by Jack Conner
Gahan led them out of the caravan and along the deserted, overgrown road strewn with boulders and ice, and suddenly Baleron felt very alone. The wind sighed and moaned through the crevasses and peaks of the mountains, whispering through the skeletal autumn forests that threw a woodsy smell of pine and snow into the chill air. Several times an unseen presence drew his gaze to the forest. The tree limbs were gnarled and dark, and the undergrowth stank of corruption, even in wintertime. He felt eyes on him, watching, but he saw nothing.
“The temple lies just a little ways ahead,” Gahan said, as they rounded a bend.
A sidewise look at Rolenya showed her looking even more nervous than before. “What’s wrong?” Baleron asked. “We’re almost to the temple.”
Her eyes dimmed. “I no longer care about that.”
He sighed.
Long ago Havensrike had conquered this part of the Aragst, and the king at the time—King Grothgar VI, Baleron thought it was—had built a monumental temple to honor Illiana, Mother of the Moon. Brides-to-be were supposed to come there and bathe in the Temple’s waters to purify themselves before marriage. It was an ancient custom and a large part of their father’s reason for wanting them to come this way, being a man of tradition as he was. And this particular temple, being so high in the mountains and therefore so close to the moon, was reputed to soak up its light with greater alacrity than any other. Therefore its waters could more successfully purify new brides. Indeed, it was said that in its waters even old women and harlots could become virgins again, though on this Baleron remained doubtful.
Oslog had reclaimed this quarter during the War of the Moonstone, and the Havensri had been driven out, yet supposedly the temple still stood.
But now Rolenya was saying that she no longer concerned herself with that. She was saying that the recent disasters had overshadowed her need to purify herself. She wanted him to know that she did not value herself above the others in the party. He had known that already.
“I know,” he said.
That seemed to make her feel better, and she relaxed.
“Baleron,” she said, so softly that Salthrick’s man couldn’t hear, “I hate to tell you this, but ... I no longer even really want to marry. How can I, after all these deaths—as if my happiness were more important? How can I sing the Song of Beginning when so many ends have come?” She took a deep breath. Her voice fluttered, then grew steady. “But we’re past the halfway point. It would be more dangerous to go back, and even more lives would be lost.”
Her selflessness did not surprise him. It was one of the reasons he loved her so. She was willing to be married under the shadow of tragedy just to honor those who’d fallen, so that they would not have died in vain, and to spare the rest of the caravan from further harm.
“You are a marvel,” he said.
“No, I’m not. Truly, I’m not.”
“But if your heart is not in the wedding, then I will not take you to it.” When she did not reply, he added, “I’ll take you down from the mountains into Felgrad as planned, and then we’ll think on it further. We’ll have to go north, I suppose, through the Larenthin arm, as we should have done in the first place, or wait for one of the Naslym bridges to be rebuilt.”
She looked at him strangely but did not answer. Her eyes were wet and she seemed grateful, but evidently she did not trust herself to speak. At last she said, “The truth is I’m not sure I even love him. Oh, he’s noble and handsome, but ...”
“Yes?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. My duty is to marry him, to seal our two families and kingdoms together. That is all.”
He wished there was something he could say to that, but he couldn’t think of a thing.
Half a mile ahead, the Temple emerged from the forest, great and hulking and silent. It stood by the side of the road, a tremendous structure of white stone, stained with time and overgrown with ivy and other clinging vines. Its proud white columns stretched up beside the road, but they were more green than white now. Its white marble stairs led up to a high rounded archway and then beyond ... into darkness.
Most of it lay in ruins, Baleron saw. The dome roof had collapsed long ago. The marble was cracked and cobwebs spanned the doorway.
Rolenya dismounted and made her way up the stairs. He followed, close at her side. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword. A chill breeze blew.
She reached the high archway and stared into the interior. He joined her, straining his eyes into the gloom. Pale moonlight illuminated the long Pool, whose waters were now stagnant and dark. Mosquitoes buzzed all about, even in wintertime. The taint of the Dark One. Things that lived on blood and death did well in the Aragst. Baleron slashed through the cobwebs with his sword and led the way inside. Rolenya followed.
