by Jack Conner
He rode on. Smoke choked his lungs, burned his eyes. He tore off a strip from his shirt and breathed through it. When he could catch his breath, he raised his head and shouted, “To me! To me!”
A group of some dozen soldiers flocked to him, grateful to see their prince alive.
“It’s madness!” they cried. Soot coated their faces. “Our own men have turned into beasts!”
“Are they all of the men that we rescued?” Baleron said.
“They are, my lord.”
“And Salthrick?”
They hadn’t seen him.
“Don’t trust him if you do see him,” Baleron instructed, though the words pained him. “Follow me. We’ll send these beasts back to hell.”
They followed. They carried lances and provided him with one. A werewolf reared in their path, and Brandy’s sharp hooves ground it into the snow. They passed another, and Baleron drove his lance at its head. The beast fell dead to the snow.
“To me!” he shouted as he rode. “To me!”
His riders were not the only ones to have found mounts, and he succeeded in drawing more to him, but not nearly enough. Calling for others, he led on. Werewolves reared in their path, and he took grim delight in riding them down, but there were too many, and his soldiers were too few. Many had died in the Borchstog raids, and more had died in the assault on the fortress. Others had apparently been instilled with dark spirits.
To win this fight, Baleron needed to muster Rolenya’s wedding guests. The aristocracy.
They were running about, screaming, dying. Some fought in scattered pockets. He stopped before a group of nobles and their retainers who huddled back-to-back near the ruins of a coach.
“Join us!” he called to them.
As the smoke shifted, he recognized their leader, and he knew his mistake.
Lord Ealister Hadrenor of Asergard sneered up at him. “Begone!” Hadrenor spat, unconsciously rubbing his cheek where one of Baleron’s dueling blades had left a mark four years ago.
Lord Hadrenor’s wife, who stood beside her husband, pleaded with him. “Listen to the Prince, Lissie! Let us go with him!”
Hadrenor’s face turned red, but he did not budge. None of the other men in his group seemed inclined to join Baleron, either, so the prince offered his hand to Lenolla, Hadrenor’s wife. He had two scars named after her. “Come, Lady,” he said.
She shook her head and clutched her husband. “My place is here.”
“Very well,” he said, suddenly angry, though he was not sure at whom. “Then I leave you to your doom! Ra!”
He led his score of riders on through the murk, riding down werewolves as they could. They came on a larger gathering of defenders who had circled a handful of wagons. The women and children huddled in the middle while the men stood on the carriage-tops, bearing swords and bows. Baleron was only half surprised to see General Tines standing on one ornate carriage, sword in one hand and torch in the other. By the torch’s flame, Baleron saw the General’s blazing eyes and tightly-drawn face. He scowled when he saw Baleron and declared, “So the wretch lives! All hail the wretch!”
None of the other nobles echoed the cry, but neither did they speak against it.
“Come with me,” Baleron said. “I know you hate me, General, but don’t damn these people because of it. The temple’s defensible, but only with enough men. You have them. Join me, and I think we can survive the night. In the morning it should not be difficult—“
“Silence!” For the first time, Baleron noted that blood stained the general’s clothes, though it was hard to tell from whom. “I would not follow you into a broom closet, you filth. I will certainly not follow you to hell! Off with you!”
Appealing to the other noblemen on their carriage-tops, Baleron said, “Ignore Tines and come with me. I tell you, the temple’s defensible. Together we could—“
“You heard the general,” one of the lords said. “Off with you!”
“Yes, off with you!” said another. Others took up the call.
Baleron glared at them, then at the General, who wore a tight sneer. “I suppose you’ve won,” Baleron said. “I would suggest you enjoy this victory as much as you can now, for you will not be able to do so later. Ra!”
He spurred Brandy and led his riders off into the night. They passed more bands of defenders, but few would join him. He realized then that his command had failed, and not because of anything he had done during this expedition but because of what he had done before it. His group did receive more members, but it didn’t swell. Attacking werewolves constantly whittled at it. What was more, the smoke and the confusion worked in the demons’ favor, and he found marshalling an effective defense impossible.
