The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (22 page)

Raugst hounded Giorn to the very
lip of the terrace. Giorn reeled there, flailing for balance. At his back
stretched a drop of hundreds of feet. He glanced back, just briefly, and felt
the blood drain from his face, then turned back to Raugst, staring at him
intently. There was no mockery or humor in the demon’s face, no hint of
gloating, only hot rage—and a sense of finality. This was the end.

Raugst wasted no effort on words. He
raised his sword in both hands and, using all his strength, brought it down
toward Giorn’s head.

Giorn raised his own blade, knocked
the down-sweeping sword aside, but the impact nearly drove him to his knees. As
it was, it enflamed his wounded right hand. Raugst had cut it deeply, and now,
at this worst possible moment, it seized up.

No.

Raugst raised his blade again, rage
in his eyes, his face locked in a snarl, teeth gleaming. He seemed to sense
victory on the wind.

Giorn, breathless, arm cramping,
tried to raise his blade again to block Raugst’s next blow, but his hand and
arm were not cooperating. Even as he watched on in horror, Raugst’s sword came
down. Moonlight glimmered off the cold steel.

From somewhere, Niara screamed.

Raugst chopped down. His blade
clove through the fingers of Giorn’s right hand. His sword hand. Giorn cried
out as pain flared up past his elbow, as though his arm were made of fire. Blood
spurted from the stumps that were his fingers. The stag-hilt sword, bloody,
clattered to the terrace, then bounced over the edge and sailed down and away,
spinning into the night. His fingers followed.

Giorn clamped his left hand over
his bleeding stumps and sank to his knees before the blood-drenched monster
that was Raugst.
Niara, how could you?
Meril had been right.

Raugst loomed there, a black mountain
against the white pearl of a moon. Hair fluttering in the wind, he glared down
at Giorn, his sword bright and covered in Giorn’s blood.

“Everything that was mine is yours
now,” Giorn said. “You’ve taken it all, you bastard.”

Raugst inclined his head, just
slightly, accepting the truth of this and showing a hint of respect to the man
whose life he had destroyed.

“I will use it well.”

He drew back his sword for the blow
that would separate Giorn’s head from his shoulders.

Just then Niara screamed, even louder
than before. She had managed to drag herself out onto the terrace, and now,
throwing aside all dignity, she flung her arms about Raugst’s ankles.

“No, Raugst! Don’t do this! This is
madness! After all that I’ve just given you, you would slay
Giorn
? No!
No
. . .”

Raugst hesitated.

Giorn glanced desperately about. On
a lower terrace, there was movement. Something large and dark, with a long
sharp beak, was eating something . . .

A glarum! With a flash of insight,
he saw what must have happened. One of the glarums, its rider shot by an archer
so that the Borchstog had listed over in his saddle, making the great bird
off-balance; thus it had spiraled down, alighting on the terrace, and now it
was eating the rider that it had borne.

Providence.

The only problem was that the
terrace where the glarum stood was too far away, too low. Giorn could just make
it, maybe, but he could not survive the fall, at least not whole.

It was his only chance.

Raugst was distracted, his legs
encumbered by Niara. Giorn rolled out from under the blade, to the side edge of
the terrace, and bolted to his feet. He coiled himself, gauging the distance,
the wind, waiting for the updraft to die down lest it knock him backwards . . .

“NO!”
Niara screamed.

“You’re a fool,” Raugst called at
his back, and Giorn could hear him approach, dragging Niara with him; he could
hear the rasp her slim body made along the cold marble. “You’ll never make it.”

“Then I’ll pave the way to hell for
you,” Giorn said over his shoulder.

Without another word, he bunched
his legs and . . .
leapt
.

The wind shrieked all around him.
Somewhere Niara’s screamed. He flew. Weightless, a feather on the wind . . .

The terrace shot up at him. Fast. He
shoved out his leg to take the fall.

He struck. His leg shattered.

The world turned to red. It spun
and wheeled, and he was dimly aware that he was screaming and gnashing his
teeth, and the great black bird was cawing in fear and snapping at him.

With great effort, he pried himself
loose of the pain, dragged himself to the dead Borchstog, untied the straps that
bound it to the glarum, and hauled himself into the saddle. The glarum cawed
and snapped, but he jerked at its reins, whipped it about the head, and it
subsided. Pain suffused him, and he heard screaming and thought it might be
himself.

