Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  “Wolf, go to that cabinet over there. The door on the right. You will see two crocks. Take the one on the right, and pour me a mug full. Then, do the same for the crock on the left and bring me both mugs. Don’t mix them up.”

  Wolf quickly did as told. One smelled highly of alcohol and was clear as stream water. The other was a nut-brown brackish-scented liquid that Wolf most certainly did not wish to taste.

  Anthony lifted Scralz’s head with a gentleness that any man would for a woman that he loved. He had never cared about her coarse appearance or her straightforward, uncivil tone. Instead, he took his woman in stride, looking further inside of her heart than most men would ever be allowed, appreciating the ductile parts of her personality that no other living soul ever saw.

  He tipped the clear brew to her lips; let her sip half of it. Within moments, her face flushed. Anthony poured a healthy amount on her open wound, catching the excess in a rag to allow him to keep the covered area small.

  “Going to smart a bit,” he warned in a low voice.

  “Just do it. Hurts like hell already.”

  Striking a hand torch, he touched it to the area and the clear substance caught fire, searing the skin and the open vessels, shutting off the flowing dark half-troll blood. Scralz grimaced horrendously, and had she felt better, Anthony knew she might just as likely as not, have thrown him across the room.

  He repeated the procedure on each of the sucker wounds, though they were shallow, but more blue-gray. He lanced each one, and placed a healthy dose of his clear liquid to each until Scralz finally laid her head gently in his lap and stared up toward him. “I really think you are enjoying this.”

  “Try hushing for once,” he replied, and put his hand over her mouth, but only slightly.

  When he finished with the clear liquid, he asked Wolf for the other mug.

  “Drink this,” he said to Scralz.

  “It’s all I have,” she replied, resisting him.

  “Well, if what we were told is true, then we shouldn’t have to use much of it. Still, you know the side effects they told us. You can live with that?”

  Scralz gazed gently at him for a moment, taking in his face, reaching up an oversized hand to gently touch his hair with her thick fingers. “I suppose if I don’t, then I will die from these stings.”

  “They poisoned you,” he admitted. No sense lying now. “It is visibly spreading up your arms and legs.”

  “Stop ogling my legs and give me that stuff.”

  He tipped the second mug to her lips. She drank deeply for three swallows, then nearly wretched, but resisted.

  “Damn, it tastes like that dung water Wolf serves in his bar. Maybe we could get some more of it from him.”

  Wolf knelt beside her. “I’m right here, Scralz.”

  “Oh gods be damned! Am I dead and gone to hell and you are here too?”

  He forced a smile, “You’ll be fine, I think.” To Anthony he said, “What is this stuff?”

  Anthony turned his eyes away from Wolf and back to his mate. Scralz said, “Distilled troll blood. I have only two crocks of it.”

  Wolf raised an eyebrow. How in the world had they come upon such a thing, he was not likely to ever learn. “So, what are the side effects?”

  “It makes me a little more homely and a lot more irritable—permanently.”

  “That’s all? That’s just like more of who you already are.”

  Scralz threw a half-hearted sneer in his direction.

  “What she’s not telling you is that it is just as likely to kill her within a day if it doesn’t heal her,” Anthony said. “We have saved it for only the direst injuries.”

  “I see,” Wolf said. “So, how many times have you ever tried it?”

  “This is the first time,” Scralz replied. “It’s a theory. Should work. Might not. If not, at least I won’t have to look at your ugly mug for much longer.”

  The two men helped her to her feet with a good bit of effort, then up the stairs to bed. She complained the entire way and irately chastised them for trying to make her lie down.

  Wolf touched a finger to her head. She tried to swipe it away, but her hand fell to her side halfway and sleep wrapped her in its arms.

