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

by Jack Conner

  At last they ran up a final stairwell and burst into the outdoors at last. The night sky stretched above them, grand and terrifying. A sleepy city street greeted them, with a single carriage rattling down the way. Gaslamps lit the beveled windows.

  Baleron and the Elves glanced at each other, then the hole they had just come up. It merely looked like a stairway to an underground sewage entrance, and the door they had come through completed the part. But they now knew it was really the gateway to another world. And that world wasn’t done with them yet.

  The ground shook, and the massive wedge-shaped head thrust out of the hole, and its long, black body forced the head higher, the great shape, however phantasmal, trying to shove its way free. The tight confines would only slow it a moment, though, Baleron knew. In desperation, he ripped out his sword. It was of Elvish make, after all. It might well prove a bane to a thing of darkness. The Elves yanked out their swords, as well.

  The Serpent thrust forward, hissing, its glowing red eyes fixed murderously down on the gathering. In just a moment—

  Rolenya stepped forward.

  “Rolly!” Baleron said. “What are you doing?”

  She didn’t answer. She had eyes only for the Serpent. And, slowly, it turned to look at her, too. It still wriggled and emerged foot by foot—all too quickly, the inches and feet just streaming by.

  She opened her mouth and began to sing. All gasped in awe at the silver tones climbing and falling, even Baleron, who had heard her singing before. And he knew how powerful it could be, too. As the crystal notes of her voice floated off the sides of the surrounding buildings, the Servant swayed back and forth, gently, rhythmic, its movements going slower. Rolenya sang on, and on, her voice rising and falling like the waves of the sea, her beautiful face shining by the light of the moon. Something seemed to glow from inside her.

  The Servant’s red eyes dimmed, just slightly. Then they dimmed some more, and began to close, just slightly.

  “Now!” said Feren.

  He sprang forward, sword glittering, and his Elves surged toward him—and his prey. For Feren fell on the Serpent with a fury, thrusting and slicing with his shining sword. Baleron roused himself at his own entrancement and did likewise. The Servant shrieked and thrashed, the spell broken.

  Baleron and the Elves slashed into the thing without pause, until at last it began to dissipate and lose cohesion. It had been shadow, but had also had substance, and that substance began to boil away into the night, fading moment by moment until at last there was nothing to be seen.

  Baleron and the Elves stared from it to Rolenya. She watched the space where the Servant had been, a single tear standing out in her eye. Baleron went to her and squeezed her shoulder. She nodded in gratitude, closing her eyes so that the tear spilled away. She wiped it away gracefully.

  “Don’t feel like you betrayed it,” Baleron said.

  “I can’t help it. When I sing, it connects me to whom I’m singing. And they connect to me.”

  He shuddered. “I wouldn’t want that thing to connect with me. I certainly don’t want it connecting to you.”

  Placing a hand to her head, she said, “It takes a lot out of me. But I can’t help but feel … bad about tricking beings to their death. My song … my music … it should be a source of joy, if that is something I can provide. Song in general should—I think that’s more what I mean.”

  “I know. Of course. I agree. It’s not right to use your gift for … well, what we just did. But you did just save our lives, and I thank you for it.”

  She smiled. The other Elves closed in, thanking her and telling her how moved they were by her singing. Even among Elves, she was powerful.

  By this time, the local townspeople had reported to the local constables, and these had reported to the city watch, who had reported into the soldiery on the wall. When soldiers were seen fighting a monster in the streets, the soldiery was deemed the better way to counter them, and so only a few minutes after the dispatch of the shadow serpent, a company of horses approached the band of Elves and one man as they made their way up a city street.

  The band turned and greeted the new arrivals warily. Baleron’s mouth tightened.

  “Halbarad,” he said hollowly. His hand drifted toward his pommel.

  Captain Halbarad and his company trotted forward, then stopped. They were a grim lot, tired and put out. Tired, yes, Baleron thought—but not in that way. These Men looked a regular sort of tired, the kind you get by working hard for a whole day and being ready to retire. The others, the serpent-men, had appeared tired to Baleron because they were not human at all, and he had only perceived their otherness as a form of exhaustion—a grayness. But these Men were not gray.

