The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3)

by Jack Conner

  Chapter 10

  Glorifel succumbed to the evil of Ungier. Baleron watched it happen.

  The area about the city was hilly, and Throgmar set down on a high point to the south. From there the two watched in silence as flames and terror washed across the capital of Havensrike. Baleron let the tears fall without restraint. He sank to his knees and wept. Throgmar watched him, seeming to bask in his horror and grief.

  Finally Baleron turned to the dragon angrily. “You must think this is all very amusing, you bastard.”

  “WATCH YOUR TONGUE, MORTAL.”

  “And if I don’t? Will you kill me?”

  “PROVOKE ME AND WE SHALL SEE.”

  Baleron spat at the dragon’s clawed feet. “There!”

  “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”

  “Yes!”

  Throgmar’s eyes glittered. “GOOD.”

  They said no more to each other. In the morning, Throgmar bore him down from the mountain and over the city. Baleron saw that half of it had been burnt to the ground, but the other half still stood, if scorched and ugly. Ungier did not intend to raze it utterly, then; he wanted a place to rule, something with which to replace Gulrothrog.

  Public squares had been turned into places of horror. Scaffolds and racks and machinery had been erected, and men and women and children alike were undergoing torture to the delight of the Borchstogs. But some humans had been kept from that fate; Borchstogs were herding groups of enslaved Glorifelans through the streets, gathering them in King’s Square. It was there that Throgmar sat down, upon the very ruins of Grothgar Castle. The stifling air stank of smoke and death and the rot of Borchstogs. Ungier stood on a platform built before the statue of King Grothgar I, where Albrech had given his speech upon returning from Larenthi. The statue’s king as well as horse had been decapitated. No, decapitated was not exactly the right word, Baleron saw; the heads had been switched.

  The Vampire King surveyed the chained and huddled masses of the human survivors as his Borchstogs finished rounding them up. Most were women and children, Baleron saw, and all were dirty, soot-streaked and terrified. It hurt him to look upon them, and he could not meet their gazes when they turned to see just what manner of man had been flown in by a Great Worm. When they were all gathered, he did a rough count. There were less than four thousand of them. Four thousand!

  Of course, doubtlessly some had fled into the hills and others were still being rounded up, but it was still staggering.

  He wondered if Amrelain were among them, but did not see her. Surely the Borchstogs would not have killed one so beautiful. Perhaps she had been among those to escape.

  He saw many undead things stirring about the city, and he recognized a few of them. Some had been members of the Five Hundred. Halthus was there, lurching and moaning, most of his chest gone. Blood spattered his mouth, and flies buzzed about him. Baleron shuddered. Would Glorifel become a city of demons and the living dead? At the thought, bile burned into the back of his throat.

  Ungier spoke, his words directed at his prisoners, and he wore a gloating sneer as he shouted, “Welcome! Greetings from Oksilith! From Oslog!” A few women wailed in fear. “Thank you all for joining in the rebirth of your fair city, for that is what it shall be: a new beginning.” He took a breath. “Let me tell you a story. My story. I was birthed of an egg made of dead flesh, the flesh of my Master’s finest fallen warriors. Out of their demise came my life, and so it shall be here. Your city is dead, but from its rotting corpse will come a new day, a new world, and it shall be glorious, just as I am. You will see. You will grow used to the whip and the lash. You will grow used to the blood-letting. You will grow used to your friends disappearing in the night. Sometimes they will return to you. Sometimes they will be whole. Other times they may be . . . altered.” He smiled. “For I have come, and I am your master now. Your first task will be to build me a Palace, then a Temple.”

  Another woman wailed.

  “You monster!” shouted one, striding forward. “You beast!”

  “That’s right,” he said. “That’s what I am. I am a monster. I am a beast. And I will be your god. I will rename the city Ungoroth, and you will bow before me. You will live in one quarter of Ungoroth while Borchstogs and others inhabit the rest. Yours will be the slave quarter.”

  “We will not be slaves!” said the woman.

  Unimpressed by her bravery, he motioned to one of his Trolls, who stepped forward and picked her up.

  “Release her!” Baleron shouted, stepping out from the shadow of Throgmar. “Release her now! Your Savior commands it!”

  Ungier’s black eyes swiveled across the gathering to him. “Baleron . . .”

