by Jack Conner
He accepted it hesitantly, warily. It was a cape made of Spider-silk.
“I spun that for you myself,” Mogra told him.
“Why?” he asked, unable to keep the note of suspicion from his voice.
“A mother needs no reason to gift her son. But know this. With this I commemorate your return to your Father’s goodwill. Yet I fear that his favor will be fleeting, for you have come as a swaggering victor, not a supplicant—and as a thief.”
“I am no thief. Rolenya is rightfully mine—awarded me by my Father for being the spider’s custodian. I had her for three years. I would have married her.”
“Argue not with me and mine.”
“But I am yours. Come now, Mother, perhaps we can arrange a deal. You wish to be rid of her, surely, and I wish to take her. Perhaps we can arrange an alliance . . .”
She drew herself up, and Ungier felt himself shrink. Her shadow danced and swelled, and seemed to grow deeper. He suddenly felt icy cold and shivered beneath her majesty. Her eight eyes blazed redly in the darkness.
“Fool!” she said, and the floor quaked beneath Ungier. “What madness has gripped you that you would plot treachery against your Father?” Seething, she added, “It is that thing! That elf! Why are you and he so drawn to her?” She let out a growl, a spidery trill of frustration.
She started to turn about, then hesitated. Not facing him, she said, “When we sensed your coming, my Lord expressed his desire that you should attend his sending-off of the gathered army.” One of her legs gestured outwards and downwards to the huge host of Borchstogs and others that had massed at Krogbur’s roots beyond the encircling flame. “He shall order them to begin their assault a few nights hence. You shall attend the ceremony.”
He nodded shakily. “O-of course.”
She wheeled about, and the darkness withdrew. Ungier, gasping, looked around to find himself lying on the terrace clutching the cape, which fluttered ghostily in the wind. Shakily, he rose and entered the tower, probing the shadows for ambush as he went.
He wondered if he had beaten Baleron here.
After her meeting with Ungier, Mogra, in agitation, visited Gilgaroth. He was in the Well of Krogbur, that great dark shaft in the tower’s core, where he communed with the powers under his command, issuing orders to generals prosecuting his War and listening to the prayers of those who made sacrifices to him in his temples. She waited, and at last he finished the business of the moment and turned to regard her.
“Ungier is come,” she said.
He waited, sensing that she had more to say, so she added, “He has conquered Havensrike and desires a reward. An excuse to ask a favor of you, more like. He wants the elf girl.”
She could feel Gilgaroth stir, and his darkness hummed with thought and energy, yet he said nothing.
She must plead with him, she saw, if she was to save Ungier—and him, too, perhaps. “Why not give him what he seeks?” she asked. “Why sour your bond with him just when it is renewed?”
At last Gilgaroth spoke, and his words held dark meaning: “He does not care. He would sour that bond. He would dissolve it. And all to take away my songbird. He would rather cause me pain than be a son to me. He would rather have my treasure for himself than have my love.” She could feel the sadness, the regret, the bitterness, radiating from him like smoke from a fissure.
“No,” she said. “He knows not what he does. He is blinded by her light. She is an enchantress, my Lord.”
He regarded her coldly. “You fear she enchants even me.”
She nodded wretchedly. “She drives you and Ungier apart, and I sense that is a dangerous thing. The webs of fate are strange and nebulous, yet I can sense them like few can, for I am a spider. I sense that your thread is bound to his, and that if his should be cut, yours will as well.”
“Begone. I have things that need tending. War is like a delicate flower. It needs constant pruning, watering, and caring. Leave me to do it.”
And so, troubled in her deep heart, Mogra left.
Just beyond the entrance to the Well, she met Ungier, who approached the archway wearing, she was glad to see, his new cape. Perhaps that meant he had decided to accept his parents’ favor and leave off the subject of Rolenya.
Instead he told her, “I’ve come to discuss my prize.”
In that instant she wanted to crush him. “If that is why you have come, then wait,” he said. “Now is not the time.”
“I must see Him.”
She was blocking his way. “Turn back, my son. He is in no mood to receive you.”
