by Jack Conner
His soldiers reached him just in time to catch him as he fell.
The tower shook. They heard a great roar, and Giorn felt a darkness swell up from the room, a great Presence with nothing to anchor It now. It rose up, drifted through the gaps in the ceiling, became one with the smoke still rising upward. A shadowy, shapeless form emerged, writhing and furious. The moonlight shone down on it, and the Presence made a sound of wordless hate. Giorn and the soldiers clapped their hands over their ears. Giorn felt needles crawl through his skull. Then the shape wheeled away toward the south, and the winds dispersed it.
Giorn breathed easier.
The moonlight shone down into the profaned sanctum, and Giorn stared up at the white orb and ground his teeth.
“Come,” he said.
He rejoined his troops and led them against the surviving Borchstogs. The fighting was close and bloody, but he and his men drove them from the city and sent them fleeing into the hills.
For days Giorn pursued the Borchstogs, driving them back and back and back. He left in his wake tens of thousands of dead demons and their allies, the trolls and corrupted giants and the vampires and others. The bodies of glarums and their Borchstog riders littered the ground, and he laughed when he saw vultures eating their guts.
Finally he drove the Borchstogs over the Pit of Eresine and beyond, drove them through the ruins of Feslan and at last out of Fiarth altogether. Only then did he rest. But in his mind and heart, he was uneasy.
Epilogue
For months Giorn helped the people of Felgrad rebuild, never returning once to Thiersgald. He helped the Feslans reoccupy Hielsly, helped priestesses reestablish the temple there. It would never hold the Moonstone again, true, but they could still be a force of good in the world, and they still had Ystrissa as a leader. She had survived the war, though not without some scars to show for it.
After that, he went north, helping farmers rebuild their homes, their barns, working alongside them in the blazing heat and the freezing gusts. And always he held Niara and Raugst and the old days close to his heart.
Sometimes he wondered, on the long, lonely nights, if the two had been reacquainted beyond the veil of death. Then he would sigh and shake his head. It was unlikely. He was not even sure Raugst’s spirit would be shown the Lights of Sifril. Giorn was not an overly religious man, and sometimes he doubted the existence of an afterlife, but if there truly were a Paradise, as the priestesses of Illiana maintained, could one such as Raugst find sanctuary there?
To Giorn’s surprise, he hoped so.
He made a vow to himself that when he returned home he would gather up Raugst’s remains, and Niara’s, wherever they were buried, and he would have them entombed together in a great mausoleum whose beauty would be admired for ages, and the story of the two doomed lovers would never be forgotten.
So the days passed, one after another, rolling into a seamless dream of working, rebuilding, and trying to drive certain thoughts away.
Only after much time did he return to Thiersgald. Much had been restored, and the outer city was not as badly razed as he’d feared, though the scars of Vrulug’s invasion would be slow to fade, if they ever completely did. But somehow it did not feel like home, and he was restless and troubled.
Duke Yfrin visited him often, and one day found them staring out over the city from the second-highest tower in the castle. The highest, Giorn’s old residence, he had abandoned. After the horrors witnessed there, he planned to demolish it and to throw the stones into the Pit of Eresine. There they would keep company the stones that had composed the Temple of Illiana, which he had seen dismantled—but not before removing Vrulug’s remains, burning them and locking the ashes away in the recast statue of the Skinless Man taken from ancient Grasvic.
Giorn had taken up residence in the second-highest tower, his father’s old tower, and it was from the terrace there that he and Duke Yfrin shared wine and watched the sun set in a golden haze over the spires and domes of Thiersgald.
“I worry for the future,” Dalic said. “With the Moonstone destroyed, we are weakened. The faith of Illiana will likely diminish, and the Enemy will grow bold.”
Giorn barely stirred. “It will be someone else that fights those battles, Uncle. It will take at least a generation or two for the Borchstogs to replenish their numbers.”
“True. But when they do …” Dalic stared into his cup. “This whole war could have been nothing more than an opening gambit, Giorn. Destroying or corrupting the Moonstone was the key. Now that it’s done, we’re on our own, without recourse to greater powers to protect us from the might of Oslog.”
Giorn didn’t answer.
Dalic studied him. “You don’t have to stay here, you know.” The duke brought the goblet of wine to his lips and took a sip, but his eyes never left Giorn’s. “I’ve noticed how restless you are, how unhappy. This city holds bad memories for you, anyone can see that. But ... you are the King, my friend. The royal family has disclaimed all rights to the throne as long as you possess the Crown. They have even offered you their Palace. They have lands they can return to. You can leave this city, rule the kingdom from its capitol as a good king should.”
Giorn looked at him, then let his eyes stray over the city. At length he sighed and shook his head. “No, my friend. That is not my place. Now that I’ve returned, I intend to restore the crown to its rightful owners.”
Dalic chuckled ruefully. “But you are king, and still young. You could have a splendid life, if you would let yourself. You are a hero, lad. A hero.”
Giorn smiled mirthlessly. He rose to his feet and stared out over the grand courtyard before the castle. There, in the square below, workers were fashioning a great statue. Maybe, Giorn thought, maybe when that statue was finished he would feel at ease.
