The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3)

by Jack Conner

  From the tone of her voice it was plain that she had voiced this objection before. Rolenya was surprised she would speak so before the Borchstogs, but, then, they loved their Father and Mother with such devotion that a little bickering between the Two would go unnoticed.

  “Nonsense,” Gilgaroth said. “You are merely jealous. She is but a slip of a girl. What power can she have over me?”

  “She can harness Light and Grace, the gifts of Brunril to the Elves, and funnel them into her songs. Close your ears to them, my Lord. Deny her the chance to bind you to her. Don’t you see? That is her plan.”

  Gilgaroth regarded his bride for a long moment, then turned his gaze on Rolenya. The princess trembled. Would Gilgaroth destroy her? The moment stretched, and stretched, and Rolenya tried not to look guilty.

  At last, Gilgaroth threw back his head and laughed. The candles dimmed, and so did the torches and urns. Rolenya had to fight the urge to wrap her arms about herself, feeling cold all of a sudden; gooseflesh covered her.

  The laughter died.

  “Let her sing. Let her weave her little spells. I have enough darkness in me to counter any light.”

  Mogra glared at Rolenya, bearing her teeth in a most horrid smile. The Spider Queen’s fangs were very sharp, and Rolenya was reminded that Gilgaroth was not the only one she had to fear.

  Baleron watched Ungier depart the room, broken and humiliated. He enjoyed the vampire’s discomfort, but he knew that was not enough.

  Ungier needed to die.

  The Lord of Ungoroth vanished through a door several aisles over from the archway in which Baleron hid, and, when the vampire was gone, the prince took a deep breath and quit the hall. He hated to miss Rolenya’s songs, but this was more important.

  He found himself in a long, curved corridor, and headed right, the direction Ungier had taken. Killing the vampire should be easier now that Gilgaroth had removed the fiend’s powers, or at least some of them, Baleron reflected.

  As he made his way along, he heard Rolenya begin singing; her voice carried far and could even be heard out here. As always, her voice was lovely, and the song beautiful. It seemed surreal to him that such angelic notes should provide the backdrop for his mission of murder.

  He stalked up the high black hall, and shadows leapt and swayed to scant torchlight, almost in time to the song. He kept his footfalls soft, kept his breathing quiet and steady.

  There! Ungier lingered in an archway leading into the hall. It seemed he had thrown away all pride and dignity and was even then pressing a bat-like ear to the door, an enchanted smile on his face.

  Baleron grunted with amusement.

  Ungier heard. He spun about to find Baleron already descending on him, having snatched a torch from its bracket and bringing the fiery end down on the vampire’s head.

  Ungier caught Baleron’s wrist and stopped the torch’s descent. Had Baleron two hands, he would have punched the vampire in the throat or nose with his free fist, but it was Ungier who still had two hands, and they were both tipped with long claws.

  His free hand drove toward the Heir of Havensrike’s face, meaning to impale his eyes. Baleron broke away. The torch clattered to the floor.

  The two combatants crouched, circling each other warily.

  Fury blazed in the vampire’s face. “You!”

  “Me,” Baleron agreed.

  There would be no fancy exchange of mock titles this time. They were down to the end of it, now, and both sensed that the time for games had passed.

  “Alone at last,” Ungier said.

  “And you without your powers. Pity.”

  The Vampire King eyed the length of Rondthril at Baleron’s side. “I think I’ll have that back now.”

  “Come and get it.”

  The fiend flew at him, and they grappled with each other, at last rolling about on the floor. Baleron wrapped his one hand about the vampire’s throat and tried to crush his enemy’s windpipe, while Ungier sought purchase on Baleron’s face to pluck out his eyes and drive his sharp thumbs into his brain.

  Baleron used his stump as a bludgeon. It hurt every time he struck with it, but it was worth it to hear the sounds of impact on the vampire’s chest and head.

  Baleron had one advantage, and that was that he was trained in hand—to—hand combat and Ungier was not. All his long life, Ungier had relied on his godly powers, but now they had deserted him.

