Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  “We will kill them. Just not this trip. We need to find where they nest. How many there are. How big the threat. You saw the Snipe that Bornshire brought in here. If those things gain a strong foothold in Hellsgate, a lot of people will die. We have yet to catch an Alone. We have yet to be able to examine one. They may be even worse.”

  Goldslay pursed his lips as if he tasted Anthony’s words. If he did, he did not like the cuisine. “We know they’ve killed maybe half a dozen people already. If there is only three or four of them, I say we just kill’em and be done with it. What say you all?”

  Anthony crossed his arms over his chest while Wolf simply put his head in his hands and tried to will away the headache.

  “First of all, this isn’t a democracy. You know that. I understand you want to wet your sword, bust some Snipe skulls, and bring back a necklace full of those teeth.”

  A rousing cheer shook the room from the Templars.

  “But—” Silence. Anthony continued. “The labyrinth has its own dangers. We cannot get half of you lost down there. Each of us is too valuable to waste. Does anyone disagree with that? If you do, you can stay back and guard the civilians.”

  Grumbling ran around, but soldiers grumbled. It was one of the things they did best. After a few moments, Anthony sat down and Wolf stood back up. “You all know me. Some of you have fought in battles alongside me. Whatever these things are, they are not natural. We want to find out what we can and get out. After that, we kill the source. Killing them by the ones would be ludicrous. We do not know where they are. We do not know how many. We know the Snipes, at least, will kill you the moment they sense an opportunity, but they are not too keen on trying to take on even two people. So, follow me in this and believe me when I tell you that once the fighting starts there will be plenty of bloodshed for everyone.”

  He hoped that satisfied the Templars. Wolf understood their impatience. The entire Templar garrison had relocated to private quarters in Ploor. These men had been left behind, and as of yet, they lived in less than divine quarters in a town that prided itself on squalor. “In the morning then—break of dawn—meet in front of the Haunted Virgin. We will have the torches. We go in. Get what we need. Get out.”

  Mrandor sat on a stone bench outside of Nerva’s private quarters and grew impatient, waiting for Nerva to call the city together for his next proclamation. Despite his aggravation in his role as Sabinus, he feigned the opposite. He must do so to ensure the bond between Nerva and himself resilient. A time would come when Nerva felt mounting pressure from the residents of Overlord City, and Nerva must decide that Sabinus was at his beck and call for counsel. Otherwise, Nerva may confide his concerns to someone else, and that was the last thing that Mrandor wanted. To the contrary, Nerva must trust him, must confide in his friendship with Sabinus if Mrandor wanted to truly control the city through his stooge.

  The great gilded doors opened slowly and four guards marched in stiff formation, led by a fifth man. Behind them, a brightly decorated litter held the governor, suspended above all others by four servants. The litter had two straight poles and a canvas floor with a curtain cowling all around. Upon it sat a makeshift throne and upon that sat Nerva. He had darkened his eyebrows with paint and he wore a pointed triangular hat that sparkled with gold trimmings and a silver undercoat.

  Mrandor thought the governor had perhaps smoked far too much opium, for he looked quite a popinjay. Still, Sabinus would never say so, so he nodded his head in mock subjugation and said, “Governor, you look spectacular.”

  “Halt!” Nerva called and then the lead guard called the same before the servants came to a stop. The guard then yelled, “Set!”

  The servants placed the litter on its hidden feet. Quite entertaining.

  “Ah, Sabinus, my friend, I am glad you have returned,” Nerva said, having remained in his seat looking quite satisfied with his pompousness.

  “As soon as I could,” Mrandor lied. Mrandor had always had a personal guard, but none of these men was familiar. “I see you have new recruits.”

  “Not new,” Nerva replied. “Younger, braver, loyal. This is my new Captain of the Guard. His name is uh—Raliax. Yes, that is his name!”

  The guard that had led the men forward bowed deeply, if somewhat stiffly, to Mrandor and said, “At your service.”

  Absentmindedly, Nerva waved his hand loosely, “and his men.”

