by Jack Conner
For as long as he could remember, Baleron had wanted one thing above all else—his father’s love and respect—but e knew that if he did this thing, if he took the king away from the fight here at what Albrech must think of as the bitter end, his father would not thank him, would in fact never forgive him, and Baleron would lose any chance he ever had of making up with him. To save the man, Baleron must give up his dream. If nothing else, the prince could not have asked for a better partner. Marz Sider was well respected and an able fighter.
To accomplish the plan they’d need to go up Kings’ Road yet again, and it was in worse shape now than before; at least one bridge was out that Baleron knew of, and the Omkar knew how many creatures lurked in the dark, not to mention the hordes of Borchstogs that had brought them . . . and, of course, the dragons and glarumri.
Baleron watched himself closely. He waited to feel a stab of ice in his breast, or a swell of shadow, or some other sign of his Doom. Nothing. Still, he remained wary.
At length, Sider returned to him. “The men are ready, sir.”
The king was giving a speech to a group of perhaps fifty soldiers and civilians, trying to rally their spirits. All looked grim and weary, most especially Lord Grothgar. “We will fight and we will die,” Albrech was saying, “but, Illiana help us, we’ll take as many of them down with us as we can. We’ll weaken them so much that our allies will be able to wipe them from the earth. Our sacrifice will save the world!”
The troops cheered raggedly, though Baleron doubted many believed the bold words. Baleron just felt sick. He was the reason for their deaths, and he didn’t forget that for a moment.
As the gathering broke up, he approached his father, who appraised him coldly and said, “Yes?”
“I’ve something to talk to you about . . . privately.”
“Oh?” Albrech did not budge.
“It’s about Rolenya.”
The king arched an eyebrow. “What about her?”
“It’s something I don’t feel comfortable talking about here. Come.”
Reluctantly, Albrech followed him into the shadows in the center of the tunnel, the farthest place from the torches, right next to the coach Baleron had stolen from the palace. It had been drawn up by one of Sider’s men, and father and son huddled next to it conspiratorially.
“What is it?” asked the king.
“She lives,” said the prince.
It was the signal.
All at once three soldiers rushed around from the other side of the coach, one shoving a gag over the king’s mouth. The largest wrapped his muscular arms about his lord and held him while the third slugged the king in the face to subdue him; the man looked frightened even as his fist landed, but it worked, and some of the fight went out of Albrech, though by no means all.
Colonel Marz Sider jumped into the driver’s bench and another, bearing a longbow and a full quiver, joined him.
Baleron opened the door and they prepared to fling the king inside.
The prince had forgotten about the unconscious driver.
The man still lay in the cab, even more still than before. Blood coated his throat and chest and face. Flies buzzed all about, and a stench of decay and death filled the tight space. All those gathered before it gasped and recoiled at the sight.
A long, dark form rose from the dead man’s chest—where it had been coiled inside one of the wounds, within the man’s very body—and reared its scaly head at kidnappers and king.
Its hood flared.
Albrech screamed into his gag, his eyes bulging. Baleron reached for Rondthril. Chose the dagger instead.
Rauglir, a serpent now, coated with blood, struck at Albrech, but the distance was too great and Baleron leapt in between them, dagger flashing. Rauglir retreated into the darkness of the cab.
All over the tunnel, people shouted and pointed towards the coach.
“Hells!” snapped Sider. “Hurry, boy!”
The first three kidnappers dragged the kicking, thrashing king back a few feet, while Baleron leapt into the coach, growling in desperation—the others in the tunnel would be upon them soon—and slashed at the snake, again and again, but Rauglir was too quick. Hissing, the serpent vanished into the shadows.
The shouts and screams and commotion drew closer. Louder. In seconds Baleron and the rest of the kidnappers would be caught and killed.
He heard a sound and flung the dagger at it. The blade quivered in the wood floor, catching nothing. Damn!
Rauglir flew at the prince’s face.
