Wrath of the Black Tower, page 13
part #5 of War of the Black Tower Series
They advanced on him.
He held his torch in closer, giving them a look at his face. “Molest me and suffer,” he warned, a hand straying to the hilt of his light-blessed sword.
“My lord,” one growled. “We did not expect you.”
“Good. I don’t like to have my itinerary known.” He strode forward, his lieutenants falling in beside him.
“No sign of Giorn or his men,” said one.
“There won’t be.”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“I’ve dealt with him to my satisfaction.”
They fell silent. He had positioned them and others down here to prevent Giorn from reaching Castle Wesrain by the secret route, and now that Giorn was not a threat they were doubtlessly wondering what their new orders would be. He could obviously not order them to return to the castle—although, he reflected, it would be amusing to see Giorn’s face if he did.
“You lot’ll stay here,” he said. “I have other enemies that might try and attack.”
“We shall, my lord.”
“Leave me.”
They withdrew, merging with the darkness of the sewers with eerie ease.
Raugst moved on. He had informed Giorn of the creatures in these tunnels, though Giorn had already guessed at their presence, and he did not doubt that the baron would send a raiding party to deal with them in time. Raugst would never know. He never planned to return to Thiersgald. He had worked and schemed to become King of Felgrad, and he had done it, but with Niara’s death civilization held little meaning for him, and little interest. He would return to the wild, there to live out his days as a creature of the woods. Whether he would keep his man-shape or resume his wolf-form he did not know, but he looked forward to the solitude and splendor of the forest.
At times during his trek through the darkness he would come across other of his lieutenants, but when they realized who he was they merely bowed and became one with the shadows once more. Finally he emerged from the tunnels and passed through the waterfall, which washed away the stench of the tunnels, though it did douse his royal finery.
He came ashore and made his way through the woods until they ended. Before him stretched the gently rolling hills that led to the South Gates, and between him and the Gates lay Vrulug’s army—vast, dark, crushing. Borchstogs swarmed the walls, and Raugst saw several breaches where gaurocks had struck. He sighed. Many buildings would be razed, and many men would die. He could not stop that. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could prevent the total obliteration of Thiersgald and the rest of Felgrad.
Rain fell on his head and shoulders, pattering against his face, but he barely felt it. He strode through the blackened wastes left in Vrulug’s wake, where tens of thousands of Borchstogs and other fell things had passed, trampling and tearing the earth. All was mud. He came upon some sentries Vrulug had left to guard his rear. Riding murmeksa, the large, tusked hog-like creatures favored by the Borchstog cavalry, the soldiers surrounded him, lances bristling.
“It is I,” he said in Oslogon, “Raugst, high servant of Vrulug.” He hoped they could not feel the presence of the light-blessed sword. He had raided Saria’s apartment and taken several tokens of hers, and he hoped the darkness they radiated would mask the sword.
It seemed to work. The Borchstog captain lowered his lance and the others followed. “Lord Raugst,” he said, bowing his head. “I’m Captain Grastrig. Welcome to the Age of Grandeur.” He smiled, and his teeth had chunks of human flesh in them. “Master Vrulug said you might seek an audience.”
“I do. Will you give me escort?”
Grastrig ordered one of his soldiers to ride behind another, freeing up a steed for Raugst. With him in the center, the band rode toward the outer wall of the city. Raugst saw that the defenders were in retreat and that fires spread throughout Outer Thiersgald. As he drew nearer, the smell of smoke made him cough. The rain dampened it, but not enough.
Again he worried about his sword, and he found his hand resting on its pommel. It had become more than a mere weapon to him, he realized. Niara had poured her Light and Grace into it. Raugst liked to think that she had poured some of herself into it, as well—that, in a way, she was here with him.
Grastrig led him through the blasted gateway with its ruined towers and then through the chaotic streets of the city. Houses burned all around, and screams rose into the night from every quarter. Raugst had ordered the outer city emptied, but apparently many had stayed—to loot, to prevent looting, or out of simple human stubbornness. Raugst frowned to see the devastation around him. Despite himself, he had come to view Thiersgald as his home, or at least his responsibility. The Borchstogs showed him through the broad main avenues lined with trees, from which bodies hung, twisting in the hot winds. Others dangled from lampposts or were nailed to doors. Still more Thiersgaldians lived, though not happily, and their screams made sweat stand out on Raugst’s forehead.
