The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) (6 page)

She shook her head. “He needs us,
my love. He needs
you
. That’s his
weakness. Use it against him. It’s the only way.”

“No. No, it’s not. I . . . know
another.”

She looked at him strangely, but he
did not have time to explain, and it would probably be unwise to in any case.
It was time to go.

Their guards allowed Rolenya to
accompany him to the glarum platform, which was large and teeming with the
foul, black—feathered steeds. They cawed and snapped and stirred uneasily, and
suddenly Baleron missed Lunir. Scalding wind howled around him, coming off the
Inferno.

Borchstogs seated him on one of the
great crows, and the riders found their own birds and mounted up. The leader
yelled out, and the squad took off from the terrace, cutting a wedge through
the dragon—moat.

Baleron looked back once to see
Rolenya standing there on the platform, her wind—whipped black hair flying, her
blue eyes wet,
her
long legs bare. Her small shoulders
huddled as she held the sheet about her, shivering in the high air.

She receded with distance, and,
when the Worms
closed up behind the fleet of glarumri, she was lost to sight. Baleron wondered
if he would ever see her again.

Rolenya sobbed as she watched Baleron dwindle to a speck in
the sky, her shoulders shaking,
tears
running down her
cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. The wind turned cold, and she
shuddered.

Abruptly, she felt a Presence behind
her. She could smell an all-too familiar musk, and feel an unearthly heat. For
a long while, she could not bring herself to turn, could not bring herself to
face him, and to her surprise he didn’t force the issue. He just loomed there,
behind her, watching her.
Waiting.

At last, she set her jaw and
turned. As she gazed up into his fiery eyes, her strength fled, and it was all
she could do to remain standing.

In his dragon form, Gilgaroth was
huge and black, his whiskers trailing like tendrils about his
wolvish
face. He took up the whole of her vision.

She took a step backwards and
placed a hand over her mouth to hold in a scream, but she was so scared that
she forgot to scream.

“
Rolenya
,”
breathed
Gilgaroth.

“M-my lord,” she managed, hating
herself for calling him that but knowing no other form of address for him.

“Why
do you cry? Do you miss him so soon?”

She lowered her eyes. “You wouldn’t
understand.”

He did not speak immediately.
Finally he said,
“I too know pain.”

Curious, she looked up. His eyes,
twin abysses of fire, mesmerized her, terrified her, but she refused to look
away.

“You do?” she said.

“I
knew it when you sang.”

“You did?”

He nodded.
“Long had I heard rumor of your voice,
whiteling
.
But until you sang for Baleron I had never heard it. It . . . was lovely.”

“
Th
-thank you.
I think.” Why was he telling her this?

“I
want you to sing . . . for me.”

“W-what?”

“Yes.
You will sing.”

She tried to think. “But, if it was
painful, why?”

“It
. . . was a good pain.”

She screamed as one of his claws
ensnared her. He flew off the terrace and carried her away from Krogbur, and
she saw it diminish between two of his black nails as the wind tore at her. Yet
she felt his heat, his immense, burning heat, and was warm, if not happy.

He carried her to the high, jagged
peak of a mountain jutting up from the surrounding wasteland and set her on it.
Then, like a serpent, he wrapped himself about the rocky spire and gazed up at
her.

“
Sing
,”
he said.

Fear seized her, and confusion, but
slowly she got a grip on herself.
What
else can I do?
she
thought.

Unable to help the stammer, she
said, “W-what would you l-like to hear?”

“Just
. . . sing.”

She emptied her mind of fear and
turned to thoughts of Light and Grace. Marshalling her resolve, she lifted her
face to the heavens, and sang. The song poured out of her like a spring flows
from the ground, coming to her naturally, and as it flowed she drew strength
from it, and her voice grew stronger, echoing off the sharp peaks far away, and
off the black roof of clouds above.

Gilgaroth listened, seeming to
drink up her voice like wine, but she did not look at him, as the sight of him
would drive the song from her. And so she closed her eyes and sang, and as she
sang she wept, and thought of Baleron.

