by Jack Conner
For, flying his great scaly bulk across the charcoal-colored sky was the greatest dragon he had ever seen. Vast wings spread like dark clouds. Flame licked his lips. Smoke issued from his nostrils and trailed behind him like a black tail. He spiraled above the ruins of the castle, his spiral drawing tighter and tighter as he descended from the heavens.
“Throgmar,” breathed Albrech.
“He’s coming,” whispered Baleron.
Chapter 9
Rolenya stood at the balcony of her suite at Krogbur and gazed longingly at the horizon. Wind whipped her black hair in streamers to one side, and billowed her white dress in a ghostly fashion.
She’d asked for the illusion of the snow-capped mountains of Illistriv to be stripped away, tired of deception—no matter how ugly, she needed to face the truth—and Gilgaroth had complied. That in itself was unsettling.
Below her, beyond the terrible Inferno that wreathed the tower’s lower half, stretched his foul hordes—Borchstogs and worse, monsters great and small, spawned by Gilgaroth and Mogra. Rolenya felt queasy at the sight: should Baleron decide not to fulfill his labor, she would be thrown down . . . to them. The thought made her tremble and even wish there was some way she could kill herself, but there was not; should she try, Gilgaroth would simply bring her back.
Just the same, she hoped Baleron would find a way to save their father, as that’s still very much how she thought of Albrech Grothgar. He had been her father all her life, and she could not think anything different of him now. Strange that she could think differently of Baleron.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” she said. It always surprised her that the fell Men who served the Beast bothered to ask her permission, but they did. She’d requested that Men attend to her rather than Borchstogs, for the Borchstogs had somehow found out about her possible fate and they constantly leered at her and made obscene gestures, indicating what they would do to her when she was their plaything.
A tall man entered: Hierghast, swarthy and always regally poised, as though he’d been a king prior to coming here, and perhaps he had; it was an honor to serve in Krogbur. He bowed politely. “The Master awaits your presence in the Feasting Hall, my lady.”
“Will he have me sing again tonight?”
“I make it my business never to predict my Lord’s desires.”
“A wise policy, I’m sure.”
He gestured toward the door. “If you’ll allow me to escort you?”
She dismissed whatever resentment she felt at being a slave—she’d had plenty of experience at that in Gulrothrog, after all—and allowed Hierghast to escort her from her suite and up the halls and tunnels. The Feasting Hall was packed tonight, she saw, and full of restlessness. The Borchstog chiefs wanted to be on the attack already, tired of camping outside the Black Tower, though Rolenya knew they appreciated its dark energies and reveled in the sense of power the place emanated. A fight was going on in the pit below: three titans battled a Grudremorqen. One titan was a large reptilian creature, one was woolly and tusked but stood on two legs, and the third was a writhing mass of fungus-like tendrils. The Grudremorqen fought them all with a sword of flame.
On the other side of the arena sat the Dark One on his black throne, and this night a new throne sat next to his, as Mogra in her more humane form lounged beside him. With her six arms, she fingered the rubies and pearls and jewels that adorned her otherwise naked body. A golden clasp bound her thick dark hair, and her violet eyes, only two of them, sparkled in amusement above a slightly smirking mouth. When she opened it, two fangs glistened in the torchlight.
When her eyes fell on the princess, she frowned slightly. One of her hands had been on Gilgaroth’s armored arm, but now she removed it and began fingering one of her dripping necklaces that fell between her full high breasts.
Rolenya, afraid to match the Spider Queen’s gaze, averted her eyes and allowed Hierghast to escort her down the stairs to the first row, where he seated her, then took position just behind her—her servant, protector, and, she was all too aware, captor.
Borchstogs brought her steaming food on golden platters and slopping goblets of wine. She ate and drank conservatively, and she tried not to watch the bloody fights, though bellows and roars pierced the air. She also tried to avoid looking at either Mogra or Gilgaroth. For the most part, she kept her eyes on her food, which if nothing else agreed with her. Gilgaroth kept her well.
She thought of Baleron, as she often did. She wished he would arrive right now and wrap her in his arms, take her away from this awful place. It would be so wonderful to be with him again.
On the other hand, she dreaded to see him, for it would mean he had completed his task—had murdered Albrech, murdered Logran, and consigned Havensrike to the fires of the Wolf. Racked by conflicting emotions, Rolenya felt tears well behind her eyes, and only with a sudden surge of will did she force them away.