Gesturing to it, to the proud, broad-shouldered figure, whose bearded face was even now being carved, he said, “No, my friend. I am not the hero of this tale. It was Raugst. Curse it, it was Raugst, the demon, the monster—wife-slayer, brother-slayer, traitor, stealer of women, slayer of my family—it is Raugst, curse him, who is the hero of this tale.”
Making a fist with his good hand, he drained his goblet with his right.
And the sun burned redly in the west.
THE END
OF LORD OF THE BLACK LAND
THE WAR OF THE BLACK TOWER:
THE COMPLETE TRILOGY
by Jack Conner
Copyright 2014
Cover image used with permission
THE WAR OF THE BLACK TOWER:
Part One of a Trilogy
by Jack Conner
Copyright 2014
Cover image used with permission
FREE GIFT:
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No book is written in a void. Thank you to my wife and several wonderful readers for proofreading the novel, and thank you too to the many great writers who helped inspire it. A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin was a major influence, as were the Drizzt Do’Urden books of R. A. Salvatore. Of course, none were more influential than the original epic fantasy, Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien, as well as the original sword and sorcery tales of Robert E. Howard (a fellow Texan!). I owe a debt to all of them, and enormous gratitude. Thank you all! Of course, War of the Black Tower: An Epic Fantasy Trilogy is its own animal, but I hope it lives up to the giants that helped inspire it.
THE CRESCENT
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http://jackconnerbooks.com/map-of-the-world-of-the-black-tower-trilogy/
BOOK I
INTO THE SHADOW
Chapter 1
They were almost on him. Baleron’s blood chilled to hear their howls at his back as he rode through the forest, Salthrick beside him, both ducking their heads to avoid branches dripping moss. Sweat soaked his hair and trickled b
etween his shoulder blades under his plate mail.
An arrow whistled by his cheek, so near it almost burned.
“Un rostrig cun Gilgaroth!” a Borchstog called behind him. “U Asguilar!”
“They’re closer,” Baleron said.
“Almost there,” Salthrick said. “I think—”
They burst from the forest wall. Unimpeded by roots and branches, their horses raced toward the bulk of Ichil Keep that reared against the sky, grim and gray, pocked by lichen and moss. Baleron turned his head to see the Borchstogs reach the edge of the forest and pause. The sun would pain them, the clearing before the keep intimidate them. Thank the gods, he thought.
The great iron doors of Ichil banged open, and Baleron and Salthrick darted inside. The courtyard was a huge, bustling place like the rest of the keep, one of the largest of the border fortresses.
Baleron swung down as his brother Haben, one of the king’s eldest sons as well as the lord of the keep, approached looking breathless and surrounded by a small group of nobles.
“Bal! Are you all right? I was watching from the wall.”
“I’m fine.” Baleron’s chest still burned from the exertion. Behind him the gates slammed closed. “A scouting party, I think.”
“But it’s day!” one of the nobles said. Some of the others regarded Baleron with open disdain. “The creatures never attack under the sun.”
“Baleron’s right,” Salthrick said. His handsome, black-bearded face was flushed and sweaty. To him they listened. “It was an organized band. Maybe part of a bigger group, I don’t know.”
“We were just going down the road when they attacked,” Baleron said. Then, to Haben: “You might want to prepare your soldiers. Just in case.”
Turning to one of his retinue, Haben said, “General, see it done. The Borchstogs probably don’t belong to a force large enough to do us harm, but it pays to be ready. And send some riders to scare these bastards off.” The noble bowed and departed. Others frowned at Baleron.
They’ve heard of me even out here. Perhaps I should have stayed in Glorifel.
Salthrick handed him his flask, and Baleron knocked back a steadying draught, then passed it to Haben; he and Salthrick were old friends and he wouldn’t begrudge the captain’s spittle.
“I’m sorry for your reception, Bal,” Haben said, and from his tone Baleron wasn’t sure he meant the Borchstogs or the nobles. “I was delighted when I got word you were coming to visit us. You haven’t ventured to the border in some time.”
Baleron’s mind still raced from the flight. He wasn’t at all sure that danger had passed. “There were ... circumstances,” he said.
“Another duel?”
Baleron grimaced. “Duke Eplan.”
“Gods.”
“I told him he was mad,” Salthrick said.
Haben hesitated, as if loathe to ask the obvious question, then asked anyway: “Did you win? Of course you did. So now you’ve earned the enmity of House Eplan, too. It’s no wonder you had to get out of Glorifel. The downward spiral continues.”
Baleron went through the motions of stuffing and lighting a pipe, which hopefully concealed his shaking fingers. It amazed him that they could talk so casually after what had just happened. “He tried to cut off my head, Hab. Giving him his third blood was the only way to end the fight.”
“But there did not have to be a duel in the first place, Bal. Gods, why do you keep doing this? Forcing these—”
A horse screamed over the din, and Baleron’s head snapped to see his stallion sway on its feet. Froth issued from the animal’s mouth, but it had turned red. He hurried over. Groomsmen were trying to subdue the panicked horse, but it chomped and kicked at them. Suddenly it sank to its knees, and Baleron knelt beside it.
