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

by Jack Conner

  Somewhere ...

  Oksil was massive, and Baleron began to appreciate just how massive. This hunt could take hours, he realized, and the armies of the Crescent didn’t have hours. Meanwhile his sword was growing cold in its scabbard. Perhaps—

  There! A small dark opening on a rocky shoulder.

  The glarum resisted. It bucked and twisted, even tried to shake him off. Something about the hole frightened it. It would smell carrion, surely, the stench of rot and death. But that would only attract it. No, Baleron knew, it must smell sulfur and musk and ...

  Good. This was the right opening.

  He cursed and prodded the glarum, but it refused to enter. Exasperated, he forced the glarum to land just outside the mouth of the cave, where he searched through its satchels, found a torch and a tinderbox, and struck a light.

  “There,” he said to the bird. “You’re free.”

  The glarum cawed and snapped at him. As soon as he stepped away from it, it flapped its wings and flew off. With a sigh, Baleron turned toward the yawning darkness. He squared his shoulders, lifted his torch, and stepped forward.

  Chapter 12

  His world was a small, flickering orange ball. The rest was blackness. And yet the blackness was vast and alive. What was out there? What lived out there ... and might now be watching him?

  Debris littered the way, toppled masonry and artifacts from life here long ago. The light of Baleron’s torch illuminated broken pieces of Borchstog armor, shards of pottery, hunks of stone, old pickaxes, and more. Mines, he realized. These must be abandoned mines. Had this at one time been part of Gulrothrog? If so, how many slaves had labored down here? How many had died? Baleron imagined the wrathful ghosts of long-dead slaves, bound to this place by ancient hate, and he looked about warily.

  He could only see a few feet in any direction, and the darkness seemed heavy. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck as he made his way down one hall, then another. He wiped a shaky hand through his sweaty hair. Hot sweat turned cold as it trickled down his face and ran in rivulets down his back. If he died, the hosts of the Crescent were doomed, as was Rolenya.

  Suddenly, noises came from the dark—a dry, scraping sound, like the tread of a huge foot. A rough snarl ...

  “Back!” He thrust his torch toward the sound, slashing his sword through the empty air.

  The noises stopped. Warily, he moved on. The foot that made that noise must be enormous.

  Sweat pasted his grimy clothes to him under his armor, and the rancid stink of bloods that had splashed him filled his nose. It was cold and wet, and his sweat turned to ice against his skin. A rank, earthy smell pervaded everything. The slippery floor was uneven and muddy, and moisture dripped on him from above. The torchlight only illuminated the area immediately around him, and when he crossed open spaces it seemed he traveled through the void itself.

  As he delved deeper and deeper, he heard strange leathery rustling noises but he couldn’t have said what caused them.

  The torch guttered. Several times he tore off a strip from his pants and wrapped it about the torch’s head to give the flame more fuel. He needed resin, but cloth would have to do for the moment. He tore off more strips, building a reserve.

  He tried to go in a consistent direction: right. To choose randomly would be to become lost in this labyrinth. Yet the mines had been built long ago and the earth’s movements had resulted in great rifts that rent them here and there, and several times he couldn’t leap the gaps but had to find alternate routes. Many passages were blocked off entirely. Whole levels had been obliterated.

  His heart beat ever faster in his chest, and his shallow breaths came more and more rapidly. Even in the cool air he constantly had to wipe sweat from his brow. At any moment he expected some demon to burst out at him from the darkness.

  Eventually he came into what seemed like a large room, judging by the sounds, but it was hard to be sure since he could only see a few feet in any direction. He noticed overturned furniture and long-dead Borchstogs. He had no time to investigate but saw in passing that many of the corpses had been charred. Some had been ripped apart as if by a great force, and black scorch marks marred the walls, which had been partially knocked down in places.

  So then, thought Baleron, Throgmar had taken these mines by force, he had not been given them. Interesting. Or perhaps he had been given them, and Ungier had even provided him with attendants ... but Throgmar hadn’t liked them. Baleron found that more likely.

  The torch dimmed again, and he fed it a few more strips of cloth. Soon he’d be facing the dark, all alone and lost in the middle of a labyrinth at the heart of a fell and fiery mountain, at the mercy of whatever hellspawn dwelt down here.

