by Jack Conner
“Then do you hate me for failing at last?”
She shook her head. Trembling, she said, “No, Bal. I . . . I love you.” Suddenly she looked away.
Many torches, urns and fireplaces lit the rooms. It was a lavish suite, huge and magical. She moved off into it, and he followed.
The beautifully wrought terrace did not look outward, or inward for that matter. Instead, the view was of some majestic snow-capped mountains that did not exist in Oslog, if at all. Their slopes were green and the skies blue, and from somewhere birds could be heard chirping.
“What is this place?” he asked. “Is it all an illusion?”
“It’s all part of Illistriv, I think. That’s what this place is, the whole tower.”
“But how?”
“Might as well ask me how the stars are born. All I know is that in this one place, he’s brought his own realty to ours. And when he’s stronger he’ll spread the fires of the Inferno. Everything that falls within that ring will become part of Illistriv. That’s what he wants, for the whole world to be . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Then if I help him, I truly will be ul Ravast.”
She took his hand and led him from the balcony.
Inside the suite ran several babbling brooks that came through the walls, and they channeled here and there into little pools that, though steaming, were not too hot to bathe in. Baleron and Rolenya explored the suite with interest, and its marvels took his mind off his shame and confusion for a time. The rooms were surprisingly warm, covered in rugs of animal fur that masked the cold black floors and walls. The couches and chairs, were upholstered in hides and furs, as was the bed.
There was only one bed.
Brother and sister stopped when they came to it. Butterflies tickled his belly.
“You take it,” he said at last, speaking around the lump in his throat.
She looked at him levelly. “No.”
“No, truly,” he said, trying to sound casual. “The floors are more than warm enough for me. Let’s catch us a rest, shall we? I’m tired. I don’t know if I can sleep, but I’m tired. Then it’s baths and breakfast.”
“Baleron,” she whispered.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t make me say it,” she said.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Bal—”
He stopped her with a kiss. He wrapped her in his arms, and she melted against him. It seemed as if the world dissolved, simply folding away, and there was only the two of them. Her lips were hot and moist.
Suddenly, she made a frustrated sound and pushed away. Shaking her head, she stumbled back. “No, no—”
“What?”
She covered her face with her hands. “No, it’s not—”
“Not right?”
She nodded miserably.
Slowly, he moved towards her. “I’ve loved you my whole life, Rolly. I never knew I wanted you like I do, but, Omkar help me, I do. I really, truly do. I love you in every way I can. After all I’ve been through, all I’ve seen, and done, and survived, I won’t feel bad about this. If this is all the happiness life can afford me, then I will revel in it. I won’t have you feeling ill about it. About us. We’re right together, Rolenya. We’re very, very right.”
He took her hands away from her face. Teary-eyed, she stared up at him. Her lips trembled.
“Say you love me,” he said.
“I love you.” Her voice quavered.
“Say you want me.”
“I want you. Omkar help me, Bal, I never thought about you like this before now, but I do.”
Suddenly, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. She tasted sweet and pure, and he wanted more. He kissed her back, heatedly, and she responded in kind.
They kissed and touched each other, whispering fervent things in each other’s ear, and gradually they helped each other to disrobe, blushing shyly at each other’s nakedness. He had never felt more awkward with a girl before, and never more alive. Her body, new-formed, was much like her old one, and it was beautiful and erotic and lush.
They moved to the bed and slipped under its warm furs, caressing each other more boldly, and drowned in each other’s touch.
Afterwards, they bathed. He luxuriated in the feel of the hot water against his skin.
Soap had been laid beside the pools, and she said, “Allow me” and began soaping off his grimy, whip-scarred back, sitting behind him in the water, her long legs about him. Gingerly, she cleaned him, avoiding the sensitive areas.
“Look what they’ve done to you,” she whispered. “May the Light protect you.”
Later, she said, “Stand.”
“What?”
“I said, stand.”
Self-consciously, he obeyed.
