Wrath of the Black Tower, page 16
part #5 of War of the Black Tower Series
* * *
Gilgaroth took her far away from Krogbur, to the jagged peak of a distant mountain, as he’d done several times before. Near the mountain stood half a dozen volcanoes, and of these three were spewing magma high into the black night. As she stood on the bald, pointed peak, she was glad of their heat and light. Thanks to the glowing magma, the mountain winds were warm, and an orange light fell over the peak, illuminating even Gilgaroth in a kindly light.
Had he chosen this spot because he knew she would appreciate it charms? Could he reason on that level? Could he think of others’ wants and needs? She wanted to believe he could.
While she surveyed their surrounds, he wound himself about the sharp cone of the mountain like a giant snake coiling about its prey. But he was not on the hunt, she knew. Indeed, she could tell by the expression on his nightmarish face that he was content—-even gentled—-by the knowledge of her songs to come.
He wasted no time.
“Sing,” he bade her.
“I will,” she promised. “But first, answer me one question.” When he merely waited, she went on. “Why did you bring me here, instead of having me sing at the Tower?”
Gilgaroth didn’t answer at first. Just when she thought he would ignore the question altogether, he said, “I wanted to be . . . alone with you.”
“You mean, away from Mogra?”
“That, and from Krogbur. From the War. From . . . everything.” His voice sounded sort of sad as he said this last part.
From yourself, she added to herself. It was a startling realization, and she tried to hide her shock. But as she thought about it she began to see the shape of things, and she realized it must be true. When she sang, Gilgaroth could lose himself in her voice and forget himself—forget his rage, his hate, his hunger, his darkness. Does even he despise himself? she wondered. It was an odd thought, but perhaps not too off the mark.
“Now sing,” he said. “Sing, My little dove . . . . Sing for Me.”
She looked into his flaming eyes. For her they held no fear. She opened her mouth and let her voice pour out in song, over him, and he groaned, as if giving up a great weight. She sang on, letting her voice soothe him, wash him, singing out ever more loudly so that her voice carried over the distant jetting volcanoes, and over the charcoal sky.
As she sang, his eyes dimmed, just a little, and he positioned his head close to her, within touching distance. She sang on, and he closed his eyes altogether. He looked so peaceful. So content. Again, she felt like a mother cooing to her child as he slept, washing all his cares and woes away, and she felt moved to touch him—to touch the terrible god. She stroked his long, wolf-like jaw. She stroked his brow, his nose, the top of his snout, and all the while she sang. As it had before, it almost seemed to her as though he were purring. She could hear the deep throb reverberate through her fingers as she caressed his face. She wondered if he was asleep.
Sleep, my child, she thought. Dream. Dream of sweet things.
She sang on.
* * *
Baleron was surprised to see the Spider Goddess make her way down the hall. Frantically, he backed into an alcove. He didn’t think she’d seen him, eight eyes or not.
He held his breath as she passed by. He couldn’t decide if she walked or skittered or lumbered. Either way, she propelled her way through the wide hall with unnatural swiftness for a thing so large, even using the walls to push herself off of with her many legs. She was huge, and foul, and yet he found himself admiring her gracefulness and her delicate beauty, as the swirls of purple along her shining black carapace seemed to ripple in the torchlight. Her smell entranced him. He breathed in her fragrance happily. For some reason, he started to follow her.
He caught himself, drew back into the alcove. Now is not the time to give in, he told himself angrily.
Curious, he waited a few minutes, then pursued her, tracking her. Always he made sure to stay out of her sight. He followed only the clacking, clicking sounds of her legs on the hard surface of the tunnel. Where could she be going?
One hand on the cursed sword, not that he trusted it, he darted from alcove to alcove, pausing at junctures and intersections. Several times Borchstog guards saw him, and twice he was detained. The demons swiftly knelt before him when they saw who he was.
“Roschk ul Ravast!” they chanted.
Scowling, he pushed past them. It seems that being the doom of the World does have some advantages, he thought bitterly.
