The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3)

by Jack Conner

  “There is little good about it,” she answered, trying to suppress the quaver in her voice.

  He stroked her cheek with a long, leathery finger, and she twisted away.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said. “I’m not yours anymore.”

  “That will change,” he said, and there was a throatiness in his voice and a strange urgency in his tone.

  Nervously, she said, “What do you mean?”

  “Havensrike is mine,” he said.

  She gasped, feeling horror rise up inside her.

  “Fear not,” he said. “You will be my queen, and together we will remake it.”

  “Never!”

  “We will see.”

  He took his seat across the aisle from hers, and his sycophants gathered about him. The games began, and despite the spectacles of the arena he often diverted his attention to shoot her strange looks. She tried to ignore him, but it was difficult; she feared him, and despised him.

  There was more to it than that, of course. She had not forgotten all their nights together. True, she had been his unwilling slave, but he had not been without his charms, and when he wore a human façade he was devilishly handsome. Over her three years of confinement at Gulrothrog, she had, despite herself, often been attracted to him, though she had been careful never to let him or anyone else (especially Baleron) know. Of all his concubines, and of all the women in his harem—for they were separate and distinct, the concubines and the harem—she had been his prize. They had almost . . . almost . . . wed. She would have been his ninth still-living wife, if living his wives could be called.

  But the Wolf had changed all that. Gilgaroth had appeared unannounced at Gulrothrog and slipped past the Vampire King’s defenses. The Dark One had found Rolenya in one of the huge bathing rooms of the harem, where she had been washing herself in a steaming water of a pool, assisted by her handmaidens. Suddenly he appeared and the handmaidens fled. Rolenya would have, as well, but he’d bound her with his will, then removed the armor from one of his hands, exposing his naked flesh. With it, he had touched her, and his touch alone had been enough to steal the life from her body, and her soul. It was said that all he touched died save that which he created, which is why his hands were always armored, though Rolenya didn’t know if this was true. It was further said that if you died in any of the lands where his influence was strongest that your soul would be sucked toward him and consumed, then cast into the Second Hell. In that way, to enter Oslog was to risk one’s soul.

  He had slain her, stolen her spirit and consigned it to gardens of Illistriv. There she had mourned for Baleron and their father, for the Crescent itself. Despite the deceivingly beautiful surroundings, she had known only despair.

  Now, watching Ungier, she doubted he had ever forgiven his sire for that theft—though he had not known about it till afterward—so it was strange to see that, despite his natural arrogance and aloofness, the Vampire King was fearful, not angry. His wide black eyes often probed the shadows around him, and he was constantly on edge.

  Fortunately, his nervousness was tempered by his seeming love of the fights. He cheered and whistled and laughed as the combatants toiled away below, blood and sweat flying in equal measure.

  The Borchstogs, naturally, gambled on the fights, and he joined in—though, Rolenya noted, there was much grumbling about this among the Borchstog circles; he had too much power and money to bet at their level. Yet they let him, out of fear of his wrath if they didn’t.

  Mogra, meanwhile, eyed Rolenya cattishly.

  She knows, Rolenya thought. Gods help me, but she knows.

  Rolenya tried to focus on her songs to come, and her spells. Gilgaroth would ask her to sing, as he always did, and she knew she had little choice but to comply. She was interrupted when Ungier, in the grip of some nervous tension, apparently could not stand merely watching the fights any longer. In the break between two bouts, he leapt to his clawed feet and shouted, “I’m next!”

  Drunk on wine and immensely powerful, he had no fear. He tore the table aside and jumped down into the arena, cape and wings billowing, with a howl of savage glee. Was he mad?

  The Borchstogs cheered lustily, loving it.

  A frown twisted Mogra’s lips, and she leaned back, fingering (worriedly?) a strand of jewels that cascaded from her black hair down over a naked breast. Her violet eyes twinkled, and the many rings that adorned her six hands sparkled of gold and diamonds and pearls.

  The Dark One regarded Ungier with flaming eyes.

  “You seek sport, do you, my son?”

  Ungier laughed. “I do, my Lord. I seek to spill some blood tonight!”

