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

by Jack Conner

  All the while, Gilgaroth just lay there lazily, drowsy with imminent death, his lifeblood spilling out onto the terrace and smoking there, his eyes half closed, the ghost of a smile on his whiskered face. Fire still poured from the wounds Rondthril had given him.

  Baleron noticed that Rolenya’s voice was growing strained. She began swaying a little from side to side, as if about to faint.

  Was something wrong? He must hurry.

  He wrenched himself loose of the spectacle and crossed into the shadowed interior of the tower, snatching Rondthril up from the floor. He was amazed at the black blood that coated the blade, and he could feel a hum of joy from the weapon. It had tasted the Shadow’s lifeforce and wanted more. Yet it was weary, full and bloated with Gilgaroth’s power.

  “Just one more strike,” he promised it.

  He turned back.

  Light still channeled into Rolenya, but something was now quite clearly wrong. The power seemed to be too much for her. Perhaps she was too delicate a conduit for such energies, or perhaps she had not had enough experience using them. Either way, it seemed she was using forces she did not fully understand and could not fully control, as the light that suffused her grew so bright and white-hot that a terrible pain filled her; Baleron could see it in her stance and hear it in her voice. The light was eating her up from the inside.

  As her voice grew ever more stressed, Gilgaroth’s eyes began to open.

  Baleron rushed towards her. Before he’d gone five feet, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of the hall where it had been crouched near the archway and blocked his path. Alarmed, Baleron drew back. The hulking beast stood on two legs and had long arms tipped with claws. Long, horn-like ears laid down flat on its wolvish head. The lips of its thrusting snout lifted to reveal terrible fangs, and anger burned in its dark eyes.

  “Rauglir!” breathed Baleron.

  Dizzy, Rolenya wondered how long she need go on singing. She could not go on much further, she knew. At any moment she could collapse, or worse. It was clear that Baleron’s task was incomplete, though, and she had to give him enough time to finish it . . . if she could last that long.

  Gilgaroth fought her again. His head stirred. His eyes began to open.

  Reaching deep inside herself, she opened the floodgates still wider, and her voice rose like the tide. Again it worked, and his eyes half-closed once more. But pain filled her.

  Hurry, Baleron! For my sake, hurry!

  Murder glittered in the demon’s eyes. Venom dripped from his fangs.

  “You have gone too far, my love,” Rauglir said, his voice an awful growl. “Now you must die.”

  Baleron glanced over Rauglir’s shoulder. When Rolenya turned slightly, he could see that her face was contorted in pain, and her voice was growing more strained by the moment.

  Gilgaroth was rousing.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Baleron said.

  He rushed Rauglir, Rondthril leading the way. He made as if to skewer the wolf creature through the breast—a feint. Rauglir’s long arms swung to knock his thrust aside, but his blade was no longer there. Instead he buried Rondthril in the monster’s side. Black blood wept out. Rauglir roared in pain.

  A shaggy arm knocked Baleron away. Rondthril stuck in the demon’s ribs. Smoke hissed from the wound. With pain-maddened movements, Rauglir ripped the sword free and stared at it even as his own black blood dripped from its length.

  “They call it the Fanged Blade,” Baleron said, rising.

  “It burns,” said the beast.

  “Good.”

  “Now it has a new master.”

  Rolenya’s voice washed over Baleron, urging him on. He began to circle around the demon, but Rauglir would not have it. The beast came at him, Fanged Blade flashing, spraying dark blood.

  Baleron ducked under Rondthril as it swung at his head. Rauglir chopped down, meaning to cleave in Baleron’s collarbone. The Heir leapt back. Rauglir slashed at his midsection. Baleron dodged, but the Fanged Blade opened a shallow gash on his belly.

  Rauglir kept slicing and thrusting, and Baleron evaded desperately.

  Gilgaroth’s eyes cracked open, and his lips lifted to bare long sharp teeth dripping poison onto the terrace. Flame licked at the back of his throat.

  Rolenya was afraid to channel any more power, afraid to open the floodgates wider, but she had no choice. She had to give Baleron more time. She raised her voice and let more Light pour through her. It burned, and she nearly faltered, but Gilgaroth’s eyes closed once more.

  As the Light welled up within her, scorching her, she continued to sing.

