadow draping his host deepened. The drums rolled on, steady and inexorable. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The heart of the ancient monster whose rhythm they sounded thundered, unwavering and resolute. It was the heartbeat of Gilgaroth himself, and the Wolf was relentless.
Giorn hoped his charge had at least bought Raugst some time. He hated to admit it, but he needed the demon. Not just Giorn, but the city, the world. Should Thiersgald fall, so would Felgrad. And should Felgrad fall, so would the rest of the Crescent, Giorn had little doubt. The battle of the End Times would be fought right here, right now, and it all depended on the creature Giorn loathed above all others. Giorn’s very civilization was in the hands of a monster.
All too soon, Giorn heard a horn blow from the enemy host, long and loud. Giorn’s blood ran cold. Even through the darkness he saw the massive gaurocks reined and prodded into position at the forefront of the Borchstog formations. Howling, Borchstogs scurried out of their way. Some were ground into paste.
Men muttered all along the wall. Here it comes, some said. Now it happens.
“Brace yourselves!” Giorn called.
Another horn-blast rang out. The great serpents slithered forward at terrific speed, out from the shadow of the clouds. Starlight, moonlight and lightning flickered off their wet scales. The fifty or more Borchstog riders that bestrode each of their backs hunched low and raised their shields, expecting an onslaught.
Giorn did not disappoint them. At his command, the Felgrad archers riddled the gaurocks and their riders with arrows, but the leviathans could not be deterred. The arrows either glanced off them or stuck unnoticed. The Borchstogs riders howled defiantly, even as arrows sank into their shields.
The gaurocks surged on.
“Illiana preserve us,” whispered Hiatha. Many of the generals repeated the prayer under their breaths.
The Serpents struck the wall. CRACK!
As Giorn had feared, without the priestesses’ aid the behemoths managed to breach the wall at half a dozen points. On both sides of him, Giorn saw clouds of dust billow up from the impacts, saw the arrow-riddled mounds of the gaurocks, their riders climbing off them and pouring through the breaches. Somewhere, Vrulug blew on his black horn, and the rest of the Borchstogs and assorted creatures of the wolf-lord’s host surged forward, a great tide of them. Some heaved up ladders and battled the men on the walls. Others poured in through the gaps the gaurocks had created, following in the wake of the riders. Giorn issued frantic orders, gathering his men to resist the Borchstogs in the breaches, assembling his archers to combat the fleet of glarumri that swept down from the black skies, raining poisoned arrows down upon the men.
The black cloud swept north, and once more Giorn felt its shadow descend on him. Fine, oily rain misted through the windows, raising gooseflesh on his arm. Before him, the black tide rolled unchecked, endless.
His earlier charge had done its work, and Vrulug’s advance was not as orderly or as effective as it would have been otherwise. Still, Vrulug held every advantage, and Giorn did not lie to himself. He could not defeat the wolf-lord.
Thunder rumbled. Blue-white tongues licked down from the black roof of clouds and struck the wall, again and again. Men screamed, and sparks flared. The oily taint Giorn had tasted on his tongue at Wegredon returned. The Moonstone, he thought. Vrulug is using the Stone. The wolf-lord had learned to wield it not just to block the priestesses of Illiana, but to counter the armies of Fiarth, as well.
The tower shook. The generals cried out in fear.
Giorn gripped the parapet. What now? “Hold on!”
It was too late. The ground rumbled, and the tower rattled. A piece of the roof collapsed, crushing two of the generals.
“Flee!” cried one. “Flee the tower!”
Giorn took one last look at the hordes of Vrulug, turned and followed Hiatha and the generals down through the building even as it shook apart around him. Lightning turned the world to white, and he tasted dust in his mouth. He made it to the ground outside just in time. The tower groaned and then collapsed, right onto the wall, killing two score men in an instant.
Giorn stared at the smoking rubble, feeling rain on his face, and felt one of the soldiers clap his shoulder.
“I hope you’ve lived a virtuous life, my lord,” the man said. “Make your peace with the Omkar.,” another agreed. “We go before them soon.” “Better pray it’s soon. Vrulug could keep us alive for years if he wanted.” The other patted his ornate sword. “Not I.”
Clouds deepened overhead, blocking out the stars. From their smoky masses lightning flickered down, blasting apart men with every strike. Thunder nearly deafened Giorn. The ground rumbled angrily.
“Come,” he called.
He took his officers some distance away, then looked back to see that great, proud wall that had stood a thousand years break and crumble as the ground shook it apart from below and lightning blasted it from above.
