The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  He went to her. She had her back to him, and was staring off into the night, perhaps listening to the running of the river. Raugst could hear it gurgling pleasantly in the background.

  His heart in his throat, he stepped onto the gazebo.

  Niara must have heard his footsteps, but she did not turn around.

  Slowly, savoring this, he reached out a hand and took hold of her shoulder, meaning to turn her around and kiss her.

  Something was wrong. Her flesh was ice cold, and now that he was near he smelled something peculiar, a hint of . . . rot. And she seemed taller than she should.

  The figure in white turned about. Its blackened skull glistened under the light of the moon, its eye sockets deep and empty. It threw back its withered head and laughed, a horrible clacking sound, and one of its claws rose and tore away the wig on its head.

  Raugst stumbled backward, bile rising in his throat. Bumped into something behind him. Whirling, he saw that it was the other one, tall and skeletal and ghastly, emanating cold. The Twain.

  Unable to contain himself, he struck at it, but before his fist could land, the one wearing the white gown grabbed him from behind. He felt air whish by him, felt wood snap under him, and he landed heavily on the grass beyond the gazebo. The first one had thrown him through the railing.

  Gasping, he glared up at them, and they turned to face him, both making gruesome clacking noises that must be laughter.

  “Why?” he demanded. “Why won’t you let me see her?”

  They simply drew back into the shadows and did not appear again.

  Raugst shivered and cursed. For a long moment, he just sat there, staring into the shadows, collecting himself. He took some solace in the fact that if the Twain had been awaiting him here, then they would not have been able to overhear his conversation with Duke Welsly earlier. Saria should be less worried about Niara and more worried about Raugst. He allowed himself a grim smile as he picked himself up and made for the sewers.

  Before he reached them, a figure stepped out from around a corner of a building, directly into his path. His breath caught in his throat, and his hand reached for his sword. The figure stepped forward, into the light of a street-lamp.

  It was Niara.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said after he’d caught his breath. He looked around hastily, his eyes scrutinizing every shadow. He looked quite handsome. “There are enemies around.”

  Niara nodded. “I know.” She stretched out her hand toward him, beckoning. “They’re not here. Saria made her point, and now her pets have returned to her.”

  With obvious unease, he came toward her. He looked very grim, and he smelled of smoke. She had not wanted to feel anything toward him, had told herself not to, but as he approached her, she felt something stir within her, and when he clasped her hand in his she felt that faint ember blaze once more. Think of Giorn.

  “How?” he asked, and his voice was husky. She knew he meant the manner of her finding him.

  She tried to keep her own voice steady. “I’ll explain.” She led him around the corner of the building, where Hiatha and several priesthood guards waited. Hiatha looked wary at seeing Raugst, but she only nodded. Niara walked on, and the others fell in behind her, except for Raugst, who stayed at her side.

  “Check the breast pocket of your jacket,” she told him.

  Frowning, he did so, producing a single golden hair. It was long, obviously from a woman. Still frowning, he held it up so that it seemed to glow in the light of a street lamp.

  “I don’t . . .”

  “It’s Hiatha’s.”

  He looked over his shoulder, and Hiatha said, “Please, keep it. We may need it again.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “The priesthood’s powers are weakened now,” Niara said. “The only real sources of grace left to us are our elvish charms, and we’re finding it difficult to renew their power. Without my old skills, the Pool is fading.” She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice and was not sure if she succeeded. “What I mean to say is that our abilities are lessened, and we’ve been forced to use more primitive means. Hiatha is our most skilled practitioner with the elf-stones, but even she needed not only an elvish charm but strands from her own hair to work the charm.”

  As she spoke, Niara continued to lead the way down a main street. Suddenly hearing the clip-clop of horse hooves and knowing that members of the city watch were making their rounds to enforce Raugst’s curfew, she slipped into an alley, and the others followed. When the watchmen were well past, she continued on. The inner city was much quieter and more orderly than the outer one, where the Temple was, and she made sure to keep her voice low.

