The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  “Where are we going?” But inside he already knew.

  “Why, the Altar, of course.”

  He stopped. “I’m not going any further.” Without another word, he pulled out his hunting knife.

  Histra turned, her green eyes falling on the weapon. “Dear Omkar! You would assault a young woman alone in a dark corridor at night? Truly you are not your father’s son!” Despite her words, her eyes showed no fear.

  “I don’t know what you are or why you brought me here, but I won’t be party to your games. Now—you stay here. Come after me and I’ll be forced to hurt you. I am going back up—and through the proper way.”

  She lifted the lantern to her face, pursed her perfect lips, and blew out the tiny flame, drowning everything in darkness.

  “I don’t think so, Baron.”

  Someone grabbed his shoulder. Instinctively, he spun to slash at his attacker, but a second grabbed his knife hand and wrenched the weapon from his grasp. A metallic clatter sprang from the void.

  Two pairs of hands seized him. Something punched him across the face, and he tasted blood in his mouth. His ears rang. Another punched him in the gut. He doubled up, groaning. Tasted bile in the back of his throat. The arms, which seemed unnaturally strong, did not release him.

  “Now,” Histra’s voice came, “will you come willingly, or will you fight?”

  Giorn lunged sideways, clamped his jaws around one of the arms that gripped him, and bit down, hard. To his shock, the flesh he tasted was cold and fetid. Dead flesh. Horrified, he spat.

  Another fist smacked his face. His head spun. Somewhere, Histra laughed.

  His attackers dragged him forward. Though weakened, he fought them, but they were like iron as they hauled him through the dark hall. Crypts reared on all sides.

  Dread filled him. Dimly he remembered the altar beneath Wegredon, the great shadow surging forward and snapping up the elf-girl with monstrous jaws; he remembered the spurt of fire. The fires of the Second Hell. If they slew Giorn on a Black Altar, would his soul be cast into that same inferno?

  He struggled with greater fervor, but to no avail. They wound down a stairway, then another. They were deep below the earth now, below the castle. The air grew colder, and moisture dripped on him from above.

  At last he saw light ahead—red and low and lurid, spreading like thickening blood from some point just out of sight. His captors dragged him on, and presently he came within sight of what must be the Altar. The old duchess had used the lowest crypt in the castle, the deepest one, and there, beyond the statue of the ancient duke who was entombed beneath his image of bronze (an image of a stern, bearded man, face tilted downward in a contemplative pose, sword clasped before him in both hands, point in the ground), was the long, low black slab, scored by many thrustings of the knife and surely, though it was too dark to see, stained with the bloods of many.

  Looming over it on the other side was the high black wolf head on its dais, the massive bust of Gilgaroth just a shadow in the dimness. The brazier’s light made the eyes dance, just slightly, as though the thing were alive. Giorn stared at it with mounting dismay. Gilgaroth, here.

  Duke Serit Yfrin waited nearby. He wore a long black robe and held a curved dagger. The red light of the small brazier flickered, coating everything in tones of fresh blood.

  “How?” Giorn said. “How could you worship Him?” Uncle Dalic would be horrified.

  Serit’s bland, youthful face did not look smug or arrogant, or even particularly proud. He looked sad, actually, and grave, as though what he did disturbed him. He did not answer.

  “Was it the ghost of the old duchess?” Giorn pressed. “Did she come to you and . . . ?”

  Serit shook his head as Histra went to stand beside him. In the light of the brazier, Giorn was able to get a good look at her for the first time. She was slender and pretty, and younger than he had thought. She had curly blond-brown hair that fell to the middle of her back, and small, bow-shaped lips.

  Serit bent his head and kissed her briefly, adding a whispered, “Thank you, dear. I hope he wasn’t much trouble.”

  “Not much.” She indicated Giorn’s handlers, and her gesture drew his attention to them, whom he could just now see.

  Shocked, he struggled and beat at them, but to no avail. They were human, but dead—dead and rotting and clad in armor. There was no expression in their faces, no humanity to them at all. Even the Borchstog-things Giorn had fought below Wegredon had evinced more life than these creatures. What were they?

  “How?” Giorn asked again.

