by Jack Conner
Peering over his shoulder into the fires, he saw at close range a white-hot soul pursued by a long, serpentine dragon-shape, something like the creature in the Labyrinth of Melregor below Gulrothrog—part wolf, part spider, part Worm. He wondered if perhaps the fleeing soul was that of Salthrick. He would be in there somewhere, having died in unholy lands.
The dragons leveled out, gliding just twenty feet or so over the heads of the teeming Borchstogs whose camps sprawled across the plain. The creatures hooted and cheered. Baleron saw a group that had been torturing an Elvish captive stop their games and gaze upward, blood dripping from their mouths.
Some pointed back toward the tower, and a great clamor rose up. Baleron felt a thrill of dread. Reluctantly, he turned.
Saw.
Cold fingers touched his spine.
For—emerging from the very flames of the Second Hell—was none other than the Breaker of the World.
In a form Baleron had never seen him take before, Gilgaroth—it could be no other, such was his awful might and splendor—exploded from the fires that wreathed the Black Tower and shot directly toward Baleron and Rolenya. Rolenya gave a startled cry.
Gilgaroth came as a great black dragon, long and sinewy, with a wolvish head, horned and whiskered, trailing smoke from his terrible maw. His tail cracked like a whip, making Baleron’s eardrums vibrate. Having no wings, Gilgaroth seemed to swim rather than fly through the skies, moving through the air like an eel. His eyes blazed Hell-fire, and he radiated an awesome power, darkness embracing him.
Wonder overcame the Borchstogs, who knelt or cheered.
For his part, Baleron was startled. He had heard that Lorg-jilaad was called the Great Dragon but had not known Gilgaroth could assume the same form—and such an awful one. He wondered if it could have been this form that he’d seen that day in the Black Temple—as he had come to think of the dark place where he had lost his hand. He remembered the flaming eyes and fire-lit maw of Gilgaroth seemingly suspended, bodiless, in the center of that great empty space. Yet perhaps the darkness had concealed the sinewy shape of the dragon and Gilgaroth had not been discorporated after all. Or perhaps he had been in some sort of cocoon stage, growing this new form.
In any event, Gilgaroth drew abreast them, flame licking his lips and smoke trailing behind him like a second tail. Baleron could feel his heat and smell his smoking breath.
Gilgaroth wasted no time on greetings. “Baleron,” he said, “I tire of games. Today We end this.”
Baleron tried to say something, but his mouth was too dry. He felt his hands tremble as they gripped the red Worm’s reins.
Gilgaroth’s eyes crackled. “Submit to me, Baleron, or I will throw Rolenya down . . . to them.”
The teeming Borchstogs below, tens, no, hundreds of thousands of them, cheered the passing of their great lord. Lust and cruelty and malice burned in their eyes. Baleron looked down at them, then to Rolenya. She was deathly pale, and shaking.
“They will not kill her,” added Gilgaroth unnecessarily.
Below, the hordes swarmed to the passing shadow of their Master, fighting each other to be in it. Baleron felt sick, thinking of what they would do with Rolenya.
“Decide now,” Gilgaroth commanded. “My children will use her for days, weeks. They may never kill her.” He added, giving the final nudge, “You are your sister’s last hope.”
It was too much for Baleron. He had tried to be good, tried to be strong for the sake of his kingdom, for the sake of the world. But this was beyond his limits to endure. He would not let her be thrown down to them, like a bone to feral dogs.
He hung his head, and Rolenya gasped, sobbing, too scared of her fate to fight him this time.
“I will serve you,” he told Gilgaroth. “May the Light have mercy on my soul.”
Baleron and Rolenya were taken high into the tower and shown to a lavish suite, which they were told would be their home for however long they stayed at Krogbur. The Borchstogs left them, though a servant could be summoned by ringing a bell, and former brother and sister were alone and in comfort for the first time since those few stolen moments at Gulrothrog.
