by Jack Conner
Her grin widened. “You would make a most dashing groom, my lord.”
He leapt to his feet and threw on some clothes. “There are plans to make, things to see to.” He paused at the door and turned to her. A calculating look came into his eye, and she felt a chill. “You are not to mention this to anyone.” He glared at her, and she said nothing. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled. “But you wouldn’t have, would you? You wanted me to do it. You led me to it. Well, that is fine by me. I like a woman with a taste for blood.”
With that, he was gone. She stared at the place where he had disappeared, feeling the beating of her heart.
At last she allowed herself to relax. Yes, she thought, Kragt was the perfect tool to use against Raugst. Kragt had served the bastard for many years, had seen the praise and respect Vrulug lavished on him, and Kragt wanted that respect for himself. Fria would help him. And then I will send you to Raugst, and you can explain your betrayal in hell.
Fria thought of her husband and all his awful lackeys, and that traitor Niara, all choking on poison tomorrow night after the crowning, and she smiled. Soon, Father, brothers, I will avenge you.
Giorn rode to the crest of the hill, Duke Yfrin at his side. Together, they surveyed the hills that rolled all the way to the high outer wall of Thiersgald and the great towers inside. Night had just fallen, and lights twinkled like stars throughout the city.
“It’s beautiful,” Duke Yfrin said.
“Let’s hope it stays that way.”
The host of soldiers rode up behind them, coming through the forest. It had been a difficult ride with darkness stealing up on them and tree trunks all around, roots grasping at the horses’ hooves. More than one mount had broken a leg and had had to be put down. But now it was over, and they left the forest behind. They had been forced to take this dangerous route, as Raugst maintained spies along the main roads.
“But how are we to enter the city?” the duke said. “They’ll be watching the secret passages this time.”
Giorn shook his head. “We don’t need them. There’s no Borchstog host to avoid. We’ll enter separately through different gates, just as our agents did before us, in the guise of refugees.” He gestured to a wagon train approaching the East Gate. “It will not be difficult.”
Before Giorn led them down, he allowed himself a moment more to enjoy the sight of the city. Wind caressed the hills and sighed through the forest. And there, carried on the wind, the sound of bells ...
Not just any bells.
“A royal has died,” Giorn said, feeling suddenly cold. Fria, he thought. What did that bastard do to my sister? He clenched his good fist, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and made for Thiersgald.
Someone knocked on Raugst’s door, and he glanced up from the armchair where he had been smoking a pipe and brooding on the days ahead. He was king, yes. Vrulug would honor their bargain and spare Felgrad. But what then? Raugst must somehow array the Crescent nations against Vrulug before the wolf-lord could discover Raugst’s treachery, and hope the combined might of the six kingdoms would crush Vrulug, even aided by the corrupted Moonstone.
Raugst would have to make war on his old master and friend. He thought of all the years they had shared, all the feasts they had enjoyed together, all the orgies, the drunken revelries ... Idle pleasures, perhaps, but Raugst and Vrulug had experienced them almost as brothers. And now ... to twist a blade into his back—
The knocking broke Raugst’s musings.
“Come in,” he said.
One of his men entered, bowing. “You have a visitor, my lord.”
“Send him in.”
The man withdrew, and presently a silhouette materialized at the doorway, one Raugst knew well.
“Niara ...” He rose to his feet, pipe forgotten.
“Your Majesty.”
“I’m not king yet. Not officially.”
She closed the door, then came to him. She smelled heavenly, of light and roses. He inhaled.
“Does my scent please you, my lord?” Her curly black hair hung in locks before her bright blue eyes.
“It does.” He took her hand and guided her to the divan, stealing glances at her slim, womanly body in white. Her blue eyes stared back at him, and they were as warm as her hand.
“I ...” She broke off.
Sensing her awkwardness, he stepped in. “I didn’t expect to see you. Not after ...”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I know you did only what you had to. If killing an innocent man will spare Felgrad, then ... I suppose I understand. I don’t like it, but I see there was no other choice.”
