Wrath of the Black Tower, page 2
part #5 of War of the Black Tower Series
Baleron jumped down from the coach and the others followed him. One of the soldiers had taken Rauglir from the king, so Albrech’s hands were free, and, surprising Baleron, he clapped one on the prince’s shoulder.
“Our old home,” sighed Albrech, his eyes gazing up sadly at the dark ruins.
What is this? Baleron wondered. Has he forgiven me? Aloud, he said, “And our way out.”
He led the way into the desolation, and they began searching. His greatest fear was that the opening would be covered by debris too heavy to move. As it happened, most of the entrances into the lower levels of the castle—the dungeons, wine cellars and arcane libraries, all underground—were indeed blocked, but two were still accessible. Baleron picked one and they all congregated around it.
“We’ll need a torch,” he said. “Some light.”
They looked at each other blankly. None had brought anything.
The king shook his head wearily, grimly amused. “Rauglir was right: I’ve been kidnapped by fools.”
“Foolsss,” agreed Rauglir from the sack, now wet with his blood.
Just then, a great shadow blotted out the lightning-torn clouds above, and everyone looked up. Baleron’s jaw dropped open, but it immediately closed tightly, clenching. His eyes narrowed.
For, flying his great scaly bulk across the charcoal-colored sky was the greatest dragon he had ever seen. Vast wings spread like dark clouds. Flame licked his lips. Smoke issued from his nostrils and trailed behind him like a black tail. He spiraled above the ruins of the castle, his spiral drawing tighter and tighter as he descended from the heavens.
“Throgmar,” breathed Albrech.
“He’s coming,” whispered Baleron.
Chapter 2
Raugst scowled out at the oncoming horde from atop the outer wall of the city, flanked by his guards, generals, Niara and several lesser priestesses. Wind whispered through his hair, and the morning sun cast golden light upon the world.
Staring through a spyglass, Raugst tried to pick out Vrulug among the tens of thousands of Borchstogs and gaurocks and other assorted creatures of Oslog, but they were just a vague black wave on the horizon. He estimated fifty thousand Borchstogs, a score of the massive, wall-shattering gaurocks, a full fleet of glarumri, doubtless a handful of vampires and their undead thralls, many trolls, corrupted giants and ...
More. Many more.
Wind shrieked and howled. The dark wave on the horizon drew closer. Closer. Marching through the ruins of farms they’d leveled weeks ago. A few intrepid or foolish farmers had attempted to rebuild and reoccupy, but these had been put to flight and Vrulug’s thralls even then erased the efforts at reconstruction.
“They’ll be here by nightfall,” Raugst said, lowering the eyepiece. “They’d be here sooner, but the sun makes them slow.”
“Aye,” said General Levenril. He was not one that Raugst had appointed but a true soldier of Felgrad, and Raugst wished he had a hundred more like him. “Of course, for them it already is nightfall.”
This was true. Vrulug had been burning and razing everything in his path since crossing the Pit of Eresine, and he’d used his sorcerous arts to congeal the smoke from those burning towns into one great black cloud that slithered through the air directly above the host. Sunlight beat down, straining to sear the eyes of the Borchstogs, but the black cloud protected them from the worst of it.
Raugst turned to Niara. “Can you dispel their cover?”
“Not while Vrulug holds the Moonstone.”
“But if it were destroyed ...”
“Yes.” She looked sideways at him. “There’s no way, my ... my lord.” Had she been about to say ‘my love’? “Not when Vrulug is surrounded by his army.”
She was throwing his own words back at him. Still, he didn’t see how he’d been wrong.
“But he will have the Moonstone with him, is that correct?” Raugst, though a being of power, knew little of sorcery.
She nodded, wind making her hair billow like ebon waves behind her. “He would need to keep it with him always, to direct its energies. He fears that there might be a powerful light-born here, someone strong enough to oppose him.”
In a lower voice, he asked, “Could you have done so ... before?”
“I don’t know. I tried once, and he blocked me. If I’d had more time ... perhaps. But I doubt it.”
