The War Of The Black Tower (Book 1), page 18
“Do you not see that your enemies prepare for war because that is my will? All is proceeding along the lines of the web my spider spins for me.”
“You’ve arranged to have them attack me?” Ungier clenched his fists helplessly. “Then You haven’t forgiven me for sending Throgmar after Baleron.”
The Great Wolf’s eyes blazed. “Still your craven tongue. I did not set these events in motion solely to revenge myself on the likes of you.”
“Oh, thank You, Father. I rejoice to hear it. But why do You do these things? I’m to take a new wife soon—to wed the one You gifted to me.”
“I did not GIVE her to you. I merely turned her over to your safe keeping until my spider’s web had reached a certain point. Now you must be strong. I will aid you in the approaching war. But ... that is not why I have come.”
Hope gleamed in Ungier’s all-black eyes at this mention of aid, but fear hovered at their edges at the thought that Rolenya might be taken from him. She’d come to mean a great deal to him, despite himself.
“What can I do for You, my Lord?”
Gilgaroth’s living shadow drew about them, cloaking them so that no one could hear. From somewhere, as he began to speak, the cry of a tortured slave cut the night.
Chapter 11
The great pyramids of bone made both hosts mutter prayers beneath their breaths. White and ghastly and surreal, the grim monuments rose from the wasteland, glistening under the light of the stars. They loomed over the armies of Havensrike and Larenthi, seeming to dwarf the two mighty forces. Forty-five thousand Havensri had massed at Celievsti, and thirty thousand elves. Whether it was enough to conquer Gulrothrog, Baleron remained skeptical.
High black slabs were set before each bone pyramid, and he fancied he saw old blood stains running down them.
“Who lies in them?” he asked, nodding at the pyramids.
“High servants of Ungier,” said Logran Belefard, Archmage of Glorifel. “This is how he honors them.”
“I suppose he honors their victims by building the pyramids with their bones.”
Logran looked uneasy. “If you like.”
“I wonder if they were just bones when the structures were built, or if they were corpses still, with flesh on them. How many glarums did it take to pick them clean, I wonder, so that the pyramids shine so bright?”
Logran turned to regard him strangely. “You have a morbid turn of mind, young prince.”
Baleron ran his hands through his hair. Before he’d left the White Tower, he’d taken a good look at himself in the mirror, and the image still shocked him. He’d received innumerable scars at Gulrothrog, though sometimes he did try to count them. It was like counting the stars. Where the hair grew out over the scars on his scalp, the hair was white. He knew he looked old beyond his years.
“I have my reasons,” he said.
Logran let it go.
The Archmage and Baleron rode together, as Baleron had been asked to join Elethris’s hangers-on as a consultant. The prince had wanted to ride to war with his father, with his brothers, with his people, but that was not to be. When he had sent a note to his father saying he wished to travel with him to battle and fight at his side, the king had sent a short note telling him to stay where he was.
Wind whispered over the charred wastes of Oksilith, screaming as it blasted over and through the bone pyramids. When the winds blew harder, an eerie music seemed to emanate from the mounds, shrieking, seething notes that slithered and crept, rising and falling. Hollowed bones, Baleron supposed, crafted to catch the wasteland drafts. But knowing how it was done did not stop the shudders from coursing up and down his spine.
And it was a cold wind, not just noisy, and he huddled deeper in his jacket. There his hands brushed up against the red stone Shelir had given him before they set out from the White Tower. Thinking about it made him glance up, where the swan riders could just be seen, dark shapes moving against the stars. There they guarded the hosts from attack from above, and scouted the land all around. Shelir must be cold up there.
Her hands had been warm when she gave him the stone, however. Take this, she had said. My grandmother gave it to me. She was a skilled yllimmi. Her eyes had been so earnest, so imploring. I have had it since my hundredth birthday. Now I give it to you. He had wanted to refuse it, but he had known that would be the most hurtful thing he could do. Take it, she’d insisted. I know how foolish I am—to give this to a mortal I’ve known only a little while—but you’ll need it more than I. And ... the heart is a stupid thing.
