by Jack Conner
Reluctantly, he nodded, loathing himself. To look forward to the sacrifice of an innocent! To find some satisfaction in it ...
“Guards,” she called.
Uthas the keymaster nodded and unlocked the gate. He gave her custody of Baleron and, accompanied by her four Borchstog guards, brother and sister rose from the cacophony of the mines. He turned once to see Veronica gazing at him. He offered her a small smile, which she did not return, then turned and left.
Rolenya led him up past the terrible Labyrinth of Melregor, in which Ungier and his sorcerers kept their most prized weapons and artifacts. They were things of great power, and it was rumored that monstrous Guardians kept away any thieves or trespassers.
Baleron saw several sorcerers in robes of black and purple enter an archway that led into the Labyrinth, and he wondered what errand they were about. Ungier’s sorcerers were powerful, and if a group of them was required to get past or appease the Guardians, the Guardians must be formidable indeed. In a fortress of nightmares, the Guardians were feared above all else, save perhaps the Leviathan. Baleron had always wondered what they were exactly, but he never wanted the chance to find out.
Rolenya led him up into the fortress proper. The sounds of pickaxes on rock, of chains clinking, whips parting flesh, and desperate howls of anguish faded behind to be replaced by the dry cool stillness of Gulrothrog. As they went, Baleron observed how even the Borchstogs and the other spawn of Oslog and Oksilith made way for Rolenya, how she was able to cut through them as a star through the night. For the thousandth time he recalled that night in the pit, recalled how when she sang she had glowed with a soft white light, and the very stones seemed to shrink from her power.
In all these years, he had never asked her about it. The truth was that he had never really wanted to know. Men were fallen and without Grace. They could not channel Light, not without the aid of elves. So what could it mean that Rolenya was different? Had the Omkar forgiven the Fallen? Was grace returning to the lineage of Men? Baleron doubted it. Which could only mean something else. Something he hated to imagine.
They wound up through the halls of the fortress until they reached her chambers, a lavish suite with many rooms and plush pillows and fine art. Red silk snared the eye. Incense smoldered in a corner, the incense holder fashioned in the shape of a large silver wolf. Smoke wreathed from its mouth. Servants stood at the ready. To Baleron it looked as though her living conditions equaled those she was accustomed to back home at Castle Grothgar, at least in opulence, though he did not think for a moment that she enjoyed her lot in life or would wish it to continue one second more than necessary.
“Would you like a bath?” she asked him. She knew he loved them.
His expression must have been pitiful, as grief touched her eyes.
“I’ve dreamt of them,” was all he could say. He unstrapped his sandals and saw her wince at the fresh scars on his torso and the livid bruises on his face. Thankfully she said nothing.
“Take your time,” she told him.
He entered her bathing chambers, and she waited for him while two of her servants (elf maidens both), helped him wash. Steam billowed up from the ornate tub, and he surrendered to their tender ministrations. It was wonderful. The bath and the massage felt so good he never wanted them to end, and the elf girls were not immune to his charms. He wished he had an hour.
When he emerged, his sister clothed him in fine garments, and he felt better than he had in a long time, warm and clean. The itching in his scalp began to fade.
“I feel like a new man,” he told her, running a comb through his beard, which had grown out over the last three years, and was full and dark. The comb battled its tangles.
She smiled. Trying to play it light, she said, “And you smell like one too.”
He made himself laugh.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said. She motioned for him to sit down, and he collapsed into the softest couch.
“What is it?” he asked, loving the soft feel of the sofa as he ran his hands along it. Sweet memories of long ago stirred at the comfort and he had to struggle with himself to stay focused on his sister’s voice, not to get lost in his memories, which he was all too good at. Sometimes when he was hacking at the earth his mind was numb and blank, but at others he allowed it to drift on the currents of his fancy, sometimes riding through his childhood, sometimes making up stories to amuse himself. He existed half in a waking dream and half in a nightmare. Rarely was he focused on the immediate present. He was focused now.
“You’ll never believe it,” she said. A merry gleam sparkled in her eyes and he was reminded of the Rolenya of old.
“What?”
“Salthrick!”
