The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (9 page)

Niara, grateful for the solitude, entered
the stables, where the priestesses’ horses were kept. There she brushed and
saddled Lissia, her beautiful white mare. When she was ready, she swung astride
and departed the temple grounds, clattering down the wide, tree-lined avenues
and past the bustling University
of Hiarn, said to be one
of the finest in the Crescent. The sun was bright and warm overhead, and the rhythmic
beat of Lissia’s hooves on the cobbles soothed Niara’s nerves.

She passed the great, tiered
Fountain of Aryl, whose crystal clear waters spewed water high overhead to
catch the twinkling light. Niara felt a fine spray just lightly mist her face
and smiled. It had been at the base of that fountain that King Greggory Wesrain
had pledged his love to the Countess Aryl Hassoway, earning Count Hassoway’s
eternal hate and starting a series of events that would lead to the attempted
uprising immortalized in
The Ballad of a
Winter Morn
.

Several times Niara fancied that
she was being watched, and once or twice she turned to see a dark shape
slipping into an alley. She shook her head and told herself she was imagining
things. At last she swept under the East Arch, passing through the great gray
wall that encircled the city, then rode past the farms and the farmers, finally
entering the Forest
of Sinestra—so named
after a beloved baroness of ancient times who had taken many sojourns through
these woods after her lord husband had died. Legend said her ghost lingered
here, till calling out for him. The trees stretched tall and fair, and soft
yellow sunlight filtered through. A gentle breeze whispered, ruffling the
boughs. Birds sang and called to each other overhead.

Here, at last, Niara breathed easy.
She dismounted and let Lissia wander.

The babbling of water drew her, and
he came to a silky stream with clear running water over a bed of soft round
silver stones. Niara knelt along the grassy banks and stared at her own reflection.
A sad woman looked back at her, a woman who had lost a true love she could not
even openly name.

Might there be some hope? Perhaps
Giorn had survived yet.
Someone
had
stolen the Moonstone from Vrulug’s trap. Despite what she had told Meril, she
could not allow herself to believe it, could not allow herself any false hopes.
But I will not preside over his funeral. Yes,
that I refuse to do.

She sighed and leaned back, forcing
her gaze to take in the beauty about her. Yet it had been in these woods, far
to the east, that Harin Wesrain had died. Even now the villagers were calling
the knoll where he been shot Harinmont. A statue of him was being erected under
the dying Tree of Kings in his memory. That place was far away, however. These
woods were soft, peaceful, unspoiled.

And yet . . .

She frowned. There was a strangeness
here, a taint.

She strained her senses, but she
could not tell what it could be. By the sudden shiver that coursed up her
spine, she knew tell it was coming closer. By the moment. The forest seemed to
grow dark around her, and the fragrance of the blossoms faded, turned sour.

A sound behind her. Rustling grass.

She spun.

Raugst—Lord Raugst—emerged from the
undergrowth, wearing his hunting clothes, black on brown, with black boots and
a gray cloak.

She felt a sinking feeling inside
her but did not know why. “Raugst,” she said, rising.

He bowed. “Niara.”

She tried to contain the sudden
swell of fear that ran through her. She wanted only to back away, to flee like
the fox before the hound. Instead, she gazed at him levelly. “It was
you
, wasn’t it?”

He lifted his eyebrows. At the same
time, he stepped forward. “Me?”

“You were following me.”

“Not I.” Another step.

“Then one of your pack.” Immediately
after assuming his new position as Captain of the Castle Guard, he had begun
appointing his own men. They followed him about and followed his orders
unquestioningly. Niara had heard rumors that no one knew them. They must come
from the south, some said, from the border. His old friends, they said.

He did not answer. His eyes
fastened on her even as he stepped toward her. She could smell him now. A
strange musk rose from him. She felt a heaviness fall over her.

He reached out a hand and traced
her cheek. His finger was rough, but warm. She stared up at him dumbly, trying
to shrug off that heaviness. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, and she felt
small in his shadow. She was tall herself, and not many men could make her feel
small.

“What . . . ?” She blinked.

“Niara . . .”

He bent his head. His lips neared
hers. She felt the desire to close her eyes and part her lips.

She slapped him and stumbled back. She
shook her head, clearing it.

“I don’t . . .” Feeling something
dark cross her soul, she looked up at him. “You aren’t . . . no, it can’t be .
. .” Could Giorn have been right? Surely it was the only explanation for the
fog that had stolen over her.

