by Jack Conner
“The bad onesss alwaysss do.” Rauglir flicked his head to the still-dangling prince. “I’ve worked too hard to twissst that one to see you ssssimply eat him. Besides, he is The Ssssavior.”
“THEN WHAT WOULD YOU SUGGEST, DEMON?”
“His Doom hasss delivered him and hisss father into our . . . handssss. You were sent to retrieve him. Retrieve him. The king . . . isss mine!”
Now dread did begin to build up in Baleron. Rauglir was right. Baleron had tried to master his Doom, but his Doom had won. It had prompted him to seek out and kidnap the king and bring it to where its Master’s agents were waiting.
But what other choice did I have? It was a good plan. A worthy one. Unfortunately it had been the Enemy’s, also, and now his father would die; Baleron knew without a doubt that Rauglir could easily catch up with Albrech and his kidnappers. If Rauglir went after them, they were dead men. Somehow he had to stop the demon.
“No!” he shouted. He hurled his dagger into Throgmar’s eye.
It worked better than he’d hoped. Throgmar grunted in annoyance and dropped Baleron to the ground. He struck hard, the breath driven from him. Forcing himself not to pause, he rolled aside.
Throgmar plucked the comparatively tiny dagger from his eye and tossed it aside. It had done very little damage. A bass rumble issued from his throat, and fire licked his lips.
Off to the side, Rauglir just chuckled.
“Take him to the Massster,” hissed the demon.
“YES,” agreed the Leviathan. “HIS TORMENT SHALL CONTINUE. YOU’RE RIGHT; IT IS THE
BETTER WAY.” “Yesss.” The serpent regarded Baleron. “Good bye, lover. I will give your regardsss to your father.”
Baleron lunged at him, meaning to crush the life from him with his one hand, but the snake darted aside.
The prince gave chase—crippled, soaked to the skin, wide—eyed and desperate, hair pasted to his skull, stumbling frantically in the mud and rain after the skillfully-slithering serpent towards a half-blocked opening in an immense ruin that had once been the seat of government in the mightiest nation of the Crescent—but Rauglir was quicker than he and in an instant the demon had disappeared into the shadows of the tunnel.
Baleron charged after him, all his thought bent on stopping the snake, but a huge scaly claw suddenly blocked the tunnel, and Baleron slammed into it. Bounced off. Flailing, he reeled backward, stumbling in the mud and debris, then fell.
Throgmar loomed above him.
Baleron saw Rondthril sticking from the earth, shining in the darkness, and, leaping to his feet, he wrenched it loose from the wet ground and turned to confront the Worm.
Chuckling, Throgmar said, “PUT THAT AWAY.”
A cloud descended on Baleron’s mind, and he had no choice but to comply. He sheathed Rondthril. It would have been useless, anyway.
“SO YOU ARE MINE NOW. AGAIN.”
The cloud departed, replaced by a claw. Throgmar picked him up. Baleron screamed and thrashed in the dragon’s grip, but Throgmar gave no heed.
“NOW YOUR MISSION IS FULFILLED. SO IS MINE. BUT THERE IS SOMETHING ELSE I MUST DO. ONE LAST THING, AND THEN IT IS DONE BETWEEN US.”
“What?” Baleron demanded. “What?”
But Throgmar did not answer.
The dragon launched himself into the sky, his great wings mastering the air. Still carrying Baleron in his armored fist, the terrible Worm began to climb the storm-tossed heavens, and the fallen city began to recede below. Borchstogs and worse continued to ravage it, which despite the rain was half in flame and half in shadow.
Tears running freely down his face, Baleron desperately watched the tunnel entrance diminish below—hoping, praying, that the king would miraculously stumble out, clutching the beheaded body of Rauglir and laughing victoriously in the rain—but knowing that within minutes his father would be dead, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The king would die, Havensrike would fall, and the Shadow would lengthen, consuming all in its path, when its path was the world entire.
The Dark One had won.
Baleron’s Doom had been fulfilled, and his web was complete . . . or so he supposed. He prayed to Illiana that it was. What more could ul Ravast possibly do?
He still had one hope, though, fragile and treacherous a thing as it was—Rondthril. Both Logran and Elethris had seen something in it, and in Baleron’s wielding of it, that would indicate some high cause could be served.
