The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3)

by Jack Conner

  Baleron had been right, it pained Throgmar to admit. He had brooded on the prince’s words for days and saw the bitter truth of it. Now, thanks again to Baleron, he had a chance to act, and he would take it.

  Mogra had used him and betrayed him, and for that she would pay.

  Mogra’s great black bulk swiveled to face the approaching dragon.

  “Don’t you dare!” she said.

  His claws dug into her back and with a mighty pump of his wings he wrenched her loose from the balcony, lifting her up into the air. Rolenya watched, awed and grateful, as they receded toward the clouds, Mogra thrashing in Throgmar’s grip all the way, but Rolenya did not stop in her efforts to tear loose of the white shroud.

  “YOU USED ME!” Throgmar cried, high above. “YOU WERE FELESTRATA!”

  “Fool!” the Spider Goddess snapped. “Of course I was! Now set me down or I will break you!”

  She twisted, wrapping her eight legs about him, and her wicked fangs sank into his chest, injecting him with her venom. He bellowed in pain. The two dwindled with distance.

  Gilgaroth, clearly enraged, clenched a fist and a dozen tongues of lightning stabbed into Throgmar, who shuddered and began to lose altitude, his scales smoking. His wings stopped beating, and he spiraled down and down. Then suddenly, his wings beat once, then twice, and Rolenya breathed a sigh of relief.

  Gilgaroth made another fist, but this time only one tongue of lightning struck down, and it missed its target. Rolenya did not know if Gilgaroth were truly dying, but he was weakened.

  Throgmar, smoking, still bearing his eight-legged burden, began once more to fly away.

  “I WILL FIND YOU!” Gilgaroth roared at the dragon, or perhaps to Mogra, Rolenya wasn’t sure.

  Panting, he tore off the last piece of armor on his torso, revealing his wounds, and as Rolenya looked on in wonder he changed shapes as well, assuming the black, sinuous form of the Shadowdragon, perhaps a hundred feet or more long and, in a strange way, beautiful to look upon. He was exotic and wild, and full of power. Fires still poured from his twin injuries in great founts, one from his breast and one from his back.

  Angry but weak, he slithered toward Rolenya. Flame licked his lips and between his sharp teeth. His eyes blazed with fury.

  “No!” she cried, ripping away the last of the spider-silk.

  The tower shook and pieces of it began to crumble off. She started as a gargoyle broke at her feet. What was this? The terrace rocked beneath her. She saw then what must be happening: with the waning of Gilgaroth’s power, Krogbur was beginning to fall apart.

  Weakened or not, Gilgaroth still looked quite lethal to her as he loomed over her. Desperate, she looked over her shoulder to Baleron. By then, he’d dealt with all the Borchstogs who had not fled at the appearance of the Leviathan and was breathing heavily on the floor, regaining what energy he could. He bled from a score of cuts, and the blood mixed with the rainwater all about. His dark hair was plastered to his skull, and he looked exhausted both mentally and physically, but his dark blue eyes still burned with determination.

  She heard the rasp of black scales and, very slowly, turned to face Gilgaroth. She could feel his heat and smell his musk. In fear of her life, she skittered back on her hands and feet, slipping on the wet surface.

  “Out of my way!” he bellowed.

  She saw that she was directly between him and Baleron, and she knew that this was exactly the wrong place to be if she wanted to survive the next few moments. Gilgaroth wanted to roast Baleron where he lay, but for some reason he was unwilling to slay Rolenya to accomplish it. He may have given Mogra permission to kill her, but it seemed he could not do the deed himself. No matter how much he hated Rolenya, the echoes of her songs still played in his heart.

  Her songs had worked! She’d woven her own web, this one of Light and Grace, and she had woven it well. Now Gilgaroth was bound to her, at least a little.

  He tried to slip past her. She had to act fast.

  Shakily, she rose to her feet. The terrace still shook beneath her, but on bare feet she stood firm. Gathering her courage, she planted herself between her beloved and Gilgaroth.

  As commandingly as she could, she looked into the Dark One’s eyes and told him, “No.”