Finally Mogra reached a grand, obscene archway. She paused, seeming to sniff the air, and then she passed through it. Baleron hung back. He could hear a great roar coming from within the chamber she’d disappeared into, a roar as of a great fire, and his heart quickened. Could it be? Had she led him to his destination? He grinned in fiendish delight.
He couldn’t see into the room, so he moved further along down the hall. To either side of the grand archway stood a giant demon, the like of which he’d never seen before. Each stood thirty feet high, had long, nightmarish, crocodilian snouts, a riot of claw-tipped arms, fifteen or more eyes, horns, and a tail. Their eyes looked out not just from their heads, but from their chests and arms, as well. For some reason, Baleron found this the demons’ most revolting feature.
However, as he drew close to the archway they guarded he found his mind was not on them but rather on what he saw within.
He saw flames. Huge, terrible flames. They seemed to stretch on forever. They were the fires of the Second Hell, they could be no other. The brightness of the flames disoriented him. He thought he saw shapes, bright blue-white shapes about the size of men, seeming to swim through the flames. Monstrous figures pursued them.
From the archway protruded an obsidian platform seemingly with no support. The platform jutted out into the endless flames, but no flames touched it. It was, he realized, a walkway into the inferno. He couldn’t see the walkway’s end, but he could see the Spider Goddess.
She was bathed in the red light of Hell, and she took her time walking along, between the raging walls of fire. She gazed all about, turning her head this way and that, evidently enjoying the sights of Illistriv.
So, Baleron thought, I was right. She led me straight here.
He started to cross into the chamber. A large, cloven hoof stomped down before him, blocking his way. Startled, he looked up into the horrible face of a demon guard.
Its many eyes glared down at him, unblinking. “Rescum-gu qvikka yten,” it growled. You may not enter.
Baleron understood. “Let me pass,” he demanded, speaking in Oslogon.
“Yt.” No.
Irritated, he said, “I am ul Ravast. Let me pass!”
The demon stomped its foot again, right before Baleron. “Yt.”
“Let him pass,” came a sweet, melodious voice. Baleron looked to see the Spider Goddess nearing the archway. She must have heard the exchange and been curious enough to investigate.
Instantly, the demon removed its hoof and stepped back, away from Baleron. Gratified, he smiled smugly up at it. Its many eyes narrowed.
“Come,” Mogra bade him.
Hesitantly, he stepped over the threshold and into the chamber of the Second Hell. The walkway was wide, perhaps fifty feet—more than enough for him to walk side by side with the immense Spider Goddess, which he proceeded to do—and all about raged the eternal furnace of the Second Hell. The walkway, he saw, was really just an elongated terrace sticking out into the inferno. He could still not see its end.
He could feel the heat of the flames, and he began to sweat. Yet he knew that, even so, some magic must protect him from Illistriv’s full might.
The inferno itself surprised him. He hadn’t known it existed on the inside of Krogbur at all. Indeed, he’d been headed toward the exterior when he’d spotted Mogra.
“What is this place?” he asked as they walked along.
“Just what it looks like—a doorway into Illistriv. Krogbur rises from the Great Inferno, and the Inferno is a part of it. This is not like Wegredon, where the flames are used as a moat to ward off attackers. Here the flames enter the structure of the Tower, are woven into its very fabric. Krogbur is a part of Illistriv. It is its heart.”
She paused, and her eight red eyes gazed greedily into the fires. They watched as a nightmarish form with many tentacles captured a squirming soul and devoured it. Baleron could see through the monstrosity, could see the white-hot soul writhing in anguish within the Warder’s bowels.
“Is this how it is?” he asked. “Souls burn, but they also get eaten?”
“Eaten and tortured and used, yes. They’re eaten, and digested painfully. It’s excruciating, delicious agony, worse even than the flames of the Inferno, and it can go on for years before they’re finally excreted back into the fire. But what you can see before you is only one small area of Illistriv. Illistriv is vast. And wondrous. It is my Lord’s finest creation, I believe. It is what I am most proud of Him for, and I am proud of Him for much.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Sometimes it makes feel close to Him, to come here when he’s away, for in one sense we are actually inside Him right now. Krogbur exists within him and without, but the Inferno is His very soul. Right now, though, I’m in no mood to feel close to Him, not while he’s off dallying with that harlot. Rather I thought I might amuse myself for awhile by entering Illistriv and tormenting some of the kindling souls.” She regarded him with glittering eyes. Her voice turned silky as she added, “Of course, there are better, more fulfilling, ways to entertain myself.” With that, she became a huge cloud of black and purple mist that swirled around, dazzling Baleron.
