by Jack Conner
The werewolf’s blood pooled around the remains, black and smoking. Yet Salthrick’s blood was red. Paradoxically, they began to mix.
Baleron stared down at the ruin of his true friend, the friend whom he himself had finally brought down, just as he’d felled Haben, and the prince wept loudly in that forsaken cave while the storm raged outside and somewhere legions of glarumri and vampires hunted him through the night.
Chapter 9
Baleron dried his tears. He wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and lose himself in grief, but he didn’t have time. He needed to leave now, before he had to contend with every available vampire and glarumril in Oksil. He piled some loose rocks atop Salthrick’s corpse to form a rough mound, said a prayer to Sifril, the goddess who was said to rule Paradise, for her to grant Salthrick happiness, and led Lunir outside.
The mountain wind blew cold on Baleron’s face. The vast panorama of the Aragst was laid out before him, the countless pinnacles of rock rearing toward the storm-swept sky. Snow capped some of them, shining and pale. He was free. After three years, he was free.
Shakily, he climbed astride Lunir. The aged glarum cawed once in protest but at Baleron’s heels he took to the skies, leaving his mate, Salthrick’s steed, behind to fend for itself. Likely the glarumri would find it. Baleron hoped he’d piled enough rocks over Salthrick that the bird would not be able to eat him.
Baleron rode hard through the night. He headed due north, his mind churning restlessly.
This is all arranged, my escape. All part of Gilgaroth’s plan. I was supposed to think I did it on my own, but why? So that I wouldn’t realize I was fulfilling Gilgaroth’s designs, so that I’d go about escaping in my own fashion and do what it is He wants, whatever that is.
The Lord of the South would expect him to go straight home, straight to Glorifel, capital of Havensrike. Baleron therefore determined to first make a detour through the elvish kingdom of Larenthi. It was closer, and if anyone could rid him of his Doom, it was the First Men. Rolenya had said as much three years ago. Once they’d removed it, he would no longer be ul Ravast, if that’s really what he was. The elves could also help him free Rolenya. They’d spent thousands of years warring against Ungier and knew his ways like no others. Larenthi had once been a land of gardens and forests, a paradise on earth. But constant war with Oksilith had ravaged its southern third and turned it bleak and barren. Borchstogs and Worms had burned the forests and polluted the rivers. The might of Ungier had threatened to overwhelm Larenthi entirely until King Felias had begun building the Wall of Towers.
The Wall consisted of a row of great towers, each ten miles or more from the next one, a chain stretching from the eastern border to the western, each manned by a powerful elvish sorcerer. No horde of the Shadow could pass through the Wall of Towers unmolested. Simple and elegant and awesome, this line of defense had single-handedly halted the dark armies of Oksilith and preserved the garden-forests of the northern two-thirds of the great elvish kingdom. Not long ago Larenthi had been the mightiest of the kingdoms of the Crescent, but war had diminished its stature and power. The Larenthin hated Ungier bitterly because of this.
The order of elves that dwelt in these towers was known as the White Shield, and the head of the order was Elethris, ancient even by elf standards, whose great tower Celievsti was the center of the Wall. Baleron had met him once long ago when the elf had accompanied King Felias on a diplomatic mission to Glorifel, and though the prince was not sure Elethris would remember him he aimed Lunir in the direction that he supposed Celievsti to stand. He’d studied many maps while planning the doomed wedding expedition and thought he knew roughly where it was.
As it happened, he was only off by a few miles, which was better than he’d expected.
After more than a day of flying, he saw it, a lance of white on the horizon, drawing closer and closer. Soon he drew near and gaped in wonder.
The tower rose like a burning white thorn, luminous, driving back the darkness of the night. Truly it was a thing of marvels, its top shaped something like a flower unfolding—an awesome flower. It was taller than any structure he had ever seen—it stretched halfway or more to the clouds—and it was grand and strong and fine. It seemed to glow, and it basked in the light of the stars. It rose from a plain, and even from this distance he could see the difference in the plain on either side of the Tower. To the south, facing Oksilith, it was withered and black, a wasteland. To the north, the land was green and lush and gave way to rolling hills.
