The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  Meril slumped. “That’s all. Just be careful, Gi.”

  Giorn nodded and left. Where was the cook? He needed a drink, now worse than ever. Saria! How could Meril dare compare Niara to that witch? No two women could be less alike.

  But as Giorn headed in the cook’s direction, a group of mounted soldiers rode up to him breathlessly, grass and dirt kicking up in a cloud behind them. Startled, he jumped back and glared up at them. They were not from his company, but from the wall at Thiersgald, he could tell from their uniforms. They were sweaty and covered in dust from their ride.

  “What’s this?” he demanded. For a moment, he had a terrible thought, that Thiersgald itself had been attacked.

  “Word just came from the south, my lord,” said the captain, breathing heavily. “From Feslan. Borchstogs attack from the Aragst, a great host of them. Feslan begs our aid.”

  A chill poured through Giorn’s veins. War. So it’s happened at last. After news of the Borchstog bands storming the border fortresses in Havensrike, he had known something like this would happen eventually, but he had not thought it would happen to Felgrad . . . The riders were floating around in his vision, but they began to steady as the news sobered him.

  “How many Borchstogs are in the host?” he said.

  “None are certain, my lord, but they are numerous enough to have besieged Hielsly.”

  Giorn balled a fist at his side. Hielsly. It had to be Hielsly, holder of the fabled Moonstone. He knew what he had to do, though he hated to do it, especially now, but there was no other way. As commander of Fiarth’s army, Giorn was the closest and best hope for Hielsly, capital of Feslan, Fiarth’s neighbor to the south.

  “We’ll break them,” he assured the soldiers. “We’ll save Hielsly. Have word sent to Thiersgald to ready the army. We go to war at once.”

  He had forgotten about his thirst.

  Giorn knelt beside his father. This might be the last time he would ever see his sire, and he committed every detail to memory. Lord Wesrain wheezed wretchedly, his eyes open but blank and lifeless. He wore a blue tunic under green jacket, and the leaping candlelight danced on the Silver Stag of the Wesrains emblazoned over his breast. A crimson blanket edged in gold was laid over him, keeping him warm. His head lay in Iarine’s lap, and she stroked his hair and wept over him. His wife Giorn’s mother had died giving birth to Rian, and Iarine was the closest confidant the Baron had, and the closest thing Giorn had to a mother. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, wearing green velvet with a thin gold chain for a belt, she looked very beautiful now, and very sad. Her love for Harin had been genuine.

  “I’m so sorry,” Giorn told her.

  She nodded, and tears spilled down her olive cheeks. “I know.” She looked up. “He has told me often how proud he is of you.”

  A knot formed in Giorn’s throat. “I must leave,” he said, his words thick.

  “Yes.”

  He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Take care of him for me.”

  She smiled. Tears gathered at the corner of her mouth. “I will.”

  He leaned over and kissed his father on the forehead, which burned. “Father, be well. Come out of this. You’re stronger than any poison. The barony needs you. I need you.” Niara and I both, though he hated to think the thought. He loved his father and wanted him to live for more than selfish motives. But those motives were there, and they shamed him. “The barony needs you,” he repeated. “Not just the barony, the kingdom. You’re the right hand of the King. I can’t fill your shoes, and it’s near blasphemy for me to think I can. So please, Father, come back to us.”

  After one last look at his sire, he stood to go.

  Iarine stopped him. “Giorn.” When he paused, she said, “Your father would want you to accept the crown of the barony. He would understand.”

  “Thank you.” That made it easier, as she had intended. He nodded farewell, and thanks.

  The afternoon was warm, but the sun descended swiftly and darkfall would bring swift chills. He needed to leave soon so that he and his men could reach the highway before night fell. Their horses could navigate the cobbled road without fear of a broken ankle.

  Before he left, he summoned his officers, royal guests, his brother and Niara in a tight gathering in the center of camp. The cook and his helpers had built a great bonfire there for warmth and to roast the night’s dinner, and the sparks flickered all about, coasting like fireflies on the ever-present wind. The tall grass waved underfoot. All was rustling clothes and billowing canvas tents and leaping shadows. It was a day of portents and doom.

