Glorifel succumbed to the evil of Ungier. Baleron watched it happen.
The area about the city was hilly, and Throgmar set down on a high point to the south. From there the two watched in silence as flames and terror washed across the capital of Havensrike. Baleron let the tears fall without restraint. He sank to his knees and wept. Throgmar watched him, seeming to bask in his horror and grief.
Finally Baleron turned to the dragon angrily. “You must think this is all very amusing, you bastard.”
“WATCH YOUR TONGUE, MORTAL.”
“And if I don’t? Will you kill me?”
“PROVOKE ME AND WE SHALL SEE.”
Baleron spat at the dragon’s clawed feet. “There!”
“DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”
“Yes!”
Throgmar’s eyes glittered. “GOOD.”
They said no more to each other. In the morning, Throgmar bore him down from the mountain and over the city. Baleron saw that half of it had been burnt to the ground, but the other half still stood, if scorched and ugly. Ungier did not intend to raze it utterly, then; he wanted a place to rule, something with which to replace Gulrothrog.
Public squares had been turned into places of horror. Scaffolds and racks and machinery had been erected, and men and women and children alike were undergoing torture to the delight of the Borchstogs. But some humans had been kept from that fate; Borchstogs were herding groups of enslaved Glorifelans through the streets, gathering them in King’s Square. It was there that Throgmar sat down, upon the very ruins of Grothgar Castle. The stifling air stank of smoke and death and the rot of Borchstogs. Ungier stood on a platform built before the statue of King Grothgar I, where Albrech had given his speech upon returning from Larenthi. The statue’s king as well as horse had been decapitated. No, decapitated was not exactly the right word, Baleron saw; the heads had been switched.
The Vampire King surveyed the chained and huddled masses of the human survivors as his Borchstogs finished rounding them up. Most were women and children, Baleron saw, and all were dirty, soot-streaked and terrified. It hurt him to look upon them, and he could not meet their gazes when they turned to see just what manner of man had been flown in by a Great Worm. When they were all gathered, he did a rough count. There were less than four thousand of them. Four thousand!
Of course, doubtlessly some had fled into the hills and others were still being rounded up, but it was still staggering.
He wondered if Amrelain were among them, but did not see her. Surely the Borchstogs would not have killed one so beautiful. Perhaps she had been among those to escape.
He saw many undead things stirring about the city, and he recognized a few of them. Some had been members of the Five Hundred. Halthus was there, lurching and moaning, most of his chest gone. Blood spattered his mouth, and flies buzzed about him. Baleron shuddered. Would Glorifel become a city of demons and the living dead? At the thought, bile burned into the back of his throat.
Ungier spoke, his words directed at his prisoners, and he wore a gloating sneer as he shouted, “Welcome! Greetings from Oksilith! From Oslog!” A few women wailed in fear. “Thank you all for joining in the rebirth of your fair city, for that is what it shall be: a new beginning.” He took a breath. “Let me tell you a story. My story. I was birthed of an egg made of dead flesh, the flesh of my Master’s finest fallen warriors. Out of their demise came my life, and so it shall be here. Your city is dead, but from its rotting corpse will come a new day, a new world, and it shall be glorious, just as I am. You will see. You will grow used to the whip and the lash. You will grow used to the blood-letting. You will grow used to your friends disappearing in the night. Sometimes they will return to you. Sometimes they will be whole. Other times they may be ... altered.” He smiled. “For I have come, and I am your master now. Your first task will be to build me a Palace, then a Temple.”
Another woman wailed.
“You monster!” shouted one, striding forward. “You beast!”
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s what I am. I am a monster. I am a beast. And I will be your god. I will rename the city Ungoroth, and you will bow before me. You will live in one quarter of Ungoroth while Borchstogs and others inhabit the rest. Yours will be the slave quarter.”
“We will not be slaves!” said the woman.
Unimpressed by her bravery, he motioned to one of his Trolls, who stepped forward and picked her up.
“Release her!” Baleron shouted, stepping out from the shadow of Throgmar. “Release her now! Your Savior commands it!”
Ungier’s black eyes swiveled across the gathering to him. “Baleron ...”
Baleron marched across the square to the platform of the statue and glared up angrily at the vampire.
