by Jack Conner
He steered Baleron inside, and the younger prince surrendered. He was beginning to smell the savory scents of dinner—roast venison and potatoes and custard, for a start. Servants came out of the kitchens wheeling gleaming plates laden with delicious morsels, and Baleron took a seat next to Salthrick. Normally commoners would not have been permitted at the table, but Salthrick’s friendship with Haben ran deep. Before becoming the captain of Baleron’s guard, Salthrick had been in Haben’s. Baleron had never been sure exactly what Salthrick had done to deserve such dishonor as being removed from his brother’s side and assigned to him, but he was sure it was something suitably vile.
At the head of the table Haben toasted his visiting brother.
“To Prince Baleron!” the guests echoed, with somewhat less enthusiasm.
Dinner commenced, one course after another—roast pheasant, peas and rice, salmon encrusted with walnuts. More toasts followed, a toast to the king, the kingdom, a toast to the serving girl, and so on. Finally a toast came that Baleron took interest in.
“To Rolenya, fairest flower in the land!”
“Hear hear!”
At the head of the table, Haben smiled. “May her wedding be joyful, and her marriage be moreso.”
“Ah, sod the bastard!” someone said. “I was hoping she’d be mine!”
Coarse laughter followed, and Baleron stabbed his fork at the man who’d spoken. “That’s my sister you’re talking about. Still, he doesn’t deserve her.”
“No one could,” Salthrick said.
Dinner resumed. There was more talk of Rolenya and her wedding. Some said it would be the grandest affair in the history of either Havensrike or Felgrad, but Baleron barely listened. To his left the comely Lydia Tines giggled and flirted with him. She was young and blushing and wed, and she had heard of Baleron’s supposed valor earlier.
“You were so brave,” she said, more than once, leaning over so that he could catch a glimpse of her cleavage, and squeezing his bicep. “I heard you slew a dozen Borchstogs in your encounter, all by yourself.”
Thank you, Haben. “That number might be a bit inflated.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” She raised her glass to him. “My hero!”
Salthrick nudged Baleron. “Not again, Bal. Her father-in-law is General Tines.”
“I was just in town visiting my sister,” Lydia went on. “Just me and a few retainers. You know, it is so rare that I journey out without a chaperone.”
That couldn’t be clearer, could it? “Your husband didn’t know I would be here.” Baleron said.
Leaning over, she whispered, “Perhaps we should take advantage of that.”
After dinner they retired to her guest quarters, which Baleron was surprised to find were even smaller than his own—Haben truly had given him one of the nicest available suites—and she proceeded to show him why her husband rarely let her out of the house unescorted. Her only nod to discretion was her ability to achieve pleasure in relative silence, obviously a skill acquired to facilitate such trysts. Of course, plenty had noticed her talking with him at dinner, and Baleron knew, not without a twinge of sadness, that word would get out. It would not be long before Baleron had to sharpen his dueling blade again.
Afterwards, as they lay panting in her narrow bed, fierce rapping issued from the door.
“Hells,” Baleron said. “Please don’t tell me your husband followed you.”
A servant’s voice called through the door: “It’s the Borchstogs, my lady! They’re attacking!”
* * *
Thunder cracked outside. Horns blared.
Feeling something tight in his chest, Baleron hastily pulled on his clothes and quit Lydia’s bedroom. She gave him a quick kiss and he was gone. His armor had not yet been polished and returned to him, so he descended to the courtyard, where hundreds of soldiers gathered at the armory. Side by side with them, he donned the common armor he was dealt and mounted the wall, where Salthrick took him to Haben.
Rain beat down, and lightning lit he sky. The cold shower seemed to find every crack in Baleron’s armor, and he shivered as he reached Haben, standing at his position on the wall. The south-facing arc of the fortress was shaped like a series of Vs so that archers could more easily pick off Borchstogs scrambling up it, and Haben stood at the joint of the center-most V. His bushy beard stuck out beneath the lion-mask of his helm, and his eyes flashed dangerously.
