by Jack Conner
“He will. If you wear that blade, he will. My foresight has shown this.”
Rondthril’s handle gleamed seductively, drawing Baleron’s attention. No, he cautioned himself. That way lays madness.
Yet he was mad.
Acting with a suddenness that surprised him, he tore the Fanged Blade from the satchel, unsheathed it, and in a flurry of motion hurled it end over end at the Dark One’s breast.
For a moment, hope rose in him. It would strike true!
But the Fanged Blade was loyal not just to Ungier, but Gilgaroth as well. It seemed to hit an invisible wall five feet from Gilgaroth and bounced off, clattering to the floor.
Baleron stared from it to Gilgaroth, waiting, and a long, tense moment passed. Somewhere a demon screamed. Rolenya let out ragged breaths, clearly afraid for Baleron.
Amused, Gilgaroth called the weapon to him, and it flew to his hand. He appraised it with interest, turning it over and over.
“Rondthril. A mighty blade, yes—Ungier’s finest. A gift from father to son. My grandson’s first blade. And, thanks to you, his last.” He tossed it at Baleron’s feet. “Did you think I would not foresee that? You are a fool, Baleron Grothgar. Do not act so rashly when you are about my business, or you—and your . . . sister—will regret it most severely. Ustagrot, take them from my sight!”
The necromancer rose to his feet and snarled at the royal pair, “Follow me!”
They followed him down the steep flight of red steps that led from the dais of the Throne of Shadows and through the palace interior to the moat of black fire, which parted for them, then sealed behind.
“Because of your insolence,” snapped the necromancer to the prince, “we will have to walk!”
It was a long stretch through the infernal city to the doors of the room, and neither of the Colossi volunteered to help. Baleron knew he had been a fool.
Rolenya squeezed his hand. “It was a good throw,” she whispered.
At that, he almost smiled.
Wraiths and demons circled them, mocking, and the necromancer cursed him all the way. Eventually they passed the threshold of the room, and Baleron was never so glad to be rid of a place. Ustagrot led them down toward their suite.
Feeling the weight of Rondthril dangling from his hip, Baleron eyed the high priest’s back. He harbored dangerous thoughts and almost went through with one, but in the end he stayed his hand. It was too dangerous, the risks too high. Ustagrot was, after all, a sorcerer, and it was a long way to freedom even if the Borchstog should meet his end.
Ustagrot led the prince and princess to their suite and left them. Baleron and Rolenya locked themselves in their apartment, and he half thought of blocking the door with furniture and barricading themselves inside. He had a hard time meeting her eyes.
The Dark One wanted him to kill his father. Their father.
All his life he had wanted only his father’s love and respect, and now to save his sister from a fate worse than death he would have to kill the man, and doom everything he stood for.
He and Rolenya held each other under the furs of the bed, and she sobbed against his chest, lost in despair.
“It will be all right,” he told her, stroking her hair.
“How?” she asked him. “How can it possibly be all right?”
He thought of the perfect lie. “This is all part of my plan,” he told her.
She looked at him curiously. “What plan?”
He smiled confidently. “I didn’t agree to aid him just to save you,” he said.
“You didn’t? Then what did you do it for?”
“Because I knew he would send me back, and that’s just what I wanted. He walked right into my trap. Don’t you see, Rolly? Someone needs to warn the Crescent of the army he’s massing here. Someone needs to prepare them. They need to brace for its coming in whatever way they can.” As he said it, he knew that it was true, and he embraced this new cause with enthusiasm, though he had only thought of it moments before.
She looked at him with her big blue eyes, and at last she smiled, despite everything, and kissed him. “Oh, Baleron, I love you,” she said. “You’re a big liar, but I do love you.”
Without knocking, several glarumri entered, and Rolenya yelped in surprise. The Borchstogs were impatient and dressed for riding.
“It is time,” snapped their leader.
The glarumri waited restlessly for Baleron in the main room while he readied himself.
“Oh, Baleron,” Rolenya said, clinging to him, a sheet thrown about her nakedness. She put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Forget me, Bal. Do what you know is right.”
