The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (10 page)

To Baleron, there was no question.
“Do it,” he said.

“Guards, take him to
Logran’s
tower.”

As before, Logran had made his home in the highest tower of
the palace, but this time a servant opened the door and led Baleron and his
guards into the sorcerer’s inner sanctum.

“
Shhh
,”
said the servant. “He’s performing a spell.” When they reached a comfortable
living room infested by low, soft couches, he said, “Why don’t you take a
seat?”

Too anxious to sit, Baleron moved
out onto the balcony and surveyed the once-peaceful city. He knew all of its
parks and museums and culture centers, all its grand monuments, its history and
customs . . . and yet from this high tower he could see beyond the walls. He
could see the endless campfires of the Borchstogs, the dark hordes that waited
just beyond, and from somewhere out there he heard war drums banging.
Boom doom boom.
Smoke stirred on the
breeze. They would attack soon, he thought.
Would that I had my old command.

Logran cleared his throat, and
Baleron whirled around to see the Archmage framed in the doorway.

“You startled me,” Baleron said.

“A bit tense, are we?” Logran
looked to the guards, then back at the prince. “So you’re
mine
,
then.”

The captain of the guard said,
“You’re to do your Purging.”

“I see.” To Baleron, Logran said,
“You
do
understand this will more
than likely kill you. There is only a very small chance you’ll survive, and
even if you do it’s not certain the demon, or your Doom, or both, will be
destroyed.”

Baleron shrugged. “If I die, they
cease to matter. Just be sure to destroy my corpse when you’re done.”

Logran looked at him steadily for a
long moment, as if to satisfy himself of something, and at last nodded. “I
apologize that I didn’t make it to the funeral. I was . . . working on
something.”

“Rondthril?”

The Archmage nodded uncomfortably.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Please, can you tell me just why
that sword is so important to you? Why would you only admit me into the city if
I had it with me?”

The Wielder of Light stepped out
onto the balcony and joined the prince at the balustrade. Leaning on it, he
peered out at the city. It was so large and so full of sparkling lights, like a
reflection of the night sky on a still lake, that it took Baleron’s breath
away. He could see
Logran’s
appreciation for it, his
love for it, shining in his brown eyes.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Logran.

Baleron knew him well enough to
know he was leading up to something; he hadn’t come out here to discuss the
view.

“Yes,” Baleron agreed, playing
along.

“I’ve lived here for many decades,
Bal. I was your grandfather’s and your great-grandfather’s closest advisor as
well as your father’s. I’ve played a large role in shaping and preserving this
fair city.” He paused. “It was I who guided the rash King Grothgar the First
into preserving the custom of the Swap.”

That surprised the prince. “You
mean you’re the one responsible for . . . Rolenya and me . . . ?”

Logran smiled. “I think your loins
had more to do with that than I did, Baleron. Nevertheless . . . yes, without
me you would never have known her, let alone known her well. And, I suspect, a
great deal of this whole despicable affair never would have come to pass, at
least in its present incarnation.”

“What do you mean?” Baleron said
warily; he did not want to push the limits of what he could reveal, did not
want to needlessly face the pain again.

“I strongly suspect that Gilgaroth
is using your sister against you in some fashion, though how exactly I cannot
guess.”

Baleron held his breath, saying
nothing.

“He’s possessed you, or part of
you, somehow, Baleron. I believe you now. But he would never use one method
alone to control an agent such as you. He would use your own heart against you.
It is his way. It is, I suspect, how he was able to manipulate Prince
Jered
—oh, yes, I know about him. The Queen and I keep in
constant communication, and she had doubts about him since the first murder.”

This was of great interest to
Baleron, but he still said nothing.

Logran looked at him levelly. “And
of course you’re here in Glorifel to fulfill the same function.”

Baleron didn’t deny it. “Can you
drive it out of me—Rauglir?”

The sorcerer made a pained face. “I
. . . will try, Baleron. But I make no promises. If indeed this Rauglir is
inside you, it may well be that you and the demon are . . . entwined.”

Baleron grimaced,
then
laughed bitterly. “With it and my Doom both, my soul
should not be lonely. If only I could just lop off my hand and be done with it!
But then, I suppose, my Doom would still be there.” He groaned. “Do
your
Purging, Logran. Do it now.”

The Archmage shook his head. “It
will take me time to prepare. We will begin on the morrow.”

Baleron noticed that Logran would
not meet his gaze. The sorcerer’s eyes were wet and troubled.
He knows the Purging will kill me
,
Baleron realized.
Or if it does not that
it will fail.

