by Jack Conner
The igrith had not been alone. The others in its group had seen its demise and, enraged, they struck out for their brother’s murderer. Some hopped after Baleron in huge leaps that carried them fifty feet at a stretch. Others shot silken strands at tall buildings and swung their way through the air.
One landed atop the coach behind him. He heard the thud of its impact, then spun, throwing down reins and whip.
As Baleron reached for his weapon, he hesitated. If he chose Rondthril and his part in spinning the Dark One’s web was over, then the Fanged Blade would obey its Master’s will and let the creature kill him. Did he trust that his Doom still followed him, or should he use the dagger instead?
He chose Rondthril.
Unsheathing the Fanged Blade, he half-crouched in the driver’s bench, and just in time. The bulbous Spider leapt on him, fangs glistening with venom.
The blade cut through the side of the monster’s head, and dark blood sprayed. Where it struck the coach’s roof, it smoked like acid.
“It burnssss,” hissed the igrith, surprising Baleron.
Not bothering to respond, he jumped forwards and drove Rondthril through two of the arachnid’s eight black eyes and into its head. Its long, hairy legs shuddered, and the body sagged. Holding his breath (the creature was rank), Baleron kicked the bloated, still-twitching arachnid off his blade and with some effort heaved the corpse from the coach. It smacked the pavement of the road and broke apart, spilling ichor.
More igrith pursued him, a score or more of them. He replaced his weapon in its scabbard and turned back to the horses.
They charged through the streets, terror in their wide eyes, froth at their lips. They sensed only too well that if they faltered, the Spiders would not only kill their driver but themselves as well. The sound of their hooves on the cobbled streets echoed loudly.
Wind whipped through Baleron’s hair and tore at his face. His blood hummed and he felt more alive than he had in a long time. Lost in the moment, he lifted his head and howled at the night.
The horses swerved onto Kings’ Road, which was choked with traffic and pandemonium. When they slowed, Baleron cracked the whip above the stallions’ heads. “Ra!”
The animals obediently threaded their way through the chaos. Some coaches were stopped or overturned. More than one was on fire. Bodies littered the ground, some men, some arachnids, and many more species besides. Creatures of all types had made their way inside the walls, it seemed, some singly, some in groups. Baleron wanted to help the people he passed, some of whom were even then engaged in mortal struggles, but he dared not. He pressed his horses on, his wild delight spent. Seeing his home reduced to a war ground shriveled some deep part of him.
The Spiders that had been pursuing them, faced with the chaos of Kings’ Road, had a tough choice to make, and some continued to chase the prince while others went after the owners of the stopped coaches.
Wind carried smoke from the fires that were even then burning down sections of the city, and Baleron wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench. A consumed a bakery off to his right, and the heat brought a flush to his skin. My home . . .
Hate and horror welled up inside him. The walls were closer now.
Rain soaked him. Ahead a flaming bridge stretched over a dark rushing river—the Nagradim. A score of Borchstogs stood on this side of the bridge. Half seemed to be archers, and the other half helped the archers light their arrows. As Baleron watched, a flaming volley arced into a watermill on the bank of the Nagradim, and the Borchstogs cheered as the building caught fire. One of them saw Baleron and launched a javelin at him. It struck, quivering, in the wooden back of the bench beside him.
“Ra!” he shouted at the horses, who were wavering, not wanting to charge through the line of Borchstogs and over the flaming bridge. “Go on, damn you!” He cracked the whip again, and the horses plowed ahead. Borchstogs scattered. The coach’s wheels crunched over the disintegrating span and dark water rushed beneath. A loose, burning plank fell into it, disappearing without a trace. Unlit arrows flew after them, thunking into the coach harmlessly. Flames from the bridge leapt all about, and the horses whinnied nervously.
Another igrith, one of those still pursuing Baleron, jumped onto the roof, and Baleron turned to deal with it. The coach rocked beneath his feet and the smoke-filled wind tore at his eyes and nose.
Unsheathing Rondthril, he said, “Come on!”
