The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (16 page)

A small ledge wrapped the building,
and from it a flying buttress led to an adjacent tower. Giorn flung his dagger
backward, aiming at Saria, but she nimbly stepped aside, smiling that
infuriating smile.

Giorn climbed over the balustrade
gently, awkward with only one hand, and pressed his back flat against the stone
wall. The frigid wind blasted him. The stone froze his back. The ground dropped
a long way below. He tried not to look.

Vrulug stepped out onto the
terrace. When he saw Giorn on the ledge, he smiled. “Never give up,” he said. “That’s
the spirit. I knew you would come. For many years I’ve plotted and warred
against your family, Orin’s famous scion, but I was never able to duel one.” He
shook his head, grimly amused. “One swipe! It was hardly what I was hoping for.
But this . . . this almost makes up for it.”

Giorn edged around the building,
making for the flying buttress, then reaching it. The drop below sucked at him,
and he tore his gaze away from it.

He forced himself to remove his
palm from his belly. Blood came out, and there was a sense of weakness in his
abdomen, as if his guts might indeed spool out of the opening . . . but they
did not. The cut was deep, yet it had not severed
all
the walls of muscle that protected him.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he got
down on his hands and knees and crawled along the flying buttress that spanned
the void to the neighboring tower. Even that was not good enough. The wind
blasted him, nearly knocking him off. He had to put his belly to the stone—which
was very cold—and wrap his arms and legs about it. Then, crawling like an
inchworm, shivering, the grain of the buttress rasping his wound, tearing it
wider, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, he made his way along it to the
next tower. From there he followed the same procedure, going toward the tower
that housed the glarums. He could hear their cantankerous caws and smell their
stench from here. The wind howled all around him, nearly blasting him off.

All the while, Vrulug laughed, and
sometimes Saria joined him. “Flee!” Vrulug shouted between gales of laughter. “Flee
for your life!”

Below him Giorn saw a courtyard
where Borchstogs were torturing men on poles. If he fell he would drop right in
amongst them.
Convenient
. But no, he
knew, he would die when he struck the ground.

An arrow whizzed by his ear. Another
struck the stone near his hand, sending fragments of stone into his fingers. More
Borchstog arrows thrummed around him, clattering off the stone.

No
,
he thought.
I cannot die! I promised
Niara I would return.

More of the demons were scaling the
walls and flying buttresses behind him. He must hurry, before the vampires and
various sorcerers that dwelt here could be roused against him.

“Halt!” Vrulug said. “Halt, you
fools! I won’t have this show denied me.”

He was not even
sport
, Giorn saw. He was a
show
.

Gritting his teeth, he crawled on. He
could not give up. He reached the glarum tower and slipped in through one of the
many vertical niches that provided fresh air for the huge, black-feathered
birds. He found a glarum already saddled, a Borchstog in the armor of glarumri
standing near it. Staggering forward, half numb from the cold and weak from
blood loss, he caught the Borchstog by such surprise that he was able to yank
its hunting knife from the sheath on its chest and plunge it into the
creature’s throat before it could stop him or cry out for aid. It fell back
into the straw, gurgling and twitching pathetically. Black blood sprayed the
dried grass.

Giorn climbed into the glarum’s
saddle and prodded the bird out onto a windswept terrace. The bird cawed and
twisted its neck to snap at his feet, but he only kicked it and cursed it, and
it eventually relented.

“Away!” He kicked its flanks, and
with a nasty caw it took to the black skies. Giorn’s stomach lurched, and he
mashed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the heaving, rolling scenery all
around.

He knew they would be upon him
soon, vampires and glarumri. He only hoped his glarum was fast enough to outrun
them.

“North,” he whispered, pulling on
the reins. “Take us north.”

Still he could hear Vrulug’s
laughter.

Giorn noticed the black clouds
massing above. Lightning flickered within them, illuminating one smoky roil, than
another.
No
, he thought.
No. I’ve not come all this way to—

“DIE!” Vrulug said, and Giorn
turned back to see him standing on the terrace, gesturing at the skies.

