by Jack Conner
Throgmar appeared to go to sleep. Baleron found himself annoyed with the dragon. Throgmar should just have told Felias the truth, or some version of it, but he was too proud and willful to submit to the judgment of others, even a favorable judgment.
“Why do you think he helped us?” Rolenya mused. She still wore the revealing outfit Ungier had put her in, and her shoulders were bare. She had removed the pins from her hair and the full black wave tumbled down over her shoulders and back. She proceeded to wipe her face with a wet cloth, removing the heavy face-paint Ungier had had her wear.
“I don’t know,” Baleron said, half smiling. He did not want to tell the whole story, not yet. Something occurred to him, and he sighed heavily.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Salthrick,” he said. This she needed to know.
Hope lit her eyes, then faded as she studied him. “He fell,” she said sadly, guessing.
“Yes,” he said. “Three years ago.”
Sadness and disappointment filled her face. “So it was an imposter.”
“A demon named Rauglir.”
She looked utterly crestfallen. “Somehow I knew. It just seemed too good to be true. Ungier came to me one day perhaps two months ago and told me he had heard that Salthrick still lived, and that he could arrange it so Salthrick could be brought here, but ...”
“For a price.”
“I had to marry him. I ... I just wanted you to be happy. Well, not happy, how could you be?—but to have a friend down there. I didn’t think ... I didn’t know ...”
“I understand. And I thank you. But it was planned—the infiltration of the caravan, my escape ... everything.”
“But why did they let you escape?”
“They wanted me to come to Celievsti. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps so that I could lead them into the trap we almost fell into. Without Throgmar ...”
She nodded. “And ... your Doom?”
“Elethris says he’s powerful enough to counter it. I hope he’s right.” Doubtfully, he fingered the white stone that hung from his neck.
He puzzled on it as the priestess continued to dress and bind his wounds. He’d been given a draught of some Larenthin medicine and already his ribs felt much improved.
The sun disappeared behind the peaks of the western mountains, and true night fell over the Oksil Waste. He heard soldiers whisper that surely now the might of Gulrothrog would come crash down upon them in full force. Bracing for attack, the hosts of Havensrike and Larenthi waited. And waited.
Shadows grew deep. The wind blew cold.
Strangely, the onslaught did not come. Night poised dark and terrible above, an axe waiting to fall, yet no axe fell. Along the defensive perimeter, men and elves frowned in confusion. Why did the enemy not attack?
Meanwhile, Baleron washed and reacquainted himself with Rolenya and with the three of his brothers that had accompanied their father to war. Albrech consulted with his generals and laid out defensive plans for the night. Baleron told them of the conversation he had overheard between Ungier and Gilgaroth. Albrech and the generals looked at him doubtfully.
“Now is the time to strike,” Baleron said. “If they haven’t attacked us yet, it probably means their chiefs are still wrestling each other for power. Hit them now while they’re in confusion instead of waiting for them to fall on us with their full focus and strength.”
His father glanced from him to the generals and then back to Baleron. “You say you actually saw the Wolf?”
Baleron sighed. He started over.
All the while, Rolenya stayed close at hand, seemingly a little lost and disoriented. And no wonder. She had been away from her own people for years, and being back among them would be strange, just as it was for him. He was almost as new to it as she.
Soldiers pitched tents and formed watch rotations. There was nothing else to do but make camp. Elves and men worked together, forming one great circle, and then two separate series of concentric rings within the outer circle, one for Havensrike and one for Larenthi.
Swan riders wheeled above. They too had formed a rotation so that their members could find a few hours of rest, one set at a time.