Through the plain cut a shining blue river—the Larenth, Baleron knew: the river along which King Felias had established his kingdom. It actually disappeared inside the base of Celievsti to emerge out the other side; Baleron had heard that as it passed through the Tower, it was purified of the poisons that Borchstogs to the south had corrupted it with. The twisting blue ribbon would glitter invitingly against the bright green of the surrounding hills as it wove northward had this been daytime, but starlight colored everything silver and gray and black and white; still, it was oddly beautiful.
The river passed through a dark forest south of the Tower, and in the midst of the forest it created a lake in which an island stood. There Baleron saw rooftops and spires shining by the light of the star-flecked sky—an elvish settlement, here on the southern frontier. Fools and madmen. Still, he admired them.
It was said that it was often Elethris’s custom to stand at the balcony of his tower’s highest terrace and smoke pipes filled with exotic tobacco while he scanned the skies, conversed with his fabled wife, or read books from his library. Perhaps he was there now, and saw Baleron flying in, or perhaps he just sensed Baleron’s coming, for suddenly the prince detected movement on the lower balconies: seven serathin were being moved from their roosts within, birds larger even than the glarums, white and gorgeous.
Serathin! Baleron’s heart beat faster. The great swans. Agile fair-haired elves pulled themselves astride their mounts, and Baleron smiled drowsily, watching them from afar, enchanted by the sight, for he had heard many stories of the famous Swan Riders over the years, but never before had he seen one in the flesh.
The seven Riders lifted off from their terrace and cut a swath through the sky in a V formation, and the prince marveled at their gracefulness. They made a wide arc to his right and came around from behind him. Swiftly they flanked him, and for a moment he felt fear. Hopefully they did not think him an enemy on his glarum! That would be a farcical end to this whole affair.
One of their number drew abreast. The silver of a sword glinted from his waist, the sheen of a dagger at his side, and the heft of a bow hung from his back. Yet he drew no weapon. Handsome and sturdily-built, the elf captain shouted over the rushing air, “Who are you and what business brings you to Celievsti?”
“I’m Prince Baleron of Havensrike, a refugee of Gulrothrog.”
“You escaped from the Hidden Fortress?”
Baleron replied that he had. Surely they’ve received refugees before.
The Swan Rider captain glanced about at his soldiers and all wore the same dark look. Baleron felt a vague foreboding.
“Will you take me in?” he pressed. “I need aid badly.”
The elf captain weighed his words and nodded. The Swan Riders guided him in. The serathi’s lustrous feathers shone blue-white beneath the moon. Baleron felt beggarly on his graying glarum and even Lunir seemed a bit awed, or humbled.
Baleron studied the Swan Riders as he flew. Like elves everywhere, they seemed to be idealized representations of men—quick and poised, given to great beauty and, he could tell, keen minds. As well, they possessed Grace. Light shone in them. They were what men should be. In fact, they were the First Men, so legend claimed. It was said men once were elves, but they had fallen, tempted by Gilgaroth out of the Light, and the Omkarathons had punished them by stripping them of Grace, thus becoming the Fallen Race. Man. Yet there were some, such as Baleron’s father, who would dispute this.
The Swan Rider
s guided Baleron to land on a large petal-shaped terrace suspended above a ground thousands of feet below, where he could see the Larenth River pass into the wide base of the tower, though he was far too high up to hear the bubbling rush of its water or feel the spray from its eddies. In fact, he was so high up that he began to feel sick to his stomach. When he slid off Lunir to the terrace proper, he stumbled. The elf captain righted him.
“Thank you,” said Baleron.
Lunir cawed and drew back from elf and swan, ruffling his wings in agitation.
“Calm down, boy,” Baleron said.
Black and sinister-looking, Lunir was a surreal counterpoint to the white and elegant serathi, and this place as a whole. He stank of carrion and sulfur. He did not relax.
The Riders, having set down on the terrace, kept their distance.
“If you are who you say, then I’m honored to be at your service, Prince Baleron,” said their captain. “But if you’re not, I will kill you personally.”
