The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (41 page)

The feasting hall windows blazed
with light—Raugst was celebrating his victory.
He won’t be celebrating for long.
The ghost of a grin twitched at
Giorn’s lips, and his good hand tightened about the handle of his sword.

All the glasses twinkled by the lights of the candles as each
dinner guest raised their wine in toast. Kragt and Fria lifted theirs to their
lips, pretended to drink . . .

Niara lifted hers to her own lips,
upended her glass—

That strange feeling rose in Fria
again.
Damn it.

Her leg knocked against Niara’s
knee violently, disrupting the priestess’s movements.

“Wha—?” said a startled Niara. Wine
spilled over her lips and down the front of her dress.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Fria. But
she was only half watching Niara. The rest of her attention was focused on the
nobles—and on Raugst, that great, horrid, putrid thing, drinking down his wine
like he was drowning and it was the only thing that could save him.

All of a sudden, he choked.

Fria smiled.

The nobles made gagging noises and
clutched at their throats. Just as Fria had hoped, their eyes bulged. What was
more, veins popped out on their hands, foreheads and cheeks, and their faces purpled.
Gagging, they toppled from their chairs and twitched on the floor.

“Dear Omkar!” Niara said. She leapt
to her feet and ran to Raugst. “What’s
happening
?”
Desperately, she tried to beat at his back as if to dislodge something in his
throat. When that didn’t work, she tried rocking him, then splashing him with
water from a nearby glass.

Fria and Kragt shared a secret
smile.

By that time, Raugst’s two other
present lieutenants—Mircas and Osrof, Fria thought their names were—who had
been standing guard in the main doorway, had overcome their own shock, and they
leapt into action.

The nearest one, Mircas, recognizing
that Kragt, as the only unaffected male, must be the culprit, drew his sword.

“What did you
do
, you fool?”

He hacked at Kragt’s head. Kragt was
already out of his chair and ducking under the swing. He didn’t bother
answering. As Fria watched on in horror and fascination, Kragt became a dark,
monstrous beast with a wolf-like head and long sharp claws, standing man-like on
two legs.

Mircas was changing, too, but too
late. Kragt swiped out his throat. Then Kragt’s clawed hands reached out and
actually twisted the creature’s head off his body. A dark geyser spewed up from
the stump of the neck. A furry leg kicked as the body fell.

Kragt hurled Mircas’s severed head
at Osrof, who had already changed shapes and was even then hurtling toward him.
The head struck Osrof with such force that it knocked him off balance. Kragt
leapt at him, and they wrestled about on the floor, two black demons with
red-glinting eyes, grappling and struggling among twitching bodies. They had
likely known each other for hundreds of years, but that friendship ended now. At
last Kragt, the larger, pinned his opponent down and crushed Osrof’s windpipe
between his powerful jaws. Then he twisted Osrof’s head sideways and crushed
his comrade’s spine between his jaws. Osrof went limp.

Kragt slipped back into his human
form. Naked, gasping and covered in blood, he looked solemnly down at Osrof.
“Sorry, my friend. I wish you could have joined me in my new empire, but I
could not trust you with the plan.” He stood. Wiping his gory mouth, he added,
“Now there are none to stand in my way.”

“I s-suppose not, my lord,” Fria
said.

Obviously frantic, Niara glanced
from Fria to Kragt, then back to Fria. The priestess’s face was full of pain. She
had loved Raugst sincerely, then.

“Fria,
tell
me—what’s going on?” she said. Tears ran unchecked from her
eyes. “What have you
done
?”

Fria stood. “All we’ve done is try
to right a terrible wrong.” She nodded to Kragt. “We will have a new king now.”

“
What
?”

Raugst was twitching before Niara,
his eyes rolling.

“That’s right,” Kragt said. Blood
dripping off him, he moved around the table to stand over Raugst, and Fria
joined him. “I thought you wanted the witch dead,” he said to her. “Why did you
stop her from drinking?”