“Ra!” he said, spurring the bird
with his one good leg. “Away!”
He twitched the reins. The glarum soared off into the night, and the white
tower receded behind. Giorn turned his head to see Raugst, standing tall and
naked, staring after him, and Niara sobbing at his feet. Giorn swore and turned
away.

Chapter
14

With Niara weeping at his feet, Raugst seethed.

He strained his eyes, watching
Giorn on his stolen glarum.

“Damn him, he’s going toward the
castle!”

He broke free of Niara and strode
indoors, where the candle-flames danced erratically, and threw on his clothes.

Dizziness overcame him suddenly,
and he swayed. He mashed his eyes shut, shaking the weakness away. What had the
woman done to him? He did not seem . . . himself. Something was missing, like a
hole in his being.

Niara dragged herself inside, still
crying. Would she never run out of tears? He studied her. She was still
beautiful, still lovely, but somehow he perceived that she was . . .
lesser
. . . now. She’d been an angel before,
a goddess. She had seemed to glow with the light of the moon, but now the light
was gone out of her. She looked frail and small.
Mortal
.

He shuddered. Finished dressing.

Her wide blue eyes filled with more
tears. “What do you mean to do?”

“He’s going to the castle,” he said
impatiently. “He means to make a stand there. He’s baron, after all, or thinks
he is.”

“If he can get Fria on his side . .
.”

“Bah. He doesn’t realize how much
control I’ve taken.” He grinned, but somehow his cheer was forced. He felt a
rage in him, a burning, devouring rage, and he directed it at Giorn in his
mind. “I will beat him yet.”

He moved to the doorway, but a
quick feminine sob made him turn. Niara looked pitiful. Strangely, as though
moving in a dream, not completely understanding what he did, he crossed to her
and helped her to her feet. She seemed surprised, then smiled, but she was
smiling through her pain.

“Are you . . . all right?” he asked
her, marveling at the words. He must hurry! Giorn would beat him to the castle!

Nevertheless, he made himself look
her in the eyes, to give her that attention, if only for a moment.

“Y-yes,” she said, but she bit her
lip to stifle the discomfort. “I’ll be fine. Just . . . a bruise tomorrow. And
I’m not . . . not what I was.” She hung her head.

He lifted her chin. “Niara, what
did you do to me? I feel . . .”

“Yes?” Hope lit in her eyes. “How
do you feel?”

“Like . . .” He shook his head. “There’s
no time for this!”

“Don’t go. It doesn’t have to be
this way. You and Giorn don’t have to be enemies.”

He looked at her as though she were
mad. “I must get to the castle before he’s able to rouse enough support to be a
threat to me. He’s wounded. Badly. That will help.” He grinned, and when he did
he felt a swell of that old wolvish pride. “Yes, I got him. He may have
escaped, but he will not win. I am the hunter, and he is the prey.”

Laughing, he left her and descended
from the Inner Sanctum. Shortly he swung astride the horse he’d ridden to the
temple stables after seeing the lights in the tower and rode for the castle. He
was a wolf on the hunt, and he could smell the trail of blood before him.

By the time he’d finished with
Giorn, his men would have taken their places by the South Gates. When he gave
the order, they would be opened, and Vrulug would be free to sack the city.

Sadly, Niara watched him go. She limped out onto the
terrace, feeling the warm wind in her hair, and gazed into the distance, where
Raugst on his black charger raced toward the castle.

“What have I done?”

He was still Raugst, still an
animal, trained against the light and everything touched by it. Niara had
driven away his darkness, had removed his leash and collar, but Giorn had
interrupted her before she could teach him the other way, the way of the white.
Thus Raugst was still a beast, a wolf, and he was still full of rage and
wildness.

He was his own master now, though. He
could direct his energies how he would.

Only he didn’t realize it, yet.

She must reach him, must teach him,
before it was too late.

“Oh, Giorn,” she whispered, closing
her eyes, trying to drive away the memory of her beloved’s expression when he
had caught her in Raugst’s arms. His horrified, wounded gaze rose before her.
What must you think of me?

She must stop Raugst from killing
him. And, she admitted to herself, she must prevent Giorn from killing Raugst.

