Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  “His magic to mine. I can taste the air through which that thing passed.”

  Wolf gazed through the falling water, but did not question his companion. Foul meant bad. Bad meant caution.

  Arthur scanned the rooftops again. The men that had been on the roofs were two less than before and on one of the vacated roofs, a different wretch the size of a man peered over the edge. An ordinary traveler would not have detected the thing, but Arthur’s magic allowed him to probe. What he sensed nauseated him.

  The creature withdrew from Arthur’s sensing, but not before Arthur concluded that a new withering haunted Hellsgate, and that might be worse than the Necros that had once terrified the town.

  He urged Blade forward, with a slight tap of a bootheel to Blade’s right side. Carefully, he watched the hole as they passed, casting a warding spell over the opening to warn him should the creature try to slither out behind them.

  At the split in the road, they turned left down an alley, rode to the end and dismounted. Inserting Blade’s dentures, Arthur waited for Wolf to secure his horse. To Blade, Arthur said, “Wait.”

  Blade swished his tail and twitched an ear, knowing that “Keep an eye on things” had gone unsaid, but remained as a command.

  Without looking at the freshly painted sign, Arthur noted it, but pushed aside a dirty blanket that covered the entrance to the Dead Whore Tavern.

  Lieala had called for a meeting of the Council in Lubri. Twenty-seven of thirty-three archdruids had already arrived and the rest they expected within a day.

  “When we go into council, Joanie, you and Octavus must leave. You can wait near the river.”

  They had each brought a horse, and even if it had not been a consideration of Lieala’s years, the trip was long and the summer grew hot. Rains came each day, but that only made the air cling to them, not refresh them. Lieala handed her horse’s reins to Octavus. They had donned their armor and weapons for the journey.

  “Is there no chance we could attend?” Joanie asked. She had studied under Lieala’s scrupulous eye for most of her time in Britannia, but the lessons kept coming and her grandmother could be an ardent teacher.

  Lieala graced her granddaughter with a faint smile. “A council of druids is no place for armor and steel.”

  Daemon’s battle had not gone unnoticed by the other archdruids, and they had dispatched a bard to investigate the circumstance. He had been gone several months before returning with news that he wished to report.

  There was no precedent for such an occasion, but the archdruid who served as the bard’s mentor felt the news deserved the entire council’s attention. As such, Lieala called for the mandatory gathering to determine what, if anything, should be done. Already Daemon’s position had been filled, keeping their number a set of three, the true number for all.

  “How long do you think this will take?” Octavus queried. “Is this a matter of a few hours or a few days? I ask only so I know what camp to set.”

  Lieala looked toward a distant clearing where her contemporaries gathered, embraced, or sat chatting with one another. A full council had never been convened in her lifetime. Lieala imagined another might never come before her pass at the Wheel.

  “Set for a long stay,” she replied. “I will join you if I can. If I have not come within six days, return to Dry Bridge. I will be along.”

  “No,” Joanie replied. “We will wait as long as it takes.”

  “Joanie—.”

  Joanie shook her head. “I will not leave you to travel halfway across Britannia by yourself. You let Daemon,” and she paused, and then tried to back from the accusation.

  Lieala placed a hand on her arm. “You are much like him, you know.”

  “Grandfather?”

  Lieala’s eyes glistened. “Him too, but I meant your father. Go now child. I will come when this business is through.”

  Turning, she walked toward the clearing, leaving Joanie and Octavus to find themselves a place to settle in until she returned.

  Acrid smoke welcomed Arthur and Wolf as they entered the tavern. Even though the air inside of the Lusty Wench could wrack your lungs at times, the Dead Whore offered to claw them raw. Three dozen or so patrons sat scattered at squared, rough-sawn tables. The drone of chatter inhaled and then exhaled when steel did not brandish at their entry.

  Wolf gazed through the haze, letting the notion of the familiar room intertwine with his senses. Unlike his own tavern, the Dead Whore attracted a more seedy and dangerous patron than a score of mariners. At worst, one of his patrons might be hauled onto a ship for a decade or more of servitude, but at least lurkers might not slit your throat for the smallest of coins.

