The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (11 page)

He surveyed the carnage, hardly
able to believe it, staring at the body of Logran for a long time.

Logran,
dead! And by my own hand!
The old man really had been like a father to him.
Rauglir, I hope you burn.

How could this have happened? The
magical defenses of the city had fallen. Already Ungier would have his
necromancers ripping at the failing shields, and soon he’d send his Worms and glarumri and
other monsters to ravage the city. Baleron knew the men could not repel them
this time.

Glorifel was doomed.

And his father, proud Lord
Grothgar, was heading right into the heart of the battle. He would be killed,
along with everyone else, or kept alive for torture.

But . . . it did not have to be
that way. Perhaps Baleron could
undo
some of the evil committed in his name.

He had to reach his father.
Had to bear him to safety.
Even if the city fell, the Enemy
could not declare a complete victory if the king still lived. As long as the
monarch survived and was free, he could summon the remaining free peoples of
Havensrike to him, could marshal a resistance, or barter with the other
countries in the fractured Union for aid.

This desperate plan began to form
in the prince’s mind, and he seized on it like a drowning man to a soggy bank.
No longer did he want to throw himself on the swords and spears of the
Borchstogs. No longer did he want to seek a noble death in battle. He wanted—needed—to
save the king. No matter how much the king resisted.

As he prepared to depart the room,
some instinct made him turn. He narrowed his eyes and swore.

The hand, his wicked left hand, had
gone.

A chill ran up his spine, and his
eyes darted all about. Rauglir could be anywhere. Even now, creeping up on him
from behind . . .

He whirled.

Nothing.

He breathed a sigh of relief. But
then he heard a sound, a clattering off to his side, and spun around again.
Still nothing.
He growled in frustration.

“
Why won’t you just
die!
”

He retrieved Rondthril and sheathed
it so that it hung at his waist, then selected a dagger from one of the guards
and strapped it about his chest; he might need another weapon should Rondthril
betray him again.

Two sorcerers, who must have felt
Logran’s
death, entered the suite, an urgent look in their
eyes. Having spied them through a doorway before they could see him, Baleron
pressed himself against the wall next to the door and held his breath. He
couldn’t afford to be caught, not now. He was a fugitive.

As soon as they stopped in shock
over the piled bodies, Baleron sprang from behind and struck them each on the
head with the handle of his dagger. They crumpled to the floor wordlessly. Just
to be sure they didn’t go anywhere too
soon,
Baleron
tied them up and gagged them so they couldn’t mutter any spells after him, then
crept down one corridor after the other. Bells tolled throughout the city, and
all was organized chaos within the palace. Though scared, the people here had
drilled for this and knew their places, and they rushed to and fro
breathlessly. They seemed to sense the end was coming, judging by their pale,
tightly-drawn faces.

Without the Flower’s shields to
ward off the worst of the onslaught, Baleron knew the rule of Men in Glorifel
was over. It was only a matter of time now.

The bloody left hand crept out from behind an overturned
chair.

Sensing the two semi-conscious
sorcerers, Rauglir turned himself into an armored black scorpion, poison oozing
from his tail, scuttled over to the waking forms and jumped upon the nearest
one. The mage struggled and cried out into his gag, but Rauglir merely scuttled
up to the mage’s face and stung him on the cheek. Even as the toxins traveled
through the sorcerer’s bloodstream, the convulsions began.

Rauglir did not wait to see the
results, but jumped to the second sorcerer. After stinging this one, too, he
turned himself into the form of a small black snake, slipped under the door of
the suite and into the hall.

His forked tongue tasted the air.
Where had
ul Ravast
gone?

Chapter
7

Lightning cracked above, and the floor under Baleron’s feet
shook with the fury of thunder.

