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

by Jack Conner

  But too late.

  Logran sank to his knees, the dagger still in his back, blood trickling down his brilliant robes and from the corner of his mouth.

  The king looked from his ghastly face up to Baleron’s, and rage took him. He gave a great bellow and jerked out his own sword, steel ringing.

  Baleron, his left hand covered in Logran’s blood, stumbled back, blinking, not quite sure what had just happened. Had he just murdered Logran? And what had been that other presence inside him? It had not felt like his Doom—

  All the sorcerers had their staffs leveled at him, and the knights had drawn their blades, but the king roared, “Stay your hands, damn you! He’s mine!”

  Reeling drunkenly backwards, Baleron tripped and fell to the marble floor, then stared, confused, as his father loomed over him. The king raised his blade so that it glittered in the torchlight, and there was a mad look in his eyes.

  Baleron raised his hands to ward off the blow, shouting, “No! Father, don’t!”

  From somewhere, he heard laughter. It coursed through him, echoing in his mind, bouncing almost painfully in his skull, and with a start he recognized it.

  Rauglir.

  The top hand he had raised had been his left.

  King Grothgar frowned at the gruesome stitches, but he didn’t stop swinging. He raised his blade as high as he could, then brought it down savagely. The large sword hissed as it cut the air.

  Baleron had lived through too much to die like this. He rolled aside.

  The mighty sword smote the marble where he’d lain, sending up chips and sparks. The impact was so great it tore the weapon loose from Albrech’s hands, and the sword clattered loudly to the floor.

  For a moment, Baleron and his father looked into each other’s eyes. Lord Grothgar moved.

  Baleron was faster.

  With fear-spurred reflexes, he seized the sword. His legs lashed out, swept the king’s feet out from under him, and the monarch toppled with a cry. Even as he struck the ground, he found himself in the grip of his son. Baleron pressed the sword to his father with his other hand, and rolled them both away. The mages and knights scattered.

  When he was clear of the press of people, Baleron jerked his father to his feet and pressed the edge of the blade to his throat while the other arm he locked about Lord Grothgar’s left arm and chest. He backed up against a wall.

  “Don’t move against me,” he warned the gathering.

  One of the sorcerers dropped beside Logran, putting his hand to the dying man’s chest. An orange light suffused the skin of his hand.

  Albrech struggled in his son’s grip, but when the blade drew blood from his throat he quit.

  Baleron’s left hand shook. It tried to, under its own power, reach around and throttle Albrech. Startled, Baleron exerted every ounce of his will on it. Sweat wept from his pores. A cord on his neck popped out and the clenching of his jaws nearly shattered his teeth. At last, though, he mastered the hand and forced it into submission.

  “You dog,” Albrech was snarling. “You filthy little worm. I should’ve known the Wolf would corrupt you. You always were weak.”

  “No, Father,” Baleron wheezed. “I’m cursed, but I’m no traitor. If I was going to kill you, you’d be dead already, and the gods may damn me for sparing you yet, as by doing so I’m condemning Rolenya to a fate worse than death.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  Before Baleron could answer, all the soldiers in the palace seemed to run into the room. A gaggle of archers aimed their weapons at the renegade prince, yet no man dared fire lest he strike the king.

  “Rat!” hissed the father to the son. “Snake! Weasel! Traitor!”

  “I am not a traitor!” Baleron said, hearing the desperation in his voice. That icy feeling was returning. A cold tendril tried to force its way into his mind. He blocked it, barely. His left hand shook.

  “Murderer!” Albrech said.

  “That I am, but not for Logran; there’s something inside me, Father. I think—yes—it’s the same demon that possessed Rolenya.”

  The knights and sorcerers erupted in a clamor, demanding the king’s release. Baleron ignored them.

  “Listen to me, Father,” he said. “There is no way you can win out against the Dark One.”

  “Craven!”

