The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (17 page)

The formation of glarumri that
escorted him hung back as he neared the tower and began circling it . . . at a
good distance from the dragons. Ungier slipped through the scaly moat of Worms and made his way up
toward the black and lightning-lit clouds, ascending towards the highest
terrace reserved for the most important visitors. Who could be more important
than he?

Still, he marveled at the wonder of
Krogbur as he climbed. It was mighty. It was beautiful. It pulsed with power,
like the great black heart it was. Just passing through its air he felt
strengthened.
Revitalized.
His father had outdone
himself this time.

Ungier coalesced into his tall,
batwinged
form as he alit on the highest terrace, his
all—black eyes glaring imperiously, and drew his wings about himself like a
cape. Who was here to greet him? He saw no one.

However, before he could become
offended, a huge shadowy shape stalked out of the depths of the interior. Eight
long, segmented legs clicked on the slick hard surface, and Ungier swallowed as
the being’s bulbous body came to loom over him. Lightning flickered, reflecting
off its glistening carapace, black with traces of flowing purple. A strange,
intoxicating musk radiated off it, and Ungier shivered, half in terror, half in
delight, as eight unblinking red eyes gazed down at him speculatively.

He had not expected this. He would
not have been surprised if Gilgaroth had come to greet him personally, or if he
had sent some high servant, but to have sent the Spider Goddess—their Mother .
. .

This was an ill portent, and Ungier
began to wonder if Gilgaroth suspected the reason he’d come. Suspected—and
resented. It was with great fear and trepidation that he looked up into the
Spider Queen’s many blazing eyes. He inclined his head to her slightly, a small
bow.

“My Queen,” he said.
“My Mother.”

“My son.”
Her voice, as always, was heavy with meaning, yet beautiful, and her words well
shaped. “
Why
have you left your
escort out beyond the dragon-moat?”

“I . . .” He could not say he
feared rebuke for coming here; that would display weakness. But if he lied, she
would know. “I’ll bring them in directly.”

“Why have you come?” she asked.
What did she know? Did she suspect?
 
“Surely you have not yet conquered the whole of Havensrike so swiftly.”

“No. But,” he hasted to add,
“Glorifel is taken, as is the southern third of the country, and its armies are
broken. For all intents and purposes, it is defeated.”

She paused, letting him worry,
then: “I know.”
Nothing more.
She was waiting for him,
playing with him like a wolf with a hare. He did not like it, and it made him
edgy.

“I have come to claim my prize,” he
said, with perhaps too much boldness.

Another pause, calculating. “No
prize was offered you.”

“Let me take it up with Him.”

She studied him. Her spider-face
was impossible to read. “What prize do you require?”

“Rolenya.”

“He will not part with her. If you
ask him for this, you will regret it.”

“For her, I would risk anything.”

Again she studied him. “Here,” she
said, tapping a
foot,
and two Borchstogs emerged from
the tower holding something between them. It rippled in the wind, glimmering
darkly. The Borchstogs knelt and proffered the item to him.

He accepted it hesitantly, warily.
It was a cape made of Spider-silk.

“I spun that for you myself,” Mogra
told him.

“Why?” he asked, unable to keep the
note of suspicion from his voice.

“A mother needs no reason to gift
her son. But know this. With this I commemorate your return to your Father’s
goodwill. Yet I fear that his favor will be fleeting, for you have come as a
swaggering victor, not a supplicant—and as a thief.”

“I am no thief. Rolenya is
rightfully mine—awarded me by my Father for being the spider’s custodian. I had
her for three years. I would have
married
her.”

“Argue not with me and mine.”

“But I am yours. Come now, Mother,
perhaps we can arrange a deal. You wish to be rid of her, surely, and I wish to
take her. Perhaps we can arrange an alliance . . .”

She drew herself up, and Ungier
felt himself shrink. Her shadow danced and swelled, and seemed to grow deeper.
He suddenly felt icy cold and shivered beneath her majesty. Her eight eyes
blazed
redly
in the darkness.

“Fool!” she said, and the floor
quaked beneath Ungier. “What madness has gripped you that you would plot
treachery against your Father?” Seething, she added, “It is that
thing
! That
elf
! Why are you and he so drawn to her?” She let out a growl, a
spidery trill of frustration.

She started to turn about,
then
hesitated. Not facing him, she said, “When we sensed
your coming, my Lord expressed his desire that you should attend his sending-off
of the gathered army.” One of her legs gestured outwards and downwards to the
huge host of Borchstogs and others that had massed at
Krogbur’s
roots beyond the encircling flame. “He shall order them to begin their assault
a few nights hence. You shall attend the ceremony.”
He nodded shakily. “O-of course.”

