by Jack Conner
Panting, he wiped sweat out of his eyes. “You have your hunting knife? I lost mine.”
Salthrick patted his side. “Always.”
“Give it.”
Salthrick tossed him the knife. Baleron knelt over the severed head and began peeling off its flesh. The skin was thick and dark, and blood ran in rivulets down the gory thing. Baleron had to crouch so that one knee pressed down on the head, but even so it kept trying to pop free.
“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?” Salthrick said.
“We’re going to skin its face and hands and one of us is going to wear them. Then we’re going to don its armor and walk the hell out of here.”
Salthrick paused. “And the other?”
“The other will go as the first one’s captive.” He cocked his ear. The screams of Borchstogs torturing their prisoners echoed from above.
“You’re mad, Bal.”
“Likely enough.” He grunted as his knife skipped on a knob of bone and nearly tore the peel of flesh in two.
“Who gets to be slave and who master?”
Baleron stared at Salthrick. The big man seemed smaller now, somehow defeated. Baleron realized it must sit heavily on him to hide during a battle, to leave an old friend to die or worse.
“You’re larger,” Baleron said. “You’ll be the Borchstog.”
Salthrick did not look amused. “No.”
“What do you mean, no? It’s our only way out, idiot.”
Salthrick’s expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes. “As the slave, you will be too exposed. You’re a prince, Bal. The ‘stogs might know you, might recognize you. Or they might take you from me on a whim. You are a comely lad.”
Baleron lifted an eyebrow. “I would not have you be exposed, either.”
“I’m too big to be good sport. Besides, what if I’m called upon to say something? I don’t speak Oslogon.”
“Neither do I. At least not much.” His father made all the royal sons and daughters learn some rudimentary Oslogon, in case dealing with enemy troops ever became necessary.
“It’s the only way,” Salthrick said. “Otherwise I’m not going along with it.”
He wasn’t bluffing. “Very well. Help me do the hands. The fingers are going to take some skill.”
Indeed, the fingers proved most tricky, but Salthrick was a master skinner. They’d been hunting together countless times over the years. Salthrick had been the captain of Baleron’s guard since Baleron was fourteen, and in the ten years since they had grown close as brothers.
The captain had the Borchstog hands skinned promptly, and minutes later Baleron was slipping them on like greasy, bloody gloves. This was after he’d donned the Borchstog armor, but not before he’d donned the face. That was the most unpleasant task, and Salthrick had to do most of the work. The Borchstog flesh smelled rancid, and the drying, sticky skin was ghastly as it slid over Baleron’s head, as it stretched against his cheeks.
At last it was done, and he and Salthrick smoked a last pipe-full in the darkness of the cellars. Thunder crashed overhead, almost seeming to shake the fortress to its foundations, and the screams of doomed men reverberated through the halls. Rats squealed and scurried in the darkness. Baleron felt small and tired and far from home.
“I sure hope this works,” Salthrick said, trying to sound casual. “I would hate to miss Rolenya’s wedding.”
Baleron nodded without irony. “You would be missed. Ready?”
Salthrick took a last pull on the pipe. “Ready.” He tamped out the embers, then began taking off his armor, piece by piece. Baleron helped, then used the Borchstog’s ropes to tie Salthrick’s hands behind his back and stretched another length about his neck like a leash.
Baleron shoved on the Borchstog’s helmet and they ascended into the fortress proper. The screams turned louder, the chaos more real. A dying man, mutilated and with a knife in his belly, ran through the lower kitchens, limping and bleeding. Two Borchstogs chased him, hooting and howling, alternately drinking from a bottle and throwing small hatchets at him. In one of the large dens, with the fireplace still roaring, a group of Borchstogs had nailed some Havensrike soldiers to the floor and were raping them and skinning them at the same time. Other men were having their eyes gouged out, or their bellies slit open and stuffed with white-hot embers from the fireplace. Screams and the stench of burning flesh filled the air.
