by Jack Conner
“Enough of that,” cautioned Elethris from his throne. “You are in my home, and I’ve heard quite enough of your outrage.”
Albrech Grothgar said nothing.
Baleron glanced from elf to king. “Father, is the only reason you’re going to war to save Rolenya?” He could not resist needling his sire over the same issue Elethris had once needled him with.
Albrech glared at him for a long moment, and at first Baleron thought the King wouldn’t answer. At last he said, “It is why I go. Havensrike goes to destroy Ungier. And why? That’s the interesting question, and the answer is because Larenthi asked us to. We do, after all, possess the finest military in the Union, and though normally we’re beneath contempt as far as the elves are concerned, now we have our uses.”
Elethris said, adamantly, “That is not true. That is not how we see things at all.”
“Oh, it isn’t, is it? Then you don’t think humans are base, vile, treacherous thugs, one step above Borchstogs?”
“We do not.”
Albrech snorted. “I know how you really feel, Light-born. Your kind claims that humans are just elves stripped of Grace, inferior and unwhole, and that we should look to you for guidance. Those lies might have worked when humans were more ignorant, Elethris, but my forefather put an end to that nonsense. I won’t have you repeat it.”
Elethris’s voice came cold, yet sad. “You know little, King. It is disgusting how little you know, and frightening how little you are willing to believe.”
“You cannot control us anymore.”
“We never controlled you. But at one time ... the Enemy did.”
“A lie!” Albrech’s eyes blazed. He seemed on the point of exploding, but he mastered himself and some of the fire left his eyes. “Some humans do serve the Shadow,” he allowed. “But less than half, surely. Don’t use their weakness to condemn the lot of us.”
Elethris drew himself up, and Baleron thought he looked on the verge of hurling a weapon, one that would deliver a mortal blow. “Did you know,” he said slowly, seeming to savor this, “that Grothgar ... is an Oslogon word?”
“What?” barked the King. “What did you say?”
Baleron strained forward, listening. Shelir was quiet at his side.
Elethris smiled at Albrech’s loss of composure, and leaned back. “That’s right, King. Your own House once served Gilgaroth, in ages past. As did all Men. That is why they are Men, after all. He tempted the mightiest nation of Elves out of the Light, fed them on lies, filled them with arrogance, and they betrayed their own kind.”
“If you’re going to give me a lie, give me a new one.”
Continuing, the elf said, “The War of Light Divided was long and bloody, but at last that nation was cast down. It was condemned by those who served the Light and Grace was stripped from its citizens. They were made mortals and weak. They were made Man. And in that time Gilgaroth gathered them up and put them in his service. At that time, all Men served the Shadow. Oh, many broke away, eventually, and now as many Men oppose him as serve him, but at one time—”
“Enough! I’ve heard enough! You can’t convince me that all men once served the Beast. Or that we were once elves.”
“We look the same! Are you blind?”
“There’s difference enough.”
Elethris groaned in frustration. “You’re as hardheaded as all of your House, Albrech Grothgar, and I’m as weary after talking to you as I was talking to your grandfather and his grandfather. You’re all alike. Only Baleron here shows any hope for the future, and he’s nearly as contrary as you.”
Albrech smiled without humor. “But he will never be king.”
“And I never want to be,” Baleron said. “If power turns men so sour, I’d rather stay away from it. I prefer my freedom, in any case—I was without it for long enough, and now I mean to keep it.”
Albrech ignored him. To Elethris, he said, “We men may not be perfect, Shieldmaster, but here we are, and we’re ready to do our part to honor the Alliance.”
Elethris’s gray eyes were steady. “You mean to save your daughter.”
Unapologetically, King Grothgar stared at him and said nothing.
“At any rate,” Elethris said, “you should treat your son with a little more courtesy. He handled himself well in his misadventures and has emerged from it all with a remarkably healthy mind.”
“And body,” added a suddenly coy Shelir, entwining her arms with Baleron’s.
Albrech Grothgar’s eyebrows rose. “Am I now to be disgraced with half-breed grandchildren?”
