The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (43 page)

“
Niara
!” Giorn cried

She lifted a bloody, white hand,
let her blood fall into Raugst’s open, gasping mouth, and sagged.

“Niara!” Giorn dropped his blade. Knelt
down and pulled Niara off the demon. “Oh, Niara . . .”

That deadness he’d felt was gone,
evaporated on the instant. In its place he felt overwhelming pain.
What have I done?

He inspected the wound. His blade
had slashed across her front, shattered a collar bone and several ribs and bit
deep; she was bleeding terribly. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone
could do. She was dying.

Her eyes found him. They were
dimming, but they were still the beautiful blue eyes he had fallen in love with
years ago, when he had been but a boy. She smiled. A trickle of blood ran down
from her lips.

“Giorn . . .”

His tears fell onto her upturned
face. Only then did he realize he was crying. “Niara . . .” He found her hand
and squeezed it. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Her expression was serene. “
I
did it,” she said. “Not you.” Her hand
returned his squeeze weakly.

“Why?”
He was desperate to know the answer, why she had chosen Raugst over him.

Her free hand pointed, indicating
the demon. Giorn looked. To his astonishment, he saw that Raugst had reverted
to his human form. Naked and bloody and apparently dying, he lay on the
corpse-strewn ground. His eyes were open, and he was looking at Niara with
great sadness. Later Giorn would realize that it was Niara’s blood that had
given him the strength to heal, and transform.

As Giorn watched, Raugst tried to
sit up and crawl over to Niara, but his wounds were too great. Shuddering, he
collapsed.

“Niara,” he moaned.

She smiled, first at Raugst, then
Giorn. “Do not kill each other,” she said. She squeezed Giorn’s hand with what
must be her last strength. “Promise me, Giorn. You will not kill him.”

“But he’s . . . look at what he’s
done
. And
Fria
!”

Her eyes grew troubled. “
You
did this, Gi. He just . . . defended
himself.” Her hand fell away. “You’re not enemies. You both . . . oppose
Vrulug.” She was fading. “Promise me,” she said. She still had enough strength
to meet his gaze. “If you ever loved me, promise me.”

He stared at her, perplexed. Yet
there was only one thing to say. “I promise.”

She rewarded him with one last
smile, and he felt that old familiar warmth inside him. Then the light in her
eyes faded, and she went limp. She did not move again.

For a long time, Giorn just knelt over her, cradling her in
his arms, unaware of anything else. Then, slowly, he became aware of Raugst
dragging himself across the corpse-strewn catacomb chamber toward them.

Duke Yfrin and the soldiers
surrounded the demon and drew their swords. A circle of naked steel glittered
in the dim light. The circle drew tighter about Raugst, whose face was impassive.
He said nothing. His cheeks were wet, Giorn saw with surprise. The demon had
been crying.

“What shall we do, my lord?” Duke
Yfrin said. “End him?”

Giorn looked from Raugst to Niara’s
lifeless body, then to the bloody sword on the ground.

“Release him,” he said. With a
ragged hiss of air, he added, “He’s free to do what he will.”

“Are you sure, my friend?” Yfrin
said.

 
“I’m sure.”

With obvious reluctance, the
soldiers stepped back, but kept their swords bared. Raugst, who had not taken
his eyes off Giorn, nodded once. Giorn returned the gesture.

“Leave us,” Giorn told Dalic.

“Madness,” said the duke.

“I know.”

“But . . .”

“Please, Uncle. Just . . . leave
us.”

Duke Yfrin sighed. Doubt in his
eyes, he led the soldiers from the room. When they were gone, Raugst resumed
his crawl, dragging himself over to Niara, leaving a trail of blood in his
wake. Now he and Giorn were close enough to touch, and they eyed each other
tensely.

“I should kill you,” Raugst said.

“And I should kill you. We should
kill each other. But not her. She, of all of us, should have lived.”

“Yes.”

As one, their gazes traveled to
Niara. She was already cooling in Giorn’s arms.

“She loved you,” Giorn said, hearing
the bitterness in his voice.

Silence. Then: “She loved you,
too,” Raugst said, “though you don’t deserve it.”

“How can you say that?”

As they spoke, they had kept their
gazes on Niara. Only now did Raugst raise his eyes, letting them bore into
Giorn. “Because she could have let you come close to me when you first came in.
She could have let you come in close, then picked up a sword from the ground
and run you through from behind. But she did not. She chose to sacrifice
herself to save the both of us.”

Giorn shuddered. “She would never .
. .”

