The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (18 page)

“
No
.”

“But, Father, I—”

“NO.”

Ungier’s face screwed up in anger.
“You just want her for yourself!”

The Borchstogs gasped, muttering to
each other. They loved a victor, but they hated anyone who went against their
Lord.

Mogra’s mouth twitched.

“That’s right, isn’t it, Father?”
Ungier continued. “You won’t give me the prize that I have earned because it is
you
who covets her. Why don’t you
come down here, Father? Why don’t
we
do battle here, right now, in the arena? The winner takes Rolenya. That’s what
you really want, isn’t it? Let me oblige you. It will be a bout to be
remembered for all times. Our war shall shake the heavens!”

Rolenya was taken aback. Ungier
must truly have gone mad!
Even the Borchstogs fell silent,
awed by the challenge.

Mogra said, “You go too far, my
son.”

“Do I?” he asked. “Perhaps I have
not gone far enough.” He looked to
Thorg
, then to
Gilgaroth. His black eyes were serious and deadly. “
Thorg
,
slay your maker
.”

Baleron stifled his laughter only with great effort.
Ungier had gone insane!
Surely Gilgaroth
would kill him in due course and Rondthril would be released from the sway of
the dark powers.

He expected it to happen any
minute.
Any second.

For once, fate was on his side.

The cuerdrig looked from the Vampire King to the Dark One
and could not seem to make up its mind. Infuriated, Gilgaroth wrenched the
sword that was embedded in the side of his throne out and hurled it at the
beast. His blade, in proportion with his giant stature, skewered the mighty
Thorg
to the ground, and smoking blood pooled across the
sand, which drank it up greedily. The cuerdrig was dead.

“You
err,
”
Gilgaroth said again,
this time almost sadly. Looking up to the masked ceiling, he shouted,
“
Descend
!”

The host of wraiths that inhabited
the upper reaches of the smoke-filled room descended into the arena and swirled
about Ungier, a swarm of living shadows. They howled and shrieked and created
such an unholy din that the Borchstogs, shivering in fear, closed their eyes
and clamped hands over their ears.

Rolenya remembered when she had
been at the center of a similar vortex, and the sight—and the memory—chilled
her to the bone.

The ghosts ripped at the Vampire
King with insubstantial hands and claws and teeth and worse, and Ungier screamed
in agony. They tore his soul loose from his body, and his body slumped
lifelessly to the floor.

His soul, visible in this place of
power, was a shadow blacker than theirs, and it twisted and fought against
them, but they were too many. Shrieking, they bore him up to their Master, who
rose to his feet and removed the armor from one hand.

Mogra shifted uncomfortably.

With the hand that was still
encased in armor, the Dark One seized the squirming soul of Ungier and stared
mercilessly at the shadowy thing, and it trembled beneath the weight of his
judgment.

Gilgaroth raised his naked hand and
pressed it close to Ungier, who knew that the touch of that hand meant instant
death, the demise of his very soul. He tried to twist away, but his father’s
iron grip was too strong.

“I
can slay you at any time I choose,”
said Gilgaroth. “
More, I can prolong your torment for eons. Even now I have enemies
locked in the dungeons of this very tower that I have been torturing for
thousands of years. I transferred them here from Ghrastigor so that I would not
be without my favorite playthings. Do you think I would hesitate to add you to
that collection? Or . . .”
He twitched his dark fingers.
“ . . . I could simply touch your naked soul
now, or at any time henceforth, and kill it utterly so that you will never know
agony, or peace, again.
Only oblivion.”

The soul of Ungier shook.

“Do
you now understand the depth of your folly?”
asked Gilgaroth.
“I
hope so. I will not be so forgiving a second time.”

He flung the soul down into the
pit, right into the inert body of the Vampire King, and the body stirred.
Rolenya, who had not realized she had been holding her breath, took a deep one.

Baleron gnashed his teeth in frustration.

He’d come so close!

“Damn it all!” he hissed.