In the distance, and growing closer, Borchstog war drums sounded, rolling northward like a pestilence, sapping the will of the men. Baleron felt a great and malignant will emanating from the south, felt it in the bitterness on his tongue and the hairs that rose from the nape of his neck.
“You should not be here.”
The voice was solemn. For a moment Baleron was unsure who had said the words, as Haben’s gaze was on the forest.
Baleron shrugged. “I would be nowhere else.”
“Nor I,” said Salthrick.
“How many are they?” Baleron said.
Haben’s face tightened. “Scouts report thousands. A whole host.”
“Gods.”
“So the ones we encountered earlier, they were scouts,” Salthrick said.
“They have some plan,” Haben muttered. “Some stratagem. I can feel it. This attack is too reckless. No feints, nothing. These demons are devious, and subtle. There is no subtlety here.”
“Ask for aid, then,” Salthrick said. “Alert Master Turran. Have the other fortresses send their riders.”
“And leave them defenseless just when the Enemy has chosen to exert itself?”
The first line of dark figures emerged from the forest, mere shadows against the trees. The Borchstogs were much like men in shape and size, but in other ways they were very other. Their eyes burned red as hell and their skin was black as death. The trees rustled, and armor clanked, and every now and then the moon would glimmer on helm or shield. The armor of the Borchstogs did not shine or gleam, but glistened, like the armor of cockroaches. The sound of the war drums picked up. Doom. Doom. Doom. Steady, unceasing. Again Baleron felt that same malignant presence.
“Asguilar,” he said. When the others turned to him, he said, “When they were chasing us, the Borchstogs chanted something. They mentioned the Wolf, of course, but they also mentioned Asguilar.” Ever since the War of the Moonstone, Asguilar had been lord of the mountain fortress of Wegredon, Oslog’s principal seat of power in the region. Legend held that Asguilar was a rithlag, a thing of death and darkness that had no life of its own but had to steal the lives of others through their blood. “I think he may be leading this attack.” If the stories could be believed, Asguilar possessed unnatural powers.
Rain matted Haben’s beard and glinted off the iron spikes of his armor. “If that’s true, brother ... if Wegredon has roused itself against us ...”
All the Crescent states lived in fear of the day when Gilgaroth, the Dark One, would bestir himself and send out his legions to utterly crush his foes. Periodically he would flex his muscles, but it had been some time since the last great war, the War of the Moonstone some fifty years ago. Wegredon was not Ghrastigor, the fortress of the Breaker deep in his land of Oslog, but it was powerful and much dreaded.
Generals approached, and Haben issued hurried orders. “Send all civilians from the fortress,” he told General Hathyn. “Only military men may remain.”
“But my lord. The fortress is the most secure building in the city. And surely you cannot mean to empty the nobles ...”
“I do. We may not survive this assault, my friend. I would not have our children and womenfolk suffer worse fates. Sending them out will at least give them a head start.”
With a drawn face, General Hathyn moved off. Haben barked more commands, and generals scurried to obey. Catapults spat flaming payloads, and ballistae fired bolts, but the Borchstog host rolled on, inexorable. Soon they came within arrow range, and shafts cut the midnight air. Heedless, the Borchstogs advanced, their drums crashing like thunder.
Before the battle, Baleron had been pleasantly tired, drunk, and full. Now he was as sober and alert as he had ever been. He realized he would die tonight, here, beside Haben and Salthrick. A nobler end than I deserve.
The Borchstogs reached the wall.
“There are so many,” a soldier gasped.
Indeed, the Borchstogs were more numerous than Baleron had ever seen before, much more, though their host was still simply a moon-flecked shadow on the field. An arrow sailed through the night and took the soldier who had spoken through the eye. The man tumbled off the wall into the spike-filled pit below.
Before Baleron could catch his breath, the Borchstogs spilled over the wall, preceded by the stink of death and rot. Not even the rain could dampen it.
A great Borchstog with a helm shaped like a skeletal bull’s head came at Baleron, swinging a black sword. Baleron ducked, lashing out with his own blade. It scraped along the Borchstog’s armor. The Borchstog reversed his swing. Baleron leapt back. The sword caught his side and tumbled him to the walkway.