Needing some answers, Baleron sought out Elethris in the elvish camp, which was much more strongly warded then that of the men. Baleron wished his father had availed himself of the elves’ resources, for they had offered to use their arts to strengthen his encampment. Of course King Grothgar had refused. Like his forefathers unto the first King Grothgar, he considered the elves liars and oppressors. Because of this, Baleron was half grateful his father had not spent much time with him in his formative years; the king’s prejudices might have influenced him. As it was, it sounded right to Baleron, that elves and men were once one, that they were all elves and all Children of the Sun and Moon, possessed by the Grace of the Omkar, gifted with beauty, power, immortality and purpose. As he passed through the elvish ranks, he observed the beauty of their tents, their weapons, and the glow that seemed to light the elves themselves from within. He knew deep in his heart, however much he hated to admit it, that they were superior. They possessed the Grace of the Omkarathons, and men did not. All, he supposed, except Rolenya.
Why that was remained a mystery.
He found Elethris in the inmost circle of tents, but only after being carefully screened. The elf that performed this task almost did not admit him, so sinister did he consider Baleron’s sword. At last Elethris interceded, and the two strolled through the camp, speaking quietly.
“It’s good to see you again, lad,” Elethris said. “When you rushed off like that, I feared I’d never see you again.”
“It’s good to see you, too, though I had no doubts about your survival.”
“I’m glad you didn’t!” Elethris chuckled. “I had some fairly close calls today. If that dragon hadn’t come—” Elethris gave him a strange, searching look. “The dragon, Throgmar, was that—could that possibly have been your doing?” When Baleron did not answer, Elethris laughed. “I knew it! Somehow, I knew it. You told me about your meeting with him in the Aragst, but I never thought—well, let me just say how impressed I am.”
Baleron shrugged, said nothing.
“Know that you have my gratitude,” Elethris said. “And I will make sure my king and yours know what you did, as well. Mayhap that will help you in your father’s eyes.” Baleron felt a knot form in his chest at the thought. He had not told Albrech about Throgmar; that would have only deepened his disbelief regarding Gilgaroth and Ungier. “You saved us all,” Elethris added. “If Throgmar had not destroyed Ungier’s necromancers, we would never have been able to repel the enemy, never would have been able to tear away the roof of clouds.”
“Let’s hope it’s enough.” Baleron cleared his throat. “Now—about this sword.” Briefly he told Elethris of his encounter with Ungier in the labyrinth.
The elf’s eyebrows rose and rose. Finally he said, “What I wouldn’t give to see that maze! I bet the artifacts contained in it are staggering.”
“Perhaps when this war is over, you’ll get your chance.”
“I hope so. That would truly be something to look forward to.” His eyes twinkled with secret yearning.
“But about this sword,” Baleron pressed. “Not only did Ungier forge it, but he poured some of his own strength into its forging. And, more importantly, it frightened him. It can frighten a god.” When Elethris nodded soberly, Baleron added, “I need to know more about it.”
“Yes. It is a blade of some renown. Dark renown. You will recall my lack of enthusiasm upon your bringing it to Celievsti. I suppose I should have told you more about it then. Know you its name?”
“Rondthril.”
“So it is. Dark it is of purpose and design. Ungier poured his own blood and spirit into this weapon to gift to his Firstborn, which was very significant to him. Doubtful that Asguilar whom you slew appreciated the gesture half so much as his father, but that’s not rare.”
Baleron
ignored this. “Why was Ungier afraid of it, if it contains some of his own essence?”
Elethris smiled. “Because he is a disloyal wretch and he fears the sword may bite him.”
“Is it disloyal enough to use against ... other gods?”
The elf sobered. “Ah, so that is what intrigues you.”
“Is it?”
“Alas, in its current condition, that is doubtful. And I will not tell you how to alter its condition, so don’t bother asking.”
“Why?”
Elethris’s voice grew impatient. “Because I fear you would take up the challenge.”
Baleron studied him. He saw no give in the elf’s eyes. “Tell me, Elethris. I must know. Perhaps this is what I am meant to do. What else can it mean? It is too great an opportunity.”
“So you subscribe to the theory that we are meant to do certain things?”
Baleron hissed out an impatient breath. “No, but—”
“Then you were not meant to. None of us are meant to do anything, Baleron. Free will is our gift, and our curse.”
“Then there is no purpose to life.”