Clammy sweat broke out on Baleron’s brow. He wanted to hurl himself at the Borchstogs, to hack them to pieces, but they were too many, far too many. Salthrick stared at the scene, his face twitching. Baleron feared that he would act out, so he jerked the leash and pulled him away.
Baleron tried not to imagine where Haben was or what the Borchstogs would do to a high son of the king. He marched Salthrick down one hall, then another, ignoring the wails, cries and grunts that issued from every side-room.
At last they emerged into the northern courtyard, and the black sky loomed overhead. Lightning flashed down. Rain plinked on Baleron’s stolen armor, and it matted Salthrick’s hair. Gooseflesh rose on Baleron’s arms.
The large courtyard was a scene of horror. Poles had been erected and men nailed to them in various configurations, some upside down, some on top of one another. Borchstogs tortured them mercilessly. Others had been impaled to the ground. Baleron saw a large group of the enemy huddled around a particular victim, and it was from him that a familiar voice roared out, “Kill me already, you bloody bastards! You’ll get no satisfaction from—”
A slap of flesh, a scream, and coarse Borchstog laughter.
Baleron stiffened. Salthrick gazed toward the gathering, hate and loathing in his eyes. For a long moment neither moved.
At last Salthrick muttered, “There’s nothing we can do, Bal. Come! The gate’s open.”
Baleron didn’t budge.
“Come on!” Salthrick said. “We must rouse the other fortresses! The city may yet be saved.”
Baleron sucked in a deep breath, let it out. At last he shook his head and stepped toward the gathering. Salthrick went reluctantly. Rain infiltrated the chinks in Baleron’s armor and trickled over his body, but he barely felt it. All he could feel was rage, and pain, all he could hear Haben’s cries of pain. Haben was whimpering. The sound tore at Baleron’s heart like meat hooks.
He reached the gathering and shoved his way through the Borchstogs. They cursed him and cuffed him, but they let him pass. Several grasped at Salthrick, but Baleron knocked their hands away.
He reached the center of the gathering and what he saw drove the breath from his lungs. Haben lay naked and pitiful on the ground. Spears had been driven through his legs so that he could not crawl away, and Borchstogs poured whiskey from their jugs onto his wounds when they were not drinking from them. They kicked him and carved on him. One of his eyes had been ripped out and it dangled on his cheek, still connected to the socket by its stalk. One of his ears had been torn off and crudely sewn on to his chest. A Borchstog was just leaning over him, a knife poised over his shrunken scrotum.
Haben tried to rise and swipe at the Borchstog, but others stomped on his wrists and pinned him down. Several of the fingers on his right hand were missing.
A Borchstog said something to Haben, and Baleron frowned, trying to translate it. He thought it said, “You will make a fine meal for Lord Asguilar.”
“Roschk Asguilar!” a Borchstog said, pounding his chest.
“Roschk Asguilar!” others repeated.
One of the demons jerked back Haben’s head by the hair and said, “You’re lucky to see this day, prince. The Grand Times hasten. The time of ul Ravast has come.”
The other Borchstogs seemed to appreciate the sentiment, for they lifted their heads and roared, “Roschk ul Ravast!”
“To hell with you all!” Haben snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. His eyes blazed with fury and helplessness. “May you all burn in the fires of the Second Hell!”
They laughed. One of them
poured whiskey over his wounds, and he arched his back and screamed.
The demon that had been putting its knife to Haben’s scrotum resumed his activities, commenting on the softness and smallness of the member even as he lifted it out of its nest and placed a knife to its base.
Baleron stepped forward and kicked the Borchstog away. There were some grunts of anger, but also some laughter. Borchstogs fought among themselves more often than they fought their enemies. Baleron jerked one of the spears loose of Haben’s leg, and his brother screamed.
Baleron raised the spear high. Haben’s one remaining eye stared at him, really noticing him for the first time. Lightning flashed, and something passed between them. Baleron wasn’t sure if Haben recognized him, but he at least recognized his intent, and gratitude filled his face.
