by Jack Conner
“What did you mean, I’m the Heir?”
Logran’s good humor fled. “Prince Jered was cut down this morning upon the walls of Clevaris. He was battling a powerful Grudremorqen, one of Grudremorq’s oldest and most powerful sons.”
Baleron let out a breath. After he’d found out that he and Jered suffered a like affliction, their Dooms, he’d often wondered what it might be like to consult with his brother—to compare notes, as it were. Now he’d never get that chance.
“And Kenbrig?”
“Also fallen. Killed shortly after your departure by . . . that thing.”
“Rauglir.”
“Yes. I had the satisfaction of destroying him myself, at least.”
Baleron gritted his teeth. Rauglir mocked his every move. Baleron didn’t know the nature of his left hand, not exactly, but he had suspicions.
“What ails you?” the Archmage asked, perhaps seeing his expression.
“Rauglir . . .” Baleron stared at his scarred left hand and tried to waggle his fingers. Almost to his surprise, they waggled.
“Rauglir is loose,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“You should’ve trapped him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you felt a taint in me.” Baleron flexed and clenched his left hand. “I think he’s inside me, Logran. I think he’s the one that stabbed you.”
“Are you sure it was not your Doom?”
“I’m sure. Otherwise why would Gilgaroth have had me chop off my hand, then reattach it? See the scars if you don’t believe me.”
Logran looked noncommittal.
Baleron’s mind returned to Kenbrig. Baleron and his brother had never been particularly close, but he would miss him.
A more pressing issue faced him, though: what did it mean that Jered had been slain? Did the Dark One betray him after he’d fulfilled his Doom? Would Gilgaroth do the same to Baleron? But surely Jered’s purpose had not been fulfilled, or Logran would have told him that news first.
“The Queen, the City,” he said, just to make sure. “How do they fare?”
“Clevaris stands, but barely. Grudremorq has fouled the River and corrupted the Larenthellan; he sends his sons into the moat and their heat boils it away. It kills them, but they weaken it, and he’s dammed up the Larenth upstream. The elves would’ve run out of water by now, but Queen Vilana stopped the flow in time, and since then a dam has been constructed at the northern end of the City, and they have water enough to last . . . for a time. But Larenthellan, the moat that protects Clevaris—it no longer serves as a barrier, and the Fire God can now lead his troops across it to assault the walls of the City directly. Meanwhile the Whiteworms and Swans protect the City from the air, but their numbers dwindle, and the Darkworms and glarumri seem endless—although where these Worms come from I can’t imagine. There should not be so many . . . ”
Then Jered had not accomplished his task. The mystery of his death deepened, and Baleron was determined to find out the why of it. After all, the spawn of Oslog knew not to slay Baleron, so why didn’t they know to spare Jered? Was it because Baleron was ul Ravast and Jered simply a pawn?
“Several of Vilana’s highest and most powerful elves have been murdered,” Logran continued. “Right in the Palace, too. There’s a traitor amok, and no one has any idea who.”
A sudden headache bloomed fiercely, yet the prince managed to say, “I don’t think he’ll kill anyone else,” before the pain overwhelmed him and he fell back, gasping.
Logran knelt over him and placed a hand on Baleron’s head. The Archmage concentrated, closing his eyes, and quickly Baleron began to feel better, but Logran gasped and hastily removed his hand. He staggered back, as though afraid of Baleron.
“What—?” asked Baleron.
Logran let out a shuddering breath. “The Wolf’s touch,” he murmured. “I felt it upon you . . .”
Baleron maintained eye contact. Slowly, steadily, he said, “I don’t serve him, Logran. I don’t. It’s Rauglir, he’s in me. It sounds absurd, but it must be.”
“You’re tainted . . .”
“He’s the taint. Don’t you see? Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my own hand right now. Then you’ll trust me, and I’ll be free . . . of Rauglir, at least. My Doom will still—”
“I doubt anyone’s going to give you a sword again, Baleron, not for a long, long time.”
