Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  That encounter, however, had been more sharp-edged, although a bit misdirected. He replayed the scene in his mind. The men had been chasing someone they thought to be him. They had been surprised when he approached them from behind. That meant they did not truly know what he looked like. Neither had the mercenaries in Ploor. Had their employer sent them with an intention to kill him, he should have given them a better description than they evidently had—unless he could not, or had decided purposely not to give them that advantage.

  Why had they come into the mountains and killed an innocent man and woman, looking for Arthur? To spread the word of their presence? They had certainly not gone into hiding.

  Then the encounter with the men on Pagan’s Way. The tattoos—brands. The amulets. The Alones and the Snipes. A sorcerer had involved himself, perhaps standing alone, perhaps employed by someone of even greater power.

  Nerva crossed his mind again, but the man had no predisposition or ill will toward Arthur or for anyone as far as that went. Still, sorcerers did not often venture out into the world of miscreants of the sword. Magic did well, but steel worked sometimes in the night and with greater swiftness. Quite possibly some past encounter had set Arthur at odds with someone with such a skill. He had not seen the likes of Alones and Snipes since Judas raised an army of Necros and Mrandor raised an army of ghouls and trolls. He sat that notion like a bishop on his mental chessboard and considered the other pieces.

  “Strategy,” he murmured.

  Who were the pawns?

  Until now, the mercenaries seemed to be his front line enemy, unrelated to the Alones and Snipes. If someone else stood at their head, a moment would present itself when their leader would relinquish hiding, frustrated by dwindling ranks. What if the mercenaries, despite the fact that they had almost killed him, were pawns in a greater game?

  He settled back in his chair, eyes glued to the table, thinking through the events like historical moves. On his side of the board had been Adam’s parents. Killed for no particular reason other than to get Arthur’s attention. The enemy thought that they had killed Adam as well, and probably did not consider him being in play. Instead, the lad had retreated to Arthur’s side of the board, though he remained in reserve.

  But, did he? Had Adam’s fight with the sailors in Ploor been a coincidence? He said they had called him Bornshire. They had assumed at the time that everyone knew he was Arthur’s son, but what if, like the mercenaries, the mariners had again thought him to be Arthur?

  Were they still trying to draw him into the open, or simply maintain a pulsation as to his location? If the latter was true, to what end? He considered the pieces, as he knew them.

  Himself and Blade, Shanay, Adam, Wolf, Scralz, Anthony, Ptolomus and the Templars—how did Crabwell fit? Alternatively, was Crabwell himself even on the board? Did he have an agenda other than his own people? Arthur sat Crabwell in the corner of the board like a rook, unsure yet what his contributions, if any, might be.

  On the other side, a sorcerer, perhaps a patron, a countless number of mercenaries, Alones and Snipes. Perhaps the Alones and Snipes were separate, a second front of this battle, two opponents in a single game. He advanced events forward, examining the mercenaries.

  Adam’s parents first. Then Arthur had removed them from the board with a mental grimness. Coming to Hellsgate, he had fished for information and encountered an already ill presence, the Alones and Snipes.

  But the mercenaries had been there when he arrived. They had stayed out of the Dead Whore at night and frequented the brothels. They had gone into the Downs and met a bad end against Crabwell’s private militia. The rest ended in the street in a brawl with Arthur, Wolf and Scralz, something that they had stumbled into more than marched into.

  That they were somehow in league with the Alones and Snipes did not sit well in Arthur’s mind. There were two opponents. Two agendas. Two adversaries. He pinned that speculation in his mind for later review and replayed the moment when they had collided. The speed with which his attacker moved reminded Arthur of a well-honed military man that had spent his life preparing for a single battle. Yet, the ill-prepared leader had blundered into his own end. Arthur had nearly been killed.

  Had his adversary truly been so fast?

  Arthur contemplated, recalling the wave of disorientation that had passed through him at that same inopportune moment. He seized that moment, cracked it open and examined its contents.