“And Giorn?”
“If he was with Saria, and ... and you feel for me ...”
“I do.”
She smiled, and there was relief in that smile. Color rose in her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes.
“Niara ...” He put a hand on her shoulder, but for some reason he wasn’t comfortable with it.
She sidled closer to him. They were both very self-conscious.
“Raugst,” she said.
He leaned in closer. Her smell intoxicated him. His heart beat faster. He had not expected this, for her to seek him out. And she had come here, to him, alone at night, for more than to issue an apology.
He leaned in closer.
She tilted her face up and kissed him. He kissed back.
They embraced awkwardly at first. Then, slowly, they relaxed, exploring each other’s bodies as if for the first time, and in a way it was. At last, as if seized by a frenzy, he tore at her clothes, and she tore at his.
He lifted her in his powerful arms and carried her off to bed, slamming the door shut behind them.
Giorn smelled roast mutton. His mouth watered. Someone had made a bonfire in the park near the Temple to Illiana, and refugees had gathered there for warmth and food. A priestess occupied a makeshift platform and alternately preached and read from the Books of Light. The people listened raptly, their faces ashen. Their beloved king had died and Vrulug the wolf-lord was marching north, his full might gathered. Most thought the end was truly at hand, and Giorn did not know if they were wrong. He had a plan, but it was a fragile, desperate thing, and it depended more on the loyalty Thiersgald’s soldiers felt to the Wesrains than anything else.
He stood with Dalic and several soldiers in the park, smelling the roast mutton on the night breeze and trying to calm the fury in his mind.
“We’re doomed,” said an old woman not far away, crying against the chest of a plain-faced girl that must be her daughter; both looked starved and harried. The daughter patted her back and hugged her, but she did not argue.
Giorn studied the soldiers around him. They looked fearful but resolved. They knew these were grim times, maybe in truth the End Times, but they understood that their cause was the only route to salvation. Vrulug was almost here and a traitor sat the throne. Only Giorn could save them. Giorn wished he could be so sure. Vrulug has the Moonstone. It had once been the salvation of Man, but now it might be the opposite.
The voice of the priestess rolled over the gathering, competing with the chill wind and the crackling of the fire. Giorn thought she might be Hiatha. “And though we travel through the dark of the Abyss itself, there is light,” she said. “There is the light of the Mother and the Father, and the spark that they put in each of us. Look within to find it. Let each of you be a beacon to the others. Even in the dark of the Abyss, there is hope, for there is each other.” The fire turned her honey-blond hair to red gold. Her green eyes were filled with vigor and earnestness.
One of the soldiers appeared out of the throng, pushing his way through it as Hiatha—it was she; Giorn was certain now—spoke on. Giorn had sent him on a mission, and now Giorn tensed to hear word of his success or failure. He could tell immediately which way it had gone by the man’s haggard face.
“I did as you ordered, my lord. Went to the Temple and begged an audience with the High Mother. The priestesses said she was occupied. When I pressed them, they
admitted that she wasn’t there.”
“Where could she be? It’s the eve of war.”
The soldier shrugged.
“Very well,” Giorn said. “Thank you.”
The soldier moved off, and Giorn frowned into the heart of the bonfire. He had wanted to see Niara again, to apologize for his actions and to make up with her. He’d told Dalic (and himself, for that matter) that she was of strategic importance, that they needed to ally themselves with the High Mother for Giorn’s plan to work, but in his heart he knew otherwise.
Dalic clapped him on the shoulder. “It will be all right,” he said gently. Of course, he had no idea how close Giorn and Niara were—or had been—and Giorn could not tell him. If nothing else, Dalic was devout. “She is not as essential as you might think.”
Giorn forced himself to nod. “No, you’re right. The plan can still work. Come, we have things do to.” After looking around at the drawn, desperate faces of his men, he added, “But perhaps we can have a little mutton first.”