He wondered where Vrulug would have made his headquarters. Perhaps the University. There were some fine buildings there, if any still stood. Perhaps Ferin Island, the small isle in the center of the river, where an ancient castle stood, now a museum. Or perhaps it would suit Vrulug’s grisly moods to make his lair in a graveyard, or a school, or ...
Grastrig brought Raugst toward the Temple of Illiana. As the white towers neared, Raugst grew cold despite the heat of the fires. No, he thought. Surely even Vrulug wouldn’t—
But of course he would.
Raugst hoped they might be swinging around the structure to a destination on the other side, but the Borchstogs began to slow, and finally Grastrig drew rein before the temple gates.
“This is it,” he said.
Raugst’s legs almost did not support his weight as he dismounted. He found it difficult to catch his breath.
He gazed up at the slender white spires framed against the black night sky, saw the ornate dome glowing with light, and he had a grave foreboding. Not this. Anything but this.
Muttering praises to Vrulug and Gilgaroth, Grastrig led him through the gates, past the courtyards with its gazebo and high elm trees, then up the wide stairs, flanked by lacy white columns, and inside. Raugst hesitated before he crossed the threshold, too briefly for his escorts to notice, then marshaled his resolve and stepped across.
It was worse than he’d feared. The high white halls of the temple were now the settings for debauchery and carnage. Red blood ran across white marble, and the delicate bodies of priestesses in their white robes sprawled along the floor. These were the young priestesses, the acolytes. The more experienced ones would have had ridden off to war. Raugst’s escorts led him through the dining halls, and he saw Borchstogs holding priestesses down on the tables, taking turns with them. Other priestesses were being tied to the columns and mutilated. Their screams drove shards of ice through Raugst.
This is all my fault. He had told Niara of his plans, of his arrangement with Vrulug, that Vrulug would not attack. Raugst had emptied Outer Thiersgald as a precaution, certainly, but mainly he had done it to keep up appearances. Niara had believed in him and had not forced her priestesses to evacuate with the others. I promised her I could save them, and now they’re dead, or worse.
Grinding his teeth, he stepped over and around the graceful bodies, some of which still twitched. Some of the priestesses had apparently slain themselves rather than be taken, but most had not had such easy deaths.
The temple, a place of light and beauty and grace, had been profaned. Blood spattered the walls, congealed in pools upon the floor, slim white bodies lying in them, some still moving. The Borchstogs’ grunts echoed down the halls, accompanied by squeals of pain.
Grastrig ushered Raugst through the Hall of Beginning. Here it was hot and steamy. Like Hell. The Borchstogs had discovered the furnaces below the Pool. Likely they were down there even then, in the sweltering, smoking heat, driving their slaves to stoke the fires. The Pool was not just steaming but boiling. The very air burned Raugst’s lungs. As he watched through wisps of vapor, a group of Borchstogs dragged a writhing priestess toward the water, which churned like a witch’s cauldron, running red with the girls that had gone before. The priestess was blond and green-eyed, young and fair. Naked, crying, she was dragged to the bubbling Pool, obviously having already been raped; Raugst could see the bruising. As he watched, helpless, the Borchstogs, laughing, hurled her into the boiling water, where several other bodies were already bobbing, red as apples. She screamed and thrashed, then fell silent.
Raugst looked away, and Grastrig led him to a winding stairway. Raugst realized he was being led to the Inner Sanctum. Dread built in him. The Inner Sanctum was the touchstone to the gods, to Illiana of whose grace and beauty an entire religion had been founded upon. That room had been the place of Raugst’s birth, in a way. Now he supposed it would be the place of his death.
The stairs ended and they came to the threshold of that room of Light. Again Raugst hesitated, then, trembling, stepped over. The smell of death rose about him.