  Baleron marched across the square to the platform of the statue and glared up angrily at the vampire.

  “Let her go,” he said.

  Ungier looked at the Troll. “Our Savior makes a good point. Why don’t we release her from the city? Let her go free?”

  The Troll grinned. “It would be my pleasure, m’lord.”

  With no further ado, he drew back his arm and flung her as high and far as he could. Baleron gasped. Her body flew through the air for a good ways, but it did not make it anywhere near the Wall. Instead, she fell, screaming, and Baleron shouted in rage as she hit the ground.

  “Pity,” Ungier said, shaking his head. “She didn’t make it. The next one, perhaps.”

  Baleron, his fury overcoming his good sense, pushed past the cordon of Borchstogs before the stage and leapt on the platform. No one immediately stopped him, perhaps because he was ul Ravast.

  He punched the vampire right in his skeletal nose.

  Ungier stumbled back, surprised. He merely raised his leathery palm and Baleron flew backwards as if struck by a fierce wind. He landed amidst the gathered survivors, and pain flared through his back. The survivors made space for him, and one even helped him to his feet. Groaning, he stood.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  A Troll, the same one that had thrown the girl to her death, picked him up in its huge hand and squeezed him painfully, but not hard enough to kill.

  “What shall I do with him, m’lord?” it asked Ungier.

  Baleron grunted, trying to pry its fingers from him. He thought there was something familiar about its cruel smile.

  The Vampire King appraised the prince thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Shall we release him, too? It would be fun, I think, to give him a sporting chance. Perhaps he’s learned to fly in his time away from Gulrothrog. Perhaps he’s been trying to emulate me.”

  “I would rather immolate you,” Baleron said, wheezing.

  “DO NOT HARM HIM,” Throgmar said. “HE IS UL RAVAST. I MUST TAKE HIM TO KROGBUR.”

  “Krogbur . . .” said Ungier, somewhat dreamily. “I confess I would like to see it. Is it as grand as I have heard?”

  “RELEASE HIM.” Throgmar sounded impatient. Smoke rose from his nostrils. The air about him shimmered. “NOW.”

  “Oh, very well.” Ungier motioned to the Troll, who opened his hand. Baleron gladly slipped out of it. To Throgmar, the Vampire King asked, “Why did you bring him here if not to let me have some sport with him?”

  “I WANTED HIM TO SEE THE DEVASTATION OF HIS CITY AND THE ENSLAVEMENT OF HIS PEOPLE. I WANTED HIM TO SEE WHAT HIS VENGEANCE HAS WROUGHT.”

  “I didn’t do this,” Baleron said. “My Doom had a hand, but you can’t lay this all on me.”

  “I CAN. I DO. FOR, IF YOU HAD NEVER SLAIN FELESTRATA, I WOULD NEVER HAVE TAKEN YOU TO KROGBUR AND YOU WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN DISPATCHED TO BRING ABOUT THIS RUIN. IF YOU HAD ONLY SLAIN ME INSTEAD, AN HONEST REVENGE, GLORIFEL WOULD STILL BE STANDING.”

  The women and children glared at him as if he were a traitor, and he turned his face away.

  Suddenly, Ungier raised his hand and Rondthril flew from Baleron’s scabbard into the vampire’s grasp.

  The Lord of Ungoroth examined the weapon thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take this now.” To Baleron, he added, “Thank you for return
ing it. I am glad I was wrong and that we did indeed meet again, Baleron the One-Handed.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What more new titles have you now? Let’s see. Shield-tearer, perhaps. Kinslayer, most definitely. Servant of Doom. Spreader of Shadows. Wolf-hand. Spinner of the Web Unseen—at least to you. For, little spider, I do see it—glistening in the morning dew, its fruit little white shrouds holding Havensrike and Larenthi. I most enjoy it.”

  “Then I hope you rot in it! Usurper—that’s your new title. Lackey! Wretch! Craven!” Baleron’s eyes blazed. “Now I know why you enjoy holding slaves so much. Because it’s the only way you can feel higher than others. For you’re a slave, too, though you don’t seem to realize it. You think Gilgaroth will let you keep this city? Keep this country? You’re a fool. He sees you as the little bug you are.”

  Ungier smiled calmly, and it infuriated Baleron.