“You could only be so lucky,” Baleron said.
The King regarded him. “I return now to my camp. You may come with me, or you may remain here. Either way, King Felias shall arrive within a day and we shall go to war. Choose you to stay here with the elves or to come with me, back to your people?”
It was not a difficult choice. Glancing at Shelir, Baleron said, “I rather think I’ll stay.” Then, to Elethris: “If you’ll have me.”
“You may stay as long as you will,” said the Lord of the Tower.
Lord Grothgar grunted. “Elethris tells me you’re cursed, boy. Is that true?”
“More than cursed,” Baleron admitted. “I am the doom of the world.”
“So Gilgaroth would have us believe,” Elethris interceded hastily. “But it is not true.”
“Tell me all of it,” the King demanded.
“It’s of little moment,” Elethris said. “Gilgaroth cursed him, but I have countered it, and that is an end to the matter.”
Albrech did not look convinced, but neither did he seem willing to pursue any subject involving Baleron. He let the matter drop.
Baleron privately disagreed with Elethris, but, as he wanted not to be locked up again, and because he feared what his father would say if he knew Gilgaroth had chosen him as champion, he said nothing. When we sack Gulrothrog, I’ll find out more.
* * *
Gilgaroth, in the form of the Great Wolf, bounded through the wasteland. He passed beyond the borders of Oslog and into Oksilith, and the shadows of that land grew even longer at his coming. The Borchstogs cowered in their fortresses and towers, for here they served Ungier and feared the Dark Lord above all else. Rumor of his passing swept the land and all fled before him. He could be seen for miles around, for the fire-glow of his eyes and maw stretched before him like beacons in the darkness, and his shadow extended long before him.
He drew near the smoking mountain of Oksil and at last reached the Hidden Fortress, where he found Ungier awaiting him on bended knee before its iron gates.
“Gulrothrog welcomes You, my Lord.”
“As it should.”
Ungier glanced up, barely masked fear in his face. “The powers of the North turn against me, Father. I can feel it. More, I’ve seen it—in the stone you gifted to me. Their eyes have fixed on Oksil. I fear they will attack soon.”
“They will.”
“You knew?” When Gilgaroth didn’t answer, Ungier shuddered. “Gulrothrog has never been attacked before, Father. Will You ... assist me?”
“Do you not see that your enemies prepare for war because that is my will? All is proceeding along the lines of the web my spider spins for me.”
“You’ve arranged to have them attack me?” Ungier clenched his fists helplessly. “Then You haven’t forgiven me for sending Throgmar after Baleron.”
The Great Wolf’s eyes sparked. “Still your craven tongue. I did not set these events in motion solely to revenge myself on the likes of you.”
“Thank You, Father. I rejoice to hear it. But why do You do these things? I’m to take a new wife soon—to wed the one You gifted to me.”
“I did not GIVE her to you. I merely turned her over to your safe keeping until my spider’s web had reached a certain point. Now you must be strong. I will aid you in the approaching war. But ... that is not why I have come.”
Hope gleamed in Ungier’s all-black eyes at this mention of aid
, but fear hovered at their edges at the thought that Rolenya might be taken from him. She’d come to mean a great deal to him, despite himself.
“What can I do for You, my Lord?”
Gilgaroth’s living shadow drew about them, cloaking them so that no one could hear. From somewhere, as he began to speak, the cry of a tortured slave cut the night.
Chapter 11
The great pyramids of bone made both hosts mutter prayers beneath their breaths. White and ghastly and surreal, the grim monuments rose from the wasteland, glistening under the light of the stars. They loomed over the armies of Havensrike and Larenthi, seeming to dwarf the two mighty forces. Forty-five thousand Havensri had massed at Celievsti, and thirty thousand elves. Whether it was enough to conquer Gulrothrog, Baleron remained skeptical.
High black slabs were set before each bone pyramid, and he fancied he saw old blood stains running down them.
“Who lies in them?” he asked, nodding at the pyramids.
