by Jack Conner
She shuddered visibly. “I still can’t imagine it. What Salthrick must have seen, when he and the troops from Fort Barret arrived ...”
Baleron knew Asguilar, or someone powerful, had raised the dead that had littered the halls of Ichil Keep. Human or Borchstog, it didn’t matter. If they could walk, he had infused them with dark spirits under his thrall, and they had been waiting for Salthrick and the men from Fort Barret, hiding in the abandoned, lichen-covered homes of Ichil. After the ambush that had slain so many, the battle had raged for an hour in the streets of the city. Only then had Salthrick descended into the vaults to liberate Baleron and the others.
“It was just a trick,” Baleron said. “To delay us. Meanwhile Asguilar and the rest were sweeping north toward the bridges.” Baleron, Salthrick and the soldiers from Fort Barret had followed the Borchstog host, which had first led them to the Arch of Ralowen, the southernmost of the great bridges that spanned the wide and raging Naslym River, the waterway that served as the border between Havensrike and its smaller sister-state of Felgrad. When they had reached it, the Arch had been a smoldering ruin.
That bridge had only been the first. The riders had pursued Asguilar’s host up the river, finding that bridge after bridge had been burnt. Just last week, the day after Haben’s funeral, had come word that Asguilar’s now diminished host had reached the Crossing at Talomar, where it had fired the final bridge.
Baleron and Rolenya came into a courtyard, where an orange tree grew next to a white gazebo. Rolenya reached high, standing on her toes, straining, to pluck a ripe glowing orange. She peeled it and bit down, murmured pleasantly, and offered a wedge to Baleron. He accepted, and the juice flooded his mouth.
“Delicious,” he said.
“It should be. I’ve been the one tending the garden.”
She had the Grothgar pride, he reflected with a smile. They walked on, sharing the orange as they went.
“I don’t know why they would burn the bridges,” she said. “I mean, all of them. What could be their reasoning? To cut us off from Felgrad? To what end?”
There was no answer to that. “At least Asguilar’s host was broken.”
“Too late to save the bridges.”
He frowned, pausing with the orange half-way to his mouth. “That day at Ichil, I overhead them, Rolenya. I heard them ...”
“Yes?”
“‘The Grand Times are hastening’, they said.”
“The Grand Times ...”
“The end times to you and me. The time when Gilgaroth will surge north and devour all in his path. The time when the Crescent will burn.”
“And you think firing the bridges has something to do with it?”
“It seemed to be part and parcel of their errand, as if burning the bridges was the first step on a larger campaign.”
She shook her head. “Well, I don’t know about a larger campaign, but if nothing else it’s certainly complicated things as far as the wedding goes. How will we get to Felgrad?” Her fiancé was a high prince of that land, a descendant of the fabled Wesrains, and the wedding was to be held in its capital.
Baleron shrugged. “Through the Larenthin arm, I suppose.” An arc of Larenthi curved along the northern border of Felgrad and ended at Havensrike.
She laughed, but there was little humor in it. “Through the Elf-lands! You must be mad, Bal. Father would never hear it. Although, I confess, I have always longed to see them.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have to delay the wedding until one of the bridges can be rebuilt.”
“Impossible. Prince Istral must be married to ensure secession. His father is dying, and if he’s not wed he can’t be crowned. It will pass to his cousin.”
“What other way is there? You must cross the river to reach Felgrad, and if you can’t cross the river ...”
Her voice grew quiet. “Father and the generals have been analyzing the old routes through the Aragst.”
Something cold touched his spine.
She looked up at him hesitantly, as if afraid of his judgment.
“Now it’s you who’re being mad,” he said, keeping his voice low. He was afraid to raise it lest he frighten her.
“They think it may be safe,” she said. “No other large party with sufficient military escort has been attacked in the Aragst since the War of the Moonstone. That’s what they say.”
“Promise me you won’t do it, Rol. Going into those mountains is suicide.”
“It’s the only way. It’s either that or wait months until the bridges can be rebuilt.”
