by Jack Conner
The Borchstogs roared their love and approval.
Giorn could still not quite believe it, that he was setting eyes upon the One. His mind spun, and his breath came fast and shallow. Sparks danced in his vision.
Vrulug knelt before his Lord, proffering a glittering, pearly white jewel or stone. The light it gave off drove back the darkness, and the Borchstogs cursed and grumbled fearfully. The Moonstone! Giorn gasped. Finally, he was about to see what the Enemy wanted it for, though it was too late to prevent them from doing it.
Gingerly, Vrulug set the Last Gift down before the Dark One. Gilgaroth opened his mouth and the fires of the Second Hell issued forth to burn and blister. Smoke shot up, and when it parted, the jewel was revealed once more. It was no longer white and glittering but blackened and foul. So, Giorn thought. The Dark One had wanted the Stone so that he could taint it, infect it with his corruption. Now he and his creatures could use it—though how exactly Giorn still couldn’t guess.
Gilgaroth appraised the gathering once more. “It is done! Rejoice as I do now in the partaking of flesh and soul.”
His massive jaws of shadow closed on the maiden, and the chamber suddenly grew very still. Giorn heard the girl’s final pitiful wail and fancied that he could even hear the brittle crunching of her bones. Fire gushed forth from Gilgaroth’s unseen mouth as though a log had been thrown on the fires of Hell, and perhaps it had. His eyes blazed brighter, and smoke curled up from his maw. Giorn did not know if he wore the shape of the Wolf or if he wore some other shape now, or any at all. Could this be his naked self, all shadow and malice?
He ate her soul. Giorn tried not to imagine the elf girl’s spirit writhing over the flames of Illistriv, there to be consumed by ethereal fire for centuries until she was utterly burnt up, her essence mere fuel for Gilgaroth’s furnaces.
It was then that Gilgaroth reared up and the shadow emanating from him swelled and gave off a burst of power. Gilgaroth roared, and the great hall shook.
The Borchstogs seemed to bask in the power he loosed, and they bellowed their love for him. They tore out daggers and slashed themselves, flinging their blood toward him. Some severed fingers or ears or ripped out their eyes, or worse, and all threw their offerings toward him; all vanished within his devouring shadow. At the same time his eruption of power overwhelmed Giorn, who felt something heavy and cold fall over him. Pain suffused him. He fell to the gallery floor, groaning and tearing at his hair. Fire coursed up his spine.
Slowly the pain relinquished him, or rather he pried himself loose from it. At last, sweating, he returned his attention to events below. Gilgaroth had vanished and Vrulug was just then flying upward and disappearing into the gloom, the corrupted Moonstone gripped in his claws. The Borchstog host stirred and stood, milling out of the great chamber—or temple, Giorn realized—in the same direction as Vrulug. Returning to Wegredon, Giorn thought. Good. Then all he need do was follow them.
Still shaking, he lowered himself carefully from the gallery to the black temple floor, taking his lantern but not lighting it. Then, pulling his sword from his belt with his right hand, he made his way toward the vanishing Borchstogs, swinging wide around the altar and the circle of pillars.
The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up as he thought on the horrors here in the darkness with him, some of which he had just borne witness to. Of the hunched winged things on the pillars there was no sign. Where was Gilgaroth? Was he returning to Oslog, or was the Black One still here in these lightless labyrinths? Could he be watching Giorn?
Expecting death or worse at any moment, Giorn followed the column of Borchstogs up toward Wegredon.
Chapter 9
For days Raugst’s host traveled south, riding over hills and plains. They came upon several cities overflowing with refugees, with scorched farms and hamlets all around. Fields were blackened, and monuments to Gilgaroth and Vrulug had been raised in their midst—great, monolithic stones with human bodies heaped in fly-covered mounds at their bases. Vultures and ravens pecked at them. Raugst dispatched his scouts and spies, gathering reports from around the land, and at last word came of the Borchstogs. They had besieged the city of Ielgad to the west.
Raugst led the host thither. Niara knew he could not be bringing them to save Ielgad, and she kept on the lookout for hints of duplicity, but if he meant to betray them he gave no sign—not that he would.