“High servants of Ungier,” said Logran Belefard, Archmage of Glorifel. “This is how he honors them.”
“I suppose he honors their victims by building the pyramids with their bones.”
Logran looked uneasy. “If you like.”
“I wonder if they were just bones when the structures were built, or if they were corpses still, with flesh on them. How many glarums did it take to pick them clean, I wonder, so that the pyramids shine so bright?”
“You have a morbid turn of mind, young prince.”
Baleron ran his hands through his hair. Before he’d left the White Tower, he’d taken a good look at himself in the mirror, and the image still shocked him. He’d received innumerable scars at Gulrothrog, though sometimes he did try to count them. It was like counting the stars. Where the hair grew out over the scars on his scalp, the hair was white. He knew he looked old beyond his years.
“I have my reasons,” he said.
Logran let it go.
The Archmage and Baleron rode together, as Baleron had been asked to join Elethris’s hangers-on as a consultant. The prince had wanted to ride to war with his father, with his brothers, with his people, but that was not to be. When he had sent a note to his father saying he wished to travel with him to battle and fight at his side, the king had sent a short note telling him to stay where he was.
Wind whispered over the charred wastes of Oksilith, screaming as it blasted over and through the bone pyramids. When the winds blew harder, an eerie music seemed to emanate from the mounds, shrieking, seething notes that slithered and crept, rising and falling. Hollowed bones, Baleron supposed, crafted to catch the wasteland drafts. Perhaps even sorcery. But knowing how it was done did not stop the shudders from coursing up and down his spine.
And it was a cold wind, not just noisy, and he huddled deeper in his jacket. There his hands brushed up against the red stone Shelir had given him before they set out from the White Tower. Thinking about it made him glance up, where the swan riders could just be seen, dark shapes moving against the stars. They guarded the hosts from attack from above, and scouted the land all around. Shelir must be cold up there.
Her hands had been warm when she gave him the stone. Take this, she had said. My grandmother gave it to me. She was a skilled yllimmi. Her eyes had been so earnest, so imploring. I have had it since my hundredth birthday. Now I give it to you. He’d wanted to refuse it, but he had known that would be the most hurtful thing he could do. Take it, she’d insisted. I know how foolish I am—to give this to a mortal I’ve known only a little while—but you’ll need it more than I. And ... the heart is a stupid thing.
Now the two stones brushed against each other, the white one Elethris had gifted to him, and the red one. Idly he wondered which was more powerful, the one given to him out of love or the one given to him out of duty. It doesn’t matter, he thought. If just one works I’ll be happy.
The lines of soldiers moved past the grim pyramids of bone, and the shrieking songs faded behind them. All else was darkness, save the torches some soldiers carried to light their way, and the dim gray stars above, half concealed behind a layer of noxious cloud. The hosts could have been moving through the void itself. It had been the same, ever since they’d entered Oksilith three days ago. Three days and nights of this cracked, scarred landscape, covered with a layer of ash and littered with bones of all species. In daytime, flies buzzed about great mounds of waste, the by-products of dark arts. It was enough to drive a man mad. Perhaps even an elf.
Wind drove ash across the wastes, and Baleron constantly coughed it away and blinked it out of his eyes. He knew his face must be black with it. His horse neighed and stamped in irritation.
“Can’t you wizards do something about this ash?” he asked Logran, coughing.
“We’re saving our strength for the battle.”
“As you should, I suppose.” Baleron’s voice came out in wretched choke. “Although ...”
“Yes?”
“You could have listened to me a bit more.”
Logran rolled his eyes. “Baleron, you’re not a general or any sort of military commander.”
“Only I have been to Gulrothrog.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard your admonitions. So has Elethris. So has Lord Felias. So has your father. We know to be wary of Oksil. Of Grudremorq. We’re expecting him to attack, and we’re prepared to counter him.”
“He’s Ungier’s secret weapon, you know.”
“Not so secret, my lad. Mountainous, one might say.” Logran chuckled. “Don’t look so glum, Bal. We know what we’re about.”
