by Jack Conner
When the Worm had had his fill—eight murmeksa—he slunk over to the brook and slaked his thirst, then folded his wings about himself like a blanket and lay down, making his camp for the night.
Using Rondthril, Baleron hacked off a chunk of hog, and the Worm did not stop him. He sheathed the Fanged Blade and ambled over to the Leviathan. Cautiously, he sat beside Throgmar cross-legged as he munched on his meat. Though overdone, it was actually not as bad as he’d feared.
Tilting back his head a bit, he stared up at the stars. Despite everything, it was a pleasant night, not too cool, not too hot, with a gentle breeze that blew across the hill with a feminine sigh. There was even the faint scent of flowers in the air.
It was good to see the stars again. Both at Krogbur and at Glorifel, a screen of dark clouds had blocked out the sky, and their merry twinkle lifted his spirits more than they would have.
He looked over to the vast mound of the Leviathan. The dragon’s eyes were closed, but he doubted Throgmar slept.
“So,” he said slowly, “am I returning to Krogbur as a prisoner because I failed to complete my task, or a hero because I did?”
“THAT IS FOR HIM TO DETERMINE. I AM JUST THE DELIVERER.”
“You do not have to be. You could have simply killed me outright. You were about to.”
“PERHAPS GILGAROTH WILL PROLONG YOUR SUFFERING. I HOPE SO. IF HE DOES, IT WILL BE SWEETER FOR ME THAN YOUR MERE FLESH.”
“That’s right, you don’t like mere pleasures of the flesh.”
Now both amber eyes were open, and they narrowed to slits of hate. “YOU SLEW THE ONE BEING I COULD ENJOY THEM WITH.”
Baleron knew he was treading on brittle ice, and he did not think it wise to continue this leg of the conversation, yet he was, as he’d been told often enough recently, both foolish and rash, and so he marshaled his resolve to say, “You deserved it. You torched my city, and burned my home. You killed thousands.”
“YES, I DESERVED IT. DID SHE?”
Baleron did not know how to answer that. He had actually given the matter much thought over the months of his imprisonment, and it haunted him still. Felestrata’s murder had bothered him, and he supposed it would continue to do so; he had killed a helpless, reasoning being who had done him no harm.
However, he was also disturbed by the memory of the she-Worm changing into the form of Rolenya before his eyes. What could it mean?
He turned it over and over in his mind, playing with it as though it were a puzzle. Someone had wanted him to hurt. Someone had known he would slay her—after all, he’d been fulfilling his Doom—and had prepared for it. Throgmar had dismissed her transformation as a mere trick, and it was. But what kind of trick, and played by whom? Throgmar surely blamed his father, and there could be no doubt that it bore his signature. Yet . . .
Turning again to the dragon, he said, “Just how long did you know her?”
Throgmar, who’d closed his eyes, opened them again. “FELESTRATA?”
“Yes.”
“NOT LONG. A YEAR, PERHAPS. SHE CAME TO ME IN THE CAVERNS OF OKSIL, HAVING HEARD THAT I WAS THE LAST SURVIVING DRAGON OF THE FIRST BROOD, THAT I HAD SIRED A THIRD OF ALL THE DRAGONS THAT FOLLOWED OF THAT LINE, AND THAT I WAS ALONE AND HAD REBELLED AGAINST OUR MASTER. SHE CAME TO SUCCOR ME, AND TO LEARN FROM ME. WE GREW VERY CLOSE IN A SHORT TIME, AND THEN . . .” His voice hardened, and dripped with hatred. “THEN YOU TOOK HER FROM ME.”
Baleron wisely stayed silent for a while. During the silence, he thought on the dragon’s words and was reminded of the time the Wolf had sent him Rolenya in his pit, then stolen her from him. Suddenly, it came to him. As if out of a vision, the truth of what must have happened coalesced in his mind, and it was crystal clear, though no less monstrous because of it.
He was on the verge of revealing what he’d determined when the dragon’s hatred gave him pause. In telling what he knew, or thought he knew, he might just be spelling his end, right here and now.
Throgmar seemed to sense his thoughts and said, as if despite himself, “WHAT TROUBLES YOU?”