Eventually the tentacled horror entangled the Grudremorqen, and the other two, who were by then mortally wounded, were able to destroy it. It died, but they soon followed it into darkness, and the tentacled creature succumbed to the burns the Grudremorqen had dealt it, leaving no victors at all.
As the bodies were carted away, Gilgaroth rose from his throne. Rolenya steeled herself as his black voice rang out, as she knew it would:
“Sing for us, my dove.”
Even with the Spider Goddess here, she sang for him nearly every night, and, though it pained Rolenya, she was glad to do it, as with every song she sang she drew her own web about him—a web of Light and Grace, to be sure, but a web nonetheless. She sought to bind him to her, to ensnare him in love for her. Surely if she succeeded he could not throw her to the Borchstogs, or visit any other tortures on her for that matter. And . . . if her spells were powerful enough . . . perhaps she could even seek to influence his actions, to bend him to her will.
Of course, it was risky. Very risky.
But, as she saw it, she had precious little to lose. She only hoped that her songs were working. She suspected they were. Why else would Mogra be glaring at her if the Mistress of Shadows did not suspect something amiss? She would be unlikely to feel simple jealousy, Rolenya felt sure.
Quelling her doubts, the princess stepped down into the arena, still avoiding Mogra’s eyes, and took her position in its center. She actually looked forward to singing; it was the only time lately when she felt whole.
All the Borchstogs fell silent, and a hush descended upon the room. Even the terrible wraiths hiding above the smoke that wreathed the ceiling ceased stirring.
She cleared her throat and looked Gilgaroth in his burning eyes. She no longer had to look away from him. His eyes held no evil for her. Indeed, quite disturbingly, the opposite was true.
Thus, gazing at him openly, she began to sing. She opened up the gates of Light and Grace within herself and let them pour into him through her voice.
Mogra’s eyes narrowed.
Rolenya tried to ignore the Shadow-Weaver. With ever greater power, she let her voice ring out.
Gilgaroth’s expression was difficult to make out on his shadow-wreathed face, but she saw it, and it warmed her. She was beginning to feel almost . . . kindly . . . towards him. It was her songs, she knew. They worked both ways.
She thought it strange, even profane, to think of, but she’d discovered Gilgaroth to possess other facets to his being than the one he normally showed, even, possibly, a facet that knew love. Perhaps—
She sang on.
The Leviathan tucked his wings behind him and dove, flame licking his lips.
“TASTE THE FIRE OF UL MRUNGONA!” he roared, and shot a burning lance as he dove for the tunnel entrance.
“Quickly!” shouted Baleron. “Inside!”
He ran into the dark opening, rebounded against a wall, nearly breaking his nose, and ran on. The others followed quickly behind. Once they rounded a few corners he felt safer, but Throgmar’s fire still chased their heels, immolating t
he ruins around the opening and sending fire deep into the tunnel itself. Its heat reflected off the wall and up the bend, singeing the kidnappers but not roasting them.
“Damn!” said Sider, fingering his burned eyebrows and soot-streaked face. “I hate dragons.”
“I hate that dragon,” said Lord Grothgar.
Baleron said nothing. He’d suffered months of torture just for the chance of slaying Throgmar, and he still harbored that enmity deep within him, but his hatred was mixed with satisfaction now; he’d already had his revenge.
Fires flickered from wreckage further up the tunnel, and the smoke stung at his eyes. Outside, Throgmar roared loudly, then Baleron heard the sound of the dragon landing.
“THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME IN THERE?” the Leviathan said. “I’LL UNEARTH YOU LIKE A BIRD OF PREY UNEARTHS A GRUB!”
The tunnel began to rock. Baleron could imagine the Worm ripping at the mountain of debris with his mighty claws, tossing huge chunks of rock and masonry aside. The reverberations of his excavation shook the corridor, and the kidnappers looked at each other nervously.
“HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE A GRUB?” shouted the Worm. “ARE YOU PALE AND WRIGGLING?”
This series of tunnels led to the wine cellars, which was in the direction Baleron desired to go, and unlit torches lined the walls at regular intervals. He plucked one from the wall and stabbed it into one of the fires left by Throgmar’s rage.
