by Jack Conner
It was impossible.
Some sort of trick, he told himself. It had to be.
He sat up in his seat when she was ushered out into the arena, prodded by a scarred troll carrying a spiked pole. She looked lost and scared, but her back stayed stiff and her eyes forward. She didn’t spare a glance for the bloodthirsty crowd.
Baleron shouted her name, but his voice was suddenly coarse.
Impossible, he told himself. And yet, he wanted so desperately to believe. But she’s dead! I saw her body. I . . . did more than just see it. Gods help me, I did.
The last time he had seen her, or at least seen her form, had been in Worthrick Mountain. But that had been a trick of some sort, it made no sense otherwise. So then the last time he had truly seen her body was in Havensrike. Surely Rauglir, possessing her form, had not escaped Glorifel and made it all the way here without being caught or killed . . . but what other explanation could there be?
A trapdoor slid away, slewing sand, and a ten-foot pillar thrust up through it into the arena. Though she struggled, the troll tied Rolenya (or whatever she really was) to the pillar none too gently. Evidently fascinated by her, the troll kept poking and prodding her with its fingers. She bore it all stoically. Her eyes were very blue, and very hopeless. Gone was the fire that had led her to stand up to Ungier. Gone was that spark of rebellion and mischief. And yet, there was something in her eyes, some light, some ember, that Baleron remembered, that had been missing in Rauglir. It was a depth, a serenity, a telltale of her soul . . .
Despite everything, he began to believe.
Tears stained her high, pale cheeks and glistened on her red lips. Her long black hair hung in sweaty tangles down past her swan-like neck. She wore a beautiful if less-than-new dress. Dirt smudged her ivory skin in a dozen places. Yet, Baleron thought, she was as lovely as ever. He longed to hold her—as a brother, as a lover, in whatever way he could.
But it could not be her, it just could not be, no matter how much he might wish otherwise. How big a fool did they think he was? He’d already met one false Rolenya. He had seen another when Felestrata’s body changed. What was more, he had been regularly conversing with a ghostly Rolenya in his pit until they moved him to the hospital wing. This, then, must be another forgery. The real one was dead, her body encasing Rauglir still, unless the demon had been driven out by the body’s demise. And even Rauglir had admitted that her soul now dwelt in the ephemeral flames of the Second Hell. So why did Gilgaroth expect him to believe that this could be she?
The Dark One watched him all the while, calculating, and Baleron returned the look with what he hoped was open hostility.
Rolenya, if it were she, shone like a moonlit diamond in this smoky, foul-smelling chamber, a chamber full of grease and blood and baseness and primal urges. She shone like an angel.
The Borchstogs drew back in their seats, awed by it, by her Grace, and a hush fell over them.
At last her eyes found Baleron. Surprise filled her face. She shouted out to him, and his heart swelled, but he couldn’t have returned the greeting if he’d wanted to, and at the moment words failed him completely.
She seemed sad to see him here, like her a prisoner of the Shadow, yet he thought he detected a secret joy in her to see him again, under any circumstances.
“Behold, prince,” said Gilgaroth. “Your sister.”
Baleron shook his head, unable to speak.
“You deny her?”
“Rolenya’s dead,” Baleron called across to him, having to force the words from the obstruction in his throat.
“Yet she lives.”
“It’s true,” said the figure that looked so much like Rolenya, issuing the words in a small voice that still managed to carry to his ears. To everyone’s ears, he imagined. “Bal, it’s me. Really . . . it’s me.”
“How?” he challenged. “How could this be possible?”
“I forged for her a new body,” the Dark One said. “Into it I poured her soul. Her essence. I released her from Illistriv.”
Baleron paused. That might be plausible. Gilgaroth had spawned races, had raised mountains. He could forge one small body.
“I don’t believe you. Why would you do such a thing?”
“I need your loyalty, Baleron. I need for you to do my bidding. For HER sake you shall.”
So angry at this that tears began to roll down his cheeks, Baleron shouted, “You bastard! You can’t do this to me! You can’t!”
