by Jack Conner
“Meet Rolenya, daughter of Queen Vilana,” Baleron said.
Awed, Tiron bowed. “I am at your service, Your Majesty.”
She smiled. “Thank you. It truly is good to see you. Baleron has told me so much about you.”
To Alathon, Baleron said, “Thank you, as well, Your Grace, for returning him to us. Or to me, at least. Rolenya has not met him before.”
“Thank instead Calendil and his wing,” Alathon said. “They braved torment and death to retrieve your friend. I understand they came across him some miles south of the mountain, wandering in the wild. A band of Borchstogs was not far away, and they appeared to be following his trail.”
“If the Swan Riders hadn’t saved me, I’d have been captured and slain for sure,” said Tiron. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
Alathon nodded graciously. “I will give you some time to become reacquainted. Fortunately I believe your suite of rooms has enough beds for another addition, but I will tell my people to send up a meal for three at once. It is near lunchtime, anyway, and I’m sure you three wish to be alone for a while.”
Tiron patted his belly, which rumbled audibly. “You’ve already given me bread, but I do believe I could eat again.”
They laughed, and Baleron, Tiron and Rolenya repaired to their rooms. Tiron seemed struck by wonder at the sights of the Palace, and Baleron felt his own appreciation at the beauty and might of the Elves rekindled. It was a fantastic palace, and an even more wondrous city. That Alathon and Calendil would have risked it all as a favor to him seemed incredibly brave, perhaps even foolhardy. Yet he could not deny that he was glad he hadn’t led both Olen and Tiron to their deaths. One casualty on their misadventure was enough weight on his conscience.
“Baleron has told me all about your brave last stand,” Rolenya said to the archer. “Or what he assumed was your last stand. It appears you managed to escape the doom that seemed so certain.”
Tiron nodded, and over the lunch that they shared together he related his tale, how he had slain several Borchstogs by bow, then fled pell-mell through the tunnels, killing a handful of others with his knife after breaking his bow over the helm of one attacker. Following had been a series of wrong turns and dead ends, and he had become hopelessly lost, not to mention that he could barely see a thing, and sometimes not even that. At last he became so lost that not even the Borchstogs could find him, and he figured he would die down there, trapped in an ancient maze, but at last he perceived sunlight, and followed it. The light grew brighter, then brighter, and at last revealed to him a tiny, half-collapsed doorway leading out of the mountain.
By then he was thirsty, starved and tired, but he pushed himself on, fleeing for days through the mountains, until Prince Calendil and the Swan Riders had come for him. They had performed a series of tests on him, assuring themselves he was not an enemy in disguise, then flown him back to their outpost in the Eloath, where they had done even more spells and examinations. That had been very early this morning. At last they had brought him before the King and made him tell his story, time and again, before Alathon was satisfied that he was no spy or assassin. Only then was word sent to Baleron and Rolenya.
“Now I’m worn out, and full,” he said, taking one last bite of his meal. “It’s wonderful to see you again, my lord, and to meet you, my lady, but I beg you to forgive me. I must sleep or fall face-first into my soup, what’s left of it.”
There wasn’t much, but Baleron smiled. “Of course.” He showed Tiron to his room, then returned to Rolenya.
She took Baleron’s hand and brought him to the balcony, then closed the door behind him. She turned back once to make sure they were not observed, then met Baleron’s gaze.
“Do you trust him?” she said.
He sighed. “After Rauglir? No. Of course not. But Rauglir was an agent of the Enemy, merely cloaked with powerful spells. If Alathon has been paying attention to outside events, and he seems to have, he will be aware of Rauglir and his evil deeds, and he will have adjusted his screening methods accordingly. Do you believe he has, or do we need to talk to him about this?”
“It couldn’t hurt to ask him, but I’m sure you’re correct, Baleron. Alathon is wise, and powerful. He would know what to look for, what Elethris missed. Or at least I pray it is so. Still …”
“Yes?”
She shook her head, her black hair stirring in the breeze. “Something about this situation bothers me.”
“Something about Tiron, you mean?”
