by Jack Conner
“My father ... coming here?” Baleron’s hands turned clammy.
“That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, Gulrothrog’s starting to look better.
“Fear not, prince. I know your father does not regard you with any great love, and I know about the fall of Ichil and Haben’s death, but take heart. You’re your own man, not your father’s.”
“But my father ... it is a long way ... and he will need his army.”
“They require nearly three weeks, and that is with the aid of their Light-wielders.”
“But that’s too long! To assemble here and to attack, why, there’s not enough time.”
“There will be, young prince. We will make the time. I am not without power.” He let that sink in.
Indeed, Baleron was reminded that it had been Elethris himself who had raised this very tower, and that was no small feat. But to make time ...
He forced himself to nod. “What other preparations are being made?”
“I contacted my own lord, King Felias, and he’s set to arrive soon, a few days from now. He’s looking forward to conferring with you.”
Baleron opened his mouth. Closed it. When he could speak, he said, “Why would the Lord of the Larenth need to confer with me?”
“Why, to see your map, of course.”
“My map ...”
“Don’t you see, Baleron? We’ve never before received a true escapee from Gulrothrog. You’re the first. Oh, occasionally we’ll receive a refugee from the Hidden Fortress, but in all cases these were people Ungier released intentionally.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because we had stopped trusting his agents—werewolves and vampires and the like. His spells have gotten better and better at concealing them, and they’ve caused terrible damage—leaking information, carrying out assassinations and spreading panic and lies among the King’s Court. That’s why I was so careful in examining you. That is why Ficonre and the other Swan Riders gave you such a cold reception. At any rate, Ungier had to loose us some genuine prisoners so that we would be more open to believe his next agent. But in all such cases he had scoured the genuine prisoners’ minds of any information regarding Gulrothrog, or worse, planted false memories. They were worthless to our goal of razing it, and more than one led us into a trap. You, Baleron, are the sole exception.”
“I was released intentionally, too.”
“Perhaps. Yet your memory has not been tampered with. Before now, no one has ever escaped from Gulrothrog to tell us where it is. And we cannot attack what we cannot find. All we know is that the fortress is somewhere deep in Oksilith, but that Waste is wide and heavily defended; a blind attack would be folly. But now, with the map you can draw, we can crush Ungier once and for all and drive the foul demon from our borders!” His voice took on heat and passion.
The elf’s words fired Baleron’s blood. Oh, he would dearly love to see the vampire routed, even destroyed outright if that were possible.
Elethris’s gray gaze turned sober. “But I don’t know anything for certain, Baleron. Your forefather King Grothgar I did great damage to the Alliance by renouncing us, and there’s more than one elf that disdains the world of man for that very reason. I do not know if we can reach an alliance or not.”
“You’ll find my father’s not much better than the first King Grothgar.”
“That is his reputation.”
Baleron sucked in a breath. Something had been gnawing at him for over three years, and he felt that, finally, now was the occasion to discuss it, and the person to discuss it with.
“About the other reason I came here ...”
The elf nodded. “You wish to know about your Doom, and the prophecy of il Enundian.”
Baleron searched his face. “I need your help to discover precisely what it is—and how to rid myself of it.”
“Yes, that would trouble me as well.” Elethris sighed. “Sadly there’s little I can tell. During my testing of you, I sought out this ‘Doom’, as our Enemy called it. I did find it, and to me it is simply a shadow, a coldness, shifting and shrinking from my will. I cannot explore it. It hides. Yet I cannot imagine it has any power here of all places.”
“It’s weak inside the Tower?”
“Possibly.”
“Can you lift it?”
“I regret to tell you that I have not the power to do so, nor even to read what form it might take. Gilgaroth’s will is stronger than mine, and this curse, if that’s what it is, doubtlessly came from him, no matter who laid it upon you.”
Baleron’s spirits sank.
The elf continued, “It’s a curse the likes of which I’ve never seen. Its intention, doubtlessly, is to bind your actions, to steer you along a certain path plotted by the Breaker to wreak mischief among his foes.”
