The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (23 page)

Rauglir’s growl died in his throat,
and his eyes lost their anger, their fury. Smoke rose up from the wound.
Baleron and the demon stood that way for a moment, locked in a mortal embrace,
their eyes staring into each other for a long moment.

At last Rauglir slumped and Baleron
jerked his blade free. The demon collapsed to the floor in a shaggy, bloody
heap, and Baleron spat on Rauglir’s corpse.

“That’s for my mother,” he said.

He saw the smoke rising up from the
back of Rauglir’s leg and silently thanked Rolenya—and Rauglir himself. If not
for the demon’s greed, the Flower of
Itherin’s
power
would not course through Baleron’s blood in the first place.

Rolenya still sang, but her voice
was fragile and raw now. He ran towards her just as white smoke began rising
from her body.

“Rolenya!” he cried.

Gilgaroth was too enchanted to notice the raggedness of her
voice, Rolenya hoped, lulled nearly senseless. Yet if she stopped singing he
would rouse.

What was taking Baleron so long?
The energies filling her were killing her, she could feel it. She had opened
the floodgates too wide, had drawn on powers beyond her skill to handle, and
now they were going to consume her. Incredible pain filled her, searing her,
and it was all she could do to go on singing.

She had to.
For
Baleron.
For everyone.

The pain rent her voice and made it
rough, and then it stole her breath, and she couldn’t concentrate on the words.
What was happening? Was she really dying? If so, she prayed she would not
return to Illistriv.

The pain overwhelmed her. She
choked out one final burst, and then the whole world turned to mist. She
collapsed in a heap to the wet terrace. White smoke like steam rose from her
body.

As soon as the singing stopped, Gilgaroth’s eyes snapped
open. His horned head lay limply on the floor, but it began to rear up.

Suddenly Baleron was next to it,
Rondthril at the ready. He raised the Fanged Blade to strike one last time.

But without Rolenya’s voice to keep
him spellbound, Gilgaroth was no longer helpless.

Angrily, moaning, he tossed his
huge head and knocked Baleron away, then slithered forwards, around Rolenya,
towards the archway leading into the Main Hall—and the stairs. The blow nearly
flung Baleron over the side of the terrace—doubtlessly that had been
Gilgaroth’s intention—but as he hit the floor and went sliding on the wet
surface, he struck the body of a dead Borchstog, halting his slide just in
time.

He glanced down, over the edge of
the terrace, and gasped.
The Inferno was
consuming Krogbur
. It climbed, even as he watched, the bright red flames
licking into the jet black surface, and smoke boiling up in thick sheets.
Within minutes the flame would climb to this very terrace.

Baleron glanced back. Gilgaroth was
disappearing within the tower. Damn it all! Rolenya had saved their lives and
given him enough time to retrieve the sword, but, curse Rauglir, not enough
time to use it.

Swearing, Baleron climbed to his
feet. A glance at Rolenya showed that she still laid lifeless, white smoke
drifting up from her body. His heart twisted violently, and, though it pained
him, he knew he did not have time to tend to her.

Reeling from his wounds, he pursued
the Dark One as he retreated into his lair, surely going to heal himself in the
Black Temple. If he managed to make it there,
it would be as if none of this had ever happened. Baleron had to stop him now,
stop him and kill him. Now might be the first time Gilgaroth had ever been
truly vulnerable, it might be the last, and Baleron knew his window of
opportunity would not be open for long—only as long as this stairway was tall,
for once Gilgaroth reached his Throne Room with all his servants about, wraiths
and Colossi and demons, he would be protected. The only reason others had not
rushed to aid their Master yet was the chaos caused by the shaking tower and
Gilgaroth’s pain.

The Hell-Worm crossed the Main hall
and began to slither up the black steps. Dark, smoking blood pooled in his
wake, eating into the stairs.

Baleron, cursing, limped after.

Moving with distressing swiftness,
Gilgaroth was far ahead of him up the stairs, which seemed endless—in the gloom
of the hall, Baleron could not see their top; there must be a thousand steps!—but
they would end all too quickly. He staggered upwards.

“I’m coming!” he roared. “You can’t
run from me!” Breathing hard, blood dripping into his eyes, he said, “But run
anyway! Run, Gilgaroth! Run! I want to see you flee!”

