The Black Altar: An Epic Fantasy (The Swords of the Sun Book 1)

by Jack Conner

  She took his hand and led him to a chair, then sat beside him. “Tell me everything, brother. Tell me your tale, and I will tell you mine.”

  So the siblings sat and talked for hours, telling each other everything, reconnecting and consoling the other. They were interrupted only when a voice called from without, “Tiron of Theslan! Emerge! You are summoned by Mistress Ixa.”

  “What can this be?” Tiron whispered.

  “I cannot fathom. But you’d best not keep her waiting. She can be … difficult … when annoyed.”

  He climbed to his feet and pushed aside the tent flaps, then stepped outside. Aria joined him, blinking in the light. Her skin looked sallow in the stronger illumination, and the whites of her eyes had taken on a yellowish tint. Even in human form, she was not as she was.

  Four priestesses stood before him. The one who must have spoken, demanding his presence, said, “Come. We are to take you back to the Mistress.”

  “For what reason?”

  “The map, of course. You must help draw a map of Ivenien and its surrounds, and list every troop position and fortification.”

  “I will not! That was never part of our bargain, and I’ve told your mistress as much already.”

  “Bargains change,” the priestess said. She flicked her gaze to Aria, then back to him. The meaning was clear. If he did not comply, it would go poorly for Aria. They would use her as leverage against him, just as they had before. And why not? It had paid dividends for them last time. He had given them no reason to question whether he would do anything to save his sister.

  He shared a look with her. Her face was still, but moisture glimmered in her yellow eyes. She met his gaze for a moment, then glanced to the ground. She could not bear his scrutiny. She did not want him to draw the map, but she hadn’t the will to suffer Ixa’s wrath, either. Seeing what they had done to her already, Tiron didn’t blame her.

  Hating himself even further, he spat on the ground and told the priestess, “Fine. I’ll draw your damned map, but then I’m taking my sister and I’m leaving, and I want no one to stop me.”

  “Your sister is one of us now, Tiron,” said the priestess. “One of the handmaidens of Queen Mogra. It is an exalted position, and she should be honored by it. But she will need the rites and rituals of the Order to survive.” In a lower voice, she repeated, “Aria is one of us now.”

  A chill swept Tiron. His hands curled into fists at his sides. The priestesses braced themselves, preparing in case he was foolish enough to attack them, and the guards at the tent flap placed their hands to the hilts of their swords.

  Aria reached out and touched Tiron’s arm. “Don’t,” she said. “Do not fight them. There can be no victory that way.”

  No, but I could go down in death and not have to pen that map. But if died, who would look after Aria? She needed him now, more than ever.

  In despair, he stepped forward, head lowered, and let the priestesses surround him.

  “Take me to her, then,” he said, and they did.

  Aria wept behind him, then fled into the darkness of the tent, possibly to let her hard-to-maintain-humanity slip away for something darker and multi-legged.

  Chapter 16

  Baleron glanced at the walls of the city as his company approached it. Though ravaged by war and at least partially abandoned, figures stirred on the ramparts clad in mail and plate, which flickered blue and white under the starlight. The sun had set in a haze of splendor to the west an hour into the company’s descent from the highlands. A few patches of snow clung to the grassy slopes here, but so far the winter had been gentle once clear of the mountains.

  “Who goes there?” cried a voice as the company approached the gates.

  “We are friends from afar,” said Prince Feren. Clearly he did not want to betray the existence of his city. “May we pass inside?”

  The watcher on the walls studied them, and the figures that had been walking to and fro on the ramparts stopped and fingered their weapons, waiting on the order, yea or nay.

  “These are uncertain times, stranger,” said the watcher, who must be the captain of the guard on duty. “Can you not at least give your name and home so that we know with whom we are dealing?”

  Feren made a noise of irritation. “Have you any reason to fear Elves?”

  “Well … no, as you ask.”

  “Then why have you not opened the gate already? I tire of staring up at you. If I do it any longer, I will develop a crick in my neck. Come down from there and let us in, unless you do not value the friendship of Elves.”