Gasping, Ungier sat up, rubbing his throat as though it
could be sore when it was his soul his father had been grasping. He was so
unsteady that Borchstogs had to help him up. He stretched his arms out and
regarded his own body in a strange, frightened manner.

“My powers . . .” he whispered. His
head snapped up. “You’ve stolen my powers!”

“I
gave them to you,”
Gilgaroth replied.
“They
were mine to take away.”

Ungier made pathetic little noises,
but he was wise enough to choke down his words. Rolenya was shocked to see that
he was crying in mute rage, frustration, and impotence; his tears were black
drops of blood leaked from all-black eyes, though, and it was not a sight to
endear him to her.

The Dark One’s attention fell on
her, and all else washed from her mind.

“Erase
this ugly scene, little one,”
he said.
“Come.
Sing for me, my dove.”

Mogra tapped her armrest in
agitation, eyeing the tattered remains of the shadow-cape sadly.

Borchstogs removed the bodies of
Thorg
and
Slorch
, and a group of
them lugged the heavy sword back up to its Master, who replaced it in his
throne. He watched the bodies of his prized
cuerdrigs
go with an inscrutable expression, though Rolenya did note that the fires of
his eyes seemed to dim, just slightly.

Ungier dusted himself off and flew
up out of the arena. He paused at the overturned table, casting Rolenya a
sidelong look.

“I would have liked to have heard
you sing,” he said.

“Then you should not have been such
an ass!” she snapped.

He fled up the stairs, minus his
cape. On his way out, he shot a wary glance up toward the hidden ceiling, where
the wraiths had returned, and seemed to shudder. Wordlessly, he left.

“
Please
,”
Gilgaroth
said, his eyes on Rolenya, and gestured toward the now-empty arena.

Sighing, she gathered herself and
descended.

“Don’t,” protested Mogra, laying a
caressing hand on his arm. He had replaced the armor on his other hand. “She
weaves spells with her songs; she casts a net over you. Send her away—to
Clevaris, as planned.”

From the tone of her voice it was
plain that she had voiced this objection before. Rolenya was surprised she
would speak so before the Borchstogs, but, then, they loved their Father and
Mother with such devotion that a little bickering between the Two would go
unnoticed.

“
Nonsense
,”
Gilgaroth said.
“
You are merely
jealous. She is but a slip of a girl. What power can she have over me?”

“She can harness Light and Grace,
the gifts of Brunril to the Elves, and funnel them into her songs. Close your
ears to them, my Lord. Deny her the chance to bind you to her. Don’t you see?
That is her plan.”

Gilgaroth regarded his bride for a
long moment,
then
turned his gaze on Rolenya. The
princess trembled. Would Gilgaroth destroy her? The moment stretched, and
stretched, and Rolenya tried not to look guilty.

At last, Gilgaroth threw back his
head and laughed. The candles dimmed, and so did the torches and urns. Rolenya
had to fight the urge to wrap her arms about herself, feeling cold all of a
sudden; gooseflesh covered her.

The laughter died.

“Let
her sing. Let her weave her little spells. I have enough darkness in me to
counter any light.”

Mogra glared at Rolenya, bearing
her teeth in a most horrid smile. The Spider Queen’s fangs were very sharp, and
Rolenya was reminded that Gilgaroth was not the only one she had to fear.

Baleron watched Ungier depart the room, broken and
humiliated. He enjoyed the vampire’s discomfort, but he knew that was not
enough.

Ungier needed to die.

The Lord of Ungoroth vanished through
a door several aisles over from the archway in which Baleron hid, and, when the
vampire was gone, the prince took a deep breath and quit the hall. He hated to
miss
Rolenya’s songs, but this was more important.

He found himself in a long, curved
corridor, and headed right, the direction Ungier had taken. Killing the vampire
should be easier now that Gilgaroth had removed the fiend’s powers, or at least
some of them, Baleron reflected.

