The War Of The Black Tower (Book 2)

by Jack Conner

  “It’s so good to see you again,” he whispered to her.

  “You too.” She turned to the leader of the guard. “I’ll be safe now, Captain.”

  “I’ll see her to the castle,” Baleron assured him.

  “It was a pleasure, my lady,” said the soldier, and bowed. He and his men turned back and left the former brother and sister, but now something else, alone.

  “Come,” Baleron said. “Let me take you on a ride.”

  He showed her to Lunir and they climbed astride, she riding directly behind Baleron, her hands clasped about his chest, her body pressed into his back as the glarum bucked and jostled them, awkwardly winging its way through the air, too old to bear two riders for long and too caustically-tempered to bear them as long as even that.

  Rolenya, laughing, hugged Baleron tighter and he could feel her breasts mash against his back. Her nipples were hard and pressed into him through the thin material of her dress. Her thighs pressed into him from behind. Suddenly he felt very hot. Why was he noticing these things? He fervently tried not to.

  When they reached the castle, he landed on his balcony, and he and Rolenya slipped off the glarum. Baleron whispered a command to Lunir, pointing to the stables, and Lunir cawed in a disgruntled manner, but he took off and made his way back to them. It had taken Baleron several days to teach the glarum that trick.

  Rolenya beamed, squeezing Baleron’s hands. Her blue eyes shone. It was so good to see her again.

  “Oh, Bal!” she said.

  “Oh, Rolly. I’m so glad you’re safe. We were so worried about you. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Then don’t. I won’t, either.” She cast her eyes up to the shiny, bloated moon glaring down at them from the black sky through a brief rift in Gilgaroth’s clouds. “The Eye of Illiana,” she breathed. “What do you think she sees tonight, when she looks at us?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I think she sees a prince and princess ... of different countries now ...”

  She seemed to sadden. “So Father ... King Grothgar ... told you.”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded. “I will miss being your sister, Bal.”

  “So will I.”

  She nodded to the moon. “What else do you think she sees?” She turned to look at him, to study his face.

  He hesitated. Where was she going with this? “A man and a woman,” he ventured. “Brother and sister—or raised that way.” What else was there? “Best friends,” he added.

  Her eyes were very blue tonight. And very still. They seemed to hold him in some strange spell.

  “And nothing else?” she asked. It was almost a sigh.

  “Allies?” he chanced.

  That made her smile.

  “Yes,” she said. “Most definitely allies.”

  The wind gusted and blew her long black hair away from her face and made the tail of her white dress dance like a phantom. It plastered the front of her dress against her body and he was painfully aware of her voluptuous yet slender form, the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips. Her lips were red and moist. She had an oval face and high, round cheekbones that made her look angelic. Her skin looked creamy in the moonlight, and he noticed she was barefoot. The effect made her look strangely vulnerable, and despite himself he longed to put his arms about her.

  “I ... I think,” he started, suddenly for some reason a bit nervous, “that we should try to go to b—” He stopped himself. “To try to get some sleep. It is late.”

  She traced his scarred, bearded jaw with her light, nimble fingers. “I won’t be getting any sleep tonight, Bal.” She was very close to him, and he could smell her heady, exotic perfume. It was very sensual. Where had she gotten it? Surely the sorcerers hadn’t given it to her. At her proximity, his skin prickled, and his hairs stood on end. He began to feel a bit light-headed.

  “Will you?” she added.

  He’d known this woman all his life, but never had he been this nervous around her. Why was she doing this? Why was she acting this way? And why, gods help him, did he find her so hard to resist?

  “W-what are you doing?” he stammered.

  “Only what we’ve both dreamed of for too long. But I’m done with dreams, Bal. I’ve been too close to death too many times. I’ve seen it too often. We’ve got to live our dreams now, Baleron, don’t you see? Or else why bother?” She stood up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. They were moist and hot. “Well?” she asked.

  This was too soon, too sudden. Things were moving impossibly quickly. She’d just gotten here, and already this! It was as if they’d both been waiting for it all their lives and now their feelings threatened to overwhelm them.