“Yes,” he said. “End me.”
Baleron blinked back his tears. Borchstog hands stretched toward him, trying to stop him. Desperately, he thrust, driving the spear through Haben’s chest. Haben gasped, arched, and went limp. Baleron could feel his last spasms of life through the vibrations of the spear.
Bedlam ensued. Borchstogs howled and punched at Baleron. Baleron punched back. Salthrick aided him. In moments the gathering degenerated into an all out free-for-all, as the thwarted creatures sought an outlet on each other. The prince was not to be wasted so. In the rain and darkness it was hard to tell which one had dealt Haben the fatal blow, and it almost didn’t seem to matter. Baleron punched and kicked his way through the clanking, growling mass. Blows rained on him, but they rained on the others too. His head rang, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Finally Salthrick pulled him clear.
“Come,” the big man said.
They limped toward the yawning gateway. No one stopped them. It was a night of torture and rape, and the Borchstogs had better things to do. Soon the order would be given to descend into the town, and then Ichil would be the new scene of revelry.
Baleron glanced back once to see the Borchstogs still fighting around the corpse of his brother, and he whispered, “May Illiana speed you on your way.”
He and Salthrick passed through the gateway and picked their way down the road toward town, which sprawled across the broad slope, its lights muted in the rain. Finally Baleron could go on no further but tore off his helm, sank to his knees, and retched, and retched, until there was nothing left. Even then he heaved dryly. Done, he slumped back and tore away the gruesome mask, and Salthrick helped him tug off the hands.
“You did what you had to do,” Salthrick said.
Tears stung Baleron’s eyes. His throat seized up. Haben, I’m so sorry.
Salthrick got him on his feet and they resumed their march. Bells tolled, long and loud, and lights blazed in the three temples of Ichil. That was where the people had gathered, Baleron saw. Haben must have sent runners to warn them. The houses of the town stretched all around. For the most part they were made of stone, and rounded. Lichen and moss clung to some of them, and rain glistened on their sides like slaver.
Baleron and Salthrick reached an inn and broke into the stables. Salthrick saddled a horse and swung astride.
“Are you sure you would not like to be the one to ride for aid?” he said.
Baleron shook his head. His throat was still raw, but he forced himself to say, “You ride. It’s my place to safeguard the people, and they’ll obey me. You, on the other hand, are well-known enough among the soldiery to be able to rouse the other forts.”
Salthrick clapped him on the shoulder. Again he said, “You did what you had to.”
He spurred his horse and vanished.
Baleron took a breath, counted to ten, and marched to the Temple of Illiana, where graceful singing issued and bells tolled. The temples were bastions of safety to the folk of the border towns, and they were built like castles. Baleron was unsurprised to see archers training their arrows on him from high perches on the façade, amid sculptures of angels and cupids. If he had not removed his Borchstog helm, they would have riddled him with arrows.
As it was, the High Priestess admitted him into the sanctuary gratefully. She recognized him, which sped things along. Hundreds of pale, tight faces stared at him, all kneeling on the floor in the midst of prayer before a tall, beautiful statue of Illiana looming over the mirror-like surface of a small ceremonial pool. The High Priestess, an older woman with long gray hair and a scar on her cheek, looked as if she were trying mightily for composure.
“What goes on? We’ve heard no word since Lord Grothgar’s runners came.”
Baleron realized that amid the thunder and the tolling of the bells, they would be unable to hear the screaming from the fort.
“The keep’s fallen,” he said. “The Borchstogs will be upon us soon.” There were cries of fear, and curses from the men. “But help is already being sent for. We must hide in the sewer vaults till it arrives.”
“But that will mean abandoning the city!” the High Priestess said. “Leaving it for the enemy to loot and profane.”
“It’s better than what they will do to you.”
That was all it took. In moments runners had been dispatched to the other temples, and the High Priestess was leading her people down through the temple catacombs and into the sewers. It stank, but Baleron barely noticed. His mind was still full of Haben’s face—one-eyed, contorted in pain, spittle spraying from his lips.