  Baleron had to thrash and writhe and kick and buck to avoid the vampire’s claws and fangs, as the fiend had the longer reach, and with all that motion Baleron could not find a solid enough hold to crush Ungier’s throat. And even if he could, he doubted Ungier could be killed that way: god or not, the vampire was still an undead thing.

  Infuriated, Ungier at last kicked away and stood, wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek. Baleron stood, too.

  “Rolling about on the floor like a pig!” Ungier said, his voice dripping disgust. “Is this how mortals fight? It is beneath me. I refuse to continue this farce. I may be weakened, but—” (as if to confirm Baleron’s fears) “—I am no mortal.” He fairly spat the word.

  Baleron forced a smile. “Then will you let a crippled one chase you off?”

  The vampire bared his fangs.

  Several Borchstogs wearing the armor of glarumri emerged from the Feasting Hall. Their wolf-head helms were long and were inset with red rubies for eyes. The Borchstogs half—bowed to Ungier.

  “My loyal troops,” he said, half mocking.

  “My lord,” said their leader, his eyes going from Ungier to Baleron. “Please accept our apologies. We stayed a minute to listen to the she—elf. We beg your pardon.”

  Ungier turned a nasty look to Baleron. “No godhood, perhaps, but I still possess authority.” To the glarumri, he said, “Kill him!”

  The glarumri gasped. “But, my lord, he is ul Ravast!”

  Baleron nearly smiled to hear the growl that issued from Ungier’s throat at that moment. The Vampire King shook off his rage and said to the Borchstogs, “Look into my eyes.” Apparently he still had some power.

  Baleron ran.

  Chapter 13

  After she had sung and was allowed to leave the Feasting Hall, Rolenya returned to her suite to bathe in one of the hot, steaming pools created by the stream that ran through her rooms. She felt dirty and soiled by the smoke of the Hall—the smoke and the blood, and the evil that hung there as palpably as grease in the air.

  She had three attendants that appeared to be elf maids, though she doubted their appearances and thought it more likely they were Borchstogs given elvish form. Spies. They rarely spoke, but they obeyed her instructions well enough. One was sponging her back when there came a knock on the door.

  “See who that is,” Rolenya said, and a handmaiden complied.

  In a moment she returned. Curtsying, she said, “’tis Lord Ungier.”

  Rolenya’s mouth dropped open. She started to say something, rethought it, and started over again. Composing herself, she turned to the third handmaiden and said, “Fetch me a towel.” To the second one, she said, “Show him in, but don’t let him wander.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Minutes later, Rolenya was clad in a bathrobe and preparing herself to meet the vampire. It would be the first time she’d seen him in an intimate circumstance since Gulrothrog. Still, her body was warm and freshly scrubbed, and perfumed with the scent of flowers. She felt good and had consumed more than her fair share of wine. She was feeling bold.

  She strode into the main living room, where Ungier warmed himself beside the fire. Tall and regally poised, he wore his spider-silk cape, which one of his servants must have retrieved from the arena—or perhaps his mother, to make up for recent unpleasantness? Its rents had mended, as if of the cape’s own accord.

  Rolenya had half expected him in human guise, but of course he was not; Gilgaroth had stolen his godhood.

  “Good evening, Lord Ungier,” she said, trying to stay formal.

  “Like
wise, fair Rolenya.”

  He took a moment to drink her in, and something about her seemed to relax him. He took a deep breath and sighed.

  Too, something about her seemed to quicken him, as his eyes grew larger and his expression more determined.

  “You smell lovely,” he told her.

  “Why, thank you.”

  “I enjoyed your singing tonight.” He glided about the room, beginning to circle her. “Though I had to put my ear to the door to hear it. You have a most beautiful voice. It sounds like crystal bells over a pure running stream.”

  “Not so pure,” she said, reminding him of how he’d stolen her maidenhood, how he’d destroyed her innocence.

  He did not have the decency to look abashed. Quite the reverse: he seemed to smile fondly at the memory. “Indeed,” he said, and his voice was heavy with desire.

  “Enough!” she snapped. So much for formality.

  He stopped circling and spun to face her. “You know why I have come.”

  “Yes.”

