The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (32 page)

“I trust him, Aunt,” Serit said. “But
if he should turn, I have you to deal with him.”

Giorn looked from one dead face to
the other. “Aunt?”

“
That
is the duchess,” Histra explained.

“I don’t . . .” Both corpses were
male.

“She’s been down here so long that
she’s learned to manipulate the bodies of the dukes that came later, though
their souls are long gone. She had no issue, but her brother did, so she calls
all those of his line nephews and nieces.”

“And uses them like puppets when
they die,” Giorn finished. “Charming.”

One of the dead ones shook him.
“Quiet, Wesrain.”

The corpses threw him forward to
land at Serit’s feet. Giorn picked himself up gingerly, the young duke helping.

Serit held the knife in his right
hand. Giorn grabbed it with his left.

Surprised, Serit fought him. Giorn’s
balled the curled wooden fingers of his right hand into a fist and smashed it
across Serit’s mouth. One wooden finger cracked. Serit fell back, hands over
his mouth. Blood spurted from between his fingers. Giorn grinned savagely; his
wooden hand could deliver quite a blow.

He held the dagger in his left
hand.

Screaming like a hell-cat, Histra
flew at him. She leapt onto his back and beat his skull with her tiny yet
surprisingly hard fists. Screeching, she scratched at his face, meaning to
gouge out his eyes, and blood ran down his cheeks.

Giorn reached overhead with his
left hand, grabbed her by the hair with two fingers not gripping the weapon and
hauled her off with all his strength. Screaming, she fell in an unladylike heap
to the floor.

By this time, Serit had recovered
his wits. He lunged for Giorn. Giorn twisted, swayed. Serit sailed by. Giorn
slashed him across the ribs with the ceremonial dagger.

Serit, fuming in anger and
clutching his side, ran around the statue of the old duke and huddled on the
far side of the dead things.

“Craven!” Giorn said.

Histra joined her lord, touching
her head where Giorn had yanked her hair.

Serit lifted a trembling finger and
pointed it with great deliberation at Giorn. “Kill him, Aunt.”

“
No. It must be done properly. You must read from the Book.”

“I don’t have it!”

Giorn noticed a large black volume
lying on the Altar.
This
is what
Histra had been reaching for. He snatched it up and, without a thought, hurled
it onto the brazier. Serit screamed. The dead ones moaned. Instantly, the Book
exploded, the energies contained within it being released. Smoke and fire
filled the tight space, and Giorn coughed and blinked his eyes.

“
Now
kill him!” Serit shouted.

The dead things did not answer. Giorn
took that to mean they were already hunting him. Could they see through this
smoke? The flames on the brazier leapt high, turned purple, then black, then
green, and weird smoke curled up, forming strange shapes. All this Giorn could
only vaguely see, every now and then, when the smoke that filled the tight
chamber shifted slightly. The old bronze duke reared up in the center of it all,
proud and defiant, daring the chaos all around him to do its worst.

A footstep nearby. The dead ones
were almost on him.

Giorn circled around the huge bust
of Gilgaroth. It was set almost flush against the wall, but not quite. Slipping
into the space behind it, he braced his back against the wall and shoved with
his good leg against the statue’s back. After much straining, it tilted. Yes!

“Come for me!” he said, drawing
them forward.

A tall, corpse-like shape surged
through smoke and shadows, directly before the statue. Giorn shoved, and the
statue toppled forward. There came a crash, a crunch of bone and armor, and
something man-like writhed beneath the black wolf head, making no sound.

Giorn slipped forward. Another
shape lurched at him, claw-like hands outstretched.

Desperate, he dodged aside. It came
on. He hurled himself behind the brazier, then shoved the brazier over, right
into the oncoming corpse. It fell back, flames coursing up its dry, withered
limbs. It staggered forward, flaming, still intent on killing him, but then its
body gave out and it collapsed, falling apart as it went.

Giorn spun toward Serit and Histra.

Through the smoke, Serit must have
seen him, as the duke said, “Gilgaroth take him!”
Giorn limped through the darkness, a soot-stained, blood-spitting specter of
death. Serit and Histra fled up the hall. Giorn followed as fast as his poor
leg allowed him.

