by Jack Conner
Fear knotted in Baleron’s stomach. Gone was his nonchalance. The Borchstogs of Gulrothrog had never seemed to regard torture with such ... reverence. With dread he watched as Ghrozm gestured at an underling, who wheeled over a tray laden with instruments of ul Undracost. Sharp and smooth, or jagged, or blunt, and more, many more, with such diversity it stunned Baleron, and he knew not what many instruments were for, but all flamed in the light of the brazier.
Lovingly, Ghrozm selected what looked like a set of scissors.
Baleron felt himself trying to twist away. No, he told himself. I will face this like a man. I dug this hole, and in it I will lie, and likely die.
Ghrozm touched the cold metal of the scissors to Baleron’s abdomen. Baleron shivered.
Seeing this, Ghrozm smiled. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yessss.” There was a tremor in his voice now, so moved was he by what he was about to do.
His scissors pinched a small fold of Baleron’s skin between their shining legs. Ghrozm said, “I keep this sacred flesh for rest of days. Preserve it. Worship it. Pass it on to Firstborn.”
He sliced. Baleron screamed.
They tortured him. Savagely. The pain was incredible. He’d known this was coming, but it was still a shock. The Borchstogs lashed him with whips and burnt him with red-hot pokers. His flesh hissed and smoked, and parts of it grew black. Red welts rose all over him.
He steeled himself against the pain. He tried to accept it as part of his due.
He screamed under the Borchstogs’ ministrations and pulled at his chains, but it did no good.
Ghrozm, Baleron’s blood dripping from his glistening black body, laughed, and wept, and laughed again.
They kept Baleron in the torture chamber for days, applying him to various instruments and machines—stretching him, bending him, suffocating him. Sometimes they would peel a thin slice of flesh from him. They insulted his body in a thousand ways. They were masters at their craft, Artists without peer.
He still fought them, but increasingly this was just a physical response he couldn’t help. He was building walls between himself and the reality that surrounded him, that penetrated him, and his mind drifted further and further away.
He dreamt of Shelir, and Sophia, but mainly he dreamt of Rolenya. All shame had been driven out of him. After all he’d endured and was still enduring, he would take his pleasure where he could and not feel troubled about it.
When he wasn’t dreaming of people he knew, and people he’d lost, he thought of Havensrike and Larenthi and the rest of the Crescent Union. Had Gilgaroth attacked any of the other states yet? Had he crushed Glorifel, or was he still striving to destroy its leadership first? What had become of Ungier’s attack? Had Larenthi fallen? How fared Baleron’s father? Queen Vilana?
And so, with every day that passed, he retreated further and further behind his inner walls and fortifications, as though his mind were its own castle, and in a way it was. But was he the mad king, cowering and raging on his throne? Was this the beginning of insanity?
Perhaps madness could protect him. If nothing else, it would make his torment less satisfying.
So he faked insanity. When the Borchstogs branded him, he laughed in their faces. When they stuck long, thin needles into his nerve clusters and twisted them, he screamed, but in between his screams he sang bawdy ballads Salthrick had taught him. When they forced him to drink toxins that would twist his mind and give him nightmares and hallucinations, he carried on conversations with people that were not there.
Ghrozm had seen every trick a prisoner could play on him, though, and he wasn’t fooled. Or, if he was, he went about his business regardless. With every day that passed, he seemed to swell, to grow ever more proud, as though he were an artist who knew without doubt that he was working on his masterpiece. The other Borchstogs moved about him with awe.
Sometimes they would throw Baleron into a pit and leave him there for days or weeks, and seem to forget him, only to haul him up and go at him again even more viciously than before. They used barbed whips and pliers and a hundred other things. The pain was excruciating, jerking Baleron back to reality gasping. Yet he always floated back to his dreamworld afterward and it got so that, as the weeks, possibly months, went on, the pain brought him back to the real world less and less.
He didn’t know when it was daytime or nighttime anymore, or if it even mattered in this place.