“Don’t fight me,” he said, taking
another step forward.

She moved back. Part of her
thought,
No, don’t run from him. He will
chase you down.
But she did not want to be close to him again. He was
powerful, and he had chosen to exert that power now, here, away from prying
eyes. Why?

Backing away, gasping for air, she
stared at him, and he matched her gaze unblinkingly. An undeniable power radiated
off of him. She could feel it on the air. It was then that she knew with
absolute certainty that Giorn had indeed been right.

Once again, he stepped forward.

Once again, she stepped back, but
this time her foothold gave way. She pinwheeled her arms—too late—and fell
backward into the cold, gurgling stream. Raugst laughed above her. The coldness
shocked her back to herself.
I cannot let
him know that I’ve caught on to what he is
.

She stood up from the stream,
feeling her wet dress hanging about her like a weight, knowing she looked
pitiful, ridiculous.

“Just leave me alone.”

She brushed past him. He paused for
a moment, then walked beside her. She loathed his presence. He was an
abomination. She wanted to flinch away but had to hide it. She kept her eyes
straight ahead. Where was Lissia? She must leave. Must warn Meril.

Raugst grabbed her arm. “I must
have you, Niara.”

Again she felt a heaviness fall
over her. This time she used her own power and threw it off.

“Never.”

Raugst’s eyes widened. “The rumors
are true, then.” His voice was ragged. “You are of the Light-born.” He snorted,
a sort of laugh—wryly amused at something. “I’ve fallen under the spell of a
Light-born . . .”

“Unhand me.”

Surprisingly, he did. Staring down
at her, evidently seeing the disgust in her face, he said, “You know.” He did
not make it a question.

“I don’t know what you’re talking
about.” Her heart crashed against her ribs.

Turning away, she stalked through
the forest, dripping water as she went. She whistled, calling for Lissia. The mare
did not come. Where—?

From somewhere, the horse screamed
in agony.

Niara ran toward the sound. Raugst
kept pace beside her, silent as death. At last she reached a small clearing,
where Lissia had been nibbling some grass, but now five great black wolves were
tearing at her and the beautiful white mare was on the ground, kicking feebly,
her red blood spilling across the grass.

“No!”

Niara started to run toward the
mare and scatter the wolves, but a strong hand held her back.

“It’s too late,” Raugst said.

He was right. The great black
wolves slavered and growled, and blood and flesh matted their whiskers. They were
huge wolves, unnatural, more demon than animal.
Lurum-cruvalen
, Niara realized belatedly—the great wolves of the Aragst,
the ones who did Vrulug’s bidding and whom legend said could change shape . . .

She wheeled on Raugst. “
You
did this.”

He stared at her, then to the
wolves ripping at the dying mare, eating Lissia alive. “You know.” That was all
he needed to say.

It was his turn to whistle. Shortly
his handsome black charger appeared out of the forest, and he swung astride it.
“I really must go,” he said, looking down at her sadly. “I fear for Meril. All
these deaths have left him in a bad way.”

Niara was hardly listening. She
looked from Raugst to the wolves. Lissia had stilled now, and the wolves were
losing interest in her. They turned their gore-coated heads toward Niara. Flies
buzzed about their dripping whiskers.

“No . . .”

She backed away.

The wolves approached, hunched and
slavering.
So
, she thought. Raugst’s
pack had come with him after all.
Giorn,
I am so sorry.

The wolves approached, and she
could smell the stench of death upon them. She backed away, but not too fast. If
she bolted they would be on her in an instant. She prepared herself to dredge
up her powers, but with Raugst here to counter her she knew she could not win. Soon
she would join Lissia.

Suddenly, Raugst interposed himself
between the wolves and Niara. Shocked, she stared up at him.

He lowered a hand to her. “Hurry. I
cannot contain them once their hunger is roused.”

Hating herself for doing it, she
took his hand and swung up behind him. Once more his musk surrounded her, but
Lissia’s death had rendered her numb, immune from his power. The wolves growled
and snapped at the horse’s hooves, but they made no real move against their
master.

“Ra!” Raugst said, giving the
charger his spurs.

It bounded off, through the grand
trees of the forest, and Niara took one last look at the blood-coated wolves
and the torn carcass of Lissia, then turned forward once more. Reluctantly, she
wrapped her arms about Raugst. Otherwise she would be bounced off.

