by Jack Conner
Logran wore loose, comfortable robes that looked due for a wash, and he carried no staff and wore no pointy wizard’s hat. He could have been just another old man. He was tall, and for all his life Baleron had always considered him hale and vigorous, but now he looked frail and his complexion was wan and sickly. The prince wondered if this was all due to grief ... or something else. Surely Logran would be fine; he was at least two hundred years old, possibly much older, having extended his life through sorcerous means, and Baleron fully expected the Archmage to live to meet his own grandchildren and possibly theirs as well. But now he wondered.
“You look sharp as steel,” said the Archmage. “Fine indeed. I wish I felt half as fine as you look, my prince.”
Baleron clasped the wrist of the sorcerer’s bony hand gripping his shoulder. It did so with a strength that belied the sorcerer’s dilapidated appearance.
“What’s wrong?” Baleron asked. “You don’t look yourself.”
Logran laughed ironically. “Maybe I’m not. You never know, these days. It seems the Wolf’s agents abound everywhere, and you never know what mischief they might be up to. Just the thought of them is enough to make an old man older.”
He leaned close and whispered in Baleron’s ear, “Did you know that at least two members of the Grand Council are suspected of being spies?” When Baleron looked properly aghast, the sorcerer nodded grimly. “We’ve called a session of the Council to determine the best course of action, but it will be a week or more before all the diplomats arrive, and that’s on Swan-back and more. It’s got me worried, Baleron. How many of them might be the Enemy’s agents?”
“We should adopt the methods of the Elves,” Baleron said. “Examine everyone we’re not sure of.”
“We will,” Logran assured him. “We have in the past, but the Elves have perfected their techniques, and ours have stagnated. At least, till now.”
“You’ve done it?”
“Well, not all on my own, of course. Over the past five years at Celievsti, I’ve made it my business to learn those techniques. That’s one of the many things Elethris taught me. One of the many reasons I went to be tutored by him. But ... well, it didn’t save him, did it? He died by the hand of an assassin even his arts could not detect.” He scratched his gnarled and stained beard. “No, that’s not the answer to end all answers, I’m afraid. No matter what, they seem to find a way to slip through. Yet if nothing else we will be more vigilant.”
He ushered the younger man into his suite and, as he talked, led him through the halls, which were clean but messy, and well lit, either from torches, braziers or from large windows that dominated walls and looked out on the wonders of Glorifel.
“For years,” Logran said, “I’ve tried to convince your father to allow a more prevalent use of magic, but he’s been too heavily indoctrinated into his forefathers’ way of thinking. He sees sorcerers as inhuman because we possess at least a faint echo of Grace. Men typically make poor sorcerers—that is, we can’t very well channel power directly like the elves—but a few of us can at least manipulate some of the binding forces of the earth. We may not be able to draw them out and funnel them through us, but at least we can learn to wield the already existing energies to some extent.”
He clapped Baleron on the back. “But your father’s a stubborn man, as you know all too well. He won’t allow me to fully utilize my gifts, at least not publicly. But privately,” he added, “he’s allowed us more leniency. Glorifel is actually rather well protected already, and especially this castle. Now, with what I’ve learned from Elethris, and what I’ve been given, I can make us all even safer.”
“What were you given?”
Slyly, Logran pulled an odd vial from out of his robes. The flower within shone with a white light, and Baleron felt a warmth emanating from it.
“What ... what is it?” he asked.
“This, my prince, is a gift from Elethris. This is going to be the thing that saves us. The Flower of Itherin, he called it.”
“Itherin, his wife?”
“Just so. It grew from her grave.”
Baleron’s mouth went dry. “What can it do?”
“It’s a thing of great power. Elethris believed it contained a very real echo of his wife’s Grace, that it resonated with her being.”
“What will you use it for?”
“I’ll wait to see what your father’s orders are, of course. The King’s Council should be meeting in an hour. We’ll find out then.”
“We?” It had been Baleron’s dream since he was very little to attend the council meetings with his father, the generals, sorcerers and the other princes.