  Perhaps that was the case. All these years, had he really thought of her ... in that way? He didn’t think so, but nothing made sense at the moment, and her presence was quickly driving him beyond reason.

  He almost could not believe what happened next.

  It seemed a madness took him.

  He kissed her.

  Her lips were soft and hot. She responded passionately. Urgently. Hungrily.

  He gripped her upper arms and jerked her to him, pressing her against him in a fit of passion that defied reason. Clothes dropped hastily to the floor.

  He threw her on the bed, and she gasped and wrapped her long slender legs about his hips and pressed him deep inside her. Her eyes widened the first time he entered her, and she moaned, and he suckled on her ripe, firm breasts with their small red nipples and ran his fingers through her sweaty black hair.

  Their bodies melded, it seemed, and they became a writhing tangle of sweat-drenched limbs and heaving bodies, and though he had no idea what he was doing, he knew was that he never wanted it to end.

  Afterward, they lay tangled in each other’s arms, the silken sheets awry, and her damp cheek against his sweaty, hairy chest. It rose and fell with his breath and he held her fragile body in his arms and slept. He felt very warm, and sated, and drowsy.

  Gilgaroth did not sleep. In the shape of the Great Wolf, he lay at the front of the camp, his fiery eyes staring unblinking at the walls of Glorifel. He rested upon a great mound of corpses of all manner of beings, as a dragon might lounge upon his hoard. Flies and the stench of death rose about Him.

  Ungier tried to keep his distance, though he did have news to bring. Instead, he sought out the captain of prisoners, who showed him the selection of men caught in the last attack. Ungier, feeling that he needed a lot of blood tonight, chose the largest three.

  Afterward he was done with them, as he was trying to select which girl of his new harem (the girls had been captured in the small towns his army had marched through on the way to Glorifel) he would amuse himself with, his daughter Serengorthis, one of his spies and messengers, flew in from Larenthi. She brought tidings of the war for Clevaris and conferred with her father privately.

  “I will take the news to Master,” Ungier told her when she’d finished.

  Reluctantly, he strode up the aisle of torture racks upon which Glorifelans writhed in misery to the great putrescent mound upon which Gilgaroth sat. Ungier waited for his Master to notice him, and eventually Gilgaroth, without averting His eyes, said, “Speak.”

  “My necromancers have divined that, ah, Rolenya has been cleared by the human sorcerers.” He grimaced. “She, if I may call her that, is free.”

  “You do not like her.” A flicker of amusement.

  Ungier plowed on. “There’s more. Serengorthis has just come from the siege at Clevaris. She reports that Grudremorq and his Grudremorqen are amusing themselves by torturing the Borchstogs and putting them to death, but only after playing games with them first.”

  “The River still keeps them from attacking the city?”

  “It does. And no bridge will span it without bursting into white flames.”

  “Grudremorq is a fool.”

  Ungier decided to press his suit. “Grudremorq detests Your children in favor of his own. That must
stop. He will need the Borchstogs to attack or he will fail. I suggest he needs ... a rebuke.”

  The Eyes of Hell studied him. For a long moment, Gilgaroth did not answer. At last, with deceptive calmness, he said, “Still you play your games. You think that to bring my wrath upon your old charge will serve you. It will not. Do not try this again.”

  Ungier sagged, cursing himself.

  “Nevertheless, I leave soon.”

  Ungier looked up, hesitantly. “Where to, my Lord?”

  “Krogbur.”

  A strange feeling came over Ungier. “The Black Tower of your vision?” A wistfulness crept into his voice. “I long to see it. For ages I have longed to see it. ”

  “It is glorious, the first true fruit of the Spider’s web.”

  “If I may ask, why do You return there? Your Presence inspires my troops.”

  The eyes flared, and the smoke issuing from the throat grew thicker, blacker. “Lie not to me, Ungier. I know what you desire most of all—my absence.”

  “Never, Sire!”

  The Great Wolf growled, and Ungier felt the heat of the Second Hell on his face. He shrank back, throwing up a hand to ward off his destruction.