Before him towered Vrulug—tall, batwinged, wolf-headed, encased in ebon armor, spattered with blood and stinking of death, standing over the altar of Illiana, where he held down a naked priestess. A gaggle of his black-robed priests surrounded him. Raugst had always hated Vrulug’s priests, with their slick white skin and skeletal visages. Now the priests chanted ominously, cowled heads bowed in prayer.
Raugst wanted to intervene, but there was nothing he could do. The white slab of veined marble glimmered in the light of the two braziers. Raugst knew Niara would from time to time place candles or incense or flowers on the altar, but that was it. Never anything like this.
Vrulug produced a ceremonial knife and slit the girl’s throat. Her blood spattered the white altar, and her body jerked and twitched for a while, then subsided, her blood running in rivers down the sides of the slab. Raugst felt sick. The priests ended their chant.
“There,” said Vrulug in Oslogon. “Now this is an altar to Gilgaroth. Roschk Gilgaroth!”
“Roschk Gilgaroth!”
The veins in the white marble slab of the altar began to turn black. The veins spread, joined up with others, tributaries leading into rivers, and soon the whole altar was crisscrossed in malignant black lines, which then seeped outward. It would not be long before the whole thing turned black. Raugst felt the altar emanate a chill, a darkness, and it seemed that the block of stone hummed and the air rippled around it, the ripples spreading, changing all they touched. This was now a fell place, a place of the Dark One. Raugst could taste it on his tongue, a rancid, bitter oiliness. And here, where he and Niara had made love for the first time! It was obscene. His hands turned into fists at his sides. He tried to relax them. Appear natural, he told himself.
Grastrig had been silent, awaiting the end of the ritual. Now he cleared his throat, drawing Lord Vrulug’s attention.
“My lord, you have a visitor.”
The wolf-lord’s eyes burned bright when they saw Raugst. He gestured for Raugst to step forward, saying “Come.”
Raugst obeyed. The slender bodies of priestesses lay strewn about the room. A pile of their body parts had been heaped at the base of the white altar of Illiana, and black candles had been lit and mounted on it. The bitter taint that filled the air grew stronger and raised the hackles on the back of Raugst’s neck. Mother’s milk, he told himself. I used to live for the feel of Gilgaroth’s presence. He threaded his way around the blood-soaked bodies and through the chanting priests, who parted before him. He hoped and prayed that his former master did not feel the presence of the sword.
“You may leave us, Captain,” the wolf-lord told the Borchstog leader, and Grastrig left, taking his crew with him. It smelled better when they were gone, but not much. “You as well,” Vrulug told his priests, and the pale-skinned things departed wordlessly. Raugst breathed easier.
Vrulug led Raugst away from the profaned altar to the moon-washed terrace, where Raugst had lopped off Giorn’s fingers weeks ago. Raugst wondered if the bloodstains were still here.
“Look!” Vrulug said, sweeping a heavy arm at the panorama of the burning city. Flaming towers stabbed high into the black sky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He flung one arm around Raugst’s shoulder and clapped him on the back. Raugst started, but Vrulug didn’t seem to notice. “For thousands of years I’ve longed to see Thiersgald burn, and now it does. It burns for me.” He breathed. “Soon, from its ashes, Ulastrog will rise once more, and I will rule here as I did of old.”
Scowling, Raugst looked sideways at him. “We had a deal.”
“Did we?”
“Yes.”
Vrulug drew back and appraised him seriously. “You’ve become King?”
Raugst fingered his kingly clothes and cape, and raised his royal signet ring to the light. “Yes,” he said. “I am King.”
Vrulug—great, grim, bloody Vrulug, stinking of death and sex—laughed. The sound made Raugst grind his teeth. “Hail Lord Raugst! Hail the king of ashes!”
Raugst did not blink. “I ask you to honor our bargain and withdraw your forces.”
“Why should I? I have my full host with me now, and the aid of the Moonstone.” His chest swelled. Indeed, now that Raugst was aware of it, he could feel a power radiating from Vrulug that had not been there before. “I can prevail without your help.”
