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

by Jack Conner

  “Enough,” said Laithan.

  But Feren was not done. “You brought death to my family and my country, Baleron One-Hand.”

  “Cousin, stop,” said Rolenya. “I am as much to blame as Baleron.”

  He gave her a cold look but said nothing.

  “Let’s just go down,” Baleron said. “Maybe we can find an inn before it grows too dark. I don’t want to break one of our horse’s legs on these rocky hills in the night.”

  And so they went down toward Yavlock, waiting in eerie stillness—but not absolute stillness—below. Something stirred down there. The question was: what?

  Chapter 15

  A black arrow whizzed by Calendil’s head. He jerked to the side, then turned in his saddle to fire off a shot from his bow. The shaft flew true, striking the throat of a Borchstog riding a glarum. The demon convulsed and slid to the side, the great black bird veering off and down.

  The other glarumri drove on, scores of them—far more than his advance party could counter, Calendil knew.

  “Evasive maneuvers!” he called, and his group spread out, each mount and rider moving erratically to confuse the dark archers on their fell steeds.

  Though still dismayed that he had allowed the Book to fall into the hands of the enemy, Calendil did not let his fear slow his movements, and even as black arrows cut the sky around him, he drove on, leading the swift-wing north and east.

  Come on, he thought. Come on come on.

  If he didn’t aim right, or if the others didn’t come in time, all would be lost—or at least all the lives of his swift-wing … as well as the good his information could achieve. He still had hopes that that was quite a lot.

  His Swan cried out as a black arrow sliced a furrow along its flank, and a thin well of blood poured down over white feathers.

  “Hang on, my friend,” Calendil said. The wound wasn’t deep, fortunately, but it looked painful.

  Angered, Calendil readied another arrow, turned and fired at the nearest glarumri, the one who had probably fired the bolt. The Elvish shaft broke on the spiked armor of the creature. The Borchstog laughed and raised his crossbow. Another dart shot forward. Calendil jerked the reins, pulled his steed to the side. The bolt flashed harmlessly past.

  Calendil recovered, readied another arrow and let fly, even as the Borchstog fired again, as well. The black bolt shot by Calendil’s ear, nearly slicing him. Calendil’s shaft took the fiend through the right eye. The dead Borchstog listed to the side. The glarum swung away.

  Two more replaced it.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, Calendil spurred his Swan on.

  “Fly fast, and fly true!” he said. “And summon whatever luck you can, my friend. We shall need it.”

  And, as if his words held power, there appeared out of the dawn sky flashes of white and silver, and within moments the full war wing of Swan Riders from Calendil’s outpost in the Eloath Mountains could be seen. The swift-wing cheered and smiled, but tensely. The glarumri were still hot on their heels.

  Calendil only had to adjust his trajectory a little. His aim, or that of his steed, had been just as true as he’d hoped it would. Maybe the Omkar were with them, after all.

  Cries of dismay sounded out behind Calendil, and he smiled grimly at the consternation of his enemies. He turned, fired off another arrow, then tugged the reins to the right, avoiding another missile. The Borchstogs were already slowing on their mounts, falling back.

  Calendil shouted with joy as his swift-wing, or what was left of it (he had lost seven Riders) met the incoming war wing. The captain of the war wing had seen the glarumri, and he directed the wing toward them, swinging just enough to enclose Calendil and his Riders into the fold.

  Immediately Calendil turned his swift-wing back around and flew with the war-wing. He rode forward, coming abreast the captain, an Elf he knew well named Jalon.

  “My lord!” said Jalon. “It is good to see you in one piece. We feared the worst when we heard the news—and then when we saw those ‘stogs already setting upon you! I was afraid you would be slain ere we could intercede.”

  “Alas, I already had lost seven Riders,” Calendil said. “And I may lose still more, for I cannot give up the hunt.”

  “The command is yours, my lord.”

  Calendil nodded, then rode ahead. His Swan wasn’t as fresh as those of the war-wing, but its blood still burned with the same adrenaline that flooded Calendil. Feeling a sense of rage and sorrow at the lives lost, he led his war-wing after the glarumri. The Borchstogs had already turned their mounts around and were streaking back toward the foul host.

