by Jack Conner
Mogra said, “You go too far, my son.”
“Do I?” he asked. “Perhaps I have not gone far enough.” He looked to Thorg, then to Gilgaroth. His black eyes were serious and deadly. “Thorg, slay your maker.”
Baleron stifled his laughter only with great effort. Ungier had gone insane! Surely Gilgaroth would kill him in due course and Rondthril would be released from the sway of the dark powers.
He expected it to happen any minute. Any second.
For once, fate was on his side.
The cuerdrig looked from the Vampire King to the Dark One and could not seem to make up its mind. Infuriated, Gilgaroth wrenched the sword that was embedded in the side of his throne out and hurled it at the beast. His blade, in proportion with his giant stature, skewered the mighty Thorg to the ground, and smoking blood pooled across the sand, which drank it up greedily. The cuerdrig was dead.
“You err,” Gilgaroth said again, this time almost sadly. Looking up to the masked ceiling, he shouted, “Descend!”
The host of wraiths that inhabited the upper reaches of the smoke-filled room descended into the arena and swirled about Ungier, a swarm of living shadows. They howled and shrieked and created such an unholy din that the Borchstogs, shivering in fear, closed their eyes and clamped hands over their ears.
Rolenya remembered when she had been at the center of a similar vortex, and the sight—and the memory—chilled her to the bone.
The ghosts ripped at the Vampire King with insubstantial hands and claws and teeth and worse, and Ungier screamed in agony. They tore his soul loose from his body, and his body slumped lifelessly to the floor.
His soul, visible in this place of power, was a shadow blacker than theirs, and it twisted and fought against them, but they were too many. Shrieking, they bore him up to their Master, who rose to his feet and removed the armor from one hand.
Mogra shifted uncomfortably.
With the hand that was still encased in armor, the Dark One seized the squirming soul of Ungier and stared mercilessly at the shadowy thing, and it trembled beneath the weight of his judgment.
Gilgaroth raised his naked hand and pressed it close to Ungier, who knew that the touch of that hand meant instant death, the demise of his very soul. He tried to twist away, but his father’s iron grip was too strong.
“I can slay you at any time I choose,” said Gilgaroth. “More, I can prolong your torment for eons. Even now I have enemies locked in the dungeons of this very tower that I have been torturing for thousands of years. I transferred them here from Ghrastigor so that I would not be without my favorite playthings. Do you think I would hesitate to add you to that collection? Or . . .” He twitched his dark fingers. “ . . . I could simply touch your naked soul now, or at any time henceforth, and kill it utterly so that you will never know agony, or peace, again. Only oblivion.”
The soul of Ungier shook.
“Do you now understand the depth of your folly?” asked Gilgaroth. “I hope so. I will not be so forgiving a second time.”
He flung the soul down into the pit, right into the inert body of the Vampire King, and the body stirred. Rolenya, who had not realized she had been holding her breath, took a deep one.
Baleron gnashed his teeth in frustration.
He’d come so close!
“Damn it all!” he hissed.
Gasping, Ungier sat up, rubbing his throat as though it could be sore when it was his soul his father had been grasping. He was so unsteady that Borchstogs had to help him up. He stretched his arms out and regarded his own body in a strange, frightened manner.
“My powers . . .” he whispered. His head snapped up. “You’ve stolen my powers!”
“I gave them to you,” Gilgaroth replied. “They were mine to take away.”
Ungier made pathetic little noises, but he was wise enough to choke down his words. Rolenya was shocked to see that he was crying in mute rage, frustration, and impotence; his tears were black drops of blood leaked from all-black eyes, though, and it was not a sight to endear him to her.
The Dark One’s attention fell on her, and all else washed from her mind.
“Erase this ugly scene, little one,” he said. “Come. Sing for me, my dove.”
Mogra tapped her armrest in agitation, eyeing the tattered remains of the shadow-cape sadly.
Borchstogs removed the bodies of Thorg and Slorch, and a group of them lugged the heavy sword back up to its Master, who replaced it in his throne. He watched the bodies of his prized cuerdrigs go with an inscrutable expression, though Rolenya did note that the fires of his eyes seemed to dim, just slightly.