He took a few hesitant steps back, but then, out of the cloud stepped a beautiful woman. He recognized her as Mogra in her humane form, but before she had been a giant, whereas now she was the size of a real woman. To his surprise, he found that she was shorter than he was.
Naked and lovely, dripping with jewels, she strode towards him, her bare feet almost dancing. Her violet eyes fluttered. Her six arms adopted various gestures of seduction. Her lips were full and luscious, and slightly wet. Her smell was more entrancing than ever.
He waited for her, swaying to the rhythm of her rocking hips.
She pressed herself against him, and her arms fondled him. Some of her hands ran through his hair or across his chest. One massaged her breasts. She found uses for them all.
He shivered under her caress, and when she planted her lips on his he thought he would die. But a strange passion rose in him, and he kissed her back. He wrapped her in his embrace and held her small, voluptuous body to him. The kiss went on and on.
At last he tore himself away. Staggering back, panting, he glared at her. He wiped his lips of her taste.
Her eyes were large and filled with lust, and her lips were slightly parted. She was smiling, just a bit, and her violet eyes twinkled. Lightly, she took a step toward him.
“Don’t,” he said, holding out a hand as if to ward her off.
She smiled wider. “Why, don’t you like me? I like you.”
“Think about Gilgaroth,” he said. “Won’t he be upset?”
She laughed. “Sweet boy! What do you think He and Rolenya are doing right now? He won’t mind.” In a husky tone, she added, “Trust me.”
He felt his face flush with anger. “No! She would never!”
She made a face of exasperation. “If not that, then close enough. Whatever passes for it between those two. Usually, I don’t mind. Our pairing is not . . . exclusive. Certainly I have enjoyed myself with many others. And I know He has had His share of dalliances, as well.” Her face screwed up in wrath. “But this time . . . with Rolenya . . . I fear it may be more. She twists Him. She thinks she is clever, the harlot, but I know her game. Yet it is more than that. More than her songs, more than . . .” Her voice drifted off. Her gaze found Baleron’s. “Forget them. Right now we’re alone. Let’s give each other pleasure while we can.”
She strode towards him.
He backed away. Her skin seemed to shine with sweat. Her smell nearly overwhelmed him. Gasping, he said, “Wait! I have a question!”
“Now is not a time for questions.” She continued towards him.
He continued backing away. At last he tripped and fell. He went sprawling on his back. Cracked his head. Groaning, rubbing the back of his head, he sat up. She was nearly upon him. He didn’t know if he could resist her for much longer. She possessed a strange power over him, perhaps over all men.
Speaking quickly, his voice suddenly coarse, he said, “If you can choose any shape you want to, why do you chose the spider?”
That stopped her. Before, her eyes had worn the glaze of passion. Now it was as though his words had slapped her, and a coldness crept into her face, ice into her violet eyes. Carefully, she said, “What do you mean?”
“You can be a beautiful woman. You can be a dragon. You can be anything you want, or so I imagine. Why then do you choose the most abhorrent form imaginable?”
Her eyes flashed daggers, and she ground her teeth together. “I made the spiders! They were my creation!” Her voice rose, and sweat flew from her body as she gestured emphatically with her arms. “I made them to be my ultimate expression of beauty! They are my lovelies, my children, my truest art. They are a reflection of my very soul. And you say they are abhorrent?” In a rage, she flew at him. “You will die!”
She fell on him, and he planted a foot between her breasts and shoved her away. She went flying.
He leapt to his feet. His hand went to Rondthril’s handle. “Stay away from me, you witch!”
