Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  “Help me now,” she said. “Give me the sight to bring her back. Heal her if that is Your will.”

  She closed her eyes and found herself back in Drybridge. Lieala had backed toward the house with a pair of wooden knitting needles in her hand and an apparition slid toward her from an obsidian orb.

  Joanie sprinted four steps and reached for her sword. It did not answer her. She had entered this vision unarmed, at least from a weapons perspective. The sixth step brought her to the apparition that remained fixed upon her grandmother. Stretching out her hand, she touched the thing and of all the foul things she had ever known, this one felt most unclean.

  Bile slid into her throat, but she did not flinch. “Stand back you fetid filth. I cast you out!”

  The apparition spun toward Joanie, black, horrid, malformed and frightening. She saw Paul’s face, but that did not frighten her. In a blur the face changed from one form to the next until at last, it landed on a face that tested her resolve. It was the first man Paul had served her to in the brothel.

  “Do you want to kill me, whore?”

  She withdrew her hand. She had reached in to grab Lieala without a warding spell.

  Each word threw another bucket of dread upon her, attempted to wither her stance, rot away her faith. Of anyone she had ever known, this man was one she hated the most, but to let that hate get out of her would serve no purpose except for one.

  Drawing back, she circled the apparition, taking stock.

  “Not you,” she said. “You are not that man. If you were him, I would not kill him anyway.”

  “Of course you would,” the raspy voice drew. “Embrace that violence with you and know peace.”

  She doubted peace was what resided at the end of that road. She continued to circle. The apparition floated slowly forward as she did, but Joanie continued to take a step back for each step it took toward her. The thing paused for only a moment as she picked up a fist-sized stone from the ground and stepped back and then one more to the left.

  “I mean you only good, witch. Come, I will escort you to the Wheel. Your grandfather awaits you.”

  Joanie no longer felt dread, though the danger had not diminished.

  “He killed himself, you know. The end of the world grows near. He knew that. He sent me to find you and bring you to him.”

  “Truly?” Joanie replied, letting the edges of her mouth twitch. The apparition began to reply, but Joanie had reached the scrying ball and slammed her stone against the outside of it, shattering the surface into a countless number of spider cracks.

  The phantom howled and soared toward her, but too late, the stone struck the scrying ball a second time, rupturing the enchantment and casting the specter into an abyss.

  Nerva’s personal guard carried him out upon the resplendent litter onto the sprawling balcony four floors above the street. Mrandor noticed the pediment had been painted in the likeness of Rome’s taste for art with Nerva’s pretentious self-taking center stage surrounded by the various small gods of Roman lore. Mrandor felt tempted not to spit when he saw the garish display as the guards had escorted him from the front gate, in fact the only working gate. To do so in their presence might lead to wariness on their part.

  The triglpyhs had been restored and the finish had been put on the metope along the front of the building, leaving room for additional adornment. Clearly, Nerva had found time to crowd this work into his busy schedule, or at least the schedule of his underlings, though the streets still reeked of sewage and the infrastructure work suffered for it.

  The sun shined vibrantly and the common folk crowded together below and filled the broadways within Overlord City for nearly as far as Mrandor could see. Overlord City did not want for population. It lacked discriminatory rule and an iron fist to pull them together.

  Mrandor, however, stopped at the broad double doors. From there, he could observe Nerva, gauge his reactions, and listen to the crowd without them seeing him. It suited him to have Nerva center stage for what was to come. Next to him, Raliax stood by himself, but his men flanked the governor two to a side and the servants carried the litter away out of sight as Nerva climbed up his three steps so that his head and shoulders were above all others.

  “My citizens!”

  The crowd responded at least with a lot of noise, some cheers, but to Mrandor a fair thread of confusion and a minor thread of disharmony wound its way through the cacophony.

  Nerva drew his arms into the air, and faced his palms downward until the crowd quieted. Without a doubt, Nerva thought he held the heart of the people in his hands.

