The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (28 page)

Stammering, not sure what to think,
Niara said, “N-no. I . . .”

Saria laughed. She turned to
Raugst, seeming to forget Niara instantly. “By the way, you should know that
one of your prisoners escaped. A duke, I think he was. A shame, really. There
were so few other prisoners for me to take.”

“Duke Yfrin?” Niara had been at the
doorway, but she turned back. “Is that who it was?”

“Perhaps. Does it matter?”

Niara lowered her head, not wanting
to meet the other’s questioning glance. “No.”

She left the room, but not before
turning back one final time to see beautiful, wicked Saria glide across the
furs of Raugst’s room toward where he still stood on the terrace. She moved in
lithe, cat-like strides, a panther on the prowl. Raugst seemed to tremble as
she wrapped her arms about him and pressed her head to his chest. Then she
turned her face, very deliberately, toward Niara, and smiled.

Without anyone touching it, the
door slammed shut in Niara’s face.

Niara did not see Fria as she left the corridor, but Fria
saw her.

The baroness’s eyes widened and she
felt the breath catch in her throat. Startled, she withdrew into an alcove as
Niara passed by. The priestess’s head hung down, obviously in preoccupation. Heart
racing, Fria watched her go. What had she just seen? Fria had come to visit
Raugst after she’d learned of his return to negotiate a new place for herself
in the castle, but had hesitated when she heard voices beyond the doorway. She
had expected anything but Niara emerging.

What could it mean? Surely the High
Mother had not,
would
not . . . It
was a thought too horrible to entertain. Yet what else could it mean? Niara had
no business with Raugst. And after what Giorn had implied about what he’d seen
at the temple, Fria could only imagine one reason for a meeting between the
two.

How
could she?
She’s High Mother!
Could
Niara have been lying the whole time? Fria wondered if she had been
right
to throw the bitch in the dungeon.
And to think Fria had cried about it to Giorn and begged his forgiveness!

She realized she was shaking. She
certainly wasn’t in any condition to visit Raugst any longer. She waited in the
darkness, giving Niara enough time to make good her exit, then emerged and
descended from the Tower of the Baron. Fria would not be wanted in her marriage
bed, not anymore—not that she would have accepted her place there in any event.
Besides, it was soiled now.

Fria thought of Kragt. He would come
for her, she believed. He wanted her, and she had roused his interest in the
feasting chamber. She didn’t think he would take her—Raugst’s wife— without her
leave, and so she did not fear him. Could she turn the situation to her
advantage? Kragt would make an excellent tool to use against Raugst, that was
certain, and Raugst’s destruction was the reason she’d remained behind.

Still shaky, Fria made her way to
her old bedchambers and flung herself on the bed. She struggled to keep the
tears at bay, but there was so much inside her, so much anger, so much fear, so
much sadness, that they burst out despite her best efforts. Niara had been all
but a mother to her, and Fria loved her dearly. Must she now add the priestess
to her list of enemies? It was unbearable. Not only was her beloved Raugst an
agent of the Enemy, not only was he surrounded and supported by his lackeys,
now he had the support of the
High
Priestess
.

With an overwhelming feeling of
horror, Fria realized it was up to her to kill them all.

Raugst stared down at Saria in his arms.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

She was all big eyes and pouting
lips. He could see how Orin might have been deceived. And back then she would
have been . . . different. Mortal. Perhaps even honestly conflicted.

“Only seeking protection in your
big, strong arms,” she said, snuggling closer.

He said nothing. Though her
appearance seemed innocent, her words were all mockery.

“And they
are
strong, aren’t they?” she continued. “Strong—and loyal. These
are arms that serve the One. Yes?”

He tried pushing her away gently,
but she was as iron. “Yes,” he choked.

Her arms drew tighter about him. “Truly?”

“Yes,” he said. He could barely
draw breath.

Her arms drew even more
unyieldingly about him. His ribs ached. Wheezing, he said, “What—?”

