by Jack Conner
Of course, it was risky. Very risky.
But, as she saw it, she had precious little to lose. She only hoped that her songs were working. She suspected they were. Why else would Mogra be glaring at her if the Mistress of Shadows did not suspect something amiss? She would be unlikely to feel simple jealousy, Rolenya felt sure.
Quelling her doubts, the princess stepped down into the arena, still avoiding Mogra’s eyes, and took her position in its center. She actually looked forward to singing; it was the only time lately when she felt whole.
All the Borchstogs fell silent, and a hush descended upon the room. Even the terrible wraiths hiding above the smoke that wreathed the ceiling ceased stirring.
She cleared her throat and looked Gilgaroth in his burning eyes. She no longer had to look away from him. His eyes held no evil for her. Indeed, quite disturbingly, the opposite was true.
Thus, gazing at him openly, she began to sing. She opened up the gates of Light and Grace within herself and let them pour into him through her voice.
Mogra’s eyes narrowed.
Rolenya tried to ignore the Shadow-Weaver. With ever greater power, she let her voice ring out.
Gilgaroth’s expression was difficult to make out on his shadow-wreathed face, but she saw it, and it warmed her. She was beginning to feel almost . . . kindly . . . towards him. It was her songs, she knew. They worked both ways.
She thought it strange, even profane, to think of, but she’d discovered Gilgaroth to possess other facets to his being than the one he normally showed, even, possibly, a facet that knew love. Perhaps—
She sang on.
The Leviathan tucked his wings behind him and dove, flame licking his lips.
“TASTE THE FIRE OF UL MRUNGONA!” he roared, and shot a burning lance as he dove for the tunnel entrance.
“Quickly!” shouted Baleron. “Inside!”
He ran into the dark opening, rebounded against a wall, nearly breaking his nose, and ran on. The others followed quickly behind. Once they rounded a few corners he felt safer, but Throgmar’s fire still chased their heels, immolating the ruins around the opening and sending fire deep into the tunnel itself. Its heat reflected off the wall and up the bend, singeing the kidnappers but not roasting them.
“Damn!” said Sider, fingering his burned eyebrows and soot-streaked face. “I hate dragons.”
“I hate that dragon,” said Lord Grothgar.
Baleron said nothing. He’d suffered months of torture just for the chance of slaying Throgmar, and he still harbored that enmity deep within him, but his hatred was mixed with satisfaction now; he’d already had his revenge.
Fires flickered from wreckage further up the tunnel, and the smoke stung at his eyes. Outside, Throgmar roared loudly, then Baleron heard the sound of the dragon landing.
“THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME IN THERE?” the Leviathan said. “I’LL UNEARTH YOU LIKE A BIRD OF PREY UNEARTHS A GRUB!”
The tunnel began to rock. Baleron could imagine the Worm ripping at the mountain of debris with his mighty claws, tossing huge chunks of rock and masonry aside. The reverberations of his excavation shook the corridor, and the kidnappers looked at each other nervously.
“HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE A GRUB?” shouted the Worm. “ARE YOU PALE AND WRIGGLING?”
This series of tunnels led to the wine cellars, which was in the direction Baleron desired to go, and unlit torches lined the walls at regular intervals. He plucked one from the wall and stabbed it into one of the fires left by Throgmar’s rage.
“Here,” he said, passing the torch to Sider. “Lead on. My father knows how to get to the escape tunnel.”
Albrech grunted. “Escape! What a lot I’ve fallen into.”
“It’s not for you,” Baleron snapped. “It’s for the Union. You’re going to survive, damn it, whether you like it or not, and you’re going to lead whatever forces you can summon against Gilgaroth, and you’re going to defeat him.”
He glared at Albrech hotly until the king, shockingly, looked away. Baleron felt a surge of triumph.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll delay the dragon.”
“You’re mad,” said Sider. “You don’t stand a chance, and anyway I doubt one human could delay such a beast for long in any case.”
“Let him,” Albrech said dully.
Baleron did not take offense at Albrech’s tone. Finally, after all he’d been through, he felt unconcerned about his father’s judgment. It was about damned time, he thought.
The tunnel shook, and dust rained down from the ceiling.
“Hurry,” Baleron said.
“Good luck,” said Sider.
Wait! came a voice in the prince’s head. How can you let your father go off with this rabble? How can you let them take him through miles of subterranean passages? They look a shifty lot, and that Sider has a queer look in his eye.