“Salthrick?” He frowned and said, “What of him?”
“He’s here.”
“He’s dead.”
“Not so, old friend,” said a voice from the shadows. Out of an archway leading to another chamber strode the barrel-chested captain of Prince Baleron’s guard himself, a wide grin on his handsome, black-bearded face.
* * *
Baleron leapt up. He stared at Salthrick, tall and strong and fearless. The captain looked older, with gray streaking his hair and a few scars on his face. And grimmer, with a hard set to his jaw. Leaner, even haggard. Yet it was Salthrick, just the same.
Or at least it looked like him.
Baleron backed away.
Salthrick laughed. “I’m no demon,” he said, slapping his chest. “I can see you haven’t changed. Nice beard, by the way. A while yet before you catch up with my curly bush, though, I’d wager.”
Baleron studied him, studied the twinkle in his eye. Rolenya beamed. Baleron detected a trace of nervousness in her, though. She was worried at his reaction. She clearly wanted desperately for him to rejoice. That decided him, more than anything else.
He embraced his old comrade, clapping him soundly on the back. “But how?” he said. “You ... and the wolves ...”
Salthrick shook his head. “Fortune favors the brave. Oh, they nearly killed me, all right. But—well, you don’t want to hear the whole sordid thing.”
“No, I do. Tell me!”
“As you say, my prince.” Salthrick reclined against the wall. “Well, when my own men started changing into wolves, I naturally tried to make my way to the temple. To you and Rolly. But there were too many, and they were all around me. One dragged me down by the throat. Another, still in the shape of a man, struck me on the head with something, and the next thing I knew I woke up in a pit. Asguilar had kept me for a captive. I’ve been rotting in the dungeons of Wegredon ever since.”
“The Light-bearers be praised,” said Baleron, though he did not believe a word of it. He glanced once more from Salthrick to Rolenya. “But how ... here?”
“Thank your sister.”
She smiled so deeply tears formed in her eyes. She must believe it’s really him, Baleron thought, dismayed. Then again, she had always loved him. She had claimed to regard Salthrick as only a friend, but she had been a young girl, and he a big, bold young man, and not unattractive. And now here he was, returned from the dead. She seemed so happy ...
“It’s true,” she told Baleron, obviously delighted to be for once the bearer of good news. “Ungier came to me one day a few weeks ago and told me that, as a gift, Salthrick still lived and that he could be brought here if I wanted, and of course I did, so ...”
“Wonderful,” Baleron said. To Salthrick, he warned, “But you may wish you’d stayed at Wegredon. They work us hard around here.”
Salthrick nodded gravely. “So they tell me. But it’s got to be better than languishing in a hole for three years.”
“Three years!” exclaimed the prince. “Has it been so long?”
“So your sister tells me. I tried to keep track for a while, using a rock to mark the days on a wall. I couldn’t see the wall, but I could feel the grooves. Eventually time ceased to matter.” He leaned forward and gripped Baleron’s shoulde
r hard. “But enough of that. I don’t want to despair, not tonight of all nights. Let us celebrate! For now at least, let’s forget our worries. Forget tomorrow. Deal?”
“It is,” Baleron agreed. Deeper down, wheels began to turn.
“It is,” agreed Rolenya.
A servant poured them each a glass of wine and they sat back on the couch, drinking and talking animatedly. Rolenya seemed supremely glad that at last she’d been able to bring some joy into her brother’s life, and he had to wonder just what price she’d paid for this. Just what had Ungier exchanged Salthrick for? Surely the Lord of Gulrothrog had not done this for nothing; he would have to keep up appearances, after all, even if this was all theater. Baleron tried not to think on it.
At last some feathery rustling noises issued from down a corridor, and a servant popped her head in to say, “The birds are here, my lady.”
“Thank you, Wenya.”
“Birds?” queried Salthrick.
“You’ll see,” she said.
Baleron kept quiet. He was all too familiar with what they were about to do.
They abandoned their wine and made their way through the halls to the large balcony that overlooked Oksilith. The flat, charred landscape stretched away in all directions, giving in at last to the mountains far away. The air was warm.
