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

by Jack Conner

  “You are well met,” Rolenya said.

  He smiled and rose, embracing her. Next Calendil embraced her, too.

  Baleron thought to add that he too would be kin—at least an in-law—had his wedding to Rolenya gone forward, but he held himself back. Now wasn’t the time. The Book grew heavier in his hand.

  “Galathon was the great dragonslayer, was he not?” Rolenya said, when the King had retaken his seat.

  “Indeed,” said Alathon, “but he was slain by one, as well, and that led to a great rift among the House that plagues us even unto today. It is why this city is hidden, although that is just part of it. But let us not speak of that now. Please, tell me all of your adventure, and what this is all about.”

  “It is a long tale,” Baleron warned.

  “Then make yourself comfortable.”

  Chairs were brought for them, and they sat before the throne. Baleron and Rolenya took turns relating their tales once more, and the eyebrows of Alathon rose. The King frowned, while his son scowled, heat in his eyes.

  At last, when the story was told, Alathon leaned back in his throne and stared upward, as if seeing through the wood and stone of the building to something beyond—somewhere where answers to all the mysteries waited, perhaps. “So,” he said at last, slowly, “Mogra swells with the Spawn that will end us all, and during its maturation she seeks the Book. Surely the two are connected. Could something in that Book help her deliver her unholy child?”

  “Dear Omkar, let it not be so!” said Calendil. He had stood and was pacing in agitation.

  “Be calm, my son,” said Alathon.

  Calendil stopped and turned to him, but his face was still animated. “This means war, Father. It must. If this Book is truly so important, they will come for it—the hosts of the Shadow. If it can help usher in Lorg-jilaad—”

  “Please do not speak his name,” said the King quietly.

  Calendil nodded and started over. “If it can help usher Him back into this world, they will stop at nothing to get it.”

  “What are you suggesting, my son?”

  “Do you not see, Father? We must take the fight to them! We cannot let them seek us out and assail our walls, despoil our hallowed city. We must draw the Enemy away and engage them far from here.”

  “We do not have the strength to defeat the hosts of Oslog, my son.”

  “Then we will gather allies!” Calendil made a sound of frustration. “There must be a way, Father.”

  Alathon was silent a moment, then said, quietly—too quietly—“But you do not seek the obvious and simplest way to save our city?”

  “What is that, Father?”

  Alathon nodded to Baleron and Rolenya. “To send them from our walls, Book in hand, and deliver them far from here. To reject being part of this madness. Maybe then our city may yet stand a while.”

  Calendil stared at his father in shock. “Surely you do not recommend such a course of action.”

  Alathon smiled, but it was a small smile. “That is my good sense talking, my son, and we would be wise to listen to it. But it is not my good sense that stirs within me at the tale our friends from Beyond bring us.”

  “Then what is it?” Baleron dared. He and Rolenya had been growing tense throughout this exchange, and he hardly breathed.

  Alathon fixed him with determined eyes. “To fight. To win. To prevail over the Shadow and cast it down for all time. Too long has my city hidden in the corners, overlooked and forgotten by the wider world. It is time we lived up to our birthright—time we lived up to my father’s legacy. Yet I cannot in good conscience make open war upon the Enemy. As I said, we cannot defeat them, and our allies are scattered and reeling. The Shadow has grown strong since the War, and Borchstogs and worse roam the lands indiscriminately. Yes, my sight has shown this. If they come near, we will mislead and misdirect them. We will find this dragon and destroy it before it can spread the word. And we will take a look at this tome of evil and see if it truly contains the answers we seek.”

  Baleron stepped forward. “Then I present to you, the Black Book of Karkost.”

  Alathon accepted the heavy tome and laid it in his lap. “I will send this to our head archivist immediately and have her begin work on it at once. You have come to the right place; we have records on most of the known ancient tongues here. Rolenya was wise to think of us.”

  She inclined her head humbly. “Your city is secret, but its legends have always spoken of its vast libraries and high learning. I knew that if Ivenien still existed, it might have the answers we seek.”

