by Jack Conner
Baleron slowed as he reached the great dragon, coming upon its tail-section first, then cautiously, very cautiously, moved up past the hips, ribs and neck toward the head.
Behind him, Ixa’s chanting grew louder—louder. Her voice thundered against the walls, which seemed to pulse, to vibrate. Strange colors flickered off the great black columns and on the scales of Karkost-Calazag himself. Baleron felt an energy building in the room … building … building …
It wouldn’t be long before the Book was released.
At last Baleron and the others reached the head of Karkost, great and horned and terrible to behold. Its mouth yawned open in death, revealing terrible fangs stained with time and blood. Cobwebs spanned the gaps between them. The great eyes were closed. Were they hollow? Baleron wondered. Mere eye sockets? He saw sections of bone showing here and there, great arcing ribs displayed on this side of the chest in a certain portion, a hip bone protruding … The creature was undeniably dead, and yet …
“I can feel it waiting,” Olen whispered.
Baleron tried not to show his own misgivings. Behind him the chanting swelled to even greater heights, louder, yes, but faster too, as if straining toward some climax.
“We must act,” Baleron said.
He raised the severed arm he carried over the great mouth of the dead dragon and let drops of blood rain down on the great, mummified tongue and aged teeth. When he was done, Olen stepped forward with his two arms and did the same, then Tiron with his one arm and one leg.
Baleron’s heart nearly stopped when the last drop of blood trickled out. Still the dragon did not stir, although the coldness around it radiated even more strongly than before, and the sense of waiting, of watching, had increased to an almost painful intensity.
“Halt!” said a voice.
Baleron whirled. Two Borchstogs approached, scowling in the darkness. Then again, they could see better without light than he could. They could probably see exactly what was happening.
Tiron didn’t hesitate. He dropped his now-emptied severed limbs and lifted his bow. The Borchstogs sprang aside. The first arrow whistled harmlessly through the air where they had just been.
“You will die for that!” growled one of the creatures and rushed them.
Baleron ripped out his sword and hewed its neck. Black blood sprayed and the Borchstog twisted to the side, starting to fall. Acting quickly, Baleron jumped to catch it, dropping his sword as he did so. He caught the fell thing under the armpits, then awkwardly dragged the still-twitching body toward the dragon. He stuck the spurting upper half of the Borchstog into the dragon’s mouth.
He heard fighting behind him but didn’t turn. In the middle of the room the chanting ceased abruptly. Only then did Baleron look back. Ixa, though glancing in alarm toward the dragon and the action there, was reaching out toward the Book. Her spells had freed it at last. She and her priests looked at each other excitedly.
Her hands reached out …
A low rumble shook the room. Startled, for the sound had come directly before him, Baleron jumped back. The dragon … stirred.
Chapter 6
One of Karkost’s long, trailing wings twitched, and then a foreleg uncurled.
“Dear Omkar,” whispered Tiron. “What have we done?”
Baleron saw that he had riddled the second Borchstog with an arrow, while Olen appeared to have distracted it. They were a good team, and he was proud to have them with him. Only, at the moment, he prayed that he had not taken them to their deaths.
Karkost’s eyes snapped open. To Baleron’s shock, they were not the empty black pits he would have expected but mottled purple orbs that seemed to shine with their own faint light. The great black pupil of the nearest eye fixed on him.
“WHO DISTURBS MY SLUMBER?”
Baleron stumbled back. The creature had spoken in an old Borchstog language, but it was one that Baleron had some familiarity with.
“What have you done?” screamed Ixa. She had dropped her hands away from the Book, seeing that she might need them now for defense and attack. “What have you done?”
Karkost’s head rose, and as it did dust drifted down, making Baleron cough. His gaze speared the darkness of the chamber, going straight to where Ixa and her priests stood about the pedestal.
“YOU WILL NOT TOUCH THE BOOK!” said the dragon.
Ixa waved a hand, muttering something under her breath. The air blurred around her, then the blurring shot toward the worm.
“You will sleep once more!” she said.
