Lord of the Black Tower: A Mega-Omnibus (5-book epic fantasy box set)

by Jack Conner

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Fria. But she was only half watching Niara. The rest of her attention was focused on the nobles—and on Raugst, that great, horrid, putrid thing, drinking down his wine like he was drowning and it was the only thing that could save him.

  All of a sudden, he choked.

  Fria smiled.

  The nobles made gagging noises and clutched at their throats. Just as Fria had hoped, their eyes bulged. What was more, veins popped out on their hands, foreheads and cheeks, and their faces purpled. Gagging, they toppled from their chairs and twitched on the floor.

  “Dear Omkar!” Niara said. She leapt to her feet and ran to Raugst. “What’s happening?” Desperately, she tried to beat at his back as if to dislodge something in his throat. When that didn’t work, she tried rocking him, then splashing him with water from a nearby glass.

  Fria and Kragt shared a secret smile.

  By that time, Raugst’s two other present lieutenants—Mircas and Osrof, Fria thought their names were—who had been standing guard in the main doorway, had overcome their own shock, and they leapt into action.

  The nearest one, Mircas, recognizing that Kragt, as the only unaffected male, must be the culprit, drew his sword.

  “What did you do, you fool?”

  He hacked at Kragt’s head. Kragt was already out of his chair and ducking under the swing. He didn’t bother answering. As Fria watched on in horror and fascination, Kragt became a dark, monstrous beast with a wolf-like head and long sharp claws, standing man-like on two legs.

  Mircas was changing, too, but too late. Kragt swiped out his throat. Then Kragt’s clawed hands reached out and actually twisted the creature’s head off his body. A dark geyser spewed up from the stump of the neck. A furry leg kicked as the body fell.

  Kragt hurled Mircas’s severed head at Osrof, who had already changed shapes and was even then hurtling toward him. The head struck Osrof with such force that it knocked him off balance. Kragt leapt at him, and they wrestled about on the floor, two black demons with red-glinting eyes, grappling and struggling among twitching bodies. They had likely known each other for hundreds of years, but that friendship ended now. At last Kragt, the larger, pinned his opponent down and crushed Osrof’s windpipe between his powerful jaws. Then he twisted Osrof’s head sideways and crushed his comrade’s spine between his jaws. Osrof went limp.

  Kragt slipped back into his human form. Naked, gasping and covered in blood, he looked solemnly down at Osrof. “Sorry, my friend. I wish you could have joined me in my new empire, but I could not trust you with the plan.” He stood. Wiping his gory mouth, he added, “Now there are none to stand in my way.”

  “I s-suppose not, my lord,” Fria said.

  Obviously frantic, Niara glanced from Fria to Kragt, then back to Fria. The priestess’s face was full of pain. She had loved Raugst sincerely, then.

  “Fria, tell me—what’s going on?” she said. Tears ran unchecked from her eyes. “What have you done?”

  Fria stood. “All we’ve done is try to right a terrible wrong.” She nodded to Kragt. “We will have a new king now.”

  “What?”

  Raugst was twitching before Niara, his eyes rolling.

  “That’s right,” Kragt said. Blood dripping off him, he moved around the table to stand over Raugst, and Fria joined him. “I thought you wanted the witch dead,” he said to her. “Why did you stop her from drinking?”

  Fria shrugged. “I thought of something more fitting.”

  Kragt didn’t seem concerned by it. Naked and bloody and on fire with his ambitions, he was blind to all but Raugst. When Niara placed herself between him and his target, Kragt coiled his arm and struck her, sending her flying.

  Raugst, uncomprehending, just jerked and twitched on the floor. His eyes rolled unseeing in his head, and foam flecked his lips. Kragt stared down at him.

  Fria snatched up Raugst’s silver steak knife from his plate and plunged it into Kragt’s back, right next to his shoulder blade. She stuck it all the way to the hilt, driving that silver blade right into Kragt’s miserable little heart.

  Kragt stiffened, gasped. His eyes went wide.