Eventually Rolenya came to visit him. She stayed for a long while in his pit, just staring sadly at him, saying nothing—at least, the first time. After that, he talked with her for hours. He came to expect her regular appearances. She came often, and so did others—Shelir and Rilurn and Elethris and a dozen more, and though he resisted at first he eventually began talking back to each of them. Was he truly going mad, or was this just another trick?
He didn’t care. At least it was company.
This routine went on for some time, he wasn’t sure how long, but at last the Borchstogs hauled him up from his pit one day and threw him on the floor. It was cold, and he was shivering and naked.
They tossed some rough clothes at him and Ghrozm said (in Oslogon, as he’d learned that Baleron spoke it), “Put them on. Master wants to see you, and you’d better be presentable.”
Carefully, Baleron slid the clothes on—pain flared as the rasping fabric scraped over his raw wounds—and the Borchstogs ushered him out of the torture chamber and down various passageways and up several flights of stairs.
Baleron wondered what new development was under way. It seemed Gilgaroth never did anything without several different reasons. Baleron’s torture and confinement were not just for the benefit of the Betrayer. They served some other purpose, surely, but Baleron couldn’t guess what.
The coming interview could, then, be the real reason he was here.
He limped, because Ghrozm, ul Undracosg, had flayed a ribbon of flesh from the tender sole of his right foot. Ghrozm now whipped him and cursed him for hobbling.
Ghrozm led him deep, deep into the dark bowels of Krogbur. Ultimately they shoved him through an archway beyond which yawned a vast and terrible gulf of unholy blackness. The very air made Baleron’s skin crawl, and he felt bowed down by a great, cold, loathsome weight.
It was, he saw, a massive vertical shaft. The Borchstogs paused when they reached it and uttered words of praise and awe. For his part, Baleron cursed.
The shaft was simply enormous. Downwards it dropped into an unfathomable abyss and upwards doubtlessly to the very top of the tower—not that he could see very far in this dark place. The only illumination came from the Borchstogs’ torches. Nevertheless he could determine that this was a huge, black hollow space, surely in the very heart of Krogbur, what must be its absolute core.
A staircase wrapped the far-flung walls and wound in a spiral along them, and Baleron could only assume the stairs continued beyond the ball of fiery illumination, as he couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. He wondered, though he shuddered to think on it, what could be in the middle of that vast space; somehow it seemed ... full.
Ghrozm forced him up the stairs, which seemed broad enough for an army to march along, and up, and it seemed they ascended the shaft for days. Time twisted and bent in this place. The Borchstogs never stopped, though occasionally they had to drag Baleron along, he was so tired; he’d noticed that the Borchstogs never tired here, in this bastion of evil. Their energy never flagged—indeed the reverse.
As the group rose, winding up and up along the walls, a cold dread began building in Baleron’s heart, an unreasoning panic that filled him like blood fills a vein. This great open shaft was a place of power, he could sense it—great and terrible power. He trembled beneath it and his limbs seemed to lose their strength. But deep in his breast, there was a stirring, a swelling, as that cold sliver inside him, his Doom, feasted on the black energies here like a leech. Gilgaroth is close. For some reason the thought terrified him as never before. Gilgaroth was ... different here.
> At last the steps ended and they stood on a rounded platform, a terrace jutting out into the darkness, a lip overhanging the abyss. Baleron strained his eyes peering out into the blackness beyond, but he could see nothing.
The torches hissed and sparked, casting flickering red-orange light on the stone of the platform. They didn’t reveal what lay in the center of that terrible well. They hissed and crackled, and smoke teased at his nose. The hot air suffocated him.
Without warning, twin portals of flame opened in the darkness before and above Baleron. Startled, he gasped. Recoiled.
The portals hovered in the darkness beyond the platform, and Baleron realized he was looking into two great eyes, each one blazing with fire, with a black iris at its center.
Something massive hovered out in all that blackness, something they had come to see.
The Borchstogs gasped and dropped to their knees.
“Gilgaroth,” they whispered. Then, louder: “Roschk ul Kunraggoq!” Hail the All-Father! “Roschk Gilgaroth!”
