The Black Altar: An Epic Fantasy (The Swords of the Sun Book 1)
Page 8
Arm shaking with the strain, he held the large book over the edge of the abyss.
“Move against me and I’ll drop it!” he said.
The dragon laughed. “I CAN FLY, YOU FOOL.”
The lights drew closer. Baleron could smell the reek of smoke, even fancied he could smell the bitter coppery scent of Borchstog blood.
“I’ll do it!” Baleron said, shaking the Book up and down. “Dropping it may damage it—perhaps beyond your ability to use. What do you want it for, anyway? What did she want it for?”
Instead of answering, Karkost roared in anger and burst through the entrance, showering stones to either side as he went. The entrance was grand, but he was even grander. Baleron ducked as a stone sailed through the air where his head had just been. Unconsciously, he drew in the Book toward him as he went.
The dragon charged, smoke billowing from its nose as flames were stoked once more in its mighty chest.
And then, suddenly, Baleron heard a voice on the wind.
“Baleron!”
His heart almost stopped. That voice—could it be?
It was difficult to turn his head from the charging dragon, but he managed to look behind him. Sure enough, he saw Rolenya. Beyond all hope, Rolenya—beautiful, graceful Rolenya, with her long black hair streaming away from her high-cheekboned, oval face, with her vibrant blue eyes showing concern—flew down from the sky on a giant white swan—one of the serathin, he knew, the Great Swans of the Elves.
That was the bird Tiron had seen on the way to the mines, right before they entered. Rolenya, strange as it might seem, had been following them—either them or the Borchstog host.
All this flashed through Baleron’s mind in an instant. Then Rolenya on her Swan was hovering beyond the lip of the cliff and gesturing to the saddle behind her.
“Hurry!” she said, as if to break the spell her appearance had thrown over him.
He shook himself. Beneath his feet he could feel Karkost’s approach. The earth trembled with each titanic footfall.
“YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE ME!”
Baleron only had one hand, and he would need that to haul himself into the saddle, so he flung the Book toward Rolenya. She released the reins and grabbed it even as he leapt through the air. He snagged the lip of the saddle.
“Ivieth!” Rolenya told the Swan, an Elvish word, and the great bird shot off, away from the cliff.
Karkost roared in fury, the force of that noise shaking Baleron’s eardrums. The dragon had been denied the easy kill he had expected. Still, he was not, as he himself had boasted, unequipped for what he needed to do next. Just as Baleron levered himself into the saddle behind Rolenya, Karkost launched himself into the air. His great black wings caught the wind and propelled him upwards and at them.
Baleron wished he had his bow, or better yet, his bowman—but both were lost, and his ability to use a bow without his left hand was greatly reduced.
“Rolenya!” he said. Despite everything, love and relief welled up inside him at being reunited with her again. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving your life, what else? Hold on!”
In answer, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held on tight. The Swan screeched out in fear as it fled from the dragon. Baleron heard a distinctive intake of breath behind him and turned to see Karkost gather in a great lungful. The dragon’s chest started to glow, and fire appeared at the back of his maw.
“He’s going to flame,” Baleron said.
Rolenya had shoved the Book in a leather pocket of the saddle and had taken the reins in both hands once more. Using them and her legs to press against the flanks of the Swan, she turned it sharply to the side. The column of fire plumed harmlessly past, but close enough so that Baleron could feel its heat.
“FLEE, FOOLS!” bellowed Karkost. “YOUR FEAR TURNS YOUR BLOOD THE SWEETER!”
He shot toward them, gaining ground with every pump of his great wings.
Rolenya angled them toward the peak of the mountain, then around it, hoping to put some rock between them and the dread worm.
A tide of Borchstogs appeared from one of the tunnels of the mine and started firing arrows, both at the Swan and the dragon. Several struck the dragon, the larger, lower target, and Karkost swore some ancient Borchstog word in annoyance, then dove upon them, breathing fire. The Borchstogs fled back into the hole.
Rolenya used the distraction to aim her Swan at the next peak in the chain of mountains, and then the next. The dragon resumed the hunt almost immediately, though, and Baleron felt sweat sting his eyes again. He had just found Rolenya again, or rather she had found him, and here he was set to lose her once more—and his own life, too, just when it appeared that it might finally be worth living again.
“We can’t shake him,” Baleron said. “Look for a cave.”
“I have another idea,” Rolenya said.
The dragon roared and shot flame at them. Rolenya jerked the reins, veering the Swan to the right, and the fire blasted the rocks and snow at the peak of the mountain they were just then skirting. The resulting smoke and dust fogged the air for a moment. Rolenya had aimed her Swan at the next peak in the mountain range, but that had just been a feint. As soon as the air was obscured by debris, she hauled on the reins and brought her steed down, tight against the mountain. They circled around it, then, finding a shelf of rock, Rolenya set the bird down underneath it.
“What now?” Baleron whispered.
In answer, Rolenya began muttering in Elvish, and Baleron could feel the change in the air. It grew denser somehow, almost vibrating with power, and he could taste it, like the taste of the air before a storm. Hairs rose on the flesh of his arms.