He could tell that she was not certain and cursed their ill luck. If she had not given him her fateful kiss, she might have countered Vrulug and the Moonstone. In that case, of course, Raugst would still be a fell thing, a thing of the Shadow. He wondered if he still would have preferred that. It seemed abhorrent to him now, yet there was a certain allure to the notion. Back then he had known his place, his purpose. He had been an important part of a greater whole, and he had reveled in it. Now he was feeling his way blindly and did not at all think that he belonged. Nevertheless, he was here, and he would make the most of it.
To General Levenril, he said, “Begin the evacuation.”
“Aye, my lord.”
They had discussed it beforehand and most of the generals had agreed that the residential areas between the outer wall and the inner wall needed to be emptied in case Vrulug’s host managed to breach the outer defenses. Looking at the oncoming army, Raugst thought it a wise precaution, though it meant living conditions within the inner wall would be horribly cramped. The conditions would not last long, he told himself. Once Vrulug sees that I’m king ...
General Levenril moved off to oversee the evacuation, and Raugst turned to another general. “Vrulug’s host is coming faster than we’d hoped. We must begin the crowning ceremony immediately. See to it.”
“Aye, my lord.” This general too hurried off.
To Niara, Raugst said, “Are you ready to preside over the ceremony?”
“I must dress and gather my sisters.” She hesitated, then moved a little closer to him. Her voice lowered. “Are you coming straight back here after the ceremony?”
It was plain what she was asking, and he had to smile. “We’ll see. I’ve told the chefs to begin feast preparations. If there’s time after the crowning, we, you and I and a few others, will retire to the castle for a brief celebration.” There were too many people around for him to finish the thought, but he winked at her to imply that after the feast, the two of them might rendezvous privately—if there was time. Vrulug’s host was hours away yet, but there was no telling for certain when he would arrive.
Niara seemed to understand, as she nodded and edged away. What had passed between them last night evidently made her feel uncomfortable, but she did not seem displeased by it. Her shyness amused him.
“I’ll see you in the Square, my lord,” she said.
She descended from the ramparts, her priestesses with her. Raugst watched her go, feeling something warm inside him, then turned to the oncoming horde. The warmth died.
No, he thought. The plan will work. Vrulug won’t attack. Once I’m crowned, I’ll have upheld my end of the bargain and he will relent.
A vague sound reached him, and he strained his ears. The sound grew stronger.
Boom. Doom. Boom. The enemy drums rolled across the hills. The sound shouldn’t be loud enough to reach the city—Vrulug was much too far away—but the sound continued. Boom. Doom. Boom. Borchstog war drums. Raugst let out a breath. Vrulug was using his arts, sending the sound before his army to sap the will of the defenders of Thiersgald. Glancing about him, Raugst saw his soldiers pale at the drumming. It did him no favors, either.
* * *
It was a beautiful ceremony, Niara thought, although the beating of the Borchstog drums in the distance—growing ever louder, from a vague pounding to an incessant, imminent throbbing that made her head ache—diminished it somewhat.
Still, when she looked at her gorgeously-clothed and painted priestesses arrayed to either side of her, all wearing white dresses with silver embroidery, with pearly, diamond-studded tiaras, and the rows of royal soldiers, silver and golden armor gleaming under the sun, and beyond them the sea of the townspeople, aristocrats in their finery nearest the dais in the center of Mitsgald Square, middle-class merchants second, and so on, stretching on and on, with great monuments rearing to the sides, and then, coming up the center aisle, Raugst in the trappings of king, with long, burgundy cape edged in fox fur, shoes of velvet, hair sculpted like artful black waves over his proud head, and the silver trumpets blasting loudly all around as if to drive out the sound of the Borchstog drums—she had to admit it was quite a brilliant spectacle. But the trumpets could not drown out that awful noise entirely. Sometimes she thought it was simply the crashing of her heart, but she knew better.
Raugst approached. She could almost smell him, all musk and power, and despite herself she felt a stirring.
Slowly, dramatically, he knelt before her. The crowd quieted.