He mounted the stairs, one weary
step at a time. He tried to avoid stepping on the spilled black blood, hissing
on the stone.

Shadows fell on him. Like living
pieces of darkness, the wraiths descended in a howling cloud, tearing at
Baleron with insubstantial claws. They must have come down from the Throne Room
to aid their Master. Ghostly as they were, incredible pain filled Baleron every
time they touched him, and he knew they weren’t clawing at his flesh, but his
soul
.

He flung his bloody hand at them.
The red drops clove through the half-substantial shadow-bodies, parting them,
and the wraiths shrieked in fear and veered away.

Emboldened, Baleron swiped
Rondthril against his bloody abdomen, then slicing it at the wraiths, and
whenever Rondthril passed through them they wasted away, almost seeming to
evaporate. Still they clamored around him, howling and shrieking, tearing at
him with their awful claws, but he pressed forward through them, hacking at
them as he slogged up one more step.
Then another.

Above, the Dark One reached the
halfway point,
then
passed it.

Desperation surged through Baleron.
Summoning his last reserve of energy, he sprang up the steps, slicing at
wraiths as he went, and at last reached Gilgaroth’s tail. With a joyful howl,
he stabbed Rondthril through the hard scales and deep inside the Dark One’s
earthly flesh. He tried to pin Gilgaroth to the stairs, but the stairs were too
hard to penetrate, and the Hell-Worm kept going, not even acknowledging the
blow with a moan of pain. The blade sliced right through his tail, and fire
licked out from the wound.

Gritting his teeth, Baleron
followed.

Again he caught up to his enemy,
and again he stabbed into Gilgaroth, cursing as he did so.

“Die, you
bastard!”

He stabbed, and stabbed again.
Black blood sprayed him and he staggered back, nearly toppling. He felt
whoozy
and sick.
The
very blood of the Wolf!
It burned his skin.
A weariness
came over him, and he almost retched, but something in him fought the poison;
he felt the thrumming in his veins.
The Flower.
He
doubted it would be enough to save him, but it would give him time. He had
never thought to live beyond this day anyway.
Only let me kill the bastard first.

He had to hurry. They were nearly
to the top now.

Wraiths continued to howl and tear
at him, but Baleron had only to fling a few drops of his blood and they
scattered.

He rose, though every step seemed
like a torture. He had lost too much blood. The world spun and reeled around
him.

He saw Sophia and Salthrick; he saw
his father and mother; he saw Shelir and Elethris and Celievsti; he saw Felias
and
Jered
; he saw Lunir and Logran and his brothers
and all of Glorifel; he saw many others whom Gilgaroth had destroyed. Anger
welled up in him, and he marched on.

He caught up to Gilgaroth again and
stabbed him, punching through his scales. Gilgaroth hardly noticed. Baleron
stabbed again.
And again.
Rondthril flashed. Thunder
shook the tower.

“Die!” Baleron shouted. “Why won’t
you just die?”

With each strike, fires shot out
from the wounds. Baleron knew only vaguely how Gilgaroth and the Second Hell
were connected, but they were, one wound about the other, and with every hole
Baleron put in the Dark One he seemed to put another in Illistriv.

He struck again and again. Metal
flashed. Black blood spurted. Flame shot out. Gilgaroth moaned in pain, but
kept mounting the stairs.

As he went, he moved slower . . .
and slower.

Baleron roared and grunted.
Rondthril struck.

“Die!”

As Gilgaroth slowed, Baleron was
able to ascend up the Hell-Worm’s body, poking holes all through his enemy’s
length. He slipped on the black blood, got scorched by jetting fires, but he
pressed on, all he could hear the thunder of his own heartbeat.

He reached the Dark One’s horned
and whiskered head.

“Now we come to it,” Baleron told
him, panting. “Your end is here.” He poised the sword so as to drive it through
Gilgaroth’s eye and into his brain.

Yet Gilgaroth would not be so
easily overcome. Suddenly, with one sudden jerk, he reared up and knocked
Baleron back. The prince tumbled down a few stairs but caught himself, bracing
his weight with Rondthril.

Gilgaroth, eyes flaming as well as
body, twisted about and loomed over him.

“
Yes
,”
Gilgaroth
said.
“
Now we come to it. Let me
end your Doom, little prince. It is what you have wanted.”