  Raugst stood tall and dark, a silhouetted shadow against the fire, yet somehow his eyes glowed bright and savage. Giorn tried not to look at him lest his glance give the game away.

  When they were all gathered, Giorn looked each one in the eye. “You all know that my father your lord and mine may well not last the night, let alone the week. I hate to admit the possibility of his passing, but I would be a fool and a traitor if I did not. Thus I now petition you all to declare me the Sovereign of Fiarth until such time as my father can wrest the crown back from me. Would that he will! All who agree to this proposal say Aye.” Most of the highest nobles in the barony were present at the Hunt, he knew, and their votes would carry sufficient weight to make this legal.

  “Aye!” they roared, or most of them. Giorn could not tell if Raugst said anything or not. But at their vote, he felt a weight press down on him, and he could not meet Niara’s eyes. We can be no more.

  “Good,” he said, and turned to Meril, looking grave and somewhat resentful. Giorn did not blame him; he would likely have felt the same way. “Meril.” Meril, who had been lost in a reverie, glanced up in surprise. “I temporarily give you the Crown and the rights attached to it. While I am away at war, it is yours. The land needs a present ruler, not one far away and with other concerns. It will free me to do what I need to do, and it will give the people someone to look to as leader. You’re free to act on mine and Father’s behalf, and on behalf of the barony. I retain only the right to the offensive military of Fiarth, which I will take with me to Feslan.”

  Meril’s chest swelled proudly. Seeing it, Giorn tried to suppress a smile.

  “I accept, brother,” said Meril.

  “Good. I have the utmost faith in you.”

  “I will do you proud.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. Now, gentlemen, my friends, I must away. I hate to hurry this, but the Borchstogs care little about our problems, and while we tarry here the Feslans are dying.”

  “May the Omkar give you speed,” Niara said.

  “And may they shield you from harm,” Meril added.

  “Aye,” said Raugst, stepping forward, his eyes still glinting strangely, “and may you drink of black blood before you’re through.”

  Giorn shuddered but tried to hide it. He fixed his eyes on the villain, who was still only a tall shadow against the fire. “Before I leave,” he said, “I have one order of business I must address.” He unsheathed his sword and stabbed it toward Raugst. “I’m arresting Raugst for the attack on my father.”

  There was an instant stir, people murmuring and exclaiming to themselves. Raugst bore it all stoically. His bright eyes, the only thing visible on him, just stared at Giorn, haughty and immobile.

  Meril stepped forward. Giorn had expected that. Meril and Raugst had been close in recent weeks, drinking and feasting and whoring together. The two had become quite good friends, by all accounts.

  “This is madness!” Meril said. He stared at Giorn as though looking at a lunatic, and there were loud murmurs of agreement from all around.

  Giorn did not back down. Meeting his brother’s gaze, he said, “Raugst is an agent of the Enemy.”

  “Madness!” Spittle sprayed from Meril’s mouth. Aggressively, he moved toward Giorn, and for a moment Giorn was tempted to take a step back. He wanted no exchange of blows with his brother. “Why are you saying these things?”

  “Duke Yfrin shot n
o one, Meril,” Giorn said. “You’re too young to remember all our days at his manor in Wenris, chasing rabbits in his garden, while he and Father smoked pipes and recounted their glory days.” He shook his head. “You’re too young to remember Uncle Yfrin. But trust me, he shot no one. Yet just before he fell ill—”

  “Pretended to fall ill!”

  “—Raugst gave him something to drink. Something which made him unable to go on the hunt with us, and thus he looked suspicious from the first.”

  “Because he did it!”

  Giorn took a breath. “Meril, I am your older brother and rightful baron. Heed me.”

  Glowering, Meril took another step forward. They were almost touching now. Till now, Giorn had not realized how tall his brother was. He actually had to look up at Meril. The gathering muttered ominously. “You relinquished your right to the barony,” Meril said.

  Niara stepped forward, looking concerned. “Giorn, Meril, please—”

  Giorn motioned her to silence. Not taking his eyes off Meril, he said, “I ride to war. I haven’t given up the throne.”