“It’s the Moonstone,” Hiatha told him. “He’s using it against us.”
Giorn had come to that conclusion himself.
“What shall we do?” General Miled asked. He was wild-eyed, his wet hair in disarray, his beard matted by rain, but his jaw was set and he was visibly struggling to maintain his poise.
“We’ll do what we must,” Giorn said. “Fall back to the inner wall.”
The generals grumbled, but none had a better
suggestion, and soon Giorn was leading the defenders in a rear-guard action as the host of Felgrad fell back from the outer wall. They poured through the streets of the city, past the parks, the university, over the rivers, and regrouped at the ancient fortification of the inner wall. It had not been used or even particularly maintained in many years, but it was a proud and beautifully-constructed edifice, half overgrown by vines, and it would serve.
Giorn mounted this wall alongside his generals. He deployed the soldiers along it and readied the others on the ground, then set his men to hacking the vines down so that the Borchstogs could not use them for handholds.
The greatest portion of Thiersgald lay between the outer and inner walls, and even now Giorn saw flames shooting up from the houses and business centers as Vrulug’s host rolled forward. The University of Hiarn went up in flames. The rain was too weak to put the fire out.
“They’re burning the city,” Hiatha said. She sounded as though the idea had never occurred to her, as if the city were inviolate.
Giorn looked sideways at her. “Do you feel any difference? Is Vrulug still in possession of the Stone?”
“There’s no change.”
He shared grim looks with his generals. “Perhaps burning the city will slow Vrulug down,” he said. “Perhaps that will give Raugst the time he needs.”
Unable to do anything else, Giorn watched the fires spread throughout his city. The flames came closer—closer. Soon Vrulug would have razed the outer city, and then he would fall on Giorn’s defenders without mercy. If nothing else, it would be difficult for Vrulug to utilize his gaurocks against the inner wall. There were too many buildings in the way, burned or not. This wall was lower and not as thick, though. It would not be difficult for Vrulug to overcome.
Giorn instructed his men to be careful when firing upon those who approached the wall. They could be townspeople who had remained in the outer city, not Borchstogs. A few Thiersgaldians did trickle in, fleeing their homes at last, but not enough. Not near enough. Giorn watched for the boys who had gone out looting, but he did not see them return.
He heard soldiers whisper along the wall that they were doomed, that Vrulug would prevail, and he did not see how they could be wrong. Unless Raugst succeeded, they would all perish, and the ones that died swiftly would be the lucky ones.
Chapter 25
“Oathbreaker,” Raugst snarled, furious. “Bastard!” How could Vrulug be attacking? They had a deal!
Darkness gathered about him, but he thrust his torch forward and drove it back, one foot at a time. The stench of the sewer nauseated him, but he had anger to distract him. He thought of Vrulug, and rage filled him.
The face of Niara rose up in front of his mind’s eye, then, and everything else faded away. How could she be dead? It seemed impossible. What made it even worse was the surety that she could have healed herself had she not given him her grace. She had, though, and now she was gone—and slain by one who loved her! It was a cruel jest of uncaring gods. Raugst had thought, foolishly, that now that he was beyond the sway of Gilgaroth, the goodly gods would smile on him and his endeavors. But no. The world was just as loathsome and unkind as ever. He was half-tempted to abandon his quest, simply to crouch down in these tunnels and await the fall of Thiersgald.
Knowing that Niara would have wished otherwise, he pressed on. He walked beside the foul currents of the sewer, where the underground escape route connected and intertwined for a ways. He held a rag to his nose and mouth, though it did little good.
Why does Vrulug attack? The wolf-lord was violating their arrangement. Raugst had become king; Felgrad should be safe. Perhaps when Raugst met with him and showed the wolf-lord his signet ring, Vrulug would relent. That was our bargain, curse him.
A dark figure emerged from a cross-tunnel, and another behind it—inhuman things, tall and furred and monstrous. Raugst’s torch caught their gleaming, slaver-coated fangs and turned their eyes to glittering red orbs.
They advanced on him.
He held his torch in closer, giving them a look at his face. “Molest me and suffer,” he warned, a hand straying to the hilt of his light-blessed sword.
“My lord,” one growled. “We did not expect you.”
“Good. I don’t like to have my itinerary known.” He strode forward, his lieutenants falling in beside him.
“No sign of Giorn or his men,” said one.
“There won’t be.”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“I’ve dealt with him to my satisfaction.”