She bit her lip, then nodded. “I know he’s your friend, Baleron, and that he would have sacrificed his life for you, but I find it difficult to believe he survived all of that, unscathed.”
“He almost didn’t. Borchstogs were tracking him. If not for Calendil, he would have sacrificed himself for me, even if the doing was delayed a few days.”
“Yes, tracking him … but what if they were only tracking their own agent, to better keep tabs on him?”
An icy finger traced Baleron’s spine, and he tried to resist a shudder. At last he shook his head. “Tiron would never betray me, and if it is the real Tiron and not an imposter—and I believe it is the real Tiron, and obviously Calendil and Alathon believe so, too—then we have nothing to fear.” He frowned. “Still …”
“Yes?”
“Something about this misgives me. I just can’t put my finger on it. Perhaps after all we’ve been through, I simply look for the thorn first, the petals second, but I can’t help but thinking thorn now, not petal.”
She let out a breath and squeezed his hand. “We must watch him, Baleron. Watch him very closely.”
“We will. I only hope we don’t need to. Because if the Shadow does have some hold over him, it must be of a very shrewd and subtle sort—at least to those on the outside. We may not know what to look for until it’s too late.” He passed a hand across his face. “I do hope it’s really Tiron, and it seems somehow ungrateful to look at the gift of his safe delivery from harm in any other way but appreciation, but …”
“But Rauglir.”
“But Rauglir.” He could not forget the terrible demon that had worn his best friend’s face, then betrayed him, to terrible effect. Afterward the demon had taken on the form of Rolenya herself, and that had been even worse. Could Tiron too be false? Baleron didn’t think so, at least in that way, but he agreed that they had best be on their guard.
Later that day, they were summoned to dinner. By then Tiron was rested and seemed in better spirits, or at least less ragged. The royal feast that night proved lively, but a strain of tension that had not been there previously simmered over everything. Baleron didn’t know if it was because of the Black Book, or because of the dragon, or something else altogether, but the change was palpable.
Midway through the dinner a runner whispered in the King’s ear. The King nodded and the runner departed. Turning to Baleron and Rolenya, Alathon said, “There has been progress in the translation of the Book. Lorivanneth, my daughter who has been leading the effort of translation, would like to go over what she has uncovered. Perhaps, after dinner, you two could accompany me to my study …?”
“Of course,” Rolenya said, answering for them both.
“I would also like you two there, as well,” he said, speaking to Feren and Isella.
Feren laughed. “It’s unlike you to take advice, but I will gladly be there to give it, if asked for.”
His sister smiled. “It is unlike you to wait to be asked!”
He laughed in return.
Baleron, however, wasn’t feeling so cavalier. Dread coiled in his gut. Were they about to find out just what was going on, and how bad it was likely to get? He prayed for the best, but somehow he knew it would not turn out that way. A glance to Rolenya showed her looking grim, too. He started to reach for her hand to squeeze it, then stopped himself.
“I think I will invite Calendil, as well,” said Alathon, and immediately dispatched word to his son’s outpost in the mountains.
&
nbsp; “And I, my lord?” asked Tiron, who sat next to Baleron.
Alathon paused. “If your lord decides to share the information with you, then that is well, but as I do not even know what that information is yet I must ask you to stay in your rooms during our meeting. Your lord will decide things from there.”
Tiron nodded and said nothing. Baleron felt bad for him, but he did not gainsay the King.
After dinner, Alathon ushered his children and guests into his handsome study, and they made awkward small talk for some time until Calendil arrived, looking fell and hard, and not a bit tired on top of it.
“Father, I’m glad you called me, as I was just about to come myself,” he began.
Alathon raised his eyebrows. “Has there been word?”
“Indeed, my lord. Karkost has been found and cornered.” His eyes blazed as he said it.
Suddenly alert, Alathon leaned forward. “Say on!”