  He strode closer to her. His steps were quick and urgent and full of power, like those of a jungle cat.

  Lightly, she stepped backwards. “It’s not to be,” she said.

  “Oh, but it is.”

  He reached her and wrapped her in his rough embrace. Pressing himself against her, he crushed his leathery lips to hers. She struggled and pushed at him, but even with his powers diminished he was mighty, and she couldn’t tear away from his grasp.

  “Maids!” she shouted, wrenching her lips from his. “Help me!”

  But they cowered in fear on the edges of the room, looking at each other worriedly, and none had the courage to assist her.

  “Go!” snarled the First Vampire. “Leave us!”

  They fled the room.

  “You are at my mercy,” Ungier said, his need evident. “You are mine.”

  “No. Never again.” She beat at his chest. In his vampire form, he was not at all attractive, though it would not have mattered anyway. “Never!”

  He grinned evilly. “You were nearly my bride—my Queen—and I shall make it so again.”

  “I think not,” said a voice from behind.

  Ungier turned his battish head in time to see the fireplace poker swinging down at him. If he hadn’t been so consumed by lust, he probably would’ve heard the intruder, or smelled him, but he was too late. The iron poker slammed down on the crown of his head, his black eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped to the ground lifelessly.

  Baleron, fireplace poker in hand, stared down at him and said, “Finally.”

  His eyes found her.

  “Baleron!”

  She flung herself into his arms, peppering him with kisses and hugging him tightly. He felt so good and strong and she wanted to bury herself in him.

  “Oh, Baleron,” she cried, and she was not a bit embarrassed when tears leaked from her eyes. Pulling herself away, she looked up into his face and was startled by how old he looked: gray hair ran through his dark waves, and his blue eyes looked ancient. Grooves lined his face, and he looked bowed by a great weight: his Doom. Of course. He was still handsome, but his boyishness was gone.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she told him.

  He kissed her and stepped back. Looking down at the body of the Vampire King, he said, “I need to kill him.”

  “What? You’ll bring the wrath of Gilgaroth down on us!”

  He patted Rondthril’s hilt with his one remaining hand. His one remaining hand! She stared at his stump in dismay.

  “My blade—” he said, then stopped. “I’ll tell you later.” He looked to the fireplace, seeming to study its dimensions, then to the balcony. Wind gusted the drapes. “There,” he said. “We’ll throw him over. Grab his feet.”

  She hesitated. “No, Bal. We can’t. It’s—”

  He half smiled. “What? Foolish? Rash? I’m beyond that now. Let’s just do it.”

  He knelt down and picked up Ungier’s upper half, awkward with his one hand and stump, and, reluctantly, Rolenya grabbed Ungier’s clawed feet. On the count of three, and against her better judgment, they hefted the body up and carted it out to the terrace. Wind gusted coldly, and she shivered. Once they were fully outside, she began to tremble.

  “Baleron, are you sure this is wise?”

  He laughed recklessly. “Not at all.”

  He began to tilt the inert body over the railing.

  “Now!” he said.

  The body would tumble down a long, long ways, she saw. It would fall into the very fires of the Second Hell and be consumed, if such fires could consume Ungier, and she thought they could. Nothing would be left of him, save his spirit, which would hopefully be trapped in the Inferno. She prepared to tilt Ungier’s lower half and release it to the abyss—

  Two flaming discs opened in the darkness.

  Gilgaroth in his Worm form, hovering outside her suite and cloaked in the darkness which he emanated, said, “Drop him and you’ll burn in the fires of Illistriv forever more.”

  Baleron nearly jumped out of his skin. As it was, he almost dropped Ungier over the side out of sheer fright. He hadn’t been this fearful when Ungier’s glarumri were pursuing him; luckily for him they were less adept on their feet than in the air. It was only with great control that he carefully lowered the vampire to the stone of the terrace. Ungier did not stir. Damn it all! That’s THREE TIMES he could’ve been killed tonight. Why won’t he just die?

  “How long have you been spying on my sister?” Baleron demanded.

  “She is not your sister, spider,” Gilgaroth said. “She is more my flesh than yours. I made her. In a way, she is my daughter.”