Baleron attempted a smile. “This place is several steps up from Gulrothrog, at any rate.”
The elf narrowed his eyes. “I am Ficonre, Captain of the Swan Riders of Celievsti, and I will tolerate no disrespect to the Tower.”
Baleron sighed. “I apologize. It’s been a long journey. Still, I’d expected a warmer reception.”
Ficonre said nothing. Baleron noted that three of the Swan Riders had drawn their bows and were looking at him down the shafts of their arrows.
“Surely I don’t look that dangerous,” he laughed.
Lunir cawed nervously. Wind lashed the terrace, and it was neither warm nor cool, but pleasant. It seemed to caress Baleron’s skin; yet he felt chilled.
The interior of the tower lay in shadow. Out of it stepped a figure, tall and robed in dark gray, the elvish color of mourning. Somber eyes of the same color peered out of a strong face with an aristocratic nose and narrow chin. Yellow hair framed the long jaw. The eyes were sad, and Baleron wondered what had made them so, and why the elf mourned. The fellow seemed little older than Ficonre, but Baleron knew that Elethris was thousands of years old. He’d participated in the war against Ungier when first the rithlag had set out to occupy Oksilith.
Baleron bowed, but the figure did not bow back. The elf stared, cold and appraising.
“Lord Elethris,” said Baleron. “It is a privilege.”
“Yes,” said the elf absently, his gaze going to the sword dangling from Baleron’s hip. His look was troubled, as though something about the weapon bothered him. With more focus, he met the prince’s eyes. “I never thought to see you again, young Baleron. Even my foresight failed this encounter. I ... sense the hand of the Dark One in this matter.”
“I’ve come seeking help,” Baleron said. He took a deep breath. As steadily as he could, he said, “I don’t know what it is exactly, but I have been called … There was a curse, I think. The enemy told me I was …”
“Yes?”
“Well, I fear ... I fear that am ul Ravast.”
“Il Enundian!”
Ficonre drew his sword, eyes wide, and the archers tensed. For a moment Baleron expected to be riddled before he could draw another breath.
Elethris paused, then waved the weapons away. “Then have you come here to destroy us, Baleron?” As he said it, he slowly, almost casually, lowered his staff until its end pointed at the prince.
Baleron blinked. “Of course not. My condition—whatever it is—is against my will, I assure you.”
The Lord of the White Shield recovered himself. The point of his staff tipped up. “You don’t know what it is? I don’t understand.”
“All I know is Borchstogs bow to me and some thing in the Aragst laid a curse on me—at least, that’s what I think it is. Ungier called me the Savior. I think the curse makes me whatever it is. Ul Ravast.”
“Even Gilgaroth can’t govern your will beyond the borders of his land. You’re your own agent, Baleron. Besides, the legend of the Ender is just that—a legend. A fable.”
Captain Ficonre looked uncertain. “Il Enundian is said to be the Chosen One of Gilgaroth. His Champion. His Deliverer. When Gilgaroth finally appoints him, it is the beginning of the end. It means the Last War is upon us all, and Gilgaroth’s victory is imminent.”
‘That’s why you call him the Ender?” Baleron said. “Ul Ravast?”
“I am surprised that Gilgaroth would declare a prince of Havensrike to be him,” Elethris added thoughtfully. “I had always supposed that when the time came for him to choose his agent, he would select someone of Oslog, one raised to worship and serve him. According to my interpretation of the prophecy, il Enundian will lead Gilgaroth’s army to victory. He will be the Shadow’s chief general. So why would he choose you ... unless you worship him?” Elethris studied Baleron suspiciously.
“Of course not.” His General ... gods ... Baleron felt weak.
“Then how can you be him?” Elethris pressed. “Il Enundian?”
The world tilted. Baleron attempted to steady himself. “The curse, I guess. My Doom, the thing called it. That’s why I came here. I was hoping you could lift it. Also, Ungier has my sister, the Princess Rolenya.”
“Rolenya?” Elethris and Ficonre exchanged an odd look.