  Calendil led his wing swiftly forward, soon coming within bowshot range.

  “Fire at will!” he said, and instantly white shafts cut the sky, drilling into dark flesh and darker feathers. Borchstogs listed in saddles, and glarumri shrieked as the darts of their enemies reached them. Like Borchstogs, the glarums were creatures of darkness, and they could not abide the Light, so even if the shots were not fatal (though they frequently were) they burned the creatures bitterly.

  The glarumri were in such haste to find sanctuary that they did not even turn to fire back at their pursuers.

  All too soon, the dark mass of the enemy host appeared ahead. It was on the move, streaming east and slightly south. Bound for where? Calendil wondered. Well, there was no way to find out, not now.

  When the glarumri that the war-wing pursued drew close to the host, more glarumri took the skies and joined them, and the whole of them flew low, forcing the Swan Riders to fly low over the enemy army if they meant to continue pursuit—within range of the archers on the ground. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of bolts glinted in the dun crossbows of the Borchstogs. Many would be tainted with poison.

  “Back!” Calendil said. “We will not end our lives in such folly.”

  He led his wing in circling motions over the marching host, looking for some opening. His Swan Riders outnumbered the glarumri, but he could see no way to use that to his advantage. He rained down a volley of arrows, then another, but the glarum-riding Borchstogs simply deflected the shafts with their shields. The shafts had lost too much momentum and the demons had too much time to prepare.

  “We must let them go, for now,” Calendil said.

  “We cannot, my lord! They are about some fell purpose, I can feel it,” said Jalon.

  “I know it well,” Calendil said. “They slew my sister for it.”

  Jalon nodded, his face waxen. “Of course, my lord. I … I am most sorry. The men and I have yet to process her death, or deal with our grief. Our hearts are with you, my lord. We will follow you regardless.”

  Calendil nodded. “We cannot let them make off with the Book, but at the same time we cannot take it back ourselves.”

  “We could return to the city, my lord. Rouse a host and go after them by land.”

  “We will, if we must, but that would cost many lives and destroy the secrecy that has protected Ivenien for so long.”

  “What then, my lord?”

  Calendil frowned, then, very slowly, smiled. “I think I have an idea.” In a loud voice, he called, “Form up on me! We go north!”

  He guided the war wing north, away from the host, and he was not unhappy to see it recede in the distance. The glarumri did not give chase, and he would have been surprised if they had. He couldn’t allow himself to grow overconfident, though. The High Priestess Ixa could send for aid if she felt she needed it. If given time, her host might well gather more glarumri to it, more than Calendil could overcome.

  What terrified him most was the thought of the host turning toward Ivenien. If Tiron had told Ixa its location, and doubtlessly he had, then Ivenien was exposed. Ixa and her host needed to be wiped out before they could attack the city or bring word of its existence to others. But Calendil would be damned if he crippled the forces of Ivenien in order to save it. He would only risk that when all other options had been extinguished. As he flew along, he thought of his father, the noble Alathon,
even then spreading word about what had happened and making plans for funerals, all the while holding in his grief for the lovely Lorivanneth.

  Calendil flew for hours, at last seeing the land rising up into a series of rocky mountains before and below. Gleaming white snow hugged their upper reaches, and bare rock like razors thrust up through the foam. In one of the mountains old ruins could be seen, all bored into the mountain, stout towers and grand portals leading inward. It was an old Dwarvish mine, long abandoned. The Dwarves had plundered the iron ore of the mountain, finding that it ran out sooner than they had expected, and they had moved on, finding greener pastures elsewhere—or rockier ones, anyway. Of the right rock.

  Swan Riders circled in the air above the mountain, and others hunkered above portals, ready to fire on anything that came through. The Swan Riders in the sky saw Calendil’s war wing, paused, then flew over to him. The captain of this second war wing flew abreast Calendil.

  “My lord, it is good to see you, though we did not expect it.” The Elf studied his prince carefully. “My lord, you do not look well. Has something happened?”

  They had yet to hear of Lorivanneth, Calendil realized. Chagrined, he began to explain, then realized he could not do so with a steady voice. “Jalon will get you up to date,” Calendil said. “First I have business with the worm.”