  Fria jerked the blade free, plunged it in again, then again. Hot blood spurted her hands and trickled down Kragt’s naked back. Every time she stuck him, Kragt gasped and sputtered. Blood beaded his lips. She wasn’t sure exactly what could kill him, so at last she plunged the blade into his throat and ripped outwards, away from her. It took more effort than she would have thought, and she had to grunt and strain, sawing back and forth like she was working a piece of meat, but at last she severed his jugular and windpipe. Blood sprayed Raugst, and Niara, too, who lay some feet away.

  Fria let Kragt collapse to the floor. He was still twitching and she wasn’t sure if he was really dead or not, but that would do for now. She kicked him off Raugst.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” said Niara. Blubbering her gratitude, she climbed to her feet and stepped closer.

  “Don’t thank me,” Fria said. “I just wanted this pleasure for myself. He is my husband, after all.” She indicated Kragt. “That bastard thought he could use me, destroy my country, and that I would help him! Fool! He deserves what he gets just as much as Raugst. I am queen. I will rule our people now.”

  Niara stared. At last, anger overcame her and she rushed Fria. “You will not touch him!”

  Fria still had her knife in hand, but she was loath to slay Niara. She stepped back, avoiding Niara’s rush, and struck the priestess sharply over the head with the handle of the weapon. Niara fell to the floor, clutching her head. It wouldn’t disorient her for long, but Fria didn’t need much time.

  Savoring this, she knelt over Raugst. He had quit twitching and jerking, though he still looked feverish. His eyes had stopped rolling, and they gazed at her as if just seeing her for the first time.

  “Yes,” she said. “See me.”

  She would have to be fast. Raugst was quickly recovering from the effects of the poison, although the rest of Kragt’s victims lay dead and motionless all around; apparently Raugst’s power could not be so easily overcome. Also, Niara was beginning to get back up, groaning.

  Fria grasped Raugst’s sweaty hair with her left hand and jerked his head back, exposing his neck, muscular and well-formed and gulping. Pearls of sweat stood out on it.

  “May you burn in the fires of the Second Hell,” she said.

  She began to draw her knife across his throat—

  A strange sound reached her. Pointed coughing.

  She looked up, expecting to see one of Raugst’s lieutenants, one she and Kragt had overlooked, but instead there—grinning, tall, handsome and maimed—was Giorn Wesrain, her brother, the rightful baron of Fiarth, with a host of men at his back.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I would prefer that honor myself.”

  Chapter 9

  Giorn had been eager to see the look on Raugst’s face when he arrived with his men. As he had entered the castle, a fire had raged through him. He’d been training relentlessly in left-hand-oriented combat, and he intended to fight Raugst himself. Indeed, he had spread this order among his men and all knew: Raugst was his. Instead he found Raugst dying on the floor, foam beading his lips, and bending over him, knife to his throat, was Fria. Despite himself, Giorn smiled. She was grinning savagely and covered in blood, and her left eye rolled like a mad thing, but she was the sweetest sight he’d ever seen.

  Just the same, he couldn’t allow her to slay Raugst, so he made his presence known. Instantly Fria dropped the knife and ran into his arms, nearly knocking him over, and he laughed and patted her back. He was hardly even aware that she was getting blood all over him.

  “Fria,” he laughed. “It’s so good to see you.”

  She sobbed and clung to him, then drew back. Her eyes filled with water. “Oh, Giorn ... I never thought I’d see you again.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Neither did I, Sister. Neither did I. But fate’s been
kind, and here I am.” He gestured to the dead bodies, many of which he was beginning to recognize. At first all his attention had been on Raugst, and Fria, but now, as the madness of the moment receded, he realized that many of the corpses around him were high aristocrats of Fiarth. There was Duke Evergard, there Baron Rathen, there Lord Hored, one of Raugst’s recent converts. Indeed, nearly all of them were of the converts ...

  “Dear Omkar,” he breathed. “A massacre.”

  “Yes ...”

  “Don’t play coy now,” came a new voice. Giorn looked up to see none other than Niara picking herself off the floor from the other side of the table, clutching her head as though it pained her. “Tell him who killed all these men,” the priestess said, eyes on Fria.

  Giorn was hardly listening. “Niara,” he whispered, leaving his sister’s side and coming toward his beloved.

  A mistake. Niara looked angry. Furious. And the blow to her skull did not seem to have mollified her any.

