The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  She set off, guiding her horse down around an outcropping of rock, through a stretch of twisted, stunted trees whose roots and limbs seemed to grasp at her face and her horse’s hooves. It was slow going, but it seemed a more direct way down into the valley.

  Suddenly the hairs on the nape of her neck stood up. A coldness swept her. And a smell—a faint, acrid odor—

  “Borchstogs!” she said.

  She drew rein. Too late. A crossbow bolt whizzed out of the darkness of the gnarled forest. Hiatha’s mare screamed, and blood spurted from its neck. It crashed to the ground, and Hiatha just barely managed to throw herself clear in time.

  Borchstogs rushed out of the shadows wielding long, curved swords. The creatures were tall and strong and dark, seemingly apart of the shadows they emerged from, but their eyes burned red, and hate filled them. Niara could not tell how many of them there were, but she guessed it was a small band, no more than a score. They had likely been camping in Maddar Keep. The screams she had heard might have been their prisoners.

  Black hands grabbed her leg and tried to haul her off her horse.

  “Get your claws off me!” she yelled. She took a breath, summoned the light within her, and laid her own hands on this Borchstog’s head. Her hands glowed white, and the Borchstog screamed. The demon fell away, smoke trailing from its head.

  Two more replaced it.

  She stabbed her hand toward one, and light shot out of her flesh and lanced the Borchstog through the chest. The beam bore a hole through the demon, and it fell without a sound. With a grimace, Niara burned off the second one’s head.

  The others drew back. “Un oscrid-Hur,” they murmured.

  “Get on!” Niara said, patting the saddle behind her.

  Hiatha climbed on. She was chanting to herself and stroking the small white jewel she wore about her neck; it began to glow.

  Niara spurred her horse and it barreled forward, riding down a pair of Borchstogs. A crossbow bolt whizzed by her ear. She ducked. Hiatha screamed. Niara felt the other priestess’s hand, which had been gripped around Niara’s waist, drop away.

  “No! Hiatha, stay with me.” She reached back and grabbed the hand.

  To her great relief, the hand squeezed back.

  “Just a graze . . .” Hiatha said, but her voice was weak, as was the pressure on Niara’s hand.

  “Use the jewel,” Niara said. “Heal yourself.”

  “I’m . . . trying . . .”

  All of the priestesses of the highest circle carried jewels or various artifacts infused with power from elvish allies. It took years of training to learn how to wield such tools, but Hiatha had possessed hers for quite some time. Usually Niara and her priestesses only used them to heal, but in times of war they could be great weapons.

  Hiatha chanted to herself, the words a ragged whisper in Niara’s ear. Slowly Hiatha’s grip grew tighter, her words louder and steadier.

  Meanwhile, Niara guided her horse down. She passed through another ruined village likely put to the torch by Duke Celborne long ago. Borchstogs howled behind her. They blew horns alerting others of their kind, and soon Niara heard horns before her.

  She veered in the other direction. Tree limbs whipped at her face, and roots stretched for her horse’s legs. Blood pounded in her ears. All of her attention focused on the way ahead, on navigating a path through the tight forest. Afoot it would have been easier, but slower. Her horse was both blessing and curse.

  At last she rode out of the forest and down a steep incline that was all of rock. Her horse’s hooves scraped and clattered. Slipped.

  Niara leaned back, pressing into Hiatha behind her; they helped balance the horse. It recovered its footing and plowed on.

  They plunged into another forest. The trees here rose taller, fuller, and the space between them was greater. Niara made her way swiftly.

  Sounds behind her. ClompClompClomp.

  She turned to see a dozen Borchstogs on horses following her. They howled and called encouragements to each other in Oslogon.

  “I’ll deal with them,” Hiatha said, turning in her seat. Niara heard more chanting, then felt a flash of power, of Grace. The shadows ahead of her disappeared as an explosion of light came from behind. The Borchstogs screamed, and the light faded.

  Niara hunkered low, pressing her thighs tightly into the mare’s flanks. Her whole body vibrated with the steady rhythm of the impacting hooves.