“But you believe me, right? I’m. Not. Evil.”
Logran regarded him sadly. “I don’t know what you are, Baleron.” He gathered himself together and stared at the chained prince with sad brown eyes. “Your father has instructed me to determine your status, whether good, evil, or other. Tell me truly, Baleron. Are you an agent of the Wolf?”
Baleron paused, lowered his eyes. “Almost, Logran. Almost. Even now I’m not sure what the right thing to do is, if there is a right thing. But no, I’m not working with the Enemy, though later I might wish I had. Just by cooperating with you, I’m . . . well, you would not believe me if I told you, but trust me, it will have terrible consequences on someone I love.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s me, Logran. You’ve known me all my life. You know what I would or wouldn’t do. You must trust me.”
“You stabbed me in the back.” Logran breathed heavily. After some moments to calm himself down, he said, “I clearly can’t let you walk around freely, can I? Your father has given me custody of you. He says that since it was my life you tried to steal, you are mine now.”
“Your sorcerers have already tested me.”
“Tested and failed, but there are further tests we can do . . . though they won’t, I fear, be pleasant.” Logran sighed. “I need to rest. We’ll see each other again soon. Try not to kill anyone in the meantime.”
“No, wait! What of Rondthril? Why do you need it? I must know.”
Logran paused, seemed to steel his resolve, then disappeared out the door. It shut with a harsh clang, and Baleron was left alone once more.
Sinking back to the floor, he eyed his left hand. Could it really be Rauglir? Once again, he flexed and clenched it, and it obeyed him . . . but for how long?
“You don’t fool me,” he told it.
Suddenly he heard dark, familiar laughter inside him, and his eyes widened.
“So it’s true! You’re really here. Gods!”
More laughter.
Something cold crawled up Baleron’s spine, like little spiders made of ice. My body is not my own. Without warning, a feeling of utter horror overwhelmed him, and he shook in a sudden convulsion, lifted his head and screamed. His voice echoed off the walls of the crypt, and the guards looked nervously in at him, but they did not enter. Hastily they slammed and bolted the door.
For the rest of the morning Baleron languished in the catacombs, contemplating his hand, before finally he received his second and last visitor.
King Grothgar entered the crypt and stared down at him, still chained to the floor. Baleron, who had been brooding unproductively, trying to mentally grapple with the alien spirit inside him, glanced up with astonishment as the door flew open and his father marched in accompanied by half a dozen guards, two of which held crossbows aimed at his breast.
For a long moment, father and son just stared at each other. Baleron could feel the disappointment radiating off the king like heat off a hot road.
“Your brother Jered is dead,” Albrech said abruptly.
“Logran told me.”
“Did you also know that Kenbrig had died, murdered by the same fiend that took your mother and possessed your sister—the same fiend that you rescued from the depths of Gulrothrog and led amongst us—not once but twice?”
The prince’s head hung a bit. “I know.”
“You,” said Albrech in disgust, “are now the Heir.”
Baleron had heard it before from the sorcerer, but he’d been so focused on the mystery of his hand that he had not had time to think m
uch on it.
“Have you formally announced it?” he asked.
“No,” said Albrech. “I haven’t wanted to. I thought you dead, or worse. It turns out to be the latter. When I heard you were back, I wanted to see if you demonstrated any characteristics that would lend you to the job, and you can see the result of that. I suppose I’ll have to circumvent tradition and appoint one of your sisters in your place; there is one or two that seem competent enough, though the lot are involved in typical womanish schemes and silliness.”
“Appoint one of them, then. I’m clearly not fit for the job.”
“You’re a creature of the Dark One!”
“You said yourself that you know it’s me.”
“Yes, and you’ve given yourself to him. You’re weak, selfish, base.” The king began pacing like a caged lion. Suddenly he stopped and stared at his son acutely. “What were you gibbering about your sister the other day?”
“Would you believe me if I told you?”