Calendil almost smiled. “My men picked up his trail some miles to the east, finding in his wake a dozen slaughtered cows in a farm—and the farm laid waste. The surviving members of the farming family told my men that the worm had continued east and then south a ways, and my Riders caught him bloated and full, picking flesh from his teeth, on the slopes of a mountain. He roared and spat flame, killing three of my men, and tried to escape, but my Riders have faced dragons before, and they riddled him with darts that were painful especially to the likes of him, and he bellowed and retreated into a cavern in the mountain. I was sent word and went there immediately, and I have been overseeing the siege of the mountain for the last several hours, only just having returned.”
“That is fantastic!” said Feren. “But why did your Riders not storm the caves and slaughter the beast? He could escape through some other hole.”
“Indeed he might,” said Calendil, “and that is why I spent hours trying to find such holes and setting watches upon them. But going in after the dragon in those caves would cost many lives, while waiting for him to emerge and then riddling him with enough arrows to kill him might not cost any.”
“Let Calendil run his own campaign,” Alathon admonished Feren. “You may run our army, but he has command of our air defenses, and he has my trust.”
Feren opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and closed it. Baleron was starting to form a dislike of the prince.
“I’m sorry you lost three men,” Baleron said. “I feel responsible for that.”
“You’re not wrong,” said Feren, ignoring the frown his father sent him.
“Have you eaten?” Alathon asked Calendil. “I wanted you here to hear what your sister has to say regarding the Book, but if you are too exhausted and starved from your labors I will release you.”
“Nay, Father, I grabbed a loaf before I jumped back in the saddle and ventured here.”
“Good, good. Then, please, sit, and let us hear out Lorivanneth.”
Calendil obeyed, and all turned their attention to Lorivanneth, the daughter of the king whom Baleron had only just met. She had arrived after dinner but before Calendil, and they had only been briefly introduced. She was fair and light-boned, with honey-blond hair and brown eyes. She seemed a quiet sort, but her eyes sparked with intelligence.
“Begin,” Alathon bade her gently.
She nodded, took a steadying breath, then launched into it. “The Book is hard to decipher, as it was written in a tongue little used and long out of service—and this seems a corrupted version of that tongue, as well. Yet I and my team have thrown ourselves into the translation of it with great urgency, sensing that time might well be a factor. Armies are already on the move, and war is engaged on multiple fronts, after all.”
“I appreciate your foresight,” Rolenya said.
“Not foresight, exactly, Your Grace—”
“Cousin, please.”
“—not foresight, cousin, but simple deduction and a brief contemplation of the allocation of resources. I brought my entire staff into the project and suspended all other processes of the Archive.”
“That was well done,” Alathon said. “And what was the result of your labors?”
“Well, we are far from finished, Father, so I cannot say what the ultimate results will be. Yet we have made great strides regardless. The Black Book of Karkost is strange and dire, containing many riddles, and, I believe, many dead ends. It is a compendium of his research and his thoughts, and he conducted much hideous research and had even more loathsome thoughts.” Her light body shuddered, as if just thinking on the Book’s contents revolted her. “I tried to focus on what might interest the likes of Mogra, and at last, just a little while ago, we encountered what I believe to be the crux of the matter.”
It was Baleron’s turn to lean forward. “Well? What is it?”
Her face grew wan. “The Black Altar of Lorg-jilaad.”
Silence fell over the room. Somewhere a chair creaked, and a log popped in the fireplace. Baleron shuddered. Unconsciously, Rolenya drew closer to him, as if to seek his reassurance, and such was his horror that he actually reached out and squeezed her hand, briefly.
At length, he said, “I’ve heard of this Altar, but only in legend—in ancient songs and rhymes.
‘When the Black One hungered,
His thralls they brought him,
Wriggling and writhing and drear,
Slaves bound for blood,
On the Altar of Fear.’”
“I have not heard that one,” Alathon said, “but it sounds accurate enough. Many, many ages ago, the Great One, the original Shadow, Lorg-jilaad, made war upon the earth, and upon the Omkar themselves. The war lasted for a long time, even by the reckoning of the Elves, and all trembled in fear at the Shadow of Lorg-jilaad. The Dragon, some called him. The Worm. Most just called him the Dark One, or the Enemy, and terror of him spread throughout the land. He was an Omkar himself, the mightiest among them, and he corrupted others to his service.”