“Here,” he said, passing the torch to Sider. “Lead on. My father knows how to get to the escape tunnel.”
Albrech grunted. “Escape! What a lot I’ve fallen into.”
“It’s not for you,” Baleron snapped. “It’s for the Union. You’re going to survive, damn it, whether you like it or not, and you’re going to lead whatever forces you can summon against Gilgaroth, and you’re going to defeat him.”
He glared at Albrech hotly until the king, shockingly, looked away. Baleron felt a surge of triumph.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll delay the dragon.”
“You’re mad,” said Sider. “You don’t stand a chance, and anyway I doubt one human could delay such a beast for long in any case.”
“Let him,” Albrech said dully.
Baleron did not take offense at Albrech’s tone. Finally, after all he’d been through, he felt unconcerned about his father’s judgment. It was about damned time, he thought.
The tunnel shook, and dust rained down from the ceiling.
“Hurry,” Baleron said.
“Good luck,” said Sider.
Wait! came a voice in the prince’s head. How can you let your father go off with this rabble? How can you let them take him through miles of subterranean passages? They look a shifty lot, and that Sider has a queer look in his eye.
Baleron merely smiled and ignored the voice.
Sider hurried off into the darkness, the torch lighting the way, and the others followed close at his heels. The king paused, lingering behind. Surprisingly, he squeezed Baleron’s shoulder, for the second time that night.
“This is farewell, then,” Albrech said, and Baleron did not argue. “I never thought you would sacrifice yourself for me.”
“I’m not,” Baleron said. “And it’s for Havensrike, if I am, not you. Now hurry.”
Albrech did not move. He stared Baleron in the eye. “You’re my last,” he said, and his voice was thick. “I never told you this, but I . . . I . . .”
Baleron waited. He had waited his whole life for this. Despite himself, he found that he was holding his breath.
But then another roar shook the hall, and Albrech’s gaze wavered. “I . . .”
“Yes?”
Albrech looked back into his eyes. “I . . . “ Clarity returned. “I never did like you.”
Baleron just stared at him. Then, unable to stop it, he laughed. “I never liked you either.”
Albrech nodded to himself, as if he’d settled something, gave his son’s shoulder one last squeeze, gave the Heir’s blue eyes one last looking-into, then hurried off into the darkness, chasing that pinprick of light. Baleron watched him go until his father had rounded a bend and was gone. He knew he would never see the king again. Then he squared his shoulders, set his jaw and strode outside.
The air out here stank of smoke, burnt stone and metal—and death. Smoke still rose from the spot Throgmar had torched, and the ground was hot underfoot.
Just the same, there was a chill wind blowing, along with the constant drizzle, and Baleron was instantly just as cold and wet as he had been before.
He squinted up at the towering figure of the Betrayer.
A many-forked tongue of lightning licked the ground and sent out a peel of thunder, and for a moment the mighty Throgmar was backlit, a massive, horned silhouette against the sky. Fire seethed from his mouth, lapping at his scaly lips but not burning them. He was a creature of fire and his own fires had no effect.
His amber, reptilian eyes narrowed at seeing the prince, and his whiskered mouth drew into a pained expression.
“YOU,” he said.
“Me,” Baleron affirmed. With a snick, he drew out Rondthril. He did not know what Gilgaroth’s will was, and he did not care; he only knew that his dagger would have little effect on the Worm.
“I WONDERED IF I MIGHT MEET YOU HERE, PRINCE.”
“How?”
“OH, OUR SPIES FOUND OUT ABOUT THE SECRET TUNNEL LONG AGO, AND I TASKED MYSELF WITH GUARDING IT. I COULD NOT ALLOW YOU TO FLEE.”
“You knew I’d left Krogbur?”
“OF COURSE. I WAS SENT TO RETRIEVE YOU—AFTER YOU’D COMPLETED YOUR LABOR.”
“Well, it’s not complete, and it won’t be, not if I have anything to say about it.”
“WHAT IS THIS? DEFIANCE? HA! THE CITY’S FALLEN! THE ARCHMAGE IS DEAD! YOUR PEOPLE ARE LOST AND OVERRUN. WHAT FEW SURVIVE SHALL ONLY LIVE AS CATTLE LIVE, AS SLAVES TO MY FATHER’S WILL.”