Lying on her back on the platform, she glared murderously up at him. Her breasts heaved up and down as she seethed in rage. For a long moment, she just lay like that, glowering at him. He feared he had pushed her too far. But something seemed to hold her back, and he could guess what it was.
“I’m ul Ravast,” he said. “You can’t kill me. Your lord still has plans for me.” As he said it, he knew it must be true. Despair filled him, but he tried to shake it off. Dear Gods, what more evil can I do?
Slowly, she nodded. “Your role in Our Deliverance is not yet over,” she admitted. “You still have one last great task before you.” At last, she rose to her feet. Scowling at him, she said, “But I will not forget this.” Suddenly, she smiled. “Perhaps I will turn Rolenya into a spider. That way you will be forced to love my creation, won’t you?” She threw back her head and laughed. “Or perhaps you will have to squash her!” She laughed, and laughed. As she laughed, she grew. She became taller and taller until finally she towered over him, a giant once more. At twenty feet, she stopped. “We shall see,” she said. “In any event, I am no longer in the mood for this place. I have had enough of Hell.”
She snorted. She actually stepped right over Baleron, and he watched her as she went back the way she’d come and vanished through the archway.
He sighed with relief when she was gone. “Thank the Omkarathons,” he muttered.
He rose and dusted himself off, not that there was any dust in this place. Gazing into the endless flames, he knew the time had come to accomplish what he’d set out to do. He’d found the right place. Now, he just had to hope that he could bring about the desired results.
He lifted his head and called out, “Salthrick! Salthrick! Come to me! Salthrick!” He shouted again and again.
There came no response. Just as he was about to give up hope, a blue-white soul swam through the flames toward the walkway’s edge.
“Salthrick!” Baleron cried, rushing to the edge where the soul hovered.
As he approached, he saw the spirit take on a vaguely human shape, and it was Salthrick indeed. Insubstantial and blue-white, the soul of his best friend gazed back at him. Salthrick’s face was filled with pain, but also wonder.
The spirit opened its mouth and seemed to speak, but it issued no words that Baleron’s ears could hear. But he felt the words form in his mind, and it was almost as though he could really hear.
Baleron, is it really you?
The Heir to Havensrike smiled sadly. “It is I. I wanted to see you.”
But why are you here? What brings you into the Abyss? You should be far away from here. Run, Bal, run!
“I wish I could.”
Salthrick seemed to nod. Tell me, what of Rolenya?
“She fares well. Don’t fear for us. We fear for you instead.”
Salthrick wore a haunted look. His eyes were scared, and tired, and it seemed as though he were in agony at every moment. The fires of the Inferno could truly scorch him, it seemed, and burn his very soul. He looked over his shoulder nervously.
Nothing’s coming, he said. Good. But we won’t have long. Any moment a Warder will see us and come for me. They can’t allow any of us a moment’s peace. They don’t have to. They just want to. They’re evil, Bal. I can’t tell you how evil they are. The things they do to us . . . He seemed to shudder.
Baleron hung his head. “I’m so sorry, Sal. This is all my fault.”
No, it has nothing to do with you. You’re just a pawn in a great game. Just do what you can.
Baleron shook off his guilt and looked up. With determination, he said, “To apologize is not why I came.” Salthrick looked at him curiously, and he went on. “I wanted to talk to you, my friend, to tell you not to despair. For soon, very soon, I’m going to get you out of here.”
Salthrick looked surprised, but before he could ask Baleron about it a terrible shape loomed behind him. Baleron cried out to warn him, but too late. The monstrosity shot tentacles out of its wolf-like maw and reeled Salthrick toward its gaping, fang-lined mouth. Its long, centipede-like body rippled like an eel. Tendrils and fins lined it. Screaming, writhing, Salthrick was dragged into it mouth. The jaws snapped shut.
Baleron cried out in rage, but there was nothing he could do.
The demon chewed a couple of times and swallowed. Baleron was able to see a blue-white shape pass slowly down the demons’ throat and into its long belly. He shuddered in hate, his fist clenched tightly about Rondthril’s handle. In a fit of rage, he drew the sword and brandished it at the demon.
