The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  “Father . . .”

  He ran his unmaimed hand over the tomb, patting his father’s chest.

  Fria came up beside him. “It was a lovely funeral. Niara sang The Passage to Sifril. It . . . was most beautiful.”

  “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “Neither can I.”

  Giorn forced himself to cross the hallway and enter the next tomb, going slowly, his footsteps seeming to echo forever. He moved to Meril’s sarcophagus and stared down at the chiseled representation of his brother—flat and lifeless, he thought, devoid of the devilish charm Meril had evinced in life. Yet it was him. There were his chubby, babyish cheeks, there his full lips, his strong jaw, wavy hair.

  “Meril . . .” Giorn laid his forehead against the representation of his brother’s. It was disconcerting to realize that Meril’s real forehead would be gray and rotting just inches beneath the lid. “I’m sorry.” How could their last words have been in anger? And because of Raugst.

  For a time, he stood there, staring down at the sarcophagus, but then he noted Fria’s absence and turned to see her silhouetted against the doorway.

  “Won’t you come in?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.” Her voice was thick. “He abandoned us, Gi. Abandoned Fiarth.” In a quieter voice, half to herself, she said, “Craven.”

  He hadn’t the time to explain to her what must have really happened. He could not believe his brother would have taken his own life, but Raugst had all the motive in the world. Sighing, he bid Meril farewell and returned to the hallway. Time to go.

  A secret passage connected the catacombs to the castle’s dungeon, so Giorn was able to avoid the guards that Raugst had surely posted at the entrance to the dungeon level. Giorn had expected to find the cells teeming with dissenters, as it was always the way of tyrants to populate their dungeons vigorously, but to his surprise the place was largely empty. For some reason, this made Giorn hate Raugst all the more. The traitor had the love of the people.

  Fria must have seen his expression, for she squeezed his arm. “He’s put on a good show, that’s all. Made the people think he’s one of them.”

  Giorn hobbled along on his cane, wincing at every step. He said nothing.

  “Don’t worry, Gi. We’ll find a way to end him.”

  He smiled humorlessly. “Oh, I’ve thought of many ways. It’s just about all I can think of.”

  She looked at him strangely and said no more. She had seemed subdued since her foray into the castle.

  Shortly they reached the cell of Duke Yfrin at the end of a dank hallway, near a small, barred window. This was about as good as conditions in the royal dungeons went—relative privacy and natural light, even a view of the grounds if one strained one’s neck. Giorn found the Duke drowsing in a corner, and Giorn smiled, this time with warmth. The Duke looked rested and healthy, with a white, bushy head of hair and beard, and a nose red from too much drink over the years.

  Giorn cleared his throat.

  The Duke blinked his eyes and glanced up blankly. When he recognized Giorn, he exclaimed with surprise and climbed to his feet.

  “It cannot be! Look at you!” He crossed to the bars and gripped them with pudgy hands. “What did they do to you, lad?”

  “There’s no time to tell, my friend. We must get you out of here.” When Fria had gone to fetch the cane, she had also retrieved her set of the dungeon keys, passed on by Meril, and given them to Giorn. Now Giorn produced the keys and shook them before the duke’s widening eyes.

  “Could it be that I’m still dreaming?” said Yfrin.

  “If so, don’t wake up. We’re on the verge of getting out of here.”

  Giorn unlocked the door, and Duke Yfrin wrapped him in a tight hug, then embraced Fria. Even Fria’s handmaiden got a kiss on the hand, which made her blush prettily. The Duke laughed.

  “Shh,” Giorn said, putting the stump of a finger to his lips. “We can’t let them hear us.”

  The Duke’s expression fell, his gaze settling on the finger. “What did they do to you?”

  “Never mind. We must hurry.”

  “You mean he’s still in charge?” When Giorn nodded, Yfrin slumped. “When you showed up, I thought . . . but no matter. I’m sure there’s still hope.”

  “There is. Some of it depends on you.”

  “How my I help, my lord?”

  “We must go to your home. We’ll go through the secret tunnels and leave the city—it’s under siege—then make our way afoot until we can find mounts somewhere. Fria’s supplied me with some gold, so that shouldn’t be insurmountable, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  Duke Yfrin’s enthusiasm visibly waned. “Afoot, and you with a cane . . .” He stared at Giorn’s shattered leg. “It’s still bleeding . . .”

  Yes, and it burns like fire. The medicines the nurses had given Giorn had made the pain bearable, but no more. “I know. The situation is less than ideal. Nevertheless . . .”

  “Gi’s right,” Fria said. “You can’t stay here. You must get out of the city and rally the nobles against Raugst.”

  “It’s the only way,” Giorn said.

  “I wish I could give you horses,” Fria said.

  “The tunnels won’t accommodate them.”

  She nodded, then kissed his cheek. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  Giorn smiled. “It has to be safer than staying here. I need time to heal and gather supporters.” He paused. “Are you certain you wish to stay? It won’t be safe now that Raugst has revealed himself to you. And should the city fall . . .”

  She looked down, and he saw the telltale glimmer as tears coursed down her cheeks, but she did not make a sound, nor did she let him see her face. A brave young woman, he realized.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “It’s the only way for me. Someone must keep an eye on him, and perhaps, if the opportunity arises . . .”

  “Don’t get yourself killed doing it. I want to have some family to come back to when this is all over, and you’re all there is.”

  “I am still your uncle,” Duke Yfrin said.

  “That you are,” Giorn agreed, heartened. “Now come. It’s a long walk we have before us, and the tunnels may not be as empty as we would like. We must have our wits about us, and our arms.” He patted the sword at his waist and the dagger at his chest.

  At the cue, Fria pressed a sword and dagger on the duke, and he stared at them dumbly, almost as though he’d forgotten what they were, but then he shook himself and strapped them on.

