The War Of The Black Tower (Book 2)

by Jack Conner

  “I killed it once and here it is. Kill it again and it’ll only turn up later, and we won’t know where or when. We need it under wraps.”

  He kicked the thing in the side, and it cried out. He could not believe it had fooled him so, that he had loved it as he had loved his own sister, but ... much more intimately. Revulsion filled him, and it was all he could do not to retch.

  “Rolenya!” he demanded. “Tell me, you abomination. The real Rolenya—is she ... ?”

  “She’s dead,” Rauglir said. “Ungier fought it, but before you and I ... escaped ... from Gulrothrog, Master went behind his back, and I as Master’s most loyal servant got the honor.”

  It was like a physical blow to Baleron. “You killed her?”

  “No. Master took that pleasure for Himself. But I ... I wore her.” His laugh shook the room, though now the sound was wet and deathly. King Grothgar and his two elder sons looked on in disbelief. “And,” added the werewolf, “Master ate her soul.”

  “No!” gasped Baleron.

  “It can’t be!” echoed his father.

  Despair flooded the king’s eyes and he seemed to lose all strength. Kenbrig and Larik caught him and bore his weight.

  Baleron set the horror aside to be dealt with later. “So,” he said, “my part in this is over. I’m the spider no longer.” He remembered Rondthril being deflected from the charging Asmin-wolf and knew the Shadow’s will would have had him dead if not for chance.

  “The king’s death is important,” admitted Rauglir. “More important than you.”

  Albrech’s resolve returned, and with it his voice. “Kill it,” he croaked. “Kiiiilllll iiit!” It was a dry, rattling rasp.

  “No,” Baleron said. “Would you have this demon on the loose again?” That seemed to sober Albrech somewhat, though the loathing in his eyes as they fell on Baleron was plain. To the demon, the prince asked, “How did you trick your way in here? How did you get past Logran’s new detection methods?”

  Rauglir sneered. “I’ll never tell.”

  Baleron twisted one of the blades, and the beast arched its back and screamed. When it still didn’t speak, Baleron twisted again, and again.

  “Fine,” it spat at last, blood trickling from its maw. “It’s no secret, not anymore. Elethris had a book. He chronicled all his discoveries and techniques in it. I stole it—” (he gasped) “—gave it to my Master. The rest was easy. When He knew how Elethris detected His spies, my Master simply changed the nature of possession.” He laughed wetly. “Bedded many Elves to find out about the book, and I turned them all.” His dark eyes swiveled to the king. “Your men were even easier, and none were loyal. None refused your beloved daughter. All I offered her body to here took her. Even your son. But I didn’t turn him. Ul Ravast was off-limits. And, besides, he was more fun human. Oh, I played you, Baleron. I played you well.” The demon looked him in the eye, almost tenderly. “My love.”

  Albrech regarded Baleron, too. “Betrayer!” he said. “Incest-maker! How can I call you son after this?”

  Kenbrig and Larik stared at Baleron with scorn and derision, and Baleron turned away.

  Suddenly, Logran burst into the room, startling everyone. He wore a sense of urgency on his pained and heavily-lined face, but once inside he stared agog at the werewolf impaled to the floor. Tendrils of smoke still issued from its tangled and blood-matted fur.

  “Dear gods!” Logran said. “I sensed something amiss.”

  “That,” spat the king, “is Rolenya. Or was,” he added.

  Sadness filled Logran’s eyes. “Gods ...”

  “I think they’ve abandoned us, my friend.”

  “But I tested her.”

  “Not well enough, evidently. What news of the Council?”

  “Many Councilors died. I don’t know how any meeting can go forward now. Yet the attack has been contained and the demons destroyed—at least, all that were in the castle. But ... there is rioting in the streets.”

  “Rioting?”

  “A sorcerer on the wall communed with me, told me that some hundred soldiers turned on their comrades. They ... became beasts. Demons. Even now the true soldiers are putting them down, but the werewolves have slain many—generals and high officers for the main.”

  “A hundred?” asked Baleron. Suddenly he felt cold.

  Logran nodded. “More or less.”

  Baleron shared a look with Albrech. The latter narrowed his eyes even further. “I suppose we know where they came from, don’t we?”

