The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (8 page)

“Lord Wesrain,” she said. “It’s
well you’ve come. I fear the reason for the attack—”

“Is to get the Moonstone. Yes, I
think you may be right—though what they want it for is anybody’s guess. It’s a
thing of the light. What use can it hold for them?”

She blinked. Evidently something in
his response had surprised her. Hurriedly, she nodded. “Yes, lord, I had
wondered the same—”

A rush of Borchstogs burst from an
alleyway and fell on Giorn’s men. With the wide open space of the courtyard,
the geography favored Giorn’s riders, and he gladly led them against the
Borchstogs. Wave after wave of the creatures poured from the alleys and
thoroughfares, however, more than he could counter, and everywhere buildings
burned and smoke choked the air.

Borchstogs like a congealing sea
lapped against his riders, pulling them down and ripping them apart with their
bare hands. Howling, blood-covered demons drove Giorn back toward the stairs of
the temple, where the priestesses drew on the power of the Stone and hurled
down shafts of light. The smell of roasting Borchstog flesh filled the air. Giorn
hacked into the enemy even as it surged around him, but at last a pair of black
hands dragged him off his steed.

He chopped the hands off. The
Borchstog fell back, screaming, blood pumping from the stumps.

Giorn wheeled, thrust his blade
through the next howling demonic face that rushed at him. The blade wedged in
the creature’s skull, and he could not retrieve it in time. Two more Borchstogs
were converging on him.

He yanked out his long hunting
knife, ducked the sweep of a Borchstog sword, plunged his blade through the
sword-wielder’s leather armor into its chest. He kicked out, knocking the
second one away. As soon as they were gone, five more took their places. All
around him horses screamed as Borchstogs gutted them or chopped through their
legs, and riders spilled to the flagstones.

“To me!” Giorn shouted. “To me!”

His men, most afoot now, massed to
him, and he led them in a fallback to the temple stairs, where the priestesses
were still using their powers to drive the Borchstogs back, but Giorn noticed
that they did not glow as brightly now. They were fading, their powers nearly
spent. The Stone was strong, but not infinitely so, it seemed.

Before him Giorn saw an endless sea
of Borchstogs—and behind them the flaming ruins of Hielsly.
We’re lost
. Still, he did not slacken
his pace. He led his men backward, and the priestesses went with them. They
retreated within the high temple doors, and the priestesses flung the doors
shut in the Borchstogs’ faces, then shoved the bolts home, sealing the doors.

“That should hold them for a
moment,” Giorn told the High Priestess. “But not for long.”

She nodded sadly. “We must take the
Stone and leave the Temple.”

“What could they want it for?”

She looked as perplexed as he felt.
“I cannot fathom. It’s the Last Gift—a great weapon of the light, forged by
Illiana Herself. We’ve used it for thousands of years to hold back Vrulug’s
hordes. Perhaps he merely means to destroy it, to weaken us. I don’t know. But
if he wants it this desperately, obviously we must keep it from him.”

“Is there a back way?”

“Yes, but the Borchstogs will be
there, too. However, long ago we dug a tunnel that leads to the sewers for just
such a contingency. It will not be pleasant, but we can use that to get outside
of town.”

Giorn stared. “I cannot abandon
Hielsly! Have you forgotten your liege? And most of my men—”

“Are dead, just like everyone
else.” Her face was grave. “Hielsly is lost, Lord Wesrain, and everyone in it. We
must safeguard the Moonstone. We need all the weapons we can get, especially
now, when the Enemy has chosen to make His move.”

“This is madness!” His men were
looking at him strangely. He wondered if they agreed with him or the priestess.

“It is the only way, captain,” she
said. “We must prevent Vrulug from taking the Stone.”

“At the expense of the city?”

Something heavy pounded on the
doors. They buckled but held. BOOM! They buckled again.

“They have a ram!” a soldier cried.

Flaming debris shattered the
windows, and Borchstogs poured in through the broken glass. Giorn’s men
repelled them, and blood ran across the temple floor.

“So be it,” he told the priestess. “We
can do no more here. I told the Baron I would safeguard the Stone, and so I
will. But may the Omkar have mercy on my soul.”

Stinking of filth and shame, Giorn looked down from the
mountain’s crest on the flaming city of Hielsly.
Just hours ago he had stood in that same spot, admiring the old metropolis and
vowing to save it. Now he watched as it withered and blackened, and the screams
of its people rose into the night.

