by Jack Conner
In the air beyond and above the terrible inferno was a great grouping of evil about the tower. Scores if not hundreds of Worms circled it in a dense, scaly swarm, as if basking in the evil of the place. Baleron could not at first divine their purpose.
He flew over hundreds of dark strongholds, most showing only their tops above ground, having roots far below. Most the prince believed to be Borchstog fortresses, but others, he supposed, might be occupied by Men or Dwarves or Giants. Large troops of various races marched hither and thither across the land, doing their Master’s bidding.
None bothered Baleron.
Perhaps this too was expected?
He didn’t care. He just wanted to unleash his rage, afraid that if he kept it too long within himself it would burn him up from the inside, leaving only a smoking husk. It didn’t even bother him that, by treading deep into Oslog, he placed his very soul in danger—for Gilgaroth, it was said, did not feed on flesh alone, but ate souls. It was said that he most enjoyed elvish souls, as in them he could taste the Grace of the Omkar, and consume it. Eating their souls lent him power. Human souls only gave him fuel. Baleron supposed that if his soul became a meal for the Tempter, and he mixed with the other trapped souls in the bastard’s belly—otherwise known as the penultimate summit of the Seven Hells—at least he had a chance at seeing Rolenya again. Together they would be tortured by the Warders of the Second Hell for all eternity.
Such a fate should have horrified him, but it didn’t. At least he would be reunited with her. Yet, for her sake, he mustn’t let that happen.
He would kill Throgmar.
He would kill Rauglir.
He would kill Mogra.
And then he would kill Gilgaroth, end his Doom, and free the millions of souls the Enemy had devoured over the millennia. He would destroy the Second Hell. He would keep on killing until there was no one left to kill.
So he told himself as he drew closer to the Black Tower. It still remained a thick black line on the horizon, stretching from earth to clouds.
He began to see squads of Trolls and other giant beings, not to mention terrible monsters, some loose and some in chains. Huge steaming fissures split the earth, and smoke rose from many.
Watchtowers shot up all over like fungi, from the plains as well as the ridges. He passed over another great mountain range, and that night Throgmar found rest in a cave near one of the peaks. Baleron watched from the next mountain over. On the following day he followed the Worm down from the mountains and out over the flatlands from which the tower arose.
Patrols thickened the air, and Baleron had to fight the urge to turn back, to flee. The cloud of dragons continued to circle the Black Tower and he realized they must serve as some sort of aerial moat—and here he was approaching it! He was just minutes away from entering it. Should he turn back? Would they see him for whom he was and destroy him? There were hundreds of them! Perhaps thousands! How can there be so many? His hands shook.
Throgmar entered the aerial moat and the dragons that screened Krogbur altered their courses to give the Leviathan passage, creating a hole in their scaly, ever-shifting net. Throgmar plowed right through the moat, heedless, as if none of the other dragons existed.
Baleron, a tiny pinprick compared to the mighty Throgmar, followed in the Betrayer’s wake. The Leviathan flew up toward the highest and largest terrace, the one just below the dark layer of clouds that seemed to serve as Oslog’s swirling, sometimes lightning-rent ceiling.
As the hole closed up behind him, Baleron tensed. Hundreds of dragons circled all around him, eyes watching him. His breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat burned his eyes and pasted his shirt to his back beneath his armor. He barely noticed. All his attention was riveted on the winged Worms flying about him. A red one passed overhead, and Baleron was so close he could see the grain in the red-gold armor of its underbelly, see the hairs poking out along its flank, the scars upon his horned head. Then it flashed past him, and another took its place, and one below, and behind, and to the sides, layer upon layer ...
Lunir nearly balked, but Baleron forced him on.
How? he wondered again. In all of the lore he’d read, no more than a few score dragons had ever been represented, and most of those were supposed dead or slumbering. There shouldn’t be so many. Dragons in the sort of numbers he was seeing simply didn’t exist.
And yet ...