“Turn around,” she instructed, and, having to resist the urge to cover himself, he turned. His eyes found her. Her breasts, soapy and wet, were only half—concealed by the water.
He felt hot, and saw her own cheeks redden. She was all too aware of his arousal, yet she didn’t skirt it when she helped him wash.
They took their time soaping each other up and rinsing each other off, and as he touched her, and she touched him, his feelings solidified. Deepened. It began to feel real, their being together, and the taint of Rauglir faded.
Soon she took his hand and led him toward the bed again. He stopped, but she continued to it without him, turning when she reached it. Her towel slipped from one delicate white shoulder, revealing the top of one smooth, round breast.
She stretched out her hand to him, beckoning.
For a moment, he hesitated. The world might end, he thought. Because of our love, the world might end.
But then all he could think of was her, her red lips, her round breasts, and he stepped forward.
A human servant knocked at the door and asked if they were hungry. Baleron was famished and ate with enthusiasm when breakfast came. It was comprised of eggs and toast and sausage and bacon, with sides of fruit and juice, just like he might have eaten back home; likely Gilgaroth’s spies had gathered the information necessary to make it. Just the same, it was the best meal he’d had in a long, long while.
Afterward, they lounged on the terrace and watched the snow-capped mountains against the clear blue sky. They didn’t speak much, just held each other close. She smelled clean and fresh and new.
After lunch, they made love again, then they lay in each other’s arms and spoke of sweet things. They made no plans for the future, for what could the future hold for the likes of them?
About mid-afternoon, a Borchstog necromancer, dressed in exotic robes, burst through the doors of the suite and thumped his sorcerous staff on the floor.
“I am High Priest Ustagrot!” the Borchstog said. “You are invited for an audience with Master. Come!”
They dressed and followed him from the suite, and when he led them to a lift operated by sorcery, they boarded it, Baleron’s stomach lurching as it rose. When it stopped, the necromancer stepped off, and Baleron and Rolenya followed, casting wary gazes about them. Ustagrot led them onwards, up huge flights of stairs, and Baleron, tired already by his and Rolenya’s exertions, breathed heavily, and so did she. Before long, they were leaning on each other for support.
“What could he want with us?” she panted.
“I don’t know,” he responded. “And I don’t want to.”
The necromancer led them to the grand staircase that led from highest terrace—the one where Gilgaroth had met Throgmar—up, presumably, to the Dark One’s Throne Room. Then, to Baleron’s consternation, Ustagrot began ascending these stairs. Reluctantly, they followed, mounting the high black steps one by one. The stairs seemed endless, but finally Ustagrot marched up the last one, and so did they
“We go to the Throne Room,” the necromancer said, as if they could not have figured this out.
Baleron saw the massive doors that framed the portal and felt dread creep over his soul. Beyond those doors lies H
ell. He knew it. He could feel it in the air, feel it in his bones. Beside him, Rolenya began to shudder. A steady red light, emanating from within the Throne Room, poured out between the great doors and washed the black stairs with a fiery glow.
“Be strong,” Baleron told Rolenya, seeing her fright. “The worst is past.”
She nodded, and he hoped his words were true. He could not help but think that soon he would learn the price for her salvation. What would Gilgaroth have him do?
They passed through the massive, obscenely engraved doors, and Baleron gaped at what lay beyond. Through them lay another world.
Through them lay Hell.
Lit by towering bonfires stretched a massive stone cavern so tall its upper reaches were hidden in shadow and its walls were so far apart they loomed in the distance like mountains. The bonfires threw a red light upon the cave walls and floor and colored everything the color of human blood. The higher reaches were dark blood, and the highest reaches black. Shadows leapt and danced in sinister seduction. The cavern was so large it could have contained a city, and it did. Twisting spires and profane domes dotted the floor between the towering stalagmites, some of which had been carved into terrifying forms that loomed overhead, while others had been carved into palaces and temples and other more recognizable buildings. Demons great and small lurched and crept and stomped all about, and wraiths like living shadows sped here and there through the infernal city on mysterious errands of their own.
