The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy

by Jack Conner

  The crowd responded enthusiastically, crying out their love and support. Niara felt her own heart flutter. He was such a strong, dashing figure. It was the girlish part of her that felt this way, she knew, but what of it?

  She looked down to the soldiers of King Ulea in their silver and golden armor, and they were looking up at Raugst with unease. She understood. They had listened to their generals and had been forced to accept the tale of King Ulea’s betrayal, but they still did not quite believe it, and they viewed Raugst with suspicion. As they should, Niara thought. They are no fools. She only hoped it did not impede their readiness to accept his orders.

  Horns blew suddenly, and the three great fountains in the Square burst into life, jetting flower-scented water high into the air. Musicians played the Anthem of Felgrad, then made music of celebration. The people danced, and sang, and tried to enjoy themselves, as was traditional.

  But, in the distance, the drums were steadily getting louder, and Niara noticed that the dancers moved more mechanically than they should. Others just stood there looking glum, refusing to partake in the celebration, and more than a few sipped liberally from flasks or mugs. At that moment, Niara longed for a sip herself.

  Raugst, wearing his crown as though born to it, stepped down and consulted with his generals. A runner had just arrived from the wall. Everyone wanted to shake Raugst’s wrist or clap him on the back, but his attention was fixed on the report his generals were giving him. Niara was too far away to hear what they were saying, and there was too much noise in the air in any case.

  “I thought the ceremony went very well,” Hiatha said, approaching.

  “Why, thank—” Niara started but was interrupted by more well-wishers, mainly priestesses wanting to tell her how much they had enjoyed the service. Fools! she wanted to snap. Can you not hear the drums? It seemed they were all she could hear, even now when the noise of celebration was so loud that, intellectually, she knew it was impossible to notice them. Somehow she still felt them, like an echo to her heart. Boom. Boom. BOOM.

  She constantly had to fight the urge to wring her hands or run those hands through her sweat-dampened hair. Only one thing would relieve her tension, she could not deny it. Please, Giorn, forgive me.

  At last she went to Raugst’s side. He was still engaged with his generals, but, noticing her, he broke loose.

  “Well?” she said. “Are the Borchstogs here yet?”

  He stared at her, the expression on his face showing tension but also, delightfully, intimacy. His voice, too, was very intimate when he said, “They’re coming closer by the second. But . . . they appear to be hours away still.” Slowly, he smiled. “We have time.”

  Thank you, Illiana.

  He offered her his arm. “Shall we adjourn to my coach? Several of my fellow nobles and generals will be joining us at the castle.”

  “And will we be honored with their hospitality in the coach, as well?”

  His smile was very sly. “Sadly, no.”

  “Then let us be quick, my lord.”

  To his coach they went.

  Not everyone participated in the celebration following Raugst’s crowning, but there was one man in particular that held himself conspicuously apart from the festivities. He was a tall, gaunt, bearded man, wearing a wooden device on his right hand that suggested fingers he did not have, and whose right leg was stiff and unbending, as though braced. But what was most striking about him were his eyes—his dark, deep-set eyes that seemed to burn as they beheld Raugst. And when Niara placed the crown on Raugst’s head and smiled down at him with that horribly, grotesquely familiar smile, the tall man clenched his left fist so tightly that blood was seen dripping from it to the flags below.

  By his side stood another man, shorter, rounder and older, and his expression too was grim. At length a messenger ran up to him, whispered in his ear, and the man nodded.

  Turning to the taller man, he said, “It’s time. Everyone is in place. Are you ready?”

  “I’ve been ready for this for a long, long time.”

  The tall man turned about and, side by side with his companion, vanished into the crowd. Blood dripped from his hand as he went.

  Fria had not attended the crowning. Raugst had not seemed to expect her to. Indeed, whenever he looked at her lately and saw that she was meeting his eyes, he would glance away. He was ashamed, she supposed, surprised that he could feel such a human emotion.

