by Jack Conner
“Do you think we’re in any danger here?” Feren said, as the rest of the party clattered up.
Baleron shrugged. “We’re in danger everywhere. The Enemy has agents spread to all corners of the Crescent and beyond. Hopefully not so many as to be able to take us on, though—not here, not yet. But if you’d like to strike out for the Palace, or what they’re calling the Palace, I’m amenable.” The truth was that he’d just be happy to get down off his horse. Riding bareback wasn’t something he had grown a fondness for.
“We’ll try the inn,” Feren decided. “Like Captain Halbarad said, an armed party like ourselves are unlikely to be the victims of some … what do you think it might be? Shapeshifter? Rithlag?”
“No idea,” Baleron said.
Rolenya came beside him. “What are you two discussing with such earnestness?”
“Did not your Elf ears hear?”
She favored him with a smile. “Suspicious eyes see suspicion everywhere. I wasn’t eavesdropping.”
“Nothing,” Feren said. “Only local superstition. At any rate, let us make ourselves known to the people of the inn.”
Soon their horses were stabled and the innkeeper had rented out their rooms for the night. The innkeeper was a jovial woman with flour coating the ends of her long gray hair and roses dancing in her aged cheeks. The main room of the inn rang with laughter and ribald voices, and a great fire roared in the hearth. Waitresses served trenchers of steaming meat and porridge, and Baleron’s mouth watered. As one customer patted a waitress’s bottom and she slapped him across the face, there came a chorus of laughter, not least from the stricken man himself. It was a surprisingly merry scene, and Baleron found himself enjoying it.
The humans present—and they were all humans save for the newcomers—stared at the party of Elves in surprise. Baleron understood. Even after days in the saddle, the Elves looked clean and crisp and immaculate. Added to their natural beauty and grace, they could have been heavenly beings compared to the ordinary (often drunken) humans of the chamber.
But most had seen Elves before, at some point, and at any rate they were polite enough. They soon returned to their previous drinks and conversation and bottom-pinching.
Baleron’s party supped and enjoyed the more festive atmosphere. Some of the Elves spoke low amongst themselves, and when Baleron listened—eavesdropped, as Rolenya would have it—he heard them discussing King Alathon and Lorivanneth, and wondering who all had been killed in Tiron’s theft and escape. Some had had friends and family serving in the Swan Tower or in the Library, and such had been the chaos of their departure that few knew if their loved ones lived or not.
Tiron, Baleron thought, feeling sick. I knew you were deadly with a bow, but I never expected that you could be capable of such a slaughter, even if you wanted to. Tiron had been driven to some desperate plight, Baleron was sure of it; he just didn’t understand why. Better that I don’t. I wouldn’t want to hesitate out of a sense of compassion when the time comes to shove a foot of steel in his belly.
As luck would have it, one of the nearby townspeople was smoking a pipe, and Baleron was able to buy first the pipe and then a store of pipeweed, after which he lit up and sat back, puffing away. The smoke enlivened him and chased some of his darker thoughts away.
The Elves looked at him doubtfully. Smoking was not a habit that had become popular among the Lightborn, and most frowned on it. Baleron rolled the smoke about in his mouth and blew a smoke ring, then another.
To his surprise, Laithan laughed in delight. “I did not know humans could do such magic,” he said.
Baleron smiled. “We are full of surprises.”
That drew a laugh from some of the others, and from some of the closer Men, as well. Rolenya watched Baleron indulgently, and he was reminded of her many sisterly reproaches growing up. She had been a doting but exasperated older sister, when she had been a sister—when she had been Rolenya Grothgar. But that had always been a fiction, hadn’t it? In reality, she was Rolenya, daughter of Vilana, Queen of Larenthi. And my truest love, he thought sadly. Not even the smoke could cheer him out of that thought. For if she was his truest love, that meant he would never know a truer. And yet she was forbidden.
When he caught her eye, he saw her looking troubled, too.
