The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (14 page)

“OH, OUR SPIES FOUND OUT ABOUT THE
SECRET TUNNEL LONG AGO, AND I TASKED MYSELF WITH GUARDING IT. I COULD NOT ALLOW
YOU TO FLEE.”

“You knew I’d left Krogbur?”

“OF COURSE.
I WAS SENT TO RETRIEVE YOU—AFTER YOU’D COMPLETED YOUR LABOR.”

“Well, it’s not complete, and it
won’t be, not if I have anything to say about it.”

“
WHAT
IS THIS?
DEFIANCE
? HA!
THE CITY’S FALLEN! THE ARCHMAGE IS DEAD! YOUR PEOPLE ARE LOST AND OVERRUN. WHAT
FEW SURVIVE SHALL ONLY LIVE AS CATTLE LIVE, AS SLAVES TO MY FATHER’S WILL.”

Baleron returned sneer for sneer. “Like
you?”

Smoke plumed from the dragon’s
nose.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“You’re a coward!” Baleron raged.
“A yellow, stinking, puss-bag of fear and shame!
I’m
surprised Gilgaroth even suffers you to live!”

“YOU GO TOO FAR.”

Baleron lunged forward and slashed
the dragon across one of his clawed fingers, between plates of armor, drawing
blood. Throgmar’s sharp intake of breath revealed the pain that Rondthril could
inflict, even on so mighty a foe.

Kill!
Kill!
sang
the sword.
Blood! Blood!
Baleron could tell it loved the taste of dragon.

“How far have I gone now, Worm?” he
said.

The dragon drew back a bit, wary
now. “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?”

“May be!”

Evidently impatient with this
foolishness, Throgmar shot out a claw and pinned Baleron to the ground. A huge
lead weight was on Baleron’s chest, crushing the life out of him, Rondthril
wedged between two enormous fingers. Baleron was being ground into the mud and
rubble, and he could not get enough air to talk. Is this how his life would
end?

Throgmar brought his huge horned
head close to the prince’s. “MURDERER,” he snarled. “I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN YOUR
CRIME. TEMPT ME, AND I
WILL
BE
TEMPTED.”

Baleron wondered if he had delayed
the Leviathan long enough. Would his father have gotten to safety yet? He hoped
so. If he provoked the Betrayer any more, he would not be around to delay him
any longer.

Throgmar narrowed his eyes, seeing
something revealed in the prince’s face, or perhaps in his mind.

“A TRICK,” the dragon seethed,
understanding. “YOU SEEK TO SLOW ME.” He snorted flame.
“VERY
WELL.
THEN LET US END THIS NOW.” He paused. “YET BEFORE I DEVOUR YOU,
LET ME JUST SAY THAT YOU ARE A FOOL IN THE GRANDEST TRADITION IMAGINABLE. YOU
WERE ON THE CUSP OF EVERYTHING; I WOULD HAVE DELIVERED YOU TO KROGBUR, WHERE
ROLENYA AWAITS YOU, AND TOGETHER YOU COULD HAVE LIVED OUT YOUR LIVES AS THE
RULERS OF SOME DISTANT LAND. YET YOU PROVOKE ME AND AID YOUR FATHER IN HIS
FLIGHT, WHEN HE IS DOOMED REGARDLESS.”

He wrapped his claws about Baleron
and held the prince aloft in a giant, scaly fist. The dragon shook him, not
gently, but just enough to hurt and jar him, and to make him release his grip
on Rondthril; the Fanged Blade spun to the earth and embedded itself blade
down, quivering, sinking slowly into the wet ground.

“FOOL!” Throgmar spat.

He unclenched his fist and with the
other foreleg grabbed Baleron by a boot and hoisted him high overhead. The
Great Worm opened his terrible mouth so that Baleron, dangling, stared down at
the dragon’s red, fleshy mouth and ivory-colored, gleaming teeth, which were
all long and sharp and glistening. The red tongue squirmed between them.
Baleron knew he was facing his end.

“THIS IS FOR FELESTRATA,” announced
the dragon.

Strangely, fear did not fill
Baleron. He would die, he supposed, and the king would live, and as long as the
king lived, so would hope. That was enough for him.

Just the same, he would go down
fighting. He pulled out the dagger. Dangling by a foot over a chasm of fangs
and a flashing red tongue and a hellish gullet, when all his attention was focused
on those massive jaws and teeth, a strange voice stopped the Worm from
releasing Baleron’s boot and plunging him, slashing, into that cavernous maw.

“
Sssspare
him,” pleaded a small voice from below.

Irritated, Throgmar clamped his
mouth shut and craned his long neck to see just who the speaker was.

To Baleron’s shock, it was none
other than Rauglir.

The demon had escaped! Baleron had
known
this would happen. Hadn’t he
warned his father? Damn the man’s stubbornness, his need for revenge! Smashing
the sack against the wall had torn a hole in it, or perhaps the demon had
gotten out
on his own
.

Still in his serpent form, Rauglir
had evidently stuck around to watch the spectacle, but this eating of the
prince was too much for him to sit idly through.

“WHAT?” asked
Throgmar.

“I will take care of the king,”
promised the snake.
“It
issss
why I
was
sssent
.”

Something about the reptile forced
recognition on the dragon. “RAUGLIR,” he said. “I SHOULD’VE KNOWN YOU’D TURN
UP.”

“The bad
onesss
alwaysss
do.” Rauglir flicked his head to the still-dangling
prince. “I’ve worked too hard to
twissst
that one to
see you
ssssimply
eat
him. Besides, he
is
The
Ssssavior
.”
“THEN WHAT WOULD YOU SUGGEST, DEMON?”