“Come,” said Ystrissa, the High
Priestess of Feslan. “We must go. It will not be long before they realize the
Stone is missing.”

Giorn nodded dully. “Is it true
what you said—that it’s the Last Gift? I’ve heard the legends, but . . .”

She smiled faintly. “It is, my
lord. All the other Omkar turned their backs on Man when we fell from grace,
tempted by the Dark One out of the light, but not Illiana. She alone maintained
her faith in us. Yet she was forced to leave, to go and tend to the Dreamer. Before
she left she forged the Moonstone, so that we would have a light even in the
darkness of our Fall. Some in my order believe that is because of this gift
that Man was finally able to rally and break away from Him. From Gilgaroth.”

Giorn made a sign to ward off evil.
“You’re saying this thing was the salvation of Man.”

“Yes. Some of us, at least. Orin
Feldred, your ancestor, was one of our early leaders, one of those who heard
the call of the Stone. Some in my order even say that he was its possessor, its
keeper for a time, and that before he was captured he hid it, even from Saria,
and that to find it is why Vrulug tortured him so cruelly. But he did not
betray its location.

“In any case, many Men still serve
the Dark One, of course, but, because of the Stone, many oppose Him, as well. But
it is more than a rallying cry, my lord. You have seen yourself, it is an
effective weapon.”

“Quite.” He sighed. “Come. We must
make haste.”

He turned and led the exodus, all
afoot now, through the dripping forest that hugged the northern face of the
mountain. Down he marched, and the night grew cold and dark, yet he dared light
no flame to guide them lest Oslogon eyes spy it. He led his company through the
highlands for five days. They slept in the forests, sometimes in the trees, and
always he posted many sentries. Several times Borchstog bands moved past them
in the darkness, and once Giorn’s men were able to come on a band during
daytime; the Borchstogs were in their tents, resting, hiding from the sun, and
Giorn brought his men into their camp and slit the creature’ throats while they
slept. Afterwards he freed the captives the Borchstogs had taken in raids on
Feslan settlements, and these, mostly young women, joined his band.

They had no choice, Giorn learned;
they had no home to return to. The Borchstogs were burning and razing
everything in Feslan. It was a rocky, mountainous country, and its men were
hardy and tough, but the Borchstogs were too many and too well prepared. What
was more, they seemed to have spies and agents everywhere. One of the young
women Giorn had rescued reported that her village had been overrun in the
middle of the night, and that the Borchstogs had not even had to assault the
walls to conquer it. Someone had
opened
the gates
for them.

The implications of that were dire.
Vrulug must have been honeycombing Feslan with his agents for years, all in
preparation for this assault. Giorn feared the worst. He feared that this might
be the first battle of the final war, the war to usher in the End Times.
The Age of Grandeur
. Legend said that at
a time of the Dark One’s choosing, He would send his hosts north to obliterate
the Crescent and then to sweep northward, to swallow the world. Giorn feared
that that dreaded war might finally be upon them. Why else would Vrulug have
triggered his hidden agents? Why else would the wolf-lord commit his full
forces to this assault, as well as the reinforcements Giorn suspected his master
had sent him from Oslog?

Thoughts of Hielsly haunted Giorn. He
did not manage to rest often, but when he did he saw the ancient city flaming
and heard the screams, and in his mind’s eye he saw Baron Hysthir tied to a
pole in the courtyard before his own castle, being tortured by the ‘stogs for
days even as he was made to watch them occupy the ruins of his city and rape
and devour his people.

Giorn vowed to bring the Moonstone
to Niara. Perhaps then the Baron’s death and torment—Giorn was certain it was
happening—and the fall of his city would not have completely been in vain. Giorn’s
greatest fear was that Borchstogs would get ahead of him and block off his
access to Eresine
Bridge. It was the only
way in or out of Feslan without going hundreds of miles around through
treacherous mountains. And the Borchstogs had mounts, while he and his men were
afoot.

It was worse than he’d imagined.

After eight days he led his band to
a certain outcropping and, as he spied the great bridge that spanned the Pit of
Eresine, the canyon that divided Feslan from Fiarth, he saw that all his hopes
were shattered.

The bridge was in flames.

“The Omkar be damned,” Giorn said. At
his blasphemy, Ystrissa gasped.

