The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (30 page)

Duke Yfrin nodded understandingly. “We’ll
destroy him, my boy, fear not.
Then
you will have your home back, and once more a Wesrain will rule Fiarth. That’s
as it should be, lad. That’s as it should be.” His eyes gleamed, and Giorn
realized with some appreciation that the old duke truly meant it. “For a
thousand years Wesrains have ruled here, and I mean to make it a thousand more.
They were kings for hundreds of years, you know, before they bent the knee to
King Raegar.”

“Father raised me on those
stories.” The Wesrains had ruled for much longer than the Raegars, as a matter
of fact, and the Raegars had not survived long after they’d forced the Wesrains
to submit. The war with Fiarth had weakened them politically, and a rival
family, the Uleas, had eventually usurped them. Still, the capital of Felgrad
had been named after that ancient clan of kings, and the Uleas had not dared
change it. The Raegar line had not lasted long, but it had burned bright.

Dalic looked at him sideways. “You
know that it was an Yfrin that ended him, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“Orin Feldred, who else?”

“I don’t . . .”

Dalic smiled, but it was a sad
smile, tinged with bitterness. “When Vrulug had him in the torture-racks of
Grasvic, after he’d flayed him. One of Lord Feldred’s supporters shot him, that
you must know. What you probably don’t is that that man was an Yfrin. Oh, they
didn’t call themselves Yfrins, not back then, it was Osfryd, but it was an
Yfrin just the same.”

“Osfryd?” Why did that name sound
familiar . . . ?

“That’s right, lad. His name was
Adlan Osfryd, one of Orin’s closest friends and highest allies. I’m proud to
count him an ancestor.”

Suddenly it came to Giorn where he’d
seen that name before, and he shuddered. As if he’d seen it just yesterday, he
remembered the brain kept alive in Vrulug’s lair. He realized what must have
happened, and what it implied about Vrulug’s wrath, for it could only have
happened one way: the wolf-lord, denied Orin, had taken his vengeance out on
the man who had slain him. Gods knew what terrors he had subjected Adlan
Osfryd’s still-living brain to over the many centuries since that fateful day. Giorn
paled just to think about it, and he wondered if he should tell Dalic. He
decided against it. Let him think Adlan had died bravely, years and years ago.

“He couldn’t stand to see Orin
tortured so,” Dalic was saying, “so he shot him, once through the head, once
through the heart, then killed himself with his dagger. The crossed
dagger-and-arrow, my family’s coat-of-arms, didn’t you ever wonder why?”

Giorn, though feeling ill, looked
at him with new respect. “Truly?”

The duke patted his shoulder. “So,
you see, our families have been linked for ages, and always we’ve been your
allies and friends. So shall it be still.”

They rode on, Giorn and Dalic, and
the sun rose hot and bloated overhead. Giorn’s mind turned to Niara, as it
often did, and he tasted something bitter on his tongue. Why had she betrayed him—betrayed
Fiarth? It made no sense. She was so goodly, so pure. Even now, despite
everything, he ached to hold her in his arms . . . and to throttle her.

Somehow she had done it for Fiarth,
he told himself. She had not done it out of love for Raugst. However misguided,
she had done it to
thwart
Raugst. Somehow
. . .

The hilly ground gave way to
forest-covered flatlands, with here and there settlements carved out for human
use. Some of these isolated townships had stood for a thousand years and more,
and they had developed their own dialects and cultures. Duke Yfrin prided
himself on knowing them all, and Giorn was impressed that he lived up to his
boasting. As they went, Giorn heard him converse fluently in not less than
three dialects with villagers whose speech Giorn could barely understand, and
that after some thought.

They slept in the forest that night
along the main road. They were not the only ones. Many refugees fleeing Vrulug’s
path of destruction made for Isaldt. Some erected campfires, sang songs and ate
what was at hand, holding little impromptu celebrations—of just being alive, as
far as Giorn could tell—long into the night. Giorn and Yfrin joined one, and
the young baron partook of the flask that was passed around perhaps more
liberally than he ought to have done. A pretty young woman, equally affected, offered
to share his blankets that night, and for a moment he was tempted, then he
thought of Niara and declined. As he watched her go, he wondered at himself.
Fool, there’s no reason to be loyal to one
who is not loyal to you.