Fria shrugged. “I thought of something
more fitting.”

Kragt didn’t seem concerned by it. Naked
and bloody and on fire with his ambitions, he was blind to all but Raugst. When
Niara placed herself between him and his target, Kragt coiled his arm and
struck her, sending her flying.

Raugst, uncomprehending, just
jerked and twitched on the floor. His eyes rolled unseeing in his head, and
foam flecked his lips. Kragt stared down at him.

Fria snatched up Raugst’s silver
steak knife from his plate and plunged it into Kragt’s back, right next to his
shoulder blade. She stuck it all the way to the hilt, driving that silver blade
right into Kragt’s miserable little heart.

Kragt stiffened, gasped. His eyes
went wide.

Fria jerked the blade free, plunged
it in again, then again. Hot blood spurted her hands and trickled down Kragt’s
naked back. Every time she stuck him, Kragt gasped and sputtered. Blood beaded
his lips. She wasn’t sure exactly what could kill him, so at last she plunged
the blade into his throat and ripped outwards, away from her. It took more
effort than she would have thought, and she had to grunt and strain, sawing
back and forth like she was working a piece of meat, but at last she severed
his jugular and windpipe. Blood sprayed Raugst, and Niara, too, who lay some
feet away.

Fria let Kragt collapse to the
floor. He was still twitching and she wasn’t sure if he was really dead or not,
but that would do for now. She kicked him off Raugst.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” said
Niara. Blubbering her gratitude, she climbed to her feet and stepped closer.

“Don’t thank
me
,” Fria said. “I just wanted this pleasure for myself. He is my
husband, after all.” She indicated Kragt. “That bastard thought he could use
me, destroy my country, and that I would
help
him! Fool! He deserves what he gets just as much as Raugst.
I
am queen.
I
will rule our people now.”

Niara stared. At last, anger
overcame her and she rushed Fria.
“You
will not touch him!”

Fria still had her knife in hand,
but she was loath to slay Niara. She stepped back, avoiding Niara’s rush, and
struck the priestess sharply over the head with the handle of the weapon. Niara
fell to the floor, clutching her head. It wouldn’t disorient her for long, but
Fria didn’t need much time.

Savoring this, she knelt over
Raugst. He had quit twitching and jerking, though he still looked feverish. His
eyes had stopped rolling, and they gazed at her as if just seeing her for the
first time.

“Yes,” she said. “See me.”

She would have to be fast. Raugst
was quickly recovering from the effects of the poison, although the rest of
Kragt’s victims lay dead and motionless all around; apparently Raugst’s power
could not be so easily overcome. Also, Niara was beginning to get back up,
groaning.

Fria grasped Raugst’s sweaty hair
with her left hand and jerked his head back, exposing his neck, muscular and
well-formed and gulping. Pearls of sweat stood out on it.

“May you burn in the fires of the
Second Hell,” she said.

She began to draw her knife across
his throat—

A strange sound reached her. Pointed
coughing.

She looked up, expecting to see one
of Raugst’s lieutenants, one she and Kragt had overlooked, but instead there—grinning,
tall, handsome and maimed—was Giorn Wesrain, her brother, the rightful baron of
Fiarth, with a host of men at his back.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I
would prefer that honor myself.”

Chapter
23

Giorn had been eager to see the look on Raugst’s face when
he arrived with his men. As he had entered the castle, a fire had raged through
him. He’d been training relentlessly in left-hand-oriented combat, and he
intended to fight Raugst himself. Indeed, he had spread this order among his
men and all knew: Raugst was his. Instead he found Raugst dying on the floor,
foam beading his lips, and bending over him, knife to his throat, was Fria. Despite
himself, Giorn smiled. She was grinning savagely and covered in blood, and her
left eye rolled like a mad thing, but she was the sweetest sight he’d ever
seen.