Lightning flicked down from the
blackness above. There was a great roar of sound, and Giorn felt a terrible
heat, smelled something burning, and then his world turned white.

Chapter
11

The remains of Raugst’s host marched northward, through the
hills and plains, herding the refugees of Hasitlan. Among them were several
priestesses of Illiana. Niara led them and Hiatha in prayer every day, and
every day she sought to meditate and commune with the light. But the light was fading,
or else her powers were. She could still feel it, still wield it, but it was
weaker than it should have been . . . and, for some inexplicable reason,
growing weaker.

When the host reached Thiersgald,
Niara and her sisters saw to the refugees, finding them places to camp and
procuring food for them. It was tiring work, but she stayed with the refugees,
sleeping in their camps for several days while she tended to their needs. She
healed them, fed them, placed them in inns and hostels when she could, helped
them erect their lean-tos when she couldn’t. Many of the younger ones she
placed in the orphanages run by her order. At last, however, she was grateful
to retire to the Temple.

He came to her in the night.

He was a black shadow slipping
through the doorway, gliding across the marble floor to her bed. He loomed over
her, a monstrous shadow in the darkness—breathing, breathing.

She had been dreaming of Giorn. Somehow
he had been with her during the fall of Hasitlan, smiling and laughing, and the
flames had been reflected in his brown eyes, and then he had turned into the
Wergild Head, and it too had been laughing, even as gold sloughed off it like
the skin of a snake, and when the skin sloughed away there was no rotting head
but Raugst instead. He had not been laughing, but smiling, and there was
something of the serpent about his eyes.

When she sensed a presence in the
room with her, she awoke. Instantly, she smelled him, all musk and primal
urges, and she thought for an instant she was still in the dream. She even
fancied she smelled the stench of melting gold.

Then he was rearing over her,
breathing, and she felt as though she had been drenched in ice water. She shot
up in bed, half expecting him to vanish. He was no nightmare, though, at least
not one her sleep had conjured.

“How—how did you get in?” she
demanded. “The Temple
is warded . . .”

He crouched beside her, his eyes
shining by the moonlight that flooded in through the nearest window—not like a
serpent, no, not at all, but very much like a wolf.

“No ward can stop me,” he said.

Holding her sheet over her breasts,
she scooted away from him. She wore only a silken shift.

“So,” she said, “you’re here to end
this at last. Do it if you think you can. Kill me.” She only hoped he had gone
unnoticed, that he had not been obliged to slay any of her sisters to
accomplish this trespass.

“No,” he said, and now his shadowed
face seemed quite still, quite serious. “I’ve been an assassin more than once,
true—and I’ve enjoyed it—but that’s not why I’ve come to you, and you know it.”
He sat down on the bed beside her.

“Then why?”

“You know why.”

She wondered if she should scream,
should summon the other sisters to come to her aid. She occupied a large,
private bedroom on the topmost floor of the Temple proper, but her sisters could be here
in moments if she summoned them.

He leaned in closer. His smell
wrapped her. “Play no games with me,” he said. “I want you. You want me.”

“No.”

“I know it. I feel it. I
smell
it.” He edged closer. “Feel me.” Closer.
“Here . . .” He reached out a hand to her. He clasped one of her hands in one
of his. “Like this.”

She tore her hand away and slipped
from the bed. “Get out of here, you filth.”

“Come, Niara, don’t act coy. You
want me, I know you do, and here we are on the eve of battle, with a company of
Borchstogs traveling north towards us, and the Eresine Bridge
being rebuilt, and glarumri flying up from the South . . . Felgrad is on its
last legs. Your world, priestess, is coming to an end. My world is just
beginning. But there is hope. For you.”

He swiveled, throwing his legs to
her side of the bed, and stood with a flourish. He stepped toward her, almost
touching her. “I’m a lord now,” he said. “I can stand beside you. Before you.”

“Never. You’re a killer. A demon. You’re
not even capable of love.”

He half-smiled, but it was a sad
half. He just stood there, calmly looking down on her. She was as tall or
taller than most men of Fiarth, but he towered over her, and his chest was
broad and deep.