“More than mischief, Master Elethris. I’m certain. It’s the reason Gilgaroth burned the Naslym bridges, the reason he obliterated the entire wedding party, the reason he abducted me and Rolenya, the reason she was made a whore of a fiend and the reason why I served as a slave for three godsdamned years!” Baleron heard the heat in his voice, but he did not back down. He’d suffered much and the elf-lord’s casual dismissal of it infuriated him.
“Steady, young prince. I know it’s painful. But we must remember that Gilgaroth is a being of primordial times and tempers. He is ancient beyond words. To him a few years is the work of a moment. To destroy a caravan of thousands, likewise nothing. To curse you and give your sister to one of his sons, nothing. As for the curse itself, I think placing it on you is mostly a symbolic gesture—to rouse his troops, perhaps. For if this Doom were truly so great, it would be a shadow on this place. It would taint the very water, if it were as powerful as all that. And yet our water’s sweetness remains unchanged. You see, to mask a werewolf is one thing. To mask a curse that would make a good man the destroyer of the free world ... something else altogether.
“Nevertheless, I have learned that it does not do to underestimate our Enemy.” Elethris pulled something from a pocket within his robes and held it out to Baleron. It was a white stone hanging from a gleaming silver necklace. “Wearying myself greatly, I have fashioned this for you, Baleron, and for your Doom. The power in this device should drive the curse from you—or at the very least render it harmless.”
Wonderingly, Baleron took the stone and placed it about his neck. Like a piece of rough white quartz, it felt cool against his chest. He closed his eyes, waiting for some change to come over him. Already he felt lighter, cleaner, but he was not sure if that was real or imagined.
“How do I know if it’s working?” he asked.
Elethris did not smile. “If we’re all still alive a year from now, I would say it worked.”
“Is there no other way? Nothing I can do?”
“Oh, there is plenty you can do. Fight this Doom at every turn. Do not give in to it. It may yet be defeated if your will is strong enough. Possibly you can even sidestep it. If you were meant to turn left and you turn right instead, perhaps then you can shake it off and be free.”
“That is why I came to Celievsti instead of returning to Havensrike directly.”
“Then maybe that danger has already passed.”
This gave Baleron some hope, but not much. At any rate, the white stone felt reassuring against his skin. “Perhaps ... in the assault on Gulrothrog ... I can find out more. Ungier said he didn’t know more than he needed to, but he knew more than he said, that’s for sure. He did call me the Savior. And he made sure his people didn’t kill me.”
“It is a thought, but I’d be careful poking my nose into the shadows of Gulrothrog.”
Baleron paused. “Tell me of ul Ravast. Tell me of the Ender.”
Elethris leaned back. “There are many stories concerning il Enundian. Many legends. And many interpretations. For my part, I believe the prophecy to be a lie the Beast devised to serve his own ends.”
“How?”
“Firstl
y, to make his spawn believe that he is destined to triumph. If there is a prophecy, it must be fulfilled.
“Secondly, to lower your race even further. To say that a son of man will be the instrument of the world’s undoing, ushering in the time of his supremacy. Il Nefiltas. The Apocalypse. Long ago he tempted your kind out of the Light and this legend is his way of saying you belong in the darkness, that you are part of it, that it is part of you, that you are its servant. It is a device he’s used to divide our peoples and associate your race with him.
“Now he uses the prophecy to stir up his own troops, to tell them that, now that he’s found his champion, the Final War will begin. Il Nefigor. That in itself is disturbing. It means he believes that that dreaded time is finally upon us. Of everything you’ve told me, that is most significant. Most troubling. I have spent a great deal of time reflecting on this.”
“What do you think it means?”
“That he believes he is now strong enough to defeat us.”
Baleron felt a chill.