“I could never forget you.”
“Then the world is doomed.”
“It is doomed regardless.”
She shook her head. “He needs us, my love. He needs you. That’s his weakness. Use it against him. It’s the only way.”
“No. No, it’s not. I . . . know another.”
She looked at him strangely, but he did not have time to explain, and it would probably be unwise to in any case. It was time to go.
Their guards allowed Rolenya to accompany him to the glarum platform, which was large and teeming with the foul, black—feathered steeds. They cawed and snapped and stirred uneasily, and suddenly Baleron missed Lunir. Scalding wind howled around him, coming off the Inferno.
Borchstogs seated him on one of the great crows, and the riders found their own birds and mounted up. The leader yelled out, and the squad took off from the terrace, cutting a wedge through the dragon—moat.
Baleron looked back once to see Rolenya standing there on the platform, her wind—whipped black hair flying, her blue eyes wet, her long legs bare. Her small shoulders huddled as she held the sheet about her, shivering in the high air.
She receded with distance, and, when the Worms closed up behind the fleet of glarumri, she was lost to sight. Baleron wondered if he would ever see her again.
Rolenya sobbed as she watched Baleron dwindle to a speck in the sky, her shoulders shaking, tears running down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. The wind turned cold, and she shuddered.
Abruptly, she felt a Presence behind her. She could smell an all-too familiar musk, and feel an unearthly heat. For a long while, she could not bring herself to turn, could not bring herself to face him, and to her surprise he didn’t force the issue. He just loomed there, behind her, watching her. Waiting.
At last, she set her jaw and turned. As she gazed up into his fiery eyes, her strength fled, and it was all she could do to remain standing.
In his dragon form, Gilgaroth was huge and black, his whiskers trailing like tendrils about his wolvish face. He took up the whole of her vision.
She took a step backwards and placed a hand over her mouth to hold in a scream, but she was so scared that she forgot to scream.
“Rolenya,” breathed Gilgaroth.
“M-my lord,” she managed, hating herself for calling him that but knowing no other form of address for him.
“Why do you cry? Do you miss him so soon?”
She lowered her eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He did not speak immediately. Finally he said, “I too know pain.”
Curious, she looked up. His eyes, twin abysses of fire, mesmerized her, terrified her, but she refused to look away.
“You do?” she said.
“I knew it when you sang.”
“You did?”
He nodded. “Long had I heard rumor of your voice, whiteling. But until you sang for Baleron I had never heard it. It . . . was lovely.”
“Th-thank you. I think.” Why was he telling her this?
“I want you to sing . . . for me.”
“W-what?”
“Yes. You will sing.”
She tried to think. “But, if it was painful, why?”
“It . . . was a good pain.”
She screamed as one of his claws ensnared her. He flew off the terrace and carried her away from Kr
ogbur, and she saw it diminish between two of his black nails as the wind tore at her. Yet she felt his heat, his immense, burning heat, and was warm, if not happy.
He carried her to the high, jagged peak of a mountain jutting up from the surrounding wasteland and set her on it. Then, like a serpent, he wrapped himself about the rocky spire and gazed up at her.
“Sing,” he said.
Fear seized her, and confusion, but slowly she got a grip on herself. What else can I do? she thought.
Unable to help the stammer, she said, “W-what would you l-like to hear?”
“Just . . . sing.”
She emptied her mind of fear and turned to thoughts of Light and Grace. Marshalling her resolve, she lifted her face to the heavens, and sang. The song poured out of her like a spring flows from the ground, coming to her naturally, and as it flowed she drew strength from it, and her voice grew stronger, echoing off the sharp peaks far away, and off the black roof of clouds above.
Gilgaroth listened, seeming to drink up her voice like wine, but she did not look at him, as the sight of him would drive the song from her. And so she closed her eyes and sang, and as she sang she wept, and thought of Baleron.
Chapter 4
The once-green fields and forests of Havensrike were black and smoking as Baleron flew over them, and with every breath he swore bitter oaths of vengeance against those who’d done this. He and his escort flew for days, rarely stopping, and when they did the Borchstogs kept a close guard on him. He watched for his chance at escape, but it never came. He thought of Rolenya often.