  “I’ve seen his resources, and they’re beyond anything you or the Union can summon. He’s grown strong in his time sealed off from the world, free to breed his minions at will. There’s more. He’s brought his own demons over from the Second Hell. He’s built a huge tower, Father, a doorway to Illistriv. Flee, Father. Break through this rabble of Ungier’s and take your subjects north—far north. Take them to Wethelion and the Tower of the Sun. Assemble there with your allies and prepare a defense. If I should die, remember that.”

  “You would have me run away like a coward!”

  “I am your son!”

  The king sneered. “I have no doubt of that. Oh, I know it’s you, Baleron. Only you could make such an awful mess of things.”

  Baleron looked about at the assembly of soldiers and mages, and they glared back. None spoke now. All was silent as a tomb.

  “How do you propose we get out of this?” Baleron asked in his father’s ear.

  “I propose we don’t.”

  He acted fast. One of his hands reached up over his shoulder and clawed at Baleron’s eyes so that the prince reflexively released his hold on his father’s throat; at the same time Albrech gripped the naked blade with his bare hand and shoved it away. Rubbing his throat, he stumbled aside, giving the archers an open shot.

  They took it.

  A score of arrows split the air.

  Baleron had time to curse, but that was it.

  Yet suddenly all the arrows stopped in mid-air, paused, and fell to the floor. Stunned, Baleron stared at them.

  “Leave him be,” said a strained voice, and the press parted to reveal Logran, bleeding and dying on the marble floor, his voice frothy. A faint smile tinged his lips. Apropos of everyone’s confusion, he said, “You heard the king. That’s Baleron—the real Baleron. A werewolf would be chewing Albrech’s corpse by now.”

  With that, he slumped to the floor and was still.

  The sorcerer that had knelt over him looked up and said, “Come, brethren. I think there’s still time.”

  The mages gathered in a circle about the Archmage, aimed their staffs at him, focusing their power, and the circle glowed a bright, morning yellow, tinged with orange.

  King Albrech, still rubbing his throat, turned to Baleron and said in a growl, “Welcome home, son. Guards, take him away!”

  Chapter 5

  Rolenya sang, pouring her heart and soul into her song, driving back the darkness that encircled her.

  Dressed in white, a white light seemed to glow from within her, suffusing her, and she was the only light in the neverending blackness, which was full of a seething tension. She stood at the edge of the high platform that jutted out into what Baleron had called the Black Temple, that vast space at the core of Krogbur where the Shadow’s presence was the strongest.

  Somewhere in the enormity of all that blackness, he was there, listening, watching. She tried not to think about it, about him, tried solely to focus on her song. It was difficult. She was alone with Gilgaroth, more at his mercy now than at any time since she’d been freed from Illistriv.

  She sang on. Every night since Baleron’s leaving, Gilgaroth had asked her to sing for him.

  Now below her yawned a black abyss that seemed endless and might very well be; this temple, this well, could run all the way through the roots of Krogbur and beyond, into the very bowels of the earth, or into some strange netherworld, for all she knew. She stood in the very place where Baleron had lopped off his own hand; his blood likely still stained the ground, if she could but see it. She hated this place. Its evil almost suffocated her. The very air vibrated with malignant passions, and made her feel unclean.

  Ye
t this is where Gilgaroth had brought her every day for the last week. She would sing, and he would listen, spellbound, for hours. She found it hard to believe that such a terrible being could appreciate what meager elements of Light and Grace she could offer in her voice, and it made her wonder if Gilgaroth might not have some of those same qualities after all. If so, he was an even more pitiable creature than she’d imagined.

  On this day, after she’d been singing for over an hour, two flaming slits opened in the dark well of the temple, above her and before her, suspended over an abyss that made her shiver just to contemplate.

  The eyes of fire widened.

  “Beautiful,” breathed Gilgaroth. His voice sounded like flames licking stone, and she didn’t know if he were referring to her or her voice.

  She refused to look at those burning eyes, refused to be sucked into his mesmerizing stare. She sang on, loudly and with all the force she could muster.

  “You are my treasure,” spoke the Tempter of Man, watching her with what appeared to be genuine fondness. “It’s been too long since I’ve listened to the silver song of a daughter of the Light.”

