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

by Jack Conner

  Just why had the ancient Borchstogs under Lord Karkost abandoned this place, or had they abandoned it? Had some other calamity befallen them?

  The Borchstogs in Baleron’s team quieted their curses and grumbling, glancing all about with tense faces and taut body language. Everyone, even the Borchstog captain in the lead, was on edge.

  The main corridor proved to be large, but the forward team continued down it, while the second two companies branched off into smaller, tighter halls. Baleron’s group marched up a narrow stone staircase and into an upper level of the hive-like place. Torches thrust back the darkness, and multi-legged creatures, as well as large things that left slimy trails, stirred at the edge of the torchlight.

  “I don’t like this place,” muttered one of the Borchstogs in Oslogon.

  “Ain’t for us to like,” said another. “Just shut up and get on with it, and we can be out of here.”

  “Get on with what? What does she mean to find?”

  “Some book, I think. I don’t know, and don’t you dare ask if you value your life. Now shut it, I said, before Grazguk hears you, or I’ll rip out yer tongue and eat it.”

  “Bastard!”

  “What’s that gobble?” thundered Grazguk, the captain.

  Instantly the two Borchstogs who had been speaking fell silent.

  A book, Baleron thought. I wonder what that could mean. What in the Seven Hells was Ixa after, anyway? Mogra had dispatched her on this mission, he was sure of it, and it was of vital importance to judge by the size of the host. That must mean the book was of great import. But what did it all signify?

  Another thought occurred to him: what would happen if Ixa did get the book, whatever it was? It was obviously bad news.

  Maybe, he thought, some way would reveal itself by which he could stop her from getting it. At any rate, one thing was clear: he had to get free of this company.

  Chapter 5

  Edging backward, Baleron deliberately slowed his pace, and his companions followed suit. The rest of the company trundled on, uncaring that someone was foolish enough to slow down. They likely thought it a good thing for the company to stick tightly together and go swiftly; they feared what lurked in the darkness.

  Baleron did, too, and he was none too pleased with the thought of venturing out into it with only two allies. But it couldn’t be helped.

  When he and his companions were last in line, he ducked down a side-hall, careful to keep as quiet as he could, and Tiron and Olen followed. Hopefully the others wouldn’t realize their absence until too late, if they realized it at all.

  “Which way?” said Tiron, as they reached a fork in the cavern hall. One led straight ahead, and one way led down.

  “I was watching Ixa, and she seemed to be going ahead, on the first level,” Baleron said. “I think that’s the direction where she expects to find whatever she came here for.”

  “I can’t wait to find out what that is,” said Olen.

  “You and me both. Come on.”

  They descended the ramp going downstairs, then took a right, going in the direction of voices. All lay dark, and they would have been forced to light a torch (if they could find one) and so betray themselves but Olen muttered a spell, and the three found they could see, if only in dull gray tones.

  “The spell will only last a few minutes,” Olen said, “and it cannot be repeated.”

  “We’d best hurry, then,” Baleron said.

  With a look around him, Tiron said, “I wouldn’t want to linger.”

  They moved on. Cobwebs spanned the shadows overhead, and dark archways beckoned sinisterly. Baleron’s imagination fired, peopling the dark with movement and horrors. What had happened here? What calamity had emptied this stronghold of the ancient Borchstogs? He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

  “Stop!” said Olen, and tilted his head. “I heard the woman’s voice—it came from down this hallway.” He indicated a narrow corridor.

  “Are you sure?” Baleron said.

  The wizard frowned, then nodded. It would have to do. Baleron yanked his sword from its sheath and led the way into the tight hall. As he did, he marveled at the tightly-fitted stones that composed the tunnel. The Borchstogs that had raised this place had existed at a higher technological level than he would have supposed, perhaps higher than any he’d seen before. The bastions of the Dark Lord had been superior, certainly, but what few Borchstog settlements he’d seen that were made by them exclusively were not so well put together.

