The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (24 page)

Baleron could smell thick smoke on
the suddenly-hot breeze. The Inferno must be close to the terrace. At any
moment the terrace would be consumed in fire. The very air shimmered with heat,
and the floor burned him. Its wet surface began to hiss.

Slowly, Throgmar lowered his horned
head from inspecting the ruin of his father to regard the shape of Baleron
cradling Rolenya at his feet.

Wind whipped Baleron and rain tore
at his flesh, but the heir to the throne of Havensrike did not attempt to flee.

Throgmar met his eyes.

Thunder shook the tower, and
another slab crashed right near the prince, spraying him and the princess with
shards.

“YOU,” said Throgmar slowly. He did
not seem to be in a rush. Indeed, far from it.

Rolenya’s flesh was growing colder.
If she was still alive, Baleron had to get her to shelter quickly. As for
himself, he felt sick from his contact with Gilgaroth’s blood. It felt as
though a fire were spreading throughout his body. The Wolf might kill him yet.

He blinked, looking deep into
Throgmar’s amber eyes.

“Help us,” he said.

The Betrayer just stared at him.
The dragon said nothing. Wind shrieked through his horns.

“Or,” Baleron pleaded, “
if
you don’t want to help me, save
her
at least.
She
deserves better than to die like this.”

“FELESTRATA DESERVED BETTER THAN
WHAT YOU GAVE HER, TOO.”

“But she did not exist!”

Heatedly, the Worm shouted,
“SHE EXISTED TO ME!”

The rawness of his voice was
painful to hear. Desperately, Baleron proffered Rolenya to him. “Take her. Fly
her far away from this. Release her somewhere safe.”

“PERHAPS I WILL TAKE YOU AND LEAVE
HER. THAT IS WHAT YOU DID TO ME.”

Baleron gnashed his teeth.
Damn him!

A crack developed in the terrace to
his right, and part of it fell away. Smoke from the Inferno drifted up,
wreathing the platform. The soles of Baleron’s feet began to blister, as if he
wore no boots at all.

“I will not go without her!” he
said.

Ul
Mrungona
appraised
the
body of his father. “IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME,” he said, almost quietly. “
I
SHOULD HAVE HAD THE PLEASURE OF
SLAYING HIM. FOR DENYING ME THAT ALONE, I SHALL HAVE TO PUNISH YOU.” Another
chunk of Krogbur fell away, smashing into the terrace and taking some of the
platform with it. “YET I DON’T HAVE TIME TO THINK ON IT HERE. I’LL HAVE TO TAKE
YOU WITH ME, WHERE I WILL PONDER YOUR PUNISHMENT AT MY LEISURE.”

Warily, Baleron let the dragon
scoop Rolenya up in one huge claw and himself in another. She still
lay
limp and smoking, like a doll that had been steamed, her
eyes closed and her clothes plastered to her skin.

Throgmar chuckled darkly as, with a
mighty pump of his wings, he lifted off from the terrace and flew away from a
disintegrating Krogbur. Baleron watched the Black Tower
recede through a gap in the dragon’s claws. Within seconds of Throgmar
departing it, the terrace broke and fell away, flaming.

Its stump grew small with distance
until it was lost in the chaos of the night. Baleron watched Krogbur collapse,
one chunk at a time. The fires of the Inferno had consumed nearly its whole
length. The tower was a rod of flame stretching from the ground into the lightning-rent
heavens.

On the endless black stairs, Gilgaroth moved. He moved only
slightly. Not even the tail twitched.

But the eyes, the two burning
portals to a vanishing Illistriv, opened, then narrowed in hate.

Summoning his last strength,
Gilgaroth sent out his will to the brooding storm clouds that thronged the
tower, and lightning struck down.

“
Revenge
,” said he.

A thousand bolts of lightning, the very last effort of
Gilgaroth, split the skies. Their electric snake-tongues chased Throgmar as he
fled the devastation. Air whistled through his claws as he picked up speed,
trying to outrun his death.

In his one hand Baleron gripped a
claw, steadying himself. This was the Wolf’s work, he knew. He could taste the
stench of Gilgaroth’s hate on the heavily charged air.

Across the gap of Throgmar’s chest
he could see the limp form of Rolenya encased in a mighty dragon-hand. She did
not stir.

White whips struck all about the
Worm, hounding him. Throgmar flew faster, frantic to be away.

