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

by Jack Conner

  “There!” shouted Gilgaroth to his army as Ungier sailed down, as if Ungier being shot had been of his doing. “THERE is my gift to you! His blood—and his example! Do not fail me as he did, or suffer his fate you will.”

  At long last, Ungier passed into the fires of Illistriv and burst into flames. He screamed, audible for miles around. Shrouded in fire, screaming hideously, he disappeared into the depths of the Second Hell, never to be seen again.

  Baleron’s heart sang with joy.

  He instantly felt a change in Rondthril; the Fanged Blade seemed to sigh, as if with release.

  The time has come.

  Below, Borchstogs cheered the execution.

  Mogra smiled lovingly. “Eager, aren’t they?”

  Baleron was just about to pull Rondthril from its scabbard when suddenly Gilgaroth turned and did something unaccountably odd: he reached out a hand and . . . beckoned . . . to Baleron.

  Shocked, the prince just looked at Gilgaroth. What was this?

  “Come,” said the Dark One.

  Was Baleron to meet the same fate as Ungier? Is this how his own labors would be rewarded? Rolenya shot him a worried look, and he tried to put on a brave face for her.

  “It will be fine,” he told her.

  She didn’t seem able to bring herself to speak.

  Again Gilgaroth beckoned for him to come to his right side, and Baleron did so, immediately feeling the heat that radiated off ul Kunraggog. Gilgaroth’s smell was overpowering, even more so than Mogra’s—the musk of the Great Wolf mixed with brimstone and burning coal. Gilgaroth’s living shadow billowed and ebbed, Baleron could feel it, cold and hot at once, oily, penetrating . . . He felt befouled by it, and powerless under its influence.

  He stood at the right side of Gilgaroth, Breaker of the World, Prince of Darkness, Lord of Hell, and stared down at the Inferno of the world-bound Illistriv and at the bonfires of the Borchstog hordes that would help the Inferno spread. Wind whipped him, and he shivered. His image appeared in the fires below. He looked very small next to Gilgaroth. What am I doing here?

  To the horde, Gilgaroth said, “THIS, children, is my Deliverer. My Savior. My Champion. My Spider—he whom I laid a Doom upon years ago. I planted a seed then, and now it has arisen into a mighty oak and gives me shelter. With his Doom Baleron has helped destroy his country’s own army and that of the Larenth. He helped me fell the White Tower of Celievsti. Thus was I able to both raise Krogbur and breach the Wall of Spires. He has helped me kill Felias and Elethris and the Archmage of Glorifel—even King Grothgar, his own father. And his Doom is not yet complete, not while I live. For his web shall CONTINUE to grow, and it shall be more glorious yet.”

  He paused, and Baleron felt his insides wrench. No, he thought desperately. Let it be over!

  “Ungier was not fit to lead you,” Gilgaroth said to his horde. “He was not worthy.” He paused dramatically. “It shall be BALERON who leads you! Ul Ravast”

  Baleron gasped. Rolenya did likewise.

  Below, the Borchstogs cheered. Some took up the chant, “RA-VAST! RA-VAST!”

  “Ten thousand years ago I foresaw that one from among the Fallen Race would deliver me my freedom, would serve as the general to lead my armies in the Final War. That time has come. It shall be HE whom I make General tonight. HE will lead you north to crush Clevaris and Larenthi, and then he will drive you onwards, and under his rule you shall raze the Crescent entire. And then go north, darkening all in your path, to the very Tower of the Sun.”

  Baleron’s blood ran cold. Throgmar was right: Gilgaroth truly lived only to cause pain and suffering. Oh, he was evil! He would take the one who hated him most and force that one to spread his evil for him.

  Suddenly Baleron decided that he would take no more.

  Speaking past the knot in his throat, he said, “I will not.”

  Gilgaroth looked down at him, curious.

  Baleron fingered Rondthril. Could he be quick enough? Unlikely. Not when those eyes of fire were upon him. Not while that shadow was touching him.

