by Jack Conner
Baleron swore. A general had led a battalion of troops beyond the wall to fight the Borchstogs openly, and, seeing Gilgaroth himself, the general led his men toward the Omkaroggen, apparently meaning to kill him.
“What courage!” Kenbrig said.
“What idiocy!” snarled Albrech. “The fool’s wasting my men!”
Gilgaroth moved towards the advancing men, his fiery eyes ablaze through the veil of shadow, and then, too suddenly, he cast aside the veil. All beheld the terrible figure of the Great Wolf, and like a wolf he was in many aspects, but he was a thing of nightmare, the Architect and Lord of the Second Hell, and his form reflected his nature. Gilgaroth towered over his thralls, and yet he was of normal size once more, or a little larger, perhaps fifteen feet at the shoulder, not the giant he’d become after swallowing Celievsti’s essence.
Where did that energy go? Baleron wondered. What did he do with all that power?
Gilgaroth’s long jaws thrust forward and snapped a Havensrike soldier up, biting him in two, then belched flame into the faces of some who had come to attack his flank. His huge head whipped out again and picked up another victim, this time the general himself, and chewed the screaming, thrashing man, before swallowing him, soul and all. Flame gouted from between the long sharp teeth as the general disappeared.
“Damn him!” said Albrech, and Baleron knew he didn’t mean Gilgaroth.
Surprisingly, the Dark One did not seem to have come as a leader of the army, for he commanded no host. It did not even seem that the Beast had come to inspire his minions with his presence, as he did not call to them or spur them on in any way. Rather it seemed that he’d come simply to kill, to taste the blood and flesh of Men upon his tongue and the feel of their bones snapping between his jaws.
Here was a god participating in a war fought on his behalf, and he was wallowing joyfully in the slaughter. It was awesome. Baleron shuddered to watch him. Many arrows, some aflame, some poisoned with Light, arced through the air and struck at the Beast, but all burst into flame before reaching him.
Gilgaroth sent down lightning bolts upon the Walls. He released wrathful spirits from the Second Hell. Visible as shadow-like wraiths, or wisps of smoke, red or black or green, they assailed the Men on the Walls, and Logran and his sorcerers spent much of their energy driving the wraiths away.
Sometimes when Baleron looked at the Enemy, he saw Gilgaroth as a giant figure, as tall as a mountain, as high as the clouds, dark and swollen with awesome power. But then he would simply be the Great Wolf, menacing and strong, certainly, but flesh, and flesh on a relatable scale. There was more than one reality at work here, Baleron understood; there was Gilgaroth the god and Gilgaroth the material being; what Baleron could see of him was only the smallest part of him. The rest didn’t exist on this plane, if that was the way to think of it.
At one point Gilgaroth lifted his long, hairy snout and howled at the black sky above, wraiths swarming about him, living shadow throbbing, and Baleron shuddered all the way down to his toes. A heavy weight seemed to come over him, clouding his mind. The black tide kept coming. Mustering his strength, Baleron returned to the fight.
One of his brothers, he thought it was Larik, shouted, “Will it never end? When will they stop?”
About two hundred paces to Baleron’s right, an armored gaurock rammed the wall. The sorcerer assigned to that section either was too weak or had been slain. The monster broke through. Instantly, the gathered knights and townspeople within the wall slew it, by blade and by bolt, but even before its death throes ended a tide of Borchstogs riding murmeksa, the tusked, hog-like creatures, charged in through the gap.
Havensril sorcerers converged on the spot, and the Enemy’s necromancers greeted them. The ground split, lightning flashed, and combatants burst into flame as the mages warred.
Baleron had to turn his attention back to the Borchstogs streaming up the ladders. He only hoped the sorcerers, knights and townspeople would be enough to repel those coming through the breach. If they failed, the war would be lost right then.
He chopped down on the Borchstog at the top of the ladder, but the darkspawn raised an armored forearm and deflected the blow. It whipped its arm around and actually seized Baleron’s wrist.
Baleron cried out in shock as the Borchstog jerked him towards the spikes protruding from its helmet.
The Borchstog’s red eyes widened then, and he hurled the prince back.