“Let her go,” he said.
Ungier looked at the Troll. “Our Savior makes a good point. Why don’t we release her from the city? Let her go free?”
The Troll grinned. “It would be my pleasure, m’lord.”
With no further ado, he drew back his arm and flung her as high and far as he could. Baleron gasped. Her body flew through the air for a good ways, but it did not make it anywhere near the Wall. Instead, she fell, screaming, and Baleron shouted in rage as she hit the ground.
“Pity,” Ungier said, shaking his head. “She didn’t make it. The next one, perhaps.”
Baleron, his fury overcoming his good sense, pushed past the cordon of Borchstogs before the stage and leapt on the platform. No one immediately stopped him, perhaps because he was ul Ravast.
He punched the vampire right in his skeletal nose.
Ungier stumbled back, surprised. He merely raised his leathery palm and Baleron flew backwards as if struck by a fierce wind. He landed amidst the gathered survivors, and pain flared through his back. The survivors made space for him, and one even helped him to his feet. Groaning, he stood.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
A Troll, the same one that had thrown the girl to her death, picked him up in its huge hand and squeezed him painfully, but not hard enough to kill.
“What shall I do with him, m’lord?” it asked Ungier.
Baleron grunted, trying to pry its fingers from him. He thought there was something familiar about its cruel smile.
The Vampire King appraised the prince thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Shall we release him, too? It would be fun, I think, to give him a sporting chance. Perhaps he’s learned to fly in his time away from Gulrothrog. Perhaps he’s been trying to emulate me.”
“I would rather immolate you,” Baleron said, wheezing.
“DO NOT HARM HIM,” Throgmar said. “HE IS UL RAVAST. I MUST TAKE HIM TO KROGBUR.”
“Krogbur ...” said Ungier, somewhat dreamily. “I confess I would like to see it. Is it as grand as I have heard?”
“RELEASE HIM.” Throgmar sounded impatient. Smoke rose from his nostrils. The air about him shimmered. “NOW.”
“Oh, very well.” Ungier motioned to the Troll, who opened his hand. Baleron gladly slipped out of it. To Throgmar, the Vampire King asked, “Why did you bring him here if not to let me have some sport with him?”
“I WANTED HIM TO SEE THE DEVASTATION OF HIS CITY AND THE ENSLAVEMENT OF HIS PEOPLE. I WANTED HIM TO SEE WHAT HIS VENGEANCE HAS WROUGHT.”
“I didn’t do this,” Baleron said. “My Doom had a hand, but you can’t lay this all on me.”
“I CAN. I DO. FOR, IF YOU HAD NEVER SLAIN FELESTRATA, I WOULD NEVER HAVE TAKEN YOU TO KROGBUR AND YOU WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN DISPATCHED TO BRING ABOUT THIS RUIN. IF YOU HAD ONLY SLAIN ME INSTEAD, AN HONEST REVENGE, GLORIFEL WOULD STILL BE STANDING.”
The women and children glared at him as if he were a traitor, and he turned his face away.
Suddenly, Ungier raised his hand and Rondthril flew from Baleron’s scabbard into the vampire’s grasp.
The Lord of Ungoroth examined the weapon thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take this now.” To Baleron, he added, “Thank you for returning it. I am glad I was wrong and that we did indeed meet again, Baleron the One-Handed.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What more new titles have you now? Let’s see. Shield-tearer, perhaps. Kinslayer, most definitely. Servant of Doom. Spreader of Shadows. Wolf-hand. Spinner of the Web Unseen—at least to you. For, little spider, I do see it—glistening in the morning dew, its fruit little white shrouds holding Havensrike and Larenthi. I most enjoy it.”
“Then I hope you rot in it! Usurper—that’s your new title. Lackey! Wretch! Craven!” Baleron’s eyes blazed. “Now I know why you enjoy holding slaves so much. Because it’s the only way you can feel higher than others. For you’re a slave, too, though you don’t seem to realize it. You think Gilgaroth will let you keep this city? Keep this country? You’re a fool. He sees you as the little bug you are.”
Ungier smiled calmly, and it infuriated Baleron.