Other dragons flew at him,
breathing flame. Their fires scoured his armor, torching some patches of hair,
but did no real damage. One blast came close to roasting Baleron but managed
only to bring a flush to his skin. When the smaller Worms came close, the Leviathan’s own fires
chased them, and his fires were more deadly. Some of the dragons
fell
smoking from the sky.

Throgmar flew ever faster—faster—but
the storm was too swift, even for him. A bolt of lightning struck one of his
wings, and he roared.
Dove.
Baleron’s stomach leapt to
his throat. They were all going to die!

Another bolt of lightning speared
the Betrayer’s back, and Baleron yelped as ribbons of electricity webbed
Throgmar’s talon, then faded.

Another bright blue tongue struck
the Worm, and another. It was a wonder he was still alive at all.

The other dragons put distance
between them and Throgmar. His immediate vicinity was not a safe place to be.

He maintained the presence of mind,
at least, to put himself into a large spiral, all he could do with the full use
of only one wing, and it slowed them enough so that they would not necessarily
die on impact. Baleron wondered if this is how Ungier had felt, falling from
the terrace.

They fell forever. Down, down,
down, Baleron had long moments to contemplate the coming darkness—or would it
be darkness? What happened to loosed souls in Oslog now that Illistriv was no
more?

The land pitched up at them.

Baleron gritted his teeth and
braced himself.

Throgmar struck the ground with his
chest, nearly horizontal to the land, and went sliding forwards across the
blackened wastes, tearing a scrabbled swath. Baleron was bumped up and down,
jostled terribly in the dragon’s fist, but Throgmar held him tight, fingers
closed, sealing Baleron in.

At last the speed of Throgmar’s
slide diminished, and he ground to a halt.

The roar in Baleron’s ears faded
enough so that he could pick out individual sounds, but in the scaly enclosure
of Throgmar’s fist, all he could hear was his own ragged breathing.

Throgmar’s fist half opened and
Baleron could see the bleak surroundings, a flat wasteland of charred earth.

An avalanche of pebbles as Throgmar
shifted his weight. Dust rose up. The dragon moaned.

Reeling, Baleron climbed out of the
claw, coughing and wheezing; their landing had churned up a great deal of dust
and ash. He saw that they were on an open plain cut through with many fissures,
many miles from Krogbur, which still stood in the distance, a fiery line
disappearing into a black sky. Piece by flaming piece the tower crumbled away,
and the pieces were like fireflies filling the air around Krogbur.

Baleron looked down at himself in
surprise. He was alive . . . at least for now. Gilgaroth’s poison still coursed
through him.

What of Rolenya?

Heart in his throat, Baleron made
his way over to the other scaly fist and pried her loose of the Leviathan’s
claw. Hefting her limp weight in his arms, he carried her some distance away
and set her down as gently as he could on the plain of ash.

Her eyes were closed. She did not
move. He stared down at her for a long time, praying.

The rain didn’t reach this far, and
he shivered in the cool air, his skin still wet. For the first time he noticed
that Rolenya was covered in gooseflesh.

His eyes widened.

Could it be . . . ?

He waited, staring, hardly daring
to breathe.

Suddenly, her chest rose and fell.
Relief washing through him, he raised his head and whooped in joy. Laughing, he
kissed her forehead and cheeks.

“Rolenya!”

He looked around. The Great Army
was far away, and the soldiers would be busy fleeing the earthquakes and
leaping flames. The dragons had already broken off. Rolenya, he realized, was
safe. He would die, yes, but she would not, and that was just fine.

She stirred.

“Sleep,” he told her, stroking her
hair.

All of a sudden, he grimaced in
pain, clutching a hand to his chest. His concentration wavered in and out. It
was only a matter of time, he knew. He had to make the next few minutes count.

He returned his attention to the
Leviathan. Throgmar lay on the charred ground, his body blackened in places and
smoking, and he looked too weak to move. His amber eyes were partly open, and
he and Baleron regarded each other for several moments silently, sullenly.

Unable to put it more
diplomatically, Baleron asked, “Can you go on?”

Throgmar grunted. “I DO NOT KNOW
WHY I TRIED.” He seemed to sag, and rested his weary head on the earth.
Deflated and hollow, having perhaps killed his mother and helped the murderers
of his father escape their rightful
deaths,
he seemed
both angry and racked with guilt. At the same time, he also seemed strangely
uplifted, as if a weight had been removed.

