by Jack Conner
Baleron blinked. “A birthing bed …”
Slowly, Rolenya nodded. “Yes, I see it now. This Black Altar is a thing of immense power, linked to Lorg-jilaad. And the thing in Mogra’s belly is meant to house his spirit. But they need a way to link the spirit to the new body—and likely it profits them to have this altar of such dread power.”
Feren turned to Alathon. “Is that how you read the riddle, Father?”
Alathon stared into the flames, then said, “Yes. Yes, that makes as much sense to me as anything else in this whole mess. If there is another answer, I do not see it. Perhaps it will reveal itself in time, but for now … yes. Rolenya is almost certainly right. Mogra and Gilgaroth created the Black Tower as a place soaked in enough power to create this new form for their Master. Baleron and Rolenya may have destroyed that Tower, and obliterated Gilgaroth’s physical form, but too late. Mogra had already conceived their unholy child. Now she seeks a way to connect the spirit to the body. The Altar. It all hinges on the Black Altar. If we can prevent her from getting it, we can stop her from delivering this horror upon the world. And it will be a horror, and an end to all we hold dear. For the Omkar are sundered from us now. We are alone—alone with the powers of darkness. And with Lorg-jilaad to lead them again, there will be no victory against them.”
“But how can we do such a thing?” said Calendil. “Surely, if she’s managed to stave off birth for this long, she can stave it off even longer—long enough for her to find this Altar … and have it brought to her to give birth on, if that is her goal.”
Baleron felt bile burn the back of his throat at the thought of the monstrous spider-form of Mogra giving birth to some ancient terror on a black slab infused with dark power. “But,” he said, groping for hope, “surely, simply by keeping the Book away from her, we are preventing it from coming to pass. The Book contains the leads Karkost was pursuing. Without those, she will not be able to find the Altar.”
“Perhaps,” said Alathon. “Yet Karkost derived his leads from somewhere. Deprived of the Book, Mogra’s agents may be able to seek out those leads for themselves.”
“It would be better to destroy this Altar,” Calendil said. He turned to Lorivanneth. “Did Karkost mention any way the Altar could be destroyed?”
Surprisingly, she smiled, as if she had been waiting to be asked that question. “Yes,” she said simply. “Of course.” Off their blank looks, she laughed. “Did you think I would present this problem to you without also presenting a solution?”
Alathon chuckled, warmth and pride in his eyes. “You are a marvel, Lorivanneth.”
“She knows it,” said Isella, her sister, but she said it with love, and Lorivanneth only smiled wider.
“Please,” Baleron said, “tell us what we must do.”
Lorivanneth nodded, sobering somewhat. “The Swords of the Sun,” she said. “We must retrieve the Swords of the Sun.”
Chapter 11
Baleron looked around to see the Elves trading dire looks, but he only frowned. “The Swords of the Sun?” he said. “I have not even heard a distant rhyme regarding them, whatever they are. But … they could prove useful?”
Lorivanneth said, “Karkost believed that the Swords of the Sun posed a risk to the Altar, and he spent much of his strength on stealing them from their rightful owners—not because he wanted to use them to destroy it but because he anticipated claiming it one day and wanted to make sure others could not break it once he had it in his possession. Fortunately, he was never able to make much progress on that goal, as—to judge from the dates—not long after that his priorities shifted into transferring his soul into the body of a dragon. And it was shortly thereafter that Corugvar—Gilgaroth—tired of his insolence and moved against him.”
Alathon looked rueful. “And yet now Karkost is back, in dragon form, no less, and Corugvar is but a spirit—potent and fell, yes, and in command of many legions, but bound to the location where his Tower fell, where Illistriv runs wild, loosed from his physical form.”
“Is it so?” Isella said.
“It is said that Borchstogs travel from all around to give sacrifice to their fallen Master,” Alathon said. “And he still instructs and leads them. Mogra commands her own legions, but she is shut up in their great fortress of Ghrastigor, and sends her priestesses out to do her bidding. None can breach the walls of that black fortress, deep in the heart of Oslog. I have heard that Borchstogs are building a highway between Ghrastigor and the site of Krogbur, the Black Tower, where the Master yet dwells and gives orders.”
