by Jack Conner
Baleron snarled, “Shut your filthy mouths and get out of my way!”
He sat back down, feeling deflated. Throgmar watched him dispassionately.
Ungier, as usual, leered. “Everyone!” he shouted when all the food had been presented. “Eat your fill and rejoice!” To Throgmar, he added, “Except you. You be more conservative.”
“I HUNGER,” replied the dragon.
“Help yourself to anyone here.”
Some of his guests looked at him nervously.
“I WONDER . . . HOW DOES VAMPIRE MEAT TASTE?”
Ungier scowled. “I am the god-king of Ungoroth, brother, and I will not tolerate your insolence. You are a vagabond, a houseless beggar chained to your penance.”
“AS YOU ARE TO YOURS.” The Leviathan grinned cruelly. “YES, I KNOW OF YOUR BETRAYAL TO FATHER. YOU WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEND ME AFTER BALERON. FOR THAT YOUR HOME AND MINE WAS DESTROYED. I WAS JUST A TOOL, I SEE THAT NOW. I ALSO KNOW HOW YOU TRIED TO HIDE ROLENYA . . . FROM HIM.”
Ungier stared daggers at Throgmar, and the dragon returned the look. Smoke trailed up from the Leviathan’s nostrils and Baleron could feel him grow hotter; the air grew hazy around him. A hateful light burned in his huge amber eyes.
The dinner guests looked nervously from their host to ul Mrungona. They did not touch their food.
Ungier broke the tension. In a surprisingly low voice, he said, “What I did I did for love. I sent you to kill this mortal because he slew my Firstborn. I hid Rolenya away to save her from possession. In both things, I failed.” This thought seemed to sadden him, but with an effort he rallied himself. “I have a new start here. Ungoroth will be great. And it is only the beginning of my empire. Oh, I will have glory! Such glory!” He looked around at his dinner guests. “Eat!”
The haze around Throgmar faded, and the hateful light faded from his eyes.
The dinner guests, all presumably heads of their legions, some perhaps even dignitaries from foreign (southern) lands, began to do as their host had bid, and the Borchstogs especially ate with fervor. The roast hog was not roasted very thoroughly, Baleron discovered, and its blood ran everywhere. The Borchstogs ate it greedily, sometimes fighting over it. After the first course, the slaves brought out the second. The serving platters were large, and when the silver domes were removed Baleron saw they contained the dismembered remains of Glorifelans, some cooked, some raw.
He rose and began to stagger away, sick to his stomach.
“No!” shouted Ungier. “You will stay!”
Borchstogs blocked his path and forced him back into his chair. “Ul Ravast must sit.”
“You are the guest of honor,” said Ungier with a smile. “It would not do for you to leave.” He raised his blood-and-wine-filled goblet. Its jewels twinkled in the torchlight. “To ul Ravast!”
All the guests save Baleron and Throgmar raised their glasses and said, “To ul Ravast!”, then drank.
Baleron glowered murderously at the Vampire King, but said nothing. The dinner continued. Baleron refused to eat what he was served, but he did drink some wine to steady his nerves.
He tried to ignore the others’ conversations, but soon something caught his ear: Ungier said, “It is Rolenya? You are certain of this?”
He was speaking to one of his daughters, Serengorthis, one of the messengers that went constantly back and forth between Glorifel, Clevaris and Krogbur.
She nodded. “It is her, Sire. The Master has brought her back. Ask him.” She indicated Baleron. “He knows.”
Ungier narrowed his eyes at the prince. “Is this true?”
Baleron would not answer.
“Is this true?” Ungier repeated.
Baleron said nothing.
“And she sings for Him,” added Serengorthis.
“Sings?” repeated Ungier.
“Most beautifully, so I’ve heard. He keeps her caged, letting her out only to please Him with her voice, like a man might keep a bird.”
“She never sang for me . . .” Ungier added, “Of course, I did get some noises out of her . . . though I would not count them as songs.” He smiled at Baleron as he said this. “But they were music to me.”
