by Jack Conner
Endless black clouds covered the skies, protecting the dwellers of Oslog from sun and moon. Lightning, magma, and high pyres lit the land.
At last Rauglir came upon Ghrastigor, that great many-spired fortress overhanging a river of lava deep in the heart of Oslog. Embedded in the side of the chasm wall, Ghrastigor belched smoke from endless chimneys, and fumes shrouded it. Its tiered terraces jutted out from the canyon wall, overlooking the river of fire.
Rauglir found his Master standing on the lowest terrace nearest the molten river. Bathed in red light, Gilgaroth in his giant humane form gazed out over the glowing magma as hot wind whistled through the peaks of his black-crowned helm. Howling wraiths circled him, and he issued them orders, one by one. To the swayings of his will, the magma leapt and flashed, rising into huge red-glowing waves that seemed to dance in time to thunder.
Rauglir felt a swell of love and gratitude. What was more, he felt drawn in to Gilgaroth, as though the Second Hell were calling him home. He longed for it, to feel the caress of its winds, to luxuriate in the familiar warmth, to know the security of being within his Master.
He joined the howling, circling wraiths, expecting to have to wait his turn as they did, but Gilgaroth turned to him instantly. The Dark Lord’s fiery eyes smoldered from inside his black helm. His will commanded Rauglir to speak.
It is done, my lord, Rauglir communicated wordlessly.
Gilgaroth opened his mouth and Rauglir passed into it, speeding down his Master’s throat to reenter the Second Hell.
* * *
“Yes!” Baleron cried.
He banked the Swan to the right, and his stomach heaved as the great bird turned.
Wind streamed through his hair, and white wings stretched to either side, sunlight bouncing off them. He had been a free man at Celievsti for several days now but still had not grown accustomed to riding the serathi, the great swans. It was a much different feel than riding Lunir. The serathi were larger and more graceful than the old glarum could ever hope to be. Still, he did feel a bit guilty, thinking of Lunir languishing in the Tower.
Off to the side, Shelir on her serathin laughed with delight. Sunlight flared like fire on her silver-winged helm.
“Good!” she said. “You’re learning!”
They rode the currents of the bright blue sky. It was a gorgeous afternoon, white clouds drifting lazily across the sun-drenched heavens, and much of the prince’s cares and worries receded. He surrendered to the moment, and the moment was glorious.
For the last several days he had occupied the balance of his time in the library drawing his maps of Oksilith and Gulrothrog. So focused was he on the project that he drew and re-drew his maps a dozen times, wanting them to be as perfect as possible to aid the invasion. He would spend all day in the library hunched over sheets of parchment until at last sleep would claim him at his chair. Every time it did he dreamt of the horrors of Gulrothrog, of the starved, beaten slaves, the whips of fire, the stench of burning flesh, the howls of pain. He’d wake up cramped and bleary-eyed and gasping, and when Shelir visited him he would snap at her in his agitation. At last she had convinced him to take these breaks with her.
She led him north into the beautiful green rolling hills, and they came to a garden that seemed to stretch on forever, at times mingling with the forest that ran through the property. Streams and a river artfully cut through the amazing forest-garden. The beauty of it all stole his breath. Shelir sat her bird down atop a hill crowned by a circle of white pillars, and he joined her. The air was warm, the flowers fragrant, and all around stretched green leaves and colorful flowers.
Together they walked through the garden and she explained to him that this was open to anyone and not, as he’d supposed, the exclusive property of a lord.
“Queen Vilana created this herself long ago,” she said, running her hands through a red-flowering bush. “She walked through here, singing, and flowers and grass sprang up at her feet.”
“The magic of elves ...” He shook his head. “Can you do magic?”
“We don’t call it magic. It is Light. It is Grace. Yllim, some call it.”
He shrugged. “Well, can you do it?”
“You don’t do it. You practice it. It’s an art. Those skilled at it are sometimes called yllimmi.”
“Sorcerers.”
“If you will. But most humans misunderstand yllim. Misunderstand Light. They think of it as something alien, unnatural, dangerous.”