“Such as Mogra,” Rolenya said.
“Yes. They became the Omkarogs, the wicked Omkar. And Lorg-jilaad, like Mogra, and like his mighty son Gilgaroth—as your people call him, Baleron—mine prefer Corugvar—built a mighty hell inside him. This was Gorfein, the First Hell, where the souls of those Lorg-jilaad devoured burned over the furnace of his core, fueling the fires that gave him such strength. It was a mighty and terrible power he had discovered, and he taught the dread art to both Mogra and Corugvar, and the other lords of the Seven Houses of Darkness—the Houses of the Wolf, the Spider, the Serpent, and so on—which is why there are the Seven Hells. The ability to feed on souls made them powerful beyond words and enabled them to stand against the goodly Omkar and pose a threat to all free peoples of the World.
“It was around this time that my House, dwelling safely in Falathor, decided to leave our paradise and enter the World once more—to help the free peoples drive off the Shadow. The Omkar were not happy with us for this, but they did not stop us, though they tried to reason us out of it, even bribe us—for our own good, yes, but still we refused. Led by Toron, we journeyed back to the World at large, and none too soon. The Shadow had nearly won, and it was largely with our aid that it was thrown back.
“Then Brunril, Lord of the Omkar, engaged Lorg-jilaad in single combat. Brunril was slain, or nearly so—put into an eternal slumber, tended over by his wife Illiana—but the sacrifice was worthy, for Lorg-jilaad was driven through the Door of Night and exiled from the Circles of the World. He still lived, however, and his thralls, now ruled by Mogra and Gilgaroth, built for him a great Altar. Mogra and Gilgaroth put forth their own power into its making, and they bound that Altar with the First Hell—with Lorg-jilaad. For long years they sacrificed screaming victims on it, just as in your poem, Baleron.”
“But why?” Baleron asked. “For what purpose? Blind loyalty?”
“Oh, they revered him, and still do, make no mistake. But no, they sacrificed to him to feed the fires of the First Hell, to make Lorg-jilaad strong enough to
burst back through the Door of the Night and so resume his dreadful war—to lead his armies into combat, as he’d always done. But my people, aided by Men and Dwarves and others, managed to steal the Black Altar from the dark powers and hide it. We were not able to destroy it, or at least we did not know how, so the Altar was hidden, secreted away so deeply that none could find it—not even us.”
Rolenya let out a breath. “I have heard this story, and recently, but I did not believe it. The Black Altar hidden … even from those who stole it?”
“Indeed, yes. It was the only way. What if one of us was captured and tortured? The Altar had to be hidden. And so it was.” Alathon shook his head ruefully. “Little did we know then that it was all in vain. Gilgaroth would rise to be nearly as powerful as his father, and without the Altar to keep the worship of Lorg-jilaad dominant among the people of the Shadow, he became the new Dark Lord, and Mogra, his own mother, became his bride. An abominable union, and unholy in the eyes of the Omkar. But even this was not without strategy on their part, it now seems.”
“How so?” said Calendil.
“Do you not see? For now the product of their wretched coupling has produced some awful spawn—at least in development—a spawn that is a blank slate of great power meant for the spirit of Lorg-jilaad to fill.” To Lorivanneth, he said, “Has your research revealed anything about how this Altar ties in with the plans of the Shadow?”
She nodded. “It is why I came to you.”
“Well, please, tell on.”
“Of course.” She hesitated, as if to compose her thoughts, then said, “Karkost wanted to find the Altar, for use in his black research. A thing tied to the very fires of the First Hell—imagine the terrors he could have put it to! But he could not find it, not even after long searching. Yet he did have many leads to pursue, even at the end. He wrote in the pages of the Book that he knew he must hurry, that he must find it before Mogra and Gilgaroth. For, he said, they would use its dark power as a ‘birthing bed’ for the return of the Blackstar, as he called Lorg-jilaad. Gorus-kai, in his language. Krogmar in ancient Fensa.”
