by Jack Conner
They took it.
A score of arrows split the air.
Baleron had time to curse, but that was it.
Yet suddenly all the arrows stopped in mid-air, paused, and fell to the floor. Stunned, Baleron stared at them.
“Leave him be,” said a strained voice, and the press parted to reveal Logran, bleeding and dying on the marble floor, his voice frothy. A faint smile tinged his lips. Apropos of everyone’s confusion, he said, “You heard the king. That’s Baleron—the real Baleron. A werewolf would be chewing Albrech’s corpse by now.”
With that, he slumped to the floor and was still.
The sorcerer that had knelt over him looked up and said, “Come, brethren. I think there’s still time.”
The mages gathered in a circle about the Archmage, aimed their staffs at him, focusing their power, and the circle glowed a bright, morning yellow, tinged with orange.
King Albrech, still rubbing his throat, turned to Baleron and said in a growl, “Welcome home, son. Guards, take him away!”
Chapter 5
Rolenya sang, pouring her heart and soul into her song, driving back the darkness that encircled her.
Dressed in white, a white light seemed to glow from within her, suffusing her, and she was the only light in the neverending blackness, which was full of a seething tension. She stood at the edge of the high platform that jutted out into what Baleron had called the Black Temple, that vast space at the core of Krogbur where the Shadow’s presence was the strongest.
Somewhere in the enormity of all that blackness, he was there, listening, watching. She tried not to think about it, about him, tried solely to focus on her song. It was difficult. She was alone with Gilgaroth, more at his mercy now than at any time since she’d been freed from Illistriv.
She sang on. Every night since Baleron’s leaving, Gilgaroth had asked her to sing for him.
Now below her yawned a black abyss that seemed endless and might very well be; this temple, this well, could run all the way through the roots of Krogbur and beyond, into the very bowels of the earth, or into some strange netherworld, for all she knew. She stood in the very place where Baleron had lopped off his own hand; his blood likely still stained the ground, if she could but see it. She hated this place. Its evil almost suffocated her. The very air vibrated with malignant passions, and made her feel unclean.
Yet this is where Gilgaroth had brought her every day for the last week. She would sing, and he would listen, spellbound, for hours. She found it hard to believe that such a terrible being could appreciate what meager elements of Light and Grace she could offer in her voice, and it made her wonder if Gilgaroth might not have some of those same qualities after all. If so, he was an even more pitiable creature than she’d imagined.
On this day, after she’d been singing for over an hour, two flaming slits opened in the dark well of the temple, above her and before her, suspended over an abyss that made her shiver just to contemplate.
The eyes of fire widened.
“Beautiful,” breathed Gilgaroth. His voice sounded like flames licking stone, and she didn’t know if he were referring to her or her voice.
She refused to look at those burning eyes, refused to be sucked into his mesmerizing stare. She sang on, loudly and with all the force she could muster.
“You are my treasure,” spoke the Tempter of Man, watching her with what appeared to be genuine fondness. “It’s been too long since I’ve listened to the silver song of a daughter of the Light.”
The eyes dimmed and closed. The Shadow, subdued by her voice, relaxed . . . and drifted.
She sang on.
Should I? she thought. Should I do it now?
She paused, fearful, and her heart trembled.
She almost did it—almost—but her courage failed her, and she continued to sing, until at last, she thought again, Now! I must do it now! But still she was afraid.
It was a mad idea. A mad, impossible plan. But what else could she do? She’d thought about it all this last week, but so far she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Growing up in Havensrike, she’d often read tales of Elvish princesses that could stop the heart of a thing of darkness with their song, and such stories had been among her favorites. Those princesses could weave spells with their songs. They could entrance a listener and bind the listener to them—they were spells of love, some of them, but some were spells of power.
Now that she knew she was Elvish, she’d began to wonder if she could do this, if she could sing such a song. After all, her mother, her true mother, was said to be able to call entire forest-gardens into being with just her song.
