Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  A succubus. Belial licked a drop of spattered blood from her chin with a forked tongue that looked long enough to grip a man’s arm. Retch withdrew, not able to withstand the unholy presence.

  What had Nerva wrought? What did it mean for the city?

  He crept backward through the tents, although it became more easily done as every member of the army froze in place. That Belial and Mrandor lay at odds felt indisputable to Retch, a patron at odds with its assignee. Still, his skin crawled.

  He crossed to the first stony hill and then paused to look back over his trail toward the center of camp once more. A fresh issue of screams whisked through the air like an evil spirit.

  Retch turned to leave, but the ground trembled and he fought to keep his balance. In front of him, the hill over which he had climbed rose from the dirt, as did two others, one left and one to the right. Eyes shone forth through the stone and humus, an animated mountain of hate that took him by surprise.

  He thought to flee, but what he had already seen this night, and what he now saw—. It did not surprise him when roots sprang from beneath the forest floor to wrap his ankles. A trap. A clever, devious, fatal trap.

  He closed his eyes and begged forgiveness from any god that might hear his plea. That prayer went unanswered as a thunderous, stone fist smashed his bones into a pile of quivering flesh.

  The hillsides fell back to sleep, always allowing entry, but only allowing exit upon command.

  Mrandor watched Belial devour the dozen pieces of Aerilius’ flesh, her greedy face hungrily consuming his offering. In fact, it was not an offering, but another binding that he placed upon her while placating her demonic hunger.

  Her kind loved human flesh, but they could not freely attack the One God’s children. Yet, the Children could give themselves willingly, or another tainted soul could offer them as a sacrifice on their behalf. They could use followers to torture, torment and kill innocents. If the One God cared for his children, he did not show it.

  Belial’s tower had risen quickly in Mrandor’s absence and Mrandor let it happen. He could use the structure as his own fortress once he decided that Her Self-righteousness’ usefulness had ended, or that her meddling simply disrupted his plan one time too often.

  Her churning teeth sounded faintly like a millstone at work. She did not swallow right away, but the flash in her eyes confessed that she savored each morsel. One slab for each man that Aerilius had lost. It was not because they had died. Mrandor could care less. He had sources from which to draw men. Bodies were not the problem. This demonstration served two purposes. Impress upon his men that he was, in fact, their commander and not Belial. That she had not tried to save Aerilius his pain would not go unnoticed. That she had eaten his flesh would register even with the dim-witted brood of men that always fattened the ranks of a rapidly coursing army.

  As for Belial, he could not prevent her charades. She would tinker with her abnormals, a useful thing for Mrandor, but in the end, he would bind her and use her, or he would bind her and kill her. Each day she remained under his binding, the more confident he became. Still, that time for control lay far into the future. He had no desire to fight a war with two enemies at one time. First, he would complete the decimation of Bornshire’s family and then Bornshire himself. After that, he would flex his strength into Overlord City and ultimately exert control of the demon. On that day, he would rule all.

  He nodded to one of his men near the fire, who withdrew an iron roller on a pole. It glowed reddish-orange.

  Belial had moved a step closer. “I want him all.”

  “No,” Mrandor replied. “I am returning him to Hellsgate.”

  With that, he touched the glowing hot iron and rolled it across the exposed muscle of Aerilius’ skin, sending a crackle of popping blood spewing off the roller and onto Mrandor’s grim face. Like a surgeon, he mixed his magic with the burning to shut off the open blood vessels.

  Aerilius would be hideously scarred, but he would survive for a while. In fact, with a dose of the hellish brew from the artesian well, he would be on his feet within two days. He would never purposely disobey or misconstrue his orders again, and Mrandor basked in the knowledge that every man in his army knew that failure in their assignments, or disloyalty to Belial, could lead them straight into a fate much worse than an everlasting death.

  When he was finished, he turned back to Belial. “This is your fault. I warn you again. Cease your meddling!”