  Serit looked at him pityingly. “Raugst.”

  “What of him?”

  “Don’t you see? Soon Felgrad will be overrun, and Vrulug’s armies will devour it like locusts. They’ll slay all the men and rape all the women, and they will keep the issue of those rapings for their slaves.”

  “So why in the world would you worship the Thing they do? Would you be as evil as them?”

  “No. Of course not. That’s why I had to do it.” His face was earnest, his eyes imploring. Histra wrapped her arms about one of his for support. “Felgrad will fall. The Age of Grandeur will begin, and the time of our civilization will end. There is nothing we can do to stop it. But Raugst sent out his agents, and they spoke with several of the barons and dukes of Felgrad in private. This was months ago. He gave them each a Black Book, the bible of Oslog, and told them to follow its rites. If we turn to the service of the One, Vrulug will spare us and our provinces. Not all agreed to follow him—Raugst chose his targets well, but there were still dissenters, and they paid for it—but enough of us did. We’ll save our people no matter what. Now do you see?”

  “You’re a fool,” Giorn said.

  “I am saving my people.”

  “You’re damning them. You’re weakening Fiarth by taking away a powerful dukedom, making it all the likelier that Vrulug will win. That’s why Raugst came to you, don’t you see? He doesn’t care if you live or die, if your women are ravished or not, he only wants to destroy Fiarth, then Felgrad as a whole. And you’re only making it easier for him!” Giorn spat blood in Serit’s direction. “Your father would be ashamed.”

  Serit’s eyes narrowed. “My father is a foolish old man. Rabbits! He wants to watch rabbits, when I am trying to save our people!”

  “Delivering them to Gilgaroth is not saving them!”

  They glared at each other for a long moment, and smoke from the brazier drifted across the chamber. Giorn smiled. He imagined it was a bloody smile. “It must have given you a tense moment when you offered the dukedom back to him,” he said.

  Serit nodded. “It was a calculated risk. I didn’t think he would take it. If he had . . .”

  “He’d have met with some accident sooner or later, wouldn’t he?”

  “Regrettable, but he will not stand in the way of my saving Wenris. Do you understand that? I’d hoped to make you see before I do what must be done. Your sacrifice does have a reason, Lord Wesrain. I wanted to give you the chance to die with honor, as a martyr to Fiarth. My father raised me to love the Wesrains, and I do. The bow-and-dagger, forever. What say you?”

  Giorn wanted to laugh in Serit’s face. He wanted to spit more blood and mock the fool. A better plan occurred to him.

  He let a long moment go by as he pretended to think on it. Then, finally, he made his face go blank as though in resignation and slumped his body.

  “Yes,” he said in a dispirited voice. Then, more firmly, raising his eyes to meet Serit’s: “Yes. Yes, I will do it. My people have served Fiarth for a thousand years, and if this is the only way I have left to serve her, then I will do so gladly.”

  Serit looked surprised, then proud. Tears actually built up behind his eyes, but he did not let them out. He actually believed it! And it was not due to stupidity, Giorn saw, but the absolute conviction in Serit’s mind that he did the right thing and that others would recognize that. Which, of course, made him all the more a fool to Giorn.

&nb
sp; “Stand forward and lay upon the Altar,” Serit instructed.

  Histra slipped toward the black slab, meaning to grab some item from it before Giorn lay down, but the following events stopped her.

  Giorn tried to step forward. The dead hands that restrained him did not let go. He tried to shrug them off. They did not leave.

  “What’s this?” Serit asked. Histra glanced up.

  One of the dead ones said, very clearly and shockingly, its mouth opening and closing with no expression showing on its withered face: “Beware of this one, nephew.” Its voice was that of an oak grinding in a storm.

  “I trust him, Aunt,” Serit said. “But if he should turn, I have you to deal with him.”

  Giorn looked from one dead face to the other. “Aunt?”

  “That is the duchess,” Histra explained.

  “I don’t . . .” Both corpses were male.

  “She’s been down here so long that she’s learned to manipulate the bodies of the dukes that came later, though their souls are long gone. She had no issue, but her brother did, so she calls all those of his line nephews and nieces.”

  “And uses them like puppets when they die,” Giorn finished. “Charming.”