This clearly frustrated Ungier, but he seemed to sense that she meant what she said, and, not wanting to anger his father, he bowed, turned about and withdrew. Sadly, she watched him go.
Chapter 12
Things were getting strange in Krogbur, Rolenya decided.
She did not know where he had come from, but Lord Ungier was attending the festivities that evening at the Feasting Hall. Attended by several sycophants wearing the armor of glarumri, he marched down the aisle looking tall and powerful and commanding. He wore a cape made of fine Spider-silk, and when he moved it trailed him like a glimmering shadow.
Rolenya was already seated—on the first row, as usual—and when he saw her he actually stopped in his tracks. His black eyes grew round, he appeared to steel himself, then strode boldly over to her and took her hand in his, bent and kissed it. She had endured his kisses too many times to shudder now.
“Good evening, my love,” he said, his eyes staring openly into hers.
“There is little good about it,” she answered, trying to suppress the quaver in her voice.
He stroked her cheek with a long, leathery finger, and she twisted away.
“Don’t touch me,” she said. “I’m not yours anymore.”
“That will change,” he said, and there was a throatiness in his voice and a strange urgency in his tone.
Nervously, she said, “What do you mean?”
“Havensrike is mine,” he said.
She gasped, feeling horror rise up inside her.
“Fear not,” he said. “You will be my queen, and together we will remake it.”
“Never!”
“We will see.”
He took his seat across the aisle from hers, and his sycophants gathered about him. The games began, and despite the spectacles of the arena he often diverted his attention to shoot her strange looks. She tried to ignore him, but it was difficult; she feared him, and despised him.
There was more to it than that, of course. She had not forgotten all their nights together. True, she had been his unwilling slave, but he had not been without his charms, and when he wore a human façade he was devilishly handsome. Over her three years of confinement at Gulrothrog, she had, despite herself, often been attracted to him, though she had been careful never to let him or anyone else (especially Baleron) know. Of all his concubines, and of all the women in his harem—for they were separate and distinct, the concubines and the harem—she had been his prize. They had almost . . . almost . . . wed. She would have been his ninth still-living wife, if living his wives could be called.
But the Wolf had changed all that. Gilgaroth had appeared unannounced at Gulrothrog and slipped past the Vampire King’s defenses. The Dark One had found Rolenya in one of the huge bathing rooms of the harem, where she had been washing herself in a steaming pool of water, assisted by her handmaidens. Suddenly he appeared and the handmaidens fled. Rolenya would have, as well, but he’d bound her with his will, then removed the armor from one of his hands, exposing his naked flesh. With it, he had touched her, and his touch alone had been enough to steal the life from her body, and her soul. It was said that all he touched died save that which he created, which is why his hands were always armored, though Rolenya didn’t know if this was true. It was further said that if you died in any of the lands where his influence was strongest that your soul would be sucked toward him and consumed, then cast into the Second Hell. In that way, t
o enter Oslog was to risk one’s soul.
He had slain her, stolen her spirit and consigned it to the gardens of Illistriv. There she had mourned for Baleron and their father, for the Crescent itself. Despite the deceivingly beautiful surroundings, she had known only despair.
Now, watching Ungier, she doubted he had ever forgiven his sire for that theft—though he had not known about it till afterward—so it was strange to see that, despite his natural arrogance and aloofness, the Vampire King was fearful, not angry. His wide black eyes often probed the shadows around him, and he was constantly on edge.
Fortunately, his nervousness was tempered by his seeming love of the fights. He cheered and whistled and laughed as the combatants toiled away below, blood and sweat flying in equal measure.
The Borchstogs, naturally, gambled on the fights, and he joined in—though, Rolenya noted, there was much grumbling about this among the Borchstog circles; he had too much power and money to bet at their level. Yet they let him, out of fear of his wrath if they didn’t.
Mogra, meanwhile, eyed Rolenya cattishly.
She knows, Rolenya thought. Gods help me, but she knows.