The Spider came, snapping its mandibles.
Baleron hacked off one of its forelegs. Black ichor smoked on the coach roof. The Spider cried out in a high-pitched whistle.
“That sword!” it cried, and Baleron was no longer surprised to hear such a thing speak; they were Mogra’s spawn, after all, just as Ungier was, if not as powerful, not mere beasts. “That’s . . . “ Its eight eyes regarded Baleron strangely. “You’re him.”
Baleron drove his sword at the monster’s head, but it dodged aside. Coiling its legs, it lunged at him and bore him to the roof so that he was crushed under its bloated, armored belly.
“Borchstogs may worship you, but the Children of Queen Mogra don’t. No one will ever know I killed you.”
“That’s right,” he grunted, unable to draw air, “because you won’t,” and drove Rondthril up through the brittle armor into the Spider’s bowels.
It shrieked and convulsed wildly atop him, its many legs kicking and beating on the coach top. Its dark ichor smoked and gurgled where it struck him, and he gasped, kicking the heavy monster off of him. It was then that he saw a strange thing. From one of the many cuts on his body, blood had poured onto the Spider.
And his blood . . . smoked where it touched the monster.
The Flower! “Damn you, Rauglir. What did you do to me?”
Shoving with all his strength, he managed to throw the body off the roof and into the river below, where it disappeared with a splash. Then the coach was over the bridge and the river receding behind him. The bridge, succumbing to the flames, began to collapse, and the Borchstogs cheered.
Baleron took up the reins once more.
He considered what it meant that Rondthril still worked for him, that he was still fulfilling his Doom. He hadn’t been sure till now. And the Flower . . .
The horses threaded their way through the chaos of the broad, tree-lined avenue that was King’s Road, many of the trees on fire, as were several of the buildings that lined the Road. There were even more overturned and abandoned coaches on this side of the river, and even more monsters. A corrupted Giant, thrice or more the size of a Troll, walked down a side street swinging a terrible mace, people impaled to the spiked end of the weapon, not all of them dead. The Giant whipped it back and forth across the street, killing as it went.
Havensrike archers shot at its head, but its skull was too thick for the arrows to penetrate. Others aimed at its throat. Blood trickled down it, but Baleron knew it would take a lake of lost blood to fell that behemoth. It no longer looked humane at all, having four arms, clawed feet and a reptilian tail. Its teeth were long and sharp, and its flesh was slick, green and hairless.
The Giant threw back its head and roared, smashing the weapon into a nearby spire. Cracks spread at the impact. The Giant struck it again. The top half of the building listed and fell, smashing into another, smaller building as it went and crushing a score of people in the streets.
Suddenly the Giant stepped right in the middle of King’s Road, blocking Baleron’s way, and the horses whinnied in fear.
“On, you cravens!” Baleron shouted, cracking his whip.
The Giant loomed above them. Nearer and nearer. Rain dripped off its glistening dark-green skin in sheets.
Baleron would shoot right between its legs!
But then its awful mace came back around, some of the bodies impaled on it still moving. It swung at them.
Baleron ducked. The horses bolted forward.
BOOM! The mace missed them, hitting a building. Bricks exploded, one sailing past Baleron’s head, nearly deca
pitating him.
He guided the coach right between the Giant’s legs and past him. Baleron wished he had time to stop and assist the archers, but there was no time, and he had no bow anyway. Desperate, he cracked his whip over his horses’ heads, guiding them through the war-torn roads, and they plunged onwards into the chaos. The giant roared at their backs, but thunder drowned it out.
Overhead Baleron saw a fleet of glarumri pass by, raining flaming arrows into the courthouse, where a mass of Havensri had gathered to form a resistance. The Havensri scattered, and fires began to consume the courthouse. Unable to do anything else, Baleron charged on.
Glorifel was a hilly city, and many of the streets passed through tunnels under the green rolling hills. Kings’ Road was no exception. Ahead gaped the Sadram Tunnel, and Baleron cringed at what might have made a home in there in the chaos. Maybe he should try to go around the hill, he thought, to avoid the darkness beneath it.