Chapter
4

The once-green fields and forests of Havensrike were black
and smoking as Baleron flew over them, and with every breath he swore bitter
oaths of vengeance against those who’d done this. He and his escort flew for
days, rarely stopping, and when they did the Borchstogs kept a close guard on
him. He watched for his chance at escape, but it never came. He thought of
Rolenya often.

At least he’d reclaimed Rondthril.
With any luck, if he could command his Five Hundred again, if he could lead
another attack against Ungier, perhaps . . .

He tried not to think about it.
Gilgaroth could read thoughts, after all.

The glarum riders hated daylight,
but they braved the bright skies anyway, never waiting for nightfall when it
was time to depart their brief campsites. Their elongated, wolf-like helmets
protected their eyes from the sun.

As they drew closer to Glorifel,
Baleron saw a great mass of dark clouds above that wondrous city blotting out
the blazing Eye of Brunril, throwing an artificial nighttime on its attackers,
shielding them from the sun. The glarumri neared the high walls and Baleron saw
the teeming army of Borchstogs and their allies camped outside the city.
Glorifel was on its last legs; Trolls and beasts and corrupted Giants, even a
battalion of Men, numbered among those laying siege to the city. Here and there
rose
large scaly mounds, glittering in the moonlight:
dragons, sleeping.

How
can this be?
he
asked himself.
How can it have come to this?

The Borchstoggish army was
impressive, but not nearly as grand and terrible as the host massing at the
roots of Krogbur, the hammer that would destroy the remnants of the Crescent
Union, which was the dam holding back the dark river of Oslog—a dam that was
about to be broken and the foul tide unleashed. How could Baleron aid that
cause? How could he be its Champion?

He pictured Rolenya, and then he
pictured her fate if he should fail in completing his web, and then he pictured
the fate of Roshliel if he
did
complete it. Where was the solution?

He must free Rondthril with
Ungier’s death and confront Gilgaroth with it. He could think of no other way.
But how to slay Ungier?

Again he tried not to think too
long upon it.

The glarumri set down amidst the
rabble of Borchstogs near the largest bonfire, near where the command tents
were pitched. Various beasts and monsters skulked about or were chained to the
earth, snarling.

The riders dismounted and Baleron
was instructed to wear his cursed sword. This puzzled him, but he did it. Next
the glarumri captain said, “We go to
ul
Qrodegrad
.”
The Shepherd.

Hope rose in Baleron, but also
fear
. Ungier was his only route to salvation, but the
Vampire King hated him and he did not relish the prospect of being at Ungier’s
mercy. Nevertheless, he didn’t resist as the glarumri shoved him through the
filthy ranks of the Borchstogs toward the command center.

The demons grouped around steaming
cauldrons of
srodnarl
,
or tortured prisoners, or had slaves pleasure them, or prayed to Gilgaroth, or
a hundred other unsavory things, yet wherever Baleron passed the Borchstogs
ceased what they were about and turned to him. Some bowed or muttered prayers.
Some offered their souls to him and slew themselves on the spot.

He ignored them.

Lord Ungier, as it happened, sat on
a throne made of human skulls and was surrounded by six armored Trolls. He was
casually sipping wine mixed with human blood from a jewel-encrusted golden
chalice. Bristling
murmeksa
, the monstrous wooly
boar-things with sharp tusks, thronged about the Trolls, grunting savagely.

“Well met, Maggot,” Ungier said as
Baleron was brought before him. “Deliverer of Doom, King of Catastrophe. Yes,
you are a welcome sight, my old friend. You herald the end of the siege and the
rise of my new domain. For I will plant my seed in the withered womb of
Havensrike, and I will call it Ungoroth.”

Baleron was in too foul a mood to
exchange barbs with Ungier, and at this point barbs might be counter to his
purpose.

The glarum riders bowed to the
former Lord of Gulrothrog.

“Kneel to Lord Ungier,” said one.

Baleron was dismayed to see that
the Vampire King was surrounded by such a force. How could he get close enough?

“Kneel!” said the glarumri leader,
and shoved Baleron onto one knee.