He shrugged it away. He doubted the dragons—or the glarumri or the rithlag or any of the other winged creatures—would let him get so close, but none opposed him. He instinctively realized, though, that he shouldn’t try to land on the highest terraces. Those would be reserved for the Wolf’s most important visitors (if the Wolf was present, that is, which for all Baleron knew he might be; he hadn’t been reported on the battlefield in days), and if Baleron was to maintain the fiction that he was a messenger he should choose one of the terraces nearer the tower’s base.
Let them think I’m an important messenger. Let them think I bear news of war. Let them think what they will.
Baleron just didn’t care anymore. He climbed towards the black, lightning-lit clouds, where the roof of the tower impaled the underbelly of the thunderheads and was lost to sight.
The Leviathan landed on the highest terrace, just below the ceiling of clouds, and folded his wings behind his ridged back. Something in his posture looked annoyed, rebellious. Baleron sensed that he did not like being here, which would make sense if the Leviathan had told the truth about disliking Gilgaroth.
You should’ve thought of that before you sided with him, before you betrayed me and destroyed my life, before you took from me everything I had left to love.
Baleron landed on a small terrace somewhat below that highest and much larger one, and slipped off Lunir, who for once had the good sense to stay silent. Baleron was not a little surprised that he’d reached this balcony unmolested and half-suspected that it was a trap—that he was, as he’d feared, simply falling further into his Doom.
Or perhaps it was Rondthril that kept the dragons at bay; they sensed its power and thought its wielder important enough to pass through. Perhaps they thought he was Asguilar.
Baleron peered over the side of the terrace into the terrible inferno that wreathed the lower half of the tower. He was still too high up to make out the shapes that swirled through the fires, but somehow he could feel it ...
“Illistriv,” he muttered. Could it really be the Second Hell? The Second Hell come to earth? How? What could it mean? And what did it mean that the tower rose from the very heart of the inferno?
Baleron shivered.
His terrace was a small one, seemingly meant for glarum-riding messengers, and he made his way toward the dark archway that led inside.
Two Borchstogs stepped out of the shadows.
“Gedda-an ud thorc?” the larger Borchstog snarled in Oslogon. What’s your business?
He obviously didn’t impress them, which he’d more or less expected, as, not trusting Rondthril, he’d left the sword tied to Lunir’s satchels. If he’d worn it, the Borchstogs might have sensed it and shown him more deference, but as it was he’d have to wing it.
“I’ve a message for the Master,” he replied in the same language, hoping he got the accent right. He’d spent too much time around speakers of Oksilon, the tongue of Ungier’s kingdom, which differed in many ways from its mother (father?) tongue.
“Where’s the Seal?” asked the first Borchstog. Ul Ulen ud yshor?
“Yesss,” hissed the other one. “Where isss it?”
Baleron shrugged. “I’m a spy. I can’t afford to carry any sign that I’m an agent of the Master. Surely you understand that.”
“You should’ve had time to go to your drop spot and collect the Seal,” mused the first Borchstog.
Baleron shook his head. “I was being pursued and couldn’t shake ‘em. Didn’t have a moment to spare.”
The larger Borchstog studied him suspiciously. Baleron had donned his helmet so that
they wouldn’t see his face and potentially recognize him as ul Ravast; he prayed that they wouldn’t ask him to remove it.
“Very well,” the Borchstog said. “We’ll see what Master makes of you. You can be no threat to Him in any case.”
“No threat indeed,” agreed the other, grinning. His tusks were sharp and his eyes narrow. Both their skins were a mottled black, and horns rose from their bald skulls. Their bodies were large and heavy, yet they moved with surprising speed.
They motioned Baleron inside the tower and pushed him roughly ahead of them through the high wide tunnels, which were filled with a rich darkness, a gloom that he could only see through after his eyes had time to adjust, but the Borchstogs didn’t give him that time. They shoved him before them so that he tripped and fell, and they had to haul him wobbling to his feet.
When his eyes finally did begin to adjust, he led the way, haltingly. He made several wrong turns, but they corrected him, cursing him and his mother. “Fool human! Blind in the shadows!” The other sneered. “He’sss of the Fallen Race. They have no abilitiesss save those of the flesssh. They breed and die like ratsss.”
“Rats are more gifted than they!”
