Belial - Episode 1 of the Elder Bornshire Chronicles

by Ben Stivers

  Within Joanie, she felt the wash drench her. She had thought that through the years, she had learned to quell that emotion, but pouring into her fiber a crushed blue haze splashed and sent the hunger to her sword hand.

  In fury, she struck.

  Octavus and his compatriots made their way swiftly across the land, the last of the ships sinking into the tempestuous sea. Suddenly, Alpein stopped and squinted deep into the forest. He signaled to his men and said to Octavus. “We must get clear of the trees. Run for your life!”

  Octavus did not understand what concern Alpein had, but the words left no room for questions. Through the underbrush, they sprinted. Twice Octavus tripped and nearly fell to his face and for the world, he did not know why. Surefootedness was a requirement if a young soldier was to survive to be an old soldier. Falling down in battle gave the enemy a clear chance to make an easy kill.

  “Where are we going?” he shouted, but Alpein did not answer, only increased his speed until they, at last, sprinted onto the plain. In this place, the soil had turned over as though a blind man had plowed through with a drunken horse.

  Alpein bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing deeply as he kept an eye on the trees behind him. The din from the forest rose to a deafening drone.

  “I have heard of this, but I thought it a myth. Druids have many myths,” he said, looking more at his men then at Octavus.

  They each agreed and finally Octavus asked when an explanation did not spew forth. “What are you talking about? What’s in there?”

  He had seen trolls and hellhounds in his life; whatever threatened them, he felt sure it would only mildly surprise them.

  “The trees are angry,” Alpein explained. “They are patient and most of the time, nearly all of the time, they remain quiet and forgiving.”

  Octavus turned his head to hide the skepticism on his face, or at least the part of it that said that a scary tree hardly frightened him. With a touch of mirth in his voice, he asked, “What do angry trees do?”

  He expected one of them to say “leaf”, but no humor insinuated itself when Alpein explained, “They march and they attack anyone they encounter.”

  Octavus stopped his fanciful thinking and frowned. “Anyone?”

  “If the trees have been incensed, they will exterminate everything that might be a threat. They might do that quickly, or they may do it slowly, but until the threat feels gone, they will strike again and again.”

  Octavus understood that and headed down the plain in a jaunt. Within a quarter of an hour, he, Alpein, and Alpein’s men reached the battleground. Dozens of Mrandor’s barbarians lay on the field with arrows stuck in them. None moved. They had been dead for hours. Further from the forest’s edge, however, hundreds of Alpein’s brothers and sisters sprawled on the ground, covered in a blanket of frost. Those that survived writhed on the ground, struggling to rise despite their wounds. Most, however, had succumbed.

  Near the forest’s edge, he heard the unmistakable sound of steel upon steel and turning his attention in that direction, he saw Joanie and Mrandor laying on, a stone artifact that began to assume the shape of a disfigured tree partially formed from the earth. He suspected he knew what that relic might be, but at that moment, Joanie stumbled and Mrandor pressed his advantage.

  “See to your people,” he ordered, the fact that he was not commanding these men not even a thought in his mind. Drawing his sword, he pounded the ground, hell bent on killing a nightmare that had haunted his wife since the day they had met.

  Belial stepped back and examined her latest creation, a harpy. Already it had begun to twitch and would soon come to life, drawing its flame initially from her, then from the frayed fabric of creation itself.

  “In my own image,” she muttered to mock her Father, but in truth, the harpy held only an insignificant resemblance to Belial. The creature stood six feet tall and held a wingspan of eight feet. Grey flesh covered the immense wings and those wings were supported by a patagium of long bone from behind the shoulder to the tips. Two sinews ran vertically from that bone to form the coverts, allowing the harpies to fold their wings in two places. Sharp bone capped the wingtips and she considered adding more but then decided against it. The bottoms of the wings had no particular deadliness about them, and adding structure might hamper the harpy’s ability to fly.