He and Duke Yfrin rode on, and the next
afternoon they arrived at Isaldt, a large city of tall square-cut gray stone
towers overgrown with ivy, with here and there a sturdy bridge from tower to
tower. The city sprawled across a couple of low hills and was surrounded by a
low, thick stone wall that had been torn down and rebuilt many times over the
years as the city expanded. Ivy grew along much of its dark gray length and
soldiers constantly had to chop it away for the handholds it provided. A river
passed through Isaldt and wound down through the forest Giorn and Yfrin had
slept in, and Giorn saw many of the refugees bathing and washing their clothes
in the water as he passed.

These
are my people
, he thought.
They
depended on me to keep them safe, and look what I’ve done to them. I’ve turned
them into vagabonds.

Only too soon, he and Yfrin reached
the gates of the city, which were open, somewhat to Giorn’s surprise; he had
half feared he would find them sealed against the overwhelming number of
refugees. But no, Isaldt had elected to admit them, one and all, at least for
now. Perhaps, Giorn thought, the situation might yet grow dire enough for the
city to change its mind.
I won’t let that
happen.

“So what’s our plan, lad?” Yfrin
asked as they rode through the crowded streets. And they
were
crowded, packed building-to-building with desperate people
seeking shelter and food and loved ones lost in the chaos. More thronged the
alleys, having built little lean-to shelters. Laundry was strung on so many
lines that Giorn could not see the alleys’ other ends. In the streets, women
dressed seductively, selling their bodies for coin, and men too. Some were very
young. He wished he had taken more gold from Fria so that he could distribute
it among them and save these people’s honor, but it was not to be.

“Well, lad?” the old duke pressed.

“We’ve no time to linger,” Giorn
said. “We’ll go straight to your castle.”

Yfrin nodded in a mulling fashion. “Yes,
but by now Raugst will have heard of my escape. What if he’s sent agents to
capture me? If so, they’ll be waiting for me to show up at the castle.”

“I doubt he’d waste his resources
tracking you down. What’s one escaped prisoner in the midst of a war?” Giorn
paused. “Just the same, are there any secret ways into the castle that might
help us?”

“None that I know of. Though
within
the castle is another story.”

“It doesn’t matter. Secret ways didn’t
avail me much last time, and Captain Hanen and all our men died because of it. Perhaps
the direct way will be better.”

Several times women came to Giorn,
strutting, pouting, posing provocatively, but he refused their overtures. Duke
Yfrin turned them down, as well, but there was a lusty vigor in his eyes when
they came to him and it was only with reluctance that he sent them away. Giorn saw
many beggars and thieves, too, and he made sure to keep a close eye on his
purse, not that there was much left in it.

At last they passed through the
great courtyard before the castle. Here the refugees had come first and had
settled in more thoroughly than the latecomers, having dug latrine ditches and
organized food preparation. Giorn grimaced at an old woman skinning a dog,
possibly a beloved pet—or someone else’s. He passed a makeshift tent just as a
young girl, no older than thirteen or fourteen, left it, buttoning her blouse
as she went. Her cheeks were flushed and she had clearly just been engaged in
private acts. Giorn felt a swell of rage build in him at whoever had dared to
take advantage of her, and he glared into the shadows of the tent only to see a
broken man, crippled, his arm shriveled and held awkwardly to his chest, the
flesh of his face seemingly melted away. He had been burned terribly by some
fire—by the looks of it, a recent one, surely caused by Vrulug’s soldiers. Giorn
moved on.

He was relieved when they came
finally to the high gate in the wall that surrounded the castle. The soldiers
there were talking with each other and did not give Giorn or Duke Yfrin much
notice—not until Giorn rode forward, shouting, “Good sirs! May I have your
attention!”
He spoke with his old voice of command, and it had the desired effect. The guards
swiveled their heads.
“You have it, friend, but be quick.”

“I’d like a private word, if I may,”
Giorn said, “with your captain.”

“There’s nothing we can do for your
lot,” the man said tiredly. “We have told you many times, we’re doing all we
can.”

“I’m not a refugee—not precisely.” Actually,
that is precisely what he was. “Now, may I have a word? It will only take a
moment.”

