The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (2 page)

Side by side, Giorn and Meril rode
down the cobbled streets, meeting the eyes of the people that lined the road. Some
threw flowers or coins.

The white-spired Temple of Illiana
blazed with a thousand candles, and the slender priestesses in their white
robes lined up before the elaborately-wrought edifice to pay their respects. The
High Priestess stepped forward, directly in Giorn’s path. He drew to a halt and
bowed his head. She was a beautiful woman, tall and willowy and fair, with
black curly hair and proud blue eyes, now saddened.

“Lady Niara,” he said.

“Lord Giorn.” She dropped her veil
of formality and stepped closer. Her voice lowered. “I’m so sorry. The barony
is a lesser place without Rian.” She went to the body, said a soft prayer that
Giorn could not hear, and stroked Rian’s hair. Then, serenely, seeming much
like an angel herself, she bent over and kissed him on first one eye, then the
other. Giorn fancied that he saw Rian’s eyelids glow for a moment after each
kiss.

Lady Niara looked upon the shaggy,
bloody mound of the beast, made a sign to ward off evil, then turned back to
Giorn. “Shall my ladies and I take Rian now and prepare his body for
entombment?”

Giorn shook his head. “Father will
want to see him first.”

“Of course.”

“But have one of your priestesses
seek me at the Castle later, and we’ll make arrangements.”

“As you wish.”

She let her eyes linger on his a
moment, questioning. He held her gaze steadily but made no further move.
Not here
, he thought.
Not now
.

She bowed and withdrew. Giorn led
on.

When they were some distance away,
Raugst said, with some awe in his voice, “She was lovely.”

Giorn turned to regard him. Raugst
wore a strange expression.

“Yes,” Giorn said. That was all. He
hadn’t the heart to say anything further. The funeral bells echoed loudly in
his ears.

The procession passed through the
outer city and then through the gates of the inner wall, the original wall of
Thiersgald, built long ago before the city had expanded to its present girth. Here
the road was lined by colonnades and great palaces of veined white marble, and
mansions of gold brick and red granite reared in the distance. The procession
passed over the gurgling river, through a great courtyard dominated by a tiered
fountain, then past the massive golden dome of the Library, where so much
irreplaceable knowledge had been gathered over the years.

Father was waiting for them at the
wide stairs that led up to Wesrain
Castle. A tall, thin man,
with a likewise thin mustache and beard, and black pouches under his pale blue
eyes, he sometimes gave the impression of being lofty and aloof, but he was
very low now, and his servants stood anxiously nearby as if ready to catch him
should he fall.

Seeing his father’s grief saddened
Giorn all over again, and as he met his father’s gaze they shared a heavy
sorrow. They would miss Rian sorely.

Climbing down from his horse, Giorn
embraced Lord Harin Wesrain, then stepped back as Meril did the same. Raugst
stayed out of the way while the Baron bent over his fallen son and wept. Giorn
gave his father some time, then, in a soft voice, said, “We would’ve lost Meril
too were it not for our new companion, Raugst the woodsman.” He indicated
Raugst, who bowed his head.

The Baron scrutinized the woodsman
for some time, his eyes flinty. Raugst said nothing, which Giorn appreciated. At
last the Baron sighed, kissed Rian’s forehead, and in dull tones he said,
“Come. I have no appetite, but when I heard you were arriving I had dinner
prepared. Let’s not waste it. We will eat, we will drink, we will toast Rian’s
bravery, and the story shall be told.” He gestured to Raugst. “And you will be
our guest of honor.”

The dinner that night was somber indeed, and the candles
that stood in a row upon the ancient, darkly-stained dining table were black
and dripping. Even the roast venison with the savory brown gravy and the
cabbages and potatoes that Giorn normally loved tasted like ash in his mouth.

His sister Fria had taken Rian’s
death badly, and she wept quietly and did not eat. She was a pretty young
woman, with chestnut hair and a small straight nose, but she had one bad eye
that rolled around in its socket, a condition that disturbed her few suitors
greatly.

“By a
hog
,” she said through clenched teeth. Her small fists were white
and trembling. “How could one so bright and fair be brought low by a
hog
?” The notion seemed to offend her on
some deep level, and she did not bother wiping the tears that coursed down her
face.

