by Jack Conner
“Run!” laughed the half-troll. “Flee! You are mud! Do you hear me? MUD!”
Not all of the tunnels were lit by the ghostly glow. Some were so black that Baleron struck a wall or tripped and went sprawling.
“Run!” shouted his foe. The taunts echoed surreally through the dark halls.
Baleron turned a bend and came into a long tunnel at the end of which burned a blue flame. Warily, wearily, sword dragging against the stone floor, his other hand pressed against his ribs as if holding them in, he made his way toward it. Surely this must be one of the protected items of the Labyrinth. This tunnel was much wider, and there were many alcoves set into the walls, some of which may have been side-tunnels. The air was cool and dry and still. Sweat, dirt and blood plastered him.
Behind him, the half-troll entered the wide hall. “Ha! I have you now, little mud!” It stopped and squinted its beady eyes at the blue flame. Rolenya whimpered.
Baleron turned and faced his enemy. Where could he go? One of the side-tunnels? He could not remember the way he’d come and hated to get even more lost. Well done, he thought. You’re dead even if you win.
The half-troll’s piggish eyes studied the blue flame, then a look of terror crossed his face. It seemed he had only just realized where they were. “You ghoul-dung! You’ll get us both killed! Look where you’ve led us.”
Rolenya gasped as he squeezed his hand in fear.
“Quiet, you!” grunted the half-Troll, giving her a shake.
But the guard did not run. Instead, a greedy glimmer flared in its small, deep-set eyes as he stared at the blue flame. Baleron almost smiled. Even now, the creature could not contain its avarice. And with its lord fled, surely no one could rightfully claim the treasures of the Labyrinth. Baleron could almost read its thoughts.
Suddenly, the reflection of the blue fire faded from the royal guard’s misshapen features. Puzzled, Baleron turned about. The fire was gone.
“What’s this?” snarled the half-troll. There was no trace of greed in its voice now, only fear.
A huge and terrible face emerged out of a side tunnel, with a long, sharp-toothed snout and six glaring eyes. The face looked something like a spider’s crossed with a wolf’s, and it was transparent, phantom-like. Behind it, its long, serpentine body stretched round a bend and disappeared from sight. The whole length of it shone with an eerie, transparent blue that flickered like fire.
It was then that Baleron recognized his mistake; the blue fire had not been a treasured artifact at all: it had been a Guardian. Studying it with the intensity of a man facing his end, he wondered if it might be the ghost of some sort of long-dead race of dragon.
The half-troll screamed. In his fright, it dropped Rolenya to the floor, and she scuttled backwards.
“DARE YOU INVADE THE LABYRINTH OF MELREGOR?” demanded the Guardian, its six eyes flashing dangerously.
The half-troll sank to his knees. “Oh, please forgive me, O mighty spirit.”
The Guardian considered it, hissing. Then: “NO.”
It opened its huge mouth and out sprang three separate tongues which roped about the half-troll and dragged him inside. The half-troll’s scream cut off when the jaws snapped shut. The Guardian chewed. Swallowed. Ghostly he may be, but he could still put an end to the living well enough.
Baleron ran to his sister, who was so scared she accepted his aid, though she surely still thought him a Borchstog. Both their eyes remained rooted on the terrible Guardian.
Its six eyes fixed on them. As they studied Baleron, the eyes widened.
In Oslogon, it said, “CAN IT BE? YOU ARE HE WHO WILL SET MY MASTER FREE. I AM MOST HONORED.” It dipped its head in a bow. “YOU SHALL LIVE, FOR IT IS NOT MY PLACE TO KILL AGENTS OF MY MASTER. ROSCHK ul RAVAST!” The Guardian disappeared, and Baleron breathed a sigh of relief, but part of him grew colder. A knot of dread formed in the pit of his stomach. I will not free him.
He turned to Rolenya and helped her to her feet. For the first time, she received a good look at him, and her eyes widened.
“Baleron?” she whispered tearfully.
“It’s me.” His voice caught as he said it.
Her clear blue eyes filled with wonder. “Baleron,” she whispered, and it was like a prayer. At the sound, he felt something warm kindled inside him.. She flung her arms about him and cried on his armored shoulder. “Oh, Bal, I never thought I’d see you again.”