Strangely the prospect didn’t
bother him. He almost longed for it, for the final answer to his Doom.
That icy feeling throbbed uneasily in his chest, and he smiled grimly.
Yes, be afraid
.
On the morrow you
die,
my constant companion.
You too, Rauglir.

He looked out at the lights of the
city.
“And my sword?”

The Archmage raised his eyebrows.
“Your sword, alas, has been a disappointment.”

“How?”

“Well, as I was saying, I’ve taken
tremendous pride in helping to steer our great nation over the years, and I had
hoped, with your sword, to be able to steer it from this present brink.”

“
How
?”

“It knows the Dark One’s will,”
said the mage. “It can sense it, interpret it, and it will not defy it. I had
hoped to be able to use Rondthril, to tap into it somehow, to be able to divine
his will myself and so predict his future actions, or at least be able to
prepare a defense against his current ones.”

It was certainly a worthy notion,
and Baleron could see why the sorcerer had been so keen to get his hands on the
sword.

“But it didn’t work?”

Air hissed out of the sorcerer’s
long, aristocratic nose. “Alas, its primitive sentience—if it can be called
that, which I begin to doubt—is too rudimentary. It knows the Wolf’s will, can
sniff it out like a dog can sniff a smell, but it can’t be made to tell me what
it knows, just as a dog couldn’t describe a smell.” His face looked deadly
serious in the darkness. In a low voice, he added, “It was my last hope.”

Baleron started to answer, when
suddenly horns and alarm bells sounded an alert, starting at the walls and
spreading inwards.

“Gods protect us all,” Logran
breathed. “Ungier attacks.”

Chapter
6

Baleron felt the blood rush to his face as he watched
Ungier’s hordes charge the walls. From here he could see them simply as a
great, surging shadow against the darkness. Alarm bells rang throughout the
city, and all able-bodied men and women, even the homeless refugees, would be
rushing to what arms they could. Even children would lend aid.

Baleron could not sit idly by.
Heatedly, he looked to the sorcerer. “Give me the sword,” he demanded. “Give me
Rondthril.”

“There is no need. You’re safe
here.”

“Yes, but I’m not
staying
here, am I?”

“Of course you are. You’re no
longer a leader of men, Baleron. You’re a prisoner. Your Five Hundred is no
more.”

Anger coursed through Baleron. He
desperately wanted to join the fight, to lose himself in the violence. Also, he
wanted to redeem himself somehow, to smite the wicked armies of Gilgaroth. At
that moment, he felt the craving as though it were a physical need. He felt he
would die unless he fought.

“I’ll bet my father isn’t staying
here,” he said. “I’ll bet they’re bringing a coach for him even now, and if I’m
fast I can be on it. I’m a good fighter, Logran.
A good
leader.
They need me.”

“Baleron, I can’t condone this.
You’re possessed, tainted, call it what you will—you can’t be trusted with a
sword, much less Rondthril. And you certainly can’t be trusted to lead troops.”

Baleron gripped the older man’s
arms and looked deeply into his eyes. “Logran,” he said urgently, “I must do
this.”

Wind whistled shrilly. Horns and
bells echoed throughout the city streets. Logran must have seen the madness and
desperation in Baleron, and slowly he began to put it together; Baleron saw it
in his eyes and the tightness of his lips.

“You want to find what
Jered
found,” Logran said at last.

Baleron didn’t look away.

“You want . . . death,” Logran
said.

The prince ground his teeth.
“I want freedom,”
he hissed. “I want out
the only way I can. It may damn someone I love, but it was she who told me to
do it. If I live, I’ll only spread death and misery. I’m
ul Ravast
, Logran. I tried to deny it, I tried not to believe it,
I
even tried to change it. But look at me, look what I’ve
become! Let me do this, Logran. You’ve always been a friend to me. Sometimes I
thought of you more as a father than my own. Let me do this one last thing, and
I will ask you for no more ever again.”

Logran studied him, seeming full of
thought.

“You have custody of me,” Baleron
pressed. “My life is in your hands. The king cannot gainsay you. It is all up
to you, Logran.
My friend.
Please, don’t let me end my
days mewling on the floor under your Purging, burnt to a crisp in an effort to
do what we both
know’s
impossible. Let me end things
my way. Give my life back to me. It will not be in my hands long.”

Tears actually clouded the
sorcerer’s eyes, and he had to look away. When he spoke, his voice was thick.
“Very well.
You may have it. You may have your freedom.”

“And the sword!
I must have the sword
.”

“Have it, then.”

The sorcerer left to retrieve the
weapon, and Baleron followed him inside and waited with the guards. They
shifted uncomfortably, their eyes looking outside. Obviously they wanted to be
away, just as he did, to join their brothers on the wall.