Fire and horrors blocked his path. The creatures and the flames were too thick toward the west. Worse, Borchstogs had joined the fray. They hailed from Wegredon, Baleron supposed. Asguilar had used the werewolves to attack from within, then Borchstogs to attack from without once the caravan had been thrown into chaos.
Gradually Baleron and his men were forced back. Werewolves took the shapes of men and filled the riders with arrows. Baleron knew they were werewolves because when he caught glimpses of them, darting and crouching in the dark, they were naked and covered in blood. Borchstogs charged in waves, and everywhere they pressed screams rose into the night. Baleron saw the circle of wagons General Tines had defended go up in flames, and heard the general himself yelling defiance, then screaming in agony. His death would not be quick, Baleron knew.
Back and back Baleron and his men went, forced to give up ground. Yet people flocked to the riders, and at last a ragged gathering of defenders formed—women and children, for the most part, very few fighting men. Baleron looked for Sophia among the women but did not find her. The werewolves and Borchstogs assaulted the band from all sides, and the flame and the smoke were too much for him to contend with.
“Back!” he shouted. “Fall back to the temple!”
Chapter 5
Thunder rolled, and it sounded like howling.
“What was that?” someone cried, his fear-filled voice echoing off the ruined walls and broken dome of the inner temple. Wind shrieked in, and a light snow began to fall through the gap above. On the other side of the Pool, the ruined and profaned statue of Illiana loomed horribly, and Baleron tried not to look at it or the pile of bloody sacrifices and offal at its base, some half frozen. Even so, a collection of hardy flies buzzed about the mound.
“Never mind,” he said, addressing the group. “It was just thunder from the storm.”
Suddenly the wolves howled again, a terrible, soul-shaking sound. The creatures had ringed the temple and were laying siege to it. Baleron did not know why they refused to attack—perhaps they feared the lingering presence of Illiana, whereas Asguilar had been too powerful to—or perhaps they had other reasons. All he knew was that he must take every advantage he could.
“We will get out of this yet!” he shouted, and when the faces of the people looked at him, he could feel their slender hope about to snap. “We’ll await the sunrise, then make our escape. Brunril’s Torch will save us.”
They nodded vaguely and muttered amongst themselves. Rolenya, propped up against a ruined wall, gave him a small smile.
“Have hope!” Baleron said. “The Dark One and his creatures are strong, but they have their weaknesses, and we will exploit them. So stay brave. You’ve done marvelously so far and as a man of Havensrike I could not be prouder.”
He checked with the priestess that he had tasked with seeing to people’s wounds, then saw that his wards were getting what foodstuffs had been liberated from the caravan, and next conferred with the handlers of the horses, who had been brought inside, then took a moment to catch his breath and smoke a pipe-full. They were in dire straits indeed, and he did not lie to himself in the inner workings of his own mind: they were doomed. General Tines had been right. Baleron saw no way out of this. He had perhaps a hundred and fifty people here out of two t
housand—the rest either dead, captured, or fled into the mountains—and he doubted he could save any.
Wearily, he crossed to Rolenya. She was holding up well, but he could see that there was a great weight on her. Still, she smiled at his approach.
“Nice speech,” she said. In a lower voice, she added, “How much of it do you believe?”
He pulled out the flask from his breast pocket and knocked back a long draught. “Ah. I’d rather not die with a clear head if I can help it.” He offered her a sip but she declined, and he asked the question he’d been dreading: “Sophia. Did ... did you see what became of her?”
Rolenya looked away. “I’m so sorry, Bal.”
“Gods.”
She squeezed his hand. “It was quick.”
He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t, and he hoped she wasn’t simply lying to spare his feelings; Sophia had been pretty, even beautiful, and the Borchstogs would have been unlikely to have missed that. He took another pull off the flask, this one longer. Sophia, may your shade forgive me. She had not even been on the original invitation list; she had asked him to come and, to his shame, he’d gotten her name added despite the grumbles of people like General Tines. I should have made you stay in Glorifel, but it was a long trek through the mountains and my bed would have been cold.
