The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (39 page)

He stood with Dalic and several
soldiers in the park, smelling the roast mutton on the night breeze and trying
to calm the fury in his mind.

“We’re doomed,” said an old woman
not far away, crying against the chest of a plain-faced girl that must be her
daughter; both looked starved and harried. The daughter patted her back and
hugged her, but she did not argue.

Giorn studied the soldiers around
him. They looked fearful but resolved. They knew these were grim times, maybe
in truth the End Times, but they understood that their cause was the only route
to salvation. Vrulug was almost here and a traitor sat the throne. Only Giorn
could save them. Giorn wished he could be so sure.
Vrulug has the Moonstone.
It had once been the salvation of Man,
but now it might be the opposite.

The voice of the priestess rolled
over the gathering, competing with the chill wind and the crackling of the
fire. Giorn thought she might be Hiatha. “And though we travel through the dark
of the Abyss itself, there is light,” she said. “There is the light of the
Mother and the Father, and the spark that they put in each of us. Look within
to find it. Let each of you be a beacon to the others. Even in the dark of the
Abyss, there is hope, for there is each other.” The fire turned her honey-blond
hair to red gold. Her green eyes were filled with vigor and earnestness.

One of the soldiers appeared out of
the throng, pushing his way through it as Hiatha—it was she; Giorn was certain
now—spoke on. Giorn had sent him on a mission, and now Giorn tensed to hear
word of his success or failure. He could tell immediately which way it had gone
by the man’s haggard face.

“I did as you ordered, my lord. Went
to the Temple and begged an audience with the High Mother. The priestesses said
she was occupied. When I pressed them, they admitted that she wasn’t there.”

“Where could she be? It’s the eve
of war.”

The soldier shrugged.

“Very well,” Giorn said. “Thank
you.”

The soldier moved off, and Giorn
frowned into the heart of the bonfire. He had wanted to see Niara again, to
apologize for his actions and to make up with her. He’d told Dalic (and
himself, for that matter) that she was of strategic importance, that they
needed to ally themselves with the High Mother for Giorn’s plan to work, but in
his heart he knew otherwise.

Dalic clapped him on the shoulder. “It
will be all right,” he said gently. Of course, he had no idea how close Giorn
and Niara were—or had been—and Giorn could not tell him. If nothing else, Dalic
was devout. “She is not as essential as you might think.”

Giorn forced himself to nod. “No,
you’re right. The plan can still work. Come, we have things do to.” After
looking around at the drawn, desperate faces of his men, he added, “But perhaps
we can have a little mutton first.”

They approached the fire as Hiatha’s
voice rolled on, preaching hope in the darkness. But all around, the darkness
deepened.

Vrulug would be here on the morrow.

Chapter
22

Raugst scowled out at the oncoming horde from atop the outer
wall of the city, flanked by his guards, generals, Niara and several lesser
priestesses. Wind whispered through his hair, and the morning sun cast golden
light upon the world.

Staring through a spyglass, Raugst
tried to pick out Vrulug among the tens of thousands of Borchstogs and gaurocks
and other assorted creatures of Oslog, but they were just a vague black wave on
the horizon. He estimated fifty thousand Borchstogs, a score of the massive,
wall-shattering gaurocks, a full fleet of glarumri, doubtless a handful of
vampires and their undead thralls, many trolls, corrupted giants and . . .

More. Many more.

Wind shrieked and howled. The dark wave
on the horizon drew closer. Closer. Marching through the ruins of farms they’d
leveled weeks ago. A few intrepid or foolish farmers had attempted to rebuild
and reoccupy, but these had been put to flight and Vrulug’s thralls even then
erased the efforts at reconstruction.

“They’ll be here by nightfall,”
Raugst said, lowering the eyepiece. “They’d be here sooner, but the sun makes
them slow.”

“Aye,” said General Levenril. He
was not one that Raugst had appointed but a true soldier of Felgrad, and Raugst
wished he had a hundred more like him. “Of course, for them it already
is
nightfall.”