Again the king stared at him sharply, appraisingly. “No,” he grunted at last. “Probably not.” He cleared his throat. “You missed her funeral, by the way. It was a small affair—one among many. We didn’t have the time to stage anything more elaborate, and it would’ve seemed crass to do so what with all the others. So many funerals, Baleron. So much death and destruction, and here we are in the End Days when we will see even more. Soon Glorifel will fall. I should not say it, but of that I have no doubt. Tell me, Baleron, how does one have a funeral for a city?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, Father. Take your people north. Regroup with our allies. Build up your strength, then strike and strike hard. It’s the only way you’re going to win. Trust me. I know what you face.”
“And I know that every word that comes out of your mouth is suspect. Either you’re a willing agent or, as Logran tells me, you’re tainted, whatever that means—but either way I can’t afford to trust you. What I can do, however, is acknowledge you’re still family, and allow you to Jered’s funeral this afternoon—not that you’d know what time it is from this infernal night that hangs over us constantly.”
“Jered’s . . . funeral? But isn’t his body at Clevaris?”
“It is, and it will be buried there. The Queen feels most strongly about that; he was truly like a son to her—more so than to me, I’m sure. She builds his tomb even now. But we will hold a ceremony here, as well, for he was after all our kin, not hers.” Albrech moved towards the door, then turned back. “We’ll have some of your clothes brought down. You don’t want to be wearing that to see your brother off in.”
“Rolenya—does she also have a tomb?”
The king looked pained. “She does,” he admitted. “Thanks to you.” His voice turned sour. “Never forget that it was you who caused this, Baleron. Her death, our fall, all of it—it’s on your head.”
Scowling, he swept from the room, taking his men with him, and they slammed the door shut behind them.
An hour later, a full dozen guards escorted the prince—now washed and in clean attire, which was a relief—up into the street that ran before the palace, where there waited a long string of black coaches pulled by black horses. Baleron was led into the back of a prison coach, nearly the last vehicle in the funeral procession, where he was locked inside, and, with a cry and the crack of whips, the procession was off.
They wound through the war-torn city, and Baleron gazed out from his barred window at the desolation of Glorifel. They passed the Street of the Arts, and Flower Lane, and the great temple to Illiana on Morning Row. Starving and desperate people thronged the streets, huddling against the chill of the false night.
At last the procession reached the royal cemetery, and Baleron (under heavy guard) was led with the others to the newly built tomb—surely less impressive than the one the Queen of Larenthi was having built, but handsome just the same—where an empty coffin would be installed on the dais within. Griffons, Great Swans and Whiteworms were carved into the tomb and wound along its white pillars.
A chill wind blew, black clouds blotted out the sun, and thunder rolled.
The funeral was a slow, solemn affair, as the royal family, or what was left of it, huddled together in the cold and listened to a priest of Brunril and Illiana say kind words about Prince Jered and his brave sacrifice defending the world against evil. Baleron ignored the sermon. He wondered how Jered had handled being in thrall to Gilgaroth, and why he’d died. It must have been a mistake, Baleron decided, a bloodthirsty Grudremorqen caught in the heat of battle.
Saddened by Jered’s death, Baleron found himself disappointed that he would never get to discuss Dooms with the legendary Prince of Clevaris who’d been the golden son, and yet not a son, of Felias and Vilana. Baleron had thought of Jered as his golden shadow, the prince who was everything a prince should be, and loved and renowned. But now it was Baleron, corrupt and rash and broken, that had survived. He wondered if perhaps Jered had simply found the only way out he could: to die in battle with a worthy foe. Baleron knew he would be lucky to do the same.
The funeral ended and the royals picked their way back to their coaches. No Glorifelans had been told of Prince Jered’s true identity, so there was no one to console the royal family, no crowd of supporters.
The king intercepted Baleron.