She wheeled about, and the darkness
withdrew. Ungier, gasping, looked around to find
himself
lying on the terrace clutching the cape, which fluttered
ghostily
in the wind. Shakily, he rose and entered the tower, probing the shadows for
ambush as he went.

He wondered if he had beaten
Baleron here.

After her meeting with Ungier, Mogra, in agitation, visited
Gilgaroth. He was in the Well of Krogbur, that great dark shaft in the tower’s
core, where he communed with the powers under his command, issuing orders to
generals prosecuting his War and listening to the prayers of those who made
sacrifices to him in his temples. She waited, and at last he finished the
business of the moment and turned to regard her.

“Ungier is come,” she said.

He waited, sensing that she had
more to say, so she added, “He has conquered Havensrike and desires a reward.
An excuse to ask a favor of you, more like. He wants the elf girl.”

She could feel Gilgaroth stir, and
his darkness hummed with thought and energy, yet he said nothing.

She must plead with him, she saw
,
if she was to save Ungier—and him, too, perhaps. “Why not
give him what he seeks?” she asked. “Why sour your bond with him just when it
is renewed?”

At last Gilgaroth spoke, and his
words held dark meaning:
“He does not
care. He would sour that bond. He would dissolve it.
And all
to take away my songbird.
He would rather cause me pain than
be
a son to me. He would rather have my treasure for himself
than have my love.”
She could feel the sadness, the regret, the bitterness,
radiating from him like smoke from a fissure.

“No,” she said. “He knows not what
he does. He is blinded by her light. She is an enchantress, my Lord.”

He regarded her coldly.
“You fear she enchants even me.”

She nodded wretchedly. “She drives
you and Ungier apart, and I sense that is a dangerous thing. The webs of fate
are strange and nebulous, yet I can sense them like few can, for I am a spider.
I sense that your thread is bound to his, and that if his should be cut, yours
will as well.”

“
Begone
. I have things that need tending. War is like a
delicate flower. It needs constant pruning, watering, and caring. Leave me to
do it.”

And so, troubled in her deep heart,
Mogra left.

Just beyond the entrance to the
Well, she met Ungier, who approached the archway wearing, she was glad to see,
his new cape. Perhaps that meant he had decided to accept his parents’ favor
and leave off the subject of Rolenya.

Instead he told her, “I’ve come to
discuss my prize.”

In that instant she wanted to crush
him. “If that is why you have come,
then
wait,” he
said. “Now is not the time.”

“I must see Him.”

She was blocking his way. “Turn
back, my son. He is in no mood to receive you.”

This clearly frustrated Ungier, but
he seemed to sense that she meant what she said, and, not wanting to anger his
father, he bowed, turned about and withdrew. Sadly, she watched him go.

Chapter
12

Things were getting strange in Krogbur, Rolenya decided.

She did not know where he had come
from, but Lord Ungier was attending the festivities that evening at the
Feasting Hall. Attended by several sycophants wearing the armor of glarumri, he
marched down the aisle looking tall and powerful and commanding. He wore a cape
made of fine Spider-silk, and when he moved it trailed him like a glimmering
shadow.

Rolenya was already seated—on the
first row, as usual—and when he saw her he actually stopped in his tracks. His
black eyes grew round, he appeared to steel himself, then strode boldly over to
her and took her hand in his, bent and kissed it. She had endured his kisses
too many times to shudder now.

“Good evening, my love,” he said,
his eyes staring openly into hers.

“There is little good about it,”
she answered, trying to suppress the quaver in her voice.

He stroked her cheek with a long,
leathery finger, and she twisted away.

“Don’t touch me,” she said. “I’m
not yours anymore.”

“That will change,” he said, and
there was
a throatiness
in his voice and a strange
urgency in his tone.

Nervously, she said, “What do you
mean?”

“Havensrike is mine,” he said.

She gasped, feeling horror rise up
inside her.

“Fear not,” he said. “You will be
my queen, and together we will remake it.”

“Never!”

“We will see.”

He took his seat across the aisle
from hers, and his sycophants gathered about him. The games began, and despite
the spectacles of the arena he often diverted his attention to shoot her
strange looks. She tried to ignore him, but it was difficult; she feared him,
and despised him.

There was more to it than that, of
course. She had not forgotten all their nights together. True, she had been his
unwilling slave, but he had not been without his charms, and when he wore a
human façade he was devilishly handsome. Over her three years of confinement at
Gulrothrog, she had, despite herself, often been attracted to him, though she
had been careful never to let him or anyone else (especially Baleron) know. Of
all his concubines, and of all the women in his harem—for they were separate
and distinct, the concubines and the harem—she had been his prize. They had
almost . . .
almost
. . . wed. She
would have been his ninth still-living wife, if living his wives could be
called.