  “But you have. And thank the gods. You’d arrest a friend of mine, the very man who saved my life, the very man who avenged Rian. Do you deny it?” Giorn could feel his breath on his face; it stank of whiskey.

  “I don’t deny that that’s how it appears—”

  “There!”

  “Nonetheless. I order Raugst arrested. Furthermore, if Father dies, I order that Raugst be beheaded at once.”

  “Madness!” Sweat coated Meril’s cheeks and ran down his neck.

  Again, Niara tried to intercede. “Please, Meril, Giorn, you must be reasonable—”

  “Away, woman!” Meril said.

  He glared at Giorn, and Giorn counseled himself to be patient, but then Meril actually butted his chest against Giorn’s, and, staring into brother’s flushed face, Giorn knew they were about to fight. How could it have come to this?

  Reason came from a surprising quarter. Raugst, clearing his throat, said, “Excuse me.”

  “You would say something for yourself, demon?” Giorn said.

  Raugst smiled. “Indeed I would. If what you say is true, and I did poison the duke, there would be poison in my tent, would there not?”

  “Perhaps . . .”

  “And if what I say is true, and I did not do it, then it is the duke who would have poison in his tent, for the arrow that pierced the baron was poisoned, was it not?”

  “It was . . .” Giorn shook his head. “But we’ve already searched his quarters.”

  “Search again. More thoroughly.”

  Giorn wanted to protest, but it was such a reasonable request that, had he refused, the crowd would have turned against him and he would have gotten nowhere. Thus he ordered both tents searched, he and Meril eying each other tensely all the while. Finally one of Giorn’s officers approached, holding a small vial of what looked like riding powder. Looking somewhat sheepish, the officer said, “We found this among the duke’s belongings. I suppose we missed it during the first searches because it looked so harmless. This time we went more thoroughly, and we smelled it. It doesn’t smell like riding powder.”

  He uncapped it and proffered it to Meril and Giorn. Giorn wrinkled his nose at the bitter stench.

  Stopping the vial, the officer said, “Poison, sirs. It must be. And well hidden.”

  “Well planted, more like,” Giorn said. “And what of Raugst’s effects? Did you find anything?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “There,” said Meril, looking smug. Raugst stood next to him, seemingly saddened by this whole ugly affair. Giorn wanted to punch him.

  “This proves nothing,” Giorn said. “I still place Raugst under arrest.”

  “You are no longer baron,” Meril reminded him. “Not until you return. You placed me in charge, remember, retaining only command of the army.”

  Giorn ground his teeth. “I haven’t time for this. The sun sinks. I need to be away. Even now our allies to the south are dying, being butchered by Borchstogs.”

  “Then you had best go and help them.”

  “I cannot leave with Raugst free.”

  “Then stay and imprison him. But you will have to fight me to do it. Have you gone mad, Giorn? He’s Fria’s husband, our own brother now. How could you speak so against him?”

  “It’s the truth,” Giorn clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. “Now enough of this. You know as well as I that I can’t waste time wrestling with you. If we delay here, hundreds of thousands could die.”

  “Then I suppose you have made your decision.”

  Giorn glared at him, then Raugst, who still looked grieved by all this unpleasantness. “I will return,” Giorn promised.

  “I pray you do,” said Raugst, and there was something hungry in his eyes.

  Quickly Giorn summoned his riders and made ready to leave. Niara came to him before he departed and kissed his cheek.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said.

  “And I you.” He met her eyes. “Do not let them execute the duke.”

  She nodded. “I can’t keep him from the dungeon, but I’ll make sure that’s as far as Meril goes with it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Promise me one thing,” she said.

  “Anything.”

  “Come back alive.”

  He nodded, returned her kiss—again, on the cheek—and swung astride his horse. Looking back, he could see Raugst tilting a flask with Meril and chuckling. He grimaced. There will be a reckoning.

  “Farewell,” he told Niara. Turning to his riders, he called, “To war!”

  He rode to the west, and they followed, even as the sun turned to blood on the horizon.