Most at the table laughed, and Ungier looked pleased. But he also wore a contemplative air, as if he were mulling something over, and Baleron did not have to wonder what it might be. Ungier considered Rolenya his. Despite his claims, it was not love, exactly, at least Baleron did not think so, but if nothing else it was pride of possession; she was Ungier’s greatest prize, or had been, and now the one who had taken her away from him was enjoying her more than he.
Dark clouds drifted across the vampire’s face.
Perhaps in an effort to dismiss them, he called for the entertainment to begin. Borchstog musicians started up an eerie yet merry tune, and Borchstog performers came out, naked and painted red. They wore odd, spiky hats made of rib bones—whether human, elf or borchstog was hard to tell. Yet apparently their appearance was comic, for the dinner guests laughed and hooted.
The performers had brought along many severed heads and limbs of Glorifelans, and they juggled them. The body parts were often slippery and squirted out of their hands. Much amusement was had as the Borchstogs floundered around on the ground trying to retrieve the parts. Sometimes the performers tossed the limbs and heads to each other, juggling, sometimes they danced as they did it, or stood on their heads, or more, and all the while the musicians continued to play.
One course was served after another, and it seemed a fine old time for the hellspawn. Baleron tried not to look. He noticed that Throgmar seemed ill at ease, as well, and remembered that the dragon had pretenses of goodness. At the thought, he snorted.
At last the Borchstog performers left. Corpses of all sorts were wheeled in next and deposited in the performing area where once Baleron had played croquet with the younger Esgralin daughter.
Ungier raised these corpses and made them dance and perform comic routines to the roaring delight of his guests.
Next live naked prisoners were marched in. The Troll that had earlier flung the woman to her death now stepped forward. He grabbed a trembling Glorifelan in each huge hand . . . and began to juggle them.
Horrified, Baleron stood up to protest, but his handlers shoved him back down and his protests were ignored.
The Troll continued to juggle. Sometimes he would snatch another screaming prisoner and add him or her to his routine. Occasionally he would drop one. Baleron could not tell if this was accidental or intentional, but whenever it happened he received a guffaw. The dropped prisoner, mewling on the ground with broken bones, would eventually be ground beneath his heels. Baleron had to be forcibly restrained.
All the while, the guests continued to eat and talk and enjoy themselves, as if this were an ordinary high social occasion.
But then the Troll wanted the prisoners set on fire so that he could have something more interesting to juggle, and Throgmar ended it. He blew a column of flame over the Troll’s head and said, “I WILL GIVE YOU FIRE!”
The Troll glared at him, said nothing.
“I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. END THIS NOW. I DEMAND IT.”
Ungier merely laughed. “You are a guest at my table, and it is my duty to oblige your whims, however foolish.” He beckoned to the Troll, who reluctantly abandoned his routine and came to stand at the Vampire King’s side, bodyguard once more.
More performances followed, and more courses. Finally the entertainment ceased and Ungier ordered the last course to be brought out. All hushed. Flames from the braziers and torches crackled in the silence.
A platter with a silver dome was set before Baleron, but he refused to open it. He had not eaten since the first course, and he was not hungry now. Far from it. He had retched twice and was still nauseous.
With heavy-lidded eyes, Ungier gazed across the table at him. The Vampire King looked suddenly hungry, staring intently at Baleron and the platter. There was a particularly nasty look on his face.
�
�Open it,” bade the Lord of Ungoroth.
“No.”
“Open it!”
Baleron shook his head.
Ungier’s eyes transfixed him, and he no longer had Shelir’s charm to protect him. “Open it,” ordered the vampire.
Baleron could not fight it. Against his will, he reached out a hand toward the silver handle, and his fingers trembled despite the fact that Ungier guided his actions. He cringed. What was underneath that dome? What would give Ungier so much pleasure? Dread built in him, and he tried to mash his eyes shut, but Ungier would not let him.
His fingers curled around the handle. He fought against the vampire’s will even more strongly, but Ungier would not be denied. And so, with a shaking hand, Baleron raised the dome, and, horribly slowly, the contents of the platter came into view.
Baleron reeled backwards and toppled out of his chair, a cry in his throat. Ungier’s presence withdrew from his mind.