  Behind her Hiatha kept chanting, kept using her jewel to counter the Borchstogs. Their screams and curses began to grow fainter and farther away.

  Niara rode on. At last she decided that they were not being pursued any further and slowed her steed’s momentum so that it would not smash into a tree or fly over a cliff. Besides, she knew it could not keep up that pace for long. Already its sides were lathered in sweat. Her thighs were sore from pressing against its flanks.

  At one point they reached a jutting protrusion of rock that overlooked the vale. A huge storm of dust from the army’s horses billowed up, obscuring events for a moment. Then a gust of wind whistled through, and Niara gasped in horror. Borchstogs in the high ground on either side of the vale were triggering avalanches and raining down thousands of arrows. The sun was bright to the west, and Niara knew it must pain the Borchstogs, but they fought on. Looking closely, she thought she saw leather visors on the archers’ heads. Not that they needed to aim with particular care, of course. The whole valley was choked with Fiarthans. It would be hard to miss hitting one.

  “Illiana help us,” she whispered.

  “We’re being butchered.”

  “We must hurry.”

  Even as she renewed her trek, she wondered what use she could be. There were so many . . . Ielgad must have already fallen.

  Eventually they descended enough that she could hear the screams and crashings of the slaughter. When next she rode along an overhang, she peered down into the conflict to see that a Borchstog-triggered avalanche had sealed the pass to the fore. The army was being forced back the way they had come. Their sea of shields and helms was not so bright anymore, as everything was coated in dust and blood. There were so few of them left! Niara tried not to despair, but it proved difficult.

  She rode down an incline and into the corpse-covered Vale of Irrys. Dust rose like living clouds all around her, billowing and swaying, revealing and then hiding the fly-covered mounds of dead bodies, horse and man alike. Hiatha sobbed. Niara prayed silently.

  She rode through the carnage, passing a stream choked with bodies. It might well have been the stream where Duke Madrast saw Eria for the first time. If not for that fateful encounter, this vale would still be guarded, and this massacre would not have come to pass.

  Coming out of the vale, Niara and Hiatha followed in the wake of the army. The sun slipped behind the mountains, but Niara didn’t need much light to follow the trail of blood and trampled earth. She pressed over a rise and saw them, all the brave soldiers, fleeing over the rolling plain.

  “Borchstogs!” Hiatha said. “They’re coming down from the hills!”

  Niara craned her head. Hordes of the demons poured down from the highlands to pursue the retreating army. Niara summoned the Light within her and channeled it into her horse, giving it stamina—speed. They must hurry, or they would be overrun.

  And night was falling.

  The riders flanked the infantrymen, not willing to leave them behind. Niara was heartened to see that. The riders had slackened their pace anyway, for with the onset of darkness their horses had to pick their way more carefully. Fortunately the rolling plain provided easy riding.

  Niara summoned what little strength she had left and forced herself to glow, enabling her horse to see where it went. She gained on the army and at last threaded through the battle-weary soldiers. They gave way before her, marveling at her shining presence. Many made signs in praise of Illiana, assuming it was the goddess’s might at work instead of Niara’s elvish heritage. She did not correct them. All Grace came from the
Omkar at any rate.

  She came upon Raugst on his black charger, riding at the head of the procession in the company of his generals. He looked as weary and dusty as any of them, but when she looked more closely at him she thought she detected the merest hint of self-satisfaction.

  Niara, though considerably tired from using her abilities, nevertheless maintained her glow as she rode into Raugst’s presence.

  It had the desired effect. He looked at her, startled, his wolvish face caught by the light. He mashed his eyes shut and turned away. She was very tempted to act against him in that moment, but she was too weak and the generals and troops would take it the wrong way. Most of them did not know the truth behind Raugst’s human façade, and they would think her an assassin and strike her down. She would have done it anyway, accepting her fate, but she was too weak to deliver a killing blast. Soon, though.

  Her light faded, and darkness once more draped the land. Niara sagged, exhausted. She blinked her eyes, trying to adjust to the uncertain light.

