The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (42 page)

She stretched out an arm to him. He
shrugged it off, and she looked stung.

Screaming erupted from below.

“What’s this?” Giorn said.

More cries echoed up the spiral
stairs. Giorn and Niara shared a look.

“A trick,” he said. Raugst had not
gone on to the highest level, but had remained at the penultimate one.

Giorn flew to the doorway and
hobbled down it, going as fast as he could with his lame leg. Several times he
nearly stumbled and fell headlong, but at last he reached the doorway to Rian’s
old suite.

Something moved on the floor. He entered
the chambers, his lantern illuminating the area in a tight circle about him. The
thing on the floor showed itself to be the remains of one of his soldiers,
disemboweled, legs missing, his face a ruin, but somehow still alive, dragging
itself along.

“End me,” the man gasped. “Don’t let
me die . . . like this . . .”

Giorn suppressed the wave of pity
that threatened to unseat him. He nodded and pressed his blade over the man’s
heart. “What happened?” he said.

The man’s face screwed up in pain. “Demon.
Struck from the shadows . . . blood . . . blood everywhere . . .” He grabbed
the blade, guiding it toward his heart. “End . . . me.”

“Go to the Lights of Sifril,” Giorn
said, and plunged the blade home.

Niara was in the doorway. By
Giorn’s lantern she would have been able to see what happened.

“Raugst did this,” he said. “You
cannot deny that.”

She said nothing, just looked sad.

Giorn wondered if Raugst were still
here, or if any of the soldiers had survived. A quick inspection turned up two
more bodies, each more torn-up than the last. Just as Giorn found the second
one, more screaming filled the stairwell.

Knowing what he would find but
unable to do anything else, Giorn hobbled down the stairs, his breath coming
fast and hard. Sweat trickled down from his hair and burned his eyes, sticking
his shirt to his back. Niara came behind.

At the next suite of rooms Giorn
found more bodies. These were in the hallway, apparently having just emerged
from their inspection of the rooms. None of the soldiers were in one piece. Their
body parts were strewn up and down the stairs, and Giorn slipped in their blood
and intestines as he made his way down.

The first group of soldiers had
fared the best, he saw when he rounded the next bend. By this point Raugst must
have been weakened by blood loss sustained from the first two groups, so he had
not been able to slay all of this last group. One survived, though his chest
bore deep scratches and his arm had been broken in several places.

Sitting amid the ragged body parts
of his fellows, the man’s eyes widened when he saw Giorn. With his good arm, he
pointed down the stairs.

“There,” he gasped. “The demon . .
.”

“I’ll send a healer,” Giorn
promised. He descended the stairs, slipping on blood, entrails, and, once, a
severed hand. Over his shoulder, he barked, “
Now
do you see what you’ve fallen for?”

Niara let out a sob behind him but
did not answer.

Giorn returned to the feasting
hall, where Duke Yfrin and several soldiers were looking harried. Three freshly
dead and mutilated bodies lay upon the floor.

When the duke saw Giorn, he said,
“Thank the Omkar! I thought it killed you all.”

It was then that Giorn saw the
fourth body. His heart twisted.

“Oh, Fria . . .”

He sank down beside her ravaged
form, holding her to his chest. She was still warm. He stared down at her
pretty face framed by that curling, chestnut hair. One eye seemed to be staring
at him, the other had rolled upward. Indescribable grief filled him.

“
Fria
. . .”

“She came at him,” Duke Yfrin said,
stepping forward, looking ill. “While the others rushed him, she slipped up on
him from behind . . .” He shook his head. “He slew them all.”

Weeping and not caring what the
others thought, Giorn said,
“Where did he
go?”

The Duke swallowed nervously and
pointed. “The catacombs, I think. A handful of men went after him. I don’t know
if they stand a chance.”

Giorn rose and limped after his
quarry. A line of blood showed the way.
I
will end him
, he thought, his mind a whirlwind of hate.
I will end him, if I do nothing else.
He slew Father. Meril. He caused Rian’s
death, I know that now. And Fria, poor, sweet Fria . . .

Just as Yfrin had said, Raugst had
descended toward the catacombs, and soon Giorn, following the trail of blood,
found himself delving into the corridors below the castle, the place where the
Wesrains kept their dead. The darkness grew darker, and moisture dripped from
the walls deeper in. The air turned cold. Behind, of course, came Niara. She
wasn’t crying anymore. Probably she was too exhausted. Hopefully Fria’s death
had served to at least bring home her shame.