Baleron wasn’t ready to enjoy such comfort, though, and he suspected that neither was Rolenya. When the Borchstogs left, prince and princess just stood there at the threshold of the suite, staring dully.
“What now?” she whispered.
He wrapped an arm about her and said honestly, “I don’t know.”
Despair clung to him. How could he have given in?
She seemed to see his pain. She pressed herself against him and, surprising him, kissed him on the lips.
Startled, he stared at her, and she drew back.
“Thank you, Baleron. I . . . ” She looked at the floor, ashamed but at the same time clearly not sorry to have avoided her fate. She seemed to want to thank him more but did not think it appropriate. He understood. How can you thank someone for damning the world?
“I know,” he said.
She glanced up. “Don’t let it eat you up, Bal. He breaks everyone. It’s what he does. He’s the Breaker. He makes things just to destroy them. Believe me, I know. I don’t blame you. I . . . I think you were strong. So strong. You held out, and held out. I . . . I couldn’t have done it, if he’d been doing those things to you and I was the one he wanted to bend.”
He swallowed. “Do you hate me, Rol, for letting you die all those times?”
She searched his face. “Hate you? How can you think that?”
“Then do you hate me for failing at last?”
She shook her head. Trembling, she said, “No, Bal. I . . . I love you.” Suddenly she looked away.
Many torches, urns and fireplaces lit the rooms. It was a lavish suite, huge and magical. She moved off into it, and he followed.
The beautifully wrought terrace did not look outward, or inward for that matter. Instead, the view was of some majestic snow-capped mountains that did not exist in Oslog, if at all. Their slopes were green and the skies blue, and from somewhere birds could be heard chirping.
“What is this place?” he asked. “Is it all an illusion?”
“It’s all part of Illistriv, I think. That’s what this place is, the whole tower.”
“But how?”
“Might as well ask me how the stars are born. All I know is that in this one place, he’s brought his own realty to ours. And when he’s stronger he’ll spread the fires of the Inferno. Everything that falls within that ring will become part of Illistriv. That’s what he wants, for the whole world to be . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Then if I help him, I truly will be ul Ravast.”
She took his hand and led him from the balcony.
Inside the suite ran several babbling brooks that came through the walls, and they channeled here and there into little pools that, though steaming, were not too hot to bathe in. Baleron and Rolenya explored the suite with interest, and its marvels took his mind off his shame and confusion for a time. The rooms were surprisingly warm, covered in rugs of animal fur that masked the cold black floors and walls. The couches and chairs, were upholstered in hides and furs, as was the bed.
There was only one bed.
Brother and sister stopped when they came to it. Butterflies tickled his belly.
“You take it,” he said at last, speaking around the lump in his throat.
She looked at him levelly. “No.”
“No, truly,” he said, trying to sound casual. “The floors are more than warm enough for me. Let’s catch us a rest, shall we? I’m tired. I don’t know if I can sleep, but I’m tired. Then it’s baths and breakfast.”
“Baleron,” she whispered.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t make me say it,” she said.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Bal—”
He stopped her with a kiss. He wrapped her in his arms, and she melted against him. It seemed as if the world dissolved, simply folding away, an
d there was only the two of them. Her lips were hot and moist.
Suddenly, she made a frustrated sound and pushed away. Shaking her head, she stumbled back. “No, no—”
“What?”
She covered her face with her hands. “No, it’s not—”
“Not right?”
She nodded miserably.
Slowly, he moved towards her. “I’ve loved you my whole life, Rolly. I never knew I wanted you like I do, but, Omkar help me, I do. I really, truly do. I love you in every way I can. After all I’ve been through, all I’ve seen, and done, and survived, I won’t feel bad about this. If this is all the happiness life can afford me, then I will revel in it. I won’t have you feeling ill about it. About us. We’re right together, Rolenya. We’re very, very right.”
He took her hands away from her face. Teary-eyed, she stared up at him. Her lips trembled.
“Say you love me,” he said.
“I love you.” Her voice quavered.