  “So,” Raugst said, “you made it back. We were concerned.”

  Straining her eyes, she peered about. “Where’s Lisilli?”

  Raugst, now just a dim shape in the darkness, seemed to shake his head. “Alas, she didn’t make it. A boulder, I think it was, tumbled from the cliffs. Truly tragic.”

  “She died bravely,” said one of the generals, Niara thought it was one of Raugst’s. “A worthy end.”

  “So it is,” Raugst agreed.

  “Indeed.”

  Niara glowered, seething in anger, and it was anger she felt, more than sadness, though she felt that too. Lisilli had been a friend, one of her most trusted confidants, and a powerful and noble wielder of the light.

  “May she find the Lights of Sifril,” she murmured.

  “May it be so,” Hiatha agreed. “Would that we could retake the Vale and find her remains so that we could give her a proper entombment.”

  “Alas, we cannot,” Raugst said. “Even now the enemy will be on our heels.”

  “What is your plan, then?” Niara demanded. Or have you already accomplished it?

  “To reach Hasitlan. There we will turn and face them.”

  “Aye,” said one of the generals. “It’s our only option. There’s no defensible land between here and the city.”

  Niara could see better now, and she swept her gaze over the generals. “Where is General Havlin?” But she already knew.

  “He, too, fell,” said Raugst. “So many did. We must have lost at least half the company.”

  Niara’s heart wrenched.

  “A sad day,” said a general.

  “Grievous,” said another. Niara thought both were Raugst’s.

  “And why didn’t you wait for me?” she asked. “Hiatha and I were to scout the lay of the land—”

  “And so you did,” said Raugst, sounding surprised. “We received the message from the scout you sent back.”

  “I sent no—” Niara snapped her mouth shut. She saw what had happened, what must have happened. Oh, the clever, horrible demon. She would end him yet. She would end him, if it cost her her life. He had had his own scout send the message, claiming it was from her, asserting that the way was clear—which it most certainly was not. Now her own people would mistrust her. Clever. But it will not save him.

  The group lapsed into silence, save for the soft thuds of their steeds’ hooves on the grass. A cool breeze whispered over the undulating hills, and Niara shivered.

  “What can we do?” Hiatha whispered in Niara’s ear.

  Niara saw little choice. Raugst had orchestrated events well. Very well. He had rid himself of his closest enemies and half the remaining army of Fiarth. Niara wondered if he had meant to kill her, too. Those Borchstogs she and Hiatha had encountered had not appeared to be trying to take the priestesses captive. And even though they had lived, would anyone trust them now? After all, the soldiers had depended on her to give an honest appraisal of the vale, and for all they knew she had deliberately led them into a trap.

  Suddenly, she felt very cold, very small, and very alone. She wished Giorn were here now more than ever.

  It took only two more hours to reach Hasitlan. By that time the world had grown so dark it looked dipped in tar, and stars glittered on the glassy lake. Raugst ordered his men to light torches, and they looked like thousands of fireflies charging through the blackness, a great column of fire. It must have intimidated the Hasitlans, who bristled with spears and arrows when the army arrived at their encircling wall.

  “It is Lord Raugst Wesrain. Let us in!” Raugst called. “And ring the bells! Call every man to arms!”

  The men on the walls, seeing the Silver Stag, did as ordered. Bells tolled through the village, and townspeople rushed to the walls with swords, pitchforks and machetes. Niara tried to keep herself together, as well as Hiatha. The other priestess had been crying, but Niara was able to stop her—not calm her, just stop her. There was no calming anyone.

  Her heart thudding rapidly, Niara mounted the wall with Hiatha to find Raugst talking quietly to Duke Welsly.

  “I told you to be wary in those mountains,” the duke said.

  “Would that I had been more so,” Raugst said. “I fear my impatience to save Ielgad cost many lives.”

  “Ielgad’s already fallen,” Niara said. “That’s the only explanation for the number of Borchstogs that attacked us. They wouldn’t have had the numbers to ambush us and besiege Ielgad both, at least not until the Eresine Bridge is rebuilt.”

