by Jack Conner
Baleron stared up at the sharp-crowned Ungier in awe. No matter how much he hated the Lord of Gulrothrog, the father of all other vampires, he respected his might and his sorcery. Guards stood to either side of the great doors, but they did not impede Baleron. Their gazes were fixed above, as was the prince’s, on a most unusual sight.
For Lord Ungier, King of Oksilith, Keeper of the God of Fire, was on the floor before his throne, kneeling—his batwings folded behind him, scabrous head lowered, eyes downcast—to an image of Gilgaroth himself.
The Dark One’s image hovered redly in the air, formed of a fire that rose from within the circle of stones on the dais before Ungier, and the flames leapt high and formed the ghastly shape of the Breaker in his two-legged form. Hugely tall and blackly armored, with dark cape swirling behind him, the Dark One with his burning eyes and terrible helm scowled down at Ungier.
Baleron faced the back of Gilgaroth’s head, but the image was transparent as fire and he could see a reversed image of what the Vampire King must see. The flaming figure of the Dark One stole his breath away. He had half a mind to kneel himself.
The Royal Guards, half troll and half Borchstog, tall and beastly, knelt to the figure on either side of the Gulrothrog Throne.
“... and now this, my own brother attacking me!” Ungier was saying. He spoke in Oslogon to show respect for his Master. “My Lord, do not forsake me.”
“Forsake you?” growled Gilgaroth, his voice thunder and death. His eyes burned.
“You’ve sent Throgmar against me!” exclaimed Lord Ungier. “And the promised reinforcements haven’t arrived. Why have You betrayed me, Your truest servant and supplicant and son?”
Gilgaroth’s eyes smoldered. “You sent Throgmar against My spider.”
Nearly in tears, Ungier’s bat-like face firmed into a mask of anger. “I knew You would use that against me. But he slew Asguilar! That wasn’t part of the plan!” He made a leathery fist and shook it in rage.
With a start, Baleron realized they were talking about him. His mind spun, and wheels began to turn. My spider. He didn’t like the sound of that. He listened carefully. This is why he’d come—this, and Rolenya. He found it interesting that Gilgaroth seemed to be taking credit for his deed, letting Ungier believe he’d sent Throgmar against him.
“True,” said the Dark One. “Yet in turn you sought to revenge yourself on a chief agent of my designs, endangering the whole web, not just the spider. That I cannot allow.”
“But surely he is in constant danger! He likely fights outside even now, Sire, and my legions won’t defer to him as will Your soldiers. If he is this chief spider as You say, my Lord Father, surely You should keep him from harm, and if not why go so far as to betray me, Your loyal servant, Your own son? Surely if I were to perish, You too would seek vengeance against my murderer. Why then destroy all I have worked for these past thousands of years?”
“I would not seek vengeance against myself!” Gilgaroth roared. “For if you have a murderer, My son, it shall be I.”
Lord Ungier quailed. “Forgive me, Lord. I meant no offense.”
“My spider lies within the net and shield of his Doom, and as long as he follows my design nothing unplanned will happen to him. It is only when events go against my will that the potential for mischief arises. That is why your actions anger me. That is why I deny you aid now.” He paused, and the kneeling, crouching figure of the Vampire King trembled. “Yet I would not explain my actions to a slave I was about to destroy.”
Ungier looked up cautiously, hope shining through the blood tears in his all-black eyes. He said nothing.
“I will spare you,” said Gilgaroth, “this time.”
“Oh, thank You, Sire, thank You on—”
“Enough! Do not try my patience with posturings of loyalty and contrition.”
Ungier’s head hung again.
Thunder rumbled, and the mountain shook. A stalactite broke loose from the ceiling and fell through the Dark Lord’s fiery image to crash apart on the dais below. Already the stairs were pockmarked with their impacts.
“Go now,” bade Gilgaroth. “Go and rebuild somewhere else.”
“But, Sire!” gasped Ungier. “I cannot leave Gulrothrog! Would You abandon this fortress that has stood for ages and ravaged Your enemies so severely? That has reduced Larenthi to a second-class kingdom? Is my crime so great as to merit such punishment?”
