Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  “There were two of them, actually. Yes, you killed them, but they banged you up pretty good.”

  “Caught me off guard. Otherwise, I would have massacred the whole damned bunch of them.”

  “There were more?”

  “There are always more,” Scralz said, and then added, “But, no, I only saw those two and only after they saw me first. Dug through the damned cellar wall.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Cranky. How about you?”

  “Your healer does good work.”

  “Known Crabwell a long time. I should have asked him if he could have made you any better mannered.”

  “I don’t think he does larger miracles.”

  “No,” Scralz agreed. “Although there are some things he is good at.”

  “He showed me the Downs.”

  Scralz’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did he now?”

  Arthur nodded. “We have some planning to do. Are you up to it?”

  “Can we talk Anthony into making some flat cakes?”

  Arthur chuckled. “He’s as fidgety as Blade on a quiet day.”

  “Oh,” Scralz said, rising, “in that case I had better get down there before he worries himself to death. I’m the love of his life, you know.”

  Arthur grinned and retreated downstairs.

  Joanie and Octavus sat with Leet in the gathering circle of Drybridge, considering their options. The heat of the day lingered, flavored with a persistent, yet easy breeze. Robins sang wistfully from the nearby trees. Blue jays complained. Joanie positioned herself on the same stone that she had when she met her grandmother on that first day, seasons ago. Already, the wound of her absence festered. Sweltering sickness of desired retribution painted its way onto Joanie’s soul, despite that she knew her grandmother would not want her to permit that particular illness to loiter.

  In her captive time in the brothel, despair had been her constant companion, and on the day her father set her free, she had rejoiced, but not long afterward, it had been vengeance that drove her near madness.

  Not again.

  Around them, druids of all ranks built shaved cross-poles and placed them in staggered sets of three to surround Drybridge from a rushed attack. Leet’s main force had not yet arrived, but Leet had sent word for an amassing. There had been a brief argument that the Council had been murdered during amassing, but he had held firm. Whether the remainder of the Council’s successors would respond remained to be seen.

  As for Drybridge, the villagers had been migrated further inland to the mountains where even Rome had been unable to dig the populace out of the rock. Threats had come before. Thus, the villagers did not resist or even protest. They were not the warrior class. They looked to their druids to protect them. They would be safe in the mountains until—.

  “Leet, do you know who or what is coming? Specifically, I mean. Not a notion.”

  Leet poked at a cold ash bed with a stick. Most of the afternoon had passed and none of them had said a word until Joanie spoke. She did not know if Leet tried to respect her grief or if he simply had much to contemplate, considering the recent events.

  “We have informants along both coasts. They watch for a large fleet. That seems to be what preceded Daemon’s last battle, according to the sea. Here is what we know from our investigation thus far.

  “A sorcerer commanded that fleet. The Council attack came from a wicked curse. Someone transported an artifact that, in turn, carried the curse. We assume the bard, Jea, unwittingly brought the curse with him after his investigation into your grandfather’s murder. We backtrack his journey. Hopefully, that will tell us more.”

  Octavus leaned in. “Leet, is there a chance they will come overland?”

  “This far in, it is possible. They are not on the firmament of Britannia at the moment. Once the first of them steps foot upon the soil, we will know. We would prefer that. We would know precisely where they are. We could prepare.”

  “How?”

  “The stone,” Leet smiled. “The stone will tell us.”

  A fleeting look passed between Octavus and Joanie. She nodded, wondering where his questioning would lead.

  “So, let us think this through together if I may.”

  “Of course.”

  “We know a sorcerer is involved. The curse tells us that—and the sea.” Leet’s attention continued to tighten. Octavus continued, “Are you certain that this magic was not created by one of your own? Could they be enthralled?”