  Rondthril struck the floor at Baleron’s side, showering sparks. A clawed foot kicked the prince backward. He flew off his feet.

  Panting, he stared up at Rauglir from the floor. The demon loomed over him, a towering dark mass of fur and fangs and claws and blazing, furious eyes.

  Baleron began to roll aside, but Rauglir was too fast. The same foot that had kicked him now pinned him down. Sharp claws dug into his chest. He struggled, but the demon was too strong. He could not find the air to breathe.

  Rauglir raised Rondthril for one final, deadly strike.

  “Farewell,” he said. Smoke rose from his mouth as he said it.

  Baleron swiped his hand across his belly, gathering a handful of blood that leaked from his wound, and flung it up at his enemy. The blood spattered the back of Rauglir’s right leg, and Baleron heard the hiss of acid on flesh and smelled the stench of burning fur and skin.

  Howling, Rauglir dropped the sword as he stumbled back.

  Baleron rolled aside just as Rondthril’s blade plunged toward where his face had been just half a second earlier. Then he was picking the weapon up and leaping to his feet.

  Rauglir had time to raise one clawed arm, then Baleron was there, thrusting Rondthril up through the demon’s chest, right into his heart.

  Rauglir’s growl died in his throat, and his eyes lost their anger, their fury. Smoke rose up from the wound. Baleron and the demon stood that way for a moment, locked in a mortal embrace, their eyes staring into each other for a long moment.

  At last Rauglir slumped and Baleron jerked his blade free. The demon collapsed to the floor in a shaggy, bloody heap, and Baleron spat on Rauglir’s corpse.

  “That’s for my mother,” he said.

  He saw the smoke rising up from the back of Rauglir’s leg and silently thanked Rolenya—and Rauglir himself. If not for the demon’s greed, the Flower of Itherin’s power would not course through Baleron’s blood in the first place.

  Rolenya still sang, but her voice was fragile and raw now. He ran towards her just as white smoke began rising from her body.

  “Rolenya!” he cried.

  Gilgaroth was too enchanted to notice the raggedness of her voice, Rolenya hoped, lulled nearly senseless. Yet if she stopped singing he would rouse.

  What was taking Baleron so long? The energies filling her were killing her, she could feel it. She had opened the floodgates too wide, had drawn on powers beyond her skill to handle, and now they were going to consume her. Incredible pain filled her, searing her, and it was all she could do to go on singing.

  She had to. For Baleron. For everyone.

  The pain rent her voice and made it rough, and then it stole her breath, and she couldn’t concentrate on the words. What was happening? Was she really dying? If so, she prayed she would not return to Illistriv.

  The pain overwhelmed her. She choked out one final burst, and then the whole world turned to mist. She collapsed in a heap to the wet terrace. White smoke like steam rose from her body.

  As soon as the singing stopped, Gilgaroth’s eyes snapped open. His horned head lay limply on the floor, but it began to rear up.

  Suddenly Baleron was next to it, Rondthril at the ready. He raised the Fanged Blade to strike one last time.

  But without Rolenya’s voice to keep him spellbound, Gilgaroth was no longer helpless.

  Angrily, moaning, he tossed
his huge head and knocked Baleron away, then slithered forwards, around Rolenya, towards the archway leading into the Main Hall—and the stairs. The blow nearly flung Baleron over the side of the terrace—doubtlessly that had been Gilgaroth’s intention—but as he hit the floor and went sliding on the wet surface, he struck the body of a dead Borchstog, halting his slide just in time.

  He glanced down, over the edge of the terrace, and gasped. The Inferno was consuming Krogbur. It climbed, even as he watched, the bright red flames licking into the jet black surface, and smoke boiling up in thick sheets. Within minutes the flame would climb to this very terrace.

  Baleron glanced back. Gilgaroth was disappearing within the tower. Damn it all! Rolenya had saved their lives and given him enough time to retrieve the sword, but, curse Rauglir, not enough time to use it.

  Swearing, Baleron climbed to his feet. A glance at Rolenya showed that she still laid lifeless, white smoke drifting up from her body. His heart twisted violently, and, though it pained him, he knew he did not have time to tend to her.