  “What are the strands of hair for?” Raugst asked.

  “To find you,” Hiatha answered. “If we still had our powers, I could have done it differently, but with the situation being what it is the only things I could locate from a distance are parts of my own body, if you see what I mean. The connection between me and what I sought had to be very strong.”

  Raugst nodded slowly. “But how did you get them into the castle? Into my clothes?”

  “It was difficult,” Niara admitted. “Saria has sown the seeds of fear throughout your house. Fortunately there are still a few stalwart members of the Faith serving there. Women mostly. Maids and serving girls. Men seem to fall under Saria’s power more easily.”

  He looked sideways at her. “Did Fria help?”

  Niara let out a breath. “Alas, we feared to tell her. She’s taken up with that creature of yours, Kragt, and I’m not sure whose side she’s on.”

  “Surely you don’t think she would side with Saria!”

  “She may view Saria as a tool to strike at you. Her only known ally is Giorn, and Giorn is your enemy. Surely the only reason she didn’t steal away with him is so that she could stay behind and deal you an injury if she could.”

  “Yes, I’d thought of that, too. I keep my distance from her.”

  “Be sure you maintain it.”

  Shortly they stood before a handsomely-wrought edifice, an old-fashioned inn called the Leaping Stag, a reference to the Wesrains. There was some noise coming from within, inn-goers having a drink in the bar before retiring for bed, but Niara didn’t lead her party inside from the front. She slipped down an alley and entered the bar from the rear, where clean sheets and kegs of ale customarily passed through. A stairway ascended up to the second floor, where Hiatha took her room and Niara hers. The guards slept in a third chamber. All the rooms had been secured by a priestess in disguise that afternoon.

  Niara saw the disapproving look Hiatha shot her as Niara led Raugst into her room, but she ignored it. Hiatha knew the stakes. Let her frown if she would.

  Raugst was grinning somewhat annoyingly as Niara shut the door behind her. He and Niara were alone. He surveyed the small room and the one bed with that same stupid leer, then turned his eyes to her.

  “I have to say, this night’s just improved,” he said.

  “There will be none of that.”

  “Come now, surely you did not bring me here for conversation.” He laughed, shrugged off his jacket and began to slip off his tunic.

  She put a hand on his chest and shoved him down on the bed. “Sit,” she said. “And keep your clothes on.”

  “Don’t be foolish, woman—”

  In addition to the bed, there were a couple of chairs about a small table. She dragged one of the chairs close to the bed and perched there. When Raugst saw that she would not sit beside him, he shut up, but not before adding, “This is ridiculous.”

  She smiled humorlessly. “Nevertheless.”

  “Surely . . . surely you want to . . .”

  “I love Giorn.”

  “But . . . you and I . . .” He opened and closed his mouth several times, looking utterly flummoxed. Once again, he said, “This is ridiculous.”

  Still smiling, she said, “Hiatha and our guards, and all those women in the castle, did n
ot go through all this effort and risk just so you and I could, ah, enjoy a tryst.”

  He slumped back. “Then why, if I may ask?”

  “We need to discuss the fate of Felgrad. We need to formulate a plan.”

  “I already have a plan. You won’t like it, but I do.”

  “And it is?”

  He scowled. “Murder.”

  “Then you still intend to slay the King.”

  “I have nobles from all over the realm arriving at the castle to discuss it. The feast is tomorrow night.”

  “How you will convince them to slay Lord Ulea?” But he only smiled enigmatically and would not answer. “Very well, keep your secrets. But I say this to you: Lord Ulea is a good man, and a just king. Slaying him would be wrong. There must be another way.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “There must.” She said it emphatically. “And what will you do after? You said the last time we met that you would think on that once Vrulug was gone. Well, he is, so what of it? How will you rid yourself of Saria and her master?”

  He rolled his eyes impatiently. “For that too I have a plan. Vrulug did not appoint me this task because I’m dull, girl. And now that sharpness is aimed at him.” He reached out a hand toward her leg. “Now that business has been concluded—”

  She slapped his hand away. “No.”