“Know this, as you flee, that had Throgmar slain Baleron, my victory would have been forfeit, and your lot would be much bleaker.”
Ungier trembled. “Is the mortal so important?”
“The web he spins will obliterate the Crescent Alliance and free me from behind the walls of the Aragst. Then shall the world wilt before my touch, and I shall possess it utterly. That done, I will drain it of its fire and open a pathway through the Nether, a pathway for my own sire, His Majesty Lorg-jilaad, the Emperor of the Omkar—for Him to cross over and escape His exile.”
Baleron’s lungs would not draw air for a second. His mind tumbled and spun crazily. How could he accomplish all that? What did Gilgaroth expect him to do? He was only one man. It was beyond plausibility. I won’t do it, whatever it is. I’ll stop his plans. But how? If he was this spider, could he undo his own web? He knew of only one way. The thought made his palms sweat. I will if I must.
Above, the Dark One was speaking:
“Go now with a small retinue. Leave your wives and your women here.”
“Surely you’ll allow me one.” Ungier motioned to the shadows behind his throne and a Borchstog brought out a slim white figure.
Baleron felt his mouth fall open.
“Just one,” sighed Ungier with a look at her. “Just her.”
She wore a flimsy garment of lace and gold trim that, while fetching, left little to the imagination. Her skin seemed to be flecked with gold dust, and gold baubles adorned her naked limbs. Baleron found her as beautiful as ever, but she looked scared, and her blue eyes were wet behind her veil. Still, he felt a smile form when he saw her, when he knew her safe.
“I was to marry this one on the morrow,” said Ungier. “I know You wanted her for Your Own ends, and I was wrong to hide her from You—but surely You’ll permit me to take her along. She was Your gift to me, whether You agree or no.”
“You disgust me with your groveling.” Gilgaroth’s gaze stabbed into the largest of the half-troll royal guards. “Cast her into a pit so deep the invaders will not find her till only a husk remains.” To his son, he said, “That is how I reward such whining.”
The half-troll wrestled Rolenya past her master and to the stairs, which they began descending. She shot many wary glances upward toward the shaking ceiling, as did the guard.
Baleron’s heart surged with joy. Here was his chance.
The half-troll stood fifteen feet tall. As black as tar, a riot of long, gnarled horns rose from his hairless head. He could crush Rolenya into pulp with one mighty squeeze.
Trying to preserve his dignity, Ungier said, “But who will maintain Oksil? Who will keep Grudremorq and his brood? I’ve been his custodian for centuries. He will not appreciate my removal.”
“It was I who ordered him not to aid you,” spoke the Breaker of the World. “And it will be I whom he follows and obeys now.” He allowed that to sink in. “He and his spawn will survive, and prosper. You will not—unless you flee right now. This very instant. Go! I have spoken.”
The leaping flames flickered and the image of the Dark One vanished. As soon as it did, the fires died, crackling, and black smoke wreathed upwards.
All in the hall were silent. Beyond, Throgmar roared and quaked the mountain. Slowly, the Vampire King unfolded, rising to his impressive height, his crown still in place but his eyes chastened and mournful and full of despair. He cast one last glance at the retreating backside of Rolenya descending the stairs, and sighed. He raised his head to the ceiling and shouted, “My children, to me!”
Hundreds of leathery gray s
hapes swept past the layer of mist and smoke that obscured the ceiling, dropping past long stalactites and fluttering about the air. They moved in a large circle, awaiting him.
Ungier rose into the air and joined them. They screeched and howled and his form was lost to the chaos of their numbers. He called out loudly and they shot through a large opening in the rear of the cavern, into a tunnel, and were gone. The Lord of Gulrothrog was departing his fortress forever.
The remaining guards looked at each other in fright. They would have to face the invading hosts on their own.
Or flee.
As if the thought were shared by all of them at the same moment, they scurried from the room as if harried by the Dark One’s whips, all except for the royal guard escorting Rolenya. He and his charge reached the base of the stairs and passed Baleron. The guard’s tread was heavy and inexorable.