Smoke rose into the blue sky. The
bridge blackened and crumbled, and as Giorn watched a portion of it broke off
and fell the mile and half to the rushing water below. Soon the rest of the
bridge would follow.

Borchstogs had set up a bonfire
before the bridge and were having a feast of what was likely human flesh on the
rocky ground of its southern end. Another, quite large, company of the fell things
could be seen in the distance, on the opposite side.
In Fiarth.

Seeing it, Giorn grew cold. His men
swore.

“What do we do now, my lord?” one
asked. “We’re trapped.”

He opened his mouth to speak, not
knowing what would come out, but just then a Borchstog horn sounded near the
bridge. Then another.

“Hells,” Giorn said. “We’ve been
spotted.”

Chapter
5

Reclining beside the long Pool in the great hall of the Temple of Illiana in Thiersgald, with the sunlight
streaming down through overhead windows and the Pool making dream-waves upon
the pillars and walls, Niara wept.

She could not believe that Giorn
was dead, yet word had spread rapidly of the terrible events in Feslan. Borchstogs
had razed Hielsly and many other towns. None had survived, except to be used as
slaves and sport, and she knew Giorn would never allow himself to be taken for
such. And if there were any survivors, there would not soon be, for the demons
had burned the bridge over the Pit of Eresine, trapping all Feslan forces south
of the gorge—but not before sending a company north. In the last few days,
reports had begun circulating of Borchstogs harassing the southern villages of
Fiarth; Meril had just returned from dealing with them.

Beams of light shone down through
the skylights in the grand dome overhead, making the long Pool seem to glow
with gold, but Niara could not appreciate its beauty, nor its purpose—to purify
brides before their wedding, as well as to heal. All she could think of was
Giorn, noble Giorn, apparently lost like so many others against the dark hordes
of Gilgaroth.

She tried to summon the light
within her, to feel its reassuring warmth, but such was her despair that she
could not find it. It was only a faint flicker at most times, and when her mind
was in turmoil she could not even manage that.

She felt that to deny her grief was
to deny her love for Giorn, and that she could not do. She had denied their
love in life; she would not deny it in death. So she wept, letting her tears
fall into the cleansing waters of the Pool. Even this was in keeping with her
duties as High Priestess, for her tears would increase the potency of the
waters.

Niara looked up as a priestess
approached: Hiatha, Niara’s close friend and one of her inner circle. The young
woman looked nervous and ill at ease, obviously unsure how to approach the High
Priestess in her distress.

Niara smiled, trying to appear
stronger than she felt.
I’m High Mother
,
she reminded herself. “It’s all right, Hia,” she said. “What news have you?”

Hiatha tried to smile, but it came
out sickly. “Lord Meril is here, High Mother.”

“Oh?”

Hiatha knelt down beside her. She
was a pretty girl, with honey-blond hair and green eyes. “He would like to see
you, privately.” In a whisper, she added, “He looks in a bad way, Mother.”

Niara wiped the tears from her
face. “Tell him to meet me in the solar.”

Hiatha nodded, but she did not move
off. In a hushed, serious voice, she asked, “Has there been any word of . . .
of
it
, Mother? Any word of the
Stone?”

Niara sobered. “No. It did not
cross the Eresine before the Bridge was fired, and I would have felt it if it
had crossed since. It’s trapped in Feslan.”

Hiatha grimaced. “What will we do,
Mother? The Stone is our best chance of fighting Vrulug. If he should destroy
it—”

“He hasn’t. I would have felt that.
No, someone has it. Someone has the Gift and is keeping it from him.”
Could it be . . . ?
She couldn’t allow
herself to hope for it. In any case, she didn’t see how whoever had the Stone
could keep it for long. Vrulug had completely overrun the south and blocked off
any escape to the north. But she did not say this. It was her responsibility to
encourage others, not depress them. “We can hope that the Stone stays out of Vrulug’s
hands. If its holders are resourceful enough to keep it from him this long,
perhaps they can keep it from him longer still.”

Hiatha nodded and hurried off to
see to Meril. Niara straightened, sniffed and left the long, gleaming Pool. She
retired to her solar, the round, sun-filled room covered in flowering vines. It
smelled lovely, of rose and honeysuckle and jasmine, and it was so bright and
pretty, with veined, white marble floors and walls, and a small glass dome
overhead letting in the light. This was the room she used when visitors came
who wished a little intimacy, much smaller and less forbidding than the austere
Audience Room. Enjoying the smell of the rose-vines, Niara climbed into her
white seat, pressed flush against the wall, a hole in the wall of flowers, and
waited.

