The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (13 page)

Niara was tempted to take him up on
his offer, but if the general gave her his men and Raugst was planning an
ambush then he would only increase the number of ambushers by that amount.
Also, and somewhat perversely, Niara would not show weakness before him. None
of the other generals protested the arrangement. Priestesses of Illiana were
known as mighty warriors and terrible foes of Oslog; they could handle
themselves, and in territory that had already been scouted there was really
very little danger in any case. Certainly none would dare question the judgment
of the High Priestess.

“I’ll be fine,” Niara said. Then,
to Hiatha: “Come.”

She nodded farewell to Lisilli,
clicked her tongue, and her horse trotted forward. Hiatha followed close
behind.

“May the Light guide you,” Raugst
called at their backs.

“Are you quite sure about this?”
Hiatha asked in a whisper, when they were some distance away.

Niara kept her eyes forward. “Certainly.
Beside, it’s either this or trust Raugst’s scouts.”
May the Omkar be kind, and Raugst be slow.

She led the way up into the hills,
then the mountain, and the wind grew louder and stronger. Grass waved like a
live thing, then thinned. The land turned rockier, the trees scrubbier and more
gnarled. They passed the ruins of a small town and saw that nothing was left
but crumbling lines of mortared stone, grass growing up between them. In the
distance, upon the peak, the ruins of an old castle stood out, now black and
covered in weeds, its towers broken and ugly.

“There it is,” she said. “Maddar
Keep. This town was one of Duke Madrast’s villages, put to the torch by Duke Celborne
long ago.”

Niara paused on a particular crest,
surrounded by boulders, with a trail leading between lichen-covered stones up
to Maddar Keep. She could hear the wind howling through its broken towers, and
indeed the wind sounded like screaming.
It’s
just the wind.

She turned to look back at the Vale
of Irrys and at the army gathered at its head. The soldiers seemed tiny from
here, ants, a sea of stars, their shields and helms flashing under the sun. It
was almost painful to look upon.

“What do you think Raugst plans?”
Hiatha asked.

“I don’t know. But it won’t be
good. I just know he can’t mean to save Ielgad. Why would he?”

“He’s a demon.” Hiatha wrinkled her
face in disgust.

“Don’t worry, we’ll deal with him
soon enough. I just pray it won’t be too—wait, what’s this?”

Both women strained their eyes,
staring down at the army. The bright sea of shields and helms was surging
forward, sweeping into the vale.

Niara felt the blood drain from her
face. “They’re going in . . .”

“But we never sent word!”

Niara struggled to overcome her
shock. “We must hurry.” It had taken them hours to reach this point. Hopefully
they could find a quicker way down.

She set off, guiding her horse down
around an outcropping of rock, through a stretch of twisted, stunted trees
whose roots and limbs seemed to grasp at her face and her horse’s hooves. It
was slow going, but it seemed a more direct way down into the valley.

Suddenly the hairs on the nape of
her neck stood up. A coldness swept her. And a smell—a faint, acrid odor—

“Borchstogs!” she said.

She drew rein. Too late. A crossbow
bolt whizzed out of the darkness of the gnarled forest. Hiatha’s mare screamed,
and blood spurted from its neck. It crashed to the ground, and Hiatha just
barely managed to throw herself clear in time.

Borchstogs rushed out of the
shadows wielding long, curved swords. The creatures were tall and strong and
dark, seemingly apart of the shadows they emerged from, but their eyes burned
red, and hate filled them. Niara could not tell how many of them there were,
but she guessed it was a small band, no more than a score. They had likely been
camping in Maddar Keep. The screams she had heard might have been their
prisoners.

Black hands grabbed her leg and
tried to haul her off her horse.

“Get your claws off me!” she
yelled. She took a breath, summoned the light within her, and laid her own
hands on this Borchstog’s head. Her hands glowed white, and the Borchstog
screamed. The demon fell away, smoke trailing from its head.

Two more replaced it.

She stabbed her hand toward one,
and light shot out of her flesh and lanced the Borchstog through the chest. The
beam bore a hole through the demon, and it fell without a sound. With a
grimace, Niara burned off the second one’s head.