  At the roots of the tower, beyond the Inferno, a great panic went up among the Borchstogs and the other races that comprised the army, and the host stirred nervously. They had seen the images of their Lord getting pierced by Rondthril, and fear ran through them unchecked. Huge chunks of Krogbur began to rain down on them, killing many. Their formations began to break up.

  The ground shook and split, and the rivers of lava that ran nearby began to rise. Lightning flashed erratically. Thunder rolled.

  The Inferno itself started leaping fitfully. It spread outwards, consuming whole battalions of Borchstogs. Worse, it began climbing the tower. The fire was burning Krogbur, eating into its ebon face, and the flames rapidly ascended towards the highest terrace.

  Baleron, still on his back, had not actually expected to live this long. Perhaps he’d get another chance at Gilgaroth, after all.

  All around him, the tower shook and trembled, and pieces of it fell away. The weakened Gilgaroth was not strong enough to focus his energies on keeping it stable, and it was disintegrating. Baleron could hear the roaring of the Inferno that wreathed the lower half of the tower roar louder, growing out of control. The dragons of the aerial moat that protected Krogbur were going mad. Their circles took them closer and closer to the terrace on which the Dark One lay; yet they hesitated to send out their flame for fear of harming their already wounded Master.

  On the terrace, Gilgaroth slithered towards Baleron, trying to go around Rolenya, but she determinedly blocked his path, again and again, stamping her bare feet.

  “Be gone!” Gilgaroth commanded her.

  Stubbornly, she refused. Baleron was impressed by his sister’s courage and conviction, but like Gilgaroth he wanted her to get out of the Dark One’s way. It was her only chance.

  “Move aside!” he shouted to her, but she pretended not to hear him.

  Frustrated, Gilgaroth prepared to loose his flame, killing brother and sister together in one deadly blast. He drew in a deep breath and started to let it out, air shimmering around his maw.

  Baleron closed his eyes. The end had come.

  Rolenya suppressed her panic, despite the fact that Gilgaroth was about to incinerate her where she stood, and Baleron behind her. And afterwards the Dark One would doubtlessly retreat into the depths of Krogbur, to the Black Temple, and there be healed.

  She had only one choice.

  Summoning all her courage and drowning all her fears, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, raised her face to the skies and reached deep down inside her, where she found her strength, found that spring of Light, and, tapping it, did the only thing she could do.

  She sang.

  The sound poured out of her, woven with the innumerable strands of gathered Light, and washed across the terrace, rolling like a wave of white fire over Gilgaroth.

  The flames died in his mouth.

  He moaned.

  Baleron, eyes still closed, heard the opening notes of the song and wrinkled his brow in confusion. He’d expected to be roasted alive where he lay, but instead . . . music. Sweet, lovely music.

  He opened his eyes.

  Before him, facing the long black length of the Lord of the Tower, Rolenya in her torn white dress was singing. A beautiful series of notes cascaded from her, and, to Baleron’s shock, Gilgaroth’s fiery eyes dimmed . . . began to close.

  Rolenya’s voice rolled on, mesmerizing the Dark One.

  Baleron stared. Where had she grown so powerful? Gilgaroth lay there on the terrace, full of a seething wrath, yet too enchanted to move.

  Baleron, too, felt roots growing.

  Inside the tower, Gilgaroth’s creatures went mad. Their Master was an ever-present force in their minds, and now that force was full of fire and pain
and chaos. Some Borchstogs fell on each other. Some slew themselves. Some banged themselves against walls. What was more, the interior of Krogbur was trembling and shaking. Collapsing. If not for this, more help would have rushed to Gilgaroth’s aid despite the confusion brought about by his pain. Many tunnels were now blocked and help slow to arrive.

  Yet there was one being who could navigate such obstructions as a spirit and still take corporeal form when beyond them, one whose reward that was for his service.

  He came.

  Furious, burning, he came.

  Rolenya could feel Light welling up within her like water behind a thin dam and it was all she could do to let it out slowly; she felt that if she released it too quickly she would, like the dam, break apart. The Light would destroy her.