As he made his way along, he heard
Rolenya begin singing; her voice carried far and could even be heard out here.
As always, her voice was lovely, and the song beautiful. It seemed surreal to
him that such angelic notes should provide the backdrop for his mission of
murder.

He stalked up the high black hall,
and shadows leapt and swayed to scant torchlight, almost in time to the song.
He kept his footfalls soft, kept his breathing quiet and steady.

There! Ungier lingered in an
archway leading into the hall. It seemed he had thrown away all pride and
dignity and was even then pressing a bat-like ear to the door, an enchanted
smile on his face.

Baleron grunted with amusement.

Ungier heard. He spun about to find
Baleron already descending on him, having snatched a torch from its bracket and
bringing the fiery end down on the vampire’s head.

Ungier caught Baleron’s wrist and
stopped the torch’s descent. Had Baleron two hands, he would have punched the
vampire in the throat or nose with his free fist, but it was Ungier who still
had two hands, and they were both tipped with long claws.

His free hand drove toward the Heir
of
Havensrike’s
face, meaning to impale his eyes.
Baleron broke away. The torch clattered to the floor.

The two combatants crouched,
circling each other warily.

Fury blazed in the vampire’s face.
“You!”

“Me,” Baleron agreed.

There would be no fancy exchange of
mock titles this time. They were down to the end of it, now, and both sensed
that the time for games had passed.

“Alone at last,” Ungier said.

“And you without your powers.
Pity.”

The Vampire King eyed the length of
Rondthril at Baleron’s side. “I think I’ll have that back now.”

“Come and get it.”

The fiend flew at him, and they
grappled with each other, at last rolling about on the floor. Baleron wrapped
his one hand about the vampire’s throat and tried to crush his enemy’s
windpipe, while Ungier sought purchase on Baleron’s face to pluck out his eyes
and drive his sharp thumbs into his brain.

Baleron used his stump as a
bludgeon. It hurt every time he struck with it, but it was worth it to hear the
sounds of impact on the vampire’s chest and head.

Baleron had one advantage, and that
was that he was trained in hand—to—hand combat and Ungier was not. All his long
life, Ungier had relied on his godly powers, but now they had deserted him.

Baleron had to thrash and writhe
and kick and buck to avoid the vampire’s claws and fangs, as the fiend had the
longer reach, and with all that motion Baleron could not find a solid enough
hold to crush Ungier’s throat. And even if he could, he doubted Ungier could be
killed that way: god or not, the vampire was still an undead
thing
.

Infuriated, Ungier at last kicked
away and stood, wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek. Baleron stood, too.

“
Rolling about on the floor like a pig
!”
Ungier said, his voice dripping disgust. “Is this how mortals fight? It is
beneath me. I refuse to continue this farce. I may be weakened, but—” (as if to
confirm Baleron’s fears) “—I am no
mortal
.”
He fairly spat the word.

Baleron forced a smile. “Then will
you let a crippled one chase you off?”

The vampire bared his fangs.

Several Borchstogs wearing the
armor of glarumri emerged from the Feasting Hall. Their wolf-head helms were
long and were inset with red rubies for eyes. The Borchstogs half—bowed to
Ungier.

“My loyal troops,” he said, half
mocking.

“My lord,” said their leader, his
eyes going from Ungier to Baleron. “Please accept our apologies. We stayed a
minute to listen to the she—elf. We beg your pardon.”

Ungier turned a nasty look to
Baleron. “No godhood, perhaps, but I still possess authority.” To the glarumri,
he said, “Kill him!”

The glarumri gasped. “But, my lord,
he is
ul Ravast
!”

Baleron nearly smiled to hear the
growl that issued from Ungier’s throat at that moment. The Vampire King shook
off his rage and said to the Borchstogs,
“Look
into my eyes.”
Apparently he still had some power.

Baleron ran.