Just the same, he couldn’t allow
her to slay Raugst, so he made his presence known. Instantly Fria dropped the
knife and ran into his arms, nearly knocking him over, and he laughed and
patted her back. He was hardly even aware that she was getting blood all over
him.

“Fria,” he laughed. “It’s so good
to see you.”

She sobbed and clung to him, then
drew back. Her eyes filled with water. “Oh, Giorn . . . I never thought I’d see
you again.”

He kissed her forehead. “Neither
did I, Sister. Neither did I. But fate’s been kind, and here I am.” He gestured
to the dead bodies, many of which he was beginning to recognize. At first all
his attention had been on Raugst, and Fria, but now, as the madness of the
moment receded, he realized that many of the corpses around him were high
aristocrats of Fiarth. There was Duke Evergard, there Baron Rathen, there Lord
Hored, one of Raugst’s recent converts. Indeed, nearly all of them were of the
converts . . .

“Dear Omkar,” he breathed. “A
massacre.”

“Yes . . .”

“Don’t play coy now,” came a new
voice. Giorn looked up to see none other than
Niara
picking herself off the floor from the other side of the
table, clutching her head as though it pained her. “Tell him who killed all these
men,” the priestess said, eyes on Fria.

Giorn was hardly listening. “Niara,”
he whispered, leaving his sister’s side and coming toward his beloved.

A mistake. Niara looked angry. Furious.
And the blow to her skull did not seem to have mollified her any.

“I suppose you think it’s all very
amusing,” she said.
“Why would I think that?” He took another step toward her, edging around
Raugst’s barely-moving form.

She moved back, eyes flashing. “Don’t
you
touch
me!”

Something heavy began grinding his
heart. It became difficult to breathe. “What—what can you mean? Why are you so
hostile?” He had dared allow himself to believe that her tryst with Raugst had
been a temporary thing, that when he returned she would fly into his arms, the
past forgotten.

“Don’t mind her. She sides with
that
thing
,” Fria said.

“What . . . ?”

Giorn noticed, out of the corner of
his eye, that Duke Yfrin and the soldiers were securing the room, blocking all
the exits and entranceways, coordinating with the castle guard to suppress any
of Raugst’s followers.

“Is this true?” Giorn asked,
watching Niara.

She studied him, then Fria, but at
last let her eyes fall on Raugst. The demon was breathing heavily and blinking.
One of his hands ran across his face. He was awake.

In a moment Giorn’s blade pressed
against his throat. “Be still, demon.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Raugst
said. His voice was deep and labored.

Giorn shoved his blade down just enough
to draw a line of blood from Raugst’s throat.

“Don’t!” called Niara.
Now
she stepped forward. At Giorn’s
touch she had recoiled, but to save this demon she would not hesitate to act. Her
face was pale, and she seemed frightened.
For
Raugst.
Giorn he swallowed bitterly. He had loved this woman so much he had
risked torture and death just to be with her, and now she had given her love to
this
thing
.

“Niara . . .” He felt like he was
in a dream.

She stopped just beyond range of
his sword—as if he would hurt her! Her eyes were fixed on Giorn’s, beseeching.

“Don’t hurt him,” she begged. “Please.”

Seeing the love she obviously bore
for Raugst merely wounded Giorn more. He pressed his blade deeper. The demon
grimaced.

“He’s a monster,” Giorn said. “How
can you feel for him? Has he corrupted you, too?”

“It’s me, Giorn,” she said. “It’s
me
, as it’s always been. Do not do
this.”

He returned her gaze, honestly
torn. At last he said, “Duke Yfrin, have Niara secured. I will tend to Raugst.”

“No!” Niara screamed, as two
soldiers moved up behind her. She was too quick. She flew at Giorn, faster than
he had expected, her weight knocking him backwards. With this bad leg, he
couldn’t right himself, and they went over. He landed on his back. Niara
scratched at his eyes. He released his sword, grabbed her wrists. They rolled
about on the floor, the High Priestess kicking and biting, tears coursing down
her cheeks.