He made for the servants’ wing.
There he found a loading dock where several coaches were drawn up, emptied of
their wares and, as far as he could
see,
their riders.
Only one coach had horses and a driver who seemed to be waiting for something,
perhaps a crew to take to the walls. Baleron didn’t take the time to find out
but leapt up to the driver’s bench and punched him on the side of the head. The
man went limp. Throwing the driver over his shoulder, Baleron flung him like a
sack of spuds into the coach interior.

“You can sit this one out,” he
said. “Today a prince will be driving
you
.”

Baleron took the driver’s perch,
raised the whip, started to crack it over the horses’ heads, but suddenly he
hesitated. Frowning, he half-lowered the whip.
What am I DOING?
he
wondered. Then,
defensively:
I’m going to save the king!
But the first voice asked,
Oh, really?
Then why do I feel . . . odd?

It was his Doom. It must be. There
were no signs of it—no coldness, no darkness. But it was there still, and it
was potent despite the Flower.

It
wants me to finish my labor.
To get close to Father and kill
him.

On the other hand, how could
Baleron be certain? He wanted to reach the king for his own purposes, after
all, to save him, to drag him back to the castle ruins and take him through the
secret tunnel . . .

Sure,
just me,
him
, Rondthril and my Doom alone in a long dark
hall underground . . .

He shivered.

Fine,
then what?
If my Doom’s so strong,
how can I counter it?

He had no choice, save to let his
father die. His Doom
be
damned. But he would be
watchful, oh yes. He took a breath, held it, and nodded to himself.
Go! Waste no more time.

He cracked the whip over the
horses’ heads. “Ra!” he shouted.
“Ra!”

The horses leapt forward, straining
against their harnesses, and the coach was off, charging through the chaotic
streets. He yelled and cursed and drove them mercilessly as bells still tolled
throughout the city. Glarumri flew above, and several Worms; he knew that could only mean that the
shields were well and truly down.

He saw one Worm pass right above
him, flame licking its lips, eyes
blazing,
several
dead Havensrike soldiers clutched in each claw, and felt its heat as it passed
by. In a second, it was gone.

It quickly became apparent that
driving a coach was a skill meant for the two-handed, as a driver needed one
hand for the whip and one for the reins, but he made the best of it. He tucked
the whip under his left arm and yanked it out when need be. Sometimes he held
both whip and reins in his right hand at once.

His blackened stump throbbed, and
several times he thought he would black out again, but every time he thought of
Rolenya, and persevered.

Rain and wind lashed him, and he
was drenched to the skin and freezing. He made for the South Gate, where his father would most
likely be. If he was fast enough, perhaps he could even overtake the king. How
long had he been unconscious, anyway?

Too long,
apparently.

When he had been amongst Ungier’s
hordes, he hadn’t noticed the Spiders, the
igrith
, but they must have been
there somewhere, as they’d already launched their attack. He envisioned Mogra’s
spawn swarming over the walls as a black tide, too many for the men to resist,
and without Logran to coordinate the other sorcerers’ energies, the soldiers
would’ve been doomed. Instead of aiding the Borchstogs and the other minions of
Gilgaroth, the
igrith
had driven into the city and began wreaking havoc in the streets and buildings
of the interior, sowing fear and confusion as they went.

One Spider leapt into the street
before Baleron in pursuit of a little girl. The girl made it across, but the
creature wasn’t so lucky. The hooves of Baleron’s horses trod it into mush, and
the wheels destroyed what was left.

The
igrith
had not been alone. The
others in its group had seen its demise and, enraged, they struck out for their
brother’s murderer. Some hopped after Baleron in huge leaps that carried them
fifty feet at a stretch. Others shot silken strands at tall buildings and swung
their way through the air.

One landed atop the coach behind
him. He heard the thud of its impact,
then
spun,
throwing down reins and whip.

As Baleron reached for his weapon,
he hesitated. If he chose Rondthril and his part in spinning the Dark One’s web
was over, then the Fanged Blade would obey its Master’s will and let the
creature kill him. Did he trust that his Doom still followed him, or should he use
the dagger instead?

He chose Rondthril.