  “Need I remind you who pulled you from your miserable wretchedness?”

  Mrandor, however, erected an icy glare of his own. “Need I remind you who recruited who and why? You cannot do this yourself or you would have. My warning stands.”

  Belial glared, and briefly, Mrandor thought she might actually try to grip him with her wings as she had on that first day. Yet, she did not. Instead, she drew close enough that her putrid breath caressed his face. It smelled of blood, charcoal, and sulfur. She said, “Threaten me at your peril. I have forever to complete my task if need be.”

  “It was not a threat,” Mrandor replied, confident that if his binding worked, she could not harm him. If it did not work, then he did not deserve to rule. “As for eternity, I don’t think you want to wait that long. If you did, you would not reek of impatience. We would have already crossed swords you and I.”

  For tense moments, the two malignancies faced off. After long, strained moments, Belial hissed and then withdrew to her tower with a flourish of her clattering wings.

  “Cut him down,” Mrandor ordered, continuing to watch her as she left. “Take him to the surgeon’s tent. I want him back on a horse the day after tomorrow. His wounds should not be hard to care for. I want him back in Hellsgate.”

  The men around him moved at his word, and the relief on their faces said they were thankful that they had not been a part of Aerilius’ crew. That suited Mrandor. The last thing he needed was disloyalty.

  With Britannia on the verge of invasion and the strike against Wolf’s daughter in Ploor, he had made significant strides in destroying Arthur’s support. If Shanay and Arthur were in Hellsgate, he wanted them to stay there until he returned from Britannia. After that, he would march the combined forces of Belial, his own army, and that of Overlord City into Hellsgate and put an end to the reign of his nemesis.

  Suddenly, one of Belial’s earth golems rose up, then another and another and Mrandor thought his time to test his theories might have arrived earlier than planned. A thunderous quake rolled through the ground as one golem brought down a stone fist. Then, the golems returned to their places and resumed their watch.

  Mrandor strode quickly to the spot where his men had gathered. On the ground lay the remains of a man of no particular note. His features could not be made out. His clothes were common.

  “You were followed,” came Belial’s voice from once more over his shoulder. He hated her speed.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrandor said. “We have guards throughout the forest and at the edge. “No one could have followed me. Simply a vagrant wandering the woods—a hunter perhaps.”

  He knelt studied the carcass. Had Nerva a single humble brain in his head, Mrandor might have worried, but he dismissed that. “I want to know what men are on guard duty and how this man managed to get so far into the forest.”

  Fixing a dry look upon Belial’s beautiful horribleness, he added, “I will take care of this.”

  “See that you do,” she replied. “My golems did their duty. Ensure your men do theirs.”

  He intended to do just that.

  Beyond the circle of the stone golems, two figures lay prone on the ground, covered in leaves, their faces darkened and their wits wound tight as a cinched saddle.

  Morm and Detur had killed four guards as they passed into the Black Forest and had hidden them for the next shift to find, assuming they would. They had seen what happened to the scout that entered the camp and had no intention of following him. Not that they had noticed the golems. After a
ll, what type of world allowed rocks and stones to stand up from the ground?

  Morm thought, perhaps the same type of world that let that tower rise, but they had not been close enough to see the other action that occurred. They had only seen a man on horseback arrive, another man follow him in a good time later, and then the hills had come to life.

  They had delayed their commission from Scralz to ride north to scout information from the Black Forest for Crabwell, but whatever the danger—Alones, Snipes and mountains-that-moved, they had had quite enough. There were other places in the world they could go and ply their trade without dealing with such atrocities. Killing came easy when the money was good. Normal cities were full of ripe for-the-picking plots and subterfuge. They need not risk themselves on something quite so ludicrous. Their dealings with Crabwell were complete, and the compensation they received from Scralz would not be missed on their failure to return. They could cross the sea or the continent and never again need deal with grotesque enemies.

