Read Online The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) by Jack Conner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Conner
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them.
“It’s him, as near as we can tell,
but . . . there is a taint.”
Logran nodded. “Yes, I can feel
it.”
Baleron said, “It’s me, Logran.
It’s me.”
Logran’s frown deepened. “The sad part is,” he said, “that it just might be. If it is—if
it’s truly you, Baleron—then I apologize.”
Baleron felt a knot of ice form in
his bowels. “Why?”
“Because we must
consider you dangerous, a threat to the king. Look at it from our point
of view and you’ll see we have no option. If it were up to me, we’d simply cast
you out . . . or destroy you.”
“What!?”
“The wolves are at the door,”
Logran said, “and now in comes one pretending to be a sheep—a black one,
perhaps, but a sheep nonetheless. The only logical thing to do would be to put
you down.”
“Logran, it’s me! It’s really me!
I’ve been to Krogbur, the Black Tower of Gilgaroth!”
“There is no such place.”
“There is, and . . .” Baleron
wanted to tell it all, about the tower, and the army—all he could remember—but
Gilgaroth’s spell bound his tongue, and he realized he could say no more. All
that came up was a dry cough, and then he started to suffocate. There was
suddenly no air in the tight room. Agonized, his lungs on fire, he sank to his
knees, holding his hands to his throat and wheezing for breath.
Logran’s hairy eyebrows crinkled, and the other mages drew back as though expecting
Baleron to slip into monstrous form and run amok.
Gradually the dizziness and
shortness of breath receded, though, and Baleron fell back gasping.
“I . . . I cannot . . . can’t tell
you anything,” he managed. “I’m—sorry.”
Logran shot a strange look to his
lieutenant, and they frowned together. The others looked wary, their staffs all
leveled at the prince as soldiers would level crossbows, and with the same
gravity.
Logran said, “In any case, it is
not up to me. The king hates Baleron too much to slay him, and no words of mine
will convince him that you’re not his son. He may not believe your lies, but he
can’t entirely discount the possibility of your survival, either.” He sighed.
“He wants to see you.”
Accompanied by a gaggle of knights and half a dozen mages,
Baleron was shown inside the palace proper, which was a beautiful and graceful
affair, much unlike the stark Castle Grothgar; these spaces were light and airy
and cheerful, or had been. Now all was bleak and gray and cold, and the high
spaces only made Baleron feel forlorn as he passed through them.
He was shown to the new Throne
Room, which had been converted from the grand ballroom of the Husrans . Social occasions here had been a thing to remember
and to talk about for weeks afterward; Baleron could remember he and Sophia dancing across this very floor, gay music
playing. Sometimes, when the Husrans had employed a
sorcerer for the evening, the revelers could even waltz through the very air
amidst glowing balls of multi-colored light . . . but those days were gone now.
Aristocrats would have to amuse themselves elsewhere.
A grim-faced King Grothgar sat his
throne, wearing all black, still in mourning for his wife and sons. He’d been
lost in brooding contemplation before Baleron’s entrance, and he only looked up
distractedly—but, when his eyes found Baleron’s, they hardened. They turned to
ice.
The prince was reminded once more
of what a forceful presence his father had, and what cold and penetrating eyes.
Yet, for all that, there was a glimmer of hope in them—more so than in Logran’s , anyway.
Guards shoved Baleron to within
twenty feet of his sire, then forced to him to his knees for the second time
that week before Albrech said, “You may rise.”
Baleron rose, finding it difficult
to meet his father’s gaze. He’d been sent here to kill the man. Yet for some
reason he felt warmed by his father’s presence. Was it, he wondered, the call
of blood and kin, or was it
“It’s him, as near as we can tell,
but . . . there is a taint.”
Logran nodded. “Yes, I can feel
it.”
Baleron said, “It’s me, Logran.
It’s me.”
Logran’s frown deepened. “The sad part is,” he said, “that it just might be. If it is—if
it’s truly you, Baleron—then I apologize.”
Baleron felt a knot of ice form in
his bowels. “Why?”
“Because we must
consider you dangerous, a threat to the king. Look at it from our point
of view and you’ll see we have no option. If it were up to me, we’d simply cast
you out . . . or destroy you.”
“What!?”
“The wolves are at the door,”
Logran said, “and now in comes one pretending to be a sheep—a black one,
perhaps, but a sheep nonetheless. The only logical thing to do would be to put
you down.”
“Logran, it’s me! It’s really me!
I’ve been to Krogbur, the Black Tower of Gilgaroth!”
“There is no such place.”
“There is, and . . .” Baleron
wanted to tell it all, about the tower, and the army—all he could remember—but
Gilgaroth’s spell bound his tongue, and he realized he could say no more. All
that came up was a dry cough, and then he started to suffocate. There was
suddenly no air in the tight room. Agonized, his lungs on fire, he sank to his
knees, holding his hands to his throat and wheezing for breath.
Logran’s hairy eyebrows crinkled, and the other mages drew back as though expecting
Baleron to slip into monstrous form and run amok.
Gradually the dizziness and
shortness of breath receded, though, and Baleron fell back gasping.
“I . . . I cannot . . . can’t tell
you anything,” he managed. “I’m—sorry.”
Logran shot a strange look to his
lieutenant, and they frowned together. The others looked wary, their staffs all
leveled at the prince as soldiers would level crossbows, and with the same
gravity.
Logran said, “In any case, it is
not up to me. The king hates Baleron too much to slay him, and no words of mine
will convince him that you’re not his son. He may not believe your lies, but he
can’t entirely discount the possibility of your survival, either.” He sighed.
“He wants to see you.”
Accompanied by a gaggle of knights and half a dozen mages,
Baleron was shown inside the palace proper, which was a beautiful and graceful
affair, much unlike the stark Castle Grothgar; these spaces were light and airy
and cheerful, or had been. Now all was bleak and gray and cold, and the high
spaces only made Baleron feel forlorn as he passed through them.
He was shown to the new Throne
Room, which had been converted from the grand ballroom of the Husrans . Social occasions here had been a thing to remember
and to talk about for weeks afterward; Baleron could remember he and Sophia dancing across this very floor, gay music
playing. Sometimes, when the Husrans had employed a
sorcerer for the evening, the revelers could even waltz through the very air
amidst glowing balls of multi-colored light . . . but those days were gone now.
Aristocrats would have to amuse themselves elsewhere.
A grim-faced King Grothgar sat his
throne, wearing all black, still in mourning for his wife and sons. He’d been
lost in brooding contemplation before Baleron’s entrance, and he only looked up
distractedly—but, when his eyes found Baleron’s, they hardened. They turned to
ice.
The prince was reminded once more
of what a forceful presence his father had, and what cold and penetrating eyes.
Yet, for all that, there was a glimmer of hope in them—more so than in Logran’s , anyway.
Guards shoved Baleron to within
twenty feet of his sire, then forced to him to his knees for the second time
that week before Albrech said, “You may rise.”
Baleron rose, finding it difficult
to meet his father’s gaze. He’d been sent here to kill the man. Yet for some
reason he felt warmed by his father’s presence. Was it, he wondered, the call
of blood and kin, or was it
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