Looming over the Pool on the far side was the statue of Illiana. She was said to be the most beautiful being ever to exist, but one wouldn’t know it to look at this statue. Borchstogs or the like had defiled it long ago. They had chiseled out her face and cut off her arms, and they had made human sacrifices at her feet—not in actual worship, of course, for they would consider that sacrilege, but in mockery. Bones and bloodstains and offal marred the statue’s base.
When she saw the statue, Rolenya stifled a cry and turned to clutch Baleron. He held her and patted her back as she sobbed.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not,” she sobbed. “The monsters! How dare they! They know nothing of goodness, of purity, of grace. They don’t even know what they’re despoiling!” She slumped against him, and the fight went out of her. She pulled back and wiped at her eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t have bathed in the Waters anyway. Too many have died. It wouldn’t be right. I can’t be washed clean of my sins that easily.” She looked very grim as she added, “I have much to atone for. It’s because of me that all this happened.”
He gripped her arms tightly. “No. You don’t. Don’t say that. Don’t think like that.”
They stared at each other for several long, tense moments, and then she sighed. She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Bal.”
“It’s not your fault,” he told her. “You didn’t slaughter all those men and women. It was him. Never forget that. You can’t blame the deer for being preyed upon by the wolf.”
“What if the deer chose to skirt the wolf’s den to nibble at a particularly tasty flower? You can’t blame a wolf for being a wolf.”
He could not think up a counter to that, so he said nothing. As far as he was concerned, he was more responsible for the losses than she. He was the caravan’s leader, as well as the reason General Tines had approved the route in the first place. Yet he refused to argue over who deserved more blame.
Water stirred.
He whirled about to see a tall dark figure rising from the stagnant Pool. Black fluid sloughed off long gangly limbs, claws, bald dome, sharp ears. Bat-like wings spread wide behind it. Black water sloughed off them, too. With the skin atop the Pool broken, a new reek plagued the Temple.
Baleron reached for his sword. A heaviness came over his mind.
“You will not need that,” said the figure, and his hand stilled.
Rolenya opened her mouth to scream, but the figure said, “Be silent,” and she fell silent.
Moonlight glinted off the creature’s black eyes, and Baleron found himself falling into their depths. It must be Asguilar, he knew, the lord of Wegredon, firstborn of Ungier, master of this region of the Aragst, the one who had attacked Ichil and caused Haben’s suffering—but even as he thought this Baleron’s awareness shrank ... and shrank ... He felt himself falling into dizzying gulfs ...
Asguilar’s voice came, low and soothing: “You are well met, friends. And just in time. Night settles in. At my signal, all your friends shall die, and you will belong to me.” He lifted his head, gathered his breath, and howled like wolf. The sound pierced the fog that gripped Baleron’s mind.
The howl seemed indeed
to be a signal of some kind, for seconds later he heard screams from far away.
The caravan. Something was attacking the caravan. But how? Baleron had stationed many sentries, had detailed many guards. Nothing could creep up on them, not so suddenly.
With the strength of anger and fear, Baleron shoved away Asguilar’s hold over him, and awareness flooded back. Asguilar tried to reassert his power, and Baleron felt a cloud descending on him. If I can only reach my bow. He raised his arms to fumble at it. Asguilar’s mental talons tore at him. His fingers turned clumsy.
The vampire gestured to something up above. Dark shapes hunched in the jagged ruins of the roof. Wings ruffled. Pale moonlight fell on wolf-shaped helms.
Glarumri! The riders of the giant crow-like birds, the glarums. But they were creatures of Unger ... of Oksilith ...
“Do not resist me,” Asguilar said. “I have means of compelling you that you will not enjoy.”
Baleron focused on his hands, guiding them, forcing them to grip the hilt of his sword, to pull it up, painfully, slowly, but at last—
An inch of naked steel glittered in the dim light.