“Soon,” he told them. “I will lead
you out myself.” His blood burned hot, eager for battle.

Presently the Archmage reemerged,
bearing the resplendent length of the Fanged Blade, which shone brightly,
twinkling in the lights of the room. The flames of the fireplace leapt high,
crackling, reflecting brilliantly on the unholy steel.

“It certainly is a fine weapon,”
Logran said, “but I feel corrupted just holding it.”

“We have always worked well
together, it and
I
,” Baleron told him. “It’s saved my
life more than once.”

Still a bit wary, the sorcerer
passed the sword to the prince, who grasped it eagerly. As soon as his hand
touched the handle, as soon as his fingers closed about it, he felt its
darkness, its raging bloodlust . . . its power. It sang a song of death and
carnage in his mind.

And, despite himself, his Doom
answered.

It happened swiftly. Coldness
seeped out from his chest, icy tendrils spreading throughout him.

At the same time, Rondthril began
to rouse the spirit of Rauglir, whom Baleron had been managing to suppress, and
the demon reared its head and answered the Fanged Blade’s song with a song of
its own, a grisly wolf howl.

Logran frowned, seeing sword and
master together.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “What
is it?” When Baleron didn’t answer, Logran muttered, “But I can see that you’re
meant for each other, you and this sword. Don’t lose it sword, Baleron. Yes,
you can do much with it, and no other wielder can do what you can.”

Baleron paid little attention, as
he was fighting his own battle. Rauglir grappled with him, and as the seconds
wore on, Baleron began to panic. Rauglir struggled mightily, and the power of
Rondthril was aiding him, the two dark entities working together, helping each
other carry out Gilgaroth’s will, and, bolstered by Baleron’s Doom, they were
winning.

An icy tendril tried to force its
way into his mind. He blocked it. It shoved. He strained against it, but it was
strong. Baleron shook like a string under tension. Every muscle bulged. His
veins stood out with the effort, and sweat beaded his brow.

They
were going to overcome him.

Frantically, he tried to drop the
sword. His fingers would not obey his call, even though they were on his right
hand. Rauglir was seizing control.

“What is it?” he heard Logran ask.
The sorcerer, fearful, took a step back.

Baleron felt that icy tendril slam
him aside, bursting the door in his mind. He wrestled with it, struggling to
force it out, but while he was engaged with his Doom Rauglir slipped through
and seized full control of his body.

Baleron tried to scream out a
warning. It was too late.

Helplessly, he watched through his
own eyes as Rondthril sliced open the neck of the closest guard. Red blood
jetted across the room.

Rauglir, wearing Baleron’s body, leapt forward and skewered
the sorcerer, this time through the front. The tip of the sword entered the
mage’s body from just below the ribcage and angled upwards, ripping through the
lungs and tender flesh. It found the heart and drove through it, cleaving it in
two.

Logran’s
brown eyes went wide,
then
dimmed, and his body went
limp in Rauglir’s embrace. He let out a final shuddering breath and was still.

The Archmage was dead.

The room trembled with his passing,
and the wind roared loudly, stirring the scattered papers in the room. The
flames in the fireplace leapt higher and turned blue, then green, then red,
then black, before returning to normal.

Rauglir dropped the dead sorcerer
and whirled about to face the guards, who were upon him in an instant. The
demon was not a thing of nature, and neither was Rondthril, and together they
moved Baleron’s body in ways he never could have. It leapt and spun and dodged
with blinding speed.

The Fanged Blade stabbed, hacked
and sliced. It jabbed one guard in the throat, another in the belly, one it
gave a slash across the face to distract it while it pierced the side of
another, then went back to the one with the ruined face and cut off his head.

When they were all dead, their
bodies all bleeding into the carpet, Rauglir howled at the ceiling.

He knelt over the body of the
sorcerer. A hand rifled through
Logran’s
robes and
came away with a strange artifact, an elvish source of power, a gift from
Elethris to Logran. It resembled a single flower made entirely of light, and it
rested in a thin glass tube; Logran had carried it close to his heart.

“So pretty, so fragile,” Rauglir
breathed.

He threw the glass on the floor. It
shattered.

Snarling, he reached down and
snatched the Flower up; it burned his fingers, but he ignored the pain.

“Oh, you’re powerful,” he breathed.
“If I eat you . . . yes.
Yes, I think—”

He bit off its head. Pain shot all
the way through his borrowed body, and he sank to his knees, screaming. He felt
the flesh of Baleron’s mouth burn and hiss. He pushed past the agony and forced
himself to his feet. He swallowed the Flower’s head, the pain traveling to his
belly, and flung the stem into the fire. The flames flared brightly, burning
with white light,
then
died.

