Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  That had been the end of their conversation on that topic. He had received much the same information from Shanay and Wolf, though some of the apprentices and journeymen said all of that was but hogwash. Druids loved trees and had sex with animals. They sacrificed virgins and danced around naked. Adam doubted all of that since none of them had ever left the borders of Ploor. As for the One God, most outside of his immediate group said either the One God should leave the world alone, or that he did not exist, or that perhaps he should be called a Blood God.

  “His angels’ wings are drenched in blood,” one journeyman had told him. “I read things at the temple once. The priests will tell you that if you irritate their God, he will kill you. Send a plague on you, murder your family.”

  To Adam, God remained an obscurity.

  A twang snapped him out of his reverie and he looked toward Shanay. She had left her position and crept toward the creek. He had let his concentration wane and already she had shot some game.

  As he reached the creek, she held up a red fox with a smile.

  “Not a deer, but at least a start,” she said. Adam grinned, pushing away his contemplation for the task at hand. “Hang it here in the tree. Let us see if we can attract something larger.”

  They waited for two hours, but as the sun nearly reached the top of the sky, nothing had come.

  They took down their prize and moved further into the woods, reaching a ridgeline. As they did, they heard a rustle in the bushes and they both took a knee and drew their weapons, waiting for whatever large animal was about to exit. They did not have to linger for long.

  Twenty paces from them, a shaggy brown bear exited the brush, came out into the clearing and stood up on his hind legs, sniffing the air.

  “He smells the fox blood,” Adam whispered. “Stay still. A single arrow cannot bring him down.”

  He evaluated their situation. They could throw the fox down and run, but chances were the bear would chase them and come back for the fox. They could run quickly, but the bear could run for longer. Shanay’s smaller frame, the bear might decide he would rather catch her than Adam. That could not happen.

  He had seen bear during different hunts, but he had never been carrying a kill and had easily passed around them. Bears could climb trees, at least through the lower branches, and maybe at least as high the two of them could capably climb.

  Shanay nodded, her flaming hair having fallen a bit forward where he could not see her eyes. She held her arrow sighted and to her credit, even with the long draw and hold of the arrow, her arm did not weaken. His admiration for her already heaped much trust, but that single ability magnified that. Most men he had known in the Ringed Hills could not do such a thing.

  The bear dropped down on his front paws and continued to sniff, twitching his large reddish brown nose. The bear weighed more than the two of them added together.

  He had no desire to kill the bear. You could not eat them. They would make you sick if not properly cooked. The work was not worth the effort. There were better meats to be found in the forest. Slowly, he reached over to Shanay, took the fox, and laid it at their feet.

  “Back out slowly,” he whispered. Again, she nodded. Lifting from their long-held crouch position, they backed away as the bear slowly shambled toward the fox. Once the bear moved forward, they stepped left and ducked into a thicket, continuing on their way through the forest in search of a better kill.

  Arthur found himself standing in the middle of a town much like Hellsgate. At first, he believed the place was Hellsgate, but as the scenery elucidated its final form, only two buildings existed. Twelve dusty roads led away from the two buildings, each road into a different desert.

  The perfect number.

  Twelve was the perfect number. The Word mentioned it often, but Arthur pushed his idle musing aside. He had no memory of how he had arrived in this place and that mystery needed to be solved before he chose his path out of town.

  The pair of buildings sat side-by-side with no room for a man to walk between them, but the two could be no more different.

  The building to his right loomed wide and high. Stitched to its front, a broad porch swept the front where numerous men jumped onto and back off the broad boards, going nowhere. Some of the men laughed. Some wept. Four horses were tied to the center post of seven, horses that he recognized, though for the moment, he could not recall why. The structure had no windows and only a single door.

  A man that Arthur had not seen on the road the instant before walked onto the porch, longingly gazed at the door, then opened it and stepped through. Beyond that opening, Arthur discerned nothing that would give him a hint as to the establishment’s business.

