by Jack Conner
He crept down the dark staircase and past the bodies of the two slain Borchstogs, noting that no one had found them yet, but he could not expect his luck to hold.
Lunir waited for him nervously on the terrace, and the bird uttered a quiet caw at seeing him, perhaps of fear.
“I know, old boy,” Baleron told him. “I don’t like this place either.”
It occurred to him that Lunir should feel right at home here. The bird must have been altered by his time in the Light.
Baleron jumped into the glarum’s saddle, lashed himself in, and took off into the skies. He held his breath once more as they entered the aerial moat of flying dragons, but the dragons, perhaps sensing Rondthril, gave way, opening a hole in their lethal screen, and he slipped through, marveling at his good fortune. Surely, he thought, this was the working of his Doom.
The Black Tower, also known as the Tower of Fire—Krogbur, Gilgaroth had named it—receded behind him, but only slowly. It was taller than a mountain. The inferno blazed brightly, and Baleron wondered if it truly could be the Inferno—the Second Hell come to earth.
He’d made note of Throgmar’s direction upon the Worm’s departure, and he aimed Lunir that way now. They headed southeast, deeper into the Black Land. He steeled himself for a long flight, and hours passed during which the neverending bleakness of Oslog assaulted his mind. They flew over vast black wastes populated by smoking volcanoes, and giant nightmarish creatures roamed below, mutants and crossbred horrors and vast beasts that shook the earth.
Slowly the terrain gave way to a fractured land, a terrain torn apart and sewn together and torn apart again, a land of gaping chasms and belching geysers of flame. Enormous energies had been expended here, even Baleron could tell that. Perhaps a warring ground of the Omkar, long ago? Whatever it was, it was a ruin. Occasionally slabs of earth would buck and grind and slide into other slabs, throwing up clouds of dust and debris and peppering the air with thunder.
He flew over Borchstog settlements, or the tips of them, as they were mostly underground. He saw a few human towns also, though he was too high up to study them in detail. He wondered what manner of Men could serve such a terrible master. Was it true that, after the Fall, all Men had served Gilgaroth?
Always he guided Lunir toward the barely perceptible speck on the horizon that was Throgmar. Sometimes the sky turned too black to see the dragon, and on then he relied on sheer luck, or sheer Doom. They seemed the same at this point.
As if hell-bent, Throgmar flew on relentlessly, driven by a fierce passion. He did not rest. He did not eat. He did not sleep. Baleron was obliged to follow him without stopping.
The prince did eat, however—leftover game he’d caught in the preceding days, as well as drink from water stored in gourds and containers. He fed Lunir from the same store, having run out of birdseed. He did what he needed to do from his high saddle, even managing to take some rest, after first lashing himself securely in place. Lunir was far from a smooth flier, and there were many sudden updrafts and downdrafts in this wicked sky. The prince’s stomach heaved constantly and on more than one occasion he became nauseous and ill.
Often he wondered when Lunir’s strength would give out, but it seemed that, whether he’d turned goodly or not, the bird was able to draw power from this land and go on.
At the end of the second day, Throgmar approached a range of ragged mountains looming up from the highlands. The Great Worm threaded his way through them, Baleron at a discreet distance behind, until he reached the largest peak. Snow-capped and seemingly violet under the moonlight, it boasted many old watchtowers that had fallen into disrepair and looked to have been abandoned.
Throgmar set down on a snowy slope before a grand opening, a black portal into the heart of the mountain. Without hesitating, the dragon disappeared within. There was a strange look in his amber eyes as he vanished from sight.
Baleron set Lunir down on a ridge somewhat above the opening and to the side, and slipped off Lunir’s back.
It felt only too good to be free of the saddle. He walked up and down, stretching his legs, getting the kinks out. Lunir lay down and closed his eyes; the prince did not blame him.
Baleron had evidently reached Worthrick Mountain. Over the last two days, he’d developed a keen interest in what had drawn the traitorous Worm here. Vengeance could wait. In fact, if his suspicions were correct, an even more satisfying vengeance might be at hand. Dark wheels turned in his mind.