He stopped and stretched his back. A ripe orange hung over his head from an overburdened tree, and he plucked it, momentarily remembering a similar stroll from a lifetime ago.
“My father feels that way. But I don’t.” He smiled, peeling the orange. “But you evaded the question—quite deftly, I might add.”
“Oh, very well, then.”
Sighing, she raised a palm, squinted in concentration, and a divot appeared right between her eyes. A bright, swaying light leapt up from her palm, and Baleron stepped back. The yellow-green light danced gaily on her hand, and he laughed in delight, but all too soon it flickered out.
She slumped. “That’s the best I can do,” she confessed. “I’m a warrior, not an yllimmi, and there’s your reason. Like Lord Felias, Elethris was born before the Breaking of the World. Those born then are more powerful than those born after, but they are getting very few.”
He took a bite of the orange. The juice burst into his mouth, flooding him with its tangy flavor, and he smiled. Juice ran down his chin over his throat, and he let it. She reached out a finger and gathered it up, then tasted it, her eyes on him.
They walked over a small stone bridge poised above a crystal-clear stream. There he gazed down at colorful fish zig-zagging through the water. Birds sang, and butterflies took wing. It was an enchanted place, and most enchanting. He continued eating his orange, sharing it with her as they went.
They got lost in a hedge-maze and ended up on a grassy hill, where they laid down a blanket and a basket and commenced to picnic. A gentle breeze blew the soft grass and caressed their hair. The air was warm but not hot, and it smelled of honeysuckle and rose and a million other flowers. Light clouds obscured the sun so that its light was not too harsh—not that it ever could be in this place of brilliant colors and intoxicating smells. He was overcome by the beauty and grandeur of it all and found it difficult to maintain conversation. She seemed to appreciate it and spoke little, though her eyes said much.
They ate slowly, savoring the moment.
“I thought I’d survived Gulrothrog,” he said. “But now I begin to wonder, for this smacks too much of Paradise.”
She smiled. “The gardens of Paradise are tended to by angels. So what would that make me?”
“You are an angel,” he told her softly. “My angel.”
He kissed her. Her lips were soft and moist, and hot, and they parted under his. She still tasted faintly of orange.
She kissed back.
He ran his hands over her lithe body, capable of such grace and power, like a young doe’s, and she responded passionately. Quickly they disrobed, and he kissed her sticky throat and worked his way downward, kissing her breasts and belly. She ran her hands through his thick dark hair.
He lost himself in her for a time, and for one shining moment the world fell away, and there was only her, and him, and the warm wind through the grass. Afterwards, they lay back in the rich green softness, holding each other.
“Does it bother you, being with il Enundian?” he asked.
She stroked the thick hair on his chest. “Some may believe that myth, like my brother, but I believe only in what I can see. What does bother me is that the Enemy would make such a claim. It can only mean one thing.”
“War.”
“A great war. Perhaps truly ... il Nefigor.” She paused, distracted. “The whole tower’s talking about it. Everyone’s afraid. Word has gone out to the other towers, and they’ve spread the word far and wide through the kingdom. The land is full of fear.”<
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“Don’t think about it. To speak of it here almost seems ...”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“ ... profane.”
Smiling, she cupped the side of his face. “You’re not like the other Grothgars, are you? You like elves.”
“What’s to dislike?”
Suddenly he felt a burst of anger at Gilgaroth, the one who had tempted men from the light and stolen the gifts of the elves from them. Baleron sighed, the anger vanishing. It was hard to be mad here, and it was not Gilgaroth’s fault alone; he had done the tempting, yes, but it was men who had been tempted. Of course, they’d been elves, then, so the stories said. One nation of elves had been seduced by Gilgaroth to overthrow the other elvish nations and serve as overlords under him, given arts and tools by him. Given promises. But when their war had failed and they had been cast down and stripped of grace, they had rejected him and chosen pariah-hood instead.
Baleron cupped one of Shelir’s breasts, gave it a gentle squeeze. The curled fingers of her hand stiffened on his chest, gently tugging his hair.
