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

by Jack Conner

  Male priests drew the tent flaps back and Tiron ducked inside, his eyes meeting darkness save for a red light from the firepit. Perched nearby with the Black Book in her hands, Ixa glanced up at Tiron as he entered. Her cowl hid her features in shadow save for the gleam of her eye and the tip of her straight nose. A lesser priestess stood nearby, but Tiron wasn’t sure whether she was servant or acolyte.

  “Good of you to join us,” Ixa said, leaning forward, and as she did her mouth came into view, full lips smiling.

  “I understood you wanted to see me,” said Tiron.

  “Yes. Yes indeed. You are to draw me maps—maps of Ivenien, and tell me everything you know about its defenses—people, walls, doors. Everything.”

  “You will attack Ivenien? Is that why Queen Mogra sends a host north?”

  “Do not be coy. You know we came here for this—” she patted the Book “—and nothing else.”

  “You did not need an entire army to get that Book. I was there. If we hadn’t woken the dragon, it wouldn’t have been any trouble at all for you.”

  “That’s right. That’s not what the army was for.” Her smile widened. “That is for what comes now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She leaned back, and her mouth fell into shadow again. “That is for me to know, bowman. You know what you need to know. Now get busy helping Falith to draw the maps.” She nodded at the woman whom Tiron now took to be an acolyte. “She will do the inking—you tell her what to draw.”

  Tiron kept his eyes fixed on Ixa. “How much of that Book have you gotten through?”

  A pause. “Yes,” she said in musing tones, “you would want to know if what you sacrificed was worth it. Well, it is to me, if not to you.” Her voice was surprisingly warm, he thought, almost friendly. “Thank you for it.”

  “I did not do it for you, lady.”

  “And I am aware of it. Still, I am grateful. I have only just a short while ago learned where the Black Altar is being kept.”

  Tiron felt suddenly weak. His stomach knotted, and something bitter lay on his tongue. For a brief moment, the world spun around him. Lost, he thought. It is all lost. She knows all, and soon I’ll be compelled to give her maps. She’ll get to the Black Altar, draw the Great Enemy Lorg-jilaad forth into this world, and he will destroy Ivenien, then proceed to lay waste to the rest of the world. Then he would give his mighty son a new form of flesh and together with Mogra the unholy triad would rule the wasted lands and rebuild civilization in their twisted vision, likely attended to by powerful allies of their own kind. The other Seven Houses of Shadow.

  “Do not look so ill.” Ixa laughed. “You are one of us now, after all. Soon the Lord of Lords will return, and the world will tremble at his first footfall. But we who serve Him, who bring Him through, will know great honor—not just in His eyes but the Lady’s.” She bowed to a form in the darkness, and Tiron glanced to see, just at the edges of the firelight, a statue of a terrible spider—the Spider Queen, no less.

  Tiron smacked his lips. He had lost all appetite for banter. “As you say … lady. I did have a question for you, though.”

  “Make it quick.”

  “My sister … Aria. She tells me that she needs the Sisterhood. That without you and your … people … that she would die. Being that she’s … changed.” He tried not to show his anger and sense of betrayal in that last word, but he could tell from the edge in her voice that he had indeed.

  “Yes, of course. I hope you do not mind? I had so hoped you would enjoy the … evolution … your sister has gone through. Almost like a butterfly from a moth.”

  She was baiting him, he knew. Seeing if he would snap. With effort, he held himself in. “But she’s no butterfly.” Before she could take offense, he said, “But why does she need you? Why can’t we go off on our own—after I help draw your damn map?”

  “Who else is going to supply her with victims—you? Ha! No, she needs us, because she cannot fend for herself. But like all of us, she must Feed. She must draw the blood from the living and so sustain herself. She is immortal now … only she must Feed.”

  He felt like he was going to throw up. His lovely sister, diseased, mutated, forced to commit evil simply to endure … Maybe it would have been better, he thought, but could not complete the thought.

  His silence seemed to gratify Ixa. “Good,” she said. “Now go with Falith. Leave me. I must continue to study the Book. Though I know where the Altar is, there is much yet I would like to learn. Some of it may yet prove useful.”

