The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (25 page)

Hiatha and Cirais muttered at her
back.

This time he did not look away. He
studied her, grave and sad. “Then you are a fool. I can do no good. I am—”

“You are
baron
, and you’re the only one who has any sway over your agents,
or Vrulug for that matter.”

His hand fell away from the wine
jug. “I think I know what must be done. I’ve been sitting here, playing my part
with my men, but my mind has been concocting one plan after another, discarding
them one by one, trying to figure a way out of this mess.”

“And? You’ve thought of something?”

“Aye, I have a notion. You won’t
like it—
I
don’t like it—but it’s all
there is. I can’t simply step down and let Fria rule. My men would kill her,
and me, and one of them would replace me. Literally. One of my lieutenants,
probably Kragt, would take this shape, or convince others that he had long
enough to open the Gates for Vrulug.”

A trifle nervously, she asked, “So
what is it? What’s your plan?”

His eyes glinted, and once more he
was his lively, conniving self. “You shall see.”

She was not sure if she should feel
reassured or horrified by his return to form. She took in a breath, held it. Now
had come time to ask him the question she’d been dreading. “Giorn,” she said
softly. “Where is he?”
Giorn, I am so
sorry. You were dead . . .

“I don’t know,” Raugst told her. “Fria’s
hidden him somewhere.”

Niara breathed a sigh of relief.

The doors of the Throne Room burst
open and in walked Kragt and several of his men. They looked dirty and weary,
but excited.

“We did it!” Kragt announced. “We
followed the secret tunnels to where they come out near a waterfall beyond Lord
Vrulug’s camp.”

Raugst grinned. “Excellent. You’ve
mapped it, I trust?”

“Yes, my lord. And it
needs
mapping. A windy way it is, with
many side-tunnels going hither and thither. A few of my men are still down
there, lost. They’ll miss all the fun.”

“Is this part of your plan?” Niara
said.

Raugst ignored her. “Any sign of
Giorn Wesrain?”

“Nothing,” Kragt said. “He must
still be here in the castle somewhere, or down a side-tunnel.” His eyes fell on
Niara and the priestesses. Hiatha and Cirais bristled. Niara could almost see
the hairs standing up on their necks.

Kragt’s men, by contrast, hunched
up and actually drew back their lips from their teeth, which were now sharper
than they should be.

“Relax,” Raugst said. “These girls
aren’t our enemies anymore.” He stroked Niara’s head as though she were a pet,
and she flinched away. He laughed.

The action seemed to amuse Kragt,
and his men stood straighter and lowered their lips. Niara, who had been
gripping the white stone she wore about her own neck, ready to channel its
power like her sisters had channeled theirs, let her hand drop away.

“Can we have a go?” Kragt asked.

“They’re all mine,” Raugst said,
rubbing Niara’s lips with his thumb. She suppressed her rage, though she did
think he was enjoying it a bit too much. “Now go and enjoy yourselves. But no
raping or killing. We can’t have the people turn on us yet.”

Kragt seemed confused. “But isn’t
tonight the night?”

Raugst pulled a face as though he
were mulling things over. “Perhaps, perhaps not. There may be a way to increase
our Lord’s blow against the Crescent, to make it even more damaging.”

Satisfied, Kragt bowed and
withdrew.

Niara turned a concerned eye on
Raugst. “Make it
more
damaging?”

“Yes, what is this?” Hiatha
demanded.

He laughed at their looks of
concern. “A pretty lie, do not worry.”

Niara worried.

Raugst stood, swayed, caught
himself. He chuckled and stepped down from the dais, his crimson cape flowing
behind him.

“Where do you go?” Niara said.

“The tunnels,” he called over his
shoulder, his voice one of good humor. He was making for the door. “I go to
meet with His Imminence, Lord Vrulug of Wegredon, favorite of the One. We will
have a palaver wherein we will determine the fate of your world.”

He swept through the doorway and
was gone.

Niara and her priestesses gaped at
each other. Niara held her head in her hands. “What have I done? Have I
neutered the monster or birthed him?”