  Reeling from his wounds, he pursued the Dark One as he retreated into his lair, surely going to heal himself in the Black Temple. If he managed to make it there, it would be as if none of this had ever happened. Baleron had to stop him now, stop him and kill him. Now might be the first time Gilgaroth had ever been truly vulnerable, it might be the last, and Baleron knew his window of opportunity would not be open for long—only as long as this stairway was tall, for once Gilgaroth reached his Throne Room with all his servants about, wraiths and Colossi and demons, he would be protected. The only reason others had not rushed to aid their Master yet was the chaos caused by the shaking tower and Gilgaroth’s pain.

  The Hell-Worm crossed the Main hall and began to slither up the black steps. Dark, smoking blood pooled in his wake, eating into the stairs.

  Baleron, cursing, limped after.

  Moving with distressing swiftness, Gilgaroth was far ahead of him up the stairs, which seemed endless—in the gloom of the hall, Baleron could not see their top; there must be a thousand steps!—but they would end all too quickly. He staggered upwards.

  “I’m coming!” he roared. “You can’t run from me!” Breathing hard, blood dripping into his eyes, he said, “But run anyway! Run, Gilgaroth! Run! I want to see you flee!”

  He mounted the stairs, one weary step at a time. He tried to avoid stepping on the spilled black blood, hissing on the stone.

  Shadows fell on him. Like living pieces of darkness, the wraiths descended in a howling cloud, tearing at Baleron with insubstantial claws. They must have come down from the Throne Room to aid their Master. Ghostly as they were, incredible pain filled Baleron every time they touched him, and he knew they weren’t clawing at his flesh, but his soul.

  He flung his bloody hand at them. The red drops clove through the half-substantial shadow-bodies, parting them, and the wraiths shrieked in fear and veered away.

  Emboldened, Baleron swiped Rondthril against his bloody abdomen, then slicing it at the wraiths, and whenever Rondthril passed through them they wasted away, almost seeming to evaporate. Still they clamored around him, howling and shrieking, tearing at him with their awful claws, but he pressed forward through them, hacking at them as he slogged up one more step. Then another.

  Above, the Dark One reached the halfway point, then passed it.

  Desperation surged through Baleron. Summoning his last reserve of energy, he sprang up the steps, slicing at wraiths as he went, and at last reached Gilgaroth’s tail. With a joyful howl, he stabbed Rondthril through the hard scales and deep inside the Dark One’s earthly flesh. He tried to pin Gilgaroth to the stairs, but the stairs were too hard to penetrate, and the Hell-Worm kept going, not even acknowledging the blow with a moan of pain. The blade sliced right through his tail, and fire licked out from the wound.

  Gritting his teeth, Baleron followed.

  Again he caught up to his enemy, and again he stabbed into Gilgaroth, cursing as he did so.

  “Die, you bastard!”

  He stabbed, and stabbed again. Black blood sprayed him and he staggered back, nearly toppling. He felt whoozy and sick. The very blood of the Wolf! It burned his skin. A weariness came over him, and he almost retched, but something in him fought the poison; he felt the thrumming in his veins. The Flower. He doubted it would be enough to save him, but it would give him time. He had never thought to live beyond this day anyway. Only let me kill the bastard first.

  He had to hurry. They were nearly to the top now.

  Wraiths continued to howl and tear at him, but Baleron had only to fling a few drops of his blood and they scattered.

  He rose, though every step seemed like a torture. He had lost too much blood. The world spun and reeled around him.

  He saw Sophia and Salthrick; he saw his father and mother; he saw Shelir and Elethris and Celievsti; he saw Felias and Jered; he saw Lunir and Logran and his brothers and all of Glorifel; he saw many others whom Gilgaroth had destroyed. Anger welled up in him, and he marched on.

  He caught up to Gilgaroth again and stabbed him, punching through his scales. Gilgaroth hardly noticed. Baleron stabbed again. And again. Rondthril flashed. Thunder shook the tower.

  “Die!” Baleron shouted. “Why won’t you just die?”

  With each strike, fires shot out from the wounds. Baleron knew only vaguely how Gilgaroth and the Second Hell were connected, but they were, one wound about the other, and with every hole Baleron put in the Dark One he seemed to put another in Illistriv.

  He struck again and again. Metal flashed. Black blood spurted. Flame shot out. Gilgaroth moaned in pain, but kept mounting the stairs.