  Well, let him feel shame, she thought, as she brushed her hair and watched from Kragt’s bedroom window as Raugst’s carriage, escorted by many riders, rolled in through the gates in the wall surrounding the castle. The westering sun turned a rich, dark golden color, and Fria knew night would be upon them soon. So would Vrulug. In the distance, she could still hear the throbbing of the wolf-lord’s drums. Every time they pounded, she winced, but at least her fear of Vrulug was lessened by the knowledge of what she would do tonight. She would slay Raugst and so end Vrulug’s hold on Thiersgald. Perhaps then there would be some hope for the city.

  Raugst’s carriage rolled to a stop before the castle’s main steps, and the man himself, if man he could be called, emerged from the interior, looking breathless and pleased with himself, as he righted the crown on his head, which had become askew. Fria smirked. You won’t be smug much longer.

  Then she emerged—Niara. Fria’s blood burned hot when she saw the priestess shamelessly step down from the carriage, taking Raugst’s hand as she did so, then straightening her dress and tucking a strand of hair back behind an ear. Somehow it had gotten dislodged.

  Such flagrant blasphemy! Fria saw several of the soldiers giving Raugst and Niara wary glances, and she did not blame them. She could not believe that witch’s gall. And Raugst’s! Oh, Fria would dearly love to expose them both. That would be an amusing death. But her plan was faster and more expedient, and she did appreciate that Niara would partake of the feast and the resulting doom that night. Fria pictured it, imagining the treacherous high priestess clutching her throat, eyes bulging, rolling around on the floor until the poison consumed her utterly.

  Fria’s smile withered. She felt her lower lip trembling and bit it. Niara, how could you? How could you make me do this? She tried not to think about it as she brushed her hair and watched the carriages of various generals and nobles arrive. As the worthies emerged, she reflected that it was a shame they would have to die, too. Then again, most of them were those that had turned against King Ulea. They deserved what they got.

  The nobles passed inside, and Fria waited, brushing her hair, having handmaidens help her into her dress and apply her face-paint.

  “It’s time, my dear,” Kragt said, entering.

  “I’m ready.”

  He looked nervous, eyes darting, sweat trickling down from his hair. When she embraced him, he was hot to the touch.

  “Having second thoughts, my lord?” she asked.

  He chuckled, but even his chuckle sounded edgy. “Not at all. I will be king.”

  The handmaidens screeched in horror. He growled at them, and they shrank away. One fainted.

  “Curse these wenches!” he snarled. “I should slit their throats.”

  Fria stroked his chest, his arms, soothing him. “They won’t talk, my lord. There are too many intrigues in this house for servants to take sides.”

  At that, he actually smiled. “Yes, I suppose there are at that. Besides, they can’t inform against someone who will be their king soon. Come. We have an interesting evening ahead.”

  He offered her his arm, and she accepted it. Together, they strolled through the corridors of the castle and down to the feasting room, where the nobles already gathered about the long table. The lights were low, the candles in their ornate candelabras flickering fitfully. The nobles appeared tense. As they should, she thought. They had sided with Raugst against their king, and now that Vrulug’s host was all but breathing down their door they wondered if they had done the right thing. Well, after tonight they would wonder no more.
About anything.

  She was seated, to her disgust, next to the traitorous witch herself, Niara.

  The High Priestess smiled at her, and Fria noted that the witch’s cheeks were flushed. She even smelled of sex. Had she no shame? And to think, just weeks ago she had come to Fria complaining of Raugst’s advances, demanding that he repent his sins and be locked away. Just what was her game? Fria supposed she would never know. Dimly she remembered a time when she had been a child and had fallen out of a tree Meril had convinced her to climb; Niara had kissed her wounds and held her while she cried. Her kisses had helped with the pain. That time seemed very long ago.

  “Well met, dear Fria,” Niara said.

  “Yes. To you, as well, I suppose.” Again she pictured Niara departing Raugst’s chambers in secret. “It’s a pleasant night.”

  “Is it?” Niara frowned. “Vrulug is almost here.” As if Fria might not be aware of it!

  “I thought you might be looking forward to that,” Fria said. Then you and Raugst can quit sneaking around.