Chapter
16

Raugst was glad of the chance to vent his problems. It made
them lighter somehow, easier to bear. Yet it did not remove them. He was not
sure anything could. Oh, he did have a plan, desperate and illogical though it
was, but he was not sure it would save them. It might only make things worse. It
might be . . .
too
successful.

He took the map from Kragt and
appointed Kragt to act for him while he was away.

“You really go before Lord Vrulug?”
Kragt asked, awe in his voice.

Raugst smiled. “I do.” Vrulug might
as well be an Omkar, such reverence did Kragt show him. But, then, Kragt and
his ilk would never have met the wolf-lord. At best they had only seen him from
afar, at some speech or gathering.

“What will you discuss?” Kragt pressed.
“He’s attacking right now. What more’s there to
talk
about?”

Raugst clapped him on the shoulder,
a familiar gesture but one that reminded Kragt of his place. “The future of the
War,” he said. “But that is for us to decide, not you.”

For a moment Kragt fumbled for
words, and it seemed he was reminded of just whom Raugst was, how high he was
in the Master’s service. The fact that he could actually sway the course of the
War obviously impressed Kragt.

“Yes, my lord,” was all he said, and
he bowed his head as he said it.
“That’s better. Now I must go. It wouldn’t do for Vrulug to conquer Thiersgald
without my leave.” Raugst laughed. “Remember, don’t open the Gates while I’m
away.”

“As you say, my lord.”

“That is most important. Open the
Gates and I will flay you alive and force you to devour the pieces as I do so. And
that’s just for starters.”

Kragt visibly flinched, aware that
Raugst had done worse.

“Good,” Raugst said, then departed,
taking his handful of men with him. He led them into the catacombs and from
there into the secret passageway. All carried torches, and the light shifted
and flared, little blobs of liquid flame searing the darkness, the wounds healing
as soon as the lights moved on. From time to time Raugst felt the reverberation
of a crash as a siege engine roared above, but otherwise all was still and silent
save for the drip of water or the screech of rats. His men kept silent at his
back. Likely they both dreaded and anxiously anticipated meeting Lord Vrulug,
but Raugst was the most anxious of all. What if Vrulug sensed the change in
him? What if he
knew
?

Vrulug was a true son of Gilgaroth,
the Dark One, and Mogra, the Shadow-Weaver. He was a veritable god in his own
right, great and powerful. He was steeped in the Dark One’s shadow, a part of
it,
made
of it, while Raugst had
simply been surrounded and sheltered by it.

It was for that reason that Raugst
had served Vrulug for hundreds of years, ranging as the leader of a pack of
lurum-cruvalen
that protected the
forests around Wegredon. He had served Vrulug well and faithfully, and the
wolf-lord had found occasion to send him on several vital tasks, similar to the
one he was presently on, though this one’s import was greater by far. It had
all been leading to this, he knew, this one glorious assignment, the assignment
to collapse Felgrad and breach the Crescent Union. Then the Crescent would
fall, and, without it to shield them, the northlands would crumble, and the world
would belong to Gilgaroth, its rightful Heir. But now it had all gone horribly,
horribly wrong, and Raugst was risking death and worse—much worse—by what he
was about to do.

Still, he saw no choice, save to
let Thiersgald fall. That in itself was tempting, and if Niara had not played
on his all-too-human guilt he might have done it. But she had, and here he was.
And Thiersgald was important, he did not lie to himself. Should Thiersgald
fall, Fiarth, the most powerful barony in Felgrad, would buckle, and without
Fiarth, Felgrad would collapse. And when Felgrad collapsed, the Crescent would
be breached, the Alliance
shattered, and the rest of the Crescent states would be easy pickings. It all
hinged on Thiersgald. Should Thiersgald fall, so too would the world. It was up
to Raugst to avert this, the very thing he had been raised to desire above all.

As he passed beneath the city wall,
he could feel and hear the great roar of armies clashing above. Dust rained
down, the tunnel shook, and for a moment he thought it might cave in. When it
didn’t, he wiped dust from his eyes and pressed on. The tunnel seemed to
stretch forever, but at last he saw light ahead—dim and gray, but light just
the same.

He emerged beneath a waterfall and took
the opportunity to wash himself of the dust and grime and stench the tunnel had
coated him with, and his men did likewise.