  “Recently, I laid plans to correct the issues of the city. We need to repair our walls.” A loud cheer for that particular statement. “Our sewers are in want of a strenuous amount of maintenance and our aqueducts need a herculean renovation.” A thunderous cheer this time. Nerva played his crowd so well. “Only with these things done, can we hope to restore our major trade routes, intensify our businesses and bring wealth and beauty once more to Overlord City.”

  That particular statement played well, but by now, an air of suspicion weaseled its way back into the undertone. Mrandor leaned against the doorway with half a smile on his face and Raliax glanced at him, never leaving his rigid stance of attention.

  “Raliax,” Mrandor said, “I have many patrons and those patrons have many armies. Might I offer you sage advice?”

  “Of course, Sabinus. I would be honored that the governor’s own advisor would offer me such.”

  “Trust no one,” Mrandor replied, then turned to look back to the governor as the governor read his proclamation. Under traditional circumstances, a herald would read the governor’s proclamation, but Mrandor, as Sabinus, had advised Nerva that this proclamation contained such historical doctrine, no man should stand in forthcoming history as having spoken the words, but Nerva himself.

  Nerva unrolled the parchment and to his credit, he did not stutter or stumble in the reading, not that the writing was not clear, but because of the heaviness of the levy.

  “There comes a time in every civilization when there is need for manual labor that must either be paid for by the citizens of this civilization or the citizens themselves must perform the work without further taxation. There will be no further taxes levied from this day forward.”

  The crowd erupted for a hand full of minutes, and in that time, Nerva looked like a clown-god standing there full of himself and the people’s praise. When he at last urged them to cease, he raised the parchment and continued, “In order to accelerate Overlord City’s recovery, and recover it will, a lottery will be drawn in three days time. The gates will be closed to any outside of the city and those inside of the city will remain within the walls under penalty of imprisonment by my army.

  “I know that you ask what this means. The lottery will select one of every three families. From the day after the draw, those families, including all children above the age of five years and under the age of fifty years will report to the garrison under the Captain of the Army. Citizens will be impressed for a period of no more than six months to perform engineering work, clearance, restoration, or other duties as I see fit. At the end of six months, you are free to return to your lives and those who have not served, will be drawn from the lottery again until all have served or until the city is restored to its former glory. Male citizens between the ages of twelve years and twenty-four years will be taken into the army until such time as Overlord City has regained its previous place in the world. This dictate is required to maintain your citizenship. You will assist your city in annexing surrounding vagrant towns. “Taxes will be heavily levied against those new city properties until the city’s debt is paid. Those currently in the army will be exempt from this lottery, as are their families. Those who enlist for one year per family member, including themselves, will also be exempt for the duration of their tenure. Resistance to this proclamation will lead to a swift and compelling judgment.”

  With that, he lowered the pro
clamation and the crowd booed. Some boldly shouted objections toward the governor in a deafening snarl.

  Mrandor turned on a heel to Raliax and said, “You had best get out there. Your men will need to enforce Nerva’s word.”

  Mirth tickled the edges of his mind because Nerva would never take a step backward, even as Sabinus vanished from the city, and Mrandor took to the sea to crush the final resistance in Britannia.

  Nerva watched Mrandor exit the balcony. He had told Nerva beforehand that he must leave immediately due to other pressing concerns. The crowds below sounded livid, but already that mood acquiesced to the army as it pressed forward.

  Nerva mounted the throne on his litter again and called to Raliax. Briskly Raliax took his position near the governor’s side. “Captain, our friend seems to be in quite the hurry to be on his way. Do not misunderstand my meaning. His reason may be valid. Still, send someone to follow him. I want to know where he goes.”

  “I will see to it myself, Governor.”

  “No,” Nerva replied more gently than his meaning. “You have duties. See to them. Send someone—more expendable. A scout may be less well known and track better from a distance.”