  He hurried.

  It was then, as he was rounding a bend, that a dark shape snaked around a corner and flashed toward him. Stifling a cry, he hacked into its rubbery flesh.

  Not deterred, it coiled about him—a great tendril or tentacle, he thought—and lifted him from the floor. His torch dropped as his left hand pressed against wet, cold, slimy flesh and pushed. His sword hand chopped down, again and again.

  The tentacle drew him round a bend, and in the dim, lurid glow he saw only a huge, hunched, dark shape, writhing and shapeless. Thick, amorphous limbs rippled about it, swaying. That was all the impression he received before he was hauled unceremoniously toward a gaping, lip-less maw—it had many—lined by rows of fangs.

  He braced his feet to either side of the mouth and strained with all his might against that coil of flesh about his middle. It pulled.

  Two dark tongues slithered out of the maw toward him ...

  Cursing, he chopped down, again and again. Asguilar’s blade hummed, and at last it clove the rubbery flesh of the tentacle all the way through. Baleron fell in a gasping heap to the floor.

  The creature issued a croaking, gargling cry and, enraged, surged at him. Tentacles flailed around him, and he was a grunting, screaming demon of fury, his blade cutting into slimy flesh with every stroke. He drove at the bulk of the creature, thrusting again and again. Lip-less maws snapped at him.

  The red glow of the torch was fading.

  Something pale glimmered between folds of dark, sagging flesh. An eye! Baleron thrust into it, and from the thing’s dozen mouths came screams of alien agony. Tentacles knocked him back, and the creature withdrew into the darkness from whence it came, leaving only a smear of ichor and bits of severed limbs to mark its passage.

  Panting, Baleron ran to the torch. Even as he neared it, it began to gutter—

  He leapt. Reached for it—

  Too late.

  The last embers flickered out, plunging him into blackness.

  “Mogra’s dugs!” he swore.

  His fingers groped along slimy stones in the dark. At last he found the torch. Hoping to revive it, he breathed into it. Again and again he tried, but nothing happened.

  “Shit.”

  Frantically he searched for the tinderbox. Couldn’t find it. It must have fallen out during the fight with the creature. Swearing, he flung the torch away in disgust. Bitter tears welled in his eyes, and a wave of despair rocked him.

  Blackness swallowed him, cold damp air. Moisture fell on him from above, and somewhere bats chittered. Something dry scraped across the ground.

  He heard the shuffle of large feet in the darkness. An icy fear gripped him. It’s back.

  “I’m armed!” he cried. He struck his sword on the ground so that whatever was out there could hear the sound of ringing steel.

  Hesitantly, he rose to his feet. He realized he was shaking and forced himself to take deep breaths. He breathed in and out, in and out, and slowly the shaking stopped. He tried to remember the lay of the tunnel he’d been passing through. He found the smooth, wet rock wall and followed it in what he hoped was the proper direction.

  Soon the tunnel emptied into a great hall. He could not tell how high it was exactly, but he could feel that by the movement and the smell of the air
, and the way sound echoed, that the ceiling must be one or even two hundred feet above him. He imagined ancient stains and debris covering the floor. He had to slash through massive cobwebs, and he could only hope that legions of Mogra’s children were not out there even then, staring down at him with their many eyes.

  The scraping sound came again. What had been following him, waiting for his light to go out? Very clearly, he heard a footstep near him. Whatever foot had made the sound, it was enormous.

  A foul reek met him as the enemy closed in.

  He brandished his sword. “I won’t go quietly!” he said, wincing at how pathetic he sounded. Ripe for the plucking.

  Something grunted. Its voice was deep and rumbling, made by a giant chest. Something else grunted back.

  Something struck him, hard. Sent him flying through the air. He crashed against what he thought might be a pillar. Pain exploded in him. He tasted blood on his tongue.

  Heavy footsteps approached. He heard monstrous chuckling.

  He tried to crawl away, but his limbs would not obey him. His mind reeled, spinning, and sparks flashed though there was no light. To his surprise, he felt the sword handle still gripped firmly in his hand. He could not lift the arm to even swat feebly at his attackers.

