The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (19 page)

“Let
me ease your mind,”
he said.

Wind howled and thunder roared.
Darkness grew once more about the tower’s tip, and of what unholy sights
transpired there, none can tell, but it is said that at one point all the rain
that fell on the gathered host below turned to drops of warm blood, and the
lightning made strange shapes in the sky.

Baleron, realizing
he
and Rolenya
were finally alone, kissed her passionately.

“It’s been too long,” she murmured.

“Wait,” he said, separating
himself. He hadn’t had a chance to bathe since his arrival, and the sight of
the steaming baths demanded his attention. “The last wash I had was two days
ago in some mountain stream cold enough to freeze me solid in a few places, or
nearly enough. Some might still be frozen.”

She smiled, though it was strained.
She still seemed tense, and he didn’t wonder why. The sight of him must be a
mixture of good and bad news for her. She would not be simply glad to see him,
as she knew that if he’d returned he must have completed his labor. She was
half-watching him with the eyes of one who fears that she gazes upon the
murderer of her adopted father, the traitor that doomed her adopted kingdom.

He took her hands and said, “I did
not kill him, Rolenya. Our father, I did not . . .”

Something seemed to go out of her,
some burden, and tears sprang to her eyes. “Tell me, Bal! What
happened
? I must know what happened!”

He sat her down, and slowly told
her his strange, sad tale. When he reached the part about Rauglir possessing
his hand and how he’d had to chop it off, she cried and kissed his stump. He
told her everything, or nearly everything, omitting only the most hurtful
parts, such as the image of their father’s severed head on a silver platter at
Ungier’s banquet. When he described the sack of Glorifel, she burst into sobs
and did not stop for a long time, no matter how much he stroked her hair or
patted her back. He let her cry.

At last he finished, and he was
heartened to see that she no longer looked at him as though he were a murderer.
She looked on him as she had before, but with even greater love, and greater
sadness.

He moved off to the baths, and she
helped him.

“How did you find me at the
Inferno?” he asked when he was neck-deep in the hot soapy water and she was
scrubbing his back.

“When I returned here and you were
gone, I was scared. I guessed at the only other thing that could interest you
here: Salthrick. So I went down to the lower levels. I’ve wandered the halls
here a great deal since you left, and I know them well. I knew what lay beyond
that archway—one of the Gates of Hell, I call them—and so I went there. Well,
not at first. It’s one of several, and it’s the second one I went to.” She
shivered. “What a horrible place! But I’m glad I found you in time.”

“Why? I could have defeated
Rauglir.”

She did not answer for a moment.
“No, Baleron. I don’t think you could. He may play at swords for sheer
amusement, but even if you could defeat him that way—he is not human,
Bal
.”

“Not anymore,” he agreed.

“He’s powerful. Don’t take him
lightly.”

He felt his face harden. “Oh, I
don’t. I would never take
him
lightly. But . . . let’s think of other things.”

The water was delightful, and he
began to feel his old self again, despite everything.

Once she paused in her scrubbing
and said, as if just remembering, “You say you . . .
ate
. . . this Flower of Itherin?”

“
I
didn’t. Rauglir did.
And just the bloom.
But yes.”

She frowned. “And you say your
blood
smoked
when it struck the
igrith
?”

“Yes? What?” She seemed excited
about something.

She sat the scrub-brush down.
“Baleron, bite your hand.”

“
What
?”

“Bite your hand or I’ll do it for
you. We just need one drop of blood.”

Curious, he punctured his palm
enough for a little blood to well up, and as she directed he positioned it away
from the bath and let a red drop fall to a section of the black floor not
covered in hides. Instantly, smoke rose up from the spot where the blood had
struck.

He laughed, more startled than
anything else. “What does this mean? My blood has turned to acid?”

He craned his head back to see her
smile in satisfaction. She said, “It means that for however long the Flower of
Itherin’s
power flows through you, your blood is harmful to
enemies of the Light.”

“I’d rather keep my blood where it
is.” He mulled it over. “There’s another way it helps. I forgot to tell you,
but the Flower helped me master my Doom at one point. It didn’t save Father,
but it gave him a little while longer.”

