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

“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