by Jack Conner
“But fine!” Baleron said. “Give me control of your largest, most fearsome army. Give me your legions of Borchstogs, your Colossi, your dragons. Give me all your weapons and power, and then we will have us a show. If it’s amusement you want, Gilgaroth, then I can amuse. Will you find your death amusing? Will you find Mogra’s? What about the fall of this tower? Will you be laughing then? I will. Oh, yes. I think it’s a fine idea. A fine idea indeed. Give me this army. Give it to me now! I demand it!”
Gilgaroth’s flaming eyes were smiling. “Such rage in one so small! There is life in you yet. Good. You will make better sport that way.”
“Sport? I can give you sport. If that’s all you wanted, I wish you’d told me years ago.”
“I enjoy a challenge. Yet it would go easier for you if you realized the place of Man in this world. You belong at my side, Baleron, not before me in the ranks of my enemies. No. Men are my creatures. Do you not see? You are animals, and base. You have no Grace. You have no purpose, save to follow your whims, to find food and shelter. You are like rats, vermin. You are Fallen, and you are beasts. You have no purpose. There is no reason to your being. You . . . do not matter.”
“If we’re so base, why do you want us at your side?”
“Because it does not have to be that way. You can CHOOSE to have a purpose. You can fulfill your potential. You can fight for me. You CAN matter.”
“Then it seems to me that we can matter by standing against you.”
“And aid the Elves? Why? To prop up their weakness so that they can survive my wrath and continue standing in the Light while you stand outside them in the Dark, shivering and cold, hungry and empty? Why? Why, when you can stand with ME and have the world at your mercy?”
“You have no mercy! I think you’ve demonstrated that very clearly.”
“I can give you power and purpose and meaning. You, Baleron, you are in a unique position, to take up my offer and raise your kind out of the mire. You are now the King of Havensrike, or you can be if I allow Havensrike to endure. All kingdoms of Men can be united under your rule. You can be the King of Men, and you can lead your people under my banner. You will have purpose. Your race will have meaning. How does that sound, Spider?”
Baleron scowled up at Gilgaroth. He felt the Beast’s influence on his mind, but Gilgaroth did not seem to be tampering with his thoughts, only monitoring them. He wanted Baleron to reach the obvious conclusion on his own.
Gilgaroth’s offer was tempting, but Baleron would have been surprised if it were not. That was the Dark One’s game, after all.
Baleron shook his head.
“The thing about having no purpose,” he said, “no reason for being, is that we must make our own. That is our gift, and our curse. I have made it my purpose to destroy you and your evil, and I’d rather exist without purpose than to have it be to serve your ends, you cancer.” He looked all about him. “See these dragons flying about? They’re the flies that buzz around a hill of dung, and this tower is that dunghill, and those demons down there chanting your name, they’re the little maggots that thrive on excrement, and that’s what you are, you monster—the Lord of Excrement!”
Mogra, a scream on her lips, stalked towards him, but Gilgaroth laid an arm across her way and said, “No. He has made his decision, my Queen, and in so doing he has damned his race to serve as slaves and food and sport for our own children. He has ensured that Man will fall even further, and eventually cease to exist.”
“He has insulted us!” she said.
“No. He has insulted himself by speaking such folly. I gave him the chance to raise men up from the muck of their existence, and he chose to spit on my hand instead. Let him live. Let him see the results of his choice firsthand, even as he drives the engine of our victory himself, a slave, just like the rest of his people will soon become.”
She nodded, still breathing hard, and relaxed.
To Baleron, Gilgaroth said, ”Return to your place, you fool.”
Steaming in fury, Baleron returned to the ranks of Borchstogs and to his sister’s side. Ustagrot was glaring at him, and Rolenya was looking at him with wide eyes.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
“Oh, I’m just fine,” he answered, but he could hear his voice and it sounded anything but fine.
“Baleron. I’m . . . I’m so proud of you. You were strong.”
He wasn’t so proud. Had he just damned mankind? He had, he knew—if Gilgaroth should live.