  Morm eased her hand to Detur’s shoulder, the night so thick, she could hardly see him in the cover of leaves. Still, she remained cautious. As her hand touched his shoulder and she felt the cloth of his shirt, she heard a faint sound.

  She froze, but the sound continued to draw near, approaching from behind, directly along the winding non-path they had taken through the forest. Detur turned his sight away from the slumbering hills to let his eyes touch hers.

  As they did, the sound of heavy galloping footfalls began, then picked up quickly. A loud sniffing impregnated the forest’s silence. She tightened her grip on his shoulder.

  They could not be seen.

  They—could—not—be—seen.

  Out of the trees bounded a substantial animal with two necks that ended in two boulder-sized heads. As it entered just feet from them, it slowed and sniffed the ground. A dog—but like everything else they had seen in this forest, except for the guards, a perverted semblance of a canine.

  The creature sniffed right up to their feet, one head for each of them. Morm wanted to turn, wanted to fight—would have been just as happy to flee given the chance, but the beast poked her with its snout, covering her back with sweltering musky breath. It sniffed a bit, and then snorted, as if what it smelled had gotten up in its nose.

  She turned her eyes back to Detur, looking to see if he had a better idea than to play dead. His hand rested on his dagger, but they had spent enough time together to realize a dagger could do little to this animal.

  The dog sniffed vehemently, then with its front paw, stepped on Morm, crushing the air involuntarily out of her lungs. As though she had lay down in the street and let a wagon run over her, the weight of the beast squeezed the noise out of her, causing the slightest groan.

  The hellhound grabbed her by the neck. Detur rolled away, sprang to his feet, leapt toward the beast, but the hellhound’s second head caught him by the shoulder and shook him.

  Her last sight was Detur’s shoulder tearing away. So much blood. Such a bad end. The final sound she heard, the bones of her neck in a thunderous crunch.

  Chapter 19

  Arthur’s nature levied upon him the day after he awakened in Crabwell’s abode. Crabwell had expected Scralz to appear that afternoon to bring a fresh batch of elixir, but the evening had passed into night and she had not arrived.

  Arthur and Crabwell sat at the smooth oak table, Arthur still consuming as much food as his stomach could stand while Crabwell chattered incessantly about his time on the sea, the adventures he had witnessed and all of the things he wished he had done when his years were as few as Arthur’s.

  “I need to see Scralz,” Arthur said when, at last, Crabwell took a breath. “I am not accustomed to being stowed away while my enemies look for me.”

  Crabwell finished masticating the morsel of beef he had in his mouth, chewing slowly, keeping his good eye fixed upon Arthur while his alabaster eye looked endlessly at nothing in particular. The table was slightly smaller than a tavern table and the lumber not rough sawn, but polished. The chairs had not creaked since Arthur’s first moment in them and that had not gone unnoticed. Crabwell, despite his appearance, either bartered well or was a man of means.

  “You know, Bornshire, growing accustomed to things you are not used to is called ‘learning’. You might want to try it sometime. It might keep you from harm’s way someday.”

  Arthur wanted to be even more agitated than he already felt, but Crabwell’s nature left no room for him to navigate into aggravation.

  “Perhaps,” he admitted. He picked up his mug and drank, feeling the rich brew in the back of his mouth first, then a steady burn down his throat to his gut, then pretenseless warmth.

  “I have sent a runner to find out about Scralz,” Crabwell admitted, then speared a carrot with a thin knife and stuck it in his mouth.

  Arthur did the same with a potato when there came a knock—two raps, then one, then two more.

  “You want to get that?” Crabwell asked Arthur. Arthur looked at his healer questioningly, but Crabwell appeared serious. Arthur climbed to his feet and opened the door. A young boy, the first that Arthur had seen in Hellsgate since his arrival, stood there with a canvas wrapped package. He looked to be a dozen years old at most.

