The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  Only then, after three full hours, did Raugst send out Hanslib to give the signal.

  Raugst and his conspirators gathered in the oak-paneled study. The night was dark and cold, and wind shrieked around the castle, its screams sending shivers up and down Raugst’s spine. He could tell his fellow conspirators felt it too, the tension. He’d brought a tray with him, silver and covered with a red silk cloth, and set it upon the mahogany table. All the conspirators stared avidly at it and its concealed contents, and he saw excitement mix with dread in their faces.

  “Now’s the time,” he told them quietly. “Are you ready?”

  Tight nods greeted him from drawn, pale faces.

  “Then let us see what’s under this cloth.” He tore the silk away, revealing a dozen gleaming silver knives, each a foot and a half long. The conspirators let out a collective breath.

  Raugst selected a weapon, finding the metal cold but smooth in his grip, the weight perfectly balanced.

  Slowly, Lord Evergard followed his example. The duke stared at his blade, swore, and nodded to Raugst. It was easy after that, and soon everyone had picked out a gleaming silver instrument of regicide.

  “Excellent,” said Raugst. “Now to business.”

  Holding his blade at his side, he quit the study. The others, silent and ashen, followed at his heels. He led them down one quiet, carpeted hall and then another. Candles in niches at regular but infrequent intervals gave just enough light to see by. At last they arrived at the juncture leading to the corridor where the King’s suite lay.

  “Wait here,” Raugst told his conspirators, and moved around the corner. Two members of the Royal Guard, though stifling yawns, stood vigil to either side of a stout wooden door—the suite of the King. They carried naked steel in their hands.

  Raugst, his knife in the waistband at his back, approached them, smiling. Seeing him, they straightened.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, careful to keep his voice soft, for he knew the soldiers would not want to wake their lord, “have you truly been awake all this time?” He yawned, feigning sleepiness.

  “What are you doing up so late, if I may ask, my lord?” asked one of the guards.

  Raugst shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. Battle comes. My city might be razed to the ground. So I put on some clothes and went for a walk. A shame that everyone else is asleep. I was hoping for a game of cards. I don’t suppose you . . . but never mind, you’re on duty. I wouldn’t want you to find yourself in trouble with the King on my account . . .”

  The soldiers glanced at each other, then to him. “I think we had better not, my lord. Still, we appreciate the offer.”

  Raugst nodded, as though he had expected this, and clapped one on the shoulder. He had come to stand beside him, so that they were facing the same direction and the second soldier was on the far side. Now Raugst yanked his blade free and plunged it into the gut of the soldier whose shoulder he had grabbed, using that purchase to shove the man deeper onto the weapon. Hot blood trickled over his fingers. The man gasped and doubled over.

  The other soldier leapt back, brandishing his sword. “My lord!”

  Raugst yanked his blade free, and blood spurted from his victim’s wound. He released his hold on the man, and the soldier toppled to his knees, then sprawled fully on the ground, where he twitched and bled all over the expensive carpet. Raugst tried not to glance down at him, tried not to feel the swell of remorse that rose unwanted in him, but it came regardless.

  He didn’t let that hinder him.

  He sprang forward, batting the other soldier’s blade away with his own. Even as he moved, Raugst changed his free hand into a claw. Pain coursed up his arm as he felt the bones shifting, changing, jerking, but then his claw was ripping out the soldier’s throat.

  Blood sprayed Raugst full in the face, and he drank it up. The man, clutching his wound, fell to the floor, his mouth working but saying nothing. His feet kicked. Raugst knelt over and ran him through the heart, giving him a clean death.

  A hand grasped his ankle. Turning, he saw the first soldier he had stabbed clutching at him with one hand and holding in his guts with the other. A wave of pity and self-loathing rose in Raugst. Snarling, he kicked the man onto his other side and plunged his blade straight into the soldier’s heart. The man stopped moving.

  Sweating, Raugst staggered back from the bodies, watching as their blood spread across the carpet. He shuddered and swore. Why did this disturb him so much? He’d done worse before. Much worse. For the thousandth time, he cursed Niara and her kiss.