“Can it destroy your curse?”

“My Doom is the stronger, I can
feel it. But at least it’s weaker now, with the Flower. I think. Anyway, it’s
good to know that we’re not in this completely alone. The Gods of the Light
haven’t done much to help us so far, but
maybe,
just
maybe, this means that the fates don’t favor evil.” Ruefully, he added, “Still,
I hate to put our new weapon to the test.”

She nodded gravely. “So do
I
.”

That night, they found comfort in
each other’s arms, but it was a cold comfort, for she knew as he did: unless a
miracle occurred, the Dark One had truly won. Just the same, Baleron found that
even in Rolenya’s tears she seemed somehow resolved, determined to come out the
other side of this thing. She whispered to him of her strategy for the future:
if Gilgaroth truly did give them a distant realm to rule, they would rule it
wisely, bringing enlightenment and goodness to their people, even if they were
Borchstogs, and in due course they would grow powerful and challenge Gilgaroth
for his Throne. Baleron very much doubted such a thing could be accomplished,
but he pretended to go along with it for her sake.

She fell asleep in his arms, and he
stayed awake to enjoy the feel of her body against his, of her smooth skin
rubbing against him. He stroked her hair and inhaled the scent of her deep into
his lungs, and at last he too drifted off to slumber.

Harsh knocking woke them.

It was Ustagrot, the Borchstog
necromancer and high priest to Gilgaroth. To Baleron’s surprise, he was dressed
in his most formal robes and wore a sweeping hat of Eastern style. In a gnarled
hand he held a long, intricately carved staff with a sinister-looking demon
head on top. He did not wait for the door to be answered but used his powers to
swing it open before him so that it banged loudly against the wall, startling
those inside. Striding in purposefully, he made his way to the bedroom, where a
naked Rolenya scrambled to pull the covers over herself and Baleron.

“They don’t teach manners very well
in Oslog!” she protested.

“Get dressed!” snapped Ustagrot.
“In a short while, the Master will address His army and send the host north. It
will destroy what’s left of your Union.”

“I take it he wants us to attend
this speech,” Baleron said.

“He has something special planned
for you,” said Ustagrot, and Baleron wondered if this were the final element of
his Doom, as Mogra had intimated. “Besides, you’ve been instrumental in
achieving His ends. You deserve to see the fruits of your labor come to pass.”

“I’m fine as I am.
Really.”

The Borchstog sneered. “You have no
choice,
Ravast-
ru
.
We can force your cooperation, should that prove necessary. Get dressed. Make
yourselves presentable. I’ll come for you in an hour.”

Baleron and Rolenya looked at each
other when he had gone, and as one they glanced away.

Baleron still had
some
hope, though. His eyes inched to
Rondthril, which hung in its scabbard from a nearby chair.
Yes
, he told it silently.
It’s
time. It must be, though I don’t know how; Ungier has proven lucky so far.

Rolenya saw his expression. “What?”
she asked. “What is it?”

Should he tell her? He hesitated.

“Spit it out, Bal!”

He almost smiled. “I’m going to do
something,” he said.
“Something mad.
This is it.
Our last chance.
If that army goes north, it’s all over for
us, for the Crescent, for the world. We can’t allow that to happen.”

“But what can we do?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. I don’t
even know if it’s possible, but it might be. At least we have a chance.
Elethris hinted at it. So did Logran. So did
Vilana
.”
He squeezed her hand. “There’s hope, Rolenya.” Frowning, he added, “But if we
act now, there’s no going back. There will be no distant realm for us to rule,
no eventual uprising.
Nothing.
If we fail, we’ll burn
in the Second Hell forevermore until our souls are used up, far apart, and
that’s if he doesn’t just destroy them outright. Either way, he’ll still send
his army north. The world will still fall. So . . . the risk is high.
The chance of success, slim.
But it’s the only hope I see.”
He held his breath. “I need to know—are you with me?”

She stared into his eyes.