“There is purpose enough. To enjoy it and to help others to enjoy it seem sufficient to me.”
“Gilgaroth gave me a purpose,” he said darkly. “And I must throw it back at him lest I carry it out. This sword could help me do that. You hinted at something like that, back at the tower, so you know what I am talking about. But first you must help me.”
Sternly, the elf said, “I will not. You will only get yourself killed.”
“Then the blade is useless!”
“Not useless. You slew plenty of foes with it, did you not? And it will be of use against unnatural foes, as well, or some of them. But not against a son of Gilgaroth, or the Beast himself. It is deep in the sway of the Shadow.”
“What else can you tell me about it? You kept your secrets at Celievsti.”
“So I did.” The Lord of the White Tower looked pained. “It’s evil, Baleron. I wish I could tell you otherwise. It’s known as the Fanged Blade. It hungers for blood, constantly, though it will be faithful to its wielder. It is not exactly sentient, but it is not exactly a dead piece of metal, either. Rather it is so single-minded in its purpose that it has no thought for anything else, though it is not without intelligence.”
“What is its purpose?”
“Evil,” snapped Elethris in a tone harsher than either had expected. He looked at the prince apologetically, waving his hands to soften the blow. In a gentler voice, he repeated, “Evil. Sheer, plain evil. It is cruel and malicious and loves to cause pain.” A new look came over his angular face as something occurred to him. In a strange tone, he added, “But whatever else it is or may be, this sword possesses the power to scare a god, and perhaps, someday ... even more.”
* * *
After leaving Elethris, a frustrated Baleron made his way over to the camp of the swan riders. There he was told that Shelir’s shift had not ended, that she and her serath were still on patrol. The other riders said that they would tell her that he had stopped by. They were drinking elf-wine and swapping tales of the day’s battle over a roaring campfire, and he stayed to listen for a bit. His presence seemed to make them uncomfortable. They shot him odd looks and shifted warily. They think I’m il Enundian, he realized. Grinding his teeth, he excused himself. The swan riders did not seem sorry to see the back of him.
He made his way out of the elvish circle and into Havensrike’s camp. There in the heart of the circle a tent had been pitched for him.
After three long years of being a slave, it was odd to have people wait on him. My own people, he thought. I’ve been spending too much time with the elves. They may be superior in some ways, but not in spirit, not in heart. Men are their equal there. Looking about him at the sights and sounds of the human camp—the wounded being tended to, soldiers passing a flask and talking, others sharpening their swords and cleaning their armor—he felt good to be back among men once more. I’m home.
Inside his tent, a cot was laid out for him along with a set of clean clothes and some amenities. A guard was posted outside.
“If there’s anything you require, my lord,” he said, “just ask.”
“How about a pipe and some tobacco?”
“I’ve enough to spare,” said a voice behind him, and he turned to find King Grothgar himself. Surprise must have shown on his face, for the king smiled. He looked less menacing out of his armor, and his face was relaxed, even kindly. He was washed and his few wounds tended to. He wore a bandage about his ribs and one across his right forearm.
“Where’s Rolenya?” asked the prince.
“Sleeping soundly after a hard, hard day,” said her father. “Come.” He beckoned.
Baleron followed him past the king’s tent, beyond which lay a pile of horse blankets. There Albrech sat himself and went about the motions of stuffing and lighting a pipe.
A bit bemused, but pleasantly so, Baleron sat down next to him. The night was cool but dry after all the rain, though the ground was dark and muddy where it was not stone, and the air stank of sulfur and the rot of death.
King Grothgar got the pipe going and puffed on it awhile, then passed it to Baleron, who took the smoke into his mouth and savored it, then blew it out again.
Lord Albrech’s eyes drifted up to the ruined peak of Gulrothrog. There the mighty Leviathan slumbered. Fires licked about the dragon’s lips. Smoke wreathed up from his nostrils to crown his scaly, horned head.
“Is he a friend or a foe, I wonder,” mused Albrech.
“Friend,” said Baleron.