Ungier smiled. Red stained his
sharp teeth. “Good to see a son of the Fallen Race assume his rightful
posture.” He added, “And thank you for coming, as I meant what I said: now that
you’re here, your city’s days are numbered.”

“Only if they let
me in.”
What am I going to do?
He
needed to kill the vampire to release Rondthril from its service to the dark
powers; it was his only chance against Gilgaroth.

“May I kiss your ring?” he asked.

Ungier glanced at the gold ring he
wore, bearing as it did the image of the Great Wolf.
How he must hate that
, Baleron thought. But Ungier would have to
keep up appearances.

The vampire’s black eyes studied
Baleron,
then
shrugged. “Please yourself.”

Baleron shuffled forward, head low,
past the first two Trolls and dropped to his knees before Ungier. As he did, he
drew Rondthril, and, in one motion, hacked at the vampire’s leathery neck.

He prayed it would work. After all,
Ungier had shown fear of the sword before, and, as the blade hissed toward the
vampire now, he seemed frightened again. His eyes widened, and his fanged mouth
became an O.

The blade bounced off an invisible
wall and Baleron was thrown back as if knocked by a strong wind. Instantly, a
Troll placed its foot on his head and chest and pinned him down. Stars danced
before his eyes. He could not draw breath.

“Wait!” shouted Ungier. “Leave him
be!”

The Troll removed his foot, and
Baleron took a deep breath.

Sneering, Ungier picked Rondthril
up and admired its craftsmanship. “Asguilar’s blade . . . I would love to have
it back.” His voice held tones of genuine lament. “It took me long to forge it,
you know. Oh, I was so proud. My first true son . .
. ”
His eyes narrowed. “He was a great one, you festering puss, you vermin. How
could the likes of you slay such as him? He was mighty. He alone of all my sons
that followed loved me. He alone would never have lifted a hand against me. Ah,
he made me so proud!” Black—blooded tears welled in his eyes, and the hand that
held Rondthril actually shook. He pointed the Fanged Blade at Baleron’s breast.
“
You
did that.
You
took him from me. And you and your curse took away my home, my
brides, my Rolenya . . .” Rage overcame him, and he lifted his head and howled
like a wolf. In response, the true wolves of the host lifted their heads and
howled, too, and the Borchstogs followed so that soon the whole night
reverberated with Ungier’s pain.

To his surprise, Baleron was
actually moved.

At last the great, mournful howling
died away. Seething, shaking, the vampire cast Rondthril down at the prince’s
feet,
then
collapsed back into his gruesome throne.
“Would that I could kill you, but you are denied me. Would that I could keep
that sword, but apparently your labor requires it. They won’t let you inside
the city without it—why, I don’t know.”

Baleron propped himself up. “You
must have some idea.”

“I suppose you’ll find out the why
of it soon. Tell me, did you really think Rondthril could kill me?”

“You were scared of it before, at
Gulrothrog.”

“I didn’t know what sorcery the
Elves might’ve worked on it, but now I sense it’s the same as it’s always been.
Good.”

A great horn sounded out from atop
the city wall, and a familiar voice, amplified by sorcery, called out, “Has
Prince Baleron returned?”

Logran!
They must’ve seen us fly in.
Baleron almost smiled, but couldn’t.
I’ll have to come up with some other plan,
damn it.

Ungier nodded to a tall, cloaked
Borchstog—a necromancer. The necromancer lifted a horn to his lips and blew
twice, loudly, turning to face the Walls.

“Yes, he has returned,” boomed the
Borchstog, his voice amplified, as
Logran’s
had been.
“The time has come to exchange prisoners, if that is still your desire.”

Long moments passed with no word
from the wall. Baleron shifted uneasily.

“Go on, decide,” said Ungier
anxiously, half to himself, his black eyes fixed on the South Gate, as if
willing it to open. “What’s taking so long?”

“They’re studying him. Don’t
worry,” said the necromancer. “He has the sword. They’ll take him.”

