by Jack Conner
“What is it, Bal?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
He grimaced again. “I’m dying, Rolenya. The blood of Gilgaroth . . .”
A look of terror crossed her face.
“I’m sorry, Rol,” he told her. “So sorry. After all this . . . and I desert you now. . .” He was short of breath. His insides were baking.
An odd calmness descended on her. Her eyes flashed with confidence and surety and her usual prideful stubbornness. With conviction, she said, “Gilgaroth said once that he had enough darkness to counter my Light, but he was wrong, and he paid for it. Now let me prove it once more.”
“Don’t try. You’re still too weak.”
“I’m strong enough for this. Now be quiet.”
So saying, she pressed her lips to his and held his face against hers. Her lips were soft and warm and moist, and he felt he could drown in her touch.
Slowly at first, but then more quickly, he could feel a strange power coursing through him, countering the poison of the Shadow. It washed him of the taint and corruption of Gilgaroth, and he was like a withered plant suddenly given light and water. It seemed to awaken, if accidentally, the remains of the Flower of Itherin, and he felt a glow inside him. Renewed energy and vitality rose in him, burning the poison out.
Their lips parted, and he gasped, staring at her in wonder.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“I feel . . . good.” He laughed. “Very good.”
She smiled, her blue eyes wet, and for the first time he contemplated a future in which the two of them lived, in which they walked away from this.
She half sat up, and he helped her. For a while he just held her in his arms, and together they surveyed the bleakness of the wastelands. A great blaze shot up to the south where Krogbur had fallen and the Inferno loosed. Illistriv’s fires were dying, but new ones sprang up. The rest was grim and dark. Occasionally, the earth trembled, and all the volcanoes in the area were erupting like great fountains, sending the burning blood of Oslog high into the charcoal sky. The Dark Country was wounded—perhaps mortally. Rivers of fire cut through it, but the prince and princess were safe for the moment. Just the same, Baleron recognized the need to move while they could. A hot breeze blew down from the mountains, carrying the stench of sulfur.
“I hope our homes don’t look like this when we return,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“Will the armies still be there? Will the war still go on without him?”
“I doubt it. They’ll turn back and hide here for another thousand years, and we’ll rebuild.”
“Rebuild? But you have no home. You have no country.”
“There will still be survivors, hiding somewhere in the north. I’ll unite them and found a new capital.”
She looked at him strangely. “That’s right. You’re . . . you’re King now.”
He sighed. “Of Ungoroth?”
“Of whatever we make of the ruins.”
“We?”
She took his face in her hands and kissed him again. “Of course.”
He reminded himself to be vigilant. The great army of Gilgaroth might be destroyed, but there were still countless creatures out there, prowling the waste. And dragons. Many, many dragons. Baleron realized that he and Rolenya were without weapons, food or water, and had only each other to keep them warm. It would have to be enough.
They climbed to their feet.
“We have a long road back,” she said, her blue eyes scanning the bleak, jagged horizon to the north. To the south, all was ruin: fire and clouds of smoke.
Taking a deep breath, he held out his hand and she took it.
The sun, he saw, was rising to the east, a white disc behind jagged black mountains. The storm clouds were breaking up, revealing the last visible stars. It had been a long night, and he doubted the day to come would hold much light, but it was more than he had expected. Many horrors of the night were likely seeking shelter from the sun; it was probably the first time Brunril’s Torch had been seen in this land in many years. A hot breeze blew.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Wearily, bleeding and barely able to stand, Baleron and Rolenya left the body of Throgmar where it lay smoking on the ground and marched out into the wastelands, bound for home.
THE END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
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Jack Conner
http://jackconnerbooks.com
[email protected]