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

by Jack Conner

  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 s
tayed 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.”

  She shook her head. “He needs us, my love. He needs you. That’s his weakness. Use it against him. It’s the only way.”

  “No. No, it’s not. I . . . know another.”

  She looked at him strangely, but he did not have time to explain, and it would probably be unwise to in any case. It was time to go.

  Their guards allowed Rolenya to accompany him to the glarum platform, which was large and teeming with the foul, black-feathered steeds. They cawed and snapped and stirred uneasily, and suddenly Baleron missed Lunir. Scalding wind howled around him, coming off the Inferno.

  Borchstogs seated him on one of the great crows, and the riders found their own birds and mounted up. The leader yelled out, and the squad took off from the terrace, cutting a wedge through the dragon-moat.

  Baleron looked back once to see Rolenya standing there on the platform, her wind-whipped black hair flying, her blue eyes wet, her long legs bare. Her small shoulders huddled as she held the sheet about her, shivering in the high air.

  She receded with distance, and, when the Worms closed up behind the fleet of glarumri, she was lost to sight. Baleron wondered if he would ever see her again.

  Rolenya sobbed as she watched Baleron dwindle to a speck in the sky, her shoulders shaking, tears running down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. The wind turned cold, and she shuddered.

  Abruptly, she felt a Presence behind her. She could smell an all-too familiar musk, and feel an unearthly heat. For a long while, she could not bring herself to turn, could not bring herself to face him, and to her surprise he didn’t force the issue. He just loomed there, behind her, watching her. Waiting.

  At last, she set her jaw and turned. As she gazed up into his fiery eyes, her strength fled, and it was all she could do to remain standing.

  In his dragon form, Gilgaroth was huge and black, his whiskers trailing like tendrils about his wolvish face. He took up the whole of her vision.

  She took a step backwards and placed a hand over her mouth to hold in a scream, but she was so scared that she forgot to scream.

  “Rolenya,” breathed Gilgaroth.

  “M-my lord,” she managed, hating herself for calling him that but knowing no other form of address for him.

  “Why do you cry? Do you miss him so soon?”

  She lowered her eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  He did not speak immediately. Finally he said, “I too know pain.”

  Curious, she looked up. His eyes, twin abysses of fire, mesmerized her, terrified her, but she refused to look away.

  “You do?” she said.

  “I knew it when you sang.”

  “You did?”

  He nodded. “Long had I heard rumor of your voice, whiteling. But until you sang for Baleron I had never heard it. It . . . was lovely.”

  “Th-thank you. I think.” Why was he telling her this?

  “I want you to sing . . . for me.”

  “W-what?”

  “Yes. You will sing.”

  She tried to think. “But, if it was painful, why?”

  “It . . . was a good pain.”

  She screamed as one of his claws ensnared her. He flew off the terrace and carried her away from Krogbur, and she saw it diminish between two of his black nails as the wind tore at her. Yet she felt his heat, his immense, burning heat, and was warm, if not happy.

  He carried her to the high, jagged peak of a mountain jutting up from the surrounding wasteland and set her on it. Then, like a serpent, he wrapped himself about the rocky spire and gazed up at her.

  “Sing,” he said.

  Fear seized her, and confusion, but slowly she got a grip on herself. What else can I do? she thought.

  Unable to help the stammer, she said, “W-what would you l-like to hear?”

  “Just . . . sing.”

  She emptied her mind of fear and turned to thoughts of Light and Grace. Marshalling her resolve, she lifted her face to the heavens, and sang. The song poured out of her like a spring flows from the ground, coming to her naturally, and as it flowed she drew strength from it, and her voice grew stronger, echoing off the sharp peaks far away, and off the black roof of clouds above.

  Gilgaroth listened, seeming to drink up her voice like wine, but she did not look at him, as the sight of him would drive the song from her. And so she closed her eyes and sang, and as she sang she wept, and thought of Baleron.

  Chapter 4

  The once-green fields and forests of Havensrike were black and smoking as Baleron flew over them, and with every breath he swore bitter oaths of vengeance against those who’d done this. He and his escort flew for days, rarely stopping, and when they did the Borchstogs kept a close guard on him. He watched for his chance at escape, but it never came. He thought of Rolenya often.

  At least he’d reclaimed Rondthril. With any luck, if he could command his Five Hundred again, if he could lead another attack against Ungier, perhaps . . .

  He tried not to think about it. Gilgaroth could read thoughts, after all.

  The glarum riders hated daylight, but they braved the bright skies anyway, never waiting for nightfall when it was time to depart their brief campsites. Their elongated, wolf-like helmets protected their eyes from the sun.

  As they drew closer to Glorifel, Baleron saw a great mass of dark clouds above that wondrous city blotting out the blazing Eye of Brunril, throwing an artificial nighttime on its attackers, shielding them from the sun. The glarumri neared the high walls and Baleron saw the teeming army of Borchstogs and their allies camped outside the city. Glorifel was on its last legs; Trolls and beasts and corrupted G
iants, even a battalion of Men, numbered among those laying siege to the city. Here and there rose large scaly mounds, glittering in the moonlight: dragons, sleeping.

  How can this be? he asked himself. How can it have come to this?

  The Borchstoggish army was impressive, but not nearly as grand and terrible as the host massing at the roots of Krogbur, the hammer that would destroy the remnants of the Crescent Union, which was the dam holding back the dark river of Oslog—a dam that was about to be broken and the foul tide unleashed. How could Baleron aid that cause? How could he be its Champion?

  He pictured Rolenya, and then he pictured her fate if he should fail in completing his web, and then he pictured the fate of Roshliel if he did complete it. Where was the solution?

  He must free Rondthril with Ungier’s death and confront Gilgaroth with it. He could think of no other way. But how to slay Ungier?

  Again he tried not to think too long upon it.

  The glarumri set down amidst the rabble of Borchstogs near the largest bonfire, near where the command tents were pitched. Various beasts and monsters skulked about or were chained to the earth, snarling.

  The riders dismounted and Baleron was instructed to wear his cursed sword. This puzzled him, but he did it. Next the glarumri captain said, “We go to ul Qrodegrad.” The Shepherd.

  Hope rose in Baleron, but also fear. Ungier was his only route to salvation, but the Vampire King hated him and he did not relish the prospect of being at Ungier’s mercy. Nevertheless, he didn’t resist as the glarumri shoved him through the filthy ranks of the Borchstogs toward the command center.

  The demons grouped around steaming cauldrons of srodnarl, or tortured prisoners, or had slaves pleasure them, or prayed to Gilgaroth, or a hundred other unsavory things, yet wherever Baleron passed the Borchstogs ceased what they were about and turned to him. Some bowed or muttered prayers. Some offered their souls to him and slew themselves on the spot.

  He ignored them.

  Lord Ungier, as it happened, sat on a throne made of human skulls and was surrounded by six armored Trolls. He was casually sipping wine mixed with human blood from a jewel-encrusted golden chalice. Bristling murmeksa, the monstrous wooly boar-things with sharp tusks, thronged about the Trolls, grunting savagely.