Read Online The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy by Jack Conner - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Conner
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of Oslog’s wrath, at least along this stretch of the Wall.
As he went, Giorn tried not to
dwell on the Borchstogs’ reasons for launching an offensive against Feslan. The Time of Grandeur is approaching. That’s
what the captured Borchstogs had said. Why now? And why strike at Felgrad? He
was still deeply irritated by their interruption of his plan to have Raugst
executed, and still more irritated that Meril had protected him. It would be a
bitter thing were Giorn to fall in the coming battle with his last words to his
brother spoken in anger.
He led his host up into the
highlands, surrounded by wet-green pines and jutting slabs of granite. Magnificent
vistas spread out before them.
They passed numerous villages, and
here Giorn began to see the effects of the war. Some of the villages were built
upon gentle slopes, surrounded by forests and rivers. Others set into the
cliffs of the mountains. One was even built into the mountain itself, fashioned
from an abandoned mine. But one and all were bustling, overflowing, filled with
refugees from the south. Giorn was obliged to stop at several of these towns
and barter for provisions for his troops and horses, and he saw the streets
teeming with farmers and villagers who had been forced to flee their homes. Pigs
and goats and chickens swarmed the lanes, the refugees having brought what
animals and property they could with them, even though they had no pens or
roofs. Giorn saw many lean-tos in the alleys and even in the main
thoroughfares. Old women watched over their chickens with grim eyes, canes in
hand, ready to swat the head of any urchin that thought to snatch one.
Other refugees had no animals or
trade-skills to procure coin with and were forced into begging, thievery and
prostitution, some at shockingly young ages. Giorn kept his hand on his purse
as he made his way through. Several young women approached him, and boys, but
he turned them all away. He was sure his men would be only too happy to give
these poor souls custom, but he did not stop to camp.
As he led his men on, he saw more
and more evidences of the Borchstog host. Evidently they had ranged far from
Hielsly, spreading terror throughout the barony. Slaughtered pigs and cows,
covered in flies and vultures and stinking under the sun, lay in the fields and
streets of abandoned towns. The vultures wheeled away at the soldiers’ arrival,
and Giorn saw that whoever had slaughtered the animals had taken only the
choicest cuts of meat. Evidently the townspeople had fled the Borchstogs in
fear and had taken only what they could carry. Not all had thought to bring
their livestock with them. It was an eerie feeling, riding through these empty
towns, and Giorn was not glad of it. The fields around these towns were burned
and black. The villagers had fired their wheat and corn rather than leave them
for the ‘stogs.
Even further south he saw worse
sights, towns that were blackened husks, smoke still rising from the ruins. Borchstog
bands had evidently put them to the torch, and recently. Severed human heads
and whole bodies were impaled on sharpened poles in the town squares, or heaped
in mounds amid the rubble, and Giorn chased away the ravens that pecked at
their eyes and ripped at their cheeks. He saw dead men and women tied to
numerous posts, and their mutilated bodies were horrors to look on. Borchstogs
delighted in torture, and Giorn saw the grisly evidence firsthand. When he came
upon the bodies, he drew rein and had his men take them down and burn them. He
had no time for burials.
Deeper and deeper into the
highlands he rode, and as he went the chill in his veins grew colder. The
Borchstogs were close, he could feel them. He could taste a rank, oily
malignance on the air, whispering through the pines and cottonwoods.
Now when he came to the high places
he could see, in the distance, just barely, the infinite sharp teeth of the Aragst Mountains.
Their roots were lost to mist, only the black fangs jutting
As he went, Giorn tried not to
dwell on the Borchstogs’ reasons for launching an offensive against Feslan. The Time of Grandeur is approaching. That’s
what the captured Borchstogs had said. Why now? And why strike at Felgrad? He
was still deeply irritated by their interruption of his plan to have Raugst
executed, and still more irritated that Meril had protected him. It would be a
bitter thing were Giorn to fall in the coming battle with his last words to his
brother spoken in anger.
He led his host up into the
highlands, surrounded by wet-green pines and jutting slabs of granite. Magnificent
vistas spread out before them.
They passed numerous villages, and
here Giorn began to see the effects of the war. Some of the villages were built
upon gentle slopes, surrounded by forests and rivers. Others set into the
cliffs of the mountains. One was even built into the mountain itself, fashioned
from an abandoned mine. But one and all were bustling, overflowing, filled with
refugees from the south. Giorn was obliged to stop at several of these towns
and barter for provisions for his troops and horses, and he saw the streets
teeming with farmers and villagers who had been forced to flee their homes. Pigs
and goats and chickens swarmed the lanes, the refugees having brought what
animals and property they could with them, even though they had no pens or
roofs. Giorn saw many lean-tos in the alleys and even in the main
thoroughfares. Old women watched over their chickens with grim eyes, canes in
hand, ready to swat the head of any urchin that thought to snatch one.
Other refugees had no animals or
trade-skills to procure coin with and were forced into begging, thievery and
prostitution, some at shockingly young ages. Giorn kept his hand on his purse
as he made his way through. Several young women approached him, and boys, but
he turned them all away. He was sure his men would be only too happy to give
these poor souls custom, but he did not stop to camp.
As he led his men on, he saw more
and more evidences of the Borchstog host. Evidently they had ranged far from
Hielsly, spreading terror throughout the barony. Slaughtered pigs and cows,
covered in flies and vultures and stinking under the sun, lay in the fields and
streets of abandoned towns. The vultures wheeled away at the soldiers’ arrival,
and Giorn saw that whoever had slaughtered the animals had taken only the
choicest cuts of meat. Evidently the townspeople had fled the Borchstogs in
fear and had taken only what they could carry. Not all had thought to bring
their livestock with them. It was an eerie feeling, riding through these empty
towns, and Giorn was not glad of it. The fields around these towns were burned
and black. The villagers had fired their wheat and corn rather than leave them
for the ‘stogs.
Even further south he saw worse
sights, towns that were blackened husks, smoke still rising from the ruins. Borchstog
bands had evidently put them to the torch, and recently. Severed human heads
and whole bodies were impaled on sharpened poles in the town squares, or heaped
in mounds amid the rubble, and Giorn chased away the ravens that pecked at
their eyes and ripped at their cheeks. He saw dead men and women tied to
numerous posts, and their mutilated bodies were horrors to look on. Borchstogs
delighted in torture, and Giorn saw the grisly evidence firsthand. When he came
upon the bodies, he drew rein and had his men take them down and burn them. He
had no time for burials.
Deeper and deeper into the
highlands he rode, and as he went the chill in his veins grew colder. The
Borchstogs were close, he could feel them. He could taste a rank, oily
malignance on the air, whispering through the pines and cottonwoods.
Now when he came to the high places
he could see, in the distance, just barely, the infinite sharp teeth of the Aragst Mountains.
Their roots were lost to mist, only the black fangs jutting
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