by Jack Conner
“I’m surprised you’re not used to the sight,” said Baleron’s brother Farleme.
“I suppose that’s a reference to Ichil, then.”
“Take it how you want. You’ve seen plenty of death, the way I hear it. It follows you around like you carry its dinner bell.”
Ridlum smirked. “Have you checked his pockets? Perhaps he does.”
Baleron had expected something like this. “I will turn them out for you,” he said.
“Listen to him!” Farleme said. “I think he’s half-ready to call you out!”
His brother Epsel laughed. “Call us out? Well, perhaps you, Farleme. You’re the only one of us that’s married. Isn’t that the requirement?”
That seemed to amuse the three brothers. Ridlum lifted his glass of coffee in toast to Epsel, then added, “Watch your back, brother, or did I not attend your engagement party recently?”
“I think that’s enough,” said Shelir, who sat on the bench beside Baleron.
“More than enough,” added Rolenya from across the table. She had been staring off, out over the battlefield, looking distant and strange.
“They’re right,” Albrech said. “Leave the lad alone.”
The three brothers quieted, but they often shot each other sly looks and chuckled. Baleron sighed. He supposed he deserved the treatment, but his pride bridled nonetheless. He feared that if they continued taunting him, he might lash out, and he did not want to hurt them. Much, he added.
After breakfast, his father pulled him aside. “You took the ribbing well,” he said. When Baleron shrugged, he added, “But if you want their respect, or mine, you must act the part. You must put your old ways behind you.”
Baleron had already come to that conclusion, but it was a painful one. Still, he remembered how the obliteration of the wedding party had been brought about by his ill repute more than anything else. If he was to command men, he needed a better reputation, it was that simple. He would have to reform himself.
“No more married women,” he promised. Progress is painful. Of course, if one were to fall into my bed, it would be rude to kick her out.
Albrech looked him in the eye, sighed, and turned away. Baleron rejoined Shelir and they descended to the slopes below. The stink of death came up around them, and he nearly gave up his breakfast. Below elves and men, with strips of cloth over their mouths, were heaping the dead into two different mounds. The chore had only just begun. When it was finished, both sides intended to create a monumental funeral pyre each. When all the dead were gathered and the pyres erected, they would be fired at the same time. The living would gather around to mourn the dead, and the elves would lift their voices in song long into the night. Before the rule of the Grothgars, men would have joined them. Of course, both races would have preferred to simply bury or entomb their dead as was the custom, but neither elves nor men wanted to bury their fallen heroes in this unholy ground.
By contrast, the Borchstogs were simply and unceremoniously thrown off the nearest precipice or into the handiest fiery gorge.
“I’m sorry your family gives you such a hard time,” Shelir told him.
His arm was about her shoulders, and he leaned in to her now and kissed her on the head. “Don’t be sorry, my dear. I deserve every moment and then some.”
She looked at him strangely, and he did not have to wonder what she was thinking. She would be trying to determine whether he had meant what he said last night. The truth was that he did not know himself. His own heart held secrets from him. If nothing else, waking up with her this morning had been an uncommonly pleasant way to begin the day.
For her part, Shelir seemed distracted and out of sorts. He had not told her of Ficonre’s death and what with the great number of fallen soldiers he was simply one of the legions of nameless dead. To Shelir, he was missing. She was not sure if he lived or not.
They reached the slopes. All around tents were being dismantled, and men and elves threw on armor.
“Why is your father sending you into the fight?” Shelir asked him, sounding concerned.
“Because I asked him to.”
“Then may the Light be with you.”
She kissed him on the lips and left to rejoin her own soldiers. Sobering, he found his tent and began to don his armor. Soon he would lead his troops into battle, and at long last he would free the slaves in the mines. Veronica, I am coming.