Dripping wet, he took them up out
of the defile and appraised the rear of the Borchstog army, which was all a
surging, roiling chaos, at least on first glance, but further observation
showed shrewd formations and restless order. The Borchstogs and their generals
lived for war. They studied it, trained for it, and practiced it with religious
fervor. To them, it
was
a religion. War
was the only thing to bring the Master’s enemies to their knees, the only way
for Him to retake the world.

Not only did they exult in war, they
excelled at it. Raugst watched the progress of the battle for awhile, saw the
Borchstogs scaling the walls and assaulting the men with all their force, all
their passion. It was breathtaking. Raugst had witnessed and participated in
many battles, but none this grand.

As he moved toward the Borchstog
positions, roars, screams and thuds sounded in the distance.
This isn’t wise, Raugst old boy
. With
every step his mind spun, fleshing out his mad scheme.

Vrulug had established Borchstog
positions to guard the rear, and it wasn’t long before dark shapes leapt out
and surrounded Raugst’s party. Anticipating this, he had ordered his men not to
move when it happened.

“Who are you?” the Borchstog leader
demanded in Oslogon. He seemed calm enough, even relaxed. War was his natural
element.

“I am Raugst, Baron of Fiarth,”
Raugst answered in the same tongue. He drew himself up to his full height,
though this was still less than the Borchstog’s, and let his cape swirl about
him. “I’ve come to barter with Lord Vrulug.”

The Borchstog drew back. Raugst
wondered how much of the plan Vrulug had told his soldiers. It was possible the
Borchstogs didn’t even know that Raugst was on their side.

“Come with me,” the Borchstog
captain said.

Raugst and his men fell in with the
Borchstog captain, and the Borchstog troops flanked them—herded them—both
protectors and captors.

The breeze gusted up from the south
with sudden violence, hot and vile, bringing with it the stench of Oslog. Before
tonight, Raugst had basked in the southern winds. Now they disgusted him. He
tried to hide it.

The Borchstog leader, whose name was
Uvrastig, led Raugst and his men into the Borchstog camp, and Raugst struggled
not to gag on the stench of rotting meat. They passed countless rings of black
tents, all empty now, their occupants battling along the city wall, and edged
around a courtyard filled with poles rearing toward the black sky. On each was
tied or nailed a naked human, man or woman, for when the Borchstogs were not
warring, they enjoyed torturing their enemies. The women must have come from
the townships this company had attacked prior to Thiersgald. Raugst saw that
there must be more than a thousand humans. He had known he’d see this, but it
was still a shock. Before, he might have been pleased by the sight, even asked
the opportunity to skin a human himself, but not now. He couldn’t even meet the
gazes of the people on the poles.

Uvrastig showed him into the inner
rings, where the tents were high, sharp and blood red. Many of them were
occupied by the Borchstog sorcerer-priests, the leaders of the Borchstog communities.
Inside their circles stood a circle of off-white tents, the abodes of Vrulug’s
personal priests with their maggot-white skin and nose-less faces. At their
very center stood the highest tent of all, crimson and guarded by demons.

“Vrulug’s command tent,” Uvrastig
said. “Here we wait.”

They waited. Raugst studied the horrible,
demonic guards, worse than Borchstogs, that stood to either side of the tent’s
entry, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. The guards looked somewhat
like charred human corpses with roaches and maggots crawling over them, but
their eyes were hollow, looking into black gulfs. The creatures seemed empty,
mere husks, their bodies kept upright and moving only by the sheer will of
their fell souls. When Raugst looked closely, he could see a faint dark wisp
rise from their empty eye sockets, their nostrils, and their mouths, as if
smoke filled them—smoke, or the Abyss. They remained immobile, and because they
did not have true eyes Raugst could not tell if they even noticed him.

He sat down on a troll skull and
waited. Crows and vultures wheeled overhead, from time to time descending to
pick at the men and women tied to poles, some of whom were able to frighten
them off, or alighting on the ground to nibble on the corpses or pieces of
corpses the Borchstogs had casually strewn about the camp.

