The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3)

by Jack Conner

  At last the Borchstog performers left. Corpses of all sorts were wheeled in next and deposited in the performing area where once Baleron had played croquet with the younger Esgralin daughter.

  Ungier raised these corpses and made them dance and perform comic routines to the roaring delight of his guests.

  Next live naked prisoners were marched in. The Troll that had earlier flung the woman to her death now stepped forward. He grabbed a trembling Glorifelan in each huge hand . . . and began to juggle them.

  Horrified, Baleron stood up to protest, but his handlers shoved him back down and his protests were ignored.

  The Troll continued to juggle. Sometimes he would snatch another screaming prisoner and add him or her to his routine. Occasionally he would drop one. Baleron could not tell if this was accidental or intentional, but whenever it happened he received a guffaw. The dropped prisoner, mewling on the ground with broken bones, would eventually be ground beneath his heels. Baleron had to be forcibly restrained.

  All the while, the guests continued to eat and talk and enjoy themselves, as if this were an ordinary high social occasion.

  But then the Troll wanted the prisoners set on fire so that he could have something more interesting to juggle, and Throgmar ended it. He blew a column of flame over the Troll’s head and said, “I WILL GIVE YOU FIRE!”

  The Troll glared at him, said nothing.

  “I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. END THIS NOW. I DEMAND IT.”

  Ungier merely laughed. “You are a guest at my table, and it is my duty to oblige your whims, however foolish.” He beckoned to the Troll, who reluctantly abandoned his routine and came to stand at the Vampire King’s side, bodyguard once more.

  More performances followed, and more courses. Finally the entertainment ceased and Ungier ordered the last course to be brought out. All hushed. Flames from the braziers and torches crackled in the silence.

  A platter with a silver dome was set before Baleron, but he refused to open it. He had not eaten since the first course, and he was not hungry now. Far from it. He had retched twice and was still nauseous.

  With heavy-lidded eyes, Ungier gazed across the table at him. The Vampire King looked suddenly hungry, staring intently at Baleron and the platter. There was a particularly nasty look on his face.

  “Open it,” bade the Lord of Ungoroth.

  “No.”

  “Open it!”

  Baleron shook his head.

  Ungier’s eyes transfixed him, and he no longer had Shelir’s charm to protect him. “Open it,” ordered the vampire.

  Baleron could not fight it. Against his will, he reached out a hand toward the silver handle, and his fingers trembled despite the fact that Ungier guided his actions. He cringed. What was underneath that dome? What would give Ungier so much pleasure? Dread built in him, and he tried to mash his eyes shut, but Ungier would not let him.

  His fingers curled around the handle. He fought against the vampire’s will even more strongly, but Ungier would not be denied. And so, with a shaking hand, Baleron raised the dome, and, horribly slowly, the contents of the platter came into view.

  Baleron reeled backwards and toppled out of his chair, a cry in his throat. Ungier’s presence withdrew from his mind.

  The whole table erupted in evil laughter as Baleron stared agog at the contents of the platter, but he barely heard it. A swell of horror and hate welled up within him, and he shook, as if there were an earthquake inside him. And there was. His hands balled into fists, and he ground his teeth in rage. For, sitting upon the gleaming silver dish, still bloody, was the severed head of Albrech Grothgar. The dead eyes of the Lord of Havensrike stared accusingly at his son.

  “Nooo!” Baleron roared, throwing back his head and howling in misery.

  Ungier’s black eyes glittered hungrily, savoring this.

  Baleron sank to his knees before his father’s head.

  “Father . . .”

  This was too much. Much too much. Baleron’s soul cried out in torment.

  The king’s dead eyes gazed unblinking. Albrech’s mouth was open, as if in surprise, but his eyebrows were locked in a scowl.

  So I really did fail you, after all, Baleron thought. You were right about me all along.

  “I’m so sorry . . .”

  His shaking hands reached out and picked up the severed head. It was heavier than he thought it would be, pregnant with possibilities that would never be. He lowered the head to his lap and stared down into his father’s dark blue eyes.

  “Rauglir,” he growled. Would the demon kill everyone he ever knew?

  The true weight of it slowly sank in. Not only was his father dead, but so was the king. There could be no more hope for Havensrike now, no hope that Albrech could gather the remnants of the kingdom together and marshal a resistance to Ungier.