* * *
The rising sun sparkled dully on the blood-spattered helms and arms of the two hundred soldiers Baleron had taken command of. At the sight, something warmed within him. He strode back and forth before their ranks, shouting orders and advice, telling them of the horrors of the mines and the people they went to save. Yet even as he spoke they muttered among themselves, and he knew they had reason for their fear, though he rebuked them for it. The Borchstogs had not attacked last night, nor had there been any sign of them. A new leader should have wrested control by now.
And Throgmar was gone. Baleron had asked about the Worm, but no one had an answer. The swan riders had reported the dragon disappearing into the dark clouds above and had not noted his presence since. He could be anywhere.
Yet his memory lingered in every slab of the fortress he’d torn away. What had once been a mighty peak was now a blasted and scorched stump. The Great Worm had lain bare the fortress’s very innards. Only its labyrinths and dungeons and mysteries below the surface remained intact. No one knew how many Borchstogs and monsters waited within, but all expected a hellish battle.
However, as Baleron led his troop right behind the first wave of soldiers to venture into the still-smoking ruins, he noticed that all was still. There were no live Borchstogs anywhere, though plenty of corpses. No vampires, no ghosts, no tentacled horrors, no trolls or giant wolves. Nothing. No trace of life stirred in the rubbled ruins aboveground. And all that could be looted had been. Even the great statues of Gilgaroth, Ungier, Mogra and Lorg-jilaad had been cracked and toppled by Throgmar’s rage.
The soldiers muttered uneasily. “Why did they abandon their fortress?” one whispered. “It makes no sense,” said another. “They had superior numbers.” “A defensible position.” “They were on their own ground.” “Why did they do it?” “It’s a trap.”
Baleron ordered his men to quiet down, but he too puzzled over it.
He led his men in the exploration of the wrack. He found that many of the lower levels had partially collapsed, but some were still navigable. He led his party deep into the bowels of the mountain, skirting the Labyrinth of Melregor. It was possible that with the disintegration of order in Gulrothrog the Guardians had been loosed.
He both dreaded and eagerly awaited the mines. He dreaded them because he had had nightmares about them every night since leaving them, and he had lived a nightmare in them for three years. But he could not wait to see the looks on the faces of his old pen-mates when he at last freed them, when they breathed fresh air once more.
He was imagining this when he entered the mines.
Here, too, the Borchstogs had evacuated, leaving the slaves in their cells and caged rest areas to rot. It seemed an attempt had been made by the overseers to murder all the slaves before they could be rescued, and there were piles of fresh bodies hastily heaped together. Thankfully the attempt had swiftly been abandoned and most of the slaves were alive behind their bars or in their pits. Baleron and his men freed the slaves one pen at a time, one cavern at a time, though this was not easy, the dungeons and mines honeycombing the mountain as they did. It took hours, and many of the freed slaves were escorted up and out of the mines, but many more stayed to assist him in freeing the others. He dispatched groups to different caverns so that they could more swiftly accomplish the task.
At last he reached the lowest cavern, the one he knew so well, bisected by a great, winding river of fire spanned by arching stone bridges, the recessed pens set into the walls in multiple levels, their thick black bars crusted with age. The air was hot and stifling, and grimy.
Sweat ran from his matted hair down his face and neck, and his men complained. The hot air burned his lungs, and his ribs ached. Veronica, I’m almost there. Hold on just a little while longer.
A great clamor arose when the slaves saw their liberators. They beat on their bars with rocks and bones and whatever else they had at hand. He smiled, staring out at the scene, savoring it. The cheers and pounding of the slaves echoed from wall to wall, through the shimmering air above the red-glowing chasm. He sighed contentedly.
“I have dreamt of this day for too long,” he told his men.
As he was freeing the first pens, a tremor coursed up his feet. Amid the happy clangor he heard some voices cry in consternation. But the mountain often shook, Grudremorq flexing his might, or having an ill dream, the slaves said. Or perhaps the Leviathan had returned to his lair. Baleron thought little of it at first.