After dinner, the company trooped upstairs and a porter showed them to their rooms on the second floor. The Shandy was all of stone, and Baleron was surprised by how well it muffled the sounds from the dining hall below. Then again, faded tapestries had lined the hall, likely absorbing some of the sound. In any case, it was unexpectedly quiet when the porter showed Baleron to his room last, then withdrew after receiving a coin in thanks.
Baleron turned the knob and started to push the door open, but just then he sensed someone approaching.
“Rolenya,” he said as she drew near. He was only a little surprised to hear how the word came out in a choke.
She looked very beautiful and very sad as she reached out a hand and grasped his, then lifted it to her lips and kissed it. He would have grimaced in embarrassment, but the Elves had all gone into their rooms. Of course. She would not have put on a show in front of them. They had the hallway to themselves.
“Baleron,” she said softly.
“That is my name,” he agreed. “Though I have heard some choice alternatives from some—such as my lord brother.” He smiled. “Even you have called me a scoundrel and a blackheart more than once.”
“That is because you have been a scoundrel more than once.” She lowered his hand but still gripped it. Her eyes never left his. “Baleron, I wanted to talk to you.”
He wanted to say, So talk, but resisted. “Shall we do it here?”
“Why not … in my room?”
He fought not to raise his eyebrows. Slowly, he allowed her to lead him to her door and through it into the handsome room beyond. Her room was at the end of the hall and only bordered one other room, which made it quieter than Baleron knew his room would be, though with the noise muffled below none were cacophonous. Was this building older than it appeared? Had it too been shaped from an ancient pre-human dwelling?
She lit a few lanterns, then sat down on her bed. She patted the seat beside her. Now he did raise his eyebrows. Still, wordlessly, he perched beside her, feeling her leg brush his, smelling the floral scent that wafted off her hair despite days on horseback.
Watching him, her cheeks colored slightly. “Baleron, I …”
“Yes?”
She opened her mouth to try again, then seemed to think better of it. Instead she leaned across to kiss him full on the mouth. Surprised, but only a little, he responded, meeting her lips with his. Her lips were hot and full, and his tongue played lightly against hers. His breeches tightened.
His hand strayed toward a full, high, firm breast, then pulled back. With a gasp, he separated.
“No.”
She started to lean forward again, to kiss him once more and melt his reservations, but he placed his hand on her upper arm and gently but firmly held her away.
“No,” he repeated.
Hurt flashed across her eyes, and she turned away. “Why?”
He stood and began pacing, agitated. “Why do you think? Rolly, you can’t just have me and throw me away, then have me and throw me away again!”
Her eyes moistened. “Is that what you think I did?”
“That’s what it feels like.”
“How dare you, Baleron Grothgar! How dare you!” She stood now, too, and turned her fierce gaze upon him. Tears still stood out in her eyes, but none trickled down her cheeks. “I love you and I want to be with you. Is that so wrong? I know you want me, too.” Her eyes went to the bulge in his breeches, then back to his face. “Part of you does, anyway.”
He spun to her. “Rolenya, you know how I feel about you. Let’s have no secrets between us.”
“I thought we had agreed, in Ivenien—we were on the verge of reconciling then, or so I felt.”
“
So did I, but the same thing would have happened then.”
“But why, Baleron? Why do you make this so difficult?”
“I’m the one making it difficult? Interesting. Here I was thinking that was you.” He ran his hand through his hair, which was suddenly sweaty. “Rolly, don’t you realize that if we were … to be together …” (his gaze strayed to the bed) “… I would never be able to let you go?”
She stared at him, then swallowed audibly. At last she wiped her eyes and looked away. “I fear that, as well.”
“That’s the way it is, and must be, for now.”
“You think that things might change?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how they could. But a fool will hope for things it knows are impossible. At any rate, your family will forbid you to marry me, and my own family has already made their—or his—thoughts on the matter quite plain. Unless we elope, we cannot be together in any permanent way, and I could not bear to have you in an impermanent way.”
