by Jack Conner
Chapter 9
“Who will be the first one to die?” roared Ungier.
Tall and stately, with his leathery, bat-like wings folded behind him, his scabrous head lifted high in the air, the Vampire King was the very picture of smugness as he paced back and forth before the long line of prisoners. On their knees in ragged uniforms, their hands bound behind them, the captured human soldiers glared up at him.
He swept an arm toward King Grothgar, who stood upon the aged gray city wall. Grim-faced, Albrech did not reply.
Baleron stood near him a few spaces over, and in between were Logran and Rilurn. On the king’s other side stood General Kavradnum. All were silent, watching this display impotently.
“I will let you decide,” Ungier finished, giving a mock bow to Albrech.
The Borchstogs in Ungier’s army hooted and called out, eager to see the man-king tormented, eager to see blood spilled. Amongst them waited Gilgaroth, radiating shadow. The demons pressed close against him, wanting to be near the great god who had created them. His eyes and the back of his throat blazed with the fires of Illistriv, the Second Hell, and smoke poured from his nostrils like they were chimneys.
The line of prisoners shifted in despair: a hundred of them, all caught in battle during the week-long siege.
“I will kill ten of them today,” Ungier continued. “I will drain the very last drop of blood from them and give their souls to my Master.” He gave a very real bow to Gilgaroth, then turned back to Albrech. “But you, King, shall choose whom I drain.”
“And why should I play along with your game?” Albrech said.
“Because if you don’t, I will kill twenty of these prisoners anyway, and the remainder my troops will torture all night long, and then I will kill twenty tomorrow. If you choose, I’ll only kill ten, and there will be no torture—well, not much.” He smiled.
Baleron cast his gaze skyward, where black thunderclouds blocked out the moon and stars. Even if it were day, however, he would not have known it, as Gilgaroth kept the clouds here constantly to provide his army shade.
“I will not play your games!” Albrech shouted.
Lightning flickered, illuminating the Vampire King. Bonfires blazed all about the enemy host, casting hellish light on the proceedings. Ungier’s smile showed his terrible fangs, and it wrinkled his bat-like face into a gruesome mask. His all-black eyes glittered evilly. “Then you will hear the screams of your men till dawn—and again tomorrow, when those that still live have recovered strength enough to scream once more.”
General Kavradnum leaned in close to Albrech’s ear. “They’ll torture them anyway, my lord. The best we could do is to have our archers take them down.”
“Kill our own men?”
“What choice have we? They are within bowshot. Ungier may not fear our missiles, but they will do for his prisoners. They’ll not have to undergo torture and blood-letting, and their souls will go free.”
“No,” Albrech said. “I will not give such an order.”
Ungier, evidently growing impatient, shouted up, “Decide, King! Which ones shall I kill?”
Albrech gritted his teeth. Wind sighed and moaned, bringing with it the stench of the bonfires; the Borchstogs continued to use the bodies of fallen warriors as kindling (after they ate their flesh), and the reek was foul.
At last, Albrech sighed. “Fine,” he said quietly to the General. “See to it.”
“You cannot mean it!” said Baleron. “Don’t let Ungier trick you. He feeds on pain more than he feeds on blood. This is just his way to cause it.”
“Where are my options? At least this will save their souls, if nothing else.”
The Archmage Logran spoke up. Running a hand through his steel-gray beard, he said, “I could shoot him.”
“Who? Ungier?”
Logran nodded. “And I could make it hurt. It won’t kill him, but it will teach him not to play these little games. Teach him not to use our men as sport.”
“But what of their souls?”
“Decide, king!” came the roar of the impatient vampire.
“I need a moment to confer!” Albrech responded. “This is no light matter.”
At this, Ungier looked pleased. “No,” he said, “it is not. Not to you. Go. Have your moment. But make it short.”
Albrech returned his attention to Logran, who said, “I will shoot Ungier, while at the same moment General Kavradnum has the prisoners shot—”
“No,” said Baleron, quietly. They looked at him. “I will rescue them. Give me two hundred riders. I’ll lead a sortie and bring them back.”