The ancient sarcophaguses of Giorn’s
family lined the halls. Many had their own chambers, and black doorways loomed
on all sides. Giorn expected attack from any of them. Candles burned from
within recessed niches, lit at irregular intervals. It was customary to light
these catacombs so that visitors could pay their respects, but the light was
dim and uneven, and it left more in shadow than not.

Sounds ahead. Screams. The scrape
and thunk of swords striking flesh and stone. The growling of some loathsome
creature. Giorn’s blood ran cold. Nothing living should make such sounds.

When he came upon the scene of
combat, he swore.

It was in a relatively large
chamber, with a high, domed ceiling supported by thick stone pillars, and in
the midst of it all stood a terrific demon, black-furred, two-legged, arms long
and tipped with hideous claws. Its monstrous, wolf-like head was coated in gore
around its mouth, and its whole body was spattered and dripping red. But its
eyes, its burning black eyes, were what arrested Giorn. They seemed to blaze
from the very depths of the Abyss.

A dozen bodies lay around the
great, shaggy demon, which must have stood ten feet tall, and the last two
soldiers were lunging at it. They hacked at it with their swords, plunging
their blades home even as it slashed and snapped at them. The towering
abomination roared as one soldier stabbed its side. The creature grabbed the soldier
and hurled him against a pillar so violently the body broke open, bursting with
blood. The soldier sagged to the ground, dead instantly.

The last remaining soldier used
Raugst’s distraction to duck under Raugst’s arms and thrust his blade through
the demon’s ribcage. The attacking man, eyes wide and hair limp with sweat,
shoved his blade toward Raugst’s heart.

Overcoming his shock, Giorn hobbled
forward to help. The soldier’s blade was wedged between two ribs. He struggled
to free it, shove it deeper. Giorn was almost there. If only—

Raugst snatched the man up by the
arms and pulled the arms in separate directions. The soldier shrieked. Raugst
wrenched the arms off. Blood fountained from the sockets. The man would have
fallen to the floor, but Raugst clamped the soldier’s head in his great,
monstrous jaws and, with a wet crunch, crushed the skull in his teeth.

Niara screamed.

Raugst let the body fall. He spit
out the pulped head. His eyes fell on Giorn.

Crouching, Giorn stared up at him. The
final confrontation would happen in that catacomb chamber, Giorn knew—the
great, wolf-like demon rearing over a mound of dead bodies and body parts,
Raugst covered in the bloods of his victims; Giorn, furious and weary, slender
blade upraised; and Niara, heart-sick, leaning for support against a pillar.

“You won’t escape,” Giorn said.

Raugst’s lips drew back from his
fangs. Blood and saliva trickled down.

Strangely he did not attack. Perhaps
something vaguely human still lurked inside him; perhaps he felt remorse. Whatever
the case, for a long moment he stared down at Giorn, unmoving. His gaze strayed
to Niara. Some of the madness left him. Where before he had been overcome by primal
instincts of rage and slaughter, now something of a gentler nature stole into
his eyes.

“
Niara
,” he said. His voice was wet and garbled, but intelligible.

“Raugst,” she said.

Seeming to muster her courage, she
moved forward, having to step over two bodies on the way. She came to stand
only a few feet from Giorn. He could smell her perfume war with the stench of
death all around.

“Don’t go to him,” Giorn said. “Don’t
make this more difficult.” His voice shook. “
He slew Fria
. Please.
Look
at him!”

“He’s not . . .” Niara took another
step. She was almost within range of Raugst’s claws.

Raugst just stood there, seething,
letting them work it out for themselves. Perhaps he hoped Niara could help him.

“You’re mad,” Giorn said. “Stay
back. If we allow him to escape us, he’ll just go down to the secret tunnels. That’s
where his agents are, guarding the tunnels there—against
me
. If he gets down there and organizes them, he could storm the
castle and retake it.”

Niara looked slowly from the great
demon to Giorn. “Yes?” she said.

He nodded frantically. “Yes.” Maybe
she would see reason, after all.

But no. For then, madly, insanely,
she stepped closer to Raugst, and
turned
her back to him to face Giorn
.