Thunder rolled above, accompanied by the howling of wolves. Baleron suddenly felt a great presence nearby, dark and powerful.
“No ...” Rolenya said. She placed her hands to her temples.
The presence grew stronger. People cried out and sank to their knees, some their bellies, and the howling of the wolves outside shook the walls. Baleron rushed to a window near the main door and strained his eyes into the darkness, but at first all he saw was snow curling down and pale starlight glimmering on the carpet of white. Tall, dark trees reared needle-like all about, and in between them, hunched and white, were the wolves, breath steaming in the air.
Then, from up the road, a great Power emerged from the night, wreathed in shadow. Little of it could be seen. It was simply a great, primal, living darkness, moving toward the temple. The shadows grew deep, and the wolves lifted their heads and howled in joy and worship and fear. Baleron could feel its power, malignant and bitter, on his tongue, in his mind, a cloud on everything, the whole world, a great, utter blackness ...
“No,” he gasped, abruptly weak.
Others echoed his fear. “Our deaths are at hand!” someone said. “The Omkar have mercy on our souls!”
People wept or prayed, many more falling to their knees or wilting to the floor as if struck dead. Others clamped their hands over their ears to drive out the howling. Even the air seemed to ripple, to thrum, and strange scents wafted through it, sulfur and musk and blood ...
Outside, the great, living darkness swept up the road toward the temple—a terrible, seething, stirring Thing that bent and twisted the world about it with every step. Baleron could feel the heat, the power, emanating from it. It was, without a doubt, some high servant of Gilgaroth.
Two flaming eyes opened in the darkness as the wave of rolling shadow drew near the aged steps that led up to the temple, and the firelight illuminated, if barely, the outline of the being: it was a great wolf. Massive. Draped in shadow. Made of shadow. All around Baleron people screamed in fear. Several fainted. One man stabbed himself and doubled over, writhing. Others continued to pray. The Wolf seemed to regard the sanctuary critically, disdainfully with its horrible, flaming eyes, and then it opened its mouth and fire gushed forth, a red tide that washed the face of the temple. Flames licked up the proud ivory columns and blistered the white marble façade. Stone that could not be set aflame now flamed and smoldered, and smoke rose up to obscure the stars.
Baleron and those that had drawn to the windows shrank back. The heat flooded in, unimpeded by long-absent windows.
“Flee!” Baleron said. “Retreat to the rear!”
He drew his sword and in an instant was at Rolenya’s side. Men rushed up to him.
“What can we do?” one said
“We can’t go out the front!” another said.
“Take the horses and escape through the rear,” Baleron instructed.
“The slope is too steep for horses.”
“Then walk. But either way, follow me.”
He helped Rolenya mount up, then swung astride his own horse. Brandy neighed fearfully, and Baleron tried to calm her. He wiped sweat from his brow and ran a shaky hand through his soaked hair. The air blistered, and his lungs burned. The Presence may fear to enter Illiana’s Temple, but it did not need to. Its fires would raze the building in short order.
“Ra!” Baleron shouted, spurring Brandy.
With drawn sword he led the charge out the rear entrance and down the steep slope into the woods beyond.
“There,” he said, once he’d reached the slope’s bottom. He pointed to a tall oak some distance into the wood. “Wait for me there.” Rolenya nodded and made her way toward it.
Baleron’s soldiers and charges had followed him, those that could. Not all had horses or the skill to ride them here but fled afoot down the icy slope. For these Baleron turned back and led two score riders in holding off any attack that came from the rear. The enemy did not disappoint. A wave of blood-covered wolves barreled down from the sides of the temple, slaver drooling from their mouths.
“Hold fast!” Baleron shouted.