Baleron barely had time to reach up and grab the snake by the neck. Rauglir, slippery with blood, twisted in his grasp, but Baleron held firm. The snake tried to bite him, but Baleron avoided his fangs. Frustrated, Rauglir began changing forms—first to a scorpion, then a left hand, then a spider. Working quickly, Baleron evaded his mandibles and stinger and kept his grip, until finally, exhausted, Rauglir returned to his snake form.
Hearing the noise outside, Baleron knew he had to do something fast and bitterly lamented the loss of his left hand. He threw the black snake at the wall and pinned him there with his boot.
“Get comfortable,” he said.
He jerked his dagger out of the floor and ran Rauglir through, right to the hilt, impaling the demon to the cab wall; the blade passed right below the snake’s head; he did not want the snake dead, as that would just free Rauglir’s spirit to cause further mischief in a new form.
To the kidnappers, he shouted over his shoulder, “In! Now!”
The three leapt inside, dragging their captive with them, and with a crack of Sider’s whip the coach was off. The dead body of the coachman was flung unceremoniously outside.
Marz Sider had recruited several of the men along the barricade, and they shoved a coach out of the way so that the king’s vehicle would have an opening to break out of. They’d begun shoving the overturned vehicle out of alignment with the others the second their captain had jumped into the driver’s bench, and by the time Sider lashed the horses into action the way was open.
The coach shot out of the tunnel, and not a second too soon. In an instant an angry mob was swarming out after them, but fortunately none were mounted, and the king and his kidnappers were safely off.
Looking out the rear window, Baleron watched as the angry mob turned their venom on the men that had breached the barricade, and a swell of shame rose in him. Yet more deaths on his conscience.
“Go to the Lights of Sifril,” he whispered. “And thank you.”
Rain slashed down at the charging coach, and lightning struck the ground. The once-fair city was now a place of horrors. Ghouls and goblins and demons walked the streets. Darkworms, aided by glarumri, eliminated all organized resistance from above, while foul spirits possessed the living, and an evil army burned the town down around them.
Baleron and the kidnappers raced through the streets. Borchstoggish arrows riddled the vehicle and beasts gave chase. Once a Serpent bearing many Borchstog archers pursued them for a while, and Sider had to drive the horses through twisting dark alleys to elude the creature. Just the same, some of the archers managed to hit the coach with flaming arrows. The rain put out the blaze.
Three bridges had burned down between Sadram Tunnel and the ruins of Grothgar Castle, and Sider had to take them the long way around, finding alternate routes where he could.
All the while, Rauglir hissed and taunted those in the cab in a strangled, gurgling snake-voice. “Fools!” he hissed. “You will all be killed, if you’re lucky.”
The king’s gag had been removed and, once he’d stopped struggling, his bonds had also been taken away. At first he’d denounced them all as cowards and traitors, but he seemed to have resigned himself to his capture and possible survival. Baleron had told him of their destination, and he’d just grunted. Now, glaring at Rauglir, he said softly to Baleron, “So . . . that’s the thing that . . . possessed Rolenya . . . and you.”
“Yes.”
Albrech’s eyes hardene
d. “That’s the thing that killed my sons, my wife, my sorcerer . . . doomed my city . . .”
Lightning split the skies and illuminated the war zone beyond the coach, which its inhabitants could see through the windows; their little black drapes were pulled to, but wind tore them aside. Rain and cold wind ravished the inside, and all were shivering and wet. At least we’re not as bad off as Sider and his archer, thought Baleron.
Lord Grothgar rose to his feet and put his face as close to Rauglir’s as he dared.
“A little clossser,” hissed the snake.
“Demon!”
“Yessss.”
The king was winding himself up into a fine fit of rage, Baleron saw. “Don’t kill Rauglir,” he warned. “Don’t free him from that body. That’s just what he wants.”
“Oh, I won’t kill it. I have better plans than that.”
Albrech tore the drapes off the largest window and jerked the string out. Acting quickly, he yanked the dagger out of the wall, Rauglir still wriggling on it like meat on a spit, shook the serpent loose and dumped it into the sack created by the drapes, tying the ends off with the string. Rauglir thrashed and struggled, but he couldn’t tear his way out of the sack, not right away. The cloth was thick and heavy.