Rolenya, her blue eyes hopeless, passed within inches of Baleron without even looking at him, and he smelled her heady perfume. Her veil somewhat obscured her expression, but he could tell it was tearful. At least she did not look physically harmed. Her black hair hung down her creamy white back, arrayed with many twinkling gold pins holding portions of it up so that she looked exotic and sensual. Thin gold chains wrapped around her flat belly, and there was a diamond in her navel.
The half-troll led her roughly from the Throne Room to fulfill his lord’s last command. He snarled something at her, jerking at her arm, and she cried out and stumbled. He pulled her onward, unheeding.
With murder in his eyes, Baleron followed as the royal guard led her away to the pits below—as, all about, the fortress surrendered to chaos.
* * *
Ungier led his sons and daughters through the twisting, branching tunnels of Oksil. Hateful thoughts overwhelmed him. How could he allow Rolenya to be taken away from him? Deeper and deeper he flew into the depths of Oksil, making for an opening on the far side. All the while, his mind burned. No, he thought at last. I cannot allow it. She is mine!
Suddenly, he paused in his flight, and his sons drew to a stop around him, flapping their wings, hovering. A saurian roar echoed down the cavern. A stalactite fell from above, crushing one of his sons. No one wasted a moment over him.
“What now, Father?” asked the eldest, Suignon.
“Go to my retreat,” Ungier ordered. “Prepare it for a long stay. Make it comfortable, for I shall bring my bride-to-be with me.”
“But Lord Gilgaroth—“ Suignon started, then stopped at seeing the expression on his father’s face.
With deceptive mildness, Ungier said, “Do as I say.”
He flew back the way he had come. He knew in so doing he was damning himself should Gilgaroth ever find out, but he could not help it; it was as if Rolenya had put a spell on him, and he was powerless to resist.
Chapter 13
Stones and dust shook loose of the ceilings within Gulrothrog, creating a constant and sometimes deadly rain from above. The very air vibrated with Throgmar’s fury. Dust filled the caverns, choking its inhabitants, including Baleron.
Coughing, he stalked the half-troll and Rolenya. He ignored the havoc all around—the rushing Borchstogs and trolls and the falling stalactites and resounding roars. From outside drifted the sounds of battle. Baleron hardly heard it. All he heard were Rolenya’s whimpers of pain.
The royal guard led her down the staircase and into the main hall on the ground level, thence into a side passage. Baleron followed.
How could he deal with the guard? The brute was too big and too well-armored to fight with a blade, even his blade.
He chased after them as they descended into the lower tunnels and passed by the dark Labyrinth of Melregor where Ungier stored his most powerful artifacts.
The half-breed pulled Rolenya down a high hall lined with recesses where the Shadow’s honored dead were laid, then dragged her toward a flight of steps going down into a large, deep cavern where Borchstogs hurried to and fro; Baleron could hear their din and supposed the room to be an armory. He knew he had to stop the half-troll before they reached that staircase, where anyone could see him and slay him as soon as he turned on the guard.
He charged the creature’s backside and slashed at the half-troll’s armored leg.
His blade struck. Sparks flew. A reverberation shook his arm.
The half-troll whirled about and kicked at him with the leg Baleron had tried to sever. He dodged aside, rolled, leapt to his feet. Thrust at a chink in the royal guard’s armor. The guard swung a huge fist. Baleron ducked. Stabbed. Black blood spurted from the chink on the creature’s side, right below its ribs.
If only Baleron could shove his sword deep enough—
Another foot shot out, and Baleron saw blackness. When it cleared, he tasted dirt and blood on his tongue, and the world spun. Spitting blood, he staggered to his feet. All was a blur to him, but blinking it away he saw that the half-troll was lumbering away. How far had he kicked Baleron? Baleron pressed a hand over his ribs, afraid some might be broken. Pain ran through him like a fire.
The half-troll was very near the archway leading down into the larger cavern, Rolenya struggling and thrashing in its grip.