“I enjoy your attempts to rattle me,” said the vampire. “They tell me how desperate you truly are, and to me your desperation is like the finest of wines, mixed with the finest of bloods. It is the nectar that I have been longing for, and I will be sad to see it pass from my lips so soon.” His eyes went to Throgmar. “Brother mine, traitor to my House though you are, you are welcome here, for you bring your redemption in this mortal.”
“I DO NOT SEEK REDEMPTION. NOT FROM YOU.”
Ungier smiled indulgently. “Very well. But we were a mighty trio once, you, me and Grudremorq. The Flame, the Shepherd, and the Guardian. You broke that alliance.”
“SO I DID.” Throgmar did not offer an apology.
“And yet I will forgive you now, if you allow me but a bit of sport with your charge. Honored Worm, will you not stay for dinner? It will be a feast like no other.”
Throgmar hesitated. He clearly wanted to be away, but he also seemed to know that every second Baleron spent here was a hell for the prince. In the end, he chose to prolong the prince’s suffering:
“WE WILL STAY.”
“Good. Ul Ravast will be the guest of honor. Roschk ul Ravast!”
The Trolls and Borchstogs repeated it: “Roschk ul Ravast!” “Roschk ul Ravast!”
Baleron threw back his head and roared. He felt lower than he’d ever felt, and he knew that unless he could get Rondthril back, and unless he could slay Ungier, there really was no hope.
* * *
Baleron simply glowered as he was seated at one end of the long banquet table. He glowered as Borchstogs and vampires and even some Men took their seats. He glowered as Throgmar was given a whole side unto himself.
It was nighttime, true nighttime, not the false night spread by the clouds, and torches lit the palace’s rear garden. The table was at least a hundred feet long. This was the manor of the Esgralins, much of it still intact. Baleron had attended many social functions here over the years. Were the Esgralins all dead now? Were some slaves, or upon the racks in the public squares? Or did they perhaps flee into the hills? He wondered which was the better fate.
At last the Vampire King himself arrived and sat at the other end of the table. Baleron glared at him but said nothing. Ungier just gave a small, self-satisfied smile, and shouted, “Let the feast begin!”
The surviving Glorifelans, the slaves, set about bringing out large platters of food, roast hog and potatoes and gravy and many sweet pies. The slave woman who placed the butter near Baleron actually spit on him as she did so. It was the same woman who’d helped him up earlier, before she knew of his complicity in the city’s fall. Shame burned within him.
Instantly, two Borchstog guards seized her and threw her to the ground. “You dare touch ul Ravast!” one shouted. “Die!” They were about to start kicking her to death, but Baleron leapt up and shoved them away from her.
“Leave her!”
They bowed deferentially. “Roschk ul Ravast!”
She looked up angrily at him and said, “Too little too late, you devil! I always knew you were rotten.”
“I am not rotten,” he insisted.
She just spat again, on the ground this time, and scurried away.
“Want we should go after her?” asked one of the Borchstogs. “We’ll hold her down for you. Or we could bring her to your tent ... for later.” He grinned nastily.
Baleron snarled, “Shut your filthy mouths and get out of my way!”
He sat back down, feeling deflated. Throgmar watched him dispassionately.
Ungier, as usual, leered. “Everyone!” he shouted when all the food had been presented. “Eat your fill and rejoice!” To Throgmar, he added, “Except you. You be more conservative.”
“I HUNGER,” replied the dragon.
“Help yourself to anyone here.”
Some of his guests looked at him nervously.
“I WONDER ... HOW DOES VAMPIRE MEAT TASTE?”
Ungier scowled. “I am the god-king of Ungoroth, brother, and I will not tolerate your insolence. You are a vagabond, a houseless beggar chained to your penance.”
“AS YOU ARE TO YOURS.” The Leviathan grinned cruelly. “YES, I KNOW OF YOUR BETRAYAL TO FATHER. YOU WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEND ME AFTER BALERON. FOR THAT YOUR HOME AND MINE WAS DESTROYED. I WAS JUST A TOOL, I SEE THAT NOW. I ALSO KNOW HOW YOU TRIED TO HIDE ROLENYA ... FROM HIM.”