  He slumped back again.

  “I mean to save the barony and the kingdom,” she said. “That comes first.”

  “And after . . . ?”

  “You must return to the castle before anyone misses you.”

  “It need not take long . . .”

  “No.”

  He groaned. “I suppose we’re done, then. You arranged this meeting for no reason, only because you lack faith in me.”

  “Why should I have any?”

  He grinned cockily. “You’re my mother, aren’t you? You did make me. Of course, if that’s true than I am my own father, and thus my own son, as well. But if I am the son and not the father then it was the father that slept with you and not the son, and thus I am a virgin and ready to be bedded. It seems only fitting that my mother should be my first.”

  “That is obscene, and it gives me no more reason to trust you.”

  “Fine, then think on this: I’ve saved the city once already, haven’t I?”

  That was true enough. Nevertheless, she did not like the thought of leaving things in his hands. “Surely there’s a way I, or the Order, can aid you. How exactly will you deal with Saria?”

  “Duke Welsly’s blade.”

  She had to force herself to maintain eye contact. For some reason, she could not bear to think of Raugst slaying a woman, even one so wicked as Saria. Trying to keep the distaste from her voice, she said, “That won’t work. I was weak when I blessed it. It’s not powerful enough to destroy her.”

  “You have a suggestion?”

  She thought a moment. “Actually, yes. Sneaking some priestesses into the castle under the guise of serving girls should not be an insurmountable difficulty, and once there they can use their elvish artifacts to strengthen Duke Welsly’s blade.”

  “Very well, then.”

  She resisted a smile. For some reason, she felt lighter now. Clearer. She had feared she was useless now that she was mortal, that there was nothing further she could do against Vrulug and his thralls. Now she knew otherwise. And, somehow, to be able to help Raugst . . .

  He rose from the bed and frowned down at her. “I suppose I should be off, then.”

  “We have plans to discuss.”

  “Nothing that will take long.”

  She admitted to herself that she wanted to keep him here for reasons other than what was best for Thiersgald. With an effort, she pushed the feelings aside. He was just trying to needle her.

  “Unless . . .” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “No. You’re right, it will not take long to sort things out. My priestesses must meet with Duke Welsly. Tomorrow, I think. Early. You must tell him to expect them.”

  “I will do it.” He moved to the door, placed his hand upon the knob. Turning, his face serious now, he said, “I would stay.”

  The ember she had felt flare inside her burned bright for a moment, and she had to force it down. “No,” she said, and now her voice was choked. “Go.”

  He left, and she felt something go out of her. Hearing his footsteps recede down the hall, she whispered, “And may the light protect you.”

  The next evening, as he dressed in his most formal attire, Raugst tried to resist scratching his left hand. It itched terribly. This morning, after meeting with Duke Welsly, he had transformed it into a wolvish claw, amidst much straining and grunting. He had felt the bones snap, grow, felt the skin swell . . . It had been painful, and slow. Whatever Niara had done to him had weakened him. He would have to practice his transformation in secret, perfect it all over again. He could still change, only now it required more effort and pain.

  He buttoned up his shirt, remembering how Niara had looked last night, remembering how she had smelled, of roses and jasmine. She should have asked me to stay. He wondered if it were pride that had forbade her, or Giorn. He had hoped to see her today, when her priestesses met secretly with Duke Welsly, but she had not accompanied them. He supposed her face was too well known.

  He pushed her from his mind. He had more important matters to contemplate. Just as he was finishing, an attendant arrived. “The guests are gathered, my lord.”

  “Very well.”

  Five minutes later saw him groomed and dressed and entering the feasting hall. The worthies glanced up at him as he took his seat at the head of the table, and he smiled and addressed them: “Thank you all for meeting me here, my friends. I hope your journeys were pleasant.” Murmurs ensured him that they had been. “Good, good. Then I hope you will enjoy the feast. Afterwards, we shall send the servants from the room and discuss . . . more serious matters.”