  The Borchstogs cheered, and Ungier encouraged them.

  “But even more, Father, Mother, I ask a boon of you. Hear me. I have conquered Glorifel. Havensrike is mine—ours. My first act as ruler of Ungoroth will be to build you both great temples, and your shadows will grow long indeed. All I ask in return is one thing.” He looked over his shoulder, right at Rolenya, and pointed a finger. “Her.”

  “I will be no prize,” she stated loudly. Still, her voice sounded small in the huge chamber.

  “You will be silent,” Ungier admonished indulgently.

  “No,” spoke Gilgaroth calmly, and all turned to him. “She is mine, and she will be mine, and she will not be silent.”

  “But I have toppled the mightiest pillar of the Crescent!” said Ungier. “Surely that deserves some prize.”

  “How DARE you demand a reward for doing my will! I did not hire you to do this thing. I asked you, as a father to a son. Do you not see? For ages you have denied me, have turned your back on me. I gave you a chance to return to my good graces. I gave you an army. I gave you a worthy labor. And what do I receive in return for these gifts? DEMANDS?” He paused, letting the tension build, and said, very deliberately, very coldly, “You err.”

  Ungier suddenly looked very small. “But the mastering of Glorifel . . .”

  “Is a feat I accomplished when I Doomed Baleron, when I sent Rauglir to destroy Logran’s Flower. Thus I earn the reward, if a reward is to be earned.” He shook his head ruefully. “And to ask such a boon! Your gall is to be admired, if not your wit. I would have given you anything, my son, anything at all. Except . . . her. Had you come to me and asked for a thing, I would have given it to you. A kingdom, a castle, a creature. But instead you come to me and DEMAND a prize, and you choose the one prize I would not have given you had you begged.” His black laugh was chilling, and Ungier shrank even further.

  Mogra said, “Indeed you are a fool, Ungier.”

  The vampire hung his head. “How so, Mother?”

  “Do you not realize that many of those that fight here are of my loins? Just like you. Many of them have died right where you’re standing, and I have watched them go to their deaths with a smile. You think you’re any different?”

  “I am powerful,” he boasted.

  “Indeed,” agreed Gilgaroth. “For we did not make you as a creature, but as a son. Yet in Gulrothrog you were too long away from us, and your mind has grown weak. It needs sharpening.” He snapped his armored fingers. “Thorg!”

  The terrible wolf rose and leapt into the arena, snarling angrily.

  “My Lord, wait,” said Mogra. Her harshness was gone, replaced with worry for her son.

  “No,” answered Gilgaroth. “This vulgar display must end.”

  Ungier looked up to his father with worry, obviously surprised at this turn of events. “I only wanted some sport,” he protested. “I only wanted my woman back. I did not want death.”

  He bowed tentatively to show his subservience, but his father continued to regard him with disdain.

  Thorg charged, jaws wide.

  All eyes were on the arena. No one was watching the tall hooded figure standing in the shadow of an archway leading out of the hall, spying with interest on the action unraveling below. Baleron had arrived earlier that day and was still sore from Throgmar’s handling, but all his aches an
d pains faded now.

  He smiled as he realized what was going on down in the arena. This was beyond his wildest hopes. Ungier may not get his prize, but I might.

  If Ungier died, it would solve a good half of Baleron’s problems. Thank the Omkarathons for Rolenya’s ability to inspire love, or at least emotion, even in creatures so vile. She shone brightly below, close to the arena, a white thorn amidst the darkness, and Baleron was joyous to see her, to know she was safe and whole, but at present his attention was fixed—hopefully—on the vampire courting death in the pit.

  Rolenya watched breathlessly as Ungier easily dodged aside. Thorg wheeled about, fires licking the back of his throat.

  Ungier laughed mockingly. “You don’t scare me, dog.”

  “I will grind your bones between my jaws,” returned Thorg.

  He charged again. Ungier whipped off his glimmering cape and waved it before the charging beast, taunting him. Thorg tore through the cape, fangs flashing, but did not even wound the vampire.

  Ungier, however, raked his claws across the beast’s passing flank, drawing blood, then licked his dripping fingers.