Now the two stones brushed against each other, the white one Elethris had gifted to him, and the red one. Idly he wondered which was more powerful, the one given to him out of love or the one given to him out of duty. It doesn’t matter, he thought. If just one works I’ll be happy.
The lines of soldiers moved past the grim pyramids of bone, and the shrieking songs faded behind them. All else was darkness, save the torches some soldiers carried to light their way, and the dim gray stars above, half concealed behind a layer of noxious cloud. The hosts could have been moving through the void itself. It had been the same, ever since they’d entered Oksilith three days ago. Three days and nights of this cracked, scarred landscape, covered with a layer of ash and littered with bones of all species. In daytime, flies buzzed about great mounds of waste, the by-products of dark arts. It was enough to drive a man mad. Perhaps even an elf.
Wind howled, driving ash across the wastes, and Baleron constantly coughed it away and blinked it out of his eyes. He knew his face must be black with it. His horse neighed and stamped in irritation under him.
“Can’t you wizards do something about this ash?” he asked Logran, coughing.
Logran smiled patiently. “We’re saving our strength for the battle.”
Baleron coughed, wheezed. “As you should, I suppose.” His voice came out in wretched choke. “Although ...”
“Yes?”
“You could have listened to me a bit more.”
Logran rolled his eyes. “Baleron, you’re not a general or any sort of military commander.”
“Only I’ve been to Gulrothrog.“
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard your admonitions. So has Elethris. So has Lord Felias. So has your father. We know to be wary of Oksil. Of Grudremorq. We’re expecting him to attack, and we’re prepared to counter him.”
“He’s Ungier’s secret weapon, you know.”
“Not so secret, my lad. Mountainous, one might say.” Logran chuckled. “Don’t look so glum, Bal. We know what we’re about.”
Baleron’s lungs burned. He continued sipping from his flask to dull his nerves. Ever since entering Oksilith, he’d been drinking more. Now he could not sleep without it. Even so, his dreams were dark and feverish. Gulrothrog ... to return ...
He missed the warmth and light of the White Tower. He wondered if he would ever see it again. He pictured his last view of it, as he had ridden with the elvish host toward Oksilith. White and beautiful, the tower had loomed so high overhead that it had actually made Baleron ill to stare up at it, and it had been a relief to see it shrink with distance. Three of Elethris’s most powerful elves had been left behind to maintain it in his absence, Baleron had been told. Elethris had raised the White Tower, and the twain were bonded, in harmony with each other. Yet the three elves would keep Celievsti upright and standing until his return, though it would not be at peak strength without him. Indeed, with Itherin’s death it might already be fading.
The hosts rode on, kicking up huge plumes of dust and ash that obscured the stars. Baleron watched serathin flash through it, disappearing into the black cloud only to reappear on the other side. He wished Rolenya could be here to witness the sight.
The horses trotted tirelessly, and Baleron was only half grateful for the arts of the elves which had given the animals greater stamina and speed. They could cover great distances swiftly and without weariness; this was the making of time that Elethris had promised, although he was told their were other efforts being made that he could not see. For his part, Baleron wished the horses needed to stop more often, as the contents of the flask made him want to empty his bladder with unfailing regularity.
The armies rode on, and he shivered and coughed and dreamt of Rolenya, smiling, beautiful, her blue eyes catching the light.
Rolenya, I’m coming.
He also found himself thinking of Veronica and the others of his pen, and he couldn’t wait to see the looks on their faces when he freed them.
At last the new day dawned, dim and gray. Blinking his eyes, trying not to fall off his saddle, Baleron stared about him. Watchtowers spiked up all about, but the hosts avoided them. In his map-making, he had tried to summon their locations from memory and found now that he had only partially succeeded. Nevertheless the hosts managed to thread their way through the towers—not out of fear of being spotted; surely they already had—but out of fear of the towers themselves. Who knew how deep their roots went, or how many Borchstogs waited within? Yet neither Baleron nor anyone else saw hide nor hair of the enemy. Not even glarumri marred the skies with their presence. Baleron got the same feeling he had had upon first arriving in Oksilith, that it was deserted, empty.