When the blurring struck the great worm, Karkost only shrugged the spell off and stood on all fours. More dust rained down, and the chamber echoed with the sounds of his great weight shifting, of his claws digging into the ancient stone. Blood trickled down from his cavernous, cobweb-filled maw. Bones showed here and there along his massive body, revealed as he moved. Just the same, a great power emanated from him, and Baleron took a moment to lament rousing this horror from another age.
He grabbed Olen’s arm. The mage jumped.
“The Book!” Baleron whispered.
The mage nodded. Tiron heard, too, and visibly shook himself loose of the dread that had paralyzed him. Baleron felt it too, that cold, living terror that nestled at the base of his spine, sapping the will from his limbs and heart. Then he thought of Rolenya, of Havensrike, and he turned toward Ixa and the Book.
She and her priests were falling back now, raising staffs and enchanted blades. Borchstogs rushed to them, some with spears or crossbows.
“Fire!” Ixa said.
The Borchstog archers fired, their bolts flashing through the air and embedding in Karkost’s flanks. When they hit, they exploded—she had enspelled them.
Karkost roared in fury. The ground shook as he barreled toward the priesthood of the Spider Queen. Baleron and his companions drew to the side, giving him room, then ran in his wake toward the pedestal.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Ixa shouted.
Spells and arrows hurled against the vastness of the dragon, but he was not to be denied or rebuffed. He only roared louder, and the earth shook under him. One wall cracked, and a pillar splintered, breaking in half. Without that column to support it, part of the ceiling caved in.
A huge chunk of masonry smashed into the stone beside Baleron, and he heard a cry right behind him. He turned his head just in time to see a great rock crushing Olen to the ground. The High Mother had been right; the mage was dead. Despair rose in Baleron, but now wasn’t the time to give it rein. Grim-faced, he and Tiron ran on, nearing the pedestal with every step.
Karkost thundered forward, spewing flame upon the High Priestess and her followers. She threw up a magical barrier, deflecting the flame toward the ceiling and sides of the room, but the shield didn’t extend all the way to either side, and several Borchstogs went up in flame. Screaming, they ran about the chamber, striking columns and walls and adding to the general chaos of the moment.
Baleron reached the pedestal. Panting, feeling sweat sting his eyes, he gazed down at the Black Book of Karkost. He still wasn’t sure what it was, or what Mogra needed it for, but he’d gone this far to get it, and he wasn’t about to stop. He reached out with his one hand and grasped it firmly, paused, gritting his teeth, and … very slowly … removed it from the pedestal.
Nothing happened. No earthquake or magical surprise. Ixa’s spell had worked. He breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Let’s go!” said Tiron.
Tucking the Book under his left arm, the one that ended in a hook, Baleron turned toward the side wall of the throne room, aiming for one of the corridor openings he’d passed. The tunnel lay dark and cold beyond the threshold, and his enhanced eyesight was fading. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to steal a torch off a Borchstog. Then again, the light might have given him and Tiron away.
He only hesitated a moment on the threshold, but it was enough.
“Bastards!” Ixa screamed. The sound carried over the sound of a magical explosio
n; she’d hurled another ineffective spell against Karkost.
Baleron spun to her, saluted mockingly with his hand, then darted into the corridor, leaving Ixa and her brood to fend off Karkost … or not. Tiron followed, right on his heels.
“I can barely see anything,” the bowman grunted.
Baleron didn’t want to admit how poorly he could see now, too. He didn’t want to demoralize the young man. Still, Baleron could see a little, and he took one turn, then another, trying to put some walls between him and Karkost—and Ixa, if she still lived. Distantly he heard the black dragon roar, and the splitting of walls and floors.
Down a corridor, Borchstogs bellowed, running toward the scene of violence, or maybe summoned to it by their mistress. One small group ran smack into Baleron and Tiron, Baleron actually colliding with the foremost one as they rounded a turn.
“Who are you?” demanded the Borchstog captain. Peering closer, he seemed to see through Baleron’s disguise, which had become dislodged in all the chaos. “Imposter!” shouted the Borchstog. He ripped out his cleaver of a sword and hacked toward Baleron’s head.