Elethris saw his look. “Indeed. I’ve discussed the situation in detail with Lord Felias and we’re both very ... concerned. If Gilgaroth has declared his champion, then he must think his victory inevitable. And imminent.” One corner of his mouth turned downward. His eyes dimmed. “All the more reason, Baleron, why we must crush Ungier now, so that Gilgaroth will not have him as an ally in the war to come. That means that the arms we bring to bear against the Hidden Fortress will not be to simply save your sister.”
“I ... see that now.”
“Good. For our intent is not to save Rolenya but to destroy Gulrothrog utterly, every stone of it. I am not sure if your father fully realizes this. He despises our kind, yet he has agreed to aid us.”
“He hates the Shadow more than he does you, Master Elethris.” Baleron forced himself to smile. “Not by much, perhaps, but he does. Are any other Crescent states lending aid? Felgrad, perhaps? It is your neighbor.”
“No, and they have not been asked to. Lord Felias doesn’t want the whole might of the Union gathered in one place, for one effort. Don’t plant all your seeds in one patch, as the saying goes. Now.” His voice turned businesslike. “I have work to do. A war to prepare for. And I am weary from the making of that stone.”
Baleron’s thoughts turned dark as Elethris released him from his cell and gave him back his sword. As the elf did, he issued a warning: “Be careful of this weapon, Baleron. Ungier himself forged it.”
“Oh? Please, tell me what you know of it.”
“Never mind that now. Just beware.”
“Beware? What kind of advice is that? Just give me a new one. This blasted piece of metal ... I slew my best friend with it.” He shook his head. “I’ve no intention of keeping it—less if it was Ungier’s.”
The elf frowned again. “Don’t cast it aside. I do not even like having it here, but there’s something about that sword ...”
“What?” Holding the weapon, he thought he could feel something strange. It seemed to hum with shadowy thoughts and energies, yet he felt good holding it. He felt strong.
“It’s a cursed thing,” said the elf, “but powerful. Before gifting it to his Firstborn, Ungier wielded it himself in the wars he waged settling into Oksilith. It is ancient, and has slain countless elves and men. Yet ... well, it remains a powerful weapon. Keep it.”
Baleron was skeptical. His father distrusted elves, which seemed like a family tradition. As Elethris had said, if not for the Grothgars, Larenthi and Havensrike would enjoy the close relations of old. Baleron was more open to the ways of the First Men than his forefathers, but his family’s attitude tinged that openness, and talk of bending time soured his thoughts further. Now Elethris was pushing a fell blade on him.
Nevertheless, he strapped the sword about him and said no more about it. It was a fine weapon, and he did like that it was a thing of power and that he could wield the weapon of even a minor god, a god he himself had slain—a weapon forged by an even greater one.
Elethris moved to the open doorway, where a female elf stood expectantly. Turning to Baleron, Elethris said, “I will see you soon. For now I leave you in this lady’s care. She will show you to your new chambers.”
When Elethris had gone, Baleron looked the slender maid up and down. She was tall and fair, garbed in a green and white uniform. Straight, fine gold hair fell halfway down her back, shining brilliantly. He liked the twinkle of her light blue eyes. But is she married? That was his specialty, after all.
“Elethris is a poor host, I’m afraid,” she said.
“You’re not wrong.”
“He did not even introduce us. I’m Shelir.” She put a fist to her heart in the traditional salute of Havensrike, honoring his country.
Pleased, he returned the gesture. “Thank you for taking time out of your duties to show me around, Shelir.”
“Think nothing of it. You’ve already met my brother, I believe: Ficonre.”
“Oh, yes. The Captain of the Swan Riders.”
“The very one. I was also there when you were brought in, but I didn’t have time to make your acquaintance then. Forgive me.”
“You were there?”
“I’m a Swan Rider like my brother.” She laughed at his expression. “It’s all right, Prince. I probably wouldn’t recognize me either with armor and helmet on, and I was aiming an arrow at your heart.”
“An arrow does rather focus the attention.” Some of his old instincts awoke, and he added, with a small smile, “It did me a disservice.”