  Straightness anchored every board. The corners dovetailed perfectly. The paint lay against the exterior as smooth as polished stone. As if it had been built just that day, it reeked of recentness.

  The advertisement said, “The Long Night Lodge.”

  Next to the words, someone had finely drawn an open grave. Morbid humor for a hostel, but he had frequented roadhouses that looked worse.

  To the left of the first building rested the second, not so much standing, but looking as though the walls struggled to resist the urge to tumble over. With a wry expression, he wondered if someone else had learned their skills at construction from the same teacher as himself.

  No fresh paint here. The boards were weathered, sealed shut against the elements by their swollen pores. The ramshackle edifice tilted indiscriminately as though the concept of square held no meaning in this town. Like its sibling, this place too had a placard, a simple wooden cross and the words, “Slaughtered Lamb” written in blood. From the looks of the sign, however, whoever had lettered the advertisement had finger-painted. The letters were not crimson, but the dull rusted hue that dry blood assumed.

  Arthur had seen enough inexplicable things in his life to know that wherever he had ended up, or however he had come to be in this place, before him lay a choice.

  He lowered his hand to his belt, but his sword was gone. All of his weapons had been taken, even the hidden ones. Instead of armor, he wore simple cloth, britches, a shirt, and soft shoes.

  I was naked and you clothed me.

  Truth be told, he felt naked.

  He extended his thoughts to probe the buildings with thin magic, but this place did not allow the concept. Wearing vulnerability beneath his uncustomary attire, he contemplated the circumstance. Inhaling slowly and then purposely exhaling through his nose, he made his choice and stepped forward into the Slaughtered Lamb.

  He expected a tavern, but there was no bar, no smoke, no low murmur of misdeeds. There were no patrons except for one. That patron sat at a singular rough sawn table. At that table was one vacant chair opposite the man.

  “Come,” he said, though he did not say it. His eyes did. He had a kind face with a narrow chin and deep eyes that wielded firmness that warned Arthur not to tempt fate in this place.

  He took the vacant chair and returned the man’s gaze, his skin suddenly alive with a colony of ants. He knew the man.

  “They murdered you,” Arthur said. His vulnerability constricted the muscles in his chest.

  The man smiled without showing his teeth, but Arthur knew the kind mirth. The man had not aged a single day. Truth gilded him like armor. He folded his hands on the table in front of him. On the backs of his wrists, large oval scars marred his perfect skin. Nails the length of an average man’s forearm had been driven through those wrists the day he died.

  Arthur had not been there. He had been engaged in a battle for Rome in a faraway place. He had destroyed the empire that butchered this man.

  “They flogged you. Nailed you to a cross. They crucified you.”

  “They did.”

  “Yet, here you sit?”

  “Do I?”

  The question did not surprise Arthur. Jesus had always spoken in riddles and allegory. He made you contemplate each syllable. Every sentence held layers of meaning. A se
emingly straightforward sentence could lead you to hell and back.

  “Why did you let them kill you?”

  “My work was complete.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I know.”

  Arthur swallowed, wishing he had at least a drink of water to clear his throat. One immediately came into existence on the table in a clear mug, the liquid inside as pure as any mountain brook. Arthur drank and then asked, “Am I dead?”

  “You have not completed a work. You have begun one. If you had chosen what looked to be the right path, you would have passed on and that would have been my Father’s will, but no, you are not dead just yet. You will awaken shortly.”

  “Where are we?” Arthur asked.

  “Is that important?”

  “I guess not.” A pause, then, “I have questions.”

  “I have eternity. Ask what you will. We speak often, but you hear me less than you talk.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow, feeling lightly chastised.

  “Why did you let your Apostles kill Cleola?”

  “My Apostles? Did I?”

  “It seems that way. If you are who you say, you could have stopped Paul. You could have cast him out before you died. Surely you knew.”

  “I am who I say. As for Cleola, should I have stopped you from avenging your mother when the Roman raped her? You killed him when you were but a boy. You murdered him in cold blood, though that was before you knew me.”