Baleron sprang aside, yanking out his own sword and driving it under the armpit of the Borchstog—right into its heart.
Even as he jerked his sword free, another Borchstog fell upon him. There seemed to be about four more of them. Baleron barely blocked the stroke in time, stumbling back so that he almost collided with Tiron. Tiron had raised his own blade, but was blinking as though he couldn’t see. He swung toward the sound of Borchstog grunting, forcing the Borchstog who had just attacked back and giving Baleron time to thrust his blade into the creature’s throat. Black blood spurting, the thing toppled backward, still twitching.
The other three growled and leapt forward, slicing and hacking. Borchstogs were generally skilled opponents, as they were immortal and never ceased training in martial arts—indeed, it was part of their religion. But Baleron had been trained by the best swordsman in Havensrike, and he’d fought more than his share of Borchstogs besides, well enough to handle himself in a one-on-one fight. But against three opponents in a rapidly darkening hallway, with the cries of a dragon echoing down the corridors around him and his heart thumping like a mad thing in his chest …
It was a desperate affair.
Baleron finally kicked one Borchstog in the knee. Snap! The creature went down. Baleron seized the opportunity to hurl himself through the newly-created gap and stick another Borchstog in the belly below its breastplate. He then wheeled, blocked the blow of the final upright demon, then raised his foot and kicked the thing back toward Tiron.
“Tiron, strike—now!” he said.
Tiron obeyed. His sword cleaved through the Borchstog’s helmet and lodged halfway through its skull. The creature sagged to the floor while Baleron dispatched the Borchstog whose knee he’d broken.
During the fight, the Book had fallen to the floor, and he spent some frantic moments fumbling about trying to find it. He located it at last, scooped it up and said to Tiron, “This way.”
He moved off, trying to recover his breathing. Even so, he could hear his own panting echoing off the walls around him, and his eyes stung with sweat even more than before. He thought he tasted blood in his mouth and wondered when he’d been wounded.
“Where are we going?” Tiron said.
“Back toward the entrance,” Baleron said. “Or rather, we’re going up and around in order to circle back to the front, if you see what I mean.”
“Trying to avoid the center, then, where all the action is. Smart.”
Baleron spat out a gob of blood. “I’m not sure it’s smart enough—wait, what’s that?”
He stood stick-still in the hallway, nose twitching. In the distance and growing nearer were the sounds of the dragon and his opponents, but Baleron tried not to concentrate on that. Focus, he told himself.
“What is it?” asked Tiron. He fumbled for the wall, trying to prop himself against it.
“Fresh air,” Baleron said. “I smell fresh air—this way. Come!”
He set off, and Tiron followed after the sounds of his footsteps. Realizing that the man was completely blind, while Baleron could still see slightly, he reached out and grabbed Tiron’s hand, then put it on his own shoulder. In this way, they moved forward. With every step, though, Baleron could see less and less.
And then, all of a sudden, he could see more.
Hope grew in him, and he felt himself smile. He continued forward, and sure enough the light grew stronger and the air fresher. Finally he could see sunlight flooding through a grand archway ahead—one of the main entrances to the old Borchstog fortress in ancient times. It yawned open, unobstructed.
Baleron and Tiron moved toward it.
“Could it be?” Tiron said. Now he could see, and Baleron turned to see the younger man looking almost worshipfully at the light. He didn’t blame him. Baleron felt that same primal longing, to escape the darkness and be ensconced in the light once more, to know the warmth of the sun and the fragrance of grass and all green things.
“We’re almost there,” Baleron said, only panting a little. “Just a little—”
The sounds that had been building behind them suddenly increased greatly as the combatants rounded a bend and entered the grand concourse that led to the entrance. Baleron glanced back to see, with a swell of despair, that a wave of Borchstogs was fighting a rearguard action against Karkost, who roared and stamped and washed them with flame. They raised their iron shields, letting their shields and armor do their work, then lowered them so that their spearmen and crossbowmen could let loose upon the great worm. In response, its horned head snaked forward, grabbed up a Borchstog and bit him in two, piercing armor and bone with terrifying power.
