Lord of the Black Tower: A Mega-Omnibus (5-book epic fantasy box set)

by Jack Conner

  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!” cried the elves.

  All was smoke and confusion. Soldiers drew out 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, then 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 was 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..

  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.

  The gaurocks shattered the orderly formations of the Crescent and drove deep into the invaders’ lines, cutting red swaths through the ranks. The roar of their passing and the screams from their victims filled Baleron’s ears. The ground shook beneath him. One gaurock bore down on the yllimmi and Baleron. Gritting his teeth, he spurred his horse forward.

  “Stand down,” said Elethris. “I’ll deal with it.” He slid down from his saddle, apparently wanting to be on both feet to work his arts.

  With both hands he leveled his white staff at the charging gaurock. His was a tiny figure matched against the immensity of its approaching bulk. Then he seemed to swell, and glow, and a white light burst from the tip of his staff and met the serpent head on. It transfixed the creature, and the gaurock’s charge halted. The white beam bore into the monster’s skull, smoke rising from its scales. It shrieked and thrashed, and the Borchstogs riding it leapt clear or were crushed by its writhing weight. Those that escaped joined the fray.

  The gaurock lashed its tail one final time a
nd slumped lifelessly to the ground. Smoke rose from its scorched head. Elethris took a deep breath and leaned back, bracing himself on the staff, and wiped sweat from his brow.

  A large Borchstog riding a giant boar-like beast called a quorig barreled down on Baleron, who took up his lance. Its end had splintered on striking the giant, but it would have to do. He charged the Borchstog rider head-on.

  They raced at each other at a gallop. Ashy mud exploded under flailing hooves.

  He could see the Borchstog’s fierce red eyes in a black face. It wore a helmet in the image of a rotting human head.

  Closer. Closer ...

  Baleron held his breath. Aimed his lance right at the Borchstog’s heart. The Borchstog’s lance aimed right at his.

  Hooves thundered. Another few feet ...

  They struck.

  His enemy’s lance was the longer. It struck his breastplate. Pain flared, and he spun through the air. The ground drove out what little breath he had left. His ears rang.

  Gasping, he tried to rise. His armor had shielded him from the ground’s impact but now it slowed him.

  Something struck him on the top of his helm. He went down. Hot blood, his own, trickled down his ear, his cheek. He tasted its metallic flavor on his tongue.

  The mounted rider was gone but another Borchstog appeared, lunging at the prince with an axe raised to cleave in his skull. Baleron, already on the ground and kneeling, simply rolled forwards and knocked the Borchstog’s legs out from under it. When it fell, he skewered it through the ribs.

  Aguilar’s sword hummed gleefully.

  Yanking the blade free was more difficult than he’d hoped for. It was almost as though the blade was savoring the taste of blood. Forged by Ungier ...

  He turned to face his next enemy, who was not long in coming, and the next. Everything seemed to happen slowly, and Baleron was so focused on the second at hand that all else, even sound, receded from his mind. All he saw were the most immediate threats. He didn’t have time for anything else. And as he fought, he noticed that the sword helped him in subtle ways, making him a little faster, a little stronger. But around him, all was chaos and disarray.

  * * *

  The hosts of Gulrothrog had broken the invaders’ lines and splintered their formations, and the enemy held the high ground. The invading hosts were many, but that in itself provided a problem. The press of people hindered each other, especially with the steady disintegration of order in their ranks.

  Elethris and his brethren cast spells to aid the invaders only to be countered by Ungier and his warlocks. The sorcerers of Gulrothrog, positioned on terraces overlooking the battle, commanded lightning to blast into their enemies, commanded rain to turn to acid over the heads of the foe, commanded illnesses to smite them and visions to drive them mad. They bid the earth split open and whole squadrons fell into the chasms, screaming. Sometimes flame leapt from these gorges and all were reminded that they did indeed fight on the slopes of a volcano.

  Elethris, Lord of the Wall of Towers, did his best to ward off these spells and others, and he sent out offensive spells of his own.

  After the onslaught of gaurocks came the fearsome glarumri, swarms and swarms of them. Their dark shapes filled the sky, and they rained death on the hosts of the Crescent, their arrowheads dipped in venom. Luckily the serathin were there to counter them. The beautiful birds with their graceful riders gave battle to the enemy, and it was a breathtaking sight, the dark birds and the light wheeling and spinning through stabbing tongues of lightning, though few had time to appreciate it.

  On the ground rushed legions of Borchstog infantrymen, wave upon wave, breaking against the invaders. All were incased in spiked steel and iron and brandished spears and swords and crossbows. Behind them came the Borchstog longbowmen. Their quarrels scythed the air. But the archers of men and elves were present in force, and their marksmen were worthy.

  Next came a wave of foul abominations Gilgaroth himself had raised and gifted to his son. There were huge hairy beasts and terrors with feathers and scales and many eyes. Trolls and corrupted giants stomped about and ground their enemies beneath their mighty heels. Huge wolf-like creatures, beloved of Gilgaroth, breathed plumes of fire.