This was true. Vrulug had been
burning and razing everything in his path since crossing the Pit of Eresine,
and he’d used his sorcerous arts to congeal the smoke from those burning towns
into one great black cloud that slithered through the air directly above the
host. Sunlight beat down, straining to sear the eyes of the Borchstogs, but the
black cloud protected them from the worst of it.

Raugst turned to Niara. “Can you
dispel their cover?”

“Not while Vrulug holds the
Moonstone.”

“But if it were destroyed . . .”

“Yes.” She looked sideways at him. “There’s
no way, my . . . my lord.” Had she been about to say ‘my love’? “Not when
Vrulug is surrounded by his army.”

She was throwing his own words back
at him. Still, he didn’t see how he’d been wrong.

“But he
will
have the Moonstone with him, is that correct?” Raugst, though
a being of power, knew little of sorcery.

She nodded, wind making her hair
billow like ebon waves behind her. “He would need to keep it with him always,
to direct its energies. He fears that there might be a powerful light-born
here, someone strong enough to oppose him.”

In a lower voice, he asked, “Could
you have done so . . . before?”

“I don’t know. I tried once, and he
blocked me. If I’d had more time . . . perhaps. But I doubt it.”

He could tell that she was not
certain and cursed their ill luck. If she had not given him her fateful kiss,
she might have countered Vrulug and the Moonstone. In that case, of course,
Raugst would still be a fell thing, a thing of the Shadow. He wondered if he
still would have preferred that. It seemed abhorrent to him now, yet there was a
certain allure to the notion. Back then he had known his place, his purpose. He
had been an important part of a greater whole, and he had reveled in it. Now he
was feeling his way blindly and did not at all think that he belonged. Nevertheless,
he was here, and he would make the most of it.

To General Levenril, he said,
“Begin the evacuation.”

“Aye, my lord.”

They had discussed it beforehand
and most of the generals had agreed that the residential areas between the
outer wall and the inner wall needed to be emptied in case Vrulug’s host
managed to breach the outer defenses. Looking at the oncoming army, Raugst
thought it a wise precaution, though it meant living conditions within the
inner wall would be horribly cramped. The conditions would not last long, he
told himself.
Once Vrulug sees that I’m
king . . .

General Levenril moved off to oversee
the evacuation, and Raugst turned to another general. “Vrulug’s host is coming
faster than we’d hoped. We must begin the crowning ceremony immediately. See to
it.”

“Aye, my lord.” This general too
hurried off.

To Niara, Raugst said, “Are you
ready to preside over the ceremony?”

“I must dress and gather my
sisters.” She hesitated, then moved a little closer to him. Her voice lowered. “Are
you coming straight back here after the ceremony?”

It was plain what she was asking,
and he had to smile. “We’ll see. I’ve told the chefs to begin feast
preparations. If there’s time after the crowning, we, you and I and a few
others, will retire to the castle for a brief celebration.” There were too many
people around for him to finish the thought, but he winked at her to imply that
after the feast, the two of them might rendezvous privately—if there was time. Vrulug’s
host was hours away yet, but there was no telling for certain when he would
arrive.

Niara seemed to understand, as she
nodded and edged away. What had passed between them last night evidently made
her feel uncomfortable, but she did not seem displeased by it. Her shyness
amused him.

“I’ll see you in the Square, my
lord,” she said.

She descended from the ramparts,
her priestesses with her. Raugst watched her go, feeling something warm inside
him, then turned to the oncoming horde. The warmth died.

No
,
he thought.
The plan will work. Vrulug
won’t attack. Once I’m crowned, I’ll have upheld my end of the bargain and he
will relent.

A vague sound reached him, and he
strained his ears. The sound grew stronger.

Boom.
Doom. Boom.
The enemy drums rolled across the hills. The sound shouldn’t be
loud enough to reach the city—Vrulug was much too far away—but the sound
continued.
Boom. Doom. Boom.
Borchstog
war drums. Raugst let out a breath. Vrulug was using his arts, sending the sound
before his army to sap the will of the defenders of Thiersgald. Glancing about
him, Raugst saw his soldiers pale at the drumming. It did him no favors,
either.

