Read Online The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy by Jack Conner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Conner
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upward out of the
white roils, ghostly and immortal. A shiver coursed up Giorn’s spine. He could
not help but to imagine the horrors that lay beyond them and the awful wastes
of Oslog itself. And somewhere in those wastes stood the black fortress of
Gilgaroth, the Wolf, the Lord of Ruin, who, it seemed, had turned His gaze upon
Feslan at last.
Giorn led his men over the shoulder
of a certain mountain and up the slopes of Triathad, the mountain where Hielsly
lay. That fair city was on the far side, the southern slope, keeping eternal
watch on the Aragst. Giorn warned his men to be careful and sent scouts to
range far ahead; if Hielsly was near, so too was the enemy. He could feel them
even more strongly now. The hackles on the back of his neck rose higher, and
gooseflesh covered his arms. He heard his men muttering prayers under their
breaths to Brunril and Illiana.
As he was picking his way up the
slope and along a dirt road that ran through the mountain forest, he was
startled by cries of alarm, then cursing and bellowing in Oslogon. A lone
Borchstog, its wrists chained together, was dragged through the dripping pines
and deposited before him. The creature, like all of its race, possessed eyes as
red as hell and flesh as black as death. Resembling a man greatly in aspect, it
stood tall and strong, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, but its face was a
thing of horror –- demonic and loathsome, with thick, sharp teeth, a flat,
broad nose, countless scars and tattoos, and, of course, those red, burning
eyes. Its black, oily hair fell in a lank mane over its shoulders.
“We found this one and several
others guarding the crest,” said the soldier that had brought the Borchstog. He
was the captain of Giorn’s advance scouts and did not have to say what the
fates of the other Borchstogs had been.
“Then that must mean we’re very
near the main host,” Giorn said. “Good.” To the Borchstog, he said, “Do you
speak Havensril?”
It spat on the ground at his
horse’s hooves. In a rough but intelligible voice, it said, “Death to all the
sons of the First Men!”
Acting with shocking swiftness and
violence, it sprang into action. All the time it had been quietly bunching its
arms, pulling at its chains, but now Giorn saw that this was with purpose. For,
with lightning speed, it now pulled so hard with one arm that the other was wrenched loose from its socket . There
came a horrid, gristly ripping sound. Black blood spurted, and the creature
roared in agony, but even as it did it was leaping at Giorn. It swung its
severed arm like a club. The redness of its eyes blazed like hellfire.
Giorn dodged the swipe of its arm. Kicked
the creature in the chest. It fell back. By that point his men had recovered
from their shock and had skewered the Borchstog in a dozen places. Its black
blood sprayed the ground.
Even so, the thing never removed
its gaze from Giorn’s. The rage in its eyes faded and at last died, but still
those eyes met his, even as it sagged to the ground. It was a sight Giorn
doubted he would ever forget.
“What shall we do with it, my
lord?” panted the scout captain when the Borchstog was dead.
“It was a noble warrior,” Giorn
said, honestly moved by the creature’s devotion to its cause, “but it was evil,
through and through. Throw it off the nearest cliff.”
Giorn led on. He sent out more
scouts, but no more Borchstog sentries were found. He only hoped that the
individuals of the main Borchstog host did not all possess the spirit of that one.
At last he led his soldiers to the
crest of the mountain and stared down at the besieged city of Hielsly, a thick-walled place of splendors
that sat on the very slope of the mountain. It sprawled up and down and side to
side, hugging the crags and fissures, embracing the springs that bubbled up
from below. Its people were known to sing songs to the hardy trees that grew
from the cracks in the rock and to the goats that leapt from crag to
white roils, ghostly and immortal. A shiver coursed up Giorn’s spine. He could
not help but to imagine the horrors that lay beyond them and the awful wastes
of Oslog itself. And somewhere in those wastes stood the black fortress of
Gilgaroth, the Wolf, the Lord of Ruin, who, it seemed, had turned His gaze upon
Feslan at last.
Giorn led his men over the shoulder
of a certain mountain and up the slopes of Triathad, the mountain where Hielsly
lay. That fair city was on the far side, the southern slope, keeping eternal
watch on the Aragst. Giorn warned his men to be careful and sent scouts to
range far ahead; if Hielsly was near, so too was the enemy. He could feel them
even more strongly now. The hackles on the back of his neck rose higher, and
gooseflesh covered his arms. He heard his men muttering prayers under their
breaths to Brunril and Illiana.
As he was picking his way up the
slope and along a dirt road that ran through the mountain forest, he was
startled by cries of alarm, then cursing and bellowing in Oslogon. A lone
Borchstog, its wrists chained together, was dragged through the dripping pines
and deposited before him. The creature, like all of its race, possessed eyes as
red as hell and flesh as black as death. Resembling a man greatly in aspect, it
stood tall and strong, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, but its face was a
thing of horror –- demonic and loathsome, with thick, sharp teeth, a flat,
broad nose, countless scars and tattoos, and, of course, those red, burning
eyes. Its black, oily hair fell in a lank mane over its shoulders.
“We found this one and several
others guarding the crest,” said the soldier that had brought the Borchstog. He
was the captain of Giorn’s advance scouts and did not have to say what the
fates of the other Borchstogs had been.
“Then that must mean we’re very
near the main host,” Giorn said. “Good.” To the Borchstog, he said, “Do you
speak Havensril?”
It spat on the ground at his
horse’s hooves. In a rough but intelligible voice, it said, “Death to all the
sons of the First Men!”
Acting with shocking swiftness and
violence, it sprang into action. All the time it had been quietly bunching its
arms, pulling at its chains, but now Giorn saw that this was with purpose. For,
with lightning speed, it now pulled so hard with one arm that the other was wrenched loose from its socket . There
came a horrid, gristly ripping sound. Black blood spurted, and the creature
roared in agony, but even as it did it was leaping at Giorn. It swung its
severed arm like a club. The redness of its eyes blazed like hellfire.
Giorn dodged the swipe of its arm. Kicked
the creature in the chest. It fell back. By that point his men had recovered
from their shock and had skewered the Borchstog in a dozen places. Its black
blood sprayed the ground.
Even so, the thing never removed
its gaze from Giorn’s. The rage in its eyes faded and at last died, but still
those eyes met his, even as it sagged to the ground. It was a sight Giorn
doubted he would ever forget.
“What shall we do with it, my
lord?” panted the scout captain when the Borchstog was dead.
“It was a noble warrior,” Giorn
said, honestly moved by the creature’s devotion to its cause, “but it was evil,
through and through. Throw it off the nearest cliff.”
Giorn led on. He sent out more
scouts, but no more Borchstog sentries were found. He only hoped that the
individuals of the main Borchstog host did not all possess the spirit of that one.
At last he led his soldiers to the
crest of the mountain and stared down at the besieged city of Hielsly, a thick-walled place of splendors
that sat on the very slope of the mountain. It sprawled up and down and side to
side, hugging the crags and fissures, embracing the springs that bubbled up
from below. Its people were known to sing songs to the hardy trees that grew
from the cracks in the rock and to the goats that leapt from crag to
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