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

by Jack Conner

  Gilgaroth sat on his great black throne on the other side of the sunken arena. Dressed darkly, his living shadow had been drawn about himself so that his fiery eyes blazed from the darkness, as if charcoal clouds passed twin red suns. One of his armored hands stroked the neck of a massive wolf to his left. To either side of him lay one, an impressive form of beast Baleron had heard call cuerdrig.

  Gilgaroth’s crowned, veiled head swiveled in Baleron’s direction, and Baleron’s guards stiffened, then shook themselves and hastened to lead their prisoner down the stairs to the bottom row, immediately overlooking the arena. There were already some Borchstogs seated there, and by their wide girths Baleron judged them to be leaders of a large Borchstog city. His guards chased them off and shoved him into the place where they had been. The guards remained standing, protecting Baleron lest one of their feral brethren attempt to put a blade through his back, whether in bloodlust or amusement. Ul Ravast or not, they were Borchstogs.

  Baleron glared up at the Dark One, who inclined his head to him in a silent acknowledgement. Baleron did not nod back.

  Gilgaroth raised a hand, and the wild throng stilled. All save Baleron’s guards quit their pursuits and sat down respectfully.

  “All hail Lord Gilgaroth,” they chanted, and not dully either. He was their father, their god, their reason for being. What would it be like, Baleron wondered, to have such clear purpose and favor?

  “Welcome, my children,” Gilgaroth said. “We have an honored guest tonight. Raise your cups and toast Prince Baleron, my Champion, for he has delivered the heads of many of my enemies—and he will deliver more still.”

  The Borchstogs raised their goblets. “Prince Baleron! Ul Ravast!”

  “Thanks to him,” continued the Dark One, “We shall end this stalemate that has trapped me here for thousands of years. We shall go forth into the world, and make it our own!”

  They cheered lustily, hooting and banging on the tables. Baleron clenched his teeth.

  “So, to amuse Our benefactor, let the games begin!”

  Baleron had not noticed before, but there were large, barred doors set into the sides of the arena. Two of these slid away with a groan, and a pair of corrupted, monstrous Giants stormed out into the pit on opposite sides. Both their faces and forms were nightmarish, and without preamble they flew at each other. The Borchstogs howled in delight as the towering creatures struck with an earthshaking crash.

  It was a short and bloody fight. The one with the pincers sliced and killed the other one, but in its dying moments the fallen Giant bit the victor, injecting it with a deadly poison, and the two twitched out their lives side by side on the ground, until they lay utterly still.

  Several rithlag attended the Feast. Gilgaroth indicated one, who descended into the arena, where it reanimated the dead Giants and, like a puppeteer, made them dance and make merry. Musicians played eerie stringed instruments as the dead things cavorted. The Borchstogs hooted and laughed.

  Eventually the rithlag sat down and the Borchstogs shouted out, eager for the next act, which was not long in coming.

  Baleron did not bother to hide his disgust, but as the fights went on, he couldn’t help but become engrossed in the sheer spectacle of it all. The thundering giants and monsters . . . the blood, the noise . . .

  He saw sights undreamt of, terrors that defied his imagination. One fight showcased a monster the like of which he had never seen. It resembled a giant squid, but it floated, hovering above the ground. It could spray a red cloud to confuse its enemies—in this case, a host of wraiths, the demonic spirits chained to Gilgaroth’s will. Like living shadows, they assailed the great squid-thing, tearing at it with ghostly claws. It pulsed with eerie lights. The wraiths shrieked and howled, and the watching Borchstogs clamped their hands over their ears. The squid’s tentacles lashed like whips. At times it snared one of the phantoms and shoved the ghost into its maw. Ultimately the squid was destroyed, ripped apart by its enemies’ talons, and the wraiths ascended to hide above the layer of smoke that obscured the ceiling.

  The next fight featured a Grudremorqen fighting a gaurock, one of the giant Serpents. The Grudremorqen and the Serpent battled furiously, one with fiery sword, one with venomous fangs. Finally the Serpent knocked the sword away and drove at the demon. The Grudremorqen grappled with it, and they wrestled about on the blood-soaked sand until finally the burning claws of the demon gave blackened death to the gaurock, and the latter’s death throes shook the Hall.