“Say you want me.”
“I want you. Omkar help me, Bal, I never thought about you like this before now, but I do.”
Suddenly, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. She tasted sweet and pure, and he wanted more. He kissed her back, heatedly, and she responded in kind.
They kissed and touched each other, whispering fervent things in each other’s ear, and gradually they helped each other to disrobe, blushing shyly at each other’s nakedness. He had never felt more awkward with a girl before, and never more alive. Her body, new-formed, was much like her old one, and it was beautiful and erotic and lush.
They moved to the bed and slipped under its warm furs, caressing each other more boldly, and drowned in each other’s touch.
Afterwards, they bathed. He luxuriated in the feel of the hot water against his skin.
Soap had been laid beside the pools, and she said, “Allow me” and began soaping off his grimy, whip-scarred back, sitting behind him in the water, her long legs about him. Gingerly, she cleaned him, avoiding the sensitive areas.
“Look what they’ve done to you,” she whispered. “May the Light protect you.”
Later, she said, “Stand.”
“What?”
“I said, stand.”
Self-consciously, he obeyed.
“Turn around,” she instructed, and, having to resist the urge to cover himself, he turned. His eyes found her. Her breasts, soapy and wet, were only half-concealed by the water.
He felt hot, and saw her own cheeks redden. She was all too aware of his arousal, yet she didn’t skirt it when she helped him wash.
They took their time soaping each other up and rinsing each other off, and as he touched her, and she touched him, his feelings solidified. Deepened. It began to feel real, their being together, and the taint of Rauglir faded.
Soon she took his hand and led him toward the bed again. He stopped, but she continued to it without him, turning when she reached it. Her towel slipped from one delicate white shoulder, revealing the top of one smooth, round breast.
She stretched out her hand to him, beckoning.
For a moment, he hesitated. The world might end, he thought. Because of our love, the world might end.
But then all he could think of was her, her red lips, her round breasts, and he stepped forward.
A human servant knocked at the door and asked if they were hungry. Baleron was famished and ate with enthusiasm when breakfast came. It was comprised of eggs and toast and sausage and bacon, with sides of fruit and juice, just like he might have eaten back home; likely Gilgaroth’s spies had gathered the information necessary to make it. Just the same, it was the best meal he’d had in a long, long while.
Afterward, they lounged on the terrace and watched the snow-capped mountains against the clear blue sky. They didn’t speak much, just held each other close. She smelled clean and fresh and new.
After lunch, they made love again, then they lay in each other’s arms and spoke of sweet things. They made no plans for the future, for what could the future hold for the likes of them?
About mid-afternoon, a Borchstog necromancer, dressed in exotic robes, burst through the doors of the suite and thumped his sorcerous staff on the floor.
“I am High Priest Ustagrot!” the Borchstog said. “You are invited for an audience with Master. Come!”
They dressed and followed him from the suite, and when he led them to a lift operated by sorcery, they boarded it, Baleron’s stomach lurching as it rose. When it stopped, the necromancer stepped off, and Baleron and Rolenya followed, casting wary gazes about them. Ustagrot led them onwards, up huge flights of stairs, and Baleron, tired already by his and Rolenya’s exertions, breathed heavily, and so did she. Before long, they were leaning on each other for support.
“What could he want with us?” she panted.
“I don’t know,” he responded. “And I don’t want to.”
The necromancer led them to the grand staircase that led from the highest terrace—where Gilgaroth had met Throgmar—up, presumably, to the Dark One’s Throne Room. Then, to Baleron’s consternation, Ustagrot began ascending these stairs. Reluctantly, they followed, mounting the high black steps one by one. The stairs seemed endless, but finally Ustagrot marched up the last one, and so did they
“We go to the Throne Room,” the necromancer said, as if they could not have figured this out.
Baleron saw the massive doors that framed the portal and felt dread creep over his soul. Beyond those doors lies Hell. He knew it. He could feel it in the air, feel it in his bones. Beside him, Rolenya began to shudder. A steady red light, emanating from within the Throne Room, poured out between the great doors and washed the black stairs with a fiery glow.