Through a grimace of pain he grinned.
He knew that that cursed Flower had given Logran the ability to power the
magical shields that protected the city, and now it was gone and so was the
only sorcerer in Glorifel powerful enough to wield it. Rauglir’s job was
complete.

Almost.

Drenched in blood, racked by pain,
he carried himself onto the balcony and sniffed the smoky air. Borchstoggish
war drums rolled across the land.
Doom
boom doom.

Below, in the courtyard, a large
coach had been brought to the main stairs leading into the palace and was
awaiting the king’s arrival. Rauglir knew it would bear Lord Grothgar to the
city walls, where he would direct the fighting and mayhap even fight some
Borchstogs himself.

Overhead, the sky rippled with
strange lights and someone shouted, “The shields! The shields are failing!”

Rauglir looked up at the pretty
colors and smiled. It was working! The Borchstogs were attacking right when the
shields were failing: Gilgaroth’s will at work. Now Ungier could marshal the
entirety of his forces and send them pouring over the walls—dragons and
glarumri, as well.

Rauglir wondered if the other
sorcerers could stabilize the shields in time. Now that Logran was dead, the
energies he focused were removed, and Rauglir found it unlikely that any of the
Archmage’s
students, or anyone else for that matter,
would be powerful enough to raise the shields again—at least, not in time to
prevent the city from being sacked utterly—and even if they could, the shields’
strength would be paper-thin with the elvish artifact’s destruction. This
night, Rauglir knew, would see the fall of Glorifel, and the doom of
Havensrike.

Below, King Grothgar emerged from
the palace and strode down to his waiting coach. He looked grim, but didn’t he
always?

Rauglir’s smile turned hungry. He
ignored the lingering pain of the Flower and quit the terrace. The Flower
burned, but it would make him stronger. If he hurried, he could reach the coach
in time. Perhaps he could bluff his way past the guards and the king’s
skepticism to get close enough to sink Rondthril in Albrech’s hard heart, or
perhaps not. Perhaps the guards would cut him down.

He hated to dispose of Baleron in
this fashion. He had a more elaborate plan in mind for the prince’s demise, and
he’d worked too hard at twisting the young man into near-insanity and complete
disgrace to be happy with losing him now before the climax, but his duty was to
Gilgaroth and that was that.

The essence of the Flower of Itherin had weakened Rauglir
and Baleron’s Doom temporarily; in time Rauglir might absorb its energies and
be made stronger, but for the moment he was vulnerable . . . while at the same
time the Flower had strengthened Baleron.

The prince shoved that icy tendril
back, slamming the door behind it.

As Rauglir walked again through
Logran’s
suite and passed the gaggle of dead bodies,
Baleron’s spirit—watching through his eyes, seeing the torn body of Logran—stirred
in anger, and that anger made him even stronger. He gained just enough control
of his body in that one instant to release the fingers of his right hand,
dropping Rondthril to the floor. That broke the union between the Fanged Blade
and the demon. After that, it was easy.

Rauglir screamed, but to no avail.
Baleron overwhelmed the demon and shoved him aside, forced his evil spirit down
his left arm, down and down and down . . .

There! The demon was confined to
the hand.

Baleron sank to his knees, grabbed
a sword out of a dead guard‘s stiff grip, and held it high. The spirit of
Rauglir squirmed, and angry growls echoed through Baleron’s mind.

“Die, you
bastard!”
Baleron shouted.
“
Just
die
!”

He brought the sword down on his
extended left arm and cut the hand off at the wrist, right at the scar. Pain
flowered inside him. He screamed. He felt the blood ooze out of him, felt the
life drain from him, and he dragged himself over to the fireplace, as blood
gushed everywhere; the world heaved and turned and dimmed. Cringing, he stuck
his bleeding, spurting stump into the hot coals, held it there a moment, and
wrenched out the blackened remains with a gasp.

Darkness came over him. For the
first time in weeks, he didn’t dream of wolves chasing him through the
blackness.

He awoke among the littered bodies
and body parts, groggy and disoriented. He propped himself up and, noting his
feet were uncomfortably hot and too close to the fire, dragged himself away
from the flames.

He also noticed a burning pain in
his mouth and remembered watching helplessly as Rauglir ate the Flower’s head.
Ah, well. His flesh would heal. The Flower didn’t pain him now that the demon
was gone. He wondered if eating it would do anything to him. To have
swallowed
such a thing! He’d have to be
careful.