  A cold draft shuddered down the hall, raising gooseflesh on Baleron’s arms and the back of his neck. He shuddered. Tiron was right. They shouldn’t linger here. There was something unwholesome about this place. Something unnatural. Whatever had happened here, it had been of sinister origin, of that Baleron was certain.

  He began to hear noises up ahead. He moved slower. Then, distinctly, he heard Ixa’s voice: “This is it, it must be. You two, stay behind and guard the way, just in case. I don’t know what creatures of Karkost might still be roaming about, and I don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” came the voice of a Borchstog.

  “The rest of you, follow me.”

  And then there came noises of a group of people moving away. Baleron edged forward, then came to where this tunnel met another. Cautiously, he peered around the side. Sure enough, down one of the corridors stood a high, stout, ominous-looking door, and before it lurked two Borchstogs in gleaming black armor. They looked taller and fiercer than most, perhaps a foot taller than Baleron, and their armor glistened sickly, both hideous and impressive.

  A separate order, he thought. Perhaps the elite guard of the priesthood. Ixa was a high priestess of Mogra, so that would make sense. But he was only guessing. In any case, the fact of the Borchstogs did present a problem.

  Turning to Olen, he whispered, “We need to approach and slay them. Can you lay a spell of silence on them so that they can’t give warning as we draw near?”

  Olen grimaced. “Alas, my lord, I have not such a spell. I am only a simple mountain conjurer, after all.”

  “Allow me to deal with them,” said Tiron. He had unstrung his bow and packed it in a carry-bag, so that its craftsmanship would not betray them, but now he removed it and restrung it. At Baleron’s nod, he took careful aim, taking great pains not to be seen by either Borchstog guard, and finally let loose.

  The shaft flashed through the air and sliced into the neck of one of the guards. Black blood spurted, and the creature fell twitching to the side. The second Borchstog guard started, then jerked his sword free of its scabbard. Even as he raised it, he swiveled toward Tiron, recognizing—too late—the location of the shooter. He opened his mouth to give a cry, but Tiron had already loosed his second missile. The arrow took the Borchstog in its partially-opened mouth, nailing the demon’s head to the wall.

  Baleron rushed forward, bent and silent as he could be, and stabbed each Borchstog to be sure they were dead, then paused at the doorway to peer inside. He saw a long high hall, then a great cavern. Peering behind him, he saw that the hall that led here was high and, once upon a time, might even have been opulent.

  “What are you thinking, my lord?” Olen asked, drawing near and seeing Baleron’s expression.

  “Probably nothing,” Baleron said. “But it occurs to me that Ixa could be on her way to the throne room.”

  “The throne room of Karkost,” Tiron said. Even as he spoke, he fitted another arrow to his string.

  Baleron turned a glance on him. “Nice shooting, by the way.”

  Tiron’s face flushed. He was a bold killer of Borchstogs, but he was still just a young man, barely twenty. “Thank you, my lord,” he mumbled.

  Baleron turned back to the entrance into what may or may not be the throne room of the ancient, long-dead Borchstog warlord, or whatever Karkost had been. Baleron still wasn’t sure. All he knew was that Karkost and his people had been mighty, and that Ixa still feared him, or them—or whatever remained of them.
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  Dismissing the thoughts, Baleron crept forward, past the two dead bodies, and into the high dim hall beyond. The other two followed. Ahead torches bearing dark purple flames lit the gloom with surreal illumination—Ixa displaying her power. Baleron wondered if it served to rally her spirits or those of her lackeys. It did nothing for his own, but he was grateful for the light. Olen’s spell helped, but he still found himself bumping into things in the dark.

  They passed out of the hall and into a wide space lined by columns and broken masonry that lay in jagged heaps, some of it overgrown by slime mold that danced and shivered strangely in the light of the purple torches. The ceiling was high but sections of it must have collapsed over time. This was the throne room, Baleron was certain of it. Most of the great chamber lay in shadow, save for spheres of dim purple light. Baleron strained his eyes toward the far end, where the dais and throne would be, but he could see nothing despite the wizard’s spell.