  Baleron did not answer. He was too ashamed. I let them in. I let them all in. And I let ... her . . in, too. My Doom ...

  Logran looked to the bloody form of Rauglir.

  The werewolf managed to say, though its words were garbled and wet, “I know you, sorcerer. You ... resisted me ... at Celievsti. The only one who could.”

  Logran’s face reddened, and he seemed to shrink in on himself, but his eyes stayed fixed. “I should’ve guessed the truth then. The real Rolenya never would have ...”

  He looked to the king, who just shook his head, too weary to process anything further.

  “It’s Baleron who should’ve guessed,” Kenbrig said. “He was not as strong as you.”

  Logran’s face clouded.

  Baleron knew he would be shut out after this. No more would he sit at the right hand of his father. No more would his voice be heard in Council meetings. No more would he lead his Fighting Five Hundred. He would just be a lingering shadow in the halls of the castle, an empty shell of lies and shame—if he kept his freedom at all.

  Maybe there was some way he could redeem himself. Maybe there was some way he could get back into his father’s good graces. He would start by torturing Rauglir for all the demon knew. And he would enjoy it. How he would enjoy it!

  He turned back to Rauglir but saw only the body of his sister—Rolenya, her face screwed up in agony, her lovely body naked and run through with blades and covered with her own blood. Tears ran down her cheeks and every breath she took was a nightmare.

  “Please ...” she cried. “Please, Bal ... I love you ...”

  His heart twisted, and for some reason he could not hold back the dam of tears any longer, and he erupted into fierce sobs. Curse it all, how he’d loved her!

  Albrech saw his grief—his very intimate grief—and said, “May the Omkar have pity on your soul, boy, for I won’t have pity on your body.”

  The king started to take a step forward, but Logran laid a hand on his shoulder, staying him. “It bewitched him, my lord. One way or the other. Leave it at that. The heart runs a strange course and I doubt either one of us is qualified to chart it, or condemn it.”

  Albrech’s chin jutted out defiantly for a moment, but then he let out a breath and stepped back.

  “Kill me,” the thing that looked like Rolenya begged Baleron. “It hurts ... so much ...”

  Could she truly be in there somewhere? he wondered. Might this not be her, asking for help? Surely, if this was her body, and Rauglir had access to her former thoughts and memories and passions ...

  Angrily, he grabbed the hilt of one of the swords protruding from her and twisted it savagely. She arched and spasmed. A ragged cry escaped her lips.

  “That’s only the beginning,” he promised. “Why? Why did you do this to me?”

  She smiled, and her teeth were sharp serrated triangles, rows upon rows, and her eyes were endless black holes swallowing all light, reaching out to swallow him.

  He gasped and recoiled, but then she was just Rolenya, beautiful and light-boned and smelling of flowers in the spring.

  “Because I could,” she said, and her voice was rough and black and evil.

  Baleron twisted another blade, and Rauglir screamed.

  “If that’s why you want to keep it alive, my prince, I’d suggest letting it die,” Logran said. “What other answers can we get from it?”

  “That’s exactly what we should find out,” Baleron said.

  “Torture is not th
e way.”

  “It’s what it would do to us. And if it divulges any information under torture, many lives could be saved.”

  “But at what cost?”

  “I’m ready to pay that price!” Baleron snapped. “Are you?”

  Logran’s eyes narrowed.

  Baleron turned to the blood-drenched thing. “This was the real reason for the attack on Oksil, wasn’t it?” he asked it. “So that I would rescue you and bring you into our ranks, without being tested first. The loosing of Grudremorq was only an added benefit. The real reason was to allow you to ...” He realized it then. “Your mission was to kill the king first, then the head sorcerer. Just like ... just like at Celievsti. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Logran gasped, his eyes widening. “No!”

  Rauglir smiled bitterly. “I felled the White Tower. I slew Felias and Elethris.”

  “You filth!” snarled Logran.

  The werewolf smiled wider. “But it was your Doom that made it all possible, Baleron, my love, for you were the one to rescue me, to lead me into the highest ranks of Elves and Men. Thanks to you, I single-handedly paralyzed Larenthi. And thanks to you, I nearly did the same for Havensrike—and I will yet before I’m through.”