Grudgingly, the soldier who had
spoken, evidently the captain, climbed down and ordered the gates opened. He
approached Giorn, and Giorn climbed down from his horse, aware that archers
watched him carefully.

“Now, what is this all about?” the
captain said.

Giorn motioned for Duke Yfrin to
ride forward. At the sudden movement, the archers tensed. Even the captain went
a bit rigid, and his hand strayed toward the hilt of his sword.

“Uncle,” Giorn said gently. “Show
him.”

As usual, Yfrin wore his cowl low
over his face, but now, with a bit more drama than Giorn thought strictly
necessary, he whipped it back, revealing his identity. Slowly, the captain’s
eyes widened.

“My lord!” Instantly, he sank to
his knee.

His soldiers muttered along the
wall. They likely couldn’t see Yfrin’s face well enough to recognize it from
their positions.

“Is it you?” the captain asked,
staring up at the man on the horse.

Yfrin inclined his head—looking
very regal, Giorn thought. “It is I, Captain Halstern. I’ve come home.”

It all happened very swiftly after
that. Soon Giorn and Yfrin were within the wall of the castle, the gates closed
behind them, and the soldiers were laughing and surrounding them, shouting a
hundred questions at the duke. He grinned broadly and clapped them on the back
or shook their wrists. He seemed to know each and every one by name, and to be
known and liked by all. Once again, Giorn was impressed. His own father had
been far too aloof to act in such a manner. Feeling optimistic, Giorn followed
the happy crowd as it swept up the stairs and into the high hall of the keep. No
one asked who he was and he didn’t bother to tell them. They’d find out soon
enough. Let Yfrin have his moment.

The soldiers showed them to the
throne room, where the new lord of Wenris sat in conference with several stout
older men—his generals, Giorn saw by their uniforms. The lord looked up,
apparently irritated by the interruption, but irritation gave way to surprise,
then curiosity. Finally the old duke was ushered before him, and the current lord’s
jaw fell open.

Yfrin smiled. “Son, it has been too
long.”

The younger man, whose name, Giorn
recalled, was Serit, laughed and leapt to his feet. In an instant he was
throwing his arms about his father, and the reunions began. Giorn was very pleased
by it all. Finally here it was, something glad. Even in these grim times, moments
of lightness and hope existed.

The next few hours passed as if in
a dream, and before he knew it Giorn was the honored guest in at a sumptuous
feast celebrating Dalic Yfrin’s homecoming. It seemed superfluous to him to
have a guest of honor, when clearly Uncle Dalic was the main attraction, but he
tolerated it just the same. He gave several toasts, telling of Dalic’s bravery
in his escape, and in return Dalic toasted him, telling more lies of Giorn’s
own boldness. In truth, of course, they had both run away quite handily and
with a complete absence of bloodshed, but that did not make for a good tale.

At one point Serit, a bit unsteady
from drink, stood, lifted his bejeweled goblet in his father’s general direction
and said, “Father, I’m so glad to have you back. When I first saw you, I
thought for sure that you were a ghost.” This drew a few chuckles. “Happily, I
was mistaken. I want you to know that we never believed Lord Raugst’s lies and
that all here are loyal to you and Lord Wesrain, and we pledge to do anything
in our power to help you set things right.”

“Here here!” said the gathered
noblemen.

Continuing, Serit said, “I have
ruled as well as I’ve been able in your absence, but now, with your return, I
gladly hand the dukedom back to its rightful wielder. May you live to rule a
hundred years!”

The others echoed the toast,
raising their own goblets. Even Giorn joined in. “A hundred years!”

“I thank you, my son, and it’s a
most gracious offer,” Duke Yfrin said. “Yet I’m an old man and not fit to lead
Wenris in wartime. I have never led a battle in my life, and I’m too old to
start now. No, Serit, I think it’s time a younger man sat the throne. Besides,
too many will have believed the lies. They will think I slew Lord Wesrain.”

“That’s not so, Father! Not in
Wenris. We’ve never lost faith in you.” Serit smiled. “In fact, many think it
is our guest of honor that did the deed.”

There were some uncomfortable
chuckles at that, and Giorn smiled politely, indicating, he hoped, the
falsehood of the jest. He tried to ignore the sweat that broke out on his
forehead.