At last the two soldiers grabbed
her upper arms and tore her loose. Wheezing for breath, Giorn stared up at her.
Seeing her frantic, hate-filled eyes, her tear-stained cheeks flushed with fury,
something died inside him, and he knew that look of loathing in her face would
never leave him.

He climbed to his feet, refusing
the offer of his soldiers for help. Weaving slightly, he strode to the table
and leaned on it, letting it take some of his weight. He gulped for air.

“What will you do?” Duke Yfrin said.

Giorn sighed. “What I must.”

He forced himself to stand upright
and walked around the corner, to where Raugst’s body should be. But Raugst, and
Giorn’s sword, were gone.

A scream. Giorn whirled to see one
of his soldiers being decapitated by the tall, dark, broad-shouldered form just
then slipping through a side-entrance and vanishing from the room.

“After him!” Giorn said.

A blade glimmered on the floor,
held in the fist of a creature that seemed halfway transformed from man to
beast. It was a horrid abomination and could be none other than one of Raugst’s
lieutenants. Giorn didn’t know what sort of intrigue and double-crossing had
gone on here and he didn’t care.

He snatched the sword off the
ground and charged after Raugst. His men followed.

Most of the men surged after Raugst, including the two that
had held Niara. She darted after them, determined to be there when Raugst was
brought to bay. Perhaps she could help him yet.

She ran after the soldiers, who in
turn chased Giorn. She was impressed that, even though his leg obviously
crippled him, his fury lent him such strength that he remained in the lead. She
knew then that she still loved him.

He was gone from her, however. Hatred
and circumstance had separated them, irretrievably. But Raugst loved her, and
needed her, and she needed him.

Breathless, she followed.

The broad-shouldered shadow staggered down a corridor and
around a corner. Giorn pursued. Suddenly a staircase confronted him. He knew it
would be difficult to mount with his leg the way it was, but he didn’t
hesitate. He charged upward, Raugst only a few steps ahead.

The demon spun about. Whirring
steel hissed at Giorn’s throat. Breathless, Giorn dodged aside.
Crack!
The blade hit the stone wall.

Giorn thrust, meaning to pierce
Raugst’s middle. Raugst hurled himself backward. Fell. Giorn leapt, aiming at
Raugst’s heel. Raugst moved just in time. Giorn’s blade struck the stairs, the
impact coursing through him. Raugst slashed. Giorn felt a sting on his cheek.

Raugst twisted, jumped to his feet
and fled on. Giorn limped after.

Soldiers followed at his back, but
the narrow spiral stairway was only large enough to fit one at a time. Giorn
hobbled up the stairs as fast as he could go, the panting, poison-stricken
Raugst just ahead. His labored breaths echoed in the tight confines.

Giorn passed a window. Night had
fallen, and all was black outside. He could see the lights of the city and, in
the distance, the many pinpricks that denoted the Borchstogs’ torches. Vrulug
was almost here. The Thiersgald army needed its leader. Giorn must end this
quickly.

Raugst led up, and Giorn realized
belatedly that he was in his old tower. His bedchamber was at the very top.

Raugst was getting farther ahead.
Soon he was out of sight.

The sound of wood creaking reached
Giorn, and when he rounded the next bend he saw a door open, leading into a
shadowed suite of rooms. They were mid-way up the tower, and there were more
rooms above. It was likely Raugst had simply opened this door to distract him,
but he couldn’t neglect to investigate it.

He turned to the soldiers rushing
up. “You four, search this room. Be on your guard.”

White-faced, they disappeared into
the suite, leaving Giorn with seven soldiers. He led on, careful to keep a
lookout for drops of sweat or blood, some indication that Raugst had gone this
way. He saw nothing, and he could no longer hear the demon.