  It did not come. Gilgaroth quieted. The heat faded.

  The Wolf turned his horrible eyes back to Glorifel. “And you desire she whom I took from you. Rolenya ...”

  Ungier did not deny it. Desperately he wanted to ask the boon of his father that he’d yet to voice. He wanted to solicit a prize for Havensrike’s delivery, yet Gilgaroth had already scorned his devotion to the prize he would ask, and he sensed that to openly ask for it ... for her ... would be a mistake.

  Instead, he said again, “But why do You go to Krogbur, in the midst of Your War?”

  Gilgaroth sat silent, then said, “I should never have left. It is a thing that does require My presence—new-forged, it needs its Smith to hone it, to strengthen it. As well, this army of yours may not be enough. The mage Logran has some weapon of defense that keeps our full strength from assaulting the city, and Rauglir may not be able to destroy it alone. I go to Krogbur to gather a host that will break Glorifel with or without Logran’s shield.”

  “But Glorifel may fall at any time. Rauglir, and Baleron’s Doom—”

  “If Glorifel is won, my new army will go to the next target. That is not your concern.” Gilgaroth’s eyes smoldered, and now the Beast turned and stared Ungier in the eye. Ungier forced himself not to look away. “Take Havensrike for me. Do not return to me until it has fallen. Do not fail.”

  Ungier swallowed. “I won’t, my Lord.” But inside he was thinking, Perhaps THEN He will give her to me. Then I will have earned her.

  Baleron awoke to knocking at his door.

  “Who is it?” he called groggily, but then memory came to him and he jerked wide-awake.

  Naked, Rolenya lay sprawled beside him on the bed, still asleep. What had he done?

  The knocking came again. Whoever it was hadn’t heard him.

  “Gods!” he murmured. No one must find him like this. Loudly, he asked again, “Who is it?”

  “Captain Quinton, sir.”

  “Hells.” He shook Rolenya awake. “Rolly,” he whispered.

  She cracked a sleepy eye. “Yes?”

  “Dress and hide. Quickly.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it.”

  She was a bit bleary-eyed and put out at being hidden away, but she rose and let him shut her in his large closet. Hastily, he threw on some pants and opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  Rafael Quinton smiled at him. The captain seemed well pleased with his charge these days; he quite clearly enjoyed being the one to protect Lord Baleron, leader of the Fighting Five Hundred. “There’s been a development, sir. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.”

  “I’ll let you know afterward.”

  “Your father has just finalized the organization of the Great Council meeting that was put off by the siege. It shall be a week hence.”

  “But how will the delegates relay information to their capitals? Ungier will shoot any carrier pigeon down.”

  “Through sorcerers, I suppose. At any rate, I was instructed to inform you that you’ll be attending. All those on the King’s Council will.”

  Baleron found it difficult to retain his impassive face at this news. To sit beside his father at a meeting of the Great Council! It almost made him smile—and would have if not for the meeting’s cause.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, my lord. Will you be attending the family breakfast?”

  “Tell them I’ll be down shortly. And I will bring the new arrival.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  At all times the captain left two guards posted to either side of the prince’s door. They were part of his guard (of six, now) and Quinton was their supervisor. Glancing at them now, Baleron shuddered to think what they’d heard last night but knew that their oath swore them to silence. He felt safe on that issue, at least.

  With a quick nod at the two sentries, who remained inscrutable, Captain Quinton departed. Baleron closed the door.

  Finding Rolenya, he said, “Get dressed.” While she went about it, he turned his back and said over his shoulder, “Last night was a mistake, Rolly. A terrible, awful mistake. Let’s forget it ever happened. Make no mention of this to anyone. Ever. Promise me.”

  He turned around to find her smiling coyly. “I promise,” she said.

  “Now hurry. It’s time for you to see Father.”

  “Papa ...” A strange look crossed her suddenly serious face. Her eyes seemed far away, lost in memory.

