The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (13 page)

“Go to the Lights of Sifril,” he
whispered. “And thank you.”

Rain slashed down at the charging coach, and lightning
struck the ground. The once-fair city was now a place of horrors. Ghouls and
goblins and demons walked the streets.
Darkworms
,
aided by glarumri, eliminated all organized resistance from above, while foul
spirits possessed the living, and an evil army burned the town down around
them.

Baleron and the kidnappers raced
through the streets. Borchstoggish arrows riddled the vehicle and beasts gave
chase. Once a Serpent bearing many Borchstog archers pursued them for a while,
and
Sider
had to drive the horses through twisting
dark alleys to elude the creature. Just the same, some of the archers managed
to hit the coach with flaming arrows. The rain put out the blaze.

Three bridges had burned down
between
Sadram
Tunnel and the ruins of Grothgar Castle, and
Sider
had to take them the long way around, finding alternate routes where he could.

All the while, Rauglir hissed and
taunted those in the cab in a strangled, gurgling snake-voice. “Fools!” he
hissed. “You will all be killed, if you’re lucky.”

The king’s gag had been removed
and, once he’d stopped struggling, his bonds had also been taken away. At first
he’d denounced them all as cowards and traitors, but he seemed to have resigned
himself to his capture and possible survival. Baleron had told him of their
destination, and he’d just grunted. Now, glaring at Rauglir, he said softly to
Baleron, “So . . . that’s the thing that . . . possessed Rolenya . . . and
you.”

“Yes.”

Albrech’s eyes hardened. “That’s
the thing that killed my sons, my
wife,
my sorcerer .
. .
doomed my city
. . .”

Lightning split the skies and
illuminated the war zone beyond the coach, which its inhabitants could see
through the windows; their little black drapes were pulled to, but wind tore
them aside. Rain and cold wind ravished the inside, and all were shivering and
wet.
At least we’re not as bad off as
Sider
and his archer
, thought Baleron.

Lord Grothgar rose to his feet and
put his face as close to Rauglir’s as he dared.

“A little
clossser
,”
hissed the snake.

“Demon!”

“
Yessss
.”

The king was winding himself up
into a fine fit of rage, Baleron saw. “Don’t kill Rauglir,” he warned. “Don’t
free him from that body. That’s just what he wants.”

“Oh, I won’t kill it. I have better
plans than that.”

Albrech tore the drapes off the
largest window and jerked the string out. Acting quickly, he yanked the dagger
out of the wall, Rauglir still wriggling on it like meat on a spit, shook the
serpent loose and dumped it into the sack created by the drapes, tying the ends
off with the string. Rauglir thrashed and struggled, but he couldn’t tear his
way out of the sack, not right away. The cloth was thick and heavy.

“There you are,” Albrech said,
holding up his prize. “Now I can take you anywhere.”

“That won’t hold him for long,”
Baleron said. “Better to bind him and leave him.”

The king tossed Baleron the bloody
dagger, then, with sudden violence, smashed the sack against a wall.

Rauglir hissed in pain. Hidden
coils writhed furiously from within the sack. Albrech, a mad light in his eyes,
smashed again, and again.
And again.
Sweat flew off
his brow, and he swore and cursed viciously with every strike. Baleron, who
hated Rauglir above all others, didn’t stop him. Part of him wished he was the
one wielding the sack.

“This is what you get!” the king
shouted. “This is what you get, you filthy demon, for all your wickedness and
deceit!”

Rauglir hissed and squirmed, but
his struggles were growing feebler.

“This!” shouted the king, striking
again. “This!”

Baleron still had the dagger in his
hand.

The king’s back was to him.

Suddenly a throb of ice exploded in
his chest and a freezing tendril shot into his mind.

He was waiting.

All this time he’d been thinking of
his blood smoking on the Spider’s corpse, thinking of the Flower of Itherin,
trying to feel it inside him. Now he did. He called on it, clumsily, but it
heeded his call. Strength surged through him, and he forced that icy limb down,
down and away.
Not this time, you bastard
.

Baleron didn’t know how long the
Flower would stay in his system, but prayed it lasted long enough time to get
his father to safety. To the horses, he thought,
May the gods give you wings.

He sheathed the dagger.

When they finally reached the blackened ruins of the castle,
Baleron was shocked to see just how large the mound of rubble was; the castle
had been massive, certainly, but it was
still
massive, and the fact that it sat on a hill made the ruins look even more
impressive, even ominous. Lightning backlit the jagged, blackened thrusts of
the mound, and thunder shook the earth.

