Wrath of the Black Tower, page 18
part #5 of War of the Black Tower Series
“No.” He smiled. “You’re my hope. Something beyond our ability to control has been altered. I think …”
“Yes?”
“I think the Moonstone has been destroyed.”
They stared at each other. A long moment passed.
“The Last Gift … gone …” Rolenya breathed.
“I’m afraid so. And yet this could be the best thing that could have happened. Your mother told me that it, the Moonstone, was the cause of all of this, that Gilgaroth was using it to fuel my Doom. He destroyed Celievsti to create Krogbur, and he corrupted the Moonstone to create … me. Ul Ravast.”
“That’s awful.”
“But don’t you see what this means? My Doom is weaker now, perhaps unraveling completely. I …” He looked off. “I wonder how many people died to make that happen. To give us this chance.”
“We will find out someday, Bal, and we will honor them in a way they deserve.”
He nodded, full of conviction. “We will. I swear it. Anyway, it’s good to know that we’re not in this completely alone. The Omkarathons haven’t done much to help us so far, but maybe, just maybe, this means that the fates don’t favor evil.”
That night, they found comfort in each other’s arms, but it was a cold comfort, for she knew as he did: unless a miracle occurred, the Dark One had truly won. Just the same, Baleron found that even in Rolenya’s tears she seemed somehow resolved, determined to come out the other side of this thing. She whispered to him of her strategy for the future: if Gilgaroth truly did give them a distant realm to rule, they would rule it wisely, bringing enlightenment and goodness to their people, even if they were Borchstogs, and in due course they would grow powerful and challenge Gilgaroth for his Throne. Baleron very much doubted such a thing could be accomplished, but he pretended to go along with it for her sake.
She fell asleep in his arms, and he stayed awake to enjoy the feel of her body against his, of her smooth skin rubbing against him. He stroked her hair and inhaled the scent of her deep into his lungs, and at last he too drifted off to slumber.
Harsh knocking woke them.
It was Ustagrot, the Borchstog necromancer and high priest to Gilgaroth. To Baleron’s surprise, he was dressed in his most formal robes and wore a sweeping hat of Eastern style. In a gnarled hand he held a long, intricately carved staff with a sinister-looking demon head on top. He did not wait for the door to be answered but used his powers to swing it open before him so that it banged loudly against the wall, startling those inside. Striding in purposefully, he made his way to the bedroom, where a naked Rolenya scrambled to pull the covers over herself and Baleron.
“They don’t teach manners very well in Oslog!” she protested.
“Get dressed!” snapped Ustagrot. “In a short while, the Master will address His army and send the host north. It will destroy what’s left of your Union.”
“I take it he wants us to attend this speech,” Baleron said.
“He has something special planned for you,” said Ustagrot, and Baleron wondered if this were the final element of his Doom, as Mogra had intimated—that is, if his Doom still existed without the Moonstone. He thought it did, but that it was weaker now—manageable, at least hopefully. “Besides, you’ve been instrumental in achieving His ends,” Ustagrot went on. “You deserve to see the fruits of your labor come to pass.”
“I’m fine as I am. Really.”
The Borchstog sneered. “You have no choice, Ravast-ru. We can force your cooperation, should that prove necessary. Get dressed. Make yourselves presentable. I’ll come for you in an hour.”
Baleron and Rolenya looked at each other when he had gone, and as one they glanced away.
Baleron still had some hope, though. His eyes inched to Rondthril, which hung in its scabbard from a nearby chair. Yes, he told it silently. It’s time. It must be, though I don’t know how; Ungier has proven lucky so far.
Rolenya saw his expression. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”
Should he tell her? He hesitated.
“Spit it out, Bal!”
He almost smiled. “I’m going to do something,” he said. “Something mad. This is it. Our last chance. If that army goes north, it’s all over for us, for the Crescent, for the world. We can’t allow that to happen.”