“Enough!” Asguilar said. He made a curt gesture. The two glarums sprang down. Their armored Borchstog riders hunkered low. Aguilar let his attention be diverted by the down-sweeping glarumri, and the thrall with which he held Baleron slipped, just enough for the prince to nick his hand on the blade. The pain roused him. He drew his bow.
One glarum fell at him, the other Rolenya.
The ceiling was high. He had time for two shots, if he was quick.
He fitted an arrow. Drew the string. Aimed. Fired.
The arrow took Asguilar in the face. It had been upturned, but at the sound of the bow twanging, his battish head snapped back to Baleron. Too late. The arrow took him square in his skeletal nose, and with a wet cry he fell back into the filthy water.
Baleron refitted his bow. Aimed. Fired.
An arrow sprouted from the black-feathered breast of the glarum bearing down on Rolenya. She recovered her wits and dodged aside just as the glarum crashed into the ground where she had stood.
The second glarum’s talons wrapped around Baleron. The impact knocked the breath from him, and the bow as well. The talons seized him, wrenched him up toward the gaping sky. The stench of carrion filled his nostrils. Filth tangled the glarum’s feathers.
He struggled against its grip, but it was too strong. In the distance drifted the sounds of battle.
A talon pinioned one of his arms to his side. The other was free. With it he tore his sword loose and plunged it up into the soft belly of the bird. It shrieked. He sawed the blade back and forth, up into its ribs. Hot black blood spurted his face.
They were now at the level of the mostly collapsed roof. Screaming in agony, the glarum released him. He only barely caught himself, gripping some tangled iron rods that had formed part of the ceiling’s inner support.
The glarum crashed atop a piece of stone that had once formed part of the Temple’s dome. The dome was no more, but scattered blocks remained. The great bird thrashed and writhed in its death throes. Its Borchstog rider, grunting and cursing, managed to cut himself loose of his bindings and jump clear.
With his sword still in hand, Baleron awkwardly hauled himself onto a rounded block of stone. Just as he swung his legs up, the Borchstog rushed him and brought its sword down at his head.
Baleron raised his blade. The shock nearly dashed the sword from his fingers.
The glarumri slashed down again. Baleron rolled aside. Came up. Thrust. His blade glanced off Borchstog armor. The demon swung. Baleron leapt back. Teetered on the edge of the stone. Behind him a sheer drop fell to the half-frozen forest two hundred feet below.
He recovered and drove at the Borchstog. Their swords clashed and rang. The demon’s red eyes burned with anger from within his wolf-head helm.
The creature was taller and stronger than Baleron, and skilled in swordplay. Clearly it had made great study of the art; to excel in warfare was surely to honor its Master, and it had probably had hundreds of years in which to do so. Baleron cursed its devotion, as well as its longevity.
But he was no amateur. Constant dueling demanded constant practice. He met the Borchstog’s attack with nimble steel. He thrust and parried, whirled and spun, charged and was beaten back.
He and his foe leapt black gaps from stone to stone in their battle, swords exchanging desperate blows all the while. Sparks flew from the blades as they clanged. Moss and ice betrayed Baleron’s feet time and again, and several times he nearly stumbled.
At last, arm sagging, he hacked at the Borchstog’s unprotected throat. The demon almost didn’t block it in time, but at the last instant it dashed Baleron’s sword aside.
Its free hand clutched Baleron by the front of his tunic and jerked him close. Its rank breath bathed his face.
To Baleron’s surprise, some of the rage had dimmed in the demon’s eyes. It had mastered itself. In Oslogon, so that Baleron could only understand after some thought, it said, “I could defeat you, but you must live. Roschk ul Ravast!”
Baleron smashed the handle of his sword against the glarumri’s helm. It staggered back, dropping him. Now it was the one that teetered on the edge, and Baleron did not give it time to right itself but kicked it over the precipice.
Breathing heavily, he watched it fall, darkly, silently, to the white treetops below.
Roschk ul Ravast!
A black winged shape shot up from the interior of the temple, jerking at the arrow embedded in its face. With his Borchstogs and glarums slain, Asguilar was returning to his keep.