He moved toward her and gently traced her cheek, feeling the moistness on his fingers. She leaned into the contact, then took a deep breath and leaned away.
He let his hand drop, feeling all his hopes drop with it.
“I understand you,” she said in a small voice. “I even think I agree with you. I … I’m glad you have the strength to resist where I do not. But … part of me wishes you didn’t.”
He bit back the obvious reply. “Me, as well. I’d better go.”
He moved toward the door.
“Bal!”
He turned. “Yes?”
She smiled softly at him. Her eyes still shone with tears. “I do love you.”
Now it was his turn to swallow. He nodded and exited the room, shutting the door softly behind him. He paused, thinking of her waves of black hair falling over her white shoulders, of the pink roses in her cheeks, then he forced the thoughts away and started back to his room.
As he turned the knob, though, he paused and stared back at Rolenya’s door five rooms down. Had he made the right decision? What if … ? What if her overture to him had indeed been a way for them to elope, as he’d said—a way to begin a permanent relationship? They didn’t have to discuss it. They just had to never let each other go. But if they didn’t discuss it, if they just slept together blindly, what assurance did either of them have that this time it would be lasting? He knew he couldn’t survive another heartbreak.
He shook his head and twisted the knob. The door opened, and he put one foot through it. Before he’d put a second, he heard a feminine scream several doors down. Hackles raised all along his arms, and fear filled his gut, for he knew that voice well.
Rolenya was crying out in terror.
Chapter 17
Feeling cold, as if bathed in ice, Baleron bounded back toward her room, banging on the doors of the Elvish soldiers as he went.
“Rouse yourselves, Elves! There is mischief!”
Without pausing to see if they obeyed, he reached the door and wrenched it open. There at the inside wall gaped the opening of a passageway, and two tall figures were dragging Rolenya through it. In the past few seconds they had managed to slip a gag over her mouth, but she screamed muffled threats into it. Her abductors paid no heed. One carried her feet while another held her upper body.
They had not come alone. Two others crouched before the opening, swords glittering in their fists by the light of the sullen candles. Their eyes glimmered strangely, seeming strangely … reptilian.
“Let her go!” Baleron shouted, ripping his own sword from its sheath with a steely ring.
The nearest opponent leapt at him, sword flashing. Baleron ducked under the blade, then rose, kicking the man—if it was a man—in the chest. The man reeled back as the second one thrust at Baleron’s throat. Baleron swayed aside, then brought his sword down in a chop that severed the attacker’s arm at the shoulder.
Blood spurted, but it was not red. Even in the dim light Baleron could see green fluid shooting from the wound even as the stricken man—or whatever it was—shrieked in rage and pain. But not as much pain as a human would evince. For even as his arm flopped on the floor, the man-thing pinned it with a foot and reached down to wrest the sword from its grasp.
Meanwhile the first attacker had recovered his footing. He launched himself at Baleron, who deflected the first sword-stroke, then hacked at the man’s head. The assailant blocked the blow, both hands on his sword. Baleron kicked him in the knee. Snap! The man screamed and collapsed backward.
The second opponent had scooped up his sword and was advancing on Baleron. Baleron spared a glance for Rolenya even then vanishing down a secret set of stairs, then flew at the one-armed assailant. The man slashed at his belly. Baleron parried that blow, then another, looking for an opening. The man evidently didn’t need as much blood flowing in his veins as a regular man did, as he did not weaken right away due to his wound. Instead he drove on, fury flashing in his reptilian eyes.
At last Baleron saw his opportunity. Taking advantage of a gap in his enemy’s defenses, he thrust straight through the heart. His blade erupted between the man’s shoulder blades, dripping green fluid.
“What’s this?” cried a voice from the doorway.
Baleron turned to see Feren, Laithan and several Elves just entering the room. The man-thing with the broken knee slashed at the nearest Elf, who nimbly stepped aside, then skewered him with a blade engraved with Elvish runes.
“No time to explain,” Baleron said.