  “Is that Lord Baleron and Lady Rolenya and their company?” Halbarad said, smiling broadly but wearing a puzzled look.

  “It is we,” said Rolenya.

  “We’re glad to see you,” said Baleron. He and Feren traded a look. Off Baleron’s raised eyebrows, Feren nodded. With a harder note in his voice, Baleron turned back to Halbarad. “But there is one thing.”

  Halbarad regarded him. “Yes?”

  Baleron placed his palm on the pommel of his sword, making sure Halbarad saw it. “I need you, Captain, to raise your sword, just a few inches, and nick your arm on it. I need to see your blood.”

  “You mean to tell me I have snake-men in my sewers?” demanded the King. He looked more like a banker to Baleron than a king, and indeed he had before seizing some sort of order during the bedlam after the fall, evacuation and repopulation of the city.

  But he had greeted Baleron and the Elves well. Captain Halbarad—sporting a new gash on his arm, already wrapped up and only showing a few spots of red blood—had escorted them all the way to the Palace before dropping them off.

  “They’re not in your sewers,” said Feren, sounding annoyed. “We told you, they’re ancient tunnels—part of what must be the old city. Suul. You must know what I’m talking about.”

  “Only legends,” the King said dreamily. “Fairy tales. Tales of ancient snake-men worshipping terrible idols with human sacrifice amid grand cities of high-pillared stone.” He shook his head. “Fairy tales,” he repeated.

  “But they are no tales,” said Laithan. The King was entertaining the leaders of the Elvish company in one of his opulent audience rooms, while the surviving soldiers were given rooms at the Palace and having their wounds tended to. Baleron already wore a few bandages, too, both on his sword arm and his opposite leg.

  “They are real,” Feren agreed. His eyes dimmed. “Terribly real.”

  Rolenya laid a hand on his arm. “We’re lucky to have made it out at all—and many of us did not. They died … to save me.” Sadness filled her voice, and pity. “They died for me, and I would that they had not.”

  “You are beloved,” Baleron said. “It was worth it to them. And to others.”

  She gave him a look but said nothing.

  “The idol they worship is the Great Serpent—Zog,” said Laithan, sounding grave. “One of the Omkarogs—that means, one of the Omkar, what you humans might call gods, that served the Shadow—well, Zog was one, and he served Lorg-jilaad well and faithfully. But when Lorg-jilaad was defeated and driven through the Doors of the Night, Zog refused to serve the Worm’s spawn, Gilgaroth, even though Gilgaroth was great and mighty, and his wrath was to be feared. Still, the new Dark Lord did not seem to begrudge his leaving in appreciation of his years of service, and Zog set up shop in Zothlaa. He built it into a raiding and slaving empire feared across the world.”

  The King swallowed. “And why are … acolytes of this being here … in my city?”

  “Because once it was theirs,” said Feren. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

  “There’s no call for that,” Baleron warned. He felt it his duty to defend the human king. Very human king, Baleron amended.

  “This city was once Suul, one of the great metropolises of the serpent-men, the creatures of Zog,”
Feren said. “They bring him souls to devour.”

  “The sacrifices,” Baleron nodded.

  “Yes,” said Feren. “Well, it appears Zog has bestirred himself, and has seen fit to pledge his alliance with Mogra and Gilgaroth, and pave the way for the return of his real Master, whom he reveres as an over-god. They all do.”

  “Zog must have sent some soldiers forth—small raiding parties that slipped ashore and sought out their old cities, there to infiltrate and eat from within,” said Baleron.

  “A vile plan,” said the King, his face chalk white. His lips trembled, but he made a fist at his side. “And one I cannot leave uncountered. I must rouse my army and take them down into the … darkness. We must eradicate the vermin from Yavlock.”

  Baleron nodded. “Yes, you must.”

  “You will find the bodies of my soldiers down there,” said Feren. “In the darkness. I want them preserved on ice, so that when we return—and we will—we can place them on a pyre and give them the proper rites. But for now, sadly, we must be on our way.”