Something blotted out the storm clouds above, and he was in shadow—a great, winged shadow. Something huge flew above, breathing fire.
He made for the tunnel.
To his surprise, Sadram’s entrance was guarded by fifty or so men hunkering down behind a barricade of overturned coaches and debris—a makeshift refuge of the townspeople! He was heartened to see they weren’t all overrun.
The men saw him coming, and their archers took aim but didn’t fire. After studying him for a few moments, a group pushed one of the coaches aside, allowing him in. Grateful, he slowed his horses as they passed within the barricade, then drew rein. The men pushed the coach back into position behind him, grunting with the effort. It felt good to have a roof over his head again.
Above, a Darkworm spewed a column of fire, torching several buildings all in one fiery breath.
“My wife!” one of the men said, tears in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Baleron said. “Thank you all. I owe you.”
“Then will you stay and help us fight?” another asked.
“I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m Prince Baleron, and I’ve got to find my father.”
They looked him up and down, and a large man grinned. “Why, it is the prince!”
Another exclaimed, “The Dueling Dandy himself! Look at him!”
The big man said, “Why, you dog! He’s Baleron of Baleron’s Fighting Five Hundred—speak ill of him at your peril!”
A third man asked, “What happened to his hand?”
“It’s Baleron!” said another, just arriving. “Prince Baleron!”
Baleron looked ahead to the far end of the tunnel. Between here and there were hundreds of people—men, women, children, soldiers and civilians—all desperate, all scared. Torches lined the walls, and their smoke was carried away by the tunnel’s ventilation system. Just the same, the tunnel was gloomy and full of shadows, and it gave him an uneasy feeling.
“Indeed it is,” said a familiar voice from the darkness.
A stout, medium-sized man with a royal bearing emerged, hard blue eyes as penetrating as ever. His crown, stained with blood, glinted in the torchlight.
“Father!” said Baleron.
Albrech carried a broadsword crusted with Borchstoggish viscera. He wore only rudimentary armor, including a bloody breastplate, apparently not having taken the time to don more. Baleron knew that this spoke to his burning love of Glorifel and his desire to helm its defense even at his own expense. Five guards flanked him.
“Son,” said the king, his voice grave.
Lightning split the night sky beyond the tunnel, and thunder rolled across the city.
Well, Baleron supposed, his search was over, but it looked as though his mission had only just begun. For they were trapped under a hill in an overrun city, with countless horrors all around. He didn’t know how he could get the king to safety, or if the king would even want to go.
Chapter 8
Leaping down from the driver’s bench, Baleron strode over to Albrech. “Why aren’t you at the wall?” he said, meaning to embrace his father—he never got that close.
Albrech pointed his sword at his throat and said, “Stop right there.”
Baleron closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened them again, the king was studying the red stains on Baleron’s clothes.
“That’s not Borchstog blood,” Albrech said. “Guards!”
Instantly, a ring of sharp steel surrounded the prince.
Albrech narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “To answer your question, we never made it to the wall. It was overrun just as soon as the shields collapsed. Dragons and glarumri broke our defenses. My company and those we gathered to us sought refuge here . . . and the shields’ failing can mean only one thing: Logran is dead.” He paused. “Interesting that that happened just as soon as I sent you to him.”
“Father, I can explain.”
“You have an explanation for everything, don’t you?” Albrech grimaced in distaste. “Just the same, it was I that sent you to him. I suppose I’m to blame, too.”
Baleron hung his head. Steady, Bal, he thought. Stay on course.
Slowly, he lifted the stump of his left arm. It was a blackened ruin. Where it wasn’t black, the skin looked as though it had melted, and the whole thing was an inflamed, reddened mass of tortured tissue. The king actually started upon seeing it.
“Rauglir is gone,” Baleron told him steadily. “The demon is gone. It did kill Logran . . . but it cannot harm anyone else.”
Thunder cracked again, and rain began to fall from the dark clouds Gilgaroth had thrown over the city. A chill breeze gusted through the tunnel.
