The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (37 page)

“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 flashed 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.

Steam rose from the glimmering waters of the Pool, and from
it emerged a goddess. She was tall and blond and buxom, clad in a sheer, thin
gown of white pasted to her body, and her eyes shone with pleasure.

Niara, who stood in the water
before her, smiled kindly. Of all of her duties as High Priestess, this was
Niara’s favorite. Reciting from the Books of Light, she said: “And do you now
accept the blessing of the Father—” (this was Brunril) “— and of the Mother—”
(Illiana)—“who together begat the First Men and imbued them with Light and
Grace and love?”

“I do, High Mother.”

They were surrounded by a circle of
smiling priestesses each holding a candle on a silver holder, all clad, as Niara
was, in a thin white gown cinched by a slim golden belt shaped like intertwined
leaves. With the water and steam, the gowns were now molded to their frames. The
lights of the candles became blurry, leaping fairies in the steam.

“Then I bestow upon you that same
Grace,” Niara said. “May your cares be lessened, your past transgressions
washed away, and may you travel in the Light unto the end of days.” The girl
bowed, and Niara kissed her on the forehead. The girl’s flesh was warm. Niara
had to use the white stone she wore about her neck to bless the girl, for she
had no more grace to give. Raugst had taken it all.

When the girl stood, she beamed
brightly, her cheeks flushed, her hair dripping and steaming. Perhaps she was
not truly a goddess, Niara thought—her hips were a bit too wide, perhaps, her
breasts were a bit too full, too low—but she was a vision of beauty
nonetheless. She was so happy.
May you
stay that way.

Light shone down through the
sun-shafts overhead, turning the walls and pillars to shining white, and the
steam to wispy, glowing cotton. Vapor curled up from the water, and Niara
basked in it. There were furnaces beneath the Pool that priestesses would stoke
during a Bathing Ceremony, the ritual by which a bride-to-be was purified
before her wedding. When Niara had first journeyed here, when she had first
become a priestess, she had slaved away in the heat, stoking those fires during
the ritual, and now she presided over it.

Smiling, she led Liela, the
bride-to-be, out of the water, embraced her, and sent her to be dried and
dressed by a gaggle of blushing young priestesses. Niara remembered when she
had blushed so. This was the romantic part of being a priestess, the magical,
girlish part. Only women were allowed during a Bathing Ceremony, but all women
were girls underneath.

Niara watched wistfully as Liela
was led away, and she could not help but sigh.
I will pray for you
.
I will
pray for us all
. Yet she had little real hope. Vrulug may have spared
Thiersgald for the moment, but he had taken his army and sacked Branagh and
Galamheim. Legions of refugees had escaped those cities and sought a haven
inside Thiersgald, and Niara had been spending her days and nights seeing to
them. Many had been raped or tortured by Vrulug and his thralls, and more had
lost loved ones. These were dark times, and Niara was forced to admit, at least
to herself, that Gilgaroth’s dreaded Age of Grandeur might finally be upon the
world. She did not see how any host of Man could stop Vrulug. But, of course,
she confided her fears to no one save Illiana.

Hiatha, who had not participated in
the ceremony but had been overseeing things High Motherly while Niara was
occupied, entered the Hall of Beginning and approached. Still glowing a bit
from the ceremony despite herself, Niara puzzled at the strange expression she
wore.

“What is it, dear?”

Hiatha lowered her voice. “It’s . .
.
him
. Raugst.”

Niara felt beads of sweat stand out
on her skin, and it wasn’t because of the steam. Instantly she felt a stirring
of anger—Raugst had ignored the letters she had sent him over the past week—but
also a stirring of something else.

“I had heard he was busy with the
King.,” she said.

“He wants to see you.”

“Very well. Tell him I’ll meet with
him in the solar after I dress.” Hiatha nodded and began to move off, but Niara
stopped her, half smiling. “And tell the girls below that they can stop the
bellows.”

Quickly Niara went to the large
bathroom areas of the Temple, where the bathing basins were. She found her
storage cabinet, took out a dry robe and laid it aside. Her black hair hung in damp
waves around her shoulders and her ceremonial gown was pasted to her body like
a second skin. She untied the golden belt and slipped out of the gown.

“Very nice.”

She spun, clutching at the garment.
He stood before her, dark eyes smiling. Wearing his hunting finery, with his
black mane combed back over his head and his beard trimmed, he looked most
handsome in that moment.

“Raugst, you shouldn’t have come
here. These are private rooms . . .”

