The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (21 page)

Then the two women heard the noise
behind them and spun to see Giorn and the guards.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Fria
said. “Just because my husband appointed you doesn’t mean you don’t have to
knock—wait . . .” She studied Giorn, narrowing her one good eye, the other
staring inward so that she would have been cross-eyed if it had been a willing
counterpart to the first—looked him up and down, from his shredded boots, to his
rags for clothes, to his tangled beard and newly-scarred face.

“By the Omkar,” she whispered. She
shot to her feet and ran to him. “Giorn!”

She flung herself against his chest,
almost knocking him over, and sobbed into his rags. Laughing, feeling tears
come into his own eyes, he held her in his arms. She was warm and clean and
smelled of flowers. “Dear Fria, it’s so good to see you! But tell me, what do
you here? This is Father’s room . . .”

She sniffed wetly, not seeming to
hear him. “Oh, Giorn, Giorn, Giorn, it’s so
good
. . .” Still clutching him tightly, she drew back and stared up into his eyes. “Oh,
you look ten years older, and all those scars! But you’re the best thing I’ve
ever seen. Oh, Gi! You can’t
imagine
what hell we’ve been through!” She blinked, and water spilled down her cheeks. “But
maybe you can. Look at you! Oh, Gi, what have they
done
to you?”

The soldiers left. Fria dragged
Giorn to a couch, sat him down, and promptly ordered for food and hot tea to be
brought to him, and for a bath to be drawn for his cleaning.

“I don’t have time for all that,”
he said. “There’s a war on, and I . . . but where’s Meril, and why . . . ?”

For a long time she said nothing,
and it wasn’t until tea had been served and he was drinking—tea! for the first
time in months; it tasted divine—that she began to speak. And when she did, the
taste of the tea vanished, and so did all his enjoyment.

Father was dead. That he had
guessed. But Meril was dead, too—sly, young, vigorous Meril. A suicide, Fria
said—and with such disdain that it tore at Giorn’s heart. Fria
hated
Meril now, that was plain,
despised his weakness. Giorn thought he knew better.

Grief welled up inside him, and
anger. Because of Raugst—and the poison in Meril’s drink could
only
have come from Raugst, he was sure—Giorn
would never be able to make things right between him and his brother. Their last
words would always be in anger.

It got worse. Now Raugst—
Raugst
—was Baron. Giorn choked on his
tea at that.

Then, looking terribly guilty and
ashamed of herself, Fria told him that Niara had come to her only earlier that
day and told her terrible lies about Raugst, and she had flung the High
Priestess into the dungeon, meaning to execute her on the morrow.

“I wouldn’t have gone through with
it,” she said, crying wretchedly. “Please forgive me! I wouldn’t, I swear! But
she was saying such
terrible
things .
. . ” She pressed her face against his chest. “I wouldn’t have, Gi, I wouldn’t.
Say you forgive me.”

“I . . . I . . .” He swallowed with
difficulty. Part of him wanted to strangle Fria. He shrugged it off and patted
her narrow back. “I forgive you, Fri. Now tell me, is she well? The guards
didn’t . . . treat her harshly, did they?”

“What? Oh, no, of course not! In
fact, Raugst, bless him, went around my back and freed her, the poor dear. How
she must hate me. And her like a mother to me!” She looked at him strangely. “And
she was more than that to you, I know. No, don’t look at me like that. I know.”
She smiled, and tears dripped off her chin. “I’m not sure you deserve her, in
all honesty.”

“Gods,” he said. “It must have been
the worst kept secret in the Crescent. Good thing I’m no spy.”

Almost smiling, she said, “Only
Meril and I knew.” She squeezed his hands. Her eyes turned sad. “She’s on the
wall now, with Raugst. Even now they’re both fighting for the city. Both are in
grave danger.”

He rose to his feet. “I must get to
the wall. No—wait!” He rushed to the terrace door, flung it open. A strong
breeze blew in. The braziers flickered.

“What is it?” Fria asked.

He pointed. “The battle, it’s over,
and look.” He indicated the highest tower of the Temple of Illiana,
white and graceful, its uppermost windows glowing with orange-white light. “Look
at the Inner Sanctum. It’s all ablaze. Niara’s returned, and she’s praying to
Illiana even now. I must go to her.”

“I’ll have a horse brought for
you.”

“While I’m away, see to my men. Captain
Hanen and a hundred soldiers wait in the secret ways under the castle.”