  The creature’s forehands were four-knuckled and ended in thick, extended claws that could snatch the heart out of a stone. The horrid creation had thick and formidable breasts, lending extensive strength to its arms and wings. Legs that looked oversized for the body were broad works of bone and muscle, bending only once at the knee like a man and once at the thick ankle. The feet had three large toes that were double-knuckled and appended with claws the size of daggers. They could rip a man’s body in half without much effort. Armor would provide little resistance against a harpy’s claws.

  “You are my prize,” she cooed, feeling confident as ever at her handiwork. She had felt the same when the first hellhound inhaled its initial breath. This accomplishment, however, felt more godlike.

  As if he had been standing there, Mrandor’s thoughts intruded upon her own. He took from her a dose of power to cast a spell and from that, he continued to draw from her to maintain the siphon.

  Her anger ignited, and thoughts of her harpy left behind, she took flight, whisked through the hallways, out of the tower and into the sky to smite him for his indulgence.

  Joanie parried Mrandor’s attack and stumbled over a corpse that lay within the circle. Mrandor pressed, but not overly hard. He was playing his game cautiously and so should she. Around them, the trees drew close and through the ground, their movement sang a disturbed tale.

  “Where is your grandmother?” he leered. Joanie longed for a chance to smack that smugness off his face. If he had killed her grandmother, he did not know it. If he had not killed her, there was little sense in giving him the satisfaction to know Lieala was dead.

  “She stepped away from you,” Joanie said, the idea coming quickly to her mind. “She’ll be back soon, but you won’t be alive to see that.”

  She laid in a lunge, feinted, and then remised. Mrandor managed to stay with her, but the Tree had begun withdrawal and sidelined any fierce concentration. Joanie needed to end him before he decided he could only do one of those things. She lunged again and then again, pushing Mrandor around the edge of the circle. As she neared the Tree, the urge to wretch overcame her. The Tree’s atrocity had ailed her grandmother while Arthur grew through boyhood, though none of them had suspected.

  Mrandor beat upon her sword, quickly, continuously, and she imagined he intended to follow with a swipe, which he did.

  The blue haze took its moment to interrupt her thinking and her left hand sprang out and grasped the edge of Mrandor’s sword arm. Blue-white fire shot up his arm, singeing the hair from the left side of his head and blistering every parcel of flesh it claimed. He tottered backwards.

  Joanie stepped forward and placed her free hand upon the Tree of Pain. Tortured magic battered her mystical guards, intent on disintegrating the essence of her. Joanie’s own magic, however, countered with first a brace and then a shove. The Tree pulsed and then visibly retreated into the ground a hand’s width.

  “No!” Mrandor yelled. From his fingers, a yellow charge of magic spat, striking Joanie in the chest and hurling her outside of the ring.

  The blue haze stunted and flickers of light ran around the outside of her vision. With skin still boiling on the side of his face, Mrandor strode out of the circle and slashed an overhead attack down upon her. Joanie blocked the blow, but feebly. Her wits still struggled to overcome the blast that had grounded her. Mrandor swung his blade down at her again, and she rolled away, unable to bring her blade up in time. His blade struck hers on the ground and snapped her sword in half.

  He raised his weapon a third time to cleave her in two. Humbly, she uttered a brief prayer.

  Agony peeled away Mrandor’s flesh lik
e a sharp knife as Joanie’s spell ate into his arm and face. Even though she was down on the ground, he could not abide killing her cleanly. He would kill her however he could. How she died would be told in stories by the victor, not garnished by some whimsical tale of glory.

  Even so, he stayed far enough away that she could not touch him and levied his blow. He drew back his arms to steady his burning flesh and to cut her life out with a single slash.

  Then, agony surged.

  Joanie got her prayer out as Mrandor’s sword reached its zenith. This was the end and truth be told, she felt remorse for that. Her father would lose her again, twice in one life, something that no father should ever have to bear even once in a single lifetime. She tried to kick away but Mrandor stalked her just out of reach.

  A flash in the flames caught her eye outside of Mrandor’s abandoned circle. Under his armpit, a thrown dagger ate into his flesh until it reached its cross-guard.

  Sweat spewed. Blood spread down quickly from the dagger’s handle and Mrandor could but gasp at the blow.