He strode across the marble floor,
past the marble benches, threading through the bathing basins toward her. Her
back was to the wall. Smiling, he came to stand over her. Steam still rose from
her hair, and she felt very warm. He smelled of leather and, faintly, sweat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said
again, but her voice had lost its strength.

He smiled. He laid his hands upon
her shoulders and drew her to him. Her gown fell away, and her wet breasts
pressed against his chest. He bent his head and kissed her. His lips were warm
and soft, and she gave in to them. For a moment.

She tore herself away and snatched
up her dry gown. “No.” Her voice was a coarse whisper.

“Damn you.”

She hid behind a pillar and slipped
the gown over her head. Clothed, she reemerged, grabbed up a belt and cinched
it about her waist. She was still wet, however, and she caught him staring at
her chest. She grabbed a towel and began to dry her hair.

“Why didn’t you reply to my
messages?” she said, trying to glare at him.

“Messages?”

“Don’t deny it. I had my girls
deliver them to the drop spot at the castle, but we never received a reply.”

“Ah. That.”

“So you
don’t
deny it.” Somehow that disappointed her.

“You don’t understand. It was
Saria. I thought she was acting awfully smug the other day. She must have
discovered our drop spot. I never received any messages.” He sat down on a
bench, suddenly seeming to lose his strength. “She’s been keeping a close watch
on me, and lately the staff too. She must have noticed something unusual.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

She stepped closer to him. He eyed
her up and down.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. Patted the
seat beside him. “To see you, of course,” She ignored his offer. “Saria will no
longer keep us apart.”

“You speak as though we were torrid
lovers.”

He stared into her, and she felt
suddenly uncomfortable.

“Are we not?” he asked.

She turned away. Her hair was as
dry as the towel could get it. She laid it over the side of the hamper. Not
turning to face him, she said, “What became of her?”

There was genuine sadness in his
voice, and something haunted about his face. “I slew her. Her and her
shadow-slaves. And . . . and one more. They will bother us no longer.”

She faced him. She still felt oddly
conflicted at the thought that he had slain a woman, but she forced herself to
admit that it was for the best, and she did not let her eyes waver.

“The sword worked, then,” she said.

He seemed relieved that she did not
rebuke him. “Yes, and I thank you for it.”

“And what do you want of me now?”

Almost violently, he rose to his
feet. “I don’t want anything
of
you,
woman. I want
you
.” He grabbed her
shoulders again and shoved his lips against hers.

She kissed back, then ripped
herself away. He growled. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she tried not to let
them out.

“No,” she choked. “Giorn.”

“Damn him!”

She made a cutting motion with her
hand. “Just go. I cannot betray him.”

“Bah! This is madness.” He towered
over her, and she had the urge to shrink away. She stood firm. “I know you feel
it too, Niara. I can smell the fire in your blood, and the juices in your
cunny. Don’t be a fool!”

She slapped him. “I will not betray
Giorn.”

“Why not? He’s betrayed you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s true. Saria told me how she
got the Moonstone from him, and it wasn’t by flattering him.”

The blood drained from her face. “He
would never . . .”

“He would. He did. But never mind
him, woman! You’re mine. don’t deny it. Once was not enough, for either of us.”

He started to kiss her again, but
she placed her hands on his chest and shoved him away. “The Moonstone, you
said. Tell me, how’s Vrulug using it against us?”

He rolled his eyes. “He’s corrupted
it. Or the Master has, anyway. Vrulug’s using it to taint the light, to block
it. Your priestesses are worth less than horse dung now, as far as the War is
concerned.”

“Can the Stone be purified? Perhaps
the Pool, weakened though it is . . .”

“No pool can reverse what Lord
Gilgaroth did to it. He’s stronger than all of you.”

She stared up at him soberly. “Then
the Stone must be destroyed. It is the only way.”

“
You
destroy it. Vrulug has it. Vrulug, the son of Gilgaroth and
Mogra, at the head of his army—which, according to my spies, is marching toward
us even now. It could be here as soon as the morrow. Besides, I don’t even know
where it is, where he’s keeping the Stone. I looked for it when I was with him,
but . . . No. The only way is my way, to become King.”

She shoved him farther back. “You
still mean to go
through
with it? But
Saria is dead!”

“How do you think I killed her? The
only way I could get her to trust me enough to drink the poison, was, well . .
.”

She blinked, putting the pieces
together. When the truth dawned, she nearly sank to her knees. “You slew him. King
Ulea, he’s . . .”

“It was the only way, Niara. Now Saria’s
dead, and because I’ve upheld my end of the agreement Vrulug will forebear
attacking long enough for us to unify against him.”