  That caused the captain of the guard to pause. Baleron well knew, and he was sure the captain did, that a city ravaged and surrounded by enemies could not afford to annoy would-be allies, especially not Elves. Men did not always consider Elves reliable, and the two races had been estranged for some time, but no Man doubted the military prowess and wisdom of the Children of Light.

  “Very well, you may enter.”

  The gates opened, and the company passed inside. The captain of the guard trotted down the stairs to meet them personally.

  “I am Halbarad, son of Halomere, and you have just entered the sovereign city-state of Yavlock.”

  “Well met,” said Baleron. “I will give you my name, at the least. I am Baleron son of Albrech. I am the Prince of Havensrike and Duke of Theslan.”

  “The Baleron?” Halbarad stared at Baleron with awe. His gaze went to the hook that ended Baleron’s left arm, as if confirming his identity, then collected himself. “You are most welcome here, my lord. The man who slew the Dark Lord!”

  Baleron smiled wryly. “If only he would stay dead.”

  “Does he live still, then?”

  “Not in body, but his spirit remains, bound as it is to the spot where Krogbur fell, and with its fall, and his bodily demise, Illistriv, the Second Hell, was unleashed. He is now its lord on this plane as he was always its lord in another.”

  Halbarad paled, visible by the many torches and braziers that filled the courtyard beyond the gates with light and warmth, even at night.

  “You paint a grim picture, my lord.” As if drawn of its own volition, his gaze strayed to Rolenya, and there it stayed riveted. “But I will put the darkness aside, for I have never seen such a vision of surpassing loveliness.”

  Her cheeks colored. “Thank you, Halbarad son of Halomere, captain of the watch. I did not know the men of your city were so courteous.”

  He laughed, openly and honestly. The sound warmed Baleron, and he found himself liking this captain. “Courtesy has nothing to do with it, my lady,” said Halbarad. “I only speak the truth, as a man might comment on a sunrise or a rainbow of especial beauty. There is no courtesy in praising a rainbow. It is merely an observation. But one, I must add, that I am honored to make.”

  “Then let me make an observation as well, Captain Halbarad. You are brave and noble, but a shadow lies on you and your city.”

  He sighed, and his eyes dropped briefly before returning to her face. “Yes, my lady, so it is. A grave shadow indeed. But let me ask—if this is Baleron One-Hand, can that mean that you are the Lady Rolenya, Princess of both Havensrike and Larenthi?”

  “Once princess to both, now only to one.”

  “I feel as if I have strayed into a dream—the tale of your deeds has spread throughout the land, giving strength to all who hear it. Too much, perhaps.”

  “What do you mean by that?” said Feren.

  “I will tell you what I can of it on our way.”

  “Our way?” said Laithan, who had remained silent until now.

  “Yes. I assume you will want to go directly to the Palace. I mean, a prince and a princess will not want to stay at an inn, even so fine a one as the Shandy. And the King will be very happy to meet you both.” He added, half under his breath, “Especially if it means aid may be forthcoming. But come, I will take you to the Palace!”

  “Hold,” said Feren. “I appreciate the courtesy, and perhaps we will meet the
King tomorrow indeed, but for now take us to this fine inn of which you speak.”

  Halbarad hesitated, his gaze going to Baleron and Rolenya. He knew their stations and respected their authority, but he had no idea that Feren too was royalty, and he clearly wasn’t sure if he should be following the Elf’s orders. And, Baleron was sure, he was quite sincere in wanting them to work out some alliance with the King. However, Baleron was just as sympathetic to Feren’s objection to making their way to the Palace. The times were indeed uncertain, and a shadow did lie on this town, even Baleron could feel it. Who knew if the King could be trusted? Going to the Palace would put them in his power. Better to spy out the city, gather intelligence, and make a decision on meeting the monarch later.

