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

by Jack Conner

  “What are these devils?” Baleron said. “Serpent-men! These must have been what Halbarad was talking about, only they’re real, and here. Vaguely I remember stories from when I was a lad …”

  “The legends are ancient,” Feren agreed, “but I have heard them, too, and studied them, as well. If we’re up against the demons I think we are, then we are in dire straits indeed. And what it means for the world—”

  “My lord!” cried one of the Elves, pointing at something high up along the wall.

  Everyone wheeled to see a dark sinuous form slithering from one of the holes, then gliding down the rampway that led from it, zigzagging toward the floor. Other serpents, all of them of great size and speed, oozed from their hidden lairs and down into the room.

  The first serpent to reach the ground was set upon by two Elves. The first sword-strike glanced off its armored scales, and it had coiled its body and struck, fangs flashing, before the second stroke could fall. An Elf screamed, clutched at the wound dripping poison on his chest, then toppled backward. The terrible serpent wasted no time but set upon the next Elf, then the next.

  Other serpents, none of them less than ten feet long, and some closer to twenty, slithered across the floor, hissing and spitting venom. One spat a gob of yellow fluid into the eyes of an Elf next to Baleron, and the fellow reeled backward. He dropped his sword and clamped his hands to his face.

  Enraged, Baleron jumped at the serpent. It agilely swerved his first strike, and his second shot sparks from its scales but rebounded. By this time it had coiled its long muscular body and its triangular head pointed at his face. He had no time to brace himself. The snake launched itself at him, mouth opening to reveal the gleaming spikes dripping in yellow fluid. Just like in Rolenya’s vision.

  Baleron sliced up with all his strength. The sword skewered the serpent through the soft flesh under its jaw and drove up into its brain. The creature thrashed violently in its death throes, and Baleron shook it off, then turned to find another serpent barreling down on him.

  Around him the Elves gave battle furiously and grimly even as the prehistoric-seeming reptiles swarmed among them, biting and darting. Some coiled around Elves and crushed them, while some used their venom. Others simply had wicked rows of teeth and could use these to rend a Man or Elf apart.

  Baleron slashed at the neck of the serpent coming at him. The blow rebounded, but it knocked the strike of the creature aside and created a rent in the armor. Jaw clenched, Baleron struck at the same place again. This time green blood spurted and the head flew free of the body. Spewing blood, the great body thrashed, knocking over a nearby Elf wrestling with a snake. Baleron sped to the soldier’s defense, plunging his sword into the snake’s gaping mouth and into its brain.

  Around him the graceful, valiant soldiers of Ivenien wrestled and butchered the primeval serpents from the dawn of time, and the serpents crushed and poisoned and gnawed. Finally the Elves slew the last of the vile things, but by that time fully half of the company had been slain.

  Panting, covered in gore, the Elves stared at each other, then Baleron.

  The prince wiped blood from his eyes. “We can’t stay here and wait for them to send a second wave.”

  “What do you intend, then?” Feren said. Anger clouded his face, and Baleron wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or their attackers, or if Feren even knew. He had likely never led men into war before, and as soon as he did he lost half his forces to mindless monsters.

  Only they weren’t so mindless, Baleron knew. The serpent-men had tricked them in here, after all. Perhaps the great snakes themselves were unintelligent, or perhaps they shared the same higher functions as their two-legged counterparts. It was even possible the two-legged specimens could slide into the shape of the legless ones at will, and that these were they.

  Baleron would have to find the truth of it later. He pointed at the largest of the snake-holes. “Those lead to somewhere,” he said. “Maybe there’s a way out.”

  “We can’t leave my men,” said Laithan, staring morosely upon the bodies of the slain Elves.

  “There is no choice,” said Feren. “Baleron is right.” To Baleron, he said, “Lead the way. But first, take this.” He bent, retrieved the glow-stone from one blood-covered white hand, then pressed it on Baleron, who shoved it in a pocket.

  “The light is out now,” said Feren. “But only speak the words Velisthi moranon to awaken it again.”