Two Colossi stood in the wings, mountainous creatures a thousand feet high, their features somewhere between Man and Borchstog and Spider. They had four muscular arms each, and a long, triple-pronged tail. Baleron had never believed in them before: they’d been mythical monsters to him, said to help shape Gilgaroth’s mountains, and when they were angry, they were said to pound the earth, breaking it apart and reshaping it.
On the far side, rearing over the city of the damned, thrust a jagged peak, and from the top of this hill sprouted a palace of twisting, interlocked towers and erotic mounds. The fires colored it red, though Baleron thought it might truly be made of red stone.
“That is our destination,” Ustagrot said, gesturing toward the distant palace.
“Dear gods,” breathed Rolenya, squeezing Baleron’s arm nervously.
“Which ones?” he asked.
Ustagrot led them into the infernal city and to either side of them rose bizarre buildings, while strange smells, some pleasant, some not, drifted through the air. Screams of anguish and screams of ecstasy chased each other through the air. In the heat, sweat beaded Baleron’s skin. Strange demons, some sinister, some alluring, strode through the boulevards or flew through the air, or simply drifted. A beautiful woman with hooves for feet and with dark-feathered wings jutting from her back shot him a lascivious smile. At an intersection blazed a bonfire of living corpses and about it swarmed a host of wraiths, screaming and wailing. A corpulent demon with nine heads of various sorts stood watching the spectacle, laughing.
“Just where are we, exactly?” Baleron said. “Are we . . . in him? In Gilgaroth?”
“Yes,” said Rolenya. “This place, it’s all part of him. Illistriv is within him, and if we’re in Illistriv . . .”
“But how can we be in him if we’re going to meet him? Then he would be inside himself!”
Ustagrot wheeled on them. “Infidels!” he hissed. “You know nothing!”
“How can your Savior be an infidel?”
“Do not find your own ignorance so amusing, Fallen One. You know nothing of the nature of the world, of how the Omkar created it, and of how my Master could create another world that could merge with this one. So hide your shameful ignorance and still your tongue!”
He resumed the march. They entered a wide, open courtyard dominated by a huge black fountain of a thirteen-headed dragon; out of each mouth poured what Baleron hoped was red water that trickled down their long throats and bubbled in the gruesome pool. The heads of the dragon were wound about each other most lewdly.
A wraith stopped before their path, and Ustagrot bowed to it.
“We have come to see Master,” he said.
The wraith bowed back and seemed to hiss, “We have been expecting you. Let us aid your journey.”
It gestured, and thunder shook the chamber. Startled, Baleron looked to the right as a Colossus stepped forwards. Bending down over the towers of the city, the giant creature stretched out a massive grayish hand, holding it just above the courtyard floor. Baleron reeled; the hand was large enough to hold Throgmar!
The necromancer climbed onto it and bade them do likewise.
Grimacing, the prince followed and held down a hand for Rolenya. When they were all situated on one of the titan’s fingers, the Colossus carried them the length of the Throne Room, toward the palace on its mountain. A moat of high black flames surrounded the sharp peak, and white-hot souls writhed in the moat of fire. The Colossus raised them to the tallest, serpentine tower of the building and with surprising delicacy set them on its highest terrace. Then it withdrew, shaking the ground as it went.
The terrace wrapped around this level of the spire, which was open, the roof supported only by a few obscenely-ornate columns, and in the center of the floor stood the Black Throne of Gilgaroth.
It was occupied.
Ustagrot bowed.
A veil of shadow surrounded the Dark One, and his eyes of fire shone like lamps from the smoky blackness.
Baleron noticed that Gilgaroth’s two great wolves, Slorch and Thorg, stretched out to either side of the Throne. Rolenya began shaking when she saw them, but Baleron held her tightly.
“Welcome,” said the Lord of the Second Hell.
Rolenya squeezed Baleron’s hand, and he squeezed back.