He patted her back, feeling the trembling in his fingers. “You’re not the only one.” When she drew back, he said, “I wasn’t sure we would get to you in time. I was so afraid we would arrive after you’d married that ... thing.”
“I prayed for your coming. Every day I prayed.” She paused. “But what did the Guardian mean when it said we were both agents of its Master? I am no agent!”
“Worry about that later. Right now let’s get you out of here.” He paused, scowling into the darkness.
“What? What is it?”
Grimacing, he said, “I’m afraid we’re lost.”
“Yes,” hissed a familiar voice, dry and leathery. “But you’re not alone.” Suddenly, a tall and batwinged form appeared out of the gloom, blocking the way they had come. “The ‘thing’ has come.”
Baleron, wincing as pain stabbed his ribs, brandished his sword.
The figure’s all-black eyes narrowed, while its fanged mouth twisted in a sinister grin. The jagged crown rimmed his scabrous bat-like head. Red corpse-light from a nearby tunnel bathed the face in a hellish glow.
“Ungier!” whispered Rolenya.
“Ungier,” acknowledged Baleron, a bit more slowly.
The former Lord of Gulrothrog recognized him. “Ul Ruvust himself, I see. Tell me, little lord Grothgar, have you spun any webs lately?”
“No, and I do not plan to.” He pointed the sword at the vampire’s chest. “Now get out of my way, wretch. You cannot hurt me. Your sire would kill you.”
“He may have once molded me from clay, but he does not mold me still.”
“It was not clay that he molded you from, first of all,” Rolenya said, “and second, he seems to think otherwise.”
“Bah! Enough of this.”
A ripple of thunder shook the fortress, even quaking the Labyrinth deep in the bowels of the mountain. Dust shook from the ceiling and Baleron coughed.
“Come with me and be immortal, Rolenya, or stay here and rot with the filth,” Ungier said, looking at Baleron as he said this last.
She shook her head and clasped Baleron’s hand tightly. “I don’t belong to you. I never did.”
“You heard her,” Baleron said. “Begone!” A wave of dizziness swept him, but he tried to hide it.
“I need not ask,” Ungier said.
He stepped forward.
Ignoring the pain in his ribs, Baleron sliced at him. Ungier reached to bat the blade away, but in doing his eyes touched on the weapon and widened in recognition. Surprised, he leapt back.”
“What is—?” Ungier started, then stopped. “Where did—?” His black eyes re-focused on Baleron, and hate and anguish split his bat-like face. “Asguilar’s sword!” he exploded. “Rondthril!” Genuine emotion crept into his leathery voice. “You murdering swine! I forged that blade myself, you craven mortal, you gibbering monkey. I poured some of my own essence into that very weapon ...” He hissed savagely. Real fear seemed to take hold of him.
“Begone!” repeated Baleron, seizing advantage.
“I think not.”
Baleron felt his mind grow heavy. His sword dipped.
No, he thought. Gods, no ... All was lost.
Suddenly Shelir’s charm grew hot on his chest. It shook off Ungier’s thrall, like the sun burning through a misty morning. His mind cleared.
He leapt forward and slashed again at the fiend. His ribs screamed in pain.
Startled, Ungier leapt back, out of the blade’s range. He snarled in frustration, and when he glanced at Rolenya there was pain in his awful gaze. For a moment, Baleron saw
him with new eyes; Ungier had risked his own lord’s wrath to fetch Rolenya, and now he was risking the bite of his own blade. Through his own pain Baleron wondered if it could be possible that Ungier was capable of more than greed and self-worship. Was it possible the Vampire King could know love? But then Ungier’s battish face twisted into hate and vileness, and these thoughts were forgotten.
“I shall see you again, Savior of my Father,” Ungier said. “Be watchful or you will not see me at all—until it’s too late.”
He threw his wings about him, and instantly he became a pillar of inky black smoke. Its smell was foul.
The prince held his breath as he slashed the unholy sword—Rondthril—through the vapor, but the black cloud billowed past him and shot off down the corridor, disappearing from view. Its stink lingered.
Immediately, Rolenya staggered drunkenly as her own mind reasserted itself, and she clutched her head and leaned against him for support. Tears came to her eyes. He wanted to sink to his knees under the pain of his injuries, but for her he swallowed his agony.