  And more . . . this meant that now Baleron was King—though the king of what? There was only Ungoroth now, and some scattered cities and towns without central authority, and likely there was little of those left. Baleron was the last of his House, the ruler of a realm that was no more.

  He ground his teeth. Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced his rage to scour any weakness from him. He could not afford to be overwhelmed. He needed his wits about him.

  Ungier still has Rondthril.

  The dinner guests continued to laugh and mock him. The wickedness of Ungier and his guests infuriated Baleron, nauseated him, but one particular laugh stood out from the others, and he found himself looking up at the face of the Troll that had picked him up earlier, the one that had flung the woman to her death, the one that had wanted to juggle flaming slaves.

  He knew that laugh.

  “Rauglir.”

  The Troll, who had been watching him, smiled, and Baleron recognized that smile. too.

  “Yes, my beloved,” said the demon, “it is I.”

  That sent the guests into fresh fits of laughter.

  Baleron’s mind reeled, and he began to see what must have happened: Rauglir would have approached Ungier after the sack was complete and told him the tidings of Albrech’s murder, and afterwards the rithlag had rewarded him with a new body, a powerful one.

  Baleron’s eyes went from the dead face of his father to the grinning face of the Troll.

  “This. . . was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  The Troll shrugged modestly. “Consider it my dowry.”

  “You . . . you . . . ”

  “How do you like this new form?” asked the Troll. “Do you find it as pleasing as Rolenya’s? You loved me then.”

  Baleron was so full of rage and pain that he could not speak, could not form words. Somewhere he could hear Ungier laughing.

  “I hope this doesn’t affect your decision to marry me,” Rauglir added.

  Ungier laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his own chair.

  “Wonderful!” cried the vampire. “This is priceless. Throgmar, you’re forgiven.”

  The Leviathan narrowed his eyes.

  Baleron looked again to his father’s lifeless face. The rest of the world faded away, and he became lost in those dead eyes. Father, I am so sorry.

  At the far end of the table, a serving girl was refilling Ungier’s goblet. It was a young maiden, clearly terrified, and her hands shook as she poured. Her dress was rent and dirty, her eyes hopeless.

  Ungier drank up her fear. Just as she was finished, he knocked the goblet over and its contents spilled onto the table and dripped to the ground. “Oh, look what you’ve gone and done, you clumsy thing,” he scolded. “Lick it up.”

  “Y-yes, m’lord,” she said, her voice quavering.

  She broke out sobbing before she could begin, and was so racked by tears that she could not summon the focus necessary to clean the mess.

  Ungier roughly threw her upon the table. She screamed and tried to roll off, but with his eyes he bound her, mesmerizing her, and she stilled and quieted. The Vampire King tore open her dress, and she did not protest. He sank his fang
s into her throat. Blood spurted into his mouth. She cried out but could not move.

  By this time, Baleron had replaced his father’s severed head on the platter and had been staring, lost, into Albrech’s eyes. He had not been paying attention the girl’s plight, but her screams drew him.

  Seeing the situation, he bounded to his feet. When the two Borchstog guards tried to shove him back down, he was prepared. He elbowed one in the throat and jabbed the other in the eyes. Then he wrenched loose one of their huge broadswords, leapt on the table and ran down it, howling, jumping over dishes and the clutching hands of the guests.

  Ungier was so focused on sucking the girl’s blood that he hardly noticed, and when he did it was too late.

  Baleron kicked the vampire off her. Ungier fell from the table onto the ground, and the prince was upon him, sword flashing down.

  Ungier caught the naked blade in his long-fingered hands and tore it from Baleron’s grasp. The blade did not even cut him. Then Rauglir was pulling the prince away.

  Ungier rose, eyes narrowed into slits of hate. “How dare you!”

  “I dare!” Baleron said.

  “You will wish you had not.”

  With a look to the girl, Baleron said to Ungier, “Drink of me instead. Spare her. I’ll take her place.”

  Ungier barked a laugh. “To drink of the Savior? To end the Ender? I would love nothing more.” To his guards, he said, “Let her be.”

  The girl nodded her silent thanks to Baleron, then ran, crying, from the table, holding her tattered clothes about her.