“There you are,” Albrech said, holding up his prize. “Now I can take you anywhere.”
“That won’t hold him for long,” Baleron said. “Better to bind him and leave him.”
The king tossed Baleron the bloody dagger, then, with sudden violence, smashed the sack against a wall.
Rauglir hissed in pain. Hidden coils writhed furiously from within the sack. Albrech, a mad light in his eyes, smashed again, and again. And again. Sweat flew off his brow, and he swore and cursed viciously with every strike. Baleron, who hated Rauglir above all others, didn’t stop him. Part of him wished he was the one wielding the sack.
“This is what you get!” the king shouted. “This is what you get, you filthy demon, for all your wickedness and deceit!”
Rauglir hissed and squirmed, but his struggles were growing feebler.
“This!” shouted the king, striking again. “This!”
Baleron still had the dagger in his hand.
The king’s back was to him.
Suddenly a throb of ice exploded in his chest and a freezing tendril shot into his mind.
He was waiting.
All this time he’d been thinking of his blood smoking on the Spider’s corpse, thinking of the Flower of Itherin, trying to feel it inside him. Now he did. He called on it, clumsily, but it heeded his call. Strength surged through him, and he forced that icy limb down, down and away. Not this time, you bastard.
Baleron didn’t know how long the Flower would stay in his system, but prayed it lasted long enough time to get his father to safety. To the horses, he thought, May the gods give you wings.
He sheathed the dagger.
When they finally reached the blackened ruins of the castle, Baleron was shocked to see just how large the mound of rubble was; the castle had been massive, certainly, but it was still massive, and the fact that it sat on a hill made the ruins look even more impressive, even ominous. Lightning backlit the jagged, blackened thrusts of the mound, and thunder shook the earth.
Baleron jumped down from the coach and the others followed him. One of the soldiers had taken Rauglir from the king, so Albrech’s hands were free, and, surprising Baleron, he clapped one on the prince’s shoulder.
“Our old home,” sighed Albrech, his eyes gazing up sadly at the dark ruins.
What is this? Baleron wondered. Has he forgiven me? Aloud, he said, “And our way out.”
He led the way into the desolation, and they began searching. His greatest fear was that the opening would be covered by debris too heavy to move. As it happened, most of the entrances into the lower levels of the castle—the dungeons, wine cellars and arcane libraries, all underground—were indeed blocked, but two were still accessible. Baleron picked one and they all congregated around it.
“We’ll need a torch,” he said. “Some light.”
They looked at each other blankly. None had brought anything.
The king shook his head wearily, grimly amused. “Rauglir was right: I’ve been kidnapped by fools.”
“Foolsss,” agreed Rauglir from the sack, now wet with his blood.
Just then, a great shadow blotted out the lightning-torn clouds above, and everyone looked up. Baleron’s jaw dropped open, but it immediately closed tightly, clenching. His eyes narrowed.
For, flying his great scaly bulk across the charcoal-colored sky was the greatest dragon he had ever seen. Vast wings spread like dark clouds. Flame licked his lips. Smoke issued from his nostrils and trailed behind him like a black tail. He spiraled above the ruins of the castle, his spiral drawing tighter and tighter as he descended from the heavens.
“Throgmar,” breathed Albrech.
“He’s coming,” whispered Baleron.
Chapter 9
Rolenya stood at the balcony of her suite at Krogbur and gazed longingly at the horizon. Wind whipped her black hair in streamers to one side, and billowed her white dress in a ghostly fashion.
She’d asked for the illusion of the snow-capped mountains of Illistriv to be stripped away, tired of deception—no matter how ugly, she needed to face the truth—and Gilgaroth had complied. That in itself was unsettling.
Below her, beyond the terrible Inferno that wreathed the tower’s lower half, stretched his foul hordes—Borchstogs and worse, monsters great and small, spawned by Gilgaroth and Mogra. Rolenya felt queasy at the sight: should Baleron decide not to fulfill his labor, she would be thrown down . . . to them. The thought made her tremble and even wish there was some way she could kill herself, but there was not; should she try, Gilgaroth would simply bring her back.
