by Jack Conner
“Tested and failed, but there are further tests we can do . . . though they won’t, I fear, be pleasant.” Logran sighed. “I need to rest. We’ll see each other again soon. Try not to kill anyone in the meantime.”
“No, wait! What of Rondthril? Why do you need it? I must know.”
Logran paused, seemed to steel his resolve, then disappeared out the door. It shut with a harsh clang, and Baleron was left alone once more.
Sinking back to the floor, he eyed his left hand. Could it really be Rauglir? Once again, he flexed and clenched it, and it obeyed him . . . but for how long?
“You don’t fool me,” he told it.
Suddenly he heard dark, familiar laughter inside him, and his eyes widened.
“So it’s true! You’re really here. Gods!”
More laughter.
Something cold crawled up Baleron’s spine, like little spiders made of ice. My body is not my own. Without warning, a feeling of utter horror overwhelmed him, and he shook in a sudden convulsion, lifted his head and screamed. His voice echoed off the walls of the crypt, and the guards looked nervously in at him, but they did not enter. Hastily they slammed and bolted the door.
For the rest of the morning Baleron languished in the catacombs, contemplating his hand, before finally he received his second and last visitor.
King Grothgar entered the crypt and stared down at him, still chained to the floor. Baleron, who had been brooding unproductively, trying to mentally grapple with the alien spirit inside him, glanced up with astonishment as the door flew open and his father marched in accompanied by half a dozen guards, two of which held crossbows aimed at his breast.
For a long moment, father and son just stared at each other. Baleron could feel the disappointment radiating off the king like heat off a hot road.
“Your brother Jered is dead,” Albrech said abruptly.
“Logran told me.”
“Did you also know that Kenbrig had died, murdered by the same fiend that took your mother and possessed your sister—the same fiend that you rescued from the depths of Gulrothrog and led amongst us—not once but twice?”
The prince’s head hung a bit. “I know.”
“You,” said Albrech in disgust, “are now the Heir.”
Baleron had heard it before from the sorcerer, but he’d been so focused on the mystery of his hand that he had not had time to think much on it.
“Have you formally announced it?” he asked.
“No,” said Albrech. “I haven’t wanted to. I thought you dead, or worse. It turns out to be the latter. When I heard you were back, I wanted to see if you demonstrated any characteristics that would lend you to the job, and you can see the result of that. I suppose I’ll have to circumvent tradition and appoint one of your sisters in your place; there is one or two that seem competent enough, though the lot are involved in typical womanish schemes and silliness.”
“Appoint one of them, then. I’m clearly not fit for the job.”
“You’re a creature of the Dark One!”
“You said yourself that you know it’s me.”
“Yes, and you’ve given yourself to him. You’re weak, selfish, base.” The king began pacing like a caged lion. Suddenly he stopped and stared at his son acutely. “What were you gibbering about your sister the other day?”
“Would you believe me if I told you?”
Again the king stared at him sharply, appraisingly. “No,” he grunted at last. “Probably not.” He cleared his throat. “You missed her funeral, by the way. It was a small affair—one among many. We didn’t have the time to stage anything more elaborate, and it would’ve seemed crass to do so what with all the others. So many funerals, Baleron. So much death and destruction, and here we are in the End Days when we will see even more. Soon Glorifel will fall. I should not say it, but of that I have no doubt. Tell me, Baleron, how does one have a funeral for a city?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, Father. Take your people north. Regroup with our allies. Build up your strength, then strike and strike hard. It’s the only way you’re going to win. Trust me. I know what you face.”
“And I know that every word that comes out of your mouth is suspect. Either you’re a willing agent or, as Logran tells me, you’re tainted, whatever that means—but either way I can’t afford to trust you. What I can do, however, is acknowledge you’re still family, and allow you to Jered’s funeral this afternoon—not that you’d know what time it is from this infernal night that hangs over us constantly.”
“Jered’s . . . funeral? But isn’t his body at Clevaris?”
