The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (27 page)

Blood spurted him in his eye. A
stream of crimson erupted from the soldier’s neck.

“Curse it!” Raugst said. “I’ve hit
his jugular.” The man sagged, dying, his lifeblood spraying the muddy ground. His
agonies were ending, instead of beginning. “Well, you get the idea,” he said to
the Borchstogs, shoving the knife back into its owner’s hands.

The demons cursed him as he walked
away.

Vrulug emerged from his high, sharp
tent and approached Raugst. Smiling hideously, he bowed slightly, and Raugst
returned the gesture, wiping the blood out of his eyes. Fear made his throat
dry. Was Vrulug smiling because Gilgaroth had accepted the plan or because
Vrulug would get the chance to torture a spy? Agents of the Great One loved little
more than torturing enemy agents.

“What says He?” Raugst asked,
hearing the raggedness in his voice.

Vrulug’s smile widened. He let the
suspense gather a moment longer, then let out a breath. “He says He appointed
me to lead this campaign and I can alter it how I see fit.”

“And so? What have you decided?”

Vrulug clapped him on the shoulder.
Raugst started. “You may do it,” the wolf-lord said. “I don’t know how you plan
to gather the support of the other barons and dukes, especially against their
beloved King, but if you can do what you say . . . it would be, ah,
amusing
.” His smile widened to show
sharp, slaver-coated teeth.

“Excellent.” The knot in Raugst’s
chest began to unwind. “There is a way you can help.” Quickly Raugst outlined
what he needed, and it wasn’t long before he had the papers he required.

“Thank you,” he said. “I will make
you proud.”

“I have no doubt.” Vrulug gestured
to a comely young woman in chains being ushered toward Vrulug’s tent. “Would
you like to amuse yourself before you return? It’s a while still to daybreak.”

Raugst shook his head, half
smiling. “I’d best get back. With the battle over, I’ll be expected to oversee
the clean-up.”

Now doubt did touch Vrulug’s eyes. The
claw that lay on Raugst’s shoulder tightened, drawing blood. His dark eyes bore
deep into Raugst, and the wolf-lord’s nostrils widened, as if trying to actually
smell deceit.

“Are you sure?” he said, his voice
unnaturally mild. “If not a girl, then a boy, perhaps?”

Raugst glanced at the girl. Her
eyes were red with tears, and her shoulders hitched. Still, she had not been
used too terribly. It was obvious that she had been saved for Vrulug. She was
beautiful. Perhaps . . .

“No time,” Raugst said. “If I don’t
return, my people will get suspicious.”

“
Your
people?” That look of doubt intensified. “Are
we
not your people?”

Raugst cursed himself. “Of course,
my lord. You know that’s not what I meant. I suppose I’m letting this whole
notion of being king affect me.” He laughed at himself.

“Yes,” Vrulug said, but he said the
word very slowly.

Raugst tried to look as indifferent
as he could.

Wind hissed and sighed. Tents
flapped. Women wailed, and Borchstogs grunted rhythmically. Men on poles
screamed.

“You know,” said Vrulug at last, “I
think it might be wise for one of
my
people to go with you. To help you out, as it were.”

Raugst tried to hide his dismay. “I’m
quite capable of handling things on my own, I assure you.”

“Oh, I have no doubt. But you never
know when an extra pair of hands can come in handy.”

“Truly, I—”

“
No
.” Vrulug’s voice brooked no argument. The laughter was gone. “You
will accept one of my lieutenants into your fold, and he or she will speak
directly for me, even if that means countermanding your own orders.” He flicked
his dark eyes to the men Raugst had brought with him, making sure they
understood the ramifications of this. Nervously, their gazes going from Vrulug
to Raugst, they nodded.

Vrulug withdrew.

Raugst scowled at his men, finding
that they couldn’t meet his gaze. Nevertheless, they did not seem about to cow
to him, either, which in itself was disturbing.

Presently Vrulug returned, at his
side what appeared to be a human woman, tall and beautiful, with long black
hair and green eyes, clad in exotic clothes that seemed composed in large part
of sparkling green scales, though Raugst could see this was just a trick of her
tailor.

She curtsied to him. “It’s been
awhile,” she said, almost purring.

“So it has,” he agreed, inclining
his head.
Saria! Omkar damn me!
She
was nearly as powerful as Vrulug.