“Then wait.”
“The king will die, and the cousin that will accept the crown is no friend to House Grothgar. If the wedding isn’t now, we may lose a powerful ally.”
She moved on, and he followed reluctantly. “Don’t do it, Rol,” he said. “Perhaps a year ago, but now, when Wegredon has roused itself, when Borchstogs are talking about the end times ...”
“All the more reason why the royal houses of Havensrike and Felgrad should be tightly knit.”
“This is ill-advised.”
“Duly noted,” she said. There was a light in her eyes, and the faint suggestion of a smile at the corners of her lips. “But disappointing.”
She was up to something. “How?”
“Well, I would rather have the captain of the expedition be confident of the route. If he does not believe in it, how can he instill confidence in his men?”
“You don’t mean ... ? Surely ...”
She smiled widely now, and there was love in her eyes. “Oh, Bal, do say yes. I can’t bear to think of what will happen if you don’t. Ever since you returned, you’ve been locked up in your rooms, drinking, and ... well, your lady friends have not gone unnoticed.”
“It’s just the one. Sophia.”
“Even so. It’s the liquor that worries me. Sophia might actually be good for you. But the way you’ve been acting, the way you look ...”
He fingered his whiskered face and unkempt clothes. He knew Rolenya was trying to help. However, her suggestion rocked him on his heels. To lead the caravan that would bear her wedding party through the mountains ... It was a heady task, especially for one who had never borne such responsibility. He honestly didn’t know if he were capable of it. The thought terrified him. And yet, such a thing might help salvage what little reputation he had left, might even go some way toward helping his father forgive him for slaying Haben. Indeed, he could see no other hope.
“But the Aragst—”
“It’s the only way, Bal. It’s not up to us. Also ...” In a smaller voice, she said, “Father wants me to visit the Temple.”
“The blasted Temple!” He had nearly forgotten about the structure. “What is his obsession with that thing?”
“I don’t know, but he’s told me his grandfather used to tell him stories about it, before it fell. Anyway, nearly all the generals have approved the route. Father’s only waiting on General Tines for the final authorization. You know how he trusts the old badger.” She paused. “Listen, I’m not sure if it’s the right thing, either, Bal. That’s why I want you there with me, leading the way. Oh, please say yes. I know I can get Father to approve you as leader. He may have some caveats, but he’ll do it. For me. Only say yes.”
He could say nothing else. Though he still felt as if this whole enterprise were a vast mistake.
“Of course I’ll do it,” he said.
She beamed and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. Her lips were warm.
As the two emerged from the hedge maze, the sun seemed somehow brighter to Baleron, and he had to blink spots out of his eyes. When he could see, he noticed a small group of men approaching, at their forefront a finely-dressed gentleman with a shock of red hair and cold gray eyes.
“Good afternoon, Princess,” the man said, giving Rolenya a curt bow, and yet his eyes never left Baleron’s.
“Good afternoon, Lord Tines,” she said, giving him a worried glance.
“Lord Tines,” B
aleron said, realizing. Damn you, Baleron.
Darin Tines, son of the general, seemed like a coiled spring, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Hate glittered in his cold eyes. “Yes, prince. I believe you met my wife at Ichil.”
Baleron sighed. “Yes. Lydia was ... quite pleasant.”
“Oh, Bal,” Rolenya breathed.
Darin’s face ticked in rage. It was clear that had Rolenya not been there, he would have hurled himself at Baleron; the prospect of committing treason would not have stayed him. However, there was a legal way to kill a prince ...
“I call you out,” Darin said. “Meet me tonight on Varley Hill or be damned.” The bleak hill-top, reputed to be haunted and crowned with concentric circles of crumbling stones, had been the preferred spot for duels among the nobles in Glorifel for hundreds of years.
“Must we?” said Baleron. “Is there some other way, perhaps? You should be glad your wife survived the attack, not angry at what occurred before it. I could formally apologize. In fact, I do.” He bowed. “Please accept my sincere regrets about anything that may have happened, and I take full responsibility for it. Your wife is not to blame, only me. I ... took advantage.”