  Octavus followed the throwing dagger by three steps and plowed heavily into Mrandor, knocking away the sorcerer’s sword. The pair plowed into the stony surface of the Britannia plain. Already Octavus had put his hand on his long dagger and attempted to draw his weapon.

  Thunder clapped overhead as the two struggled. The heavens wailed for a victor. Octavus rammed Mrandor’s chin to the left, crushing his blistered scalp against the stony earth. As Mrandor found himself hampered by a dagger in his upper chest, and overpowered by Octavus’ skill as a warrior, he laid his former sword hand under Octavus chin and spoke a blunt spell. A clunky fleshy sound popped and an unconscious Octavus toppled backward off Mrandor as Joanie regained her feet and an ounce of breath. Mrandor heaved the dagger from under his arm. Blood and char covered the right side of his face and bits of bone showed in several places. Blood pumped from the wound.

  Joanie wiped the blood off her own mouth with her sleeve and pulled her dagger.

  “I wasn’t done messing up your pretty face,” she taunted. “When I am done with you, you’ll be looking for your head in the tall grass.”

  The irritation in Mrandor’s face twisted the uninjured side and he drew up to cast another spell. Joanie charged and the uncontrollable blue haze spewed into her, lighting her soul afire.

  Time thickened almost to a stop. Mrandor’s hands drew into a knot, the scorched one over the top of the lower. His fingers traced a repeating, short pattern that appeared to be a type of spiral. Joanie had intended to put her shoulder into his gut, but decided against that. That move could bring her directly into the path of an oncoming spell. Instead, she dove downward, one hand coming forward to snag his ankle as she spilled past, hooking her wrist and pulling herself back to her knees, driving the dagger through the back of Mrandor’s thigh behind the knee. His leg crumpled and his concentration shattered.

  “You should never have come out of your circle, maggot,” she growled. Stepping over her fallen foe, she went to Octavus. He laid there, his eyes wide open but seeing nothing.

  Joanie stood over him, stunned by the sight. “Octavus! No!”

  She leaned down and placed her hand on his face, speaking his name and reaching into the smog of her husband’s shattered consciousness. Finding him clinging to life, she extended her hand.

  Mrandor culled his concern for his physical well-being and with both hands yanked Joanie’s knife from the split bone of his leg with considerable effort and no small portion of pain. Pain—bah, he had lived with it for years. Turning his attention back to Joanie, she knelt on the edge of the circle over her pathetic mate and howled. Drawing back her knife, he gimped toward her.

  On his third step, she stiffened and swiveled toward him. The blue fire in her eyes intensified.

  “It’s your fault,” he leered. “You caused this, not me!”

  She circled around him in no particular mood to charge. Mrandor backed up one step and then another waiting for an opportunity to place the blade in the place that would do the most good.

  Her face set like baked brick, the grimness of it reminded him of her father. That caused Mrandor to smirk. With his daughter dead, Arthur would draw out of the fight and the world would be ripe. Then, Mrandor could hunt the aging Bornshire at his whim, bring him to the bitterest death possible.

  Joanie’s eyes suddenly reflected their own bit of satisfaction as Mrandor felt an irresistible grip upon his arm. As the bones crunched, he cried out and as his feet lifted from the ground, he looked back over his shoulder. A tree limb wrapped his arm and held him, slowly crushing even the thick bones and pulverizing the smaller.

  Mrandor tried to twist toward the tree to unleash his fury but to no avail. Desperately, he called down his lightning. The white fire struck the tree from top to bottom, obliterating the air around it and sending streaks of wood and leaves into the air and Mrandor out onto the plain.

  Joanie retrieved Octavus’ sword and hopped away as the same tree grabbed for her. She stalked Mrandor onto the field where he lay smoldering.

  Flashing steel, she arched the blade and struck downward, the feel of steel in every fiber of her bone, the want of vengeance filling every pore. Downward the steel. Onward came the justice she sought for her grandfather, her grandmother, her husband and her father. The steel caused the air to whisper as it flashed forward and struck upon a frustrating wall of immovable metal.