  Raliax’s questions hung on his lips, but he did not ask them. Instead, he asked, “If the citizens do not report as you have ordered under the lottery?”

  “Ten lashes for each member of the family. If they do not obey, ten more until they do.”

  Surprise evident on his face, Raliax nodded his head, and then crisply turned and like Mrandor, marched down the hallway.

  Nerva noticed the crowd had begun to disperse. Tomorrow the lottery would take place and the rise of Overlord City would begin into a new dynasty.

  Octavus heard Joanie’s strangled cry from across the circle and bolted her direction with his sword drawn. He had found only two druids alive, and they were both critically wounded. One had a broken arm and a broken mind. The other was salient of thought, but he could not move his body below his neck. Both needed a healer, but Octavus had decided it best to complete his assessment of the others before he retrieved Joanie.

  When he reached her side, however, Joanie had fallen onto her back with her right hand outstretched toward the sky, her index finger pointed toward the clouds. Her eyes gazed at something far away, further away than the clouds and the sky. He had seen that look on her face before when she suffered a vision.

  Beside her, Lieala still lay on the stone, her left hand loosely across her stomach and her right arm along her side. Her eyes were closed, and the blood from her nose and ears did not run as brightly as it had before. Octavus, still unsure what had happened within the circle, knew little of magic. He could not surmise his next proper action, something he could do in the middle of a raging battle, but not in the dead still that had taken the circle.

  Guessing his best course of action, he knelt beside Joanie and without touching, called her name.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Her eyelids fluttered and her shallow breathing deepened. Suddenly, her eyes regained focus and she inhaled sharply and dropped her hand to sit up. Only then, did Octavus reach for her.

  Joanie’s attention, however, ran immediately to her grandmother. As before, she placed her hand on Lieala’s chest and called her name. Ever slowly, Lieala opened her eyes and met Joanie’s.

  “You saw,” Lieala asked. “Did you see?”

  Joanie nodded, feeling her grandmother’s life running through her fingers. No healing could repair the extensive damage to her body, or to her heart.

  “What was that that thing?” Joanie asked. “Grandmother, tell me what that was.”

  Lieala took a slight breath and then a deeper one. “I saw its thoughts. I saw its intentions. He comes, Joanie. Get our people away from here and away from Drybridge. Gather the archdruids. Prepare.”

  Joanie looked at Octavus who glanced around the circle and shook his head. If there were a half a dozen of the archdruids that were still alive, they were certainly in no condition to fight.

  Joanie placed her grandmother’s hand in her own, felt the fragility, the long life those wrinkled hands had seen could do nothing now to save their owner. Joanie reached within, clinging to her grandmother’s spirit, willing her into each subsequent breath.

  “Who is coming, Lieala? Tell me who.”

  Lieala raised her other hand and clasped Joanie’s hands with both of hers. Fiercely, pushing back the inevitable, she said, “Mrandor. Mrandor comes.”

  “She is delirious. That is impossible,” Octavus commented. He considered returning to his inspection since Joanie had regained her composure, but the challenge in her eyes held him by her side. He felt compelled, “He is dead, a long time dead, Joanie.”

  Despite Joanie’s attempt to hold her, Lieala’s grasp weathered and at last disappeared. The rise and fall of her chest slowed. “Save Drybridge.”

  At last, on an otherwise sunny summer day, the bride of Daemon Bornshire closed her eyes a final time, and departed the realm of the living.

  Octavus left Joanie by her grandmother’s side to grieve and continued his triage on a field of battle quite alien to him.

  Chapter 15

  Artex had lathered by the time Adam and Shanay reached the estate. Shanay’s mare was about the same as the two hunters sprang from their saddles and handed their reins to the livery hands. Evening of the next day fast approached and the riders were as tired as their horses. The heat had exacted its toll and they had not looked behind them to see if they were pursued. Had they been, the hellhound would have already pounced.