  The music felt good. It felt right. It made her feel alive just to sing it. All her body tingled and felt aglow, and she gave herself over to it. The notes rose and fell on the brimstone breeze, and Gilgaroth lowered his wolvish head and closed his gaping jaws. Smoke wreathed about his head.

  She stepped forward and caressed his face as though she were his mother, his lover—caressed his long jaw, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. All the while, she sang on.

  He fought it, fought her, and somehow he found the strength to open his eyes, and she knew she had to open the floodgates a little more. The Light burned her with its power, but she thought she could control it.

  His eyes dimmed and shut once more.

  Baleron watched on, amazed. Rolenya’s song was sometimes white, sometimes silver, sometimes golden, but always it was filled with love and harmony. Rolenya, beautiful Rolenya, had opened the Gates of Paradise with her song, or so it seemed. Dressed in white but stained with blood, she was a shining thorn in a world of darkness. A white light seemed to glow from within her.

  Baleron was enraptured. Fortunately the song was not meant for him, and after a few moments he shook himself loose.

  He saw what he had to do. The first blow with Rondthril had not been enough. He would have to find the sword and use it again. Ungier was not powerful enough to craft a weapon that could slay his father . . . in one stroke. But with two, or many . . .

  Baleron began to crawl inside, where Mogra had flung Rondthril. He prayed Rolenya could keep the Wolf distracted long enough.

  Forcing herself on, Rolenya wove ever greater spells of love and power and binding with her song. Instinct guided her. She only knew about these powers from books and tales—the only experience she’d had using them were during these last few weeks—but she wielded her newfound abilities with all the passion in her heart and all the grace in her being . . . and all the desperation of the moment.

  Strangely, a large part of her hated to do this to Gilgaroth, he whom she had brought out such gentleness and tenderness in, he who loved her—she knew it. Despite herself, she’d grown to feel almost motherly toward him, and now she abused that trust, twisted it, punished him for it. It sickened her, and she began to cry, tears running down her white cheeks even as she sang, even as she caressed his face, but she sang on. She thought of all the evil he’d committed, all the atrocities done in his name, and that leant strength to her voice.

  When she opened her blue eyes, it was as if a blast struck him, and he groaned.

  There! Rondthril gleamed in the dark within the Main Hall, near the endless black stairs that led up to the infernal Throne Room. Baleron picked his way towards it, looking back to see if Gilgaroth was still bound by Rolenya’s song. He was.

  But while the prince watched on, something strange happened. A beam of light broke through the roof of dark clouds above . . . and poured straight into her. It was as though the Omkarathons, the Light-Bearers, channeled their very power through her. Perhaps they did, Baleron reflected. Perhaps they perceived that this was their moment to act, that Rolenya was their best chance to strike back at the dark powers after all these years. Or perhaps she had simply tuned herself to the goodly energies of the earth and was drawing them up like a plant draws water from the ground—and doing so with such power it stole Baleron’s breath to watch it.

  All the while, Gilgaroth just lay there lazily, drowsy with imminent death, his lifeblood spilling out onto the terrace and smoking there, his eyes half closed, the ghost of a smile on his whiskered face. Fire still poured from the wounds Rondthril had given him.

  Baleron noticed that Rolenya’s voice was growing strained. She began swaying a little from side to side, as if about to faint.

  Was something wrong? He must hurry.

  He wrenched himself loose of the spectacle and crossed into the shadowed interior of the tower, snatching Rondthril up from the floor. He was amazed at the black blood that coated the blade, and he could feel a hum of joy from the weapon. It had tasted the Shadow’s lifeforce and wanted more. Yet it was weary, full and bloated with Gilgaroth’s power.

  “Just one more strike,” he promised it.

  He turned back.

  Light still channeled into Rolenya, but something was now quite clearly wrong. The power seemed to be too much for her. Perhaps she was too delicate a conduit for such energies, or perhaps she had not had enough experience using them. Either way, it seemed she was using forces she did not fully understand and could not fully control, as the light that suffused her grew so bright and white-hot that a terrible pain filled her; Baleron could see it in her stance and hear it in her voice. The light was eating her up from the inside.