“It is, and it will be buried there. The Queen feels most strongly about that; he was truly like a son to her—more so than to me, I’m sure. She builds his tomb even now. But we will hold a ceremony here, as well, for he was after all our kin, not hers.” Albrech moved towards the door, then turned back. “We’ll have some of your clothes brought down. You don’t want to be wearing that to see your brother off in.”
“Rolenya—does she also have a tomb?”
The king looked pained. “She does,” he admitted. “Thanks to you.” His voice turned sour. “Never forget that it was you who caused this, Baleron. Her death, our fall, all of it—it’s on your head.”
Scowling, he swept from the room, taking his men with him, and they slammed the door shut behind them.
An hour later, a full dozen guards escorted the prince—now washed and in clean attire, which was a relief—up into the street that ran before the palace, where there waited a long string of black coaches pulled by black horses. Baleron was led into the back of a prison coach, nearly the last vehicle in the funeral procession, where he was locked inside, and, with a cry and the crack of whips, the procession was off.
They wound through the war-torn city, and Baleron gazed out from his barred window at the desolation of Glorifel. They passed the Street of the Arts, and
Flower Lane, and the great temple to Illiana on Morning Row. Starving and desperate people thronged the streets, huddling against the chill of the false night.
At last the procession reached the royal cemetery, and Baleron (under heavy guard) was led with the others to the newly built tomb—surely less impressive than the one the Queen of Larenthi was having built, but handsome just the same—where an empty coffin would be installed on the dais within. Griffons, Great Swans and Whiteworms were carved into the tomb and wound along its white pillars.
A chill wind blew, black clouds blotted out the sun, and thunder rolled.
The funeral was a slow, solemn affair, as the royal family, or what was left of it, huddled together in the cold and listened to a priest of Brunril and Illiana say kind words about Prince Jered and his brave sacrifice defending the world against evil. Baleron ignored the sermon. He wondered how Jered had handled being in thrall to Gilgaroth, and why he’d died. It must have been a mistake, Baleron decided, a bloodthirsty Grudremorqen caught in the heat of battle.
Saddened by Jered’s death, Baleron found himself disappointed that he would never get to discuss Dooms with the legendary Prince of Clevaris who’d been the golden son, and yet not a son, of Felias and Vilana. Baleron had thought of Jered as his golden shadow, the prince who was everything a prince should be, and loved and renowned. But now it was Baleron, corrupt and rash and broken, that had survived. He wondered if perhaps Jered had simply found the only way out he could: to die in battle with a worthy foe. Baleron knew he would be lucky to do the same.
The funeral ended and the royals picked their way back to their coaches. No Glorifelans had been told of Prince Jered’s true identity, so there was no one to console the royal family, no crowd of supporters.
The king intercepted Baleron.
“I’ve been to many funerals of late,” Albrech said. “Most of them my own kin. My wife, my sons, Rolenya, even two true daughters lost when the castle fell. Baleron, you and I have never been close, but you’re the only son I have left, and I don’t want to attend your funeral, too. N
either will I allow a son of mine to rot in prison if I can help it. Report to Logran at once. He’s told me that there is a procedure he can perform—a Purging, he calls it. I won’t lie to you, son. It may kill you. He says it kills many. And it’s very painful. But perhaps it can burn this demon out . . . and your Doom, as well.” He paused. “I’ll let it be your decision. Either make the dungeon your home, or submit to this Purging. Decide now.”
To Baleron, there was no question. “Do it,” he said.
“Guards, take him to Logran’s tower.”
As before, Logran had made his home in the highest tower of the palace, but this time a servant opened the door and led Baleron and his guards into the sorcerer’s inner sanctum.
“Shhh,” said the servant. “He’s performing a spell.” When they reached a comfortable living room infested by low, soft couches, he said, “Why don’t you take a seat?”