  “You WILL,” the Dark One said. “And you will do it well. For your Doom still binds you, and it is entwined about your very soul. It will give you no choice. It will prompt you to carry out my will, even when you are unwilling or unaware.” He paused. “You thought to shake it when you went to the White Tower, but that only furthered my designs. You thought to rid yourself of it when you hacked off your hand and went to rescue your father, but that only freed Rauglir and brought him within striking distance of the King. You thought to fight me at every turn, but I was ready. I have planned this for Ages, Baleron. Every step and counter-step. There is nothing you can do to thwart me. You are mine. And I look forward to seeing you spread my shadow.” He breathed contentedly. “Yes, I will send you out to do my will, and I will keep Rolenya here to await your return. Rolenya, my little songbird. She will amuse me in your absence.”

  Baleron trembled in rage. “You have whole kingdoms at your disposal, and this is the only way you can amuse yourself? You’re mad! Mad!” He breathed heavily. He felt his face flush with rage.

  Gilgaroth said nothing. He seemed to be enjoying this.

  “But fine!” Baleron said. “Give me control of your largest, most fearsome army. Give me your legions of Borchstogs, your Colossi, your dragons. Give me all your weapons and power, and then we will have us a show. If it’s amusement you want, Gilgaroth, then I can amuse. Will you find your death amusing? Will you find Mogra’s? What about the fall of this tower? Will you be laughing then? I will. Oh, yes. I think it’s a fine idea. A fine idea indeed. Give me this army. Give it to me now! I demand it!”

  Gilgaroth’s flaming eyes were smiling. “Such rage in one so small! There is life in you yet. Good. You will make better sport that way.”

  “Sport? I can give you sport. If that’s all you wanted, I wish you’d told me years ago.”

  “I enjoy a challenge. Yet it would go easier for you if you realized the place of Man in this world. You belong at my side, Baleron, not before me in the ranks of my enemies. No. Men are my creatures. Do you not see? You are animals, and base. You have no Grace. You have no purpose, save to follow your whims, to find food and shelter. You are like rats, vermin. You are Fallen, and you are beasts. You have no purpose. There is no reason to your being. You . . . do not matter.”

  “If we’re so base, why do you want us at your side?”

  “Because it does not have to be that way. You can CHOOSE to have a purpose. You can fulfill your potential. You can fight for me. You CAN matter.”

  “Then it seems to me that we can matter by standing against you.”

  “And aid the Elves? Why? To prop up their weakness so that they can survive my wrath and continue standing in the Light while you stand outside them in the Dark, shivering and cold, hungry and empty? Why? Why, when you can stand with ME and have the world at your mercy?”

  “You have no mercy! I think you’ve demonstrated that very clearly.”

  “I can give you power and purpose and meaning. You, Baleron, you are in a unique position, to take up my offer and raise your kind out of the mire. You are now the King of Havensrike, or you can be if I allow Havensrike to endure. All kingdoms of Men can be united under your rule. You can be the King of Men, and you can lead your people under my banner. You will have purpose. Your race will have meaning. How does that sound, Spider?”

  Baleron scowled up at Gilgaroth. He felt the Beast’s influence on his mind, but Gilgaroth did not seem to be tampering with his thoughts, only monitoring them. He wanted Baleron to reach the obvious conclusion on his own.

  Gilgaroth’s offer was tempting, but Baleron would have been surprised if it were not. That was the Dark One’s game, after all.

  Baleron shook his head.

  “The thing about having no purpose,” he said, “no reason for being, is that we must make our own. That is our gift, and our curse. I have made it my purpose to destroy you and your evil, and I’d rather exist w
ithout purpose than to have it be to serve your ends, you cancer.” He looked all about him. “See these dragons flying about? They’re the flies that buzz around a hill of dung, and this tower is that dunghill, and those demons down there chanting your name, they’re the little maggots that thrive on excrement, and that’s what you are, you monster—the Lord of Excrement!”

  Mogra, a scream on her lips, stalked towards him, but Gilgaroth laid an arm across her way and said, “No. He has made his decision, my Queen, and in so doing he has damned his race to serve as slaves and food and sport for our own children. He has ensured that Man will fall even further, and eventually cease to exist.”

  “He has insulted us!” she said.