  Baleron nodded and, very carefully, crawled up the winding ledge that led to the largest snake-hole. The stone was slick and cold beneath his hands, and at one point he passed the curled husk of a giant snake-skin, half-plastered against the wall by slime or spit. He found the opening at last and shoved himself into it. The narrow tube led forwards, dark and moist, with a small light glimmering at the end. Dark curved walls pressed in on him, touching him on all sides. The tube was only just barely big enough for him, and claustrophobia warred with the desperate need to survive in his gut.

  Behind him, he could hear the subtle sounds of the Elves following him, Feren in the lead. Laithan, Baleron knew, would go last.

  Baleron reached the end of the tube and slid out into another circular stone chamber. Ramps led up from the wall to holes on one side of the room only, and giant slithering shapes carpeted the floor. Like the last room, there was only one doorway, and in it stood a tall human-shaped form, just then lifting a flute to his lips. Baleron instinctively knew that this was how the man—or snake-man—controlled the serpents, or perhaps communicated with them, if they were intelligent, and that he was just about to call in the second wave.

  I don’t think so, thought Baleron.

  He leapt down into the pit, slicing left and right at the serpents about him. One struck at him. He hewed off its jaw. One lashed its tail at his legs, seeking to fell him. He jumped over it, landing right before the flutist. The man-shape dropped his flute and drew his sword with a steely ring, but Baleron gave him no time to use it. He knocked the blade aside with his hook, then plunged his sword into his opponent’s belly. As he’d expected, green blood welled out. The man-thing fell, and Baleron scooped up the flute and shoved it into his belt.

  Turning, he saw Feren leading the Elves in slaughtering the serpents, who had allowed their attention to be fixed on Baleron and had missed the deadly soldiers dropping among them. Bits and pieces of serpent flopped and spewed green blood or ichor on the stone flags. Not a single Elven life had been lost in this battle.

  Baleron nodded at Feren, who nodded back.

  “You were right,” Feren said.

  “There’s always a first time. Come, let’s see where this hallway goes.”

  He passed through the doorway and up the corridor beyond. More dripping moss-covered stones and ancient columns that depicted ghastly spiraled serpents greeted his vision.

  “What is this place?” Baleron said. “Is it truly Suul? And can it truly be this old?”

  “This dates back to before Man was born,” Feren said, “unless I miss my guess. Ancient and primordial, though not beyond the recall of some of my kind. My father would remember the founding of this place, perhaps—or perhaps it is older even than he.”

  “It dates back to before the Crescent Union, then.”

  “Oh, yes. It must,” said Feren. Having recovered his breath, he spoke conversationally as he jogged at Baleron’s side, glow-stone still gripped in his left hand. “It is many thousands of years old. But surely it cannot have been in continuous use all this time. The … being … the god … that this faith is built around is no more. Or at least he is far away.”

  “Zog,” Baleron said. “That’s what Halbarad called him. He said he lived, but had moved on. At any rate, tell me the tale later.” Sweat stung Baleron’s eyes. He wished he could be as tireless as the Elves, but alas, such was not the case. “Listen closely.”

  He strained his ears to hear some sign of Rolenya, and he was quickly rewarded, though it was Feren who heard it first.

&nb
sp; “There!” said the Elf. “Did you hear that?”

  Baleron hadn’t, but he listened harder, and sure enough he heard the faint sounds of chanting coming from somewhere ahead.

  “I hear it.”

  He tried not to think about what the chanting implied. He was all too afraid that he knew precisely what that was.

  The sounds grew louder as they turned a bend and passed up a wider intersecting corridor, following the noises—primal, rhythmic sounds punctuated by the slow beats of drums and the rasp of primitive musical instruments. Baleron steeled himself for the confrontation to come, then risked a glance over his shoulder. The Elven company, what was left of it, trotted behind he and Feren, two abreast, save for Laithan, who took up the rear.

  The hall curved, revealing at its end a high archway aglow with sickly yellow light. The light pulsed in time to the drums and chanting, and Baleron shuddered, feeling something awful, something monstrous pouring out from that eldritch opening. It repelled him yet fascinated him. It does not feel like the Wolf, he thought. It does not feel like Oslog, or Gilgaroth. It felt distinctly evil, yes, but of a sort he had never experienced before.