Blood from dozens of wounds along
his massive bulk leaked into the blackened earth, and his scales glistened
redly
. Perhaps Mogra’s venoms were even then running
through his system, finishing him off.

“Was vengeance sweet?” Baleron
asked him, thinking of the Spider Goddess.

“VERY,” answered the Worm.

“So she is dead, then.”

Throgmar did not answer for a long
span. His eyes clouded, and Baleron thought the dragon was likely imagining the
moment he slew her. He must have been right, as the Worm soon said, “I DROPPED
HER FROM A GREAT HEIGHT AND SET HER AFLAME. I DESCENDED AFTER HER, MEANING TO
WATCH HER STRIKE THE GROUND, MEANING TO WATCH HER DIE . . . BUT A PLUME OF
SMOKE ROSE UP AND I LOST HER . . . AND THEN A SCORE OF MY OWN SPAWN FELL ON ME,
SHRIEKING THAT I WAS A TRAITOR . . . I SLEW MY OWN CHILDREN, BALERON.
AND THAT IS AFTER I SLEW MY MOTHER!
WHAT
DOES THAT MAKE ME?”

“I don’t know,” Baleron admitted.
“But I thank you.”

“DO NOT. I WOULD HAVE SLAIN YOU, AS
WELL—
IN TIME
.” He added this last
part sinisterly.

Baleron spread his arms wide.
“Then, if these are your last moments, and you were going to kill me anyway . .
. ”

Throgmar studied him for a long time,
and Baleron waited.

At last the dragon lowered his
eyes. “I LIED. VENGEANCE WAS ONLY SWEET AT THE MOMENT. TELL ME, WAS IT SWEET
FOR YOU? YOU TASTED IT TWICE, IF NOT THREE TIMES.”

“Sweet the first time,” Baleron
told him truthfully. “But afterwards bitter. And now I find out I didn’t kill
anyone, not then, but . . . it hurt the intended target—”

“ME.”

“You,” he agreed. “So—the job was
done.
The second time?
It feels great. I
ached
to kill Gilgaroth. I know he was
your father, but . . .”

“OH, I HAVE HATED HIM FAR LONGER
THAN YOU. MY HATRED IS OLDER THAN YOUR COUNTRY!”

Aloud, Baleron mused, “It’s hard to
believe he’s gone. To live without the constant threat of war and oblivion will
be strange . . . I suppose. Others will know that peace, not I.”

It was odd to talk with Throgmar
like this, Baleron reflected, as though they were two old friends, but in a way
that’s exactly how it felt, that they were two comrades sharing a last talk
before their deaths overtook them. It was only a question of who would fade first.

“AND ME?”
Throgmar said. “HOW DID IT FEEL WHEN YOU HAD YOUR REVENGE ON ME?”

“You?
Oh,
that was the best, the sweetest of all.”

Chuckling, Throgmar took a large
deep breath and let it out in one great, melancholy sigh. His golden eyes
dimmed.

Baleron waited for the dragon to
take another breath, but he did not, and after a few minutes the prince
realized the truth of it. He hung his head.

Silently, oddly morose, he closed
the dragon’s eyes.

“Sleep well,” he said. “And may
your spirit have no need of further vengeance.”

On the black stairs, Illistriv had burnt itself out, leaving
only a smoldering
husk
where once had been a mighty
being. Gilgaroth’s eyes were still half open, and they were still flaming, but
the flames were dying. Within seconds, they would be out.

The Dark One opened his maw one
last time and groaned, a long, sad groan of lament, and then his fire faded.

Krogbur broke around him. The fires
of the Second Hell engulfed the whole of the Black Tower
and consumed the last of Gilgaroth. In the end, his own Inferno claimed him.
And then it too went out.

The cold shadow in Baleron’s chest throbbed once, swelled,
and he heard a horrible cry inside him. Then something left him. It was as
though there had been a cloud on him for years, so long he’d grown used to it,
had not even been aware of it, when suddenly it was no more.

It shocked him, and he staggered,
almost drunken.

Gasping, he looked toward the Black Tower.
Gilgaroth must be dead.
Really, truly dead.

The Doom was no more. Baleron . . .
was free.

For a little
while.

Returning to Rolenya, he found her
still breathing. As he bent over her, he brushed dark hair from her face, and
she stirred. He continued to sit beside her, and it was not long before her
blue eyes opened.