Baleron jumped down from the coach
and the others followed him. One of the soldiers had taken Rauglir from the king,
so Albrech’s hands were free, and, surprising Baleron, he clapped one on the
prince’s shoulder.

“Our old home,”
sighed
Albrech, his eyes gazing up sadly at the dark ruins.

What
is this?
Baleron wondered.
Has he
forgiven me?
Aloud, he said, “And our way out.”

He led the way into the desolation,
and they began searching. His greatest fear was that the opening would be
covered by debris too heavy to move. As it happened, most of the entrances into
the lower levels of the castle—the dungeons, wine cellars and arcane libraries,
all underground—were indeed blocked, but two were still accessible. Baleron
picked one and they all congregated around it.

“We’ll need a torch,” he said.
“Some light.”

They looked at each other
blankly.
 
None had brought anything.

The king shook his head wearily,
grimly amused. “Rauglir was right: I’ve been kidnapped by fools.”

“
Foolsss
,”
agreed Rauglir from the sack, now wet with his blood.

Just then, a great shadow blotted
out the lightning-torn clouds above, and everyone looked up. Baleron’s jaw
dropped open, but it immediately closed tightly, clenching. His eyes narrowed.

For, flying his great scaly bulk
across the charcoal-colored sky was the greatest dragon he had ever seen. Vast
wings spread like dark clouds. Flame licked his lips. Smoke issued from his
nostrils and trailed behind him like a black tail. He spiraled above the ruins
of the castle, his spiral drawing tighter and tighter as he descended from the
heavens.

“Throgmar,” breathed Albrech.

“He’s coming,” whispered Baleron.

Chapter
9

Rolenya stood at the balcony of her suite at Krogbur and
gazed longingly at the horizon. Wind whipped her black hair in streamers to one
side, and
billowed
her white dress in a ghostly
fashion.

She’d asked for the illusion of the
snow-capped mountains of Illistriv to be stripped away, tired of deception—no
matter how ugly, she needed to face the truth—and Gilgaroth had complied. That
in itself was unsettling.

Below her, beyond the terrible
Inferno that wreathed the tower’s lower half, stretched his foul hordes—Borchstogs
and worse, monsters great and small, spawned by Gilgaroth and Mogra. Rolenya
felt queasy at the sight: should Baleron decide not to fulfill his labor, she
would be thrown down . . .
to them
.
The thought made her tremble and even wish there was some way she could kill
herself, but there was not; should she try, Gilgaroth would simply bring her
back.

Just the same, she hoped Baleron
would find a way to save their father, as that’s still very much how she
thought of Albrech Grothgar. He had been her father all her life, and she could
not think anything different of him now. Strange that she could think
differently of Baleron.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she said. It always
surprised her that the fell Men who served the Beast bothered to ask her
permission, but they did. She’d requested that Men attend to her rather than
Borchstogs, for the Borchstogs had somehow found out about her possible fate
and they constantly leered at her and made obscene gestures, indicating what
they would do to her when she was their plaything.

A tall man entered:
Hierghast
, swarthy and always regally poised, as though
he’d been a king prior to coming here, and perhaps he had; it was an
honor
to serve in Krogbur. He bowed
politely. “The Master awaits your presence in the Feasting Hall, my lady.”

“Will he have me sing again
tonight?”

“I make it my business never to
predict my Lord’s desires.”

“A wise policy, I’m sure.”

He gestured toward the door.
“If you’ll allow me to escort you?”

She dismissed whatever resentment
she felt at being a slave—she’d had plenty of experience at that in Gulrothrog,
after all—and allowed
Hierghast
to escort her from
her suite and up the halls and tunnels. The Feasting Hall was packed tonight,
she saw, and full of restlessness. The Borchstog chiefs wanted to be on the
attack already, tired of camping outside the Black Tower,
though Rolenya knew they appreciated its dark energies and reveled in the sense
of power the place emanated. A fight was going on in the pit below: three
titans battled a Grudremorqen. One titan was a large reptilian creature, one
was woolly and tusked but stood on two legs, and the third was a writhing mass
of fungus-like tendrils. The Grudremorqen fought them all with a sword of
flame.

On the other side of the arena sat
the Dark One on his black throne, and this night a new throne sat next to his,
as Mogra in her more humane form lounged beside him. With her six arms, she
fingered the rubies and pearls and jewels that adorned her otherwise naked body.
A golden clasp bound her thick dark hair, and her violet eyes, only two of
them, sparkled in amusement above a slightly smirking mouth. When she opened
it, two fangs glistened in the torchlight.