“I believe so. We shall see.” He laughed at Baleron’s expression.
While the prince daydreamed, Logran rummaged about until he found a bottle of what looked look apple cider and poured himself a healthy dose into a dirty glass. He offered a glass to Baleron, but the prince shook off the offer. The grimy glass reminded him (unfairly) of his depravations at Gulrothrog. He thought of how he’d had to slop up gruel from a trough like a pig for three years and frowned.
Taking a breath, he said, “I need your help.”
“Ah, do tell.” The sorcerer plopped down in a chair and was nearly lost in the folds of its plush if musty cushions. Baleron had to cough away the dust. Attendants may have kept Baleron’s suite clean and tidy during his absence, but they had either feared or been forbidden from stepping foot in here.
“Sit, sit,” the sorcerer bade him, swirling the cider around his mouth.
“Not yet.” Baleron drew out his sword and laid it on the table that the chairs were arranged around. A huge window bathed the room in light and warmth, though the light was murky.
Logran frowned at the sword. “The Fanged Blade ...”
“Elethris spoke of it?”
The sorcerer nodded, his bushy eyebrows arched severely. “Indeed he did. The sword of Asguilar, Ungier’s Firstborn, forged by Ungier himself before the Breaking of the World.” His eyes regarded Baleron curiously, warily. “What, exactly, can I do for you, my prince?”
Baleron said simply, “I want you to de-fang it.”
After meeting with Logran, he decided there was no putting it off any longer: he would have to make the dreaded trek to the atrium.
Steeling himself, he went down to the rear of the castle. Here stretched the large and very famous Alida Gardens—Alida being the wife of King Grothgar II. She’d been famous for her love of flowers and gardens, and she’d led the movement to beautify the city in the wake of the elvish exodus.
Artful little streams ran through the sprawling gardens and walkways, and there were not less than three rainbows that arched from little hilltop to little hilltop, where the springs originated. Their bright colors fell softly across the vibrant green of the grass. Logran had made them at Baleron’s mother’s request some thirty years ago, despite Albrech’s objections, and they still leapt and sprang to this day. In the center of it all loomed a large and equally famous (if not notorious) aviary whose glass walls and white columns shone in the sun. Its golden dome glinted, rising from the tantalizing horticulture, and to the prince it seemed like a dream.
Time slowed. As a bee passed nearby, he could hear every beat of its wings and hear its bass hum and see the wax on its feet and smell the honey in the air. Wet green grass crunched underfoot.
As he stepped through the atrium’s archway, the chirping of thousands of birds assaulted him. Their peculiar odors were overwhelming—and not all good. Yet he smiled; the birds were his mother’s passion.
He passed many huge rooms full of hundreds if not thousands of varieties of birds, from the smallest hummingbird to the largest eagle, from owls to parrots to pheasants and more, many more, with an emphasis on the bright tropical varieties. The riot of their colors clashed loudly, and the effect jarred him. Whole chambers were grouped by color so that his mother could visit different areas when in different moods; other areas were grouped by the style of sin
ging or vegetation requirements. He enjoyed the ones by the stream the most; he found the running water soothing. Queen Anora even boasted some magical varieties, such as the phoenix, which burned, a creature of fire, on a high branch, the flames not scoring the wood. Other birds kept their distance from it.
He entered a certain network of chambers and ascended tall trees, leaping from rope to branch to ladder, until finally he reached the carefully constructed tree house in which the queen lived. So skilled were the craftsmen that the house almost seemed to meld with the tree it was set in, but it was far too artistic to be an accident of nature.
He spied Anora up in one of the balconies, leaning on the railing and gazing with dreamy eyes upon her colorful flocks. He expected her to burst into song at any moment.
Well dressed and cared for, she was a woman of medium height and build who’d kept her looks; her makeup was light and her hair arranged in delicate chestnut buns behind her head. She was a pretty woman, if not beautiful. With the innocent delight on her face, she could almost be a child—and in some respects she was.