Gilgaroth was guiding Mogra forwards. When she was at his side, the Lord of the Tower returned his attention to his gathered army. “I will not let Baleron lead you alone. Oh, no. He lacks experience, and clearly respect, and you deserve better. Therefore I appoint Queen Mogra to guide the young prince, the young Heir, to tutor him in the arts of war. I’m sure they will make an . . . interesting team. The Seamstress of Shadows, the Keeper of the Womb of Power—SHE shall oversee your General, my Champion, and ultimately it is SHE who will lead you to victory.”
The Borchstog hordes roared fervently, and Mogra smiled, showing her fangs. The Dark One had an armored arm about her waist, and two of hers rested on his back.
The two Dark Gods—mother and son, husband and wife, father and mother of demons—stood there at the brink of the terrace overlooking their hordes, their children. They were at the apex of their power, the height of their success. They stood, side by side, the wind whipping them, rain lashing them, lightning illuminating them, basking in the worship of their creatures, creatures who at any moment would be given the order to go north, to sweep all opposition aside, to bring ruin to the world.
What was Baleron waiting for? The two gods’ backs were turned; he’d get no better chance than this.
But if he acted, there could be no going back.
If he did nothing, he and Rolenya could yet wed and live out their lives, immortals both, as the rulers of some distant land—at least, after he finished playing general; the notion was not unattractive. Indeed, he longed for it, for spending eternity with his beloved.
He placed his hand on Rondthril’s hilt.
Coldness exploded in his chest. Icy tendrils shot out from it and drove deep into his soul, into his mind.
You fool! he heard in his head. Slaying Gilgaroth is impossible. You’ll only earn his wrath. If you think the plight of humans will be grim now, just wait!
It was a strong voice, a voice that brooked no argument, a voice that boomed so loudly within him that there was not room for any other.
And yet one came. It was not so loud, for it was not woven over eons with the power of a god, but it was no less strong, and it said, No.
Baleron said No.
He thought of the Flower of Itherin and tried to summon its might, if any still remained within him. He felt it stir.
The explosion of ice shrieked and writhed, and that freezing tendril withered. The Flower could not kill the coldness, but it could distract it while he did what he needed to do.
Baleron stepped forward and drew Rondthril with a glorious ring. The battle still raged within him, but he ignored it.
Time seemed to slow.
His guards were so entranced at being this close to their Lord and Lady at such a momentous occasion that they did not immediately notice their prisoner’s movements. Only Ustagrot felt something amiss, and he looked over his shoulder, just in time to see the Fanged Blade coming around in a bright, steely arc—
Baleron cut off the necromancer’s head with savage glee, and the head and body fell in separate directions. The neck stump spouted a geyser of black blood as the body fell.
Hearing the prince’s voice with godly hearing, the Dark One himself began to turn around. Lightning sizzled behind him, and rain beat on his black, spiked armor. His veil of shadow deepened, and from it his eyes burned redly. He was huge, a towering god against a puny mortal.
As soon as Baleron completed the arc that severed Ustagrot’s head, he reversed his grip on Rondthril, holding it by
the blade in his naked hand, slicing into his tender flesh. He grit his teeth and drew the sword over his head, cocking his arm for the throw that would determine the fate of the world.
The Dark One had half spun around when Baleron released the sword. Rondthril spun, end over end, flashing in the night, spitting tongues of lightning reflected off of its steely surface. Rain lashed it.
Rolenya’s blue eyes widened.
The Borchstog guards wheeled on Baleron, but their attention was so fixed on the flying sword that they did not immediately attack him, giving him the chance to wrench a blade loose of its owner’s grasp. His hand bled freely.
Mogra still faced the worshipful horde, basking in their love and awe.
Throgmar had seen movement on the terrace and had witnessed Ustagrot’s decapitation without stirring. When he saw Rondthril hurled towards his father, he could have sent a lance of flame to incinerate the sword or knock it off course, but he did not. Baleron had not thought he would; after all, he was the Betrayer.
Rondthril flew . . .
Rolenya gasped. She’d known this would happen, but it still seemed to come as a surprise to her.