This place made Raugst edgy. It
smelled of death and offal and sulfur; this last issued from the tents of the
necromancers. The Omkar alone knew what sorceries they practiced.

To Uvrastig, he said, “Send a
runner to Vrulug. Tell him that I’m here, and that it’s urgent I speak with
him.”

Uvrastig grumbled but complied. At
last a company of Borchstogs detached from the battle and marched into camp. At
their head strode a gaggle of black-robed priests with ghastly white skin, all
grouped around Vrulug. Steam poured from his wolvish mouth when he exhaled, and
his bat-like wings flexed restlessly behind him, spraying blood. Raugst did not
see the Moonstone anywhere on him. Where was he keeping it?

Raugst bowed, while his men dropped
to one knee and lowered their heads.

“Raugst,” Vrulug said. He touched
Raugst's head, honoring him, and Raugst could feel his heat as he neared.

“Master,” Raugst said.

“Why are you here?” Vrulug asked. “You
should be in the city. You should have opened the gates by now. I was beginning
to wonder what kept you. And now I find you
here
?”
He shook his head. “Speak”

Raugst forced himself to smile with
his old, devilish charm. “I have a plan.”

Vrulug stared, and Raugst did not
like the appraising, measuring look in his eyes. There were bits of flesh
matted in his fur. The wolf-lord sighed and gestured to the tent flap. “Let us
talk in private.”

They entered the tent, passing
between the charred demon-things. The creatures radiated coldness where Vrulug
radiated heat. Raugst had seen them before at Wegredon, but they kept mainly to
the shadows and had never posed a threat to him. Now, though, with the change
that had come over him, they worried him greatly. Inside Vrulug’s tent the air
was warm, even hot, and darkness hid most everything. Raugst received only dim
impressions of strange machines rearing all about, and huddled, feminine (and a
few masculine) forms lying naked here and there, bound by chains to the floor. Raugst
could not tell if the dimness was due to his change or Vrulug’s sorcery; Vrulug
might want none to be able to see his chambers. Perhaps he kept the Moonstone
somewhere here—or wanted others to think he did. There was no way to know for
sure.

“Sit,” Vrulug said, and Raugst took
a seat on the furs that lined the room, careful not to fumble about.

Despite his blood-covered
appearance, Vrulug sounded patient and warm, and he spoke as one equal to
another. “Drink,” he said.

Raugst accepted a glass and took a
sip: spiced wine laced with elvish blood. He tried to hide his grimace but was
not sure if he succeeded.
Omkar damn that
woman!
Previously this had been his favorite drink, and Vrulug knew it
well, was catering to him. Many times over the years Raugst and he had dined
together, Raugst taking his human form and coming to feasts and gatherings held
by the wolf-lord, sometimes even coming to visit Vrulug in private. Raugst was
the wolf-lord’s protector, one of his highest and closest servants.

Vrulug was a friend.

Raugst sighed, tasting the wine,
looking through the darkness at the dim shape of the wolf-lord and reflecting
on what he’d lost.

“So what is this plan that’s important
enough to delay the battle?” Vrulug’s voice sounded friendly, but beneath the
surface lurked an unmistakable threat. Raugst was aware that Vrulug did not
have the numbers to take Thiersgald by force, not until the Eresine Bridge
was rebuilt; he needed Raugst to open the gates for him. Even now, while the
battle raged, Vrulug was wasting good soldiers.

“It’s simply this,” Raugst said,
taking another sip. “If I open the gates and admit your armies, Thiersgald will
fall. But what about the rest of the barony?”

Vrulug shrugged. “With Thiersgald
fallen, Fiarth will fold. And with it gone, and with the armies that will come
across the Eresine shortly, the rest of Felgrad will be washed away. Not even
the priestesses of the Moon-witch will be able to stop us now that we have the
Stone.”

And
where is that?
“Yes, but that will get many Borchstogs killed. We won’t be
able to withstand Felgrad’s allies when they come to her aid.”

“If they ever do. We are harrying
their borders, as well.”

“Yes, and even more Borchstogs
die.”

Vrulug frowned, visible even in the
darkness. “Raugst . . . my friend . . . what is this plan of yours?” He did not
need to add that it had better be good.