The King nodded slowly. “Perhaps,” he said. “Still, I am reminded that the enemy of my enemy is only my friend so long as my enemy still exists.”
“You think he will turn on us once he’s obliterated the fortress, or we have?”
Albrech tasted the fine smoke, swirling it about his mouth before expelling it, and shrugged. “I merely think one should be cautious when dealing with a fell Worm. Perhaps he’s rebelled against his maker, perhaps he’s a renegade or ... Well, I can speculate all night and not hit the heart of it. So I will only say that should I see this one again, I would strike first rather than wait to see what his intentions are.”
Throgmar will call on us soon in Glorifel, Baleron thought. And we’d better live up to our end of the bargain. But he did not disagree openly with his father. It seemed fitting to give the older man the last word. The truth could come later.
It felt good simply to be in the company of his father, for once, without being berated and torn to pieces. He had seen Albrech only rarely growing up, and then generally at formal occasions. Baleron’s mother had lost her reason shortly after his birth, and his father had never forgiven him for it. Baleron had worked hard over the years, training in swordplay and weapons, learning to hunt and ride, and more, yet the king had not been impressed. It had gotten worse after he’d come under Salthrick’s influence, and Baleron’s reign of terror on Varley Hill had begun.
Yet now, finally, Albrech seemed to have forgiven him, and Baleron felt a great weight lift off his heart.
As if reading his mind, the king said, “Son, you did well today.” Then he did a surprising thing: he touched Baleron, laying his hand upon the prince’s shoulder.
Baleron’s mouth went dry. Tears form behind his eyes.
“Father ...” he managed.
“Son.” The king squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you for delivering your sister to safety. And yourself. I’m glad to know I can count on you. Times are dark, and Havensrike needs good leaders now more than ever.”
“You can count on me, Father.”
From out of the gloom appeared a slender figure, still wearing a shining silver breastplate, splattered with dried dark blood, and with her winged helmet under one arm. Long blond hair cascaded over her narrow shoulders. Approaching, she smiled down at the prince.
“Is there room on that pile for three?” she asked.
; “Shelir!” Baleron sprang to his feet and embraced her, kissing her well. Turning to the king, who was somewhat amused and somewhat taken aback, Baleron said, “Father, meet Shelir, a swan rider, and my beloved.”
She let out a little gasp, and King Grothgar scowled. Yet he swallowed his dislike, stood and extended his hand to her.
Though this was not elvish custom, she took it. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Lord Grothgar,” she said.
“Indeed. Our last meeting was not well.”
“No.”
A tense moment passed. To break it, Baleron returned the still-smoking pipe to his sire and said, “I will see you in the morn, Father, if not before.”
“So it is,” agreed the King.
* * *
Albrech watched, frowning, as the prince led the elvish maid by the hand, and the two disappeared into the young man’s tent.
Then his frown receded and a chuckle escaped him. “Young love,” he muttered, and cast his gaze back to the ruined spire of Gulrothrog.
There the massive form of Throgmar lay, but no longer was the Great Worm sleeping. His long neck was arched and his head craned. Smoke issued from his nostrils, and his glittering amber eyes peered downwards towards the battleground and the camp of Havensrike. Almost, it seemed, the dragon looked right at the king.
For an instant, fire rippled at his lips, and then he yawned lazily, exposing long sharp teeth that flashed in the moonlight and a red tongue that flickered at the stars.
“You just stay where you are, old Worm,” spoke the king, uneasy. “And whatever you do, don’t get hungry.”
Chapter 15
“I’ve never seen so many buzzards,” Baleron said, shoving a fork-full of venison into his mouth.
The royal family and their guests sat at breakfast on a black hill of rock overlooking the battlefield. Legions of vultures tore at the corpses littering the slopes of Oksil. More than ten thousand men and elves had fallen, and a like number of Borchstogs. Bodies of all shapes and sizes littered Oksil’s steaming black slopes. Occasionally a cloud of carrion birds would fly off, harried by a swan rider, whose numbers still circled the skies above the camp in shifts.