Seeing his tears, Rolenya sobbed too. “Oh, Baleron! Bal! It’s true! It’s me.” Her voice grew small, lost, confused: “Unless this is a dream . . . some strange dream. Is it? Could it possibly be?”
He could not answer that. His dreams lately had been too painful, and this might be the most painful yet. He shot a challenging glare at Gilgaroth.
“Prove it,” he said.
Gilgaroth regarded him levelly. Smoke drifted between them.
“How?”
Looking down to the image of his sister, he said, “Sing.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Not a Borchstog in the assembly stirred. Torches crackled, but that was all. Not even a wolf could be heard yowling, or a shoe scraping. All was as a tomb.
Then, finally, Gilgaroth inclined his crowned head. His fiery eyes flickered downwards to the slim pale figure bound to the stake below.
“Sing, Rolenya,” he bade her. “Sing.”
Baleron’s heart caught in his throat. Could she do it? Would she do it?
To his astonishment, she nodded. Then she lifted her head, stared Baleron directly in the eye, took a deep breath—her chest straining against the ropes—and let out one long, crystal-clear note.
Baleron reeled backward, gasping. Could it be?
Her eyes closed, and tears leaked out, rolling over her high round cheeks and gathering under her jaw. Her voice rolled on.
Suddenly Baleron could not catch his breath.
She sang on, the notes changing, high, then low, then even higher than before. He knew that the words were in the language of the Elves in a far northern land that she favored in song. They were foreign to him but all the more beautiful for that; he could not understand them, but he could feel their grandeur, their greatness. He remembered tales he’d heard as a child, fairytales of elvish princesses who could weave spells with their voice, and recalled that Rolenya’s mother was said to have raised entire forest-gardens with her song.
He couldn’t believe his ears. Rolenya’s voice was filled with Grace—true Grace. No demon sent by Gilgaroth could sing like this. It was Rolenya. It was Rolenya. His chest burned. After all this time . . .
Her clear, smooth voice cut like a hot, righteous knife through the gloom of the Feasting Hall, lancing the darkness like a beam. Baleron half—expected the ceiling to crack and the walls to shake under the barrage of her purity, her goodness. It was with such a voice that Queen Vilana her mother had raised entire forest-gardens to her liking. She had walked along bare hills, singing, and grass and trees had grown at her feet.
The Borchstogs sat back, thunderstruck.
Even the Dark One seemed to sit back and listen in admiration, spellbound by her voice.
Baleron, himself enchanted, wished the song to go on forever, but at last it ended, and again Rolenya opened her eyes—her clear, beautiful eyes. They gazed openly up at him, happily, sadly, full of feeling and despair.
“Rolenya,” he said softly, acknowledging her.
“Baleron,” she whispered.
The Dark One’s eyes blazed. “Quite touching,” he said. “Quite . . . moving.” Then he barked out, “Thorg!”
Instantly, the great wolf to his left rose and leapt down into the arena. It pawed the ground with an outthrust claw and snorted. Steam issued forth.
Rolenya screamed.
Chapter 3
Of course, thought Baleron as he watched it happen. A sickening feeling grew in his gut. I should’ve known.
Throgmar had said it himself: Gilgaroth’s true
talent lay with inflicting pain. He had given Baleron back Rolenya only now to take her away again—raising the prince’s hopes only so that he’d have something to dash.
Her wide, panicked blue eyes shot from her brother to the black beast that shared the arena with her. Its lips lifted back from long, dripping fangs. Its awful, intelligent eyes narrowed to cruel slits.
The Borchstogs, for once, did not cheer for it; they were still too moved by Rolenya’s song to root for her bloody demise.
Baleron watched on helplessly.
The cuerdrig, Thorg, stalked arrogantly over to the princess, weaving through the mounds of wrecked bodies and body parts strewn by previous fights. He stuck his black face up close to her small pale one and sprayed her with his steaming breath. She shook in fear and wrenched her head away.
Outraged, Baleron screamed, “Nooo!” and attempted to rise. A Borchstog cuffed him and he sank back down, still bound to the chair.
