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

by Jack Conner

  Frowning, he said, “I still don’t understand, though.”

  Her voice was a whisper. “No?”

  “What have you been doing all this time?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, then seemed to see something. Excitedly, she pointed. “There, Baleron! There it is! Ivenien, the hidden city! Or Evermere, as the few mortals to have been there, or know of it, call it.”

  All he saw was the same lush forest they’d been flying over all afternoon. It wasn’t quite sundown yet, but he supposed it was close enough. Her Swan had been faster than even she had given it credit for.

  “There!” she said, pointing to a curved line of approaching mountains, all sheathed in green. “Beyond the Eloath—the Encompassing Mountains.”

  “I don’t see—”

  The sound of great wings reached him. From behind and above him.

  Craning his head, he saw a large dark shape diving down from the clouds overhead. Ice flowed through his veins.

  “Karkost!” he said. “Karkost is after us!”

  Belatedly, Baleron realized that the dread worm must have been following them all along. Perhaps they’d never shaken him at all, or perhaps he’d only acquired them after days of searching. It was even possible, Baleron supposed, that Karkost could sense the presence of the Book. In any case, the dragon must have sensed some of their purpose, and been curious about their destination. Now that he knew what it was, his curiosity was satisfied, and his objective now became what it had been before—to retrieve his thrice-damned Book.

  “Light, protect us!” said Rolenya.

  She guided her Swan down toward the forest below. Above, Karkost pulled in his wings and dove after them. Fast. Smoke trailed from between his teeth and behind him. He did not speak, did not gloat or taunt. He was a specter of death, and he was on a mission of murder. Baleron felt his stomach contract. He couldn’t help but wish he were steering the Swan, couldn’t help but wish he weren’t helpless, but the truth was that Rolenya was an Elf, and as such the Swans were her natural steeds.

  “Hang on!” she said.

  He wrapped his arms about her waist, holding on tight, while she dove toward the treetops below, then shot past the roof of the greenery. Branches slashed at them, and something drew blood from Baleron’s cheek. Rolenya hadn’t been kidding.

  She leveled out beneath the branches of the tall trees, well above the ground but at the same time all too close to it. Breathless, she steered the Swan between the trunks of the great oaks and cypresses.

  The roar of fire reached Baleron’s ears, and he craned his head to see the treetops burst into flame behind and above them. Karkost wouldn’t pursue them beneath the canopy of the forest, but he could and would burn it down around them and scoop them up at his leisure.

  “Duck!” Rolenya said.

  Another branch sliced at the riders of the Swan, and both Baleron and Rolenya lowered their heads. Even so, Baleron felt something graze his shoulder. Warm blood still trickled down his cheek.

  Tree trunks flickered past on either side, too close for his liking. Now he was glad that Rolenya was the one with the reins—he knew he could not have guided the animal half so well. No mortal could have. But even she couldn’t keep this up forever.

  “We have to do something,” he said. “Set me down. I’ll take the Book and draw him off. I think he can sense it.”

  “You would die! And we don’t even know if that would work.” She shook her head. “No, there is only one help for us now.”

  “What is that?” He ducked another branch.

  “Ivenien.”

  Ahead the land rose, but the trees continued all the way to the slopes of the mountains—the Eloath, Rolenya had called them. The Encompassing Mountains. Beyond them waited their salvation. If only they could reach it.

  Salvation came upon them sooner than he expected.

  For suddenly in the skies above them Karkost roared in rage. Baleron heard the whoosh of fire, yet the flames did not torch any more trees. Baleron did not hear the crackle of more burning wood or smell smoke. Glancing upward, he saw white shapes flashing in a wedge formation over the head of Karkost. Were those … white wings? He thought he caught a glimpse of flashing silver and streaming blond hair.

  All at once, he laughed. “Swan Riders!” he said. “Swan Riders have come.”

  Rolenya laughed, too, but he could hear the fear in the sound—the desperation. It was the laugh of hope beyond hope being delivered. He realized then that she hadn’t expected them to survive.

