by B. V. Larson
Power unimaginable filled the prince, bursting his nerves and searing his mind. The passage filled with a silent flash of sickly, bubbling, green light and an animal howl of grim delight tore loose from his throat.
The sound of it shook the very flagstones of the castle and no one in the vast chambers was left undisturbed. Whispering servants wandered timidly out into the dark halls holding aloft sputtering oil lamps in trembling hands, trying to push back the gloom and chill of the castle without success.
A human soul provided Therian with much greater strength than had the tiny creatures he’d fed upon previously. Surging with a strength he had only felt an inkling of in his most satisfying dreams, Therian bounded down the black passages. In his curled fist his dagger glittered. He had studied the labyrinth of passages for many years, both in person and in his beloved books. He followed the second man through a secret door the other had forgotten to push shut in his haste.
Here, the passages grew dank and noisome. Therian knew he must be down near the docks. He increased his speed to a sprint. He must catch the second man before he escaped.
He came upon the hapless would-be assassin as he hesitated at a fork in the passages. The man turned and drew steel, but Therian sprang upon him with inhuman speed. Like a wolf springing upon a stray calf, Therian caught the panting, stumbling barbarian and rode him to the flagstones. With the dagger lofted over his victim, Therian ripped away the mask. The face was none that he knew.
“Pray, make it a clean death, demon,” gasped the barbarian in the rough speech of the lowlands.
Therian’s polluted mind reeled with oaths to Anduin, but he struggled to control himself. To slay this dog that had thought to assassinate him would be pure sweetness—but he forbade himself the pleasure just yet. He needed to know more of his enemies.
“You will come with me, beast of the field. I would know more of you.”
Summoning his courage, the barbarian managed to draw a broad-bladed dagger from its sheathe and sought to drive it into the demon. Therian knocked the blade from his hand with a laugh. Effortlessly, he hefted the barbarian overhead and carried the sobbing man back into the dark passages. A secret door snicked shut behind them, leaving the dusty halls quiet and peaceful once again.
-10-
Deep within the Castle Corium’s bowels were many forgotten chambers. In days past, every King had retained a sorcerer, and each mysterious delver into the arts of the Dragons had kept chambers deep within the castle. Often, these sorcerers had grown to be perceived as a threat to the crown. In such cases, the sorcerer had been dealt with harshly.
From Ean’s Fifth Volume concerning Corium architecture, Therian had discovered schematics showing chambers long forgotten. Searching by candlelight with a sharp pick in hand, he had broken into one of these chambers, where the skeleton of a nameless court sorcerer still resided. It was in the dead, long-boned fingers of this sorcerer that he had found the black book.
Therian thrust the terrified barbarian through a rough hole punched in an ancient wall of brick and mortar. He then slipped into the chambers behind the man.
The chambers were once sumptuous, but had now moldered with age. Dust and the webworks of long dead spiders festooned the incense braziers. Tapestries hung from the walls, limp and stained. A dozen cages contained the tattered remains of trapped beasts that had died of starvation centuries ago.
“Welcome to my new chambers,” Therian said, grinning at his captive. “Meet the previous tenant.”
Therian indicated the chained skeleton sitting at a small dining table. The barbarian hugged a wall and eyed the skeleton fearfully.
“Does it serve you?” the barbarian asked.
“Nay, it is quite dead. Fortunately, the previous owner hadn’t the craft to turn himself into a lich. I still wonder about the contents of other more ancient chambers that lie sealed more deeply beneath Corium, however.”
“And what intentions do you have for me?” asked the barbarian. With an effort, he drew himself up and attempted a brave front.
“Tell me of this plot against me.”
The barbarian’s brows shot up, then settled down again. “What incentive do I have to tell you anything?”
Therian leered and took a threatening step toward the barbarian, who struggled not to retreat.
“You have your soul to protect. A wise man would beg me not to set their spirit before the Dragons.”
The barbarian made a dismissive gesture. “A man’s death is his own. One is much like another.”