They laughed. It was difficult to endure being ridiculed by the likes of these two, but that didn’t make their words any less true. It was said that the race of Borchstogs was spawned long ago by Mogra and Gilgaroth, after Gilgaroth decided to produce an army of worshippers and warriors to rival Brunril’s Elves, and each Borchstog carried a remnant (however diluted) of the Dark One’s seed. Mogra had spawned the first ones in a huge egg sac, but afterwards they were self-reproducing. Since there were a great many of them, the power that went into their forging was watered down, unlike with the Elves, who were fewer but stronger in their ability to harness the earth’s energies. Men, on the other hand, were of course fallen from Grace and normally without such arts.
The Borchstogs prodded Baleron up a flight of stairs, where purplish stained-glass windows admitted a wavery light, but it was fractured into ghastly patterns and only reinforced his sense of dread. He felt as if he were treading on unholy ground, as if all he knew of goodness and purity did not exist here, as if he walked in Hell itself. And perhaps he did.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he looked about to see that no other Borchstogs were on patrol this close to the Dark One’s chambers (as surely they were near the top), and saw that none were. Good.
He took a deep breath of the cold, stale air to steady his nerves, then yanked out his sword and wheeled about.
He managed to slice halfway through the large one’s neck before it had a chance to ward off the blow. Dark blood spurted and the Borchstog fell backwards, tumbling down the stairs.
The smaller one, more wiry and spry, darted in and poked at Baleron’s gut with his needle-like blade. He was fast and pierced Baleron’s flesh, but that was all, as Baleron threw himself backwards, lashing his foot up to knock the blade aside. The Borchstog lowered his weapon out of the path of the foot.
“Are you some kind of assssassin?” When Baleron didn’t answer, the Borchstog barked a laugh. “You cannot kill the Massster. Heeee is a god!”
“He’s chosen a form of flesh, and flesh can be destroyed.”
The Borchstog lifted his demonic head, intending to let out a howl that would summon others. Baleron couldn’t allow that to happen. He leapt forwards and slashed at the soldier’s skull. His opponent deflected the blow, but his howl was interrupted before it could begin.
Baleron pursued him down the stairs, not giving him the opportunity to draw a breath, and pressed the attack all the way down.
The Borchstog was a worthy opponent. He defended himself well. Swords flashed and rang, echoing loudly. Baleron hoped the stone of the halls soaked up the sound, but he cringed with every ring.
The Borchstog would have coiled himself at the bottom of the stairs and gone on the offensive, but unfortunately for him he’d forgotten his dead companion. He tripped over the still-warm corpse, falling backwards.
The stone floor knocked his sword from his hand. He tried to scramble over to it. The bloody floor betrayed him and he collapsed again, slipping and cursing in his comrade’s bodily fluids.
Baleron fell on him, sword flashing. The guard let out a strangled cry and his eyes went wide, then sagged limply, dead.
Baleron jerked his sword free and wiped the blade on its clothes to remove the black blood, which smoked, then replaced the sword in its scabbard, hoping he would not need it again.
He rose and peered about. No one was coming.
Beware, Betrayer.
Ascending the flight of stairs, he slipped through the halls, just another shadow in a tower full of them. Were eyes glaring at him from the darkness, their wielders ready to spring on him? Gooseflesh covered his body, yet he did not pause.
He thought about the Borchstog’s accusation, that he’d come here to assassinate the Dark One. Tempting notion, but surely impossible. Perhaps if Rondthril worked ... but he’d left it with Lunir. And in any event it was useless against the dark powers until Ungier died.
Baleron reached the termination of the tunnel when it intersected a large hall. To the left, the hall became a long, long flight of black steps leading up to some lofty chamber, perhaps the very Throne Room of Gilgaroth (what a thought!), and to the right the hall led out onto the highest balcony, the one Throgmar had landed on.
Baleron could feel the wind gusting in and hear its roar. Thunder rolled, and the reflections of lightning danced across the polished black walls and floors.
He arrived just in time to see Gilgaroth himself.
In his humane form, the Dark One was huge, twenty feet or more high, and clad in black armor complete with helm, so that the human could not see the god’s face. Wicked spikes and bladed edges protruded from the suit, and a dark cape fluttered behind. Shadow wreathed him, now swelling so that he was hidden and all that could be seen were his twin eyes of fire shining the darkness, now lowering, revealing his awful splendor.
