The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (5 page)

“That is our destination,” Ustagrot
said, gesturing toward the distant palace.

“Dear gods,” breathed Rolenya,
squeezing Baleron’s arm nervously.

“Which ones?” he asked.

Ustagrot led them into the infernal
city and to either side of them rose bizarre buildings, while strange smells,
some pleasant, some not, drifted through the air. Screams of anguish and
screams of ecstasy chased each other through the air. In the heat, sweat beaded
Baleron’s skin. Strange demons, some sinister, some alluring, strode through
the boulevards or flew through the air, or simply drifted. A beautiful woman
with hooves for feet and with dark-feathered wings jutting from her back shot
him a lascivious smile. At an intersection blazed a bonfire of living corpses
and about it swarmed a host of wraiths, screaming and wailing. A corpulent
demon with nine heads of various sorts stood watching the spectacle, laughing.

“Just where are we, exactly?”
Baleron said. “Are we . . .
in him?
In Gilgaroth?”

“Yes,” said Rolenya. “This place,
it’s all part of him. Illistriv is within him, and if we’re in Illistriv . . .”

“But how can we be
in
him if we’re going to
meet
him? Then he would be inside
himself!”

Ustagrot wheeled on them.
“Infidels!” he hissed. “You know nothing!”

“How can your Savior be an
infidel?”

“Do not find your own ignorance so
amusing, Fallen One. You know nothing of the nature of the world, of how the
Omkar created it, and of how my Master could create another world that could
merge with this one. So hide your shameful ignorance and still your tongue!”

He resumed the march. They entered
a wide, open courtyard dominated by a huge black fountain of a thirteen-headed
dragon; out of each mouth poured what Baleron hoped was red water that trickled
down their long throats and bubbled in the gruesome pool. The heads of the
dragon were wound about each other most lewdly.

A wraith stopped before their path,
and Ustagrot bowed to it.

“We have come to see Master,” he
said.

The wraith bowed back and seemed to
hiss, “We have been expecting you. Let us aid your journey.”

It gestured, and thunder shook the
chamber. Startled, Baleron looked to the right as a Colossus stepped forwards.
Bending down over the towers of the city, the giant creature stretched out a
massive grayish hand, holding it just above the courtyard floor. Baleron
reeled; the hand was large enough to hold Throgmar!

The necromancer climbed onto it and
bade them do likewise.

Grimacing, the prince followed and
held down a hand for Rolenya. When they were all situated on one of the titan’s
fingers, the Colossus carried them the length of the Throne Room, toward the
palace on its mountain. A moat of high black flames surrounded the sharp peak,
and white-hot souls writhed in the moat of fire. The Colossus raised them to
the tallest, serpentine tower of the building and with surprising delicacy set
them on its highest terrace. Then it withdrew, shaking the ground as it went.

The terrace wrapped around this
level of the spire, which was open, the roof supported only by a few obscenely-ornate
columns, and in the center of the floor stood the Black Throne of Gilgaroth.

It was occupied.

Ustagrot bowed.

A veil of shadow surrounded the
Dark One, and his eyes of fire shone like lamps from the smoky blackness.

Baleron noticed that Gilgaroth’s
two great wolves,
Slorch
and
Thorg
,
stretched out to either side of the Throne. Rolenya began shaking when she saw
them, but Baleron held her tightly.

“
Welcome
,”
said the
Lord of the Second Hell.

Rolenya squeezed Baleron’s hand,
and he squeezed back.

“Bow!”
Ustagrot snapped at them.

Awkwardly, Baleron knelt, and
Rolenya followed suit. This soured the prince’s stomach, but he had to pretend
at obedience for now. Hopefully there would be a time when he could stop
pretending, when he could seize some advantage, some oversight on Gilgaroth’s
part, and deal the Shadow a crushing blow, or at the very least rescue Rolenya,
escape, and avoid fulfilling his Doom.

“Rise
,”
said Gilgaroth, and they did.
“
Come
.”
The Lord of the Tower stood, a column of darkness that seethed with
unimaginable power, and led them to the terrace facing away from the infernal
city.

