by Jack Conner
The captain of the castle guard bowed to Baleron and said, “Logran sent word that we’re to let you through.”
Baleron noticed three mages standing behind the captain. Good. He was almost glad to see Throgmar, especially after the day’s events, but he didn’t quite trust the old dragon and hoped the sorcerers could provide some protection should the Worm turn.
“Open the Gates,” Baleron ordered.
The gates, amidst much swearing and grunting and grinding of gears, were thrown wide, admitting the harsh light of day into the dark hall. Baleron stepped outside and instantly had to shield his eyes from the sun, but it was not bright enough to obliterate the image of Throgmar, the ancient Worm, arrogant and full of raw power, given to greed and rancor and a general air of seediness and faded majesty. He awed Baleron, and the prince remembered his glimpse of the great Leviathan, deep in Oksil, lying upon his vast golden hoard as though it were his throne.
As he descended the stairs that led down to the square, Baleron said, loudly, for the benefit of those watching from afar, “Mighty Throgmar, it’s I, Prince Baleron, he with whom you treated long days before.”
The Worm regarded him with huge amber eyes, and his gigantic whiskered, horned and armored head dipped to hover over the young man, who was erect but stained with blood concealed beneath the shining suit of golden armor. The dragon’s quivering nostrils sent hot drafts of air to ruffle the prince’s dark hair and scorch his cheeks, making them red. Baleron was tempted to put the visor down but resisted; he wanted the dragon to see his eyes.
“THE DAYS ARE NOT SO LONG,” rumbled the Worm, and his strangely accented voice was as Baleron remembered it, heavy and low and rolling, but rough and filled with age and weariness.
“Much of woe has happened since, and they are long to me,” Baleron responded, then paused thoughtfully. “Was your hoard of gold and jewels destroyed when Oksil blew?”
“AYE, THAT IT WAS. BUT THINK NOT THAT THAT PUTS ME IN A POORER POSITION TO BARGAIN. I AM NO PAUPER COME TO BEG FAVORS FROM THE KING.”
“Indeed.” Baleron cleared his throat. “On behalf of Havensrike, I thank you for your aid at Gulrothrog, Mighty Throgmar, and on the occasion before.”
“I HAVE COME TO CLAIM MY REWARD.”
“And you’ll have it. In fact, if you can help us with our current problem, you’ll have even more than I promised.”
“WHAT CAN YOU GIVE ME?”
“We have much of land, and gold to replenish your hoard. Perhaps the Kadrick Mountains to the east would suit you for a home. It’s my understanding that dragons prefer mountains.”
“LAND IS NOT MY PRICE. NOR GOLD.”
Baleron frowned. Waited.
“TELL ME, WHERE IS THE KING? I WILL NOT MAKE DEALS WITH PRINCES WHEN KINGS ARE AT HAND.”
“He sent me in his stead.”
“I HAVE GRAVE INTELLIGENCE, NEWS HE MUST HEAR.”
“I shall see,” said the prince slowly.
He turned back to the gates to see the three sorcerers emerge, carrying their staffs of office and looking hard. The lead sorcerer—a short stout man with a long full black beard, whose name, the prince recalled, was Nebben—said, “He’s decided to remain behind the castle walls—a wise policy when dealing with hellspawn.”
“Hellspawn!” fumed Baleron. He spun to Throgmar. Angrily, he said, “For once and all, are you in Gilgaroth’s employ?”
The dragon regarded him coldly. “THAT IS NOT THE INFORMATION I HAVE COME TO BARTER FOR, AND I WILL NOT PART WITH IT. NOW I DEMAND TO SPEAK WITH LORD GROTHGAR! I HAVE URGENT BUSINESS WITH HIM!”
Nebben shook his head. “Demons have had enough urgent business with him today, thank you. He’s already been nearly assassinated twice thus far, and he will not make it more. So if you want to bargain, bargain with Prince Baleron.”
“Indeed,” said one of the other sorcerers.
“So it is,” said the other.
Both were tall and willowy and fair, and could have been brothers. Perhaps they were. They deferred to Nebben.
“Speak with me, Great Throgmar,” Baleron said. “I consider you a friend, and I hope you feel the same for me. What is it you wish as your price?”