  The King nodded. “Yes, yes. Your boats. You will have them. For bringing me this news, and for harming the enemy already on our behalf, taking great losses, we owe you much. We will furnish you our best boats and captains.”

  “We need no captains,” said Feren. “We know the water.”

  “Yes, of course.” The King’s gaze went from Elf to Elf to Elf, then back again. He seemed awed to be in the presence of three high-born Children of the Light. Their faces shone palely, and their eyes blazed with the forces of their personalities. “Then just take the boats.”

  “Thank you,” said Baleron.

  And so it was. Even as the King readied for war on the underworld beneath his city, Baleron’s company, after a night of rest and a hearty breakfast, set off to the river. Low gray boats were provided them, and they set off down the river as the sun mounded red over the hills to the east.

  Baleron felt well-rested, and his belly was satisfied by the meal. As the sun shone down on him, he couldn’t help but smile. He turned, only half conscious of it, to peer at Rolenya, and when he saw the dawn light stroking her beautiful face, with her eyes shining in joy at the sunrise, he felt his heart shudder. He jerked his gaze way, hoping she didn’t see.

  “Alarming thought, that Zog might be preparing for war,” Feren said.

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it,” Baleron said. “I just hope it’s still in the planning stages. The cult we found could be the only force he’s sent forth.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “No. I wish I did.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Feren.

  “I think it’s all too likely he’s sent out other forces, other cells of his cult, to other cities, maybe those with old tunnels under them. Places that used to belong to the Serpent. This was his old kingdom. That is a strange thought.”

  Feren half-smiled. “Yes indeed.”

  But all was not to go according to their wishes, for three days later, as they wended their way down the river, they saw that the river was becoming tangled with traffic, and that ahead rose the high towers of a great city.

  “It must be Erethon,” said Rolenya. “The great coastal city of the Ivaeronians.”

  Indeed, Baleron thought he could smell a salty tang. He had never seen the sea before, but he had heard that tang described vividly. Suddenly he longed to see the vast crushing expanse of the ocean for the first time. Would it truly live up to the legends? The company, stymied by the press of boats, pulled their own boats ashore and continued the quest afoot. Soon Elves in uniforms approached them. Feren explained who they were, and the soldiers of Erethon stiffened at attention.

  “What do you demand of us, my lord?” said the captain of the Elves.

  “Take us to your King,” said Feren. “Take us to Lord Glorion. We seek his aid for preparing a journey into the mountains to visit his siblings.”

  He didn’t mention the Swords of the Sun, and Baleron was glad he was wise enough to stay silent on the subject. Better to keep that between them, for now.

  The soldiers led them up a rise, then another, and at last the land dropped out below them, revealing the city. Baleron’s eyes lit up at the glorious domes and towers stretching to the sea, but then he saw the sea, which he had been looking forward to immensely, and his blood ran cold.

  For upon the bay stood the high black sails of the raiding ships of Zothlaa. Baleron knew them by the serpents depicted on their sails and the serpentine appearance of the ships themselves. Even from this distance he marked it.

  Baleron felt ill at the sight. Beside him Rolenya let out a gasp of dismay.

  “Can it be?” said Feren, sounding shocked.

  “It is the snake-men,” the Elves of Erethon confirmed, “if that is what you mean.”

  Baleron stared, feeling dread coil in his gut. “It’s the host of Zog. He has already launched his fleet into the war.”

  The fall of the Black Tower had wrought great ruin amongst the hosts of Oslog, Baleron knew. It had destroyed their greatest army, the army of their conquest, forcing them to withdraw their other armies in the field and adopt a more defensive posture, at least until their numbers could replenish. But the Shadow was not content to wait, and a new player had entered the game to offset their losses.

  The Black Tower, Baleron thought in despair. It might as well have remained standing. For he could see no hope for victory, not now that the Serpent had come.