Too anxious to sit, Baleron moved out onto the balcony and surveyed the once-peaceful city. He knew all of its parks and museums and culture centers, all its grand monuments, its history and customs . . . and yet from this high tower he could see beyond the walls. He could see the endless campfires of the Borchstogs, the dark hordes that waited just beyond, and from somewhere out there he heard war drums banging. Boom doom boom. Smoke stirred on the breeze. They would attack soon, he thought. Would that I had my old command.
Logran cleared his throat, and Baleron whirled around to see the Archmage framed in the doorway.
“You startled me,” Baleron said.
“A bit tense, are we?” Logran looked to the guards, then back at the prince. “So you’re mine, then.”
The captain of the guard said, “You’re to do your Purging.”
“I see.” To Baleron, Logran said, “You do understand this will more than likely kill you. There is only a very small chance you’ll survive, and even if you do it’s not certain the demon, or your Doom, or both, will be destroyed.”
Baleron shrugged. “If I die, they cease to matter. Just be sure to destroy my corpse when you’re done.”
Logran looked at him steadily for a long moment, as if to satisfy himself of something, and at last nodded. “I apologize that I didn’t make it to the funeral. I was . . . working on something.”
“Rondthril?”
The Archmage nodded uncomfortably. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Please, can you tell me just why that sword is so important to you? Why would you only admit me into the city if I had it with me?”
The Wielder of Light stepped out onto the balcony and joined the prince at the balustrade. Leaning on it, he peered out at the city. It was so large and so full of sparkling lights, like a reflection of the night sky on a still lake, that it took Baleron’s breath away. He could see Logran’s appreciation for it, his love for it, shining in his brown eyes.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Logran.
Baleron knew him well enough to know he was leading up to something; he hadn’t come out here to discuss the view.
“Yes,” Baleron agreed, playing along.
“I’ve lived here for many decades, Bal. I was your grandfather’s and your great-grandfather’s closest advisor as well as your father’s. I’ve played a large role in shaping and preserving this fair city.” He paused. “It was I who guided the rash King Grothgar the First into preserving the custom of the Swap.”
That surprised the prince. “You mean you’re the one responsible for . . . Rolenya and me . . . ?”
Logran smiled. “I think your loins had more to do with that than I did, Baleron. Nevertheless . . . yes, without me you would never have known her, let alone known her well. And, I suspect, a great deal of this whole despicable affair never would have come to pass, at least in its present incarnation.”
“What do you mean?” Baleron said warily; he did not want to push the limits of what he could reveal, did not want to needlessly face the pain again.
“I strongly suspect that Gilgaroth is using your sister against you in some fashion, though how exactly I cannot guess.”
Baleron held his breath, saying nothing.
“He’s possessed you, or part of you, somehow, Baleron. I believe you now. But he would never use one method alone to control an agent such as you. He would use your own heart against you. It is his way. It is, I suspect, how he was able to manipulate Prince Jered—oh, yes, I know about him. The Queen and I keep in constant communication, and she had doubts about him since the first murder.”
This was of great interest to Baleron, but he still said nothing.
Logran looked at him levelly. “And of course you’re here in Glorifel to fulfill the same function.”
Baleron didn’t deny it. “Can you drive it out of me—Rauglir?”
The sorcerer made a pained face. “I . . . will try, Baleron. But I make no promises. If indeed this Rauglir is inside you, it may well be that you and the demon are . . . entwined.”
Baleron grimaced, then laughed bitterly. “With it and my Doom both, my soul should not be lonely. If only I could just lop off my hand and be done with it! But then, I suppose, my Doom would still be there.” He groaned. “Do your Purging, Logran. Do it now.”
The Archmage shook his head. “It will take me time to prepare. We will begin on the morrow.”
Baleron noticed that Logran would not meet his gaze. The sorcerer’s eyes were wet and troubled. He knows the Purging will kill me, Baleron realized. Or if it does not that it will fail.
Strangely the prospect didn’t bother him. He almost longed for it, for the final answer to his Doom.
