The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (29 page)

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.

The healer, a thin man with a short
black beard and watery eyes, seized him before he could fall. “Don’t collapse,”
the man said. Giorn recalled that his name was Sifram. “That wouldn’t do. And what
are you doing up? I didn’t give you permission to be up. Now sit back, back. There
you go. Sit, yes, you don’t have to lie down, but keep that leg up and
immobile. There you go.”

Giorn reluctantly obeyed. “I
smelled food.”

“Did you now? And you’re hungry? Well,
that’s a very good sign.” He gestured to a woman standing in the doorway. She
wore the green uniform of a nurse and carried a plate of food. “Fortunately, as
it happens, that food is for you.”

The nurse placed the tray on
Giorn’s lap. The eggs, sausage and toast, all unseasoned, nevertheless looked
like the best meal he’d ever seen. Without being asked, he began to eat. He
almost wept, it tasted so good.

“Where’s Dalic?” he asked around a fork-full
of eggs.

“A few rooms down,” Sifram said. “Sleeping
off a bit of drink, I’m afraid. He was quite worried about you, ever since your
arrival two days ago, and yesterday your fever had you firmly in its grip. I’m
afraid we all expected the worst. He took a bottle to his room and I haven’t
seen him since. But when I checked up on you earlier, I noticed your fever had
broken, and now here you are, hungry as I hoped you’d be. A bit hungrier, to
tell you the truth.”

By the end of this speech, Giorn
had finished his breakfast. His belly rumbled. “Can I have more?”

The healer smiled. “Yes, my baron. You
certainly may.”

“What did you call me?”

“You are Lord Wesrain, are you
not?”

Dalic
should not have told
, Giorn thought.
We’re
no longer what we were. We are outlaws, refugees.
He would speak with Uncle
Yfrin about it. If anyone they encountered should report back to Raugst,
Giorn’s rebellion would die before it had a chance to begin.

“No,” he said. “That was my
friend’s little jest. My name is Balad, as in Balad’s Folly.” That was
appropriate. “Torent Balad.”

Giorn spent two more days there. Sifram’s draughts and healing
salves helped greatly, and his leg was quickly healing, flesh knitting, bones
setting. Even Vrulug’s scar seemed to hurt less. Sifram instructed him to
remain abed for another few weeks.

Instead, Giorn departed that night.
He knew he could not stay in one place, not while Raugst would be hunting for
him, and especially not after Dalic had let their true identities slip. Not
only that, but it was quite likely that Raugst had sent word out to the nearby
villages to apprehend a man fitting Giorn’s description. Thus Giorn gathered
Duke Yfrin, their new horses (which the duke had purchased while Giorn healed),
left the gold he owed Sifram on his bed along with a note of thanks, and took
his leave. The night was dark and cold, and the horses unsure of their footing,
but Giorn kept them on the main road and they faired well enough. The road
branched at last, going further north, or west, to the province of Wenris—Yfrin’s
dukedom.

At the fall of evening the next day
they entered the outskirts of Wenris, where they came upon a likely hamlet and
took rooms for the night. Giorn had taken with him a compliment of salves and
pills, and once holed up in his room he administered to himself as he’d seen
Sifram do. Irritated by the ride, his leg pained him, but he bit back the
discomfort, drank some whiskey—carefully—and carried on.

The next morning they departed. Now
that Giorn had spoken to him, Duke Yfrin allowed no one to discover his true
name or even see his face, as he was well-known here, often traveling through
his dukedom and staying at the various towns. He was officially listed as dead and
could risk no one recognizing him and drawing attention to himself and Giorn,
not before he reached the castle, restored his good name, if that were possible—for
officially he was considered Baron Wesrain’s assassin—and reclaimed his crown.

That night when they repeated the
procedure at a small inn in a town along their way, Yfrin lowered the cowl of
his robe over his face and retired immediately to his room, while Giorn,
hungry, thirsty, and curious about events in the south, limped to the bar, took
a seat and ordered a meal and a brew. The inn’s main room was large and
crowded, and smoke wreathed the ceiling, lantern light making the shadows long
and sinister. The customers’ conversations created so much noise that Giorn had
to pitch his voice high when he asked the barkeep, “What news from Thiersgald?”

After shoving a couple of mugs at
some customers, the barkeep said, “Lord Raugst drove the ‘stogs out.”

“Has Vrulug been seen since?”

“Sure. He’s raiding near Branagh. But
at least Thiersgald is safe.”

Safe
from Vrulug, maybe. Not from Raugst.

“Yes,” the barkeep went on, “that
Raugst is a good one. Lucky to have him, we are.”

Giorn ground his teeth. “You think
so? Myself, I preferred the Wesrains.”

“Each to his own. But the old Baron
was too high-minded. He liked his books of philosophy and history and such. Thought
of himself as an intellectual, above the likes of us.”

“He was a better leader than this
Raugst,” Giorn said. “No one even knows who this Raugst is, or where he comes
from. Where’s his family, I ask you? Has anyone seen them, does anyone know
them?”

The barkeep looked at him
strangely. “You implying something, stranger?”

Giorn relented. “No.” He drained
his mug. A fight with the barkeep would accomplish nothing.