Slowly, Throgmar sucked in a deep breath, then let it out in one great terrible bellow:
“YOUR KINGDOM!” the dragon roared. “YOUR PUNY, MORTAL KINGDOM!”
The prince’s blood ran cold. He’d made a terrible, terrible mistake, he could see that now. And he was about to pay for it with his life. Gods, but he was a fool!
Before he could truly register what was going on, Throgmar opened his fang-ridden mouth, and a blazing column of fire shot, breaking apart the Grothgar Gates and setting the exploding remnants ablaze along with half the soldiery waiting within. The other half were mostly crushed by falling debris.
A rain of arrows fell upon the Worm from countless narrow arrow-slits, but all bounced off his impenetrable armor.
Nebben, eyes wide and nostrils flaring, thrust out his staff toward the dragon. A great ball of light began gathering on the staff’s tip.
Before Nebben could fire, however, the two fair, subordinate sorcerers who could have been brothers turned their staffs on their master. A green fire erupted from ends of their staffs and punched into Nebben from behind. The senior sorcerer screamed and sank to his knees, clawing futilely at his greenly-smoking back, then crumpled in death.
Baleron cursed. Rauglir’s evil knew no bounds. The demon had apparently created many werewolves in his week here, and it looked as if even some of the mages, who should have known better if anyone should have, had succumbed to the seductive charms of the king’s daughter.
Throgmar blasted the castle’s façade, roasting a hundred hidden archers in a heartbeat and maiming many more.
Baleron’s soul ached at this betrayal. He vowed revenge, even as the fair sorcerers who’d slain Nebben turned their staffs on him.
Knowing he was about to die, he shook a fist at them and said, “End it!”
“No, you shall live,” one said. “Your part in this is not yet finished.”
“It is! It must be! I can’t go on like this!”
The mage’s twin smiled. “And yet it’s been decreed otherwise. You are the death of your fellows, the blight of your loved ones. You are the Ender. Roschk ul Ravast!”
Roschk ul Ravast!” said his brother.
Throgmar’s lance of fire swept upwards towards the high balcony that jutted from Albrech’s suite, and, squinting, Baleron could make out his father and Logran, Kenbrig and Larik. Logran held his ground, staff out, while the others fled inside.
After the fires subsided, Logran still stood, unharmed, though the balcony smoked around him. He hurled down a ball of white towards the fair mages, and they scrambled out of the way as it exploded the stone where they’d just been.
Baleron, seeing it coming, also ran. He fled sideways along the stairs, afraid to go towards the blackened gates, where the brothers were, and afraid to go down, where Throgmar waited. Shrapnel from Logran’s blast tore into his armor but didn’t puncture it, though the shockwave nearly knocked him off his feet.
Throgmar moved.
With a mighty sweep of his wings, the Great Worm launched himself into the air and strove towards the highest reaches of the keep. His fire torched the balcony where the king had stood moments before, but Albrech and the others, even Logran, having disappeared within.
So, Baleron thought, this then was just another ploy to assassinate the king. He wondered how Gilgaroth had forced Throgmar—who hated him—to do this ... or had those earlier instances been mere shams, acts to deceive Baleron and the people of Havensrike so that they would admit Throgmar past their shields today, when it was evidently convenient to have the King and the Archmage dead? It did seem carefully staged, and Gilgaroth had certainly proven himself a master at designing such schemes, what with the holocaust at Oksil and the fall of Celievsti.
Baleron scrambled to find a way out of this night
mare. He couldn’t trust Rondthril, not against direct agents of the Dark One, and he hadn’t worn a ceremonial dagger to the Council meeting as had Kenbrig, so the only weapons he had against the fair-haired mages were his hands.
When he looked up, the brothers were gone.
Baleron rose and dashed for the smoking, blasted main doors of the castle.
SMASH! He was knocked to his feet. The air filled with dust. A huge chunk of marble had smashed to the floor just outside the gates.