Below, the great black wolf began circling Rolenya. Tearful, she shook her head, denying the reality of it all.
Gilgaroth issued a sound that may have been a laugh.
“No!” Baleron shouted again.
“Ah, but yes,” said Gilgaroth. “I want you to see her rent to pieces. My pet can go as slow as I wish.”
“Don’t kill her! Put me in her place.”
The Dark One said simply, “No.”
“Fine,” Baleron growled. “Then give me a sword! You want sport? I’ll give you sport!”
“I do not want sport.”
“What do you want?”
The Dark One leaned forward. “I want you to do my bidding, and you are now too aware of your Doom for it to act without your consent.”
Baleron began to sweat. His left hand throbbed painfully. Sound began to drift in and out of his hearing, and the world began to tilt.
“I will not serve you,” he shouted. “I am not your Savior. I will never be your Savior.”
“Serve me and have purpose. Serve me and save . . . Rolenya.”
“No,” Baleron said, half to himself, shaking his head wretchedly. “No. I can’t.”
Lord Gilgaroth raised an armored hand as if clutching something invisible, as if summoning something, and once more, Rolenya screamed. At her feet, the ground cracked and huge serpent unwound from the earth, thick and spined and hissing. It coiled about her bound body, squeezing, caressing, winding slowly, almost lovingly, about her—then began to constrict.
She tried to cry out but could not draw breath. It would mash her into boneless jelly.
“NOW what do you say?” asked Gilgaroth.
Baleron glared at him. Said nothing.
The Shadow raised his other hand high, as if grasping something far above, and then yanked it down dramatically. A horde of shadow-wraiths dropped from the smoke-wreathed ceiling. Some had the forms of demons and beasts. Some were hooded and cloaked. Still more had no real form at all. But one and all fell like a wrathful cloud from the heights and swarmed about Rolenya, their mouths opening, if they had mouths, and a terrible, unholy din pouring out. Covering their ears, Borchstogs screamed in fear.
“I COMMAND THE HOSTS OF HELL,” Gilgaroth roared, and it was no boast. “I can summon horrors upon your beloved that you would weep to see—and I will, lest you submit.”
Haunted by the wraiths’ screams, Baleron could only see Rolenya here and there through breaks in the swarm of shadows. He could not tolerate them touching her. They were unholy things, unclean things, and their mad screams drove him past his limits of endurance.
“Release her!” Baleron shouted.
“ARE YOU MY CREATURE?”
Baleron hung his head.
With a wave of the Dark One’s hand, the wraiths ended their assault and ascended past the layer of smoke once more and were lost to sight. The snake, its shining coils about Rolenya, its colorful scales rasping her smooth skin, uncoiled itself and retreated below ground once more. At its departure, the hole closed up behind it.
Rolenya could breathe again.
Baleron lowered his gaze, too ashamed to think straight. How could he do this?
Below, Rolenya called out to him: “Don’t give in, Baleron. So I die . . . I’ve died before.”
She was right, of course. He thought of Larenthi, and Havensrike, and all the people he’d led to their deaths for his Doom. Even for Rolenya’s sake, how could he betray any more? He would not be the Dark One’s spider. He would not.
Thorg continued to circle the arena, his circles drawing closer and closer to Rolenya, until finally he was almost touching her.
Gilgaroth must have seen Baleron’s indecision, for he said, “Decide, Baleron. You don’t have long. Thorg looks . . . hungry.”
Thorg stuck his steaming snout in Rolenya’s face, and his drool dripped on her breasts. His sharp teeth pressed against her cheek. She trembled and closed her eyes, turning her head aside. She was preparing herself for the end, Baleron could telll. How could he let this happen? There had to be something he could do.
The black wolf’s teeth left red impressions in her skin. She quivered in fear.
Thorg grazed her arm with one of his fangs, slashing open her tender flesh, and she flinched and let out an involuntary gasp.
“Stop it!” Baleron shouted. “Stop!”
“You will serve me?” asked Gilgaroth.
Baleron said nothing. Rolenya opened her eyes. When he glanced at her, she shook her head mutely, too scared of Thorg to say anything. The terrible beast pawed the ground before her.
