Wrath of the Black Tower, page 10
part #5 of War of the Black Tower Series
The black cloud swept north, and once more Giorn felt its shadow descend on him. Fine, oily rain misted through the windows, raising gooseflesh on his arm. Before him, the black tide rolled unchecked, endless.
His earlier charge had done its work, and Vrulug’s advance was not as orderly or as effective as it would have been otherwise. Still, Vrulug held every advantage, and Giorn did not lie to himself. He could not defeat the wolf-lord.
Thunder rumbled. Blue-white tongues licked down from the black roof of clouds and struck the wall, again and again. Men screamed, and sparks flared. The oily taint Giorn had tasted on his tongue at Wegredon returned. The Moonstone, he thought. Vrulug is using the Stone. The wolf-lord had learned to wield it not just to block the priestesses of Illiana, but to counter the armies of Fiarth, as well.
The tower shook. The generals cried out in fear.
Giorn gripped the parapet. What now? “Hold on!”
It was too late. The ground rumbled, and the tower rattled. A piece of the roof collapsed, crushing two of the generals.
“Flee!” cried one. “Flee the tower!”
Giorn took one last look at the hordes of Vrulug, turned and followed Hiatha and the generals down through the building even as it shook apart around him. Lightning turned the world to white, and he tasted dust in his mouth. He made it to the ground outside just in time. The tower groaned and then collapsed, right onto the wall, killing two score men in an instant.
Giorn stared at the smoking rubble, feeling rain on his face, and felt one of the soldiers clap his shoulder.
“I hope you’ve lived a virtuous life, my lord,” the man said. “Make your peace with the Omkar,” another agreed. “We go before them soon.” “Better pray it’s soon. Vrulug could keep us alive for years if he wanted.” The other patted his ornate sword. “Not I.”
Clouds deepened overhead, blocking out the stars. From their smoky masses lightning flickered down, blasting apart men with every strike. Thunder nearly deafened Giorn. The ground rumbled angrily.
“Come,” he called.
He took his officers some distance away, then looked back to see that great, proud wall that had stood a thousand years break and crumble as the ground shook it apart from below and lightning blasted it from above.
“It’s the Moonstone,” Hiatha told him. “He’s using it against us.”
Giorn had come to that conclusion himself.
“What shall we do?” General Miled asked. He was wild-eyed, his wet hair in disarray, his beard matted by rain, but his jaw was set and he was visibly struggling to maintain his poise.
“We’ll do what we must,” Giorn said. “Fall back to the inner wall.”
The generals grumbled, but none had a better suggestion, and soon Giorn was leading the defenders in a rear-guard action as the host of Felgrad fell back from the outer wall. They poured through the streets of the city, past the parks, the university, over the rivers, and regrouped at the ancient fortification of the inner wall. It had not been used or even particularly maintained in many years, but it was a proud and beautifully-constructed edifice, half overgrown by vines, and it would serve.
Giorn mounted this wall alongside his generals. He deployed the soldiers along it and readied the others on the ground, then set his men to hacking the vines down so that the Borchstogs could not use them for handholds.
The greatest portion of Thiersgald lay between the outer and inner walls, and even now Giorn saw flames shooting up from the houses and business centers as Vrulug’s host rolled forward. The University of Hiarn went up in flames. The rain was too weak to put the fire out.
“They’re burning the city,” Hiatha said. She sounded as though the idea had never occurred to her, as if the city were inviolate.
Giorn looked sideways at her. “Do you feel any difference? Is Vrulug still in possession of the Stone?”
“There’s no change.”
He shared grim looks with his generals. “Perhaps burning the city will slow Vrulug down,” he said. “Perhaps that will give Raugst the time he needs.”
Quietly, Hiatha said to him, “My lord, there is … something else.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know anything about ul Ravast?”
“The Oslogon legend of the Ender? Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
“Niara told me that ul Ravast was loose in the world,” Hiatha said.
Giorn snorted. “He’s hardly necessary at this point. The world is falling without his help.”
“She was given this information directly from Queen Vilana,” Hiatha said implacably, and Giorn listened. “He is loose in the world, and much of the current devastation has been wrought by him—or his Doom. His curse. That which binds him to the prophecy. Because according to Niara, ul Ravast is unwilling, but shackled through sorcerous chains to fulfill the prophecy.”
