by Jack Conner
She considered this, but any way she looked at it, it made no sense. At last, she said, “True, I’ve aided Baron Wesrain in the past, and my sisters have as well. Priestesses often ride out with the host to combat forces of Oslog. But what could the likes of you want with us?”
“You have me all wrong, my dear. I want only what is in the best interests of Fiarth.”
“You’re up to something.”
“Then you had better come along with me to see to what it is I am up. Perhaps you can stop me.” The half-smile on his face spoke volumes.
She stared at him, honestly perplexed. He was acting more like a coy suitor trying to connive her into courtship than anything resembling what he truly was. It wasn’t until she tapped her chin that she realized how far she had let her composure slip. Quickly she gripped the arms of her chair and straightened. He wants me to go with him for some REASON. Some reason that benefits him and weakens us. Yet if I don’t go, the demon will be leading the host of the barony himself, without even my supervision. If I go with him, perhaps I can stop whatever he’s about. I certainly can’t do that if I don’t go. Of course, that sort of logic was just what he was counting on. Still, she saw nothing else for it.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll come.”
He bowed once more. “Fiarth is grateful. I will await you at the South Gate. We ride immediately.”
He spun about and quit the Audience Room, not waiting for her permission to leave, and she stared at the spot where he had gone. When he left the Temple, she felt it, as though someone had been stepping on her chest and then stepped off. This should have relaxed her, but it did not. Indeed, it seemed she still felt his taint on the air, lingering like a disease.
With a sigh, she stood to go.
She gave orders to two of her highest priestesses, Hiatha and Lisilli, who knew the truth about Raugst, and like her they set off to pack their things. In short order they rendezvoused at the stables, where they saddled up and set off through the wide streets of Thiersgald. It was a bright and sunny day, but Niara hardly registered it. She passed a cemetery and thought of Giorn. Was he truly dead? She often thought of him, and sometimes she stretched out her mind, trying to find him, or some echo of him. But he was either dead or beyond her ability to reach, perhaps in the Aragst Mountains themselves, or near them.
She tried not to dwell on him, on his soft caresses, his lingering kisses, the light in his eyes when he looked on her. He had seen her as a woman, not a goddess, not a holy creature, as most people of Thiersgald did. It was her elvish blood, she knew. In their eyes it made her divine, or all too near it. And sometimes, surrounded by them, she saw herself through their eyes—remote, cold, a being of Light and Grace, but not human. Certainly not womanly.
Giorn had. Now he was gone, beyond her sight. Could she see herself through his eyes even after he had departed? She would try. She would not be that cold and distant entity, that unhappy being on a pedestal. She would be herself, and proud.
Such were her thoughts as she rode through the South Gates and beheld the grand army of Fiarth, all twenty thousand soldiers—the riders on their horses, the infantrymen smoking and talking, the generals gathered about Raugst, who sat a black horse and surveyed his troops with an inscrutable gaze. Girls from the city were walking through the milling ranks of the troops, kissing the soldiers on the cheek and throwing wreaths of flowers about their necks. The new wives were in attendance, as well, and these shooed away the kissing girls from their new husbands.
Unsmiling, Niara led her two priestesses through the crowds and met up with Raugst and his generals.
“High Mother,” he called, swinging his steed around to face her. “You have come. Good.”
“I hope we have not kept you waiting.”
“Not at all. I see you’ve brought an escort.” He nodded to Hiatha and Lisilli, who met his eyes with stony glares.
“Does that pose a problem?” Niara knew that he would not gainsay her before his generals. They would have the proper respect. Although, looking at them, there were several she did not recognize. Had he placed his own kind among them, too?
“Of course not,” he said, waving the question aside. His eyes stared into hers, and she felt a shiver course through her. His eyes were those of a predator on the hunt, and she was his prey. But, and there could be no mistaking it now, it was not a meal that he sought. She would have been more comfortable if it were.
“Very well,” he said. “Since we are all gathered ...” He lifted his new horn, a lacquered black affair with a gold band about it, and blew a long, low note. Instantly the soldiers began to form ranks. “It’s time we were off. There are Borchstogs that wait to be blooded, and we shall not keep them.” He lifted his sword over his head. “To war!”