  “Cool the horses,” Shanay barked to the stable master. “Water them. Feed them. Once rested, we must leave again. We need to ride hard to Ploor. That cannot be helped.”

  She and Adam entered their dwelling, shucked their clothes in their particular rooms. Adam splashed a bucket of water over his nakedness, feeling its briskness rinse away some of his fatigue. They had not slept another night under the stars and already weariness shook off his modest drenching and threatened him again.

  He scrubbed his skin with a rough sponge to knock away the fatigue and grime. He had balked at the idea of sponges when they had first arrived in Ploor. He had never seen such a thing, but Arthur used them in Rome and that seemed good enough. Despite Ploor’s general lack of cleanliness, sponges were easy to come by from the ships that traded in the harbor, though a fair amount of their trade went to Overlord City.

  He hefted a second bucket and poured it over his head a bit more slowly, letting the wetness cover him. Using his unclean overshirt, he dried himself and climbed into fresh pants and a light cloth shirt.

  Shanay waited in the central room, freshly changed. She prodded the banked fire in the fireplace and hung a pot of water over the flames. Not long afterward, a knock came at the door. She opened it.

  A willowy woman with long chestnut hair, and a tentative smile, stood there. Adam knew her by her vividly green eyes. She was one of the master stonemason’s wives. She held a basket under her arm.

  “Madam, word spread you must leave soon. I brought you some food. I thought you might eat before you left.”

  Smiling through her concern, Shanay thanked the woman graciously, “You have saved us the work of preparing a meal. I will not forget this. Your husband is a good man. You are a good wife.”

  The woman smiled modestly, and then turned away.

  “Wait,” Shanay called and the woman turned back to her. “Tell your husband—spread the word swiftly. I want everyone inside at night. Stay out of the forest until we return.”

  “The woodsmen—”

  Shanay interrupted her. “The work can wait. They will still be paid, if that is the concern. Keep everyone nearby until we return from Ploor. There may not be a threat, but I don’t want someone hurt because we didn’t warn them.”

  Concern rendered worry in the woman’s eyes, but she said, “Yes ma’am. I will tell him. I will spread the word to the others. May I tell them what the
danger is?”

  “Do not worry. This is a simple precaution.”

  The woman nodded, but Adam still saw disquiet on her face as she turned away.

  Shanay closed the door and brought the delivered basket to the table. Inside were dried meat slices and a single loaf of bread. The kettle came to a boil and Shanay ladled out several cups of water and threw in a cube of tea, then went to the storage shelf and pulled out a flask.

  She poured a golden liquid directly from the flask first into Adam’s cup over his tea and then into her own. “Drink this.”

  Thinking it was some type of ale, Adam felt a mild surprise. Ale was not something that she had allowed him to imbibe before, though everyone he knew from the stables to the harbor had all made themselves drunken at some time or other.

  “Stay sharp,” Shanay always said. Thus, he looked at her questioningly.

  “It is not fermented,” Shanay said. “Scralz and Anthony make this stuff. If you are every badly hurt, it will heal you if it does not kill you. As for us, we must ride before dawn. This stuff will keep you awake on the trip. Once we reach Ploor, we need to find Ptolomus, and get word to him before proceeding to Hellsgate to find Arthur.”

  To Adam that sounded like many days ride. Surely, they would have to stop somewhere, and he said so.

  Shanay tipped up her cup, plunked it down on the table and gave him a motherly wink. “Don’t concern yourself. We will ride hard, but we will not kill the horses to do it. You’ve no idea how much Arthur loves that horse of yours or you for that matter.”

  Adam drank. Lightning slowly spread along his arms and legs. His heart beat a little faster and his spirit quickened.

  A knock came again to the door. Shanay climbed from her seat and opened the door on the second round of knocks. A different woman stood at the door. Her hair was brownish-black, but shoulder length and a troubled glint in her blue eyes commanded her face. Adam did not know her, but Shanay did. “What is it, Ala?”