Quickly, he removed the ensorcelled armor from the satchels he’d stored it in and donned the gleaming pieces. As always, the armor was light and silent and if Logran’s words were true it should prove a worthy defense against dragon fire.
“Stay here,” he told Lunir.
He turned his back on the bird and crept down the slope, skidding on the icy snow, till he reached the broad area before the opening. Age-stained ruins of past watchtowers reared nearby. Perhaps there’d been a mighty bastion here in ancient times, before Gilgaroth’s armies had swept further north and west, expanding his foul empire.
The hairs on the nape of his neck standing up, Baleron entered the place of shadows, gripping the hilt of his sword nervously—the mundane sword, not Rondthril. Rondthril rested on his opposite hip, but he didn’t dare to use it.
He moved up the enormous tunnel cautiously. Though the suit of armor was quiet, his clumsy feet might not be, especially in this gloom. He paused, giving his eyes time to adjust, and inched forwards. Twists and turns greeted him. Corridors split and branched. Always he kept to the main avenue.
At last he reached a huge cavern, bathed in shadow save for an unnatural bonfire in the very center of the room. The flames burned high, silent, and green. The green at its core burned darker than at its fingers. Green light flickered on the cave walls and green-tinted shadows lunged and cavorted across its fissures, dancing to unheard music and unheard rhythms.
Stretched before the fire, a dragon slumbered, and even Baleron, untrained in such things, could tell it was female. Long and finely boned, with elegant features and beautiful coloration of sparkling sapphire and pink and blue, her body was mostly hairless, unlike the Betrayer’s, except for a beautiful and well-groomed mane that grew along the back of her long, elegant neck all the way to the tip of her forked tail. The hair was reddish-gold. Green light glittered across her shiny scales. Her eyes were closed. Her chest rose and fell.
Throgmar stood over her. His great bulk made her lesser one look frail and delicate. He seemed to study her, an oddly tender expression on his wizened face.
“FELESTRATA,” he breathed.
Slowly, he reached out a claw and stroked her face. She stirred slightly, but did not wake. Her eyes stayed shut.
He sighed, a great deep dragon sigh.
To himself, he said, “HOW LONG DOES A POTION TAKE TO WEAR OFF? I WISH YOU WERE AWAKE TO TELL ME, FELI. YOU KNOW MORE OF THOSE ARTS THAN I.” He sighed again, and this time he sounded contented. “I SUPPOSE I SHALL HAVE TO WAIT.”
To Baleron’s surprise, the mighty Leviathan lay down on his side and curled up alongside the female Worm, Felestrata, with his scaly stomach to her ridged back. Under the disbelieving gaze of the prince, the traitorous reptile closed his own amber eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly drifted off to sleep.
This made Baleron’s dark plan all the sweeter. His mouth twisted into a savage grin.
Throgmar had taken from him everything he loved. Not only that, but with his betrayal the Worm may have well doomed Havensrike. If it weren’t for him, Rauglir’s scheming would have come to naught. Rauglir never even would’ve been dispatched to infiltrate the human court in the first place, not without Throgmar to do his part.
Throgmar was responsible for it all—for all of Baleron’s problems. Throgmar had pretended at friendship only to gain a toehold with which to deceive, and deceive he had, and now he would suffer for it. He’d pretended to aid the hosts of Larenthi and Havensrike by assaulting Gulrothrog, thus staying their retreat and keepin
g enough of them alive so that Rauglir could infiltrate them and be taken to Celievsti. Tens of thousands had died because of this foul Worm. And what had he done next? He’d destroyed Grothgar Castle under pretense of friendship, set fire to half the town and spelled the end of even more thousands.
And now he would get his happy ending? He would lay with his beloved—surely another wicked Darkworm?
Baleron did not think so.
Filled with hate, he drew his longsword and stepped forward into the cavern. Throgmar, sleeping soundly, did not move.
The prince took another step, wary eyes on the Betrayer. His sword shone greenly in the light. He edged closer. Closer. His mind burned. He would repay the damned Worm. He would repay him in kind.