  At last Ungier unleashed his own foul brood: the rithlags. Winged and terrible, or posing as human or elf, these fiends struck terror into the hearts of the invaders, for they could hypnotize and control minds, as well as change forms and raise the dead to do their bidding.

  And the forces of darkness weren’t done yet. The battle was just beginning. For it was then that Baleron heard the sounds of battle at the rear of the procession. At first he thought nothing of it—they’d expected to be harried from behind—but as the sounds of fighting grew more pronounced, and as the swan riders ever more veered in that direction, Baleron and the other soldiers around him began to realize something was very wrong.

  He continued fighting, hewing his way through the Borchstogs, who were skilled opponents, trained well in the arts of war—but, he noticed, not so well as the one he’d fought atop the Temple of Illiana. Ungier, it seemed, did not train his troops to the degree that Gilgaroth trained his. These were but fleeting thoughts as the dark hordes surged about Baleron, carrying him ever farther from Elethris and the yllimmi.

  The enemy kept coming and coming, and the cries and clashings from the rear of the procession grew louder and more desperate. Fear began to seize Baleron. Something dreadful was happening. Then his fears materialized.

  A long low horn blew, Aaaauuuuuu. Aaaauuuuuu.

  “No,” he gasped. “It can’t be ...”

  The horns came again, louder, almost frantic. Baleron cursed.

  “Retreat! Retreat!” came the commanders’ cries. “Mass at the rear! We must cut our way out! There’s an army at our backs!”

  An army ...

  It was then that Baleron understood. The legions that issued forth from Gulrothrog were only a part of the might of Ungier. From all the outposts and towers of the wasteland, a great host must have formed at his bidding, comprised of those Borchstogs Baleron had constantly felt but not seen, and now it had launched itself at the Crescent armies, striking from behind. The elves and men had not expected a full-scale assault from the rear, as they hadn’t given Ungier enough time to organize two entire armies, or so they thought. Somehow he had been forewarned, and now the hosts were caught in a vice, a hammer from the rear and an anvil to the fore, and all about were mountain walls and precipices.

  They began to realize they were doomed. Soldiers shouted in despair all around. Over the din captains bellowed orders to mass and fight their way through the rear legions and flee—if they could. It was more likely, Baleron knew, that they would all be destroyed. This had been a trap all along. Even as his sword arm rose and fell, splattering black blood, his mind burned. We’re all going to die. This whole attack had been a waste. Over seventy thousand good people would perish or become slaves and sport for Ungier. It was intolerable.

  And it’s all my fault. I galvanized them, motivated them. Hells, I even drew them the blasted map!

  He must do something.

  His eyes fell on a shape wheeling above, a glarum or swan he wasn’t sure, as it was backlit by lightning. In the shadow, it seemed much larger than it was. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. He hated to abandon his comrades, but there was nothing for it.

  * * *

  He found a glarum and serathi lying on the muddy black ground, tangled together, grappling, while their riders, both injured, rolled about on the ground, stabbing each other desperately. Steel flashed and blood spurted, red and black. Both were dying but wanting to see his foe die first.

  Baleron chopped down, cleaving in the Borchstog skull, and the elf rolled free. It was, to Baleron’s dismay, Ficonre, Shelir’s brother, the dashing captain of the swan riders. He bled from a dozen wounds, his white cloak stained with red, and his wide green eyes were dimming.

  “Hierna,” Ficonre gasped. End me. His voi
ce sounded wet, and blood spurted from his mouth.

  Shelir will never forgive me.

  The elf hadn’t recognized him at first, but as Baleron drew closer the elf’s face darkened. “You! Yes, it would be il Enundian that kills me.”

  “I am not he.” Baleron raised his sword. “Are you sure? I could get a healer—”

  “Do it. In a way, I’m honored. I will be the first of many. Just promise to safeguard my sister after I go. It’s all I ask.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “End me, Ender.” He laughed, and blood spat up from the back of his mouth.

  Grinding his teeth, Baleron obliged. A quick clean thrust to the heart finished the swan rider’s suffering. Baleron’s fingers trembled as he returned his attention to the two fliers. Only one still moved. The swan’s right wing was crushed and the glarum had disemboweled it. The nasty crow, however, was now on its feet pecking at the entrails. It did not notice Baleron until the prince had jumped into the saddle. The bird twisted its head to snap at his legs. He cuffed it with the flat of his blade.

  “Ra!” he shouted, giving it his heels. Years of flying Lunir had taught him how to handle the ornery glarums. He strapped himself on hastily.

  With reluctance, the bird took wing up. It was with a heavy heart that Baleron left the fight—the hosts of the Crescent needed all the swords they had—but he had a plan that could accomplish what no sword ever could.

  Yet it was not without danger.

  Several swan riders, mistaking him for an enemy, fired at him, but he used the glarumri’s shield to deflect the shots. Baleron flew on. This glarum was a much smoother and swifter flier than Lunir, and Baleron cut his way through the tides of the aerial battle with speed. Several times he had to use the Borchstog’s lance to strike down attacking glarumri, who knew what he was not. Both sides wanted him dead.

  He left the battle behind and guided his mount around the immense mountain. The black clouds made the black slopes of Oksil look even darker, but somewhere there must be a patch darker than the rest.