Come! What do I have to lose?
But what if he finds me out? What then?
She steeled herself. Reaching deep within, she searched out the well of Light she knew to be inside her.
There! Slowly, very slowly, she began to weave strands of Light from that well into her voice.
Gilgaroth’s eyes remained closed.
She sang on. Could it be done without schooling? Could it be done on instinct alone, fueled by sheer desperation?
Give me courage, beings of the Light, she thought. Give me strength.
She sang on, faster and faster, as loudly as she could, but now she injected something new into the song. She tried to weave a spell, a web—tried to lay a foundation for ensnaring the listener. She could feel the tools to do this with, could feel how it might be done, and it was far more complicated than she would have thought. How had those fairytale princesses done it? How had her mother?
Against her will, her thoughts turned to Baleron, but she forced these thoughts aside. She had to concentrate, had to dredge up those latent abilities of binding and unbinding.
The Shadow’s eyes sprang open, and Rolenya almost screamed. She’d been found out!
“A visitor comes,” he said.
She relaxed, breathless, then caught the sound of air being split by something large. She wheeled about, her song forgotten, as the huge black multi-legged mass of the Mogra rose up from the shaft, ascending under her own power, drew abreast of the platform, then leapt on the stage directly behind Rolenya.
Eyes wide, Rolenya stared up at the horror that was the Goddess of Mists and Sacrifice and stifled a scream.
“Lovely,” said Mogra. “A golden voice in a lightless gloom.”
“My songbird,” said Gilgaroth, his terrible mouth a gash of flickering red in the darkness. Fires from his throat bathed his sharp teeth in a lurid red glow.
““I hope that singing is all she’s done for you, my Lord. Now go along, little pigeon,” said Mogra, “for Lord Gilgaroth and I shall make our own sweet music now.”
Caught between these two implacable forces, Rolenya froze. Should she go around Mogra, or under her, threading her way through the forest of huge spider legs? The thought petrified her.
Mogra made the decision for her. The Spider Goddess coiled her many-jointed limbs and leapt straight over Rolenya’s head and disappeared into the blackness where Gilgaroth waited. The Dark One and the Shadow-Weaver wrapped each other in an unholy embrace within a darkness so deep even Rolenya’s elvish eyes could not penetrate it.
“Go,” commanded Gilgaroth. His fires were no longer visible.
There seemed a great movement in the dark—restless and wild, full of need and desire and ancient wrath. Shadow swelled and swayed and pulsed. A great power throbbed in the blackness.
“Go!” bade Mogra.
Rolenya turned her face from the unholy union and descended the endless stairs without another word, glad to be away. As she went, she emitted her own radiance—an ability granted by her heritage and transferred with her soul, not her flesh. This was fortunate, as there was no other light to be had. Her white light revealed one stained black stair at a time, her pale bare feet touching down one after the other.
She wondered why Mogra had come. Perhaps the Shadow-Weaver had heard rumor of her songs and in jealousy had decided to visit the Black Tower? R
olenya doubted it.
She wondered if her spell-song had begun to work on Gilgaroth before Mogra’s arrival, and if she should try it again next time. The thought terrified her.
As she descended the spiraled stairs that wound along the temple walls, terrible noises chased her from behind, roars and screams and howls and grunts—an unholy din as though Hell itself had been unleashed, and perhaps it had. She did not look back.
It seemed he spent half his life imprisoned, Baleron mused as he languished in the palace dungeon, which had been converted from the Husran catacombs. In fact, the room he now occupied was not a prison cell—not originally—but a crypt. Oddly appropriate, he thought.
It was a comfortable enough cell, though, dry and warm, very much unlike the pits of Krogbur. He was becoming a connoisseur of prisons. Sadly, it meant that though he traveled between different peoples, he existed outside any one country, any one family. He was utterly an outsider, treated as hostile by all sides.