Felestrata, perhaps half-conscious, shifted in her sleep so that she lay against her paramour, if that was his role. Her lower jaw hung partway open. Like Throgmar, she was huge, larger than any other Worms the prince had seen, and her mouth was likewise enormous, a cavern unto itself, complete with saliva-dripping stalactites and stalagmites. A red tongue, not forked, gleamed wetly. An almost decorative set of horns on the top of her head angled backwards, giving her the impression of having windswept hair. She was almost angelic in slumber.
Yet how many Men had she murdered? How many Elves had she set aflame, or Dwarves torn apart? Even if she’d never slain an innocent, she was evil. Who else would consort with the likes of Throgmar?
Baleron inched forward, almost holding his breath.
The huge winged shapes of the Worms loomed vastly above him, their strange musks surrounding him, and he bathed in their raw power; it crept from their pores like their scents, overpowering and oppressive. How could he get this close? Surely it was impossible. This must be the working of his Doom.
If so, I give myself over to it.
He took another step. Another.
The cavern was very silent. Green shapes leapt and chased each other along the walls and the glittering bodies of the dragons, even on the prince’s shining armor. He held his sword high. The air lay cold upon him, yet sweat stood out on his brow. This was madness.
He stepped around Felestrata’s extended claws, actually stepping over one. She twitched it in her sleep, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
When she continued to doze, he recovered himself. Just a few more steps.
He passed along her glittering neck and her red-gold mane, her back-sweeping horns, and her finely-boned face. Finally he approached her slack jaw and found himself staring into her great gaping mouth. What breath! Yet it didn’t smell as bad as it could have—not nearly as bad as Throgmar’s (which could be noticed from here), so Baleron steeled himself and stepped into that yawning wet cavern with teeth as long as he was. He trod on her red tongue, holding out his arms for balance. It was squishy. Her huge mouth surrounded him. Sound echoed strangely. There was an odd, acidic smell rising from her gullet.
Almost done. He expected her to wake up at any moment, but apparently the potion had not worn off yet. Good.
She shifted her head and he nearly lost his nerve, but his course was set and there was no going back.
Sometimes having to brace himself against a slimy fang, he walked to the very rear of her mouth, where he could stare right down her throat, and looked up. Her braincase would be directly above the roof of her mouth here. Dragon brains being large, it would be difficult to miss assuming he could thrust deeply enough.
Her head was angled sideways and he was walking near the edge of her tongue. Now he carefully made his way down the tongue to where her head lay against Throgmar’s scaly, hairy neck, and from there he climbed across her teeth and over the inside of her mouth to its pink-red roof.
He raised his sword. Took a breath. This was it.
I can still turn back.
He shook the thought away, angrily.
Grinding his teeth, he plunged the blade home, right into her brain. She convulsed violently. He ripped the sword out, then stabbed into Felestrata’s brain again. Then again. His feet slipped as she thrashed, but he would not let himself fall.
Already Throgmar was waking, his lover’s bucking disturbing his slumber. He groaned sleepily, confused.
Baleron chanced another plunge, and Felestrata’s convulsions ceased forever. The beautiful she-Worm was dead.
Throgmar roared.
Baleron yanked the blade free. Blood spurted. Burning inside with a thousand conflicting feelings—shame and euphoria chief among them—he scrambled from Felestrata’s cavernous mouth and onto open ground.
Throgmar saw him.
“MURDERER!” he shouted coarsely. “MURDERER!”
Flame licked his terrible maw. A column of fire shot from his throat and drenched Baleron even as he fled. Heat consumed Baleron, and he cried out, but the suit preserved him, warding off the worst of the blast.
Heart pounding, he fled for the entrance tunnel.
When Throgmar saw that his fires had failed to destroy the assassin, he shook himself into action. His baleful gaze went from the murderer to his beloved, and he was torn whether to stay with her corpse or to avenge her.
“FELESTRATA,” he said, still not sure if she might have life in her yet. “FELI.”
He shook her gently, but she was limp. Blood trickled from her open mouth. Her chest had ceased to rise and fall. It was then that he knew for certain she was gone, and, cradling her limp form in his forelegs, he raised his head to the ceiling and let out an anguished roar, a howl of loss and despair. Stones shook, and the ceiling cracked under the weight of his sorrow.