  “With any luck, we shall shortly find out what all this is about.”

  “There is one other matter,” Baleron said, strangely hesitant.

  The ancient Elven king turned his regard to the mortal prince. “And what may that be, Baleron son of Albrech?”

  “My friend, Tiron. He might still be alive. It would mean much to me if you could send some Swan Riders toward Novstris, just on the chance that he may have escaped and be wandering in the wild. It took Rolenya and I three days to find this place, but that was mainly due to blundering around blindly, not knowing exactly where your city was, going only off of the hints Rolenya has been able to uncover. I’m sure Calendil could make it to Novstris Mountain and back within a day. I would hate to think I had abandoned a man who gave his life for me to be here. I lost one companion for certain on this venture, a wizard named Olen. But Tiron may yet be saved. I’d gladly go with the Swan Riders, to share in the risk. I’ve flown on great birds before. I even had a winged steed for a time.”

  “Your offer is generous,” Calendil said, “but unnecessary. If there is to be any action by my squadrons, we could not permit any outsiders—however skilled—into our ranks. Not because you could not master our techniques, but because you have not been trained in them, or in how we fight as a unit.” He turned to the King. “What say you, Father?”

  Alathon steepled his fingers at his chin. “Could you do this without being seen?”

  “You know I can, Father. This would not be the first wing I have led away from the Encompassment. I have arts of speed and concealment to baffle any Borchstog.”

  “Then so be it. Search for this Tiron—but one pass only. I cannot risk sending my knights out daily into enemy territory. Prince Grothgar, is that acceptable?”

  It was Baleron’s turn to incline his head. “Indeed it is, my lord. And I thank you for it.”

  A high-ranking official showed Baleron and Rolenya to a luxurious suite of rooms, far more elaborate and comfortable than the soldiers’ quarters they’d been housed in the day before—which had still been a vast improvement over the previous three days of hiding in caves and fens.

  Once they had bathed, been clothed in fresh attire, and eaten lunch, the eldest daughter of the King came to them. She was beautiful, with cascading curls of honey-blond hair, and bright green eyes.

  “I am Isella,” she said, “and my father asked me to show you around our city while the Book is being translated and your friend is being looked for.” She smiled and dropped some of her formality. “It really is a pleasure to meet some outsiders. I love Ivenien dearly, but the price of remaining hidden is that few are permitted to leave, and those that do must go under the strictest secrecy. I cannot wait to hear all about Larenthi and Havensrike!”

  Smiling, she gave them a tour of the Palace, which was a truly marvelous place full of solid construction that seemed paradoxically light as air, if not lighter, as if the whole structure could simply lift up and float away on the wind. Afterward, she led them to the royal stables, where they saddled mounts and trotted through the streets of the city. Baleron had few questions, but Rolenya had many, and she and Isella talked happily amongst each other as they rode. They were cousins, after all, and Baleron was happy for them to find time to connect.

  As for himself, he itched with impatience, even desperation. At that moment the dukedom that was his province could be under threat, if not already under the yoke of
the Enemy. He wondered where Ixa was, and Karkost. Most of all, he thought of Mogra, growing great with her terrible progeny. How could the Book help her in her designs? How could it aid the return of Lorg-jilaad?

  The afternoon waned, and the King bade them to dine with him in his great hall. Calendil would not be there, as he had already taken his wing of Riders toward the mountain of Novstris, and they had not yet returned, or at least no word had come yet, if he had. He normally ate with his troops in their barracks, however, and was not expected, though Baleron could sense that the King was anxious for news from his son.

  The dinner was sumptuous, but Baleron found he had little appetite, and he only picked at his food. Fear churned in his gut, and the thought of the Shadow growing—encompassing everything—disturbed him greatly. The high princes and princesses attending the feast, as well as the many bright courtiers, were all beautiful and wondrous, and some of them burned with the same brightness that shone in Alathon’s eyes. Rolenya told him he was seeing the glow of Erethon, the holy land of their people. Lit by the lamps of the Omkar, it radiated a sacred light, and those who had traveled from the Elf-lands to the wider world could still be discerned by that shine.

