The War Of The Black Tower (Book 2)

by Jack Conner

  The prince sat and stared at him for a long minute. Simply, he said, “No.”

  Albrech nodded. That was it. There were no wasted words of emotion between them. For his part, Baleron was surprised his father had even asked the question. Albrech had never cared about what he thought before.

  The king rose to his feet and seemed on the verge of saying something, but Baleron spoke first: “I ask only one thing.”

  “Yes?” Albrech seemed impatient.

  “If I go back with you, I want to be given a command.”

  “A command of what?”

  “Of soldiers, what else? You said you would give me a position of responsibility.”

  Albrech grunted. “So I did. So I did. And I shall, but as to what extent ... I don’t know. I never saw what became of your slave-liberation party. The reason I gave you that command was because those men had seen you return a hero after saving Rolenya. But when we return to Glorifel, the men there will just look on you as they did before. I will think on it.”

  “Think hard, Father. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of drawing the Enemy’s blood. Give me a weapon to do it with. If you don’t, I must find another. And it likely won’t be in Glorifel.”

  Albrech regarded him levelly. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he smiled, though it was not a happy smile. “It is the only thing that keeps me going, as well. So, then, you will return?”

  Baleron grimaced. “Yes,” he said at last. “I will go home. After three years, I will go home. I only hope that you do not regret it.”

  BOOK TWO:

  HAVENSRIKE

  Chapter 6

  Drums throbbed in the darkness. Doom. Doom. Doom.

  Before the platform, the Borchstogs gathered like a terrible sea, vast and crushing, their red eyes glittering in the lurid light of the brazier that stood alone on the stage. Their jet-black skins gleamed sickly, and those beyond the reach of the fiery light stood in shadow, yet still their eyes flashed red.

  Rows on rows of them, thousands, tens of thousands, they waited. To each side loomed the foothills of the southernmost Aragst Mountains, black masses against the stars. Throughout the Borchstog ranks stood creatures larger than they, Trolls and Serpents and tentacled things spawned in the lightless depths of Ghrastigor, and more.

  Doom Doom Doom tolled the drumming: incessant, primordial, the beating black heart of some ancient monster.

  Listening to it, letting the sound suffuse them, become them, so that their own hearts beat to its rhythm, they waited.

  Finally, a dark figure mounted the platform from the far side. Tall and regal, the figure seemed all shadow and malice and seething power, but then the veil dispersed to reveal Lord Ungier, father of all other vampires. Long and leathery, with his bat-like wings folded about him like a cape, he swept the host with his awful gaze.

  “Roschk Gilgaroth!” he shouted, and such was his power that every ear here heard him well.

  “ROSCHK GILGAROTH!” the host thundered back.

  Pride glimmered in his all-black eyes. Suddenly the drums stopped their hypnotic tolling, and the only sound in all that vast assembly was the burning of the brazier. Then he spoke again, using the tongue of Oslog uncomfortably, for this army was of the Black Land, the land of his father, not of Oksilith, his own:

  “You are grand and strong, a worthy army indeed, and I've led the best. For thousands of years, I helmed the fine fortress of Gulrothrog. But it is no more, sacrificed in the service of the One. And yet I endure. And I have new purpose: to lead you over yonder mountains and descend upon Havensrike itself like the very wrath of the One, for that we surely are!”

  They roared and pounded on their armored chests, a great swell of approval. He waited, then:

  “The six nations of the Crescent Union shall fall—that unworthy alliance that's checked our Master for an Age, but now that Age shall end, and the Age of Grandeur shall begin!” Again came their roar. He waited, then said in tones of reverence and awe, “Ul Ravast, the promised one, walks the earth.” He let that sink in, and saw their appreciation. “Yes. Our Lord’s Prophecy unfolds. The Time has come—the Time for His supremacy! And you will make it happen!”

  This time they roared loudest of all.

  “Now for blood!” he called. They hooted and hollered, as they knew he didn't speak figuratively.

  A Borchstog priest led a captive onto the stage, a comely woman, naked and pale beneath the starlight. She made no move to resist. Ungier did not let her. He had her in thrall to him so that she was little more than a marionette on unseen strings. It would not do for her to fight him.