Baleron took a step forward, wincing in pain, then another. His vision began to clear. His sword dragged in the dusty rock floor at his side, for he hadn’t the strength to lift it. Why hadn’t it worked on the half-troll’s armor? It had worked on the armor of the Borchstogs outside well enough. The half-Troll was of Ungier’s personal guard, though, and they were evidently better outfitted than the others.
Baleron knew he couldn’t catch up with the creature, not in his condition, and his sword was useless against it.
Niches lined the walls, filled with the skeletal remains of champions of Ungier. The agents of Gilgaroth did not respect the dead, not exactly, but they knew all too well that favored spirits would live on long after the body’s death to serve their Master again and again. Thus their original bodies were kept intact and in a place of reverence to appease their owners. Baleron did not care whether he appeased them or not. Almost joyfully, he wrenched off a leg bone of what he supposed to be a dead Borchstog general and hurled it at the half-troll’s backside.
The missile struck the creature between the shoulders and splintered.
The royal guard whirled around. He still gripped Rolenya so that he now accidentally flung her, spinning, to the ground. He kept hold of her arm, however, and she lost her footing and gasped
The half-troll scowled down at Baleron, who still wore Borchstog armor, and grumbled in Oksilon, “Leave me be, vermin. I’ve no time for this!”
Rolenya in hand, the royal guard started to walk away.
Cursing, Baleron wrenched loose another bone. This he hurled at the creature’s head. It bounced off a horn. Desperate, Baleron ripped off another bone and flung it, then another and another.
Finally, the half-Troll spun, growling in rage, and marched toward Baleron to flatten him. As the half-troll’s shadow fell over Baleron, the prince wondered if he might have made a mistake. A huge armored fist started to swing down at him. He leapt back, felt something tear in his chest. The fist smashed to the ground where he’d been standing.
“Stupid Borchstog!” the royal guard snarled. “I will crush you! I will grind you beneath my heels and feel your body squish between my toes like mud!” He threw back his tusked head and laughed.
Baleron scurried back as the guard advanced. With every step the half-troll squeezed Rolenya tighter, and she gasped and cried out. Her naked legs thrashed, shimmering of gold dust.
Sucking in a deep breath, summoning his courage, Baleron snatched a torch off the wall and plunged through the black, obscenely-engraved archway that led into the Labyrinth of Melregor. There was no door. No fool would dare enter these tunnels. Only Ungier or one of his highest necromancers could brave the wrath of the Guardians. I am that fool. Behind him, he could hear the half-troll following, shouting threats and curses as he went.
&nbs
p; The air pressed close and frigid around Baleron, and the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled. He ducked down one side tunnel after another, one hand holding the torch, one clutching his sword with numbed fingers. This forearm pressed over his ribs.
As he went, he tried to remember his route. No easy task with the half-troll bellowing behind him.
The tunnels narrowed, lowered. The half-troll had to duck, but still he pursued Baleron. The tunnels darkened, and Baleron thrust the torch before him, driving the blackness back a few feet at a time. The torch’s smoke made his eyes water and filled his lungs, so that he was a coughing, limping, blinking, bleeding mortal lost in a dread maze. His heart beat fast in his fire-filled chest.
“Flee!” shouted the half-troll. “Flee, little Borchstog! You cannot hide from me!”
This was true. The half-troll need merely follow his light.
From time to time he caught glimpses of an ambient radiance. Some lingering, sorcerous glow bathed these tunnels, or some of them, red or green or blue. It would have to do.
Baleron flung down his torch. Wincing with every step, he plowed on.
Sweat trickled down his face. He strained his eyes to see in the darkness. The sorcerous glow helped, but it was far from daylight, even torchlight. It was more the suggestion of light than light itself. Corpse-light. Of course, the lack of light would not much hamper his foe.
He ran breathlessly before the charging half-troll, threading his way through the treacherous maze. He expected at any moment to be set upon by one of the terrible and mysterious Guardians of the Labyrinth, the beings that protected Ungier’s sorcerous prizes. Pain flared and ebbed in his chest with every breath. He tried to hold his breath for as long as possible, and when he did breathe the pain nearly crushed him. Perhaps he had broken a rib.