Letting himself into the house from a trapdoor below, he made his way through the well-furnished rooms to the balcony where she stood. She turned at his approach and half-smiled at him.
“Mother,” he said and went to her.
She accepted his hug warmly if a bit distantly, and patted him on the back. “And how are you today?” she asked gaily, but he sensed the distance in her tone, as if she were asking this question of someone she hardly knew, or perhaps someone she did not know at all.
“I’m fine,” he told her. “How are you?”
“Oh,” she assured him, “I’m quite well, thank you so for asking. Why don’t you have a seat? I don’t get enough visitors. Can I make you some tea?”
“That would be nice,” he told her.
She nodded brightly and disappeared inside her cabin. He heard her speaking with a servant, and she returned shortly bearing a tray laden with two cups of hot tea.
She sat it down on the little table on the balcony and proffered him a cup. He accepted gladly and reclined on a chair, while she took one for herself and leaned against the railing.
“Ah,” she said, sipping gingerly. “They make the finest teas here.”
“They do.” Steam rose from his cup.
She smiled at him mildly. “Now what did you say your name was?”
He suppressed a grimace. “Baleron. We’ve ...” He cleared his throat. “ ... we’ve met before.”
“Oh? Good. I feel so uncomfortable meeting strangers.” She paused, then smiled majestically. When she smiled she was gorgeous, especially to her son’s eyes. “Would you like to hear me sing?”
“I would love to.” It was she who’d taught Rolenya, after all.
His mother lifted her head, and a melodious sound sprang from her lips and filled the chambers of the aviary with joy and longing and sadness and faded glory. The birds quieted their own songs to hear it. Baleron listened, as he had many times before, while he sipped his tea and wondered why.
A middle-aged soldier interrupted the reunion.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” he said, as the queen sang on, oblivious, “Your father suggested I might find you here. Pardon me for intruding.”
“Not at all,” Baleron said. “Let me guess; you’re my new captain of the guard. Salthrick’s ... replacement.”
The soldier nodded and stepped closer, offering his hand. “Rafael Quinton, my lord. At your command.”
Baleron shook his hand and said, “Good to meet you, Captain. You’re of higher standing than Salthrick was.”
“Yes. It seems you’re more important now than you used to be, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Important to my father, anyway. I’ve always been important to me.”
Rafael Quinton actually smiled. “It will be an honor to serve you, my lord. Your father suggested I escort you to the War Room. A meeting is about to start. Briefings will be held twice daily now that war has begun, if not more often. You are to attend every one.”
Logran had been right. Baleron’s enthusiasm was dampened, though, by the knowledge that if not for him none of this would be necessary. There would be no war.
He bid his mother goodbye, and she hugged him politely, still not at all sure she had met him before, even though it had been his birth that had driven her mad all those years ago, and told him to come back soon, that she always enjoyed visitors.
Riding a two-hundred-foot-long ebon serpent, Ungier led his vast host on through the endless jagged peaks of the Aragst. On and on they marched, sometimes chanting or singing, sometimes roaring out their joy at the prospect of the war to come. Storm clouds shielded them from the sun, and lightning blasted the dark slopes. The wind sighed and moaned.
At last Ungier rode between two high peaks and beheld the awesome might of Qazradan, the largest mountain of the Black Shield. Within that mountain waited a dark power, and mighty towers rose from the great bastion there. Ungier led his host over a shoulder of rock, around a deep chasm, and toward the high archway boring into the mountain. A tower rose to either side of the tunnel, and the guardians there did not open the gate for the army. Yet they perceived that a high son of their Master was present, and to him they granted entry. This was the greatest temple to Gilgaroth beyond Oslog proper—an entire mountain and the deep labyrinths beneath it.
Ungier asked for volunteers to be sacrificed, and an ancient Borchstog general was among those to step forward. Ungier accepted his offering and one other, then led the way inside, accompanied by a Gilgarothan priest. Deep, deep into the mountain they journeyed, and moisture dripped from the stalactites overhead and slicked the black walls so that they glistened. The air grew cooler and cooler until finally even Ungier shivered. The air turned putrid.