“Good,” the barkeep said. “Besides,
everyone has to come from somewhere, eh? Everyone must have family. We never
heard o’ Raugst’s because they’re not uppers, are they? They’re of the common
rabble, like us.” He studied Giorn. “Where you from, anyway?”

“The south. Fleeing north. My home
was destroyed by Vrulug.” That was true enough, in a way. To explain his
upper-class accent, he gave the usual explanation: “My father was a minor noble
in Hasitlan.”

The barkeep served another customer,
then turned back to Giorn. “Lot o’ these folk
are in your place. Why it’s so busy here. Vrulug put a lot of homes t’ the
torch. An’ he’s still out there, somewhere, and the Eresine Bridge
is nearly finished, they say. Soon his whole might’ll come up from the south,
and then . . . Well, I hear the King is ready to marshal his army to come to
our aid. Hopefully that’ll be enough.”

“You don’t think it will?”

“What do I know? But it does occur
to me that Vrulug hasn’t missed a trick so far. I don’t know why King Ulea
should trip him up.”

Giorn ordered a refill. As he
drank, he recalled the spies that Vrulug had called into service in Feslan, the
ones who had opened the gates to the Borchstogs. And now Raugst, up to some
devilry. All that combined with the corruption of the Moonstone hinted at many
threads coming together, of a well-laid plan just now reaching fruition. The
plan was at its peak now, and the forces of the Enemy looked unbeatable. The
End Times might truly be nigh.

It was Raugst, of course. Raugst
was the reason Vrulug thought he would prevail—Raugst, and the Moonstone. Perhaps
if Giorn could take one from him, the plan would unravel.

First Giorn needed supporters. Duke
Yfrin could help with that. As he drank, Giorn mulled on how he and the duke
should go about Yfrin’s homecoming. The duke was thought dead, after all, even
by his own family—and a traitor.

“Do you think he did it?” he asked
suddenly.

“Did what?” The barkeep’s thick
black eyebrows rose.

“Duke Yfrin. Do you think he’s the
one that slew the old Baron?”

The barkeep’s face screwed up in
resentment. “That’s a sore subject ‘round here.”

Giorn sipped his drink, saying
nothing more, and eventually the barkeep relaxed. After dealing with more
customers, he returned to Giorn and said, by way of apology, “He was a good
man, the duke. A bit soft, but good. No one knows why he did what he did. Just
doesn’t make sense.”

“No?”

“No. He and Baron Wesrain were
friends all their lives. Some say they were cousins, but that’s just talk. The
Baron’s brother was a guest at Castle Yfrin for awhile after the Duchess was
widowed, and who knows how he comforted her? But enough of that. I’ll not soil
her good name by repeatin’ that sort o’ talk. But they were fast friends, our
duke and the Baron. Some say perhaps they had a falling out, some say the duke
must have been sleeping with Iarine, the Baron’s favorite concubine, and he and
the Baron had a row—but, really, who knows?” He lowered his voice
conspiratorially. “There are those that say the duke wasn’t the one that fired
that shot, after all.”

“Really? Who do they say fired the
shot?”
This is unexpected
. The people
suspected Raugst, after all.

“Why, the Baron’s son, of course. Giorn.”

“And why would
Giorn
do such a thing?”

“Why, to become baron, o’ course. They
say he was a greedy one, impatient for his father to die. He was next in line,
remember. Would’ve worked, too, if Vrulug hadn’t attacked when he did.”

Giorn just stared. Something about
his demeanor must have frightened the barkeep, for the man found excuse to
wander to the other end of the bar and clean some mugs with a dirty cloth.

Giorn finished his brew, paid and
limped out. As he went, he overheard some men around a table speaking. One was
saying, “And I heard he faced Vrulug bare-handed. He was standing on a mound of
dead ‘stogs, all of ‘em slain by hisself, when out of the smoke comes the
wolf-lord, all covered in blood, and he looks at Raugst, and Raugst looks at
him, and they fly at each other. They say the earth trembled when they struck,
and the sound of their roars deafened the men about them. They say they
grappled there on the battlefield, right there before the gates of Thiersgald,
and they fought a fight of the gods, surrounded by mounds of bodies, with
thunder rumblin’ and lightning blasting all around, and at last good Lord
Raugst, he takes Vrulug by the clawed foot and swings him around and swings him
around
and hurls him from the battlefield
!”
The man laughed and drank from his mug. “They say you can still see Vrulug on a
clear night, sailing through the stars.”

The men around the table laughed
and ordered another round of drinks.

Grinding his teeth, Giorn retired
to his room.

Giorn and Yfrin left early the next day, riding northwest
for Isaldt, capital of Wenris. They found the road thick with refugees, forcing
the duke to keep the cowl of his robe pulled low over his face for much of the
time.

“’tis a sorry thing when a man has
to go in masquerade through his own sodding land,” he grumbled.

“At least you have a home and
family waiting for you,” Giorn reminded him gently. “My home and family are
gone, slain or usurped.” His good hand balled into a fist.

His other did, as well. At one of
the towns he had hired a carpenter to fashion a device for him, a sort of glove
that slid over what was left of his right hand. Wooden pieces shaped like
fingers fit over his nubs, and they were strapped to his hand and wrist so
tightly that he could actually hold things, as long as they did not require too
much dexterity. It was not a whole hand, and he could never wield a sword with
it, but it was not completely useless. At least it could make a fist.