  “Tasty,” he said as the wolf turned around again.

  Thorg belched fire at Ungier, but the flames parted around the powerful vampire as if an invisible shield protected him, and Ungier gave a thin smile.

  Thorg’s eyes burned, his gaze burrowing into his foe. He would try to hypnotize the Vampire King! Amazed, Rolenya found herself favoring Ungier. She still remembered her time in the arena with that same cuerdrig all too well, while Ungier, for all his faults, loved her.

  The vampire merely laughed. His own black eyes seemed to grow wider, and the two combatants stared at each other, each trying to enthrall the other. Rolenya looked up to the Dark One and his bride to see them watching the battle tensely. Mogra looked nervous.

  When the contest of wills between vampire and cuerdrig ended, Thorg lowered his head and said, “I serve you, Lord Ungier.”

  Ungier turned a sneer up at his father. “There!”

  Gilgaroth snapped his fingers again. “Slorch!”

  The second wolf sprang down into the arena and, before Rolenya could catch her breath, Slorch charged Ungier. The vampire leapt into the air, wings pumping, and landed behind the monster.

  Having enthralled Thorg, Ungier used him to assault Slorch, while the lone cuerdrig raged, bitter at having to fight his brother.

  Rolenya was shocked. It seemed to her that Gilgaroth was really trying to kill Ungier . . . and the Dark One was willing to sacrifice his favorite pets to do it! Ungier must have sinned greatly in his eyes.

  Below, the vampire had his puppet Thorg charge his brother, and while Slorch wrapped his jaws about the other wolf’s throat, Ungier used his claws to slash Slorch’s own jugular, and Slorch fell, blood pooling around him. Thorg, though wounded, survived.

  Rolenya sat back and tried to calm down. She felt like she would be ill.

  Mogra, looking dull, perhaps sad, also leaned back, sighing.

  Gilgaroth’s expression, as always, was nearly impossible to read. His flaming eyes simmered.

  Ungier knelt over the still-warm carcass and drank Slorch’s hot blood, lapping it up with his tongue, then looked up to the thrones with a bloody, defiant smile.

  “Have I passed the test, Father?”

  Gilgaroth said nothing.

  Ungier turned to the Borchstogs of the audience and raised his blood-drenched arms. “Have I not won?” he shouted to them.

  They roared in approval, beating on the tabletops. This was likely the best, most significant, most unexpected fight they had ever seen.

  Triumphant, Ungier turned again to Gilgaroth. “I have earned my prize, Father.”

  “No.”

  “But, Father, I—”

  “NO.”

  Ungier’s face screwed up in anger. “You just want her for yourself!”

  The Borchstogs gasped, muttering to each other. They loved a victor, but they hated anyone who went against their Lord.

  Mogra’s mouth twitched.

  “That’s right, isn’t it, Father?” Ungier continued. “You won’t give me the prize that I have earned because it is you who covets her. Why don’t you come down here, Father? Why don’t we do battle here, right now, in the arena? The winner takes Rolenya. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Let me oblige you. It will be a bout to be remembered for all times. Our war shall shake the heavens!”

  Rolenya was taken aback. Ungier must truly have gone mad! Even the Borchstogs fell silent, awed by the challenge.

  Mogra said, “You go too far, my son.”

  “Do I?” he asked. “Perhaps I have not gone far enough.” He looked to Thorg, then to Gilgaroth. His black eyes were serious and deadly. “Thorg, slay your maker.”

  Baleron stifled his laughter only with great effort. Ungier had gone insane! Surely Gilgaroth would kill him in due course and Rondthril would be released from the sway of the dark powers.

  He expected it to happen any minute. Any second.

  For once, fate was on his side.

  The cuerdrig looked from the Vampire King to the Dark One and could not seem to make up its mind. Infuriated, Gilgaroth wrenched the sword that was embedded in the side of his throne out and hurled it at the beast. His blade, in proportion with his giant stature, skewered the mighty Thorg to the ground, and smoking blood pooled across the sand, which drank it up greedily. The cuerdrig was dead.