  When he got his breathing under control, he shifted his claw back into a hand—it had become easier with practice—and returned to the conspirators. They gaped at his bloody appearance, and he met their gazes grimly.

  “The way is clear. Now come.”

  Obviously frightened—at him as much as the task ahead of them—they followed him down the corridor until they stood over the still-warm bodies.

  “Dear Omkar,” whispered Lord Evergard, blanching. “I never thought . . . they never . . . it was him . . .”

  Raugst put a finger to his lips. It was still possible the King was asleep. Chagrined, Evergard nodded.

  Raugst moved around the bodies, withdrew his master key, and inserted it into the keyhole of the large oaken door. A twist of his wrist, a shove of his palm and the door heaved open. Darkness like a demon’s mouth gaped where it had been. Raugst glanced over his shoulders, met the eyes of his fellows, saw the depth of their resolve, and moved inside. It was black. Not a single candle had been lit. Blindly he fumbled about in the foyer, felt a couch, a candelabra, an incense burner . . .

  His eyes adjusted, and he made out the dim archway ahead. Moved through it, pulling out his still-dripping knife. The others followed wordlessly. It was a grim procession that entered the massive guest bedroom that housed the King. They stole like ghosts to the giant, four-posted, canopied bed, knives glittering like fangs in the corpse-light that filtered in through the heavy drapes. Like carrion-speckled vultures, they gathered over the King, and Raugst looked down on the large, restful form that stretched under the burgundy blanket and cream-colored sheets.

  The King’s eyes were open.

  Raugst stifled a gasp.

  Those loathsome eyes scrutinized the assassins and at last came to rest on Raugst. Raugst felt a sinking in his belly.

  “And so,” said the King, thick white teeth flashing through the part in his beard, “it is you, after all.”

  Raugst forced himself to meet King Ulea’s eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

  The King grunted. “I am clearly not your lord, traitor.” He struggled to sit up in bed, but Raugst shoved him back down with his left hand.

  “You won’t be going anywhere,” Raugst said

  The King glared. “When I heard voices, I wondered, and then the creak of the door . . . but you . . .” He sighed. “Can I ask why? Is it just power you want?”

  Raugst saw what the King was doing and respected it. Still, he could not let the King take control of the situation. He raised his blade to the light. The others had clearly been unnerved by finding the King awake, and several had drawn fearfully away. But at Raugst’s gesture, they returned to the bed and raised their own blades, though more than one shook in its wielder’s hands.

  The King’s face darkened with rage.

  “No,” Raugst told him, answering him. “It is to save your kingdom.”

  The King snorted.

  “We found out about your dealings with Vrulug,” Duke Evergard started. Even in the darkness, Raugst could see that anger flushed his face. “You were going to betray the kingdom!”

  “What? I—” The King looked confused.

  Raugst knew he could not give him time to speak. Lord Evergard had opened a subject that the King could not be allowed to address.

  “For your crimes, we sentence death,” Raugst said.

  Hastily, he plunged his blade down, felt it tear into the hard, muscular flesh of Lord Ulea’s chest
, felt the blade scrape on a rib and snap.

  The King screamed. His back arched. Hands like claws strove for his attacker.

  Too late. After Raugst’s initial stab, the others joined in. They plunged their blades into the King, then lifted them, dripping, and plunged them home again. Again and again they stabbed, and crimson stained the cream-colored sheets and spattered the conspirators. The King screamed, and wind howled beyond the thick stone walls.

  At last Lord Ulea stopped moving. A ragged gasp escaped his mouth, blood foamed on his lips, then he sagged and was no more.

  Raugst, panting, stared on the mutilated body. You died as well as you could, he thought. Odhen would not be ashamed.

  He raised his gaze to his conspirators. “It’s finished,” he said, wiping blood from his face. “Well done, my friends. A traitor has been laid low.”

  Lord Evergard nodded. “And now it is you we follow, Lord Wesrain.”

  He bowed to Raugst, and, to Raugst’s astonishment, the others followed him, until all the grim bloody vultures were kneeling at his feet.