“Not so!” roared Therian, standing impossibly tall. “Fall to your knees before me or your spirit shall serve the Dragons in their eternal slumber, ever fearful they shall awaken, ever horrified that they never shall. Forever will you wonder when your servitude shall end.”
The barbarian found his knees buckling from under him. He did, for the barest moment, allow one of them brush the dusty flagstones before he was able to stand again.
“I repeat, slay me now, demon.”
Therian approached him, impressed with the man’s fortitude. He paused, breathing hard. Therian’s dagger gleamed in his hand, but he did not raise it. “Your bravery does you credit, barbarian. I would know your name.”
“I am Gruum, milord, from the land of Santh.”
“What skills have you that the Chamberlain sought your aid?”
Gruum made a depreciative gesture. “I have some small skill with a blade—and a lockpick.”
“A skulking footpad,” nodded Therian.
Gruum opened his mouth as if to protest, but shrugged instead.
“And what brought you here to slay me, Gruum of Santh?” demanded Therian. “Gold? Were you perhaps promised a frozen province of Hyborea to rule over from an icy tower?”
“No, milord. I came here to bring the sun back to the skies.”
This last surprised Therian, who did pull back a step and ponder the man. With a gesture, he offered the other a seat at the dining table.
With what grace he could muster, Gruum sat at the table alongside a demon and the chained skeleton of a long-dead sorcerer.
Therian grinned at him and watched the lesser man cringe. His grin must be a terrifying sight, he thought. The idea pleased him slightly.
“You are a welcome addition to this table,” Therian said. He indicated the skeleton with disdain, “the court sorcerer is a dull conversationalist.”
Therian watched as Gruum tried to smile, but failed. The barbarian kept his eyes averted from both the figures that sat with him as much as possible.
“And so you came here to rid the world of a Hyborean Prince, in the odd belief this would bring back the sun to your homeland?”
Gruum nodded. “Essentially.”
“I would drag you over this table and slay you this instant, but for two things,” began Therian, startling Gruum, “One, you are a barbarian, and therefore not sworn to me, and therefore not a traitor. Two, I did hear the Chamberlain offer to double your gold, and I did hear you refuse him.”
Gruum nodded. “He promised to place another upon the throne, one not so—forgive me, milord—so weak. He said only a powerful new King of Hyborea could bring back the sun.”
Therian rocked back in his chair, the ancient joints of it creaking in protest. “Think then, man! Have you not just discovered a powerful new King to rule Hyborea?”
Gruum’s mouth fell open. He made no answer.
Therian rose and loomed over him.
“And what sort of King did you believe could beseech the sun to burn hotly once again?”
“I—” stammered Gruum, “I had envisioned a powerful mailed knight.”
“Did you perhaps think a man could relight the sun without the aid of sorcery? Did you daydream that such a powerful sorcerer would be peaceable and kind and beautiful to look upon?”
“I had not thought of these things.”
Therian nodded, and paced for a moment, allowing Gruum to ponder his fate. Therian noticed as Gruum surrept
itiously made an ancient table knife vanish from the boards. It must have been left there after a meal centuries earlier.
Finally, Therian came to a decision. “I give you now a choice, Gruum of Santh. I will shortly be King of this land. I sense within you the power of loyalty, to a cause at least, if not a man. Fortunately for you, I am no less dedicated to the same cause. Therefore I ask for your oath of fealty, I ask you to renounce all other Kings and Lords, I demand your servitude from this moment until one or the other of us perishes, or until the sun is again rekindled.”
Gruum stared at Therian for a long, hard moment.
“And what, milord, might be the second option?”
“Instant death, but without an eternity of servitude to Anduin.”
“A merciful offer indeed, milord.”
Therian nodded.
Gruum rose slowly. To Therian, he looked as if he dreamed. Gruum replaced the table knife he had secreted back upon the boards.
“Good to see you armed yourself. I need a man of resourceful capacity,” Therian said and nodded approvingly.