  Niara glanced at her strangely, and silence fell between them. Fria forced herself to hold her tongue and tried to make more civil conversation as the first course was served, then the second. She helped herself to the wine, needing the fortification. Before long she felt a pleasant tingling, and the world grew fuzzy and more bearable. All except for Raugst, who sat smugly at the head of the table, his horrid crown resting on his villainous head. Fria wanted to wrench it away and dash it to the floor, and it was only with effort that she restrained herself.

  “Lovely steak,” Niara said, taking a bite.

  Fria looked sideways at her. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose.” She had not even been paying attention to the food.

  The men talked about what strengths Vrulug possessed, and what numbers of what troops he had, and Fria found it all quite dull. No one seemed to be making any sort of effort to include the women in the conversation, not even Kragt, which irritated Fria most of all. Here she was, the only other person in the room slated to survive the evening, and Kragt was still trying to curry favor with the others! It made her furious.

  Her fury made her all the more resentful of Niara’s pathetic stabs at conversation, but, by and by, Fria relaxed. She took deep breaths and tried to focus on Niara’s words, to exist in the present and not in her head. The whore was saying something about the ceremony, something about the selection of music, then the style of dresses worn by the priestesses, and how she had been forced to guess what was appropriate and what was not since she’d never been to a coronation ceremony before, at least in Felgrad . . .

  Fria stifled a yawn.

  Niara paused. “Have you ever been to a coronation ceremony?”

  Fria just stared. Then, slowly, she chuckled. “Listen, witch,”—Niara flinched—“you can make all the pretty words you want, but you and I both know what’s true and real lies under.”

  “And what, dear Fria, lies under?”

  Fria narrowed her eyes, aware that one was rolling left. “Don’t call me ‘dear’. I put you in the dungeon, remember?” When Niara went slightly pale, Fria nodded. “That’s right, I remember. It wasn’t my finest hour, I admit, and I’m ashamed of it. Or at least I was. Now I wish Raugst had never let you out. But I guess he had to. You and he are . . . together.”

  Stammering, the priestess said, “W-what are you t-t-talking about?”

  “You know very well, witch, and don’t try to deny it. Oh, it doesn’t offend me, a priestess having earthly passions. I knew what you felt for my brother, and I knew what he felt for you. That’s what offends me. How dare you dishonor him! How dare you engage in trysts with that abomination you crowned today.” She spoke in a hissing whisper, too low for those around to hear over their conversation, but quite loud enough, and virulent enough, for Niara to understand.

  “I . . .” Niara opened and closed her mouth, evidently failing to find the right words.

  Fria sneered. “Yes, I know all about Raugst. I know exactly what he is. And I know you’re a traitor to your kind, a traitor to my brother.”

  Sadness filled the witch’s face. Sadness! Fria was contemptuous.

  “Giorn . . .” Niara whispered. Her shoulders slumped.

  “So you don’t deny it?”

  “No. I . . . I denied him before. But now . . . no.” She raised her eyes to meet Fria’s good one. “Yes, Fria, we loved each other,” Niara whispered. “We loved each other very much. It pains me a great deal that I’m able to find solace in another’s arms, and especially Giorn’s enemy. I don’t deny it.”

  Fria blinked. Something strange rose inside her, and she wasn’t sure what it was. Pity? Remorse? She wasn’t sure. But she did know that she believed Niara. The priestess truly had loved Giorn and truly did miss him.

  Fria shook it off. “You should have thought of that before you took up with that thing.” She nodded toward the crowned demon at the head of the table. He was making some joke about border women, and the men were laughing coarsely.

  Tears—actual tears!—built up in Niara’s eyes. Impatiently, she brushed them away. “I know it,” she said. “But . . . but you don’t understand, Fria. He’s not a bad man. He’s not! He’s—”

  “Please! He’s a liar and a demon, and you know it. And you’ve sided with him.”

  The priestess’s eyes were very earnest. “No. Fria. You don’t understand. He’s changed. Raugst has changed.” She leaned forward and spoke in a heated whisper: “He’s goodly now.”