  “Hail Lord Wesrain!” they cried. “The new lord of Felgrad!”

  That night, Saria slipped into his suite, smiling proudly.

  He’d expected her, had even prepared a bottle of wine and some glasses. He had been reclining on his terrace, staring out over the city, eyeing the white spires of the Temple of Illiana and wondering where Niara was when he heard the door open and turned to see Saria, like some sleek jungle cat, glide across the room, black hair shining by the light of the moon, jade eyes flashing.

  “You did it,” she purred, reaching him.

  “Hail the new King of Felgrad.”

  She stroked his cheek. “Oh, I will. I will, my lord.”

  He gestured to the chair opposite him, and the bottle of wine that sat on the table. She deftly poured herself a glass, took a sip, and sighed. “It was a brilliant plan you had, Raugst—to install yourself as king. And you did it. Vrulug will be pleased. Now we can use the armies of Felgrad to assault the rest of the Crescent.”

  “Indeed.”

  Drinking, smiling, she ignored the empty chair and draped herself across him. Her skin felt warm and soft, and her weight pleasant in his lap.

  “I had a thought,” she said. “A way to further our cause. Instead of merely sacrificing Felgrad, we could use her. We could make an alliance between her and one or more of the other Crescent states, make a bloc, and instead of having Felgrad merely going to war against the greater Crescent, it would be one bloc against another. Civil war amongst the Crescent.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “You think so?” Her eyes twinkled. He could feel her breath against his cheek. She snuggled closer. “Raugst, my king, you know . . . we do not have to be enemies, you and I.”

  “No?”

  She smiled, drained her glass, and set it down. Finally, she trusted him, and it had only cost a crown. Using the hand that had held the glass, she ran her fingers through his dark, wavy hair. He saw her black-gemmed ring glimmer faintly.

  “No,” she said. “We could be . . . allies, I think . . .” She blinked sleepily. “Allies . . . yes, and more than . . . allies . . .” She stretched, yawning. “So . . . tired . . .”

  She slid off of him and collapsed to the floor at his feet. For a long moment, he stared down at her, honestly ashamed. But you were too strong, he thought. It was the only way.

  He dug out the little bell he’d stuffed into a pocket, removed the cloth that muffled it and rang it. Shortly Duke Welsly entered, holding his light-blessed sword. Raugst hauled Saria’s still-breathing body into the interior of the suite so that no one could see what it is they did, then demanded the sword. Warily, the duke handed it to him.

  “I don’t understand,” the duke said. “What . . . ?”

  Gritting his teeth, Raugst shoved the blade into Saria’s slowly rising and falling chest. She gasped. Blood spurted. The pain seemed to rouse her. The fingers of one hand reached out to trace that glimmering black gem—

  “No,” Raugst said. Oh, she is strong.

  He chopped down, again and again. Duke Welsly turned away and retched. At last there was nothing left of Saria, at least not whole. When he was done, panting and covered in blood, Raugst brought his blade down on the black-gemmed ring, destroying the Twain, he hoped, for good, or at least sending them back to the Abyss.

  Looking pale and sickly, Duke Welsly regarded him with fear and disgust. “You butchered a sleeping woman . . .”

  “She was no woman.”

  “Even so.”

  Raugst said nothing.

  “And what of the King?” Welsly demanded. “For the last hour there’s been much coming and going from his chamber. Has something happened to him? Is the King all right?”

  Raugst shook his head sadly. Saria’s blood dripped off his face and chest. Her body, or its chunks, cooled at his feet. Don’t go to Him, he thought. Don’t go to Gilgaroth. If your spirit can hear me, go away from Him. You can still be free.

  “He’s dead,” he said. “I . . . am sorry. The King is dead.”

  The duke staggered back a step, eyes wide. . “You . . . you killed him!”

  Raugst did not deny it. “It had to be done.”

  “No . . . no . . .” Anger replaced the fear, and the duke jerked out his hunting knife and lunged at Raugst. “Traitor!”