  Trembling in his arms, she guided the Swan at a slower pace, up through the trees once more and into the skies. Now Baleron had a better view. A score of armored and armed Elves riding Great Swans assailed Karkost. The black dragon snapped and flamed, driving at them one way, then another, but they scattered, as adroit as water rolling off a duck.

  White arrows flashed out, and black blood spurted from ruptured scales. Karkost bellowed in pain, especially vulnerable to weapons of the Light. The race of Elves was a hallowed race, and they could call upon powers that no human could, not even a wizard. Arrow after arrow sank into Karkost’s half-rotten flesh. He spumed and raged, taking another bite at a group of Riders.

  They divided around him. The tallest Elf, who seemed to be the commander of the squadron, yanked out the spear that was held at his saddle and shot forward. His blade licked out, and white sparks flashed where he raked the dragon. Karkost bellowed. Then, in a rage, he loosed his greatest torrent of flame yet, then turned and winged away.

  Baleron cheered, and Rolenya sighed in deep relief. Impulsively, hardly thinking about what he was doing, he kissed her on the side of her head. She stiffened, then turned halfway to him, smiling. Instantly he regretted it. He still wasn’t sure where they stood with each other. Bitterly did he remember his years of enduring her relative silence—or what he thought had been her silence.

  If not for that, for his loneliness and grief, he never would have allowed Ixa into his bedroom, and perhaps some of this whole mess could have been avoided. If nothing else, his loneliness had given the Enemy a weakness to exploit—a chink in his armor.

  But now, holding Rolenya in his arms, with the sun shining on silver armor and white wings overhead, and the promise of safety nearby, it was difficult to hold onto his anger.

  The commander of the Swan Riders snapped orders, and a dozen of the Riders flew off, harrying Karkost and presumably driving the worm far from their borders. He issued more orders, and several Riders broke off to hover over the site of the blaze, where dragonfire still ate into the green of the forest. Smoke rose up about the pumping white wings as the Elves put forth their power, and slowly the fires began to subside. Baleron thought he heard singing.

  The commander gathered his remaining troops—he’d lost none in the battle—and flew toward Rolenya and Baleron, who flew in lazy circles, waiting.

  The Swan Riders circled them warily, bows drawn and eyes flinty, and the commander cried something in his language. There were several Elvish tongues, and Baleron, a prince, was familiar with a few of them. This was an older dialect of the one used in Larenthi, and it took him a moment to understand what the Elf was saying, although when he understood the words they came as no surprise.

  “Halt! Who are you that dares draw the wrath of a dragon to our door?” demanded the commander. He was tall and handsome, and long blond hair danced behind his winged silver helm. He flew beside them so that he was only one wingspan away.

  Rolenya drew herself up. “I am Rolenya, daughter of Vilana, Queen of Larenthi.”

  The Elf commander blinked, and there were shocked looks on the faces of the other Elf warriors beyond him.

  “I seek sanctuary in your city,” Rolenya added.

  The commander frowned. “Few know of what you speak, and though I do not doubt that the daughter of the Elvenqueen of the Larenth would know the name of that city, if it exists, I still need you to say it, if only to prove that you are who you claim to be.”
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  “I speak of Ivenien, one of the legendary hidden cities, ruled over by the wise King Alathon … assuming he is still well.” Her voice lowered. “It has been many years since we have had word from your people, and many of those in Larenthi had begun to wonder if you still existed.”

  It was the commander’s turn to draw himself to his full height. Pride shone in his gray eyes as he said, “It still exists. I have the honor of being Calendil, son of Alathon.”

  “Well met, son of Alathon,” she said, and Baleron repeated the words.

  The prince’s eyes flicked to Baleron. “And who might this be?”

  “Baleron Grothgar, second in line to the throne of Havensrike.”

  Calendil appraised Baleron for a moment, his eyes resting briefly on the stump where his left hand used to be, then said, “Very well. Other explanations can wait. Now, Princess Rolenya, will you and your friend accompany my men and I back to our base?”