  And so it went. Many times Baleron blanched, but he couldn’t deny the allure of the barbaric, the primal. Still, he tried not to watch, but one of his guards jabbed him with a crude fork every time he mashed his eyes shut. And then, at last, Baleron discovered why Gilgaroth had brought him here tonight.

  A door in the arena slid open, gaping darkness.

  The Borchstogs had been clamoring and crying in the intermission between bouts, but now, overcome by curiosity at what new marvel waited their pleasure, they leaned forward, red eyes a-goggle, breath catching in their throats.

  Baleron watched, too, but his gaze was wary.

  Shortly the darkness in the doorway stirred, and, to Baleron’s surprise, a beautiful woman was ushered out of it and into the arena—an elf, he saw by her slightly pointed ears. Dark hair cascaded down her shoulders and over the creamiest, whitest skin he’d ever seen. Clear blue eyes, moist now, gazed out defiantly from her angelic, delicately-boned face. Full red lips refused to tremble.

  Baleron gasped. It could not be . . .

  It was impossible.

  Some sort of trick, he told himself. It had to be.

  He sat up in his seat when she was ushered out into the arena, prodded by a scarred troll carrying a spiked pole. She looked lost and scared, but her back stayed stiff and her eyes forward. She didn’t spare a glance for the bloodthirsty crowd.

  Baleron shouted her name, but his voice was suddenly coarse.

  Impossible, he told himself. And yet, he wanted so desperately to believe. But she’s dead! I saw her body. I . . . did more than just see it. Gods help me, I did.

  The last time he had seen her, or at least seen her form, had been in Worthrick Mountain. But that had been a trick of some sort, it made no sense otherwise. So then the last time he had truly seen her body was in Havensrike. Surely Rauglir, possessing her form, had not escaped Glorifel and made it all the way here without being caught or killed . . . but what other explanation could there be?

  A trapdoor slid away, slewing sand, and a ten-foot pillar thrust up through it into the arena. Though she struggled, the troll tied Rolenya (or whatever she really was) to the pillar none too gently. Evidently fascinated by her, the troll kept poking and prodding her with its fingers. She bore it all stoically. Her eyes were very blue, and very hopeless. Gone was the fire that had led her to stand up to Ungier. Gone was that spark of rebellion and mischief. And yet, there was something in her eyes, some light, some ember, that Baleron remembered, that had been missing in Rauglir. It was a depth, a serenity, a telltale of her soul . . .

  Despite everything, he began to believe.

  Tears stained her high, pale cheeks and glistened on her red lips. Her long black hair hung in sweaty tangles down past her swan-like neck. She wore a beautiful if less-than-new dress. Dirt smudged her ivory skin in a dozen places. Yet, Baleron thought, she was as lovely as ever. He longed to hold her—as a brother, as a lover, in whatever way he could.

  But it could not be her, it just could not be, no matter how much he might wish otherwise. How big a fool did they think he was? He’d already met one false Rolenya. He had seen another when Felestrata’s body changed. What was more, he had been regularly conversing with a ghostly Rolenya in his pit until they moved him to the hospital wing. This, then, must be another forgery. The real one was dead, her body encasing Rauglir still, unless the demon had been driven out by the body’s demise. And even Rauglir had admitted that her soul now dwelt in the ephemeral flames of the Second Hell. So why did
Gilgaroth expect him to believe that this could be she?

  The Dark One watched him all the while, calculating, and Baleron returned the look with what he hoped was open hostility.

  Rolenya, if it were she, shone like a moonlit diamond in this smoky, foul-smelling chamber, a chamber full of grease and blood and baseness and primal urges. She shone like an angel.

  The Borchstogs drew back in their seats, awed by it, by her Grace, and a hush fell over them.

  At last her eyes found Baleron. Surprise filled her face. She shouted out to him, and his heart swelled, but he couldn’t have returned the greeting if he’d wanted to, and at the moment words failed him completely.

  She seemed sad to see him here, like her a prisoner of the Shadow, yet he thought he detected a secret joy in her to see him again, under any circumstances.

  “Behold, prince,” said Gilgaroth. “Your sister.”

  Baleron shook his head, unable to speak.

  “You deny her?”