  Raugst stepped aside, cutting with his light-blessed blade. And the blade, the damnable blade, turned aside, missing the duke by inches. It surprised Welsly almost as much as it did Raugst, but the duke did not pause. His knife struck toward Raugst, and Raugst only barely moved aside. As it was, the blade scraped along his ribs.

  He cast the sword aside. It was a righteous weapon and would not slay a righteous man.

  Raugst needed no weapon.

  He was hardly even aware of his body changing, of the rage consuming him, but in mere moments he towered over Welsly, and the duke stared up at him in horror.

  “What—?”

  Raugst tore the duke apart. Blood matted his wolvish fur. At last his claws tore open Welsly’s ribcage and he gobbled down the duke’s heart. Only then did the rage subside, and he dropped the duke’s remains as he slipped forms. Naked, chest heaving, he glared down at the butchered carcass of Welsly and the chunks that had once been Saria, the Whore of Grasvic, Temptress of Orin Feldred, the woman who had damned the rebellion and yet guaranteed the second rebellion’s success.

  Raugst took a breath, closed his eyes for a moment and crossed to the liquor cabinet.

  Chapter 21

  The first thing in the morning, Raugst summoned all of King Ulea’s generals, who had been camping with the host. Blinking sleep from their eyes, they came to Raugst in his Throne Room, where he sat on the throne surrounded by his conspirators, the highest nobles of Felgrad, some of whom were members of the recent converts, but most of whom were not. Scowling dramatically, Raugst allowed Duke Evergard to present the evidence of King Ulea’s treachery to the generals. They responded with the expected shock and disbelief, but as the duke’s testimony was joined by the others, and all the falsified letters were presented, the generals at last, rocking on their heels, came to a reluctant acceptance.

  Their voices shaking, they asked about the whereabouts of the King.

  Only then did Raugst speak. “In hell, most likely,” he said with strategic bluntness. “Evil like his deserves no better. Though, in truth, since he is such a high servant of the Dark One, it’s not likely he was cast into the Inferno. Likely Gilgaroth put him in the other places, the happy places of Illistriv, the dark afterlife of his thralls. Even now the King’s soul probably laughs at our stupidity, thinking that he was so close to delivering us all into Gilgaroth’s clawed hands.”

  His eyes bore into the generals, daring them to defy him. His words were carefully thought-out, however, and they had the desired effect of deepening the new-born resentment these men had for King Ulea. Their jaws stuck out and their eyes flash
ed as they considered Raugst’s imagery, of the King enjoying his afterlife even after all he had done.

  “What shall we do?” asked General Miled, looking shaken. “Vrulug approaches! There’s no time to send for Prince Henier.”

  “And no need,” Raugst said. “Obviously you did not listen very closely. Those letters implicate the King’s family as much as they do the King himself. Prince Henier can’t be trusted. None of them can.”

  “Are you saying we should slay the Royal Family?”

  “Not at all. Though they certainly should be placed under arrest when it is feasible to do so. However, I am saying that the time of the Uleas is over.”

  “But . . . who shall lead us?” asked another general, glaring at Raugst suspiciously. “You, I suppose? I think not.”

  Lord Evergard stepped forward. He had been Raugst’s chief opponent before, but now he had become Raugst’s greatest advocate. “We need a new sovereign,” he said, “one who has experience fighting Vrulug, but also someone who commands a large barony or dukedom and has the love of the people.” In a very calm, reasoned voice he added, “There is none better suited than Lord Wesrain.”

  “Here here,” Baron Sifus agreed. The rest of the conspirators chimed in.

  A long silence greeted this. The generals rubbed their chins and glanced at each other, and Raugst tensed. He needed the generals if he was to wrest control of the army, and so he waited, trying not to look like the greedy, scheming throne-stealer they might fear him to be, trying to appear as reluctant and as weary—and as noble—as possible.

  At last, General Hraest let out a breath. “Yes. I see no alternative. Lord Wesrain is King.”

  The other generals shot him sharp looks, but, one by one, they nodded their agreement. “Lord Wesrain is King,” they said, one after the other. In the end, all in the hall bowed to him.

  “Long live the King!”

  If only that were likely, Raugst thought.