It was a beautiful ceremony, Niara thought, although the
beating of the Borchstog drums in the distance—growing ever louder, from a
vague pounding to an incessant, imminent throbbing that made her head ache—diminished
it somewhat.

Still, when she looked at her
gorgeously-clothed and painted priestesses arrayed to either side of her, all
wearing white dresses with silver embroidery, with pearly, diamond-studded
tiaras, and the rows of royal soldiers, silver and golden armor gleaming under
the sun, and beyond them the sea of the townspeople, aristocrats in their
finery nearest the dais in the center of Mitsgald Square, middle-class
merchants second, and so on, stretching on and on, with great monuments rearing
to the sides, and then, coming up the center aisle, Raugst in the trappings of
king, with long, burgundy cape edged in fox fur, shoes of velvet, hair sculpted
like artful black waves over his proud head, and the silver trumpets blasting
loudly all around as if to drive out the sound of the Borchstog drums—she had
to admit it was quite a brilliant spectacle. But the trumpets could not drown
out that awful noise entirely. Sometimes she thought it was simply the crashing
of her heart, but she knew better.

Raugst approached. She could almost
smell him, all musk and power, and despite herself she felt a stirring.

Slowly, dramatically, he knelt before
her. The crowd quieted.

Niara, in her silver-white robes,
her long train held by four priestesses when she walked, her own tiara heavy on
her brow, smiled kindly down at him. His eyes twinkled.
Focus on the task at hand
, she told herself.

She spoke the words of ritual,
letting her voice ring out over the gathering, telling those assembled of the
proud history of their people and the great nobility of character their kings
had always embodied—ignoring the stain on their honor that was King Heril Ulea
IV; he was the sole aberration that proved the rule, she said—and that the
Omkar chose only the highest paragons of virtue to sit the Throne. Raugst embodied
those ideals to the fullest. Not only this, but he had defeated Vrulug once,
and he would do it again. The people roared their approval, though she saw that
Raugst himself looked uneasy.

“And do you, Raugst Irasgralt
Wesrain, swear to uphold the values and traditions of Felgrad?” she said.

“Yes, High Mother. I do.”

“And will you swear to defend her
from her enemies, even if those enemies be within, and especially if they be
without?”

“I will and do, High Mother.” The
crowd was very quiet now, and his words were heard near and far. Many had brought
their children to witness the event, and little boys and girls perched on their
fathers’ shoulders, which irritated townspeople behind them.

“And do you give your pledge to
oppose always the workings of the Dark One and his agents and to hold him and
them in contempt until the end of days?”

“I give that pledge, High Mother.” Then,
raising his voice, he shouted over his shoulder,
“Death to the Shadow!”

There was a great roar from the
crowd at this. Many repeated his words, thrusting their fists in the air and
making signs to ward off evil.

Niara waited until the noise faded,
then continued as if she had not been interrupted. “And do you vow to uphold
the teachings of the Light, to hold close to your heart the wisdom of Brunril
the Sun-Maker and Illiana, Mother of the Moon?”

“I do so vow,” he said. Niara saw
his lieutenants, who had flanked him as he came up the aisle but had not
ascended the dais with him, look at each other nervously.

“Then I bestow upon you the Crown
of Felgrad and all rights and duties attached thereto.” So saying, she turned
to the side, plucked the glittering golden crown from the red silk pillow held
in a priestess’s white hand and raised it up to the light. The sun set it
afire, the gold blazing, the sapphire gems sparkling, and the crowd muttered in
awe. “May you wear it well,” Niara said, and placed it, with all due drama, on
Raugst’s brow.

He stayed bowing for a full minute,
and the crowd hushed once more. Then, slowly, theatrically, he unfolded. He
rose to his full height, spun to face the crowd, and in one motion unsheathed
his light-blessed sword and thrust it high overhead. The sun caught the blade and
turned it into a rod of white gold.

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.