  “Here!” said Ixa, thrusting a torch toward a pedestal of black stone that erupted from the center of the chamber. Elaborately sculptured, it gleamed unwholesomely in the lights, and upon it rested a thick black book bound by a chain to the stone.

  “Is it … the one?” asked a priest.

  Ixa stretched out her hand toward the book, seeming to sense it, then nodded. “Yes, it’s the Black Book of King Karkost, long presumed lost but now … found.” She grinned.

  Meanwhile Baleron and his comrades moved forward. Baleron hid behind a pillar while the other two crouched behind heaps of collapsed rubble. Peeking out, Baleron saw Borchstogs exploring the room, shoving their torches into various nooks and crannies. One, further down the room than the rest, suddenly gave a cry of fear.

  Some vast dim form, glittering here and there with purple accents because of the torch, loomed on the raised portion of the throne room that comprised its rear third. Baleron shivered to see great arcing horns and a long, armored tail …

  His blood rushed cold. A dragon! What in the Second Hell was a dragon doing here, and why was it occupying the space where the throne should be? Or was it lying atop it? Baleron saw the twinkle of gold and gems, and knew that the dragon lay on some hoard, though not as impressive as the one Throgmar had enjoyed.

  “Careful,” Ixa told the Borchstog who had made the noise. “Karkost is dead, but his spirit is still bound to that form, and the form was already dead to start with.”

  “So the legends are true,” said the priest who had spoken earlier.

  “Indeed. Karkost wanted to make himself a god to rival the Great Wolf, and he spent centuries in research and experiments to find a way. At last he learned how to transfer his soul into the body of another, if it were unoccupied by an already present soul, so he led his forces toward the greatest dragon he could find, Calazag the Black, and slew the worm with great loss of life. He then preserved the body with spells and performed a great ritual during which the transfer of his soul was made. He then, in the form of the dragon, incinerated his own body to show that there was no going back.”

  “He was reckless,” said the priest.

  “Indeed. But he was successful, and in the form of the dragon he led his forces against the hosts of the Master and Mistress. To sustain his life he required blood, and he took it wantonly from the Borchstogs he slew.”

  “I would have thought too many of his soldiers had been slain for him to pose much of a threat to the One.”

  Ixa smiled, but it was a grim smile. “So it was. But remember, he knew how to transfer souls into bodies that were already dead. It wasn’t difficult for him to revive his fallen warriors, animating the dead and chaining their will to his own.” She sighed. “He did great harm before he was driven back and at last slain. I only wish the captain of the host that had assaulted this fortress had been of sterner stuff. As soon as the deed was done, he fled, leaving the mysteries of this place unexplored.”

  Cautiously, Borchstogs and priests gathered closer to the Book on its pedestal. In a hushed voice, the priest said, “And you believe this Book holds the secrets of his rituals?”

  Ixa sniffed. “The Master and Mistress need not such trifles. But if legends hold true, Karkost recorded a great deal in this Book, and there is supposed to be a particular item of great importance hidden within its pages.”

  “What can it be?”

  “That is not for such as you to know. Know only that the Book must be retrieved and brought back to the Mistress so that she can divine its secrets at her leisure—unless I can do so first, and then I am to lead the host in whatever action is necessary. We come to make war, and this Book is the key to victory. For we only pave the way.” Frowning, Ixa stretched out her hand again toward the Book. The hand trembled, then withdrew, and she winced. “Blast! A spell protects it. Come. We will unite our energies and throw it off.”

  Ixa knelt before the Book, shutting her eyes, and the three priests followed suit. Baleron watched them for a moment, then exchanged glances with Tiron and Olen. Each looked tense. Olen gestured that they’d better hurry. Baleron nodded. They had meant to cheat Ixa of her prize, and now here it was. Assuming that she could remove the spell binding the Book, it would be hers—and then her Mistress’s—in short order, unless Baleron and his companions did something.