“You see much for one who remains unseen by others,” Rolenya observed.
“We are hidden, but we are not unaware,” said Alathon. “We remain vigilant, and there are still those who deal with us on the Outside.” Baleron sensed something unsaid in his words, perhaps something important, but he had other business, and he did not think the King was willing to talk about his omission at the moment in any case.
“Back to these Swords,” Baleron said. “These Swords of the Sun. Just what are they, and how can they help?”
Alathon appraised him. “Just how much do you know of the history of Vatha—which is the World?”
Baleron shrugged. “I know enough. I know of Lorg-jilaad and the early wars, at least some of it. I know more of Gilgaroth and the later wars. And I know quite a bit about the most recent one.”
“The way I hear it, you are the one that brought it about,” said Feren.
Baleron did not comment.
“What do you know of the Exodus?” Alathon said. “When many Elves left the Blessed Realm and came to Vatha?”
“Very little,” Baleron admitted.
“Well, then I will take a moment to acquaint you with some pertinent history, if that is all right with you, and with the others, who have heard this all before.”
“It is fine with me,” Baleron said, and no one else objected.
“Very well,” Alathon said. “I will strive to make this short. Well, in the long, long ago, Elves woke upon the face of Vatha and wandered. In time many heard the Song of the West, and followed it over many miles to the Blessed Realm, Erethon, where dwell the Omkar, the Powers of the World. They were calling us to their home, to live with them, if we may. Not all heeded the Call. Some remained here, and are known as Gray Elves, primarily, although of course we have our own names for them. The Elves that did heed the Call and lived for long years in Erethon, bathed in the holy lights and tutored by the Omkar themselves, are known as the High Elves. Then there are different noble houses of the High Elves, and divisions and cultures unique to each House, and the following of each House.
“My father was King Toron, Lord of the Sivaran Elves, and he was a great and beloved leader. So wise and fair was he that he won the heart of Nola, one of the Omkar—a lesser Omkar, yes, but still one of the Powers of the World. Their happiness was great, while it lasted, and they wed in bless and grandeur in the courts of Brunril himself—the Sun-lord, husband of Illiana. One had created the Sun, the other the Moon. Nola was a handmaiden of Illiana before her marriage.”
Baleron blinked. “Then … that makes you …”
Alathon smiled kindly. “Yes, that is right. The children of Toron and Nola were half-divine, and that includes myself and Vilana, my sister. That divinity does not fade in one generation, or a hundred, and that means Rolenya bears it, too.”
Baleron turned to Rolenya in amazement, and she weathered his scrutiny without comment.
“You knew?” he said.
“Of course,” she said. “It was one of the first things I discovered when I went to live amongst my own people at last.” She let out a breath. “It’s a strange thing to be raised thinking oneself a mortal and then to find out that not only am I immortal but descended from the Omkar themselves!”
Baleron shook his head in wonder. Slowly, he turned back to Alathon. “Please, continue.”
“When word reached us of the dire war waged by Lorg-jilaad—before his fall, obviously—ma
ny longed to join in the fight,” Alathon said. “The Omkar counseled us not to, and we heeded them for a time. Then my father, King Toron, Lord of the Sivaran Elves, could not wait anymore, knowing our fellows, the Gray Elves, were dying, along with countless Men, Dwarves and others. He rallied support among his people and led us in a great march, the Exodus, out of the Land of Bliss and into Vatha. With Toron went his noble brother Goron, and all of his House and hosts.
“Before we left, Brunril, who cautioned us not to leave, fashioned for Toron and his children the Eight Swords of the Sun, for use against Lorg-jilaad and his fell legions.”
“Weapons forged by the Lord of the Omkar himself,” marveled Baleron, his mind reeling. “He must have truly loved your House. But then … if he gave them to you … then why are they not here, or at least one?”
