The War Of The Black Tower (Book 3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

stem of
the tower rose to the charcoal roof above, ringed by lightning. Thunder
shook the heavens.
    They passed terraces where powerful
Worms lazed on
mounds, some of treasure, some were of bones and
rotting bodies with flies buzzing around them. More blood—spattered Worms hung like bats from
jutting beams and ramparts.
    On other terraces stood groups of
Borchstogs and other demons, come to get a glimpse of Baleron. When they saw
him they pumped their fists in the air and chanted, “Roschk ul Ravast! Roschk ul Ravast!” Some
dropped to their knees and slit their arms with knives, flinging their blood in
his direction.
    The Worms angled out, away from the tower, and
just in time, too—any lower and they would have flown through the very flames
of Illistriv. Sparks
leapt up from the Inferno and the dragons flew through the fiery sprites that
swayed and swarmed with the searing currents. Baleron hunkered low, feeling
scalding pains on his thigh and back.
    Peering over his shoulder into the
fires, he saw at close range a white-hot soul pursued by a long, serpentine
dragon-shape, something like the creature in the Labyrinth of Melregor below
Gulrothrog—part wolf, part spider, part Worm. He wondered if perhaps the
fleeing soul was that of Salthrick. He would be in there somewhere, having died
in unholy lands.
    The dragons leveled out, gliding
just twenty feet or so over the heads of the teeming Borchstogs whose camps
sprawled across the plain. The creatures hooted and cheered. Baleron saw a
group that had been torturing an Elvish captive stop their games and gaze
upward, blood dripping from their mouths.
    Some pointed back toward the tower,
and a great clamor rose up. Baleron felt a thrill of dread. Reluctantly, he
turned.
    Saw.
    Cold fingers touched his spine.
    For—emerging from the very flames
of the Second Hell—was none other than the Breaker of the World.
      In a form Baleron had never seen him take
before, Gilgaroth—it could be no other, such was his awful might and splendor—exploded
from the fires that wreathed the Black
Tower and shot directly
toward Baleron and Rolenya. Rolenya gave a startled cry.
    Gilgaroth came as a great black
dragon, long and sinewy, with a wolvish head, horned
and whiskered, trailing smoke from his terrible maw. His tail cracked like a
whip, making Baleron’s eardrums vibrate. Having no wings, Gilgaroth seemed to
swim rather than fly through the skies, moving through the air like an eel. His
eyes blazed Hell-fire, and he radiated an awesome power, darkness embracing
him.
    Wonder overcame the Borchstogs, who
knelt or cheered.
    For his part, Baleron was startled.
He had heard that Lorg-jilaad was called the Great
Dragon but had not known Gilgaroth could assume the same form—and such an awful
one. He wondered if it could have been this form that he’d seen that day in the
Black Temple—as he had come to think of the
dark place where he had lost his hand. He remembered the flaming eyes and fire-lit
maw of Gilgaroth seemingly suspended, bodiless, in the center of that great empty
space. Yet perhaps the darkness had concealed the sinewy shape of the dragon
and Gilgaroth had not been discorporated after all.
Or perhaps he had been in some sort of cocoon stage, growing this new form.
    In any event, Gilgaroth drew
abreast them, flame licking his lips and smoke trailing behind him like a
second tail. Baleron could feel his heat and smell his smoking breath.
    Gilgaroth wasted no time on
greetings. “ Baleron ,” he said, “I tire of games. Today We end this.”
    Baleron tried to say something, but
his mouth was too dry. He felt his hands tremble as they gripped the red Worm’s
reins.
    Gilgaroth’s eyes crackled. “Submit to me, Baleron, or I will throw
Rolenya down . . . to them.”
    The teeming Borchstogs below, tens,
no, hundreds of thousands of them,
cheered the passing of their great lord. Lust and cruelty and malice burned in
their eyes. Baleron looked down at them, then to