  Leet swallowed that question, tasted it with his mind, or so his eyes said. He closed his lids slowly, kept them closed, then opened them again. “If the spell had been from my people, it could have never entered the circle. A rogue druid could weave such a spell, I suppose, but the elders would have sensed it the moment it was created. All of us are linked together by the threads of this world. Much the same as leaves share a tree, we share the earth. If the tree is ill, all leaves suffer. That is why when a leaf dies, we sense the loss.”

  Joanie understood Leet’s explanation, but her husband knew battlefields and weapons. His goodness carried them along together, but matters of the spirit, he seldom overly contemplated. Thus, she was surprised at the insight in his next question.

  “So, tell me. If the Council could not withstand such magic, why would a younger group of druids believe that they could?”

  “The spell was not meant to be so vigorous. It was gauged to send a signal. However, bounds were not properly placed. It drew magic from its surroundings to power itself. We believe the original intent was to kill only the druid who touched it, but inside the circle, its nature grew out of control. Too many druids, too much magic. An irresponsible use of talent, truth be told. Imagine yourself as a soldier, standing victorious on a field of battle, walking around the field murdering all of the wounded. It is much like that. No moral attached. No constraint. We believe the spell was to lead an enemy to the ignition point, but in a much more subdued fashion.”

  “Still, my question remains the same. If the sorcerer will not constrain his spells, what keeps him from leveling the next battlefield?”

  Leet glanced at Joanie, and then squinted at the dirt near her feet. He fidgeted for a bit, and then took a tone that started with a touch of condescendence, but ended with a teacher aftertaste.

  “When Daemon died, he passed to the Wheel, but he left a piece of himself behind. Lieala did the same. Despite their worldly travels, the Bornshires were, arguably, the most talented archdruids of this age. They gifted particular talents back along their bloodlines when they died. The practice is ancient, but not unheard of. Talents that may not have existed before or talents that may have been strengthened by their passing can be passed to their kin. When the Council was murdered, only Lieala’s presence remained.”

  “She was still alive at the first, but I could not save her,” Joanie replied.

  Leet continued his explanation while Octavus listened intently. “She died a few hours later, yes?” Octavus held Leet’s eye and nodded affirmation. “We sensed her gift pass to her bloodline and a remnant of her essence manifested for an entire day afterward. When she departed to the Wheel, the remainder of her talents passed to us. None of us saw her, but she lingered a full day. Did you see a shadow of her after her death? Did she pass the power to you?”

  He directed his question and attention to Joanie.

  “No,” she replied. Her grandmother’s power could only have passed to her father. There was no other child in the bloodline. “My father is on the continent. It had to have been him.”

  Leet looked flustered. “Your father is not a druid.”

  “Nor I.”

  Leet had already surmised that particular fact. His face said so. He folded his fingers of one hand through those of his other and sat back, looked toward the forest and then back at them. “Still, you have talents. Does your father?”

  “He does.”

  Both she and her father had talents that surfaced from time-to-time. Le
arning to control them and learning not to use them had been an elongated topic between them.

  “We will combat this sorcerer to the end of our race if need be. The Council members’ powers, except for your mother and father, passed proportionately through to the rest of us. Even some of the Bornshire strength abides in the ascending generation of druids. I sensed that you have talents of your own. I feel them, being this close to you. If you are not a druid, what code do you follow?”

  In that moment, Joanie felt suspicion in his voice. Her grandmother had never spoken to her about druids beyond the village. Her grandfather had never mentioned that they existed except for vague references to the Council.

  Still, to be held at sudden arm’s length threatened to spread a seed of anger. “We believe in the One God, Leet. My power comes from Him. Does it matter from where our talents spring?

  “Perhaps not,” he admitted.

  “Let us not see enemies where there are none. My grandparents had no argument with my father, who is a priest of the One God, nor did they hold me away from their teachings. Let us embrace one another. Not turn away because we hold up a single truth as though it were unassailable. None of us knows the all of truth. That key is forever hidden from me. From you.”