“Saria will accompany you,” Vrulug
said. “She’ll merely be an observer unless the time comes when she must step
forward. When that happens, she acts on
my
behalf.” He lowered his long, wolvish head, letting his eyes bore deeply into
Raugst’s. “Act wisely, dear friend.”

Raugst tried to swallow, but the
spittle would not go past the knot in his throat.

Chapter
17

The scuffle of footsteps echoed loudly in the tight confines
of the catacombs, and they were all Giorn could hear, save his labored
breathing and the tap of his cane.

“What’s this?” he asked.

They’d come to a squat hall with
rooms to either side. These had been empty rooms when Giorn had left, but now
he saw tombs on each side. Feeling something tear in his heart, he limped into
one room and stood over the stone-carved sarcophagus, fashioned to resemble a
bearded warrior king—Harin Wesrain, as he had been years ago. Though the
representation was idealized, and Harin in life had not been particularly
war-like, Giorn recognized him instantly.

“Father . . .”

He ran his unmaimed hand over the
tomb, patting his father’s chest.

Fria came up beside him. “It was a
lovely funeral. Niara sang The Passage to Sifril. It . . . was most beautiful.”

“I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Neither can I.”

Giorn forced himself to cross the
hallway and enter the next tomb, going slowly, his footsteps seeming to echo
forever. He moved to Meril’s sarcophagus and stared down at the chiseled
representation of his brother—flat and lifeless, he thought, devoid of the
devilish charm Meril had evinced in life. Yet it was him. There were his
chubby, babyish cheeks, there his full lips, his strong jaw, wavy hair.

“Meril . . .” Giorn laid his
forehead against the representation of his brother’s. It was disconcerting to
realize that Meril’s real forehead would be gray and rotting just inches
beneath the lid. “I’m sorry.” How could their last words have been in anger?
And because of Raugst.

For a time, he stood there, staring
down at the sarcophagus, but then he noted Fria’s absence and turned to see her
silhouetted against the doorway.

“Won’t you come in?”

She shook her head. “I can’t.” Her
voice was thick. “He abandoned us, Gi. Abandoned Fiarth.” In a quieter voice,
half to herself, she said, “
Craven
.”

He hadn’t the time to explain to
her what must have really happened. He could not believe his brother would have
taken his own life, but Raugst had all the motive in the world. Sighing, he bid
Meril farewell and returned to the hallway. Time to go.

A secret passage connected the
catacombs to the castle’s dungeon, so Giorn was able to avoid the guards that
Raugst had surely posted at the entrance to the dungeon level. Giorn had
expected to find the cells teeming with dissenters, as it was always the way of
tyrants to populate their dungeons vigorously, but to his surprise the place
was largely empty. For some reason, this made Giorn hate Raugst all the more. The
traitor had the love of the people.

Fria must have seen his expression,
for she squeezed his arm. “He’s put on a good show, that’s all. Made the people
think he’s one of them.”

Giorn hobbled along on his cane,
wincing at every step. He said nothing.

“Don’t worry, Gi. We’ll find a way
to end him.”

He smiled humorlessly. “Oh, I’ve
thought of many ways. It’s just about all I can think of.”

She looked at him strangely and
said no more. She had seemed subdued since her foray into the castle.

Shortly they reached the cell of
Duke Yfrin at the end of a dank hallway, near a small, barred window. This was
about as good as conditions in the royal dungeons went—relative privacy and
natural light, even a view of the grounds if one strained one’s neck. Giorn
found the Duke drowsing in a corner, and Giorn smiled, this time with warmth. The
Duke looked rested and healthy, with a white, bushy head of hair and beard, and
a nose red from too much drink over the years.

Giorn cleared his throat.

The Duke blinked his eyes and
glanced up blankly. When he recognized Giorn, he exclaimed with surprise and
climbed to his feet.

“It cannot be! Look at you!” He
crossed to the bars and gripped them with pudgy hands. “What did they
do
to you, lad?”

“There’s no time to tell, my
friend. We must get you out of here.” When Fria had gone to fetch the cane, she
had also retrieved her set of the dungeon keys, passed on by Meril, and given
them to Giorn. Now Giorn produced the keys and shook them before the duke’s
widening eyes.

“Could it be that I’m still
dreaming?” said Yfrin.