“Nothing.” Baleron turned his face away.
“NOT NOTHING. I CAN READ YOUR FACE ONLY TOO WELL, MORTAL. I CAN FEEL YOUR FEAR. TELL ME, OR I WILL RIP IT OUT OF YOUR MIND.”
Baleron resolved to himself that he would not. He had too much to accomplish; he could not afford to die.
“LOOK AT ME.”
The dragon exerted his will. Baleron struggled with it, but it was a losing battle and he knew it. He looked.
Throgmar’s amber eyes began to glow. Without the aid of a protective amulet, Baleron felt drawn in. Amber surrounded him, drowning him in seas of gold, and he was lost in the dragon’s power.
“TELL ME,” bade the dragon.
“It . . . was Mogra. Felestrata . . . she was Mogra.”
A long pause, then:
“NO. IT COULD NOT BE.”
“Yes, it could. It was. Ask yourself why she was in the region of Worthrick just at that exact moment. Don’t you see? He sent her to you in that form to lure you, to tempt you, to seduce you. He did it so that he could take her away from you—that so—called potion of his—so he’d have a tool he could use against you. Her. You’d do anything for her, even betray your own mind. That is why she was in those mountains, how she came to us so quickly. And that is why she left before we had been set free, so that she could return to Worthrick and assume Felestrata’s form once more.”
Throgmar shook his head in denial. “NO. IT COULD NOT BE.”
“Oh, yes it could.” Baleron tried to stop himself but couldn’t. The Worm’s compulsion was still upon him. “It’s just like him. It’s exactly what he would do, and you know it. But he never had any intention of giving her back to you. He and Mogra knew what I’d do, that I was following you . . . that I’d kill her. They stole her from you, and used me to do it. But they were clumsy. Finally, they made a mistake. Don’t you see? Because they tried to make it painful for me, too. Mogra, pretending to be a dead Felestrata, changed into Rolenya, trying to wound me, to make me think I killed her. In accomplishing my revenge I would destroy my greatest treasure. They love to cause pain. You know they do. They feed on it like vampires feed on blood.”
Throgmar was shaking his horned head. “NO. IT’S NOT POSSIBLE. MOGRA . . . IS MY MOTHER.”
“She’s a mother to Gilgaroth also, and you know how close they are.”
Seething, Throgmar snorted flame, almost killing Baleron. Thankfully, he was not looking straight at the prince, and the flame plumed to his side. Still, Baleron was singed a bit, and he shrank back a few feet. The pain shook him from Throgmar’s power, and he could master his own mind.
Yet he did not stop.
Throgmar looked horrified. “IT CANNOT BE. NO . . .”
Taking a perverse delight in it, Baleron said, “But it is. There was no Felestrata.”
“NO . . .”
“They used you, Throgmar.” It was the first time he’d called the dragon by name that he could remember. “You knew they were using you. You just didn’t know how much, and to what lengths they would go. Remember, the only reason they had to use you at all is because through you they could get access to Glorifel. And why? Because you had helped me, as they knew you would.” His voice took on a tone of defiance and hope. “Help me again, Throgmar. Help me like you did back then. Together, maybe we can strike at Him. Maybe we can—”
“NO!” roared the dragon, rising to his feet. “NO, I WON’T HEAR IT. YOU AND YOUR KIND ARE FULL OF LIES. YOU’RE OF THE FALLEN RACE, AND I WON’T SIT HERE AND LET YOU CORRUPT ME WITH YOUR FILTH. I PRESERVE THE PURITY OF FIRE. YOU WOULD TAINT ME WITH YOUR WORDS, BUT I WILL NOT STAND ANOTHER SECOND OF IT.”
So saying, he scooped up Baleron in a mighty claw, squeezing him tightly, and took to the skies, evidently too worked up to sleep. Baleron just breathed shallowly, as he couldn’t expand his chest enough for a deep breath, and hoped for the fit to pass soon.
It didn’t.
The dr
agon flew for two more days straight through without stopping. And when he did stop, Baleron tried to bring it up again, risking his fire. The Betrayer, however, would have none of it. He mesmerized Baleron with his eyes and forbade the prince from ever mentioning it to him again.
They flew on.