Baleron merely smiled and ignored the voice.
Sider hurried off into the darkness, the torch lighting the way, and the others followed close at his heels. The king paused, lingering behind. Surprisingly, he squeezed Baleron’s shoulder, for the second time that night.
“This is farewell, then,” Albrech said, and Baleron did not argue. “I never thought you would sacrifice yourself for me.”
“I’m not,” Baleron said. “And it’s for Havensrike, if I am, not you. Now hurry.”
Albrech did not move. He stared Baleron in the eye. “You’re my last,” he said, and his voice was thick. “I never told you this, but I . . . I . . .”
Baleron waited. He had waited his whole life for this. Despite himself, he found that he was holding his breath.
But then another roar shook the hall, and Albrech’s gaze wavered. “I . . .”
“Yes?”
Albrech looked back into his eyes. “I . . . “ Clarity returned. “I never did like you.”
Baleron just stared at him. Then, unable to stop it, he laughed. “I never liked you either.”
Albrech nodded to himself, as if he’d settled something, gave his son’s shoulder one last squeeze, gave the Heir’s blue eyes one last looking—into, then hurried off into the darkness, chasing that pinprick of light. Baleron watched him go until his father had rounded a bend and was gone. He knew he would never see the king again. Then he squared his shoulders, set his jaw and strode outside.
The air out here stank of smoke, burnt stone and metal—and death. Smoke still rose from the spot Throgmar had torched, and the ground was hot underfoot.
Just the same, there was a chill wind blowing, along with the constant drizzle, and Baleron was instantly just as cold and wet as he had been before.
He squinted up at the towering figure of the Betrayer.
A many-forked tongue of lightning licked the ground and sent out a peel of thunder, and for a moment the mighty Throgmar was backlit, a massive, horned silhouette against the sky. Fire seethed from his mouth, lapping at his scaly lips but not burning them. He was a creature of fire and his own fires had no effect.
His amber, reptilian eyes narrowed at seeing the prince, and his whiskered mouth drew into a pained expression.
“YOU,” he said.
“Me,” Baleron affirmed. With a snick, he drew out Rondthril. He did not know what Gilgaroth’s will was, and he did not care; he only knew that his dagger would have little effect on the Worm.
“I WONDERED IF I MIGHT MEET YOU HERE, PRINCE.”
“How?”
“OH, OUR SPIES FOUND OUT ABOUT THE SECRET TUNNEL LONG AGO, AND I TASKED MYSELF WITH GUARDING IT. I COULD NOT ALLOW YOU TO FLEE.”
“You knew I’d left Krogbur?”
“OF COURSE. I WAS SENT TO RETRIEVE YOU—AFTER YOU’D COMPLETED YOUR LABOR.”
“Well, it’s not complete, and it won’t be, not if I have anything to say about it.”
“WHAT IS THIS? DEFIANCE? HA! THE CITY’S FALLEN! THE ARCHMAGE IS DEAD! YOUR PEOPLE ARE LOST AND OVERRUN. WHAT FEW SURVIVE SHALL ONLY LIVE AS CATTLE LIVE, AS SLAVES TO MY FATHER’S WILL.”
Baleron returned sneer for sneer. “Like you?”
Smoke plumed from the dragon’s nose. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
“You’re a coward!” Baleron raged. “A yellow, stinking, puss-bag of fear and shame! I’m surprised Gilgaroth even suffers you to live!”
“YOU GO TOO FAR.”
Baleron lunged forward and slashed the dragon across one of his clawed fingers, between plates of armor, drawing blood. Throgmar’s sharp intake of breath revealed the pain that Rondthril could inflict, even on so mighty a foe.
Kill! Kill! sang the sword. Blood! Blood! Baleron could tell it loved the taste of dragon.
“How far have I gone now, Worm?” he said.
The dragon drew back a bit, wary now. “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”
“May be!”
Evidently impatient with this foolishness, Throgmar shot out a claw and pinned Baleron to the ground. A huge lead weight was on Baleron’s chest, crushing the life out of him, Rondthril wedged between two enormous fingers. Baleron was being ground into the mud and rubble, and he could not get enough air to talk. Is this how his life would end?
Throgmar brought his huge horned head close to the prince’s. “MURDERER,” he snarled. “I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN YOUR CRIME. TEMPT ME, AND I WILL BE TEMPTED.”