Ungier dusted himself off and flew up out of the arena. He paused at the overturned table, casting Rolenya a sidelong look.
“I would have liked to have heard you sing,” he said.
“Then you should not have been such an ass!” she snapped.
He fled up the stairs, minus his cape. On his way out, he shot a wary glance up toward the hidden ceiling, where the wraiths had returned, and seemed to shudder. Wordlessly, he left.
“Please,” Gilgaroth said, his eyes on Rolenya, and gestured toward the now-empty arena.
Sighing, she gathered herself and descended.
“Don’t,” protested Mogra, laying a caressing hand on his arm. He had replaced the armor on his other hand. “She weaves spells with her songs; she casts a net over you. Send her away—to Clevaris, as planned.”
From the tone of her voice it was plain that she had voiced this objection before. Rolenya was surprised she would speak so before the Borchstogs, but, then, they loved their Father and Mother with such devotion that a little bickering between the Two would go unnoticed.
“Nonsense,” Gilgaroth said. “You are merely jealous. She is but a slip of a girl. What power can she have over me?”
“She can harness Light and Grace, the gifts of Brunril to the Elves, and funnel them into her songs. Close your ears to them, my Lord. Deny her the chance to bind you to her. Don’t you see? That is her plan.”
Gilgaroth regarded his bride for a long moment, then turned his gaze on Rolenya. The princess trembled. Would Gilgaroth destroy her? The moment stretched, and stretched, and Rolenya tried not to look guilty.
At last, Gilgaroth threw back his head and laughed. The candles dimmed, and so did the torches and urns. Rolenya had to fight the urge to wrap her arms about herself, feeling cold all of a sudden; gooseflesh covered her.
The laughter died.
“Let her sing. Let her weave her little spells. I have enough darkness in me to counter any light.”
Mogra glared at Rolenya, bearing her teeth in a most horrid smile. The Spider Queen’s fangs were very sharp, and Rolenya was reminded that Gilgaroth was not the only one she had to fear.
Baleron watched Ungier depart the room, broken and humiliated. He enjoyed the vampire’s discomfort, but he knew that was not enough.
Ungier needed to die.
The Lord of Ungoroth vanished through a door several aisles over from the archway in which Baleron hid, and, when the vampire was gone, the prince took a deep breath and quit the hall. He hated to miss Rolenya’s songs, but this was more important.
He found himself in a long, curved corridor, and headed right, the direction Ungier had taken. Killing the vampire should be easier now that Gilgaroth had removed the fiend’s powers, or at least some of them, Baleron reflected.
As he made his way along, he heard Rolenya begin singing; her voice carried far and could even be heard out here. As always, her voice was lovely, and the song beautiful. It seemed surreal to him that such angelic notes should provide the backdrop for his mission of murder.
He stalked up the high black hall, and shadows leapt and swayed to scant torchlight, almost in time to the song. He kept his footfalls soft, kept his breathing quiet and steady.
There! Ungier lingered in an archway leading into the hall. It seemed he had thrown away all pride and dignity and was even then pressing a bat-like ear to the doo
r, an enchanted smile on his face.
Baleron grunted with amusement.
Ungier heard. He spun about to find Baleron already descending on him, having snatched a torch from its bracket and bringing the fiery end down on the vampire’s head.
Ungier caught Baleron’s wrist and stopped the torch’s descent. Had Baleron two hands, he would have punched the vampire in the throat or nose with his free fist, but it was Ungier who still had two hands, and they were both tipped with long claws.
His free hand drove toward the Heir of Havensrike’s face, meaning to impale his eyes. Baleron broke away. The torch clattered to the floor.
The two combatants crouched, circling each other warily.
Fury blazed in the vampire’s face. “You!”
“Me,” Baleron agreed.
There would be no fancy exchange of mock titles this time. They were down to the end of it, now, and both sensed that the time for games had passed.
“Alone at last,” Ungier said.
“And you without your powers. Pity.”