Rolenya tried to focus on her songs to come, and her spells. Gilgaroth would ask her to sing, as he always did, and she knew she had little choice but to comply. She was interrupted when Ungier, in the grip of some nervous tension, apparently could not stand merely watching the fights any longer. In the break between two bouts, he leapt to his clawed feet and shouted, “I’m next!”
Drunk on wine and immensely powerful, he had no fear. He tore the table aside and jumped down into the arena, cape and wings billowing, with a howl of savage glee. Was he mad?
The Borchstogs cheered lustily, loving it.
A frown twisted Mogra’s lips, and she leaned back, fingering (worriedly?) a strand of jewels that cascaded from her black hair down over a naked breast. Her violet eyes twinkled, and the many rings that adorned her six hands sparkled of gold and diamonds and pearls.
The Dark One regarded Ungier with flaming eyes.
“You seek sport, do you, my son?”
Ungier laughed. “I do, my Lord. I seek to spill some blood tonight!”
The Borchstogs cheered, and Ungier encouraged them.
“But even more, Father, Mother, I ask a boon of you. Hear me. I have conquered Glorifel. Havensrike is mine—ours. My first act as ruler of Ungoroth will be to build you both great temples, and your shadows will grow long indeed. All I ask in return is one thing.” He looked over his shoulder, right at Rolenya, and pointed a finger. “Her.”
“I will be no prize,” she stated loudly. Still, her voice sounded small in the huge chamber.
“You will be silent,” Ungier admonished indulgently.
“No,” spoke Gilgaroth calmly, and all turned to him. “She is mine, and she will be mine, and she will not be silent.”
“But I have toppled the mightiest pillar of the Crescent!” said Ungier. “Surely that deserves some prize.”
“How DARE you demand a reward for doing my will! I did not hire you to do this thing. I asked you, as a father to a son. Do you not see? For ages you have denied me, have turned your back on me. I gave you a chance to return to my good graces. I gave you an army. I gave you a worthy labor. And what do I receive in return for these gifts? DEMANDS?” He paused, letting the tension build, and said, very deliberately, very coldly, “You err.”
Ungier suddenly looked very small. “But the mastering of Glorifel . . .”
“Is a feat I accomplished when I Doomed Baleron, when I sent Rauglir to destroy Logran’s Flower. Thus I earn the reward, if a reward is to be earned.” He shook his head ruefully. “And to ask such a boon! Your gall is to be admired, if not your wit. I would have given you anything, my son, anything at all. Except . . . her. Had you come to me and asked for a thing, I would have given it to you. A kingdom, a castle, a creature. But instead you come to me and DEMAND a prize, and you choose the one prize I would not have given you had you begged.” His black laugh was chilling, and Ungier shrank even further.
Mogra said, “Indeed you are a fool, Ungier.”
The vampire hung his head. “How so, Mother?”
“Do you not realize that many of those that fight here are of my loins? Just like you. Many of them have died right where you’re standing, and I have watched them go to their deaths with a smile. You think you’re any different?”
“I am powerful,” he boasted.
“Indeed,” agreed Gilgaroth. “For we did not make you as a creature, but as a son. Yet in Gulrothrog you were too long away from us, and your mind has grown weak. It needs sharpening.” He snapped his armored fingers. “Thorg!”
The terrible wolf rose and leapt into the arena, snarling angrily.
“My Lord, wait,” said Mogra. Her harshness was gone, replaced with worry for her son.
“No,” answered Gilgaroth. “This vulgar display must end.”
Ungier looked up to his father with worry, obviously surprised at this turn of events. “I only wanted some sport,” he protested. “I only wanted my woman back. I did not want death.”
He bowed tentatively to show his subservience, but his father continued to regard him with disdain.
Thorg charged, jaws wide.
All eyes were on the arena. No one was watching the tall hooded figure standing in the shadow of an archway leading out of the hall, spying with interest on the action unraveling below. Baleron had arrived earlier that day and was still sore from Throgmar’s handling, but all his aches and pains faded now.
He smiled as he realized what was going on down in the arena. This was beyond his wildest hopes. Ungier may not get his prize, but I might.