  Epilogue

  Wind fluttered through Calendil’s hair, and he couldn’t help but smile as the familiar landscape unrolled before him, the great Eloath Mountains to the right and the broad forest and hills to his left. Behind him on his Swan flew the patrol-wing he was leading in a very routine sweep of the city’s perimeter.

  Only it did not feel routine. After everything that had happened—hells, Lorivanneth and the other victims of Tiron’s slaughter had only been put on the pyre yesterday—Calendil felt as though some great doom were approaching, something monstrous, waiting to be born into this world. Once, long ago, it had reigned over a nightmare empire that had threatened to devour Vatha. But back then there had been other Powers to oppose it, and at last, after much struggle and many deaths, they had driven Him from the confines of the world. But those Powers were gone now, cut off from the World that was Broken—broken by Vrul, warhammer of Gilgaroth, who had avenged his sire’s death with great destruction that had changed the very shape of the world.

  The Omkar could no longer directly oppose the Shadow. Men, Elves and Dwarves were on their own, Calendil knew. And if Baleron, Feren and Rolenya were unsuccessful in destroying the Black Altar … He shuddered to think what would happen.

  “My lord!” cried his second-in-command, pointing below.

  Shaken from his reverie, Calendil peered down to where the Elf was pointing, quickly seeing two forms picking their way through the forested foothills of the mountains. Currently they made their way beside the banks of a babbling stream, and one, a female, was bending low to scoop water in her cupped hands.

  The Elves could see the two travelers, but Calendil knew that the travelers could not see the Elves.

  “Do they mean to enter the city?” asked one of the Elves.

  “They are certainly making toward it,” Calendil said, frowning. “That cannot be allowed to pass. Wing, follow me down! Be on your guard!”

  He angled his Swan down, and the Riders followed him in a graceful but swift descent from the cloud-strewn heights where they had been flying. Calendil’s eyes watered from the pressure of the wind, and the ground approached him at a dizzy rate, but he did not slacken his pace until he was just above the treetops. Then he pulled back on the reins and leaned back. The Swan flattened out its descent, and Calendil motioned with his hands, giving silent instructions to the Riders behind him.

  The travelers below glanced up as Calendil and five Swan Riders set down on the grassy banks of the stream. The man jumped back and
clutched at his bow, then let his hands drop when he saw the Elven arrows aimed at his chest. Calendil, the only Elf of the landing party who had not drawn his weapon, slid down from the saddle and approached. Anger built in him, and shock.

  For the man was Tiron, slayer of Lorivanneth and eight others—that Calendil knew of. Omkar knew how many more he’d murdered since he left Ivenien.

  Calendil’s hand strayed to the pommel of his sword.

  Tiron saw the movement. Surprising Calendil, Tiron dropped to one knee and clasped his hands before him beseechingly. The woman’s eyes, which were slightly yellowish, were wide, and they went from Tiron to Calendil, then back again. Her face had gone rigid, and her fingers shook.

  “I throw myself on your mercy, Prince Calendil,” said Tiron.

  “Mercy?” said Calendil. “What mercy did you show my sister? Why should I not cut you down where you kneel in the dirt, you villain?”

  Now he did draw his blade, and it trembled in his hands. The rest of the patrol wing circled above, and arrows pointed down from them as well. Calendil admired the sunlight gleaming on his blade and imagine it cleaving through Tiron’s neck like warm butter. But that was not the Elvish way. The Elves did not execute people without a fair trial, and rarely even then. Alathon’s father was far more likely to exile Tiron than slay him.

  “Kill me if you must,” said Tiron, “but bear in mind that I did not return to your land idly. I well guessed that we would not be received warmly.”

  “Then you guessed correctly.”

  “But you have not guessed well if you think I come to you like a lamb to be slaughtered. Rather I should say, slay me if you must—honestly that would be a blessing—but take my sister into your safekeeping.” He gestured to the woman. She still looked frightened, but her brother’s words had lent strength to her, and she stood straighter, prouder. “She is Aria. My only living family.”

  “You slew my sister,” Calendil said. “Why should I harbor yours?”

  “I slew your sister, yes, but only to save mine. If you do not safeguard her, then Lorivanneth died in vain.”