He freed one pen, then another. At last he descended a certain stairway and came in sight of his old pen. He was far from it yet, but he could still see the ragged figures gathered at the black iron bars. And in their center stood the familiar figure of a woman. Rags could not conceal her curves, but even from here Baleron could see the ruin of her face, and the gaping pit where her nose should be. Even so, he felt his heart beat faster at the sight.
“I’m coming,” he said, half under his breath. He drew nearer. Nearer. Cheers erupted from the pen. A tear spilled from Veronica’s eye.
The floor tilted violently, and he fell. Cursing, he climbed to his feet, and all those about him climbed to theirs. He and his men were threading their way along the narrow path that overlooked the fiery gorge. A soldier swore profanely. Baleron thought he heard Veronica screaming his name.
The floor still shook, and he had to crouch to balance himself. A strange roar reached him, coming from the gorge, and he edged over to the lip and glanced down into the red river. His knees went weak.
“Dear Omkar, no,” he said. He ran suddenly clammy hands through sweat-drenched hair.
“What is it, my lord?” asked his lieutenant, stepping forward.
The river of fire was rising.
“The god of the mountain wakes,” Baleron said.
* * *
As one, all his men and the slaves they had freed looked down into the pit, and as one they all paled or swore or cried out in dismay. Three fled. It answered many questions, Baleron thought, and the answers were not good.
The river of fire rose, foot by foot. It had flowed half a mile down, but now it was a third and lessening swiftly. Soon it would overspill into the pens, and there was nothing Baleron could do about it. He stared at his old pen, saw Veronica standing there, hands gripping the bars, legs shaking. She was still far away and over an arching stone bridge.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No ...”
His lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder. “We must leave, my lord.”
Baleron threw off his hand and marched toward the pen. Hope filled Veronica’s eyes.
The ground shook violently, and even as he crossed the last few feet separating him and the bridge a tongue of fire licked up from the abyss and consumed the span. Baleron reeled back, the heat blistering his skin. When the flame retreated, the blackened stone crumbled and fell into the gorge.
Desperately, Baleron looked for another way across. Perhaps ...
“My lord!” said his lieutenant. “We must leave.”
Baleron knew he must get his men and the freed slaves up to the surface and warn the hosts. Perhaps there was still time for Elethris and the other Light-wielders to save them. That was his greater duty.
Bitterly, he cried, “Fall back! Quickly, orderly, follow me!”
With a heavy heart, he turned his back on Veronica and directed the group toward the entrance. As soon as they began to move, the slaves all around screamed in fear and anger and betrayal. Above it all, somehow Baleron made out Veronica’s voice, high and frightened and confused. Damn it all. He almost turned back then, but he had to save his men, had to give warning to the rest. The mines shook, and the roar of stone grinding on stone filled the air, which grew steadily hotter.
Baleron and his men passed over the last arching stone bridge, trembling now like everything else. It began to crumble and fall apart, and the last few men fell screaming to their deaths when it gave way.
The survivors fled through the quaking mines and up into Gulrothrog proper, past the broken statues of the Dark Lords, and at last burst into open air.
Too late.
All over the black slopes that lay before the blasted stump of Gulrothrog, all over the field of yesterday’s battle, lava spewed and the ground ripped open in fiery rifts. Above, the great mouth of Oksil belched a plume of black smoke into the sky, and the mountain shook with fury. The streams of lava drew down upon the men and elves, and many burst into flame. Whole legions were consumed. Rockslides thundered down the mountainside, and the ground split open and gaped like jagged mouths of stone. Smoke rose from them in inky tongues. All was chaos. All was defeat.
Elethris and the other Light-wielders called back the thunderclouds they had earlier banished and sent forth a terrible deluge. Baleron saw the Lord of Celievsti drenched in rain, silhouetted by lightning, his features twisted into a living terror, holding his staff and trying to subdue Grudremorq.