He stopped at Hasitlan to buy supplies for the host. Hasitlan, the so-called City of the Golden Head, was a large township of some two hundred thousand people sprawling along the banks of Lake Varren. Niara could see countless boats afloat on its glassy surface: a large, curving lake, filled with fish and bordered by green forests. It was a bright, clear day, and the sight of the pleasant city with its gray walls and red roofs, with smoke curling up from the chimneys, cheered her.
She rode in with Raugst to barter for supplies, and inside the city she saw the throngs of peasants choking the thoroughfares, Borchstogs having sent them from their farms and villages. Raugst briefly met with Duke Avin Welsly, a tall, proud man, bowlegged from too much time in the saddle, with a small gut overhanging his belt. The Wergild Head, the crest of his family, shone on the breast of his jacket as he informed Raugst that roving bands of Borchstogs terrorized the land all around. There seemed to be many, he said, for they would strike in several places simultaneously, then retreat to the Wylath Mountains to the west.
“It will be dangerous going to Ielgad,” the duke added. “From this direction you must pass through the Vale of Irrys, and it lies square in the midst of the Wylath range. Once the two dukes guarded the Vale, but ... well, you will be familiar with the story of the Golden Head.”
Raugst nodded. “We will be wary.”
“Is it true your family still keeps the Head?” Niara asked.
Lord Welsly smiled but did not answer. Likely he was tired of the question, or perhaps he wished to keep it a mystery. Niara did not press the issue.
Shortly they left Hasitlan, loaded down with their provisions, yet Niara was uneasy as she stared at the mountains. She wished that the ancient feud between the two dukes had never occurred, that the Vale was still guarded. And all because of a girl. If not for her, or the love she engendered, we would be safe.
Hiatha saw her unease. “What is it, Mother?”
“Nothing.”
They rode in silence for some time, and the wind whispered across the scorched fields, stirring ash and dust. They rode west, through the grassy hills, past the blackened villages and farms. The land mounted higher in this direction, becoming the foothills of the mountains shimmering on the horizon. Ielgad waited on the other side.
“I heard Hasitlan is called the City of the Golden Head,” Hiatha said. “Why do they call it that?”
“You don’t know the story?” Niara said.
“No.”
Niara pointed toward the two highest mountains, and the vale that lay between them. “That’s the Vale of Irrys,” she said. She indicated the blasted, broken ruin of a castle that perched on the mountain to the right of the vale. She could see it, just barely, a dark blur on the mountain, but she was not sure if Hiatha could. “That’s Maddar Keep, where it all happened.”
“Where what happened?” asked Lisilli, coming up.
Niara smiled. “Have you too never heard the tale?”
“Never, Mother. Tell us.”
“Yes, tell us,” Hiatha begged.
“Very well, then.” And, as the wind waved the high grass of the plains, Niara began. “Long ago there were two dukes that guarded the Vale of Irrys. Duke Madrast lived there, in Maddar Keep, and ruled over his people with a firm hand. Across the vale lived Duke Celborne on the neighboring peak. He was a kind man and ruled his people gently, so it’s said. But he was locked in a bitter feud with Duke Madrast. Their families had hated each other for centuries, and they often clashed—over grazing rights, stolen sheep, anything. Well, one day Duke Madrast was out riding. He was an old, lonely man, his wife
having died many years before. Maddar Keep was long rumored to be haunted, and some say it unhinged his mind, though whether this is true or not I can’t say. But he was out riding with some of his men one day—some claim he was looking for Celborne goats to steal—when he came across a fair maiden with her sheep, idling near a stream in the vale.
“She was a beautiful girl, tall and fair, with straight blond hair and clear gray eyes—Eria. Duke Madrast fell in love with her at first sight, and he fell to his knees before her and asked her to accompany him back to Maddar and be his wife. Little did he know that she was Duke Celborne’s daughter, and that she loved the outdoors and often tended to her people’s sheep. But she knew him by the fox-and-sickle crest he wore, and she refused. He was thrown into a rage, as he thought she was a common girl and he was honoring her by asking for her hand. So he had his men tie her up and throw her across his saddle, and he bore her away to Maddar.