Baleron, who’d been planning his next steps while listening to Mogra’s and Gilgaroth’s speeches, slashed out with his new weapon, spearing a Borchstog through the throat. With a boot, he kicked another off the terrace. Yet even his eyes were fixed on Rondthril!
Gilgaroth was nearly fully turned around when the Fanged Blade struck him, and he had one arm half-raised. If the sword had struck that arm, it might have been deflected, and Baleron’s plan would have failed utterly.
Instead, Rondthril, the Fanged Blade, pierced the Dark One’s armor at the chest and drove through the Shadow’s corporeal body with mindless hunger. It impaled Gilgaroth through the black heart and buried itself all the way to the hilt so that its tip, dripping black blood, stuck out below the Omkaroggen’s left shoulder blade.
Gilgaroth, the Dark One, the Wolf, the Shadow, threw back his head and roared. His living shadow began to thin. The tower shook, and the terrace trembled.
Mogra began to turn around, her violet eyes widening.
Light, reddish gold light, poured from Gilgaroth’s wounds, as if the very fires of the Second Hell were being let out, and perhaps they were. Indeed, seconds later a plume of flame shot out from around Rondthril’s hilt and another from around its tip. The Dark One’s inner fires were being loosed. When he opened his mouth to scream, more red-gold light poured out.
The tower trembled violently.
Baleron could not believe it. It had worked! His plan had worked! It crossed his mind that in a way Ungier, even in death, had finally struck at his father. Baleron silently thanked the souls of Logran and Elethris for preparing him, for giving him hope.
Gilgaroth just stood there, roaring, as flame jetted from his wounds. His armored hands gripped Rondthril’s handle . . . and tried to pull it out.
Baleron blinked. No, he thought. Gods, no . . .
Gilgaroth still lived. Ungier was not mighty enough to craft a weapon that could slay his father.
Baleron had been a fool.
While Gilgaroth tried to remove Rondthril, Mogra turned about to face the prince, and lightning danced in her eyes.
Chapter 15
Baleron did not, could not, stop in his fight with the Borchstogs. He slashed one across the face. Hurled another from the terrace. He dodged one heavy axe, which thunked into the chest of another, spraying blood. He tackled the one who had struck at him and flung him from the terrace. The Borchstog screamed as he fell.
Baleron turned to fight the next one.
This was a battle he knew to be futile and pointless—there was a whole army against him, plus two gods!—yet he could not just surrender. He could not just die.
As he parried the thrust of a Borchstog’s sword, sweat flying from his hair, his face contorted in a grimace of concentration, part of his mind reflected that soon he would be with Salthrick, burning in the fires of Illistriv forevermore.
Rolenya, seeing the desperateness of their plight, picked up the sword of a fallen Borchstog. She was far from a trained fighter, but she was motivated.
A gaggle of Borchstogs clamored around Baleron, who was fending them off breathlessly, weaving his sword in a fury of bright, bloody arcs and thrusts.
One Borchstog sword embedded itself accidentally in another Borchstog’s head, and Baleron kicked the body away. Rolling, he knocked another of the hellspawn off its feet. His sword darted up, spearing another through the gut. He fought as if a man possessed, though surely it was quite the opposite.
The soldiers ignored Rolenya. She determined to teach them that this was unwise.
Gritting her teeth, she plunged her blade into the side of one of the Borchstogs battling Baleron. The Borchstog gasped, spasmed on the end of her sword, and slumped to the floor. She yanked at her weapon, trying to pull it free, but it seemed to be stuck; it had lodged between two ribs.
She grunted, trying to pull it loose. Cold rain lashed her, pasting her dress to her skin. Blood from the Borchstog had sprayed her, and she felt sick.
Mogra turned from Baleron to her beloved, Rondthril still sticking from his breast. He needed her attention. She gripped Rondthril’s handle and pulled. Reluctantly, as if it had been feasting on his essence and was not quite sated, it moved, and at last she pulled it free. A gout of flame licked from the wound, then subsided.
The goddess stared at the sword’s black-blooded, smoking length, while her Son, her Husband, leaned against her for support.
“How could this happen?” she demanded, then frowned. “This is Ungier’s blade.”