At least he’d reclaimed Rondthril. With any luck, if he could command his Five Hundred again, if he could lead another attack against Ungier, perhaps . . .
He tried not to think about it. Gilgaroth could read thoughts, after all.
The glarum riders hated daylight, but they braved the bright skies anyway, never waiting for nightfall when it was time to depart their brief campsites. Their elongated, wolf-like helmets protected their eyes from the sun.
As they drew closer to Glorifel, Baleron saw a great mass of dark clouds above that wondrous city blotting out the blazing Eye of Brunril, throwing an artificial nighttime on its attackers, shielding them from the sun. The glarumri neared the high walls and Baleron saw the teeming army of Borchstogs and their allies camped outside the city. Glorifel was on its last legs; Trolls and beasts and corrupted Giants, even a battalion of Men, numbered among those laying siege to the city. Here and there rose large scaly mounds, glittering in the moonlight: dragons, sleeping.
How can this be? he asked himself. How can it have come to this?
The Borchstoggish army was impressive, but not nearly as grand and terrible as the host massing at the roots of Krogbur, the hammer that would destroy the remnants of the Crescent Union, which was the dam holding back the dark river of Oslog—a dam that was about to be broken and the foul tide unleashed. How could Baleron aid that cause? How could he be its Champion?
He pictured Rolenya, and then he pictured her fate if he should fail in completing his web, and then he pictured the fate of Roshliel if he did complete it. Where was the solution?
He must free Rondthril with Ungier’s death and confront Gilgaroth with it. He could think of no other way. But how to slay Ungier?
Again he tried not to think too long upon it.
The glarumri set down amidst the rabble of Borchstogs near the largest bonfire, near where the command tents were pitched. Various beasts and monsters skulked about or were chained to the earth, snarling.
The riders dismounted and Baleron was instructed to wear his cursed sword. This puzzled him, but he did it. Next the glarumri captain said, “We go to ul Qrodegrad.” The Shepherd.
Hope rose in Baleron, but also fear. Ungier was his only route to salvation, but the Vampire King hated him and he did not relish the prospect of being at Ungier’s mercy. Nevertheless, he didn’t resist as the glarumri shoved him through the filthy ranks of the Borchstogs toward the command center.
The demons grouped around steaming cauldrons of srodnarl, or tortured prisoners, or had slaves pleasure them, or prayed to Gilgaroth, or a hundred other unsavory things, yet wherever Baleron passed the Borchstogs ceased what they were about and turned to him. Some bowed or muttered prayers. Some offered their souls to him and slew themselves on the spot.
He ignored them.
Lord Ungier, as it happened, sat on a throne made of human skulls and was surrounded by six armored Trolls. He was casually sipping wine mixed with human blood from a jewel-encrusted golden chalice. Bristling murmeksa, the monstrous wooly boar-things with sharp tusks, thronged about the Trolls, grunting savagely.
“Well met, Maggot,” Ungier said as Baleron was brought before him. “Deliverer of Doom, King of Catastrophe. Yes, you are a welcome sight, my old friend. You herald the end of the siege and the rise of my new domain. For I will plant my seed in the withered womb of Havensrike, and I will call it Ungoroth.”
Baleron was in too foul a mood to exchange barbs with Ungier, and at this point barbs might be counter to his purpose.
The glarum riders bowed to the former Lord of Gulrothrog.
“Kneel to Lord Ungier,” said one.
Baleron was dismayed to see that the Vampire King was surrounded by such a force. How could he get close enough?
“Kneel!” said the glarumri leader, and shoved Baleron onto one knee.
Ungier smiled. Red stained his sharp teeth. “Good to see a son of the Fallen Race assume his rightful posture.” He added, “And thank you for coming, as I meant what I said: now that you’re here, your city’s days are numbered.”
“Only if they let me in.” What am I going to do? He needed to kill the vampire to release Rondthril from its service to the dark powers; it was his only chance against Gilgaroth.