But, of course, something had to happen first. Had it happened already, perhaps? Baleron wondered where Ungier was at that moment.
Ungier, commander of the gathered host, watched the sacking of Glorifel with great pride. His chest swelled as his eyes drank in the slaughter. It was glorious.
Ringed by his royal guard of trolls, the Vampire King strode up and through the very Gates of the City. This was the proudest night of his life. Borchstogs looted and raped and slew mercilessly all around him. Darkworms flew overhead, setting fire to great portions of the metropolis. Gaurocks wallowed in the rivers. Igrith sowed terror into the hearts of the surviving Men. Beasts and vampires and monsters of all sorts prowled the alleys.
In a certain courtyard Ungier came upon a wide tangle of dead bodies, some human, some Borchstog, some other, and with his power he raised the corpses from their slumber and instilled wicked spirits in them. The walking dead then stalked off to do his bidding, and he laughed.
He saw a gang of Borchstogs pursuing a teary maiden and stayed their assault. His eyes transfixed the girl, and she went to him, thinking in her delusion that he would offer sanctuary. Instead, he wrapped her in his arms and sank his fangs into her neck. Hot blood spurted the back of his throat, and he gulped it hungrily. He drained the very life from her, and then threw back his blood-spattered face and howled joyously. Tonight was the best night of his long life.
Chapter 10
Glorifel succumbed to the evil of Ungier. Baleron watched it happen.
The area about the city was hilly, and Throgmar set down on a high point to the south. From there the two watched in silence as flames and terror washed across the capital of Havensrike. Baleron let the tears fall without restraint. He sank to his knees and wept. Throgmar watched him, seeming to bask in his horror and grief.
Finally Baleron turned to the dragon angrily. “You must think this is all very amusing, you bastard.”
“WATCH YOUR TONGUE, MORTAL.”
“And if I don’t? Will you kill me?”
“PROVOKE ME AND WE SHALL SEE.”
Baleron spat at the dragon’s clawed feet. “There!”
“DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”
“Yes!”
Throgmar’s eyes glittered. “GOOD.”
They said no more to each other. In the morning, Throgmar bore him down from the mountain and over the city. Baleron saw that half of it had been burnt to the ground, but the other half still stood, if scorched and ugly. Ungier did not intend to raze it utterly, then; he wanted a place to rule, something with which to replace Gulrothrog.
Public squares had been turned into places of horror. Scaffolds and racks and machinery had been erected, and men and women and children alike were undergoing torture to the delight of the Borchstogs. But some humans had been kept from that fate; Borchstogs were herding groups of enslaved Glorifelans through the streets, gathering them in King’s Square. It was there that Throgmar sat down, upon the very ruins of Grothgar Castle. The stifling air stank of smoke and death and the rot of Borchstogs. Ungier stood on a platform built before the statue of King Grothgar I, where Albrech had given his speech upon returning from Larenthi. The statue’s king as well as horse had been decapitated. No, decapitated was not exactly the right word, Baleron saw; the heads had been switched.
The Vampire King surveyed the chained and huddled masses of the human survivors as his Borchstogs finished rounding them up. Most were women and children, Baleron saw, and all were dirty, soot-streaked and terrified. It hurt him to look upon them, and he could not meet their
gazes when they turned to see just what manner of man had been flown in by a Great Worm. When they were all gathered, he did a rough count. There were less than four thousand of them. Four thousand!
Of course, doubtlessly some had fled into the hills and others were still being rounded up, but it was still staggering.
He wondered if Amrelain were among them, but did not see her. Surely the Borchstogs would not have killed one so beautiful. Perhaps she had been among those to escape.
He saw many undead things stirring about the city, and he recognized a few of them. Some had been members of the Five Hundred. Halthus was there, lurching and moaning, most of his chest gone. Blood spattered his mouth, and flies buzzed about him. Baleron shuddered. Would Glorifel become a city of demons and the living dead? At the thought, bile burned into the back of his throat.