Baleron stumbled backwards, but a strange force compelled him not to run. Those flaming eyes seemed to bind him.
“Children,” spoke the Presence. When it talked, a terrible mouth opened below the eyes. Inner fires lit its gleaming-sharp teeth from below. There was something of the Wolf in it, but it was not the Great Wolf. No, Baleron knew. Gilgaroth was now ... other. Somehow, this tower, its energies, that power stolen from Celievsti, had strengthened him, and he’d forged a new shape, if he wore a shape at all. For all Baleron knew, he could very well be staring at Gilgaroth’s naked spirit.
Either way, he was so awed that it was only with great effort that he stood his ground. This well ... this shaft ... the center of Krogbur ... where its energies are the strongest ... It gives him power. It’s like a temple he built ... to himself.
“Brave,” said the Shadow, regarding the prince’s upright figure. Baleron shuddered under the fiery gaze, but he stared Gilgaroth firmly in the eye. “Foolish,” added the Dark One.
Something entered Baleron’s mind. It was Gilgaroth, he knew, bright and terrible. His whole world became the pain of that intrusion, burning, all-consuming.
Fight it! he urged himself, and slowly, very slowly, the pain began to subside.
“Mortals,” said Gilgaroth, almost wearily. “You have but a few years on this earth, yet you throw them away so casually. And what happens to you afterwards? You don’t even know. Without Grace, you’re just a thing, a piece of clay. Mud. There is no magic in your blood.”
Baleron wanted to cry out that he had a soul, a purpose, but he could not find the strength to speak. Those flaming eyes absorbed him, and it seemed he drifted, floating on their seas of time and power. All else receded, even the pain. He felt warm now. Safe. Gilgaroth was his entire world.
“Of course,” the Dark One went on, “this was my doing. I cannot fault you for it. Your race fell only because I tempted you away from the Light, and you were cast out of Grace-dom.” He considered. “But you may yet receive the benefits of the Dark. You are my creatures ... or you once were. Many, like those of your kingdom, are struggling to find their way back to the Light—and failing. Of course. You are NOT of the Light. You can never be. You are tainted by what has come before. The very name of the royal house of Havensrike is a corruption of the Oslogon word ‘grochgar’. A grochgar is a stout tree that grows in the west of my land. That is where your rightful place is, Baleron. Turn away from the Light. It is not your true nature. Face the Dark. Embrace it. It is your only route to fulfillment, your only chance to be whole.
“If you serve me, you will be something more than you are. You shall have gifts, and you will live on after your flesh is destroyed. There will always be a home for you in Illistriv—what your kind in your ignorance calls the Second Hell. But there is more than flames and torture there: there is beauty and pleasure, and life everlasting.” He let that sink in. “What say you?”
The prince stared, stunned. Suddenly the Dark One released him from the spell, withdrew from his mind, and Baleron staggered. It was as if he’d just woken up, and it took him a moment to orient himself. He blinked his eyes, and shivered. He was very cold all of a sudden.
He stared up at the roaring eyes of Gilgaroth, the Black Acid of the World.
The Dark One waited.
Baleron said simply, “No.” The word sounded small and pitiful in this place. And yet he knew it held power.
“No,” he repeated.
“Think of what you refuse.”
Baleron gritted his teeth bitterly. “Are you blind? I hate you. I hate this place! I know how you made it. I heard what Throgmar said. You stole the energies you raised it with. This ... tower ... it’s built on the bones of my friends. Elethris, Shelir, Lord Felias ... Rolenya ...”
“Yes, sweet Rolenya ...”
“You ate her soul, you abomination!” Baleron’s eyes filled with tears. His voice thickened. “You horrible, evil THING!”