Chapter
13

After she had sung and was allowed to leave the Feasting
Hall, Rolenya returned to her suite to bathe in one of the hot, steaming pools
created by the stream that ran through her rooms. She felt dirty and soiled by
the smoke of the Hall—the smoke and the blood, and the evil that hung there as
palpably as grease in the air.

She had three attendants that
appeared to be elf maids, though she doubted their appearances and thought it
more likely they were Borchstogs given elvish form.
Spies.
They rarely spoke, but they obeyed her instructions well enough. One was
sponging her back when there
came
a knock on the door.

“See who that is,” Rolenya said,
and a handmaiden complied.

In a moment she returned.
Curtsying, she said, “’tis Lord Ungier.”

Rolenya’s mouth dropped open. She
started to say something, rethought it, and started over again. Composing
herself, she turned to the third handmaiden and said, “Fetch me a towel.” To
the second one, she said, “Show him in, but don’t let him wander.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Minutes later, Rolenya was clad in
a bathrobe and preparing herself to meet the vampire. It would be the first
time she’d seen him in an intimate circumstance since Gulrothrog. Still, her
body was warm and freshly scrubbed, and perfumed with the scent of flowers. She
felt good and had consumed more than her fair share of wine. She was feeling
bold.

She strode into the main living
room, where Ungier warmed himself beside the fire. Tall and regally poised, he
wore his spider-silk cape, which one of his servants must have retrieved from
the arena—or perhaps his mother, to make up for recent unpleasantness? Its
rents had mended, as if of the cape’s own accord.

Rolenya had half expected him in
human guise, but of course he was not; Gilgaroth had stolen his godhood.

“Good evening, Lord Ungier,” she
said, trying to stay formal.

“Likewise, fair
Rolenya.”

He took a moment to drink her in,
and something about her seemed to relax him. He took a deep breath and sighed.

Too, something about her seemed to
quicken him, as his eyes grew larger and his expression more determined.

“You smell lovely,” he told her.

“Why, thank you.”

“I enjoyed your singing tonight.”
He glided about the room, beginning to circle her.
“Though I
had to put my ear to the door to hear it.
You have a most beautiful
voice. It sounds like crystal bells over a pure running stream.”

“Not so pure,” she said, reminding
him of how he’d stolen her maidenhood, how he’d destroyed her innocence.

He did not have the decency to look
abashed. Quite the reverse: he seemed to smile fondly at the memory. “Indeed,”
he said, and his voice was heavy with desire.

“Enough!” she snapped.
So much for formality.

He stopped circling and spun to
face her. “You know why I have come.”

“Yes.”

He strode closer to her. His steps
were quick and urgent and full of power, like those of a jungle cat.

Lightly, she stepped backwards.
“It’s not to be,” she said.

“Oh, but it is.”

He reached her and wrapped her in
his rough embrace. Pressing himself against her, he crushed his leathery lips
to hers. She struggled and pushed at him, but even with his powers diminished
he was mighty, and she couldn’t tear away from his grasp.

“Maids!” she shouted, wrenching her
lips from his. “Help me!”

But they cowered in fear on the
edges of the room, looking at each other worriedly, and none had the courage to
assist her.

“Go!” snarled the First Vampire.
“Leave us!”

They fled the room.

“You are at my mercy,” Ungier said,
his need evident. “You are
mine
.”

“No.
Never
again.”
She beat at his chest. In his vampire form, he was not at all
attractive, though it would not have mattered anyway.
“Never!”

He grinned evilly. “You were nearly
my bride—my Queen—and I shall make it so again.”

“I think not,” said a voice from
behind.

Ungier turned his
battish
head in time to see the fireplace poker swinging
down at him. If he hadn’t been so consumed by lust, he probably would’ve heard
the intruder, or smelled him, but he was too late. The iron poker slammed down
on the crown of his head, his black eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped
to the ground lifelessly.

Baleron,
fireplace poker in hand, stared down at him and said, “Finally.”

His eyes found her.

“Baleron!”

She flung herself into his arms,
peppering him with kisses and hugging him tightly. He felt so good and strong
and she wanted to bury herself in him.