  “Rolenya’s dead,” Baleron called across to him, having to force the words from the obstruction in his throat.

  “Yet she lives.”

  “It’s true,” said the figure that looked so much like Rolenya, issuing the words in a small voice that still managed to carry to his ears. To everyone’s ears, he imagined. “Bal, it’s me. Really . . . it’s me.”

  “How?” he challenged. “How could this be possible?”

  “I forged for her a new body,” the Dark One said. “Into it I poured her soul. Her essence. I released her from Illistriv.”

  Baleron paused. That might be plausible. Gilgaroth had spawned races, had raised mountains. He could forge one small body.

  “I don’t believe you. Why would you do such a thing?”

  “I need your loyalty, Baleron. I need for you to do my bidding. For HER sake you shall.”

  So angry at this that tears began to roll down his cheeks, Baleron shouted, “You bastard! You can’t do this to me! You can’t!”

  Seeing his tears, Rolenya sobbed too. “Oh, Baleron! Bal! It’s true! It’s me.” Her voice grew small, lost, confused: “Unless this is a dream . . . some strange dream. Is it? Could it possibly be?”

  He could not answer that. His dreams lately had been too painful, and this might be the most painful yet. He shot a challenging glare at Gilgaroth.

  “Prove it,” he said.

  Gilgaroth regarded him levelly. Smoke drifted between them.

  “How?”

  Looking down to the image of his sister, he said, “Sing.”

  For a long moment, there was silence. Not a Borchstog in the assembly stirred. Torches crackled, but that was all. Not even a wolf could be heard yowling, or a shoe scraping. All was as a tomb.

  Then, finally, Gilgaroth inclined his crowned head. His fiery eyes flickered downwards to the slim pale figure bound to the stake below.

  “Sing, Rolenya,” he bade her. “Sing.”

  Baleron’s heart caught in his throat. Could she do it? Would she do it?

  To his astonishment, she nodded. Then she lifted her head, stared Baleron directly in the eye, took a deep breath—her chest straining against the ropes—and let out one long, crystal-clear note.

  Baleron reeled backward, gasping. Could it be?

  Her eyes closed, and tears leaked out, rolling over her high round cheeks and gathering under her jaw. Her voice rolled on.

  Suddenly Baleron could not catch his breath.

  She sang on, the notes changing, high, then low, then even higher than before. He knew that the words were in the language of the Elves in a far northern land that she favored in song. They were foreign to him but all the more beautiful for that; he could not understand them, but he could feel their grandeur, their greatness. He remembered tales he’d heard as a child, fairytales of elvish princesses who could weave spells with their voice, and recalled that Rolenya’s mother was said to have raised entire forest-gardens with her song.

  He couldn’t believe his ears. Rolenya’s voice was filled with Grace—true Grace. No demon sent by Gilgaroth could sing like this. It was Rolenya. It was Rolenya. His chest burned. After all this time . . .

  Her clear, smooth voice cut like a hot, righteous knife through the gloom of the Feasting Hall, lancing the darkness like a beam. Baleron half-expected the ceiling to crack and the walls to shake under the barrage of her purity, her goodness. It was with such a voice that Queen Vilana her mother had raised entire forest-gardens to her liking. She had walked along bare hills, singing, and grass and trees had grown at her feet.

  The Borchstogs sat back, thunderstruck.

  Even the Dark One seemed to sit back and listen in admiration, spellbound by her voice.

  Baleron, himself enchanted, wished the song to go on forever, but at last it ended, and again Rolenya opened her eyes—her clear, beautiful eyes. They gazed openly up at him, happily, sadly, full of feeling and despair.

  “Rolenya,” he said softly, acknowledging her.

  “Baleron,” she whispered.

  The Dark One’s eyes blazed. “Quite touching,” he said. “Quite . . . moving.” Then he barked out, “Thorg!”

  Instantly, the great wolf to his left rose and leapt down into the arena. It pawed the ground with an outthrust claw and snorted. Steam issued forth.

  Rolenya screamed.

  Chapter 3

  Of course, thought Baleron as he watched it happen. A sickening feeling grew in his gut. I should’ve known.