Ungier stared daggers at Throgmar, and the dragon returned the look. Smoke trailed up from the Leviathan’s nostrils and Baleron could feel him grow hotter; the air grew hazy around him. A hateful light burned in his huge amber eyes.
The dinner guests looked nervously from their host to ul Mrungona. They did not touch their food.
Ungier broke the tension. In a surprisingly low voice, he said, “What I did I did for love. I sent you to kill this mortal because he slew my Firstborn. I hid Rolenya away to save her from possession. In both things, I failed.” This thought seemed to sadden him, but with an effort he rallied himself. “I have a new start here. Ungoroth will be great. And it is only the beginning of my empire. Oh, I will have glory! Such glory!” He looked around at his dinner guests. “Eat!”
The haze around Throgmar faded, and the hateful light faded from his eyes.
The dinner guests, all presumably heads of their legions, some perhaps even dignitaries from foreign (southern) lands, began to do as their host had bid, and the Borchstogs especially ate with fervor. The roast hog was not roasted very thoroughly, Baleron discovered, and its blood ran everywhere. The Borchstogs ate it greedily, sometimes fighting over it. After the first course, the slaves brought out the second. The serving platters were large, and when the silver domes were removed Baleron saw they contained the dismembered remains of Glorifelans, some cooked, some raw.
He rose and began to stagger away, sick to his stomach.
“No!” shouted Ungier. “You will stay!”
Borchstogs blocked his path and forced him back into his chair. “Ul Ravast must sit.”
“You are the guest of honor,” said Ungier with a smile. “It would not do for you to leave.” He raised his blood-and-wine-filled goblet. Its jewels twinkled in the torchlight. “To ul Ravast!”
All the guests save Baleron and Throgmar raised their glasses and said, “To ul Ravast!”, then drank.
Baleron glowered murderously at the Vampire King, but said nothing. The dinner continued. Baleron refused to eat what he was served, but he did drink some wine to steady his nerves.
He tried to ignore the others’ conversations, but soon something caught his ear: Ungier said, “It is Rolenya? You are certain of this?”
He was speaking to one of his daughters, Serengorthis, one of the messengers that went constantly back and forth between Glorifel, Clevaris and Krogbur.
She nodded. “It is her, Sire. The Master has brought her back. Ask him.” She indicated Baleron. “He knows.”
Ungier narrowed his eyes at the prince. “Is this true?”
Baleron would not answer.
“Is this true?” Ungier repeated.
Baleron said nothing.
“And she sings for Him,” added Serengorthis.
“Sings?” repeated Ungier.
“Most beautifully, so I’ve heard. He keeps her caged, letting her out only to please Him with her voice, like a man might keep a bird.”
“She never sang for me ...” Ungier added, “Of course, I did get some noises out of her ... though I would not count them as songs.” He smiled at Baleron as he said this. “But they were music to me.”
Most at the table laughed, and Ungier looked pleased. But he also wore a contemplative air, as if he were mulling something over, and Baleron did not have to wonder what it might be. Ungier considered Rolenya his. Despite his claims, it was not love, exactly, at least Baleron did not think so, but if nothing else it was pride of possession; she was Ungier’s greatest prize, or had been, and now the one who had taken her away from him was enjoying her more than he.
Dark clouds drifted across the vampire’s face.
Perhaps in an effort to dismiss them, he called for the entertainment to begin. Borchstog musicians started up an eerie yet merry tune, and Borchstog performers came out, naked and painted red. They wore odd, spiky hats made of rib bones—whether human, elf or borchstog was hard to tell. Yet apparently their appearance was comic, for the dinner guests laughed and hooted.
The performers had brought along many severed heads and limbs of Glorifelans, and they juggled them. The body parts were often slippery and squirted out of their hands. Much amusement was had as the Borchstogs floundered around on the ground trying to retrieve the parts. Sometimes the performers tossed the limbs and heads to each other, juggling, sometimes they danced as they did it, or stood on their heads, or more, and all the while the musicians continued to play.
One course was served after another, and it seemed a fine old time for the hellspawn. Baleron tried not to look. He noticed that Throgmar seemed ill at ease, as well, and remembered that the dragon had pretenses of goodness. At the thought, he snorted.