  A large hand, perhaps the same that had struck him, seized him and raised him up off the ground. His sword was pressed against his side, almost cutting him. The huge hand gripped him tightly but did not crush him.

  A rough, deep voice spoke. The words sounded vaguely like Oksilon, he thought, but not quite—almost like Oslogon. It must be Old Oksilon, developed shortly after Ungier established himself here. Either way, Baleron could understand it.

  “See how it squirms!” the brutish voice said.

  A large fingertip prodded Baleron’s face and legs. Though still weak, he thrashed violently, but with every movement his blade bit deeper into his side, around his pieces of armor, a line of fire, so he calmed, seething. Pain made him grit his teeth, and he could still not master his limbs entirely. That blow had done its work.

  “Yes,” said the second brute. “It will make good sport.”

  “Sport? Bah, I am hungry! I say we eat it!”

  “Eat it? Fool! It’s but a few bites, mostly brittle bones.”

  “I like them crunchy.”

  “Well, I like them meaty. I say we should have a bit of fun with it.”

  “Yes, and I know how you like to have fun. But that takes too long. And anyway, I caught it, so it’s mine, and I say we eat it. If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it all.”

  “You won’t, or I’ll eat you. Here, let’s meet in the middle. We’ll have some quick sport with it, then eat it.”

  The first one considered. “Yes,” it said. “That sounds fair. But may I rip off one of its legs at least and have a morsel now?”

  “One bite! And we have no torch or fire to seal the wound! It will be bleed out and we’ll have no sport, and it’ll be dry besides when we do eat it.”

  “I don’t mind dry. Makes them crunchier.”

  “Well, I like them juicy.”

  Throughout all this, Baleron had still been dizzy from the blow, but now he summoned his strength and said in Oksilon, “You’re missing something.” His voice was rough and strained and breathless, but the words were intelligible—he hoped. He still tasted blood in his mouth.

  The brutes stopped their discussion, and he could imagine them staring at him curiously. The one that held him shook him and said, “Silence!”

  “Let it speak,” said the other.

  “Feh!”

  “Let it speak, I say!”

  The first one seemed to shrug; Baleron bobbed up and down. “Eh,” it said. “Speak, little one. But quickly! I hunger.”

  “You fellows are mighty,” Baleron said. Every word was a struggle, but he had no choice. “And clearly wise. I am not so mighty or wise, but it seems to me, and this is just my opinion, and I really don’t care, seeing as how I’m going to die horribly anyway, but I think if you brought me before the Leviathan, you might not regret it.”

  “Feh! ul Mrungona!” The creature sounded nervous just voicing the appellation.

  “We want no truck with ul Mrungona,” said the second. “We’re already far too deep in his domain. If he should catch us, he’d kill us.”

  “He has vast wealth,” Baleron argued, trying to sound nonchalant. “And it’s likely been some time since he’s had a human to toy with. Surely he’s tired of amusing himself with Borchstogs and the like! Think how grateful he’d be. But again, I don’t really care. It’s death either way for me.”

  “That’s right,” snapped the first. “So shut up or I’ll let Wrogmosh make sport with you.”

  “Sport,” said Wrogmosh in musing tones. “Sport ...”

  “Eh? What?”

  “Don’t you see? This is our chance. Sport is sport, food is food, but these we find, and often, with the goblins and other vermin. But a human, down here? That’s rare! Why, Zogshub, the last time I remember a Man here it was years and years ago.”

  “I recall.” There was a cruel smile in Zogshub’s voice as he added, “It had escaped Ungier’s mines above, broken through a wall and found an old passage that led down here.” It chuckled. “How it regretted that! It thought it was going to escape, but it found us instead! It would’ve done better to stay in Ungier’s care.”

  “That it would. But a few hours of diversion and it was gone, and we were none the richer. But think if we had given it to ul Mrungona. He might have been ... grateful.” There was greed in his voice now.

  It was contagious. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

  “How can we rise in the eyes of the Clan without gold and jewels? Eh, don’t you see? This is our chance!”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  They laughed together, and it was an eerie sound, echoing off distant unseen walls in the great hall. Bats chittered fearfully above, disturbed at the mirth of the fell creatures.

  At last Baleron’s captors started off, jouncing him up and down, and with every step his blade dug into his side.