Dismayed, a dozen Borchstogs threw down their shields and turned to flee.
“Traitors! Cowards!” shouted their captain. Raising his own spear, he thrust it through the stomach of a fleeing soldier.
Others, however, ran away … directly toward Baleron and Tiron.
Baleron stared at the oncoming wave, knowing there was no hope for them now. He and Tiron were as good as dead—or worse, they would be captured and become the playthings of Borchstogs. And Borchstogs viewed the torture of their enemies not only as an art but also a sacred calling. Baleron had been tortured thusly before. He would not submit to such treatment again.
He raised his sword, not sure if he meant to end himself with it or go down fighting.
Beside him, Tiron drew his bow. “Go,” he said.
Baleron blinked. “Pardon?”
“Go, my lord. I will hold them off.” He nocked an arrow and let fly toward the advancing Borchstog line. Some distance behind them the dragon drove on, still battling the company of Borchstogs, most of whom held firm. But there were fewer of them with every heartbeat.
“I can’t let you do that,” Baleron said.
“You can’t stop me.” Tiron fired another arrow, then moved toward the wall, where a side passage showed itself. “Fear not, my lord, I will not go down easily. I will draw them away. You must get free—with the Book.”
Baleron opened his mouth to argue, but he saw the glint in Tiron’s eyes and the set of his jaw that there would be no debating the matter. Tiron had made up his mind. He would sacrifice himself for his lord and land, and he did not ask for permission to do so. Baleron felt a swell of pride for him.
In a low voice, he said, “Thank you.”
“Go, my lord! Run! Only please promise to find my sister—someday, somehow!”
“I will. May the blessings of Illiana be upon you.”
With that, Baleron ran toward the entrance, where sunlight flooded the ancient stones. Tiron fired another arrow, then another, drawing the fleeing Borchstogs to him, then ducked into the corridor and was gone.
Baleron ran toward the entrance, which grew grander and more magnificent as he drew nearer to it, and at last he burst out from it and was bathed in warm sunlight. He smiled and stopped
for a moment, panting and recovering his breath. After a moment, he straightened and took in his surroundings.
Despair rose in him again.
“Damn it all,” he said, feeling utterly defeated.
He stood upon a thrust of land jutting out over an abyss, with the snow-draped mountain slope dropping away to unguessable depths below and clouds not that far above. Once there had been a road leading from the entrance, then snaking along the mountainside, but rockslides had obliterated the road long ago, and now all that remained was a perch of stone, overgrown with some frozen grass and dirt, thrusting out into the abyss.
Baleron made his way toward the edge, gazing over into the emptiness beneath. No, there was no hope that way. No way to climb down. Climbing was no longer as easy for him as it once had been, but he would have given it a try if he’d been able.
He moved toward the mountain wall around the entrance, hoping to see handholds or a ledge leading somewhere, perhaps to some other entrance, but the mountain face was sheer and without feature. Briefly he considered the great mound of boulders and loose stones that had wiped out the road gods knew how long ago—quite a while, judging by the grass and trees that grew from it—but the mound was too step and treacherous, and it went on for a long way.
Slowly, dreading what he would see, he turned back toward the opening.
Just as he’d feared, twin lights approached him through the darkness—the two eyes of the dragon, glimmering faintly, either with their own illumination or reflected light. All the Borchstogs had been slain or fled, and there was no sign of Tiron.
“YOU WILL NOT STEAL MY BOOK!” said the dragon.
The earth shook where it stepped.
“You want this?” Baleron said, tapping the Book that still nestled under his arm. Evidently the worm could sense it.
“IT IS MINE!”
Baleron stumbled backward, toward the edge of the drop-off. As he moved, the world seemed to slow down around him. He could count every heartbeat, feel every breath as though it took an hour. I’m living my last moments, he thought. He tilted his head, trying to relish the breeze, for a strong wind pulled at him, but his blood rushed like fire, drowning out all else.