  “Looks about right,” he remarked to Arthur. “Same old place.”

  Arthur nodded toward the furthest corner where three men sat with a table between them. “Want to secure our reservation?”

  Arthur had once killed a drunken man for attempting to set him away from that same locale, but Wolf imagined that the table itself had changed many times since those years. Brawls were somewhat prevalent in Scralz’s tavern and as likely as not, she started most of them.

  He nodded affirmation to Arthur and weaved his way through the crowd while Arthur approached the bar.

  Arthur angled up to the bar between two coarse men. Although there were six wooden stools at the bar, and only two men, the strangers managed to spread out over four of the stools.

  One had not even a smidgeon of hair on his head or face, but wore a massive tattoo over every other visible patch of skin. His breath stunk of garlic, and if he had washed in the last year, or ever, Arthur might have been surprised.

  The man’s companion was just another handsome face with a massive burn scar on the left side, and an eye that had a large growth on the lid. The two of them gazed steadily at him as he stepped between them, unintimidated.

  He sent forth thin magic flow, scanning for threats. Danger painted every inch of the room which did not surprise him. Whether or not that danger might be aimed at him or Wolf, he could not discern.

  Behind the bar, Anthony had his back turned, dipping tin mugs into two open barrels, then turning the mugs upside down and sitting them on a shelf. Arthur had seen worse cleaning habits in prior visits.

  “Barkeep, where is that curmudgeon of yours?”

  With a bewildered expression, the strangers retreated from the bar and added distance between themselves and Arthur as Anthony straightened up without turning.

  Arthur looked over his shoulder at the retreating men. “Something frighten you?”

  They did not reply, but slid into the nearest seats, two tables between them and Arthur.

  “If you don’t smother that tongue before she comes out here, she will kick you and Wolf’s asses to Ploor and back,” Anthony replied. Arthur chuckled as Anthony turned to him and threw him a good-natured wink. “She is down in the root cellar.”

  “Rooting?” Arthur asked, not content with a simple opening barb. Scralz would think something wrong if he went easy.

  Anthony shook his head. “Don’t prod a half-troll, Arthur. I would think you would know that by now. She is in an unpleasant mood as always.”

  On the last word, the curtain between the bar area and the backroom swished aside. Scralz tromped through the raggedy curtains with arms full of crocks. What might be in them, Arthur did not bother to guess.

  Upon seeing him, Scralz frowned and squinted. Half troll and half human, her features could intimidate an upright man, warts with hair, scars, a nose that might have been broken a dozen different ways. Her hulkish frame dwarfed the crocks she carried.

  “Well, what the hell did I tell you about leaving the door open?” she grated at Anthony who held up his hand to ward off her abrasive words. “Anything can get in here, including this sludge bucket.”

  She placed the crocks, rounded the bar, and slapped Arthur on the back. Some men might have suffered broken bones from such a resounding smack, but Arthur took the affection
in stride. “Where is that sheep-loving, bunghole, barkeep of a friend of yours?”

  She peered out into the smoke as Arthur pointed toward his corner. Wolf had leaned down on the table on both hands and commenced a discussion she could not hear that involved pointing at Arthur, wide, alarm-filled eyes and a final pull of the thumb across his throat. At first, the men glared, but with the thumb threat, one chanced a glance toward the bar, nudged his comrades, and the three of them clambered up and relocated to another table.

  “You two are bad for business,” she protested. Arthur shrugged, not raising a defense.

  “I should have made Wolf the propaganda minister when I was in Rome. I could have avoided a war or two with his tales floating on the air. You still serve drinks here or just meanness?”

  “Meanness, mostly,” she answered. To Anthony she ordered, “Set them up. Good stuff only.”

  She picked up one of the crocks and proceeded to go back behind the bar when Arthur said, “The good stuff tastes like piss. It always has, even in the early days.”