The Vampire King eyed the length of Rondthril at Baleron’s side. “I think I’ll have that back now.”
“Come and get it.”
The fiend flew at him, and they grappled with each other, at last rolling about on the floor. Baleron wrapped his one hand about the vampire’s throat and tried to crush his enemy’s windpipe, while Ungier sought purchase on Baleron’s face to pluck out his eyes and drive his sharp thumbs into his brain.
Baleron used his stump as a bludgeon. It hurt every time he struck with it, but it was worth it to hear the sounds of impact on the vampire’s chest and head.
Baleron had one advantage, and that was that he was trained in hand-to-hand combat and Ungier was not. All his long life, Ungier had relied on his godly powers, but now they had deserted him.
Baleron had to thrash and writhe and kick and buck to avoid the vampire’s claws and fangs, as the fiend had the longer reach, and with all that motion Baleron could not find a solid enough hold to crush Ungier’s throat. And even if he could, he doubted Ungier could be killed that way: god or not, the vampire was still an undead thing.
Infuriated, Ungier at last kicked away and stood, wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek. Baleron stood, too.
“Rolling about on the floor like a pig!” Ungier said, his voice dripping disgust. “Is this how mortals fight? It is beneath me. I refuse to continue this farce. I may be weakened, but—” (as if to confirm Baleron’s fears) “—I am no mortal.” He fairly spat the word.
Baleron forced a smile. “Then will you let a crippled one chase you off?”
The vampire bared his fangs.
Several Borchstogs wearing the armor of glarumri emerged from the Feasting Hall. Their wolf-head helms were long and were inset with red rubies for eyes. The Borchstogs half-bowed to Ungier.
“My loyal troops,” he said, half mocking.
“My lord,” said their leader, his eyes going from Ungier to Baleron. “Please accept our apologies. We stayed a minute to listen to the she-elf. We beg your pardon.”
Ungier turned a nasty look to Baleron. “No godhood, perhaps, but I still possess authority.” To the glarumri, he said, “Kill him!”
The glarumri gasped. “But, my lord, he is ul Ravast!”
Baleron nearly smiled to hear the growl that issued from Ungier’s throat at that moment. The Vampire King shook off his rage and said to the Borchstogs, “Look into my eyes.” Apparently he still had some power.
Baleron ran.
Chapter 13
After she had sung and was allowed to leave the Feasting Hall, Rolenya returned to her suite to bathe in one of the hot, steaming pools created by the stream that ran through her rooms. She felt dirty and soiled by the smoke of the Hall—the smoke and the blood, and the evil that hung there as palpably as grease in the air.
She had three attendants that appeared to be elf maids, though she doubted their appearances and thought it more likely they were Borchstogs given elvish form. Spies. They rarely spoke, but they obeyed her instructions well enough. One was sponging her back when there came a knock on the door.
“See who that is,” Rolenya said, and a handmaiden complied.
In a moment she returned. Curtsying, she said, “’tis Lord Ungier.”
Rolenya’s mouth dropped open. She started to say something, rethought it, and started over again. Composing herself, she turned to the third handmaiden and said, “Fetch me a towel.” To the second one, she said, “Show him in, but don’t let him wander.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Minutes later, Rolenya was clad in a bathrobe and preparing herself to meet the vampire. It would be the first time she’d seen him in an intimate circumstance since Gulrothrog. Still, her body was warm and freshly scrubbed, and perfumed with the scent of flowers. She felt good and had consumed more than her fair share of wine. She was feeling bold.
She strode into the main living room, where Ungier warmed himself beside the fire. Tall and regally poised, he wore his spider-silk cape, which one of his servants must have retrieved from the arena—or perhaps his mother, to make up for recent unpleasantness? Its rents had mended, as if of the cape’s own accord.
Rolenya had half expected him in human guise, but of course he was not; Gilgaroth had stolen his godhood.
“Good evening, Lord Ungier,” she said, trying to stay formal.
“Likewise, fair Rolenya.”
He took a moment to drink her in, and something about her seemed to relax him. He took a deep breath and sighed.