Perching on the balcony were three huge crow-like birds, glarums, black and sinister, with long sharp beaks. A saddle and reins rested on each of their backs. Ungier possessed many of the birds, and Baleron had learned that the two glarum-riders who had tried to seize him and Rolenya three years ago at the Temple of Illiana had been a gift to Asguilar from his sire for the purpose of securing the royal siblings.
“They’re our transportation for tonight,” Rolenya explained, then turned to Baleron. “Show him.”
Frowning, Baleron climbed astride the glarum he usually rode, a graying bird called Lunir. Lunir was a steady flier and, though he was ill-tempered, he was too old to cause much damage, or at least he had not yet. Baleron had grown fond of him. Though a little unsteady from drink, the prince managed to lash himself on and turned to Salthrick expectantly. The captain looked impressed.
“All right,” said Salthrick gamely. “If that’s the way it has to be, then a rider of birds I shall become. Though I am surprised they trust you not to fly away.”
“They trust us because they can afford to,” Rolenya said. “There are many glarum-riders, the glarumri, who could chase us down quickly if we ran. Or flew, rather.”
Clumsily, Salthrick mounted his bird and Rolenya, more adroit and lady-like, climbed astride hers, then, with a shouted command, the glarums flapped their black wings and rose into the night. Baleron’s stomach lurched and he had to close his eyes for a moment as the ground tilted below, growing farther away by the second. He’d never liked this moment. To his left, Salthrick yelled out, though in fear or excitement the prince couldn’t tell. He looked at the captain, and the captain was grinning; his eyes burned with pleasure. Part of the act?
The glarums wheeled about the spires of Gulrothrog. They circled around to the other side, the side facing the great fiery bulk of Oksil. Then they winged their way upward, riding lava-heated updrafts a little too toasty for Baleron’s comfort. Sweat pasted his shirt to the small of his back.
Wide stairs led up the slope from the fortress’s black doors to the very lip of the volcano’s central shaft, and a large crowd had gathered on the sizeable platform that overhung it, far below the wheeling glarums. Most of those now gathered, Borchstogs and men and others, had taken the stairs, for among his guests only Lord Ungier’s most favored wives and concubines were given the privilege of riding the great birds.
The three glarums circled Oksil’s smoking maw a few times, providing a peek into the belly of the beast: a lake of lava fumed and spurted far down in the volcano’s black throat. At last the glarums set their riders down on the platform and Baleron eagerly climbed off. Lunir cawed once and Baleron patted the glarum’s feathered head.
“Well done, you evil-smelling thing.”
The Borchstog handlers of the glarums fed the birds a diet of carrion (some of it human, Baleron was aware), and the Borchstogs did not believe in washing the creatures, so the glarums tended to reek of rotting meat.
As it was, though, the stench of sulfur and ash was so strong Baleron barely noticed Lunir, although the roaring wind drove some of the stink away. Baleron actually had to steady himself against it. The wind blew cold off the wastelands but hot off the mountain, and the alternately cold and hot air kept him alert. The rough stone of the platform scraped the soles of his feet through his thin sandals.
The crowd murmured around Baleron, and he thought it likely he and his sister were as much under discussion as the coming spectacle. The Oksilin loved to gossip about them. Sometimes he would catch them making quick little gestures of blessing in his direction.
The Savior ... ul Ravast ... What does it all mean?
He noticed servants bearing silver platters laden with dripping goblets, and he determined to avail himself of the opportunity as soon as he could. He turned to Salthrick, who was just slipping off his mount, side by side with Rolenya.
“How did you like your flight?” Baleron asked.
“Truth be told, it was the most fun I’ve had in three years.”
“Yes,” Baleron said, playing along, “it really fires the blood, doesn’t it?”
“You should see the jousts,” Rolenya said. “On certain days Lord Ungier will stage elaborate festivals, and he’ll sit up in his highest tower while glarumri joust in the sky for him. He’ll have whole squadrons fly through the air while his orchestra provides music, and the glarumri will swarm this way and that, almost like dancing. Later they’ll perform aerial feats—tumbling and flips, and leaping from bird to bird. And all the while Ungier and his necromancers will light up the sky with streaks of fire that get brighter and dimmer in time to the music, and change color, too.”