“Oh, Baleron,” she cried, and she
was not a bit embarrassed when tears leaked from her eyes. Pulling herself
away, she looked up into his face and was startled by how old he looked: gray
hair ran through his dark waves, and his blue eyes looked ancient. Grooves
lined his face, and he looked bowed by a great weight: his Doom.
Of course.
He was still handsome, but his boyishness was
gone.

“It’s so good to see you,” she told
him.

He kissed her and stepped back.
Looking down at the body of the Vampire King, he said, “I need to kill him.”

“
What
? You’ll bring the wrath of Gilgaroth down on us!”

He patted Rondthril’s hilt with his
one remaining hand.
His one remaining
hand!
She stared at his stump in dismay.

“My blade—” he said,
then
stopped. “I’ll tell you later.” He looked to the
fireplace, seeming to study its dimensions, then to the balcony. Wind
gusted
the drapes. “There,” he said. “We’ll throw him over.
Grab his feet.”

She hesitated. “No, Bal. We can’t.
It’s—”

He half smiled. “What?
Foolish?
Rash?
I’m beyond that now.
Let’s just do it.”

He knelt down and picked up
Ungier’s upper
half,
awkward with his one hand and
stump, and, reluctantly, Rolenya grabbed Ungier’s clawed feet. On the count of
three, and against her better judgment, they hefted the body up and carted it
out to the terrace. Wind gusted coldly, and she shivered. Once they were fully
outside, she began to tremble.

“Baleron, are you sure this is
wise?”

He laughed recklessly.
“Not at all.”

He began to tilt the inert body
over the railing.

“Now!” he said.

The body would tumble down a long,
long ways, she saw. It would fall into the very fires of the Second Hell and be
consumed, if such fires could consume Ungier, and she thought they could.
Nothing would be left of him, save his spirit, which would hopefully be trapped
in the Inferno. She prepared to tilt Ungier’s lower half and release it to the
abyss—

Two flaming discs opened in the
darkness.

Gilgaroth in his Worm form,
hovering outside her suite and cloaked in the darkness which he emanated, said,
“Drop him and you’ll burn in the fires of
Illistriv forever more.”

Baleron nearly jumped out of his skin. As it was, he almost
dropped Ungier over the side out of sheer fright. He hadn’t been this fearful
when Ungier’s glarumri were pursuing him; luckily for him they were less adept
on their feet than in the air. It was only with great control that he carefully
lowered the vampire to the stone of the terrace. Ungier did not stir.
Damn it all!
That’s THREE TIMES he could’ve been killed tonight. Why won’t he just
die?

“How long have you been spying on
my sister?” Baleron demanded.

“She
is not your sister, spider,”
Gilgaroth said. “
She is more my flesh than yours. I made her. In a way, she is my
daughter.”

“No!” said the princess. “I am
not
your daughter. My real father is
dead,
murdered by my very body
—
which
you
stole from me. And I won’t forget it!”

Baleron felt a swell of pride her defiance.
Kicking Ungier’s ribs, he said to the Dark One, “What’ll we do with him?”

Fire licked the back of Gilgaroth’s
throat, and his long, sinuous body writhed behind him.
“
Borchstogs will come for him. They are
already on their way.”
In a small voice, Rolenya said, “Did you see what he tried to do?”

“
I saw.”
Gilgaroth’s voice sounded patient—almost, to Baleron’s
horror, fatherly.
“I would not have let
him.”

“He’s an animal—a beast!”

“He
shall be dealt with soon enough.”

Baleron liked the sound of that. He
liked it less when Gilgaroth turned his eyes on him.

“Throgmar
tells me that your labor was completed. Good.”

“Is that all he told you?”

“He
told me that Glorifel has fallen. The King and the Archmage are dead. All is as
it should be, except for Clevaris. I’d hoped your brother
Jered
would prove as able as you at spinning my web, but it was not to be. Before he
could complete his first task, he was slain. You, however, have proven most
worthy—whether you were willing or no. Such efficiency will be rewarded.”