Not fast enough. The duke and his
mistress slipped up a stairway and were gone. Giorn reached it, turned to
regard the catacombs one final time, just to be sure nothing was coming up on
him, and saw a dark shape lurching from down the hallway in the opposite
direction of the Altar. Giorn cursed. Auntie was rousing more of her puppets.

Limping, he mounted the stairs,
dragging his bad leg behind him like a dead weight. He had wrested a thigh bone
from the fire, and it was wrapped with dry tissue and fabric, now burning
slightly. It wasn’t much light, but it lit the way before him.

In his good hand he held the
dagger. It dripped small droplets of Serit’s blood. Giorn swore that it would
drip still more. Sweat stung his eyes. His right leg throbbed. He heard noises
behind him—shuffling, shambling noises, the scrape of bone, the click of teeth.

Giorn pushed himself to go faster. He
could hear absolutely nothing of Serit and Histra. They were far ahead of him
now.

Hungry moaning issued up from the
well of darkness below. At last the stairwell ended and a long dark corridor
stretched before him. This was the highest level of the catacombs. If he could
remember where the secret passage was . . .

He didn’t. He would have to make
for the stairwell at the end of the hall, the one that led up into the castle
proper. Gritting his teeth, trying to ignore the fire that coursed up from his
leg, he made for the stairwell.

Stone grated on stone to his right.
The slab of a sarcophagus fell to the floor with a crash, and something
leathery rose up. Giorn ran, dragging his bad foot.

Another crash, off to his left.

A footstep behind him.

Something raked his back. He
yelped. Hobbled faster. Blood trickled down his back.

Something tripped him.
No!
He went sprawling. Knocked his chin
on the cold marble floor. The concussion jarred his head. Groaning, he flipped
himself over. Dark things loomed over him. The bone-torch had fallen from his fingers,
and its light was fading.

“
Die
,” said the dead ones. “
Die
,”
said Aunt Yfrin.

They bent over him.

Screaming insensibly, he stabbed at
their wrists with the dagger, hacked at their jaws. He kicked with his good
foot. Then his bad. They were all around him. With a last, desperate burst of
strength, he rolled, knocking two of them away. He broke free and scrambled to
his feet.

They closed in.

The bone-torch died, plunging him
into pitch blackness.

He thought he remembered where the
stairwell was and made for it. The scraping and clicking and moaning increased
behind him. Aunt Yfrin was hungry. He supposed Serit had given her some flesh
and blood over recent weeks, but it hadn’t been enough. More claw-like hands
raked at his back, caught at his clothes. They tore away. He was one step ahead
of them.

All was darkness. His heart beat
like a drum in his chest. Flesh-less jaws clicked behind him. The dead ones
were almost on him. He pushed himself to go faster.
Please, Illiana, don’t let me die like this, devoured by corpses and
ghosts in the dark.

Something hard struck his feet. He almost
sprawled on hard stone stairs—he’d reached them!—but at the last moment he
pushed himself off with a hand and, tottering, ascended.

A bony hand grabbed his ankle. He
pulled loose. Climbed. The things followed him, clicking and skittering. Cold,
slick walls rolled by under his hands, his only touchstone in the darkness.

Finally, he saw vague light above.
Almost there . . .

The things moaned behind him. Their
clicks and clatters grew faster. He forced himself on, chest burning. The vague
light ahead strengthened, surrounded him. After what seemed like an eternity,
he emerged from the stairwell into the castle.

Still
the things came on. He remembered what Histra had said, about how Aunt Yfrin
could steal the breaths of people on this lowest level. But above, she could not.
If he could only reach one more stairwell . . .

Braziers stood at intervals, always
lit, even at night. And there would be guards.

Guards
.

Giorn could not get a lungful of air
to scream with. He wove through the thick, squat columns of the main hall. Aunt
Yfrin’s puppets chased him. He didn’t turn his head to look, but he could hear
them. Click, click, scrabble. Skitter. Moan.

They were almost on him. He would
be devoured alive, right here in the castle, mere feet away from help.

Finally he was able to draw breath and
shouted as loud as he could:
“Guards! To
me!”
It came out in a choking rasp, but it was enough.