Baleron sucked in his breath at the
view. The palace stood at the end of the cavern and the terrace overlooked the
valleys and mountains that lay beyond. There were high peaks, roads, buildings,
countryside—a whole world. But everything was twisted, distorted by the evil of
its maker. The trees leant at mad angles and their branches stretched like
tentacles. The lakes burned with fire. In the village squares demons tortured
the souls of men Gilgaroth had devoured. Baleron shuddered, and out of the
corner of his eye he saw Rolenya turn away.

“Behold
Illistriv,”
said Gilgaroth.
“My Creation.
My truest home.”

“It is beautiful, Master,” said
Ustagrot, half bowing, voice quavering.

“When
my Champion completes his labor, the whole world will be as this.
Now—to the business at hand.”
He returned to his throne,
and they followed.
“It is time, for you,
my Spider, to complete your web. You will obey me in all things or burn in the
fires of Illistriv forevermore. You will never see Rolenya again. The world
will be just as damned; its damning will only take a few days longer to
accomplish. Do you understand?”

Baleron nodded.

“
Good
,”
he
continued.
“If you both obey me, and if
you both live to see the other side of my war, you will have a place
here,
or elsewhere in my realm. You may rule, if you wish,
some outer province. You will be king and queen of some distant land, in thrall
only to me, and I will not bother you . . . much. I can make you both young and
beautiful forever, or I can let you grow old and die. Most any wish or desire
you have I can make reality, and in time you can become valued allies of mine
and my Sire’s.”
He paused, and his tone grew grave.
“
Now, for the price.”

Baleron could not meet Rolenya’s
sidelong look.

“Baleron,
you will return to Glorifel. You will gain the confidence of your father and of
the others in his Court. Then you will slay him.”

Baleron’s breath caught in his
throat. Rolenya’s pressure on his hand became a death grip.

“You
will also kill Logran
Belefard
, the Archmage, and
destroy the elvish artifact he wields. Next slay any heirs your father has
appointed; all his other sons save
Jered
are dead,
and
Jered
is at Clevaris with the Elf Queen, where I
have placed him—for he is another spider spinning my web—so the only direct
heirs can be your sisters. Kill as many of them as you can, starting from the
oldest.
But especially the Archmage and his artifact.
That done, the city will fall.”
Gilgaroth’s voice
deepened,
and his eyes seemed to reach out and ensnare Baleron. All the prince could see
was whirling fire, and his whole world was that one voice:
“You will know all this, yet you will be unable to convey it to anyone.
My powers stretch that far, at least.”

“Yes,” Baleron heard himself say,
though it seemed he had not willed the words himself.

“That
is well. Now, when you have finished your labor, allow yourself to be captured
and my agents shall return you here to Krogbur, where you will be reunited with
your . . . Rolenya.”
He patted the wolf to his right.
“
Slorch
,”
he snapped.

The wolf rose and sauntered over to
them, carrying a satchel in his fang—ridden mouth, and Rolenya flinched as it
drew near. It dropped the satchel at Baleron’s feet, which hit the floor with a
heavy clank. The monster growled and returned to his Master’s side.

“Look
inside
,”
Gilgaroth
instructed.

Baleron obeyed. Within he saw the
unholy length of Rondthril, glimmering darkly, nestled amongst belt and
scabbard like a snake coiled to strike.

The sword that could kill a god . .
.

There was no way it could work. No
way at all. To use it now would be folly.

“Don
it when you reach Glorifel,”
came
Gilgaroth’s
voice.

Baleron shook his head. “They won’t
let me past the walls. My father hates me and won’t admit me, not even to save
my life.”

“He
will. If you wear that blade, he will. My foresight has shown this.”

Rondthril’s handle gleamed
seductively, drawing Baleron’s attention.
No
,
he cautioned himself.
That way lays
madness
.

Yet he was mad.

Acting with a suddenness that
surprised him, he tore the Fanged Blade from the satchel, unsheathed it, and in
a flurry of motion hurled it end over end at the Dark One’s breast.