“Be strong,” Baleron told Rolenya, seeing her fright. “The worst is past.”
She nodded, and he hoped his words were true. He could not help but think that soon he would learn the price for her salvation. What would Gilgaroth have him do?
They passed through the massive, obscenely engraved doors, and Baleron gaped at what lay beyond. Through them lay another world.
Through them lay Hell.
Lit by towering bonfires stretched a massive stone cavern so tall its upper reaches were hidden in shadow and its walls were so far apart they loomed in the distance like mountains. The bonfires threw a red light upon the cave walls and floor and colored everything the color of human blood. The higher reaches were dark blood, and the highest reaches black. Shadows leapt and danced in sinister seduction. The cavern was so large it could have contained a city, and it did. Twisting spires and profane domes dotted the floor between the towering stalagmites, some of which had been carved into terrifying forms that loomed overhead, while others had been carved into palaces and temples and other more recognizable buildings. Demons great and small lurched and crept and stomped all about, and wraiths like living shadows sped here and there through the infernal city on mysterious errands of their own.
Two Colossi stood in the wings, mountainous creatures a thousand feet high, their features somewhere between Man and Borchstog and Spider. They had four muscular arms each, and a long, triple-pronged tail. Baleron had never believed in them before: they’d been mythical monsters to him, said to help shape Gilgaroth’s mountains, and when they were angry, they were said to pound the earth, breaking it apart and reshaping it.
On the far side, rearing over the city of the damned, thrust a jagged peak, and from the top of this hill sprouted a palace of twisting, interlocked towers and erotic mounds. The fires colored it red, though Baleron thought it might truly be made of red stone.
“That is our destination,” Ustagrot said, gesturing toward the distant palace.
“Dear gods,” breathed Rolenya, squeezing Baleron’s arm nervously.
“Which ones?” he asked.
Ustagrot led them into the infernal city and to either side of them rose bizarre buildings, while strange smells, some pleasant, some not, drifted through the air. Screams of anguish and
screams of ecstasy chased each other through the air. In the heat, sweat beaded Baleron’s skin. Strange demons, some sinister, some alluring, strode through the boulevards or flew through the air, or simply drifted. A beautiful woman with hooves for feet and with dark-feathered wings jutting from her back shot him a lascivious smile. At an intersection blazed a bonfire of living corpses and about it swarmed a host of wraiths, screaming and wailing. A corpulent demon with nine heads of various sorts stood watching the spectacle, laughing.
“Just where are we, exactly?” Baleron said. “Are we . . . in him? In Gilgaroth?”
“Yes,” said Rolenya. “This place, it’s all part of him. Illistriv is within him, and if we’re in Illistriv . . .”
“But how can we be in him if we’re going to meet him? Then he would be inside himself!”
Ustagrot wheeled on them. “Infidels!” he hissed. “You know nothing!”
“How can your Savior be an infidel?”
“Do not find your own ignorance so amusing, Fallen One. You know nothing of the nature of the world, of how the Omkar created it, and of how my Master could create another world that could merge with this one. So hide your shameful ignorance and still your tongue!”
He resumed the march. They entered a wide, open courtyard dominated by a huge black fountain of a thirteen-headed dragon; out of each mouth poured what Baleron hoped was red water that trickled down their long throats and bubbled in the gruesome pool. The heads of the dragon were wound about each other most lewdly.
A wraith stopped before their path, and Ustagrot bowed to it.
“We have come to see Master,” he said.
The wraith bowed back and seemed to hiss, “We have been expecting you. Let us aid your journey.”
It gestured, and thunder shook the chamber. Startled, Baleron looked to the right as a Colossus stepped forwards. Bending down over the towers of the city, the giant creature stretched out a massive grayish hand, holding it just above the courtyard floor. Baleron reeled; the hand was large enough to hold Throgmar!