Ungier spoke, his words directed at his prisoners, and he wore a gloating sneer as he shouted, “Welcome! Greetings from Oksilith! From Oslog!” A few women wailed in fear. “Thank you all for joining in the rebirth of your fair city, for that is what it shall be: a new beginning.” He took a breath. “Let me tell you a story. My story. I was birthed of an egg made of dead flesh, the flesh of my Master’s finest fallen warriors. Out of their demise came my life, and so it shall be here. Your city is dead, but from its rotting corpse will come a new day, a new world, and it shall be glorious, just as I am. You will see. You will grow used to the whip and the lash. You will grow used to the blood-letting. You will grow used to your friends disappearing in the night. Sometimes they will return to you. Sometimes they will be whole. Other times they may be . . . altered.” He smiled. “For I have come, and I am your master now. Your first task will be to build me a Palace, then a Temple.”
Another woman wailed.
“You monster!” shouted one, striding forward. “You beast!”
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s what I am. I am a monster. I am a beast. And I will be your god. I will rename the city Ungoroth, and you will bow before me. You will live in one quarter of Ungoroth while Borchstogs and others inhabit the rest. Yours will be the slave quarter.”
“We will not be slaves!” said the woman.
Unimpressed by her bravery, he motioned to one of his Trolls, who stepped forward and picked her up.
“Release her!” Baleron shouted, stepping out from the shadow of Throgmar. “Release her now! Your Savior commands it!”
Ungier’s black eyes swiveled across the gathering to him. “Baleron . . .”
Baleron marched across the square to the platform of the statue and glared up angrily at the vampire.
“Let her go,” he said.
Ungier looked at the Troll. “Our Savior makes a good point. Why don’t we release her from the city? Let her go free?”
The Troll grinned. “It would be my pleasure, m’lord.”
With no further ado, he drew back his arm and flung her as high and far as he could. Baleron gasped. Her body flew through the air for a good ways, but it did not make it anywhere near the Wall. Instead, she fell, screaming, and Baleron shouted in rage as she hit the ground.
“Pity,” Ungier said, shaking his head. “She didn’t make it. The next one, perhaps.”
Baleron, his fury overcoming his good sense, pushed past the cordon of Borchstogs before the stage and leapt on the platform. No one immediately stopped him, perhaps because he was ul Ravast.
He punched the vampire right in his skeletal nose.
Ungier stumbled back, surprised. He merely raised his leathery palm and Baleron flew backwards as if struck by a fierce wind. He landed amidst the gathered survivors, and pain flared through his back. The survivors made space for him, and one even helped him to his feet. Groaning, he stood.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
A Troll, the same one that had thrown the girl to her death, picked him up in its huge hand and squeezed him painfully, but not hard enough to kill.
“What shall I do with him, m’lord?” it asked Ungier.
Baleron grunted, trying to pry its fingers from him. He thought there was something familiar about its cruel smile.
The Vampire King appraised the prince thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Shall we release him, too? It would be fun, I think, to give him a sporting chance. Perhaps he’s learned to fly in his time away from Gulrothrog. Perhaps he’s been trying to emulate me.”
“I would rather immolate you,” Baleron said, wheezing.
“DO NOT HARM HIM,” Throgmar said. “HE IS UL RAVAST. I MUST TAKE HIM TO KROGBUR.”
“Krogbur . . .” said Ungier, somewhat dreamily. “I confess I would like to see it. Is it as grand as I have heard?”
“RELEASE HIM.” Throgmar sounded impatient. Smoke rose from his nostrils. The air about him shimmered. “NOW.”
“Oh, very well.” Ungier motioned to the Troll, who opened his hand. Baleron gladly slipped out of it. To Throgmar, the Vampire King asked, “Why did you bring him here if not to let me have some sport with him?”
“I WANTED HIM TO SEE THE DEVASTATION OF HIS CITY AND THE ENSLAVEMENT OF HIS PEOPLE. I WANTED HIM TO SEE WHAT HIS VENGEANCE HAS WROUGHT.”
“I didn’t do this,” Baleron said. “My Doom had a hand, but you can’t lay this all on me.”
“I CAN. I DO. FOR, IF YOU HAD NEVER SLAIN FELESTRATA, I WOULD NEVER HAVE TAKEN YOU TO KROGBUR AND YOU WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN DISPATCHED TO BRING ABOUT THIS RUIN. IF YOU HAD ONLY SLAIN ME INSTEAD, AN HONEST REVENGE, GLORIFEL WOULD STILL BE STANDING.”
