Free The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) by Jack Conner Page A

twisted in pain, and the mage’s brown eyes
flew wide.
    Rauglir only seized control of
Baleron’s body for a moment, while Baleron was still wrestling with his Doom.
As soon as Baleron felt the alien intellect surge through him, he was able to
fight it, to wrest control away from the demon.
    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.