If nothing else, Baleron thought, at least he would see Rolenya again. For, with every beat of Throgmar’s wings, the Black Tower drew closer.
A trail of red smoke neared the rearing tower of Krogbur, deep in the dark center of Oslog. Shaped like a great crimson serpent, the tongue of smoke approached the screen of dragons that constantly circled the tower. Below the Inferno licked the tower’s sides, millions of screaming souls swimming through it, pursued as ever by demons. The Worms of the aerial moat eyed the red smoke and knew it for what it was—Lord Ungier—and even if they’d wanted to stop him, they could not, not in this form. He was taking no chances tonight.
The formation of glarumri that escorted him hung back as he neared the tower and began circling it . . . at a good distance from the dragons. Ungier slipped through the scaly moat of Worms and made his way up toward the black and lightning-lit clouds, ascending towards the highest terrace reserved for the most important visitors. Who could be more important than he?
Still, he marveled at the wonder of Krogbur as he climbed. It was mighty. It was beautiful. It pulsed with power, like the great black heart it was. Just passing through its air he felt strengthened. Revitalized. His father had outdone himself this time.
Ungier coalesced into his tall, batwinged form as he alit on the highest terrace, his all—black eyes glaring imperiously, and drew his wings about himself like a cape. Who was here to greet him? He saw no one.
However, before he could become offended, a huge shadowy shape stalked out of the depths of the interior. Eight long, segmented legs clicked on the slick hard surface, and Ungier swallowed as the being’s bulbous body came to loom over him. Lightning flickered, reflecting off its glistening carapace, black with traces of flowing purple. A strange, intoxicating musk radiated off it, and Ungier shivered, half in terror, half in delight, as eight unblinking red eyes gazed down at him speculatively.
He had not expected this. He would not have been surprised if Gilgaroth had come to greet him personally, or if he had sent some high servant, but to have sent the Spider Goddess—their Mother . . .
This was an ill portent, and Ungier began to wonder if Gilgaroth suspected the reason he’d come. Suspected—and resented. It was with great fear and trepidation that he looked up into the Spider Queen’s many blazing eyes. He inclined his head to her slightly, a small bow.
“My Queen,” he said. “My Mother.”
“My son.” Her voice, as always, was heavy with meaning, yet beautiful, and her words well shaped. “Why have you left your escort out beyond the dragon-moat?”
“I . . .” He could not say he feared rebuke for coming here; that would display weakness. But if he lied, she would know. “I’ll bring them in directly.”
“Why have you come?” she asked. What did she know? Did she suspect? “Surely you have not yet conquered the whole of Havensrike so swiftly.”
“No. But,” he hasted to add, “Glorifel is taken, as is the southern third of the country, and its armies are broken. For all intents and purposes, it is defeated.”
She paused, letting him worry, then: “I know.” Nothing more. She was waiting for him, playing with him like a wolf with a hare. He did not like it, and it made him edgy.
“I have come to claim my prize,” he said, with perhaps too much boldness.
Another pause, calculating. “No prize was offered you.”
“Let me take it up with Him.”
She studied him. Her spider-face was impossible to read. “What prize do you require?”
“Rolenya.”
“He will not part with her. If you ask him for this, you will regret it.”
“For her, I would risk anything.”
Again she studied him. “Here,” she said, tapping a foot, and two Borchstogs emerged from the tower holding something between them. It rippled in the wind, glimmering darkly. The Borchstogs knelt and proffered the item to him.
He accepted it hesitantly, warily. It was a cape made of Spider-silk.
“I spun that for you myself,” Mogra told him.
“Why?” he asked, unable to keep the note of suspicion from his voice.
“A mother needs no reason to gift her son. But know this. With this I commemorate your return to your Father’s goodwill. Yet I fear that his favor will be fleeting, for you have come as a swaggering victor, not a supplicant—and as a thief.”
“I am no thief. Rolenya is rightfully mine—awarded me by my Father for being the spider’s custodian. I had her for three years. I would have married her.”
“Argue not with me and mine.”
“But I am yours. Come now, Mother, perhaps we can arrange a deal. You wish to be rid of her, surely, and I wish to take her. Perhaps we can arrange an alliance . . .”