At last the Borchstog performers left. Corpses of all sorts were wheeled in next and deposited in the performing area where once Baleron had played croquet with the younger Esgralin daughter.
Ungier raised these corpses and made them dance and perform comic routines to the roaring delight of his guests.
Next live naked prisoners were marched in. The Troll that had earlier flung the woman to her death now stepped forward. He grabbed a trembling Glorifelan in each huge hand ... and began to juggle them.
Horrified, Baleron stood up to protest, but his handlers shoved him back down and his protests were ignored.
The Troll continued to juggle. Sometimes he would snatch another screaming prisoner and add him or her to his routine. Occasionally he would drop one. Baleron could not tell if this was accidental or intentional, but whenever it happened he received a guffaw. The dropped prisoner, mewling on the ground with broken bones, would eventually be ground beneath his heels. Baleron had to be forcibly restrained.
All the while, the guests continued to eat and talk and enjoy themselves, as if this were an ordinary high social occasion.
But then the Troll wanted the prisoners set on fire so that he could have something more interesting to juggle, and Throgmar ended it. He blew a column of flame over the Troll’s head and said, “I WILL GIVE YOU FIRE!”
The Troll glared at him, said nothing.
“I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. END THIS NOW. I DEMAND IT.”
Ungier merely laughed. “You are a guest at my table, and it is my duty to oblige your whims, however foolish.” He beckoned to the Troll, who reluctantly abandoned his routine and came to stand at the Vampire King’s side, bodyguard once more.
More performances followed, and more courses. Finally the entertainment ceased and Ungier ordered the last course to be brought out. All hushed. Flames from the braziers and torches crackled in the silence.
A platter with a silver dome was set before Baleron, but he refused to open it. He had not eaten since the first course, and he was not hungry now. Far from it. He had retched twice and was still nauseous.
With heavy-lidded eyes, Ungier gazed across the table at him. The Vampire King looked suddenly hungry, staring intently at Baleron and the platter. There was a particularly nasty look on his face.
“Open it,” bade the Lord of Ungoroth.
“No.”
“Open it!”
Baleron shook his head.
Ungier’s eyes transfixed him, and he no longer had Shelir’s charm to protect him. “Open it,” ordered the vampire.
Baleron could not fight it. Against his will, he reached out a hand toward the silver handle, and his fingers trembled despite the fact that Ungier guided his actions. He cringed. What was underneath that dome? What would give Ungier so much pleasure? Dread built in him, and he tried to mash his eyes shut, but Ungier would not let him.
His fingers curled around the handle. He fought against the vampire’s will even more strongly, but Ungier would not be denied. And so, with a shaking hand, Baleron raised the dome, and, horribly slowly, the contents of the platter came into view.
Baleron reeled backwards and toppled out of his chair, a cry in his throat. Ungier’s presence withdrew from his mind.
The whole table erupted in evil laughter as Baleron stared agog at the contents of the platter, but he barely heard it. A swell of horror and hate welled up within him, and he shook, as if there were an earthquake inside him. And there was. His hands balled into fists, and he ground his teeth in rage. For, sitting upon the gleaming silver dish, still bloody, was the severed head of his father. The dead eyes of the Lord of Havensrike stared accusingly at his son.
“Nooo!” Baleron roared, throwing back his head and howling in misery.
Ungier’s black eyes glittered hungrily, savoring this.
Baleron sank to his knees before his father’s head.
“Father ...”
This was too much. Much too much. Baleron’s soul cried out in torment.
The king’s dead eyes gazed unblinking. His mouth was open, as if in surprise.
“I’m so sorry ...”
His shaking hands reached out and picked up the severed head. It was heavier than he thought it would be, pregnant with possibilities that would never be. He lowered the head to his lap and stared down into his father’s still eyes. Baleron had dared to hope that he had escaped, and yet …
“Rauglir,” he growled. Would the demon kill everyone he ever knew?
Father, he thought, as a horrible thought struck him. For if Ablrech were dead, then Baleron was King—though the king of what? There was only Ungoroth now, and some scattered cities and towns without central authority, and likely there was little of those left. Baleron was the last of his House, the ruler of a realm that was no more. For there would now be no chance of Albrech rallying troops in some northern clime.