“Well, as you can imagine, Lord Celborne was quite displeased with this when he heard the news, and he decided to ride to Maddar Keep and confront Duke Madrast personally. His only son Harryd prevailed upon him not to, however. Harryd was a tall, handsome lad, given to be reasonable and courteous. He knew that if his father confronted Lord Madrast there would be war between their two peoples. So he himself rode across the vale and up the mountains, to Maddar Keep, and there asked to parley with the lord of the caste. Madrast met with him over dinner, heard his demands to release Eria, and agreed. Harryd would spend the night there, then return the following morning with his sister. But his wine was drugged, and he fell into a deep sleep, and sometime in the night Duke Madrast crept into the guest chambers and gutted him, then fed his body to the pigs.
“When Harryd did not return, Duke Celborne summoned his townspeople, armed them, and rode across the vale. There was war. Duke Celborne put Lord Madrast’s towns to the torch, and Madrast’s subjects fled and took refuge in Maddar Keep. There was a long siege, and it’s said that terrible things happened in that haunted castle, that Duke Madrast grew even more unhinged, and haunts prowled the halls at night, and many of the people that had taken refuge there perished in grisly and horrible ways. Meanwhile Eria shared Duke Madrast’s bed, though she was far from willing. He raped her daily, and the sounds of her screaming could be heard by her father, who was camped with his host beyond the gates. Infuriated, Duke Celborne stormed the Keep, again and again, but Madder’s walls were high and thick, and the approaches treacherous and girded by cliffs.
“The siege stretched, and months passed, and before long Eria whelped a child. Now Duke Madrast had a son. But so wroth was Eria that she slew her own babe to spite him—dashed the babe’s head against a wall. Enraged, the duke locked her in the highest tower, where the wind shrieked and howled, and all she could hear was the wind. They say she heard the sound of her baby crying in the wind, and the sound drove her mad.
“At last Duke Celborne pleaded with Duke Madrast, and they had a parley. Celborne demanded wergild, recompense for Harryd’s death and Eria’s suffering. If he had that, he said, he would end the war. With a grim smile Duke Madrast agreed. But there was a strange light in his eyes, and Duke Celborne fretted. The next day Duke Madrast lowered the drawbridge and rode across it, bearing a stout chest. ‘This is the finest treasure in all the land,’ he said, and so saying he dismounted and sat the chest before his foe.
“It was a windy day, and stormy, and Duke Celborne felt a grave misgiving. Yet with trembling fingers, he opened that oaken chest, and sure enough there was a pile of gold coins that glimmered by the light of lightning and torches, but atop this pile was the golden head of Lady Eria, his only daughter, still warm, her blood running across the golden coins, sticking them together. Duke Madrast laughed as his foe held up that bloody head, and there was madness in that sound. Duke Celborne was madder, and lunged at his foe and plunged his dagger into Madrast, again and again, not giving a thought to the scores of Madrast archers that had him in their sights. Madrast’s men feathered him with arrows, and he collapsed to the ground, dying. His men roared and charged over him, through the open gates, and a terrible battle ensued.
“Not one fighting man survived, only a few refugees, and they spread the tale far and wide. That castle was haunted before, they say, but now it is ruled by haunts. The dead can still be heard shrieking to this day. Some say it’s the wind off the cliffs, but who knows? All that is known is that Duke Celborne, riddled with arrows, dragged himself over to Duke Madrast, who was dying on the sward at the lip of the drawbridge, and sawed off Madrast’s foot with his hunting knife. ‘This is my wergild,’ he said. ‘But it is not enough.’ Then he sawed off an arm at the elbow and held it up to Madrast. ‘This is my wergild. But it is not enough.’ Then he took his manhood. Bit by bit he sawed at Madrast, who struggled but was too weak to fight, and with every part he took he would hold it up and say ‘This is my wergild. But it is not enough.’ At last he took Madrast’s head. ‘Now,’ he said, holding it up. Some say the eyes were still blinking, that there was still life in Madrast yet. ‘Now I have my wergild.’ And with that Duke Celborne collapsed dead, the head clutched to his breast.