  Her feelings for the old man must be quite complex, Baleron supposed. She’d thought of him as a true father all these years, only to find out now that he wasn’t ... and now her real father was dead. Baleron couldn’t imagine the torment she must be going through.

  He held her close, and she buried her head in his chest while he stroked her thick raven hair.

  Half an hour later, they walked into the Royal Breakfast Room, and the reunion began. The king, of course, was overjoyed to see his daughter again, as clearly that was still very much how he thought of her.

  “I never doubted you!” he exclaimed. His eyes veritably sparkled. It was infectious.

  With hardly a thought to anything else, he cut through the room and wrapped her in a great bear hug. She laughed joyfully, and so did he. Still embracing her, he lifted her off the ground, a deep, contented chuckle escaping from his throat.

  Baleron, despite himself, was moved.

  “How?” asked the king. Then, too impatient for an answer, he cried, “Ah, Rolenya!”

  Only reluctantly did he set her down. All the other princes gathered round, murmuring excitedly.

  “Oh, praise Illiana!” muttered Rilurn.

  With wonder still in his eyes, Albrech said, “But how did you escape Celievsti, my dove, and why did it take you so long to find your way back here?”

  Logran stepped forward. “Let me explain.”

  She looked grateful. As the old sorcerer told the tale, her eyes would often dart to Baleron, but he tried not to meet them.

  Logran spun a story of fear and injury, of shock and terror, how she had landed her serath in a thicket and been pursued by Borchstogs for days on end before finally finding the Great Swan again and taking off. She’d wandered high and low, so Logran said, nearing Clevaris only to see it besieged and impossible to approach, and ultimately returning to the city she’d grown up in, to the family she knew. Seeing Glorifel likewise besieged, she had decided to make one last desperate attempt to find sanctuary.

  The gathered princes and princesses clamored in a happy riot, and she beamed at them all, glowing joyfully. The king watched on with great contentment, though he said little.

  As she reacquainted herself with Albrech and her former brothers and sisters over breakfast, Baleron kept silent and tried not to get in the way. He did notice Logran frowning a bit at him
, but if the sorcerer suspected anything amiss he kept it to himself.

  Throughout the reunion, the prince and Rolenya very self-consciously avoided holding hands or displaying any overtly affectionate behavior. He wondered just what in the Seven Hells he’d gotten himself into. Blood or no blood, he was sleeping with his sister! This was yet one more weight that he didn’t need on his mind. He found it difficult to look his father in the eye.

  Inwardly, he projected his image: a cursed prince on a dark steed bearing an evil sword, spreading ruin to the world, possibly ushering in the End Times, and now involved in incest. Incest! The word made him shudder.

  At last the king exclaimed, “By the gods, I feel good!” His eyes shone, which was rare. “Tomorrow night is Imrilliande.”

  “Moonday!” gasped Rolenya.

  The king’s eyes were only for her. “I had not intended to proceed with the festival this year, under the circumstances, but now I feel in the mood for it. And the city needs a lift now most of all. And, by the gods, we’ll have it!”

  The princes and princesses exclaimed loudly, and excitement lit their faces. Baleron sat back and said nothing, but his heart was troubled.

  After the breakfast, Rolenya approached him in private. “Come with me to the festival,” she begged.

  “Are you mad? We must not be seen together!”

  “We’ll be masked. No one will know.” She pressed herself against him and whispered in his ear: “Please?”

  The annual celebration—Imrilliande in Elvish, or Moonday in Havensril—was the night when people of many different faiths and races celebrated the making of the Moon, the goddess Illiana’s most fabulous feat. The rivers and the streams of Glorifel were stained purple at sundown to represent the color of water under a nighttime moon. Baleron and Rolenya, in disguise, watched on when Logran dipped his staff in the great river of Nagradin before the gathered crowd, which numbered in the thousands. The people burst into applause as a purple cloud spread out from his staff’s tip, and the musicians played joyously. Thus began the Festival.

  Baleron would have thought the townspeople glum, frightened, but they smiled and engaged in festivities ... though they did shoot occasional glances toward the city walls. He only hoped Ungier held off attacking during the celebration.