“If so, don’t wake up. We’re on the
verge of getting out of here.”

Giorn unlocked the door, and Duke
Yfrin wrapped him in a tight hug, then embraced Fria. Even Fria’s handmaiden
got a kiss on the hand, which made her blush prettily. The Duke laughed.

“Shh,” Giorn said, putting the
stump of a finger to his lips. “We can’t let them hear us.”

The Duke’s expression fell, his
gaze settling on the finger. “What
did
they do to you?”

“Never mind. We must hurry.”

“You mean
he’s
still in charge?” When Giorn nodded, Yfrin slumped. “When you
showed up, I thought . . . but no matter. I’m sure there’s still hope.”

“There is. Some of it depends on
you.”

“How my I help, my lord?”

“We must go to your home. We’ll go
through the secret tunnels and leave the city—it’s under siege—then make our
way afoot until we can find mounts somewhere. Fria’s supplied me with some
gold, so that shouldn’t be insurmountable, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

Duke Yfrin’s enthusiasm visibly waned.
“Afoot, and you with a cane . . .” He stared at Giorn’s shattered leg. “It’s
still
bleeding
. . .”

Yes,
and it burns like fire.
The medicines the nurses had given Giorn had made
the pain bearable, but no more. “I know. The situation is less than ideal. Nevertheless
. . .”

“Gi’s right,” Fria said. “You can’t
stay here. You must get out of the city and rally the nobles against Raugst.”

“It’s the only way,” Giorn said.

“I wish I could give you horses,”
Fria said.

“The tunnels won’t accommodate
them.”

She nodded, then kissed his cheek. “Are
you sure you’ll be all right?”

Giorn smiled. “It has to be safer
than staying here. I need time to heal and gather supporters.” He paused. “Are
you certain you wish to stay? It won’t be safe now that Raugst has revealed
himself to you. And should the city fall . . .”

She looked down, and he saw the
telltale glimmer as tears coursed down her cheeks, but she did not make a
sound, nor did she let him see her face. A brave young woman, he realized.

“I’m sure,” she said. “It’s the
only way for me. Someone must keep an eye on him, and perhaps, if the
opportunity arises . . .”

“Don’t get yourself killed doing
it. I want to have some family to come back to when this is all over, and
you’re all there is.”

“
I
am still your uncle,” Duke Yfrin said.

 
“That you are,” Giorn agreed, heartened. “Now
come. It’s a long walk we have before us, and the tunnels may not be as empty
as we would like. We must have our wits about us, and our arms.” He patted the
sword at his waist and the dagger at his chest.

At the cue, Fria pressed a sword
and dagger on the duke, and he stared at them dumbly, almost as though he’d
forgotten what they were, but then he shook himself and strapped them on.

“It’s been awhile,” he muttered,
“but I’m sure it will come back to me.”

“Hopefully you won’t need them,”
Fria said. Her eyes were clear now. Her left one stared upwards, as though in
prayer.

Giorn began hobbling back the way
he had come, and the others followed. Through the window, he had been hearing
the far-off but constant susurration of war, but now began to fade. Was the
battle drawing to a close?

He ground his teeth as a stab of
pain coursed up his right leg and kept going.

Niara looked at him levelly. “You did
what
?”

Framed against the stars, Raugst
was just a black shape on the terrace. The stars were beginning to fade as
light grew toward the east.

“It was the only way,” he said.

She rose from the couch and went to
him. The warm wind whispered over the balustrade and felt good against her
cheeks. Her robe danced. “The only way to
what
?”
she asked. “
To bring down the Crescent
?”
Fury rose in her. She wanted to beat at his chest, but that would only amuse
him.

Looking down on her, half-smirking,
he said, “Perhaps. But perhaps it will save the Crescent.” He turned and stared
toward the sun just thrusting over the eastern horizon. “Believe it or not,
Niara, it was the only way, the only thing I could say to Vrulug to make him
stop. Otherwise those Borchstogs would be sacking Thiersgald right now and the
rest of the Crescent not long after.”

Part of her anger dissipated. “Would
you . . . would you truly have opened the gates to them?”

He did not even hesitate. “Happily.
And I would have waited upon my throne for Vrulug to come to me. I would have
had you across my lap, naked and bleeding, and he would have come into the Throne
Room, him looking up at
me
for once
and . . .” He sighed, and she could hear his longing. “But that’s gone now, a
dream dead, slain by that kiss you gave me.” By the red light blooming to the
east, she could see the sadness in him.