The townspeople gathered in the vaults. There in the darkness they waited, while Borchstogs roamed through the city above. At last, after several hours of huddling, someone banged on the heavy iron doors and a voice called out, “It’s safe! The Borchstogs have gone.”
After some interrogation, the High Priestess was satisfied with the identity of the speaker, and the refugees flung the doors open. There stood Salthrick with a host of men behind him. Thus Salthrick became the hero, while Baleron was remembered for hiding with the women and children in the vaults. He could have predicted it would have worked out that way.
* * *
“Well, I heard you made a very good accounting of yourself,” Rolenya said.
Baleron snorted. “From whom?”
They had just come from visiting Mother and were walking in the gardens in the rear of Castle Grothgar, their home, the seat of power in Havensrike. A hulking monstrosity from ancient times, the castle reared grim and gray, rising from the highest hill of the city. Flowering vines twisted up its pocked side, gentling its stern appearance. It was a clear blue day, and the air smelled of honeysuckle and rose. From the aviary came the sounds of birds chirping and singing.
“From the soldiers who were with you when you pursued the host,” she said.
He glanced sideways at her. “From Salthrick, you mean.”
She gave no sign that she had heard, though her cheeks flushed, just slightly. She had pale skin, red lips and high round cheeks that were almost angelic—and would be, had he not known her better. She was a very beautiful young woman, and Baleron knew that many said she was the loveliest in the kingdom. She had long black hair, clear blue eyes, and creamy, flawless skin. Rolenya was a lady in all things, one of the kingdom’s most beloved figures, sweet and gentle, and famous for her golden voice in song.
“It doesn’t matter where I heard it from,” she said. “The fact is that you should be proud.”
Salthrick, then. Not for the first time, Baleron wondered how often the two gathered privately to discuss things like Baleron’s bravery, or lack thereof, and what excuses they looked for to hold such discussions.
“You know,” he said, trying to sound casual, “no one is forcing you to marry.”
“Are you implying something, brother?”
He held up his hands. “Never.”
He cast his gaze over the surrounds, feeling something warm in his chest at the sight. From here he had a panoramic view of Glorifel, home to over a million—a sprawling, hilly city, with temples and villas clustered atop each peak, their domes and columns white against the green of the hills. More every
day homes hugged the gently sloping sides of the hills, stretching down to the wide, slow rivers that ran through the valleys, where the poorer districts cluttered. Gondolas and barges plied the waters, and the sun shone down from above, sparkling on the ribbons of blue. Despite everything, Baleron mused, it was good to be home. And yet ...
He and Rolenya still wore black. They had only buried Haben a week ago. His funeral was the reason Baleron had returned from pursuing Asguilar’s host.
“I’m a brother-killer and a coward.” He said it with finality.
“You know better than that. I do.”
“It’s what Father thinks that counts.”
They were just crossing a lacy bridge over a narrow, ornamental stream, when suddenly she stopped and looked him straight in the eye. “Baleron, Father’s word isn’t everything.”
“So says the apple of his eye.” He tried to shake the thoughts away. They were unbecoming and he knew it. Yet if he had been the black sheep of the Grothgars before, now he feared he was no longer even part of the family at all. The king would not look at him or speak with him. Haben had been his favorite son, and Baleron his greatest shame. That the latter had slain the former only sealed Baleron’s fate in his eyes. Baleron expected to be expelled from the castle with the clothes on his back any day, and that’s if he was permitted to keep the clothes.
He continued walking, passing through the hedge maze, and Rolenya walked with him. The shadow of the hedges fell over them, and Baleron realized it was cooler here. Turning to other thoughts, he said, “It would make it easier if I understood why they did it.”
“The Borchstogs?”
“They wasted three gaurocks and many troops to ensure that a few dead, or less-than-dead, soldiers managed to infiltrate the keep and slay Master Turran, all to give them time to get a head start on us. And Asguilar must have expended himself greatly.”