Darin’s upper lip actually curled back to expose his teeth. He had very fine teeth. “Do you refuse to meet my challenge? I had heard you hid with the women and children in Ichil. Perhaps it is true.”
“Very well, but I warn you, sir, that things would go better for you if we could just pretend this never happened. Being cuckolded and then defeated by the man that did it will only shame you more, as it has others before you.”
Through clenched teeth, Darin said, “I will see you at midnight.” With that, he whirled about and stormed away, taking his witnesses with him.
Baleron watched them go, feeling weary of it all.
Rolenya touched his arm. “Please say you mean to let him win, at least.”
He patted her hand. “Of course. We’ll duel to the third blood, and on the morrow I will have more scars to remember my misadventures by. Did you know that I’ve taken to naming them—the scars? After the women that inspired them, of course. I just hope Darin avoids the face.” He idly fingered the thin scar below his left cheekbone. “Why do they always feel compelled to aim for the face?”
Amusement and motherly concern warred in her eyes. “Will you never grow up?”
“A boy has to keep himself occupied, does he not? If Father refuses to give me the least bit of responsibility, or even some small funds to start an enterprise, or ... or something ... then I can only hope to keep myself amused, and amused I shall be.”
“You’ll wind up dead on some husband’s blade.”
“It’s been said before, and it shall be no more than I deserve.”
She looked into his face and seemed to see something there that disturbed her. She bit her lip, then said in a small voice, “Please, Bal, don’t tell me that that’s what you want.”
He met her gaze for a moment, then looked away. Wind hissed over the hill, and the hedge maze rustled and stirred. The hooting and calling of the birds in the aviary suddenly turned sinister.
“Well,” he said, changing the subject, “I’ve only been back two weeks and already I have outstayed my welcome. The Aragst Mountains are starting to look tempting. They’re far away from Father and Varley Hill, at least. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Chapter 3
The fortress burned. Its flaming towers stabbed high into the black night. Ragged figures streamed from its gates, but Salthrick was nowhere to be seen. Baleron told himself that if anyone could survive a few days of torture, it was the captain. Icy rain drenched the prince’s hair as he waited, and it sizzled in the fires of the keep.
What’s the worst that could happen? Did I really ask that? Maybe he had called this disaster down on them by simply asking.
General Egred Tines rode up on his gray roan. Tall and severe, with silver hair and a long, aristocratic nose, he said, “Are you quite ready to go, prince?”
Baleron eyed Tines levelly. The father of Darin, with the same cold gray eyes, the general bore Baleron no love.
“So eager to leave, General?”
“We should not go out of our way to find trouble, prince. It will find us easily enough.” The general had opposed drawing soldiers away from the caravan and raiding the Borchstog fortress to rescue the captured men.
“And them?” Baleron said, gesturing to the two score or so people his soldiers were still leading away from the burning fortress. “Would you have let them be the sport of ‘stogs just because you didn’t want to go out of your way?”
Tines didn’t move. “Night is falling.”
Baleron glanced at the rescued men. Limping and bleeding, they were being given water, whisky and jackets. Priestesses of Illiana tended to their wounds. Baleron desperately looked for Salthrick among them, but there were too many. The thought that his friend might be dead or worse had haunted him since the Borchstog raid that resulted in the abduction of so many three days ago. The Aragst Mountains were infested with Borchstogs, worse than Baleron had feared, and they had attacked the wedding caravan several times since it had entered the range a week ago, but the last attack had been the worst.
Looking at the recovered prisoners, Baleron saw numerous people that had not been part of the wedding caravan at all. When he had sacked the fortress, he’d found other captives of the Borchstogs deep in the black cells under the keep, mostly comely young women and a few boys, some not so comely anymore. Several had begged for death rather than liberation. Baleron could still taste the bile in the back of his throat, and his fingers still trembled. No! Close that door and never open it again.