“Wanting to make peace, the villagers who had survived gathered Duke Madrast’s head and presented it to Duke Celborne’s widow, the Duchess, along with the tale. She had the head dipped in gold. With no sons or daughters, her line vanished, and so did the town, but her distant relatives received Madrast’s head after she died, and they still keep it to this day. The Wergild Head. It has become their family crest. Have you never heard of the Golden Head of the Welslys, rulers of Hasitlan? That’s where it comes from.”
They rode on, and the wind whispered dark thoughts, and the bright day turned darker. Hiatha and Lisilli stayed quiet.
At last, Lord Raugst led his host up a rise overlooking the sharp, mountainous land.
“Here we come to it,” he said. He swept an arm before him, indicating a broken, treacherous landscape, with narrow rocky peaks and plunging, twisting valleys. “On the other side of these hills is Ielgad.” He turned to one of his generals. “How long has it been under siege?”
“Nearly a week, my lord.” The general was one Niara recognized, not one of Raugst’s recruits.
Raugst pointed. “There is the Vale of Irrys. We must use it to go through.”
“It’s no longer guarded by the two dukes,” Niara said. “Borchstogs could be anywhere. Remember what Lord Welsly said.”
“The Borchstogs are at Ielgad. There may be a few left in the mountains, but there cannot be many.”
The Vale of Irrys was narrower than Niara remembered. Astride her white mare, she shared a dark look with her priestesses. Yes, their looks seemed to say. This is bad.
She directed her attention at Raugst. “Surely you don’t mean to go through. It’s the perfect place for an ambush.” Let him deny that.
“That’s why I’ve already sent scouts ahead to determine the feasibility of our approach,” he said. “It’s possible we may have to go around. If so, however, that means two weeks before we can reach Ielgad.”
General Havlin shook his gray head. “They will fall before then—if they’ve not already.” His eyes saddened. “I hale from Ielgad, and I know: their walls are thick but low, and their store of grain cannot be great.”
Niara trusted General Havlin, for she had known him a long time, and what he said was true. Just the same ...
“If we rush, and we all die in an ambush, we can do Ielgad no service,” she said. “Nor anyone else.”
“True, true.” Raugst paused, considering. Then an idea seemed to occur to him. He turned to her. “Perhaps you would like to go up into the hills and scout the lay of the land.”
Taken aback, she stared at him. “I ...” She opened and closed her mouth, not knowing how to respond. Was this a trick? Was this part of his plan, to get her away from the others, to let the Borchstogs take her when she was alone? On the other hand, she could not trust his “scouts” to tell the tru
th about a possible ambush.
Again she looked to her sisters. They looked uneasy, and, like her, indecisive. At last she straightened, looked Raugst full in the face, and said, “Hiatha and I will go immediately.” When Raugst started to smile, she added, “But I will leave Lisilli behind to ... aid you ... if needed.” And kill you if you betray us.
“Very well,” he said. “Do you require an escort? I would be happy to send some soldiers along with you.”
I’m sure you would. “Hiatha and I will be fine on our own.” When she looked to Hiatha, however, the young woman did not look entirely certain.
“Are you sure about this?” General Havlin asked Niara. “I know you’re powerful, but to send you, even two of you, alone into the mountains ...”
Niara was tempted to take him up on his offer, but if the general gave her his men and Raugst was planning an ambush then he would only increase the number of ambushers by that amount. Also, and somewhat perversely, Niara would not show weakness before him. None of the other generals protested the arrangement. Priestesses of Illiana were known as mighty warriors and terrible foes of Oslog; they could handle themselves, and in territory that had already been scouted there was really very little danger in any case. Certainly none would dare question the judgment of the High Priestess.
“I’ll be fine,” Niara said. Then, to Hiatha: “Come.”
She nodded farewell to Lisilli, clicked her tongue, and her horse trotted forward. Hiatha followed close behind.
“May the Light guide you,” Raugst called at their backs.
“Are you quite sure about this?” Hiatha asked in a whisper, when they were some distance away.
Niara kept her eyes forward. “Certainly. Beside, it’s either this or trust Raugst’s scouts.” May the Omkar be kind, and Raugst be slow.