  As silently as he could, he crept closer, noticing only too late the twin openings, one on either side of the archway. Even as he stole up to it, two monstrous serpents slithered out of the ornate holes and dropped to the floor before the doorway. One struck at his leg. He danced back, teetering, then sprang forward. His sword flashed, and green blood flew. A snake head hit the floor and rolled while the headless torso writhed and spurted. The second snake didn’t pause to mourn its mate but coiled and struck, fast as lightning, toward Baleron’s unprotected face.

  An Elvish blade whistled, and the serpent sprayed blood and fell, writhing in its death throes. Baleron turned a grateful nod to Feren, who tersely nodded back.

  The company reformed, pressing to the walls on either side of the archway. The chanting and drumming continued unabated. Evidently the sounds of the brief struggle had been too scant for anyone in the room beyond to notice. Baleron drew in a breath, held it, then leaned to the side and peered around the edge into the chamber.

  Instantly his scalp prickled in fear, though not in surprise. Golden anklets and wristbands bound Rolenya’s white limbs, and golden links spanned from these ornate pieces of bondage to the great altar upon which she lay. She was clad in filmy things glittering here and there with jewels, and she had been anointed with oils and scents. Over her stood a dozen serpent-men, all male, all bare-chested but wearing leather kilts or skirts. Scales covered their reptilian bodies, and fangs dripped venom in their gaping snake-mouths. Yellow eyes glittered around vertical pupils.

  Their leader, what might be the high priest of this snake-cult, stood at Rolenya’s head, a dagger gripped in his scaly hands poised directly over her heart. A gag had been placed over her mouth, and she screamed into it. At the edges of the room, serpent-men pounded drums, while those standing over Rolenya chanted in their horrible sibilant language; Baleron had never heard the like before.

  His eyes met Feren’s, peering into the room from the opposite side, and the two nodded at each other once again. Baleron turned to issue quiet instructions to the Elves on his side, while Feren did the same to those on his. Desperation and urgency burned in Baleron’s heart as he recalled the dagger poised over Rolenya’s heart, but it would do her no favors to bungle the rescue attempt.

  He peered back. The drums and the chanting were building, building, the shadows flung by the torches in the sacrificial chamber leaping and dancing, the knife gripped by the high priest beginning to tremble with the bastard’s desire to plunge it into Rolenya’s chest.

  Baleron sprang into the room with a cry that drew the attention of the snake-men, and instantly his sword swung through the air, cleaving through the neck of the nearest reptile. Green blood sprayed his face, and the reptile reeled back, knocking over the fellow behind him.

  The priest hissed something angrily.

  Perhaps in response, the serpent-men hissed and drew their curved swords, then leapt at Baleron in rage. By this time the Elves had emerged from the hall. They poured around Baleron, meeting the attack of the reptilians with nimble steel, and there befell a desperate clash of the Light-born and the Dark. A serpent-man skewered an Elf to Baleron’s right, then was quickly dismembered by an avenger from the company.

  A serpent man sliced his saber at Baleron, but the prince blocked the blow with such force that the saber hurled through the air, leaving his opponent weaponless. But not quite. For, abandoning the attempt at wielding human weapons, the creature reverted to its primal state and sprang at Baleron with all the speed of its legless kin. Fangs gleamed wetly, beaded with deadly poison. Baleron just barely managed to jump back in time. Fangs clashed just where his head had been a moment ago.

  “Die, scum!” he said, and brought his blade down with all his strength, cleaving the serpent’s head in two down to its shoulders. He kicked the body off his blade, then shook it clean of gore.

  “Fools!” said the priest, speaking the Common Tongue now. “You’ve let them dishonor the ceremony! The Great One will not be pleased. But perhaps I can set things aright.”

  So saying, he drew the dagger up and prepared to plunge it home. Below, Rolenya squirmed and cried out, her blue eyes fixed on the blade.