  “I suppose you think it’s all very amusing,” she said.

  “Why would I think that?” He took another step toward her, edging around Raugst’s barely-moving form.

  She moved back, eyes flashing. “Don’t you touch me!”

  Something heavy began grinding his heart. It became difficult to breathe. “What—what can you mean? Why are you so hostile?” He had dared allow himself to believe that her tryst with Raugst had been a temporary thing, that when he returned she would fly into his arms, the past forgotten.

  “Don’t mind her. She sides with that thing,” Fria said.

  “What ... ?”

  Giorn noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Duke Yfrin and the soldiers were securing the room, blocking all the exits and entranceways, coordinating with the castle guard to suppress any of Raugst’s followers.

  “Is this true?” Giorn asked, watching Niara.

  She studied him, then Fria, but at last let her eyes fall on Raugst. The demon was breathing heavily and blinking. One of his hands ran across his face. He was awake.

  In a moment Giorn’s blade pressed against his throat. “Be still, demon.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Raugst said. His voice was deep and labored.

  Giorn shoved his blade down just enough to draw a line of blood from Raugst’s throat.

  “Don’t!” called Niara. Now she stepped forward. At Giorn’s touch she had recoiled, but to save this demon she would not hesitate to act. Her face was pale, and she seemed frightened. For Raugst. Giorn swallowed bitterly. He had loved this woman so much he had risked torture and death just to be with her, and now she had given her love to this thing.

  “Niara ...” He felt like he was in a dream.

  She stopped just beyond range of his sword—as if he would hurt her! Her eyes were fixed on Giorn’s, beseeching.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she begged. “Please.”

  Seeing the love she obviously bore for Raugst merely wounded Giorn more. He pressed his blade deeper. The demon grimaced.

  “He’s a monster,” Giorn said. “How can you feel for him? Has he corrupted you, too?”

  “It’s me, Giorn,” she said. “It’s me, as it’s always been. Do not do this.”

  He returned her gaze, honestly torn. At last he said, “Duke Yfrin, have Niara secured. I will tend to Raugst.”

  “No!” Niara screamed, as two soldiers moved up behind her. She was too quick. She flew at Giorn, faster than he had expected, her weight knocking him backwards. With this bad leg, he couldn’t right himself, and they went over. He landed on his back. Niara scratched at his eyes. He released his sword, grabbed her wrists. They rolled about on the floor, the High Priestess kicking and biting, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  At last the two soldiers grabbed her upper arms and tore her loose. Wheezing for breath, Giorn stared up at her. Seeing her frantic, hate-filled eyes, her tear-stained cheeks flushed with fury, something died inside him, and he knew that look of loathing in her face would never leave him.

  He climbed to his feet, refusing the offer of his soldiers for help. Weaving slightly, he strode to the table and leaned on it, letting it take some of his weight. He gulped for air.

  “What will you do?” Duke Yfrin said.

  Giorn sighed. “What I must.”

  He forced himself to stand upright and walked around the corner, to where Raugst’s body should be. But Raugst, and Giorn’s sword, were gone.

  A scream. Giorn whirled to see one of his soldiers being decapitated by the tall, dark, broad-shouldered form just then slipping through a side-entrance and vanishing from the room.

  “After him!” Giorn said.

  A blade glimmered on the floor, held in the fist of a creature that seemed halfway transformed from man to beast. It was a horrid abomination and could be none other than one of Raugst’s lieutenants. Giorn didn’t know what sort of intrigue and double-crossing had gone on here and he didn’t care.

  He snatched the sword off the ground and charged after Raugst. His men followed.

  Most of the men surged after Raugst, including the two that had held Niara. She darted after them, determined to be there when Raugst was brought to bay. Perhaps she could help him yet.

  She ran after the soldiers, who in turn chased Giorn. She was impressed that, even though his leg obviously crippled him, his fury lent him such strength that he remained in the lead. She knew then that she still loved him.

  He was gone from her, however. Hatred and circumstance had separated them, irretrievably. But Raugst loved her, and needed her, and she needed him.

  Breathless, she followed.

  The broad-shouldered shadow staggered down a corridor and around a corner. Giorn pursued. Suddenly a staircase confronted him. He knew it would be difficult to mount with his leg the way it was, but he didn’t hesitate. He charged upward, Raugst only a few steps ahead.