“Lose two hundred to gain one hundred?” Albrech said. “You’re better at numbers than that, surely. And likely we’d lose all three.”
Baleron’s voice was firm. “I will bring them in, Father. I promise you.”
Albrech glared at him, then, apparently seeing his resolve, studied him in more detail. Slowly, he nodded. “Very well, son. I did say I would give you a command. Make the most of it.” He added, “Just come back alive.”
The general issued some whispered orders to his lieutenants, and while they arranged things, Albrech said to Logran, “Do it.”
The corners of Logran’s mouth twitched. “My pleasure.”
He carried a white longbow and a quiver of arrows across his back; the arrows glowed with a white light, and Baleron wondered if the sorcerer had gotten them from the Elves during his stay in Celievsti. Setting down his staff, the Archmage picked up his bow from where it leaned against the parapet, but not before applying some strange, shiny ointment to the tip of an arrow—liquid Light, Baleron thought, awed.
The sorcerer notched the shaft, aimed, and fired. The arrow flew out toward Ungier, who saw it coming and waved a clawed hand, confident in his powers to knock it aside, but the arrow stayed true, and the white-feathered shaft sank into Ungier’s gray chest, right into his shriveled black heart, if he had one.
He stumbled and fell back. Smoke rose from the wound. Gray flesh burned. Writhing, screaming, black blood spurting, Ungier tried to pull the arrow free but it was caught firmly in his ribs.
Baleron couldn’t resist a smile. During his three years of slavery in Gulrothrog, he’d longed to hear just such a sound from Ungier’s throat.
The Borchstogs behind Ungier fell silent. Several rushed to Ungier and helped him up. One tried to remove the arrow, but its efforts must have pained the vampire, as Ungier tore out its throat with his teeth and shoved the still-twitching body away.
Albrech chuckled.
All along the Wall, men cheered and banged pieces of armor together. Some of the hundred prisoners down below smiled or laughed, but others shifted nervously, afraid of repercussions.
“Well done,” Albrech told Logran, and merely nodded, a small smile on his aged face.
Ungier, livid, with one hand still clutched about the white shaft, lifted his other and pointed a trembling finger at the wall of Glorifel. “Attack!” he roared, hoarsely. “Attack!”
By this time the two hundred cavalry had been gathered and Baleron went to them. With rising excitement, he donned his helmet, mounted his horse and turned to address his new men as they were settling themselves on their steeds before the South Gates. This was his one chance. He must make it a good one.
The Gates were thrown open and Baleron led his two hundred beyond the walls, a hail of arrows covering their advance. Baleron’s stallion plowed a Borchstog under, and his sword flashed, stealing another’s head. His men charged behind him.
He led them toward the hundred prisoners, cutting a bloody swath through Ungier’s ranks.
A Troll hurled a spear at him, but he ducked and the spear flew overhead. It struck one of his men instead, passed through that one and skewered a second.
A tide of Borchstogs closed in, choking off Baleron’s path. He saw that a gaurock large enough to bear fifty Borchstogs was slithering towards his group from the rear. He needed to be gone before it arrived.
�
�I’m ul Ravast!” he shouted to the Borchstogs. “Let me pass!”
He tore off his helmet and flung it aside, letting them see his face. They gasped and fell back.
“Roschk ul Ravast!” they chanted, bowing.
Howling, he led his charge onward, slaughtering all who stood against him. The great serpent continued to approach, but it was some distance off as yet. At last he reached the cowering prisoners and slew their guards. To the prisoners he shouted, “Come! Quickly! To the Gates!”
Their frantic faces lit with hope, and, with their hands still bound behind them, they ran toward the South Gates as Baleron’s men surrounded them and beat back the horde of demons that closed in.
A glarumril swept low and the Great Crow’s talons scooped up one of the knights and carried him high into the air, then dropped him screaming to the ground. Another knight was plucked from his saddle, and the glarum began eating him as it flew.
As they neared the walls, Havensrike archers drove the glarumri off, and at last they passed through the gates. Men cheered. Nurses and priestesses tended to the freed prisoners as Baleron ascended the wall and aided the soldiers in repelling the Borchstogs in Ungier’s latest assault. The battle lasted for hours until the rithlag finally blew his blackened horn, calling the retreat.