For a while they rode in silence. Then,
quietly, so quietly she did not know if he could hear, she said, “Why?”

He heard. He was a wolf, after all.
But for a time she didn’t realize it, as he said nothing. At last, though, he
said, “I’m not done with you yet. And there is nothing you can do to stop me in
any case. It’s already done.”

It was then that she remembered
what he’d said about Meril. “Dear Omkar, what have you done?” When he did not reply,
she pounded her fists angrily against his back.
“You bastard, what have you done?”

Chapter
6

In the highest tower of the ruined fortress, Giorn sat on a
block of stone and smoked a pipe. The roof of this chamber had collapsed long
ago, and so the sun beat down on his bare shoulders and sweated beaded in the
hairs of his chest. Between his jaws he clamped a pipe, and he smoked on it
contentedly as Hanen, his second-in-command, gave his report.

“The last fifty yards is giving
them a time of it, sir,” Hanen said, “but they promise results soon.”

“How is their supply of ropes?”

“Oh, they have plenty, sir. The
supplies we’ve been taking from the ‘stogs have proven more than adequate. Though—”
He paused, looking sheepish. “The men say they hate to use the Borchstog gear. They
say it’s tainted. Evil.”

Giorn nodded, feeling the wind in
his hair and his newly-grown beard. The sun was beginning to set behind the
peaks to the west. He would miss it. “It
is
tainted. But it’s all we’ve got. Are the engineers sure the last fifty yards
can be overcome?”

“Yes, sir. They’ve had some
rockslides further up, and now that they’re close to the water they’ve had some
mudslides, as well. It’s set them back, but they still promise to have it done
within a few days.”

“Very good.” Giorn was glad to hear
it. It had taken him weeks to find a suitable stretch along the Eresine wall
for his men to scale. The gorge was steep and treacherous, and the water ran
swift and brutal. At last, however, he had found a place that seemed workable. This
stretch contained numerous protrusions and ledges and rough surfaces for
handholds, and the wall that led a mile and half down to the dark rushing water
was not as steep as at other places. It would only need a little work,
chiseling and scoring and more, to allow a large number of people to be able to
scale down. Of course, once down, they would have to find a away back up the
other side. Crossing would not be too difficult. The river was narrow there,
and Giorn planned to hurl several tree trunks into the gorge to serve as
bridges.

And now, according to Hanen’s
report, only a few more days remained. Then Giorn could begin leading his
people out of Borchstog-overrun Feslan.

Only a few more days . . .

He sighed, thinking of Niara’s face.
He could almost smell her hair.

“What about glarumri?” he asked. “Have
there been any more sightings?” He hated the glarumri, the Borchstog riders of
the great crow-like birds, the glarums. They scoured the skies, seeking the
scattered bands that still resisted Vrulug’s invasion.

“Yes, sir,” said Hanen. “Just
yesterday there was a scare. A patrol was coming in from the east, but our
watchers caught them and sounded the alarm in time for the engineers to get under
cover. Your system is still working, sir.”

“Good.”

“There’s one more thing.” Hanen
made a wry face. “She’s asking to see the Moonstone again, sir. She says it
belongs with her and her priestesses.”

“She would.” The High Priestess
Ystrissa had been demanding custody of the Moonstone ever since Giorn brought
it out of Hielsly. Normally he would have let her have it, but these were not
normal times, and he had rescued several refugee women over the last few weeks
who claimed to be priestesses of Illiana. Accordingly, they had joined
Ystrissa’s sisterhood. Thus, remembering that Vrulug’s agents could appear like
anyone else, Giorn trusted no one, not even these supposed priestesses. He had
hidden the Moonstone away in this very tower and did not mean to relinquish it
until it was time for his band to move on. “Tell her to wait.”

“She is tired of waiting.”

“Nevertheless. Is there anything
more?”

“No. Cook said to tell you supper
is almost ready.”

“Have it served, then. I’ll be down
directly.”

Hanen nodded and withdrew down the
narrow steps.

Giorn cast his eyes upon the
broken, thrusting towers of the keep and admitted to himself that he would miss
this place when he was gone. It had provided him and his men a perfect refuge
for the past two months, even as Vrulug sent out his bands to scour Feslan for
the Moonstone. Vrulug wanted it desperately, though Giorn still did not know
why. Neither did Ystrissa. All she could theorize was that Vrulug meant to
destroy it to prevent them from using it against him. In any event, the
Borchstogs had not thought to hunt for the Stone here, and the ruin was well
off the beaten track.