“Would you have left them, General?” he asked again.
“We should not have abandoned the caravan.”
It had been day when Baleron had launched the attack, and the caravan had been safe then. Dark was upon them, though, Tines was right about that.
“See to our dead,” Baleron told him. “And gather some men to do something about them.” He nodded toward the severed human heads, dipped in tar, that stood mounted on spikes on the wall surrounding the fortress.
Baleron made his way to the men he and his soldiers had rescued, and presently a familiar black-bearded face emerged from the throng.
“Baleron!”
Salthrick stepped away from the priestess who had been tending him.
Relief washed the prince. “Salthrick!”
They embraced. The captain looked a mess—bruised, ragged, bloody bandages on his arms, thighs and chest—but his dark eyes glittered with life. When Baleron had stormed the fortress, he’d found scores of prisoners tied to poles in the courtyard. There the Borchstogs had tortured them mercilessly, beating them, sticking needles into their nerve clusters, peeling off swatches of skin and more.
“You have good timing,” Salthrick said. “I think they were preparing a stew to put us in when you and your men arrived.”
“Then I shouldn’t have bothered attacking. You would’ve choked them and saved me the trouble. Really, you should go back to the priestess. You need healing.”
“Later. My wounds aren’t bleeding anymore. They’ll keep for the moment. I want to return to the caravan.”
“They’ll be happy to see you. Rolenya was worried out of her mind.”
A handful of soldiers rushed up, carrying between them a thrashing, spitting, kicking Borchstog. Its hands were bound behind it, but it was still a terror. Like all of its kind, it was shaped much like a man, but its aspect was loathsome, tall and hideous, its face a grotesquerie, its teeth too sharp, its jaw too large. Black hair swept back from its head. Its skin was pitch-black and its eyes red. It stank of rotting flesh. Nevertheless, it held itself proudly, and there was something almost leonine about it. Baleron knew that it considered its race superior. To it, Man was the fallen one.
Struggling and cursing in Oslogon, the demon resisted its captors until its eyes fell on B
aleron, and then they went wide and it dropped to its knees ... and bowed.
The wind blew cold, and Baleron shuddered.
“We found this one trying to sneak away,” said one of the soldiers who had brought it. “I figured you might want it for ... questioning.” His lips twisted in a hard smile, and Baleron had no doubt what sort of questioning he had in mind.
“Aye,” said Salthrick, “I’d be glad to assist.”
Baleron half-smiled. “I’m sure you would.” To the Borchstog, he said, “Do you speak Havensril?”
“Roschk ul Ravast!”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Then, in shockingly clear Havensril, the thing met Baleron’s eyes and said, “The Great One’s time has come! Roschk ul Ravast!”
All stared. Something icy lodged in Baleron’s chest. “What is this ‘Ravast’? Is it another name for your Master? Your Great One? Is it some new captain, some chief?”
The creature would say no more.
“Shall I have him questioned?” the soldier who had brought it asked.
Baleron shook his head. “He’s said what he had to say. They never betray their Master. He would only kill himself when he could, or one of us if he got the chance. Better to give him a clean death.”
“Are you sure?” Salthrick asked.
“I’m sure.”
Baleron unsheathed his sword. He took no joy in this, but he would not give it to another.
The Borchstog actually lowered its head further, stretching out its neck for Baleron to cleave. The men shifted uncomfortably.
Grimacing, Baleron swung. Black blood spurted, and the body toppled to its side.
“Throw it on the fire,” he said, and his men obliged. In moments they had carted it off, head and all, toward the pyre that had become the fortress. After his experience with the undead Borchstogs at Ichil, Baleron took no chances.
He cleaned his blade, then swung astride Brandy, his new chestnut mare, and had a horse brought for Salthrick. His men mounted up, all three hundred, and he led them through the twisted trail that cut through the mountain forest. Tall, brooding oaks and pines reared all about, their limbs grasping hungrily. These mountains were tainted, infused with the Dark One’s will, and the trees grew grotesque and misshapen.