The Baron merely pushed his food
around, and from time to time he would stare at first Meril, then Raugst, and
seem to sigh. He was a man who spent his days officiating and had little time
for pleasure. Thus he lived through his sons, who were wild and free. Rian had
been the wildest and the freest, and his carefree spirit would obviously be
missed keenly.

Raugst said little. He’d been given
new clothes and his wounds had been cleaned and dressed, but he still seemed
untamed, a creature of the forest. All these trappings of civilization must
seem foreign to him.

It fell to Giorn to tell the tale
of Rian’s death, and he did so with all the energy he could summon, which was
not much. He embellished a few details, making Rian’s death sound less random
and more truly heroic, as he thought only fitting. As he told it, Rian had
weakened the boar enough, fighting it with his tiny dagger, no less, to allow
Raugst to slay later. To wet his throat for the tale, Giorn drank one glass of
wine after another. By the time he finished, Giorn’s head swam and the
black-stemmed candles seemed like fireflies dancing about the heaving,
shimmering hall. A hammer pounded his temples, and he welcomed it, as it pushed
the grief aside.

Strangely, even though the dining
hall swam, Raugst on his chair remained still and tall, dark and wild, and his
eyes blazed with something Giorn could not place.

And, occasionally, though Giorn
couldn’t be sure, he thought he saw Fria even in her grief steal sidelong
glances at the woodsman.

For a time, Raugst did not seem to
notice these glances, if glances they were, but at last he turned and stared
her full in the eyes for several long moments. Apparently caught, for this time
she had been undeniably looking at him, Fria turned her face away and did not
look up again until the dinner was over.

Grateful, Giorn bid his family good
night and staggered from the room. He wanted to climb his tower, find his bed
and sink into a dreamless sleep, but he had one thing to do first.

He quit the castle through the rear
and shivered suddenly, shocked by the cold night breeze. Blinking, he marched
over to the stables, where the priestess waited beside her white horse. It was
better here, out of the wind, and she smelled of rose and honeysuckle. Giorn
approached her, feeling, as her fingers press into his hand, how warm she was,
almost hot.“I came,” she said.

He glanced cautiously around,
seeing no one, not even the stable hands. The place smelled of hay and horse
dung, and the beasts themselves were stamping and snorting in their stalls. Still,
there was no place he’d rather be.

“We’re alone,” Niara assured him.

“Your women can have Rian
tomorrow,” he said. “Let him stay with his family for one more night.”

“Yes. Of course.” She moved in
closer to him. Now their bodies were almost touching. “I’m so sorry.”

He squeezed her hand tighter. With
her he felt no pain. He breathed deep. “It’s been too long.” He placed a hand
on the small of her back, felt her gasp.

“Yes.” She tilted her face up, her
lips parting.

He bent down . . .

A noise.

Giorn whirled. A stable-boy was
darting in from the cold, huddling his shoulders and rubbing his palms over a
lantern hanging from the wall. He must have come to check on the horses. He
hadn’t seemed to notice Giorn and Niara.

Giorn stepped back. Niara looked
away. Her fingers slipped from his.

“I’ll send some sisters around
tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes.” His voice was choked.

With fluid grace, she swung astride
her mare. Then, looming over him like the moon, she smiled, and her smile was
like the sun. It ignited something inside him, something that roared and
blazed. Something dangerous.

She spurred her mount and darted
out into the night, the wind whipping her white robe, and then the darkness
swallowed her.

He watched the spot where she’d vanished,
and that roaring thing in him begin to ebb. It was a perilous fire she had
ignited in him. A high priestess of Illiana could not engage in pleasures of
the flesh, not in pious Felgrad, and the man that so tainted her would be
slain, and not slowly. Nobility was no shield.

Giorn checked on the stable boy,
spreading hay for Giorn’s stallion.

“’night, m’lord,” said the boy,
glancing at him. Giorn studied that glance tensely. It seemed idle enough.

“Good night,” he returned.

He turned about and left the warmth
of the stables for the cold outside. The castle reared up black and forbidding
before him, and he imagined Raugst, the wild man, staring out at him through a
window, and he thought of Fria, grief-racked but with eyes wide and adoring,
and suddenly Giorn shivered again, but this time not with the cold.

A rider lit out from Thiersgald that night and traveled
swiftly south, over the Eresine Bridge, through Feslan, finally leaving Felgrad
altogether and coming after many days upon the endless peaks of the Aragst
Mountains. There the rider brought his message to Lord Vrulug in the
wolf-lord’s great fortress of Wegredon.

