The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (15 page)

“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 Albrech Grothgar. 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. Albrech’s mouth was open, as if in surprise, but his eyebrows were
locked in a scowl.

So
I really did fail you, after all
, Baleron thought.
You were right about me all along
.

“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 dark blue eyes.

“
Rauglir
,” he growled. Would the demon kill everyone he ever knew?

The true weight of it slowly sank
in. Not only was his father dead, but so was the king. There could be no more
hope for Havensrike now, no hope that Albrech could gather the remnants of the
kingdom together and marshal a resistance to Ungier.

And more . . . this meant that now
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.

He 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.

“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.