“Bow!” Ustagrot snapped at them.
Awkwardly, Baleron knelt, and Rolenya followed suit. This soured the prince’s stomach, but he had to pretend at obedience for now. Hopefully there would be a time when he could stop pretending, when he could seize some advantage, some oversight on Gilgaroth’s part, and deal the Shadow a crushing blow, or at the very least rescue Rolenya, escape, and avoid fulfilling his Doom.
“Rise,” said Gilgaroth, and they did. “Come.” The Lord of the Tower stood, a column of darkness that seethed with unimaginable power, and led them to the terrace facing away from the infernal city.
Baleron sucked in his breath at the view. The palace stood at the end of the cavern and the terrace overlooked the valleys and mountains that lay beyond. There were high peaks, roads, buildings, countryside—a whole world. But everything was twisted, distorted by the evil of its maker. The trees leant at mad angles and their branches stretched like tentacles. The lakes burned with fire. In the village squares demons tortured the souls of men Gilgaroth had devoured. Baleron shuddered, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Rolenya turn away.
“Behold Illistriv,” said Gilgaroth. “My Creation. My truest home.”
“It is beautiful, Master,” said Ustagrot, half bowing, voice quavering.
“When my Champion completes his labor, the whole world will be as this. Now—to the business at hand.” He returned to his throne, and they followed. “It is time, for you, my Spider, to complete your web. You will obey me in all things or burn in the fires of Illistriv forevermore. You will never see Rolenya again. The world will be just as damned; its damning will only take a few days longer to accomplish. Do you understand?”
Baleron nodded.
“Good,” he continued. “If you both obey me, and if you both live to see the other side of my war, you will have a place here, or elsewhere in my realm. You may rule, if you wish, some outer province. You will be king and queen of some distant land, in thrall only to me, and I will not bother you . . . much. I can make you both young and beautiful forever, or I can let you grow old and die. Most any wish or desire you have I can make reality, and in time you can become valued allies of mine and my Sire’s.” He paused, and his tone grew grave. “Now, for the pr
ice.”
Baleron could not meet Rolenya’s sidelong look.
“Baleron, you will return to Glorifel. You will gain the confidence of your father and of the others in his Court. Then you will slay him.”
Baleron’s breath caught in his throat. Rolenya’s pressure on his hand became a death grip.
“You will also kill Logran Belefard, the Archmage, and destroy the elvish artifact he wields. Next slay any heirs your father has appointed; all his other sons save Jered are dead, and Jered is at Clevaris with the Elf Queen, where I have placed him—for he is another spider spinning my web—so the only direct heirs can be your sisters. Kill as many of them as you can, starting from the oldest. But especially the Archmage and his artifact. That done, the city will fall.” Gilgaroth’s voice deepened, and his eyes seemed to reach out and ensnare Baleron. All the prince could see was whirling fire, and his whole world was that one voice: “You will know all this, yet you will be unable to convey it to anyone. My powers stretch that far, at least.”
“Yes,” Baleron heard himself say, though it seemed he had not willed the words himself.
“That is well. Now, when you have finished your labor, allow yourself to be captured and my agents shall return you here to Krogbur, where you will be reunited with your . . . Rolenya.” He patted the wolf to his right. “Slorch,” he snapped.
The wolf rose and sauntered over to them, carrying a satchel in his fang—ridden mouth, and Rolenya flinched as it drew near. It dropped the satchel at Baleron’s feet, which hit the floor with a heavy clank. The monster growled and returned to his Master’s side.
“Look inside,” Gilgaroth instructed.
Baleron obeyed. Within he saw the unholy length of Rondthril, glimmering darkly, nestled amongst belt and scabbard like a snake coiled to strike.
The sword that could kill a god . . .
There was no way it could work. No way at all. To use it now would be folly.
“Don it when you reach Glorifel,” came Gilgaroth’s voice.
Baleron shook his head. “They won’t let me past the walls. My father hates me and won’t admit me, not even to save my life.”