Baleron wondered if he had delayed the Leviathan long enough. Would his father have gotten to safety yet? He hoped so. If he provoked the Betrayer any more, he would not be around to delay him any longer.
Throgmar narrowed his eyes, seeing something revealed in the prince’s face, or perhaps in his mind.
“A TRICK,” the dragon seethed, understanding. “YOU SEEK TO SLOW ME.” He snorted flame. “VERY WELL. THEN LET US END THIS NOW.” He paused. “YET BEFORE I DEVOUR YOU, LET ME JUST SAY THAT YOU ARE A FOOL IN THE GRANDEST TRADITION IMAGINABLE. YOU WERE ON THE CUSP OF EVERYTHING; I WOULD HAVE DELIVERED YOU TO KROGBUR, WHERE ROLENYA AWAITS YOU, AND TOGETHER YOU COULD HAVE LIVED OUT YOUR LIVES AS THE RULERS OF SOME DISTANT LAND. YET YOU PROVOKE ME AND AID YOUR FATHER IN HIS FLIGHT, WHEN HE IS DOOMED REGARDLESS.”
He wrapped his claws about Baleron and held the prince aloft in a giant, scaly fist. The dragon shook him, not gently, but just enough to hurt and jar him, and to make him release his grip on Rondthril; the Fanged Blade spun to the earth and embedded itself blade down, quivering, sinking slowly into the wet ground.
“FOOL!” Throgmar spat.
He unclenched his fist and with the other foreleg grabbed Baleron by a boot and hoisted him high overhead. The Great Worm opened his terrible mouth so that Baleron, dangling, stared down at the dragon’s red, fleshy mouth and ivory-colored, gleaming teeth, which were all long and sharp and glistening. The red tongue squirmed between them. Baleron knew he was facing his end.
“THIS IS FOR FELESTRATA,” announced the dragon.
Strangely, fear did not fill Baleron. He would die, he supposed, and the king would live, and as long as the king lived, so would hope. That was enough for him.
Just the same, he would go down fighting. He pulled out the dagger. Dangling by a foot over a chasm of fangs and a flashing red tongue and a hellish gullet, when all his attention was focused on those massive jaws and teeth, a strange voice stopped the Worm from releasing Baleron’s boot and plunging him, slashing, into that cavernous maw.
“Sssspare him,” pleaded a small voice from below.
Irritated, Throgmar clamped his mouth shut and craned his long neck to see just who the speaker was.
To Baleron’s shock, it was none other than Rauglir.
The demon had escaped! Baleron had known this would happen. Hadn’t he warned his father? Damn the man’s stubbornness, his need for revenge! Smashing the sack against the wall had torn a hole in it, or perhaps the demon had gotten out on his own.
Still in his serpent form, Rauglir had evidently stuck around to watch the spectacle, but this eating of the prince was too much for him to sit idly through.
“WHAT?” asked Throgmar.
“I will take care of the king,” promised the snake. “It issss why I was sssent.”
Something about the reptile forced recognition on the dragon. “RAUGLIR,” he said. “I SHOULD’VE KNOWN YOU’D TURN UP.”
“The bad onesss alwaysss do.” Rauglir flicked his head to the still-dangling prince. “I’ve worked too hard to twissst that one to see you ssssimply eat him. Besides, he is The Ssssavior.”
“THEN WHAT WOULD YOU SUGGEST, DEMON?”
“His Doom hasss delivered him and hisss father into our . . . handssss. You were sent to retrieve him. Retrieve him. The king . . . isss mine!”
Now dread did begin to build up in Baleron. Rauglir was right. Baleron had tried to master his Doom, but his Doom had won. It had prompted him to seek out and kidnap the king and bring it to where its Master’s agents were waiting.
But what other choice did I have? It was a good plan. A worthy one. Unfortunately it had been the Enemy’s, also, and now his father would die; Baleron knew without a doubt that Rauglir could easily catch up with Albrech and his kidnappers. If Rauglir went after them, they were dead men. Somehow he had to stop the demon.
“No!” he shouted. He hurled his dagger into Throgmar’s eye.
It worked better than he’d hoped. Throgmar grunted in annoyance and dropped Baleron to the ground. He struck hard, the breath driven from him. Forcing himself not to pause, he rolled aside.