“That sounds like quite a show,” Salthrick said. “Ungier lets his slaves watch?”
“He loves to show off his power.”
Baleron tried not to picture a naked Rolenya serving Ungier wine and feeding him with her own blood while the vampire watched the show from his high tower—tried not to imagine her pleasing the fiend as he basked in his own grandeur.
Baleron turned to face the gathering. Borchstogs comprised the bulk of the audience, but there were others, allies of Gulrothrog—men, trolls, dwarves, even a few representatives from border outposts such as Wegredon.
A slender girl seemingly in her teens and very fair occupied a canopied litter borne by a half dozen Borchstogs. Richly attired and with her golden hair cascading over her narrow shoulders, she sat still, unmoving, a statue of misery. Her green eyes gazed faraway and they were infinitely sad. She’d obviously been crying. I am so sorry, Baleron thought. I wish I could help you. She must be an elf. She was too beautiful to be a mortal and something inside her seemed to glow, as though she were lit from within by an incandescent candle. Her form was a mite too delicate, her cheekbones too high, her eyes too wise, her long neck too elegant.
“Who is she?” said Salthrick.
“Her name’s Eleneth,” Rolenya replied, her voice solemn.
“Why’s she on a litter? Is she a bride of Ungier’s?”
“No. She’s ... she’s the reason we’re here tonight.”
“You don’t know?” Baleron said. “They’re ... going to sacrifice her,” He was careful to keep his voice low so that Eleneth would not overhear. He needn’t have bothered: the roar of the wind and the murmur of the crowd drowned out any but the most strident voice.
“Sacrifice her to whom?” asked Salthrick.
“Grudremorq. One of the Omkarogs, the fell gods. He never took a form of flesh like Gilgaroth, but he aided him, Mogra and Lorg-jilaad in the Great War. Omkarcharoth. Now his spirit resides in Oksil. No,” Baleron corrected himself, “that’s not right, exactly. He made
Oksil. He is Oksil. Before Ungier’s coming, Gilgaroth assigned him here to guard the Gap, so Grudremorq raised this volcano and lives here now.”
“The God of Flame, they call him,” Rolenya elaborated. “He’s volatile and dangerous. Back when he was the sole guardian of Oksilith, he would grow out of control and send his flame and his children, the Grudremorqen, to destroy anything that passed through the Gap without his leave, even Gilgaroth’s armies. Gilgaroth grew enraged and appointed Ungier as his keeper. Grudremorq draws strength from fire ... and death. From time to time Ungier feeds him.”
“Bastard,” said Salthrick.
And you should know, thought Baleron.
A cloud of leathery wings wheeled above, skirting Oksil’s fire-rimmed mouth: a murder of vampires in bat-like form, led by Lord Ungier. Those with him must be the highest in his court. One would be Asguilar, Heir to the Throne of Gulrothrog. He took leave of Wegredon often to visit the Hidden Fortress and would occasionally descend into the mines to torment Baleron.
The cloud of rithlags landed. All on the platform bowed before Ungier save the Borchstogs bearing the doomed Eleneth. Even Rolenya bowed and motioned for Baleron and Salthrick to do the same.
Ungier smiled, the high mountain wind ruffling his bat-like ears. “Good evening,” he said in Oksilon, which Baleron had learned well during his time here. A dialect of Oslogon, it differed only slightly from that more ancient tongue.
“Good evening, Lord,” came the mumbled response. Baleron said nothing.
“Stand, my friends, and bear witness to the feeding of an Omkar.”
He stepped out onto a gangplank-like affair that extended from the platform directly over the boiling lake of lava far below. His wings billowed in the updraft.
“Great Grudremorq!” he shouted. “Hear me! I bring you on this moonless night a beautiful virgin elf for your pleasure and consumption. May the taking of her Grace give you strength.”
He motioned to Borchstogs drummers, whose instruments were fashioned from human or elvish skin. With their drumsticks of bone they let loose a roll of thunder that washed ominously across the platform. Eleneth wailed.