  Leet’s suspicion drifted away and he nodded his head, pursing his lips. “Agreed.”

  He sat again, quietly contemplating the things that had been said, but Octavus finally burst the quiet.

  “We need a battle plan. You said yesterday that at Daemon’s death there had been a large force that attacked.”

  “To the Archdruid’s credit, few of them left afterward.”

  “Be that as it may, if another comes I can help you to prepare.”

  “As you know, we fought the Romans on our homeland for decades. We are prepared to do so again.”

  Octavus winced at that. His military time with Rome had been mostly in Britannia. He clenched his fists together, laid both of them under his chin. “I concede what you say. This is your land. These are your people, but they are my people too. I beg you to listen. I can help you prepare. We can minimize losses. Leet, your entire Council is dead. Though you may have their strength at your disposal, you do not have their experience. I hope that you have their wisdom.”

  Wryness tickled the edge of Leet’s mouth, and Joanie felt that he was about to reject Octavus out of hand.

  “Leet,” she interjected, “Octavus yielded to your knowledge concerning druids and their magic. We accept everything that you have told us. Maybe it is time you listen instead of talking. My grandfather was wise. Yet, he went out alone to face this enemy. He died. He could not vanquish the enemy despite all of his knowledge, all of his magic. That same opponent decimated the Council. Whether that was by design or accident, the result remains the same. Forget our codes, our place of birth. Set aside your new-found responsibility just this once to hear what we have to say.”

  Leet held her eyes the entire time she spoke and his expression illustrated the same stubbornness that both she and her father could rally when pushed against their grain.

  “Proceed,” he said and the smile on his face softened its strain as Octavus explained the preparation he had in mind. To his credit, Leet listened, asked questions, and the conversation continued until Octavus and Leet sang the same tune. When they were done, Leet agreed that Octavus’ plan exceeded the knowledge of the second circle of druids.

  “So, then, we are agreed?” Octavus asked.

  Leet nodded his head, but his gaze turned back to the forest. “We are, Octavus. You are not the outsider I thought you to be, but still—”

  “Still what?” Joanie asked, urging exasperation to remain from her voice and Leet to express himself.

  “Your grandparents sent their talents to your father. They must have seen a greater need wherever he is. This is our war. They were our people. Tomorrow we will escort you to the coast. We have arranged to send you back to the continent. This is a war in which you will stand aside.”

  Joanie started to argue, but Leet’s gaze froze her words in her throat.

  “Your time here is done.”

  Ptolomus gripped the underside of the door with both hands and pulled himself through the narrow and stone-braided divot his men had dug. The fit forced him to exhale as he pulled so that his chest did not pin him under the door. The situation felt precarious enough that he had not wanted one of his men to assume the responsibility. Leaders who failed to lead did not deserve the caliber of souls he recruited to his ranks.

  Pulling himself a bit further, his head cleared the passage and allowed him to brace his elbows against the door itself. Though a scant amount of the morning sun sliced through the dust-littered air inside of the building, he still found himself immersed in darkness.

  He pushed, clearing himself to his waist when he heard the first and faintest sound within the building. His daggers were both still on his belt. Getting one of them drawn from this position would not serve him. He drew up his legs and pressed against the dirt outside. Someone put their hands on the bottoms of his boots, giving him leverage to shove. He did mightily and came fully into the building.

  Instead of hopping up quickly, he permitted his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The premises held a large amount of wood, but from the looks of it, the woodsmen had just started laying up lumber for the estate. That fit what he expected, as far as progress, but where had everyone gone?

  He walked to the fireplace. No smoke rolled up off the ashes, but the stones themselves held warmth.

  Ptolomus scanned the floor, looking for signs of blood. When he saw none, he returned to the door. Large timbers had been pegged to the door to hold it shut. Whatever had happened, someone had tried to keep someone else out of the building.