  Overcoming his swell of disgust and hate, Baleron thought he saw a glimmer of hope in Rauglir’s words. “Then my curse isn’t perfect,” he reasoned. “It can be overcome.”

  “Your Doom is not done yet, my love, for the king and the sorcerer of Havensrike yet live. You cannot defeat it, darling. It is bound to you. A part of you. Like my love.” It laughed wetly, choking on the blood that filled its mouth and lungs.

  Hate burned in Baleron’s heart, hate for this thing, this foul, terrible thing, and hate for the monstrous god that had spawned it, that had given it its awful mission. He was about to cause it more agony when suddenly alarm bells tolled throughout the city, and his head snapped up.

  He glanced to his father and Logran and his brothers, and they too looked grim. As one, they ran to the balcony and leaned out over the railing, straining their eyes toward the West Gates. The soldiers there had been the ones to raise the call.

  The heavy tolling continued to roll over the spires and monuments of Glorifel, and everyone in the streets stopped what they were doing and took cover or rushed to arms.

  Something above the city wall drew Baleron’s attention, and everyone else’s. For, circling the city above Ungier’s host, cutting through the skies, was the largest dragon the prince could imagine.

  He recognized it.

  “May Illiana protect us,” said Albrech.

  “It’s Throgmar,” Baleron said. “But I don’t understand. Why would he be here, unless ... ?”

  “What?” Logran said. “What is it?”

  Baleron swore. “Don’t you see? He’s come to collect his due.”

  Chapter 13

  The long and glittering form of the Leviathan winged its way gracefully through the sky. A ring of black, lightning-lit clouds encircled the city, but within the walls the sky burned blue.

  His scales a dark green, Throgmar gleamed. A wide gold band shone on his underside, and countless encrusted shapes sparkled along his flanks, as though the Great Worm had rolled around in his own vast hoard so thoroughly that diamonds and rubies had enmeshed themselves in the cracks in his thick armor, and now, when the sun caught him just right, he glittered. Somehow, through that armor, hair sprouted in many places, especially along his upper neck and about his shoulders, creating a rough dark mane that waved in the stiff breeze. It wasn’t a fine, pretty mane like a horse’s; rather it was more akin to a lion’s, though it ran from the crown of his head all the way down his tail, and it was long, dark and in places tangled, yet it made him look stately somehow, if bestial, mammalian rather than reptilian. Whiskers stood out from his terrible snout, as well as tufts of hair, and these were more than flecked with gray.

  “Sweet Illiana!” muttered Larik. “May the Light shine down, but he’s a monster!”

  “Is he goodly or wicked?” asked Kenbrig.

  Logran stroked his beard thoughtfully. “He appears to be a Darkworm, a spawn of Lorg-jilaad or Gilgaroth, yet he did aid us at Gulrothrog. We wouldn’t have defeated that fortress without him. Indeed, we would not have survived.”

  Lord Grothgar snorted. “Gulrothrog was a trap. That imposter—” he hiked his chin back at Rauglir “—just admitted it. At any rate, this Worm was likely in on the plot, an agent of the Wolf.” Making a fist with his right hand, he shook it at the dragon far above. “Kill it.”

  “No!” said Baleron.

  “I will not listen to you,” Albrech snarled.

  “The creature cannot enter the city, not with all the shields I and my brethren have put in place,” Logran said. “There’s no reason to kill him, even if we could.”

  “Can you?” asked the king, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Perhaps, if I led the sorcerers in an attack against him—but, my lord, there’s no need. He’s not a threat, not out there.”

  Throgmar circled the city. A cloud of glarumri gave chase to him, but he didn’t seem concerned about his pursuers, and their effort to kill him or drive him off seemed half-hearted at best. He was just too big.

  The dragon roared, and then he spoke:

  “I WISH TO SPEAK TO THE KING!” he boomed in Havensril, his voice hugely deep, and proud. “I HAVE URGENT BUSINESS WITH THE MASTER OF THE REALM. LET ME IN, MORTALS, OR DIE IN FLAMES!”

  The king shot a glance at Logran. “He’s mad! ‘Urgent business’? Ha! We can’t let him in.”

  “I don’t know what he’s on about, my lord.”

  “I’ve met him before,” Baleron said calmly. “I know what he’s here for.”