Or waiting. That was the sense he got now, that the wasteland was watching them, waiting for something, some hidden trigger. And here the men and elves were, looking for that trigger. What folly!
Around midday, the kings Felias and Grothgar ordered the hosts to stop. Campfires were lit, and meat spitted and roasted over the flames. Baleron munched his seared mutton lifelessly; like everything else, it tasted of ash. Tents were pitched and the soldiers and horses given a few hours to rest. When nightfall came, the soldiers dismantled the tents, ate, and mounted up for another long night of riding.
Before, Baleron had been excited about the prospect of going to war. Now, he realized, the war aspect was the smallest part. It was the going to that took all the time and most of the effort.
Baleron was thinking this as the hosts came within sight of Oksil.
The great black volcano loomed on the horizon like a broken fang, black clouds overhanging it, smoke rising from its top. Its high roots crept hither and thither across the plain. Its many sharp peaks thrust up like the jagged points of Ungier’s crown.
Dread crept over Baleron. During his stay at Celievsti, some of the damage Ungier had done to him had faded, some of his scars healed or at least scabbed over. Still he had nightmares about his years of torment every night and every morning he woke up drenched in a cold sweat, fear in his heart. In the last weeks the fear had diminished a little, the nightmares had been a little briefer, the sweat a little warmer. Now it all came back to him—the terror, the pain. I don’t know if I can do this. Just the sight of the volcano made him tremble.
On the sixth day, the hosts of Havensrike and Larenthi ascended the first black slopes of Oksil, climbing up one of the largest roots. The roots were so large that they were akin to the foothills to a great mountain range.
It was on these slopes that Ungier launched his first attack.
The hosts of the Crescent were picking their way through the rocky highland, making for the broad road that wound up and around the volcano toward the Hidden Fortress. They had not wished to travel all the way to Gulrothrog along the road for fear of traps and ambushes, thus, instead of making for the road directly, they’d decided to cross the roots to the road’s mid-point. They needed to reach that broad avenue eventually, though, as only it would lead them to Gulrothrog, but at least they’d avoid much of the road and the peril it represented.
So it was that they were all afoot, leading their horses over the treacherous ground, when the mountain began to shake. The stench of sulfur turned men and elves ill. Smoke billowed up from fissures, staining the air. Through this shifting veil Baleron caught glimpses, mere impressions, of towering figures of fire leading floes of lava down toward the hosts.
“Grudremorqen!” screamed the elves.
All was smoke and confusion. Soldiers drew out their bows and swords. Walls and pinnacles of blasted stone rose all around, creating a geography imperfect for battle.
No battle was called for. Even as Baleron felt the heat on his skin brought by the advancing floes, Elethris and the other powerful elves leapt at the half-seen demons. The Light-wielders shouted harsh words of command in some ancient elvish tongue, using words that held dread for Grudremorq, the great being that dwelt in the mountain. The Light-wielders shone brightly and leveled their staffs, all the while shouting into the smoke in voices louder than any mortal could have managed. There was thunder and light, and the flaming figures, barely seen through the fumes, retreated, taking their lava with them.
The elves slumped, exhausted, and the smoke thinned and vanished. Grudremorq and his brood had been defeated. Cheers went up. Many of the soldiers threw the elves salutes.
But as the hosts resumed their trek toward the road, doubt gnawed at Baleron, and it didn’t ebb as the armies reached the road, having avoided nearly half of it, and made for the peak that housed Gulrothrog. All was eerily still and quiet. The stillness unnerved Baleron, and he thought of ghosts and black spells and invisible evil. A chain clanked in the breeze, the only sound save the steady thunder of hooves and the whisper of the wind. Brimstone and ash filled the gritty air.
Days spent in the saddle had chapped his rear, and he shifted uncomfortably. Cramps gripped his legs and lower back, and the volcano’s fumes made his head pound. The air lay still, hot, and humid. Sweat pasted his tunic to his chest under his hauberk and cuirass, and to the small of his back.