Baleron ground his teeth. Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced his rage to scour any weakness from him. He could not afford to be overwhelmed. He needed his wits about him.
Ungier still has Rondthril.
The dinner guests continued to laugh and mock him. The wickedness of Ungier and his guests infuriated Baleron, nauseated him, but one particular laugh stood out from the others, and he found himself looking up at the face of the Troll that had picked him up earlier, the one that had flung the woman to her death, the one that had wanted to juggle flaming slaves.
He knew that laugh.
“Rauglir.”
The Troll, who had been watching him, smiled, and Baleron recognized that smile. too.
“Yes, my beloved,” said the demon, “it is I.”
That sent the guests into fresh fits of laughter.
Baleron’s mind reeled, and he began to see what must have happened: Rauglir would have approached Ungier after the sack was complete and told him the tidings of Albrech’s murder, and afterwards the rithlag had rewarded him with a new body, a powerful one.
Baleron’s eyes went from the dead face of his father to the grinning face of the Troll.
“This... was your idea, wasn’t it?”
The Troll shrugged modestly. “Consider it my dowry.”
“You ... you ... ”
“How do you like this new form?” asked the Troll. “Do you find it as pleasing as Rolenya’s? You loved me then.”
Baleron was so full of rage and pain that he could not speak, could not form words. Somewhere he could hear Ungier laughing hysterically.
“I hope this doesn’t affect your decision to marry me,” Rauglir added.
Ungier laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his own chair.
“Wonderful!” cried the vampire. “This is priceless. Throgmar, you’re forgiven.”
The Leviathan narrowed his eyes.
Baleron looked again to his father’s lifeless face. The rest of the world faded away, and he became lost in those dead eyes. Father, I am so sorry.
At the far end of the table, a serving girl was refilling Ungier’s goblet. It was a young maiden, clearly terrified, and her hands shook as she poured. Her dress was rent and dirty, her eyes hopeless.
Ungier drank up her fear. Just as she was finished, he knocked the goblet over and its contents spilled onto the table and dripped to the ground. “Oh, look what you’ve gone and done, you clumsy thing,” he scolded. “Lick it up.”
“Y-yes, m’lord,” she said, her voice quavering.
She broke out sobbing before she could begin, and was so racked by tears that she could not summon the focus necessary to clean the mess.
Ungier roughly threw her upon the table. She screamed and tried to roll off, but with his eyes he bound her, mesmerizing her, and she stilled and quieted. The Vampire King tore open her dress, and she did not protest. He sank his fangs into her throat. Blood spurted into his mouth. She cried out but could not move.
By this time, Baleron had replaced his father’s severed head on the platter and had been staring, lost, into his eyes. He had not been paying attention to the girl’s plight, but her screams drew him.
Seeing the situation, he bounded to his feet. When the two Borchstog guards tried to shove him back down, he was prepared. He elbowed one in the throat and jabbed the other in the eyes. Then he wrenched loose one of their huge broadswords, leapt on the table and ran down it, howling, jumping over dishes and the clutching hands of the guests.
Ungier was so focused on sucking the girl’s blood that he hardly noticed, and when he did it was too late.
Baleron kicked the vampire off her. Ungier fell from the table onto the ground, and the prince was upon him, sword flashing down.
Ungier caught the naked blade in his long-fingered hands and tore it from Baleron’s grasp. The blade did not even cut him. Then Rauglir was pulling the prince away.
Ungier rose, eyes narrowed into slits of hate. “How dare you!”
“I dare!” Baleron said.
“You will wish you had not.”
With a look to the girl, Baleron said to Ungier, “Drink of me instead. Spare her. I’ll take her place.”
Ungier barked a laugh. “To drink of the Savior? To end the Ender? I would love nothing more.” To his guards, he said, “Let her be.”
The girl nodded her silent thanks to Baleron, then ran, crying, from the table, holding her tattered clothes about her.
Rauglir lowered Baleron to ground level but did not release him. Only the prince’s head and shoulders showed above the Troll’s thick fingers.
“Yes,” Rauglir said to Ungier. “End it now. My game is ready to go to the next level.” To Baleron, he added, “See you in Hell, beloved.”