At last they entered the audience chamber for the High Priest. The room was a vast black gloom with an even blacker abyss. Ungier’s eyes could see well here, though, and he bore witness to the mighty presence of the High Priest, with all his writhing tentacles and towering immensity. His innumerable mouths, lined with fangs, sang out a song of love for the Master and a greeting to this mighty son come on the first stage of the Final Crusade.
Ungier sacrificed the lesser Borchstog to the priest, who then granted him entry into the Temple, deep in the dark heart of the mountain. This was a grand affair with wide-spaced pillars vanishing upwards, and downwards too, and it pulsed with power gathered over the ages. Only Gilgaroth’s highest supplicants were allowed to enter here and worship his majesty.
It turned Ungier’s stomach to be here, to have to pretend at love and obedience, when for an age he’d been his own master, answering to no one but Ungier. But here he was, and he would make good, and someday he would be restored to glory.
The sacrifice lay himself upon the altar and Ungier slit his throat with the jeweled dagger he normally used for these rituals. The soul of the Borchstog general was drawn like a wisp of black smoke up to the giant stone wolf head that had been carved from the rear of the cavern and which loomed above the altar.
Ungier took a last glimpse of the face, staring into those cold stone eyes. Such times were the only occasions he could ever stare his father in the eyes without feeling ashamed.
The soul disappeared down the gullet of the Wolf’s mouth, and smoke wreathed up from between the long dripping fangs. The eyes awoke and blazed with fire, lighting the temple with the flames of Illistriv.
The eyes of hell stared down at Ungier and narrowed.
Ungier lowered his gaze. “Father, I’ve come to give my final report before descending on Havensrike. I had hoped to receive Your blessing.”
A deep growl issued from the stone mouth, and Gilgaroth said, “You do well, My son.”
“Thank You, Father.” This was rare praise, and Ungier relished it.
“So well that I must see it in the flesh.”
Ice touched Ungier’s spine. Panic. “What ... what was that,
Father? I mean, aren’t you at the Black Tower of Your vision, letting it bask in Your glow—to make it strong? Surely it requires Your presence.”
A pause. All Ungier could hear was the crackle of the flaming Eyes. Then:
“Fear not, son. I seek not to usurp your command. I seek only sport. Too long has it been since I have seen War.”
“Then ... You are truly coming here?” Ungier felt sweat bead his brow, and he detected a tremor in his voice. This was the worst possible development.
“No,” said the Voice.
Ungier sagged in gratitude.
“I am here already.”
There was a thud from the black ceiling as if something awesome landed on the mountain above, and a stalactite broke off and plummeted to the floor hundreds of feet below. Ungier just barely scrambled out of the way in time.
“Clevaris is now well and truly under siege,” Archmage Logran Belefard said gravely. Now that he was back, he had resumed his position as Chief Royal Advisor. “I have just communed with Queen Vilana and she’s told me the grim tidings herself. And while Clevaris is paralyzed, Grudremorq sends his excess host out to the other Larenthin cities, burning them one after the other. Even now his Grudremorqen raze Ethinil. Before long all Larenthi will be aflame save for Clevaris. It will stand the longest, but it too will fall.”
“We must help them,” Baleron said.
He sat beside his next-oldest brother Larik at the Council Table in the war room. The king sat alone at the head of the table, while on his right side his six surviving sons (save Jered) sat in order of their birth, with Prince Rilurn closest to him and Baleron furthest. On his left side sat his most senior advisors in descending order of their rank. Of them, of course, Logran sat closest to the king. And at the foot of the table sat the kingdom’s three highest generals.
Baleron felt nervous and awkward. He had to speak past the lump in his throat. He couldn’t believe he was actually here, couldn’t believe he was being allowed to speak, but whether he would be listened to remained unclear.