“Why . . . why did you come to my
window?” Rolenya asked.

“
It is not your window. It is mine.”

Without another word, Gilgaroth
slipped away into the darkness.

“Damn him!” Baleron said. Almost
growling, he cast his gaze down to the inert form of Ungier. “So, we’re alone,
are we? Perhaps things aren’t so black, after all. I think I’ll just . . .”

Borchstogs burst through the door
of the suite.

“Roschk
ul Ravast
!”
they
chanted.
 

There were six of them, and they
bowed and scraped as they neared him and lifted the Vampire King onto their
shoulders.
 
Baleron and Rolenya turned to
each other.

Gilgaroth and Mogra met on the top of the tower. It seemed
they stood in a strange world all to themselves, as
Krogbur’s
tip pierced the dark clouds of the sky and there was nothing else to be seen. A
howling wind tore across the two, bringing with it rain and thunder, but they
were unmoved.

Gilgaroth strode to the edge and
waved his hand, and the cloud parted to reveal the innumerable bonfires of the
Great Army. Mogra stood by him and together they gazed down on the host that
would ensure their victory, not over just the Crescent, but the world.

“We
will send them out on the morrow,”
said Gilgaroth.

“Has the time come so soon?” Mogra
asked in wonder. “I did not think it would be so soon.”

“It
is not soon to me. I have awaited this for ages.”

“Ever since
your
Vision.”

He said nothing.

She smiled. “I’m so happy. It’s
even better that all this is a surprise to me, just as you said. I
have
enjoyed the thrill of it, the shock
of it, and it is grand.”

He turned his head to her bright
face.
“And I enjoy it through you.”
“I’m honored to be the eyes through which you see it. Tell me of it again,
my love. Tell me about your Vision. I so love to hear it.”

“You
know the story well.”

“Just let me hear the words.”

He made a fist, and twenty tongues
of lightning broke around the tower, to punctuate the beginning of his tale.
“Long ages ago, when first the Crescent rose
to oppose me, I put myself to slumber. I cast my soul out into the black and
treacherous waters of Time, what few have dared to do. Those waters harbor
dangers beyond reckoning, and most
who
journey there
are lost. Yet I braved those depths, and they parted before me, folding away
like warm virgin flesh, and before me I saw a great inferno and out of it
rose
the Black
Tower, and it was the
very Heart of the World. All bowed down before it, and I was its Lord—the very
Lord of the Earth. Seeing this, I knew what I could become, that I could indeed
overthrow my enemies and achieve my Desire. I had only to discover how. And so
I did, and here we stand, and the world is laid bare at our feet. Naked, it
quivers before us, gasping, awaiting only our bold touch. And here,”
he
gestured at the Army, and the Hell-Worms,
“is
our hand outstretched, ready to seize it, to make it ours.”

He made another fist, and forty
tongues of lightning blasted around them. Mogra trembled against him.

“Oh, my love!
I knew this day would come, but now that it is here I am afraid.”

“What
frightens you, my bride?”

“When the world is ours, and you
have grown strong enough to re-forge it, when
Lorg-jilaad
is with us again . . .”

A gleam came into his fiery eyes.
“Then our war on the Omkar of Light shall
begin, and we shall prevail. Only then may our war on each other begin.”
He
looked at her, and in his gaze was love.
“But
you worry for yourself.”

“No, I worry for you, and for him.
I will put myself to sleep, and only the Victor shall be able to rouse me. I
will be the prize. But I fear for the Loser. Never will I look on him again.
Never will I feel his hot embrace! He will be destroyed, gone from the world
utterly.”

“It
is the way it must be. You know this. We will not share you.”

“Yes, my Son. I know. But I can’t
bear the thought of losing you, or of losing Him.” She pressed herself to him
and ran her six hands over his body, and he took her in his arms and kissed
her.