“But what can we do?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. I don’t even know if it’s possible, but it might be. At least we have a chance. Elethris hinted at it. So did Logran. So did Vilana.” He squeezed her hand. “There’s hope, Rolenya.” Frowning, he added, “But if we act now, there’s no going back. There will be no distant realm for us to rule, no eventual uprising. Nothing. If we fail, we’ll burn in the Second Hell forevermore until our souls are used up, far apart, and that’s if he doesn’t just destroy them outright. Either way, he’ll still send his army north. The world will still fall. So ... the risk is high. The chance of success, slim. But it’s the only hope I see.” He held his breath. “I need to know—are you with me?”
She stared into his eyes.
“Of course I’m with you, Baleron Grothgar,” she said. “If I have to, I’ll follow you into the very fires of Illistriv. The pain they can inflict is not nearly so terrible as the prospect of a world ruled by the Shadow, a world without Light or Grace, a world of darkness where love has no place, except the love of power and dark things.” She clasped his hand tightly. “So of course I’m with you, Baleron. For ever and always, I’m yours. What do we have to do?”
Chapter 11
Baleron and Rolenya were dressed and ready to go when Ustagrot returned an hour later. Escorted by a full dozen elite troops, the Heir to Havensrike and the Princess of Larenthi left their suite for the last time and followed the high priest through the labyrinth of Krogbur.
They wound along hallways and ascended several long flights of stairs, seeing many terrible things along the way—wraiths in groups or alone, unnatural creatures skulking down tunnels, grim sculptures of demons and beasts, and more. Though this place, this tower, was new, it seemed to be expanding rapidly. Just a few months ago it had seemed much emptier, much more hollow. Now it was crammed full of life, or un-life. Baleron thought it large enough to contain several vast cities, and he shuddered at what horrors might live in its most lightless chambers.
As he walked along, he fingered Rondthril’s pommel. It was amazing to him that they’d let him have it. Why would they allow him any sword at all, much less this one? Of course, all the Borchstogs were armed, and he was of a higher station than they. Weapons were an intrinsic part of their culture. Yet he was a prisoner. Unless, of course, the Dark One was fool enough to trust him, which he surely was not.
It must be that Gilgaroth did not fear Rondthril. The Heir had tried to slay him with it once and failed, so why should he fear it? After all, it was loyal to the dark powers. The Fanged Blade was impotent.
Kill! it chanted in his head, as always. Blood!
Hungry, but impotent.
That was why only Rondthril would serve his purpose, he realized. If Vilana or Elethris had gifted him with a sword imbued with Light, it would immediately have been taken from him upon his capture, as then it truly would be dangerous to Gilgaroth. But Rondthril was a weapon of darkness, so they trusted it.
Were Elethris and Logran and Vilana right? Could Baleron wield it for some high cause? He had to trust their instincts. Otherwise, there really was no hope.
He glanced sideways at Rolenya. She walked with calm and poise, but he could see that she was just as nervous as he was, and scared and racked with guilt, besides, for she would live, but unless they succeeded in their mad plan (if plan it could be called), her kingdoms—both of them—would fall. But despite it all there was a strength in her, a fortitude, and at first it puzzled him, but then he thought he understood: she was righteous, and in her righteousness she was powerful. Her eyes were clear and her face untroubled. She had faith—faith in him, in them, and in Light itself.
He wished he had such faith. All he had was determination—determination that if the opportunity to use Rondthril presented itself, he would act on the instant, heedless of the cost to his own life or soul or even Rolenya’s. All he had was the will to destroy Gilgaroth, consequences be damned, and it would have to be enough.
Gone were his days of wine and leisure and women. He knew he would never enjoy such luxury again. Life for him now was hard and sharp, full of darkness and blood. Just the same, he no longer felt empty. Before he’d found Rolenya again, he had been a mere shell of a creature, a machine working on clockwork, surviving just to survive. She had filled the emptiness in him.
He squeezed her hand and held it as they made their way through the tower, and at last they emerged into what he thought of as the Main Hall, the one that led from Gilgaroth’s giant Throne Room down the endless flight of black stairs to the largest and highest terrace. They were very near where Baleron had crouched that day, after dispatching the two Borchstog guards, when he’d spied on the meeting between Throgmar and his father. That seemed very long ago, a lifetime, before he’d slain Felestrata and lost whatever innocence he’d still possessed, before his months of torture, before the fall of his city and the death of his mother.