He would be glad when this was over. Then perhaps he could find a place where he belonged, even if it was only a place for his spirit. He didn’t expect to come out of this war alive. He would die, he knew, and his spirit would spend the rest of eternity dwelling on his mistakes; he had to minimize those mistakes now, or he’d be one woeful spirit.
But it seemed that any decision he made was the wrong one. Every choice he faced led to some unendurable consequence, whether it be the fall of the Crescent or the misuse of the woman he loved.
And what did it matter, really? Rauglir had made the choice for him. Ironically, Gilgaroth’s backup plan (Baleron now realized that that’s precisely what Rauglir was) had landed him here, where Rauglir’s targets were safe from him. Baleron only hoped his father and Logran stayed far away. He didn’t want to rot in prison, but it was far better than the alternative.
When his first visitor came, he’d been stuck in the crypt for two days without food or water, and he was sorely in need of a drink, his throat parched and his stomach gnawing at itself like a weasel in its den. His dreams continued to haunt him, and he could feel Rauglir like a shadow inside him. An iron collar about Baleron’s neck weighed him down, and chains sprouting from it rooted him to the floor. Iron rings to either side of the collar bound his hands.
They must think he was some wild, ravening beast that needed to be forcibly restrained, he thought. The worst part was they might be right.
His visitor was Logran.
“You’re alive!” Baleron said. He rose to his feet, the chains clinking around him. He took a step forward, all the chains would allow him, and two members of the prison guard brandished their swords at him.
“Don’t try any of your tricks,” warned the senior officer.
“Please, captain,” Logran said, “don’t poke any holes in him for the time being. Agent of the Dark One or not, he is the Heir.”
The soldiers lowered their blades uncertainly.
“The Heir?” Baleron said. If he was the Heir, that could only mean . . .
“We’ll get to that,” the sorcerer promised.
“But how? How are you here? I felt your spine sever.”
“Yes,” Logran admitted. “That is not my fondest memory of you. And it nearly did for me, true enough. But somehow my brethren managed to put me back together again. Our art has come far in the last few years, I really must say. Though I must give credit where it belongs, to Elethris and his Flower. They’re what really saved me.”
Soberly, Baleron said, “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise.” Logran looked about at the guards. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a moment? I promise to keep both eyes on him at all times.”
The captain nodded reluctantly. “We’ll be right outside if you need us.” The soldiers withdrew, the captain throwing one last scowl at the prince and saying, “You’d better not try anything or it’s me you’ll have to face.”
Despite himself, Baleron laughed. After all the horrors he’d been through, this pudgy, squinty-eyed little man thought he could intimidate him?
Logran had water. As Baleron drank greedily, he noted that the sorcerer seemed hale and hardy, much improved from when he’d resided at Grothgar Castle; Baleron now supposed that then the sorcerer had been wasting away in grief over Elethris and Celievsti, but purpose had rejuvenated him.
Logran smiled, and Baleron frowned. It was good to know he hadn’t killed the old man, but it was annoying to find the sorcerer in such good humor.
“What did you mean, I’m the Heir?”
Logran’s good humor fled. “Prince Jered was cut down this morning upon the walls of Clevaris. He was battling a powerful Grudremorqen, one of Grudremorq’s oldest and most powerful sons.”
Baleron let out a breath. After he’d found out that he and Jered suffered a like affliction, their Dooms, he’d often wondered what it might be like to consult with his brother—to compare notes, as it were. Now he’d never get that chance.
“And Kenbrig?”
“Also fallen. Killed shortly after your departure by . . . that thing.”
“Rauglir.”
“Yes. I had the satisfaction of destroying him myself, at least.”
Baleron gritted his teeth. Rauglir mocked his every move. Baleron didn’t know the nature of his left hand, not exactly, but he had suspicions.
“What ails you?” the Archmage asked, perhaps seeing his expression.
“Rauglir . . .” Baleron stared at his scarred left hand and tried to waggle his fingers. Almost to his surprise, they waggled.