“Ungier intends to wed her a month hence, and when he does he’ll make her like him. Don’t you see? We must organize an assault on Gulrothrog and free her. You’ve been on the front lines for countless years leading the resistance against Oslog. You have the respect of your king and mine. Only you, Master Elethris, can pull the threads together to make this happen.”
The elf raised his eyebrows, and Baleron was reminded that for whatever reason they did not trust him. Did they think him a liar, a spy? Suddenly he felt quite frustrated.
“You must help,” he insisted.
“You would have us launch a war in which thousands would die to save one life?” Elethris said.
“I ... well ...”
Elethris almost smiled. “We shall address these issues later. For now, how do I know that you are who you say you are?”
“I’m not possessed, if that’s what you mean.” They were beginning to make him angry.
“Yet so many are these days. So few escape Gilgaroth’s dungeons without his leave—werewolves and the like. None, actually—at least from Gulrothrog.”
“None?” That shocked him.
“If you are who you claim to be, then you’re the first ever to truly escape Gulrothrog in the six thousand years of its history. We will have to examine you, prince, most closely. I regret the indignity of it, but we have little option.” His voice was brusque but not unkind. Indeed, Baleron remembered him as a warm being.
“So,” mused Baleron, half to himself. “I’m a prisoner yet again.”
* * *
He was separated from his stolen sword and locked in a small though not uncomfortable room. There over several days he was subjected to all manner of tests, some quite painful. At first Elethris performed the spells from afar lest his prisoner suddenly sprout fangs and lunge for his throat, but after a few days the elf needed to perform hands-on rituals to determine the veracity of his claims. And all the while it seemed a darkness lay on Baleron’s soul. Partly it was his sorrow over Salthrick and Sophia and all the others of the wedding party. That had never gone away. Partly it was for Rolenya and her suffering. Partly it was even for his own years of slavery and torment. But what weighed on his soul even more heavily was his Doom. Gilgaroth’s general ... meant to usher in the End Times …
Ungier, too, cast a shadow, and every night Baleron dreamt of the horrors of Gulrothrog, of his years of torture and humiliation. He dreamt of angry Borchstogs raising barbed whips. He dreamt of the pens so crowded he could hardly catch his breath, hot and stifling. He dreamt of Veronica, of her skeletal face and firm breasts. He dreamt of howls and screams and white-hot pokers burning into his flesh. And every morning he woke up breathless, a scream on his lips, bathed in cold sweat.
&
nbsp; Just the same, the elves were kind captors. In addition to new clothes, they lent him a razor to scrape away his beard (though they were careful to guard his use of it), and they gave him books to read, though he found it hard to concentrate on them enough to read. Rolenya’s fate would befall her in a month—less now. Ungier had not been the product of a natural birth, so it was said; the Dark One and Mogra the Shadow-Weaver had gathered the dead flesh from their favorite and most powerful champions slain in battle and combined their arts to give this lump life, to turn it into an egg. It had been from this sac of rotting flesh that Ungier, the First Vampire, had been born. He was a thing of death, and yet not dead, and none of his children were natural either. For Rolenya to join their ranks meant her death and the corruption of her very soul.
Elethris assured Baleron that word had gone out both to King Felias and King Grothgar that Baleron, or an enemy agent pretending to be Baleron, had escaped Gulrothrog and found his way to Celievsti.
At the end of four days, Elethris entered the room and, for once, his expression was relaxed, though he still wore that same air of mourning.
Baleron, expecting more punishing spells, made a wry face. “What today? Would you like to see if I can catch a stick in my mouth?”
Elethris actually smiled. “No, young lord. In fact, I’ve done all the tests I need do. I believe your tale. It’s a remarkable one, to say the least. It seems you’ve been through some awfully dark times and emerged alive and sane and, not least, still of noble heart.”
“Thank you for your words, Master. They don’t go unappreciated. But right now I’m more concerned about—”
“Your sister, yes. Even now plans are under way to rescue her.”
“But you said—”
“And I was right. But mainly I wanted to see your reaction. We will go to war, though perhaps not for the reasons you think. Word has reached me that your father is on his way here to meet with you, after having received my message that you are indeed his son.”