He felt a stirring in his blood, a quickening. Taking a deep breath, he urged himself to be calm, to stay collected and focused.
They stepped into the wide, high corridor and made their way to the end of the short hall, where the terrace began. Ustagrot stopped, and so did the procession behind him.
“We will wait here,” the high priest whispered to Baleron and Rolenya, “until we are invited to do otherwise.”
Brother and sister shifted uncomfortably. Dimly, he could hear rhythmic chanting from below, from the very earth at Krogbur’s feet: the Borchstogs were sounding out. It was a great, dark swell of noise, primal and harsh. They were calling for their Master.
If Baleron could hear it from here, just below the roof of clouds, the sound must be awesome indeed. It must shake the earth.
The night was the color of charcoal, laced with violet-tinged edges of clouds, and here and there lightning flickered and cut the gloom. Thunder rolled.
Queen Mogra descended the stairs. In her humane form, she was naked and defiant and at least twenty feet tall, jewelry winking on her six arms. More jewelry adorned her body and clasped the thick, dark hair that fell past her shoulders. She seemed to sparkle when she moved. Her full high breasts jutted proudly from her chest, and the hair of her pubis was oiled and combed. Baleron was taken by her raw sensuality; she exuded sex and lust and power, and when she walked down those endless black stairs her hips rocked back and forth. She strutted down to the level floor and sauntered past Baleron and the rest of his group, teasing them with the scent of her heady and intoxicating perfume, if perfume it was. Smiling, Mogra stepped out onto the large terrace and made her way to its edge.
She lifted all six arms in a dramatic gesture, and the Borchstogs far below roared lustily.
“Do you love me?” she shouted.
They roared even louder.
She half turned and motioned to Ustagrot and his charges. One jewel-laden hand beckoned them.
The high priest and necromancer, obviously proud at sharing this moment with his goddess, led the way onto the balcony; the prince and princess, and their guards, followed. The air was brisk and cold, and there was a slight spray from the clouds just above. Mogra’s tawny body gleamed.
As always, hundreds of dragons circled the upper reaches of Krogbur, serving as an aerial moat and a constant watch. They did not fly quite this high, but circled about the tower somewhat further down. Baleron supposed they would be sent off with the Army upon its departure; after all, that was one of Krogbur’s main functions: to serve as a doorway by which the Hell-Worms could cross over.
Baleron gasped when he glimpsed the army below. Beyond the bright reach of the Inferno, it stretched from the Black Tower’s roots all the way to the foothills of the distant mountains. Bonfires glittered like the stars. The host was endless. It was comprised of many races, he knew, from Borchstog to Man, from Spider to Troll to corrupted Giant, and many others, besides. There were even a few hulking Colossi standing about. The titans shielded large numbers of soldiers from the rain. There must be millions of troops, Baleron thought. No resource of the Crescent—or the world—could resist it.
Mogra had conjured several images of herself down below; larger than life, she stood a hundred or more feet tall in various places amongst the army; Baleron saw that these images rose from bonfires and were made of flame. Sparks danced high, and smoke seemed to rise from her gold-flecked heads.
The Borchstogs looked both at her real form, far above, and at these images, which showed her exactly as she was, but taller and forged of fire. Some Borchstogs were on their hands and knees in worship. Some tossed bound sacrifices atop the pyres. Some leapt atop the fires themselves.
“Do you love me?” Mogra shouted again.
The roar that followed staggered Baleron.
Mogra smiled wider, enjoying this, basking in their worship.
“You are my children!” she said. “Each and every one of you. And it is you, my children, who will bring down our enemies and unleash us from this prison!”
They roared so savagely that Rolenya cast a worried glance at her brother. “This is the shape of the future?” she asked in a whisper. “These are the ones to inherit the earth?” She shook her head bitterly, wincing at the thought.
The Spider Goddess’s hearing was excellent.
“You don’t like my children?” she asked, breaking off from her speech and half turning.