  “I enjoy your attempts to rattle me,” said the vampire. “They tell me how desperate you truly are, and to me your desperation is like the finest of wines, mixed with the finest of bloods. It is the nectar that I have been longing for, and I will be sad to see it pass from my lips so soon.” His eyes went to Throgmar. “Brother mine, traitor to my House though you are, you are welcome here, for you bring your redemption in this mortal.”

  “I DO NOT SEEK REDEMPTION. NOT FROM YOU.”

  Ungier smiled indulgently. “Very well. But we were a mighty trio once, you, me and Grudremorq. The Flame, the Shepherd, and the Guardian. You broke that alliance.”

  “SO I DID.” Throgmar did not offer an apology.

  “And yet I will forgive you now, if you allow me but a bit of sport with your charge. Honored Worm, will you not stay for dinner? It will be a feast like no other.”

  Throgmar hesitated. He clearly wanted to be away, but he also seemed to know that every second Baleron spent here was a hell for the prince. In the end, he chose to prolong the prince’s suffering:

  “WE WILL STAY.”

  “Good. Ul Ravast will be the guest of honor. Roschk ul Ravast!”

  The Trolls and Borchstogs repeated it: “Roschk ul Ravast!” “Roschk ul Ravast!”

  Baleron threw back his head and roared. He felt lower than he’d ever felt, and he knew that unless he could get Rondthril back, and unless he could slay Ungier, there really was no hope.

  Baleron simply glowered as he was seated at one end of the long banquet table. He glowered as Borchstogs and vampires and even some Men took their seats. He glowered as Throgmar was given a whole side unto himself.

  It was nighttime, true nighttime, not the false night spread by the clouds, and torches lit the palace’s rear garden. The table was at least a hundred feet long. This was the manor of the Esgralins, much of it still intact. Baleron had attended many social functions here over the years. Were the Esgralins all dead now? Were some slaves, or upon the racks in the public squares? Or did they perhaps flee into the hills? He wondered which was the better fate.

  At last the Vampire King himself arrived and sat at the other end of the table. Baleron glared at him but said nothing. Ungier just gave a small, self-satisfied smile, and shouted, “Let the feast begin!”

  The surviving Glorifelans, the slaves, set about bringing out large platters of food, roast hog and potatoes and gravy and many sweet pies. The slave woman who placed the butter near Baleron actually spit on him as she did so. It was the same woman who’d helped him up earlier, before she knew of his complicity in the city’s fall. Shame burned within him.

  Instantly, two Borchstog guards seized her and threw her to the ground. “You dare touch ul Ravast!” one shouted. “Die!” They were about to start kicking her to death, but Baleron leapt up shoved them away from her.

  “Leave her!”

  They bowed deferentially. “Roschk ul Ravast!”

  She looked up angrily at him and said, “Too little too late, you devil! I always knew you were rotten.”

  “I am not rotten,” he insisted.

  She just spat again, on the ground this time, and scurried away.

  “Want we should go after her?” asked one of the Borchstogs. “We’ll hold her down for you. Or we could bring her to your tent . . . for later.” He grinned nastily.

  Baleron snarled, “Shut your filthy mouths and get out of my way!”

  He sat back down, feeling deflated. Throgmar watched him dispassionately.

  Ungier, as usual, leered. “Everyone!” he shouted when all the food had been presented. “Eat your fill and rejoice!” To Throgmar, he added, “Except you. You be more conservative.”

  “I HUNGER,” replied the dragon.

  “Help yourself to anyone here.”

  Some of his guests looked at him nervously.

  “I WONDER . . . HOW DOES VAMPIRE MEAT TASTE?”

  Ungier scowled. “I am the god-king of Ungoroth, brother, and I will not tolerate your insolence. You are a vagabond, a houseless beggar chained to your penance.”

  “AS YOU ARE TO YOURS.” The Leviathan grinned cruelly. “YES, I KNOW OF YOUR BETRAYAL TO FATHER. YOU WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEND ME AFTER BALERON. FOR THAT YOUR HOME AND MINE WAS DESTROYED. I WAS JUST A TOOL, I SEE THAT NOW. I ALSO KNOW HOW YOU TRIED TO HIDE ROLENYA . . . FROM HIM.”