Throgmar plucked the comparatively tiny dagger from his eye and tossed it aside. It had done very little damage. A bass rumble issued from his throat, and fire licked his lips.
Off to the side, Rauglir just chuckled.
“Take him to the Massster,” hissed the demon.
“YES,” agreed the Leviathan. “HIS TORMENT SHALL CONTINUE. YOU’RE RIGHT; IT IS THE
BETTER WAY.”
“Yesss.” The serpent regarded Baleron. “Good bye, lover. I will give your regardsss to your father.”
Baleron lunged at him, meaning to crush the life from him with his one hand, but the snake darted aside.
The prince gave chase—crippled, soaked to the skin, wide—eyed and desperate, hair pasted to his skull, stumbling frantically in the mud and rain after the skillfully-slithering serpent towards a half-blocked opening in an immense ruin that had once been the seat of government in the mightiest nation of the Crescent—but Rauglir was quicker than he and in an instant the demon had disappeared into the shadows of the tunnel.
Baleron charged after him, all his thought bent on stopping the snake, but a huge scaly claw suddenly blocked the tunnel, and Baleron slammed into it. Bounced off. Flailing, he reeled backward, stumbling in the mud and debris, then fell.
Throgmar loomed above him.
Baleron saw Rondthril sticking from the earth, shining in the darkness, and, leaping to his feet, he wrenched it loose from the wet ground and turned to confront the Worm.
Chuckling, Throgmar said, “PUT THAT AWAY.”
A cloud descended on Baleron’s mind, and he had no choice but to comply. He sheathed Rondthril. It would have been useless, anyway.
“SO YOU ARE MINE NOW. AGAIN.”
The cloud departed, replaced by a claw. Throgmar picked him up. Baleron screamed and thrashed in the dragon’s grip, but Throgmar gave no heed.
“NOW YOUR MISSION IS FULFILLED. SO IS MINE. BUT THERE IS SOMETHING ELSE I MUST DO. ONE LAST THING, AND THEN IT IS DONE BETWEEN US.”
“What?” Baleron demanded. “What?”
But Throgmar did not answer.
The dragon launched himself into the sky, his great wings mastering the air. Still carrying Baleron in his armored fist, the terrible Worm began to climb the storm-tossed heavens, and the fallen city began to recede below. Borchstogs and worse continued to ravage it, which despite the rain was half in flame and half in shadow.
Tears running freely down his face, Baleron desperately watched the tunnel entrance diminish below—hoping, praying, that the king would miraculously stumble out, clutching the beheaded body of Ra
uglir and laughing victoriously in the rain—but knowing that within minutes his father would be dead, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The king would die, Havensrike would fall, and the Shadow would lengthen, consuming all in its path, when its path was the world entire.
The Dark One had won.
Baleron’s Doom had been fulfilled, and his web was complete . . . or so he supposed. He prayed to Illiana that it was. What more could ul Ravast possibly do?
He still had one hope, though, fragile and treacherous a thing as it was—Rondthril. Both Logran and Elethris had seen something in it, and in Baleron’s wielding of it, that would indicate some high cause could be served.
But, of course, something had to happen first. Had it happened already, perhaps? Baleron wondered where Ungier was at that moment.
Ungier, commander of the gathered host, watched the sacking of Glorifel with great pride. His chest swelled as his eyes drank in the slaughter. It was glorious.
Ringed by his royal guard of trolls, the Vampire King strode up and through the very Gates of the City. This was the proudest night of his life. Borchstogs looted and raped and slew mercilessly all around him. Darkworms flew overhead, setting fire to great portions of the metropolis. Gaurocks wallowed in the rivers. Igrith sowed terror into the hearts of the surviving Men. Beasts and vampires and monsters of all sorts prowled the alleys.
In a certain courtyard Ungier came upon a wide tangle of dead bodies, some human, some Borchstog, some other, and with his power he raised the corpses from their slumber and instilled wicked spirits in them. The walking dead then stalked off to do his bidding, and he laughed.
He saw a gang of Borchstogs pursuing a teary maiden and stayed their assault. His eyes transfixed the girl, and she went to him, thinking in her delusion that he would offer sanctuary. Instead, he wrapped her in his arms and sank his fangs into her neck. Hot blood spurted the back of his throat, and he gulped it hungrily. He drained the very life from her, and then threw back his blood-spattered face and howled joyously. Tonight was the best night of his long life.