  “No!” said the princess. “I am not your daughter. My real father is dead, murdered by my very body—which you stole from me. And I won’t forget it!”

  Baleron felt a swell of pride her defiance. Kicking Ungier’s ribs, he said to the Dark One, “What’ll we do with him?”

  Fire licked the back of Gilgaroth’s throat, and his long, sinuous body writhed behind him. “Borchstogs will come for him. They are already on their way.”

  In a small voice, Rolenya said, “Did you see what he tried to do?”

  “I saw.” Gilgaroth’s voice sounded patient—almost, to Baleron’s horror, fatherly. “I would not have let him.”

  “He’s an animal—a beast!”

  “He shall be dealt with soon enough.”

  Baleron liked the sound of that. He liked it less when Gilgaroth turned his eyes on him.

  “Throgmar tells me that your labor was completed. Good.”

  “Is that all he told you?”

  “He told me that Glorifel has fallen. The King and the Archmage are dead. All is as it should be, except for Clevaris. I’d hoped your brother Jered would prove as able as you at spinning my web, but it was not to be. Before he could complete his first task, he was slain. You, however, have proven most worthy—whether you were willing or no. Such efficiency will be rewarded.”

  “Why . . . why did you come to my window?” Rolenya asked.

  “It is not your window. It is mine.”

  Without another word, Gilgaroth slipped away into the darkness.

  “Damn him!” Baleron said. Almost growling, he cast his gaze down to the inert form of Ungier. “So, we’re alone, are we? Perhaps things aren’t so black, after all. I think I’ll just . . .”

  Borchstogs burst through the door of the suite.

  “Roschk ul Ravast!” they chanted.

  There were six of them, and they bowed and scraped as they neared him and lifted the Vampire King onto their shoulders. Baleron and Rolenya turned to each other.

  Gilgaroth and Mogra met on the top of the tower. It seemed they stood in a strange world all to themselves, as Krogbur’s tip pierced the dark clouds of the sky and there was nothing else to be seen. A howling wind tore across the two, bringing with it rain and thunder, but they were unmoved.

  Gilgaroth strode to the edge and waved his hand,
and the cloud parted to reveal the innumerable bonfires of the Great Army. Mogra stood by him and together they gazed down on the host that would ensure their victory, not over just the Crescent, but the world.

  “We will send them out on the morrow,” said Gilgaroth.

  “Has the time come so soon?” Mogra asked in wonder. “I did not think it would be so soon.”

  “It is not soon to me. I have awaited this for ages.”

  “Ever since your Vision.”

  He said nothing.

  She smiled. “I’m so happy. It’s even better that all this is a surprise to me, just as you said. I have enjoyed the thrill of it, the shock of it, and it is grand.”

  He turned his head to her bright face. “And I enjoy it through you.”

  “I’m honored to be the eyes through which you see it. Tell me of it again, my love. Tell me about your Vision. I so love to hear it.”

  “You know the story well.”

  “Just let me hear the words.”

  He made a fist, and twenty tongues of lightning broke around the tower, to punctuate the beginning of his tale. “Long ages ago, when first the Crescent rose to oppose me, I put myself to slumber. I cast my soul out into the black and treacherous waters of Time, what few have dared to do. Those waters harbor dangers beyond reckoning, and most who journey there are lost. Yet I braved those depths, and they parted before me, folding away like warm virgin flesh, and before me I saw a great inferno and out of it rose the Black Tower, and it was the very Heart of the World. All bowed down before it, and I was its Lord—the very Lord of the Earth. Seeing this, I knew what I could become, that I could indeed overthrow my enemies and achieve my Desire. I had only to discover how. And so I did, and here we stand, and the world is laid bare at our feet. Naked, it quivers before us, gasping, awaiting only our bold touch. And here,” he gestured at the Army, and the Hell-Worms, “is our hand outstretched, ready to seize it, to make it ours.”

  He made another fist, and forty tongues of lightning blasted around them. Mogra trembled against him.

  “Oh, my love! I knew this day would come, but now that it is here I am afraid.”