  The demon spun about. Whirring steel hissed at Giorn’s throat. Breathless, Giorn dodged aside. Crack! The blade hit the stone wall.

  Giorn thrust, meaning to pierce Raugst’s middle. Raugst hurled himself backward. Fell. Giorn leapt, aiming at Raugst’s heel. Raugst moved just in time. Giorn’s blade struck the stairs, the impact coursing through him. Raugst slashed. Giorn felt a sting on his cheek.

  Raugst twisted, jumped to his feet and fled on. Giorn limped after.

  Soldiers followed at his back, but the narrow spiral stairway was only large enough to fit one at a time. Giorn hobbled up the stairs as fast as he could go, the panting, poison-stricken Raugst just ahead. His labored breaths echoed in the tight confines.

  Giorn passed a window. Night had fallen, and all was black outside. He could see the lights of the city and, in the distance, the many pinpricks that denoted the Borchstogs’ torches. Vrulug was almost here. The Thiersgald army needed its leader. Giorn must end this quickly.

  Raugst led up, and Giorn realized belatedly that he was in his old tower. His bedchamber was at the very top.

  Raugst was getting farther ahead. Soon he was out of sight.

  The sound of wood creaking reached Giorn, and when he rounded the next bend he saw a door open, leading into a shadowed suite of rooms. They were mid-way up the tower, and there were more rooms above. It was likely Raugst had simply opened this door to distract him, but he couldn’t neglect to investigate it.

  He turned to the soldiers rushing up. “You four, search this room. Be on your guard.”

  White-faced, they disappeared into the suite, leaving Giorn with seven soldiers. He led on, careful to keep a lookout for drops of sweat or blood, some indication that Raugst had gone this way. He saw nothing, and he could no longer hear the demon.

  The next door he came to was open, as well. He ground his teeth. There were two more chambers in this tower after this one. He would not let Raugst divert all his men. On the other hand, he did want to face the villain alone.

  “Search it,” he ordered the next four men, and they vanished into the rooms.

  The remaining
three looked nervous and pale but committed to the fight. As Giorn was appraising them, Niara rounded the bend, breathing hard.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  She gasped for air, apparently too winded to speak.

  He would love to have his soldiers escort her down, but he needed the men. Swearing, he spun about and continued the ascent. Once more he found a gaping door leading in to a suite of rooms—Rian’s old quarters. He sighed, staring into the dimness of the chambers, thinking of his brother and how all this began. Then, once more hating to do it, he ordered his last three men into the darkness.

  “But that leaves you alone,” one said.

  “I’ll call if I need help. Should I die, Lady Fria will lead you.”

  The soldiers obeyed. That left Giorn and Niara. He shared an awkward glance with her, wishing that she had elected to stay behind and knowing that she would only try to impede his efforts. Then, without another word, he mounted the stairs. They were almost to the top, to his old rooms.

  Then there it was, the thick oak door—closed.

  Giorn twisted the knob, but it was locked.

  “Fool,” he said. “You think I won’t have a key to my own rooms stashed away?” He found the loose stone in the wall and fished out the key he’d left there long ago. Shoved it into the lock, turned it, and yanked the door open. Blackness greeted him. He stepped inside, shoulders squared, teeth clenched.

  “Face me!”

  An awful, noxious smell rose all around him. It stank of death and the by-product of dark arts. At any second he expected some horror to burst out at him.

  He swept his sword before him, and the blade cleaving the air was the only sound. He listened for Raugst’s breathing but heard nothing. Then, a scrape of shoe.

  He turned to see Niara framed in the doorway.

  “Get out of here!” he said.

  “No.”

  He moved through the living area, trying to make as little noise as possible, but it was too dark. He bumped his hip against a chair, nearly tripped on a carpet. Finally his fumbling, half-wooden right hand found a box of matches and a lantern. Holding his sword awkwardly, conscious that Raugst could spring out at him at any moment, he lit the lamp, and light flared, driving back the shadows. The ghastly head of the great boar that had started this whole mess glared down at him over his mantle, the firelight making its face snarl convincingly.