Baleron’s lungs burned. He continued sipping from his flask to dull his nerves. Ever since entering Oksilith, he’d been drinking more. Now he could not sleep without it. Even so, his dreams were dark and feverish. Gulrothrog ... to return ...
He missed the warmth and light of the White Tower. He wondered if he would ever see it again. He pictured his last view of it, as he had ridden with the elvish host toward Oksilith. White and beautiful, the tower had loomed so high overhead that it had actually made Baleron ill to stare up at it, and it had been a relief to see it shrink with distance. Three of Elethris’s most powerful elves had been left behind to maintain it in his absence, Baleron had been told. Elethris had raised the White Tower, and the twain were bonded, in harmony with each other. Yet the three elves would keep Celievsti upright and standing until his return, though it would not be at peak strength without him. Indeed, with Itherin’s death it might already be fading.
The hosts rode on, kicking up huge plumes of dust and ash that obscured the stars. Baleron watched serathin flash through it, disappearing into the black cloud only to reappear on the other side. He wished Rolenya could be here to witness the sight.
The horses trotted tirelessly, and Baleron was only half grateful for the arts of the elves which had given the animals greater stamina and speed. They could cover great distances swiftly and without weariness; this was the making of time that Elethris had promised, although he was told there were other efforts being made that he could not see. For his part, Baleron wished the horses needed to stop more often, as the contents of the flask made him want to empty his bladder with unfailing regularity.
The armies rode on, and he shivered and coughed and dreamt of Rolenya, smiling, beautiful, her blue eyes catching the light.
Rolenya, I’m coming.
He also found himself thinking of Veronica and the others of his pen, and he couldn’t wait to see the looks on their faces when he freed them.
At last the new day dawned, dim and gray. Blinking and trying not to fall off his saddle, Baleron stared about him. Watchtowers spiked up all about, but the hosts avoided them. In his map-making, he had tried to summon their locations from memory and found now that he had only partially succeeded. Nevertheless the hosts managed to thread their way through the towers—not out of fear of being spotted; surely they already had—but out of fear of the towers themselves. Who knew how deep their roots went, or how many Borch
stogs waited within? Yet neither Baleron nor anyone else saw hide nor hair of the enemy. Not even glarumri marred the skies with their presence. Baleron got the same feeling he had had upon first arriving in Oksilith, that it was deserted, empty.
Or waiting. That was the sense he got now, that the wasteland was watching them, waiting for something, some hidden trigger. And here the men and elves were, looking for that trigger. What folly!
Around midday, the kings Felias and Grothgar ordered the hosts to stop. Campfires were lit, and meat spitted and roasted over the flames. Baleron munched his seared mutton lifelessly; like everything else, it tasted of ash. Tents were pitched and the soldiers and horses given a few hours to rest. When nightfall came, the soldiers dismantled the tents, ate, and mounted up for another long night of riding.
Before, Baleron had been excited about the prospect of going to war. Now, he realized, the war aspect was the smallest part. It was the going to that took all the time and most of the effort.
Baleron was thinking this as the hosts came within sight of Oksil.
The great black volcano loomed on the horizon like a broken fang, black clouds overhanging it, smoke rising from its top. Its high roots crept hither and thither across the plain. Its many sharp peaks thrust up like the jagged points of Ungier’s crown.
Dread crept over Baleron. During his stay at Celievsti, some of the damage Ungier had done to him had faded, some of his scars healed or at least scabbed over. Still he had nightmares about his years of torment every night and every morning he woke up drenched in a cold sweat, terror in his heart. In the last weeks the fear had diminished a little, the nightmares had been a little briefer, the sweat a little warmer. Now it all came back to him—the fear, the pain. I don’t know if I can do this. Just the sight of the volcano made him tremble.
On the sixth day, the hosts of Havensrike and Larenthi ascended the first black slopes of Oksil, climbing up one of the largest roots. The roots were so large that they were akin to the foothills to a great mountain range.