The whole table erupted in evil laughter as Baleron stared agog at the contents of the platter, but he barely heard it. A swell of horror and hate welled up within him, and he shook, as if there were an earthquake inside him. And there was. His hands balled into fists, and he ground his teeth in rage. For, sitting upon the gleaming silver dish, still bloody, was the severed head of Albrech Grothgar. The dead eyes of the Lord of Havensrike stared accusingly at his son.
“Nooo!” Baleron roared, throwing back his head and howling in misery.
Ungier’s black eyes glittered hungrily, savoring this.
Baleron sank to his knees before his father’s head.
“Father . . .”
This was too much. Much too much. Baleron’s soul cried out in torment.
The king’s dead eyes gazed unblinking. Albrech’s mouth was open, as if in surprise, but his eyebrows were locked in a scowl.
So I really did fail you, after all, Baleron thought. You were right about me all along.
“I’m so sorry . . .”
His shaking hands reached out and picked up the severed head. It was heavier than he thought it would be, pregnant with possibilities that would never be. He lowered the head to his lap and stared down into his father’s dark blue eyes.
“Rauglir,” he growled. Would the demon kill everyone he ever knew?
The true weight of it slowly sank in. Not only was his father dead, but so was the king. There could be no more hope for Havensrike now, no hope that Albrech could gather the remnants of the kingdom together and marshal a resistance to Ungier.
And more . . . this meant that now Baleron was King—though the king of what? There was only Ungoroth now, and some scattered cities and towns without central authority, and likely there was little of those left. Baleron was the last of his House, the ruler of a realm that was no more.
He ground his teeth. Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced his rage to scour any weakness from him. He could not afford to be overwhelmed. He needed his wits about him.
Ungier still has Rondthril.
The dinner guests continued to laugh and mock him. The wickedness of Ungier and his guests infuriated Baleron, nauseated him, but one particular laugh stood out from the others, and he found himself looking up at the face of the Troll that had picked him up earlier, the one that had flung the woman to her death, the one that had wanted to juggle flaming slaves.
He knew that laugh.
“Rauglir.”
The Troll, who had been watching him, smiled, and Baleron recognized that smile. too.
“Yes, my beloved,” said the demon, “it is I.”
That sent the guests into fresh fits of laughter.
Baleron’s mind reeled, and he began to see what must have happened: Rauglir would have approached Ungier after the sack was complete and told him the tidings of Albrech’s murder, and afterwards the rithlag had rewarded him with a new body, a powerful one.
Baleron’s eyes went from the dead face of his father to the grinning face of the Troll.
“This. . . was your idea, wasn’t it?”
The Troll shrugged modestly. “Consider it my dowry.”
“You . . . you . . . ”
“How do you like this new form?” asked the Troll. “Do you find it as pleasing as Rolenya’s? You loved me then.”
Baleron was so full of rage and pain that he could not speak, could not form words. Somewhere he could hear Ungier laughing.
“I hope this doesn’t affect your decision to marry me,” Rauglir added.
Ungier laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his own chair.
“Wonderful!” cried the vampire. “This is priceless. Throgmar, you’re forgiven.”
The Leviathan narrowed his eyes.
Baleron looked again to his father’s lifeless face. The rest of the world faded away, and he became lost in those dead eyes. Father, I am so sorry.
At the far end of the table, a serving girl was refilling Ungier’s goblet. It was a young maiden, clearly terrified, and her hands shook as she poured. Her dress was rent and dirty, her eyes hopeless.
Ungier drank up her fear. Just as she was finished, he knocked the goblet over and its contents spilled onto the table and dripped to the ground. “Oh, look what you’ve gone and done, you clumsy thing,” he scolded. “Lick it up.”
“Y-yes, m’lord,” she said, her voice quavering.
She broke out sobbing before she could begin, and was so racked by tears that she could not summon the focus necessary to clean the mess.
Ungier roughly threw her upon the table. She screamed and tried to roll off, but with his eyes he bound her, mesmerizing her, and she stilled and quieted. The Vampire King tore open her dress, and she did not protest. He sank his fangs into her throat. Blood spurted into his mouth. She cried out but could not move.
By this time, Baleron had replaced his father’s severed head on the platter and had been staring, lost, into Albrech’s eyes. He had not been paying attention to the girl’s plight, but her screams drew him.