  If Raliax held the opinion that his men needed to be introduced separately, he certainly did not show it. Nerva picked a piece of lint off of his bright blue robe and for all the world acted as though he had no concept of what he was about to do.

  “Governor, the people await below,” Mrandor reminded. “Your announcement was to occur an hour ago.”

  Looking surprised, Nerva said, “Yes, yes! Of course! The judges have returned to the court. I spent more time examining their cases to ensure the law is carried out as prescribed. Our progress for improving court services goes quite well, you know. Hardly a single civil complaint in weeks. You showed great wisdom in that regard. Quite so.”

  Mrandor scratched a smile onto his lips. “Well done. You have matters in hand.”

  “Why yes I do. So, tell me of this new proclamation I make this afternoon.”

  Mrandor handed a scroll to Nerva. “You need only read it to the citizens. The terms are self-explanatory. There certainly is no need for you to pore over such straightforward legislation. That is what you have me for. Now that Raliax commands the army—”

  “Wait. I never said that.”

  Mrandor raised an eyebrow. “You said he was the Captain of the Guard.”

  “Did I? Why, I suppose I did. Yes, yes, I did.”

  “Then you evidently trust him with your life. Why would he not command the army?”

  Nerva blinked several times, his stupidity oozing off him. Mrandor wished no more than to strangle the swollen bastard until his eyes popped from his head. How dare he assign anyone to command the army without conferring with Sabinus?

  “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Oh,” Mrandor said, striding up to within an inch of Raliax and examining him closely. “Soldier, do you love your governor?”

  Raliax’s face reddened. That reaction told Mrandor the man could be molded. He would have preferred to put one of his own men in charge of the army, but this particular stupidity on Nerva’s part could play well with the citizens when Nerva’s time in office drew to a violent end. Raliax had been chosen by Nerva, not Sabinus.

  “I will guard him with my life.”

  Mrandor turned his attention to Nerva and walked back toward the litter, stopping briefly to examine the other four men. They were young, healthy, and no doubt inexperienced.

  “Governor, you have chosen the man you feel most loyal. Who else could command your army better?”

  Nerva pulled himself up, tying his ignorance together as if handing it to Mrandor were a present. “Yes, I was thinking that. I am glad you agree.”

  “Then we are aligned,” Mrandor replied and handed the bound scroll to Nerva. “The people await you and this momentous day. Today, Overlord City climbs from the ashes. Your name will be spoken much in the decades to come, and perhaps forever. Do your duty. I am here to serve.”

  Nerva took the document from Mrandor and ordered, “Rise!”

  “Rise!” Raliax parroted. The servants lifted the litter rather unchoreographed, but still they managed not to drop Nerva on his head.

  “Forward!” Raliax called, and as a group, they marched.

  Mrandor watched them pass him by a dozen steps, allowing the disgust in his eyes to scrape their backs before he followed. A cornerstone for the new Overlord City would be laid, but Nerva would not live long enough to see the fruits of his ignorance.

  Octavus steadied Joanie on her feet, and then ran as fast as he could toward the mangled forest and the druids who had assembled within.

  What could have happened?

  Had they called forth some curs
e that had gone awry?

  How could that happen with so many archdruids assembled?

  What Octavus knew of druids and magic was only the tiny bit he had gathered from family conversations with Lieala and Joanie. He was not a druid, and had he not seen magic in his wife and in Arthur, he would have stated emphatically that magic, like monsters was a child’s tale. He had been wrong on both accounts.

  Still, he pumped his legs as hard as he could, the rushing wind in his ears nearly overcoming the high-pitched whine that still clung to the inside of his ears. Once, he looked over his shoulder, saw Joanie not far behind, but nearly tripping over a shattered branch, he resisted to do so twice. As he reached the edge of the ring of trees, the damage settled, nailed the decimation before him to his memory for all time.

  He climbed through the scrambled tangle of broken trunks, twisted limbs, and snapped stumps. A few of the majestic oaks had exposed their roots, leaving a dangerous obstacle course over which Octavus forced himself to climb. Carefully, he picked his way through until he reached a bald spot, but not the druid’s circle.