  Throgmar had said it himself: Gilgaroth’s true talent lay with inflicting pain. He had given Baleron back Rolenya only now to take her away again—raising the prince’s hopes only so that he’d have something to dash.

  Her wide, panicked blue eyes shot from her brother to the black beast that shared the arena with her. Its lips lifted back from long, dripping fangs. Its awful, intelligent eyes narrowed to cruel slits.

  The Borchstogs, for once, did not cheer for it; they were still too moved by Rolenya’s song to root for her bloody demise.

  Baleron watched on helplessly.

  The cuerdrig, Thorg, stalked arrogantly over to the princess, weaving through the mounds of wrecked bodies and body parts strewn by previous fights. He stuck his black face up close to her small pale one and sprayed her with his steaming breath. She shook in fear and wrenched her head away.

  Outraged, Baleron screamed, “Nooo!” and attempted to rise. A Borchstog cuffed him and he sank back down, still bound to the chair.

  Below, the great black wolf began circling Rolenya. Tearful, she shook her head, denying the reality of it all.

  Gilgaroth issued a sound that may have been a laugh.

  “No!” Baleron shouted again.

  “Ah, but yes,” said Gilgaroth. “I want you to see her rent to pieces. My pet can go as slow as I wish.”

  “Don’t kill her! Put me in her place.”

  The Dark One said simply, “No.”

  “Fine,” Baleron growled. “Then give me a sword! You want sport? I’ll give you sport!”

  “I do not want sport.”

  “What do you want?”

  The Dark One leaned forward. “I want you to do my bidding, and you are now too aware of your Doom for it to act without your consent.”

  Baleron began to sweat. His left hand throbbed painfully. Sound began to drift in and out of his hearing, and the world began to tilt.

  “I will not serve you,” he shouted. “I am not your Savior. I will never be your Savior.”

  “Serve me and have purpose. Serve me and save . . . Rolenya.”

  “No,” Baleron said, half to himself, shaking his head wretchedly. “No. I can’t.”

  Lord Gilgaroth raised an armored hand as if clutching something invisible, as if summoning something, and once more, Rolenya screamed. At her feet, the ground cracked and a huge serpent unwound from the earth, thick and spined and hissing. It coiled about her bound body, squeezing, caressing, winding slowly, almost lovingly, about her—then began to constrict.


  She tried to cry out but could not draw breath. It would mash her into boneless jelly.

  “NOW what do you say?” asked Gilgaroth.

  Baleron glared at him. Said nothing.

  The Shadow raised his other hand high, as if grasping something far above, and then yanked it down dramatically. A horde of shadow-wraiths dropped from the smoke-wreathed ceiling. Some had the forms of demons and beasts. Some were hooded and cloaked. Still more had no real form at all. But one and all fell like a wrathful cloud from the heights and swarmed about Rolenya, their mouths opening, if they had mouths, and a terrible, unholy din pouring out. Covering their ears, Borchstogs screamed in fear.

  “I COMMAND THE HOSTS OF HELL,” Gilgaroth roared, and it was no boast. “I can summon horrors upon your beloved that you would weep to see—and I will, lest you submit.”

  Haunted by the wraiths’ screams, Baleron could only see Rolenya here and there through breaks in the swarm of shadows. He could not tolerate them touching her. They were unholy things, unclean things, and their mad screams drove him past his limits of endurance.

  “Release her!” Baleron shouted.

  “ARE YOU MY CREATURE?”

  Baleron hung his head.

  With a wave of the Dark One’s hand, the wraiths ended their assault and ascended past the layer of smoke once more and were lost to sight. The snake, its shining coils about Rolenya, its colorful scales rasping her smooth skin, uncoiled itself and retreated below ground once more. At its departure, the hole closed up behind it.

  Rolenya could breathe again.

  Baleron lowered his gaze, too ashamed to think straight. How could he do this?

  Below, Rolenya called out to him: “Don’t give in, Baleron. So I die . . . I’ve died before.”

  She was right, of course. He thought of Larenthi, and Havensrike, and all the people he’d led to their deaths for his Doom. Even for Rolenya’s sake, how could he betray any more? He would not be the Dark One’s spider. He would not.

  Thorg continued to circle the arena, his circles drawing closer and closer to Rolenya, until finally he was almost touching her.