Rolenya visibly summoned her courage, tilting her chin up. “As a matter of fact, I do not.”
“Good. I will keep that in mind, and if in the future you misbehave I will destroy that pretty new body of yours, as slowly as I care to, and slip your quivering little soul into the body of a Borchstog, or something you find even fouler.” She paused, delighting in the repulsed expression on Rolenya’s face. “A Spider, perhaps,” she added with a wink to Baleron before returning her attention back to her cheering throng. So did her hundred-feet-high images.
“I am Mother to you all,” she said. “Love me. Worship me. With every life you take, Man or Elf or Dwarf or other, you honor me. With every town you burn and every field you raze, you give me a gift. I am with you at every turn, and everything you do, you do for me, as well as your Sire. We made you as you are to be the best of the races, the strongest, the most fearsome, and you are. Embrace this. Your Master wove your souls out of his shadow, and I ask you now—no, I demand you—to fling his shadow to all quarters of the world!”
They roared.
“Now your Lord Sire would like to address you. Are you ready?”
They clenched their fists above their heads and roared.
She raised her arms again, then stepped back away from the front edge of the terrace and assumed a waiting posture.
The great black figure of Gilgaroth himself strode down the long stairs that led up to his Throne Room, moving with power. Darkness swelled around him, and from it his eyes of fire smoldered. In one hand he carried his long staff. A dark cape fluttered behind him, and a dark helmet masked his head, concealing all save his burning eyes, which seared everything they looked upon. He was even taller than Mogra.
He marched out onto the terrace, right past Baleron—who felt himself unconsciously drawing back and shielding Rolenya with his body—and took up the position Mogra had just vacated. He inclined his head downwards, surveying his army harshly. The Borchstogs exploded, roaring out their love for him, beating on their breasts and pumping their weapons over their heads. The other various beasts and monsters joined in. Baleron could not see all the details, but he could imagine them.
Something at the corner of his eye caught his attention.
Down and to his right was another terrace, not as large, and on it stood none other than the Leviathan. Ul Mrungona saw him. They regarded each other warily, smoke issuing from the dragon’s nostrils. His wet scales flickered in the lightning-rent night.
I should’ve known he’d be here, Baleron thought. Gilgaroth wanted Rolenya and I here—he wanted the chance to gloat—and he wants Throgmar here for the same reason. I’ll teach him the price for his arrogance.
Wordlessly, Throgmar averted his amber eyes from Baleron. He looked from Gilgaroth to Mogra, and Baleron could see dark wheels turning in the Leviathan’s mind. Good, thought Baleron, then returned his own attention to Gilgaroth, his hand unconsciously clenching into a fist at his side. Almost of their own volition his fingers inched toward Rondthril’s handle.
Kill! Kill!
Taking a deep breath, he stilled the troublesome digits and let his right arm hang limply at his side. Rain stung him, and he shivered, suddenly realizing how small and frail he was next to the likes of Gilgaroth.
“My army,” said the Dark One. His image too appeared in the bonfires below, looming over the Borchstogs, who would be gazing up at him reverentially. “You should see yourselves, my sons, my daughters. You look STRONG. Mighty. Stout as stone. Nothing can stand against you. You are the wave that will erode the last bastions of Light. Your purity of essence will be my enemies’ undoing. You will go north and crush the siege at Clevaris. You will burn and blacken the Elvish gardens of Larenthi and spread my wrath throughout the kingdoms of the Crescent. Then you will go into the northlands and make them mine at last. We are partly of the same flesh—YOU HAVE MY BLOOD IN YOUR VEINS!—and you will now be the instrument of my ultimate will. And that will is Ruin!”
They bellowed loudly, gnashing their teeth.
“The Union has kept me pinned behind the walls of my Black Shield for thousands of years, and it shall be you who sets me free. Be proud! Be strong! Be bold! Strike fear into the hearts of all who do not bow before me. Make this tower the very Heart of the World!”
He clenched a fist and a thousand tongues of lightning flickered out of the clouds and a terrible boom! nearly knocked Baleron to his knees. The Borchstogs were so awed they fell silent.