He tried to rise, but the armor made him clumsy. The Borchstog drove his blade down toward Baleron’s chest—
Steel flashed. The demon’s head tilted to the side. Metal sparked again, and the half-severed head popped free. The body toppled, and Salthrick stood behind it, but only for an instant. Then he jumped back into the fray, his blade hacking into the enemy all around.
The rest was a blur to Baleron, all howling and slashing, the ring of metal and the roar of thunder. Rain flung down, keeping the blood fresh on the walkway. The Borchstogs kept coming, inexhaustible. Somewhere Haben shouted encouragements to his men, but he must have known the effort was doomed, and it wasn’t long before he sounded his horn, giving the order to fall back.
The men retreated to the inner wall and cast down the bridges that spanned the pit between the inner wall and the outer. The Borchstogs managed to cross a few, and others scrambled over on ropes. More descended into the spike-filled pit with ladders and carefully scaled the inner wall.
Drenched in blood, Baleron found Haben conferring frantically with his generals and drew him aside.
“There are too many, brother. We must call for aid.”
Haben glared at him, and Baleron knew it was more than the fear that the other fortresses would be defenseless that had caused Haben to refuse aid so far. He was a proud man, a man who would one day be king. It would not do to show weakness.
Haben sighed. “Go to Master Turran, then. Tell him to alert the hosts at Forts Barret and Nastur. Take Salthrick with you. Hurry!”
Baleron gathered Salthrick, never far away, and they cut their way to the highest tower of the keep.
“I think it’s too late,” Salthrick panted as they climbed, their footfalls clanking and scraping in the stairwell. “I don’t care how good an Adept he is, Turran can’t get help here quick enough. Ichil’s lost.”
“The fort may be,” Baleron allowed, “but the town—”
They reached the door to Turran’s quarters. It stood open. The sounds of ripping flesh came from within.
Salthrick kicked the door open wide and bounded inside. Baleron followed, sword in hand. The suite smelled of incense, recently waxed wood, and death. Master Turran lay in the main room, disemboweled and dismembered. Even as Baleron and Salthrick entered, a Borchstog was raising the Adept’s severed head up and letting Turran’s blood trickle into its gaping mouth. Another gnawed on one of Turran’s arms.
“Bastards!” Salthrick said, splitting one Borchstog’s skull to the teeth.
Even as Salthrick struggled to free his sword, another fell on him. Baleron blocked its swing and shoved it back.
The third, who’d been drinking the sorcerer’s blood, flung the head at Baleron. It struck his chest and nearly toppled him. He straightened just as the second one slashed at his neck. He skewered it under the armpit.
Salthrick struck the head-thrower again and again, and several times he dealt it blows that should have felled it, but somehow it stayed upright. At last he decapitated it and it fell for good.
Gasping, Baleron and Salthrick stared about them at the butchered corpses. Streams of thick dark blood ran across the floor and mingled with each other.
Suddenly, movement. The one he had impaled through the armpit was crawling over to an object it had dropped when Baleron attacked it—something round, glittering ...
“The stone!” Salthrick shouted. “Stop it!”
The seeing stone was Turran’s instrument of communication with the Adepts in the other border fortresses, the way he would have called for aid. But, just perhaps, someone else could use it now he was dead—
The Borchstog dashed the seeing stone to the floor with all the strength it had left. Shards exploded in all directions. The stone had seemed to glow with a white light, but now the light flickered out, and a cold shudder worked its way down Baleron’s spine. In another moment he had severed the Borchstog’s head, but the damage was done.
“We’re dead men now,” Salthrick said, wiping blood from his beard. “There’s no hope of alerting the other fortresses.”
Baleron sank into a plush leather chair, spattering it with blood, and stared at the remains of Turran and the Borchstogs. Suddenly he saw what must have happened.
“Look at them,” he said. “Look.”
Salthrick frowned but did as instructed. Slowly an expression of comprehension spread across his face. “They’re all hacked up. Even before ...”
The demons bore deep wounds, wounds neither Baleron nor Salthrick had inflicted.
“They should have been dead already,” Salthrick said.