  He looked back over his shoulder to see Joanie maneuvering through the same path he had taken.

  “Be careful,” he shouted, knowing that she would, but that her grandmother’s condition would be foremost in her mind. That said, he continued until at last he reached the center of the detonation.

  The circle was flat, not burned, simply flattened. The decimation had not chosen a particular direction, for on the far side of the circle, the trees lay smashed to the ground for many yards, but beyond the devastation, the rest of the forest stood, looking ominous, ready to march forward to defend their fallen brothers. Trees, however, did not march. They did not seek revenge like he.

  Clouds had gathered in the brief time since his run, and he watched them warily, unsure whether whatever had caused this, had not returned to strike another blow.

  Then, he heard the cries, the calls, and words in an ancient language that spoke to him of fear and confusion, though that language was not one that Octavus had learned in his life in the Legion.

  The first body he came to lay mostly infused into the side of a snapped stump. As though the bones had been stripped from his being, the unrecognizable man oozed like stiff gravy when Octavus attempted to lay him down.

  “He’s dead,” Joanie said as she entered the clearing behind him. Her face bled from scratches she received climbing through the ocean of fallen trees. She continued past to the next body.

  “This one is alive!” she called and those words gave Octavus hope that Lieala might be. Even if she were, they would not leave a survivor to die of his wounds while they searched for her. The druid’s right arm twisted like a spiral cane and one foot sat backward on his leg. He bled from his ears, nose and mouth, and his eyes had already started to swell.

  “Lie still,” Joanie ordered, and closed her eyes, reaching into the earth mother for the energy to steady the man’s condition. His pain lightened after but a few moments.

  “Go,” the archdruid whispered. “I am finished. Tend the others.”

  Taking his command as a charge, Joanie moved on again. Three more were found already expired before they reached Lieala, splayed upon the ground. Ashen, her face told a horror story. Her eyes held the focus in a far distance, her bloody lips grim. Bubbles formed in the froth at the edges, but she still breathed as Joanie and Octavus reached her side.

  “Lieala,” Octavus called softly.

  Joanie quickly took inventory around the area. “The center was right here on this stone next to her.”

  A soft pair of boots still stood ridiculously positioned at that spot, but the feet were still in them. Nothing else of who had stood there remained nearby.

  “Lieala,” Octavus said again, afraid to move her. Blood oozed bright red from her ears and nose. It would suffocate her if he did not clear an air passage. Still, she did not look at them, nor did the horror liberate her face.

  Joanie placed her hand on her grandmother’s chest and forgot trying to listen. The ringing in her ears subsided, but feeling breath and heartbeat remained the easiest way for her to determine how close to death her grandmother might be. She closed her eyes, and as she did so, ordered Octavus to see what other survivors remained in the circle.

  Nodding his agreement, he moved past the disembodied feet to the next stone. Joanie bent to her grandmother, closed her eyes and called her name softly.

  Chapter 14

  From the moment they ripped the first boards from the floor of the Haunted Virgin, Wolf felt uneasiness settle in about him that felt foreign. He considered that. He had faced hellacious adversaries and frightening situations that would have driven most men mad. He had fought battles by Arthur’s side. He had even fought one skirmish against Arthur. He had been imprisoned, destined to become a gladiator. He had clashed with trolls, hellhounds and sorcerers. That he suddenly doubted his forward plan did not unsettle him. He had held many misgivings of decisions, some his and some not, but he still woke every morning without seeing a coffin lid above him or dirt in his face. This trip, however, reminded him much of when he had entered Lucifer’s lair.

  The boards came away and directly below a dug entrance allowed access to the original Necros’ labyrinth.

  A Templar with whom Wolf was not familiar lay down on the floor, peered into the gloom and then put his torch inside, and waved it around so all of them could see.

  “That the entrance?”

  “Yes,” Wolf replied, pushing back his doubts and trying to imagine the gated entryway as it had been versus the debris-strewn hole in the ground he saw beneath the brothel. He climbed into the opening and called back to Anthony, “You are with me. The rest of you men stay together in groups of two.”