“Come,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Let us leave this place. Let us go up—to Father.”
“Father?” she queried, and for a moment she sounded like a little girl again.
He squeezed her tightly. “Yes.”
“But how? We’re lost.”
“Ungier just saved us, though he doesn’t know it.”
“I don’t ...”
He tapped his nose. “Just follow the stench.”
It worked. Following the reeking, smoky trail Ungier had left in his wake, Baleron, limping and swearing, sometimes leaning on his sister for support, led her up from the depths of the mountain into the chaos of the fortress proper. Borchstogs scrambled all about, along with various creatures and allied races. the trolls and half-breeds and even some men. All was a clattering, thumping, roaring pandemonium and in it no one bothered with one bloodstained Borchstog and a half-naked human woman, obviously a concubine of Gulrothrog’s suddenly-absent lord and off-limits to such as they.
In the wake of Ungier’s disappearance, it seemed a thousand plots had been hatched, a thousand intrigues either set in motion or foiled. Many rushed to find secret tunnels by which to escape; others hurried to reinforce their comrades; still others went looting, or hiding, or both.
Above, Throgmar still continued his reign of terror. Great slabs of rubble lay shattered on the floor, and indeed whole passageways were choked off and Baleron thrice had to find alternate routes.
Yet eventually he found the iron gates and stepped out into fresh air, into the fading sunlight. I can see the sky. The screen of black clouds had been scattered. At last, with the death of Gulrothrog’s sorcerers under Throgmar’s claw and flame, Elethris and his brethren had managed to drive away the stormclouds and let the harsh light of day lance down into the ranks of the enemy. The sun was weak here, but it was strong enough to pain them and drive many into flight. Victory over the forces of darkness was very near.
Yet true night, Baleron saw, was drawing nigh.
He tore off his Borchstoggish armor and led Rolenya through the chaos towards the ranks of men. The battle seemed to be winding down, at least for the moment, as the enemy drew back to assess the situation.
A cheer went up among the officers when they saw him return with Rolenya, for they were the only ones who recognized the prince and princess. The royal siblings were immediately ushered through the ranks until they reached King Albrech Grothgar himself. He stood encased in finely wrought armor—thick, with spikes on every joint, death-mask helm now cracked with its visor up, bloody from head to toe. When he saw Rolenya, it was as though a torch lit him from within, and he smiled with such joy that Baleron was actually moved.
“Rolenya!” the king shouted. Carefully he embraced her, lest he impale her on his many gory spikes; on some, Borchstog flesh still hung.
“Father!” she cried joyfully, and buried her face in his neck joint. “Oh, Father, it’s so good ...”
“Oh, Rolenya,” the king whispered happily.
At last, his hard eyes, now somewhat softened, turned to Baleron. The prince shifted uncomfortably. He tensed.
The king nodded to him. “Well done, son.”
Pride swelled in Baleron’s breast. He had half a mind to embrace his father, but he merely returned the nod.
“Are you planning to return to the elves?” Albrech asked. “To Elethris?”
Baleron hesitated. “No,” he said. “My place is here.”
“Very well.”
Baleron noticed three of his brothers standing near. All looked to have seen battle. He nodded at each of them in greeting, and they nodded back. He did not know any of them very well, but he was glad to see them nevertheless.
To his father, he said, “Ungier has fled.”
“Fled?” The king’s voice was a bark of surprise.
“Gilgaroth ordered him to leave with his spawn, and he did.”
“That makes no sense. They hold every advantage.”
“It’s true,” Rolenya said. “I was there.”
Albrech grunted. “Well, no matter. A new leader shall come to the fore soon enough, likely a Borchstog general or the like. Be on guard, my sons. The war on Oksil is not yet over.” He indicated Gulrothrog. Though half in ruin, the fortress still stood. Throgmar’s assault had destroyed its upper portion entirely, obliterating the top half of the peak in which the fortress was embedded. Its spires and terraces were no more, but yet it stood. “Thousands of the enemy still wait within. We must face them soon.”
“I look forward to it,” said the oldest of the princes.
“Indeed,” said another.
Albrech seemed unimpressed by their valor. “Just be cautious.”
“Don’t forget the slaves,” Baleron said. Another wave of dizziness swept over him, but he suppressed it. “There are tens of thousands of them underground. They must be liberated.”