  She flapped her hands, beckoning them to go. Falith stooped to pick up a valise that likely carried her art supplies and joined him.

  “Well,” she said. “I suppose we should get star—”

  Loud voices rose from outside. There came shouts of warning, then screaming, then wild chaos. All heads snapped in the direction of the door, as if expecting someone to burst through, and Tiron turned to face it, his hands clenching at his sides. His gaze strayed to his bow, which still stood in a corner next to a quiver of arrows. He wished it hadn’t been taken from him, as he would sure feel better with it in hand.

  Outside, the noise of alarm and panic grew. And grew. Ixa opened her mouth to speak, but just then came the sound Tiron had been dreading—the sound he knew must be coming: he heard the roar of a dragon. He, Ixa and Falith burst outside to see a great winged shape sweep low over the camp, breathing fire.

  “Dragon!” shouted Ixa. “Curse it, it’s the dragon!” She whirled to Tiron. “You are responsible for this. I should let the ‘stogs flay you.” Her eyes hardened. “You had best do an excellent job on those maps. Sisters, to me!”

  She stepped forward, power radiating from her, and a dozen of her Sisterhood joined her, streaming from their own tents, some adjusting pieces of jewelry, perhaps magical protection they had just donned.

  “Glarumri, to your mounts!” Ixa shouted.

  Karkost did another pass. Flames scoured the camp, and Borchstogs burst into fire by the dozen, along with many tents. Smoke wafted up, obscuring the burned, blackened bodies all around.

  Borchstog riders jumped atop their feathery black steeds and took to the skies, fitting the crossbows as they lifted from the ground.

  “MY BOOK!” thundered the dragon. “I WANT MY BOOK!”

  Tiron watched Ixa vanish into the throng, then turned to Falith, who too was staring after her mistress.

  Tiron acted on impulse. He didn’t even think about it. He simply grabbed her wrist, yanked her inside the tent, as if to impart something of interest to her privately, then punched her across the jaw. She flew backward and hit the ground, breathing heavily but out of it. He crossed to his bow, grabbed it up and strung it, then swung his quiver onto his back. He started for the tent flap, then, feeling the hairs on his arms rise up, he turned, slowly, dreading what he would see, back at Ixa’s chair.

  The Book waited for him.

  He stared at it. It loomed, even though it was below him. He could feel its power folding around him. Back, he thought at it. I will not bow before a book! The power retreated, but only a little.

  Outside came screams and dragonfire. The stench of smoke grew thick, and Tiron coughed. It was time to go. He would grab Aria and escape in the bedlam, yes. Yes, this was their moment.

  Again he started for the tent flap.

  Then, swearing under his breath, he grabbed up the Book and slipped outside. The dragon was just passing overhead, flame gathering at his mouth. A storm of glarumri flew abreast him, the Borchstogs riddling him with poisonous bolts from their crossbows. Ixa and her priestesses shouted fell curses, which made the air oily and electric where it was not already filled with smoke.

  Dragon, take them, Tiron thought. And then, with the first smile he had allowed himself since this all began, he cut through the chaos toward his sister.

  Chapter 19

  “Thank the Omkar you came,” Rolenya said as they wended their way through the hall.

  All the Elven sol
diers bore a sword in one hand and a glowing stone in the other, driving back the darkness in shuddering shifts and beats as the company advanced. Ancient, pitted stone walls surrounded them.

  Baleron bore no stone nor torch. Having one hand, he carried his sword instead, grateful for the Elves’ light.

  “But what was all that back there?” Baleron said. “The serpent-men, the altar?”

  “They are followers of the Great Serpent,” said Feren, in a hushed, fearful tone of voice. Off of Baleron’s look of confusion, he added, “Zog.”

  ZOG. Baleron remembered that word now, a word from his childhood, like a dark flower opening in his mind. “Yes, the Lord of the House of the Serpent. Halbarad mentioned him earlier, but until tonight I had forgotten I’d heard that word before. But there were tales from when I was a boy, tall tales I thought them … only they were not so tall, were they?”

  “That’s right,” said Feren. “The Enemy holds the Seven Hells, and each Hell is ruled by a different House. Do you know them, human?”