Gruum walked around the table and fell upon one knee before Therian. He swore fealty to his new lord. He swore to serve him unto death or until the sun was rekindled.
Therian eyed Gruum. The man had set his foot upon a very dark path.
-11-
An hour before dawn, a commotion began in the castle. Therian strode through the corridors, his feet ringing on the stone floors. He wore a jingling shirt of fine chain and bore the twin weights of Seeker and Succor at his sides. Because of King Euvoran’s funeral, the apartments of the castle were more populated than they had been for a decade. Behind the Prince hurried Gruum and the meaty slave with the encased black book.
As they passed chambers, sleepy-eyed nobles looked out to see what the ruckus was about. Seeing Therian, who still had the visage of a wolf, most pulled back quickly into their doorways.
One knight, however, did accost him.
“Milord?” spoke a strong voice out of the darkness. “How may I be of service?”
Therian paused, blinking. He turned upon the man. He recognized Sir Tovus.
Despite all his bravery, the knight did wilt slightly when confronted by Therian’s grim face.
“There is treachery in Corium tonight,” said Therian, “If you yet serve me, the rightful heir to the throne of Hyborea, then gather thyself and thy gear and march with me.”
“I hear your call, milord,” answered Tovus, he turned and barked to his servants. Within a minute, he was hurrying down the corridor behind the others. He wore only a tunic, helm, shield and axe, having sensed there was no time for donning full armor.
When they finally reached the seventh silver tower of Corium, Therian did not bother to knock or ask permission to enter. Wielding his boot with a strength none had ever seen in him, nor any other mortal man, he kicked in the doors to the great portal.
The doors clanged back against their buffers with a great ringing sound. A startled man-at-arms rose from his post and lifted a halberd, seeking to block Therian’s progress.
“Halt!”
Therian bashed him in the face with Succor’s pommel. The man reeled and toppled back into the walls, senseless.
Therian ordered the slave to wait outside and motioned for Sir Tovus and Gruum to follow him. They marched directly to the bedchambers, and there found the Baron Sloan winding back a crossbow.
The Baron took aim as they entered and fired a streaking bolt at Therian. Sir Tovus interceded with his shield. The bolt pierced the iron and wood, but not flesh. Sir Tovus quickly discarded the shield as useless. The knight then stalked forward on the balls of his feet, his axe at the ready.
“I take it we have found the traitor, milord?” rumbled the knight.
“Hold, Tovus, he is mine,” said the prince.
“How dare you invade my chambers at this hour, Therian?” demanded Baron Sloan. “You are not King of this land yet. You have gone too far.”
“It is you who has gone too far, Baron.”
“Do you seek to arrest me?” The Baron roared with laughter.
“Nay, I seek to slay you,” replied Therian.
The Baron rose and drew his sword, laughing at them. “Such bravado! I give you credit Princeling, I never would have expected it of you. Guards!”
Several retainers appeared at the exits.
“Have a care, princeling,” said the Baron. “I count five men-at-arms, and I only see a boy with an old knight and a thief at his side.”
Therian lifted Seeker and Succor and stepped forward. “I challenge you to a duel, Baron Sloan.”
The Baron’s eyes narrowed. “You profane those blades with your weak hands upon them.”
“Prove your words.”
With a snarl, Sloan attacked him, and Therian parried, giving ground. Therian counterattacked, and quickly the Baron’s eyes showed shock. Each of Therian’s blows jarred and numbed his limbs. He was driven back with a flurry of powerful strokes that such thin arms should never have been able to muster.
Therian sang a battlesong in Dragon Speech. Everyone present felt pain to hear the alien words.
“Sorcery!” panted the Baron, retreating before the onslaught. “Blue worm, you are no man!”
Gleeful, Therian drove Seeker’s gleaming tip into his breast. More dark words spilled from the prince’s lips.
“Anduin!” cried the dying Baron, seeing the unseen. Blood boiled from his mouth and nostrils.
A sickly, baleful, green glow filled the room with cold light. Therian howled inarticulately as he began to receive Anduin’s burning gift.