Vrulug took several slaves and
journeyed through secret passageways, coming deep into the mountain, where the
walls dripped with moisture and thick black columns held up lofty ceilings. Here
was Vrulug’s private temple to the Great One, Gilgaroth, Lord of the South.

Vrulug forced the slaves onto the
high black slab that served as Gilgaroth’s altar and slew them, one by one. They
could not resist, such was his power, and he watched as their souls like wisps
of smoke left their bodies and were drawn up into the mouth of the huge
wolf-like statue that loomed over the altar. The massive stone wolf head
swallowed the shades, one by one, and fire suddenly blazed from its eyes, and
true smoke curled up from between its fangs.

The fiery eyes fixed on Vrulug, and
the wolf-lord swallowed, bowing.

“It has begun, my Lord.”

Chapter
2

Stormclouds crowned the skies the day Fria and Raugst were
wed. Thunder shook the rafters of the castle chapel and vibrated the long
stained-glass windows depicting the creation of the moon and of its
Stewardesses, the Niethi. It was with one such window behind her, glowing
intermittently with lightning, that Niara presided over the ceremony. Seeming
to glow herself—and perhaps she did, for if rumor held true she possessed some
elvish blood—she sang and spoke, her smile serene, as she joined Raugst
Irasgralt and Fria Selira Wesrain in holy matrimony.

It had not been long in coming. According
to whisper, Raugst had made many private visits to Fria in the wee hours of the
night, and she to him. They’d kept it very quiet, but a castle is a small place
and tongues will wag. Still, Giorn did not think his father had heard about the
romance, and that was just as well; it wouldn’t do for the Baron to kill his
son’s savior so soon after the saving.

Just the same, the Baron had been
ill-pleased when Fria had come to him two months ago and begged for him to
allow her to marry Raugst. Normally it would have been the man that came to the
father, but in this case, with him being a commoner, tradition was stood on its
head, and Giorn had heard the Baron grumbling about it for weeks afterward. Lord
Wesrain didn’t want his daughter to marry a woodsman, savior or not, but he
could not rightfully deny the hero of the realm, and he doted on Fria and would
give her anything she asked for besides. Even so, the Baron wore a slight frown
as Niara concluded the ceremony by asking Fria to sing the Song of Beginning.

Fria, smiling at Raugst with purest
love, sucked in a breath and launched into song. Her voice was slender and
fragile, like her body, yet it achieved a level of delicate grace that
surprised Giorn, who smiled. Even the Baron visibly softened a bit. Fria was
not known for her voice, but in this tradition she held her own admirably.

Afterwards, Raugst took out his
hunting horn, threw it on the floor and ground it to shards beneath his heel. Men
groaned raucously. The horn was supposed to symbolize his bachelorhood, and
with its destruction came a new beginning. Only then did he take Fria in his
arms and kiss her.

The musicians opened a merry tune
and the newlyweds danced, ignoring the lightning and thunder that shook the
hall around them. After, the guests of the wedding rose from their seats,
shoved the pews back against the walls, and joined in. Someone passed a glass
of wine into Giorn’s hands, and he drank it down in one swallow. He caught a fair
girl’s arm, and they spun about the floor. He drank more wine, and the world
blurred.

Through merriment he saw a tall
womanly figure, white and dazzling, and she lifted her head and laughed, a
sound that warmed some place deep inside him.

Niara met his eyes, and for a long
moment neither looked away. But there were too many people here, too many that
might notice something amiss. Giorn dared not dance with her. It might betray
them both. He danced with one girl and then another.

He saw his father off to the side,
conferring grimly with his generals, and some of Giorn’s gaiety left him. Over
the last few weeks, the Borchstogs had grown bold, launching numerous raids on
the states of the Crescent, striking swiftly from the Aragst and then
retreating. Felgrad, at the very center of the Crescent, had been attacked most
ferociously. None knew exactly why the Borchstogs were conducting these raids,
though whenever they were captured, they would brag that the Age of Grandeur
was at hand, the time when the foes of Oslog would fall. This had caused much
consternation throughout the Alliance,
as the prophesied End Times had been feared for ages. Doubtless the Baron and
his generals were debating it even now, and planning strategy against it.