  “True,” said Raugst, shooting her a sideways look.

  “Don’t worry,” Duke Welsly said. “Hasitlan won’t be overrun. We’ve stood too long to fall now.”

  Raugst clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! They won’t defeat us so easily.”

  Duke Welsly bowed to Niara. “High Mother, could I ask a boon of you?”

  “What may I do for the lord of Hasitlan?”

  He knelt before her, holding up his sword on his two open palms. “Could you bless this blade for me, High Mother? I would be most honored.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Raugst snicker, but when she looked at him, he was all seriousness.

  “Very well,” she told the Duke, “though I warn you that I’m weakened after my exertions.” She laid her hands on the blade, closed her eyes, and allowed that well of light within her to rise, overspill its boundaries and pour out through her hands into the sword. Slowly it flowed out, soaking into the steel, and at last she felt it radiate a certain energy.

  She opened her eyes. The blade did not glow, not exactly, she was too weak for that, but it did emanate a feeling of goodness, of wholesomeness. And it was now a thing of the world, not a kept treasure in her breast. Duke Welsly now wielded a powerful weapon—especially lethal to darkspawn. Like Borchstogs.

  And Raugst.

  If it should run him through . . .

  Sensing it at the same time she did, Raugst took a step back.

  The Duke, who had been closing his eyes and holding his breath, looked up and inhaled loudly. “Amazing,” he said. “I can feel it . . .” He stood, somewhat off balance, and marveled at his blade.

  Sagging, Niara nearly fell, but Hiatha gripped her shoulders.

  “Lady, are you all right?” Duke Welsly said.

  She waved his attentions away. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  “Here, sit.” Hiatha directed her to sit on the crenellated wall, where Niara took deep breaths and meditated. She tried to tap that well of light again, but it was empty now, or nearly so, drained by blessing the sword. It would renew in time, but not soon enough to aid them in the coming fight.

  And it was a finite thing, her well of light, she felt. A finite energy. Renewable, if it was not entirely spent. But if she should ever have need to expend it all, every drop of it, it would not replenish itself. She would be permanently weak. Permanently mortal. She had lived for a hundred and fifty years, and the prospect terri
fied her. She did not know if she were truly immortal, in the way a full-blooded elf would be, but at the least she expected to live many hundreds of years, perhaps thousands.

  “Look!” one of the generals said. “They’re coming.”

  The darkness on the horizon moved, a wide column of shadow that swept over the already dark hills. Here and there Niara caught a helm or piece of armor glisten under the light of moon and stars like the armor of cockroaches.

  “Illiana protect us,” she whispered, looking up at the nearly full moon above. It looked far away and not of much help. Weak, like her.

  Shakily, she stood, and Hiatha supported her.

  Horns sounded along the wall, the soldiers alerting each other of the enemy’s approach. A gust of wind blew in from the north, carrying with it a hint of rain. Niara shivered. She was cold, and drained, and hunger gnawed at her belly. She was in no condition to fight.

  The Borchstogs came on.

  Raugst ordered his archers to fire. They sent volley after volley at the Borchstog host, but the Borchstogs rolled forward, a sea of death. The arrows bounced off their shields and helms. Several carried standards, Niara saw as they came within the lights of the village—severed human heads and torsos on sharpened poles. Grisly relics of their recent conquests, no doubt. Lord Welsly’s standard of a golden head on a dark blue background was bad enough, but real heads, real bodies . . . The bile rose in the back of her throat.

  “The Omkar have mercy,” Raugst said, and Niara didn’t have to wonder which Omkar he was referring to.

  War came upon Hasitlan quickly. The Borchstogs braved Raugst’s arrows and threw up ladders; some were simply hewn trees from the nearby forests. The Borchstogs swarmed the walls like ants, preceded by the smell of rotting meat. All around her Niara saw men give battle to the demons. Swords clanged and axes thunked. She heard the sounds of a thousand butchers hacking into a thousand sides of beef, punctuated by the scrape of armor and gasps of pain. Roars and curses followed. Red blood and black washed the parapet.