“Let me show you to your apartment.” Still, she seemed amused.
She led him from his cell and he followed, glad to be rid of the place. They passed through high white halls, and open areas bathed in light, and every detail was filled with beauty, be it paneling or bas-relief or window. Every single thing the elves built seemed to be works of art, statements of passion or pride or grace. They were very unlike the more utilitarian-minded men of Havensrike. And everywhere there were trees and plants, and flowering vines cascading from the walls and ceilings, or clinging to the ornate pillars.
“Tell me, how is it that I get the honor of a Swan Rider as my guide?” he asked.
She rolled a shapely shoulder. “I’m young, by our reckoning—only two hundred years. I get all the lower duties.”
“I’ve never been so happy to be considered a lower duty.”
They arrived at the door of a certain suite, and she showed him inside. It was luxurious, with many couches and low tables and ornate fixtures. Its broad terrace faced the verdant green hills of North Larenthi. He was too high up to see many details but not too high to appreciate the subtle majesty of it all.
“This will be your suite for as long as you stay here,” she told him, the wind sweeping back her long yellow hair.
She was a pretty one, and athletic, and he considered asking her to dine with him. It was his natural instinct. But his thoughts were still too occupied with Ungier, Gulrothrog, Rolenya and his Doom for him to enjoy it, so when she left he didn’t stop her.
He glanced about the bare room and felt a chill. He was alone, even more than he had been in his cell; there he’d had Elethris and his tests to occupy him. Now all he had were his thoughts, and they weren’t pleasant.
Someone had left him a bottle of wine, perhaps to make up for his confinement, and he helped himself to a glass. He’d always longed to try elf-wine. He found it light and sparkling, though with strange, mysterious depths. Sipping, he ventured onto the terrace and tried to study the green rolling hills, but instead he saw the rock walls of the mines and the filthy trough at which he’d eaten. Then he saw Rolenya, and she was smiling, and her incisors were long and sharp.
Making a fist, he quit the balcony. The walls of the room seemed to close in around him.
Hours passed, and he attempted to relax. Always at the edge of his hearing came the cry of a slave, or the crack of a whip. The stench of sulfur and blood and burning flesh washed his nose
. At last he realized that he was panting. Pearls of sweat beaded his brow.
“Steady, Bal,” he cautioned himself. “Steady.”
He tried to sleep, but Rolenya loomed up in his dreams and feasted on his blood. Waking, he left the suite and prowled the halls, seeking distraction. Wondrous sights met his eyes, but he couldn’t focus on them.
At last an elf sent by Elethris found him—had been searching for him—and led Baleron to the vast library, where he was shown to pencil and paper and prompted to begin his maps. He did so, glad to harness his mind to a task, yet quickly found that dredging up the details of Gulrothrog and Oksilith only sharpened his memories.
So it was with relief when, taking a walk to relieve his stress, he saw a familiar face. He caught up to her and offered her a small bow.
“Shelir,” he said.
“Prince,” she said, the hint of a question in her voice.
He took her hand. “Please do me the honor of taking lunch with me.”
She studied his harried appearance. For the first time he wondered if she thought him il Enundian, as her brother seemed to.
“I would be happy to,” she said.
They took their lunch on the terrace of his suite, servants bringing them their meal as though this were a royal apartment back home. He loved the food, fish from the North Larenth, served with tomatoes and green beans and ladled with a spicy green sauce. For a time his urgent need to free Rolenya faded from his thoughts, and he was able to enjoy himself. Shelir answered many of his questions about the tower and Elethris, and they didn’t speak of darker matters, for which he was grateful.
* * *
Upon leaving Salthrick’s body, the spirit of Rauglir traveled south. He skirted Oksilith, threading through the Aragst, and entered Oslog. The Dark Lands radiated power, a power they had absorbed from Gilgaroth over the eons like rocks absorb the heat of the sun, and Rauglir basked in it as he made his way back to his Master.