Too, something about her seemed to quicken him, as his eyes grew larger and his expression more determined.
“You smell lovely,” he told her.
“Why, thank you.”
“I enjoyed your singing tonight.” He glided about the room, beginning to circle her. “Though I had to put my ear to the door to hear it. You have a most beautiful voice. It sounds like crystal bells over a pure running stream.”
“Not so pure,” she said, reminding him of how he’d stolen her maidenhood, how he’d destroyed her innocence.
He did not have the decency to look abashed. Quite the reverse: he seemed to smile fondly at the memory. “Indeed,” he said, and his voice was heavy with desire.
“Enough!” she snapped. So much for formality.
He stopped circling and spun to face her. “You know why I have come.”
“Yes.”
He strode closer to her. His steps were quick and urgent and full of power, like those of a jungle cat.
Lightly, she stepped backwards. “It’s not to be,” she said.
“Oh, but it is.”
He reached her and wrapped her in his rough embrace. Pressing himself against her, he crushed his leathery lips to hers. She struggled and pushed at him, but even with his powers diminished he was mighty, and she couldn’t tear away from his grasp.
“Maids!” she shouted, wrenching her lips from his. “Help me!”
But they cowered in fear on the edges of the room, looking at each other worriedly, and none had the courage to assist her.
“Go!” snarled the First Vampire. “Leave us!”
They fled the room.
“You are at my mercy,” Ungier said, his need evident. “You are mine.”
“No. Never again.” She beat at his chest. In his vampire form, he was not at all attractive, though it would not have mattered anyway. “Never!”
He grinned evilly. “You were nearly my bride—my Queen—and I shall make it so again.”
“I think not,” said a voice from behind.
Ungier turned his battish head in time to see the fireplace poker swinging down at him. If he hadn’t been so consumed by lust, he probably would’ve heard the intruder, or smelled him, but he was too late. The iron poker slammed down on the crown of his head, his black eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped to the ground lifelessly.
Baleron, fireplace poker in hand, stared down at him and said, “Fina
lly.”
His eyes found her.
“Baleron!”
She flung herself into his arms, peppering him with kisses and hugging him tightly. He felt so good and strong and she wanted to bury herself in him.
“Oh, Baleron,” she cried, and she was not a bit embarrassed when tears leaked from her eyes. Pulling herself away, she looked up into his face and was startled by how old he looked: gray hair ran through his dark waves, and his blue eyes looked ancient. Grooves lined his face, and he looked bowed by a great weight: his Doom. Of course. He was still handsome, but his boyishness was gone.
“It’s so good to see you,” she told him.
He kissed her and stepped back. Looking down at the body of the Vampire King, he said, “I need to kill him.”
“What? You’ll bring the wrath of Gilgaroth down on us!”
He patted Rondthril’s hilt with his one remaining hand. His one remaining hand! She stared at his stump in dismay.
“My blade—” he said, then stopped. “I’ll tell you later.” He looked to the fireplace, seeming to study its dimensions, then to the balcony. Wind gusted the drapes. “There,” he said. “We’ll throw him over. Grab his feet.”
She hesitated. “No, Bal. We can’t. It’s—”
He half smiled. “What? Foolish? Rash? I’m beyond that now. Let’s just do it.”
He knelt down and picked up Ungier’s upper half, awkward with his one hand and stump, and, reluctantly, Rolenya grabbed Ungier’s clawed feet. On the count of three, and against her better judgment, they hefted the body up and carted it out to the terrace. Wind gusted coldly, and she shivered. Once they were fully outside, she began to tremble.
“Baleron, are you sure this is wise?”
He laughed recklessly. “Not at all.”
He began to tilt the inert body over the railing.
“Now!” he said.
The body would tumble down a long, long ways, she saw. It would fall into the very fires of the Second Hell and be consumed, if such fires could consume Ungier, and she thought they could. Nothing would be left of him, save his spirit, which would hopefully be trapped in the Inferno. She prepared to tilt Ungier’s lower half and release it to the abyss—