  Baleron didn’t know much about the Elf-lands, or the Exodus from those lands, but he did know that it had happened Ages ago, before the Breaking of the World which had sundered the holy land from the mainland—which would make those that still glowed with the Light many thousands of years old. The thought was both heady and dismaying.

  The guests at the feasts rejoiced at the arrival of Baleron and Rolenya, and gossip was already buzzing that they had come in hounded by a dragon. Baleron didn’t know who had spilled the story, and he supposed it didn’t matter. The tale was now out, or at least part of it.

  After some account was begged of him, Alathan said, “You have heard correctly, that our new guests did arrive under rather … dramatic circumstances.” Polite chuckling greeted this. “Rest assured, for those of you concerned with our security, that the dragon has been tracked to a mountain and cornered in a network of caves.”

  Baleron and Rolenya glanced at each other. That was news to them.

  “Tomorrow, it is hoped that a large force of Swan Riders, led by Calendil, will mass and assault him.”

  “But, Father, we could lose many valiant soldiers,” protested Feren, the eldest prince. Baleron and Rolenya had been introduced to him briefly. He speared them with a glance. “These two would have cost us many lives.”

  Baleron opened his mouth to retort, but Rolenya laid a gentle hand on his arm, and he stilled his tongue. It was just as well. The prince, as cowardly as he sounded to Baleron’s ears, was not wrong.

  “It is unfair to blame Prince Baleron and Princess Rolenya,” said Isella, to Baleron’s surprise. She had so far in his hearing never disagreed with her father or siblings. “They were only trying to wrest a prize the Enemy coveted. We can hardly disparage them from fleeing from the fires of a Great Worm.”

  “Prize?” said one of the Elves. “What is this … prize?”

  Word of the dragon may have spread, but Alathon was keeping the Book a secret, at Baleron’s urging. Rolenya had revealed its existence to Isella, trusting her, and it seemed Isella had lived up to that trust, since no one seemed to know of the deadly tome. But she was evidently an incautious speaker, just the same.

  As if realizing her mistake, Isella’s face paled and she glanced down.

  “My daughter misspoke,” Alathon said. “At any rate, let us discuss more pleasant topics. Just know that our security is being seen to. The specific errand of our friends from the Outside will have to remain a mystery—for now. In time, all shall be revealed, rest assured.”

  That contented them, and the meal progressed. Baleron and Rolenya fended off as many questions as they could, only answering the most broad and general of them. Then, at last, the dinner ended, and Alathon drew Baleron and Rolenya aside.

  “I hope that was not too grueling for you,” he said.

  “Not at all,” Rolenya said. “It was a lovely meal, with even more lovely company.”

  Baleron had little patience for such niceties. “I wish you had told us of the attack on the dragon earlier.”

  Alathon nodded. “I thought it simplest to only have to convey the story once.” He paused. “Honestly, it is difficult for me to talk about. My own son … my beloved son … gallant Swan Rider and captain of the sky … facing off against an ancient horror like this Karkost.”

  Rolenya stepped forward and embraced him. After a moment, he hugged her back, and a small smile lit his face.

  Drawing away again, she said, “My prayers go with him, Uncle.”

  “Again, I volunteer to participate in the raid,” Baleron said. “I would dearly love to see that worm destroyed.”

  “I appreciate that, but once again I am sure Calendil’s response would be in the negative,” Alathon said. “Well, if there is nothing else, I will bid you goodnight.”

  “Wait,” Rolenya said. When he paused, she added. “We met your eldest daughter, but not your younger one. Why was she not at the feast?”

  Warmth kindled in Alathon’s emerald eyes. “Why, that is because Lorivanneth is our Head Librarian, and even now she is leading the effort to translate that grimoire of yours.”