The king nodded. “You know the way, son. I ...” He paused, and sort of smiled. “I appoint you to lead the force that frees them.”
Baleron felt a knot form in his throat.
“If we last the night,” Albrech added gravely.
“Surely we will, Father,” said Rolenya. “You’ve beaten them already.”
The king did not look so certain. “The enemy only scattered because of the sun and confusion,” he said. “But now night comes.” The red disc of Brunril’s Torch was swiftly nearing the western horizon. “They will be upon us soon.”
Chapter 14
“Well, would you look at that?” Baleron said. He and Rolenya sat together on a bench while a priestess of Illiana tended to his wounds. Rolenya was removing the pins from her hair.
All around them the wounded stretched on the ground, rows and rows of them, moaning and grimacing. Healers, priests and priestesses stalked up and down the rows, seeing to the most grievously injured first. Beyond, elves and men, working uncomfortably together, set up the perimeter, arranging rocks to use as barricades and widening fissures to use as trenches. The soldiers cast wary gazes at the ruin of the fortress, and at black holes in the mountain wall, and occasionally over the edge of the precipice that formed the western boundary.
A hot wind blew down from the fiery mouth of Oksil, and the wounded stirred uneasily.
But Baleron’s attention was fixed elsewhere.
The princess’s eyes turned to see what he looked at. Lord Felias on his beautiful white swan circled the blasted peak of Gulrothrog, upon which Throgmar lay nestled in the blackened ruins. Smoke rose up from the Leviathan’s nostrils, and his harsh gaze watched the elf lord—not warily, but not idly either.
Felias kept circling and circling, and many on the battlefield looked up to watch. Throgmar lifted his head.
“What do you think will happen?” asked Rolenya.
Baleron did not answer.
Suddenly Felias spoke. His words were Havensril, and Baleron did not have to wonder why: many servant
s of Oslog knew the tongues of men, and would speak them; they knew the tongues of the elves, as well, but those the servants of Oslog would not speak. As well, the elves refused to speak the tongues of Oslog and Oksil if it could be helped. The dark ones feared the Light would taint them, and the Children of the Light feared the dark would taint them. Thus Felias used a more or less neutral tongue.
“WHY HAVE YOU AIDED US?” asked the Lord of the Larenth as he circled the spire. His voice was pitched loudly, using his power, so that all could hear.
Throgmar’s amber eyes revealed nothing. “I HAVE MY REASONS,” he replied, also in Havensril.
Lord Felias circled a few more times, waiting. At last, he replied, “IF YOU HAVE REASONS, I WOULD HEAR THEM.”
Even from this distance, Baleron thought he could see Throgmar give a small smile. “BUT I WOULD NOT TELL THEM TO YOU.”
“WE COULD BE ALLIES,” the elf offered.
“ARE WE NOT? HAVE I NOT JUST HELPED YOU WIN THE BATTLE?”
“BUT YOU ARE A CREATURE OF GILGAROTH!”
“IF I AM HIS CREATURE, WHY DO I ATTACK HIS AGENTS?”
“THAT IS WHAT I TRY TO DETERMINE. ANSWER ME PLAINLY AND ALLIES WE CAN BE. RIDDLE ME AND BE REGARDED WITH SUSPICION. DARK THINGS PREFER RIDDLES.”
The Leviathan did not answer. Felias continued to circle the spire. It seemed he would not give up until he had an answer.
Baleron exchanged a look with Rolenya. In her eyes was wonder: she watched the elf lord converse with a dragon. Baleron smiled. Seeing her face warmed some place deep inside him.
From his nest, Throgmar said, “BE GONE, SON OF BRUNRIL! I WEARY OF YOUR QUESTIONS. LEAVE ME TO MY REST. I HAVE EARNED IT.”
“AND DO YOU DEMAND A PRICE FOR YOUR LABORS?”
Again, Throgmar’s lips seemed to curl. “I WILL GIVE MY PRICE WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT. FOR NOW, BE GONE!”
Felias made a few more passes, but Throgmar put his head down and ignored him. It was clear the elf would get no more out of him. Obviously frustrated, Felias winged away, out over the corpse-ridden battlefield. There he resumed his patrol of the skies. Somewhere up there was Shelir.