Niara, in her silver-white robes, her long train held by four priestesses when she walked, her own tiara heavy on her brow, smiled kindly down at him. His eyes twinkled. Focus on the task at hand, she told herself.
She spoke the words of ritual, letting her voice ring out over the gathering, telling those assembled of the proud history of their people and the great nobility of character their kings had always embodied—ignoring the stain on their honor that was King Heril Ulea IV; he was the sole aberration that proved the rule, she said—and that the Omkar chose only the highest paragons of virtue to sit the Throne. Raugst embodied those ideals to the fullest. Not only this, but he had defeated Vrulug once, and he would do it again. The people roared their approval, though she saw that Raugst himself looked uneasy.
“And do you, Raugst Irasgralt Wesrain, swear to uphold the values and traditions of Felgrad?” she said.
“Yes, High Mother. I do.”
“And will you swear to defend her from her enemies, even if those enemies be within, and especially if they be without?”
“I will and do, High Mother.” The crowd was very quiet now, and his words were heard near and far. Many had brought their children to witness the event, and little boys and girls perched on their fathers’ shoulders, which irritated townspeople behind them.
“And do you give your pledge to oppose always the workings of the Dark One and his agents and to hold him and them in contempt until the end of days?”
“I give that pledge, High Mother.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted over his shoulder, “Death to the Shadow!”
There was a great roar from the crowd at this. Many repeated his words, thrusting their fists in the air and making signs to ward off evil.
Niara waited until the noise faded, then continued as if she had not been interrupted. “And do you vow to uphold the teachings of the Light, to hold close to your heart the wisdom of Brunril the Sun-Maker and Illiana, Mother of the Moon?”
“I do so vow,” he said. Niara saw his lieutenants, who had flanked him as he came up the aisle but had not ascended the dais with him, look at each other nervously.
“Then I bestow upon you the Crown of Felgrad and all rights and duties attached thereto.” So saying, she turned to the side, plucked the glittering golden crown from the red silk pillow held in a priestess’s white hand and raised it up to the light. The sun set it afire, the gold blazing, the sapphire gems sparkling, and the crowd muttered in awe. “May you wear it well,” Niara said, and placed it, with all due drama, on Raugst’s brow.
He stayed bowing for a full minute, and the crowd hushed once more. Then, slowly, theatrically, he unfolded. He rose to his full height, spun to face the crowd, and in one motion unsheathed his light-blessed sword and thrust it high overhead. The sun caught the blade and turned it into a rod of white gold.
The crowd responded enthusiastically, crying out their love and support. Niara felt her own heart flutter. He was such a strong, dashing figure. It was the girlish part of her that felt this way, she knew, but what of it?
She looked down to the soldiers of King Ulea in their silver and golden armor, and they were looking up at Raugst with unease. She understood. They had listened to their generals and had been forced to accept the tale of King Ulea’s betrayal, but they still did not quite believe it, and they viewed Raugst with suspicion. As they should, Niara thought. They are no fools. She only hoped it did not impede their readiness to accept his orders.
Horns blew suddenly, and the three great fountains in the Square burst into life, jetting flower-scented water high into the air. Musicians played the Anthem of Felgrad, then made music of celebration. The people danced, and sang, and tried to enjoy themselves, as was traditional.
But, in the distance, the drums were steadily getting louder, and Niara noticed that the dancers moved more mechanically than they should. Others just stood there looking glum, refusing to partake in the celebration, and more than a few sipped liberally from flasks or mugs. At that moment, Niara longed for a sip herself.
Raugst, wearing his crown as though born to it, stepped down and consulted with his generals. A runner had just arrived from the wall. Everyone wanted to shake Raugst’s wrist or clap him on the back, but his attention was fixed on the report his generals were giving him. Niara was too far away to hear what they were saying, and there was too much noise in the air in any case.
“I thought the ceremony went very well,” Hiatha said, approaching.
“Why, thank—” Niara started but was interrupted by more well-wishers, mainly priestesses wanting to tell her how much they had enjoyed the service. Fools! she wanted to snap. Can you not hear the drums? It seemed they were all she could hear, even now when the noise of celebration was so loud that, intellectually, she knew it was impossible to notice them. Somehow she still felt them, like an echo to her heart. Boom. Boom. BOOM.