“Ul Ravast!” the Borchstog shouted. “Roschk ul Ravast!”
A Havensrike archer shot an arrow though its eye. The Borchstog tumbled away. Baleron lay there near the parapet gasping for a moment. A mistake. The next Borchstog was upon him, over the wall.
He swiped its legs out from under it. It collapsed to the walkway beside him. He yanked out a dagger and plunged it into the Borchstog’s throat. It squirmed and thrashed. Black blood ran everywhere, burning his hand, and he jerked the dagger free. Kicked the Borchstog over the side into ranks of men below.
While he had a moment, Baleron sought out the Beast. There Gilgaroth was, not a hundred yards away, standing still, smoke from his mouth wreathing his head. Borchstogs and other creatures streamed around him, as if he were a rock in a raging river. His flaming eyes fixed on Baleron, or so it seemed through the rain and smoke.
The Beast moved.
Cutting a swath through his advancing troops, Gilgaroth strode almost casually over to the portion of the wall on which princes and king stood. The Borchstogs gave him room, for the moment stopping their assault on this section. Baleron caught his breath and rested his aching arms, staring down at the great steaming blood-drenched god. Awe fell on him.
“Dear gods!” whispered Rilurn. “Protect us.”
Logran had summoned several other sorcerers to him, and now the seven mages flanked the king. Albrech glared down at the Wolf, and the Wolf glared up at him. All about, the battle continued. In this one spot existed a bubble of calm. Rain sheeted down, plinking off armor and mixing with the blood that slicked the surface of the ramparts.
“Begone, devil!” shouted Albrech.
“Surrender,” said the Wolf in his harsh, blackened voice. If words could sound burned, fire-licked, his did. “You cannot win, mortal king. Your city WILL fall. Surrender ... and live. You and your sons shall still be the lords of the city, but I shall be your Overlord. Surrender.”
“Never!” cried Albrech.
“You are Fallen. I can raise you up. You no longer have the gifts of the Elves. You have not those powers. Nor do you have purpose, direction, reason to be. I can give you all of those things. Power. Purpose. Simply serve Me. Live. Forever. Wrap yourself in the gifts of Shadow. Do not linger in the realm BETWEEN Light and Darkness. CHOOSE a side. The winning side. Or ... oblivion.”
Albrech glared. “True, we may be cast out of the Light, but you are the very Dark itself!” His face was contorted in rage and hate, but his voice was remarkably steady. “We are not that Fallen! Begone!”
“LOOK INTO MY EYES.”
Gilgaroth’s gaze smoldered.
“No!” shouted Baleron. He raised his sword like a javelin and hurled it down at the Wolf. The weapon burst into flames and dissolved halfway to its target, yet it did what Baleron had wanted.
Gilgaroth switched his gaze to him.
“Baleron,” said the Breaker of the World.
“Leave my father alone!”
The Great Wolf pulled back its lips, revealing sharp teeth in a ghastly smile. “I have not forgotten you, My Spider.”
“I am not your spider. I will never be your spider.”
“Look about you. See the shape of your Web.”
“Enough!” shouted Logran. While the Wolf had been distracted, he and his sorcerers had been building their strength and now all their seven staffs glowed with bright white light. “Begone, Shadow, or feel the pain of the Grace that was denied you!”
Gilgaroth growled.
Logran went on: “I have a weapon from the Elves that w
ill give even you pause. It is what prevents your glarumri from attacking.”
The Wolf narrowed his eyes. “I know.”
“Now!” said Logran, and the sorcerers leveled their staffs at Gilgaroth. Seven beams of light shot out from the seven staffs and lanced into the Wolf’s chest. Gilgaroth howled in pain.
Baleron marveled as Logran led his sorcerers in the attack. Baleron knew that Logran must be drawing upon the strength of Elethris’s gift; there was no other way a mere mortal could combat the Wolf.
Gilgaroth, baring his teeth, held his ground.
The beams of light grew brighter and brighter as they bore into his chest and head. Through the darkness that veiled him it was difficult to tell if this caused any damage, yet it must have, as Gilgaroth grew wrathful. He belched flame, and fire licked the walls. Logran and his sorcerers strove to ignore it.