“But look!” said Laithan, pointing at the creature that had just been dispatched. For in death his face changed, rippled, and the human mask it had been wearing dropped away like a cloud breaking apart. Revealed beneath it was the face of a serpent, eyes yellow and pupils slitted vertically. Venom glistened on the end of its fangs.
“What is the meaning of this?” Feren said. “They’re snake-men!”
Indeed, Baleron saw that the other one was the same, reptilian features replacing the human ones.
“I haven’t heard of such things in an eon,” said Laithan.
Baleron shook his head. “Answers can wait. They’ve taken Rolenya. After them!”
With no more words he bounded over the body of the creature he’d slain and slipped through the secret doorway. How had the snake-men known about it but the humans had not? Just how old was this building? Baleron felt like he was missing some important piece of the puzzle. Vaguely he remembered tales of serpent-people from his youth, but until the conversation about Zog earlier he had put such notions from his mind long ago. The old tales were true, it seemed. But what did it mean?
He didn’t pause to ponder the matter but jumped down the stairs two at a time. They proved tight and winding, and he found that the stairs angled steeply, as if not designed for human feet. After tripping and catching himself with his hook, he forced himself to go slower. Behind him he heard the soft swift footfalls of the Elves.
At the foot of the stairs he found himself spilling into a hall running perpendicular to the short corridor that led to the stairs. With every step it grew dimmer until, as he reached the stairwell, it darkened to a black like that of the void. It reeked of minerals and age, and the air was cold and wet against his skin.
An Elf spoke a word and light sprang from his hand, where he gripped a smooth stone. Others pulled out similar stones from pouches on their belts. Laithan started to pass Baleron one, then realized he had no extra hand with which to grip it.
Distantly Baleron heard the scuffle of feet and muffled shouts. He darted in that direction, and the Elves moved as a group after him. He could hear their footsteps and see the combined lights reflecting back from ancient walls dripping in moss and lichen. The walls arched to a curved ceiling, and dark openings lined them.
“By the Omkar!” said Feren. “What is this place? It looks older than the town above.”
That it did, thought Baleron—at least some of the town. But he remembered what Halbarad had said about the city, and he
remembered the fantastically ancient buildings he had passed as he wended his way through the town. We’re not in Yavlock anymore, Baleron thought. We’re in Suul. But he had not the luxury of worrying about what that meant, not right now, not while Rolenya’s life was in the balance.
“Here!” Baleron said, pausing beside a certain doorway larger than the others. “The sounds came from this way.”
“Are you sure?” said Laithan. Like the other Elves, he carried a sword in one hand and a glowing stone in the other. Baleron wondered how long the stones could glow—minutes, hours?
Baleron didn’t pause to answer but pushed through the archway and pelted after Rolenya and her abductors. It amazed him that they could remain so far ahead, bearing a thrashing Elven princess as they were doing. Surely she would slow them down enough for Baleron to reach them.
He ran down a broad hallway, then hit an intersection. Hearing muffled shouts, he turned left and hastened after them. Dim dripping walls surrounded him, and the air grew colder, ranker. Something smelled foul down here. His breaths came hot and fast, and the Elves’ breathing, less labored, sounded behind him. Still he outpaced them.
Suddenly the company poured into a domed room. Statues of great serpents forming fantastic and obscene pillars lined the room, and odd ramps led down along the walls from gaping holes bored into the stone, zigzagging between the columns.
“Where could they have gone?” Feren said, panting. Sweat sheened his forehead as he looked wildly around.
The room was of good size, but there were no other avenues in or out than the route by which they’d come. Wonderingly, Baleron and the Elves stared about them.
Baleron felt an icy crawl of horror trace his spine. In dismay, he said, “A trick! Somehow their sorcery lured us here … Quick, we must—!”
But even as he leapt toward the single doorway, a spiked portcullis crashed down, sealing the company in.
“A trap!” said Laithan. His face was taut but the hand that gripped his sword was steady.
Soldiers jumped at the portcullis, trying to heave it upward, but it gave not an inch.