His generals lifted their swords, too, and the metal flashed in the light of the sun. “To war!”
Niara looked to her priestesses. Softly, grimly, she said, “To war.”
Chapter 8
For weeks, Giorn headed south, skirting the Borchstog-occupied fortresses, hiding from their roving bands. Often he saw their glarumri fly overhead, searching for refugees, and he hid amongst the trees when they came. At last he hit upon a Borchstog band headed south. This was unusual, as every other Borchstog was intent on conquering the north. He tracked the band for several days, and at last saw their leader. It was the woman with the black hair and green eyes. She who had stolen the Moonstone. He did not know who she was, what she was, but he knew she was taking the Stone to Wegredon.
He remembered the feel of her kisses, remembered the feel of her body against his, and his mind burned.
As he tracked them, he kept on the lookout for a chance to slip in and steal the Moonstone before they reached their destination, but the Borchstogs were careful and he could not find an opening. What was more, they had somehow sensed his presence, and they had been hunting him steadily. The main host would continue toward Wegredon, while smaller bands would be dispatched to track and kill him. The Borchstogs even recruited vampires and lurum-cruvalen from the surrounding countryside to help. Thus he had little time left for retaking the Stone.
He followed the band of Borchstogs through the highlands of Feslan, then through the rocky wastes between the southern reaches of Felgrad and the northern foothills of the Aragst, and at last trailed the band into the dreaded Aragst Mountains themselves. It was a black land, unholy ground. These mountains had been raised by Gilgaroth ages ago to impede the armies of the Alliance, or so it was said, and they bore his taint. Fell creatures lived here, preying off the weak, following the will of the One. Legend said that he could look through the eyes of his creatures.
Giorn hoped the legends were wrong, or that the Dark One was occupied with business of His own, for Giorn spent most of his time hiding from the roving bands. What little time remained to him consisted of trying to find food and sleep. Fortunately the mountains provided an endless number of fissures, caves and sprawling forests for him to hide in.
All the time he wondered what Vrulug wanted the Moonstone for. The Enemy had some plan, some grand design they were working toward, and it depended on the Stone. But how? Was it as simple as destroying it? It couldn’t be; otherwise they would not need to take the artifact to Wegredon. Surely the Last Gift could be destroyed just as easily in Feslan.
The question gnawed at him as he worked his way up into the forbidding Aragst Mountains. He drew closer ever to Wegredon, the keep of Vrulug. He could sense its taint on the air, cold and bitter, could feel it in his bones. In his dreams dark figures loomed over him, and he heard mocking laughter and horrid shrieks. He saw Niara, weeping, bleeding, being savaged by Borchstogs, and he woke up gasping.
Waking brought little relief. He heard screams, far off in the woods, screams of men and others, and he frequently came upon naked bodies of Borchstog victims. They would be nailed to trees, their limbs crudely sawn off, their bodies showing signs of terrible tortures and mutilations.
A
s he went, the unnatural chill in the air turned to heat. Boiling hot drafts wafted up from the south, bringing with them the stench of sulfur, and he wondered if it were true about the moat-fires of Wegredon. Surely that’s just a legend. On he went. He grew weary and overcome by a sense of despair. Horrid, inhuman howling echoed throughout the forests, and the clouds twisted into strange and sinister shapes. The air turned bitter in his mouth, and his dreams grew worse. Always they were of Niara. He missed her keenly, and feared for her. What if Meril had been fool enough to continue to trust Raugst? The idea grew in Giorn’s mind until it became a paranoid certainty. I must return to Thiersgald. I must return soon.
One weary evening, his journey ended. He heard the crackle of a great flame, and the Borchstogs in the company he was following let loose howls of glee. Giorn dragged himself up a tall pine tree on a knoll, not knowing what to expect, and beheld the evil splendor of Wegredon itself.
“Dear Omkar ...”