  The eyes dimmed and closed. The Shadow, subdued by her voice, relaxed . . . and drifted.

  She sang on.

  Should I? she thought. Should I do it now?

  She paused, fearful, and her heart trembled.

  She almost did it—almost—but her courage failed her, and she continued to sing, until at last, she thought again, Now! I must do it now! But still she was afraid.

  It was a mad idea. A mad, impossible plan. But what else could she do? She’d thought about it all this last week, but so far she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Growing up in Havensrike, she’d often read tales of Elvish princesses that could stop the heart of a thing of darkness with their song, and such stories had been among her favorites. Those princesses could weave spells with their songs. They could entrance a listener and bind the listener to them—they were spells of love, some of them, but some were spells of power.

  Now that she knew she was Elvish, she’d began to wonder if she could do this, if she could sing such a song. After all, her mother, her true mother, was said to be able to call entire forest-gardens into being with just her song.

  Come! What do I have to lose?

  But what if he finds me out? What then?

  She steeled herself. Reaching deep within, she searched out the well of Light she knew to be inside her.

  There! Slowly, very slowly, she began to weave strands of Light from that well into her voice.

  Gilgaroth’s eyes remained closed.

  She sang on. Could it be done without schooling? Could it be done on instinct alone, fueled by sheer desperation?

  Give me courage, beings of the Light, she thought. Give me strength.

  She sang on, faster and faster, as loudly as she could, but now she injected something new into the song. She tried to weave a spell, a web—tried to lay a foundation for ensnaring the listener. She could feel the tools to do this with, could feel how it might be done, and it was far more complicated than she would have thought. How had those fairytale princesses done it? How had her mother?

  Against her will, her thoughts turned to Baleron, but she forced these thoughts aside. She had to concentrate, had to dredge up those latent abilities of binding and unbinding.

  The Shadow’s eyes sprang open, and Rolenya almost screamed. She’d been found out!

  “A visitor comes,” he said.

  She relaxed, breathless, then caught the sound of air being split by something large. She wheeled about, her song forgotten, as the huge black multi-legged mass of the Mogra rose up from the shaft, ascending under her own power, drew abreast of the platform, then leapt on the stage directly behind Rolenya.

  Eyes wide, Rolenya stared up at the horror that was the Goddess of Mists and Sacrifice and stifled a scream.

  “Lovely,” said Mogra. “A golden voice in a lightless gloom.”

  “My songbird,” said Gilgaroth, his terrible mouth a gash of flickering red in the darkness. Fires from his throat bathed his sharp teeth in a lurid red glow.

  ““I hope that singing is all she’s done for you, my Lord. Now go along, little pigeon,” said Mogra, “for Lord Gilgaroth and I shall make our own sweet music now.”

  Caught between these two implacable forces, Rolenya froze. Should she go around Mogra, or under her, threading her way through the forest of huge spider legs? The thought petrified her.

  Mogra made the decision for her. The Spider Goddess coiled her many-jointed limbs and leapt straight over Rolenya’s head and disappeared into the blackness where Gilgaroth waited. The Dark One and the Shadow-Weaver wrapped each other in an unholy embrace within a darkness so deep even Rolenya’s elvish eyes could not penetrate it.

  “Go,” commanded Gilgaroth. His fires were no longer visible.

  There seemed a great movement in the dark—restless and wild, full of need and desire and ancient wrath. Shadow swelled and swayed and pulsed. A great power throbbed in the blackness.

  “Go!” bade Mogra.

  Rolenya turned her face from the unholy union and descended the endless stairs without another word, glad to be away. As she went, she emitted her own radiance—an ability granted by her heritage and transferred with her soul, not her flesh. This was fortunate, as there was no other light to be had. Her white light revealed one stained black stair at a time, her pale bare feet touching down one after the other.

  She wondered why Mogra had come. Perhaps the Shadow-Weaver had heard rumor of her songs and in jealousy had decided to visit the Black Tower? Rolenya doubted it.