Raugst flexed his fingers. “My lord—my friend—please reconsider. With my authority, I can do what you can not. I can wield Felgrad as a weapon against the Crescent, a weapon that can blunt their swords and make them easy pickings for you. Without my help, you may be able to break them, but they will break you, as well, and when you occupy the charred remains of their cities you will be spread thin, thin enough for the North to unseat you.”
“You do not realize the power that is at work, Raugst. My Father has unleashed His full might against His foes, and His spider spins his web of Doom. And the army massing at Krogbur …”
“Yes, and they will get the credit! But work with me, my friend. Honor our deal, and the glory shall be yours. You will not regret it.” He said this with great enthusiasm, hoping Vrulug would see the sense in it. Raugst did not expect him to, but he had arranged with Giorn to remain as king should Vrulug agree.
Vrulug frowned, mulling on it. The shadows of the tower grew darker, colder. The bodies of the priestesses began to stink. The black candles flickered on the altar. The bitter taint of Gilgaroth grew. The back of Raugst’s mind itched.
He cast a glance over the city. The flames rose high into the night, spreading unchecked throughout the outer city despite the thin mist. He heard distant screams. Lightning licked all around, descending from the clouds like the legs of some monstrous insect. Thunder cracked and roared.
In the distance hosts of Borchstogs neared the inner wall of the city, surely under the direction of Vrulug’s generals. It would not be long before the defenders there fell. Unless ...
Trying not to show his loathing, his fear, Raugst turned back to Vrulug. The wolf-lord eyed him intensely.
“Well?” Raugst demanded. “What of it? Will you honor our bargain?”
At last Vrulug sighed. “Sadly, I must decline. I am more powerful than you know. Thiersgald falls tonight.”
“Oathbreaker! We had a deal.”
Vrulug chuckled, but his eyes held no mirth. “You’re determined to play this part till the end, aren’t you? I admire that.”
Raugst shivered. “What do you mean?” Even as he spoke, his hand strayed to the hilt of his light-blessed sword.
Vrulug was faster. One of his hands lashed out and struck Raugst full across the face. Raugst flew backward, through the Inner Sanctum, and crashed into a wall. Pain flared across his back. He slid down the wall and came to rest next to the mutilated body of a priestess.
He groaned. Tasted blood on his tongue. Sitting up gingerly, he felt needles of fire rush through him.
Vrulug stepped forward, over a white-robed body. “You think I didn’t know?” the wolf-lord raged. Outside, thunder crashed and rocked the tower. “You think I wouldn’t find out?”
He opened his mouth. Fire licked at the back of his throat and gushed out, a great, frothing tide of flame. Raugst just barely rolled away in time. Even so, the heat singed the hairs on the back of his neck and set his royal finery afire.
In the distance, priestesses screamed as Borchstogs raped them, and the city burned all around.
* * *
At that moment, the Borchstog host reached the inner wall of Thiersgald.
“Archers!” Giorn called.
Arrows thrummed all along the wall, and Borchstogs fell twitching to the ground, but the black tide rolled forward, inexorable, their columns threading through the buildings of the city like the tendrils of some undersea abomination. Smoke and fire rose up all around them. In the forefront of their legions strode their standard-bearers, tall, black figures carrying aloft sharpened poles with the remains of men and women impaled upon them; some still moved, slicked with rain. Fat, gore-coated snakes coiled around the fly-specked bodies.
“Stand your ground!” Giorn shouted.
He unsheathed his sword as the first wave of Borchstogs scaled their ladders. One of the red-eyed demons climbed directly before him, stinking of death. Giorn’s sword glanced off the demon’s helm, which was in the shape of a rotting human head. The Borchstog laughed, heaved itself off the ladder and sprang at him.
Frantically, Giorn beat it back, and their swords clashed and rang. Giorn’s left arm was not as nimble as his right, but his training paid off. At last he stuck his blade through the demon’s eye-slit and into its brain. Black blood spurted, and the demon sagged backward.
More poured up behind it. All along the wall, as far as Giorn could see, the Borchstogs poured like a wave of death, and men battled them desperately. The priestesses led by Hiatha stood by, unable to draw on their powers. Some took up swords and aided the men, but their otherworldly arts were useless.