  She bowed low before him.

  “Rise,” he said, “and make your offering.”

  She rose and stepped forward until her breasts almost touched him. She leaned her head back, exposing her graceful throat.

  He took her in his long arms and lowered her, almost as though she were his lover. And, almost tenderly, he bit into the soft flesh of her throat. She gasped. Hot blood spurted into his mouth, and he swallowed greedily. It pumped and pumped, and her white limbs thrashed, and the Borchstogs roared beyond, but theirs was a vague sound to him. All he could hear clearly was the thump thump of the girl’s heart. Soon it slowed. Her white limbs stilled.

  He drew back. Blood ran down from his mouth and dripped over his chest. Her fire filled him. He eyed his soldiers and found them greedy. He would appease them.

  He lifted the girl bodily over his head and flung her dying form into the crowd. The Borchstogs clamored, fighting over it, and he watched with a bloody smile.

  “Roschk Gilgaroth!” he roared.

  “ROSCHK GILGAROTH!” Hail Gilgaroth!

  “Now for more amusements.” To the wings, he said, “Bring them.”

  More black-clad priests stepped on stage, dragging bound prisoners with them. These prisoners were under no thrall, and they struggled and writhed. Ungier considered stilling them, but he heard the approving swell of noise from his army and decided against it. The Borchstogs loved the Art, and where was the fun in it if the victim was compliant?

  Scaffolds and benches and machinery had been erected on the stage, and until now he had cloaked them in shadow, but now he revealed them, and the Borchstogs howled joyfully.

  There were ten prisoners in the first wave, all Men and Elves captured after the eruption of Oksil, and they glared hatefully at their captors. Ungier watched, pleased, as they were fixed to the torture racks, but a tug of unease gnawed at him. Normally he would enjoy such sport. He would preside over it, even perform much of the Art himself, but something kept him from it now.

  He turned to the gathered host to see their red eyes shining with joy. They were on the first stages of a holy mission, they were being entertained by one of their Master’s mightiest sons, and all was right with the world. He realized he didn’t need to be here any longer; the priests would see to the Art with all the relish of their calling.

  “I take my leave now!” he called to his troops. “Enjoy the show. But afterwards, make yourselves ready! We march at dawn.”

  He returned to his command tent, tall and crimson, the central point of concentric rings of blood-red tents where his sons and daughters dwelt. His tent was guarded by two half-Trolls, and he had other, less obvious watchers. The half-Trolls bowed as he entered.

  Within he found ... her. It. He still wasn't sure.

  She lay in his bed, the bed he used for lustful pursuits (as he slept by hanging from his feet from the beam above) under his silk covers, beautiful as always, dark hair framing her young, lovely face. Likely she was naked under those thin covers. She smelled ... spicy.

  “It went well,” she purred. “I heard them. They approve of their new leader.”

  He stopped, not daring to approach her. Just being this close made his skin crawl. “They will be gladder still when Havensrike is mine.”

  “You mean ... Gilgaroth’s?”

  He gestured. “Out of my bed!”

  She didn't m
ove. She patted the spot next to her and smiled. It was the smile of a predator. “Why don’t you join me? I know it's what you want, what you've always wanted.”

  He snorted. “I've had that body. Many times. Again and again. She was mine for three years, remember. But that's not what I wanted from her in any case.” He paused, and bit back his bitterness. In a dry, flat tone, he added, “I wanted her heart, and that you can never give me.”

  She pouted, but even that was a game, he knew.

  “When do you march?” she asked. “I didn't hear.”

  “At dawn. As soon as Father sends the clouds.” He stared at her, frowning, thinking over the thing that had been gnawing at him. “Do you think ... if I am successful ... that He will forgive me?”

  She pursed her lips. “You can raze the World itself, Ungier, and you will still be Ungier. And that may be a sin too great even for Him. But we will see. Destroy Havensrike, the mightiest nation of the Crescent, and that would go a long way. A long way indeed.”