“I
am
capable of love,” he said, keeping pace with her, unwilling to
let her slip away. “I could have killed you long ago, but I did not. I had my
agents preserve your life, time and again.”

“Those Borchstogs—”

“Would not have harmed you. Their
instructions were merely to keep you prisoner. Your friend was optional.”

“Lisilli—”

He shrugged. “We’re at war, Oslog
and the Crescent. My duty is to win for my side. I did not do it out of
malice.”

“But you did. You
are
malice.” This was it, she decided. This
was her chance. She would end him now. It was the only way. And now that he was
here, in her realm, she need not fear the retribution of his agents. And she
could dispose of his body at her leisure. Nobody ever need know.

She smiled. “Fine. You want me to
feel you. I
will
.”

She spread her palms across his
chest and tilted her face up to him, letting her lips part, just slightly. He
responded, craning his head down, meeting her lips with his. That was all she
needed. She dredged up the light that dwelt within her, feeling it flow up her
well and overspill. It poured along her hands into his chest, from her mouth
into his, and all in one blinding second she channeled it into him—

Raugst blocked it.

She poured her light into him, and
it rebounded. The concussion knocked her away. She landed gasping on the floor,
white smoke trailing from her palms and mouth. It
burned
.

Shocked, she stared up at him.

“You cannot kill me,” he said. “I’m
more powerful than you.”

“I s-see.” It hurt to speak. Her
ears rang, though she had heard no report. Sparks danced before her eyes.

He stepped forward, and she shrank
back, expecting a reprisal. But he only offered her a hand up. She refused.

He shrugged again. “Think about
what I said. Your kingdom will fall, your people will die or be enslaved, and
the shadow of the Wolf will spread. Towers to Him will be raised in every city
from here to the Inland
Shores, and sacrifices
will be heaped at their bases . . . but there is a place for you at my side,
Niara, should you desire it.” He spun about and in a moment was gone from her
bedchambers, and she was left staring at the spot where he had vanished,
feeling the beating of her heart.

She took a breath, then another. Yes,
her attack had failed. His darkness was too strong. But, while she had been
connected to him, she had felt something . . .

There might be another way.

In the morning, she heard the latest reports of the war, and
they were grim. The Borchstog host that had ambushed Raugst’s men in the Vale
of Irrys and razed the city of Hasitlan
was marching swiftly north. Some said Lord Vrulug himself had joined them and
was leading them to Thiersgald. With him to spur them on, the Borchstogs were
expected to reach the city within days.

While the soldiers prepared for
war, Niara tended to her duties. Five days after she had returned to
Thiersgald, she oversaw the somber ceremony honoring the fallen warriors of the
Vale of Irrys and the City of Hasitlan from atop
the steps of the Temple.
Thousands gathered in the great courtyard to hear her words and pay tribute to
the fallen, and many others listened from terraces and rooftops. It was a
still, hot day, and the sun beat down mercilessly from clear blue skies.

Even Raugst sweated as he stood
beside her, at times alternating with her and Duke Welsly to speak for the dead
and to recount the story of their valor. He then gave a rousing speech,
stirring the people to defend Thiersgald from the legions of Borchstogs
sweeping north even then. It pained Niara to have to share the stage with the
likes of him, and it pained her more to look in the people’s faces and see
their love for him reflected there. He was a common man made good, a hero from
the working class. He was what each and every man here wanted to be, and he was
whom nearly each woman wanted in her bed. He was their dreams made flesh.

Only Niara and her closest sisters
knew it was a lie. Even the flesh was a lie. His real shape would be monstrous,
hideous. Oh, she loathed him with every fiber of her being. She had spent much
time trying to devise a way to expose him while not rousing the people to turn
on the priesthood—to dethrone him while leaving the throne intact. She and her
sisters had spent countless hours plotting and scheming, but they’d come up
with nothing feasible. Meanwhile Vrulug’s host drew closer every moment. On the
day Niara, Raugst and Duke Welsly gave their speeches, Vrulug’s arrival was
expected within hours.

