by Jack Conner
“What frightens you, my bride?”
“When the world is ours, and you have grown strong enough to re-forge it, when Lorg-jilaad is with us again . . .”
A gleam came into his fiery eyes. “Then our war on the Omkar of Light shall begin, and we shall prevail. Only then may our war on each other begin.” He looked at her, and in his gaze was love. “But you worry for yourself.”
“No, I worry for you, and for him. I will put myself to sleep, and only the Victor shall be able to rouse me. I will be the prize. But I fear for the Loser. Never will I look on him again. Never will I feel his hot embrace! He will be destroyed, gone from the world utterly.”
“It is the way it must be. You know this. We will not share you.”
“Yes, my Son. I know. But I can’t bear the thought of losing you, or of losing Him.” She pressed herself to him and ran her six hands over his body, and he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Let me ease your mind,” he said.
Wind howled and thunder roared. Darkness grew once more about the tower’s tip, and of what unholy sights transpired there, none can tell, but it is said that at one point all the rain that fell on the gathered host below turned to drops of warm blood, and the lightning made strange shapes in the sky.
Baleron, realizing he and Rolenya were finally alone, kissed her passionately.
“It’s been too long,” she murmured.
“Wait,” he said, separating himself. He hadn’t had a chance to bathe since his arrival, and the sight of the steaming baths demanded his attention. “The last wash I had was two days ago in some mountain stream cold enough to freeze me solid in a few places, or nearly enough. Some might still be frozen.”
She smiled, though it was strained. She still seemed tense, and he didn’t wonder why. The sight of him must be a mixture of good and bad news for her. She would not be simply glad to see him, as she knew that if he’d returned he must have completed his labor. She was half-watching him with the eyes of one who fears that she gazes upon the murderer of her adopted father, the traitor that doomed her adopted kingdom.
He took her hands and said, “I did not kill him, Rolenya. Our father, I did not . . .”
Something seemed to go out of her, some burden, and tears sprang to her eyes. “Tell me, Bal! What happened? I must know what happened!”
He sat her down, and slowly told her his strange, sad tale. When he reached the part about Rauglir possessing his hand and how he’d had to chop it off, she cried and kissed his stump. He told her everything, or nearly everything, omitting only the most hurtful parts, such as the image of their father’s severed head on a silver platter at Ungier’s banquet. When he described the sack of Glorifel, she burst into sobs and did not stop for a long time, no matter how much he stroked her hair or patted her back. He let her cry.
At last he finished, and he was heartened to see that she no longer looked at him as though he were a murderer. She looked on him as she had before, but with even greater love, and greater sadness.
He moved off to the baths, and she helped him.
“How did you find me at the Inferno?” he asked when he was neck-deep in the hot soapy water and she was scrubbing his back.
“When I returned here and you were gone, I was scared. I guessed at the only other thing that could interest you here: Salthrick. So I went down to the lower levels. I’ve wandered the halls here a great deal since you left, and I know them well. I knew what lay beyond that archway—one of the Gates of Hell, I call them—and so I went there. Well, not at first. It’s one of several, and it’s the second one I went to.” She shivered. “What a horrible place! But I’m glad I found you in time.”
“Why? I could have defeated Rauglir.”
She did not answer for a moment. “No, Baleron. I don’t think you could. He may play at swords for sheer amusement, but even if you could defeat him that way—he is not human, Bal.”
“Not anymore,” he agreed.
“He’s powerful. Don’t take him lightly.”
He felt his face harden. “Oh, I don’t. I would never take him lightly. But . . . let’s think of other things.”
The water was delightful, and he began to feel his old self again, despite everything.
Once she paused in her scrubbing and said, as if just remembering, “You say you . . . ate . . . this Flower of Itherin?”
“I didn’t. Rauglir did. And just the bloom. But yes.”
She frowned. “And you say your blood smoked when it struck the igrith?”
“Yes? What?” She seemed excited about something.
She sat the scrub-brush down. “Baleron, bite your hand.”
“What?”