  Scralz puckered up her lips and nodded to Anthony, “Fine. Anthony, the stuff we save for ourselves. This will cost you, Bornshire. Keep it up and it will cost you a broken face.”

  Anthony had already drawn the flask in anticipation that the two old friends would reach the same resolution.

  “Join us at the table?” Arthur asked.

  Scralz looked at him suspiciously. “You two hard up for a real woman?”

  “Women? I don’t think Shanay would like that much.”

  “Well, let’s not get her riled up,” Scralz chuckled, though it sounded like a growl. “Where is she?”

  “At home. If she were here, she would probably help you throw us out of this pigsty if just to keep us from catching some disease.”

  Scralz rolled her eyes and showed Arthur a ham-sized fist. “You are aching for a beating.”

  Arthur winked at her and replied, “We will be over there when you have the time.”

  As she nagged Anthony about a horde of issues in the root cellar, Arthur passed through the crowd where Wolf waited. No one looked directly his way, though many watched.

  An hour or so passed in the tavern before Scralz could carve her way free to sit and chat. She had not expected them and running multiple enterprises within Hellsgate kept her time nailed tightly. The root cellar needed tending to lay in crops from a few local farmers, the harvest nearly over. After that, Anthony assessed his latest enterprise, arranging for quiet coming and going. She assumed the bar itself. Luckily, the night maintained its infancy and her usual patrons did not yet require a firm thrashing.

  She suspected that most of her customers wondered who the two new strangers were and what their business and acquaintance might be with Scralz. Those patrons who knew Arthur or Wolf or both, might hover in the bar all night, hoping to glean what precarious adventure the two of them might be on, not so they could assist, but so that they may profit. A pair of Downs’s representatives occupied the opposite corner and had spent the evening not looking at Arthur or Wolf. That could only mean they wanted to remain unnoticed, but their lackadaisical attitude only served to draw attention.

  Their names were Detur and Morm. A pair of assassins, Scralz had used their scouting services for several errands. They proved reliable, though their allegiance to the Downs made their loyalty sketchy. That came with the trade. Twice she had used them as guards for low-priority deliveries outside of Hellsgate. Even so, she wanted to be sure that someone else had not contracted them.

  Detur, nearly six feet tall, had lived in the Downs since the day it was rebuilt. Morm was half a foot shorter and Scralz had found the woman to be the brains while Detur carried the brawn.

  Although she knew the advertised word, Scralz had not ascertained if they were husband and wife or brother and sister, but in Hellsgate, it could be either or both.

  Scralz eased to their table. “How about a round?”

  Detur looked at Scralz questioningly. Morm patted her hand on the table. “Sit.”

  Scralz pulled up a chair and sat close to their table though the furniture complained. It always complained. Her bones were heavier than a human’s was, so she had grown used to it.

  Scralz laid her gaze on Morm. “So?”

  Morm took her meaning. One had to be careful in the Dead Whore. Ears tended to permeate most every inch of the place. “Is there profit?”

  Scralz scanned the room, taking into mind who lurked within her walls and then glanced at Wolf and Arthur. Arthur caught her eye as she did. He had a habit of knowing when eyes were upon him and when they might be on him. He lowered his head, picked his mug up, held it without drinking, and then rested it on the table.

  “There might be an opportunity. There are certainly coins to be had for sewn lips—or maybe for sewing them.”

  “Understood,” Morm replied, picking up her drink and tipping it back so that the conversation ended.

  Scralz left her seat and traveled the room to sit with Arthur and Wolf. Though she suspected their trip to be more than casual, she would be satisfied if Wolf and Arthur brought work to town. She had a couple of agents to add to their ranks and more than her share of problems.

  The question remained, however, could her agents be trusted with someone she felt a tie to, like Arthur and Wolf?

  Their fact selling had yielded several good tips, but with each piece of knowledge came a debt of a few missing fingers, or in one case a missing arm to those who gave up the stories. Wounded informants could become vengeful later, and Scralz rathered not have that due come calling.