“Wait, and you shall see,” Alathon said. His face grew taut. “Long and terrible were the wars. Toron and his people, myself included, made trial on the Dark Powers and laid siege to them, and were besieged in return. The high prince was my brother Ivaeron, though Hevemir my sister was actually the elder. Vilana and I were the youngest.
“During one of the assaults, King Toron—Father—was slain, in combat with a mighty dragon,” Alathon said, and moved on before Baleron could offer his condolences, “and the high prince, Ivaeron, galvanized the people to bring war and ruin to Lorg-jilaad in his dark land of Ghoz, the precursor to Oslog. The people rallied to my brother, or many of them, but Hevemir argued for peace and defense, not war. She was the elder of the two and claimed the right of the throne, but Ivaeron said that no woman should rule in times of war. Furthermore he made a terrible vow, calling the name of the One, the Over-God who created even the Omkar themselves, in revenge of the death of their father. Many of the Court were horrified, but others took up the call and swore the Oath themselves. Hevemir ordered him removed from the court, but Ivaeron rallied his supporters and met her soldiers with men of their own, and thus began the First Kinslaying, the slaying of Elf by Elf.
“Ivaeron claimed the Eight Swords for his own. Hevemir refused, but he gave her no choice but took them by force for his war. In the great battles to follow, most were lost or broken, but they proved a great boon to his forces, the Swords of the Sun.
“Hevemir was a wise queen to her people after that, and Vilana and I were her faithful captains. But Hevemir died during the War of Light Divided, which I will not go into now. Surely you have heard something of that terrible conflict, Baleron?”
Baleron nodded. “I know little, to tell the truth, but I have heard that it was during that war that Men were created.”
“Yes. It was so. That is a tale in itself, or I would go into more detail. At any rate, Hevemir’s people were gradually eroded and became Green Elves instead of High Elves, but we still harbor resentment toward the warlike and cursed people of Ivaeron, the Ivaeronians. Of Ivaeron’s several sons and daughters, most died (and him too), but several great houses of their people still stand, and each bears one of the Swords of the Sun. The High King of the Ivaeronians currently is Ivaeron’s grandson Cirithir, still warlike and cursed. The Curse of the Ivaeronians is hard to lift. They invoked the One in their oath, to revenge the death of Toron by ending the Dark Powers for once and all, then sealed the curse in the blood of their kin. Ivaeron’s son Glorion disagreed with his father and spoke out against him, trying to stop the slaughter that occurred, but he was bound by his siblings and prevented from becoming violent against their father. His sister Lia agreed with him but counseled him to patience. Afterward Glorion served his father faithfully in the wars against the Dark Powers, but because of his actions in that moment he was no longer considered the Heir of the House.
“The Great War happened, the land was broken and Ivaeron slain, but still the Ivaeronians maintain their war against Gilgaroth, bound by their oath. The Ivaeronians look down on the Green Elves, whom they consider soft and craven, and both the Green Elves and the Ivaeronians have an alliance with the House of Toron. Glorion, though the eldest son of the king with a fortress of his own, is not the King. Instead that title has gone to the loyal son, Kalon. Now Kalon was both a warrior and a great smith, and he crafted, for the betterment of the war, five seeing stones, and he gifted one to each of his family, and kept one for himself, so that they could communicate instantly from one fortress to another. Only the family members and those they trained could use them.”
“Is that how you know so much about things beyond your borders?” Baleron said. “Do you possess one of these stones?”
“Perhaps, but we do not speak of that. The less said about some things, the better, and even between us it were better not to get in the habit of saying more than we should.”
Baleron started to nod, then said, “We had some seeing stones, as well. I don’t know if they were created by Kalon or not. The Enemy got hold of one and did terrible damage with it.”
“Then you can see why we are anxious to keep such knowledge to ourselves.”
“Very well,” Baleron said. “So … these Swords of the Sun ... they’re with the Ivaeronians, then? Where are they?”
“The House of Ivaeron went southeast to wage their war, making their abodes on the slopes of the Aragst Mountains themselves, and in the land between the sea and the Aragst.”