  One of the dead ones shook him. “Quiet, Wesrain.”

  The corpses threw him forward to land at Serit’s feet. Giorn picked himself up gingerly, the young duke helping.

  Serit held the knife in his right hand. Giorn grabbed it with his left.

  Surprised, Serit fought him. Giorn’s balled the curled wooden fingers of his right hand into a fist and smashed it across Serit’s mouth. One wooden finger cracked. Serit fell back, hands over his mouth. Blood spurted from between his fingers. Giorn grinned savagely; his wooden hand could deliver quite a blow.

  He held the dagger in his left hand.

  Screaming like a hell-cat, Histra flew at him. She leapt onto his back and beat his skull with her tiny yet surprisingly hard fists. Screeching, she scratched at his face, meaning to gouge out his eyes, and blood ran down his cheeks.

  Giorn reached overhead with his left hand, grabbed her by the hair with two fingers not gripping the weapon and hauled her off with all his strength. Screaming, she fell in an unladylike heap to the floor.

  By this time, Serit had recovered his wits. He lunged for Giorn. Giorn twisted, swayed. Serit sailed by. Giorn slashed him across the ribs with the ceremonial dagger.

  Serit, fuming in anger and clutching his side, ran around the statue of the old duke and huddled on the far side of the dead things.

  “Craven!” Giorn said.

  Histra joined her lord, touching her head where Giorn had yanked her hair.

  Serit lifted a trembling finger and pointed it with great deliberation at Giorn. “Kill him, Aunt.”

  “No. It must be done properly. You must read from the Book.”

  “I don’t have it!”

  Giorn noticed a large black volume lying on the Altar. This is what Histra had been reaching for. He snatched it up and, without a thought, hurled it onto the brazier. Serit screamed. The dead ones moaned. Instantly, the Book exploded, the energies contained within it being released. Smoke and fire filled the tight space, and Giorn coughed and blinked his eyes.

  “Now kill him!” Serit shouted.

  The dead things did not answer. Giorn took that to mean they were already hunting him. Could they see through this smoke? The flames on the brazier leapt high, turned purple, then black, then green, and weird smoke curled up, forming strange shapes. All this Giorn could only vaguely see, every now and then, when the smoke that filled the tight chamber shifted slightly. The old bronze duke reared up in the center of it all, proud and defiant, daring the chaos all around him to do its worst.

  A footstep nearby. The dead ones were almost on him.

  Giorn circled around the huge bust of Gilgaroth. It was set almost flush against the wall, but not quite. Slipping into the space behind it, he braced his back against the wall and shoved with his good leg against the statue’s back. After much straining, it tilted. Yes!

  “Come for me!” he said, drawing them forward.

  A tall, corpse-like shape surged through smoke and shadows, directly before the statue. Giorn shoved, and the statue toppled forward. There came a crash, a crunch of bone and armor, and something man-like writhed beneath the black wolf head, making no sound.

  Giorn slipped forward. Another shape lurched at him, claw-like hands outstretched.

  Desperate, he dodged aside. It came on. He hurled himself behind the brazier, then shoved the brazier over, right into the oncoming corpse. It fell back, flames coursing up its dry, withered limbs. It staggered forward, flaming, still intent on killing him, but then its body gave out and it collapsed, falling apart as it went.

  Giorn spun toward Serit and Histra.

  Through the smoke, Serit must have seen him, as the duke said, “Gilgaroth take him!”

  Giorn limped through the darkness, a soot-stained, blood-spitting specter of death. Serit and Histra fled up the hall. Giorn followed as fast as his poor leg allowed him.

  Not fast enough. The duke and his mistress slipped up a stairway and were gone. Giorn reached it, turned to regard the catacombs one final time, just to be sure nothing was coming up on him, and saw a dark shape lurching from down the hallway in the opposite direction of the Altar. Giorn cursed. Auntie was rousing more of her puppets.

  Limping, he mounted the stairs, dragging his bad leg behind him like a dead weight. He had wrested a thigh bone from the fire, and it was wrapped with dry tissue and fabric, now burning slightly. It wasn’t much light, but it lit the way before him.