She dried her tears and gingerly
crept down the stairs, still naked, her clothes torn apart in their wild
lovemaking. She found her chambers and dressed, washed herself of his juices,
hoping nothing of the old Raugst had found root in her, then went to the
stables. Retainers helped her climb astride her white mare, and slowly, wincing
with every clatter of the hooves, she made toward the castle.

She was stopped outside the temple
grounds by three riders on white mares racing up from the South Gate: Hiatha, Rieb and Cirais, looking
concerned and out of breath.

“Mother!” cried Hiatha. “What took
so long? We saw the lights in the tower . . .”
Niara waved the questions aside. “No time for explanations. But I’m glad you
came. I may need some help. First you must get new stones or replenish your old
ones. Rieb, bring enough for many.”

They nodded. “Something’s weakening
us, Mother,” Cirais said. “What could it be?”

Niara had no idea, but lately when
she stretched out her thought to the Moonstone, she connected with something dark
on the other end. She mused on it as the girls went inside and furnished
themselves with stones that still possessed some power. Even those wouldn’t
last long, she knew, not with the force out there blocking their access to the
light, if that’s what it was doing, or perhaps weakening the light in general.

The priestesses returned, and Niara
told Rieb, “Go to the wall. While I am away,
you
are the leader of our forces there.”

“I understand, Mother.” Rieb vanished.

Flanked by the other two, Niara
rode toward the castle. In the distance, she could hear the Borchstogs bang
their drums, preparing for another charge. The sound grated on her nerves. Worse
were the screams of men the Borchstogs were torturing, the ever-present
background noise to the siege. It sapped the will of soldiers and civilians
alike. Niara passed ragged groups of townspeople and refugees, gathered in
courtyards and on rooftops. They still prayed, their faces uplifted to the
night, and the sight made her wince. What she had done she had done for them,
but she was afraid she’d made a terrible mistake.

Just as she rounded a bend and came
within sight of the castle, horns blared along the eastern arc of the wall.

“Vrulug’s attacking!” Hiatha said.

“Don’t worry about him for now,”
Niara said. “
We
have a different
enemy.”

“Who?” Hiatha asked. “What?”

That was a good question. Niara
thought of Raugst, thought of the rage surrounding him.

“Inertia,” she said.

“Baroness!” a guard said, rushing in. “A glarum! He’s come
in on a glarum!”

Fria had been entertaining Giorn’s
men in the feasting hall, where Hanen and his hundred men lounged, drank and
boasted of their adventures with doubtful degrees of veracity. Scullery maids
and serving wenches laid out meat on silver platters, poured wine from silver
jugs, and frequently received pinches on the backside for their efforts. It was
quite a merry scene, and Fria found it good to hear laughter (and a few slapped
faces) in the castle once more. Raugst and his men were too secretive, too
mysterious.

Then guards rushed in, shouting,
and she was compelled to follow them to a couch not far from a terrace window
on the third floor, where some activity was going on. A glarum, thrashing,
snapping and moribund, lay bristling with arrows on the flagstones, blood
trickling off the terrace to fall in torrents below.

“He came in like a devil,” a
soldier was saying, “and we all thought him one. Our men had riddled his mount
before we got a look at him. I can’t imagine how he made it. Look at him! But
he hung on, and I mean he
hung on
,
and somehow he did it, but . . .”

Fria saw what he meant. A broken
thing, Giorn lay on the couch. He was ragged and bloody, the fingers of one
hand—his right hand, Fria noted with anguish—missing, his right leg (as she
soon saw) bloody and shattered in a dozen places.

She stripped him of his rags and
helped the nurses administer to him. He was pale and shaking. When she saw the
ruin of his leg, she couldn’t understand how he’d maintained consciousness long
enough to make it to the castle. He must have hung grimly on, both to life and
to the glarum, until he had crashed on the terrace and given himself up to the
mercy of the guards. He seemed unconscious, but from time to time he would jerk
and twitch, and his eyes would roll.

“Fria, Fria,” he moaned, left hand
clutching.

“I’m here,” she said, taking it.

“Fria, I need Fria, my good
sister.” In his delirium he didn’t seem to realize she was right there. “Tell
her her brother’s here. Tell her for me. Tell her her husband is a demon, her
High Priestess a whore . . .”