“I’ll see to them gladly.”

With his heart beating with
ever-increasing fervor, he mounted the horse Fria’s retainers brought for him
and galloped through the streets, hell-bent for the temple. He passed through
the Inner Wall and into the outer city, where he saw throngs of refugees
packing the streets and choking the allies. Some were so thin he could see
their bones. This war must end soon, or many would die of simple starvation.

Reaching the temple, he flung open
the heavy doors. All was empty. Still.

He wasted no time but found the
stairwell leading up the Inner Sanctum. He mounted it with ragged breath, sweat
streaming down his face, all the while imagining Niara in his arms. He had
loved her for years, and for the last few months he had thought it unlikely he would
ever see her again. Yet he could speak of his fears to no one, not even his
closest confidants, not even Hanen, his most trusted lieutenant—not even to an
equal like the Baron of Hielsly. It was a truth that he could share only with
the one the truth regarded, and so it was a bittersweet pang in his heart, but
the bitterness only made the sweetness all the sweeter.

At last he reached the highest
landing and threw open the doors to the Inner Sanctum. There, lying naked on
the floor, wrapped in the arms of the demon himself, was Niara, covered in
sweat, cheeks flushed with ardor, stinking of sex, with the demon’s juices
still leaking out of her.

For a moment, everything turned
still. Time stopped. Giorn’s gaze went from Niara’s, to Raugst’s, back to
Niara’s. The world tilted, and for a moment he thought he might collapse.

Time clicked back on. Rage overcame
him. With a roar, he drew his sword and leapt on them. He wasn’t sure if he
meant to slay one, or the other, or both. His sword flashed, struck the marble
floor where the lovers had lain, but at his leap they scattered, Niara rolling
one way and Raugst the other.

Howling like a wounded animal,
Giorn pursued Raugst, slashing at the naked man. Raugst, though looking dazed,
neatly grabbed his own sword from his pile of clothing and blocked Giorn’s
blade. The peel of clanging metal rang in Giorn’s ear and set his teeth on
edge. The impact coursed up his arm.

Raugst had become his world, the
sole focus of his vision. “Die!” Giorn said. It was the only sensible word he
could find to utter.

He slashed at Raugst’s bull neck. Raugst
blocked him, shoved him back. The demon rose, not seeming conscious of his
nudity, not seeming to care. Indeed, he used his clothes as a weapon, scooping
them up with a toe and flinging them into Giorn’s eyes.

Giorn danced back, felt the air
part before his neck, heard the whistle of steel.

He tore the clothes away—just in
time to avoid Raugst’s next blow.

Giorn thrust, and Raugst parried. Raugst
came on with brute strength, dark eyes furious at being interrupted and
attacked when vulnerable. Giorn wasted no words but strove for his adversary’s
vitals. Their swords rang and flashed, sparks dancing from the metal. The
echoes of their battle reverberated from the white marble walls.

Raugst’s energies were spent from
his warring and lovemaking, and he still wore that expression of dazedness. So
it was that Giorn, consumed with rage and betrayal, dashed the sword from the
demon’s fingers, then backhanded Raugst across the jaw and sprawled him on to
the floor.

Victorious, Giorn pressed his blade
to the demon’s throat. “Burn well,” he said, and prepared to shove the blade
home.

Niara pulled Giorn back. Her
strength surprised him.

“What . . . ?”

“Hear me,” she said. She didn’t
blink, just stared into his eyes. “Raugst is goodly now.”

“That’s—”

“Hear
me.”

He tried to step around her, but
she had put herself in his path, and meanwhile he could hear Raugst getting up
on the other side of her. For a moment he was very tempted to shove her aside.

“Are you listening?” she asked. “He’s
goodly now. I poured my Light into him.”

“You laid a spell on him?”

“No. I
removed
the spell on him. Don’t you see? I gave him my Light, Giorn—all
of it.
I drove the darkness from him.”

“You did what?” said Raugst,
sounding stricken. Giorn looked to see him standing, staring at Niara. She
turned to face him. His face had gone very still, but his eyes burned.

She maintained admirable poise. “I
cleansed you. You’re . . . free. Free of Oslog.”

“You’re mad,” Giorn said, inwardly
repeating
All of it
. What could that
mean? Surely . . . “Nothing can remove the taint of Gilgaroth,” he said. “He’s
beyond help, Niara. He’s Forsaken.”