  “What?” Albrech said, though without looking at Baleron.

  “His due, as I said.”

  “What are you mumbling about?”

  “I encountered him when I escaped Gulrothrog. He was an agent of Ungier sent to kill me, but I bought my freedom from him instead. He hates Gilgaroth, so I told him he could live here, in Havensrike, and be our ally.”

  “You had no right!” Albrech said. “Who are you to barter with Darkworms?”

  “He earned it, Father, for what he did then, and at Gulrothrog.”

  “Bah! He only delayed our doom.”

  “Father.” There was steel in Baleron tone, and suddenly the king seemed aware that he was looking up at Baleron, and that the prince was looming over him. Albrech was in Baleron’s shadow, and Baleron, tall, strong, scarred and dark, was scowling down at him. “Good,” said the prince, when he saw the expression on his father’s face. “Now you will go to him, and treat with him, and you will honor our bargain.”

  Albrech ground his teeth, and his face was livid. For a long moment, he said nothing, but he was nearly trembling in anger. He opened his mouth to bark some order to Larik and Kenbrig, likely to remove Baleron forcibly, when Logran laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “My lord, the dragon did aid us. We would all be dead without him, or in the torture pits of the Hidden Fortress, if not for his help. Besides,” he said more quietly, “if we could befriend him, perhaps he could aid us against Ungier yet again.”

  Albrech nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, that would be very well.” To Baleron, he said, “We will treat with him, son, but it shall be you who goes.”

  “It should be you, Father.”

  “You’re the one who dealt with him before, and it should be you that treats with him again.”

  Reluctantly, Baleron nodded. “Very well.”

  “I’ll commune with the other sorcerers,” Logran said. He tucked his chin to his chest, closed his eyes, and for several moments his lips moved soundlessly. “It’s done,” he said at last. “We’ve opened a path through our shields. The Worm should sense it.”

  Baleron looked back to Throgmar, who, apparently noting the shift in magics, banked to the left and entered the airspace above Glorifel, winging high above the city’s buildings and tow
ers, its museums and universities and culture centers, its small homes and palaces, its parks and industrial districts, crossing over rivers and streams, while the glarumri ceased their pursuit and began circling the city, waiting for Throgmar to leave. Could it be an act, or did they genuinely consider him an enemy?

  The Worm’s shadow rolled across the city until he neared Castle Grothgar, and then he set down in Kings’ Square, right before the great staircase that led up to the huge main doors of the keep, the Grothgar Gates. Throgmar landed, tucked his wings behind his back and, stretching his long neck towards the fortress, roared loudly in challenge or greeting or, possibly, just to demonstrate his might. He carried so much power so easily that it took Baleron’s breath away, yet Baleron squared his jaw and said to his father and brothers, “Farewell.”

  “Come with me,” said Logran. “I will outfit you.”

  The sorcerer led him through the halls beyond the royal wing to the stairs climbing the inside of his tower, then up to his chambers at the top.

  “I’ll outfit you in light, silent, dragonfire-resistant armor,” said the mage. “The best we have.”

  First he lathered an ointment on Baleron’s ribs and several other wounds, especially an injury along his leg Baleron barely remembered receiving. Afterward, Logran placed armor on the prince, for which Baleron was immensely grateful. He wasn’t in this completely alone.

  “I made this for your father,” Logran said, as he shoved the golden lion-helm on Baleron’s head, “back in his campaigning days.”

  “It’s a fine thing. All of it.”

  Logran frowned, thinking. “About what your father said ... It’s a tough thing, what happened. Don’t judge him too harshly. Few would understand. For my part, I see both sides.”

  “And do you too condemn me?”

  “Love is not to be condemned. Now go, Baleron, and make us proud. Fear not. My brethren and I are watching.”

  “And the king?”

  “I’ll return to him shortly.”

  The prince quit the tower, only limping slightly from the gash on his leg, which felt much better after the healing salve. Even his ribs and back felt improved, though he still moved stiffly. He made his way down through the castle until he reached the main hall that led from the Grothgar Gates to the Throne Room. Soldiers thronged the hall and had barred the Gates securely; he had no doubts that archers in the hundreds even now had their bolts trained on the Worm from their arrow-slits.