The Shadow’s eyes flickered. In ruminating tones, Gilgaroth said, “I’d planned for the White Tower’s destruction for years, young one. Years and years. I’d prepared myself to absorb its power. You see, the world’s energies are exhausted, its greatest reservoirs empty. Therefore to raise Krogbur without weakening myself or draining Oslog of its power, I needed to absorb a great amount of energy. Celievsti was perfect, and its fall provided a breach of Larenthi’s defenses.” His mouth twisted. “Thank you, prince, for your part in that. Without you, this tower would not have come into being.”
Baleron shook his head. “No ...”
“Yes. Of course, I did have to tap Oslog somewhat to complete it, for I wanted it to be grander than that tower of Elethris’s—who, after all, was a mere elf and not an Omkar. Oslog soaks up the power I radiate; it will renew in time. By then Krogbur will be the black heart of the world.”
“No ...”
“YES. It was YOU who manipulated the armies of Elves and Men, Baleron. It was YOU who brought Rauglir out of Gulrothrog and into their ranks without examination, and then to Celievsti. It was YOU who ushered Rauglir into Glorifel. It was you that allowed Throgmar into your homeland, and it is you that will still be its undoing.”
“No ...” Baleron shook his head desperately. He felt as though he were underwater. Everything was surreal and distorted, and moving strangely.
“Yes. The world will fall to me, and when it is mine I will bridge the gulf to Kunrieth and free Lorg-jilaad from the Void—and I will owe it all to your Doom, which is still most thoroughly upon you. You ARE Ul Ravast, whether you wish it or no. You are my Deliverer. My Champion.”
“You bastard,” Baleron said.
Gilgaroth’s flaming eyes simmered. “Why aren’t you kneeling, mortal? ON YOUR KNEES!”
A cloud overcame Baleron’s mind, and he was only dimly aware of sinking to one knee.
“What do you want of me?” he shouted.
“I can make you obey me, but only within the borders of Oslog. Beyond them you are your own agent. I need you to be mine.”
Through still-gritted teeth, Baleron spat, “Then make me a werewolf, put a demon into my body. It’s the only way you’ll ever control me in the outer world.”
“No. I need you whole, at least in spirit, so that you can pass their examinations, for they will not be fooled twice. But there is another way.” Again, the Shadow paused. “What if I told you to chop off your left hand?”
“You’re mad!”
A clammy feeling twisted its way up through Baleron’s gut, like a serpent shoving its way through his innards, then seized his mind and body with a sudden icy grip. He tried to fight it, but it was too strong. His body twitched and trembled, and his jaw chattered; every muscle stood out and he was full of a terrible vibrating tension as he fought to resist and was denied. Sweat beaded his brow. This was the worst torture yet: being a spectator in his own body.
He watched helplessly as his right hand reached out, trembling, and wrenched a sword loose
from a Borchstog scabbard. Its owner did not protest.
Baleron raised the sword high, and it reflected the torchlight on its tarnished metal surface. It was heavy. He tried to fight the pull, but he could not stop the force that controlled him.
He could not even yell as the blade descended.
For a moment, everything happened very slowly, and he noticed every hair and pore on his left hand, every bead of sweat. Borchstogs had pulled the nails out of his thumb, middle finger and ring finger. His knuckles were raw and bloody from punching his captors; he occasionally, though rarely, got the opportunity to strike out, and he always took it, though it never did much good except to provide momentary satisfaction. Many more cuts and bruises decorated the hand, which was muscular and well shaped. He had always liked it.
It was outstretched before him, right under the descending blade.
He hacked it off at the wrist. Blood spurted from the stump.
Pain arced through him. The Shadow withdrew from his mind.
Baleron watched in horror as his severed hand smacked the stone floor of the platform. Blood leaked from it. A finger twitched.
Screaming, Baleron fell backwards into the arms of two Borchstogs. A third, without being told, plunged his torch against the prince’s bleeding stump, cauterizing the wound. Baleron’s vision wavered, and the world blurred.
“Why?” he gasped. He clutched his stump tightly beneath his right armpit, stemming the flow of blood that still leaked out from the charred mass. Emotion contorted his face as tears ran uninhibited down his sweaty, soot-smeared cheeks. “Why me? All of it—why? What did I ever do to deserve you?”