The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (22 page)

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.

Howling, Rauglir dropped the sword
as he stumbled back.

Baleron rolled aside just as
Rondthril’s blade plunged toward where his face had been just half a second
earlier. Then he was picking the weapon up and leaping to his feet.

Rauglir had time to raise one
clawed arm,
then
Baleron was there, thrusting
Rondthril up through the demon’s chest, right into his heart.