  With that, he struck a hand torch, pushed away the dead vegetation and started forward. The path led steeply down for the first fifty paces, the rock walls felt chiseled smooth by undead hands under the guidance of Judas. Cool air waited to greet them, and the temperature held from the moment they entered. The walls and dirt were dry as weathered bones.

  They came to the head of the labyrinth proper, three different tunnels they could follow.

  “You’ve been here before,” Anthony said, “Which way?”

  Wolf looked first left, then right, then down the main way, raising his torch while the rest of the men piled up in the tunnel behind him. “Anthony, all of you, let me sum up my experience in this place. It was dark. I got lost. There is a cell down here somewhere. That is it. The rest is an adventure.”

  Choosing the left passage, he proceeded. The tunnel walls were coarse and the width unpredictable. Wide then small. Back and forth. The height of the tunnel varied, but in no place did they have to stoop. After the first several hundred paces, they passed an empty cell on their left, and another on their right. There were chains pressed into the walls, but little else. No human remains. No rats. Just dust. Wolf’s tunnel had started with ten men, and tributary tunnels had taken all but him and Anthony when they were five hundred twenty-two paces from the entrance. From that point, their channel serpentined into the darkness.

  “I wonder what is above us,” Anthony whispered. They had moved steadily downward from the moment they passed the entry, but the floor had leveled just past where the last split of the party carved them apart.

  “Whatever it is, we would never be able to dig our way out,” Wolf replied. He had been in a labyrinth near Overlord City during the war. If they found that the great distance between Hellsgate and the city was connected underground, he would not be surprised.

  Keeping careful count of his steps, they proceeded another hundred cautious steps. Wolf blew out his hand torch and lit another. The moments in between when he extinguished the torch and lit the next swept him in utter blackness.

  Fifty-eight steps later, the tunnel split again. He stayed left. It would be easier to remember when they backtracked. As they moved into that tunnel, the walls grew damp. Wolf went a
nother dozen steps, and then stopped.

  “Anthony,” he whispered, and turned to look at his companion. They were entering into a wet area of the labyrinth. That could mean water traps, false floors, rivers to cross.

  In the tunnel behind him, however, only darkness followed.

  “Anthony?”

  “Why did you go?” Lieala asked, sitting in front of her and Daemon’s home, knitting. She felt odd, knitting. That was not a normal habit. She mostly worked with herbs, spices and her daily rounds to the sick of Drybridge. They, in turn, knitted, sewed, and sometimes ran an errand or two.

  Daemon sat atop a gigantic scrying sphere, gazing into it with his face turned away from her. She waited for him to answer, his robe as blue as the last time she saw him, and his hair a bit less gray. Still, whatever the scrying ball showed him enamored him—but they did not own a scrying ball.

  Slow as the start of a mountain landslide, she felt the rumble of dread slide toward her as Daemon sat up straight, turned toward her to look over his shoulder. The face had mountain lion eyes, predatorily yellow, cold and cunning. The face could not hold Daemon’s features, but melted into a gelatinous glob, sliding slowly off the face to reveal the eyes embedded in an otherwise skinless skull.

  The abomination said nothing, but slowly climbed from its perch and floated toward her, a spiraled symbol carved into the bone of its forehead.

  It was then that Lieala remembered the Circle and the rupture on the physical plane. She had thrown up a warding spell at the last minute, but that had evidently not saved her. Not yet had the curse unleashed upon them sent her to the Wheel. Instead, she found herself lodged between life and death with this thing, come to prevent her from ever returning to the living, to wipe out her immortality.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice would not come. The golden eyes locked upon hers and attempted to draw her to it.

  Joanie placed one hand on her grandmother’s chest and one upon her head and leaned into the earth, a prayer to God to give her wisdom. He had guided her through the horrendous childhood in a brothel. He had saved her when she thought she could never be saved. He had sent her back into the safety of her father’s arms that day in the evil cathedral of Paul the Apostle.