But the Wolf had changed all that.
Gilgaroth had appeared unannounced at Gulrothrog and slipped past the Vampire
King’s defenses. The Dark One had found Rolenya in one of the huge bathing
rooms of the harem, where she had been washing herself in a steaming water of a
pool, assisted by her handmaidens. Suddenly
he
appeared and the handmaidens fled. Rolenya would have, as well, but he’d bound
her with his will,
then
removed the armor from one of
his hands, exposing his naked flesh. With it, he had touched her, and his touch
alone had been enough to steal the life from her body, and her soul. It was
said that all he touched died save that which he created, which is why his
hands were always armored, though Rolenya didn’t know if this was true. It was
further said that if you died in any of the lands where his influence was
strongest that your soul would be sucked toward him and consumed, then cast
into the Second Hell. In that way, to enter Oslog was to risk one’s soul.

He had slain her, stolen her spirit
and consigned it to gardens of Illistriv. There she had mourned for Baleron and
their father, for the Crescent itself. Despite the deceivingly beautiful
surroundings, she had known only despair.

Now, watching Ungier, she doubted
he had ever forgiven his sire for that theft—though he had not known about it
till afterward—so it was strange to see that, despite his natural arrogance and
aloofness, the Vampire King was fearful, not angry. His wide black eyes often
probed the shadows around him, and he was constantly on edge.

Fortunately, his nervousness was
tempered by his seeming love of the fights. He cheered and whistled and laughed
as the combatants toiled away below, blood and sweat flying in equal measure.

The Borchstogs, naturally, gambled
on the fights, and he joined in—though, Rolenya noted, there was much grumbling
about this among the Borchstog circles; he had too much power and money to bet
at their level. Yet they let him, out of fear of his wrath if they didn’t.

Mogra, meanwhile, eyed Rolenya
cattishly.

She
knows
, Rolenya thought.
Gods help me,
but she knows.

Rolenya tried to focus on her songs
to come, and her spells. Gilgaroth would ask her to sing, as he always did, and
she knew she had little choice but to comply. She was interrupted when Ungier,
in the grip of some nervous tension, apparently could not stand merely
watching
the fights any longer. In the
break between two bouts, he leapt to his clawed feet and shouted, “I’m next!”

Drunk on wine and immensely
powerful, he had no fear. He tore the table aside and jumped down into the
arena, cape and wings billowing, with a howl of savage glee. Was he mad?

The Borchstogs cheered lustily,
loving it.

A frown twisted Mogra’s lips, and
she leaned back, fingering (worriedly?) a strand of jewels that cascaded from
her black hair down over a naked breast. Her violet eyes twinkled, and the many
rings that adorned her six hands sparkled of gold and diamonds and pearls.

The Dark One regarded Ungier with
flaming eyes.

“You
seek sport, do you, my son?”

Ungier laughed. “I do, my Lord. I
seek to spill some blood tonight!”

The Borchstogs cheered, and Ungier
encouraged them.

“But even more, Father, Mother, I
ask a boon of you. Hear me. I have conquered Glorifel. Havensrike is mine—ours.
My first act as ruler of Ungoroth will be to build you both great temples, and
your shadows will grow long indeed. All I ask in return is one thing.” He
looked over his shoulder, right at Rolenya, and pointed a finger. “Her.”

“I will be no prize,” she stated
loudly. Still, her voice sounded small in the huge chamber.

“You will be
silent
,” Ungier admonished indulgently.

“
No
,”
spoke
Gilgaroth calmly, and all turned to him.
“She
is mine, and she will be mine, and she will not be silent.”

“But I have toppled the mightiest
pillar of the Crescent!” said Ungier. “Surely that deserves some prize.”

“
How DARE you demand a reward for doing my will! I did not hire you to
do this thing. I asked you, as a father to a son. Do you not see? For ages you
have denied me, have turned your back on me. I gave you a chance to return to
my good graces. I gave you an army. I gave you a worthy labor. And what do I
receive in return for these gifts?
DEMANDS?”
He
paused, letting the tension build, and said, very deliberately, very coldly,
“You err.”

Ungier suddenly looked very small.
“But the mastering of Glorifel . . .”

“Is
a feat I accomplished when I Doomed Baleron, when I sent Rauglir to destroy
Logran’s
Flower. Thus I earn the reward, if a reward is to
be earned.”
He shook his head ruefully.
“And to ask such a boon!
Your gall is to be admired, if not your
wit. I would have given you anything, my son, anything at all. Except . . .
her. Had you come to me and asked for a thing, I would have given it to you.
A kingdom, a castle, a creature.
But instead you come to me
and DEMAND a prize, and you choose the one prize I would not have given you had
you begged.”
His black laugh was chilling, and Ungier shrank even further.

Mogra said, “Indeed you are a fool,
Ungier.”

The vampire hung his head. “How so,
Mother?”