They fell silent. He had positioned them and others down here to prevent Giorn from reaching Castle Wesrain by the secret route, and now that Giorn was not a threat they were doubtlessly wondering what their new orders would be. He could obviously not order them to return to the castle—although, he reflected, it would be amusing to see Giorn’s face if he did.
“You lot’ll stay here,” he said. “I have other enemies that might try and attack.”
“We shall, my lord.”
“Leave me.”
They withdrew, merging with the darkness of the sewers with eerie ease.
Raugst moved on. He had informed Giorn of the creatures in these tunnels, though Giorn had already guessed at their presence, and he did not doubt that the baron would send a raiding party to deal with them in time. Raugst would never know. He never planned to return to Thiersgald. He had worked and schemed to become King of Felgrad, and he had done it, but with Niara’s death civilization held little meaning for him, and little interest. He would return to the wild, there to live out his days as a creature of the woods. Whether he would keep his man-shape or resume his wolf-form he did not know, but he looked forward to the solitude and splendor of the forest.
At times during his trek through the darkness he would come across other of his lieutenants, but when they realized who he was they merely bowed and became one with the shadows once more. Finally he emerged from the tunnels and passed through the waterfall, which washed away of the stench of the tunnels, though it did douse his royal finery.
He came ashore and made his way through the woods until they ended. Before him stretched the gently rolling hills that led to the South Gates, and between him and the Gates lay Vrulug’s army—vast, dark, crushing. Borchstogs swarmed the walls, and Raugst saw several breaches where gaurocks had struck. He sighed. Many buildings would be razed, and many men would die. He could not stop that. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could prevent the total obliteration of Thiersgald and the rest of Felgrad.
Rain fell on his head and shoulders, pattering against his face, but he barely felt it. He strode through the blackened wastes left in Vrulug’s wake, where tens of thousands of Borchstogs and other fell things had passed, trampling and tearing the earth. All was mud. He came upon some sentries Vrulug had left to guard his rear. Riding murmeksa, the large, tusked hog-like creatures favored by the Borchstog cavalry, the soldiers surrounded him, lances bristling.
“It is I,” he said in Oslogon, “Raugst, high servant of Vrulug.” He hoped they could not feel the presence of the light-blessed sword. He had raided Saria’s apartment and taken several tokens of hers, and he hoped the darkness they radiated would mask the sword.
It seemed to work. The Borchstog captain lowered his lance and the others followed. “Lord Raugst,” he said, bowing his head. “I’m Captain Grastrig. Welcome to the Age of Grandeur.” He smiled, and his teeth had chunks of human flesh in them. “Master Vrulug said you might seek an audience.”
“I do. Will you give me escort?”
Grastrig ordered one of his soldiers to ride behind another, freeing up a steed for Raugst. With him in the center, the band rode toward the outer wall of the city. Raugst saw that the defenders were in retreat and that fires spread throughout Outer Thiersgald. As he drew nearer, the smell of smoke made him cough. The rain dampened it, but not enough.
Again he worried about his sword, and he found his hand resting on its pommel. It had become more than a mere w
eapon to him, he realized. Niara had poured her Light and Grace into it. Raugst liked to think that she had poured some of herself into it, as well—that, in a way, she was here with him.
Grastrig led him through the blasted gateway with its ruined towers and then through the chaotic streets of the city. Houses burned all around, and screams rose into the night from every quarter. Raugst had ordered the outer city emptied, but apparently many had stayed—to loot, to prevent looting, or out of simple human stubbornness. Raugst frowned to see the devastation around him. Despite himself, he had come to view Thiersgald as his home, or at least his responsibility. The Borchstogs showed him through the broad main avenues lined with trees, from which bodies hung, twisting in the hot winds. Others dangled from lampposts or were nailed to doors. Still more Thiersgaldians lived, though not happily, and their screams made sweat stand out on Raugst’s forehead.
He wondered where Vrulug would have made his headquarters. Perhaps the University. There were some fine buildings there, if any still stood. Perhaps Ferin Island, the small isle in the center of the river, where an ancient castle stood, now a museum. Or perhaps it would suit Vrulug’s grisly moods to make his lair in a graveyard, or a school, or . . .
Grastrig brought Raugst toward the Temple of Illiana. As the white towers neared, Raugst grew cold despite the heat of the fires. No, he thought. Surely even Vrulug wouldn’t—
But of course he would.
Raugst hoped they might be swinging around the structure to a destination on the other side, but the Borchstogs began to slow, and finally Grastrig drew rein before the temple gates.
“This is it,” he said.
Raugst’s legs almost did not support his weight as he dismounted. He found it difficult to catch his breath.