  Baleron wasted no time. He drew his own blade back and flung it javelin-style at the priest. The sword sprayed blood as it went, passing between the bodies of various combatants but at last skewering the priest through the chest with such force that two feet of steel erupted between the serpent-man’s shoulder blades. The fellow stumbled back, the dagger dropping from his hands, which flew to the hilt of the sword protruding from his chest. A ring on his scaly hands glowed bright, then faded. The light left his eyes, and he listed over sideways and lay still.

  By then the battle was almost over. The snake-men drummers, who were unarmed, fled through a rear opening and vanished. The rest of them had been put down. Three Elves had fallen, and Feren knelt over them, saying a blessing over each one.

  Baleron went to Rolenya, first removing her gag, then rooting through the priest’s kilt pouches till he found the golden key. He unlocked her cuffs, and she sat up gasping and flung her arms about him.

  “Oh, Baleron! If you had been only a few moments later—”

  “Don’t think about it,” he said, wishing that he could get the image of her about to be sacrificed out of his mind.

  “Cousin,” Feren said, squeezing her shoulder. “I am glad we were in time.”

  Grief touched her eyes when she saw the Elves lying dead on the floor, then surveyed the company, surely noting how few of the Elves were present. “Are these … all that survived?”

  Feren swallowed, then inclined his head in assent. “Yes, cousin. A great loss, and a terrible day. But tell me, were these … creatures … truly servants of … Him?”

  Rolenya had been pale to start with, but she grew paler. Wanly, she nodded. “Yes. Yes. So it was.” She cast a glance at the altar she had been bound to. “They were going to sacrifice me to Him, send my soul through the altar to Fifth Hell, with which it is connected. And from that Hell they were going to draw a high servant of … Him. Zog.” She reached out and lay a trembling palm upon the altar, then hastily removed it. Wincing, she said, “I can feel it, the great darkness, rasping and alien. Reptilian and cold. The ceremony was successful, in part. It awakened the Servant.” She shuddered and wrapped her arms over her chest.

  “Come,” Baleron said. “We may have freed you, but we are not out of this yet.”

  Laithan wiped green blood from his forehead. “No, indeed. We are deep underground in the warren of some foul brood, and we would do well to get out of here while we may. Those drummers have likely gone to get reinforcements.”

  Feren glanced at the bodies of his men. Baleron felt his heart go out to him.

  “We will come back for them,” Baleron assured him. “For all of the
m. But let us get clear, then meet up with the King, or whatever he styles himself. Whatever he is, he needs to send troops down here and eradicate this evil.”

  “As you say,” Feren said hollowly.

  They left the room of the altar and continued up the side-hall, looking for exits.

  Neither Baleron nor any of the Elves saw the ring on the high priest flash green and then the body stir with unnatural life. Baleron had taken his sword from the fellow’s chest, and a gaping wound showed where it had been, but the ichor leaking from it had slowed in death. No heart beat in that cloven chest. No natural life inhabited it.

  Yet by the sorcery of the ring the priest was able to swipe his hand across his chest, gather up a palm-full of his own blood, then smear it atop the altar.

  “Ssala kun mala,” he hissed, completing the ritual, even if not in the fashion he had intended.

  With that, he sagged, dropping dead for good at the base of the altar. But now the altar thrummed with dark power, and something large and monstrous began to pour out from its flat top, as of smoke passing through a sieve.

  Chapter 18

  Tiron glowered as he made his way through the host of Borchstogs and spider-priests and their allies, such as the trolls and glarums. At least there were no rithlags present, nor Grudremorqen. His skin felt cold, and something bitter lay on his tongue. I cannot be here, he thought. I cannot ally myself with these vermin.

  Yet what choice did he have? He had made his bargain. His sister needed the priesthood, and that was that. Still, it required almost more strength than he had not to rip out his sword and start hacking at the Borchstogs until they did for him at last. The feeling did not decrease as his handlers led him past a torture park, where the Borchstogs amused themselves by tormenting prisoners—mostly humans, but a few Elves and Dwarves.

  The priestesses led him deeper, into the heart of the host, and soon he stood once more before the high peaked tent that housed Lady Ixa, High Priestess of Mogra and the architect of Tiron’s fall. If anything, he hated her most of all, even more than the ‘stogs currently driving nails through their victims’ limbs and eyes.