  The captain blinked. “Of course, my lord. The wing is yours to command.”

  “Which entrance is he nearest?”

  “Karkost? The southwestern one, my lord, on the third level—there, see it? It has the most troops before it. It’s not the one he entered by, but we have collapsed that one and sent scouts in to harass him with darts and force him toward this one, if we can.”

  “It’s a good plan, and even if we do not kill him it may work to our advantage—especially if I can get close enough to talk.”

  Taking only a small escort with him, Calendil set his mount down on the ridge above the entrance in question, and his four troops set down around him. The Swan Riders who had been laying siege to the entrance approached and saluted.

  “Is the worm near at hand?” Calendil asked the leader.

  “Yes, my lord. We can hear him breathing at times. Twice he has sent out flames. He knows we’re here, and he has decided he doesn’t like the feel of Elvish arrows in the cracks between his scales, so he’s wary.”

  “I must go down to him.”

  The other Elf swallowed. “Are you sure that’s wise, my lord?”

  Calendil allowed himself a small smile. “Not in the least.”

  Without another word, he picked his way down the snowy, rocky slope until he had passed the positions of the besiegers, then down still more. At last he stood before the great gaping square of darkness that led into the mines. He strained his ears for the sound of vast lungs laboring, but heard nothing. All that met his eyes was darkness.

  “Karkost!” he shouted into the entrance, and he heard his voice echo. “Karkost, you craven reptile! Do not hide and think you can escape justice for your crimes! You have slain several Elves of my wing, and that is only what you have done since your awakening. But we know who you are—what you are—and we know of your long history of horror. We do not forget! Now come forth! I will treat with you, and you may hear something to your advantage.”

  That seemed to intrigue the worm. Calendil heard shifting and sliding, as if pebbles dislodged, and something large and scaly rasped along rough stone floors. Far, far back in the hole, reptilian eyes blazed in the darkness—high up above the floor. Karkost was massive, and awful, steeped in evil and sorcery.

  “SPEAK,” said the dragon, or rather the spirit in him. “IF I DO NOT LIKE YOUR WORDS, I WILL ROAST YOU.”

  “Understood.” Calendil had placed himself before the entrance precisely to make himself vulnerable to the dragon, so that Karkost would understand he meant to bargain—that he had something to offer. He hoped he could dive out of the way of the dragon’s blast in time, if he had to, but he was by no means sure that he could.

  “WELL?” snorted Karkost, and Calendil could smell the reek of smoke.

  Calendil realized his fingers were trembling and stilled them. Lorivanneth, he thought. There was still a chance to avenge Lorivanneth and save his city.

  “The Black Book!” he said. “I know you covet it. Well, it has been stolen by a traitor.”

  “HA! WELL YOU DESERVE IT, THIEF. OR ARE YOU MERELY A COLLABORATOR OF THIEVES?”

  “The Book—your Book—has been taken to a host of Borchstogs led by a spider priestesses of the Order of Mogra. The High Priestess, I am sure, has your book.”

  There was a long, calculating pause. “YOU WOULD HAVE ME MAKE WAR ON THE HOST AND RETRIEVE MY BOOK.”

  “We will release you and will not molest you on your way out. You have my word that if you pledge to go after the Book—and further pledge to do no harm to my city—that we will let you go free.”

  Another pause. “YOU KNOW THAT I CAN SENSE THE BOOK? IF I GET CLOSE TO THIS HOST AND DO NOT SENSE IT, I WILL KNOW THAT I’VE BEEN TRICKED—AND I WILL COME FOR YOUR PRECIOUS CITY.”

  “It is with the host, I swear it.”

  “VERY WELL, ELF. YOU HAVE YOURSELF A BARGAIN. NOW YOU HAD BEST GET OUT OF MY WAY OR I WILL HAVE A SNACK BEFORE I GO!”