This was Balad’s Folly, notorious
throughout Felgrad. Long ago it had been the great keep of Baron Balad, lord of
Fenmarth, the precursor to Feslan. Lord Balad came from old stock, long
accustomed to fighting Vrulug and his thralls, and he had built this keep with
that in mind. He had located the grand castle at the end of a series of
switchback streams, deep into the jagged canyons of the mountain. There he had
built Balad’s Folly—at the time called Fengard—flush against the canyon wall at
the end of the stream. The stream actually bubbled up from springs in the
mountain, which was riddled with natural caverns, to flow through a channel in
the castle itself, through its courtyard and out from under its walls.

Baron Balad had built his great
fortress with thick, high walls that would take tens of thousands of Borchstogs
to storm. Added to that, they would have to approach the fortress along the
narrow defile of the canyon, where his archers could pick them off leisurely
from the cliffs and towers. It was an impregnable bastion, or so the Baron
thought.

Thus when Vrulug launched his next
assault on Fenmarth, Lord Balad withdrew his forces here, where they could
outlast any siege. Borchstogs came through the passes, and the Baron’s archers
picked them off and tumbled boulders down from the cliffs to crush them. Many
Borchstogs died. But then, unexpectedly, Vrulug drew his forces to a halt. Within
spitting distance of Fengard’s walls, he stopped his march. The Baron was
puzzled, at least until the Borchstogs came pouring out of the caves at his
back and directly into his castle. There had followed one of the bloodiest
massacres in Felgrad history. Over a hundred thousand people had gathered at
Fengard, and over a hundred thousand died. In desperation, the Baron had led
his forces out from the gates and along the defile, trying to break through
Vrulug’s lines. But Vrulug’s force had planned for this, and their lines could
not be breached. The Baron was caught between Vrulug to the fore and a tide of
blood-coated Borchstogs to the rear, and he was crushed between them.

Legend said Vrulug had let him
live. According to the story, the wolf-lord had captured the Baron after a
duel. The Baron had lost, and Vrulug had placed him in custody and forced him
to watch the butchering and torturing of his men and the raping and mutilation
of his women. Afterwards, Vrulug had stripped the Baron of his clothes and sent
him into the hills, there to live in shame for the rest of his days. Some said
it was the cruelest torture Vrulug had ever devised.

Giorn did not know how much of the
story was true, but, surrounded by the high walls of the canyon and staring at
the blasted towers, crumbling with time, and sweeping his gaze at the
avalanche-choked approaches, he could believe it. He could almost hear the
screaming of tens of thousands of men and women as they were tormented by
Vrulug and his thralls. The wind howled through the peaks of the mountain,
whistled through the towers, and Giorn shuddered.
Time for supper.

Finishing his pipe, he descended
through the tower, making his way through the courtyard, over the small bridge
that spanned the spring-fed creek and into the main keep. Everything was
covered in dust and cobwebs and tumbled stones, and his men had only made small
improvements—lumping stones together to form tables, sweeping out corners for
places to sleep, finding an old brazier and stuffing it full of hot coals to drive
away the chill of Feslan nights.

Two-score of Giorn’s men were here,
playing cards and telling each other lies about their exploits, and he rounded
them up. They smiled and laughed and clapped him on the back.

“Only a few more days,” said Mikel.

“That’s what Captain Hanen says,”
added Thergin. “Just a few more days and we can cross the Eresine.”

“Is that true, my lord?” asked
young Hallys. She was a comely blond-haired girl he had found wandering the
woods—one of many—and she had taken a liking to Mikel. Giorn had found many
refugees from Vrulug’s latest campaign, and he had taken in one and all.

“That’s the plan,” he said, happy
to give them some good news at last.

He took them down through the
fortress, past the catacombs and dungeons, which he shuddered every time he
went by. When he had first set out to occupy the Folly, he had found a handful
of Borchstog squatters. Likely they had gotten cut off from their band, or else
they were all that was left of it. Either way, they had been camping in the ruins
for what looked like a few weeks, and they had brought prisoners with them. After
Giorn and his men slew the Borchstogs, they found the captives in the dungeons—mostly
young and comely women, but a few boys and men, too. They were not so comely
anymore. Borchstogs had cut off their noses, gouged out their eyes, amputated
their limbs and reattached them elsewhere. Most of the captives begged for
death from tongue-less mouths, and Giorn, trembling, had obliged.