  What had that feeling been? It touched him, and then fled away.

  What? What had—?

  “Mother,” he murmured. At that moment, like that night in the mountains when he felt his father go to the Wheel, his mother had touched him, spoken to him.

  What had her words been? He closed his eyes and reached.

  Ptolomus settled the tradesmen back into their homes and built an impressive perimeter around the main estate. The tradesmen who needed to come and go outside of the perimeter were allowed out through the barricade and then escorted into the forests or into the open where they needed to work, never being left alone, except once they were back inside. Ptolomus ordered his men not to assist in the work, but to remain vigilant, each guard rotated on the hour to maintain heightened awareness. The tradesmen were out of their minds with fear, and for that reason alone, he believed their story. Elizabeth did her duty, not infringing their friendship. For that, he felt gratitude but had never feared less.

  He understood why Shanay might not have told the villagers the details, but why had she not touched upon what they would encounter? There could be any number of reasons why she had not told him precisely what they might come up against, including that she might not have known, or anticipated that they might rally up before hunting the creature down. In any case, speculation would do no good. He and his men were capable of tracking and killing the beast. They would do so.

  The next morning, he gathered his first contubernium together. “Listen up. By now, each of you has probably heard some portion of the story concerning the animal that came onto the estate from one of the tradesmen, perhaps many of them. We know little for sure other than it is a huge dog, or a wolf, and reported to have two heads, or maybe half a dozen. Some of you have fought things as dangerous, but some of you maybe not. Here is how it will go.”

  For the next ten minutes he explained the method they would use to hunt, and how they would kill the creature once they found it. “We will leave the horses behind. They would hinder us in this size skirmish. Stay together, ready to close the phalanx if we should see the beast. Tracker to the front of formation. Move out.”

  Leaving his second contubernium to guard the tradesmen, Ptolomus took his men into the forest. The tracker did not have to look hard to find the trail. That in itself invited suspicion.

  Chapter 21

  Arthur opened his eyes, his meditation complete. A moment of melancholy drenched him. His mother and father had both left the world and done so with a warning, an ominous feeling more than words. More than any time before, he must set aside his personal desire for peace and seek out those who would hurt the world, hurt all of humanity if left to their design. If he did not, innocents would fall like lambs slaughtered by wolves.

  Slaughtered lambs. Slaughtered lambs. Of course. He remembered, if only vaguely, his vision.

  Primed, he placed himself upon the celestial chessboard with the other pieces, evaluated his foes, defending not himself, but every other piece upon that board against simultaneous attack. He had seen a man from Galilee do this before. It had ended appallingly.

  Arthur had been through this sequence, but lost Cleola and Jacob to his enemies in doing so, despite a latter overall victory. Then, he had not known most of his friends were his enemies. This time, he inspected each element of his faction.

  If the outcome were to be determined ahead of the moment it could only be surmised through information, projecting his opponents moves ahead of their action. Doing so would allow him a leeway he currently did not have. If he were
to protect every piece on the board, he must approach the conflict holistically. He could not successfully defend two fronts. Neither could his enemy. Thus far, they had merely tested his borders, seeking a way to slip through his lines. The few episodes had nearly killed Scralz, had tried to waylay Blade, and even Arthur himself.

  His speculation roamed while Anthony cleaned away the dishes. Wolf came and sat with him and Scralz still felt weary. She grumbled her way back upstairs for a nap. The Dead Whore would reopen when the sun retired for the night, and she needed to rest. Dozens of well-meaning customers would ask her endless questions until Scralz’s patience wore thin enough to bash one of them.

  “You are far too quiet,” Wolf remarked, pulling up a chair.

  “Thinking about all that has happened,” Arthur replied. “My parents are dead, Wolf.”

  Seriousness peeked over Wolf’s expression. “You know this how?”

  “I just do,” Arthur replied. “I am convinced there are multiple parties against us, though I don’t know their reason. Could be a personal desire to burn the world, or it could be about revenge. We have rolled up debt before, like with Octavus, but we have always managed to at least negotiate a truce.”