  Calendil had barely returned to the skies and issued his orders when Karkost emerged from the dark tunnels wearing an aura of wrath. He sent flame toward the nearest Elves, who flew quickly out of the way, then launched himself into the sky. Calendil was amazed to see the exposed ribs and signs of rot. Baleron had told him that Karkost was dead, or undead, but hearing it was one thing and seeing was another. It had been night the last time he’d seen the dragon, and even his gifted sight had not shown him the extent of the truth.

  Karkost’s black wings pumped, and the great worm soared off into the sky, smoke trailing from his nostrils as he went. He made no further moves against the Elves, but he made a point to fly away slowly, showing all that he was no craven, that he was not fleeing.

  Yes, Calendil thought, but you found a hole to curl up in swiftly enough, didn’t you? Karkost was proud, and mighty, but he had come to appreciate the prick of Elvish steel, and to be daunted by the warriors on white wings.

  Jalon flew up beside him. “My lord, this is a risky plan. I mislike it.”

  Calendil frowned. “I as well, Captain. Of what value is a dragon’s word? In olden days, a dragon’s word was a powerful thing, but in these days, with this one … I don’t know.”

  “And if he is successful? If he does get the Book? What then?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What does he want it for?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it?” Calendil said, but he did not have an answer.

  “Am I so hideous?” came the voice from the darkness.

  Tiron perceived that the shape had changed. He had on reflex tried to grab his knife, but of course his weapons had been taken from him. Horror, revulsion and sadness rose in him as he stared into the dimness of the tent.

  The darkness stirred, and a shape came forward. It was now the form of a young woman, pulling a robe around her. Her face was pale. She trembled.

  The love he felt for his sister rose up, eclipsing his horror, and he stepped forward to wrap her in a tight hug. She felt small and frail in his arms as she sobbed against his chest.

  “I’m so sorry, Tir. I … I still don’t know how to control it, not yet. Sometimes the other form feels more natural … easier to maintain …”

  “Other form,” Tiron repeated, confirming the reality of the situation. “So … that spider-shape … was you.”

  Trembling, she nodded. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Pulling away, she staggered a few paces, then righted herself on a chair.

  “Tiron, I’m … a monster.”

  The voice came softly, pitifully. He felt a lump form in his throat. He paused, then stepped forward and squeezed her shoulder with a calloused hand, letting her feel his streng
th, his love.

  “Tell me,” he said. “What happened?”

  Aria sighed. “It was Mistress Ixa, of course. She did this to me.”

  His free hand curled into a fist. “Why?”

  “To swell the ranks of her priesthood. And … to bind you to her.”

  “Bind me? What do you mean?”

  “If I now belong to them, and can only live with them, because of what I am, and you are bound to me, then you will have no choice but to become one of them, as well.”

  “Never!”

  She sniffed. “Then you will leave me here amongst them?”

  “No!” He paused, then swore softly to himself. More gently, he added, “No, I will not leave you.” Not even if I could, he thought, for he thought it just as likely that any escape he attempted would end in death. “But I do not understand. How was this done? Is it some poison, some potion? Will it wear off?”

  She shook her head. Still not looking at him, she said, “Ixa bit me. Not … not in her human form. In her … spider form. It is hideous, even more than the others. She can secrete different venoms. One kills, one paralyzes, one … transforms.”

  As tenderly as he could, he turned her around to face him. The tent was very dark, but there was enough light spilling in from the front for him to see the tears on her cheeks, the fear in her eyes. The fear that she had lost him, that she was truly a horror to him now, a thing of nightmare, something to be loathed, to be squashed.

  “You are still my sister,” he said, hearing the rasp in his voice. “Still Aria.”

  Tremblingly, she smiled. “And you are still Tiron, son of Biron.”

  “Aria, daughter of Myrtle.”

  Once again, they embraced, but now when they separated he could see the relief on her features, the lightness. Then, suddenly, the grimness returned, or at least a grimness. He thought it had a different source, and he was right, as she said, “And your task? Ixa told me of it. The Book of Karkost … were you able to retrieve it?”

  It was his turn to look away. “Yes, damn my soul. Now the bitch has it, and she’s taking it to Mogra. Or … or maybe she intends to use it herself …” He ran shaking fingers through his matted hair. “This is all a disaster!” Angrily, he kicked at the ground, striking something solid that sent pain shooting up his leg.