  “You err,” Gilgaroth said again, this time almost sadly. Looking up to the masked ceiling, he shouted, “Descend!”

  The host of wraiths that inhabited the upper reaches of the smoke-filled room descended into the arena and swirled about Ungier, a swarm of living shadows. They howled and shrieked and created such an unholy din that the Borchstogs, shivering in fear, closed their eyes and clamped hands over their ears.

  Rolenya remembered when she had been at the center of a similar vortex, and the sight—and the memory—chilled her to the bone.

  The ghosts ripped at the Vampire King with insubstantial hands and claws and teeth and worse, and Ungier screamed in agony. They tore his soul loose from his body, and his body slumped lifelessly to the floor.

  His soul, visible in this place of power, was a shadow blacker than theirs, and it twisted and fought against them, but they were too many. Shrieking, they bore him up to their Master, who rose to his feet and removed the armor from one hand.

  Mogra shifted uncomfortably.

  With the hand that was still encased in armor, the Dark One seized the squirming soul of Ungier and stared mercilessly at the shadowy thing, and it trembled beneath the weight of his judgment.

  Gilgaroth raised his naked hand and pressed it close to Ungier, who knew that the touch of that hand meant instant death, the demise of his very soul. He tried to twist away, but his father’s iron grip was too strong.

  “I can slay you at any time I choose,” said Gilgaroth. “More, I can prolong your torment for eons. Even now I have enemies locked in the dungeons of this very tower that I have been torturing for thousands of years. I transferred them here from Ghrastigor so that I would not be without my favorite playthings. Do you think I would hesitate to add you to that collection? Or . . .” He twitched his dark fingers. “ . . . I could simply touch your naked soul now, or at any time henceforth, and kill it utterly so that you will never know agony, or peace, again. Only oblivion.”

  The soul of Ungier shook.

  “Do you now understand the depth of your folly?” asked Gilgaroth. “I hope so. I will not be so forgiving a second time.”

  He flung the soul down into the pit, right into the inert body of the Vampire King, and the body stirred. Rolenya, who had not realized she had been holding her breath, took a deep one.

  Baleron gnashed his teeth in frustration.

  He’d come so close!

  “Damn it all!” he hissed.

  Gasping, Ungier sat up, rubbing his throat as though it could be sore when it
was his soul his father had been grasping. He was so unsteady that Borchstogs had to help him up. He stretched his arms out and regarded his own body in a strange, frightened manner.

  “My powers . . .” he whispered. His head snapped up. “You’ve stolen my powers!”

  “I gave them to you,” Gilgaroth replied. “They were mine to take away.”

  Ungier made pathetic little noises, but he was wise enough to choke down his words. Rolenya was shocked to see that he was crying in mute rage, frustration, and impotence; his tears were black drops of blood leaked from all-black eyes, though, and it was not a sight to endear him to her.

  The Dark One’s attention fell on her, and all else washed from her mind.

  “Erase this ugly scene, little one,” he said. “Come. Sing for me, my dove.”

  Mogra tapped her armrest in agitation, eyeing the tattered remains of the shadow-cape sadly.

  Borchstogs removed the bodies of Thorg and Slorch, and a group of them lugged the heavy sword back up to its Master, who replaced it in his throne. He watched the bodies of his prized cuerdrigs go with an inscrutable expression, though Rolenya did note that the fires of his eyes seemed to dim, just slightly.

  Ungier dusted himself off and flew up out of the arena. He paused at the overturned table, casting Rolenya a sidelong look.

  “I would have liked to have heard you sing,” he said.

  “Then you should not have been such an ass!” she snapped.

  He fled up the stairs, minus his cape. On his way out, he shot a wary glance up toward the hidden ceiling, where the wraiths had returned, and seemed to shudder. Wordlessly, he left.

  “Please,” Gilgaroth said, his eyes on Rolenya, and gestured toward the now-empty arena.

  Sighing, she gathered herself and descended.

  “Don’t,” protested Mogra, laying a caressing hand on his arm. He had replaced the armor on his other hand. “She weaves spells with her songs; she casts a net over you. Send her away—to Clevaris, as planned.”