Gilgaroth strode down the grand staircase with such confidence and power that it stole Baleron’s breath just to watch him. He marveled at a being that could raise such a phenomenal tower with just his will.
Baleron supposed that he must be descending from his Throne Room. Was Throgmar so unwelcome in the halls of the tower that Gilgaroth would rouse himself to come to the dragon? Perhaps the Worm hadn’t lied, and there truly was bad blood between the two.
On the terrace beyond, the Leviathan, ul Mrungona, ruffled his wings uncomfortably and steeled himself.
Baleron, heart beating wildly, nearly too afraid to breathe, stayed his ground. He could not have summoned the strength to take another step if he’d had to. As the Beast passed him in his niche, he trembled. He held his breath as the Dark One’s shadow swept over him, trailing slowly, lingering, as if tasting him in his narrow crevice.
Gilgaroth passed him. Perhaps the Beast saw him and, thinking him a mere messenger or worshipper, ignored him. Or perhaps the terrible being in all his might and cunning had plotted this very scene and knew exactly where Baleron was and what he was up to.
For the first time, the prince started to care whether or not he was caught. Seeing Gilgaroth brought home to him the reality of the situation—woke him up. How’d he gotten here? Just what did he think he was doing? Like the Borchstog had said, he must be mad!
Gilgaroth stepped out onto the terrace, and even his giant frame was dwarfed by the awesome spectacle of Throgmar. The Breaker of the World drew himself up to his full height and, with a long metallic staff, smote the balcony to a resounding boom.
Reluctantly, Throgmar bowed his head. “MY TASK IS DONE, MY LORD FATHER—MY PENANCE COMPLETE. I FIRED THE CITY. I ASSAULTED THE KING. EVEN NOW HALF OF GLORIFEL BURNS. THE ROYAL HOUSE IS NO MORE.”
“I know,” Gilgaroth said. “News travels fast, my son. Welcome to Krogbur, the Black Tower of my vision. Yet it is I, not you, who will decide whether your
labor is complete, whether the fires you bathed Glorifel in have washed away the sin of your disloyalty.”
Throgmar’s voice took on a new tone-weary, defeated. “PLEASE, MY LORD FATHER, RELEASE HER FROM BONDAGE.”
For a long time, the Dark One said nothing. Cold wind lashed the terrace, driving rain before it. His black cape billowed and the wind shrieked through the spikes of his armor and the peaks of his crown, though he stood immobile, fixed, seemingly a part of the tower itself.
At last he said, “I absolve you of your sins.”
“THANK YOU, FATHER.”
“Perhaps now you will join me here.”
Throgmar’s eyes took Krogbur in anew. He tried to look unimpressed, but Baleron could tell he was suitably awed. Nevertheless, he merely snorted. “I DID NOT THINK YOU WOULD SUCCEED IN RAISING YOUR TOWER,” he said. “ELETHRIS WAS A WORTHY ADVERSARY. I SHALL MISS HIM.”
“Traitorous words.”
This was evidently too much for Throgmar. A terrible growl issued from his throat. It rose and rose in volume, until it seemed he would explode, and at last he roared, “YOU ARE A CURSE UPON THIS EARTH!”
Gilgaroth raised a fist before the Leviathan. “I begat you, Worm, and you would do well to remember it.”
Neither dragon nor Dark One spoke for a long moment, and Baleron could feel the tension crackle between them from where he hid.
At last, Gilgaroth looked about at the hundreds of winged dragons circling his tower and at the greater hundreds that hung from its ramparts or lounged on its terraces.
“I built this for you,” he said. “For your kind.”
“MOST ARE NOT MY KIND, NOT TRULY. YOU BUILT THIS PLACE SO THAT YOU COULD BRING THEM OVER FROM THE INFERNO, SO THAT YOU COULD GIVE THEM FORMS OF FLESH. YOU BUILT THIS AS A MONUMENT TO YOURSELF, TO YOUR GREED AND LUST AND MADNESS.”