  Ungier stared daggers at Throgmar, and the dragon returned the look. Smoke trailed up from the Leviathan’s nostrils and Baleron could feel him grow hotter; the air grew hazy around him. A hateful light burned in his huge amber eyes.

  The dinner guests looked nervously from their host to ul Mrungona. They did not touch their food.

  Ungier broke the tension. In a surprisingly low voice, he said, “What I did I did for love. I sent you to kill this mortal because he slew my Firstborn. I hid Rolenya away to save her from possession. In both things, I failed.” This thought seemed to sadden him, but with an effort he rallied himself. “I have a new start here. Ungoroth will be great. And it is only the beginning of my empire. Oh, I will have glory! Such glory!” He looked around at his dinner guests. “Eat!”

  The haze around Throgmar faded, and the hateful light faded from his eyes.

  The dinner guests, all presumably heads of their legions, some perhaps even dignitaries from foreign (southern) lands, began to do as their host had bid, and the Borchstogs especially ate with fervor. The roast hog was not roasted very thoroughly, Baleron discovered, and its blood ran everywhere. The Borchstogs ate it greedily, sometimes fighting over it. After the first course, the slaves brought out the second. The serving platters were large, and when the silver domes were removed Baleron saw they contained the dismembered remains of Glorifelans, some cooked, some raw.

  He rose and began to stagger away, sick to his stomach.

  “No!” shouted Ungier. “You will stay!”

  Borchstogs blocked his path and forced him back into his chair. “Ul Ravast must sit.”

  “You are the guest of honor,” said Ungier with a smile. “It would not do for you to leave.” He raised his blood—and—wine—filled goblet. Its jewels twinkled in the torchlight. “To ul Ravast!”

  All the guests save Baleron and Throgmar raised their glasses and said, “To ul Ravast!”, then drank.

  Baleron glowered murderously at the Vampire King, but said nothing. The dinner continued. Baleron refused to eat what he was served, but he did drink some wine to steady his nerves.

  He tried to ignore the others’ conversations, but soon something caught his ear: Ungier said, “It is Rolenya? You are certain of this?”

  He was speaking to one of his daughters, Serengorthis, one of the messengers that went constantly back and forth between Glorifel, Clevaris and Krogbur.

  She nodded. “It is her, Sire. The Master has brought her back. Ask him.” She indicated Baleron. “He knows.”

  Ungier narrowed his eyes at the prince. “Is this true?”

  Baleron would not answer.

  “Is this true?” Ungier repeated.

  Baleron said nothing.

  “And she sings for Him,” added Serengorthis
.

  “Sings?” repeated Ungier.

  “Most beautifully, so I’ve heard. He keeps her caged, letting her out only to please Him with her voice, like a man might keep a bird.”

  “She never sang for me . . .” Ungier added, “Of course, I did get some noises out of her . . . though I would not count them as songs.” He smiled at Baleron as he said this. “But they were music to me.”

  Most at the table laughed, and Ungier looked pleased. But he also wore a contemplative air, as if he were mulling something over, and Baleron did not have to wonder what it might be. Ungier considered Rolenya his. Despite his claims, it was not love, exactly, at least Baleron did not think so, but if nothing else it was pride of possession; she was Ungier’s greatest prize, or had been, and now the one who had taken her away from him was enjoying her more than he.

  Dark clouds drifted across the vampire’s face.

  Perhaps in an effort to dismiss them, he called for the entertainment to begin. Borchstog musicians started up an eerie yet merry tune, and Borchstog performers came out, naked and painted red. They wore odd, spiky hats made of rib bones—whether human, elf or borchstog was hard to tell. Yet apparently their appearance was comic, for the dinner guests laughed and hooted.

  The performers had brought along many severed heads and limbs of Glorifelans, and they juggled them. The body parts were often slippery and squirted out of their hands. Much amusement was had as the Borchstogs floundered around on the ground trying to retrieve the parts. Sometimes the performers tossed the limbs and heads to each other, juggling, sometimes they danced as they did it, or stood on their heads, or more, and all the while the musicians continued to play.

  One course was served after another, and it seemed a fine old time for the hellspawn. Baleron tried not to look. He noticed that Throgmar seemed ill at ease, as well, and remembered that the dragon had pretenses of goodness. At the thought, he snorted.