  “It’s been awhile,” he muttered, “but I’m sure it will come back to me.”

  “Hopefully you won’t need them,” Fria said. Her eyes were clear now. Her left one stared upwards, as though in prayer.

  Giorn began hobbling back the way he had come, and the others followed. Through the window, he had been hearing the far-off but constant susurration of war, but now began to fade. Was the battle drawing to a close?

  He ground his teeth as a stab of pain coursed up his right leg and kept going.

  Niara looked at him levelly. “You did what?”

  Framed against the stars, Raugst was just a black shape on the terrace. The stars were beginning to fade as light grew toward the east.

  “It was the only way,” he said.

  She rose from the couch and went to him. The warm wind whispered over the balustrade and felt good against her cheeks. Her robe danced. “The only way to what?” she asked. “To bring down the Crescent?” Fury rose in her. She wanted to beat at his chest, but that would only amuse him.

  Looking down on her, half-smirking, he said, “Perhaps. But perhaps it will save the Crescent.” He turned and stared toward the sun just thrusting over the eastern horizon. “Believe it or not, Niara, it was the only way, the only thing I could say to Vrulug to make him stop. Otherwise those Borchstogs would be sacking Thiersgald right now and the rest of the Crescent not long after.”

  Part of her anger dissipated. “Would you . . . would
you truly have opened the gates to them?”

  He did not even hesitate. “Happily. And I would have waited upon my throne for Vrulug to come to me. I would have had you across my lap, naked and bleeding, and he would have come into the Throne Room, him looking up at me for once and . . .” He sighed, and she could hear his longing. “But that’s gone now, a dream dead, slain by that kiss you gave me.” By the red light blooming to the east, she could see the sadness in him.

  “I certainly won’t apologize for it,” she said. In a smaller voice, she added, “But perhaps I shouldn’t have saved you from Giorn.”

  He grabbed her shoulders roughly, forcing her attention to return to him. His face pressed close to hers. “Had you done that, girl, the city would have fallen. Giorn could not have dealt with Vrulug.”

  “No, but he would not have opened the gates, either. He could have rallied the soldiers and driven Vrulug away.”

  “It would have been a hollow victory, girl.”

  “Do not call me girl.”

  “It would have been hollow,” he repeated. “When the bridge is rebuilt, and Vrulug’s main force comes up from the south, Giorn could not have stopped them. But I can.”

  “How? As king?”

  Raugst leaned back. He looked weary. “We shall see. I know King Ulea is a beloved figure in Felgrad, and he’s sent me several messengers asking if I required his aid against Vrulug. I put him off, of course. At the time, I didn’t want his help.”

  “Naturally. But now you’re prepared to kill him and take his place.”

  “Don’t be cross. Sure, he seems a good man, but I’ve killed many good men. However, this might be the first time I’ve ever done so for the cause of good men.” He smiled humorlessly.

  “I can’t allow you to do it.”

  “You have no say in the matter. And as long as Saria hangs about my neck, neither do I. I must rid myself of her.”

  Niara nodded grimly, recalling the woman that had accompanied Raugst back to the castle. Even Raugst’s minions had shown her deference, and fear. Could she be . . . ? Surely not. The name must be just a coincidence. She couldn’t truly be Orin Feldred’s wife and betrayer.

  Tall and stately, Saria had seemed like a queen, but there was something loathsome about her, too, something rank just below the surface. Raugst had shown her to the quarters that would be hers—Giorn’s old apartment in the tallest tower—where she had demanded that any prisoners he had be brought to her for her to feed on. Niara had understood then: she was rithlag, a dead thing that needed to steal the life from others in order to maintain her foothold in this world. Niara wondered if Duke Yfrin was even then lying dead at the abomination’s feet, drained and empty.

  “How?” Niara asked. “How can you rid yourself of her?”

  Raugst frowned, rubbing his beard. It was a very human gesture, and it encouraged her. Perhaps he was not too far gone, after all.

  At last he shrugged. “I’ll worry about it when Thiersgald is safe.”

  “So you mean to help us?”

  “I would not say it if I did not.” In a lower tone, he added, “Not to you.” Something gentle, or half gentle, came into his eyes, and he reached out to her and took her wrists in his large hands. “You gave me mastery of myself, girl.” This time she did not correct him. “I . . . I thank you for it.”

  He bent down and kissed her lips. Giorn, she thought. Think of Giorn. She pulled away.

  “No,” she said, and it was almost a choke.

  Reluctantly, he let her go. Flushed and shamed, she quit the terrace and retreated indoors.

  “I must leave,” she said.

  “Niara.”

  She paused, hating herself for it, and was about to turn around to face him when the door to Raugst’s chambers swung open, and a tall, voluptuous form stood silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Saria,” said Raugst.

  “Raugst.” She entered the room without asking, her black hair glimmering in the candlelight, set with ornate golden pins that made the black waves sparkle. Her jade green eyes swept the room and fixed on Niara, who shuddered. How many men did she feed from? Niara fancied she could smell the stench of blood coming off the woman—the thing. Saria looked very healthy, and roses blossomed on her cheeks. Her lips were very red.

  “Niara,” she said. “I’ve been told about you. Interesting to find a priestess of the Moon-witch here, in the bedchambers of our lord Raugst . . . .”

  “She is mine,” Raugst growled. “Leave her be.” To Niara, he added, “Go. You will have no trouble. I’ve already given orders to the men.”

  Warily, Niara circled around Saria, who turned to watch her. The amused, mocking expression never left Saria’s face.

  “You don’t have to leave, dear,” Saria said. “You can stay and . . . join us . . . in our games. I’m sure Raugst wouldn’t mind.”

  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 unbearabl
e. 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.”