  It was nicely phrased, but Baleron had little doubt it was a command as much as a request. Still, Rolenya graciously nodded her head.

  “We would be honored.”

  And so the Swan Riders accompanied the two—and the Book they bore—toward the Encompassing Mountains.

  Chapter 8

  The Swan Riders under the command of Calendil operated out of one of the mountains that encircled their hidden city—at least, that is what Baleron came to understand as the Swan Riders lowered toward the green slopes of a great upthrust of land. Only when he drew near did he see the holes bored into the mountain and the cunningly wrought towers that spiked up from the rises. They were green and brown, and seemed to be more tree than artificial structure. Had the Elves grown them? It would not have surprised Baleron, as their arts were impressive.

  In any case, the base of the Swan Riders was well concealed, and looking between the peaks of the mountains Baleron could only see the land falling away to more lush forests beyond. There was no sign of any city, hidden or otherwise. No wonder this place had been able to stay secret for so long.

  Calendil set his Swan down on a broad platform extending from one of the entrances into the interior of the mountain, and his men did likewise. Baleron and Rolenya alit on the platform nearby, but before they could disembark Elves ringed them, looking rigid. None drew their weapon, but they did not spread out the welcome mat, either.

  “At ease,” Calendil said, striding up to them. His green eyes appraised the prince and princess anew. “You may come down.”

  The two slid down from the saddle, and Baleron couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. His legs cramped, and his bladder was about to burst. Hopefully relief was not far away.

  “Express permission must be obtained before anyone sets foot in our realm,” Calendil explained. “But my permission is officially extended, my lord, my lady.”

  Rolenya smiled and allowed him to kiss her hand. “I am not your lady, my dear prince, unless you have a desire for your realm to fall under the domain of the Elves of the Larenth?”

  He smiled. “Not as such, Princess. But you are welcome nonetheless.” He regarded Baleron, then offered his hand to shake.

  Baleron took the hand. “Thank you for saving us from the worm. It was a narrower escape than I’d hoped for, but there would have been none at all without the aid of you and your men.”

  Calendil bowed. “Your gratitude is appreciated.” Concern touched his eyes. “I only hope my men can kill him, or at least track him to his lair so that we can set upon him with a larger force.”

  Rolenya nodded. “You worry that he might return—that he might discover Ivenien.”

  “Yes, if he has not already—or that he might bring others here.” He paused, and Baleron could see a thousand questions dance behind his steely eyes. He seemed to realize that now was not the time for asking them, however. “Come. Let us make you both comfortable while I figure out the best course of action—or as comfortable as we can make you. This is simply a military outpost, after all.”

  He turned to his men and dismissed them, then led Baleron and Rolenya into the humble archway that led into the mountain. Baleron missed the feel of the sun on his skin, but the cooler air inside the mountain eased the sweat that still oozed from his pores. His heart had yet to slow to its normal rhythm.

  “What of our Swan?” Rolenya asked, as they went along.

  “Fear not, my people will see to it with just as great a devotion as they do to our own. Even now it will be on its way to the Roost.” His gaze strayed to the object Baleron held under his arm. “What … is that?”

  Baleron lifted up the Book so that the Elven prince could see it better. “A journal composed by a Borchstog king of long ago,” he said. “Written in a tongue we cannot read.”

  Rolenya sucked in a breath. “We came here hoping that you could—or that someone in Ivenien could, at least.”

  Calendil stopped in the middle of the hall and turned to face them. His face was grave as he said, “Is this why the dragon chased you?”

  “It was no mere dragon,” Baleron said. “It was the Borchstog king himself—in a new skin.”

  Calendil’s eyebrows rose. “You speak of the legend of Karkost’s attempted transformation? Yes, we have heard of him here.”

  “Not so much legend anymore,” Rolenya said. “I believe your people are even now putting out his fires.”

  “And hopefully putting an end to the beast himself,” Baleron added, though he held out little hope for such an event. At best—at least as far as he could see—the Swan Riders might be able to drive Karkost off.