Fria’s heart twisted, and she
became gradually aware that she was squeezing his good hand rather tighter than
she should. “What did you see? What happened? Was it Raugst that did this to
you?”

“There is no Raugst!” he snapped,
half sitting up. Then pain overcame him and he groaned and collapsed back onto
the couch. “There is no Raugst,” he repeated, cold sweat drenching his
forehead, his hands turning clammy. “Only a demon. Don’t give the
thing
a name. That gives it power, gives
it reason,
purpose
. It’s a monster,
through and through. A thing of hunger, devouring . . .” He went on like that
while the nurses put a splint on his leg and bandaged his arm, and plied him
with medicines to deaden him. At last he subsided, lapsing into unconsciousness
once more.

The nurses glanced worriedly at
Fria, who still held his hand. She patted his head and ran her hands through
his lank, dark blond hair.

“Move him to the royal infirmary,”
she said.

They brought a stretcher for him
and men carried him to the west wing of the castle, where the royal hospital
was situated. They gave him a bed, attendants saw to him, and through it all
Fria held his hand.

Giorn was a good man. That she knew
well. So what had he seen to enrage him so?

She thought she knew. She thought
she knew full well. There could only be one thing to explain his words. With a
heavy heart, she sat by his side and tried to tell herself everything would be
all right. Besides, her small problems amounted to little with the city under
siege, its people on the verge of being overrun.

Her handmaiden flew in, pale and
worried.

“Mistress,” she gasped, “my lord
Raugst is here!”

“How does he fare?”

“He looks like a wild animal, my
lady. His eyes! My lady, his eyes!”

Raugst must not find Giorn. Fria
swore the nurses and guards to silence. It would not buy Giorn much time, as
several of the guards had been appointed by Raugst, but they would at least
wait until they could get him alone, away from the ears of those he hadn’t
appointed, before informing on Giorn. That would win her brother
some
time . . .

“I must go to him,” she said.
Before his guards get him to themselves.

She found Raugst in the main hall,
upending a flagon of wine. It gushed over his mouth and beard and he slammed it
down with a groan. He turned to her, his dark eyes huge and murderous. She
started. Trael had been right; his eyes were like brands, and they seared her.

“M-my lord,” she stammered. His clothes
were hastily assembled, and blood seeped through them from many shallow slices.
“Dear Omkar! What happened?”

He smiled cruelly and patted his
sword. “Nothing but an honest difference of opinions, good wife. Now out of my
way!” He swept past her. She scurried to keep up. Guards converged, but they
saw the fury in his eyes and stayed back.

Suddenly Raugst paused. “What’s
this?” He cocked an ear.

Sounds of Hanen and the hundred’s
revelry drifted down the halls, echoing off column and fresco.

“A feast?” he asked. He surged
forward, aiming toward the feasting hall. Fria tried to catch at his arm, but
he shrugged her away. “Off me, woman! I’ve had enough of the gentle sex tonight.”

She forced herself to be strong.
I’m a Wesrain. We were kings!

Raugst came to the squat archway
leading into the hall and stopped, peering within. Hanen’s men, not paying him
any attention, went right on guzzling and eating and having fun with the women,
who were not immune to their attentions.

Slowly, Raugst smiled, but it was a
smile totally devoid of humor. “So,” he said, “my brother-in-law brought
friends. Well, that should prove an interesting tale. He brought friends,
through a Borchstog siege
, and nobody
bothered to tell me how.” He fixed Fria with his gaze.

She jumped. “H-how do you mean?”

“Play no games with me, woman. There
is a secret tunnel or I’ll be damned. And you never showed it to me, did you?”

“There is a t-tradition, my lord. Only
members of the family know, not till there are ch-children. When you and I had
b-babies, we w-would have told you—”

“Bah! No matter. I’ll find it
sooner or later. But it’s good to know that my enemies still possess
some
secrets. That makes it all the more
sporting.”

“Enemies, my lord?” Could Niara and
Giorn have been right? “I’m no enemy . . .”

He wasn’t even listening. His eyes
still on Hanen and the hundred, he said, “So . . . they are
thirsty
, eh? Well, I have a drink for
them. Yes I do.”