  “That was my election.”

  “You exercised free will. That is the confidence of our relationship, you and I. Cane slew Abel. Eve chose the apple.”

  “A litany of poor choices.”

  “True, but taking away free will—what reason would there be for me if your thoughts were slow as stone and as directed as a leaf in the wind? Besides, there have been as many good decisions. Would you have known Shanay had Cleola not died? Would you have taken Adam as your son?”

  Arthur considered that. He had pondered the probable. That conundrum led him nowhere. Sitting here in this place with one who held all answers, Arthur realized he had never known the meaningful questions. Even when he considered—

  “The Father never forsook you. When you turned away, He led you back, as He leads you now. Free will to make bad decisions does not mean ‘one chance’, Arthur.”

  Arthur leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “What do you want from me? I cannot save the world. I am just one man.”

  “Not just one man. Besides, it is not your responsibility to save the world. I already did that. Those who choose me will not perish, though some carry themselves beyond redemption. Let your conscience guide you. My Father speaks to you in many ways, as do I. Circumstance, conscience, people who cross your path. The methods are as varied as His stars. Trust your judgment.”

  “And if I am wrong?”

  He felt a mental shrug.

  “When you stand in front of my Father to be judged, I will stand with you. You are blessed whether you believe that or not. Be who you are. In your darkest hours, you sometimes wander from that and it brings you pain. You believe your greatest offering is your sword, and you wield it for the right purpose, I tell you. But your greatest gift is your courage to love.”

  Before good sense could stop him, Arthur replied, “My sword and love do not exactly complement one another.”

  The responding expression looked much like the same that Shanay used on him when she wanted to gently scold him, but pound his brain with a lesson.

  “Love is more than a kiss, Arthur. You risk your life for those who need protection, like Adam. Because you love them.”

  “He is a special circumstance.”

  “Like Shanay.”

  Arthur clung to the discussion that felt like an argument he could not win. Frankly, he was unsure as to why he felt like arguing.

  “Like Wolf, Rumbar, Tucker. Shall I name them all? Would you risk your life to protect a woman you did not know from being raped?”

  “Of course,” Arthur replied.

  “Then, stop doubting yourself. You remind me of Thomas.”

  Arthur had known Thomas. Thomas second-guessed himself more than anyone Arthur had ever known. Arthur’s questions suddenly seemed trivial. Still, he asked, “Is my father with you?”

  “I came to save the world.”

  The room blurred its edges. The discussion had concluded and Arthur felt a moment of regret that he had wasted his time in ignorant questions. The table, the chairs and the man twinkled away to only white.

  Arthur floated with his thoughts adrift until the smell of cooked meat awakened him.

  The forest held ancient trees of white and black bark, bigger than any five men could see around. Their arms stretched high into the sky and spread into a brilliant green canopy. The path that lay before Arthur was well trod, though not bereft of small stones and a tree root from time-to-time. The air was clear and crisp, even though the brightness of the forest and the greenery that filtered it indicated summer. Arthur had been walking for a good and long time before he realized that he did not know exactly where he might be. That apparent lack of knowledge came to him as he rounded a corner and onto the edge of a lustrous field of golden wheat as high as a man’s waist.

  In the distance a giant wheel turned, slowly, persistently, like the sun slipping across a vagrant sky. Standing a few steps away, apparently evaluating the great wheel, stood a man. Arthur approached him with questions in his mind, but none as great as the question that rallied forth when he saw the man was his father.

  “Arthur. What are you doing here?”

  Arthur did not know. Daemon looked young again, young as when Arthur had left for the legions of Rome to vindicate his mother. “I was in Hellsgate—”

  After that, he felt unsure.

  Daemon nodded and his composure remained placid. “I can tell by looking at you that you have not passed from life, but this is the place of the Wheel. I will return to it when your mother arrives here.”

  “I hope that is not soon.”