She constantly had to fight the urge to wring her hands or run those hands through her sweat-dampened hair. Only one thing would relieve her tension, she could not deny it. Please, Giorn, forgive me.
At last she went to Raugst’s side. He was still engaged with his generals, but, noticing her, he broke loose.
“Well?” she said. “Are the Borchstogs here yet?”
He stared at her, the expression on his face showing tension but also, delightfully, intimacy. His voice, too, was very intimate when he said, “They’re coming closer by the second. But ... they appear to be hours away still.” Slowly, he smiled. “We have time.”
Thank you, Illiana.
He offered her his arm. “Shall we adjourn to my coach? Several of my fellow nobles and generals will be joining us at the castle.”
“And will we be honored with their hospitality in the coach, as well?”
His smile was very sly. “Sadly, no.”
“Then let us be quick, my lord.”
To his coach they went.
* * *
Not everyone participated in the celebration following Raugst’s crowning, but there was one man in particular that held himself conspicuously apart from the festivities. He was a tall, gaunt, bearded man, wearing a wooden device on his right hand that suggested fingers he did not have, and whose right leg was stiff and unbending, as though braced. But what was most striking about him were his eyes—his dark, deep-set eyes that seemed to burn as they beheld Raugst. And when Niara placed the crown on Raugst’s head and smiled down at him with that horribly, grotesquely familiar smile, the tall man clenched his left fist so tightly that blood was seen dripping from it to the flags below.
By his side stood another man, shorter, rounder and older, and his expression too was grim. At length a messenger ran up to him, whispered in his ear, and the man nodded.
Turning to the taller man, he said, “It’s time. Everyone is in place. Are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready for this for a long, long time.”
The tall man turned about and, side by side with his companion, vanished into the crowd. Blood dripped from his hand as he went.
* * *
Fria had not attended the crowning. Raugst had not seemed to expect her to. Indeed, whenever he looked at her lately and saw that she was meeting his eyes, he would glance away. He was ashamed, she supposed, surprised that he could feel such a human emotion.
Well, let him feel shame, she thought, as she brushed her hair and watched from Kragt’s bedroom window as Raugst’s carriage, escorted by many riders, rolled in through the gates in the wall surrounding the castle. The westering sun turned a rich, dark golden color, and Fria knew night would be upon them soon. So would Vrulug. In the distance, she could still hear the throbbing of the wolf-lord’s drums. Every time they pounded, she winced, but at least her fear of Vrulug was lessened by the knowledge of what she would do tonight. She would slay Raugst and so end Vrulug’s hold on Thiersgald. Perhaps then there would be some hope for the city.
Raugst’s carriage rolled to a stop before the castle’s main steps, and the man himself, if man he could be called, emerged from the interior, looking breathless and pleased with himself, as he righted the crown on his head, which had become askew. Fria smirked. You won’t be smug much longer.
Then she emerged—Niara. Fria’s blood burned hot when she saw the priestess shamelessly step down from the carriage, taking Raugst’s hand as she did so, then straightening her dress and tucking a strand of hair back behind an ear. Somehow it had gotten dislodged.
Such flagrant blasphemy! Fria saw several of the soldiers giving Raugst and Niara wary glances, and she did not blame them. She could not believe that witch’s gall. And Raugst’s! Oh, Fria would dearly love to expose them both. That would be an amusing death. But her plan was faster and more expedient, and she did appreciate that Niara would partake of the feast and the resulting doom that night. Fria pictured it, imagining the treacherous high priestess clutching her throat, eyes bulging, rolling around on the floor until the poison consumed her utterly.
Fria’s smile withered. She felt her lower lip trembling and bit it. Niara, how could you? How could you make me do this? She tried not to think about it as she brushed her hair and watched the carriages of various generals and nobles arrive. As the worthies emerged, she reflected that it was a shame they would have to die, too. Then again, most of them were those that had turned against King Ulea. They deserved what they got.