For a moment, hope rose in him. It
would strike true!

But the Fanged Blade was loyal not
just to Ungier, but Gilgaroth as well. It seemed to hit an invisible wall five
feet from Gilgaroth and bounced off, clattering to the floor.

Baleron stared from it to
Gilgaroth, waiting, and a long, tense moment passed. Somewhere a demon
screamed. Rolenya let out ragged breaths, clearly afraid for Baleron.

Amused, Gilgaroth called the weapon
to him, and it flew to his hand. He appraised it with interest, turning it over
and over.

“
Rondthril.
A mighty blade, yes—Ungier’s finest.
A gift from
father to son.
My grandson’s first blade.
And,
thanks to you, his last.”
He tossed it at Baleron’s feet.
“Did you think I would not foresee that? You
are a fool, Baleron Grothgar. Do not act so rashly when you are about my
business, or you—and your . . . sister—will regret it most severely. Ustagrot,
take them from my sight!”

The necromancer rose to his feet
and snarled at the royal pair, “Follow me!”

They followed him down the steep
flight of red steps that led from the dais of the Throne of Shadows and through
the palace interior to the moat of black fire, which parted for them, then
sealed behind.

“Because of your insolence,”
snapped the necromancer to the prince, “we will have to
walk
!”

It was a long stretch through the
infernal city to the doors of the room, and neither of the Colossi volunteered
to help. Baleron knew he had been a fool.

Rolenya squeezed his hand. “It was
a good throw,” she whispered.

At that, he almost smiled.

Wraiths and demons circled them,
mocking, and the necromancer cursed him all the way. Eventually they passed the
threshold of the room, and Baleron was never so glad to be rid of a place.
Ustagrot led them down toward their suite.

Feeling the weight of Rondthril
dangling from his hip, Baleron eyed the high priest’s back. He harbored
dangerous thoughts and almost went through with one, but in the end he stayed
his hand. It was too dangerous, the risks too high. Ustagrot was, after all, a
sorcerer, and it was a long way to freedom even if the Borchstog should meet
his end.

Ustagrot led the prince and princess
to their suite and left them. Baleron and Rolenya locked themselves in their
apartment, and he half thought of blocking the door with furniture and
barricading themselves inside. He had a hard time meeting her eyes.

The Dark One wanted him to kill his
father.
Their
father.

All his life he had wanted only his
father’s love and respect, and now to save his sister from a fate worse than
death he would have to kill the man, and doom everything he stood for.

He and Rolenya held each other
under the furs of the bed, and she sobbed against his chest, lost in despair.

“It will be all right,” he told
her, stroking her hair.

“How?” she asked him. “How can it
possibly be all right?”

He thought of the perfect lie.
“This is all part of my plan,” he told her.

She looked at him curiously. “What
plan?”

He smiled confidently. “I didn’t
agree to aid him just to save you,” he said.

“You didn’t? Then what did you do
it for?”

“Because I knew he would send me
back, and that’s just what I wanted. He walked right into my trap. Don’t you
see,
Rolly
?
Someone
needs to warn the Crescent of the army he’s massing here. Someone needs to
prepare them. They need to brace for its coming in whatever way they can.” As
he said it, he knew that it was true, and he embraced this new cause with
enthusiasm, though he had only thought of it moments before.

She looked at him with her big blue
eyes, and at last she smiled, despite everything, and kissed him. “Oh, Baleron,
I love you,” she said. “You’re a big liar, but I do love you.”

Without knocking, several glarumri
entered, and Rolenya yelped in surprise. The Borchstogs were impatient and
dressed for riding.

“It is time,” snapped their leader.

The glarumri waited restlessly for
Baleron in the main room while he readied himself.

“Oh, Baleron,” Rolenya said,
clinging to him, a sheet thrown about her nakedness. She put her lips to his
ear and whispered, “Forget me,
Bal
. Do what you know
is right.”

“I could never forget you.”

“Then the world is doomed.”

“It is doomed regardless.”