  As he went, he moved slower . . . and slower.

  Baleron roared and grunted. Rondthril struck.

  “Die!”

  As Gilgaroth slowed, Baleron was able to ascend up the Hell-Worm’s body, poking holes all through his enemy’s length. He slipped on the black blood, got scorched by jetting fires, but he pressed on, all he could hear the thunder of his own heartbeat.

  He reached the Dark One’s horned and whiskered head.

  “Now we come to it,” Baleron told him, panting. “Your end is here.” He poised the sword so as to drive it through Gilgaroth’s eye and into his brain.

  Yet Gilgaroth would not be so easily overcome. Suddenly, with one sudden jerk, he reared up and knocked Baleron back. The prince tumbled down a few stairs but caught himself, bracing his weight with Rondthril.

  Gilgaroth, eyes flaming as well as body, twisted about and loomed over him.

  “Yes,” Gilgaroth said. “Now we come to it. Let me end your Doom, little prince. It is what you have wanted.”

  Baleron glared up at him. “It’s king now. Thanks to you.”

  The Shadow prepared to strike, to snap up Baleron in his iron jaws and destroy him utterly, but before he could do so the fires that were pouring from his body in great gouts began to consume him, and he bellowed in pain. His whole black length burst into a tortured mass of flame.

  He flung himself upon the stairs and writhed. He blackened, his scales blistering, as the fires of his own creation devoured him. Baleron shrank back and watched on, awed. The flames drew sweat from his pores.

  From deep within its bowels, the Black Tower rumbled violently.

  Baleron shook off his awe. Gilgaroth lived. Baleron stood, spitting blood from where he’d bitten his tongue, and stalked up the length of Gilgaroth one last time. Fires scorched him and smoke stung his eyes, and the writhing coils threatened to crush him, but he endured.

  “You made Man,” he said, breathlessly, as he went. “You said one from among the Fallen Race would be your Deliverer, and so it is. I, Baleron Grothgar, King of Havensrike, deliver you into darkness. Farewell!”

  Reaching Gilgaroth’s head, he swiped Rondthril across his belly, gathering a coat of blood, and plunged the unholy sword into the Dark One’s skull. A shock ran up his arm, but he felt Gilgaroth’s flesh and bone give beneath him. Gilg
aroth roared. His whipping head knocked Baleron back down the stairs.

  The Hell-Worm thrashed and moaned, writhing in his death throes, Rondthril embedded in his brain. Flames shot from his fanged mouth and washed across the glistening black stairs.

  Baleron retreated down the steps, stumbling, his eyes on Gilgaroth, as Krogbur shuddered and broke apart.

  The shadow-wraiths swarmed about their Master, trying and failing to help him. His fury drove them away, so they circled him at a distance, wailing in terror and sadness.

  The Dark One’s thrashing finally ceased, and his body slumped to the stairs and was still. Thunder boomed and the walls shook and broke. Fissures spread. Cracks split the stairs. Wind screamed and howled.

  Gilgaroth did not move.

  Awe fell on Baleron. The Wolf . . . is dead.

  As he watched, insubstantial shapes, like shadows of shadows, suddenly poured from the holes Rondthril had dealt the Dark One. They boiled out of the Second Hell, some screaming, some wailing, all in haste to be gone as Illistriv collapsed. More and more poured from Gilgaroth’s wounds—thousands, perhaps millions of them—and Baleron watched in wonder, completely transfixed.

  Illistriv was breaking. It must be. And all its prisoners were being set loose. Even now Baleron might be watching Salthrick’s soul escape its torment, along with millions of others. Baleron felt a smile spread across his face. The wraiths, seeing the imprisoned souls go free and fearing retribution, scattered.

  Baleron turned about, meaning to go down, and his smile faded instantly.

  Rolenya, white and smoking and still, lay in a heap down on the terrace.

  Calling her name, Baleron leapt down the stairs as fast as he could, slipping and cursing, but at last he reached her and, sinking to his knees, cradled her in his arms.

  “Rolenya!” he said. “Can you hear me?”

  She didn’t move. The wind blew her hair, fluttered her dress, but she didn’t move. She was still warm, but Baleron had no idea if that would last. She was already cooling under the frigid rain.