Unsheathing the Fanged Blade, he
half-crouched in the driver’s bench, and just in time. The bulbous Spider leapt
on him, fangs glistening with venom.

The blade cut through the side of
the monster’s head, and dark blood sprayed. Where it struck the coach’s roof,
it smoked like acid.

“It
burnssss
,”
hissed the
igrith
,
surprising Baleron.

Not bothering to respond, he jumped
forwards and drove Rondthril through two of the arachnid’s eight black eyes and
into its head. Its long, hairy legs shuddered, and the body sagged. Holding his
breath (the creature was rank)
,
Baleron kicked the
bloated, still-twitching arachnid off his blade and with some effort heaved the
corpse from the coach. It smacked the pavement of the road and broke apart,
spilling ichor.

More
igrith
pursued him, a score or
more of them. He replaced his weapon in its scabbard and turned back to the
horses.

They charged through the streets,
terror in their wide eyes,
froth
at their lips. They
sensed only too well that if they faltered, the Spiders would not only kill
their driver but themselves as well. The sound of their hooves on the cobbled
streets echoed loudly.

Wind whipped through Baleron’s hair
and tore at his face. His blood hummed and he felt more alive than he had in a
long time. Lost in the moment, he lifted his head and howled at the night.

The horses swerved onto Kings’
Road, which was choked with traffic and pandemonium. When they slowed, Baleron
cracked the whip above the stallions’ heads.
“Ra!”

The animals obediently threaded
their way through the chaos. Some coaches were stopped or overturned. More than
one was on fire. Bodies littered the ground, some men, some arachnids, and many
more species besides. Creatures of all types had made their way inside the
walls, it seemed, some singly, some in groups. Baleron wanted to help the
people he passed, some of whom were even then engaged in mortal struggles, but
he dared not. He pressed his horses on, his wild delight spent. Seeing his home
reduced to a war ground shriveled some deep part of him.

The Spiders that had been pursuing
them, faced with the chaos of Kings’ Road, had a tough choice to make, and some
continued to chase the prince while others went after the owners of the stopped
coaches.

Wind carried smoke from the fires
that were even then burning down sections of the city, and Baleron wrinkled his
nose at the acrid stench. A consumed a bakery off to his right, and the heat
brought a flush to his skin.
My home . .
.

Hate and horror welled up inside
him. The walls were closer now.

Rain soaked him. Ahead a flaming
bridge stretched over a dark rushing river—the
Nagradim
.
A score of Borchstogs stood on this side of the bridge. Half seemed to be
archers, and the other half helped the archers light their arrows. As Baleron
watched, a flaming volley arced into a watermill on the bank of the
Nagradim
, and the Borchstogs cheered as the building caught
fire. One of them saw Baleron and launched a javelin at him. It struck,
quivering, in the wooden back of the bench beside him.

“Ra!” he shouted at the horses,
who
were wavering, not wanting to charge through the line of
Borchstogs and over the flaming bridge. “Go on, damn you!” He cracked the whip
again, and the horses plowed ahead. Borchstogs scattered. The coach’s wheels
crunched over the disintegrating span and dark water rushed beneath. A loose,
burning plank fell into it, disappearing without a trace. Unlit arrows flew
after them,
thunk
ing
into the coach harmlessly. Flames from the bridge leapt all about, and the
horses whinnied nervously.

Another
igrith
, one of those still
pursuing Baleron, jumped onto the roof, and Baleron turned to deal with it. The
coach rocked beneath his feet and the smoke-filled wind tore at his eyes and
nose.

Unsheathing Rondthril, he said,
“Come on!”

The Spider came, snapping its
mandibles.

Baleron hacked off one of its
forelegs. Black ichor smoked on the coach roof. The Spider cried out in a high-pitched
whistle.

“That sword!” it cried, and Baleron
was no longer surprised to hear such a thing speak; they were Mogra’s spawn,
after all, just as Ungier was, if not as powerful, not mere beasts. “That’s . .
.
“ Its
eight eyes regarded Baleron strangely. “You’re
him
.”