  Daemon smiled mildly and shrugged. “I am not one to say. Time has little meaning here. Have you used the gifts I gave you?”

  Arthur glanced toward the Wheel and back to his father. “What gifts?”

  Yet, it was too late to ask.

  Arthur had been in the Downs with the healer for a second full day when Wolf decided that Blade should go to the livery. The Alones and Snipes had already shown that they were dangerous, and if anything happened to Blade, Arthur would never forgive him. They would feed Blade at the livery and his growing habit of drinking ale from Anthony’s bucket and haunting the back of the alley simply had to stop.

  “For god’s sake, quit biting!” Wolf complained, still only halfway to the livery. Already his shirt had stained red from two ferocious bites from Blade’s steel teeth. Arthur had left them there the night he and Wolf had gone into the tavern so that Blade could protect himself from what might come, but Wolf did not begin to assume he could put his hand in the mighty stallion’s mouth to remove them. He liked his fingers well enough not to allow Blade to have them for a meal.

  He looked at his shirt where two more wounds welled bloodstains through the sleeve on his left shoulder. At least Blade had not targeted Wolf’s sword arm. Frustrated, Wolf stopped and stared at Blade, pointing a finger.

  “Look, you can’t keep doing this. At this rate, I’ll bleed to death before I even get you settled in. Unlike you, I am probably not going to pop back from the dead if you bleed me out, and Arthur’s return is still a bit iffy. We’re all on edge. Give me a break. I’m just trying to get you fed!”

  He threw Blade’s reins back up over the saddle and started to walk away, but Blade was having none of it. With his mountainous head, he shoved Wolf as he passed by, nearly pushing him down.

  That resulted in a round of cussing from Wolf, and if Blade could actually talk, they may have come to blows. Still, Wolf recovered and tried again to head back toward the tavern.
“Find your own goddamned way to the livery. See if I give a damn.”

  Blade took a step toward him and shoved him again, corralling Wolf in a singular direction. Wolf figured Blade had set his mind on returning to the Downs to fetch Arthur. That would never do. They would both end up dead, or worse.

  “You’re as ornery as your rider. You know that, right? We can’t go in there. They will bring Arthur out if and when he recovers. Scralz assured me he is protected. She checks every day.”

  Blade shoved him again and then a fourth time, shaving layer after layer of Wolf’s patience down to the bare bones of his politeness. By that time, they were half way across Pagan’s Way. The vendors had resumed their daily business, having taken only a single day off to stay clear of the encounter Wolf, Arthur, and Scralz had met in the street. Now, however, they stopped to watch a legendary stallion, and Arthur’s equally renowned comrade, resume their test of wills.

  Wolf took a moment, refusing to take another step until he figured out what the big horse wanted. He knew they could not go into the Downs, and the last two shoves had not pressed Wolf in that direction, but more across the street.

  Wolf took in the buildings. The baker shop—not a good time of day to be buying bread. What other vendors—

  An idea struck him. “The Haunted Virgin?”

  Blade puffed and Wolf took that to be an affirmative.

  “I don’t need one of those, thank you,” and he started to walk away, but Blade blocked his path. Again, Wolf stopped walking and regarded the midnight stallion. He remembered their discussion with Scralz the night before concerning the labyrinth that once held the Necros. “You want me to follow-up on the Snipes?”

  Now it was Blade’s turn to be animated. He nodded his head up and down, stepped forward, careful not to stomp Wolf’s foot and put his nose into Wolf’s hand, his soft snout nuzzling Wolf’s palm. Wolf nearly felt the charm of the moment until Blade spat the dripping metal dentures into Wolf’s hand.

  “Geez,” he said, “Thanks—I think.”

  Shaking the horse’s saliva off the dentures, he strolled across the street toward the Haunted Virgin. Morm and Detur sat on the porch in front of it. The last time he had seen them, they had come out of the shadows of the Downs to help Scralz and Arthur navigate their way to the healer without interference. Morm had put a hand on Wolf’s chest and told him flatly that he was not invited.