  Carefully, Baleron stuck his head out again, and watched as the Borchstogs prowled the far edges of the room, poking and prodding, exploring, while their leaders chanted and swayed on the floor. And beyond them all, still glittering every now and then with a twinkle of purple, the dragon. It was a great dark shape, utterly silent. Utterly dead.

  And yet …

  Blood, thought Baleron. She said it feeds on blood.

  He realized what he must do. It was madness, but he could see no other course, no other chance. If he and the others were to attack, they would be defeated. Ixa was more powerful than Olen, of that Baleron was certain. And they were in the midst of a hive of enemies, either way. There was no getting out, once they’d stirred the hive up.

  Unless …

  Baleron moved away from the pillar he’d been hiding behind. Ducking, he threaded his way through heaps of broken stones and masonry to the hallway they’d entered the chamber by, and shortly he stood over the bodies of the Borchstog guards. Panting, Tiron and Olen joined him.

  “Are we going, then?” Olen asked. He sounded hopeful. “I can see no way to get what we came here to get. But at the least we can survive and bring word of this to your brother, and he can rouse the army to do something about it.”

  “My brother is far away,” Baleron said, “and there are armies of the enemy between us. No, we must do this ourselves, and now.”

  Tiron looked from Baleron to the bodies. “Then what …?”

  Baleron yanked out his sword. The other two stepped back. Working quickly, Baleron hacked downward. Black blood spurted as he severed one arm, then another, then two more. Arms were lighter than legs, but he had no way of knowing just how much blood would be needed to rouse an undead dragon instilled with the spirit of an ancient Borchstog king.

  “I pray this will be enough,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. He shoved his sword back in its sheath, then handed one bloody arm to Olen, and two to Tiron. With his one hand, Baleron could only take one himself.

  “Are you planning what I think you are?” said Olen. He looked like he wished he were far away from here. Very far. Baleron didn’t blame him.

  But, surprising himself, Baleron smiled. “Come now, this should be interesting. What will one former servant of the Dark Lord and Lady say to current servants? It should be an instructive conversation.”

  “My mouth is dry,” said Tiron.

  “It’s fear,” Olen said. “It will pass.” He let out a breath. “The spell aiding our eyesight is beginning to fade, and we’ll need it to escape—if this mad scheme of yours works, my prince.”

  “Then we’d best not delay,” Baleron said.

  Holding the severed Borchstog arm so that the end would not
drip and so waste precious blood, he darted back through the corridor and into the throne room. The others followed, as quietly as they could. Instantly Baleron saw a dull glow surrounding the pedestal the Book lay upon; Ixa’s spell blossomed in power like some malignant bloom. Another reason to hurry.

  “Stay together,” he whispered to his companions. “We might need strength to win through.” He need not caution them to silence. They understood that all too well, he was sure.

  Nodding at them once, he set off, moving around the great chamber toward the right side. Presently they encountered a Borchstog sitting on a fallen column smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. As silently as they could, they moved around it, and it did not stir. All its sight was bent on Ixa and her ritual.

  Baleron moved on. Two more Borchstogs poked and prodded the ruins before him, and these were not distracted by Ixa. Baleron bent, setting the severed arm down, then gathered several stones. He threw one and then the other, creating skittering sounds toward the center of the chamber.

  The Borchstogs flinched and wheeled toward the sounds. One grunted, and they shuffled off toward the noises.

  Baleron breathed out. He scooped up the arm once more and resumed the journey. No more Borchstogs stood between his party and the dragon. Perhaps strength wouldn’t be required, after all. But it was still good that they were together. It was unlikely that two separate groups could have gone through the chamber and both remain undiscovered.

  The great shape of Karkost—or Calazag the Black, perhaps—loomed ahead, and Baleron tried not to stare. Still, the creature was massive, and nightmarish to behold, with a long cruel head jutting with wicked spikes, and more spikes running in a crest down its back all the way to the tip of its tail. A strange coldness radiated off the creature, as if it had one foot in the Void. Or perhaps, more likely, one of the Hells. A cold one.