  He located half a dozen hammers and two wedges in the furthest corner. Using one of each, he pried the timbers from the door and opened them wide, flooding the building with daylight. His men swarmed in, scanning the interior for dangers, but they found none.

  “It was sealed from the inside,” he said, resting his hands in his belt by their thumbs.

  “You two stay here,” he ordered a pair of his men. Standing beyond Reavis and Elizabeth he ordered, “The rest of you come with me.” The Templars followed him outside. “Form a line,” he directed. “Spread out to arms length and scan the ground.”

  “What are we looking for, Ptolomus?” Reavis asked.

  “Anything. Horse tracks. Wolf tracks. Bear tracks. Report anything.”

  His men relaxed to the perimeter then spread out and began to scour their way across the circle.

  “Hoof prints.”

  To be expected. They had probably made them themselves when they entered the perimeter. The men completed their pass and then two more. On the fourth pass, the central estate foundation crossed their path. One man raised his hand and Ptolomus called his name.

  “Sir, look at this.”

  Ptolomus crossed to him, trying to only step where they had already been. When he neared the soldier, the man pointed to the ground. A large square stone was set ahead of the rest of the foundation. Around the large block, broad scratches marred the dirt, perhaps the same as at the door.

  Ptolomus turned to look back at the first building, a straight line from where he stood. Kneeling, he pushed against the stone. The granite did not intend to budge under his strength. “Go tell the others to look through the dirt for a door inside of the building—an underground passage. The rest of you, get some levers. See if we can move this.”

  After nearly half an hour, no progress had been made. Ptolomus wiped his hands on his britches and sat down on the stone. “Ironic, we need a stonemason to help us move this thing.”

  “They have certainly manipulated many here,” his decanus replied, scrubbing his hands on his shirt.

  The words set a question in Ptolomus’ mind.

  “Come with me,” he said. Together, the two men crossed back to the large building and entered.

&
nbsp; “They didn’t find anything in the dirt,” the decanus said.

  Ptolomus crossed to the fireplace and drew his dagger from its sheath. Around the hearthstone, he swept his knife around the mortar until the blade slipped into a small gap. Sliding his blade along, he located a catch.

  “Help me with this,” he said and slipped his hand inside the catch on the end of the hearth and when Reavis joined him, they heaved. The hearth rose on well-oiled hinges and from the darkness below came a cry of despair.

  Ptolomus knelt and called out into the darkness. A man came forward, his face smudged.

  “Is anyone hurt?” Ptolomus called down.

  There was silence and then a soft return, “No one.”

  “You are safe. Come out.”

  A man came to the edge of the shadow. “It is not safe. The beast is still out there. Did you not see it?”

  “There is no beast now,” Ptolomus said. “I have two squads of Templars with me, Canaas. You know me. Trust me. You will be safe.”

  “You didn’t see what we saw,” Canaas replied. “Ptolomus, that thing will be back. It was a dog as big as a house. It had two heads.”

  Not belittling him, for Shanay had said as much, Ptolomus replied, “All of you come out of there. We will protect you. My men and I will hunt the creature down and kill it.”

  Half an hour later, he convinced them to believe him.

  In the Dead Whore Tavern, Arthur sat at his usual table by himself while Wolf, Scralz, and Anthony ate breakfast at the bar, talking among themselves. Anthony’s face could not have been more bright than to see his woman back on her feet and Scralz could not have done a better presentation of being grouchy, a complete farce but one that all of them welcomed.

  She had been fortunate. So had he. Good friends. All of them.

  Turning his gaze away, he steeled himself against the relationships and turned his mind to the matter at hand. He had miscalculated. The mercenaries in Ploor months before had been but a ruse. Had their employer truly wanted Arthur dead, perhaps they might have sent better killers to do their duty. As it was, that person had accomplished nothing other than actually pinpointing Arthur’s location—for the time. That more mercenaries from the same employer showed up in Hellsgate only told him that whoever sought him had discovered that he was in Hellsgate.