“What does this have to do with us?”
Hiatha sighed. “Apparenlty the sorcerous chains come from the Moonstone—the corrupted Moonstone, that is.”
Giorn grimaced. “You’re saying that if Raugst is successful, he can not only save Felgrad but the world?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” she said. “If nothing else, the chains binding the Champion of the Dark Lord will be removed.”
“Then we had better pray for the bastard’s success.”
Unable to do anything else, Giorn watched the fires spread throughout his city. The flames came closer—closer. Soon Vrulug would have razed the outer city, and then he would fall on Giorn’s defenders without mercy. If nothing else, it would be difficult for Vrulug to utilize his gaurocks against the inner wall. There were too many buildings in the way, burned or not. This wall was lower and not as thick, though. It would not be difficult for Vrulug to overcome.
Giorn instructed his men to be careful when firing upon those who approached the wall. They could be townspeople who had remained in the outer city, not Borchstogs. A few Thiersgaldians did trickle in, fleeing their homes at last, but not enough. Not near enough. Giorn watched for the boys who had gone out looting, but he did not see them return.
He heard soldiers whisper along the wall that they were doomed, that Vrulug would prevail, and he did not see how they could be wrong. Unless Raugst succeeded, they would all perish, and the ones that died swiftly would be the lucky ones.
Chapter 7
On the second day of their journey, Throgmar set down for a rest. He’d been flying relentlessly, silently, without so much as a word to Baleron, since they had left Glorifel. Ungoroth. The prince had watched the land unroll under him with shame and loathing and sadness; the beauty of Havensrike had stretched to its borders and beyond, but now all was burnt and blackened; cities and villages razed and sacked, forests burnt or cut down for lumber. Rivers were poisoned or ran red with blood. Monsters lurked in the lakes, and ravening beasts lived in the hills.
Not despair but hopelessness filled him. He had a plan, yes, if such a thin thing could be called that, but he did not see how it could be achieved. For unless Rondthril could be purified of Ungier’s spirit and Baleron given the chance to use it—which seemed impossible at this point—the world was lost.
And then there was the issue of the Moonstone, and his Doom …
How could it have come to this? It was a scene out of a nightmare that he’d been dreaming for years, and it had come to its head.
But he was determined to find a way to defeat Gilgaroth. If he did not have that hope, he would go mad—if he was not already. And he might be: he often caught himself mumbling incoherently, and sometimes he would see the faces of dear ones floating by: Sophia, Salthrick, Logran, Elethris, Shelir, Albrech, Rolenya ... all dead, or nearly. Was Rolenya still waiting for him? Did she still live? Was it true she now sang for the Wolf like some songbird in a gilded cage?
On the second day, Throgmar set down on the burnt top of a high hill near a muddy brook whose waters were still drinkable, though just barely, and both partook of the moisture with relish.
Afterwards Baleron took the opportunity to stretch his legs, Rondthril sheathed at his side. Cramps seized him, and he tried to work them off. Being in the unwavering grip of a dragon for days on end was a torture on the body, as well as the mind.
Throgmar sat, brooding, by the stream.
“DO NOT STRAY,” he warned Baleron.
The prince said nothing.
In a while a group of Borchstogs who had seen them alight on the hill approached. They were mounted on murmeksa, but they swung down from the shaggy backs of the creatures and bowed low to the Worm, and their leader spouted obsequious words that turned Baleron’s stomach.
The Borchstog offered their steeds to Throgmar for sustenance, and Throgmar took one look at the huge, tusked hog-like creatures with long rat tails, dark fur and cloven hooves—and said, “LEAVE THEM.”
“Yes, your Greatness,” said the leader in Oslogon. “Is there anything else we can do to ease your time?”
“WHAT CAN YOU DO TO AMUSE ME?”
The Borchstog thought a moment. “We have been trained in the festive arts. We can sing and dance for your pleasure. We can juggle, do tricks.”
“NO MORE JUGGLING.”
“Yes, Great One, as you say. Well, at our camp we have some captives you can devour or entertain your Greatness with, if you desire. There are some human women. If you can change your shape you can have them.”
Throgmar snorted. “I HAVE NO INTEREST IN MORTALS OR IN IDLE PLEASURES OF THE FLESH.”