  Calendil’s attention returned to the Book. “So this tome is responsible for endangering my realm?” When they did not answer, he said, “What can be found in its pages that is so valuable?”

  “That’s why we came here,” Rolenya said. “To answer that question.”

  “All we know is that Mogra herself went through considerable trouble to acquire it,” Baleron said.

  Calendil paled. “The Spider Queen …”

  “Even so.”

  Calendil blinked rapidly, and seemed to go through some inner struggle. At last, with only a hint of anger in his voice, he said, “If you have brought the wrath of the Spider Queen to my halls, I will regret giving you permission to enter.” He collected himself. “But let us leave that for now. I perceive your intentions are good, though I begin to hold great fear that your good intentions will bring ruin and sorrow to the Vale of Bliss. For now … let me show you to your rooms. We will talk more of this later, once we have all refreshed ourselves. I will have clothes and supplies brought to you, and then we shall dine together—and the tale shall be told. After that, I will decide whether to take you into the city or not.”

  He personally showed Baleron and Rolenya to a suite of cozy if simple rooms. As he passed through the halls, Baleron noted that the barracks was larger than he would have thought, housing perhaps hundreds of Elven warriors, and Calendil informed them that there were actually several roosts for the Swans—one per level, and there were four levels … at least, that he would disclose. Baleron wondered how much of the mountain had been hollowed out for the Elves’ use.

  This was Aneth Mae, the largest outpost on the border, but there were many others embedded in the Encompassing Mountains, Calendil said. That must mean there are thousands of Swan Riders, Baleron thought. Ivenien was a more substantial city that he had supposed.

  Calendil left them at their suite, letting them decide who would occupy which bedroom. The suite housed four bedrooms. Calendil had not asked about their relationship, and he had not drawn conclusions, either. He was letting them sort it out. Baleron still wasn’t sure himself.

  He turned to Rolenya, and she to him. They stared at each wordlessly.

  She started to open her mouth but just then knocking sounded. Servants entered and saw to providing them clean clothes and other needs. Baleron asked for the facilities and was shown them. When the servants left, he and Rolenya made small talk for a while, awk
ward and stilted. He told her of events in Theslan, such as there had been until recently, but he found himself repeating things he had told her before.

  When it came time for her to speak, and to tell of what she had been spending her own time on, she said, “I have been too busy in my research and studies to put my head up long enough to keep abreast of the latest politics and war strategies. I know little of events in Larenthi.”

  “You say you haven’t been busy, but I can tell, just from you being there to save me when I needed you, that you were doing more than just reading old books and scrolls.”

  “My research has taken me to … many interesting places.”

  He waited for her to expound on that, but she did not. He wanted to press her on the issue, to ask why she could not just tell him outright. After all, how could he learn to trust her again if she held back secrets from him—potentially important ones? But then he realized that she might feel the same toward him. That thought sent an icy shiver through his whole body. Was it possible that Rolenya no longer trusted him? But how, and why? It was not he who had broken her heart, after all.

  More knocking, and a servant entered. “Lord Calendil will dine with you now.”

  They followed the Elf-maiden through the elegant if simple cavern halls until they came into a large feasting room, where the warriors that had gone after the dragon lounged about a great wooden table, drinking and laughing. The meal had not yet been brought out, but they munched on bread and the like. The smell of yeast made Baleron’s mouth water, and his stomach rumble.

  Prince Calendil had not arrived, but Baleron and Rolenya were placed to the right and left of the empty seat at the head of the table. As if their presence had cued him, the prince emerged, smiling, and his soldiers rose to greet him. There were about a hundred of them, Baleron saw, which meant the soldiery must dine in shifts. Did Calendil stay with all of them? If so, Baleron doubted he would be as fit as he was.

  “Well fought today,” Calendil told the assembly, and they bowed. “Tae gova e Eviretha,” he said in a tongue Baleron wasn’t familiar with. The troops repeated the phrase.