It occurred to Baleron as he rose to his feet, coughing, that Castle Grothgar was not nearly the impenetrable bastion that Ungier’s fortress had been—that by comparison the seat of government in Havensrike was puny. It was not embedded in a mountain but exposed for all to see, and it was much smaller. Already he felt the earthquake-like trembling, and dust drifted down from the ceiling as Throgmar knocked one of the towers down; Baleron could hear the noise, feel the vibration in his feet. He had to get to his father, had to make sure the king escaped. It was now clear to Baleron that the castle was doomed—that it would fall within minutes.
He rushed through the fiery, quaking halls, cutting through the mobs of fleeing people and shouting captains, to find Logran leading Albrech and a bleeding Kenbrig down a main hall towards a flight of steps. Deep grief touched Albrech’s face, and Baleron wondered where Larik was.
Logran saw his confusion and said, “A falling stone slew your brother.”
“Crushed him,” elaborated Kenbrig to Baleron. “Thanks to your dragon.”
“My dragon?”
“You caused all this. You brought all this upon us. If not for you, Father would have killed it.”
Could my Doom have done this? Baleron wondered. Or was it simply my stupidity?
“We don’t have time for this,” said Logran.
“But he’s right,” said the king, showing some signs of life. His hard gaze seemed to stare straight through Baleron, as though he were not even there, as if the youngest prince no longer existed. “This is Baleron’s fault.”
“We can sort out the blame later,” Baleron growled. “First let’s get you to safety.”
He bounded down the stairs with Logran shepherding the king and the Heir down after him. The castle continued to fall apart around them, and when they reached a lower hall that led out a rear entrance to the gardens, a huge supporting column toppled and fell. It would have crushed Baleron utterly, as he was in the lead, but Logran aimed his staff at the prince and a bubble of crackling blue energy encased him. The column collapsed on him, exploding into fragments and dust, but miraculously the impact did not touch him. As the dust cleared, he blinked his eyes in surprise. He was unharmed.
The protective bubble dissipated. Before he had time to thank the sorcerer, an awful saurian roar shook the hall and a grinding of toppling stones sent shockwaves through Baleron’s bones.
“Lead on!” shouted Logran.
Baleron led them to the gardens. They still loomed greenly all around, but falling stones and debris had crushed much and they were not so beautiful now. Baleron was glad to see that the aviary was still intact. Mother. Hundreds of other refugees from the castle streamed out of various exits into the gardens, and it was chaos. All was fear and confusion. Wailing rent the air.
“Into the maze!” called Logran.
Taking the lead, he ushered his charges into the hedge maze. The prince saw no point in this, as the dragon would still be able to see them from above if he cared to look, but he followed. Down one green corridor and another the sorcerer led, skirting the dead ends, and at last they reached one of the many bright spots of the labyrinth, a white gazebo straddling a clear blue brook.
Logran swept dirt and grass away with a foot.
“Ah-ha!” He located a circular hole just a few inches wide and, placing the top end of his staff in it, said, “Open!”
A round cover perhaps a yard in diameter slid away, revealing a yawning darkness.
“Lights,” said the sorcerer, and the hole was lit by urns within.
“What’s this?” asked Albrech, suddenly suspicious. He’d been betrayed once too many times today.
Logran smiled. “A hidey-hole I made long ago—one of many—for just such occasions. Here, I’ll show you, though I cannot stay. I must drive Throgmar away.” Without another word, he descended a ladder inset in the wall of the hole to the chamber at the bottom. “Come,” he beckoned.
Reluctantly, the king followed him, and then Kenbrig.
Baleron refused.
“What are you waiting for?” demanded Logran. “Come on down before the dragon finds us.”
“No,” said Baleron. With a glance toward the aviary, he added, “But I’ll be along soon.”
He left the hole and re-entered the hedge maze. Splendid, he thought. Now how do I get through this? It had changed much in the last three years. He dashed down a corridor that looked to go in the proper direction, but it quickly led him astray, and he chose one wrong turn after the other until he was cursing and beside himself. Behind him he heard the cries of panicked people, the destruction of the castle, and the frequent roars of the Worm.
There’s one sure way through a labyrinth, Baleron thought, and used Rondthril to hack his way through the green walls, shrub by shrub, until he was free.
The aviary stood unmolested before him. Entering it, he hunted desperately through the chambers, wondering where she would be today.