  Anthony looked on, astonished. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “I can do a lot of things. Arthur wasn’t the only priest on the battlefield,” Wolf said. “He was just the only one to carry his gifts beyond thin magic, beyond encroaching eyes. I once teleported to Hellsgate from Overlord City.” He smiled, remembering he had nearly died that day at the hands of the Apostles. “I don’t want to depend on something that may or may not be there for me when I most need it, but for her, now was the time. Come, night approaches and the Alones and Snipes may erupt in force. Get everyone indoors. Pass word to the Downs and if you can, find out Arthur’s status. We will need every sword if those things come out.”

  Having been the only one to see the brooding chamber, Anthony did not need to be told twice.

  On the first night, the tradesmen each took to their individual shelters and built a fire ring around the estate grounds that burned all night. Watchmen paced the perimeter, ensuring the flames stayed bright and the embers hot. Hopefully, whatever dangers Shanay eluded to would remain in the forest, lose interest and move on.

  The first night had been completely quiet. Although the crickets in the forest continued their shrill drone, they came to an abrupt stop around midnight. The men tensed, expecting trouble, but morning came without event.

  Stars shined brightly for the first two nights, but on the third, a smattering of clouds drew a blanket over the speckled sky and extinguished the moonlight. The wind had blown most of the day and the temperature dropped.

  The tradesmen and their wives held discussion as to whether they should reenter the woods to fell and gather more dead trees for the fires or if they should consolidate their efforts and move everyone into a single structure for security. By moving into a single building, they could fortify that place rather than spread their resources. If danger presented itself, consolidation would provide strength in numbers. Should that single facility be breached, however, all might be lost.

  There had been a spirited discussion and shouting down of outliers, but in the end, the trades decided to remain at the estate and do as the Lady Shanay had asked—to a point.

  Near midnight, the children, women, and most of the men slept soundly in their makeshift beds in the building where the trades normally stored lumber. The accommodations proved crowded, and only a single fire burned in the largest fireplace to keep the night chill away. Even so, half a dozen men remained on guard, attentive to their watch.

  They were not seasoned soldiers. Two were carpenters. Two were stonemasons. One man was a farmer. The last man was a journeyman to the blacksmith.

  Settled in a tight loft above the main floor of the building the six stared into the darkness, looking for something, anything, that might be out of the normal. They had done so for nearly two hours before one of them saw movement.

  “C’mere! C’mere!” the journeyman whispered and the eldest, the farmer, came to his side and peered between the same two slats the journeymen had.

  At first, the farmer saw nothing. Just blackness. He started to say so, but when he did, the edge of his sight between the slats caught a slow, faint movement.

  “What is it?” the journeyman whispered.

  “Shhh.”

  The farmer squinted his eye, as if doing so could sharpen his vision, knowing it could not. The shadow was large as one of his steers, but moved so stealthily, he could barely perceive it. Still, he felt full well that a predator stalked through the night, splitting the black like a fish’s fin through a placid lake surface.

  He waved the others over and each took their turn.

  “It’s coming closer,” the last man whispered. The farmer peered back through the slat and his eyes grew wide.

  “Get down,” he hissed. “Wake the others
. Tell them to stay quiet and don’t light any lanterns.”

  The thing outside he still could not make out, but it had four separate eyes that glowed dull amber like an ember just before it died. The last to climb down, he tried to find a place to look through again, but the building’s first floor was made of heavy oaken planks nailed tightly together with square nails and filled with pitch in most places.

  Finally, he found a pinhole through which to peer, and though hard to distinguish, he finally realized that the horrid beast pressed against the building, sniffing.

  The aberration banged against the outside wall, causing a substantial thud that stirred the children, but did not wake them. If it did, they would be frightened. He knew that. The adults who had clustered in the middle of the room wore masks of fear. They had come to the estate to escape the danger of the streets, now something—perhaps a dire wolf, had wandered out of the woods and none of the Bornshires were there to protect them—a simple task to his way of reckoning. He had run wolves off from his farm before, but the animal outside stood at least shoulder tall and that was not something the farmer wished to face with his pitchfork.