The next door he came to was open,
as well. He ground his teeth. There were two more chambers in this tower after
this one. He would not let Raugst divert all his men. On the other hand, he did
want to face the villain alone.

“Search it,” he ordered the next
four men, and they vanished into the rooms.

The remaining three looked nervous
and pale but committed to the fight. As Giorn was appraising them, Niara
rounded the bend, breathing hard.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

She gasped for air, apparently too
winded to speak.

He would love to have his soldiers
escort her down, but he needed the men. Swearing, he spun about and continued
the ascent. Once more he found a gaping door leading in to a suite of rooms—Rian’s
old quarters. He sighed, staring into the dimness of the chambers, thinking of
his brother and how all this began. Then, once more hating to do it, he ordered
his last three men into the darkness.

“But that leaves you alone,” one
said.

“I’ll call if I need help. Should I
die, Lady Fria will lead you.”

The soldiers obeyed. That left
Giorn and Niara. He shared an awkward glance with her, wishing that she had
elected to stay behind and knowing that she would only try to impede his efforts.
Then, without another word, he mounted the stairs. They were almost to the top,
to his old rooms.

Then there it was, the thick oak
door—closed.

Giorn twisted the knob, but it was
locked.

“Fool,” he said. “You think I won’t
have a key to my own rooms stashed away?” He found the loose stone in the wall and
fished out the key he’d left there long ago. Shoved it into the lock, turned
it, and yanked the door open. Blackness greeted him. He stepped inside,
shoulders squared, teeth clenched.

“Face me!”

An awful, noxious smell rose all
around him. It stank of death and the by-product of dark arts. At any second he
expected some horror to burst out at him.

He swept his sword before him, and
the blade cleaving the air was the only sound. He listened for Raugst’s breathing
but heard nothing. Then, a scrape of shoe.

He turned to see Niara framed in
the doorway.

“Get out of here!” he said.

“No.”

He moved through the living area,
trying to make as little noise as possible, but it was too dark. He bumped his
hip against a chair, nearly tripped on a carpet. Finally his fumbling,
half-wooden right hand found a box of matches and a lantern. Holding his sword
awkwardly, conscious that Raugst could spring out at him at any moment, he lit
the lamp, and light flared, driving back the shadows. The ghastly head of the
great boar that had started this whole mess glared down at him over his mantle,
the firelight making its face snarl convincingly.

Holding the lantern in his damaged
hand and his sword in his left, Giorn moved through the room, constantly
ducking and whirling, expecting to see a pair of eyes glowing in the darkness.

There! A huddled, human-like shape
against the wall. Giorn drew closer, his lantern light revealing it an inch at
a time.

It was a body. A half-blackened,
half-festering human body. It appeared partly melted, and its juices had
stained the rich carpets. Its eye sockets gaped emptily, but a red tongue
protruded from its teeth.

Giorn stumbled back. His light
picked out another form, slumped against a chair. This one was more melted than
blackened. Its black teeth grinned at nothing, and its eyes were like wax in
its skull.

A wave of dizziness rose in Giorn. He
was in some sort of nightmare.
This is my
home!
As he moved about the room, he saw other bodies. A human head was
mounted to the wall, still living, its eyes rolling. Giorn saw what he at first
thought was a corpse chained to a wall, with visible ribs. Then its finger
twitched. Further on, Giorn saw what
had
to be a corpse sprawled across the bear-fur rug; its entrails had been spread
out in a halo around it. The intestines writhed like snakes.

“Dear Omkar,” he whispered, over
and over again, finding more horrors.

His words drew Niara, and soon she
was choking back sobs.

He shoved his lantern in her face. “
Now
do you see? That thing is
evil
!
Look
what he’s done!”

She shook her head tearfully. “No. He
didn’t do this, Giorn. It was Saria. This was her room.”

How could she still be so blind? “This
was my
home
,” he said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Spare me your pity.”

She looked at him as though his
words had wounded her. “Giorn. Don’t. Don’t hate me. I—”