The columns of horses and infantry marched steadfastly up the wide road as it wound round and round the mountain. It seemed to stretch on forever.
Severed heads mounted on spears stood to either side of the road. The faces of men, elves, dwarves, and a few giants, all locked in pain, stared down at the hosts of the North. Flies buzzed about them. Whole bodies, some decapitated, had been chained or impaled to the mountainside and left to rot; Baleron knew most had been alive at the time they were left, and he knew their fates had been dire. The stench of rotting flesh made bile rise in the back of his throat. As the army passed by, a murder of glarums, who had been feasting on the decaying flesh of men and giants hanging from the mountain, cawed nastily and rose into the air with a flapping of black wings. Elvish and human archers shot some of them down, and they flapped pitifully on the ground or spiraled to a ground miles below.
The sight of Gulrothrog slowly slid into view around a mountain wall, and Baleron shuddered, memories rising in him. Fight it. Fight ...
It was late afternoon, but black clouds obscured the sky and imposed a false night on the land—Ungier’s sorcery. The vampire was preparing for battle. Thunder rippled across the heavens and a dull rain fell, soaking the hosts.
The road leveled off and led up black slopes toward the iron gates. Towers stood dark and silent on high ridges all around, and Baleron knew the armies were being watched, could feel it, yet saw no sign of the enemy.
They drew near Gulrothrog. The fortress’s spires and terraces could now be made out, and finally so could its great iron doors.
To everyone’s shock, they stood open.
All caught sight of the yawning blackness where the iron gates of the Hidden Fortress should be, and all knew fear, especially Baleron. He had envisioned a long siege, a slow rising in the tensions and battles, not this, not what came. For the horrors of Gulrothrog sprang upon them instantly.
BOOM! CRASH! Flaming pitch launched from the towers smashed down into their midst. Wails of burning men and elves leapt into the air.
Half a dozen gaurocks, the massive serpents who served as the steeds and battering rams of the Borchstogs, hissing and spitting venom, shot out of the dark portal where Gulrothrog’s gates had been. Each bearing half a hundred heavily armored Borchstogs, they struck at the armies of the Crescent, and Baleron, having ridden with Elethris and a group of high wielders of Light, was near the front lines. He could see the eyes of the gaurocks as they sped across the scorched ground toward the hosts.
Led by Elethris, the most ancient and powerful of the elves had lined up before the marching armies with the Lord of the White Tower at their center. All remained mounted. They thrust out their staffs, which suddenly burned with light, and a wall of shimmering incandescence floated into being, a barrier between the serpents and the hosts’ vanguard. The gaurocks would be burnt to a crisp when they struck that wall.
They should have been.
Baleron heard shouts of alarm behind him, and spun. His eyes widened.
The bodies chained to the mountain wall and dangling from the precipices—the dead, rotting, maggot-infested corpses—were moving. They’d ripped free of their bonds and leapt into the ranks of the Light-wielders from behind. The elves were focusing their attention and energies on maintaining the shimmering wall, and some did not even notice the threat from behind.
An undead elf lunged at Baleron on his horse. He clove its rotten skull down to the collarbone. It fell away, spurting rancid fluid.
He glanced up the hill, at the gaurocks barreling down on them. Closer ... closer ...
An undead giant stomped at Elethris. Elethris, taken completely by surprise, had no time to defend himself or even dodge aside.
Baleron spurred his horse and smashed his lance against the behemoth’s hip. The impact nearly knocked him off his mount. With one leg lifted to bring down on Elethris, the giant was already off balance. It reeled backward, toppled over with a thud, falling so heavily that its rotten body broke apart.
Elethris, wide-eyed, nodded a terse thanks to Baleron.
By then the other undead had been dealt with, but it was too late. The yllimmi’s orderly defense had been broken. The incandescent wall faded and vanished. The gaurocks and their riders rushed upon them.
For the first time, Baleron heard Elethris swear.