Foul hands grasped at him. A living
skull, with flesh still clinging to it, snapped at his throat. He could feel
the air moving against his jugular. He placed his hands on the creature’s cold,
cobweb-covered ribcage, and shoved. It was strong. He pushed harder, and it
fell back, just for a moment.

More surrounded him. Their stench
of rot and fungus filled his nose. A skeletal hand stretched for his eyes. He
shattered its wrist with his dagger. Another swing clove a gnashing skull. His
blade lodged in the thick bone of the head.

Guards burst into the main hall. In
moments they descended on the scene, swords flashing. They hacked the dead
things to pieces, and bone dust filled Giorn’s mouth. A severed skull snapped
on the floor and, breathless, he kicked it away.

One of the guards helped him up,
and Giorn panted, recovering. “You have my thanks,” he managed. “All of you.” Sweat
still stung his eyes. He could feel it mix with the bone dust on his cheeks.

“My lord,” the guard captain said, “what
do you here? What . . . what
happened
?
Where did these things come from? Are there more?”

Before he could answer, a gong
peeled above. The guards started.

“The call to arms!” the guard
captain said. “What’s this?”

“Are we under attack?”

The soldiers looked around
nervously.

Giorn swore, his mind churning. He
was all too aware of what the drumming must signify. Indeed, it was only
moments later when Duke Serit Yfrin rushed into main hall followed by a score
of knights, all of whom were bleary-eyed, their armor hastily and only
partially thrown on. Obviously their master had roused them from sleep. Serit
had discarded his ceremonial robes and wore his court finery.
Wise choice
, Giorn thought. The duke’s
lip still bled where Giorn had struck him.

Serit drew his sword and stabbed it
toward Giorn. “Apprehend this villain!”

The guard captain that had aided
Giorn stared at the exiled baron fearfully. “What’s this, my lord?”

Serit allowed no time for explanations.
“Seize him!”

With obvious reluctance, the
captain of the guard drew his blade again. It was still coated in bone dust. Quietly,
he said to Giorn, “Will you submit?”

Still wearied from his exertions, Giorn
nodded. The captain grabbed his arm and jerked him forward—not out of
maliciousness but to assert his authority over Giorn so that the arriving
knights would not be even more rough in their handling of him. Giorn realized
this, and appreciated it.

The guard captain brought him before
Serit. “Here he is, sir. May I inquire as to what his crime is?”

Serit glared at the captain and
hesitated, as if unsure how to reply.

Giorn did not give him time. “The
crime is discovering Lord Serit’s worship of Gilgaroth.”

The soldiers gasped. They stared
from Giorn to Serit.

“A lie!” Serit said. His sword was
still drawn and he seemed honestly unsure of whether he should cut Giorn down
right then and there. “It’s
you
who
worship Gilgaroth! I caught you in the act and you tried to slay me. Oh, you
are a foul one!”

“I
just arrived
at the castle. How could I have known of the altar in
the lowest level of the catacombs?”

“An
altar
?” asked the guard captain.

“Yes,” Giorn said. “A Black Altar.”

“No!”

“Yes. Your duke and his mistress Histra
were planning on sacrificing me to their new Master.”

“Is this true?” said a new voice.

All turned to regard Dalic Yfrin,
standing in the doorway Serit and the knights had just emerged from. He had not
taken the time to don formal attire but wore his nightclothes. Somehow he
looked all the more regal for that, as though his very comfort at wearing such
informal clothes bespoke his power.

“All lies, Father, I swear it,”
Serit insisted.

“And would Histra, too, swear the
same?” Uncle Dalic’s tone was grave.

“Of course. Why, she’s sleeping in
her chambers even now. As for being my mistress, why that’s—”

“
Enough
.” Dalic stepped forward, a deep frown etched into his face.

The guards looked from him to Serit
and back. Giorn instantly noticed the shift in dynamics. The guards would do
whatever the old duke said. No longer was Serit the ruler here. They would side
with him whom they had served their whole lives, and some their fathers’ before
them.

“Please, Father, don’t even think
that I would ever serve the Dark One,” Serit pleaded. “It’s absurd!”