  She pulled two chairs together this time, expecting that the conversation would take more than a word or two. Together, the chairs put forth their best effort and hardly whined.

  “You are a sight for my one good eye,” Scralz said. She wiped her face with a filthy rag, creating a streaking across her gray skin that she did not notice until she wiped her arm. She had lost her other eye when the Apostle Paul had tortured her for information.

  “You look as dazzling as ever,” Wolf replied and handed her his most charming grin.

  “That crap don’t work on me, so don’t give me none of that,” Scralz replied, pointing a gnarled finger at Wolf. “I’ve seen it since you were a boy. It ain’t never been no good.”

  “Since I was a boy?” Wolf laughed, allowing the mirth to sparkle his eyes. He winked at her and continued, “I am still a boy at heart!”

  “Bah!” Scralz replied. “I’ve seen better looking things in an unclean horse stall. How is Elizabeth?”

  “Fine. She is managing the Lusty Wench while I am gone.”

  Scralz screwed up her face. “A miracle, considering who raised her. I heard of some nasty business down your way not long ago. It true?” Arthur nodded, but Scralz took in the acknowledgement and kept her questioning to Wolf. “You left that girl in charge of that—.”

  Wolf interjected, “She is hardly a girl anymore. She can handle herself. She had a good teacher.”

  Scralz sat back in her chair thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose that is good then. If you get killed, at least the tavern business will start to flourish again in Ploor. I heard you have pretty much wrecked it!”

  Arthur laughed at Wolf’s attempted look of astonishment.

  “Heard the carpentry business ain’t doing so bad either,” she added and it was Arthur’s turn to look surprised.

  “Is there anything you don’t hear?” Arthur asked, attempting to sound wounded.

  Putting her rag and her hand on her leg she replied, “I make a living talking to drunks. I tried that soldier gig with you once. It cost me an eye.” Arthur tipped his cup to her, as did Wolf. “So, what brings you boys to town?”

  “Maybe this should wait until morning,” Arthur replied, quietly. “But I do have a question.” He related what they had seen in the street.

  Scralz bowed her head just slightly and rubbed her empty eye socket with a thick finger. “Yeah. We call them Alone
s and Snipes. Started about a month ago. Thought at first that it might be an isolated thing. There are things around, you know, they happen once and that is all you see. Not this new stuff. Seems to be getting more dangerous to be on the street at night. The Snipes can hide most anywhere, especially when it is raining like tonight. As for the Alones, they move on the rooftops. Even in the Downs, the watchers have paired up. Haven’t managed to capture either kind yet, or even kill one. They seem to sense when someone’s alone or not. At least that is what we suppose. No one seen them do any harm, but they are frightful and a dozen of my regulars have gone missing after leaving here before dawn strikes the Way.”

  “Grift?”

  “Unlikely,” Scralz replied. “Could have been, but the last one—well, we found his knife in the street. Other than that, no clues.”

  Elsa was a whore. At the age of fourteen, she had been a whore for as long as she could remember. Oh, there were slight glimpses now and then between the sweaty grunting of her customers when she saw her mother’s face or heard her father’s voice. Those flits, however, were like snips of faded cloth, tattered on the edges and all the color run out.

  Men demanded her frequently because of her golden hair, green eyes, youthful body and an innocent, unmarred face, but in her head, Elsa felt the weight of a drawn out lifetime.

  She felt old. She felt repulsive.

  Her employer cared little for her welfare, however, and fed her to the customers like starving dogs and fresh meat. Coins flowed, but few to Elsa. Customers came and went, but Elsa remained trapped inside her nightmare.

  The madam of the Haunted Virgin was not the owner of the establishment, a name quite maddening to Elsa. One could never find a virgin in a brothel.

  Who might actually take the gold and silver given for the whores of the Haunted Virgin, Elsa had never heard. For their services, the women received food, meager housing, and were provided the gaudy clothes they wore. Coins never made their way to them. Someone else profited, but at least she did not starve nor freeze to death in the winter.