  With that, he nodded his head and withdrew, leaving Baleron and Rolenya to find their way back to their rooms alone. They almost got lost once, but at last found their suite and closed the door behind them.

  Only then did they, very slowly, turn toward each other. Baleron felt something deep and hot rise within him, but grief dragged at it with iron claws, and bitterness poisoned it.

  Rolenya seemed to sense it. “When may I have your forgiveness, Baleron?”

  Baleron ran his hand through his hair and saw that it trembled, just faintly. “When I feel like I know the complete truth,” he said.

  She took a deep breath. “What else may I tell you that I haven’t told you already?”

  “Why did you come to visit Theslan but not visit me?”

  “We’ve been over this before.”

  “And before I received an unsatisfying answer,” he said.

  “Baleron …” Her voice was anguished.

  “Yes?” His heart almost stopped. Would she open up to him at last?

  For a long moment she was silent. “The truth is that it hurt too much to see you,” she said finally, turning away from him. She moved to the balcony and stared out over the graceful, arboreal city. Its treetops glowed with fantastic dwellings, and Elves came and went down the broad limbs of trees. Wind stirred her long black hair and brought pink roses to her cheeks.

  He came beside her. “That is no answer.”

  “But it is, Baleron. I loved you then, as I love you now, but how can we be together? Your own brother banished both of us over the issue of our betrothal, and my own family has not been … welcoming … of the idea of me marrying a mortal.”

  “I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” he said. “We can elope for all I care.”

  She smiled, sadly. “So you do still love me? You do want to elope with me?”

  “I didn’t say that!” Half-growling, he clutched at the railing and gripped it tight in anger—although at whom, he wasn’t sure.

  She shook her head. “I am an heir of Larenthi, Baleron, and you are in line to the throne of Havensrike, should Jered not produce heirs. We have a duty to our people. We cannot simply elope, cannot simply flee into the night.”

  He stared at her, feeling something cold rising to replace the heat. “So … you wish me to forgive you … only so that you can reject me once more?”

  She didn’t turn to look at him. A slow tear rolled down from her eye. He wanted to reach out and wipe it away, but he did not.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  But she said nothing, and at last he moved inside and found his bed, alone.

  Chapter 10

  A runner found Baleron late the nex
t morning. He strolled through the city by himself, needing some time to think. Feren had offered to accompany him, but he had declined. He needed time to reflect on things, on where he stood with Rolenya, and what he might do if all his hopes were to die.

  It was during the middle of these bleak thoughts that an Elf in royal livery found him. “Prince Baleron, His Majesty has news for you and your lady.”

  “She is hardly mine,” Baleron muttered.

  “I am sorry, my lord?”

  “Nothing.” Baleron smiled. “Thank you for the message. I will collect Rolenya and go straight to King Alathon.”

  The aide bowed and moved away. Baleron found Rolenya in the Palace, where Princess Isella was showing her a garden bathed in cunning sun-shafts from above, then went with her to the Throne Room, where King Alathon was speaking to some advisors. At Baleron’s approach, he looked up and dismissed his advisors.

  “You are well met, I trust,” said Alathon.

  “We are,” said Rolenya. “And we thank you most earnestly for your hospitality.”

  “It has been my pleasure. I hope you have found my city diverting.”

  “Baleron has done more exploring than I.”

  “It’s a lovely city,” Baleron said. If only his thoughts had allowed him to enjoy it more.

  “Good, good,” said the king. “At any rate, Calendil returned some time ago from his mission to the mountain of Novstris, and I have good news for you.” He nodded to a servant, who chimed a bell, and out of a side room appeared a figure escorted by two Elves.

  “Tiron!” Baleron said, overjoyed.

  Indeed it was the brave young archer, although dressed in Elvish fashion, as Baleron was now. Baleron supposed Tiron’s clothes had been in an even worse condition than his own.

  “My lord!” said Tiron.

  The two friends approached and embraced each other. Baleron saw that Tiron looked thinner, and exhausted, but he still put a smile on his face and greeted Baleron warmly, then turned to Rolenya.