Meril entered almost immediately,
dressed in blue breeches and tunic, with a green jacket embroidered with the
silver stag of the Wesrains, and a crimson cape edged in wolf-fur swept behind
him. He was a tall, handsome youth, smooth of cheek, with blond curly hair and
bright green eyes. Upon his head he wore the crown, but as soon as he stepped
within her presence he removed it, twisting it nervously in his hands.

“Come,” she said.

Wordlessly, he knelt before her. His
eyes were troubled and red, as though he’d been crying. If so, she could not
fault him for it. First Rian had died, then his father, the very morning after
Giorn had left. And now word had come of the disaster in Feslan, and all feared
that Giorn must be dead, as well.
All he
has left is Fria.

“You may rise,” Niara said.

Meril did not. He looked up at her
with his red-rimmed eyes, and to her surprise she saw that his lips were
quivering. He gathered control of himself, and his face hardened.

Her heart wrenched, and something
of the mother instinct rose in her. She leaned over and touched his hair,
cupped his face. “I know, dear,” she said. She had known him and his siblings
all their lives, and they had known her as well, precisely as she was now, for
she had not aged in all that time. It seemed like only yesterday that she had been
bouncing Meril on her knee. The thought that he was saddled with such tragedy
was heartbreaking. Strangely, she had never thought of Giorn as a child, even
when he had been one. He had always been so grave, so mature, and he had been
shooting her looks out of the corner of his eye since his early teens.

Not so, Meril. He had always seemed
young, innocent, even when he was chasing girls and landing himself in trouble
with Harin.

“They’re gone,” he said, and his
voice was raw. “Rian, Father, even Giorn. How can it be? Tell me, Lady Niara. You’re
the High Priestess of Illiana. How can the Omkar let us
suffer
like this? If anyone should know, it’s you.”

She looked at him for a long
moment, then sighed. “The Omkarathons are weak and scattered, dear. Illiana still
looks upon us with favor, and we have Her love, and Her teachings, and the
Moonstone she left for us to defend ourselves with, but she cannot aid us. We
are trapped with him, Meril. With Gilgaroth. We must find a way to defeat Him
on our own, without recourse to the Omkar. We have the Sun and the Moon, and
the Books of the Light. Those will have to be enough.”

He shook his head wretchedly, and
his hands twisted the crown with new vigor, as if he wanted to rip it apart. “No,”
he said. “It is
not
enough.” There
was so much pain and anger in his voice that she winced.

“It will have to be.”

“Then we’re doomed, High Mother.” Tears
sprang to his eyes, but he blinked them away. Fury gripped him, and his face
was seized in an expression of hate. There was so much rage in his eyes she was
surprised it didn’t burn up his tears. “Even now a company of Borchstogs sweeps
northward, burning and razing all in their path, enslaving and raping,
torturing and killing. And even more will come when the Bridge is rebuilt. My
people—isn’t that funny,
my
people,
they should be Father’s, they should be Giorn’s—but they are mine, and they’re
fleeing the Borchstogs. They flee their farms and villages and seek shelter in
the larger towns and cities. Soon those towns will be islands in a sea of
death. I don’t know how it happened, but Vrulug has begun the Last War. That’s
what the men are saying. That’s what the Borchstogs that we capture are saying,
before they slit their throats and bite off their tongues to bleed out, and
that’s if they go without taking my men with them. They say that we’re doomed,
Mother. They say that Vrulug intends to destroy us all. And that, somehow, he
has the means.”

He closed his eyes, and fell
silent. Niara stared at him. Silently she said a prayer.
It cannot be as bad as he says
.
Surely
he’s exaggerating
. He was young and inexperienced in war. It was possible
he was simply scared.

“Be strong,” she said. “The Light
will protect us.”

He snorted. “The Light! What good
has it done us? You haven’t seen, High Mother. You don’t
know
. I’ve ridden out, taken our forces south to fight the ‘stogs. They
hide from me though, slipping into the bogs and caves and deep woods.”

“Then that means they fear you.”
He should have more spine
. It was not
fitting for a baron to be so given to despair. Giorn would not have acted this
way.