The shadows deepened, draping the space below the shelf.
Somewhere Karkost roared and spat flame—Baleron could hear the crackle of fire—but then the sound of his wings pumping moved away. Slowly. Too slowly for Baleron’s liking.
“Dragon eyes can pierce any illusion,” he said.
“Only if they take the time to look hard enough. Hopefully he won’t bother. See, there?”
Baleron squinted to see the form of the worm fly off, moving toward the next peak. He must have assumed that Rolenya had been able to reach it and put it between them before he could find her again. Only then did Baleron breathe a deep sigh of relief. The sweat on his brow began to cool.
Then, only then, did Rolenya turn to face him, having to turn sideways in the saddle. Her eyes were wide and her lips slightly parted, breathing fast.
He kissed her.
For a long moment, she kissed back, and he rejoiced at the feel of her lips on his own, and the feel of her heartbeat against his ribs as he embraced her tight. Then, abruptly, he remembered the letter, remembered their years of separation, and tore himself away.
“No, Rolly. No.”
Hurt and sadness shone in her eyes. “Why?”
“As if you don’t know! As if you didn’t send that letter.”
She sighed, and a single tear spilled down from a blue blue eye. “Baleron, I had no choice but to write that letter.”
He waited. “Yes?”
She shook her head. “Now isn’t the time for this, Baleron. We can talk about … us … later. For now … well, I didn’t pursue you for days and risk dragonfire just so that we could …” She sighed. “What in this?” As she spoke, she tapped the satchel where she had stored the Book.
“I’m surprised you don’t know,” he said. “Just why were you following me, anyway?”
“I visited the chapel of Illiana at Theslan. The High Mother there told me where you had gone and why.”
“You visited the temple … ?”
She watched his face, then dropped her eyes.
When she said nothing further, he realized the truth. “That’s not the only time you’ve done it, is it? The only time you’ve visited Theslan?”
She started to answer, then paused. Again, he waited. After a long moment of weighing various answers, she said, �
��It was my duty. I made tours, visiting the various temples and chapels, trying to maintain some cohesiveness in the Faith in these dark times. The Enemy runs rampant, the Shadow devouring entire countries …”
He grimaced. “Our victory over the Black Tower wasn’t quite as absolute as we were hoping, was it?”
“No, but without that we would all be overrun right now. Our victory allowed us to survive to fight again another day, only now that day has come and I am unsure how to continue the fight. The best way forward that I can see is to thwart the Enemy’s plans—and the Enemy apparently needs this … book. Why?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that the effort to locate it was led by Ixa, a High Priestess of Mogra.”
“The Shadow-Weaver … Mother of Monsters …” She bit her lip distractedly, then said in a small voice, “Do you think it’s true what Throgmar told you, that Mogra is now pregnant with … Lorg-jilaad?” She said this last name in an all but whisper, as if afraid even to give voice to it.
All knew Lorg-jilaad, the original Dark Lord, the Enemy of the Light, who had made war upon Elves, Men and the other Children of the Omkar, such as the Giants and the Dwarves. Once he had been the greatest of the Omkar, but his desire for power and cruelty had sown the seeds of corruption among the beings that Men called gods, twisting and turning many. Many of the Omkar came to side with him, and he led them against the others, until ultimately he had been slain—Baleron was not sure how—and his mighty son Gilgaroth had taken the crown of evil in his stead. It was Gilgaroth who Broke the World and splintered the realms of the Omkar and the Elves from the greater world. But always Gilgaroth and his mother Mogra, the Spider Queen, one of the fallen Omkar, longed to restore Lorg-jilaad to the world. Had they finally found a way to do that?
“I don’t know,” Baleron said. “But I do not think Throgmar lied.”
She let out a breath. “No, I don’t suppose he did.”
Slowly, she opened the leather pocket and removed the book, then began to thumb through it. The space under the shelf was quite dark still, but even so Baleron could see her frown.
“I know not this language,” she said. “Some ancient Oslogon dialect, or perhaps the Borchstog king made his own tongue.”
Baleron nodded. “It is what Ungier did. It didn’t work out too well for him.” After some thought, he said, “Who would know how to read it?”
She was silent, then: “An Elvish lore-master, one of the ancients, one who has access to ancient scrolls and texts. A repository of knowledge of the old world, before the Breaking.”
Baleron nodded. “And I suppose you know where this place is?”
“Only by legend and rumor—it’s a hidden city, one of several that were concealed from the wider world ages ago. I …”
“Yes?”
“I fear that even going to it will put the city in danger. If we’re pursued …”
“They are your people. I will let it be your decision.”
“They are my people, but this is our world, and if there is a chance that Mogra could bring the Dark One back … None could stand against him, Baleron. Surely you see that.”
“I only know him from myth, Rolly. But yes, in the stories I grew up on, he was always described as old and powerful and fell beyond all description. Even moreso than Gilgaroth, which is hard to believe.”
She nodded, as if reaching a decision. “Then to the hidden city we will go.”