Those who fled afoot swept past the line of horsemen, and just in time. The wolves leapt on the riders, breathing flame into the faces of the men and their mounts. Horses reared and flung riders. Riders fell screaming and smoldering to the snow, where wolves ripped out their innards. More leapt on those still mounted. Quick as shadows they struck.
“Fall back!” Baleron said, chopping down on a wolf that, blood-mad, sprang toward him. His steel met flesh, and the wolf fell away, changing back into the form of one of Baleron’s soldiers. Where is Salthrick? Will I slay a wolf only to see him looking back at me? Or will he be the one to finally bring me down?
“Fall back!” he said, and led the retreat. It was not to be an orderly one, however, for fear had struck his men, and they fled in all directions.
A line of Borchstog archers appeared up the slope, and their crossbow bolts cut the night. Baleron’s men and those they sought to protect dropped twitching to the snow.
More wolves came, and Baleron did not have time to despair. Back he and his handful of riders were forced, and one by one wolves dragged them down until he was all that was left. If General Tines and the others had joined him, he might have had enough to hold them off, but as it was the people of the caravan were lost.
He made for the tall oaken bower Rolenya hid in, and there she was, framed against moon and stars, her face white and lovely and scared.
“Quickly!” he said.
She dropped into the saddle behind him. He could feel her ribs against his back as she breathed in and out. She was sobbing.
He rode through the night, following the screams of his people. The night was black, and the trees were many, and he had to navigate carefully through their mazes. All around him rose sounds of horror—screams and growls and the ripping of flesh—but he forced himself on. He rode down wolves and Borchstogs, trying to protect his people but finding only corpses.
“They’re all gone,” Rolenya whispered, half to herself. “All gone, all gone ...”
A particularly large wolf leapt from behind a tree and dragged Brandy down by her throat.
Baleron jumped clear, carrying Rolenya with him. Spitting snow and blood, he drew his sword and set upon the wolf. Its jaws wrapped around Brandy’s throat and squeezed. The great mare thrashed and blood sprayed. Baleron hacked off the wolf’s head, but too late. Brandy’s limbs were already stilling. Her eyes rolled. Foam beaded her mouth. Then she was gone.
Enraged, Baleron chopped the wolf to pieces. Tears and blood stung his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Rolenya said, rising to her feet and
coming to him.
“No,” he said. “I’m the one that’s sorry. But come, we can both be sorry later. It will be a mercy if I die. Only let me get you to safety first.”
Afoot, he led on through the sprawling forest. He tore off his armor piece by piece, as it made too much noise and only slowed him down. His heart pounded fast, and sweat stuck his tunic to the narrow of his back. At last he saw a crimson swath bathe the eastern horizon over the gnarled trees.
“Dawn,” he said, pausing.
Rolenya gasped. “We made it. They won’t chase us now ...”
“We’re safe.”
She nodded, clearly wanting to believe. “Yes.”
When they were ready, they continued on through the dripping forest, and the sky grew red. Baleron began to have hope. Once the sun grew high, it should scatter the dark things, and he and Rolenya could pass.
Suddenly, black clouds boiled in out of the south, obliterating the sun. A sickly rain fell, dripping off the leaves and branches overhead and trickling down the back of Baleron’s neck. It was thicker than it should be, and warm.
“Darkness even during the day,” Rolenya said, holding out her hands to feel the unnatural rain. She looked at him soberly. “There will be no escape from them, will there?”
Baleron said nothing, and wind hissed through the forest, whispering strange things.
“You know,” she said, leaning against a tree, “I think I will take a sip from that flask.”
He handed it over. She unscrewed the lid, took a sip, and grimaced. Took another. Then, breathing slowly, she stared up at the sky and said, “They’re all dead, Baleron. All my friends. They came all this way to see me wed, risking their lives because they loved me, and ...” When he said nothing, she added, “Do you really think Salthrick ... ?”
Baleron remembered when he was growing up how Salthrick would train him at swordplay. In his mind’s eye, he pictured himself and Salthrick exchanging thrusts and parries for hours while Rolenya sat off to the side, cheering one on, then the other. The three had always been close.