  In his good hand he held the dagger. It dripped small droplets of Serit’s blood. Giorn swore that it would drip still more. Sweat stung his eyes. His right leg throbbed. He heard noises behind him—shuffling, shambling noises, the scrape of bone, the click of teeth.

  Giorn pushed himself to go faster. He could hear absolutely nothing of Serit and Histra. They were far ahead of him now.

  Hungry moaning issued up from the well of darkness below. At last the stairwell ended and a long dark corridor stretched before him. This was the highest level of the catacombs. If he could remember where the secret passage was . . .

  He didn’t. He would have to make for the stairwell at the end of the hall, the one that led up into the castle proper. Gritting his teeth, trying to ignore the fire that coursed up from his leg, he made for the stairwell.

  Stone grated on stone to his right. The slab of a sarcophagus fell to the floor with a crash, and something leathery rose up. Giorn ran, dragging his bad foot.

  Another crash, off to his left.

  A footstep behind him.

  Something raked his back. He yelped. Hobbled faster. Blood trickled down his back.

  Something tripped him. No! He went sprawling. Knocked his chin on the cold marble floor. The concussion jarred his head. Groaning, he flipped himself over. Dark things loomed over him. The bone-torch had fallen from his fingers, and its light was fading.

  “Die,” said the dead ones. “Die,” said Aunt Yfrin.

  They bent over him.

  Screaming insensibly, he stabbed at their wrists with the dagger, hacked at their jaws. He kicked with his good foot. Then his bad. They were all around him. With a last, desperate burst of strength, he rolled, knocking two of them away. He broke free and scrambled to his feet.

  They closed in.

  The bone-torch died, plunging him into pitch blackness.

  He thought he remembered where the stairwell was and made for it. The scraping and clicking and moaning increased behind him. Aunt Yfrin was hungry. He supposed Serit had given her some flesh and blood over recent weeks, but it hadn’t been enough. More claw-like hands raked at his back, caught at his clothes. They tore away. He was one step ahead of them.

  All was darkness. His heart beat like a drum in his chest. Flesh-less jaws clicked behind him. The dead ones were almost on him. He pushed himself to go faster. Pleas
e, Illiana, don’t let me die like this, devoured by corpses and ghosts in the dark.

  Something hard struck his feet. He almost sprawled on hard stone stairs—he’d reached them!—but at the last moment he pushed himself off with a hand and, tottering, ascended.

  A bony hand grabbed his ankle. He pulled loose. Climbed. The things followed him, clicking and skittering. Cold, slick walls rolled by under his hands, his only touchstone in the darkness.

  Finally, he saw vague light above. Almost there . . .

  The things moaned behind him. Their clicks and clatters grew faster. He forced himself on, chest burning. The vague light ahead strengthened, surrounded him. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the stairwell into the castle.

  Still the things came on. He remembered what Histra had said, about how Aunt Yfrin could steal the breaths of people on this lowest level. But above, she could not. If he could only reach one more stairwell . . .

  Braziers stood at intervals, always lit, even at night. And there would be guards.

  Guards.

  Giorn could not get a lungful of air to scream with. He wove through the thick, squat columns of the main hall. Aunt Yfrin’s puppets chased him. He didn’t turn his head to look, but he could hear them. Click, click, scrabble. Skitter. Moan.

  They were almost on him. He would be devoured alive, right here in the castle, mere feet away from help.

  Finally he was able to draw breath and shouted as loud as he could: “Guards! To me!” It came out in a choking rasp, but it was enough.

  Foul hands grasped at him. A living skull, with flesh still clinging to it, snapped at his throat. He could feel the air moving against his jugular. He placed his hands on the creature’s cold, cobweb-covered ribcage, and shoved. It was strong. He pushed harder, and it fell back, just for a moment.

  More surrounded him. Their stench of rot and fungus filled his nose. A skeletal hand stretched for his eyes. He shattered its wrist with his dagger. Another swing clove a gnashing skull. His blade lodged in the thick bone of the head.

  Guards burst into the main hall. In moments they descended on the scene, swords flashing. They hacked the dead things to pieces, and bone dust filled Giorn’s mouth. A severed skull snapped on the floor and, breathless, he kicked it away.