  Fria stared at her open-mouthed. Finally the baroness shook her head and barked a laugh. “He’s got you under some sort of spell, doesn’t he? It must be.” She could tell that Niara truly believed what she was saying. If that was so . . .

  She sat back, sipping at her wine. If that was so . . .

  “He’s goodly,” Niara repeated.

  Fria continued to stare into her wine. The other wine, the lethal wine, would shortly be passed around. They were on the dessert course now. Kragt had planned on using a stratagem of Raugst’s by proposing a toast at the end of the meal using the poisoned wine.

  Fria did not answer Niara, but merely sat there, frowning. Finally Kragt caught her good eye and nodded, indicating that the time was right and that she should forgo any further drinks, then asked for a round to be poured—from a new bottle, of course. When everyone had a glass of the deadly wine before them, Kragt said, “Let us toast to our new king and queen and the victory that is sure to come!”

  “Here here!” they shouted and lifted their glasses.

  Niara lifted hers.

  Giorn felt something stir in his chest as he neared Wesrain Castle, its towers blocking out the purple twilight sky. Old memories surfaced in him and for a moment he heard Rian’s laughter, and Meril’s, and from somewhere the smell of baking apples as Fria made them a treat. Giorn was showing Rian and Meril a new trick he had trained the hounds to do, and the sun shone, and Father watched from a high window, and all was right with the world.

  Then Giorn heard the sound of Borchstog drums, heard the vague rumble of thunder overhead, and the good times vanished like smoke, as if they had never been.

  Before him, the gates opened, and with Duke Yfrin beside him and the duke’s men behind them, they rode onto the grounds of the castle. Home, Giorn thought, though he knew it was home no longer. But soon.

  For the past day he had been going around to the soldiers that had served as the Wesrain castle guard; their leadership had been replaced by Raugst, but most of the rest were still the same as when Giorn’s father had been alive, and they hated Raugst. Immediately after deposing Serit, Duke Yfrin had sent out his agents to infiltrate Thiersgald and seek out the dissatisfied soldiers, thus Giorn knew who to approach, and how. He had papers to show them, the papers recovered from Serit’s belongings implicating Raugst in collusion with Vrulug. The rest was easy. When they found out Giorn still lived and that he had the support of the duke, that a demon sat the throne even as more demons approac
hed the city to sack it, the soldiery was only too happy to throw in with Giorn.

  The feasting hall windows blazed with light—Raugst was celebrating his victory. He won’t be celebrating for long. The ghost of a grin twitched at Giorn’s lips, and his good hand tightened about the handle of his sword.

  All the glasses twinkled by the lights of the candles as each dinner guest raised their wine in toast. Kragt and Fria lifted theirs to their lips, pretended to drink . . .

  Niara lifted hers to her own lips, upended her glass—

  That strange feeling rose in Fria again. Damn it.

  Her leg knocked against Niara’s knee violently, disrupting the priestess’s movements.

  “Wha—?” said a startled Niara. Wine spilled over her lips and down the front of her dress.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Fria. But she was only half watching Niara. The rest of her attention was focused on the nobles—and on Raugst, that great, horrid, putrid thing, drinking down his wine like he was drowning and it was the only thing that could save him.

  All of a sudden, he choked.

  Fria smiled.

  The nobles made gagging noises and clutched at their throats. Just as Fria had hoped, their eyes bulged. What was more, veins popped out on their hands, foreheads and cheeks, and their faces purpled. Gagging, they toppled from their chairs and twitched on the floor.

  “Dear Omkar!” Niara said. She leapt to her feet and ran to Raugst. “What’s happening?” Desperately, she tried to beat at his back as if to dislodge something in his throat. When that didn’t work, she tried rocking him, then splashing him with water from a nearby glass.

  Fria and Kragt shared a secret smile.

  By that time, Raugst’s two other present lieutenants—Mircas and Osrof, Fria thought their names were—who had been standing guard in the main doorway, had overcome their own shock, and they leapt into action.