They approached the fire as Hiatha’s voice rolled on, preaching hope in the darkness. But all around, the darkness deepened.
Vrulug would be here on the morrow.
Chapter 8
Raugst scowled out at the oncoming horde from atop the outer wall of the city, flanked by his guards, generals, Niara and several lesser priestesses. Wind whispered through his hair, and the morning sun cast golden light upon the world.
Staring through a spyglass, Raugst tried to pick out Vrulug among the tens of thousands of Borchstogs and gaurocks and other assorted creatures of Oslog, but they were just a vague black wave on the horizon. He estimated fifty thousand Borchstogs, a score of the massive, wall-shattering gaurocks, a full fleet of glarumri, doubtless a handful of vampires and their undead thralls, many trolls, corrupted giants and ...
More. Many more.
Wind shrieked and howled. The dark wave on the horizon drew closer. Closer. Marching through the ruins of farms they’d leveled weeks ago. A few intrepid or foolish farmers had attempted to rebuild and reoccupy, but these had been put to flight and Vrulug’s thralls even then erased the efforts at reconstruction.
“They’ll be here by nightfall,” Raugst said, lowering the eyepiece. “They’d be here sooner, but the sun makes them slow.”
“Aye,” said General Levenril. He was not one that Raugst had appointed but a true soldier of Felgrad, and Raugst wished he had a hundred more like him. “Of course, for them it already is nightfall.”
This was true. Vrulug had been burning and razing everything in his path since crossing the Pit of Eresine, and he’d used his sorcerous arts to congeal the smoke from those burning towns into one great black cloud that slithered through the air directly above the host. Sunlight beat down, straining to sear the eyes of the Borchstogs, but the black cloud protected them from the worst of it.
Raugst turned to Niara. “Can you dispel their cover?”
“Not while Vrulug holds the Moonstone.”
“But if it were destroyed ...”
“Yes.” She looked sideways at him. “There’s no way, my ... my lord.” Had she been about to say ‘my love’? “Not when Vrulug is surrounded by his army.”
She was throwing his own words back at him. Still, he didn’t see how he’d been wrong.
“But he will have the Moonstone with him, is that correct?” Raugst, though a being of power, knew little of sorcery.
She nodded, wind making her hair billow like ebon waves behind her. “He would need to keep it with him always, to direct its energies. He fears that there might be a powerful light-born here, someone strong enough to oppose him.”
In a lower voice, he asked, “Could you have done so ... before?”
“I don’t know. I tried once, and he blocked me. If I’d had more time ... perhaps. But I doubt it.”
He could tell that she was not certain and cursed their ill luck. If she had not given him her fateful kiss, she might have countered Vrulug and the Moonstone. In that case, of course, Raugst would still be a fell thing, a thing of the Shadow. He wondered if he still would have preferred that. It seemed abhorrent to him now, yet there was a certain allure to the notion. Back then he had known his place, his purpose. He had been an important part of a greater whole, and he had reveled in it. Now he was feeling his way blindly and did not at all think that he belonged. Nevertheless, he was here, and he would make the most of it.
To General Levenril, he said, “Begin the evacuation.”
“Aye, my lord.”
They had discussed it beforehand and most of the generals had agreed that the residential areas between the outer wall and the inner wall needed to be emptied in case Vrulug’s host managed to breach the outer defenses. Looking at the oncoming army, Raugst thought it a wise precaution, though it meant living conditions within the inner wall would be horribly cramped. The conditions would not last long, he told himself. Once Vrulug sees that I’m king ...
General Levenril moved off to oversee the evacuation, and Raugst turned to another general. “Vrulug’s host is coming faster than we’d hoped. We must begin the crowning ceremony immediately. See to it.”
“Aye, my lord.” This general too hurried off.
To Niara, Raugst said, “Are you ready to preside over the ceremony?”
“I must dress and gather my sisters.” She hesitated, then moved a little closer to him. Her voice lowered. “Are you coming straight back here after the ceremony?”