The
End Times . . .
Giorn tried to dismiss the thought and enjoy the
festivities. An extra glass of wine helped.

At last he reached his blushing
sister and danced with her. Her eyes sparkled, even the rolling one, and she
was beaming so broadly.

It was infectious. He found himself
grinning and shaking his head.

“A woodsman!” he said. “Really!”

She laughed. “You had better not
ask him to chop you any wood.”

“And why not? We all enjoy showing
off our strengths.” He leaned in closer and said, “I’m very happy for you.”

She smiled again, but it was a
different smile this time, a more intimate one. “Thank you, Gi. I love him so.”

“I know.”

She sighed, and lowered her one
good eye. The other stared far off to the left, almost so that only the white
was showing. Something was bothering her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s . . . nothing. Only . . .”

“Yes?”

Her good eye fixed on him. “Raugst
needs something to
do
. Some position.
I’ve asked Father, but he won’t see it. But Raugst isn’t cut out to be a
courtier, or some minor functionary, and certainly he’s not one to loiter about
all day. He spends much time riding and hunting.”

“I know. We’ve ridden together
several times. He’s quite the marksman.”

“Then you know what I mean. He’s a
man of action. He needs something to occupy him. Something Father would
respect.”

“The military! He would be a
natural, if his independence could be curtailed.”

“No no. I don’t want him doing
something dangerous.”

He looked at her seriously. “Fri,
remember, he came
to
us through
danger. He grew up on the border. Danger is likely quite natural to him. And he
takes to it well, as I have seen. He could be a great asset.” As commander of
the barony’s militia, Giorn could place Raugst in any number of positions.

She bit her lip, and at last
nodded. “Perhaps. If that is all you can find. I was thinking of something more
like weapons master. A teacher.”

Giorn couldn’t help himself. He
laughed. “Raugst’s weapon is an
axe
! Maybe
a bow, if he’s feeling extravagant. No, he is no trained warrior, and could not
train others. He came by war another way.”

She sighed again, this time in
resignation. “Very well. Just find
something
for him. I cannot stand the way Father looks at him, as if he’s just some
vagrant!”

Giorn decided not to point out to
her that Raugst was in fact a vagrant. Just a few months ago, he had been
living by his wits in the forest, selling skins and meat when he needed money
for clothes and arms and women, and sometimes a drink or two, but generally
living off the land. Now Giorn supposed it was his responsibility to find
something productive for the man to do.

It was not long before something
occurred to him.

Done with his generals, Father arrived
and asked for a dance with the bride. Smiling, Fria took his hand and they
whirled away. Giorn watched them for a few moments, content, then moved off. He
declined several offers to dance and at last came upon Raugst. The groom was
speaking quietly to Niara, gesturing toward the dance floor. Smiling, she shook
her head.

“Please forgive me,” she said, “but
my legs are tired. I’ve been presiding over ceremonies all day and half the
night. What with the recent attacks, people are fearful, and it’s been one
prayer ceremony after another, blessing this house or that village. All have
friends or family to the south, and all want to protect them.”

“As you will, of course,” Raugst
said. Despite the words, there was a trace of disappointment in his voice.

Giorn approached. Nodding first to
Niara, he caught Raugst’s attention and said, “May I have a word?”

Raugst looked slightly annoyed, but
he came away readily enough as Giorn found a quiet place near an ornate column
to talk.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Raugst said. Clearly he
was curious what all this was about.

“I’ve been thinking that, now
you’re officially a member of the family, it’s time you had a real position in
the barony.” Giorn studied Raugst for a reaction, but the big man was
impassive. Giorn continued. “It seems to me only natural that you assume Rian’s
role as head of castle security.”

Raugst raised his thick eyebrows. “
This
castle?”

“Of course. As I said, it was
Rian’s post before his death. It seems only fitting for his avenger to hold it
now. And don’t fear your lack of experience. General Hathorn provided Rian with
his full counsel when Rian needed it, and I am sure he will be only too glad to
do the same for you. You would have power, prestige, and a true place within
the family and the barony. You could even appoint your own men and make the
post your own. What say you?”

Raugst’s eyes glittered. “I could
place my own men?”

“Naturally.”

Raugst thrust out his hand. “I
accept, with honor. May I not shame Rian’s memory in the doing.”