Albrech eyed Baleron skeptically. “This is the same demon that pretended to be Rolenya?” the king said.
“The very one.”
A beat passed. Albrech reached his decision. “We need all the men we can muster, I suppose. General Kavradnum is dead. I don’t think the Enemy knows I’m here, otherwise they would have overrun us already. But we need every able-bodied man and woman to take up arms. I don’t know if I can consider you able-bodied, but . . . you do have a sword.” He studied the Fanged Blade. “Is that . . . your old sword? The cursed one?”
“Rondthril, yes. The last thing Logran said was that I should keep it.”
Albrech nodded slowly. “Yes, you did wield it well, if I remember. When it wasn’t betraying you. And me. Just the same, perhaps with it you could still prove of help to us—if you can resist the urge to murder any more of your fellow countrymen.”
Baleron hadn’t thought the jest humorous when Logran told it, and it hadn’t improved since. “Father, staying here is suicide. No matter how long you hold out, they’ll come for you eventually.” He paused significantly, then said, “Glorifel has fallen.”
The king glared at him. “You weakling. Coward. How dare you say that!”
“It’s true, Father. I’ve been out there. I’ve seen it. Our only hope—Havensrike’s only hope—is for you to live and somehow marshal a resistance in the north.”
“I won’t abandon my people!”
“You said yourself the city was doomed. If you don’t leave now . . . right now . . . you will die. Then you truly will abandon them.”
“I will not stand here and listen to your bile. Either take up your sword and fight the Borchstogs, or be damned! I’ll put an end to you myself!”
Baleron gritted his teeth. Patience, Bal. “Very well, Father. Borchstogs it is.”
Turning to one of the men, Albrech said, “Put him on the north barricade. And keep an eye on him.”
“I can’t keep eyes on him and the Borchstogs both,” said the captain of the assigned barricade. “I need men I can trust.”
“That’s ill for you,” spat the king. “You’ve got him instead.”
He stalked off, leaving Baleron with the captain.
“Where do you want me?” Baleron said.
The captain placed him at a spot on the barricade, and Baleron settled in with the others to watch the rain-thrashed city succumb to the horror
s of Oslog. Gloom began to dig its way into him. The eyes of the other soldiers were glazed and dull and hopeless, and he knew if he stayed here long enough his would be the same. The terrible part was that the soldiers were right to think as they did; they were doomed.
Baleron tried to talk sense into the captain, whose name was Marz Sider, a colonel under General Kavradnum: “My father will die if he stays here. You must help me get him to safety. I know a way. It’s the only chance for Havensrike.”
Marz Sider shook his head—“You are craven”—and marched away. Baleron decided to bide his time until the moment was right, then steal the king away himself, somehow or other.
As things happened, that didn’t prove necessary. About an hour after Baleron’s arrival, a wave of Borchstogs swarmed across the bridge and broke against the barricade, howling and calling for blood. The men fought back with everything they had, women and children picking up arms beside them. Many died, but ultimately they drove the Borchstogs back—at least temporarily. The enemy would return.
Bleeding from a cut on his arm, Marz Sider drew Baleron aside. The captain looked haggard and frightened, but Baleron knew it wasn’t for himself; the king had been forced to draw his sword during the fighting, and he’d been wounded—only a shallow cut along one cheek, but it had evidently been enough to convince Sider of something.
“You were right, Baleron,” he said without preamble. “The King will die if he stays here.”
Baleron waited.
“You seemed to think there was a way to get him safely out of the city,” Sider went on. “Is there?”
“Yes. It’s an old family secret, but I guess it doesn’t matter now. Beneath the ruins of Castle Grothgar there’s a tunnel. It will take us beyond the city, assuming we can find it under the rubble.”
“An old escape tunnel for the king,” mused Sider. “You’ll need men.”
“How many can you provide?”
Sider thought it over. “Maybe nine or ten.”
“It’s not quite my old five hundred, but it will have to do. Get them ready immediately. We’ll need help to kidnap the king.”