“Rauglir is loose,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“You should’ve trapped him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you felt a taint in me.” Baleron flexed and clenched his left hand. “I think he’s inside me, Logran. I think he’s the one that stabbed you.”
“Are you sure it was not your Doom?”
“I’m sure. Otherwise why would Gilgaroth have had me chop off my hand, then reattach it? See the scars if you don’t believe me.”
Logran looked noncommittal.
Baleron’s mind returned to Kenbrig. Baleron and his brother had never been particularly close, but he would miss him.
A more pressing issue faced him, though: what did it mean that Jered had been slain? Did the Dark One betray him after he’d fulfilled his Doom? Would Gilgaroth do the same to Baleron? But surely Jered’s purpose had not been fulfilled, or Logran would have told him that news first.
“The Queen, the City,” he said, just to make sure. “How do they fare?”
“Clevaris stands, but barely. Grudremorq has fouled the River and corrupted the Larenthellan; he sends his sons into the moat and their heat boils it away. It kills them, but they weaken it, and he’s dammed up the Larenth upstream. The elves would’ve run out of water by now, but Queen Vilana stopped the flow in time, and since then a dam has been constructed at the northern end of the City, and they have water enough to last . . . for a time. But Larenthellan, the moat that protects Clevaris—it no longer serves as a barrier, and the Fire God can now lead his troops across it to assault the walls of the City directly. Meanwhile the Whiteworms and Swans protect the City from the air, but their numbers dwindle, and the Darkworms and glarumri seem endless—although where these Worms come from I can’t imagine. There should not be so many . . . ”
Then Jered had not accomplished his task. The mystery of his death deepened, and Baleron was determined to find out the why of it. After all, the spawn of Oslog knew not to slay Baleron, so why didn’t they know to spare Jered? Was it because Baleron was ul Ravast and Jered simply a pawn?
“Several of Vilana’s highest and most powerful elves have been murdered,” Logran continued. “Right in the Palace, too. There’s a traitor amok, and no one has any idea who.”
A sudden headache bloomed fiercely, yet the prince managed to say, “I don’t think he’ll kill anyone else,” before the pain overwhelmed him and he fe
ll back, gasping.
Logran knelt over him and placed a hand on Baleron’s head. The Archmage concentrated, closing his eyes, and quickly Baleron began to feel better, but Logran gasped and hastily removed his hand. He staggered back, as though afraid of Baleron.
“What—?” asked Baleron.
Logran let out a shuddering breath. “The Wolf’s touch,” he murmured. “I felt it upon you . . .”
Baleron maintained eye contact. Slowly, steadily, he said, “I don’t serve him, Logran. I don’t. It’s Rauglir, he’s in me. It sounds absurd, but it must be.”
“You’re tainted . . .”
“He’s the taint. Don’t you see? Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my own hand right now. Then you’ll trust me, and I’ll be free . . . of Rauglir, at least. My Doom will still—”
“I doubt anyone’s going to give you a sword again, Baleron, not for a long, long time.”
“But you believe me, right? I’m. Not. Evil.”
Logran regarded him sadly. “I don’t know what you are, Baleron.” He gathered himself together and stared at the chained prince with sad brown eyes. “Your father has instructed me to determine your status, whether good, evil, or other. Tell me truly, Baleron. Are you an agent of the Wolf?”
Baleron paused, lowered his eyes. “Almost, Logran. Almost. Even now I’m not sure what the right thing to do is, if there is a right thing. But no, I’m not working with the Enemy, though later I might wish I had. Just by cooperating with you, I’m . . . well, you would not believe me if I told you, but trust me, it will have terrible consequences on someone I love.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s me, Logran. You’ve known me all my life. You know what I would or wouldn’t do. You must trust me.”
“You stabbed me in the back.” Logran breathed heavily. After some moments to calm himself down, he said, “I clearly can’t let you walk around freely, can I? Your father has given me custody of you. He says that since it was my life you tried to steal, you are mine now.”
“Your sorcerers have already tested me.”