It was plain what she was asking, and he had to smile. “We’ll see. I’ve told the chefs to begin feast preparations. If there’s time after the crowning, we, you and I and a few others, will retire to the castle for a brief celebration.” There were too many people around for him to finish the thought, but he winked at her to imply that after the feast, the two of them might rendezvous privately—if there was time. Vrulug’s host was hours away yet, but there was no telling for certain when he would arrive.
Niara seemed to understand, as she nodded and edged away. What had passed between them last night evidently made her feel uncomfortable, but she did not seem displeased by it. Her shyness amused him.
“I’ll see you in the Square, my lord,” she said.
She descended from the ramparts, her priestesses with her. Raugst watched her go, feeling something warm inside him, then turned to the oncoming horde. The warmth died.
No, he thought. The plan will work. Vrulug won’t attack. Once I’m crowned, I’ll have upheld my end of the bargain and he will relent.
A vague sound reached him, and he strained his ears. The sound grew stronger.
Boom. Doom. Boom. The enemy drums rolled across the hills. The sound shouldn’t be loud enough to reach the city—Vrulug was much too far away—but the sound continued. Boom. Doom. Boom. Borchstog war drums. Raugst let out a breath. Vrulug was using his arts, sending the sound before his army to sap the will of the defenders of Thiersgald. Glancing about him, Raugst saw his soldiers pale at the drumming. It did him no favors, either.
It was a beautiful ceremony, Niara thought, although the beating of the Borchstog drums in the distance—growing ever louder, from a vague pounding to an incessant, imminent throbbing that made her head ache—diminished it somewhat.
Still, when she looked at her gorgeously-clothed and painted priestesses arrayed to either side of her, all wearing white dresses with silver embroidery, with pearly, diamond-studded tiaras, and the rows of royal soldiers, silver and golden armor gleaming under the sun, and beyond them the sea of the townspeople, aristocrats in their finery nearest the dais in the center of Mitsgald Square, middle-class merchants second, and so on, stretching on and on, with great monuments rearing to the sides, and then, coming up the center aisle, Raugst in the trappings of king, with long, burgundy cape edged in fox fur, shoes of velvet, hair sculpted like artful black waves over his proud head, and the silver trumpets blasting loudly all around as if to drive out the sound of the Borchstog drums—she had to admit it was quite a brill
iant spectacle. But the trumpets could not drown out that awful noise entirely. Sometimes she thought it was simply the crashing of her heart, but she knew better.
Raugst approached. She could almost smell him, all musk and power, and despite herself she felt a stirring.
Slowly, dramatically, he knelt before her. The crowd quieted.
Niara, in her silver-white robes, her long train held by four priestesses when she walked, her own tiara heavy on her brow, smiled kindly down at him. His eyes twinkled. Focus on the task at hand, she told herself.
She spoke the words of ritual, letting her voice ring out over the gathering, telling those assembled of the proud history of their people and the great nobility of character their kings had always embodied—ignoring the stain on their honor that was King Heril Ulea IV; he was the sole aberration that proved the rule, she said—and that the Omkar chose only the highest paragons of virtue to sit the Throne. Raugst embodied those ideals to the fullest. Not only this, but he had defeated Vrulug once, and he would do it again. The people roared their approval, though she saw that Raugst himself looked uneasy.
“And do you, Raugst Irasgralt Wesrain, swear to uphold the values and traditions of Felgrad?” she said.
“Yes, High Mother. I do.”
“And will you swear to defend her from her enemies, even if those enemies be within, and especially if they be without?”
“I will and do, High Mother.” The crowd was very quiet now, and his words were heard near and far. Many had brought their children to witness the event, and little boys and girls perched on their fathers’ shoulders, which irritated townspeople behind them.
“And do you give your pledge to oppose always the workings of the Dark One and his agents and to hold him and them in contempt until the end of days?”
“I give that pledge, High Mother.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted over his shoulder, “Death to the Shadow!”