“Of course I’m with you, Baleron
Grothgar,” she said. “If I have to, I’ll follow you into the very fires of
Illistriv. The pain they can inflict is not nearly so terrible as the prospect
of a world ruled by the Shadow, a world without Light or Grace, a world of
darkness where love has no place, except the love of power and dark things.”
She clasped his hand tightly. “So of course I’m with you, Baleron. For ever and
always, I’m yours. What do we have to do?”

Chapter
14

He and Rolenya were dressed and ready to go when Ustagrot
returned an hour later. Escorted by a full dozen elite troops, the Heir to
Havensrike and the Princess of Larenthi left their suite for the last time and
followed the high priest through the labyrinth of Krogbur.

They wound along hallways and
ascended several long flights of stairs, seeing many terrible things along the
way—wraiths in groups or alone, unnatural creatures skulking down tunnels, grim
sculptures of demons and beasts, and more. Though this place, this tower, was
new, it seemed to be expanding rapidly. Just a few months ago it had seemed
much emptier, much
more hollow
. Now it was crammed
full of life, or un-life. Baleron thought it large enough to contain several
vast cities, and he shuddered at what horrors might live in its most lightless
chambers.

As he walked along, he fingered
Rondthril’s pommel. It was amazing to him that they’d let him have it. Why
would they allow him any sword at all, much less this one? Of course, all the
Borchstogs were armed, and he was of a higher station than they. Weapons were
an intrinsic part of their culture. Yet he was a prisoner. Unless, of course,
the Dark One was fool enough to trust him, which he surely was not.

It must be that Gilgaroth did not
fear Rondthril. The Heir had tried to slay him with it once and failed, so why
should
he fear it? After all, it was
loyal to the dark powers. The Fanged Blade was impotent.

Kill!
it
chanted in his head, as always.
Blood!

Hungry, but
impotent.

That was why only Rondthril would
serve his purpose, he realized. If
Vilana
or Elethris
had gifted him with a sword imbued with Light, it would immediately have been
taken from him upon his capture, as then it truly would be dangerous to
Gilgaroth. But Rondthril was a weapon of darkness, so they trusted it.

Were Elethris and Logran and
Vilana
right?
Could
Baleron wield it for some high cause? He had to trust their instincts.
Otherwise, there really was no hope.

He glanced sideways at Rolenya. She
walked with calm and poise, but he could see that she was just as nervous as he
was, and scared and racked with guilt, besides, for she would live, but unless
they succeeded in their mad plan (if plan it could be called), her kingdoms—both
of them—would fall. But despite it all there was
a strength
in her, a fortitude, and at first it puzzled him, but then he thought he
understood: she was righteous, and in her righteousness she was powerful. Her
eyes were clear and her face untroubled. She had faith—faith in him, in them,
and in Light itself.

He wished he had such faith. All he
had was determination—determination that if the opportunity to use Rondthril
presented itself, he would act on the instant, heedless of the cost to his own
life or soul or even Rolenya’s. All he had was the will to destroy Gilgaroth,
consequences
be
damned, and it would have to be
enough.

Gone were his days of wine and
leisure and women. He knew he would never enjoy such luxury again. Life for him
now was hard and sharp, full of darkness and blood. Just the same, he no longer
felt empty. Before he’d found Rolenya again, he had been a mere shell of a
creature, a machine working on clockwork, surviving just to survive. She had
filled the emptiness in him.

He squeezed her hand and held it as
they made their way through the tower, and at last they emerged into what he
thought of as the Main Hall, the one that led from Gilgaroth’s giant Throne
Room down the endless flight of black stairs to the largest and highest terrace.
They were very near where Baleron had crouched that day, after dispatching the
two Borchstog guards, when he’d spied on the meeting between Throgmar and his
father. That seemed very long ago, a lifetime, before he’d slain Felestrata and
lost whatever innocence he’d still possessed, before his months of torture,
before the fall of his city and the death of his father.

He felt a stirring in his blood, a
quickening. Taking a deep breath, he urged himself to be calm, to stay
collected and focused.

They stepped into the wide, high
corridor and made their way to the end of the short hall, where the terrace
began. Ustagrot stopped, and so did the procession behind him.

“We will wait here,” the high
priest whispered to Baleron and Rolenya, “until we are invited to do
otherwise.”