“His Doom
hasss
delivered him and
hisss
father into our . . .
handssss
. You were sent to retrieve him. Retrieve him.
The king . . .
isss
mine!”

Now dread did begin to build up in
Baleron. Rauglir was right. Baleron had tried to master his Doom, but his Doom
had won. It had prompted him to seek out and kidnap the king and bring it to
where its Master’s agents were waiting.

But
what other choice did I have?
It was
a good plan.
A worthy one.
Unfortunately it had
been the Enemy’s, also, and now his father would die; Baleron knew without a
doubt that Rauglir could easily catch up with Albrech and his kidnappers. If
Rauglir went after them, they were dead men. Somehow he had to stop the demon.

“No!” he shouted. He hurled his
dagger into Throgmar’s eye.

It worked better than he’d hoped.
Throgmar grunted in annoyance and dropped Baleron to the ground. He struck
hard, the breath driven from him. Forcing himself not to pause, he rolled
aside.

Throgmar plucked the comparatively
tiny dagger from his eye and tossed it aside. It had done very little damage. A
bass rumble issued from his throat, and fire licked his lips.

Off to the side, Rauglir just
chuckled.

“Take him to the
Massster
,” hissed the demon.

“YES,” agreed the Leviathan. “
HIS
TORMENT SHALL CONTINUE. YOU’RE
RIGHT; IT IS THE

“
Yesss
.”
The serpent regarded Baleron. “Good bye,
lover. I will give your
regardsss
to your father.”

Baleron lunged at him, meaning to
crush the life from him with his one hand, but the snake darted aside.

The prince gave chase—crippled,
soaked to the skin, wide—eyed and desperate, hair pasted to his skull,
stumbling frantically in the mud and rain after the skillfully-slithering
serpent towards a half-blocked opening in an immense ruin that had once been
the seat of government in the mightiest nation of the Crescent—but Rauglir was
quicker than he and in an instant the demon had disappeared into the shadows of
the tunnel.

Baleron charged after him, all his
thought bent on stopping the snake, but a huge scaly claw suddenly blocked the
tunnel, and Baleron slammed into it.
Bounced off.
Flailing, he reeled
backward,
stumbling in the mud and
debris, then fell.

Throgmar loomed above him.

Baleron saw Rondthril sticking from
the earth, shining in the darkness, and, leaping to his feet, he wrenched it
loose from the wet ground and turned to confront the Worm.

Chuckling, Throgmar said, “PUT THAT
AWAY.”

A cloud descended on Baleron’s
mind, and he had no choice but to comply. He sheathed Rondthril. It would have
been useless, anyway.

“SO YOU ARE
MINE
NOW.
AGAIN.”

The cloud departed, replaced by a
claw. Throgmar picked him up. Baleron screamed and thrashed in the dragon’s
grip, but Throgmar gave no heed.

“NOW YOUR MISSION IS FULFILLED. SO IS MINE. BUT THERE
IS SOMETHING
ELSE
I MUST DO. ONE LAST
THING, AND THEN IT IS DONE BETWEEN US.”

“What?” Baleron demanded.
“What?”

But Throgmar did not answer.

The dragon launched himself into
the sky, his great wings mastering the air. Still carrying Baleron in his
armored fist, the terrible Worm began to climb the storm-tossed heavens, and
the fallen city began to recede below. Borchstogs and worse continued to ravage
it, which despite the rain
was
half in flame and half
in shadow.

Tears running freely down his face,
Baleron desperately watched the tunnel entrance diminish below—hoping, praying,
that the king would miraculously stumble out, clutching the beheaded body of
Rauglir and laughing victoriously in the rain—but knowing that within minutes
his father would be dead, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The
king would die, Havensrike would fall, and the Shadow would lengthen, consuming
all in its path, when its path was the world entire.

The Dark One had won.

Baleron’s Doom had been fulfilled,
and his web was complete . . . or so he supposed. He prayed to Illiana that it
was. What more could
ul Ravast
possibly do?

He still had one hope, though,
fragile and treacherous a thing as it was—Rondthril. Both Logran and Elethris
had seen something in
it,
and in Baleron’s wielding of
it, that would indicate some high cause could be served.

But, of course, something had to
happen first. Had it happened already, perhaps? Baleron wondered where Ungier
was at that moment.

Ungier, commander of the gathered host, watched the sacking
of Glorifel with great pride. His chest swelled as his eyes drank in the
slaughter. It was glorious.

Ringed by his royal guard of
trolls, the Vampire King strode up and through the very Gates of the City. This
was the proudest night of his life. Borchstogs looted and raped and slew
mercilessly all around him.
Darkworms
flew overhead,
setting fire to great portions of the metropolis. Gaurocks wallowed in the
rivers.
Igrith
sowed terror into the hearts of the
surviving Men. Beasts and vampires and monsters of all sorts prowled the
alleys.

In a certain courtyard Ungier came
upon a wide tangle of dead bodies, some human, some Borchstog, some other, and
with his power he raised the corpses from their slumber and instilled wicked
spirits in them. The walking dead then stalked off to do his bidding, and he
laughed.

He saw a gang of Borchstogs pursuing
a teary maiden and stayed their assault. His eyes transfixed the girl, and she
went to him, thinking in her delusion that he would offer sanctuary. Instead,
he wrapped her in his arms and sank his fangs into her neck. Hot blood spurted
the back of his throat, and he gulped it hungrily. He drained the very life
from her, and then threw back his blood-spattered face and howled joyously.
Tonight was the best night of his long life.

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 returning 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.