She hardly seemed to be listening. She
stared at Raugst, looking worried. Giorn turned to see the demon’s face slowly
contorting in rage. His lips twisted in a horrible leer.

“You bitch!” Raugst said. “You
cunt!
What have you done to me?”

He sprang forward. His hand flew at
Niara’s face, Giorn heard a smack, and she flew backward. She struck the floor
with her hip and slid hard against a wall.

Giorn stabbed at Raugst’s neck. Raugst
dodged, batting the sword away with his bare hand. It raked his knuckles, and
blood wept out. The action bought him just enough time to retrieve his own
sword. Giorn saw the hate in his eyes and knew Niara’s attempt had been a
failure. There was no rehabilitating this thing, no purifying it. It was a
thing of darkness and such it would always be.

“Bastard,” Giorn snarled, aiming a
strike at Raugst’s abdomen. “How could you hit a woman?”

“You nearly killed her.” Raugst
deflected the blow. “Beside, I’ve done a lot worse.”

He came at Giorn, teeth set, eyes
afire, almost seeming to growl, his sudden ferocity catching Giorn by surprise.
The demon slashed Giorn’s right palm, sliced his side, swung at his feet. Pain
flared up from Giorn’s ankle. Finally Raugst struck the sword from his hand,
and Giorn’s fingers tingled with the blow.

Weaponless, Giorn fell back before
the onslaught. Raugst sliced and thrust, cutting candles in twain so that
flaming pieces flew about the room, getting underfoot.

Reeling, Giorn stumbled on a candle
and fell backwards. Now it was Raugst who loomed over him. Raugst, breathing
hard, naked, hairy chest rising and falling, stared down at him.

“Die, Wesrain,” he said, shoving
his blade down to hover over Giorn’s throat.

So
this is how it will be,
Giorn thought.
The
demon will slay my father and brothers, steal my sister, steal my beloved, my
barony, and now he’ll end me, as well.

No.
I will not let it happen!
Giorn kicked out, sweeping Raugst’s feet out from
under him. Giorn rolled away, clutched up his sword and climbed to his feet.

He spun to see the demon rising,
and now the two circled each other, both bloody and tired and wary. Off in the
corner, Niara watched them and wept. “No,” she said, though Giorn was hardly
listening. “Don’t
do
this. This is
madness
. You are both good men, don’t
you see?”

Giorn scoffed. “He is neither good
nor a man. NOW DIE!”

He sprang at Raugst, who just
barely parried in time. Giorn drew back, raised his sword high and chopped down
at Raugst’s face with all his might. Raugst blocked him, the demon’s arms
buckling, mouth locked in a grimace. Sweat ran down the side of his face,
tangling in his beard.

Something was wrong. The cut Raugst
had given Giorn on his palm pained him, made his swings awkward. As well, the
slice to his ankle had been deep, and he was unsteady and wobbly on his feet. Now,
as Raugst shoved Giorn back and drove at him, blade harrying him relentlessly,
Giorn stumbled back, blood trickling down him. He limped, wobbled, and tripped
on the fallen candlesticks. He couldn’t move properly. What had the demon done
to him? Every time he moved his right leg it wouldn’t cooperate. Pain coursed
up him. He tried to ignore it, focusing only on Raugst, but the pain was too
great, and his body would not respond as it should.

Raugst slashed at his middle. Giorn
parried, swayed. He hacked at Raugst’s neck. Raugst knocked the blow aside. The
defense nearly tore the weapon from Giorn’s hand. He gritted his teeth, trying
to ignore the stab of pain from his palm, but the slice there was deep. Perhaps
some tendon had been cut . . .

Raugst forced him back, at last
driving Giorn out onto the terrace. Moonlight washed the marble, and the hot
breeze ruffled Giorn’s hair.

Raugst’s sword flashed at his head.
Giorn ducked. Raugst’s sword drove at his chest. Giorn barely knocked the blow
aside. Sweat flew from his hair.

Off to the side and up he was vaguely
aware that a tide of glarumri was sweeping down over the city, shooting flaming
arrows into buildings. Human archers were firing back from high towers. A
Borchstog screamed and a glarum fell from the skies, then another . . .

Raugst’s eyes shone with furor.

Back he drove Giorn. Swords clashed
and rang, Giorn’s arm going numb. His hand and ankle throbbed.
Don’t give in
, he told himself.

Niara screamed in the background. “No,
Raugst! You don’t have to
do
this!” Giorn
thought he saw her try to rise, but the pain in her hip was too great.