“Baleron ...”
He smiled. One of his fingers circled a nipple. It hardened. She gasped softly.
He kissed her, and she kissed back, moaning into his mouth. He was hard almost instantly.
He rolled on top of her and pinned her arms flat against the grass. He needed no hand to guide himself inside, but thrust gently, then again. She gripped his member tightly, wetly, and gave little gasps with every thrust. Their bodies were warm and sticky, and the scent of flowers was intoxicating. Every now and then he still smelled an errant waft of sulfur, or heard the cry of a slave, but those memories were fading. Shelir was so pure, so simple. She was love and sex and beauty and goodness. She was everything wholesome, everything lovely. She drove away his demons, and he was content.
At last she arched her back, her ripe breasts beaded with sweat, and cried out in release. Her whole body quivered under him, then she slumped back, exhausted. Only then did he allow himself to explode inside her for the second time that day.
Groaning, he sank to the ground. She rested her cheek against his sweaty chest and drowsed. For a time they slept there under the sun, with the grass waving all around, and when he awoke he found her head still resting on his chest, but her blue eyes were open, and they stared at him softly.
“Enjoying the view?” he said.
She nodded.
Stroking her hair, he said, “Shelir, I have to know something. Why is Elethris so ... sad? Whenever I see him, he has this look about him ...”
Her pleasant drowsiness fled. Her face turned wan and her eyes looked away. “You don’t know? Our Lady of the Tower, his wife Itherin—she died. It was just a few short weeks ago.”
“Itherin? But isn’t she ... wasn’t she ... ?”
“Yes.”
The love story between Itherin and Elethris was legendary, and bards throughout the lands delighted in the tale of how an Omkar had descended to the earth, took a form of flesh and been drawn to the great elf lord in the midst of his Labor. She had long dwelt in the east, but when he had been in the throes of raising his tower the power thrown off had drawn her. She had come, and they had fallen in love upon first gazing into each other’s eyes, or so the bards sang. Once together, they had rarely been apart.
Baleron had wondered why he hadn’t seen her in the last week, but he’d had other things to worry about. “How terrible ...” he said. “But how could she be slain?”
“A poison, devised by Ungier, or maybe even his sire. Some say it was the Dark One’s own venom. I can’t say. It was glarumri that delivered it, though, riddling her with their arrows while she was out visiting the frontier settlements.” Shelir propped herself up, supporting her head in one hand while the other lay still over his heart. “It used to be her habit to check on the little towns south of the Wall, to see to their needs, and—” Her words ended in a choke.
He didn’t think she would go on, but at last she did: “It’s strange. The glarumri had been targeting her and Elethris both more than usual these past two or three years, and I don’t know why. No one does. Ungier’s spent many troops and glarums trying to kill either one. It reached the point where Elethris and Itherin had to keep all their comings and goings secret, but even then glarumri spies somehow found them. It’s almost as if they had some device to watch us with, but how that could be I don’t know. Our Light blocks their instruments. But somehow ... they found her. She was overwhelmed and slain while leaving a frontier village. Poor Elethris was devastated, and for the first two weeks we all thought he would give up his own life and follow her to the Lights of Sifril. I would not have blamed him. They were together for thousands of years.” Shelir’s voice turned wistful. “She was so lovely, Baleron, and she glowed like the moon in summer ...” For a moment she could not go on. “But we’re all fortunate that he has rallied his strength and persevered.”
He stared at her. “Two or three years, you say? That’s when the glarumri began trying to kill them?” He frowned. “And she was so strong ...”
“Oh, yes. Elethris will deny this, but some say she even poured some of her own might into the forging of the tower. I can’t say if that’s true, but in the weeks since her death, the tower ... has dimmed.” A sober look came upon her. “We are weakened without her.”
Baleron felt something dark cross his soul, and he shivered. Aloud, he said, “So they kept me at Gulrothrog only until they could weaken Celievsti, and then they released me ...” He sat up with a start.
“Baleron, what are you talking about?”
“They knew that I would come here. I must leave, and soon.”