“No. I wish she had, but no, she
wouldn’t. That’s what I mean.”

“I need no saving.”

“Is that right? Then what of the
army that closes on us? Can you defeat them?”

“I can if anyone can.”

Raugst shook his head, resolute. “No.
You can’t. Only I can save us.”

There was still a trace of warmth
in Niara’s flesh, but it was slipping away.

“How?” Giorn asked.

Raugst told him. Giorn listened.

Raugst, he realized, much to his
dismay, was right. Only the demon could stop Vrulug.

“But what if your plan fails?”
Giorn said. “What if you have to destroy the Stone?”

“Then I will destroy it.”

“Do you even know where it is?”

Raugst opened his mouth to say
something, then closed it.

“Well?” Giorn pressed.

Raugst grunted. “Do
you
know? I doubt it.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Really?”

Giorn nodded. “It’s in the belly of
the beast. Vrulug swallowed it.”

“The cur! He never told me . . .”

“Why would he?”

An awkward moment passed.

“We’re wasting time,” Raugst said.

“Then let us be at it.”

As if to underscore the point, Duke
Yfrin returned, looking even grimmer than before.

“It’s Vrulug,” he said. “He’s
here.”

“Don’t worry,” said Raugst. “He
won’t attack. We have a deal.”

Duke Yfrin glowered. “I don’t know
what sort of deal you
had
with him,
demon, but it wasn’t a very good one. He’s already launching his first wave.”

Chapter
24

The carriage wheels rattled on the roads, bumping Giorn up
and down. The horses trotted, rushing Giorn to his destination. Over the sounds
of hooves and carriage wheels he could hear the driver cracking his whip and
shouting, “Ra! Ra!”

Giorn shoved the window curtains
aside. Night had fallen, but bonfires, street-lamps and the moon lit the world
quite well, at least for the nonce. The dark cloud over Vrulug’s host swept
northward. Soon it would obliterate the sky.

They were passing through Inner
Thiersgald, and the streets were so choked with citizens and refugees that the
carriage could hardly navigate them. Raugst had had the outer city evacuated
and now the entire population of Thiersgald—and the even greater numbers of
refugees—were all packed into this one place. It was a beautiful quarter, with
great towers and mansions and monuments all around, and there the magnificent
golden dome that marked the Library, but it was not meant to hold so many. It
was surreal and horrible, to see so great a number of people pressed so close
together, in streets Giorn knew so well.

Everywhere people gathered in tight
groups, praying silently or listening to sermons. The people thought their doom
was upon them, that these truly were the opening days of the End Times. They
thought Vrulug’s victory inevitable, that shortly the city would burn and
Borchstogs would be raping the women in its ashes and torturing the men over
its white-hot embers. Giorn knew they were right, too.
Unless Raugst prevails.
The notion did not sit well with him, and
it especially galled him that he was forced to pray for the bastard’s success.

Giorn’s carriage passed through the
beautiful, ornate inner wall of Thiersgald and into the outer city. It was
supposed to have been emptied, but he saw that some stubborn townspeople had
remained. Pale faces stared out through windows. Families gathered in gardens
and on terraces to pray. A group of youths broke the window of a house, surely
looking to loot the place. Giorn sighed.

The Temple to Illiana rose into
sight ahead, its windows shining with golden light. The white edifice seemed to
glow. Strangely, though, it was dread that welled up in Giorn as he neared that
splendid structure, and for a moment he didn’t see the temple at all but
Niara’s face, lovely and anguished. He could still feel the
thunk
that had coursed up his arm when
he struck her—could still see her blood, bright as the sun. With a shudder, he
closed the drapes and turned to his fellow passenger.

“We won’t be long,” Giorn assured
him.

General Levenril frowned. “Are you
quite certain the priestesses will be necessary? They’re useless now.”

“If all goes well, they won’t be
useless for long.”

The procession rolled up to the
Temple, where Hiatha and several other priestesses were waiting. They must have
seen and heard the royal procession and come out to meet it. Hiatha was at the
forefront of their circle, looking like someone trying to struggle for calm
despite overwhelming worry. She kept raising her hands as if to wring them,
then, realizing what she was doing, she would drop them, square her shoulders,
and lift her chin.

Giorn sprang from the carriage
before it was completely stopped, not minding that he nearly tripped and fell
on his face. Even before soldiers from the carriage behind his could come to his
side, Giorn hobbled forward, and Hiatha and her sisters converged on him.

Hiatha clutched his hand and stared
deep into his eyes. “We felt something,” she said. “Something terrible. Tell
us, is it true? Has Niara fallen?”