Watching them go, Baleron wiped sweat from his brow with a shaking, blood-soaked hand. Breathing heavily, exhausted, he leaned against the crenellated wall and removed his helm, letting the wind cool him. Blood and sweat, still tacky, dried on his face. All about him, he smelled death and smoke, but he’d grown all too used to that by now.
His father approached, lighting a pipe, Prince Rilurn at his right hand. Both were covered in blood, some of it their own. Albrech looked Baleron up and down, appraising.
Baleron held his breath.
Finally, the king said, “I checked. Out of your two hundred, you lost seventeen. Yet you rescued ninety-one. Your numbers were well tabulated, after all.”
That was it. And yet, it meant so much to Baleron. It meant even more when Albrech, almost casually, but with an underlying gravity, passed him the pipe.
Baleron put it to his lips and drew the smoke into his mouth. He swirled it about gently, finding it spicy but smooth, then exhaled. He passed the pipe to Rilurn, who eyed him skeptically.
Together, the three smoked as they stared out over the battlefield. Baleron tried to count the number of dead, but it was like counting the stars.
“We’ll beat them yet, Father,” Rilurn said.
The king did not look so certain.
While they smoked, Baleron drew his sword and rubbed it down with a piece of oil-stained cloth, frowning.
“What bothers you?” asked the king.
“This sword—it’s not Rondthril’s equal by a long shot.”
“Rondthril—the weapon you got from Ungier’s firstborn? I thought that it was cursed.”
“So am I. I suppose I feel an affinity for it. And it is ... well, powerful. When I fought with it in hand, it aided me, I can’t explain how. It’s like it guided me. And it could cut through armor, through solid metal. Logran has it now. He’s been trying to rid it of the evil that holds it in Gilgaroth’s thrall.”
“You should just have it melted down,” Rilurn advised. “It’s a weapon of the Shadow. It will never be any use to us.”
“I think I’ll go see if Logran’s finished with it,” Baleron said. “He’s had enough time.”
“I saw him retire to his Tower,” Albrech said helpfully.
Baleron quit the wall and made his way through the ranks of soldiers below. He saw dirty beards, soot-streaked faces and hopeless eyes. They gave him a wide berth, and some shot him strange, even fearful glances.
“The Ender,” he heard one mutter.
“Is that him?” asked another.
“The Savior of the Dark.”
“The Prince of Doom.”
Baleron didn’t know how news of his curse had leaked out exactly, but it had. Perhaps Gilgaroth’s words with him a week ago had been overheard and repeated, or one of his brothers had said something to a mistress and word had spread. It didn’t matter. He’d been away from home so long that he’d become used to being alone. He needed no company save Amrelain’s. Even this life was more than he’d expected, really; he should have died three years ago with all of his men during the attack in the Aragst. Every day after that had been a day stolen from the jaws of fate.
He found Lunir, who was squawking and snapping at nearby soldiers from within its hastily-built pen along the wall. When Lunir saw him, the huge bird let out a caw of recognition. Baleron patted his black head, noting the smattering of gray, and fed Lunir some foul-smelling meat, then saddled him and slipped astride.
“Away, boy,” he said. “To Logran’s Tower.” It had become Baleron’s custom to arrive at the wall and depart from it on the back of the glarum, and soldiers had grown used to the sight of it.
The glarum cawed and with an arthritic flap of its wings was off.
That night after draining several prisoners, Ungier ventured underground to his Father’s temple. Mounted heads lined either side of the depression leading down into the cavern, each head abuzz with flies. Bones were set into walls of the tunnel in fantastic, nightmarish shapes, and black candles blazed in the darkness.
Ungier picked his way down the tunnel herding his sacrifice, the tallest and strongest of the Havensrike prisoners, until they reached the large chamber of the temple proper. Here the Vampire King had fashioned a rough holy place for his Sire, and the darkspawn came here to worship and sacrifice to the Great One daily, despite Ungier’s misgivings. Back at Gulrothrog, his subjects had worshipped him. Yet this was part of his penance, he knew, and he must do it if he wanted his Sire’s forgiveness.