When her eyes fell on the princess,
she frowned slightly. One of her hands had been on Gilgaroth’s armored arm, but
now she removed it and began fingering one of her dripping necklaces that fell
between her full high breasts.

Rolenya, afraid to match the Spider
Queen’s gaze, averted her eyes and allowed
Hierghast
to escort her down the stairs to the first row, where he seated her, then took
position just behind her—her servant, protector, and, she was all too aware,
captor.

Borchstogs brought her steaming
food on golden platters and slopping goblets of wine. She ate and drank
conservatively, and she tried not to watch the bloody fights, though bellows
and roars pierced the air. She also tried to avoid looking at either Mogra or
Gilgaroth. For the most part, she kept her eyes on her food, which if nothing
else agreed with her. Gilgaroth kept her well.

She thought of Baleron, as she
often did. She wished he would arrive right now and wrap her in his arms, take
her away from this awful place. It would be so wonderful to be with him again.

On the other hand, she dreaded to
see him, for it would mean he had completed his task—had murdered Albrech,
murdered Logran, and consigned Havensrike to the fires of the Wolf. Racked by
conflicting emotions, Rolenya felt tears well behind her eyes, and only with a
sudden surge of will did she force them away.

Eventually the
tentacled
horror entangled the Grudremorqen, and the other two, who were by then mortally
wounded, were able to destroy it. It died, but they soon followed it into
darkness, and the
tentacled
creature succumbed to the
burns the Grudremorqen had dealt it, leaving no victors at all.

As the bodies were carted away,
Gilgaroth rose from his throne. Rolenya steeled herself as his black voice rang
out, as she knew it would:

“Sing
for us, my dove.”

Even with the Spider Goddess here,
she sang for him nearly every night, and, though it pained Rolenya, she was
glad to do it, as with every song she sang she drew her own web about him—a web
of Light and Grace, to be sure, but a web nonetheless. She sought to bind him
to her, to ensnare him in love for her. Surely if she succeeded he could not
throw her to the Borchstogs, or visit any other tortures on her for that
matter. And . . . if her spells were powerful enough . . . perhaps she could
even seek to influence his actions, to bend him to
her
will.

Of course, it was risky.
Very risky.

But, as she saw it, she had
precious little to lose. She only hoped that her songs were working. She
suspected they were. Why else would Mogra be glaring at her if the Mistress of
Shadows did not suspect something amiss? She would be unlikely to feel simple
jealousy, Rolenya felt sure.

Quelling her doubts, the princess
stepped down into the arena, still avoiding Mogra’s eyes, and took her position
in its center. She actually looked forward to singing; it was the only time
lately when she felt whole.

All the Borchstogs fell silent, and
a hush descended upon the room. Even the terrible wraiths hiding above the
smoke that wreathed the ceiling ceased stirring.

She cleared her throat and looked
Gilgaroth in his burning eyes. She no longer had to look away from him. His
eyes held no evil for her. Indeed, quite disturbingly, the opposite was true.

Thus, gazing at him openly, she
began to sing. She opened up the gates of Light and Grace within herself and
let them pour into him through her voice.

Mogra’s eyes narrowed.

Rolenya tried to ignore the Shadow-Weaver.
With ever greater power, she let her voice ring out.

Gilgaroth’s expression was
difficult to make out on his shadow-wreathed face, but she saw it, and it warmed
her. She was beginning to feel almost . . . kindly . . . towards him. It was
her songs, she knew. They worked both ways.

She thought it strange, even
profane
, to think of, but she’d
discovered Gilgaroth to possess other facets to his being than the one he
normally showed, even, possibly, a facet that knew love. Perhaps—

She sang on.

The Leviathan tucked his wings behind him and dove, flame
licking his lips.

“TASTE THE FIRE OF
UL MRUNGONA
!” he roared, and shot a
burning lance as he dove for the tunnel entrance.

“Quickly!” shouted Baleron.
“Inside!”

He ran into the dark opening,
rebounded against a wall, nearly breaking his nose, and ran on. The others
followed quickly behind. Once they rounded a few corners he felt safer, but
Throgmar’s fire still chased their heels, immolating the ruins around the
opening and sending fire deep into the tunnel itself. Its heat reflected off
the wall and up the bend, singeing the kidnappers but not roasting them.

“Damn!” said
Sider
,
fingering his burned eyebrows and soot-streaked face. “I hate dragons.”

“I hate
that
dragon,” said Lord Grothgar.

Baleron said nothing. He’d suffered
months of torture just for the chance of slaying Throgmar, and he still
harbored that enmity deep within him, but his hatred was mixed with
satisfaction now; he’d already had his revenge.