  “I don’t know them,” Rolenya said. “At least, not all of them.”

  Feren inclined his head. “Of course. You were raised as a Grothgar, and your tutors did not teach you Elven lore, or at least not enough of it to make a difference. And you obviously haven’t learned much from the Sisterhood of Illiana.”

  “I’ve learned plenty,” she said. “But my efforts were focused on the Moonstone.”

  “At any rate,” said Baleron, “I only remember some of the Great Houses of the Enemy. The House of the Spider, the House of the Wolf, the House of Flame, the House of the Worm … the House of the Serpent.”

  “Well, that is most of them,” said Feren. “Good enough.”

  “It helps that we’ve met several of them,” Baleron said, including Rolenya in the statement.

  “And killed one or two,” Rolenya said, not without the small trace of—if not a smile, at least satisfaction.

  “Indeed,” said Feren. “Or so the stories say. At any rate, the House of the Spider is about to reawaken the House of the Worm.”

  “Lorg-jilaad,” Rolenya whispered, as if afraid to say the name aloud. She swallowed. “He’s represented as a dragon, which is presumably why they call him the Worm, but we don’t know, not really. Even the most ancient of the Elves—even your father, Feren—never laid eyes on Lorg-jilaad himself.”

  “And you will not hear me complain about it,” said Feren. He frowned. “But none of this makes any sense. Zog and his followers abandoned this land long ago and removed to a large chain of islands. There he has built a great empire and is the terror of the seas in that part of the world. All there worship the Great Serpent.”

  Baleron nodded. “That’s right, I think I remember that part. Zog was the ally of Lorg-jilaad, but when the Worm fell Zog refused to serve his Master’s son. He thought that he, not Gilgaroth, nor even Mogra, should have been the heir of the mantle of Shadow.”

  “Yes, the Serpent is proud, and arrogant, and his own land, Zothlaa, is ruinous and wicked, corrupt and decadent, with few laws and fewer to enforce them,” said Feren. “The House of the Serpent cares only for itself and cruelly oppresses those it rules. They send out raiding armadas that rape, kill and steal along the eastern coast of the Shining Sea. They bring back slaves and victims, which Zog devours and throws their souls on the fires of the Fifth Hell.”

  Rolenya completed the thought. “So, if Zog is content in Zothlaa, and does not consider himself the ally of Gilgaroth and Mogra, then why is he here?”

  “He obviously considers Lorg-jilaad’s arrival imminent, and is helping prepare the way. He’s dispatched agents to these shores, perhaps just to infiltrate and observe—at least for now. But how far does it—?”

  Noises alerted them. The company stiffened in alarm as the sound of a dozen jogging footsteps reached them, along with the jingle of metal and the huffing of breaths. Men, Baleron knew. Elves would never make so much noise.

  The party of a dozen or so men rounded a corner and stumbled across the Elves and Baleron. They had been moving so fast that they must not have even noticed the flicker of torches on the wall. Baleron felt a smile cross his face as he saw the man in the lead.

  “Halbarad!” he said, hailing the captain of the wall who had befriended them on the way into the city.

  The captain grinned. “Baleron, I hoped to find you here.”

  The two clapped hands. The other Men were dressed as soldiers and Baleron assumed them to be under Captain Halbarad’s command.

  “You are well met,” Laithan told Halbarad. “We don’t know the way out of here, but if you have come, you must know the way back out.”

  “I do,” said Halbarad. “I will lead you to it.”

  He turned about and set off, and the company of Elves followed closely. The dozen Men fell in beside them.

  “So what happened?” said Halbarad. “People in the inn heard violence and sent for the watch. I brought my men instead—but we were set upon by serpent-men!”

  “Then you already know about them,” said Baleron. “Good. I hope you didn’t lose many people.”

  Halbarad’s eyes were flinty. “No. Not many. Here, turn right.” He rounded a bend and kept going, then marched up a set of stairs, then another. At last they passed down a hall wider than the others.

  “I knew there was something odd about those townspeople,” Baleron said. “The ones the others kept staring at. They just seemed … off, I thought. Maybe tired, maybe ill, or on a different diet—some sect that eats antiquated food.”

