Free The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy by Jack Conner

thousand riders
down from the peak to clear a path to the northern gates of Hielsly. His heart
leapt into his throat as he thundered into the midst of the Borchstogs. They
spread like a black sea all around him, howling for his flesh, their red eyes
burning into him, their white teeth flashing, their tar-black faces flickering
by the light of the bonfires. The stench of rotting meet nearly gagged him.
    A lance whirled by his head. An
arrow glanced off his helm, setting his ears to ringing. Another embedded
itself in his saddle. The Borchstogs pressed in close. He spurred his horse on,
grinding the creatures beneath its hooves.
    His sword hacked chests, cleaved in
skulls and drank deep of black blood, but at last the Borchstogs pressed in too
close and Giorn lifted his horn and blew three short notes.
    At once, three of his generals,
leading more troops, speared into the Borchstog ranks from three different
directions, inciting even greater chaos and fear among the Oslogon ranks. Giorn
heard a Borchstog horn blow, long and loud, and gradually the Borchstogs broke
away from the fighting and withdrew, leaving a battlefield scarred by fire and
filth and corpses, both man and demon.
    Giorn’s men cheered and gathered to
him at his call. By that time Hielsly had responded and its lord, Baron Oscrin
Hysthir, brought a host out to assist Giorn in pursuing the Borchstogs and
driving them away. Giorn and the Baron chased them through the forest of pines
and eucalyptus that stretched south of the city, at last sending the Borchstogs
fleeing over the cliffs and down their ropes. Giorn laughed as he chopped
through one rope, sending two-score Borchstogs plunging to their deaths in the
forests below. Their screams soothed something deep inside him, and for the
first time in days he began to breathe easy.
    Only when the rout was complete did
the victorious armies return to the fields occupied by the Borchstogs, take
down the men and women tied to poles, find the young girls and boys tied by
chains to the ground in the Borchstog captains’ tents, and begin the process of
gathering and sorting the dead. The Borchstog dead were thrown into a huge
mound, doused with oil and burned on the spot. The stench was awful, but at the
same time sweet, and the Illiana priestesses said prayers over the burning to
drive away the taint the creatures had left behind them. The flames were still
licking high into black night as Giorn and his men were led inside the thick
walls of Hielsly.
    A mug of ale was shoved into
Giorn’s hand, and he laughed and drank even as he climbed down from his mount. They
were in a crowded courtyard dominated by a tiered fountain spurting
crystal-clear water—spring water, Giorn knew—high into the chill air. The
spring was hot, and steam rose off the water in misty curtains. He appreciated
its warmth in the cold night.
    Baron Hysthir, a barrel-chested man
with a thick beard and a booming laugh, embraced Giorn tightly. The Baron,
though hardy, was missing his left arm—lost to Borchstogs in some battle long
ago—but his hug nearly cracked Giorn’s ribs.
    “Thank the Omkar you came! I feared
the ‘stogs had intercepted all my messengers.”
    “A few got through,” Giorn said. “Brave
men.”
    “Bless them! And you! Without you
we would have been overrun.”
    “Fiarth would never have let that
happen.”
    The Baron’s expression sobered,
even as men laughed and celebrated all around. “I heard about your father. How
does he fare?”
    “The healer tells me there is
little hope.”
    “That’s terrible. But—and don’t take
this the wrong way—he’s an old man. He’s led a good life, and a full one. We
should all be so lucky. Hopefully he will join his bride beyond the Lights of
Sifril. He deserves the rest.” Hysthir clapped Giorn on the shoulder. “Now
come. I will set you up at the castle for the night.”
    “No, I’ll stay with my men. We’ll
camp outside the walls.”
    “Nonsense! I won’t have our