“May I kiss your ring?” he asked.
Ungier glanced at the gold ring he wore, bearing as it did the image of the Great Wolf. How he must hate that, Baleron thought. But Ungier would have to keep up appearances.
The vampire’s black eyes studied Baleron, then shrugged. “Please yourself.”
Baleron shuffled forward, head low, past the first two Trolls and dropped to his knees before Ungier. As he did, he drew Rondthril, and, in one motion, hacked at the vampire’s leathery neck.
He prayed it would work. After all, Ungier had shown fear of the sword before, and, as the blade hissed toward the vampire now, he seemed frightened again. His eyes widened, and his fanged mouth became an O.
The blade bounced off an invisible wall and Baleron was thrown back as if knocked by a strong wind. Instantly, a Troll placed its foot on his head and chest and pinned him down. Stars danced before his eyes. He could not draw breath.
“Wait!” shouted Ungier. “Leave him be!”
The Troll removed his foot, and Baleron took a deep breath.
Sneering, Ungier picked Rondthril up and admired its craftsmanship. “Asguilar’s blade . . . I would love to have it back.” His voice held tones of genuine lament. “It took me long to forge it, you know. Oh, I was so proud. My first true son . . . ” His eyes narrowed. “He was a great one, you festering puss, you vermin. How could the likes of you slay such as him? He was mighty. He alone of all my sons that followed loved me. He alone would never have lifted a hand against me. Ah, he made me so proud!” Black—blooded tears welled in his eyes, and the hand that held Rondthril actually shook. He pointed the Fanged Blade at Baleron’s breast. “You did that. You took him from me. And you and your curse took away my home, my brides, my Rolenya . . .” Rage overcame him, and he lifted his head and howled like a wolf. In response, the true wolves of the host lifted their heads and howled, too, and the Borchstogs followed so that soon the whole night reverberated with Ungier’s pain.
To his surprise, Baleron was actually moved.
At last the great, mournful howling died away. Seething, shaking, the vampire cast Rondthril down at the prince’s feet, then collapsed back into his grues
ome throne. “Would that I could kill you, but you are denied me. Would that I could keep that sword, but apparently your labor requires it. They won’t let you inside the city without it—why, I don’t know.”
Baleron propped himself up. “You must have some idea.”
“I suppose you’ll find out the why of it soon. Tell me, did you really think Rondthril could kill me?”
“You were scared of it before, at Gulrothrog.”
“I didn’t know what sorcery the Elves might’ve worked on it, but now I sense it’s the same as it’s always been. Good.”
A great horn sounded out from atop the city wall, and a familiar voice, amplified by sorcery, called out, “Has Prince Baleron returned?”
Logran! They must’ve seen us fly in. Baleron almost smiled, but couldn’t. I’ll have to come up with some other plan, damn it.
Ungier nodded to a tall, cloaked Borchstog—a necromancer. The necromancer lifted a horn to his lips and blew twice, loudly, turning to face the Walls.
“Yes, he has returned,” boomed the Borchstog, his voice amplified, as Logran’s had been. “The time has come to exchange prisoners, if that is still your desire.”
Long moments passed with no word from the wall. Baleron shifted uneasily.
“Go on, decide,” said Ungier anxiously, half to himself, his black eyes fixed on the South Gate, as if willing it to open. “What’s taking so long?”
“They’re studying him. Don’t worry,” said the necromancer. “He has the sword. They’ll take him.”
Sure enough, the horn sounded out again and Logran called, “We’ll lead out your son, Ungier, and you will present us with Baleron. Any deviation on your part will be met with a hail of arrows, and the first one will slay Guilost.”
“It is agreed,” returned the Borchstog necromancer.
What’s this? Baleron thought. What interest can Logran have in Rondthril?
“Farewell, Prince,” said Ungier. “We will likely not meet again.”
Baleron leveled his eyes at the vampire. “Don’t be so sure.”
He was ushered toward the high gates, and the archers in the towers to either side watched his approach anxiously. The gates themselves were thrown open and a vampire under heavy guard was led out from the city, where the procession stopped.