“Steady, boy. Steady.”
Avlor quieted. Blood dripped from his chest. Something went cold inside Baleron. He’d ridden Avlor for many years and loved him well. The horse fell over on his side, and bloody froth bubbled at his lips and hung in pink streamers from his head. More blood coursed from under the saddle blanket. Baleron flipped it back and cursed. A black-feathered arrow had sunk into Avlor’s side so deep only its tip stuck up.
“Must have lodged there during the flight,” Salthrick said. “Worked around till it hit a lung.”
“I’m sorry,” Haben told Baleron. “Shall I have him put down for you?”
Baleron felt sick. “It should be me.”
“Are you sure, Bal?” Salthrick asked. “You know I have a steady hand.”
“No.” Baleron forced himself to his feet and unsheathed his sword. “You were a friend,” he told the horse.
He paused. Do it. He’s in agony. Baleron drove the blade home. The horse shuddered once, then went still. Baleron let out a deep breath. Salthrick handed him his flask, and Baleron knocked back another gulp.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Haben said. “It’s no easy thing to lose such an animal.”
As Baleron was discussing the disposition of Avlor’s remains with a groomsman, the general Haben had had spoken to before returned.
“Sir, the Borchstogs have gone.”
“Send some men to track them. I want to know what they’re up to. It’s not normal for a raiding party, if that’s what this is, to venture so close to a place like Ichil.”
“Yes, sir.”
Haben turned to Baleron and Salthrick. “Why don’t you two get cleaned up and meet me and the others for dinner.” With his hangers-on, the lord of the castle vanished.
“Dinner sounds good,” Salthrick said. “I could eat a gaurock.”
It took nearly an hour to get cleaned up, and Baleron was glad of the guest quarters Haben had lent him. They weren’t spacious, but they were warm. Servants helped clean him and took his armor away to be polished while Baleron donned a robe and descended into the natural spring baths; Ichil Keep boasted a hot, steamy natural bath adjacent to the catacombs, and Baleron luxuriated in the feel of the hot water against his skin as he lathered himself and dunked his head, again and again. His fingers still twitched from nervousness, and part of him still ached for Avlor’s loss.
I’m not cut out for this. Splashing his face, he pictured the eyes of the Borchstogs that had almost ridden him down, fierce and red. He had participated in small skirmishes before, but to be surrounded by the enemy, as he and Salthrick had been on the road ...
We were damned lucky we made it out. Salthrick was right; we should have traveled with a company. Baleron had wanted to keep his profile low, and his ability to travel swift, but that clearly been a mistaken impulse. The Borchstogs, though ...
Why would an enemy raiding party risk coming so close to the city of Ichil and its formidable castle? Could they mean to attack? At the thought, Baleron’s belly burned with acid. Keep it together, Bal. If it all goes to hell, Haben will alert Master Turran. The sorcerer’ll send for a host of riders to relieve us from another fortress.
Wouldn’t the Borchstogs know that?
He wasn’t the only one to come to the baths. Several other nobles had decided to partake, as well, and they gave him a wide berth. He was used to the treatment. Done, he dressed and made his way to the Lord’s Tower, entering the great dining hall where candelabras blazed with light and servants walked about with glasses of wine. There were already two score of guests here. Salthrick flirted with the serving girls.
The new night loomed black and cold outside, and a brooding thunderhead gathered to the south. Baleron ventured onto the terrace to watch the storm come in. From up here he could see the cleared slope south of the keep, then the tangled forest that led all the way to the foothills of the Aragst Mountains, the vast range running the width of the continent, from sea to sea, that separated the free kingdoms of the Crescent Alliance and the soft northlands they guarded from the empire of Oslog, where the Breaker ruled in all his terrible might and majesty.
“Rain will do us good,” a voice said from behind, and Baleron turned to see Haben. A stiff
breeze had begun to blow, and Haben’s hair rustled in the wind.
“What are you doing out here? You should be inside, entertaining your proper guests.”
“And you’re not proper? What is this, Bal—self pity?”
Baleron sipped his wine, which was quite fine. “Far from it,” he said. “Just doing my part to maintain the festivities.” He flicked his gaze inside, to the finely-dressed nobles, some of whom lived in the city of Ichil, some of whom had come to visit. Haben was a well-liked figure in the kingdom, and most agreed that he would one day be king; he was rarely without visitors.
“It’s not as if you have the plague,” Haben said. “They wouldn’t run screaming if you joined us.”
“Oh, I’ll join you. When dinner’s served, I’ll be the first one at the table. I need something to soak up all this wine.”
Haben leaned against the balustrade. “You did well today, truly. You alerted us to a grave danger and lived. I’ve heard several people commenting on it. I’ll make sure Father hears of it.”
“It’ll take more than me running away from the enemy to make him forgive me, Hab.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was your own fault that landed you in this position, and the hole that you dug by your own labors may also be escaped the same way.”
Baleron paused. “Haben, the men you sent out after the Borchstogs—what did they find out?”
A dark look passed over Haben’s face, then was gone. “They never returned.”