If Ungier died, it would solve a good half of Baleron’s problems. Thank the Omkarathons for Rolenya’s ability to inspire love, or at least emotion, even in creatures so vile. She shone brightly below, close to the arena, a white thorn amidst the darkness, and Baleron was joyous to see her, to know she was safe and whole, but at present his attention was fixed—hopefully—on the vampire courting death in the pit.
Rolenya watched breathlessly as Ungier easily dodged aside. Thorg wheeled about, fires licking the back of his throat.
Ungier laughed mockingly. “You don’t scare me, dog.”
“I will grind your bones between my jaws,” returned Thorg.
He charged again. Ungier whipped off his glimmering cape and waved it before the charging beast, taunting him. Thorg tore through the cape, fangs flashing, but did not even wound the vampire.
Ungier, however, raked his claws across the beast’s passing flank, drawing blood, then licked his dripping fingers.
“Tasty,” he said as the wolf turned around again.
Thorg belched fire at Ungier, but the flames parted around the powerful vampire as if an invisible shield protected him, and Ungier gave a thin smile.
Thorg’s eyes burned, his gaze burrowing into his foe. He would try to hypnotize the Vampire King! Amazed, Rolenya found herself favoring Ungier. She still remembered her time in the arena with that same cuerdrig all too well, while Ungier, for all his faults, loved her.
The vampire merely laughed. His own black eyes seemed to grow wider, and the two combatants stared at each other, each trying to enthrall the other. Rolenya looked up to the Dark One and his bride to see them watching the battle tensely. Mogra looked nervous.
When the contest of wills between vampire and cuerdrig ended, Thorg lowered his head and said, “I serve you, Lord Ungier.”
Ungier turned a sneer up at his father. “There!”
Gilgaroth snapped his fingers again. “Slorch!”
The second wolf sprang down into the arena and, before Rolenya could catch her breath, Slorch charged Ungier. The vampire leapt into the air, wings pumping, and landed behind the monster.
Having enthralled Thorg, Ungier used him to assault Slorch, while the lone cuerdrig raged, bitter at having to fight his brother.
Rolenya was shocked. It
seemed to her that Gilgaroth was really trying to kill Ungier . . . and the Dark One was willing to sacrifice his favorite pets to do it! Ungier must have sinned greatly in his eyes.
Below, the vampire had his puppet Thorg charge his brother, and while Slorch wrapped his jaws about the other wolf’s throat, Ungier used his claws to slash Slorch’s own jugular, and Slorch fell, blood pooling around him. Thorg, though wounded, survived.
Rolenya sat back and tried to calm down. She felt like she would be ill.
Mogra, looking dull, perhaps sad, also leaned back, sighing.
Gilgaroth’s expression, as always, was nearly impossible to read. His flaming eyes simmered.
Ungier knelt over the still-warm carcass and drank Slorch’s hot blood, lapping it up with his tongue, then looked up to the thrones with a bloody, defiant smile.
“Have I passed the test, Father?”
Gilgaroth said nothing.
Ungier turned to the Borchstogs of the audience and raised his blood-drenched arms. “Have I not won?” he shouted to them.
They roared in approval, beating on the tabletops. This was likely the best, most significant, most unexpected fight they had ever seen.
Triumphant, Ungier turned again to Gilgaroth. “I have earned my prize, Father.”
“No.”
“But, Father, I—”
“NO.”
Ungier’s face screwed up in anger. “You just want her for yourself!”
The Borchstogs gasped, muttering to each other. They loved a victor, but they hated anyone who went against their Lord.
Mogra’s mouth twitched.
“That’s right, isn’t it, Father?” Ungier continued. “You won’t give me the prize that I have earned because it is you who covets her. Why don’t you come down here, Father? Why don’t we do battle here, right now, in the arena? The winner takes Rolenya. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Let me oblige you. It will be a bout to be remembered for all times. Our war shall shake the heavens!”
Rolenya was taken aback. Ungier must truly have gone mad! Even the Borchstogs fell silent, awed by the challenge.