He found chamber of the tree house and, thankful for the lightness of his enchanted armor, began ascending trees (cursing his gauntleted hands; Logran had not improved those) until he reached the trapdoor leading up into his mother’s home. He wrenched it open and hove into the tree house, impatient to be on his way.
“Mother!” he called. “Mother!”
No response.
“Mo-ther!”
Still nothing.
Frantically he searched through the rooms, one after the other, until the only place he hadn’t looked was her bedchambers. He knocked on them, hesitant to break in, but when no one answered he kicked the doors wide.
Sprawled on the bed, his mother’s corpse laid in a heap, torn and bloodied, a savaged ruin. Astride her, covered with her still-dripping blood, crouched the dark form of Rauglir, wolf eyes shining.
Chapter 14
Baleron screamed.
Rauglir growled.
The prince unsheathed Rondthril with a steely ring, wondering, with the small part of him that was still capable of rational thought, if the blade would even work. It might depend on whether the demon was about the Shadow’s business or doing this for sheer pleasure,
“I thought I’d find you here,” Rauglir said.
Baleron roared and leapt on the wolf, letting Rondthril lead the way. He hacked and sliced. Rauglir dodged aside, laughing.
He nipped at the prince’s ankles. Enraged, Baleron chopped down, blind to all save fury. Rondthril heard him. It lived for vengeance, for hate. Perhaps that alone could overcome its allegiance to the dark powers’ will, if indeed Rauglir was about it.
The wolf dashed through the doorway, and Baleron followed. It ran to the balcony and leapt over the railing onto a thick branch, where it turned about. Smiled. Its sharp teeth dripped with the blood of Baleron’s mother.
Baleron put a hand on the wooden rail, intending to leap over it onto the branch, but hesitated.
Rauglir laughed. “Can’t do it in your armor, can you?”
Baleron stepped back. He couldn’t even think he was so enraged. “Why won’t you fight me? Why do you run?”
“Because I lied,” said Rauglir. “My Master does want you alive, if it can be arranged. And your armor is too strong, I think, if I chose not to arrange it.”
Baleron tore off his helm and let it fall, exposing the unprotected flesh of his face. “Come,” he called. “Come and kill me if you can!”
Rauglir laughed again. Baleron detested the sound. He hated this creature above all others—more than Gilgaroth, more than Ung
ier. Only Throgmar, who’d pretended at friendship and betrayed him, vied with this foul thing for the top position on his list of revenge.
He wanted to ask Rauglir why it had done this. Why kill the queen? She was not a commander and could never be one. Her death served no purpose. But, of course, he knew. Rauglir had done this, had freed himself from the swords impaling him to the king’s floor and come here rather than simply escape the doomed castle and its grounds—it had come here and slain the Queen—because he knew it would have this effect on Baleron.
“You want to drive me insane!” Baleron said.
“Your mind doesn’t interest me, my love. I only want to see your pain. That’s what pleases me. By the way, your mother’s screams were delicious. Her meat tender. Tasty. Juicy. It was an honor to devour her, the mother of ul Ravast, she who bore my dearest lover. She was a good lay, too.”
“Bastard!”
Rauglir smiled. He was clearly basking in the moment. “And you are dear to me, Baleron. So sweet, so fragile. The best lover I ever had.”
Baleron bellowed, a sound of primal hate and pain, and Rauglir drank it up greedily.
Maddened past the point of reason, Baleron hurled Rondthril at the creature, but Rauglir saw it coming and leapt to the next branch down. Rondthril bounced off the tree and fell to the ground far below.
The werewolf’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll see you again,” it promised, and jumped to the next branch down, and the next. Soon he was lost to sight.
When he could see the demon no more, Baleron sank to his armored knees and wept, long and loud and wretchedly. It was the worst day of his life.
And it was not over yet.
The roar of the dragon startled him. Tears would have to wait, he realized.
First he went to his mother’s body to make sure she was truly dead and that there was nothing he could do for her. There was nothing, save to close her staring eyes. He retrieved his helm and climbed down the tree to the ground, where he collected Rondthril and replaced it in the scabbard that had come with this suit of armor, but not before cursing the blade soundly.