“Bite your hand or I’ll do it for you. We just need one drop of blood.”
Curious, he punctured his palm enough for a little blood to well up, and as she directed he positioned it away from the bath and let a red drop fall to a section of the black floor not covered in hides. Instantly, smoke rose up from the spot where the blood had struck.
He laughed, more startled than anything else. “What does this mean? My blood has turned to acid?”
He craned his head back to see her smile in satisfaction. She said, “It means that for however long the Flower of Itherin’s power flows through you, your blood is harmful to enemies of the Light.”
“I’d rather keep my blood where it is.” He mulled it over. “There’s another way it helps. I forgot to tell you, but the Flower helped me master my Doom at one point. It didn’t save Father, but it gave him a little while longer.”
“Can it destroy your curse?”
“My Doom is the stronger, I can feel it. But at least it’s weaker now, with the Flower. I think. Anyway, it’s good to know that we’re not in this completely alone. The Gods of the Light haven’t done much to help us so far, but maybe, just maybe, this means that the fates don’t favor evil.” Ruefully, he added, “Still, I hate to put our new weapon to the test.”
She nodded gravely. “So do I.”
That night, they found comfort in each other’s arms, but it was a cold comfort, for she knew as he did: unless a miracle occurred, the Dark One had truly won. Just the same, Baleron found that even in Rolenya’s tears she seemed somehow resolved, determined to come out the other side of this thing. She whispered to him of her strategy for the future: if Gilgaroth truly did give them a distant realm to rule, they would rule it wisely, bringing enlightenment and goodness to their people, even if they were Borchstogs, and in due course they would grow powerful and challenge Gilgaroth for his Throne. Baleron very much doubted such a thing could be accomplished, but he pretended to go along with it for her sake.
She fell asleep in his arms, and he stayed awake to enjoy the feel of her body against his, of her smooth skin rubbing against him. He stroked her hair and inhaled the scent of her deep into his lungs, and at last he too drifted off to slumber.
Harsh knocking woke them.
It was Ustagrot, the Borchstog necromancer and high priest to Gilgaroth. To Baleron’s surprise, he was dressed in his most formal robes and wore a sweeping hat of Eastern style. In a gnarled hand he held a long, intricately carved staff with a sinister-looking demon head on top. He did not wait for the door to be answered but used his powers to swing it open before him so that it banged loudly against the wall, startling those inside. Striding in purposefully, he made his way to the bedroom, where a naked Rolenya scrambled to pull the covers over herself and Baleron.
“They don’t teach manners very well in Oslog!” she protested.
“Get dressed!” snapped Ustagrot. “In a short while, the Master will address His army and send the host north. It will destroy what’s left of your Union.”
“I take it he wants us to attend this speech,” Baleron said.
“He has something special planned for you,” said Ustagrot, and Baleron wondered if this were the final element of his Doom, as Mogra had intimated. “Besides, you’ve been instrumental in achieving His ends.
You deserve to see the fruits of your labor come to pass.”
“I’m fine as I am. Really.”
The Borchstog sneered. “You have no choice, Ravast-ru. We can force your cooperation, should that prove necessary. Get dressed. Make yourselves presentable. I’ll come for you in an hour.”
Baleron and Rolenya looked at each other when he had gone, and as one they glanced away.
Baleron still had some hope, though. His eyes inched to Rondthril, which hung in its scabbard from a nearby chair. Yes, he told it silently. It’s time. It must be, though I don’t know how; Ungier has proven lucky so far.
Rolenya saw his expression. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”
Should he tell her? He hesitated.
“Spit it out, Bal!”
He almost smiled. “I’m going to do something,” he said. “Something mad. This is it. Our last chance. If that army goes north, it’s all over for us, for the Crescent, for the world. We can’t allow that to happen.”