Red rage filling him, he left Felestrata’s side and plunged through the tunnel after the assassin. Smoke wreathed his maw and poured from his nostrils, trailing behind him like an acrid shadow.
Baleron reached the tunnel opening and slipped outside. Sweat stinging his eyes, he scrambled up the snowy side of Worthrick, desperate to get to Lunir before Throgmar could catch him.
It was close. Just as Throgmar emerged from the mountain, Baleron reached the crow’s nest and called, “Get up, you lazy thing! Get!”
Lunir, who’d still been napping, cracked an eye. Seeing the speed and frenzy of his master’s approach, he immediately hopped up, spry for a bird of his years.
Baleron jumped into the saddle and spurred the glarum, and the ground began to recede beneath them.
Lunir caught sight of Throgmar then, and Throgmar caught sight of them. The glarum let out a fearful squawk and shot off even faster into the sky. Baleron held on tight.
The dragon roared, promising a rain of fire, and launched himself after them. His amber eyes narrowed to slits of hate and glowed with an inner fire, easily penetrating the gloom of the night. Nothing could hide from his dragon gaze without the aid of powerful sorcery, and for all the charms on Baleron’s armor none was one of invisibility—for which oversight Baleron soundly began cursing Logran.
Throgmar fired a column of flame, and its heat singed Lunir even at a distance, but the smaller, faster glarum outpaced the bulky Leviathan, at least for the moment. Dragons were capable of great speed at times, and they did not tire easily. Glarums, by comparison, were fleet and nimble, good at dodging but poor at flying great distances, and Lunir was worn out by the last days of constant flight, the energies of Oslog notwithstanding.
Both fliers, however, mainly ran now on sheer adrenaline, and so were at their peaks ... for however long they could sustain them.
Baleron angled Lunir up into the dark nighttime clouds, hoping to lose Throgmar in them as he’d lost him before.
The Great Worm followed him into the smoky masses, lancing the darkness with flame. Lunir dodged.
Baleron hunkered low so that he offered the wind as little resistance as he could, and shouted encouragements at the crow.
“MURDERER!” Throgmar roared at their backs. “I WILL FIND YOU! I WILL EAT YOU!” A minute later he added, “FIRST I SHALL MAKE YOU KNOW SUCH PAIN THAT YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD NEVER BEEN BORN!”
Baler
on wanted to tell him that he’d already known that pain. Why else would he have done what he had?
The dragon’s bursts issued too close, so Baleron angled Lunir downwards, leaving the cover of the clouds, and shot towards the peaks below. Weaving in and out of the jagged mountains, Baleron eluded Throgmar.
The Worm spotted them, however, as he left one cloud for another, and dove down after them, spewing flame.
He blew a furious column of fire that scoured a mountaintop just as Lunir flew over it; the dragon missed his mark, though he brought ruin to the mountain.
“DIE!” he shouted. “I WILL ROAST YOU, HUMAN, AS YOU WOULD ROAST A DUCK! THE SKY SHALL BE MY OVEN!”
A sword of fire followed these words, but again Lunir dodged behind a mountain. One narrow dodge followed another.
At last, however, Lunir shot out over a land of mists, where a white and cottony shroud stretched from mountain to mountain, obscuring the whole jagged range except for the sharp peaks that jutted out of the whiteness, as if the mountains drowned in some low-lying cloud, their peaks gasping for breath, anxious not to be overcome by the rising tide of mist.
Baleron angled Lunir down into the mist, thinking that surely not even dragon eyes could penetrate such a clinging, ghostly veil.
Some dark foreboding made him reach for Rondthril, which hung on his left side, the other weapon on his right.
He gripped its hilt, feeling its frustration. It had wanted to be the one to slay Felestrata; it had wanted to aid in its master’s vengeance.
“Next time,” he promised it.
The white layer of mist swallowed him and Lunir both, and the glarum dove down deep into its bosom seeking refuge.
Above, Throgmar roared.
“YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM ME!” he boasted.
He followed them into the cloud. The mist had swallowed all three.
The whiteness turned dark the further down they went, the moonlight too frail to illuminate this cottony gloom.