  “This doesn’t feel like negotiation time,” Wolf replied. “That merc jumped on you as soon as you spoke, damned near.”

  Arthur nodded. “So, here’s what we are going to do.”

  Anthony pulled up a chair and inserted himself into the conversation. “Scralz will be down later. She needs to rest or she might actually end up in a good mood.”

  Arthur grinned slightly. “As I was saying, we cannot defend ourselves spread out like we are. Ptolomus and Elizabeth are in Ploor. The Templars are divided between Ploor, Overlord City, and the cadre here in Hellsgate. Shanay and Adam are at the estate. We are here. We have discovered not a scrap of evidence that leads us to a conclusion that Nerva is somehow involved. At least not yet. So, people, here is my plan.

  “We are going to go back into the labyrinth with as many Templars as we can muster and destroy that nest that Anthony found. We need to eliminate the Alones and the Snipes. Not one can escape. We will go in and eradicate them.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Wolf replied, but his eyes sparkled. He would follow Arthur in this.

  “I am. We are at war. Let us be clear about that. These skirmishes are meant to test our capability, size up the situation. Consider the number of places and different ways they have engaged us. I am uncertain as to whether they intend to kill me, kill all of you, or kill all of us—perhaps there is a greater intent than us. Still, we are targets, but I think we are not the end of our enemy’s ambition. There is a vast end game that they have yet to reveal.”

  “Like?” This from Wolf.

  “If I knew that, I might sway my approach. For now, we are going to hit strong on a single front—the Alones and Snipes. I suspect our attack will come unexpectedly. The Alones and Snipes are not soldiers. They are monsters. They do not plan. They are simply like snakes. They hide and strike when convenient. Still, I think that despite their deadly nature, they are meant to distract us.”

  Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “Seems like a lot of effort for a mere distraction.”

  “A noxious diversion to be sure, but their master is somewhere besides the streets of Hellsgate. Removing this infestation may flush out our admirer. If not, Hellsgate will be secure, at least for the time being.”

  Wolf’s smile wisped through the sentence, then vanished as he said, “Admirer. Yes, I’m sure the love they hold is genuine.”

  Arthur tipped his mug to his lips and swallowed down some breakfast ale, never letting his eyes leave Wolf’s, allowing his friend to take his time picking through Arthur’s thoughts.

  “With Hellsgate alleviated, we can draw our forces to Ploor and rejoin Shanay, Adam, Ptolomus and Elizabeth.”

  “And then?”

  “I have several contingencies beyond that, but let’s survive our first wave of attack before deciding what is next. Planning beyond our funerals might be imprudent.”

  Anthony pushed back his chair and looked first at Wolf and then at Arthur. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I am,” Arthur replied. “We must not allow this affliction to spread. If we do, they will pick us off one at a time before moving on to more fertile hunting grounds. Meanwhile, mercenaries will keep popping in unannounced. We can only kill so many. With the Alones and Snipes out of the way, we can focus.”

  “You didn’t see them, Arthur.”

  “You are right, Anthony,” Arthur replied, “but I have seen the valley at Wizard’s Tower full of repugnant magic. I witnessed the atrocities Lucifer set loose there. I will not let this corruption grow. It must end here at Hellsgate.” Anthony sat quietly. After a bit, Arthur said, “It will end here, Anthony. One way or other. Even Crabwell cannot hide the Downs from these fiends if they continue to multiply.”

  “Agreed,” Anthony admitted, “But Arthur, Scralz is not ready to—”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Arthur interrupted, “because you two are not going. You are out. Go see to your wife.”

  “She will not accept that,” Anthony levied, stone-faced.

  Arthur met his gaze, unwaveringly. “She must.”

  Words spoken, he removed two of his most trusted and valuable pieces from the board, leaving his position weaker, but his resolve concrete. No argument, it seemed, would sway him.