“But what can we do?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. I don’t even know if it’s possible, but it might be. At least we have a chance. Elethris hinted at it. So did Logran. So did Vilana.” He squeezed her hand. “There’s hope, Rolenya.” Frowning, he added, “But if we act now, there’s no going back. There will be no distant realm for us to rule, no eventual uprising. Nothing. If we fail, we’ll burn in the Second Hell forevermore until our souls are used up, far apart, and that’s if he doesn’t just destroy them outright. Either way, he’ll still send his army north. The world will still fall. So . . . the risk is high. The chance of success, slim. But it’s the only hope I see.” He held his breath. “I need to know—are you with me?”
She stared into his eyes.
“Of course I’m with you, Baleron Grothgar,” she said. “If I have to, I’ll follow you into the very fires of Illistriv. The pain they can inflict is not nearly so terrible as the prospect of a world ruled by the Shadow, a world without Light or Grace, a world of darkness where love has no place, except the love of power and dark things.” She clasped his hand tightly. “So of course I’m with you, Baleron. For ever and always, I’m yours. What do we have to do?”
Chapter 14
He and Rolenya were dressed and ready to go when Ustagrot returned an hour later. Escorted by a full dozen elite troops, the Heir to Havensrike and the Princess of Larenthi left their suite for the last time and followed the high priest through the labyrinth of Krogbur.
They wound along hallways and ascended several long flights of stairs, seeing many terrible things along the way—wraiths in groups or alone, unnatural creatures skulking down tunnels, grim sculptures of demons and beasts, and more. Though this place, this tower, was new, it seemed to be expanding rapidly. Just a few months ago it had seemed much emptier, much more hollow. Now it was crammed full of life, or un-life. Baleron thought it large enough to contain several vast cities, and he shuddered at what horrors might live in its most lightless chambers.
As he walked along, he fingered Rondthril’s pommel. It was amazing to him that they’d let him have it. Why would they allow him any sword at all, much less this one? Of course, all the Borchstogs were armed, and he was of a higher station than they. Weapons were an intrinsic part of their culture. Yet he was a prisoner. Unless, of course, the Dark One was fool enough to trust him, which he surely was not.
It must be that Gilgaroth did not fear Rondthril. The Heir had tried to slay him with it once and failed, so why should he fear it? After all, it was loyal to the dark powers. The Fanged Blade was impotent.
Kill! it chanted in his head, as always. Blood!
Hungry, but impotent.
That was why only Rondthril would serve his purpose, he realized. If Vilana or Elethris had gifted him with a sword imbued with Light, it would immediately have been taken from him upon his capture, as then it truly would be dangerous to Gilgaroth. But Rondthril was a weapon of darkness, so they trusted it.
Were Elethris and Logran and Vilana right? Could Baleron wield it for some high cause? He had to trust their instincts. Otherwise, there really was no hope.
He glanced sideways at Rolenya. She walked with calm and poise, but he could see that she was just as nervous as he was, and scared and racked with guilt, besides, for she would live, but unless they succeeded in their mad plan (if plan it could be called), her kingdoms—both of them—would fall. But despite it all there was a strength in her, a fortitude, and at first it puzzled him, but then he thought he understood: she was righteous, and in her righteousness she was powerful. Her eyes were clear and her face untroubled. She had faith—faith in him, in them, and in Light itself.
He wished he had such faith. All he had was determination—determination that if the opportunity to use Rondthril presented itself, he would act on the instant, heedless of the cost to his own life or soul or even Rolenya’s. All he had was the will to destroy Gilgaroth, consequences be damned, and it would have to be enough.
Gone were his days of wine and leisure and women. He knew he would never enjoy such luxury again. Life for him now was hard and sharp, full of darkness and blood. Just the same, he no longer felt empty. Before he’d found Rolenya again, he had been a mere shell of a creature, a machine working on clockwork, surviving just to survive. She had filled the emptiness in him.
He squeezed her hand and held it as they made their way through the tower, and at last they emerged into what he thought of as the Main Hall, the one that led from Gilgaroth’s giant Throne Room down the endless flight of black stairs to the largest and highest terrace. They were very near where Baleron had crouched that day, after dispatching the two Borchstog guards, when he’d spied on the meeting between Throgmar and his father. That seemed very long ago, a lifetime, before he’d slain Felestrata and lost whatever innocence he’d still possessed, before his months of torture, before the fall of his city and the death of his father.