Smoking, burning, the Wolf deepened the darkness that he’d drawn about him, and now it was as if he were shadow incarnate, all save his burning eyes, which flamed from the blackness. From the living shadow came a rough snarl: “You will regret this, little king.”
Gilgaroth withdrew. A sea of Borchstogs and Trolls swarmed the place where he’d been. Logran and his sorcerers relaxed their beams of light. As one, they all slumped back, breathing heavily, plainly exhausted.
“Now to stop the fire,” Logran muttered. But he didn’t move to dampen the flames just yet. He looked winded. Sweat ran off his face in sheets, and his hands trembled.
Baleron glanced at his father and was surprised to see Albrech casting a wary eye on him. The prince said nothing, but he knew what his father must be thinking.
There was no time for conversation. The Borchstogs rushed up the ladders, braving the flames their Master had started along the wall, and continued the attack. From a fallen soldier, Baleron procured a sword and met the new tide.
My web! he thought bitterly. How can I cast off this godsdamned Doom? Vilana said it would stay with me till Gilgaroth died. But killing Gilgaroth is above me, so how?
Thunder shook the wall, and fires scorched his hands and heated his armor so that he felt like he was being cooked. Thankfully, rain infiltrated the cracks and soaked him. His sword slashed and clanged, rose and fell. His arm ached in weariness.
It seemed the night would never end.
The battle raged until the mound of dead bodies about the wall became an impediment to the Borchstogs’ ladders and siege towers, but there was another reason the fighting came to a close, as well.
A host of Havensrike soldiers had gathered to the southeast. These were men from the border fortresses to either side of Ungier’s entry point. His army had destroyed two forts coming through the border, but there were many more. Sorcerers from the doomed forts had contacted sorcerers in the others, and word had gone out from one stronghold to another. Their commanders had united under General Brahal, who led the largest fortress, and he had them mass their forces at Mount Heornid in the wake of Ungier’s army.
With General Brahal leading the charge, the men struck at the back of the vampire’s host. Taking the Borchstogs by surprise, they cut a swath through the demon ranks, breaking Ungier’s battle lines and dividing his forces. At last the bordermen neared the South Gate, which the king ordered opened, and they reached safety.
Ungier, realizing his momentum was broken, recalled his troops and encircled the city, the Borchstogs pitching tents and making camp. Glorifel, like Clevaris, was now well and truly under siege.
Baleron stood with his father staring out at the endless campfires of the enemy, countless pinpricks of light in the dark. The stench of the bonfires stung his nose, and he was loath to breathe it in; the demons often fueled their fires with the bodies of the dead, friend and foe alike. The night air blew chill. Baleron, his brothers, their father, General Kavradnum and Logran Belefard all stood staring out at the enemy camp, and for a long time no one spoke.
Finally, Larik said, “What did he mean?”
Albrech turned his head. “Who?”
“Him.” His voice hushed. “Gilgaroth.” He looked up as if to reassure himself with the sight of the moon, but Illiana’s Lamp could not be seen. “What did he mean about Baleron and a web?”
“Excellent question,” Rilurn said. “Father?”
Albrech grunted. He obviously saw Rilurn’s ploy, but he seemed to feel the question deserved to be addressed. “Sorcerer—explain.”
“Gilgaroth thinks Baleron is his prophesied Champion,” Logran answered. “Or at least he wants us to think so, and he wants his troops to think so. Elethris supposed it to be a trick of some sort.”
Rilurn cast a sharp look at Baleron. “To what end?”
Baleron straightened. He’d hoped to avoid this conversation.
Logran responded by saying, “To demoralize us and to inflate the morale of his own forces. Now that he’s declared his Champion, his Deliverer, the Borchstogs believe the time of their Master’s victory has come. Their spirits are bolstered. And it does seem to have worked. The darkspawn tonight fought with unusual enthusiasm, even for them.”
Larik asked, “But why would they believe Baleron’s his Champion?”
“Apparently he placed a curse, a Doom, on the good prince—a curse to fulfill the prophecy.”
“What if Baleron were to fall in battle?”
“I can’t say. Perhaps the curse protects him, or perhaps Gilgaroth would say his spirit lived on to fulfill the prophecy.”