“What’s the name of this place?”
“Ivenien,” she said, “Its name is Ivenien. And I only pray that it survives our coming.”
He nodded. “So it shall be. But first, let me offer up a prayer to my two companions, Olen and Tiron, both brave men who sacrificed their lives so that we could have this chance.”
Her voice was solemn. “Of course.”
“Olen and Tiron, wherever you are, I thank you,” Baleron said. “And I honor your memory. May you follow the Lights of Sifril and know the peace and joy of Artha.”
And then Rolenya lifted her voice and sang a song of lamentation and praise, and the wind carried it away as the sunlight faded.
Chapter 7
Wind ruffled Baleron’s hair as the Swan winged its way through the skies, and sunlight drenched his skin, while his arms were around the waist of his beloved, who guided her steed effortlessly, her deep blue eyes on the horizon. He realized that despite all terror and peril, he should feel some sense of joy, some sense of peace. But it had been three days since his rescue at Novstris, and he and Rolenya had barely spoken, at least not about anything important. During that time they had flown south and east, going beyond the border of Havensrike into a land known as Galador—a human kingdom carved out of a heavily forested region with great rocky hills and mountains and plunging rivers, much of it still unexplored. There were also other races that lived in the region, including Dwarves and even a few Elves, apparently, ruling their own autonomous realms within the greater borders of Galador.
Some nameless tension lay between Baleron and Rolenya, but he wasn’t sure what, or if it signified anything other than his own anger. Was it a righteous anger? He didn’t know. He wouldn’t until he knew her side of the story. But she was so proud that she refused to speak of it.
At last, though, on what promised to be the last of their journey—Rolenya had told him they would reach Ivenien by sundown, if it was where she believed it to be; she had never been there, and its location was well concealed from the public at large—he decided that they needed to address whatever it was.
“Rolenya,” he said, his lips just inches from her ear.
The wind whispered. Her long black hair fluttered, some of it stirring against him, and he rejoiced at the floral scent of it, and at the intoxicating fragrance that seemed to exude from her very skin. How could I ever have thought she was human? And yet they had been raised as brother and sister, and he had never suspected … not for a long time.
She didn’t answer right away. At last she took a deep breath and said, “Yes. Yes, I suppose it’s time. And you deserve some answers, Bal.”
He couldn’t help a swell of bitterness. “Thank goodness we agree on some things.”
“Don’t be petty, Bal.”
He grit his teeth. “Petty? You left me for years … with no explanation … and that’s petty?”
She sighed. “Baleron, you were there when your brother—your King now, hard as it still is to believe—separated us and declared that our troth-plight was invalid and rendered void. His own servants packed my bags and escorted me home, under a full guard.”
“You could have resisted.”
“I did!” For the first time, anger showed in her voice, and though he couldn’t see her eyes at the moment he did see her reach up a hand and wipe at one—was that a tear she had been wiping at? “Of course I resisted, Baleron. I think you had already done that enough for both of us, though.”
Ruefully, he allowed himself a chuckle at that. She was right, at least on that score. When his brother Jered had refused to allow the marriage, Baleron had been sent into a rage, and in his fury he had even threatened the life of the King. Jered had ordered him thrown in the dungeon until he’d cooled off.
By the time he’d been let out, Rolenya had gone.
“Why did you never write to me about what had happened?” he said. “About Jered escorting you off?” She had sent him letters, in time, but she had never touched on that, and the letters she’d sent had been vague and unsatisfying in any case.
“I did, Baleron!” Frustration was now clearly evident in her voice. “For goodness’s sake, I did!”
“I never received them.”
She let a moment go by, this time so that she could calm herself. When at last she spoke, she said, “That’s because Jered confiscated them.”
“He what?”
She nodded. “So my sources inside the Palace tell me.”
“You … have spies … in the Palace?”
“I have … friends.”
If we’d only been a little faster, moved a little quicker … But such was not to be.
“Is that why your letters were so vague?” he said.
She sniffed. Was she crying? He wished he could see her face.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course it was. I knew Jered, or one of his underlings, was reading whatever I sent you. I suppose he thought we might be plotting behind his back about how to set ourselves up as king and queen.”
Baleron smiled grimly. “I would have been sorely tempted. He was wise to worry.”
“Would you really have stolen his throne?”
“His throne? He wasn’t even raised in Havensrike! I know that was no fault of his own, but still …” He shook his head. “But no, I wouldn’t have tried to stage a coup, if that’s what you’re asking. He had no call to exile the two of us—me from the capital and you from the realm itself.”
“No, he had no call, that is true. But, yes, that is why I wrote the letters I did, to throw him off the scent. In secret I tried to send you more accurate missives by circuitous routes, but these he intercepted as well.” Wryly, she said, “While I had friends in Glorifel, had had friends in Clevaris. Quite unintentionally, we’d each seeded spies in the other’s realm. So I was never able to send you an account of the truth—or, rather, I did, but they never arrived.”
Baleron realized she had gone slightly stiff in his arms. She was tense, he realized, worried about his reaction. Was his anger against her gone?