  Surprise washed away Joanie’s thoughts. She stepped back as the winged creature before her stood up, unfolding the wing that had wrapped itself around the creature and Mrandor as well. The beast looked like a woman, but twisted into a study of womanhood and winged nastiness.

  The creature hissed, “You cannot hurt me, mud beast!”

  Joanie, however, slashed again, and again the wing came forward. Joanie’s fury erupted through her arms and through her blade, the baleful bloodlust overcoming her in the presence of Belial. Then, explosively, one feather broke.

  Belial rose up with fresh bred insanity. “You dare?”

  Joanie did not withdraw. Battle haze gripped her too tightly.

  Belial’s cat-like eyes widened, the impact of Joanie’s blow clearly disrupting her to the bone.

  “Fight me, whore-spawn!” Joanie screamed and again the blue haze swept up her arms and legs. Her spells came to her, and then fizzled as the thing before her slashed a wing across Joanie’s chest, opening her from her waist to the furthest shoulder.

  Joanie blinked and looked down, her armor split, but holding in her guts. She dropped Octavus’ sword and fell to her knees.

  “You—you did this, not me,” the beast barked. Her face clouded with despair and then she swept up into the sky, carrying Mrandor in her arms disappear in the swirling storm. As she vanished, the storm dismissed its anger.

  Joanie pressed her hands against her abdomen, trying to hold her wound closed, but her blood avoided the dam of her fingers.

  “Come back! Fight me,” she wheezed.

  Standing on the hillside, Thanatos watched with two of his brothers.

  “The Covenant is broken,” he said, softly. There were rules in this supernatural struggle, but now the rules had been set aside, or at least shattered for the moment.

  “What shall we do?” Pestilence asked.

  “For now, let us gather the two of them and return them to Hellsgate.”

  “You would shirk your duty of collecting them,” War countered. Thanatos’ plan did not please the Horseman.

  Thanatos smirked. “Do not presume to understand my duty and I will not question yours, brother.”

  “They are dying,” War argued.

  “That is your assessment,” Thanatos replied and already Pestilence had swooped to the plain and scooped up Octavus, then vanished. “I believe otherwise.”

  With that, he swept away, lifted the fading Joanie into his arms and looked into her eyes. Behind them, he saw a burning, the same burning he had once seen in a great druid’s eyes
. “Hold fast. We will get you to your father.”

  Joanie’s gaze remained on the fading storm. As they left, she muttered, “Fight me.”

  In the depths of the Labyrinth, Famine strolled into the chamber where the Alones and Snipes percolated in their hibernation. Already he felt the appetite that resided there. They had not taken a victim in days, and though they could not starve, they could keenly feel the pang of starvation.

  The chamber was tall, and the temperature in the air was a bit warmer than the rest of the Labyrinth. That caught Famine’s curiosity. Since the creatures could not sense him, the mindless creations that they were, he probed.

  Murder. Hunger. Hatred. Despair. The strongest of them all, he felt despair. He laid his hand upon one and stretched his awareness into the Alone.

  Why did it despair?

  From that question, he drew the secret. Mrandor had cursed the town of Backswain and from that, he had surrendered the populace to Belial. These creatures were not creatures at all, but distortions. Irreparable mutilations of God’s children.

  He withdrew his hand and reconsidered his plan. To do what he had said he would do would send the Alones and Snipes plunging to the surface in a rabid hunger. Either they would devour Hellsgate, or Hellsgate would destroy them. There would be neither surrender nor capitulation.

  Belial menaced Creation itself. In the end, she would wage her war without regard to the foundational tenets. Envy devoured her. Jealousy of her ken had launched her down this path, but her ego had turned her away from the Father. Now, it had made them enemies.

  Even so, God would not lay His hand upon her. He would weep for her as He would for these suffering children in this den. Stretching forth his talent, he infused the feeling of starvation upon the instinct of the Alones and Snipes, an irresistible urge to devour anything that they could.

  At first, they trembled. The Alones shuffled and began to whimper, and finally howl. Then, the first pair left and with that, the earth trembled as the herd of malformed abnormals plowed through the Labyrinth, the scent of food lingering, their trail clear.