The others drew back. “
Un oscrid-Hur
,” they murmured.

“Get on!” Niara said, patting the
saddle behind her.

Hiatha climbed on. She was chanting
to herself and stroking the small white jewel she wore about her neck; it began
to glow.

Niara spurred her horse and it barreled
forward, riding down a pair of Borchstogs. A crossbow bolt whizzed by her ear. She
ducked. Hiatha screamed. Niara felt the other priestess’s hand, which had been gripped
around Niara’s waist, drop away.

“No! Hiatha, stay with me.” She
reached back and grabbed the hand.

To her great relief, the hand
squeezed back.

“Just a graze . . .” Hiatha said,
but her voice was weak, as was the pressure on Niara’s hand.

“Use the jewel,” Niara said. “Heal
yourself.”

“I’m . . . trying . . .”

All of the priestesses of the
highest circle carried jewels or various artifacts infused with power from elvish
allies. It took years of training to learn how to wield such tools, but Hiatha
had possessed hers for quite some time. Usually Niara and her priestesses only
used them to heal, but in times of war they could be great weapons.

Hiatha chanted to herself, the
words a ragged whisper in Niara’s ear. Slowly Hiatha’s grip grew tighter, her words
louder and steadier.

Meanwhile, Niara guided her horse
down. She passed through another ruined village likely put to the torch by Duke
Celborne long ago. Borchstogs howled behind her. They blew horns alerting others
of their kind, and soon Niara heard horns before her.

She veered in the other direction. Tree
limbs whipped at her face, and roots stretched for her horse’s legs. Blood
pounded in her ears. All of her attention focused on the way ahead, on
navigating a path through the tight forest. Afoot it would have been easier,
but slower. Her horse was both blessing and curse.

At last she rode out of the forest
and down a steep incline that was all of rock. Her horse’s hooves scraped and
clattered. Slipped.

Niara leaned back, pressing into
Hiatha behind her; they helped balance the horse. It recovered its footing and
plowed on.

They plunged into another forest. The
trees here rose taller, fuller, and the space between them was greater. Niara
made her way swiftly.

Sounds behind her.
ClompClompClomp.

She turned to see a dozen
Borchstogs on horses following her. They howled and called encouragements to
each other in Oslogon.

“I’ll deal with them,” Hiatha said,
turning in her seat. Niara heard more chanting, then felt a flash of power, of
Grace. The shadows ahead of her disappeared as an explosion of light came from
behind. The Borchstogs screamed, and the light faded.

Niara hunkered low, pressing her
thighs tightly into the mare’s flanks. Her whole body vibrated with the steady
rhythm of the impacting hooves.

Behind her Hiatha kept chanting,
kept using her jewel to counter the Borchstogs. Their screams and curses began
to grow fainter and farther away.

Niara rode on. At last she decided
that they were not being pursued any further and slowed her steed’s momentum so
that it would not smash into a tree or fly over a cliff. Besides, she knew it
could not keep up that pace for long. Already its sides were lathered in sweat.
Her thighs were sore from pressing against its flanks.

At one point they reached a jutting
protrusion of rock that overlooked the vale. A huge storm of dust from the
army’s horses billowed up, obscuring events for a moment. Then a gust of wind
whistled through, and Niara gasped in horror. Borchstogs in the high ground on
either side of the vale were triggering avalanches and raining down thousands
of arrows. The sun was bright to the west, and Niara knew it must pain the
Borchstogs, but they fought on. Looking closely, she thought she saw leather
visors on the archers’ heads. Not that they needed to aim with particular care,
of course. The whole valley was choked with Fiarthans. It would be hard to miss
hitting one.

“Illiana help us,” she whispered.

“We’re being butchered.”

“We must hurry.”

Even as she renewed her trek, she
wondered what use she could be. There were so
many
. . . Ielgad must have already fallen.

Eventually they descended enough
that she could hear the screams and crashings of the slaughter. When next she
rode along an overhang, she peered down into the conflict to see that a Borchstog-triggered
avalanche had sealed the pass to the fore. The army was being forced back the
way they had come. Their sea of shields and helms was not so bright anymore, as
everything was coated in dust and blood. There were so few of them left! Niara
tried not to despair, but it proved difficult.