Brother and sister shifted
uncomfortably. Dimly, he could hear rhythmic chanting from below, from the very
earth at
Krogbur’s
feet: the Borchstogs were sounding
out. It was a great, dark swell of noise, primal and harsh. They were calling
for their Master.

If Baleron could hear it from here,
just below the roof of clouds, the sound must be awesome indeed. It must shake
the earth.

The night was the color of
charcoal, laced with violet-tinged edges of clouds, and here and there
lightning flickered and cut the gloom. Thunder rolled.

Queen Mogra descended the stairs.
In her humane form, she was naked and defiant and at least twenty feet tall,
jewelry winking on her six arms. More jewelry adorned her body and clasped the
thick, dark hair that fell past her shoulders. She seemed to sparkle when she
moved. Her full high breasts jutted proudly from her chest, and the hair of her
pubis was oiled and combed. Baleron was taken by her raw sensuality; she exuded
sex and lust and power, and when she walked down those endless black stairs her
hips rocked back and forth. She strutted down to the level floor and sauntered
past Baleron and the rest of his group, teasing them with the scent of her
heady and intoxicating perfume, if perfume it was. Smiling, Mogra stepped out
onto the large terrace and made her way to its edge.

She lifted all six arms in a
dramatic gesture, and the Borchstogs far below roared lustily.

“Do
you love me?”
she shouted.

They roared even louder.

She half turned and motioned to
Ustagrot and his charges. One jewel-laden hand beckoned them.

The high priest and necromancer,
obviously proud at sharing this moment with his goddess, led the way onto the
balcony; the prince and princess, and their guards, followed. The air was brisk
and cold, and there was a slight spray from the clouds just above. Mogra’s
tawny body gleamed.

As always, hundreds of dragons
circled the upper reaches of Krogbur, serving as an aerial moat and a constant
watch. They did not fly quite this high, but circled about the tower somewhat
further down. Baleron supposed they would be sent off with the Army upon its
departure; after all, that was one of
Krogbur’s
main
functions: to serve as a doorway by which the Hell-Worms could cross over.

Baleron gasped when he glimpsed the
army below. Beyond the bright reach of the Inferno, it stretched from the Black Tower’s
roots all the way to the foothills of the distant mountains. Bonfires glittered
like the stars. The host was endless. It was comprised of many races, he knew,
from Borchstog to Man, from Spider to Troll to corrupted Giant, and many
others, besides. There were even a few hulking Colossi standing about. The
titans shielded large numbers of soldiers from the rain. There must be millions
of troops, Baleron thought. No resource of the Crescent—or the world—could
resist it.

Mogra had conjured several images
of herself down below; larger than life, she stood a hundred or more feet tall
in various places amongst the army; Baleron saw that these images rose from
bonfires and were made of flame. Sparks
danced high, and smoke seemed to rise from her gold-flecked heads.

The Borchstogs looked both at her
real form, far above, and at these images, which showed her exactly as she was,
but taller and forged of fire. Some Borchstogs were on their hands and knees in
worship. Some tossed bound sacrifices atop the pyres. Some leapt atop the fires
themselves.

“Do you love me?” Mogra shouted
again.

The roar that followed staggered
Baleron.

Mogra smiled wider, enjoying this,
basking in their worship.

“You are my children!” she said.
“Each and every one of you.
And it is you, my children, who
will bring down our enemies and unleash us from this prison!”

They roared so savagely that
Rolenya cast a worried glance at her brother. “
This
is the shape of the future?” she asked in a whisper. “
These
are the ones to inherit the
earth?” She shook her head bitterly, wincing at the thought.

The Spider Goddess’s hearing was
excellent.

“You don’t like my children?” she
asked, breaking off from her speech and half
turning.

Rolenya visibly summoned her
courage, tilting her chin up. “As a matter of fact, I do not.”

“Good. I will keep that in mind,
and if in the future you misbehave I will destroy that pretty new body of
yours, as slowly as I care to, and slip your quivering little soul into the
body of a Borchstog, or something you find even fouler.” She paused, delighting
in the repulsed expression on Rolenya’s face. “A Spider, perhaps,” she added
with a wink to Baleron before returning her attention back to her cheering
throng. So did her hundred-feet-high images.