  Chapter 4

  For three days Giorn led his host of eight thousand riders south from Thiersgald until at last they reached the great bridge that spanned the Pit of Eresine. The Pit was the steep-walled gorge that ran roughly east-west and divided Fiarth from Feslan. Giorn crossed the great bridge, careful not to stare too long over the side, down into the rushing dark currents a mile and a half below.

  Onward he led his men, up into the rocky, mountainous country of Feslan, the barony that bordered the Aragst Mountains, the Black Wall that separated Oslog from the free countries of the Alliance, and consequently bore the brunt of Oslog’s wrath, at least along this stretch of the Wall.

  As he went, Giorn tried not to dwell on the Borchstogs’ reasons for launching an offensive against Feslan. The Time of Grandeur is approaching. That’s what the captured Borchstogs had said. Why now? And why strike at Felgrad? He was still deeply irritated by their interruption of his plan to have Raugst executed, and still more irritated that Meril had protected him. It would be a bitter thing were Giorn to fall in the coming battle with his last words to his brother spoken in anger.

  He led his host up into the highlands, surrounded by wet-green pines and jutting slabs of granite. Magnificent vistas spread out before them.

  They passed numerous villages, and here Giorn began to see the effects of the war. Some of the villages were built upon gentle slopes, surrounded by forests and rivers. Others set into the cliffs of the mountains. One was even built into the mountain itself, fashioned from an abandoned mine. But one and all were bustling, overflowing, filled with refugees from the south. Giorn was obliged to stop at several of these towns and barter for provisions for his troops and horses, and he saw the streets teeming with farmers and villagers who had been forced to flee their homes. Pigs and goats and chickens swarmed the lanes, the refugees having brought what animals and property they could with them, even though they had no pens or roofs. Giorn saw many lean-tos in the alleys and even in the main thoroughfares. Old women watched over their chickens with grim eyes, canes in hand, ready to swat the head of any urchin that thought to snatch one.

  Other refugees had no animals or trade-skills to procure coin with and were forced into begging, thievery and prostitution, some at shockingly young ages.
Giorn kept his hand on his purse as he made his way through. Several young women approached him, and boys, but he turned them all away. He was sure his men would be only too happy to give these poor souls custom, but he did not stop to camp.

  As he led his men on, he saw more and more evidences of the Borchstog host. Evidently they had ranged far from Hielsly, spreading terror throughout the barony. Slaughtered pigs and cows, covered in flies and vultures and stinking under the sun, lay in the fields and streets of abandoned towns. The vultures wheeled away at the soldiers’ arrival, and Giorn saw that whoever had slaughtered the animals had taken only the choicest cuts of meat. Evidently the townspeople had fled the Borchstogs in fear and had taken only what they could carry. Not all had thought to bring their livestock with them. It was an eerie feeling, riding through these empty towns, and Giorn was not glad of it. The fields around these towns were burned and black. The villagers had fired their wheat and corn rather than leave them for the ‘stogs.

  Even further south he saw worse sights, towns that were blackened husks, smoke still rising from the ruins. Borchstog bands had evidently put them to the torch, and recently. Severed human heads and whole bodies were impaled on sharpened poles in the town squares, or heaped in mounds amid the rubble, and Giorn chased away the ravens that pecked at their eyes and ripped at their cheeks. He saw dead men and women tied to numerous posts, and their mutilated bodies were horrors to look on. Borchstogs delighted in torture, and Giorn saw the grisly evidence firsthand. When he came upon the bodies, he drew rein and had his men take them down and burn them. He had no time for burials.

  Deeper and deeper into the highlands he rode, and as he went the chill in his veins grew colder. The Borchstogs were close, he could feel them. He could taste a rank, oily malignance on the air, whispering through the pines and cottonwoods.

  Now when he came to the high places he could see, in the distance, just barely, the infinite sharp teeth of the Aragst Mountains. Their roots were lost to mist, only the black fangs jutting upward out of the white roils, ghostly and immortal. A shiver coursed up Giorn’s spine. He could not help but to imagine the horrors that lay beyond them and the awful wastes of Oslog itself. And somewhere in those wastes stood the black fortress of Gilgaroth, the Wolf, the Lord of Ruin, who, it seemed, had turned His gaze upon Feslan at last.