  “No. He has insulted himself by speaking such folly. I gave him the chance to raise men up from the muck of their existence, and he chose to spit on my hand instead. Let him live. Let him see the results of his choice firsthand, even as he drives the engine of our victory himself, a slave, just like the rest of his people will soon become.”

  She nodded, still breathing hard, and relaxed.

  To Baleron, Gilgaroth said, ”Return to your place, you fool.”

  Steaming in fury, Baleron returned to the ranks of Borchstogs and to his sister’s side. Ustagrot was glaring at him, and Rolenya was looking at him with wide eyes.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “Oh, I’m just fine,” he answered, but he could hear his voice and it sounded anything but fine.

  “Baleron. I’m . . . I’m so proud of you. You were strong.”

  He wasn’t so proud. Had he just damned mankind? He had, he knew—if Gilgaroth should live.

  Gilgaroth was guiding Mogra forwards. When she was at his side, the Lord of the Tower returned his attention to his gathered army. “I will not let Baleron lead you alone. Oh, no. He lacks experience, and clearly respect, and you deserve better. Therefore I appoint Queen Mogra to guide the young prince, the young Heir, to tutor him in the arts of war. I’m sure they will make an . . . interesting team. The Seamstress of Shadows, the Keeper of the Womb of Power—SHE shall oversee your General, my Champion, and ultimately it is SHE who will lead you to victory.”

  The Borchstog hordes roared fervently, and Mogra smiled, showing her fangs. The Dark One had an armored arm about her waist, and two of hers rested on his back.

  The two Dark Gods—mother and son, husband and wife, father and mother of demons—stood there at the brink of the terrace overlooking their hordes, their children. They were at the apex of their power, the height of their success. They stood, side by side, the wind whipping them, rain lashing them, lightning illuminating them, basking in the worship of their creatures, creatures who at any moment would be given the order to go north, to sweep all opposition aside, to bring ruin to the world.

  What was Baleron waiting for? The two gods’ backs were turned; he’d get no better chance than this.

  But if he acted, there could be no going back.

  If he did nothing, he and Rolenya could yet wed and live out their lives, immortals both, as the rulers of some distant land—at least, after he finished playing general; the notion was not unattractive. Indeed, he longed for it, for spending eternity with his beloved.

  He placed his hand on Rondthril’s hilt.

  Coldness exploded in his chest. Icy tendrils shot out from it and drove deep into his soul, into his mind.

  You fool! he heard in his head. Slaying Gilgaroth is impossible. You’ll only earn his wrath. If you think the plight of humans will be grim now, just wait!

  It was a strong voice, a voice that brooked no argument, a voice that boomed so loudly within him that there was not room for any other.

  And yet one came. It was not so loud, for it was not woven over eons with the power of a god, but it was no less strong, and it said, No.

  Baleron said No.

  He thought of the Flower of Itherin and tried to summon its might, if any still remained within him. He felt it stir.

  The explosion of ice shrieked and writhed, and that freezing tendril withered. The Flower could not kill the coldness, but it could distract it while he did what he needed to do.

  Baleron stepped forward and drew Rondthril with a glorious ring. The battle still raged within him, but he ignored it.

  Time seemed to slow.

  His guards were so entranced at being this close to their Lord and Lady at such a momentous occasion that they did not immediately notice their prisoner’s movements. Only Ustagrot felt something amiss, and he looked over his shoulder, just in time to see the Fanged Blade coming around in a bright, steely arc—

  Baleron cut off the necromancer’s head with savage glee, and the head and body fell in separate directions. The neck stump spouted a geyser of black blood as the body fell.

  Hearing the prince’s voice with godly hearing, the Dark One himself began to turn around. Lightning sizzled behind him, and rain beat on his black, spiked armor. His veil of shadow deepened, and from it his eyes burned redly. He was huge, a towering god against a puny mortal.

  As soon as Baleron completed the arc that severed Ustagrot’s head, he reversed his grip on Rondthril, holding it by the blade in his naked hand, slicing into his tender flesh. He grit his teeth and drew the sword over his head, cocking his arm for the throw that would determine the fate of the world.