Giorn clutched his wrist, and they
shook. Raugst slipped away, taking Fria in his arms. With a smile, Giorn
watched them dance.

Niara came to stand beside him. She
smelled of lilacs today. “A handsome couple, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” he said, but when he turned
to look at her something nervous shone in her eyes. “All you all right?”

“What? Oh. Yes.” She patted his
arm, lingering a little too long. “It’s just the recent attacks, I think.”

“We’ll be safe. Our army is ready.”

She smiled, but it was a thin
smile. “I’m sure. And the Moonstone still protects us.”

“So it’s true, then. The Stone does
exist?” To him it was just a fairytale.

“I’ve seen it myself. Legend says
that as long as the priestesses in Hielsly possess the Moonstone, Vrulug’s
hordes will be spent in vain. It should protect us, if anything can.”

He took a drink off a passing tray.
“There’s some doubt?”

“My sisters and I have spent long
hours communing, Gi. Meditating. Something brews to the South. The Dark One is
up to something.”

“When is he not?”

This failed to reassure her. He
wanted to squeeze her hand or place an arm around her shoulders, but he didn’t
dare.

“It’ll be all right,” he told her. “I’ll
see to it.”

Overheard, thunder cracked, and
lightning lit the windows. Niara said nothing.

Horns blared.

“There!” someone shouted, Giorn
thought it might be Raugst. “There it goes!”

Then, unmistakably, the Baron:
“After it!”

Giorn saw the movement. Instinctively,
he spurred his horse and lit out after the fox. The hounds, newly trained, ran
ahead in pursuit. The fleeting red shape of their quarry darted into the
undergrowth.

Hot blood coursed through Giorn.
This
was living. Beside and behind him
came the others, his father and brother, the many nobles and courtiers. It was
the annual Baron’s Hunt, where Lord Harin Wesrain and the elites of Fiarth
gathered at the Wesrain country manor for sport and companionship. It was a
much more relaxed atmosphere than the Royal Hunt that King Ulea put on every
year, and it was a welcome distraction from the constant Borchstog attacks to
the south.

Giorn readied his bow, his hands
steady even atop his stallion. Branches and leaves whipped at his face, but he
dodged them easily. He kept his eyes on that darting red shape. All his senses
strained to their limits. The fox would not escape him. It was the center of
his world.

The baying of the hounds, the
thunder of the hooves behind him—all behind him now; he was in the lead—faded
from his awareness. All he could see was that speck of red and the greenery it
was vanishing into. The forest sprawled in all directions, green and lush,
awakening after the bitter winter.

There! The fox flashed to the side,
under an overturned log, through thick bushes. The hounds, momentarily stymied,
sniffed the ground, searching.

Giorn ducked his head, evading a branch,
and guided his horse around the bushes. All he saw was green. No! He
couldn’t
lose it.

The little bobbing red shape
flashed through two great cypresses. Giorn charged after. He leaned backward in
his saddle as his stallion ran down a muddy slope, splashed through a small
stream, then hunched forward as he pressed up the opposite bank.

The fox was dead ahead. And now,
here, in this one spot, no trees impeded Giorn’s aim. He raised his bow, nocked
his arrow, let fly—

The shaft took the fox through the heart.
Giorn reined his horse in, dismounted and stood over the body, exaltation
coursing through him. He lifted his head and whooped in the joy of the hunt.

The hounds arrived, baying in low
tones. They seemed dismayed to see the fox already dead, and Giorn had to laugh.
They recovered and began howling, alerting the other hunters that the quarry
had been found and cornered. Giorn had yet to teach them how to sound out the
call of the kill. That would come soon, though. He loved training the dogs,
being with them. It had come as a great blow to him when his previous group had
been slain by the boar, and he was glad to have new dogs. He patted them and
howled with them.

A rider approached, a noble Giorn
knew well. Lord Efram Hadris looked grim and gaunt atop his horse.

“Don’t look so bleak,” Giorn told
him. “There are still more foxes to be had. Though, I fear, there is only one
first.” He pulled his face into an expression of mock woe. “But there’s always
next year.”

Giorn’s light-heartedness seemed to
disorient Lord Hadris, who shook his head as if to clear it. “No, my lord, you
don’t – ” He took a breath, seemed to steel himself. “Your father has been
shot.”

“
What
?” Giorn straightened. “What did you say?”