He wastes his time, Baleron thought. All is lost. Baleron feared the worst, that the mountain would erupt. This must have been the plan all along. Why else had the Borchstogs disappeared last night instead of attacking when they were most powerful? Why else had the Enemy sent his chief agent in this quarter away from the seat of his command?
This was a trap. It had to be. And who had drawn the map?
He caught sight of a soot-stained swan setting down amongst the remains of the elvish camp. King Felias, wounded, with charred pocks flecking his silver armor, stumbled over and wound his wrist around the dangling rein.
“Lievith!” shouted the swan’s rider in Larenthin. Climb on! Rain ran down his gleaming armor. “Fencra!” Quickly!
The Elf Lord tried to drag himself up the swan’s side but failed; he was too exhausted. Baleron led his band over and helped the king safely up.
“Tratta,” muttered the weary Felias. Thank you. He gestured to the space behind him. “Come with me.”
Baleron shook his head and gestured to his band. “I have others to help.” I must find my family.
Felias nodded. “Gehen at-pierda.” Literally, Take my luck. He inclined his head towards the remains of the Havensrike command tent. “You’ll find your father there.”
The rider started to fly away, but Felias stopped him with a sharp word. “There’s room left,” said the Elf Lord, who looked as though he barely had the strength left to finish the sentence.
Other elves were rushing to them and at Felias’s bidding the rider suffered two more to climb on. Any more and the swan could not fly.
“Fencra! Fencra!” snarled the rider, and they flew north, away from the mountain. Felias nodded once to Baleron and was gone.
If brave Felias was leaving, Baleron thought, then it was time for him to go, as well. But first to safeguard his men, and Rolenya, and his father and brothers.
It was clear to him that the battle was lost: the Enemy had won and the armies of the Crescent needed to retreat in whatever manner possible. Already generals were leading groups down the mountain, probably under the kings’ orders. All about, the beautiful swans were setting down to rescue as many people as they could before the mountain burst. But there were too many people, and too few mounts. Only a few could be saved. He had to ensure that his father the king was among that number; Havensrike would need him in the days to come.
Baleron charged off into the fire-lit, rain-pelted throng, and his band followed loyally. Once the ground split and a deep chasm opened up, right under his feet. A red river of lava flowed at the bottom. He just barely leapt clear in time, but one of men fell into the depths, screaming.
Balero
n had to get them out of here. His band had been whittled away behind him, claimed by Grudremorq. He led them to a group of serathi that had set down nearby. Elves were climbing on it, and he made sure some of his men found seats, as well.
“Come with us,” said one. “We cannot leave you.”
“I am your captain,” Baleron answered, “and I command it.”
With that, the swans rose into the air and winged away. Baleron ordered his remaining men to find their own way out, then turned his attention to finding his family. Limping and smoking, but paradoxically soaked to the skin, he reached the remains of the command tent. He saw neither Rolenya nor his father.
Suddenly, a great stirring of wind battered him and he looked up to see a swan descending directly on him. He leapt back just in time. The rider had not noticed him.
In strongly accented Havensril, the elf shouted, “Be swift! There is little time!”
Baleron saw to his delight that the rider addressed what was left of the royal family, who stood off to the side. Rolenya huddled between the king and Prince Epsel. Having not seen Baleron, the three began to make their way to the swan. Without warning, the ground gave way and Epsel fell. Rolenya and Albrecht screamed, but it was too late. The prince was gone. Baleron saw no sign of his other two brothers, Ridlum and Farleme, and knew they too must have fallen; they would not have abandoned their father. Albrech looked weary and old. Tears stood out in his eyes as he gazed down into the chasm.
The rider gestured them to climb on, and Rolenya tugged her father away from the chasm, toward the mount. Reluctantly the king obliged, and she followed. As she swung up, her eyes found Baleron. They lit up.
“Hurry!” she called, gesturing to him.
Baleron moved toward them, but the ground opened up and nearly swallowed him. He jumped back, fire and smoke licking out. Rolenya saw him and grief touched her face. There was no way for him to reach them.