Chapter 10
Elethris frowned at him. “Now now, prince,” he said, lowering his spoonful of fish soup, for Baleron had interrupted his lunch. “Don’t be foolish. My wife’s death ... It had nothing to do with you.”
“But my Doom—”
“Has no dominion here. The strength in that stone I gave you, as well as the Light of Celievsti, will protect you.”
“But with Itherin’s death—“
“Enough! Do not speak of my wife’s end so lightly.”
“I am most sorry, Master Elethris. I meant no disrespect. But don’t you see? You’re in danger. All of you. The Enemy planned this. As soon as he placed the curse on me and locked me away, he began trying to kill either you or your wife so that he could weaken Celievsti. I believe he had help. The night the wedding caravan was attacked, the adept with us, Bragan Thad, was slain, and his seeing stone taken. Later I saw a rithlag deliver a blackened stone to the captain of the Borchstogs that took us to Gulrothrog; I believe it was the same stone, but somehow corrupted.”
“With such a tool they could spy on us ...”
“Exactly! And as soon as he succeeded, and Celievsti was weakened, he staged my escape. I thought I came here under my own free will, but perhaps my Doom guided me, or he knew what I would do, or—”
“No more!” Elethris sucked in a deep, steadying breath, then let it out. “I admit you have a point, Baleron, and there may be some validity in it. I’ll think on it. Meanwhile, King Felias will be arriving soon, and you have much work to do.”
“The maps are done, and done again, though I will still work on them if there’s time. But my Doom—”
“Is countered.” Elethris issued an exasperated groan. “Baleron, child, still yourself. Do you not know who I am? What I am capable of? I raised this tower.”
Through clenched jaws Baleron said, “You had help. It took a hundred years.”
Anger flashed in the elf’s eyes. “I am mightier than you can imagine, and I have opposed your Doom. Now away!” His fist crashed down on the tabletop, and Baleron jumped. Soup overflowed from the bowl.
“Come, Baleron,” Shelir whispered, tugging at his sleeve. She had hung back out of respect, but she stepped forward now. “For your own good, let’s go.”
“But, Lord Elethris—”
“Away!” the sorcerer shouted.
Baleron let Shelir lead him away. “Damn him,” he said, bunching his fists.
“I told you,” she said as they made their way through the halls, “it would do no good to confront him. He’s proud and stubborn, and once he’s decided on something it’s hard to get him to reconsider. He’s taken the measure of your Doom, as he sees it, and he has countered it, and that is an end to the matter.”
“But he’s wrong. There’s a coldness in me, a shadow. It’s the curse, I can feel it, and it did not lessen when I entered this place. It did not lessen when he gave me the stone. If anything, it ...”
“Yes?”
“It swelled.”
She gave him a worried look.
He shook away his misgivings and forced himself to think of other matters. Somewhat hesitantly, he asked, “Is King Felias truly coming here?”
“He is.”
“Have you … ever seen him?”
She seemed amused by the awe he held for the Elf Lord. “Many times, in Clevaris. He’s quite the outdoorsman. Doesn’t keep himself behind the walls of his palace, much to the Queen’s lament. He’s always out riding, on land or through the skies. Or strolling through the streets and gardens of the City. It is a beautiful place, Clevaris. I would not want to be shut up there either.”
“But have you seen him? Close up?” He felt foolish repeating himself, but the idea that he might encounter Felias awed him. It had been Felias who first stymied the hosts of Gilgaroth ages ago when the Enemy had swept up from the south, devouring all before him. Gilgaroth had crushed Felias’s hosts and driven them north, but Felias had rallied his armies and forged alliances with the other great houses of his race, even established treaties with men and dwarves and more. Together, led by Felias, the united races had turned at bay and held Gilgaroth off. Though ground had been given and taken many times since then, that had been the beginning of the Crescent Alliance that still kept Gilgaroth pinned behind the Aragst today.
“I’ve seen him,” she allowed, “but only from afar. Several times I’ve heard him speak. He has a golden voice.” Some of his awe crept into her voice as she spoke.