“Truly?” The Borchstog’s curiosity overcame his good sense, and he asked, “Then how do you enjoy yourself, my lord? You’ve lived for thousands of years and will live for eons to come, surely. How do you get through each day?”
Throgmar stared at him with an evil expression until the Borchstog chief quailed and cast his gaze down.
“Forgive me, your worship,” he said. “I have overstepped my place.”
“INDEED. LEAVE ME THESE MOUNTS OF YOURS AND BE OFF.”
He snorted flame, and the Borchstogs hurried away. Left alone with the dragon, the great hogs shuffled nervously. Throgmar watched the Borchstogs go and, when they were out of sight down the hill, he spat a column of flame that roasted the ten tusked steeds where they stood. Then, without a word to Baleron, he ate them. After two days with no food, the cooked pork smelled delicious to the prince—king? Heir, at least—but he refused to beg the dragon for scraps.
When the Worm had had his fill—eight murmeksa—he slunk over to the brook and slaked his thirst, then folded his wings about himself like a blanket and lay down, making his camp for the night.
Using Rondthril, Baleron hacked off a chunk of hog, and the Worm did not stop him. He sheathed the Fanged Blade and ambled over to the Leviathan. Cautiously, he sat beside Throgmar cross-legged as he munched on his meat. Though overdone, it was actually not as bad as he’d feared.
Tilting back his head a bit, he stared up at the stars. Despite everything, it was a pleasant night, not too cool, not too hot, with a gentle breeze that blew across the hill with a feminine sigh. There was even the faint scent of flowers in the air.
It was good to see the stars again. Both at Krogbur and at Glorifel, a screen of dark clouds had blocked out the sky, and their merry twinkle lifted his spirits more than they would have.
He looked over to the vast mound of the Leviathan. The dragon’s eyes were closed, but he doubted Throgmar slept.
“So,” he said slowly, “am I returning to Krogbur as a prisoner because I failed to complete my task, or a hero because I did?”
“THAT IS FOR HIM TO DETERMINE. I AM JUST THE DELIVERER.”
“You do not have to be. You could have simply killed me outright. You were about to.”
“PERHAPS GILGAROTH WILL PROLONG YOUR SUFFERING. I HOPE SO. IF HE DOES, IT WILL BE SWEETER FOR ME THAN YOUR MERE FLESH.”
“That’s right, you don’t like mere pleasures of the flesh.”
Now both amber eyes were open, and they narrowed to slits of hate. “YOU SLEW THE ONE BEING I COULD ENJOY THEM WITH.”
Baleron knew he was treading on brittle ice, and he did not think it wise to continue this leg of the conversation, yet he was, as he’d been told often enough recently, both foolish and rash, and so he marshaled his resolve to say, “You deserved it. You torched my city, and burned my home. You killed thousands.”
“YES, I DESERVED IT. DID SHE?”
Baleron did not know how to answer that. He had actually given the matter much thought over the months of his imprisonment, and it haunted him still. Felestrata’s murder had bothered him, and he supposed it would continue to do so; he had killed a helpless, reasoning being who had done him no harm.
However, he was also disturbed by the memory of the she-Worm changing into the form of Rolenya before his eyes. What could it mean?
He turned it over and over in his mind, playing with it as though it were a puzzle. Someone had wanted him to hurt. Someone had known he would slay her—after all, he’d been fulfilling his Doom—and had prepared for it. Throgmar had dismissed her transformation as a mere trick, and it was. But what kind of trick, and played by whom? Throgmar surely blamed his father, and there could be no doubt that it bore his signature. Yet ...
Turning again to the dragon, he said, “Just how long did you know her?”
Throgmar, who’d closed his eyes, opened them again. “FELESTRATA?”
“Yes.”
“NOT LONG. A YEAR, PERHAPS. SHE CAME TO ME IN THE CAVERNS OF OKSIL, HAVING HEARD THAT I WAS THE LAST SURVIVING DRAGON OF THE FIRST BROOD, THAT I HAD SIRED A THIRD OF ALL THE DRAGONS THAT FOLLOWED OF THAT LINE, AND THAT I WAS ALONE AND HAD REBELLED AGAINST OUR MASTER. SHE CAME TO SUCCOR ME, AND TO LEARN FROM ME. WE GREW VERY CLOSE IN A SHORT TIME, AND THEN ...” His voice hardened, and dripped with hatred. “THEN YOU TOOK HER FROM ME.”