“The one good thing about dying,” Baleron reflected, “is that I’ll never have to listen to you again.”
“Oh, but you will, dear heart, for I will come personally to visit you in Illistriv. I will be the one to oversee your eternal torment. You see, my dear—if I may call you that—our game has truly just begun.” Rauglir laughed, a great big Troll laugh that shook Baleron up and down, up and down.
Ungier stalked forward, grabbed the prince by his hair and exposed his neck. Baleron smelled the vampire’s musk, felt his power, and braced for what would come next.
“NO,” said Throgmar suddenly.
Striking swiftly, his horned head lunged forward and his massive jaws snapped closed around Rauglir’s throat, biting off the demon’s head. A gout of black blood shot up, and the big body toppled. Throgmar crushed the head between his huge teeth and swallowed it.
Baleron, seeing his chance, struggled free of the dead Troll-hand and sprang up. For a moment his eyes lingered on the decapitated creature. It did him good to see the ruin, though he did not relish the thought of Rauglir’s spirit on the loose again. At least without a body the demon was powerless for the nonce.
Ungier was so surprised by Throgmar’s attack that he raised no hand against the prince as Baleron punched him in his skeletal nose for the second time that day. Ungier’s black eyes remained fixed on Throgmar, who loomed above, massive and fiery.
Baleron tore Rondthril from Ungier’s scabbard and held it up so that it caught the torchlight. It felt good in his hand.
Ungier wiped black blood from his face. “That blade is mine.”
“It was,” Baleron said. “So was Rolenya. Now they both belong to me.” He replaced the Fanged Blade in its scabbard.
Ungier glared at Throgmar, seeking to place blame. “How dare you interfere in my business! This is my land now! Begone!”
“YOU SAID I COULD EAT ANYONE HERE. CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY THAT I DID NOT CHOOSE YOU.”
Baleron’s eyes lit up. “Eat him!” he cried, seeing his chance. If Rondthril could not slay its maker, and Ungier could deflect any other weapon, then why not let the Leviathan do Baleron’s work for him? “Eat him and you’ll be king of Ungoroth! Of Havensrike!”
Ungier’s mouth dropped open and his eyes grew round as they stared up at the Worm. In fear, he stumbled backwards, wings fluttering.
Smoke curled up from Throgmar’s nose.
“Yes!” Baleron said. “Do it!”
But then the smoke died and Throgmar picked Baleron up in a claw. “I DO NOT WANT TO BE KING. WE LEAVE.”
“Good riddance!” Ungier snarled. He straightened and suddenly looked his old haughty self. His gaze found Baleron in a space between two scaly fingers. “But I’ll see you again. I too must go to Krogbur.”
What was this? Even Throgmar paused to hear the rest.
Ungier smiled, almost serene now, as if causing Baleron consternation had somehow relaxed him. “I’ve longed to see the Black Tower since Gilgaroth first spoke of his vision to me thousands of years ago. But in the main I go to win back that which was mine—that which you have stolen.”
Baleron gave him a hard look. “She will not be yours.”
“She shall.”
“She is mine.”
Ungier raised an eyebrow. “From the sounds of it, she is Gilgaroth’s.”
“Then he will not give her up to you.”
“He must. She will be my prize for conquering your city. Although, I must say, I would have done it for nothing.”
“ENOUGH,” Throgmar grunted.
He bore Baleron away, flying up into the dark heavens and away from the ruins of Glorifel, and Ungier grew small below.
“THE BLACK TOWER AWAITS,” said the Leviathan.
Baleron gripped Rondthril’s hilt. Quietly, he said, “Then it waits for its destruction.”
* * *
Ungier watched the diminishing shape of Throgmar against the night.
Perhaps I can beat them, he thought. Either way, he must go. Glorifel was conquered. Rolenya would be his once more.
His eyes fastened on the decapitated body of Rauglir. He had never liked the demon, not after it had possessed Rolenya, but in this form it had proven an interesting companion. Ah, well.
Swiftly Ungier appointed a lieutenant to oversee Ungoroth in his absence, and departed. A squad of glarumri flanked him as he went, cutting a black swath through the night. All others fled before them.
I will win her, he vowed. I shall make her Vampire Queen of Ungoroth.