  In Britannia, Mrandor disembarked with his army north of his destination and deployed three northern trackers to a point on the map he had designated. The army followed the trackers by a day and Mrandor remained behind them with a small troupe to pack his camp. Each day they rushed ahead and set up again before Mrandor’s arrival on horseback.

  A cold summer rain settled in on the fifth day, causing Mrandor to remain inside of his tent. Around noon, one tracker returned and reported devastation near where Mrandor had targeted them.

  “Devastation?”

  “Trees flattened in a broad area. Broken off at various heights. There are burned areas. Not the forest. Perhaps large campfires.”

  Mrandor waved the man away and considered. After an hour of waiting for the rain to lessen, he decided it would not and decided to survey the area himself.

  Trotting his chestnut gelding through the mud and the ranks of the army, no one looked up at him through their bone-chilling misery. He felt majestic, looking down upon them. If they could not let their eyes meet his, so be it. He cared little that he splashed freezing water and mud upon them. Soon, the sun would return and they would bitch that the heat stifled them. Complaint was a soldier’s mistress.

  When he arrived at the front of the troop, he examined the large spread of flattened trees, snapped off at various heights on the trunks just as the tracker had said. Even oaks. The fires had been large. They had burned both hot and long. He considered that.

  Had locals started cleaning up the mess and then saw his army approaching and fled? What could have caused such a flattening?

  He wrangled two fingers on his left hand, searching for a clue, but the land offered him nothing. All that he detected were remnants of his own spell, twisted, contorted, blown out of proportion from what he had scribed onto the scroll. Below that layer of magic, a more primal anger lurked.

  He remembered that feeling. He had stirred it upon the fields of Wizard’s Tower when he drew up a Tree of Pain upon the plains. The elements had turned against him that day with the Bornshires as allies.

  Mrandor smirked at that. An angry forest. Who cared?

  In response to that thought, a rumble of thunder answered, though he did not delude himself into believing that storms had minds of their own.

  His spell had been specifically tailored to trigger in the presence of a particular magic. He and Lieala had crossed paths decades before upon the plain of Wizard’s Tower. He had injected a marker into the parchment, and thus the incantation, to activate in her presence when the spell was spoken. Then, t
he beacon conjuration should have amplified itself based upon her presence to notify him of her location—but this—not this.

  He dragged the fingernails of his right hand gently down his jaw line. Belial. He smelled her scent. He felt her meddling. She had fooled him with her charade, seemingly perplexed when the spell had cast. He had not seen the subversion at that moment and his own obtuseness angered him.

  “Belial,” he murmured, and in the hollow halls of his conscience, he thought he heard her laughter.

  Two of the trackers stood near his horse. “Have you found her?”

  “There is a village two days’ march from here,” one replied, and Mrandor urged them forward with a sneer.

  “Find her. Until she answers to me, no one goes home.”

  He sat upon his horse, letting the cold rain drench him, freeze his heart into a block of ice, hoping that he had not made any further mistakes with regard to Belial. He had counted upon being more than a step ahead of her in all things while she tinkered with her toys. If he had figured wrong, the future could hold an eon of torment. Of that, he felt certain.

  The afternoon heat beat upon Pagan’s Way like a blacksmith’s hammer on white iron. The bellows of nature’s wind did nothing to cool the street or the structures that lined its edges, but only contorted the dry air from suffocating to sweltering.

  Arthur and Wolf rose early to prepare for the battle with the Alones and Snipes, ensuring they were clear on every detail. When they reached the downstairs, mugs sat in an orderly fashion on the bar. The tables were squared and spaced evenly in the room. The chairs were tucked under. In all his years of patronage, Arthur had never seen the Dead Whore Tavern so hygienic.

  Instinct nudged him to pay attention, but he had other things on his mind. Already they had met with Wolf’s group of Templars and the invasion times and quarters had solidified. Still, with a third of the day gone, and no sign of Anthony or Scralz, they became concerned.