Baleron wisely stayed silent for a while. During the silence, he thought on the dragon’s words and was reminded of the time the Wolf had sent him Rolenya in his pit, then stolen her from him. Suddenly, it came to him. As if out of a vision, the truth of what must have happened coalesced in his mind, and it was crystal clear, though no less monstrous because of it.
He was on the verge of revealing what he’d determined when the dragon’s hatred gave him pause. In telling what he knew, or thought he knew, he might just be spelling his end, right here and now.
Throgmar seemed to sense his thoughts and said, as if despite himself, “WHAT TROUBLES YOU?”
“Nothing.” Baleron turned his face away.
“NOT NOTHING. I CAN READ YOUR FACE ONLY TOO WELL, MORTAL. I CAN FEEL YOUR FEAR. TELL ME, OR I WILL RIP IT OUT OF YOUR MIND.”
Baleron resolved to himself that he would not. He had too much to accomplish; he could not afford to die.
“LOOK AT ME.”
The dragon exerted his will. Baleron struggled with it, but it was a losing battle and he knew it. He looked.
Throgmar’s amber eyes began to glow. Without the aid of a protective amulet, Baleron felt drawn in. Amber surrounded him, drowning him in seas of gold, and he was lost in the dragon’s power.
“TELL ME,” bade the dragon.
“It ... was Mogra. Felestrata ... she was Mogra.”
A long pause, then:
“NO. IT COULD NOT BE.”
“Yes, it could. It was. Ask yourself why she was in the region of Worthrick just at that exact moment. Don’t you see? He sent her to you in that form to lure you, to tempt you, to seduce you. He did it so that he could take her away from you—that so-called potion of his—so he’d have a tool he could use against you. Her. You’d do anything for her, even betray your own mind. That is why she was in those mountains, how she came to us so quickly. And that is why she left before we had been set free, so that she could return to Worthrick and assume Felestrata’s form once more.”
Throgmar shook his head in denial. “NO. IT COULD NOT BE.”
“Oh, yes it could.” Baleron tried to stop himself but couldn’t. The Worm’s compulsion was still upon him. “It’s just like him. It’s exactly what he would do, and you know it. But he never had any intention of giving her back to you. He and Mogra knew what I’d do, that I was following you ... that I’d kill her. They stole her from you, and used me to do it. But they were clumsy. Finally, they made a mistake. Don’t you see? Because they tried to make it painful for me, too. Mogra, pretending to be a dead Felestrata, changed into Rolenya, trying to wound me, to make me think I killed her. In accomplishing my revenge I would destroy my greatest treasure. They love to cause pain. You know they do. They feed on it like vampires feed on blood.”
Throgmar was shaking his horned head. “NO. IT’S NOT POSSIBLE. MOGRA ... IS MY MOTHER.”
“She’s a mother to Gilgaroth also, and you know how close they are.”
Seething, Throgmar snorted flame, almost killing Baleron. Thankfully, he was not looking straight at the prince, and the flame plumed to his side. Still, Baleron was singed a bit, and he shrank back a few feet. The pain shook him from Throgmar’s power, and he could master his own mind.
Yet he did not stop.
Throgmar looked horrified. “IT CANNOT BE. NO ...”
Taking a perverse delight in it, Baleron said, “But it is. There was no Felestrata.”
“NO ...”
“They used you, Throgmar.” It was the first time he’d called the dragon by name that he could remember. “You knew they were using you. You just didn’t know how much, and to what lengths they would go. Remember, the only reason they had to use you at all is because through you they could get access to Glorifel. And why? Because you had helped me, as they knew you would.” His voice took on a tone of defiance and hope. “Help me again, Throgmar. Help me like you did back then. Together, maybe we can strike at Him. Maybe we can—”
“NO!” roared the dragon, rising to his feet. “NO, I WON’T HEAR IT. YOU AND YOUR KIND ARE FULL OF LIES. YOU’RE OF THE FALLEN RACE, AND I WON’T SIT HERE AND LET YOU CORRUPT ME WITH YOUR FILTH. I PRESERVE THE PURITY OF FIRE. YOU WOULD TAINT ME WITH YOUR WORDS, BUT I WILL NOT STAND ANOTHER SECOND OF IT.”