Baleron glared up at him. “It’s
king
now.
Thanks to
you.”

The Shadow prepared to strike, to
snap up Baleron in his iron jaws and destroy him utterly, but before he could
do so the fires that were pouring from his body in great gouts began to consume
him, and he bellowed in pain. His whole black length burst into a tortured mass
of flame.

He flung himself upon the stairs
and writhed. He blackened, his scales blistering, as the fires of his own
creation devoured him. Baleron shrank back and watched on, awed. The flames
drew sweat from his pores.

From deep within its bowels, the Black Tower
rumbled violently.

Baleron shook off his awe.
Gilgaroth lived. Baleron stood, spitting blood from where he’d bitten his
tongue, and stalked up the length of Gilgaroth one last time. Fires scorched
him and smoke stung his eyes, and the writhing coils threatened to crush him,
but he endured.

“You made Man,” he said, breathlessly,
as he went. “You said one from among the Fallen Race would be your Deliverer,
and so it is. I, Baleron Grothgar, King of Havensrike, deliver you into
darkness. Farewell!”

Reaching Gilgaroth’s head, he
swiped Rondthril across his belly, gathering a coat of blood, and plunged the
unholy sword into the Dark One’s skull. A shock ran up his arm, but he felt
Gilgaroth’s flesh and bone give beneath him. Gilgaroth roared. His whipping
head knocked Baleron back down the stairs.

The Hell-Worm thrashed and moaned,
writhing in his death throes, Rondthril embedded in his brain. Flames shot from
his fanged mouth and washed across the glistening black stairs.

Baleron retreated down the steps,
stumbling, his eyes on Gilgaroth, as Krogbur shuddered and broke apart.

The shadow-wraiths swarmed about
their Master, trying and failing to help him. His fury drove them away, so they
circled him at a distance, wailing in terror and sadness.

The Dark One’s thrashing finally
ceased, and his body slumped to the stairs and was still. Thunder boomed and
the walls shook and broke. Fissures spread. Cracks split the stairs. Wind
screamed and howled.

Gilgaroth did not move.

Awe fell on Baleron.
The Wolf . . . is dead
.

As he watched, insubstantial
shapes, like shadows of shadows, suddenly poured from the holes Rondthril had
dealt the Dark One. They boiled out of the Second Hell, some screaming, some
wailing, all in haste to be gone as Illistriv collapsed. More and more poured
from Gilgaroth’s wounds—thousands, perhaps millions of them—and Baleron watched
in wonder, completely transfixed.

Illistriv was breaking. It must be.
And all its prisoners were being set loose. Even now Baleron might be watching
Salthrick’s soul escape its torment, along with millions of others. Baleron
felt a smile spread across his face. The wraiths, seeing the imprisoned souls
go free and fearing retribution, scattered.

Baleron turned about, meaning to go
down, and his smile faded instantly.

Rolenya, white and smoking and
still, lay in a heap down on the terrace.

Calling her name, Baleron leapt
down the stairs as fast as he could, slipping and cursing, but at last he
reached her and, sinking to his knees, cradled her in his arms.

“Rolenya!” he said. “Can you hear
me?”

She didn’t move. The wind blew her
hair, fluttered her dress, but she didn’t move. She was still warm, but Baleron
had no idea if that would last. She was already cooling under the frigid rain.

Bitter tears welled in him.
After all this, for her to
die . . .

A large slab of Krogbur smashed
into the floor near him, pelting him and the princess with shrapnel, and he
knew it was only a matter of time for them both. The tower would fall, and he
and Rolenya would be obliterated in its collapse.

A great winged shadow fell upon the
terrace.

Baleron looked up to see a familiar
form descend from the skies. Wounded and bloodied in a hundred places, weakened
by his mother’s poison, Throgmar landed on the platform and inspected his
father’s smoking remains, which could still be seen high up on the black stairs,
smoldering.

In the air about the tower, the
moat of dragons was breaking up and scattering. They felt their Master’s
passing and knew that Krogbur was the wrong place to be at the moment. At any
second it would collapse, killing anyone near it. Even the Borchstog army at
its base was beginning to flee, though it was too late for them. The leaping
fires of the Inferno spread, consuming all in its path, burning itself out. All
was chaos and pandemonium.