She drew herself up, and Ungier felt himself shrink. Her shadow danced and swelled, and seemed to grow deeper. He suddenly felt icy cold and shivered beneath her majesty. Her eight eyes blazed redly in the darkness.
“Fool!” she said, and the floor quaked beneath Ungier. “What madness has gripped you that you would plot treachery against your Father?” Seething, she added, “It is that thing! That elf! Why are you and he so drawn to her?” She let out a growl, a spidery trill of frustration.
She started to turn about, then hesitated. Not facing him, she said, “When we sensed your coming, my Lord expressed his desire that you should attend his sending-off of the gathered army.” One of her legs gestured outwards and downwards to the huge host of Borchstogs and others that had massed at Krogbur’s roots beyond the encircling flame. “He shall order them to begin their assault a few nights hence. You shall attend the ceremony.”
He nodded shakily. “O-of course.”
She wheeled about, and the darkness withdrew. Ungier, gasping, looked around to find himself lying on the terrace clutching the cape, which fluttered ghostily in the wind. Shakily, he rose and entered the tower, probing the shadows for ambush as he went.
He wondered if he had beaten Baleron here.
After her meeting with Ungier, Mogra, in agitation, visited Gilgaroth. He was in the Well of Krogbur, that great dark shaft in the tower’s core, where he communed with the powers under his command, issuing orders to generals prosecuting his War and listening to the prayers of those who made sacrifices to him in his temples. She waited, and at last he finished the business of the moment and turned to regard her.
“Ungier is come,” she said.
He waited, sensing that she had more to say, so she added, “He has conquered Havensrike and desires a reward. An excuse to ask a favor of you, more like. He wants the elf girl.”
She could feel Gilgaroth stir, and his darkness hummed with thought and energy, yet he said nothing.
She must plead with him, she saw, if she was to save Ungier—and him, too, perhaps. “Why not give him what he seeks?” she asked. “Why sour your bond with him just when it is renewed?”
At last Gilgaroth spoke, and his words held dark meaning: “He does not care. He would sour that bond. He would dissolve it. And all to take away my songbird. He would rather cause me pain than be a son to me. He would rather have my treasure for himself than have my love.” She could feel the sadness, the regret, the bitterness, radiating from him like smoke from a fissure.
“No,” she said. “He knows not what he does. He is blinded by her light. She is an enchantress, my Lord.”
He regarded her coldly. “You fear she enchants even me.”
She nodded wretchedly. “She drives you and Ungier apart, and I sense that is a dangerous thing. The webs of fate are strange and nebulous, yet I can sense them like few can, for I am a spider. I sense that your thread is bound to his, and that if his should be cut, yours will as
well.”
“Begone. I have things that need tending. War is like a delicate flower. It needs constant pruning, watering, and caring. Leave me to do it.”
And so, troubled in her deep heart, Mogra left.
Just beyond the entrance to the Well, she met Ungier, who approached the archway wearing, she was glad to see, his new cape. Perhaps that meant he had decided to accept his parents’ favor and leave off the subject of Rolenya.
Instead he told her, “I’ve come to discuss my prize.”
In that instant she wanted to crush him. “If that is why you have come, then wait,” he said. “Now is not the time.”
“I must see Him.”
She was blocking his way. “Turn back, my son. He is in no mood to receive you.”
This clearly frustrated Ungier, but he seemed to sense that she meant what she said, and, not wanting to anger his father, he bowed, turned about and withdrew. Sadly, she watched him go.
Chapter 12
Things were getting strange in Krogbur, Rolenya decided.
She did not know where he had come from, but Lord Ungier was attending the festivities that evening at the Feasting Hall. Attended by several sycophants wearing the armor of glarumri, he marched down the aisle looking tall and powerful and commanding. He wore a cape made of fine Spider-silk, and when he moved it trailed him like a glimmering shadow.
Rolenya was already seated—on the first row, as usual—and when he saw her he actually stopped in his tracks. His black eyes grew round, he appeared to steel himself, then strode boldly over to her and took her hand in his, bent and kissed it. She had endured his kisses too many times to shudder now.
“Good evening, my love,” he said, his eyes staring openly into hers.