The women and children glared at him as if he were a traitor, and he turned his face away.
Suddenly, Ungier raised his hand and Rondthril flew from Baleron’s scabbard into the vampire’s grasp.
The Lord of Ungoroth examined the weapon thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take this now.” To Baleron, he added, “Thank you for returning it. I am glad I was wrong and that we did indeed meet again, Baleron the One-Handed.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What more new titles have you now? Let’s see. Shield-tearer, perhaps. Kinslayer, most definitely. Servant of Doom. Spreader of Shadows. Wolf-hand. Spinner of the Web Unseen—at least to you. For, little spider, I do see it—glistening in the morning dew, its fruit little white shrouds holding Havensrike and Larenthi. I most enjoy it.”
“Then I hope you rot in it! Usurper—that’s your new title. Lackey! Wretch! Craven!” Baleron’s eyes blazed. “Now I know why you enjoy holding slaves so much. Because it’s the only way you can feel higher than others. For you’re a slave, too, though you don’t seem to realize it. You think Gilgaroth will let you keep this city? Keep this country? You’re a fool. He sees you as the little bug you are.”
Ungier smiled calmly, and it infuriated Baleron.
“I enjoy your attempts to rattle me,” said the vampire. “They tell me how desperate you truly are, and to me your desperation is like the finest of wines, mixed with the finest of bloods. It is the nectar that I have been longing for, and I will be sad to see it pass from my lips so soon.” His eyes went to Throgmar. “Brother mine, traitor to my House though you are, you are welcome here, for you bring your redemption in this mortal.”
“I DO NOT SEEK REDEMPTION. NOT FROM YOU.”
Ungier smiled indulgently. “Very well. But we were a mighty trio once, you, me and Grudremorq. The Flame, the Shepherd, and the Guardian. You broke that alliance.”
“SO I DID.” Throgmar did not offer an apology.
“And yet I will forgive you now, if you allow me but a bit of sport with your charge. Honored Worm, will you not stay for dinner? It will be a feast like no other.”
Throgmar hesitated. He clearly wanted to be away, but he also seemed to know that every second Baleron spent here was a hell for the prince. In the end, he chose to prolong the prince’s suffering:
“WE WILL STAY.”
“Good. Ul Ravast will be the guest of honor. Roschk ul Ravast!”
The Trolls and Borchstogs repeated it: “Roschk ul Ravast!” “Roschk ul Ravast!”
Baleron threw back his head and roared. He felt lower than he’d ever felt, and he knew that unless he could get Rondthril back, and unless he could slay Ungier, there really was no hope.
Baleron simply glowered as he was seated at one end of the long banquet table. He glowered as Borchstogs and vampires and even some Men took their seats. He glowered as Throgmar was given a whole side unto himself.
It was nighttime, true nighttime, not the false night spread by the clouds, and torches lit the palace’s rear garden. The table was at least a hundred feet long. This was the manor of the Esgralins, much of it still intact. Baleron had attended many social functions here over the years. Were the Esgralins all dead now? Were some slaves, or upon the racks in the public squares? Or did they perhaps flee into the hills? He wondered which was the better fate.
At last the Vampire King himself arrived and sat at the other end of the table. Baleron glared at him but said nothing. Ungier just gave a small, self-satisfied smile, and shouted, “Let the feast begin!”
The surviving Glorifelans, the slaves, set about bringing out large platters of food, roast hog and potatoes and gravy and many sweet pies. The slave woman who placed the butter near Baleron actually spit on him as she did so. It was the same woman who’d helped him up earlier, before she knew of his complicity in the city’s fall. Shame burned within him.
Instantly, two Borchstog guards seized her and threw her to the ground. “You dare touch ul Ravast!” one shouted. “Die!” They were about to start kicking her to death, but Baleron leapt up and shoved them away from her.
“Leave her!”
They bowed deferentially. “Roschk ul Ravast!”
She looked up angrily at him and said, “Too little too late, you devil! I always knew you were rotten.”
“I am not rotten,” he insisted.
She just spat again, on the ground this time, and scurried away.
“Want we should go after her?” asked one of the Borchstogs. “We’ll hold her down for you. Or we could bring her to your tent . . . for later.” He grinned nastily.