  Rauglir lowered Baleron to ground level but did not release him. Only the prince’s head and shoulders showed above the Troll’s thick fingers.

  “Yes,” Rauglir said to Ungier. “End it now. My game is ready to go to the next level.” To Baleron, he added, “See you in Hell, beloved.”

  “The one good thing about dying,” Baleron reflected, “is that I’ll never have to listen to you again.”

  “Oh, but you will, dear heart, for I will come personally to visit you in Illistriv. I will be the one to oversee your eternal torment. You see, my dear—if I may call you that—our game has truly just begun.” Rauglir laughed, a great big Troll laugh that shook Baleron up and down, up and down.

  Ungier stalked forward, grabbed the prince by his hair and exposed his neck. Baleron smelled the vampire’s musk, felt his power, and braced for what would come next.

  “NO,” said Throgmar suddenly.

  Striking swiftly, his horned head lunged forward and his massive jaws snapped closed around Rauglir’s throat, biting off the demon’s head. A gout of black blood shot up, and the big body toppled. Throgmar crushed the head between his huge teeth and swallowed it.

  Baleron, seeing his chance, struggled free of the dead Troll—hand and sprang up. For a moment his eyes lingered on the decapitated creature. It did him good to see the ruin, though he did not relish the thought of Rauglir’s spirit on the loose again. At least without a body the demon was powerless for the nonce.

  Ungier was so surprised by Throgmar’s attack that he raised no hand against the prince as Baleron punched him in his skeletal nose for the second time that day. Ungier’s black eyes remained fixed on Throgmar, who loomed above, massive and fiery.

  Baleron tore Rondthril from Ungier’s scabbard and held it up so that it caught the torchlight. It felt good in his hand.

  Ungier wiped black blood from his face. “That blade is mine.”

  “It was,” Baleron said. “So was Rolenya. Now they both belong to me.” He replaced the Fanged Blade in its scabbard.

  Ungier glared at Throgmar, seeking to place blame. “How dare you interfere in my business! This is my land now! Begone!”

  “YOU SAID I COULD EAT ANYONE HERE. CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY THAT I DID NOT CHOOSE YOU.”

  Baleron’s eyes lit up. “Eat him!” he cried, seeing his chance. If Rondthril could not slay its maker, and Ungier could deflect any other weapon, then why not let the Leviathan do Baleron’s work for him? “Eat him and you’ll be king of Ungoroth! Of Havensrike!”

  Ungier’s mouth dropped open and his eyes grew round as they stared up at the Worm. In fear, he stumbled backwards, wings fluttering.

  Smoke curled up from Throgmar’s nose.

  “Yes!” Baleron said. “Do it!”

  But then the smoke died and Throgmar picked Baleron up in a claw. “I DO NOT WANT TO BE KING. WE LEAVE.”

  “Good riddance!” Ungier snarled. He straightened and suddenly looked his old haughty self. His gaze found Baleron in a space between two scaly fingers. “But I’ll see you again. I too must go to Krogbur.”

  What was this? Even Throgmar paused to hear the rest.

  Ungier smiled, almost serene now, as if causing Baleron consternation had somehow relaxed him. “I’ve longed to see the Black Tower since Gilgaroth first spoke of his vision to me thousands of years ago. But in the main I go to win back that which was mine—that which you have stolen.”

  Baleron gave him a hard look. “She will not be yours.”

  “She shall.”

  “She is mine.”

  Ungier raised an eyebrow. “From the sounds of it, she is Gilgaroth’s.”

  “Then he will not give her up to you.”

  “He must. She will be my prize for conquering your city. Although, I must say, I would have done it for nothing.”

  “ENOUGH,” Throgmar grunted.

  He bore Baleron away, flying up into the dark heavens and away from the ruins of Glorifel, and Ungier grew small below.

  “THE BLACK TOWER AWAITS,” said the Leviathan.

  Baleron gripped Rondthril’s hilt. Quietly, he said, “Then it waits for its destruction.”

  Ungier watched the diminishing shape of Throgmar against the night.

  Perhaps I can beat them, he thought. Either way, he must go. Glorifel was conquered. Rolenya would be his once more.