  They commenced with the appetizers.

  “You look most handsome,” Saria told him, sitting to Raugst’s right.

  He allowed himself to preen in his fine evening wear. “You look lovely, as well.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” To his surprise, color rose in her cheeks.

  Raugst helped himself to the appetizers, then to the main courses when they came, pheasant and rice pudding. Everything was excellent—especially the wine, though he made sure not to have too much. He needed his wits about him tonight. He knew that roughly a third of the two-score nobles gathered here from all over the kingdom were among those he had so recently converted, the ones who had secretly turned to the worship of the Wolf. But the bulk of them were honest, loyal citizens of the realm. It would not be easy to sway them to turn against King Ulea.

  “I’m sure you’ve been looking into the matter most closely,” said Baron Rathen, leaning forward and speaking in hushed tones. Naturally this only made those close by listen even more attentively. “You would be the one to know if the rumors are true.” In an even quieter tone, he asked, “Did Giorn Wesrain really slay his father?”

  Happily, Raugst said, “Indeed. I’m afraid so.”

  The nobles whispered among themselves, and Raugst exchanged a smile with Saria. The dinner continued, people gossiping as they would, and Raugst studied his guests intently. He anticipated the coming performance with both trepidation and excitement. At last the feast ended and he sent the servants from the room. The feasting hall fell silent, and all eyes turned to him expectantly, some fearfully.

  “Now is the time,” he said, “for us to discuss a most important matter.”

  They waited. He let the suspense build, the tensions mount. The coming moment is what all this had been leading up to, what everyone had come all this way for. Their faces were tight and pale, and several of the guests were swallowing nervously. Good.

  Raugst said, flatly and harshly, “King Ulea is a traitor.”

  There were gasps and wide eyes. Lord Evergard shot to his feet. H
e was a tall, straight man in his early middle years, with a full mustache over his upper lip. “That’s a lie, sir!”

  “Is it now?” Raugst narrowed his eyes. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call you out for that. Naming me a liar.” He balled his large hands into fists on the table.

  Evergard narrowed his eyes, and Raugst relaxed his hands and clasped them before him, his eyes on Evergard, not blinking.

  Finally Evergard said, “I have no wish to duel with you, sir, but your accusation is insupportable.”

  Raugst snorted. This was all too easy. He beckoned to one of his lieutenants, who had been waiting along the wall holding a satchel. Now he stepped forward, removed an item from the satchel and passed it to Raugst.

  “This, good sir,” said Raugst, still staring at Evergard, “is a bundle of letters I found in the remains of Vrulug’s camp when I drove him and his army from the city.”

  Evergard looked at him suspiciously. All eyes went from Raugst’s bundle to Evergard, then to Raugst’s bundle again. Everyone waited for Evergard’s next outburst, or Raugst’s next revelation. The air thickened with tension.

  At last, his gaze fixed on the bundle, Evergard said, “And what, sir, did you find?”

  With a jerk that made many gasp, Raugst tore off the ribbon that bound the short stack of letters. At their gasps, he had to resist another smile. He had always had a flair for drama.

  Triumphantly, he held up a letter. “This, my good Lord Evergard, is a communiqué from Vrulug, the wolf-lord of infamy, to our dear, beloved King Ulea.”

  “Preposterous,” Evergard said. Nevertheless, he took this opportunity to retake his seat. Perhaps his legs had gone weak.

  Raugst passed the letter to Duke Hored on his right. The Duke scanned the letter, shook his head and cursed quietly, then passed it on.

  “What does it say?” someone asked him tensely.

  Duke Hored, frowning, glanced from Raugst to the questioner. “It’s as Lord Wesrain says. A letter from Vrulug to the King. It congratulates Lord Ulea for having the sense to join the side of Oslog and for turning to the One for guidance.” He took a deep breath, let it out. “It bears Vrulug’s signature and seal.”