Seeing the situation, he bounded to his feet. When the two Borchstog guards tried to shove him back down, he was prepared. He elbowed one in the throat and jabbed the other in the eyes. Then he wrenched loose one of their huge broadswords, leapt on the table and ran down it, howling, jumping over dishes and the clutching hands of the guests.
Ungier was so focused on sucking the girl’s blood that he hardly noticed, and when he did it was too late.
Baleron kicked the vampire off her. Ungier fell from the table onto the ground, and the prince was upon him, sword flashing down.
Ungier caught the naked blade in his long-fingered hands and tore it from Baleron’s grasp. The blade did not even cut him. Then Rauglir was pulling the prince away.
Ungier rose, eyes narrowed into slits of hate. “How dare you!”
“I dare!” Baleron said.
“You will wish you had not.”
With a look to the girl, Baleron said to Ungier, “Drink of me instead. Spare her. I’ll take her place.”
Ungier barked a laugh. “To drink of the Savior? To end the Ender? I would love nothing more.” To his guards, he said, “Let her be.”
The girl nodded her silent thanks to Baleron, then ran, crying, from the table, holding her tattered clothes about her.
Rauglir lowered Baleron to ground level but did not release him. Only the prince’s head and shoulders showed above the Troll’s thick fingers.
“Yes,” Rauglir said to Ungier. “End it now. My game is ready to go to the next level.” To Baleron, he added, “See you in Hell, beloved.”
“The one good thing about dying,” Baleron reflected, “is that I’ll never have to listen to you again.”
“Oh, but you will, dear heart, for I will come personally to visit you in Illistriv. I will be the one to oversee your eternal torment. You see, my dear—if I may call you that—our game has truly just begun.” Rauglir laughed, a great big Troll laugh that shook Baleron up and down, up and down.
Ungier stalked forward, grabbed th
e prince by his hair and exposed his neck. Baleron smelled the vampire’s musk, felt his power, and braced for what would come next.
“NO,” said Throgmar suddenly.
Striking swiftly, his horned head lunged forward and his massive jaws snapped closed around Rauglir’s throat, biting off the demon’s head. A gout of black blood shot up, and the big body toppled. Throgmar crushed the head between his huge teeth and swallowed it.
Baleron, seeing his chance, struggled free of the dead Troll-hand and sprang up. For a moment his eyes lingered on the decapitated creature. It did him good to see the ruin, though he did not relish the thought of Rauglir’s spirit on the loose again. At least without a body the demon was powerless for the nonce.
Ungier was so surprised by Throgmar’s attack that he raised no hand against the prince as Baleron punched him in his skeletal nose for the second time that day. Ungier’s black eyes remained fixed on Throgmar, who loomed above, massive and fiery.
Baleron tore Rondthril from Ungier’s scabbard and held it up so that it caught the torchlight. It felt good in his hand.
Ungier wiped black blood from his face. “That blade is mine.”
“It was,” Baleron said. “So was Rolenya. Now they both belong to me.” He replaced the Fanged Blade in its scabbard.
Ungier glared at Throgmar, seeking to place blame. “How dare you interfere in my business! This is my land now! Begone!”
“YOU SAID I COULD EAT ANYONE HERE. CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY THAT I DID NOT CHOOSE YOU.”
Baleron’s eyes lit up. “Eat him!” he cried, seeing his chance. If Rondthril could not slay its maker, and Ungier could deflect any other weapon, then why not let the Leviathan do Baleron’s work for him? “Eat him and you’ll be king of Ungoroth! Of Havensrike!”
Ungier’s mouth dropped open and his eyes grew round as they stared up at the Worm. In fear, he stumbled backwards, wings fluttering.
Smoke curled up from Throgmar’s nose.
“Yes!” Baleron said. “Do it!”
But then the smoke died and Throgmar picked Baleron up in a claw. “I DO NOT WANT TO BE KING. WE LEAVE.”
“Good riddance!” Ungier snarled. He straightened and suddenly looked his old haughty self. His gaze found Baleron in a space between two scaly fingers. “But I’ll see you again. I too must go to Krogbur.”