A great swipe of Sir Tovus’ axe swept the Baron’s head from his shoulders. Therian’s pleasure was cut off instantly.
Therian turned upon the man with a snarl.
Sir Tovus fell to one knee, as did everyone else in the chamber.
“Forgive me, milord, his death was unclean.”
Therian lifted Seeker, his face twisted with the anger of a lord cheated of his climax. He advanced upon Sir Tovus, but managed to check himself.
“You take a great risk,” said Therian, speaking with difficulty, “When the bloodlust is upon me, such an act might well cause your life to be forfeit.”
“Forgive me, oh lord,” repeated the knight.
Therian allowed his swords to sag down again.
Another set of doors opened behind him, and Therian whirled.
It was the fair Maiden Sloan. She screamed. For a moment, seeing the horror in her face, Therian did feel a pang of regret through the haze of blood in his eyes.
He turned to Gruum. “Upon pain of death, you spoke true words to me of her?”
“Yes milord,” murmured Gruum regretfully.
Therian turned to the Maiden Sloan, and for a moment was at a loss as to what to do. Then he thought of the dying words of his father. He could not afford to be a soft ruler. These were hard times.
He lifted up the Baron’s slack-jawed head by the hair. He presented it to the Maiden Sloan, who screamed with renewed horror. She too, fell to her knees before him.
“You who played me false shall be my queen and shall warm my bed, which has lain cold for so many long years.”
Outside in the dark streets of the dark city, a cold wind blew. Maiden Sloan’s wails of grief echoed through the seven silver towers of Corium, and her cries heralded a new gray dawn over the kingdom.
Gruum
-1-
Maiden Sloan became a Queen the evening after Hyborea crowned Therian their new King. The shrine used for the purpose was a private one, reserved for the royal family. It was a gloomy, barren chamber without windows or adornment. The dim ceiling was shadowy and soot-stained from years of oil lamps and neglect. Wisp-like cobwebs floated in the corners.
Gruum looked down at his thick forearms and his sure hand, which he knew could wield a swift blade. In his homeland and abroad he had fought in open battles, in back alleys and in tavern brawls. He feared few men
and could take care of himself. Still and all, the dragon priestess made him a bit nervous. He noted that the priestess, in turn, eyed the new King with concern.
The elderly priestess wore fine robes of jet, signifying that she belonged to the cabal of Anduin, the Black Dragon. With many a stray glance to the weeping bride and the wolfish groom, the priestess performed the ceremony with little grace. Sacrificial benedictions were made, bleeding organs were consulted and the Dragons were called upon in their eternal slumber to bless the union. It was over quickly.
“Your hand trembles like that of a drunkard,” Therian complained as he pressed a few coins into the priestess’ hand.
“Pardon me, milord,” said the priestess, her old eyes watery and blinking. “Your countenance is somewhat alarming.”
Therian lifted his lip in a snarl and led away his new bride. Gruum and the priestess watched them go. Gruum had consented to witnessing the ceremony, but was not without his misgivings.
“I won’t ask how she was persuaded to utter her vows,” said the priestess quietly, “but no doubt she fears for her family.”
Gruum eyed the old holy woman with distaste. He had no love of the Hyborean priesthoods, whatever dragon they worshipped. They lived for blood sacrifices and petty powers, it seemed to him. “Her family is royalty now,” he told the priestess coldly. “They need fear nothing.”
“Indeed?” said the priestess skeptically.
“Nothing,” repeated Gruum emphatically.
“Of course not,” agreed the priestess, changing her tone hurriedly. “I meant no offense.” Then she lowered her voice. “I am concerned, however. I do not believe this marriage bodes well for the kingdom. I can’t see how it can bring happiness.”
Gruum sighed and nodded grudgingly. It was a point that was hard to argue.
The priestess paused before turning a frown upon Gruum. “How is it that you would bear witness to such a union?”
Gruum turned to the old woman with raised eyebrows. He snorted at the hypocrisy. “How is it that you would bestow your blessing upon such a union?”