“I’ve been to many funerals of late,” Albrech said. “Most of them my own kin. My wife, my sons, Rolenya, even two true daughters lost when the castle fell. Baleron, you and I have never been close, but you’re the only son I have left, and I don’t want to attend your funeral, too. Neither will I allow a son of mine to rot in prison if I can help it. Report to Logran at once. He’s told me that there is a procedure he can perform—a Purging, he calls it. I won’t lie to you, son. It may kill you. He says it kills many. And it’s very painful. But perhaps it can burn this demon out . . . and your Doom, as well.” He paused. “I’ll let it be your decision. Either make the dungeon your home, or submit to this Purging. Decide now.”
To Baleron, there was no question. “Do it,” he said.
“Guards, take him to Logran’s tower.”
As before, Logran had made his home in the highest tower of the palace, but this time a servant opened the door and led Baleron and his guards into the sorcerer’s inner sanctum.
“Shhh,” said the servant. “He’s performing a spell.” When they reached a comfortable living room infested by low, soft couches, he said, “Why don’t you take a seat?”
Too anxious to sit, Baleron moved out onto the balcony and surveyed the once-peaceful city. He knew all of its parks and museums and culture centers, all its grand monuments, its history and customs . . . and yet from this high tower he could see beyond the walls. He could see the endless campfires of the Borchstogs, the dark hordes that waited just beyond, and from somewhere out there he heard war drums banging. Boom doom boom. Smoke stirred on the breeze. They would attack soon, he thought. Would that I had my old command.
Logran cleared his throat, and Baleron whirled around to see the Archmage framed in the doorway.
“You startled me,” Baleron said.
“A bit tense, are we?” Logran looked to the guards, then back at the prince. “So you’re mine, then.”
The captain of the guard said, “You’re to do your Purging.”
“I see.” To Baleron, Logran said, “You do understand this will more than likely kill you. There is only a very small chance you’ll survive, and even if you do it’s not certain the demon, or your Doom, or both, will be destroyed.”
Baleron shrugged. “If I die, they cease to matter. Just be sure to destroy my corpse when you’re done.”
Logran looked at him steadily for a long moment, as if to satisfy himself of something, and at last nodded. “I apologize that I didn’t make it to the funeral. I was . . . working on something.”
“Rondthril?”
The Archmage nodded uncomfortably. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Please, can you t
ell me just why that sword is so important to you? Why would you only admit me into the city if I had it with me?”
The Wielder of Light stepped out onto the balcony and joined the prince at the balustrade. Leaning on it, he peered out at the city. It was so large and so full of sparkling lights, like a reflection of the night sky on a still lake, that it took Baleron’s breath away. He could see Logran’s appreciation for it, his love for it, shining in his brown eyes.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Logran.
Baleron knew him well enough to know he was leading up to something; he hadn’t come out here to discuss the view.
“Yes,” Baleron agreed, playing along.
“I’ve lived here for many decades, Bal. I was your grandfather’s and your great-grandfather’s closest advisor as well as your father’s. I’ve played a large role in shaping and preserving this fair city.” He paused. “It was I who guided the rash King Grothgar the First into preserving the custom of the Swap.”
That surprised the prince. “You mean you’re the one responsible for . . . Rolenya and me . . . ?”
Logran smiled. “I think your loins had more to do with that than I did, Baleron. Nevertheless . . . yes, without me you would never have known her, let alone known her well. And, I suspect, a great deal of this whole despicable affair never would have come to pass, at least in its present incarnation.”
“What do you mean?” Baleron said warily; he did not want to push the limits of what he could reveal, did not want to needlessly face the pain again.
“I strongly suspect that Gilgaroth is using your sister against you in some fashion, though how exactly I cannot guess.”
Baleron held his breath, saying nothing.
“He’s possessed you, or part of you, somehow, Baleron. I believe you now. But he would never use one method alone to control an agent such as you. He would use your own heart against you. It is his way. It is, I suspect, how he was able to manipulate Prince Jered—oh, yes, I know about him. The Queen and I keep in constant communication, and she had doubts about him since the first murder.”