  “Yes, well, you are very observant.” Halbarad scratched his neck—a nervous gesture?

  Frowning, Baleron glanced sideways at him. With a start, Baleron realized what he had missed before: Halbarad looked tired. All of them did, the dozen Men under Halbarad’s command. Only Baleron was no longer sure it was Halbarad or they were Men.

  “Halbarad,” he said mildly. “I want you to, very slowly, lift your sword a few inches and nick your arm.”

  “Pardon, my lord?”

  “Nick your arm, Captain, or there will be trouble.” Green blood and there will be trouble regardless.

  “Why, sure, my—”

  But before he could even finish the sentence, Halbarad ripped his sword free of its scabbard and thrust at Baleron. Baleron had half-expected it, though, and had readied himself. He swayed aside as the blade hissed through the air he had just been occupying. He jerked out his own sword and drove at Halbarad. Halbarad blocked. Sparks flew. He and Halbarad flew apart, then warily circled each other.

  Around them, the Men Halbarad had brought with him revealed themselves not to be Men. They lunged at the Elves, fangs flashing and poison dripping. The Elves, alerted by Baleron’s encounter with the leader, were able to free their blades and defend themselves in time. Still, red blood mixed with the green on the ancient stone floor.

  Baleron smashed aside Halbarad’s blade, then thrust his own sword through Halbarad’s chest. As Halbarad stiffened in death, his eyes became reptilian and his features that of a serpent.

  Breathing heavily, Baleron stared down at the dead captain. Behind him Feren was putting down the last of the serpent-men.

  “Was he ever really Halbarad, I wonder?” said Baleron. “Or was he a lizard the whole time?”

  “I wouldn’t worry over it,” Feren said. “I’m sure the real Halbarad is alive and well, probably still manning his post at the wall. But the serpents were watching our approach to the inn, and they saw the captain with us. They marked his appearance for possible use later. At least, that’s my take on it.”

  Baleron nodded, oddly grateful to the Elvish prince. Feren could be a bastard much of the time, but he did have some redeeming qualities.

  Rolenya came up beside Baleron. “It wasn’t him, Bal. Come, we must—”

  The ground rumbled under their feet. A strange loud rasping and hissing noise reached them, and Baleron felt something clench in his bowels. The air tasted wrong, and the walls we
re getting further and further away. Then, suddenly, before he could orient himself, a Shape appeared in the darkness of the tunnel behind them, traveling the same stretch they had just passed. Had it followed their trail the whole way?

  “Dear Illiana!” said Rolenya, a hand going to her mouth in horror.

  Baleron glanced at his sword, then thrust it back in its sheath. What could it do against … that?

  In aspect, it resembled a serpent, but made of shadow and terror, and huge beyond the scale of sane things. It was thicker than a dragon torso and hundreds of feet long. Still, for all its size it barreled along at a fast clip. Only its red eyes glowed from its blackness, and when it opened its fanged maw Baleron glimpsed something burning at the back of its throat—an opening to the Fifth Hell, Baleron had no doubt.

  “The Servant,” Rolenya sighed. “The high priest must have managed to finish the ritual after all, and he called up a High Servant of Zog—ethereal but deadly, summoned directly from the Fifth Hell and bound to it.’’

  “Damn it all,” said Feren.

  Laithan nodded. “The Servants are Zog’s special handmaidens and enforcers of his mad edicts. We cannot fight them.”

  “Then run,” Baleron said.

  They did. With the great shadow form barreling down at them, shaking the floor and walls, and causing dust to rain down on them from above, they ran. Baleron felt his eyes once more sting with sweat, his heart beating a rapid beat inside his chest. It felt like it would burst.

  At one point he motioned for Rolenya to go through a door before him, then turned in the doorway to watch the approaching form of the Serpent—only for an instant. Shaken, he turned about and fled, as fast as he could. Dust rained down on them, and cracks ripped in the walls, showering chunks of stonework and masonry.

  The Servant groaned behind them, and sibilant hissing curdled Baleron’s heart. The darkness closed in about them.