She hugged him, and he felt
something begin to crack in his chest. He struggled against her, pushing,
wrestling, at last, in desperation, about to hit her, knowing it would be
futile—

She stepped away, and her eyes were
shards of green ice. “That was to show you who is master here. Your body is big
and strong, Raugst, but that’s because the Master gave it to you. It is your
soul that matters.
My
soul is
stronger.
I
am deeper in the councils
of the One.”

Touching his tender ribs, he
scowled. “What gives you the right to be stronger?
I
was born in Oslog. I am
of
it. You’re from here—an enemy.”

She smiled, and he had to admit it
was a seductive smile. “I was,” she admitted. “Then I found our lord, great
Vrulug, ruler of ancient Ulastrog. I did not come willing to his bed, I admit—but
was taken, dragged to his palace against my will, even while I was betrothed to
Orin. Beautiful Orin . . .” She sounded almost sad. “But I learned his ways,
Vrulug’s ways, and I
embraced
them. I
accepted the ways of Oslog willingly, I wasn’t raised to them. You were never
given a choice, Raugst. I
chose
this
life, and I sacrificed my own beloved and my own people to keep it. And so, in
a way, my devotion is the greater.”

She stepped back, and the wind
whispered over the terrace. The eastern horizon grew red with blood. He
wondered if it made her thirst, or if the few prisoners in his dungeon had
slaked it for the nonce. He touched his fingers to his ribs and looked at them.
No blood.

“You needn’t have done that,” he
said, lumbering toward her. “I didn’t need a reminder.”

“Yes, you did.” She returned her
attention to the panorama of Thiersgald. “It
is
a pretty city.”

“Yes.”

“It will be prettier still when we
have taken it, when monuments to the Great One stand in the courtyards and the
bodies of His enemies rot at their bases. Ancient Ulastrog will rise once
more.”

“That does sound glorious. But only
if my plan is achieved and we bring the Crescent down entire, and the Age of
Grandeur begins. Otherwise our efforts would have been mere table dressing.”

“It is an interesting thing, this
plan of yours. To install yourself as King of Felgrad. How will you accomplish
it?”

“I have my way.”

“Is this Moon-witch whore part of
it?”

“No,” he said.

“Then why was she in your room? What
is she to you?”

“Nothing. Only my private jest, to
corrupt a daughter of the Moon.”

“You will stop seeing her.”

“I will not.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You will
obey me.”

“We shall see.”

Amusement touched her lips. Raugst
became aware of two figures emerging from the shadows of the room to either
side of her. Suddenly cold, he stared. They were the tall, charred
corpse-things Vrulug used for his personal guard. Raugst wasn’t sure if the
shadows clung to them, or if they clung to the shadows, but either way they
seemed part of them. The creatures gave off a chill, and their eye sockets
plunged through black holes into the Abyss.

“My lord has given the Twain to me,
to use as I see fit,” Saria said. “Cross me and you will regret it.”

The creatures stepped forward, and
the sweat on Raugst’s forehead turned to ice. They were
cold
.

“So,” Saria said, “you will stop
seeing the whore?”

Raugst nodded.

The Twain melted back into the
shadows. He had no doubt Saria could recall them at will, however, noting her
stroke a black jewel set in a golden ring on her finger.

“They’ll keep an eye on you,” she
told him.

He sighed, trying to affect weary
patience. “You needn’t doubt me, Lady. I don’t know why Lord Vrulug sent you
with me.”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

She nodded slowly. “We shall see. You
have two weeks.”

“What do you mean?”

“It will take my lord two weeks to
rebuild the bridge over the Pit of Eresine. Then he can bring his full might
across the gorge and conquer Felgrad through main force. He will not need the
likes of you. But . . . if you can become king of Felgrad before then . . . if
you can make Felgrad a tool of the One . . . he will spare it.”
“Two weeks to usurp the king . . .” He shook his head. “It’s not enough time.”

“Then Felgrad will fall.” She did
not seem to care.

He moved to the doorway, his ribs
still aching. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said.

“Where are you going?”

He forced a laugh. “I have a city
to save, remember.”