  As her voice grew ever more stressed, Gilgaroth’s eyes began to open.

  Baleron rushed towards her. Before he’d gone five feet, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of the hall where it had been crouched near the archway and blocked his path. Alarmed, Baleron drew back. The hulking beast stood on two legs and had long arms tipped with claws. Long, horn-like ears laid down flat on its wolvish head. The lips of its thrusting snout lifted to reveal terrible fangs, and anger burned in its dark eyes.

  “Rauglir!” breathed Baleron.

  Dizzy, Rolenya wondered how long she need go on singing. She could not go on much further, she knew. At any moment she could collapse, or worse. It was clear that Baleron’s task was incomplete, though, and she had to give him enough time to finish it . . . if she could last that long.

  Gilgaroth fought her again. His head stirred. His eyes began to open.

  Reaching deep inside herself, she opened the floodgates still wider, and her voice rose like the tide. Again it worked, and his eyes half-closed once more. But pain filled her.

  Hurry, Baleron! For my sake, hurry!

  Murder glittered in the demon’s eyes. Venom dripped from his fangs.

  “You have gone too far, my love,” Rauglir said, his voice an awful growl. “Now you must die.”

  Baleron glanced over Rauglir’s shoulder. When Rolenya turned slightly, he could see that her face was contorted in pain, and her voice was growing more strained by the moment.

  Gilgaroth was rousing.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Baleron said.

  He rushed Rauglir, Rondthril leading the way. He made as if to skewer the wolf creature through the breast—a feint. Rauglir’s long arms swung to knock his thrust aside, but his blade was no longer there. Instead he buried Rondthril in the monster’s side. Black blood wept out. Rauglir roared in pain.

  A shaggy arm knocked Baleron away. Rondthril stuck in the demon’s ribs. Smoke hissed from the wound. With pain-maddened movements, Rauglir ripped the sword free and stared at it even as his own black blood dripped from its length.

  “They call it the Fanged Blade,” Baleron said, rising.

  “It burns,” said the beast.

  “Good.”

  “Now it has a new master.”

  Rolenya’s voice washed over Baleron, urging him on. He began to circle around the demon, but Rauglir would not have it. The beast came at him, Fanged Blade flashing, spraying dark blood.

  Baleron ducked under Rondthril as it swung at his head. Rauglir chopped down, meaning
to cleave in Baleron’s collarbone. The Heir leapt back. Rauglir slashed at his midsection. Baleron dodged, but the Fanged Blade opened a shallow gash on his belly.

  Rauglir kept slicing and thrusting, and Baleron evaded desperately.

  Gilgaroth’s eyes cracked open, and his lips lifted to bare long sharp teeth dripping poison onto the terrace. Flame licked at the back of his throat.

  Rolenya was afraid to channel any more power, afraid to open the floodgates wider, but she had no choice. She had to give Baleron more time. She raised her voice and let more Light pour through her. It burned, and she nearly faltered, but Gilgaroth’s eyes closed once more.

  As the Light welled up within her, scorching her, she continued to sing.

  Rondthril struck the floor at Baleron’s side, showering sparks. A clawed foot kicked the prince backward. He flew off his feet.

  Panting, he stared up at Rauglir from the floor. The demon loomed over him, a towering dark mass of fur and fangs and claws and blazing, furious eyes.

  Baleron began to roll aside, but Rauglir was too fast. The same foot that had kicked him now pinned him down. Sharp claws dug into his chest. He struggled, but the demon was too strong. He could not find the air to breathe.

  Rauglir raised Rondthril for one final, deadly strike.

  “Farewell,” he said. Smoke rose from his mouth as he said it.

  Baleron swiped his hand across his belly, gathering a handful of blood that leaked from his wound, and flung it up at his enemy. The blood spattered the back of Rauglir’s right leg, and Baleron heard the hiss of acid on flesh and smelled the stench of burning fur and skin.