“Do you not realize that many of
those that fight here are of my loins? Just like you. Many of them have died
right where you’re standing, and I have watched them go to their deaths with a
smile. You think
you’re
any
different?”

“I am powerful,” he boasted.

“Indeed,”
agreed Gilgaroth.
“For
we did not make you as a creature, but as a son.
Yet in Gulrothrog you were too long away from us, and your mind has
grown weak. It needs sharpening.”
He snapped his armored fingers.
“
Thorg
!”

The terrible wolf rose and leapt
into the arena, snarling angrily.

“My Lord, wait,” said Mogra. Her
harshness was gone, replaced with worry for her son.

“No,”
answered Gilgaroth.
“This vulgar display
must end.”

Ungier looked up to his father with
worry, obviously surprised at this turn of events. “I only wanted some sport,”
he protested. “I only wanted my woman back. I did not want death.”

He bowed tentatively to show his
subservience, but his father continued to regard him with disdain.

Thorg
charged, jaws wide.

All eyes were on the arena. No one was watching the tall
hooded figure standing in the shadow of an archway leading out of the hall,
spying with interest on the action unraveling below. Baleron had arrived
earlier that day and was still sore from Throgmar’s handling, but all his aches
and pains faded now.

He smiled as he realized what was
going on down in the arena. This was beyond his wildest hopes.
Ungier may not get his prize, but I might.

If Ungier died, it would solve a
good half of Baleron’s problems. Thank the
Omkarathons
for Rolenya’s ability to inspire love, or at least emotion, even in creatures
so vile. She shone brightly below, close to the arena, a white thorn amidst the
darkness, and Baleron was joyous to see her, to know she was safe and whole,
but at present his attention was fixed—hopefully—on the vampire courting death
in the pit.

Rolenya watched breathlessly as Ungier easily dodged aside.
Thorg
wheeled about, fires licking the back of his throat.

Ungier laughed mockingly. “You
don’t scare me, dog.”

“I will grind your bones between my
jaws,” returned
Thorg
.

He charged again. Ungier whipped
off his glimmering cape and waved it before the charging beast, taunting him.
Thorg
tore through the cape, fangs flashing, but did not
even wound the vampire.

Ungier, however, raked his claws
across the beast’s passing flank, drawing blood,
then
licked his dripping fingers.

“Tasty,” he said as the wolf turned
around again.

Thorg
belched fire at Ungier, but the flames parted around the powerful vampire as if
an invisible shield protected him, and Ungier gave a thin smile.

Thorg’s
eyes burned, his gaze burrowing into his foe. He would try to
hypnotize
the Vampire King! Amazed,
Rolenya found herself favoring Ungier. She still remembered her time in the
arena with that same cuerdrig all too well, while Ungier, for all his faults,
loved her.

The vampire merely laughed.
His own
black eyes seemed to grow wider, and the two
combatants stared at each other, each trying to enthrall the other. Rolenya
looked up to the Dark One and his bride to see them watching the battle
tensely. Mogra looked nervous.

When the contest of wills between
vampire and cuerdrig ended,
Thorg
lowered his head
and said, “I serve you, Lord Ungier.”

Ungier turned a sneer up at his
father. “There!”

Gilgaroth snapped his fingers
again.
“
Slorch
!”

The second wolf sprang down into
the arena and, before Rolenya could catch her breath,
Slorch
charged Ungier. The vampire leapt into the air, wings pumping, and landed
behind the monster.

Having enthralled
Thorg
, Ungier used him to assault
Slorch
,
while the lone cuerdrig raged, bitter at having to fight his brother.

Rolenya was shocked. It seemed to
her that Gilgaroth was really trying to
kill
Ungier . . . and the Dark One was willing to sacrifice his favorite pets to do
it! Ungier must have sinned greatly in his eyes.

Below, the vampire had his puppet
Thorg
charge his brother, and while
Slorch
wrapped his jaws about the other wolf’s throat, Ungier used his claws to slash
Slorch’s
own jugular, and
Slorch
fell, blood pooling around him.
Thorg
, though
wounded, survived.

Rolenya sat back and tried to calm
down. She felt like she would be ill.

Mogra, looking
dull, perhaps sad, also leaned back, sighing.

Gilgaroth’s expression, as always,
was nearly impossible to read. His flaming eyes simmered.

Ungier knelt over the still-warm
carcass and drank
Slorch’s
hot blood, lapping it up
with his tongue,
then
looked up to the thrones with a
bloody, defiant smile.

“Have I passed the test, Father?”

Gilgaroth said nothing.

Ungier turned to the Borchstogs of
the audience and raised his blood-drenched arms. “Have I not won?” he shouted
to them.

They roared in approval, beating on
the tabletops. This was likely the best, most significant, most unexpected
fight they had ever seen.

Triumphant, Ungier turned again to
Gilgaroth. “I have earned my prize, Father.”