  * * *

  The great hall they were traveling along curved, and it was not long before Baleron began to see a faint red glow that deepened as they rounded a bend. At the end of the long hallway, the source of the glow spilled from an archway as high as the ceiling, perhaps two hundred feet high. The grand doors themselves were intricately engraved, and the architecture seemed to suggest that whatever lay beyond this portal was godly, magnificent. What could be beyond them? It almost seemed like a throne room ... Yes, Baleron thought, that would make sense, a grand hall leading to the throne ...

  Could these mines really be that old? Could they really be older than Gulrothrog itself? He thought so. This warren of tunnels had been Ungier’s first seat of power in Oksilith, only given to Throgmar much later. It dismayed Baleron to think of just how ancient his foes were.

  Pain stabbed his chest and he found drawing breath difficult. Zogshub was not grinding him into pulp as he’d feared, but the brute was holding him none too gently, and the edge of his sword was angled so that it was pressing into him just enough to draw a thin line of blood from his side just beneath his breastplate. With every breath it deepened.

  He tried not to think about the battle outside. It seemed a long time since he’d been in the thick of it.

  As the red glow brightened, he tried to make out Zogshub’s shape. Large, two-armed and two-legged. His face, as light slowly revealed it, was terrible—demonic, with cruel, narrow eyes and a protruding jaw that formed a short snout. Wicked, dirty teeth lined his jaw. His skin seemed to be as black as coal, and his eyes were a sickly green-yellow. His gums and tongue were greenish-gray, and fetid. The creature smelled of rotting flesh and stank as though he hadn’t bathed in years. Bits of dead meat still clung to his teeth.

  He was a troll, though of a different race than those that fought in the battle above.

  As Zogshub jostled Baleron a
long, the troll would occasionally look down at him, and when he did drool would drip down from his snout onto Baleron’s upturned face. The prince writhed, disgusted, but his captor was too strong, and he couldn’t budge the creature’s thick fingers.

  As they neared the doors, Baleron began to hear primal drumbeats, strange hooting and hollering. Singing. What ... ?

  They arrived at the grand portal and crossed its threshold.

  Immediately, awe fell on Baleron—awe, wonder, and fear. It was the most spectacular thing he’d ever seen: the Leviathan in all his glory, massive and powerful. Grand pillars rose in two ordered columns set far apart in the huge chamber, which he knew at once to indeed be the old Throne Room of ancient Gulrothrog. It could be no other. About two-thirds of the way up the room a flight of steps ascended to a raised level. There stood the throne, or it would have had not the great bulk of the Leviathan lain there instead atop a glittering mound of treasure. Dazzling pinpricks glinted from the mound.

  Fires, little bonfires surely sparked by the Worm himself, lit the room in a wavering, hellish light. The fires rose from hillocks of sparkling treasure that dotted the room.

  Like a king, the dragon rested his massive body on his gleaming, glittering hoard, a huge nest of gold and jewels and priceless artifacts that could have contained the wealth of several kingdoms. Legendary was the greed that drove the Great Worms, legendary their cunning and power. Throgmar had not lied when he said Ungier gave him much to protect Gulrothrog.

  From the tip of his tail to the tip of his snout the magnificent being stretched over a hundred yards, and smoke curled up from its nostrils. High above, the black trails had over the years scarred the ceiling and marred the beautiful if aged mural painted there long ago—representing Ungier rising from an egg of gray, decrepit flesh, a smug smile on his face and fawning worshippers, mostly naked women, kneeling all around.

  Dark green scales covered Throgmar for the most part, though his underside shone golden. Many other hues streaked the body in subtle ways so that his scales sparkled in the firelight. Twinkles along his hide revealed countless jewels embedded in his armor, and Baleron did not know which was more impressive, his hide or his hoard. Clusters of horns rose on his great head, and his snout was covered in whiskers. The dark mane that ran from his horns to the mass of hair at his shoulders and then all the way down to the end of his long tail was unkempt, as if Throgmar were some surly hermit who cared little for how others saw him. There was something leonine, even regal, about his face, however, and he seemed to Baleron as much mammal as reptile, but of course he was neither. He was the spawn of Gilgaroth and Mogra, begat back in the ancient days of the world.