Wordless, he nodded.

The priestesses gasped or exchanged
horrified looks. Tears built up behind Hiatha’s eyes, but she did not release
them. “I’d hoped it was just Vrulug’s presence that darkened our thoughts, but—”
She stared up at the black sky, at the moon that hung overhead, proud and
dazzling, then focused on Giorn. Only then did she seem to notice to whom she
spoke. Grief over Niara had blinded her. Now her eyes widened. “Why, could it
be? Is that
you
, Lord Wesrain? Dear
Illiana . . .”
“I know. I know. Now listen, I need your help. Are you the High Priestess now?”

Warring emotions flashed across her
face, but she reined them in. “Rites must be performed. There is ceremony,
ritual—”

“But you are the leader?”

“Yes. I suppose. What would you ask
of me, my lord?”

“Gather your most powerful sisters
and your weapons of light and meet me at the South Gate.”

“But Vrulug blocks us. We cannot
aid you.”

“Not yet, but hopefully soon you’ll
be able to. I can’t say for sure, but I know we won’t win without you. Now go. Prepare
for war. That is an order from your baron and king. Raugst is gone. I’m the
leader now.”

There were more gasps at this, but Hiatha
consented to his demands and withdrew into the temple, her sisters with her. Giorn
returned to his carriage.

“Ra!” the driver shouted, cracking
his whip. The horses neighed and pulled. The wheels rolled.

Giorn, settling himself in,
breathed out heavily. Niara was gone from this world, but the temple still
stood. It was a living reminder of the Grace of the Omkar, a symbol of the
sacred. There was hope left yet.

General Levenril evidently misinterpreted
his distraction, as he said, “Fear not, my lord. The other generals of Fiarth
will take your orders. They will be
most
glad to know that a true Wesrain has returned.”

“Will they? Good.” It had been a
strange scene at the castle, when Raugst, newly clothed and drinking from a
goblet of wine laced with the blood of his victims—to strengthen him for his
coming endeavor, he said—had told General Levenril that he was abdicating the
throne to Giorn. The General, who had brought the news of Vrulug’s arrival
personally, meaning to brief Raugst in full on the situation on the ride back
to the wall, had been quite shocked at Giorn’s return and Raugst’s ill state. He
had been further shocked when Raugst had, without ceremony, handed Giorn the
crown. Giorn had yet to put it on. Even now it rested on the general’s lap,
waiting to be claimed.

“And what of King Ulea’s men?”
Giorn asked. “Will they accept my orders?”

“They’ll have to. They’ll be confused,
especially if you insist on arresting some of your own officers—”

“Raugst’s appointments must be seen
to before they can cause any further damage.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Levenril looked
troubled. Like everyone else of a certain station, he would have heard the
bizarre rumors circulating about Raugst and the company he kept, but it would
still be difficult for him to credit. “But yet another change of leadership on
the dawn of war, and the arrest of key generals and officers—it will undermine
our troops’ morale even further.”

“There’s no other way. Raugst
appointed unnatural beings in the guise of men, things loyal to Oslog. They
cannot be allowed to lead our soldiers in combat, especially when they discover
that Raugst is no longer in command.”

“Yes. Yes, I see what you mean, but
I still can hardly believe . . .”

“Remember the claw, General. Remember
the claw.” To convince Levenril of Raugst’s true nature, Giorn had asked Raugst
to give a demonstration, and Raugst had turned his right hand into a claw. The
General had gone even paler than he was now.

“Y-yes,” he said. “I had not
forgotten.”

“Good.”

The rest of the trip passed in
silence save for the cracking of the whip, the thunder of the hooves and the grinding
of the wheels. When the procession slowed, Giorn disembarked. Soldiers were all
over the place, milling about or forming groups. Some saw to the horses. Others
sharpened blades or engaged in silent prayer. Many shot Giorn curious glances. Some
pointed to him, and he heard the words “Giorn” and “Wesrain” mentioned again
and again. The soldiers began whispering to each other, excitement—but also, he
was not surprised to see—consternation in their faces.

Giorn did not pause to explain or
proclaim. Side by side with General Levenril, he ascended one of the thick
towers flanking the South Gate. There he met up with a group of generals and
other officers. This tower had become the center of command. When Giorn
arrived, all those gathered were staring out at the oncoming horde.

He hobbled to the parapet. The
rolling fields south of the city were dark, but a greater darkness rolled over
them, shielded from stars and moon by the black clouds over Vrulug’s host. It
was as if Giorn were staring into the Void itself, hungry and devouring, and
coming closer, like a great black maw opening, and here he was, unable to flee,
a fly trapped in amber, like something out of a nightmare.