  “They said to bring this here,” the boy said and he pushed the package toward Arthur without further explanation, or question, or waiting for compensation. As soon as Arthur’s hands touched the canvas, the boy released it, turned stiffly and walked away down a squared off, underground hallway. Cool air drifted down the passage. Arthur noted that and closed the door.

  “It’s for you,” he said.

  “No,” Crabwell replied. “Did I ever tell you about that time when I saw a blue whale upon the open sea?”

  “I’m sure you did,” Arthur answered, knowing that doing so would probably not save him from another long tale.

  “I am joking,” Crabwell chuckled. “Open it. The package is for you.”

  Arthur laid the canvas on the table and sliced the twine with his table knife, then unfolded the package. Inside was a fresh set of black leather armor, identical to the armor that he had been wearing when he had been wounded. Other than his closest friends, he could not remember when someone had given him something.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” he said. “I will pay you of course.”

  Crabwell reached up and rubbed his alabaster eyeball while snickering. “I certainly did have to do it. You had a coupla might-good-sized holes in the set you had on when they brought you down here. Take it out. Try it on. As for payment, let’s at least examine the article first.”

  Arthur unfolded the outfit, examining the craftsmanship. Every pocket, every concealed compartment, every niche had been painstakingly placed. The stitching was foreign to him, but tight. The leather had been softened and would require modest break-in. “Who made this, Crabwell? The craftsmanship is superb.”

  “I don’t let my secrets out none too easy. You ever need another set let me know. I will see what I can do.”

  Without further word, Arthur slipped into his new armor. “It’s a bit lighter than my gear.”

  “And tougher,” Crabwell assured him. Unwinding himself from his chair, he got up, walked over to Arthur and knocked on the chest plate with his knuckles. “Light steel sewn in. Just enough to keep it flexible, but it will turn an errant blade if you decide you need to jump in front of one again. By the way, I heard how you came to be at the tip of that sword. A lot of folk of the Downs saw the skirmish. You are as brave as they say, I suppose or witless.”

  “Wolf is my friend,” Arthur replied. “He did the same for me—more than once.”

  Crabwell returned to the table and resumed his meal. “Finish your food. I don’t often find it plentiful. When you finish, we’ll see what Scralz has to say and then it’ll be time for you to be on your way.”

  Arthur stretched his armor, turned, and bent at the knees. “I owe you my life, Crabwell. I won’t forget
that.”

  Crabwell smiled faintly.

  Ham stood at the South Gate with his men and watched as Raliax sat upon his horse looking grimly at the scene before them. A woman, a man, and two small boys were tied to poles spaced evenly apart. They had been stripped naked and cold water thrown upon them. Work continued, but the only sounds in the square were the grinding of the stones as the workers hoisted them into place on the wall and the whimpers of the children who had worn themselves out crying.

  The family had failed to report for their servitude. The man was a baker. He had no other family in the city but his wife and children. Before his duty to the city would draw to an end, his business would be shuttered. They would have been fed scraps from the army’s table, but as far as his business was concerned, his neighbors had not come to his aid and now that business was forfeit as if Nerva cared about such a pittance.

  Ham felt sweat trickle down his neck and run into his shirt. The square by the wall smelled of bodies unwashed and stank of human derivation. If Nerva sought to unite his citizens, he had done just the opposite. Those in the city kept their noses to themselves and pretended not to notice that their neighbors were indentured. They had stopped caring about one another and reverted to survival; retreat, even for those not chosen in the lottery, was no longer an option. They had to stay. They could not run. They could not wake up from the nightmare that their city had become. Instead, they told themselves that what was about to happen would never happen, mental slight-of-hand by weak or frightened minds.

  “Wait here,” Ham ordered his men. Lomast’s death had been covered up just like he had said it would be, and thus far, no one had said a word about it. A terrible way to die—purposely forgotten.

  He approached Raliax’s horse, reached out and laid his hand upon the bridle. Raliax sat in the hot sun, looking as though his armor did not burden him, as if the heat did not exhaust him. His eyes mixed focus with only the slightest amount of shame.