  The Dark One had half spun around when Baleron released the sword. Rondthril spun, end over end, flashing in the night, spitting tongues of lightning reflected off of its steely surface. Rain lashed it.

  Rolenya’s blue eyes widened.

  The Borchstog guards wheeled on Baleron, but their attention was so fixed on the flying sword that they did not immediately attack him, giving him the chance to wrench a blade loose of its owner’s grasp. His hand bled freely.

  Mogra still faced the worshipful horde, basking in their love and awe.

  Throgmar had seen movement on the terrace and had witnessed Ustagrot’s decapitation without stirring. When he saw Rondthril hurled towards his father, he could have sent a lance of flame to incinerate the sword or knock it off course, but he did not. Baleron had not thought he would; after all, he was the Betrayer.

  Rondthril flew . . .

  Rolenya gasped. She’d known this would happen, but it still seemed to come as a surprise to her.

  Baleron, who’d been planning his next steps while listening to Mogra’s and Gilgaroth’s speeches, slashed out with his new weapon, spearing a Borchstog through the throat. With a boot, he kicked another off the terrace. Yet even his eyes were fixed on Rondthril!

  Gilgaroth was nearly fully turned around when the Fanged Blade struck him, and he had one arm half-raised. If the sword had struck that arm, it might have been deflected, and Baleron’s plan would have failed utterly.

  Instead, Rondthril, the Fanged Blade, pierced the Dark One’s armor at the chest and drove through the Shadow’s corporeal body with mindless hunger. It impaled Gilgaroth through the black heart and buried itself all the way to the hilt so that its tip, dripping black blood, stuck out below the Omkaroggen’s left shoulder blade.

  Gilgaroth, the Dark One, the Wolf, the Shadow, threw back his head and roared. His living shadow began to thin. The tower shook, and the terrace trembled.

  Mogra began to turn around, her violet eyes widening.

  Light, reddish gold light, poured from Gilgaroth’s wounds, as if the very fires of the Second Hell were being let out, and perhaps they were. Indeed, seconds later a plume of flame shot out from around Rondthril’s hilt and another from around its tip. The Dark One’s inner fires were being loosed. When he opened his mouth to scream, more red-gold light poured out.

  The tower trembled violently.

  Baleron could not believe it. It had worked! His plan had worked! It crossed his mind that in a way Ungier, even in death, had finally struck at his father. Baleron silently thanked the souls of Logran and Elethris for preparing him, for giving him hope.

  Gilgaroth just stood there, r
oaring, as flame jetted from his wounds. His armored hands gripped Rondthril’s handle . . . and tried to pull it out.

  Baleron blinked. No, he thought. Gods, no . . .

  Gilgaroth still lived. Ungier was not mighty enough to craft a weapon that could slay his father.

  Baleron had been a fool.

  While Gilgaroth tried to remove Rondthril, Mogra turned about to face the prince, and lightning danced in her eyes.

  Chapter 15

  Baleron did not, could not, stop in his fight with the Borchstogs. He slashed one across the face. Hurled another from the terrace. He dodged one heavy axe, which thunked into the chest of another, spraying blood. He tackled the one who had struck at him and flung him from the terrace. The Borchstog screamed as he fell.

  Baleron turned to fight the next one.

  This was a battle he knew to be futile and pointless—there was a whole army against him, plus two gods!—yet he could not just surrender. He could not just die.

  As he parried the thrust of a Borchstog’s sword, sweat flying from his hair, his face contorted in a grimace of concentration, part of his mind reflected that soon he would be with Salthrick, burning in the fires of Illistriv forevermore.

  Rolenya, seeing the desperateness of their plight, picked up the sword of a fallen Borchstog. She was far from a trained fighter, but she was motivated.

  A gaggle of Borchstogs clamored around Baleron, who was fending them off breathlessly, weaving his sword in a fury of bright, bloody arcs and thrusts.

  One Borchstog sword embedded itself accidentally in another Borchstog’s head, and Baleron kicked the body away. Rolling, he knocked another of the hellspawn off its feet. His sword darted up, spearing another through the gut. He fought as if a man possessed, though surely it was quite the opposite.