He felt a stirring in his blood, a quickening. Taking a deep breath, he urged himself to be calm, to stay collected and focused.
They stepped into the wide, high corridor and made their way to the end of the short hall, where the terrace began. Ustagrot stopped, and so did the procession behind him.
“We will wait here,” the high priest whispered to Baleron and Rolenya, “until we are invited to do otherwise.”
Brother and sister shifted uncomfortably. Dimly, he could hear rhythmic chanting from below, from the very earth at Krogbur’s feet: the Borchstogs were sounding out. It was a great, dark swell of noise, primal and harsh. They were calling for their Master.
If Baleron could hear it from here, just below the roof of clouds, the sound must be awesome indeed. It must shake the earth.
The night was the color of charcoal, laced with violet-tinged edges of clouds, and here and there lightning flickered and cut the gloom. Thunder rolled.
Queen Mogra descended the stairs. In her humane form, she was naked and defiant and at least twenty feet tall, jewelry winking on her six arms. More jewelry adorned her body and clasped the thick, dark hair that fell past her shoulders. She seemed to sparkle when she moved. Her full high breasts jutted proudly from her chest, and the hair of her pubis was oiled and combed. Baleron was taken by her raw sensuality; she exuded sex and lust and power, and when she walked down those endless black stairs her hips rocked back and forth. She strutted down to the level floor and sauntered past Baleron and the rest of his group, teasing them with the scent of her heady and intoxicating perfume, if perfume it was. Smiling, Mogra stepped out onto the large terrace and made her way to its edge.
She lifted all six arms in a dramatic gesture, and the Borchstogs far below roared lustily.
“Do you love me?” she shouted.
They roared even louder.
She half turned and motioned to Ustagrot and his charges. One jewel-laden hand beckoned them.
The high priest and necromancer, obviously proud at sharing this moment with his goddess, led the way onto the balco
ny; the prince and princess, and their guards, followed. The air was brisk and cold, and there was a slight spray from the clouds just above. Mogra’s tawny body gleamed.
As always, hundreds of dragons circled the upper reaches of Krogbur, serving as an aerial moat and a constant watch. They did not fly quite this high, but circled about the tower somewhat further down. Baleron supposed they would be sent off with the Army upon its departure; after all, that was one of Krogbur’s main functions: to serve as a doorway by which the Hell-Worms could cross over.
Baleron gasped when he glimpsed the army below. Beyond the bright reach of the Inferno, it stretched from the Black Tower’s roots all the way to the foothills of the distant mountains. Bonfires glittered like the stars. The host was endless. It was comprised of many races, he knew, from Borchstog to Man, from Spider to Troll to corrupted Giant, and many others, besides. There were even a few hulking Colossi standing about. The titans shielded large numbers of soldiers from the rain. There must be millions of troops, Baleron thought. No resource of the Crescent—or the world—could resist it.
Mogra had conjured several images of herself down below; larger than life, she stood a hundred or more feet tall in various places amongst the army; Baleron saw that these images rose from bonfires and were made of flame. Sparks danced high, and smoke seemed to rise from her gold-flecked heads.
The Borchstogs looked both at her real form, far above, and at these images, which showed her exactly as she was, but taller and forged of fire. Some Borchstogs were on their hands and knees in worship. Some tossed bound sacrifices atop the pyres. Some leapt atop the fires themselves.
“Do you love me?” Mogra shouted again.
The roar that followed staggered Baleron.
Mogra smiled wider, enjoying this, basking in their worship.
“You are my children!” she said. “Each and every one of you. And it is you, my children, who will bring down our enemies and unleash us from this prison!”
They roared so savagely that Rolenya cast a worried glance at her brother. “This is the shape of the future?” she asked in a whisper. “These are the ones to inherit the earth?” She shook her head bitterly, wincing at the thought.