  When Baleron nodded, Halbarad sighed. “Very well, then, my lords, my lady, please follow me to the Shandy.” He nodded to one of his soldiers, who returned the gesture and mounted to the wall. Clearly this man would fill in for Halbarad until his return.

  Without wasting time, Halbarad turned and rode through the winding cobbled streets of the city, and the riders of the company fell in behind him.

  “You called Yavlock a city-state,” Baleron said, coming to ride abreast Halbarad. “Was it not a city in the kingdom of Galador?” Like Felgrad, the ways and culture of Galador owed much to the ancients who had founded Havensrike, and the three kingdoms had much in common thereby. Baleron remembered the Four Great Houses of Men Alathon had alluded to and wondered if there was a commonality.

  “It was indeed, Lord Baleron,” said Halbarad. “But … well, when word spread of your great deeds, and the fall of the Black Tower, the King—that is, the King of Galador —grew emboldened, and he rallied the army to drive out the Borchstogs already harrying our lands. That done, he led the army far to the south. I was left manning the walls of Yavlock and saw none of that glory … but the glory was short-lived. The hosts of the Shadow were diminished, but their black arts were strong. With trickery and guile, and great might, too, they overwhelmed the King’s army and slew them to a man.”

  “My gods,” said Baleron.

  Even Feren had the grace to look appalled. Riding on the other side of Halbarad, he said, “Omkar be merciful.”

  “They were not—not that day, and not for many after,” said Halbarad. “When the King fell, the hosts of the Shadow rolled north, and this time they didn’t merely harry us—they torched, burned, raped and occupied. Cities fell, and people abandoned them. The kingdom collapsed, at least down here. I’ve heard some remnant still exists in the north.”

  “Then why are there still people here?” asked Feren. “In Yavlock?”

  “There weren’t, not for some time. People fled the cities. I led a group of them, some four hundred, and we joined up with some others in the hills to the east. Lived in the wild for a time, waiting for the storm to pass. Many died to sickness and hunger, not to mention frequent run-ins with the ‘stogs. Borchstogs love to occupy the citadels of their enemies, but only if there are enough prisoners to satisfy their dark urges. With no one remaining in Yavlock, they contented themselves with burning, looting and defacing, then moved on. In drips and drabs, we survivors returned.”

  Baleron looked around him. Lanterns on tall poles lit the cobbled streets, revealing chipped cobbles and broken windows, shattered statues with vile graffiti scribbled on them. The city was a ruin, but the people were rebuilding it. He saw new construction and lights blazing in windows—though only a few, a pitiful few. The city was still abandoned in places, he realized. Only a percentage of the population had returned. Had the rest died, or fled north? Either way, the people here must know that they would fall to even a moderately-sized company of Borchstogs. They were nervous and scared, and Baleron reflected on what a boon it would be to these people if their leaders did make alliance with the Elves and the lords of Havensrike.

  He also noticed something else: some of the buildings he passed seemed of great age, old and stained by time, and wrought by unfathomable hands. Great towers in the shapes of serpents loomed in the dark, jet eyes gleaming with hidden knowledge.

  “These are not the buildings of Men,” Rolenya said, seeing it, too.

  “No,” said Halbarad. “When Men first founded Yavlock, we did so on the ruins of an ancient city—a pre-human city. Suul, it was called. A race of a most vile sort lived here, worshipping Zog.”

  Baleron lifted an eyebrow. “Zog? I’ve heard that name …”

  “The Lord of the House of the Serpent,” Rolenya said. “The Great Serpent, he is called. An Omkarog, and one of the most powerful allies of Lorg-jilaad during the Great War. His people, if you can call them that, occupied this region.”

  “So it was,” Halbarad said. “Fortunately Zog relocated after his Master fell, moving his people far away—over the sea, I’ve heard it said. I don’t know much more than that. But Yavlock is riddled with the ancient buildings of the snake-people, who walked or crawled the earth before the coming of Men.”