“You smell delicious,” Thorg told her in his black, unnatural voice. The cuerdrig’s red tongue probed her wound, licking at the blood. “You are,” he added.
The Dark One said, “Cut her again.”
Thorg bit her, and again. With each surgical slash of his fangs, she cried out, and Baleron strained against the Borchstogs that held him down.
“Decide,” said Gilgaroth.
“I’ll never do your bidding again!” Baleron said. “Torture me how you like, that will not change.”
Silently, Gilgaroth inclined his head to Thorg, who bowed and drew back from Rolenya a few paces, then turned to face her, his mouth open and steaming. He was one great, lethal furnace of pride and fury, and he was aimed straight at Baleron’s once-sister, once-lover, forever beloved. All Baleron had to do to save her was betray his kind and kin and all they stood for, and doom the world entire.
He said nothing.
Fire licked from Thorg’s maw.
“Baleron!” Rolenya shouted in terror.
“Rolenya!” he called back.
It was the last thing she could have heard.
The great black wolf opened his mouth, and a column of fire issued from his awful jaws, burning Rolenya alive.
This time, when Baleron closed his eyes, no one stabbed him with a fork.
That night, they did not return him to the relative comforts of Olfrig and the hospital wing but cast him down into a pit again—a different one than before. They did not want him getting cozy. He sobbed in the darkness as scorpions and other vermin stung and bit him. He felt that he might as well be in a hell—the First, Second or otherwise did not much matter to him, save that Rolenya would be in the Second. He ached for her. She had suffered so much because of him.
Why did Gilgaroth torment them like this? Was it because the Dark One enjoyed it, or because he wanted to squeeze just a little bit more out of his favorite pawn? What more could Baleron do for him, anyway?
Baleron didn’t think he could take any more.
Several hours after the events in the arena, Borchstogs under Ghrozm’s command hauled him up from the bottom of the pit in a rusty cage and led him off to a torture chamber, where they tied him up again and brought out the whips and blades and pliers and needles and white-hot pokers. Savagely, Ghrozm and his apprentices whittled away at him.
“You should have given Master what he desired,” Ghrozm said, jaw clenched tightly.
Baleron end
ured it all stoically. His mind was far, far away. In a way, the torture was almost a relief.
Eventually they dragged him back to the pit and lowered him down it. He crawled out of the cage, bleeding and empty, and curled up on the dank stone floor. Worn out, he fell asleep instantly as things crawled over his inert form and stung him mercilessly, and the cage ascended, creaking, above. He dreamt of Rauglir again, and the laughter of the werewolf mocked him as he ran through an endless aviary, dizzied by the bright colors of the frantic birds. Somewhere his mother called to him, and he ran on, blinded by the birds.
The voice changed to another’s. Someone else called him now, rocking him, and summoning him from slumber.
He opened his eyes, and started.
For Rolenya—dear, sweet Rolenya!—was cradling his bloody head in her lap, stroking his sweaty hair.
“How—?” he gasped. “What—?”
She gazed down at him with such sadness and love that it broke his heart to see. She had to be a ghost born of his weakening sanity, he thought. But then he realized it: none of his ghosts had touched him before.
“Rolly!” he choked and sat up. The effort made him grimace.
Somewhere high above a torch burned in the upper chamber, but its illumination was scant indeed. He could see only the orange glow reflecting off the side of her face, the swell of her cheekbone, the sweep of her black hair, the shine in her blue eye. He could see but one eye, as the other side lay in shadow.
“Baleron,” she said, and hugged him tightly.
He drowned in her warmth, in her loving embrace. He gripped her and squeezed her to him, and she felt small and frail in his arms, in need of protection. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he tried not to notice.
They rocked in each other’s arms, crying in relief and despair. At last he pulled himself away. “But I saw you die! How’s this possible?”
She lowered her eyes. “He forged me another body, Bal, and slipped me—my soul—into it.” She looked glum about it.
“To what purpose?”
“I . . . don’t want to know.”
They looked at each other for a long moment.