  Retch had been a storied scout in the Roman Legion. He had been for hire for several years before, and after that stint, he struck peculiar and dangerous deals with people of like kind. When he reached the edge of the Black Forest. He left his skittish horse and proceeded on foot to the forest’s boundary. He had no trouble slithering his way past the bored guards. They stood several feet off the path that Sabinus’ horse had followed, and their idle conversation made it clear they were sure someone named “Mrandor” had a mother who was a slut and his father engaged in strange practices with mules. The guards hated their jobs, but they liked the incentives and the warm food in their belly. They also loathed some bitch that Mrandor evidently adored, but they did not mention her by name, and Retch could have cared less. Before moving on past them, he toyed with the idea of killing them. That could simplify his egress, but depending upon whether he needed to return this way, missing guards could complicate matters.

  A final comment they made while he drew back cemented his reason for the trip. Sabinus was Mrandor. Which title was the alias, Retch might never know. Regardless, Mrandor was definitely the employer of these men. So, his mother was a slut and his father—well, enough.

  Raliax had not ordered him to kill anyone. Thus, he decided to leave them to their own personal account of the world around them and remain unaware of their ignorance. He withdrew.

  For nearly an entire afternoon, he maneuvered swiftly through the underbrush. He remained wary, marveling a bit at the gnarled and bent trees of the forest, but giving no credence to the fables fabricated to keep children and strangers away from the tainted woodlands. Even the armies of Rome had circumvented the forest, and why that might be, he did not care to speculate. Instead, he kept his eye to the signs and his nose to the trail until an hour after darkness. Then, those tales paled.

  On the far side of a stony mound, he saw the ruddiness of firelight. Using cinders from his belt pouch, he darkened his face and neck, and then his hands. Satisfied he would not reflect light, he climbed slowly up a grassy mound until he could see over.

  The clearing was enormous. At the center, a tower base was under construction, rising fifty men or more tall. Dark, slick stone made up its sides. This area of the country had a thick granite substrate. If the structure had windows, they were not lit except for a faint glow in two ground-level portals.

  Creeping forward, he surveyed the base of the tower. A mammoth hole gaped in the foreground, brightly lit by countless fires and torches. An army much larger than a legion gathered around those fires and roughshod tents housed the members. Had that been the brunt of it, Retch might have left and returned to Raliax with a worthy piece of reconnaissance, but instinct nagged his curiosity like a crotchety woman. He needed to see more.

  Climbing around the side of the small hillside, he noticed another not far away. He checked the area, spotted no one of particular note standing guard over the perimeter. Taking his cue, he stood up and walked to the next hill as though he belonged there, moving closer to the open hole. A ceremony of some nature commenced a bustle that the campfire conversations remained intent on ignoring.

  Mrandor must be there.

  Moving hillside-to-hillside, Retch came closer to the center of camp, then walked his way away from the hills and strode in between the tents, keeping his face down and catching no one’s eye. Coming within forty paces of a black obelisk, he took shelter behind a stack of crates. They were marked with a naval sign, a mark of tribes up the North Sea. He had encountered them during his military service. He made note, then tried to decide what the hubbub was around the obelisk.

  He slid a stack of crates closer until he found what he sought. Standing at the forefront, Mrandor clearly controlled everyone around him. He questioned a man with a disfigured hand and a large dose of uncertainty in his eyes.

  “Why, Aerilius? I sent you there to ascertain his location. Now, you tell me your personal efforts to kill him failed. Most likely, he followed you back here!”

  The man named Aerilius nursed a burned hand, but he set that aside to plead his case, “We—he—we did as you asked. We stayed there for days, waiting to see if any word of him came. It did not. We lost two men in the Downs. Then, we thought we saw him and his bitch wife, but they were not who we sought—at least it seems that way.”

  Mrandor brushed that remark aside with his hand. “So, you accosted a couple of strangers?”

  “They matched your description!”

  “Evidently not,” Mrandor replied, his frown ever increasing. “Every man under your command died and now Bornshire might know where we are.”