“I certainly won’t apologize for
it,” she said. In a smaller voice, she added, “But perhaps I shouldn’t have
saved you from Giorn.”

He grabbed her shoulders roughly,
forcing her attention to return to him. His face pressed close to hers. “Had
you done that, girl, the city would have fallen. Giorn could not have dealt
with Vrulug.”

“No, but he would not have opened
the
gates
, either. He could have
rallied the soldiers and driven Vrulug away.”

“It would have been a hollow
victory, girl.”

“Do not call me
girl
.”

“It would have been hollow,” he
repeated. “When the bridge is rebuilt, and Vrulug’s main force comes up from
the south, Giorn could not have stopped them. But I can.”

“How? As
king
?”

Raugst leaned back. He looked weary.
“We shall see. I know King Ulea is a beloved figure in Felgrad, and he’s sent
me several messengers asking if I required his aid against Vrulug. I put him
off, of course. At the time, I didn’t want his help.”

“Naturally. But now you’re prepared
to kill him and take his place.”

“Don’t be cross. Sure, he seems a
good man, but I’ve killed many good men. However, this might be the first time
I’ve ever done so for the
cause
of
good men.” He smiled humorlessly.

“I can’t allow you to do it.”

“You have no say in the matter. And
as long as Saria hangs about my neck, neither do I. I must rid myself of her.”

Niara nodded grimly, recalling the
woman that had accompanied Raugst back to the castle. Even Raugst’s minions had
shown her deference, and fear.
Could she
be . . . ?
Surely not
. The name
must be just a coincidence. She couldn’t truly be Orin Feldred’s wife and
betrayer.

Tall and stately, Saria had seemed
like a queen, but there was something loathsome about her, too, something rank
just below the surface. Raugst had shown her to the quarters that would be hers—Giorn’s
old apartment in the tallest tower—where she had demanded that any prisoners he
had be brought to her for her to feed on. Niara had understood then: she was
rithlag
, a dead thing that needed to
steal the life from others in order to maintain her foothold in this world. Niara
wondered if Duke Yfrin was even then lying dead at the abomination’s feet,
drained and empty.

“How?” Niara asked. “How can you
rid yourself of her?”

Raugst frowned, rubbing his beard. It
was a very human gesture, and it encouraged her. Perhaps he was not too far
gone, after all.

At last he shrugged. “I’ll worry
about it when Thiersgald is safe.”

“So you mean to help us?”

“I would not say it if I did not.” In
a lower tone, he added, “Not to you.” Something gentle, or half gentle, came
into his eyes, and he reached out to her and took her wrists in his large hands.
“You gave me mastery of myself, girl.” This time she did not correct him. “I .
. . I thank you for it.”

He bent down and kissed her lips.
Giorn
, she thought.
Think of Giorn.
She pulled away.

“No,” she said, and it was almost a
choke.

Reluctantly, he let her go. Flushed
and shamed, she quit the terrace and retreated indoors.

 
“I must leave,” she said.

“Niara.”

She paused, hating herself for it,
and was about to turn around to face him when the door to Raugst’s chambers
swung open, and a tall, voluptuous form stood silhouetted in the doorway.

“Saria,” said Raugst.

“Raugst.” She entered the room
without asking, her black hair glimmering in the candlelight, set with ornate golden
pins that made the black waves sparkle. Her jade green eyes swept the room and
fixed on Niara, who shuddered.
How many
men did she feed from?
Niara fancied she could smell the stench of blood
coming off the woman—the
thing
. Saria
looked very healthy, and roses blossomed on her cheeks. Her lips were very red.

“Niara,” she said. “I’ve been told
about you. Interesting to find a priestess of the Moon-witch here, in the
bedchambers of our lord Raugst . . . .”

“She is mine,” Raugst growled. “Leave
her be.” To Niara, he added, “Go. You will have no trouble. I’ve already given
orders to the men.”

Warily, Niara circled around Saria,
who turned to watch her. The amused, mocking expression never left Saria’s
face.

“You don’t have to leave, dear,”
Saria said. “You can stay and . . . join us . . . in our games. I’m sure Raugst
wouldn’t mind.”