  “It is a good thing Zog’s people are far away,” Laithan said. “They are numerous, and warlike. The hosts of Oslog are diminished now, after the fall of the Black Tower and destruction of their great army. That’s the only thing that gives us a chance. If they had the strength of the House of the Serpent to draw on …”

  They rode on, and quiet fell over them, save the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves. At last Feren turned to Halbarad and said, “So you no longer consider yourselves part of Galador, then? You have taken a king, you said?”

  “We have, my lord.” Halbarad paused, clearly unsure if Feren was indeed a lord, then continued. “We consider ourselves a sovereign city-state now, though we would love to be reincorporated into Galador. But their envoys have said that they cannot guarantee our safety, and they can send no army here. So we are on our own.”

  Baleron examined the people coming and going down the city streets. They looked tired and tense, as he would have expected, but what he did not expect was the glances some of the townsfolk were shooting—not at the company, but at each other. Looking closer, he thought he saw two recognizable groups of people. The first looked rather ordinary, just ragged survivors trying to put their lives back together. The other appeared … odd. Baleron couldn’t quite put his finger on it. They looked more tired, for one. And they did not return the glances the first group shot at them.

  Was it mistrust Baleron was seeing in the eyes of the first group? He was unsure.

  Halbarad saw his scrutiny. Noting this, Baleron raised his eyebrows in a question without words.

  Halbarad sighed. “It has been … tense lately, my lord. More tense than even it should be, and it should be quite tense, I would think, by all accounts. And yet what we’ve been facing goes even above and beyond that.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Feren.

  “Many people have gone missing—just vanished. Poof! And they’re never seen again.”

  “Missing,” Baleron repeated, as if trying to make sense of this.

  “Yes. From all over town, all walks of life. Some even from the inn we’re going to now. Do you still want to go?”

  “Tell us more about it first.”

  “There is little to tell. I doubt an armed party like yours has much to fear, but the rest of us aren’t so lucky. Whatever’s been taking people is never sated, and always hungry.”

  “There are never any bodies?” Feren said.

  “None, my lord. It’s all such a pity—us just starting over and all. We haven’t any to lose, yet we’re losing them.”

  “What does this have to do with … them?” Baleron said, finding one of the more tired-looking townsfolk and nodding at him.

  “I don’t know if it has anything to do with them, my lord, and that’s the truth.”

  “Who?” said Feren. “What are you talking about?”

  Evidently he wasn’t as keen an observer as Baleron would have thought. Then again, Feren might see all humans as roughly the same, and in any case hardly worth studyin
g in any detail.

  “When we returned from the hills, we found survivors already here,” Halbarad said. “Only a few hundred, but surprising for all that. We had thought the city completely emptied. Apparently they’d found places to hide during the occupation and emerged once the ‘stogs had left to find the rest of us gone. But once the disappearances started, one group began to suspect the other. That’s what the war has brought us to—mistrusting our own people! Well, I won’t have it, and I preach against it, but it’s a hard thing, losing your loved ones, after all of this. Surviving the war an’ all, then having them vanish just when your lives are about to begin anew.” He shook his head. “People aren’t sitting down for it, but they don’t know what to do.”

  “So they turn their fear on each other?”

  “That is my belief, my lord. Ah! Here is the Shandy.” Ahead the way opened up to reveal a stately inn of some age; Baleron would have to say it was over a hundred years old, perhaps a hundred and fifty. Its roof was new, though. Probably the original had been burned in the sack of the city. Also, there were chips and gouges on its proud columned façade. “I hope you’ll find it a pleasant stay,” added Halbarad. “And remember, tomorrow, the King.”

  “We won’t forget,” Baleron said. “We will try to see him before we leave.”

  Feren surprised him. “And yourself, as well, Captain. It has been a pleasure taking your acquaintance.”

  Stammering, Halbarad bowed, then turned his horse about and departed back toward the wall.

  Baleron and Feren appraised each other, then the inn looming above them. Lights blazed from its windows across the square. Even though it was full night now, many lights illuminated the inner city, and it was quite an inviting scene despite everything. Then why did Baleron feel a sudden chill, as if something stroking the back of his neck?