And from the darkness came
drumming, steady, rhythmic, like the throb of some monstrous heart. BOOM. BOOM.
BOOM.

He swore. At the sound, the others
turned to him.

“Giorn Wesrain!”

“It can’t be!”

Giorn waited for the expected
confusion to run its course, then smiled grimly and said, “Well met, friends. I’m
back. Raugst is gone and I have taken his place.” He nodded to General
Levenril, who handed him the crown. Giorn took a deep breath, then shoved the
crown onto his head. It was heavier than he had expected. “For now, I’m King. I
won’t hold the office, but I do hope to preserve it.”

The officers stared at him, jaws
open. Then one dropped to his knees. Another followed, then another. Soon all
knelt to Giorn save for two generals in the rear, who hunched their backs.

“Where’s Raugst?” one demanded.

Giorn gestured to the soldiers that
had accompanied him into the tower. “Seize those two.”

The soldiers obeyed and in moments
the two struggling generals were cornered. One of them tried to change shapes,
becoming something wolf-like and monstrous, but he was cut down and dismembered
before he could complete his transformation. The other tried to leap out the
window, perhaps meaning to fly away, but a soldier, unnerved by the first
general’s transformation, hacked halfway through his head and the creature fell
unmoving to the floor, brains and blood pooling about him.

The others in the tower muttered
fearfully in outrage and terror.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“What
were
they?”

“What they
were
doesn’t matter. They
are
dead,” Giorn said firmly. “And so shall the others be.” He turned to General
Levenril. “You have the list of names Raugst drew up for us. I need for you to
find all those that he appointed and remove them. I don’t know if all of them
are demons or not, but if they put up a resistance slay them. Dismember them. Burn
the bodies.”

“Aye, my lord.” The general took a
last look at the half-changed thing on the floor, made a sign to ward off evil,
and departed.

Giorn ordered the soldiers to
remove to two dead ones and instructed them to burn the corpses. The soldiers
were loath to touch the one that had attempted to change, but they carried out their
new lord’s orders.

Giorn turned to the gathering. “Who
here represents the royal forces?”
“I do, my lord,” said a short, broad man with a full black beard. “I’m General
Miled, Lord Ulea’s chief general.”

“Well met, General Miled. Will you
accept my direction until this crisis is over?”

The general glanced at the
bloodstains on the floor, swallowed, and nodded. “I will, my lord.”

“Good.” They clasped wrists. “Now,”
said Giorn, “what we need is to break Vrulug’s momentum. He’s almost near enough
now to unleash his gaurocks, and without our priestesses to aid us they will
surely breach the wall. We can’t prevent that, but we may be able to delay it.”

Quickly, he outlined what he would
do. Over his words came the incessant pounding of the Borchstog war drums,
coming closer and closer and closer, almost seeming to shake the room. Giorn
left the officers under the direction of General Miled, gathered to him three
thousand riders in the great square before the South Gate, made his plans, and
issued forth.

With a horse beneath him and the
wind in his hair, Giorn rode out. He could see the endless ranks of the
Borchstogs ahead, with the great dark shapes of the gaurocks among them,
slithering along at amazing speed. The behemoths wore iron helms on their heads
with long iron spikes jutting forward. When Vrulug gave the order, the Serpents
would charge forward and ram the walls with their iron spikes, just as they had
at Hielsly. The impact would disorient and perhaps kill the creatures, but if
they were successful the wall would be breached and Vrulug’s hordes could pour
in through the gaps. Normally the priestesses could help counter these threats,
but until the Moonstone was destroyed they were all but useless.

You
will not end us
, Giorn thought, watching the ravenous hordes close in.
There will be no Age of Grandeur for you.

At the forefront of a V formation,
he led his men forward in a rush. The Borchstogs’ red eyes narrowed as Giorn’s
company neared, and many lowered their spears to rebuff the mounted men. Riders
of Thiersgald were well-trained, though, as were their horses, and Giorn gritted
his teeth and pressed forward.

Arrows streaked out, and he lifted
his shield high, using his right arm to manipulate it. He still had a thumb and
a palm and could grip the strap. Arrows thunked into the wood, but none got
through. His horse cried out but kept going. A glance told him that his mount
had been struck in the flank.

The line of spears shot toward him.
Giorn hunkered low and trusted to the horse’s training. The animal leapt high,
through the line of spears, and Giorn knocked aside spear-points with his
sword, as he had been trained to do.