Baleron watched the rithlag’s form diminish with narrowed eyes. Asguilar had known Baleron and Rolenya would come to the temple. He had known the soldiers would not enter beforehand, that it was a sacred place. And there he had laid his trap. But why did he want them?
Baleron didn’t have time to worry on it. He smelled smoke on the breeze and saw a line of flames shooting up from the trail where the caravan sat. Impatiently, he climbed down the exterior of the temple, using the many carvings of angels and moons and brides as his handholds. They were covered with moss and ice that slid beneath his fingers, and he had to go slowly, but at last he made it down.
“Hail Prince Baleron!” Gahan cried. “I thought you were lost for certain. You fought brilliantly, my lord! We watched it all from here.”
Rolenya stood near Gahan, looking pale and scared. “Thank the Omkar!” she said, and rushed over to Baleron.
He pushed her away and leapt at Gahan, smashing a fist across the man’s jaw. Gahan collapsed.
“Bal!” Rolenya said.
“Traitor!” Baleron said, standing over the soldier. “You led us into a trap!”
Gahan wiped blood from his jaw. His eyes smoldered, and the ghost of a grin flashed across his face. “Roschk ul Ravast!”
Baleron drew his sword.
Gahan rolled away and sprang to his feet. Very deliberately, he placed himself between Baleron and the caravan. “Fool! All you had to do was stay out of the way till the fight was over.”
“Stand aside,” Baleron said.
Gahan remained where he was. Baleron strode forward, sword raised.
Gahan lunged.
Baleron had half-expected it. Without thinking, he swung. His sword connected, and the impact stung his hands. Blood sprayed him, and Gahan fell twitching to the snow at his feet. Steam rose from the cleft in Gahan’s chest.
“Oh, dear Omkar,” Rolenya breathed.
Together they stared down at the corpse. It was no longer the body of a man, but of a wolf—a large, foul creature, with black fur and red eyes. It could only be a lurum-cruval, one of the wolves that ranged through the mountains. It was said that a dark spirit infused each one, a servant of the Dark One.
Fear gathered in Baleron. “He was possessed ... .”
“Yes.”
He ran a hand through his hair, slicking it with blood. “It must have
happened when he was a prisoner. Hells! Could they all be like this, all the ones we rescued from that fortress? That’s why they were taken ... we were allowed to rescue them ...” He shared a grim look with Rolenya. “Salthrick ...”
“Don’t say it.” She gripped his arm tightly, and for a moment he thought she might faint. “Don’t say it.”
He patted her hand. “If anyone could withstand ... possession ... it’s he.”
“I couldn’t bear it.” Suddenly she stared him in the eyes, and a new fear crossed her face. “That creature said ul Ravast ...”
“Do you know what that means?” Rolenya had always been a better student than he, and it did not surprise him that she might know. He had spent too much time dueling and drinking, while she had diligently studied.
“Yes,” she said, and her face was pale. “I do.”
More screams reached his ears, and he sheathed his sword.
“Tell me later. I must go.”
“I can help.”
“You stay here. The temple’s not much protection, but it’s all there is. I’ll go see if I can sort this out.”
“Luck be with you,” she said.
He found Brandy, who had wandered some ways off, frightened by the Gahan-wolf, mounted up and rode swiftly back toward the caravan. Fire and smoke blazed, and a thick blackness covered everything, as if the night itself had congealed.
“To me!” he shouted, cutting his way through it. “To me!”
Screams and howls and snarls and grunts echoed through the night. The caravan was being attacked, and from within, without warning, without proper defense, both of which he was supposed to provide. He had to find General Tines and Bragan Thad and organize a defense. Many of the coaches had been fired, and he did not doubt that this had been done deliberately to incite chaos and fear among the defenders.
At one point he saw an overturned coach, contents strewn across the ground, and among them was the corpse of Master Thad, a high adept in the Guild of Illumination. Trained to use weapons and tools of the Light, Thad had been the caravan’s only sorcerous means of defense. His seeing stone had aided them more than once in avoiding blocked routes. Baleron looked for it among the scattered items but did not see it. Stolen?