Great, thick towers stabbed high into the night, jutting from a profusion of ramparts and bulwarks that were actually set into the mountain wall. What was most impressive about the fortress was its infamous Moat-Fire. Giorn had thought the tales surely an exaggeration, but no: a moat of high, leaping flame encircled the half of Wegredon that projected from the rock, and its bright tongues melted the down-flashing snow, a war of fire and ice. Above the curtain of flame loomed the high black towers of the keep, silhouetted against the stars and drifting clouds that slithered and stalked their way across the heavens with grasping tentacles and spit of flame.
It awed him that the legend he had heard so much about actually existed and was just as intimidating as he’d always been told. Could it truly be fused with Illistriv, the Second Hell? Either way, there was no easy way around it.
Movement drew his eye. He watched the company of Borchstogs approach the leaping flames of the Moat-Fires. They paused, and the great iron drawbridge slammed down, scattering sparks high into the black night. The Borchstogs dismounted and began to enter the fortress, passing over the drawbridge and between the leaping walls of fire. As soon as they vanished within, the drawbridge lifted back up and the curtain of fire sealed up behind them. There was no way through. Giorn cursed.
Then he noticed the handlers that took the great Serpents and guided them into the woods. Likely the gaurocks were returning to their dark caverns.
Giorn followed. Borchstogs led the gaurocks through forests, down steep inclines, then up a dry ravine into a great fissure in the mountain. As Giorn watched, the massive creatures disappeared inside.
He did not follow. There would be too many Borchstogs there, not to mention the gaurocks themselves. But higher up the frozen, weed-grown face of the cliff were other caves, other fissures. They must all connect somewhere. He had long heard the tales of Wegredon’s mines, of how cruelly Vrulug had used his slaves. They had carved deep and labyrinthine mines below Wegredon and had scoured the mountain of ore. Legend said that Vrulug had been too cruel, had driven his slaves too hard, forced them to dig too many tunnels too quickly, and that someday they would give out and Wegredon would simply collapse into the mountain.
Giorn thought that might be a little too much to hope for, but these caves proved the existence of the mines. It took little doing for him to scramble up the side of the cliff, hanging onto frozen weeds and roots, and slip inside one of them.
He lit his lantern and squeezed through the opening. Rough walls of rock pressed in on both sides. His small light lit the way immediately around him, but the illumination did not go far. All was blackness ahead. This is a bad idea. But the alternative was to let Vrulug possess the Moonstone.
Shivering in the cold, sword in one hand and lantern in the other, Giorn stepped forward. Bats chittered overhead and the tight space reeked of their offal. Deeper he went, and the corridor wound and twisted, branched and was bisected. The walls widened out and he passed through broad avenues. Occasionally he encountered the skeleton of a Borchstog or one of their slaves, or a piece of armor or pottery. Stalagmites reared up like crooked fangs, beaded with frozen saliva. The lantern drove back the darkness, revealing the tunnels bit by bit. Shadows swallowed the world in his wake.
Something was wrong. The air grew hotter, more oily, more bitter. The taint of this place grew thicker, and a weight seemed to descend on his mind.
A more immediate problem confronted him. He was lost. Perhaps hopelessly so. No, he told himself. The Serpents are below. I need only find the right cross-tunnel.
He pressed forward. The taint in the air grew stronger, hotter, and suddenly it was as if all the hope and warmth in him were driven away. Horrors rose in his mind. Dark shapes reared over him, laughing. He saw Niara, screaming. Her flesh sloughed away from her face. The world twisted, heaved, and Giorn gasped for air. With difficulty, he blinked the horrid images away, but the feeling of madness and evil persisted, and his heart beat rapidly.
Something powerful was near. Greater than Wegredon. Greater than Vrulug.
Gilgaroth, he thought. It’s the Wolf. It has to be.
That was crazy. Why would Gilgaroth come here, to the borderlands? Unless ...
The Stone, Giorn realized. Gilgaroth might have come for the Stone. The sound of drums reached him, low, soft, rhythmic drumming, and Giorn stood stock-still, not even daring to breathe. He listened, straining his ears.
Boom. Boom. Boom. The drumming issued from many drums, but what he could hear was only the faintest echo of it. He could feel it in his bones, reverberating up through his feet. He could feel it in the air, shaking and malevolent. It was everywhere, yet nowhere.