She rode down an incline and into
the corpse-covered Vale of Irrys. Dust rose like living clouds all around her,
billowing and swaying, revealing and then hiding the fly-covered mounds of dead
bodies, horse and man alike. Hiatha sobbed. Niara prayed silently.

She rode through the carnage,
passing a stream choked with bodies. It might well have been the stream where
Duke Madrast saw Eria for the first time. If not for that fateful encounter,
this vale would still be guarded, and this massacre would not have come to
pass.

Coming out of the vale, Niara and
Hiatha followed in the wake of the army. The sun slipped behind the mountains,
but Niara didn’t need much light to follow the trail of blood and trampled
earth. She pressed over a rise and saw them, all the brave soldiers, fleeing
over the rolling plain.

“Borchstogs!” Hiatha said. “They’re
coming down from the hills!”

Niara craned her head. Hordes of
the demons poured down from the highlands to pursue the retreating army. Niara
summoned the Light within her and channeled it into her horse, giving it
stamina—speed. They must hurry, or they would be overrun.

And night was falling.

The riders flanked the infantrymen, not willing to leave
them behind. Niara was heartened to see that. The riders had slackened their
pace anyway, for with the onset of darkness their horses had to pick their way
more carefully. Fortunately the rolling plain provided easy riding.

Niara summoned what little strength
she had left and forced herself to glow, enabling her horse to see where it
went. She gained on the army and at last threaded through the battle-weary
soldiers. They gave way before her, marveling at her shining presence. Many
made signs in praise of Illiana, assuming it was the goddess’s might at work
instead of Niara’s elvish heritage. She did not correct them. All Grace came
from the Omkar at any rate.

She came upon Raugst on his black
charger, riding at the head of the procession in the company of his generals. He
looked as weary and dusty as any of them, but when she looked more closely at
him she thought she detected the merest hint of self-satisfaction.

Niara, though considerably tired
from using her abilities, nevertheless maintained her glow as she rode into
Raugst’s presence.

It had the desired effect. He
looked at her, startled, his wolvish face caught by the light. He mashed his
eyes shut and turned away. She was very tempted to act against him in that
moment, but she was too weak and the generals and troops would take it the
wrong way. Most of them did not know the truth behind Raugst’s human façade,
and they would think her an assassin and strike her down. She would have done
it anyway, accepting her fate, but she was too weak to deliver a killing blast.
Soon, though
.

Her light faded, and darkness once
more draped the land. Niara sagged, exhausted. She blinked her eyes, trying to
adjust to the uncertain light.

“So,” Raugst said, “you made it
back. We were concerned.”

Straining her eyes, she peered
about. “Where’s Lisilli?”

Raugst, now just a dim shape in the
darkness, seemed to shake his head. “Alas, she didn’t make it. A boulder, I
think it was, tumbled from the cliffs. Truly tragic.”

“She died bravely,” said one of the
generals, Niara thought it was one of Raugst’s. “A worthy end.”

“So it is,” Raugst agreed.

“Indeed.”

Niara glowered, seething in anger,
and it
was
anger she felt, more than
sadness, though she felt that too. Lisilli had been a friend, one of her most
trusted confidants, and a powerful and noble wielder of the light.

“May she find the Lights of
Sifril,” she murmured.

“May it be so,” Hiatha agreed. “Would
that we could retake the Vale and find her remains so that we could give her a
proper entombment.”

“Alas, we cannot,” Raugst said. “Even
now the enemy will be on our heels.”

“What is your plan, then?” Niara
demanded.
Or have you already
accomplished it?

“To reach Hasitlan. There we will
turn and face them.”

“Aye,” said one of the generals. “It’s
our only option. There’s no defensible land between here and the city.”

Niara could see better now, and she
swept her gaze over the generals. “Where is General Havlin?” But she already
knew.

“He, too, fell,” said Raugst. “So
many did. We must have lost at least half the company.”

Niara’s heart wrenched.