With a moan, Gilgaroth said, “Treachery.”
Infuriated, she flung the Fanged Blade at Baleron, but he was rolling on the floor locked in combat with a Borchstog, and the sword missed him, bounced off the terrace, and skipped into the interior of the Main Hall.
Mogra screamed in rage. Her eyes fell on Rolenya.
The scream curdled Rolenya’s blood, and she shivered at the hate in the Spider Queen’s voice.
She turned to see Gilgaroth, one hand over his punctured heart, sink heavily to his knees. The other hand tore his helmet loose from his shadow-veiled head.
Rolenya succeeded at last in jerking her sword free from the Borchstog and turned to face the dying Gilgaroth, if dying he was, the one who had both killed her and raised her from the dead, the one who had presided over her many afterlives—the one who’d eaten her, savaged her, threatened her, and loved her, and listened enraptured as she sang.
Gilgaroth’s eyes stabbed into her. He became her entire world. The sounds of battle faded, and she no longer felt the rain on her skin.
“Rolenya,” he said, shaping the word as though it were a foreign delicacy. He said it as though he were a lover betrayed, and indeed she felt a pang of guilt.
She pushed his influence away, though it took all her effort. Behind her, she could hear the surviving Borchstogs continue to slice at Baleron, who must still be rolling about on the floor, but she could tell from the sounds of metal on metal that their weapons were striking the terrace, not him.
Rolenya wanted to help him, but she found her eyes irresistibly drawn back to Gilgaroth. His flaming gaze bound her to the spot.
“My songbird . . . Did you know?”
“I . . . I . . .” She could not get the words out. For some reason, part of her actually felt bad about betraying Gilgaroth. She had to shake herself. “You’re evil!” she said. “You’re an abomination! You’re the enemy of everything I could ever love. Now lay down and die!”
He howled in anguish.
“This cannot be,” said Mogra.
“But it is!” the princess said. “Your time is over.”
A terrible wrath seized Mogra as she fully comprehended the enormity of the events around her, and she stepped forward, fuming in her anger, toward Rolenya, who still held her sword, though limply, in her hands.
&nb
sp; Rolenya dropped the weapon in her fright, and it clattered to the slick stone. Stifling a cry, she fell back before the advance of the Omkarog. There was no way she could win. She was dead.
Mogra’s shadow fell over her. The goddess opened her mouth as if to release a roar but instead webbing flew out from the back of her throat and shot through the air; the sticky strands knocked Rolenya to the terrace and bound her there. The princess struggled, but the silk was too strong.
The air flickered and Mogra shifted forms, changing into the giant arachnid form of the Spider Goddess. The platform was more than large enough to accommodate her. Now twenty-five or thirty feet tall, an undefeatable monster whose hulking shape blotted out the electric-ribboned clouds above, she stalked towards the princess.
Rolenya struggled against the web, and it tore, but not enough.
One of Mogra’s eight legs lifted high and poised over her, ready to spear her to the floor.
Rolenya felt the blood drain from her face. She waited for Gilgaroth to stop his bride before her fury could spell an end to his songbird, but he just stared at Rolenya with his eyes of flame, the eyes of a lover betrayed.
Mogra paused with her leg over the she-elf, waiting for something.
“Yes,” Gilgaroth hissed to her, granting her permission.
If a spider could smile, she did so. “At last!” she said. “I’ve wanted this since the first day I saw you, Rolenya, infecting my spawn with your . . . Grace.” She spat the last word nastily, as though it were an insult, and perhaps to her it was.
Rolenya, who had died many times already, prepared herself for it yet again. It was always painful, and always horrible, and this time she did not expect to be remade. This . . . was it.
Mogra’s leg started to descend.
“NO,” said a voice from above, and the long jointed limb paused.
For suddenly Throgmar was there.
The vast Worm had lifted off his balcony and flown up to the scene of battle, eyes locked on the mother who’d worked against him, who’d seduced him and used him to further her master’s ends. He had expected such behavior from Gilgaroth, but not from her, the one who had brought him into this world and invested so much power in him, coddled him and raised him to believe in his own grandeur.