Just the same, she hoped Baleron would find a way to save their father, as that’s still very much how she thought of Albrech Grothgar. He had been her father all her life, and she could not think anything different of him now. Strange that she could think differently of Baleron.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” she said. It always surprised her that the fell Men who served the Beast bothered to ask her permission, but they did. She’d requested that Men attend to her rather than Borchstogs, for the Borchstogs had somehow found out about her possible fate and they constantly leered at her and made obscene gestures, indicating what they would do to her when she was their plaything.
A tall man entered: Hierghast, swarthy and always regally poised, as though he’d been a king prior to coming here, and perhaps he had; it was an honor to serve in Krogbur. He bowed politely. “The Master awaits your presence in the Feasting Hall, my lady.”
“Will he have me sing again tonight?”
“I make it my business never to predict my Lord’s desires.”
“A wise policy, I’m sure.”
He gestured toward the door. “If you’ll allow me to escort you?”
She dismissed whatever resentment she felt at being a slave—she’d had plenty of experience at that in Gulrothrog, after all—and allowed Hierghast to escort her from her suite and up the halls and tunnels. The Feasting Hall was packed tonight, she saw, and full of restlessness. The Borchstog chiefs wanted to be on the attack already, tired of camping outside the Black Tower, though Rolenya knew they appreciated its dark energies and reveled in the sense of power the place emanated. A fight was going on in the pit below: three titans battled a Grudremorqen. One titan was a large reptilian creature, one was woolly and tusked but stood on two legs, and the third was a writhing mass of fungus-like tendrils. The Grudremorqen fought them all with a sword of flame.
On the other side of the arena sat the Dark One on his black throne, and this night a new throne sat next to his, as Mogra in her more humane form lounged beside him. With her six arms, she fingered the rubies and pearls and jewels that adorned her otherwise naked body. A golden clasp bound her thick dark ha
ir, and her violet eyes, only two of them, sparkled in amusement above a slightly smirking mouth. When she opened it, two fangs glistened in the torchlight.
When her eyes fell on the princess, she frowned slightly. One of her hands had been on Gilgaroth’s armored arm, but now she removed it and began fingering one of her dripping necklaces that fell between her full high breasts.
Rolenya, afraid to match the Spider Queen’s gaze, averted her eyes and allowed Hierghast to escort her down the stairs to the first row, where he seated her, then took position just behind her—her servant, protector, and, she was all too aware, captor.
Borchstogs brought her steaming food on golden platters and slopping goblets of wine. She ate and drank conservatively, and she tried not to watch the bloody fights, though bellows and roars pierced the air. She also tried to avoid looking at either Mogra or Gilgaroth. For the most part, she kept her eyes on her food, which if nothing else agreed with her. Gilgaroth kept her well.
She thought of Baleron, as she often did. She wished he would arrive right now and wrap her in his arms, take her away from this awful place. It would be so wonderful to be with him again.
On the other hand, she dreaded to see him, for it would mean he had completed his task—had murdered Albrech, murdered Logran, and consigned Havensrike to the fires of the Wolf. Racked by conflicting emotions, Rolenya felt tears well behind her eyes, and only with a sudden surge of will did she force them away.
Eventually the tentacled horror entangled the Grudremorqen, and the other two, who were by then mortally wounded, were able to destroy it. It died, but they soon followed it into darkness, and the tentacled creature succumbed to the burns the Grudremorqen had dealt it, leaving no victors at all.
As the bodies were carted away, Gilgaroth rose from his throne. Rolenya steeled herself as his black voice rang out, as she knew it would:
“Sing for us, my dove.”
Even with the Spider Goddess here, she sang for him nearly every night, and, though it pained Rolenya, she was glad to do it, as with every song she sang she drew her own web about him—a web of Light and Grace, to be sure, but a web nonetheless. She sought to bind him to her, to ensnare him in love for her. Surely if she succeeded he could not throw her to the Borchstogs, or visit any other tortures on her for that matter. And . . . if her spells were powerful enough . . . perhaps she could even seek to influence his actions, to bend him to her will.