  From the stage, the cry of a tortured prisoner broke the silence, and she smiled. “I think I’ll go and watch.”

  She rose from the bed, and indeed she was naked, and lovely, voluptuous yet slender, young ... and yet Ungier could see the thing inside her. Part of him wanted to rend her limb from limb for the blasphemy of tainting that perfect body, of usurping the perfect soul that had inhabited it. But then she, or it, was strong, perhaps even stronger than he, and in any wise she or it was necessary for the Master’s design. The Spider’s web. Ungier wondered where the Spider was just then, and when they would meet again.

  Chapter 7

  Soil and grass flew in chunks beneath the flashing hooves of Baleron’s stallion. The horse’s black flanks were frothy with sweat, its running panicked. Baleron threaded his way between low green hills faded by summer. The sun blazed down from above, but—strangely—that didn't deter his pursuer.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  “By the dugs of Mogra!”

  The Grudremorqen was closer. It was huge, a serpent of flame perhaps two hundred feet long, its eyes black holes in its terrible face. The rest was flame-bright, burning flame. The behemoth left a blackened, smoking ruin in his wake.

  Baleron only looked for a moment (that was enough), then faced front again. His horse leapt a boulder, and his stomach heaved. He tasted blood in his mouth.

  Behind, the Grudremorqen roared, a great, earthshaking sound.

  “On, damn you!” Baleron shouted to his horse. “Faster!”

  They thundered around a rocky hill and came into view of the gorge through which the wide white Naslym River raged, snaking its way northward down from the Aragst Mountains. A sturdy wooden bridge spanned it. On the other side waited the haggard ranks of the army.

  Baleron heard the Naslym’s watery rumble and grinned tightly.

  “Almost there,” he growled to his horse as they approached the bridge.

  The Grudremorqen roared again behind, bellowing out its wrath at the thought of Baleron’s escape. It belched fire at his backside, and he felt the heat of the blast through his armor. His horse neighed in fear and pain. The plume faded behind.

  Baleron could feel the vibrations in the earth as the fire serpent gave one final burst of energy, meaning to overtake and destroy him, then cross the bridge and devour the remains of the Havensrike Army, one score of soldiers at a time.

  Baleron brought his horse at a swift gallop onto the wide bridge. Archers on the other side were already shooting arrows of fire to embed in the sturdy planks. With a little help from the army’s only surviving wielder of Light, Logran, the flames quickly engulfed the bridge.

  Baleron plowed through the bright hot tongues, glaring about him. Sweat ran in rivulets beneath his burning armor.

  He was over halfway across. Smoke wreathed him, filled his lungs, and he coughed it away.

  Just then, the Grudremorqen, throwing aside all caution in the service of its Lord, slithered onto the bridge. It opened its awesome jaws and belched another gout of fire at the retreating rider, who just narrowly escaped it. The behemoth charged on. Just another few seconds and it would be upon Baleron and then across—

  Baleron made it to the other side and wheeled about to face his pursuer. He snatched the bow off his back and sent a shaft hurtling into one great black eye.

  He never knew if that made any difference, as just then the Grudremorqen gave one last roar as it felt the timbers beneath it giving out. Screaming in rage, it plummeted into the Naslym a quarter of a mile below. The creature was a long, glittering ribbon of fire that sank into the deep rushing river, blue and foaming. Water boiled up at its impact and the steam hid its death throes from view. Its final roar shook stones loose from the cliff side, and the army drew back.

  Baleron tore off his helmet and let the cool breeze caress his sweaty, stubbled face, as he took in great gasps. Beneath him, the stallion panted, ready to collapse. Baleron slipped off him and patted his flanks.

  “Water!” he demanded. “Bring my horse some water!”

  Servants hurried to obey.

  Soldiers gathered around the man, hailing him, thanking him, and he nodded tiredly. The Archmage approached and clapped him on the back.

  “Well done, Baleron.”

  Baleron shrugged. “I hadn’t intended to get chased, you know. I just stayed behind to trigger the avalanche. I was really rather hoping that would do the trick.” He turned wistfully to the flaming remains of the bridge. “You know, these damned bridges have caused me more trouble—”

  The royal horn blew, the King summoning his troops.