  She wondered if her spell-song had begun to work on Gilgaroth before Mogra’s arrival, and if she should try it again next time. The thought terrified her.

  As she descended the spiraled stairs that wound along the temple walls, terrible noises chased her from behind, roars and screams and howls and grunts—an unholy din as though Hell itself had been unleashed, and perhaps it had. She did not look back.

  It seemed he spent half his life imprisoned, Baleron mused as he languished in the palace dungeon, which had been converted from the Husran catacombs. In fact, the room he now occupied was not a prison cell—not originally—but a crypt. Oddly appropriate, he thought.

  It was a comfortable enough cell, though, dry and warm, very much unlike the pits of Krogbur. He was becoming a connoisseur of prisons. Sadly, it meant that though he traveled between different peoples, he existed outside any one country, any one family. He was utterly an outsider, treated as hostile by all sides.

  He would be glad when this was over. Then perhaps he could find a place where he belonged, even if it was only a place for his spirit. He didn’t expect to come out of this war alive. He would die, he knew, and his spirit would spend the rest of eternity dwelling on his mistakes; he had to minimize those mistakes now, or he’d be one woeful spirit.

  But it seemed that any decision he made was the wrong one. Every choice he faced led to some unendurable consequence, whether it be the fall of the Crescent or the misuse of the woman he loved.

  And what did it matter, really? Rauglir had made the choice for him. Ironically, Gilgaroth’s backup plan (Baleron now realized that that’s precisely what Rauglir was) had landed him here, where Rauglir’s targets were safe from him. Baleron only hoped his father and Logran stayed far away. He didn’t want to rot in prison, but it was far better than the alternative.

  When his first visitor came, he’d been stuck in the crypt for two days without food or water, and he was sorely in need of a drink, his throat parched and his stomach gnawing at itself like a weasel in its den. His dreams continued to haunt him, and he could feel Rauglir like a shadow inside him. An iron collar about Baleron’s neck weighed him down, and chains sprouting from it rooted him to the floor. Iron rings to either side of the collar bound his hands.

  They must think he was some wild, ravening beast that needed to be forcibly restrained, he thought. The wor
st part was they might be right.

  His visitor was Logran.

  “You’re alive!” Baleron said. He rose to his feet, the chains clinking around him. He took a step forward, all the chains would allow him, and two members of the prison guard brandished their swords at him.

  “Don’t try any of your tricks,” warned the senior officer.

  “Please, captain,” Logran said, “don’t poke any holes in him for the time being. Agent of the Dark One or not, he is the Heir.”

  The soldiers lowered their blades uncertainly.

  “The Heir?” Baleron said. If he was the Heir, that could only mean . . .

  “We’ll get to that,” the sorcerer promised.

  “But how? How are you here? I felt your spine sever.”

  “Yes,” Logran admitted. “That is not my fondest memory of you. And it nearly did for me, true enough. But somehow my brethren managed to put me back together again. Our art has come far in the last few years, I really must say. Though I must give credit where it belongs, to Elethris and his Flower. They’re what really saved me.”

  Soberly, Baleron said, “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Likewise.” Logran looked about at the guards. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a moment? I promise to keep both eyes on him at all times.”

  The captain nodded reluctantly. “We’ll be right outside if you need us.” The soldiers withdrew, the captain throwing one last scowl at the prince and saying, “You’d better not try anything or it’s me you’ll have to face.”

  Despite himself, Baleron laughed. After all the horrors he’d been through, this pudgy, squinty-eyed little man thought he could intimidate him?

  Logran had water. As Baleron drank greedily, he noted that the sorcerer seemed hale and hardy, much improved from when he’d resided at Grothgar Castle; Baleron now supposed that then the sorcerer had been wasting away in grief over Elethris and Celievsti, but purpose had rejuvenated him.

  Logran smiled, and Baleron frowned. It was good to know he hadn’t killed the old man, but it was annoying to find the sorcerer in such good humor.