Giorn regarded her in horror.

Raugst looked down at her. Slaver
ran from his jaws. His clawed fingers twitched.

Giorn didn’t know if Raugst would
have slain her or not, though later he suspected not, but it was too much for
him. He lunged forward, knocking Niara aside, and ran his blade up under
Raugst’s ribcage.

Raugst did not immediately block
him because Niara was in the way. As soon as Giorn knocked her aside, though,
he acted. Too late. Giorn drove his blade deep under Raugst’s ribcage and
shoved up, toward his heart—

Raugst batted him through the air.

Crack!
Pain suffused Giorn. The world tilted, blurred. Grew dim.

When he woke, he was staring up
from the floor. The world spun slightly, and there was a ringing in his ears. His
back hurt.

Groaning, he sat up. Fire filled
him. Only then did he notice the pillar beside him and realize what Raugst had
flung him against. He was resting on a corpse. Giorn picked himself up. The
body was soft and wet beneath him, its split intestines reeking. Why hadn’t
Raugst finished him?

Then he saw the demon, and his
heart sank.

Raugst, the great, black-haired,
gore-coated wolf-creature, lay sprawled upon the pile of bodies. He lay on his
back, Giorn’s sword hilt sticking from just under his ribs. Half a hundred
sword cuts and thrusts had maimed him and weakened him, but Giorn’s had been
the most potent. His sword had gone the deepest. Blood trickled out of Raugst’s
mouth, and he made pitiful choking noises, which cheered Giorn. The cheering was
completely overshadowed by the awful grief he felt, and rage, for Niara,
beautiful, beloved Niara, had not gone to cry over Giorn’s inert body. She had
gone to Raugst. Even as Giorn struggled to his feet, she was pulling the swords
from Raugst’s chest, weeping over him as she did so. She flung herself on him
and kissed his wolvish face, then buried her face in the hollow of his hairy
neck.

Giorn stared.

Earlier, he had felt something die
in him when he realized Niara loved Raugst. But now, when the evidence against
Raugst was so plain, and she
still
loved the demon, something even greater went silent in him.

It was with a dull ache that he
crossed that horrid chamber. He picked up a sword, gingerly, and limped over to
the great, black, bloody mound that was Raugst. Giorn moved slowly, every step an
agony. His leg burned like fire.

His mind was clear, though. Clear,
and cold, and dead.

He stared at Niara, weeping, then at
Raugst, and as he drew near he marveled at all the cuts the great beast had
endured. If nothing else, he was a worthy enemy. Raugst’s chest still rose and
fell, just slightly, and the faintest traces of steam rose from his maw.

“Get back,” Giorn told Niara.

She ignored him. Perhaps, over her
sobbing, she didn’t even hear him.

Footsteps echoed on the stone
walls. A dozen castle guards burst into the room led by Duke Yfrin. He stared
agog at the terrible beast and the maid who wept over it.

Giorn nodded to two of the soldiers.
“Secure the lady,” he said.

Cautiously, the two he had
indicated approached Niara and the demon and tried to pull her away. She
resisted at first, but then the fight seemed to leave her, and she was dragged
away. She watched Raugst unblinking, and tears poured freely down her cheeks.

Raugst breathed, in, out, in, out. Blood
coursed in rivers down his mangy hide.

Giorn, feeling dead, stood over
him.

“So it ends.” Giorn raised his
blade, shared a look with Duke Yfrin, then prepared to swing. Raugst stared up at
him, weak but conscious. Good. Giorn wanted him to see who slew him. “Farewell,”
Giorn said.

He swung.

It all happened very fast.

One moment, he had been triumphant.
The next moment, disaster.

Niara had been merely pretending at
obedience. She had gone limp and fooled the guards that held her so that they
would not grip her too tightly, and then, when they had relaxed, she had torn
loose. She was slippery with blood, and it was easier than it should have been.

Just as Giorn swung, she flew like
an angel in white directly between his blade and her beloved.

Giorn struck down, saw a flash of
white, saw her beautiful, tear-stained face, and tried to check his blade’s
descent. Too late. He felt the
thunk
of his blade striking deep, saw crimson stain her gorgeous ceremonial gown. Then
she was down, bleeding, sprawled across Raugst.