  Obediently they came, Baleron and Logran among them. The host was a grim and ragged group, but a fire seemed to kindle in them when they looked on the stony face of Lord Albrech Grothgar, Baleron’s father, sitting astride his brown steed.

  “Well done, men!” he said. “We’ve made it. We’re officially in Havensrike now. We’re almost home.”

  Baleron paused when he crested the hill and sucked in a breath.

  “Home,” he breathed.

  Before him stretched the hills and fields that surrounded Glorifel, capitol of Havensrike. After the wonders of Clevaris, City of Light, Glorifel looked rather pedestrian—Human, he thought—and its somber gray walls did not look out over garden-forests or vibrant green plains but on the rocky, scrub-covered hills of the region. However, even more than Clevaris, Glorifel was a city of water, as it was built on a network of interconnected streams and rivers, and it was famous for its gondolas and water festivals. The sturdy domes and spires that rose between the canals sparkled under the sun.

  Baleron had longed to see this sight for years—long, grim years.

  The men of Havensrike had departed Clevaris grimly and made their way out of Larenthi with haste. They’d barely escaped the flaming jaws of Grudremorq’s host—this by mere hours—and passed through Felgrad (whose bridges over the Naslym had been rebuilt in the last three years) and finally into Havensrike itself. The month-long journey had taxed everyone, including Baleron, who, unable to help it, spent much of his time brooding on the nature of his Doom. It is wrapped about your very soul, Queen Vilana had told him, and the words haunted him. The prophecy of ul Ravast might be a lie (might be), but his Doom, it seemed, was very real, and as long as it was so was ul Ravast, he who would usher in the Dark Times, the time of Gilgaroth’s supremacy.

  But, seeing Glorifel before him, Baleron began to feel lighter, easier. He prayed that his Doom wouldn’t follow him within the walls of the city, but of course it would. He only hoped that whatever good he could do here in organizing a defense against the Shadow would be enough to outweigh whatever his curse would bring to bear in support of it; that’s why Vilana hadn’t destroyed him (as he’d asked her to), after all.

  “Don’t stop now,” said King Grothgar, just passing on his brown stallion. “We’re not there yet.”

  When the host passed through the Gates, the city gave them a hero’s welcome. Ho
me to some half million people, Glorifel had much welcome to give. The soldiers were greeted with much cheering and music and more. Hot plates of steaming food were thrust at them, and the unmarried girls went around giving kisses on the cheek to weary troops. But even in the faces of the girls and the cheering shopkeepers and peasants was a look of disbelief and dread at the small number of survivors. Nearly forty-five thousand Havensri had left for war: only thirty-five hundred now returned.

  His horse clip-clopping on the cobbled streets, King Grothgar led his ragtag army through the broad avenues, over long bridges and at last into Kings’ Square, which lay before the forbidding peaks and spires of Grothgar Castle, that massive gray structure that reared starkly above the shining city of white and gold and burnished red, of amber and blue and sunset orange. Amidst the warm splendor, it loomed solemn and forbidding.

  Riding at the king’s side, Baleron wondered how Lunir fared. He hadn’t wanted any of the townspeople to attack the glarum thinking it an enemy, so he’d asked the Master of Horse to look out for the great crow-like bird rather than let him fly overhead, where he would surely get shot down. Baleron wished he had been riding Lunir when the Grudremorq broke through the avalanche, but lately he’d been trying to fit in with the Havensri, to become one of them again, and riding a winged steed of the enemy would do more than raise a few eyebrows.

  King Grothgar stopped before the statue of his forefather, King Grothgar I—the source of so much of the tension between the First Men and the Second—and dismounted. He ascended the flight of stairs to the platform where the towering figure of the old king reared on his mount, sword thrust at the heavens, and turned to address the crowd, who waited expectantly, glumly.

  “Thank you for the warm welcome,” he said, nodding to his eldest living son, Prince Rilurn, who stood surrounded by a few guards. “I wish I could receive it with a likewise warm heart, but I cannot.”