Baleron drove his sword at the
monster’s head, but it dodged aside. Coiling its legs, it lunged at him and
bore him to the roof so that he was crushed under its bloated, armored belly.

“Borchstogs may worship you, but
the Children of Queen Mogra don’t. No one will ever know I killed you.”

“That’s right,” he grunted, unable
to draw air, “because you won’t,” and drove Rondthril up through the brittle
armor into the Spider’s bowels.

It shrieked and convulsed wildly
atop him, its many legs kicking and beating on the coach top. Its dark ichor
smoked and gurgled where it struck him, and he gasped, kicking the heavy
monster off of him. It was then that he saw a strange thing. From one of the
many cuts on his body, blood had poured onto the Spider.

And his blood . . .
smoked
where it touched the monster.

The
Flower
! “Damn you, Rauglir. What did you do to me?”

Shoving with all his strength, he
managed to throw the body off the roof and into the river below, where it
disappeared with a splash. Then the coach was over the bridge and the river
receding behind him. The bridge, succumbing to the flames, began to collapse,
and the Borchstogs cheered.

Baleron took up the reins once
more.

He considered what it meant that
Rondthril still worked for him, that he was still fulfilling his Doom. He
hadn’t been sure till now.
And the Flower . . .

The horses threaded their way
through the chaos of the broad, tree-lined avenue that was King’s Road, many of
the trees on fire, as were several of the buildings that lined the Road. There
were even more overturned and abandoned coaches on this side of the river, and
even more monsters. A corrupted Giant, thrice or more the size of a Troll,
walked down a side street swinging a terrible mace, people impaled to the
spiked end of the weapon, not all of them dead. The Giant whipped it back and
forth across the street, killing as it went.

Havensrike archers shot at its
head, but its skull was too thick for the arrows to penetrate. Others aimed at
its throat. Blood trickled down it, but Baleron knew it would take a lake of
lost blood to fell that behemoth. It no longer looked humane at all, having
four arms, clawed feet and a reptilian tail. Its teeth were long and sharp, and
its flesh was slick, green and hairless.

The Giant threw back its head and
roared, smashing the weapon into a nearby spire. Cracks spread at the impact.
The Giant struck it again. The top half of the building listed and fell,
smashing into another, smaller building as it went and crushing a score of
people in the streets.

Suddenly the Giant stepped right in
the middle of King’s Road, blocking Baleron’s way, and the horses whinnied in
fear.

“On, you
cravens!”
Baleron shouted, cracking his whip.

The Giant loomed above them.
Nearer and nearer.
Rain dripped off its glistening dark-green
skin in sheets.

Baleron would shoot right between
its legs!

But then its awful mace came back
around, some of the bodies impaled on it still moving. It swung at them.

Baleron ducked. The horses bolted
forward.

BOOM! The mace missed them, hitting
a building. Bricks exploded, one sailing past Baleron’s head, nearly decapitating
him.

He guided the coach right between
the Giant’s legs and past him. Baleron wished he had time to stop and assist
the archers, but there was no time, and he had no bow anyway. Desperate, he
cracked his whip over his horses’ heads, guiding them through the war-torn
roads, and they plunged onwards into the chaos. The giant roared at their
backs, but thunder drowned it out.

Overhead Baleron saw a fleet of
glarumri pass by, raining flaming arrows into the courthouse, where a mass of
Havensri
had gathered to form a resistance. The
Havensri
scattered, and fires began to consume the
courthouse. Unable to do anything else, Baleron charged on.

Glorifel was a hilly city, and many
of the streets passed through tunnels under the green rolling hills. Kings’ Road
was no exception. Ahead gaped the
Sadram
Tunnel,
and Baleron cringed at what might have made a home
in there in the chaos. Maybe he should try to go around the hill, he thought,
to avoid the darkness beneath it.