“The Mountains of Shadow! They must be mad.”
“Aye, they are mad, driven by their oath.”
“The last time I journeyed through the Aragst, Rolenya and I were seized by the dark powers and all our people slain—and the seeing stone carried by our wizard taken.”
“It is perhaps unjust to criticize the dead, but I would not have taken such an important item with me into those mountains. But at any rate, yes, the Aragst are of dread repute, and deservedly so. Gilgaroth raised them himself many thousands of years ago, shortly after he forged his great warhammer Vrul and used it to fashion the Breaking of the World, thus sundering Vatha from the Blessed Realms forever.”
“The Ivaeronians have several citadel-cities in the mountains,” Calendil said, “and one great port city. They occupy the southeast arc of the Aragst Mountains, where the range curves close to the Shining Sea. Their high king is still Kalon, and they have lain siege to the Shadow, and been besieged in turn, for many years. They are a grim people, and sorely beset, though at the same time they are a great people, and they have maintained the ways of the High Elves in a way we have not. Our people have become mixed with the Gray Elves and forgotten some of our old arts, and … well, we are not at the same level as we were before.”
“I think I understand,” Rolenya said. To Baleron, she said, “Do you mean to do what I think you do?”
“If that means journeying to the Ivaeronians and obtaining these Swords, or at least one of them, then yes.”
“They will not part with them lightly,” Alathon warned.
“I would think not. They are mighty heirlooms indeed, and evidently the Ivaeronians thought them worth spilling the blood of their own kin for.”
“We cannot let him go alone,” Calendil said to his father.
“I will not be alone,” Baleron said, and nodded to Rolenya, expecting her to return the gesture.
Instead she looked away, her eyes troubled, and said nothing.
“Well? I could do with the daughter of Vilana on my side, if I am to bargain for one of these Swords.”
She was silent a long moment. “But I am not ready.”
“What … do you mean?”
They were all looking at her now, not just him.
She sighed. “I did come here meaning to have the Book translated, but … even before deciding on that, I had hoped to come here for a very different reason.”
“And what reason is that, sister-daughter?” Alathon said.
Rolenya raised her chin and met Baleron’s eyes. He saw something in them that made him swallow. Now, he sensed, he was about to discover the secret she had been hiding from him. He realized that he was holding his breat
h.
“Well?” he said, hearing his voice creak.
She too swallowed, as if girting herself for battle. “As you know, Bal, I have been closeted with the Order of Illiana when in Larenthi and have been about their business when abroad.”
“What business is that?” said Feren.
“The Moonstone,” she said, and took a breath. “It was destroyed during the war, but before that happened my mother sent a message to Niara, the High Priestess of Illiana at Theslan and a half-Elf, to preserve its shards. My mother taught her how to do this, and she passed that knowledge on to her fellow priestesses. After the war, they gathered the shards—there are four, each perfect hemispheres of the round Moonstone—and have secreted them away. It is the destruction of the Moonstone, and the weakening of the Light that brought about, that has led to our present pass. Without that having happened, Mogra would not be able to bring Lorg-jilaad back into the world, altar or no altar.” To Baleron, she said, “Don’t you see? Saving the Moonstone—restoring it—is more important than securing these swords, however powerful they are.”
“One a gift from Brunril, another Illiana,” Baleron mused. “But Brunril was more powerful.”
“Perhaps, but did he imbue the swords with as much of his grace as Illiana imbued the stone with?”
“None can say,” Alathon said. “At least, the scrolls do not tell of it, and I, who was there when both were forged, cannot recall ever knowing the answer.”
Baleron looked on Alathon, amazed. He had known the King was ancient, of course, but hearing him tell of being present at such ancient events was staggering.
Alathon saw his regard and laughed easily. His face was young, but his eyes were endless pools of time, just as Vilana’s had been.
Baleron’s attention shortly returned to Rolenya. She regarded him steadily. So … she was on a quest to heal the Moonstone, was she? And that was a secret worth keeping from him, why? He wanted to ask the question, but now was not the time. He would have to speak with her alone later.