Desperate, Niara knew she must do
something. If the wolf-lord arrived at the city while his agent was lord of it,
sure its downfall would be imminent. How could she remove Raugst from power,
though? She couldn’t kill him. He was too strong. She couldn’t lead her priestesses
in open revolt. His soldiers would slay them, especially now that they were
weakened, and the populace would turn on the priesthood.

There
was
a way that occurred to her. It had come to her the night Raugst
had tried to seduce her. But it was a mad, desperate, reckless plan that
jeopardized all the good she could do if it failed.

For now, there was a better way, a
simpler way.

There was Fria.

The Baron’s daughter was quiet and
reclusive, an attitude she had likely adopted due to her roving eye and the
reception it often received, and she had never dabbled much in public affairs. She
would have to dabble now. Niara would get her to turn on Raugst, imprison him
(for a start) and all those he had appointed to serve him. They were vipers at
the breast of Fiarth, and they needed to be removed. Only Fria, the baroness
and the only blood Wesrain alive, had the authority to do this. If Niara could
get her to turn on Raugst, the realm might yet be saved.

That afternoon after the ceremony,
Niara went to Fria at the castle. She took Fria into the chapel to Illiana in
the east wing of the castle, where Fria and Raugst had been wed—the birthplace
of this whole sad affair—and spoke to her quietly.

“There’s something very important I
need to discuss with you,” she said.

“Of course, High Mother. What may I
help you with?”

“You will not like it.”

Fria gave a bitter little smile. “There’s
little to my liking these days.”

Niara took a deep breath. This was
the hard part. She held Fria’s hands, looked into her eyes, and said, “Raugst
swore his love to me.”

Fria gasped.

Inwardly, Niara cringed. This was a
loathsome task she’d set herself. She wished she could just reveal the truth,
but if she told Fria that her husband was a demon in human skin the baroness
would only do the natural thing. She would think Niara a liar, even a madwoman.
Fria had no reason to suspect her beloved as being anything other than what he
appeared to be. There was only one ill thing she would know about him: his
womanizing. Rumors of his lusty ways had spread throughout the realm. Even his
wife would have heard of it. Strangely, it only endeared him to the people all
the more—the Cock of the Castle, they called him.

Thus Niara did the only thing she
could think of to sway Fria against him. “Raugst swore his love to me,” she
said. “He’s violated the trust of Felgrad and must be incarcerated until he
repents.”

Fria jerked her hands away. “You
lie! He would never!”

Niara held her gaze as steadily as
she could. “It’s true, Fria. You’ve known me your whole life, as your father
before you and his father before him. I’ve never lied to anyone in your family,
and I am not lying now.”

Fria shook her head. “He would
never! He loves me, I know it. I know there have . . . been other women . . .
but there was no
love
there.” Tears
hovered behind her eyes, though for the moment they stayed there. She was a
Wesrain, and they were proud to a fault. Niara remembered how Fria had refused
to attend Meril’s funeral; he had shamed the Wesrain name, Fria had said. Swaying
her would not be easy.

Niara remained sitting, looking up
at the young baroness. “He may love you, dear—who can read a man’s heart?—but I
know what I saw in his eyes. He took me aside and stared into me. He was a wolf
on the hunt. He told me he must have me, that he loved me and wanted me to be
his.”

“Liar!” Fria’s voice was almost a
shriek.

Niara took a breath, letting Fria
calm down and making sure she had the girl’s complete attention, then said, “I
understand how you must feel. I do. I . . . I was not
always
a priestess. I was a girl once, just a girl. The daughter of
a minor lord in Larenthi.”

It worked. Fria’s gaze fixed on
Niara, and some of the rage and confusion left it. This was a change in subject
that Fria did not have to instinctually rebel against, and it had the advantage
of perhaps gaining Niara her sympathy.

“So it’s true,” Fria said. “You do
come
from the Elf-lands.” She still
sounded wary.

“Father had fallen in love with a
mortal woman some years ago, and she with him. He was already married, but the
elves are free people, and honest with themselves. It is common for them to
have more than one wife, or more than one husband.”
“Truly?”