Giorn paused as he reached a crest and turned back to take
in the sight of Thiersgald, his home, laid out upon the plain, just now
receiving the first faint rosy light of dawn. Its domes and rooftops gleamed,
and the rivers that cut through it sparkled molten red. The sight touched him,
as always, and he tried to ignore the Borchstog army that befouled it. Thankfully,
with the coming of the sun, the creatures were retreating inside their tents. Only
a few hardy sentries would keep watch while the others slept. Even the screams
of the Borchstogs’ victims had faded.

“Would that I had my army,” Giorn
mused. “Now would be the perfect time to strike.”

At his side, Duke Dalic Yfrin
nodded. “Don’t think of what could be, lad. Think of what will be.”

Slowly, Giorn regarded the duke. “Are
you sure you’re up to this, Uncle? It’s no shame to back out. I can escort you
to your home and go my own way from there.”

The older man seemed to sink within
himself, thinking. At last he shook himself, sort of smiled, and said, “No, I
will see this through with you, my boy.” He glared at the Borchstog army,
coughed up some spittle and spat in their direction. “Death to the Enemy!”

Grinning, Giorn spat likewise. “Death
indeed.”

He saw a stirring. Dalic turned to
look, too. It was a great, glittering mass of soldiery sweeping out from the
North Gate. The Borchstogs were camped near the South . . .

“What’s this?” Giorn asked.

The host of men circled around the
great wall of Thiersgald, coming upon the Borchstogs unexpectedly. The
Borchstogs had obviously thought an attack would come from the South Gate, not the North. As well, the sun
disoriented them. The men were rushing down upon them when they were weak and
tired and hiding in their tents.

Raugst was attacking, Giorn
realized. The demon was attacking
his own
side
. Giorn and Dalic stared in amazement as the mass of men formed a wedge
and drove deep into Vrulug’s camp, scattering and slaying the invaders. They
set fire to the tents, inciting panic, and prevented the Borchstogs from
reaching their horses and murmeksa, then scattered the mounts and glarums,
causing more chaos. The Borchstogs fought back, but they had fallen into
disarray. Giorn watched as dust rose to obscure the action, and minutes gave
way to hours, and mounds of bodies littered the ground. Giorn and Dalic watched
it all, transfixed. At last a horn called out, great and low, and Vrulug’s host
. . .
fell back
. The Borchstogs fled
Thiersgald, with Raugst’s men chasing them over the hills.

“I don’t believe it,” Dalic
whispered.

“This is it,” Giorn said. “This is
part of what Raugst planned.”

“What do you mean? He saved the
city!”

“No. He’s up to something, just as
Fria said. Remember, she said he had a way to cause even more damage to the
Crescent. That’s what he went to confer with Vrulug about. Vrulug has the
Moonstone, remember. He could have destroyed Raugst and his men—if he wanted
to. For some reason he didn’t. This battle was all a show.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. But now Raugst
controls the city, and he will be thought a hero even more than before.” The
idea infuriated Giorn. “Come. Thiersgald is Raugst’s. We can’t return, not until
I’m well and we have some men to support us. Perhaps then we can stage a coup.”

“Let us hurry. There will be
scattered Borchstogs about, and they won’t be feeling friendly.”

Giorn continued west and north,
hobbling over the low hills, and Dalic walked with him. It only got hillier in
the direction they went, and with every step fire coursed up Giorn’s leg. If
only he could survive long enough to reach a hamlet, where a healer or
priestess might be able to aid him . . .

With the rising sun at their backs,
the two men picked their way through the low hills to freedom. With every
painful step, Giorn plotted Raugst’s downfall.

There was a great festival in Thiersgald that night, though
the city guard kept watch. At any moment Vrulug could return. But while the
soldiers stood on the blood-stained wall and stared out into the darkness, the
rest of the city celebrated. Thiersgald blazed with light. In every courtyard,
there was a bonfire, and over every one cooked a stag or a hog or a dozen
chickens. Each courtyard thronged with people—old men and boys, women of all ages.
Many were refugees. In every hand was a glass or a mug.

They all toasted Raugst. Again and
again, as he wandered the city atop his black horse, the people of Thiersgald
and the refugees that filled its streets and alleys lifted their glasses to him
and bellowed out their love and gratitude.