“I think they were,” Baleron said.
“I don’t ...”
Baleron blew out a breath. “Asguilar truly is their lord. That’s why they attacked with such disregard. Some of the corpses on the wall were more lively than they should have been, and they were able to sneak off in the confusion.”
“Asguilar ... It’s true, then.”
“Looks that way. He can command the dead.” According to legend, Asguilar was the very son of Ungier, lord of Oksilith to the west, a being high in the councils of Gilgaroth.
The sounds of fighting drifted in from an open window—the clash of steel, the screams of pain. Hearing it, something went out of Baleron. He no longer felt strong enough even to rise out of his chair. He just wanted to sink down into its leathery depths and never come out.
In fury, Salthrick kicked a footstool and splintered it to pieces. Not satisfied with that, he set about kicking a Borchstog corpse. The clank of metal and the slap of meat echoed off the tapestry-hung walls.
At last Baleron said, “There’s still a chance.”
Salthrick stopped kicking. “What? What chance could there possibly be?”
“There are the vaults in the Ichil sewers. The townspeople built them long ago for just such a day. They can hide there, wait out the Borchstogs.”
“Those vault doors won’t last long. I know, I used to live here when I served your brother.”
“They’ll last long enough for a rider to go to the nearest fortress and back.”
Salthrick raised his eyebrows. “You want to flee? Again?” His lips curled in bitter amusement.
The sounds of battle grew closer. They reverberated up the halls from the floors below the tower. The fighting had reached the inner fortress. Baleron thought of Haben and mashed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he felt clear and strong once more. He climbed to his feet and drew out his sword.
“You ride,” he told Salthrick. “I’ll go to my brother.”
For a moment, Baleron thought Salthrick would protest, but then the larger man inclined his head in deference, and Baleron relaxed.
“Farewell, my friend,” Baleron said.
He took a step toward the door. He felt a tap on the shoulder and turned to see Salthrick’s fist filling his vision. He felt the crack of bone and his world went dark.
Chapter 2
<
br /> When he awoke, he was still in darkness, and it stank of rat piss and feces. The sounds of fighting had vanished, but there was noise: coarse laughter, screams, and the breaking of furniture. Strangely, the sounds came from above.
“Where are we?” Baleron said, putting a hand to his cheek. Blood trickled down, and he could feel the flesh beginning to swell.
A sigh from the darkness. “In the cellar,” came Salthrick’s voice. “Hiding.”
“I don’t ...”
A grunt. “I meant to throw you on the back of a horse and take you with me to the nearest fortress, like you said, but there were too many of ‘em. They’re all over the place. Vermin! I couldn’t find your brother, or I might have died beside him, but I didn’t look very hard. I had you to care for.”
“You son of a bitch!” Baleron pushed himself off from the wall he’d been propped against and took an unsteady step in the darkness toward where he supposed Salthrick to be.
“Hit me if you want, Bal,” Salthrick said. “I would if I were you. I’d damn well murder me.” There was deep regret in his voice. “You know I’m no craven. You know it’s my duty, my solemn godsdamned duty, to safeguard you, even from yourself.”
Baleron felt dizzy. The urge to strangle Salthrick began to fade. The captain had just been fulfilling his oath. Baleron staggered back toward the wall, nearly tripping on something. When he kicked it experimentally, it yielded slightly and made a clanking noise.
“What’s this?” he said, kicking it again so that Salthrick could hear.
“A Borchstog. I came across it on the way down and had to slit its throat. I dragged it in with us so no one would find the body.”
“Let’s hope it’s deader than the last ones.” Baleron leaned against the wall. Fear replaced his anger, fear for Ichil and Haben. For himself. “We have to get out of here. How long has it been? How long have I been out?”
“An hour, maybe. How do you propose to make our escape?”
Baleron considered. He used his tinderbox to strike a light and with it located a torch along the wall. The new blaze threw hellish shadows against the stone and seemed to make the dead Borchstog stir with unnatural life. Just to be sure, Baleron hacked off its head. He had to ask Salthrick to hold the torch so that he could use both hands to grip his sword, and even then it took several swings. .