Ungier bade the human to lie on the altar, and, in thrall to the vampire, the man did so. He did not protest as Ungier removed the sacrificial knife and slit his throat.
Ungier waited for his thrashing body to still and watched, fascinated, as Gilgaroth ate his soul. As soon as it passed down the Wolf’s gullet, fire and smoke issued forth. The eyes quickened and blazed.
“Ungier,” growled the Wolf.
“They made a fool of me,” said the former Lord of Gulrothrog. He lowered his gaze and knelt before the Wolf, his head bowed. He dared not look up.
“I know,” said the voice. Gilgaroth was a large dark shadow on the other side of the altar with two blazing red eyes.
“I don’t like this plan,” Ungier said. “I don’t like being made sport of before my troops.”
“They are Mine,” growled the Wolf.
Ungier swallowed. “As you say, my Lord.” He hesitated. “Are you sure You would not like to take command of the army?”
“I have come for sport, nothing else. Also, I shall be leaving soon.”
Ungier tried to hide his relief. The question had needed to be asked, but he had dreaded its answer. Hastily he added, “The hundred men were taken in past the walls—by Baleron—just as You said.”
“All is proceeding along the Spider’s web.” Suddenly the terrible eyes blazed hungrily.
Ungier’s mind spun furiously, trying to puzzle out Gilgaroth’s design.
“Is there nothing else?” Gilgaroth said.
There was something else, but Ungier feared to ask it. He wanted a boon of his father, but he did not think now was the time.
“No,” he said.
“Then be gone.”
Ungier gnashed his teeth, rose and left. For a long time, he just stood there at the tunnel mouth, staring at the Borchstogs who flooded in after him, eager to seek audience with the Master. Many brought sacrifices. Some intended to sacrifice themselves.
“Fear not for me, Father,” he whispered. “I will make my way to Krogbur soon, and I will arrive there in glory.”
He did not like having ul Kunraggog here, no matter His great power. Ungier feared his troops would look to Gilgaroth for leadership, not him, and
he could little tolerate that. Yet it was the Glorifelans who’d earned his ire today. They had shamed him before his army, and his Sire. It was not long before a method of vengeance occurred to him, and at last he smiled.
Baleron looked up from his position on one of Logran’s couches as the wielder of Light emerged from a back room bearing the sword draped in a blue cloth. The Archmage laid the weapon down on the coffee table and delicately removed the cloth, exposing the naked blade.
“Rondthril,” he said. “I now return you to your master.”
Baleron sucked in a breath. “You said you needed time to see if the darkness could be removed from it, and so I’ve waited. But I can wait no more. It’s a powerful sword and I would wield it, especially now, but I can’t if it shrinks from slaying those possessed by evil.”
“It slew Borchstogs and Grudremorqen handily enough at Gulrothrog. And a few vampires, too, if I’ve heard the stories correctly. Yet even without the sword you have become quite formidable, I must say.”
“The sword seeks death and blood,” Baleron said. “It helped me greatly, and a few Borchstogs more or less are not integral to the Shadow’s will. But the sword cannot oppose his will. I can feel it, and ...” He hesitated. How much to tell the sorcerer? He didn’t want to go into his attempt at finding death on his own terms, so he simply said, “I’ve proven it to my satisfaction.”
“So you would ... oppose the Shadow’s will? Directly?”
“If I can’t, why fight?”
Logran rubbed his bearded chin and frowned. “Ungier poured part of his essence into this sword upon its forging, and it is that which gives the sword its black heart and thirst for blood. The only way to remove the darkness from the blade is to destroy the source of the darkness.”
“Ungier.” Baleron whistled. “That’s a tall order.” Part of him thought, So that’s what Elethris was holding back. No wonder he wouldn’t tell me.
Logran smiled kindly and patted the prince’s knee. “Indeed it is, and I wouldn’t recommend the attempt, especially since Rondthril would be useless against its maker.”
“It frightened him once.”