Fires flickered from wreckage
further up the tunnel, and the smoke stung at his eyes. Outside, Throgmar
roared loudly,
then
Baleron heard the sound of the
dragon landing.

“THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME IN
THERE?” the Leviathan said. “I’LL UNEARTH YOU LIKE A BIRD OF PREY UNEARTHS A
GRUB!”

The tunnel began to rock. Baleron
could imagine the Worm ripping at the mountain of debris with his mighty claws,
tossing huge chunks of rock and masonry aside. The reverberations of his
excavation shook the corridor, and the kidnappers looked at each other
nervously.

“HOW DOES IT
FEEL
TO BE A GRUB?” shouted the Worm. “ARE YOU PALE AND WRIGGLING?”

This series of tunnels led to the
wine cellars, which was in the direction Baleron desired to go, and unlit
torches lined the walls at regular intervals. He plucked one from the wall and
stabbed it into one of the fires left by Throgmar’s rage.

“Here,” he said, passing the torch
to
Sider
. “Lead on. My father knows how to get to the
escape tunnel.”

Albrech grunted.
“Escape!
What a lot I’ve fallen into.”

“It’s not for you,” Baleron
snapped. “It’s for the Union. You’re going to
survive, damn it, whether you like it or not, and you’re going to lead whatever
forces you can summon against Gilgaroth, and you’re going to defeat him.”

He glared at Albrech hotly until
the king, shockingly, looked away. Baleron felt a surge of triumph.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll delay the
dragon.”

“You’re mad,” said
Sider
. “You don’t stand a chance, and anyway I doubt one
human could delay such a beast for long in any case.”

“Let him,” Albrech said dully.

Baleron did not take offense at
Albrech’s tone. Finally, after all he’d been through, he felt unconcerned about
his father’s judgment. It was about damned time, he thought.

The tunnel shook, and dust rained
down from the ceiling.

“Hurry,” Baleron said.

“Good luck,” said
Sider
.

Wait!
came
a voice in the prince’s head.
How can you let your father go off with this
rabble? How can you let them take him through miles of subterranean passages?
They look a shifty lot, and that
Sider
has a queer
look in his eye.

Baleron merely smiled and ignored
the voice.

Sider
hurried off into the darkness, the torch lighting the way, and the others
followed close at his heels. The king paused, lingering behind. Surprisingly,
he squeezed Baleron’s shoulder, for the second time that night.

“This is farewell, then,” Albrech
said, and Baleron did not argue. “I never thought
you
would sacrifice yourself for
me
.”

“I’m not,” Baleron said. “And it’s
for Havensrike, if I am, not you. Now hurry.”

Albrech did not move. He stared
Baleron in the eye. “You’re my last,” he said, and his voice was thick. “I
never told you this, but
I
. . . I . . .”

Baleron waited. He had waited his
whole life for this. Despite himself, he found that he was holding his breath.

But then another roar shook the
hall, and Albrech’s gaze wavered. “I . . .”

“Yes?”

Albrech looked back into his eyes.
“I . . .
“ Clarity
returned. “I never did like you.”

Baleron just stared at him. Then,
unable to stop it, he laughed. “I never liked you either.”

Albrech nodded to himself, as if
he’d settled something, gave his son’s shoulder one last squeeze, gave the
Heir’s blue eyes one last looking—into, then hurried off into the darkness, chasing
that pinprick of light. Baleron watched him go until his father had rounded a
bend and was gone. He knew he would never see the king again. Then he squared
his shoulders, set his jaw and strode outside.

The air out here stank of smoke,
burnt stone and metal—and death. Smoke still rose from the spot Throgmar had
torched, and the ground was hot underfoot.

Just the same, there was a chill
wind blowing, along with the constant drizzle, and Baleron was instantly just
as cold and wet as he had been before.

He squinted up at the towering
figure of the Betrayer.

A many-forked tongue of lightning
licked the ground and sent out a peel of thunder, and for a moment the mighty
Throgmar was backlit, a massive, horned silhouette against the sky. Fire
seethed from his mouth, lapping at his scaly lips but not burning them. He was
a creature of fire and his own fires had no effect.

His amber, reptilian eyes narrowed
at seeing the prince, and his whiskered mouth drew into a pained expression.

“YOU,” he said.

“Me,” Baleron affirmed. With a
snick
, he drew out Rondthril. He did not
know what Gilgaroth’s will was, and he did not care; he only knew that his
dagger would have little effect on the Worm.

“I WONDERED IF I MIGHT MEET YOU
HERE, PRINCE.”

“How?”