Sure enough, the horn sounded out
again and Logran called, “We’ll lead out your son, Ungier, and you will present
us with Baleron. Any deviation on your part will be met with a hail of arrows,
and the first one will slay
Guilost
.”

“It is agreed,” returned the
Borchstog necromancer.

What’s
this?
Baleron thought.
What interest
can Logran have in Rondthril?

“Farewell, Prince,” said Ungier.
“We will likely not meet again.”

Baleron leveled his eyes at the
vampire. “Don’t be so sure.”

He was ushered toward the high
gates, and the archers in the towers to either side watched his approach
anxiously. The gates themselves were thrown open and a vampire under heavy
guard was led out from the city, where the procession stopped.

Baleron and his handlers stopped a
hundred feet away.

The
Havensril
knights unchained their prisoner and prodded him forwards. Gratefully, the
young rithlag—
Guilost
—made his way back to his
people, and Ungier seemed genuinely glad to see him, which surprised Baleron,
who’d just heard that only Asguilar had truly loved his father.

Baleron’s handlers shoved him
forward. This all seemed strange to him—wrong, somehow. Obviously this prisoner
exchange was a staged affair, a half-hearted effort on the enemy’s part to fool
the humans into thinking it legitimate, but there was more to it than that. The
Men had an agenda of their own, and the enemy knew about it, was playing to it.

The human soldiers drew around him
in a tight, gleaming knot, and he wondered if any of them had been with the
Five Hundred.

Suddenly their swords pointed at
his breast and throat. “Sorry, my lord,” said their leader. “But we have to do
this.”

He recognized that voice.
“
Halthus
?”

“It’s I, sir.”

“Excellent!” Baleron clapped
Halthus
on the shoulder, ignoring the other knights’
tension.
Halthus
had been one of his lieutenants when
he led the Five Hundred.

Lifting his visor,
Halthus
did not look so friendly at the moment, however.
“Sir, you’d better come with us quietly.”

Baleron withdrew his hand. He
hadn’t noticed it before, but one of the knights carried coils of chain over
his shoulder, and he brought it out now and bound the prince’s hands. Baleron,
not quite mystified, allowed it.

“I’m not a werewolf,” he said.

Halthus
shrugged. “That’s for the mages to decide.”

They led him inside the walls as
though he were a prisoner, and the gates closed behind him with a crash that
echoed in his ears for long moments afterward. He may be in chains, he thought,
but he was home.

The knights led him to their horses and put him astride one.
Without wasting a moment, they raced off through the streets with him at their
center. It was surreal, after so much time among the horrors of Krogbur, to be
home again, to see people—
people
—and
hear the sounds of playing children and the barking of dogs.

Even so, it was grim.

Baleron was dismayed to see large
parts of the city still burnt and in ruins from Throgmar’s passage. The Grothgar Castle, or its blackened remains, reared
like a lightning-blasted stump from the highpoint of the city, while masses of
emaciated homeless people tangled the streets and looked out of grimy hotel
windows. They must be refugees from all over the kingdom, their own towns and
cities consumed by the devouring armies of Oslog.

Baleron turned to
Halthus
. “Did General
Kavradnum
ever mass an army out of the soldiers of
Aglindor
and
the other cities?”

The knight snorted.
“Some army!
They botched the attack on Ungier. Our sortie
was nearly unable to reach them.” Darkly he added, “Only a few survived. And
their cities were left defenseless. They did not stand for long.”

The knights rode to the largest
surviving palace in the city, home to one of the noblest Houses, the
Husrans
, who,
Halthus
explained,
had offered up their abode to the king and had taken up residence with another
great House with whom they shared many ties, the
Esgralins
.

The knights stopped at the palace’s
gate and were inspected by a coterie of five sorcerers, who took custody of
Baleron, bringing him into a room within the outer wall, not far from the
hastily-erected barracks. His chains were removed, and the mages made him stand
in a circle of chalk while they all pointed their staffs at him and closed
their eyes, chanting in a hypnotic baritone. The ends of their staffs glowed,
and he felt hot. They made him remove his sword, and began again.