“Tell us of the prophecy,” Rilurn said.
While they were talking, Baleron glanced at his father. Albrech scowled at him coldly, warily, listening to Logran’s words, trying to make up his mind. He’d surely heard it all before, but he was listening with fresh ears. Baleron found himself holding his breath.
“The one who will usher in the End Times,” the Archmage was saying. “The one that will help Gilgaroth set the World aflame, cleanse it of his enemies and prepare it for the coming of Lorg-jilaad and the Second War of the Omkar, a War that if started by Gilgaroth and his father can only result in their victory, because they will only initiate it when they are ready.” Logran said all this as though reciting from a book, and perhaps he was. Yet his eyes as they looked on Baleron were warm. He added, “Complete rubbish, of course—the prophecy, I mean. The threat of the End Times, I’m afraid, is all too real. But Elethris knew as I do that Baleron is no danger.”
Baleron took a deep breath. Thank you, Logran.
“You’re certain of this?” asked Albrech, his hard gaze still on his youngest son.
“Quite sure,” said Logran. “Though I’m still puzzled by why he chose Baleron to name his Champion. Perhaps because his plan requires one who has reason to come into contact with the nobility of both Havensrike and Glorifel; that’s the only way I can reason it—but Baleron is certainly not ul Ravast. I do know that much.”
“Queen Vilana seemed to disagree,” Albrech said with deceptive mildness. “She sensed his curse.”
“She sensed his curse, yes. But did she say that he was ul Ravast? Il Enundian? Of course not. I discussed it with Elethris after Baleron first came to us, and he said that the power of the Light rendered the curse harmless, and he gave Baleron a Light-fused charm to make it so. Baleron no longer has the charm, or I would feel it, but here in my possession I have an even more powerful artifact of the Light.” He patted his chest where the Flower would be. “Thus Baleron’s curse is of no moment.”
Albrech’s gaze roamed searchingly over Baleron’s face, as if scrutinizing it for the slightest hint of treachery.
Baleron waited for his father’s judgment. They all did. The wind hissed and moaned, and dark clouds roiled above. Lightning flickered. Thunder rolled. In the distance, Baleron heard Borchstogs chanting some black rite to their Master.
Baleron could wait no longer.
“I will leave,” he said suddenly.
Albrech glared at him. “What?”
“I will leave and go ... to them.” He gest
ured to the Borchstogs. “I will leave you and cause you no further trouble.”
The king grunted. “Send one of my sons to the Enemy? I think not.”
“They’d probably welcome him,” Rilurn said.
They probably would, thought Baleron. “It is the only way to make you safe,” he said.
“Gilgaroth would use you, Baleron,” Logran said. “His prophecy of ul Ravast states that the Deliverer will lead his armies to victory over the forces of Light. If you go to him, he’ll only find a way to get control of your mind, or have a demon possess you, and soon you’ll replace Ungier as his general.” He shook his head. “No, do not fall into that trap. If you go to him ... he will make you ul Ravast.”
“There,” said Albrech. “That is an end to it.”
Slowly, Baleron nodded. Logran was probably right. “So what shall be done about me? I cannot stay here.”
“You can,” Albrech countered. “You will. You’re an able swordsman, and that we need.” He glared again at the Borchstogs’ endless bonfires. “We need all the swords we can get.”
Silence fell over the group. Acrid smoke blew on the wind.
Baleron was glad for the talk—glad that his Doom was known, admitted, and dismissed. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that its purpose was not yet fulfilled, could not help but feel that his Doom was stronger than Logran realized. He stared out into the darkness, out on the enemy hosts. In the distance hundreds of Borchstogs danced about a huge pyre that threw sparks high into the night, while necromancers chanted and strange lights wheeled and spun about the flame. A large wolvish shape sat nearby in a place of honor, eyes aglow.
The ranks of the Enemy were neverending, Baleron thought. There was no way the men of Glorifel could overcome them. It was hopeless. And yet, Queen Vilana had said he, Baleron, could decide the issue, whether the forces of Light or Dark would prevail.
Somewhere in the night, the Great Wolf howled, and the shadows grew long and dark.