“They fear my numbers,” he
admitted, “but only until the Bridge is rebuilt.
Feslan is fallen
.” His voice broke, and he hung his head. “You
haven’t seen, Mother. You haven’t seen what the ‘stogs have done. Little girls
raped, their throats slit, left to rot in the mud like pigs. Men on poles,
flayed of every inch of skin, their privates torn off, their hands and feet
sawed off,
and still alive
.” He
glared up her, and she was shocked by the violence in his eyes. “How can they
be so cruel, Mother? How can the Borchstogs hate us so
much
?”

She held his gaze, then sank back
in her chair. She took a deep breath, let it out. Perhaps Meril was not so weak
after all. “I have no good answer,” she said. “Save that they serve their own
dark god and hate us. We exist outside the shadow of Gilgaroth.”

He rose to his feet, began pacing
back and forth. “But they are not without intelligence. They’re beings of
reason, even if they choose not to use it. How can they do these things?”

“As I said, we exist outside the
shadow of Gilgaroth, Meril. We are like nothing to them.
Nothing
. All that matters is contained within his shadow. Everything
else is blasphemy and should be destroyed. Defiled.”

“Why?” He turned to stare at her.

“To show contempt for those that
stand outside their sphere, to assert the mastery of Gilgaroth. Vrulug believes
his god is the only worthy one, Meril, save perhaps Lorg-jilaad, Gilgaroth’s
sire. The rest of the Omkar and all those who worship them are refuse that must
be washed away.”

“How can I
fight
that? Tell me that, Mother.”

“I don’t know. But giving into them
will not suffice, so you had better go out and destroy them. It’s not just our
lives at stake, but our souls. If Gilgaroth claims these lands as his, our
souls will be at his mercy, and he will cast them on the Fire. And it’s more
than even that, Meril. It’s our whole way of life. It’s not just our
civilization, but all the civilizations of the North.
So you must dry your eyes and stand up.”
Her voice was harsher than
she’d intended, but it had the desired effect. Meril looked as if he’d been
slapped.

He blinked, then nodded. “As you
say, High Mother.” He lifted the crown and shoved it down on his head. She knew
it would never be comfortable for him. “Will you say a prayer for me?”

She gave him a kindly smile. He
deserved that much. “I will, Meril, if you will say one for me.”

That earned her a small smile in
return, though it was fleeting. He turned to go. Just as he was about to slip
through the entrance, he glanced back and said, “Shall we hold a funeral for
Giorn? We may never find his body. If so, I would like you to preside. I feel
badly enough our having parted on such terms, but . . .”

She shook her head. “I haven’t
given up hope.” She heard her voice begin to crack, and said no more. He nodded
and left.

When he was gone, she sagged and
closed her eyes.
Illiana, protect us.

She heard voices in the hall
outside and recognized one as Raugst’s—Lord Raugst Wesrain now, for he had
taken his wife’s family name, as was the custom in his circumstance. Presently
Hiatha entered and came before her. “Lord Raugst wants to see you, Mother.”

“And what does Lord Raugst want
with the priesthood?”

Hiatha leaned forward. “It’s not
the
priesthood
he wants, my lady.” Her
eyes said exactly what she meant by this, though she did not voice the thought.
“Anyway, he came with Meril, but didn’t depart with him. He says he desires an
audience with you.”

“I rather think Fria might object
to that.”

“He did not mention her, Mother.”

“I would think not.” Niara shook
her head. Her conversation with Meril had wearied her, and she did not want to
have to put up with Raugst’s latest overtures. It was obvious he desired her,
and his pursuit was relentless, Fria or no. And Niara had not forgotten Giorn’s
suspicions, either. She didn’t quite believe them, but just the same she always
kept her guard up when around Raugst. But she was drained now, both spiritually
and emotionally. “Tell him my duties prevent me from seeing him.” She pushed
herself to her feet.

“What shall I tell him you’re
doing?”

“Anything. Just make sure it’s
something that would take awhile.” She departed the solar from the side
entrance. Immediately she missed the warmth and the smell of flowers.

Hiatha hurried to keep up. “Where
are you going, Mother?”

“For a ride. I cannot stand being
here any longer, cannot stand for people to see me like this. Fresh air will do
me good.”

“Would you like some company?”

Niara smiled gently and touched
Hiatha’s arm. “Not just now, sister. Perhaps another day.”

Hiatha blushed and moved off to
attend to Niara’s instructions.