Baleron returned sneer for sneer. “Like you?”
Smoke plumed from the dragon’s nose. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
“You’re a coward!” Baleron raged. “A yellow, stinking, puss-bag of fear and shame! I’m surprised Gilgaroth even suffers you to live!”
“YOU GO TOO FAR.”
Baleron lunged forward and slashed the dragon across one of his clawed fingers, between plates of armor, drawing blood. Throgmar’s sharp intake of breath revealed the pain that Rondthril could inflict, even on so mighty a foe.
Kill! Kill! sang the sword. Blood! Blood! Baleron could tell it loved the taste of dragon.
“How far have I gone now, Worm?” he said.
The dragon drew back a bit, wary now. “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”
“May be!”
Evidently impatient with this foolishness, Throgmar shot out a claw and pinned Baleron to the ground. A huge lead weight was on Baleron’s chest, crushing the life out of him, Rondthril wedged between two enormous fingers. Baleron was being ground into the mud and rubble, and he could not get enough air to talk. Is this how his life would end?
Throgmar brought his huge horned head close to the prince’s. “MURDERER,” he snarled. “I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN YOUR CRIME. TEMPT ME, AND I WILL BE TEMPTED.”
Baleron wondered if he had delayed the Leviathan long enough. Would his father have gotten to safety yet? He hoped so. If he provoked the Betrayer any more, he would not be around to delay him any longer.
Throgmar narrowed his eyes, seeing something revealed in the prince’s face, or perhaps in his mind.
“A TRICK,” the dragon seethed, understanding. “YOU SEEK TO SLOW ME.” He snorted flame. “VERY WELL. THEN LET US END THIS NOW.” He paused. “YET BEFORE I DEVOUR YOU, LET ME JUST SAY THAT YOU ARE A FOOL IN THE GRANDEST TRADITION IMAGINABLE. YOU WERE ON THE CUSP OF EVERYTHING; I WOULD HAVE DELIVERED YOU TO KROGBUR, WHERE ROLENYA AWAITS YOU, AND TOGETHER YOU COULD HAVE LIVED OUT YOUR LIVES AS THE RULERS OF SOME DISTANT LAND. YET YOU PROVOKE ME AND AID YOUR FATHER IN HIS FLIGHT, WHEN HE IS DOOMED REGARDLESS.”
He wrapped his claws
about Baleron and held the prince aloft in a giant, scaly fist. The dragon shook him, not gently, but just enough to hurt and jar him, and to make him release his grip on Rondthril; the Fanged Blade spun to the earth and embedded itself blade down, quivering, sinking slowly into the wet ground.
“FOOL!” Throgmar spat.
He unclenched his fist and with the other foreleg grabbed Baleron by a boot and hoisted him high overhead. The Great Worm opened his terrible mouth so that Baleron, dangling, stared down at the dragon’s red, fleshy mouth and ivory-colored, gleaming teeth, which were all long and sharp and glistening. The red tongue squirmed between them. Baleron knew he was facing his end.
“THIS IS FOR FELESTRATA,” announced the dragon.
Strangely, fear did not fill Baleron. He would die, he supposed, and the king would live, and as long as the king lived, so would hope. That was enough for him.
Just the same, he would go down fighting. He pulled out the dagger. Dangling by a foot over a chasm of fangs and a flashing red tongue and a hellish gullet, when all his attention was focused on those massive jaws and teeth, a strange voice stopped the Worm from releasing Baleron’s boot and plunging him, slashing, into that cavernous maw.
“Sssspare him,” pleaded a small voice from below.
Irritated, Throgmar clamped his mouth shut and craned his long neck to see just who the speaker was.
To Baleron’s shock, it was none other than Rauglir.
The demon had escaped! Baleron had known this would happen. Hadn’t he warned his father? Damn the man’s stubbornness, his need for revenge! Smashing the sack against the wall had torn a hole in it, or perhaps the demon had gotten out on his own.
Still in his serpent form, Rauglir had evidently stuck around to watch the spectacle, but this eating of the prince was too much for him to sit idly through.
“WHAT?” asked Throgmar.
“I will take care of the king,” promised the snake. “It issss why I was sssent.”
Something about the reptile forced recognition on the dragon. “RAUGLIR,” he said. “I SHOULD’VE KNOWN YOU’D TURN UP.”