  “No, no! When I regained my senses,” and Mrandor snorted at that part but let Aerilius plead his case, “my—my men were dead, but there was blood where Bornshire stood, a lot of blood. He could not have left unscathed. He must be dead!”

  Mrandor’s disgust could not have been more palpable. He turned to one of his men. “Go get her.”

  The man ran off and down into the tunnel while Aerilius’ eyes grew larger. “Tell me, Aerilius, did Belial put you up to this? Tell me now before she appears. Admit her part in this to me and save yourself a tremendous amount of agony.”

  Aerilius put up his uninjured hand as if to ward Mrandor off. “Everyone knows she has placed a bounty on Bornshire’s head. Everyone! Ask them! Ask them!”

  He pointed to four other men flanking Mrandor who scribed astonished looks on their faces. Mrandor looked at each of them eye-to-eye and they shook their heads to the negative, and, for a moment, Mrandor looked away from them all and in the general direction of where Retch hid. He ducked back, and though he felt certain that Mrandor had not seen him, he had seen in Mrandor’s eyes that the man knew Aerilius told the truth of the matter. The others were lying bastards.

  “Tie him to that,” Mrandor ordered, pointing to an H-shaped set of posts. Aerilius protested, but four men to one gave him no chance. They strapped his hands to the cross-post while the others nearby stoked the fire and threw a flat piece of iron upon it. Their faces were chiseled grimness, all business on top of a layer of dread.

  Retch drew back behind his crates, wondering if his curiosity had seen all that it could stomach, but the fierceness of what he believed was to happen kept his feet frozen to the dirt. He peered around as a woman, as beautiful an autumn day, the scent of her screaming to his manhood, her eyes as amber as jewels in a king’s crown, strode into view wearing scant armor, a long blue and silver spear in her left hand. An illustrious set of prehensile wings waved their tips, sniffing the situation.

  “What is this?” she asked, her voice husky, but womanly, soft, a mixture of lust and murder, sharp as if the words could slice open an artery.

  “Aerilius has erred. You remember Aerilius. I told you he and a dozen or so men were assigned to Hellsgate to ascertain Bornshire’s location.”


  She shrugged as if her memory failed her of that particular fact, but Mrandor continued. Slipping his knife under Aerilius’ shirt, he slashed away the cloth with particular artistic ease. Retch suddenly felt his professional respect for the governor’s advisor rise. He would be challenging in a knife fight.

  “No matter,” Mrandor said. Throwing the soiled shirt onto the fire, he slid up close to Aerilius and whispered something in his ear that could not be heard. Aerilius’ eyes widened, but not so wide as when Mrandor inserted his knife with precision, edging the sharp steel between the surface layer of the skin and the muscle below. Meticulously, he carved a hand-sized piece of Aerilius’ flesh off his back and threw the flap of flesh onto the skillet. The sizzle spread quickly into the murky air, and the stench of the burning flesh followed. Unlike butchered animal flesh, human flesh still had blood and other fluids within that normal butchering removed before cooking. The odor was much like beef, but in a horrid way that promised to linger in the nose forever.

  Retch had smelled much the same on the battlefield, the mixing of burned hair, flesh and muscle, even bone. This instance, however, was more horrid without the adrenaline rush of battle to distract.

  Delight scintillated Mrandor’s eyes. Aerilius’ scream echoed through the camp. The wail brought the entire night murmur to a standstill as the army directed its attention to one of its own and its commander. That cry described torment, chronicled despair, but Mrandor maintained his precision, as he sliced a second slab, and then a third. At the third, Aerilius passed from consciousness, but Mrandor had his men awaken Aerilius with some liquid in a bottle they held under his nose until he gagged.

  While they did, Mrandor stuck his knife into the first seared piece of flesh and remarked, “Belial, my men are loyal to me. The afterlife means nothing to them, only the now.”

  She started to speak, but before she could, he flipped the hunk of human flesh toward her face. Instinctively, for there could be no other way she could react so quickly, she caught it with her mouth like a rabid dog, multiple rows of teeth grinding it. Her eyes gleamed.