“I am Mother to you all,” she said.
“Love me. Worship me. With every life you take, Man or Elf or Dwarf or other,
you honor me. With every town you burn and every field you raze, you give me a
gift. I am with you at every turn, and everything you do, you do for me, as
well as your Sire. We made you as you are to be the best of the races, the
strongest, the most fearsome, and you are. Embrace this. Your Master wove your
souls out of his shadow, and I ask you now—no, I demand you—to fling his shadow
to all quarters of the world!”

They roared.

“Now your Lord Sire would like to
address you.
Are you ready?”

They clenched their fists above
their heads and roared.

She raised her arms again, then
stepped back away from the front edge of the terrace and assumed a waiting
posture.

The great black figure of Gilgaroth
himself strode down the long stairs that led up to his Throne Room, moving with
power. Darkness swelled around him, and from it his eyes of fire smoldered. In
one hand he carried his long staff. A dark cape fluttered behind him, and a
dark helmet masked his head, concealing all save his burning eyes, which seared
everything they looked upon. He was even taller than Mogra.

He marched out onto the terrace,
right past Baleron—who felt himself unconsciously drawing back and shielding
Rolenya with his body—and took up the position Mogra had just vacated. He
inclined his head downwards, surveying his army harshly. The Borchstogs
exploded, roaring out their love for him, beating on their breasts and pumping
their weapons over their heads. The other various beasts and monsters joined
in. Baleron could not see all the details, but he could imagine them.

Something at the corner of his eye
caught his attention.

Down and to his right was another
terrace, not as large, and on it stood none other than the Leviathan.
Ul
Mrungona
saw him. They regarded each other
warily,
smoke
issuing from the dragon’s nostrils. His wet scales flickered in the lightning-rent
night.

I
should’ve known he’d be here
, Baleron thought.
Gilgaroth wanted Rolenya and I here—he wanted the chance to gloat—and
he wants Throgmar here for the same reason. I’ll teach him the price for his
arrogance
.

Wordlessly, Throgmar averted his
amber eyes from Baleron. He looked from Gilgaroth to Mogra, and Baleron could
see dark wheels turning in the Leviathan’s mind.
Good
, thought Baleron, then returned his own attention to
Gilgaroth, his hand unconsciously clenching into a fist at his side. Almost of
their own volition his fingers inched toward Rondthril’s handle.

Kill!
Kill!

Taking a deep breath, he stilled
the troublesome digits and let his right arm hang limply at his side. Rain
stung him, and he shivered, suddenly realizing how small and frail he was next
to the likes of Gilgaroth.

“My
army
,”
said the Dark One.
His image too appeared in the bonfires below, looming over the Borchstogs, who
would be gazing up at him reverentially.
“
You should see yourselves, my sons, my daughters. You look STRONG.
Mighty.
Stout as stone.
Nothing can
stand against you. You are the wave that will erode the last bastions of Light.
Your purity of essence will be my enemies’ undoing. You will go north and crush
the siege at Clevaris. You will burn and blacken the
Elvish
gardens of Larenthi and spread my wrath throughout the kingdoms of the
Crescent. Then you will go into the northlands and make them mine at last. We
are partly of the same flesh—YOU HAVE MY BLOOD IN YOUR VEINS!—and you will now
be the instrument of my ultimate will. And that will is Ruin!”

They bellowed loudly, gnashing
their teeth.

“The
Union has kept me pinned behind the walls of
my Black Shield for thousands of years, and it shall be you who sets me free.
Be proud! Be strong! Be bold! Strike fear into the hearts of all who do not bow
before me. Make this tower the very Heart of the World!”

He clenched a fist and a thousand
tongues of lightning flickered out of the clouds and a terrible
boom
!
nearly
knocked Baleron to his knees. The Borchstogs were so awed they fell silent.

“You
will need a leader,”
Gilgaroth continued in the silence.
“Someone worthy to march you to victory.
I must stay here to oversee my various
hosts, and to sustain this very tower until it is strong.”