  His eyes fastened on the decapitated body of Rauglir. He had never liked the demon, not after it had possessed Rolenya, but in this form it had proven an interesting companion. Ah, well.

  Swiftly Ungier appointed a lieutenant to oversee Ungoroth in his absence, and departed. A squad of glarumri flanked him as he went, cutting a black swath through the night. All others fled before them.

  I will win her, he vowed. I shall make her Vampire Queen of Ungoroth.

  Chapter 11

  On the second day of their journey, Throgmar set down for a rest. He’d been flying relentlessly, silently, without so much as a word to Baleron, since they had left Glorifel. Ungoroth. The prince had watched the land unroll under him with shame and loathing and sadness; the beauty of Havensrike had stretched to its borders and beyond, but now all was burnt and blackened; cities and villages razed and sacked, forests burnt or cut down for lumber. Rivers were poisoned or ran red with blood. Monsters lurked in the lakes, and ravening beasts lived in the hills.

  Not despair but hopelessness filled him. He had a plan, yes, if such a thin thing could be called that, but he did not see how it could be achieved. For unless Rondthril could be purified of Ungier’s spirit and Baleron given the chance to use it—which seemed impossible at this point—the world was lost.

  How could it have come to this? It was a scene out of a nightmare that he’d been dreaming for years, and it had come to its head.

  But he was determined to find a way to defeat Gilgaroth. If he did not have that hope, he would go mad—if he was not already. And he might be: he often caught himself mumbling incoherently, and sometimes he would see the faces of dear ones floating by: Sophia, Salthrick, Logran, Elethris, Shelir, Albrech, Rolenya . . . all dead, or nearly. Was Rolenya still waiting for him? Did she still live? Was it true she now sang for the Wolf like some songbird in a gilded cage?

  On the second day, Throgmar set down on the burnt top of a high hill near a muddy brook whose waters were still drinkable, though just barely, and both partook of the moisture with relish.

  Afterwards Baleron took the
opportunity to stretch his legs, Rondthril sheathed at his side. Cramps seized him, and he tried to work them off. Being in the unwavering grip of a dragon for days on end was a torture on the body, as well as the mind.

  Throgmar sat, brooding, by the stream.

  “DO NOT STRAY,” he warned Baleron.

  The prince said nothing.

  In a while a group of Borchstogs who had seen them alight on the hill approached. They were mounted on murmeksa, but they swung down from the shaggy backs of the creatures and bowed low to the Worm, and their leader spouted obsequious words that turned Baleron’s stomach.

  The Borchstog offered their steeds to Throgmar for sustenance, and Throgmar took one look at the huge, tusked hog-like creatures with long rat tails, dark fur and cloven hooves—and said, “LEAVE THEM.”

  “Yes, your Greatness,” said the leader in Oslogon. “Is there anything else we can do to ease your time?”

  “WHAT CAN YOU DO TO AMUSE ME?”

  The Borchstog thought a moment. “We have been trained in the festive arts. We can sing and dance for your pleasure. We can juggle, do tricks.”

  “NO MORE JUGGLING.”

  “Yes, Great One, as you say. Well, at our camp we have some captives you can devour or entertain your Greatness with, if you desire. There are some human women. If you can change your shape you can have them.”

  Throgmar snorted. “I HAVE NO INTEREST IN MORTALS OR IN IDLE PLEASURES OF THE FLESH.”

  “Truly?” The Borchstog’s curiosity overcame his good sense, and he asked, “Then how do you enjoy yourself, my lord? You’ve lived for thousands of years and will live for eons to come, surely. How do you get through each day?”

  Throgmar stared at him with an evil expression until the Borchstog chief quailed and cast his gaze down.

  “Forgive me, your worship,” he said. “I have overstepped my place.”

  “INDEED. LEAVE ME THESE MOUNTS OF YOURS AND BE OFF.”

  He snorted flame, and the Borchstogs hurried away. Left alone with the dragon, the great hogs shuffled nervously. Throgmar watched the Borchstogs go and, when they were out of sight down the hill, he spat a column of flame that roasted the ten tusked steeds where they stood. Then, without a word to Baleron, he ate them. After two days with no food, the cooked pork smelled delicious to the prince-king? Heir, at least—but he refused to beg the dragon for scraps.