That icy feeling throbbed uneasily in his chest, and he smiled grimly. Yes, be afraid. On the morrow you die, my constant companion. You too, Rauglir.
He looked out at the lights of the city. “And my sword?”
The Archmage raised his eyebrows. “Your sword, alas, has been a disappointment.”
“How?”
“Well, as I was saying, I’ve taken tremendous pride in helping to steer our great nation over the years, and I had hoped, with your sword, to be able to steer it from this present brink.”
“How?”
“It knows the Dark One’s will,” said the mage. “It can sense it, interpret it, and it will not defy it. I had hoped to be able to use Rondthril, to tap into it somehow, to be able to divine his will myself and so predict his future actions, or at least be able to prepare a defense against his current ones.”
It was certainly a worthy notion, and Baleron could see why the sorcerer had been so keen to get his hands on the sword.
“But it didn’t work?”
Air hissed out of the sorcerer’s long, aristocratic nose. “Alas, its primitive sentience—if it can be called that, which I begin to doubt—is too rudimentary. It knows the Wolf’s will, can sniff it out like a dog can sniff a smell, but it can’t be made to tell me what it knows, just as a dog couldn’t describe a smell.” His face looked deadly serious in the darkness. In a low voice, he added, “It was my last hope.”
Baleron started to answer, when suddenly horns and alarm bells sounded an alert, starting at the walls and spreading inwards.
“Gods protect us all,” Logran breathed. “Ungier attacks.”
Chapter 6
Baleron felt the blood rush to his face as he watched Ungier’s hordes charge the walls. From here he could see them simply as a great, surging shadow against the darkness. Alarm bells rang throughout the city, and all able-bodied men and women, even the homeless refugees, would be rushing to what arms they could. Even children would lend aid.
Baleron could not sit idly by. Heatedly, he looked to the sorcerer. “Give me the sword,” he demanded. “Give me Rondthril.”
“There is no need. You’re safe here.”
“Yes, but I’m not staying here, am I?”
“Of course you are. You’re no longer a leader of men, Baleron. You’re a prisoner. Your Five Hundred is no more.”
Anger coursed through Baleron. He desper
ately wanted to join the fight, to lose himself in the violence. Also, he wanted to redeem himself somehow, to smite the wicked armies of Gilgaroth. At that moment, he felt the craving as though it were a physical need. He felt he would die unless he fought.
“I’ll bet my father isn’t staying here,” he said. “I’ll bet they’re bringing a coach for him even now, and if I’m fast I can be on it. I’m a good fighter, Logran. A good leader. They need me.”
“Baleron, I can’t condone this. You’re possessed, tainted, call it what you will—you can’t be trusted with a sword, much less Rondthril. And you certainly can’t be trusted to lead troops.”
Baleron gripped the older man’s arms and looked deeply into his eyes. “Logran,” he said urgently, “I must do this.”
Wind whistled shrilly. Horns and bells echoed throughout the city streets. Logran must have seen the madness and desperation in Baleron, and slowly he began to put it together; Baleron saw it in his eyes and the tightness of his lips.
“You want to find what Jered found,” Logran said at last.
Baleron didn’t look away.
“You want . . . death,” Logran said.
The prince ground his teeth. “I want freedom,” he hissed. “I want out the only way I can. It may damn someone I love, but it was she who told me to do it. If I live, I’ll only spread death and misery. I’m ul Ravast, Logran. I tried to deny it, I tried not to believe it, I even tried to change it. But look at me, look what I’ve become! Let me do this, Logran. You’ve always been a friend to me. Sometimes I thought of you more as a father than my own. Let me do this one last thing, and I will ask you for no more ever again.”
Logran studied him, seeming full of thought.
“You have custody of me,” Baleron pressed. “My life is in your hands. The king cannot gainsay you. It is all up to you, Logran. My friend. Please, don’t let me end my days mewling on the floor under your Purging, burnt to a crisp in an effort to do what we both know’s impossible. Let me end things my way. Give my life back to me. It will not be in my hands long.”