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

city’s
heroes so treated.”
    “You haven’t enough space, and our
horses . . .”
    Lord Hysthir’s eyes shone. “Hielsly
may look cramped, my friend, but we’ve found ways to fill every nook and
cranny, and there are many of those. It’s near an art with us. Now come! We’ll
feast and celebrate. You’ll be our guest of honor.”
    So it was. There was singing and
merriment, and Giorn enjoyed the hospitality of the Baron and his people. The
warrior-priestesses of Illiana, so valuable in times of war, came round and
gave kisses on the cheek to Giorn’s men, and their kisses renewed the soldiers.
Some said the priestesses’ power came from the Moonstone, but even if the Stone
did exist Giorn half believed those tales were more myth than fact—useful in
keeping the superstitious Borchstogs at bay but no more. Still, he accepted his
kiss when it came, and felt lighter and more peaceful after.
    And these priestesses, he reminded
himself, were fully human and not blessed with traces of elvish blood, as was
Niara; nor did they possess the numerous small charms that Niara’s sisters
bore. Something had to give them such
power. Man was fallen and without Grace, the high arts of the elves denied
them.
    Thinking on it, he ate and drank
and allowed himself to be light of heart. That night after the feast he danced
with one girl after another in the grand courtyard before the castle. Statues
of ancient barons on rearing horses loomed all about, as well as fair maidens
standing tall. His soldiers drank and danced, too, and music drifted through
the night. It was a gay time, and he was content.
    But just as he was thinking about
retiring for the evening, denying the invitations of the Baron’s youngest
daughter, warning horns sounded from along the walls, and Giorn’s blood froze.
    “Borchstogs!” soldiers cried out. “The
Borchstogs are attacking!”
    Giorn, half-stumbling, met up with
the Baron and together they mounted the south-facing arc of the wall beside the
South Gate. Side
by side, they stared out at the night.
    “There!” Giorn said, pointing.
    A roiling dark mass swept up
through the forests that marched south of the city, disturbing the trees as
though a great monster were climbing toward Hielsly. And presently Giorn saw
that this was so. It was not one monster, but many: the Borchstogs rode their
great Serpents, the massive eel-like creatures known as gaurocks that could
stretch a hundred yards long and more.
    There were four of them, and each
bore at least fifty Borchstogs. More Borchstogs came up behind. Thousands. Giorn
could see the starlight glinting off their helms as they poured like a foul
tide past the bases of towering eucalyptus.
    “How?” the Baron said. “The
mountain walls’re too steep for gaurocks.”
    “This is no idle attack, then,”
Giorn said. This is what he had feared, what he had known in his heart since he
had first heard the news of Borchstogs claiming that the Time of Grandeur was
approaching. Raugst , he thought. This all has to do with Raugst. “They’ve
planned this,” he heard himself say. “They must have erected cranes, scaffolds,
slings . . .”
    The Baron’s voice came in a hoarse
whisper, and he spoke like a man in a dream: “Yes, sentries have gone missing
lately. I suspected an attack was brewing, but this . . . they could destroy
us.”
    “Vrulug has wanted it for ages, I
know.”
    The Serpents drew closer. Giorn heard
drumbeats from the Borchstog host. Boom. Boom.
Boom . Steady, rhythmic, inexorable. There was something in that drumming
that sapped the strength, drained the will.
    “Aye,” the Baron was saying at his
side. “But Vrulug knew it would be too costly for him. He might break us, but
we would cripple him in the doing.” The Baron’s eyes flashed with heat. “And we
still shall, by the gods.”
“Vrulug must have received reinforcements from Oslog.”
    “If that’s true, lad, if the Dark
One has turned his gaze our way . . .”
    As the