He tried not to think about it as
he led his men down into the caves that had caused Baron Balad’s downfall. Giorn
would not make the same mistake. He had placed many sentries down as many of
the caves as he could; he would not be taken by surprise.

The cook had been roasting goats
caught in the highlands, and the smell made Giorn’s stomach rumble. He had
prohibited any fires in the fortress proper during daytime, as the smoke could
be seen far and wide, but down here the smoke could find no escape and merely
wreathed the ceiling, slithering between drooping stalactites. There were more
braziers down here, some shaped like dragons’ heads, or fish heads, or the
heads of goats. The Bronze Ram had been Baron Balad’s family symbol, and there
were goats everywhere in Balad’s Folly—carved into the walls, inlaid in the scrollwork
along the columns, fashioned into braziers.

Stalagmites reared up from the
floor, and Giorn had to navigate around them as he came upon the feasting
table, a long stone slab set on chiseled stalagmites. The slab had been joined
together out of six of the tomb coverings in the catacombs above. Baron Balad
had relocated some of his ancestors’ remains here to watch over the fortress in
his absence, and though it had not done him any favors Giorn appreciated a
place to eat.

At Giorn’s arrival, the various
soldiers and refugees gathered around the table. There were smiles on the faces
of some, and nervous laughter escaped the mouths of others. Most looked tired
and haggard, but at least hope now glimmered in their eyes.

Giorn sat at the head of the table
and Lady Ystrissa its foot. When Cook laid the food down and his helpers passed
around the mismatched plates, Ystrissa bowed her head and led the men and women
in prayer. Giorn was not particularly religious, but he tolerated it and
finished by murmuring with the rest, “May the Light guide us home.” That at
least was something he could support.

He dug into his meal, and nothing
had ever tasted so good as that soot-seared goat. Bitter turnips had been found
growing along the slopes, and they served as a side dish.

“Is it true we’re going home?”
someone asked, and Giorn had to endure another round of eager questions.

He assured them that things looked
well in hand, but he did not want their hopes raised too high and so did not
make his answers as affirmative as the men and women around the table were
obviously hoping for.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get
out of here. I don’t know if it will be tomorrow, or next week, but it will
happen.”

That disappointed them, and they
sank back in their chairs a bit glummer than before.
Better than raising their hopes and then dashing them.
Giorn looked
to Ystrissa and she offered him a smile. At least she understood, their
squabble over the Moonstone notwithstanding.

During the days Giorn frequently
led a band of men out from Balad’s Folly to harass the Borchstogs that roved
the mountains. Sometimes he came across a Borchstog encampment, and when they
were gathered in their tents to hide from the sun he would bring his men in
raids against them. He’d slaughtered many and rescued a number of their
prisoners, though he was always careful never to attack Borchstogs too close to
Balad’s Folly. He did not want the enemy to know his whereabouts. Along with
rope and women and boys, he had liberated several casks of Oslogon wine, and as
the people ate the black bottles were passed around.

Giorn filled an ancient, bejeweled
goblet, perhaps one used by Baron Balad himself, and drank the foul stuff down.
It was bitter and rancid, but underneath that was a strangely sweet flavor. It
sent a pleasant cloud to fog his mind.

“I hate this stuff,” said Captain
Hanen, sitting at Giorn’s right hand, “but I can’t stop drinking it.” He
laughed and took a swig.

“I understand,” Giorn said, taking
a sip himself. “I didn’t even know grapes could grow in Oslog.”

“Who says they can? Who knows what
this poison is made from?”

That was an unpleasant thought, and
it almost slowed Giorn’s drinking of it. Almost.

Easy
,
he told himself.
I cannot allow the men
to see me drunk.
On the other hand, being drunk made him happy, and his
happiness cheered them. It was a weak rationalization, but it was enough to
keep him refilling his goblet.

After the feast, tipsy from the
wine, he staggered from the dinner table and lurched up the stairs to his
tower. Wind howled through the gaping windows and the fissures in the walls,
and the mountains rose into purple heights all around. If he strained his ears,
he could just hear the gurgling of the spring-fed creek that washed away down
the valley. He had convinced himself that this was Balad’s tower, and he
indulged himself by nesting in it. And nest it was. His bed was made of rags
and hay and grass, and he crawled into it gratefully.
Another day gone
.