He couldn’t tell what direction it came from, but he thought it would be best to go the opposite way.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
He squared his shoulders, stabbed the lantern forward, and took a step. The volume of the drumming remained the same. He took another.
The drumming came faster.
The sound filled his ears and heart as he marched through the darkness. His imagination spun, peopling the blackness with strange and sinister things, picturing the drummers in a myriad of different monstrous shapes and sizes. And what of the reason for the drumming? Were the drummers summoning demons to some awful feast deep in the dark halls of the forgotten earth?
As it happened, it was worse than he had imagined.
He was just slipping around a bend in the hall when the way opened out before them onto a gallery overlooking a vast chamber. Darkness concealed its exact dimensions. It could have been hundreds of yards across, or a mile. The ceiling stretched up into lofty and unseen heights, shadows wreathing it.
Great, twisted columns towered from the ground high into the air in a rough circle hundreds of yards in diameter, their tips supporting lurid flame that danced and swayed to otherworldly currents. On some sat not flame but hunched, winged, alien figures, beady eyes turned not within the circle but without. Giorn guessed these to be the guardians of this affair, keeping unwanted visitors out. Not that any would want in, for inside that vast circle of monolithic pillars stretched a sea of Borchstogs. On their knees, the thousands of demons bowed toward a raised dais on which stood a great black altar seeming to throb with horrid energies, and on this altar was tied a slim young girl, naked and struggling against the ropes that restrained her.
“Dear Omkar,” whispered Giorn, then immediately clamped his mouth shut. He crouched down and dimmed the lantern.
His heart went out to the girl. He knew dire things were in store for her and longed to be of assistance, but the Borchstogs were too many.
And there were not just Borchstogs.
A tall figure stood before the altar, facing the sea of supplicants. Grim and nightmarish it was, standing on two feet like a man but covered in fur, with long, claw-tipped arms hanging at his side, a demonic, wolf-like head, and great, bat-like wings sprouting from his back: savage, bestial, evil.
“Vrulug,” Giorn whispered, and unconsciously clutched a fist.
The wolf-lord’s voice rolled over the gathering, harsh yet fluid. He spoke Oslogon so that Giorn could only understand him after some thought and even then not every word.
“ ... honored by the Presence of the Great One,” Vrulug was saying. “And we should be honored beyond measure to be assisting Our Lord and Master in fulfilling His Destiny. Because of our actions tonight and onward, His Will shall triumph, His Shadow shall stretch over all and encompass the World, He shall be loosed from beyond the Black Wall of these mountains and be free to devour His enemies, just as He shall devour our offering of this elf maiden now ...”
Giorn squinted, studied the girl upon the altar, and saw that Vrulug spoke the truth. She was slender and supple, and at first Giorn had thought this the result of youth. Now he saw that she was a mite too delicate, too beautiful, too full of the Grace of the Omkar to be mortal.
“All hail Our Lord, the Great Gilgaroth!” roared Vrulug.
The Borchstogs thundered their love and devotion. “Roschk Gilgaroth!” they bellowed, and the hall shook to the sound of their passion.
A coldness descended on Giorn’s mind, and he swayed drunkenly, nearly crying out. Something huge and dark stirred in the shadows on the far side of the altar, something awesome, full of might and malice. It surged forward, wreathed in shadows—no, emanating them—colossal and primal.
It opened Its eyes. Fire blazed forth from them like twin red suns. It loomed over the girl on the altar, and she cried out in fear, then, overcome by awe and terror, fell silent. The Thing’s fiery gaze lifted from her to Vrulug, then swept the gathering.
“I have come!” it roared. The Borchstogs responded vociferously. “I have come to set the Final Days of this siege in motion. No longer will the weaker races band together to stem the tide of My conquest. Felgrad shall fall. My armies harry the other kingdoms of the Crescent, thus they cannot come to its aid. Felgrad, weakest link in the chain of the Alliance, shall be no more. The chain shall be broken. The Alliance will crumble. With it destroyed, with the Crescent fallen, no might of Man or Elf can stand against me. The northlands are soft. Too long have they relied on the Crescent to protect them. I will pluck them like overripe fruit, and they will taste as sweet.”
