The Black Altar: An Epic Fantasy (The Swords of the Sun Book 1) Read online

  THE BLACK ALTAR

  Swords of the Sun

  Volume 1

  by Jack Conner

  Copyright 2020

  All rights reserved

  Cover image used with permission

  Chapter 1

  The blood in the water alerted him.

  Baleron had been kneeling by the mountain stream, cupping his hands for a nice cold sip after hours in the saddle, when he noticed faint swirls of red curling through the clear water over the smooth white pebbles that lined the streambed.

  “What in the hells?” He rose, staring at the traces of red on hands.

  “My lord?” said one of Baleron’s men, coming forward. The band of riders had just been approaching the stream and most still sat their horses.

  “Blood,” said Baleron.

  The knights saw what he was indicating and swore or uttered swift prayers. Baleron peered upstream, noting that the blood trails thickened in that direction.

  “There are no animal carcasses,” he noted. “Nor any bodies of people.”

  “Do you think it’s coming from Talun?” said Galad, Baleron’s lieutenant.

  Baleron frowned. He was leading his party to the mountain town of Talun because it had gone mysteriously silent. No one had left from there, at least that was known, or even dispatched messages from Talun for over a week, and several people who had ventured there had not returned. Baleron, lord of the province, meant to find out what was going on and do something about it. Perhaps I’ve come too late, he thought.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Be ready.”

  He mounted up, his thirst forgotten, and made sure his sword hadn’t stuck in its scabbard. Alert, he led the band of twenty men along the bank, then through a narrow vale crowned by hardy trees. At last the land opened up, revealing a quaint town of stone houses and cobbled streets straddling the stream. Stately bridges arched over it, and a mill sprawled alongside.

  “Have you ever been here, my lord?” asked Galad. Like the others in the company, he was from the province, while all knew that Baleron was not.

  “Only once,” Baleron said. That had been when he’d first taken possession of the region—after having been exiled from the capital city by his brother Jered, now the King—and he remembered it as a bustling place of hardy folk. The sturdy dwellings hunkered against cold mountain winds, and each crack and crevice was stuffed with mud and straw to insulate them. Like many in the region, the people in normal times went about in furs and lit braziers in the intersections of their narrow roads for heat and light.

  Bodies littered the ground, torn open by great violence. Because of the cold, few scavengers had descended on them, but buzzards gnawed at a few corpses and more wheeled through the skies above.

  “Fan out,” Baleron said. “Search the area for survivors. Send the buzzards packing.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  He dismounted and knelt over one of the bodies, that of a girl barely into her teens. One arm had been ripped off at the socket and twin puncture marks showed on her torso. Bites?

  “Was it Borchstogs?” said Galad, still astride his horse. So saying, he drew his blade.

  Others in the band had drawn their swords or bows, ready for ambush. Baleron listened closely, but heard nothing, no clink of armor, no scream of victims, no prayers to the dark powers. All he heard was the sighing of the wind. It chilled him, and he pulled his fur cloak tighter over his armor. I will never be a mountain man. He’d been raised in the lowlands, in a great city. Rural mountain life did not become him.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I see no Borchstog arrows or blade thrusts. These people were torn apart, and some were bitten. Notice how the ones who are bitten seem very pale.”

  Tiron, one of the bowmen, nodded. “They were drained of blood.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Baleron pushed further into town, and as he rounded a bend he saw what he’d expected: the corpse of a giant spider. Large as a horse, the blackly carapaced monster lay on its back, long segmented limbs curling upward. Two of its legs had been hacked off and a long crack showed in its belly—the killing thrust. The body of a man holding an axe sprawled beside it. A putrid stench rose from the wound in the creature’s abdomen.

  “The spawn of Mogra,” Baleron said. Mogra was the Spider Queen, bride of Gilgaroth, the Dark One. She had gathered the Dark One’s might upon his demise and used it to enrich her own, becoming an even greater power than she’d already been, and she had been terrible to begin with. And then there was her swollen belly …

  The men swore. Several dropped to their knees and muttered prayers to Illiana. “The get of Mogra, here? What can it mean?”

  Baleron ran a hand, his only hand, over his stubble-lined face, trying to collect his thoughts. A silver hook gleamed from the stump ending his left arm. “Where there’s one spider, there will be more.”

  With his horn, he recalled the men who had fanned out and led them all from house to house and block to block. In the long hall, three dozen shapes hung suspended from the rafters, all encased in white shrouds. Baleron ordered them lowered to the ground, but when it was done all were found to be dead.

  “The whole town, gone,” said one of the knights.

  “I can’t believe it,” said another.

  “There’s still hope,” Baleron said. “We haven’t gone through every building. Maybe there’s life here yet.”

  The hairs on the nape of his neck lifted as he made his way through the rest of Talun. At any moment he expected to be set upon by a horde of spiders. Indeed, the band found two more bodies of the great arachnids. A putrid smell arose from each one, and human corpses surrounded both. More corpses hung from lamp posts, suspended in webbing, or from the two bridges, while others sprawled upon the streets.

  “Most of the townsfolk must have died in the fighting,” Baleron said. “When the spiders first arrived.”

  “Aye,” said Galad. “The rest were sucked dry.” He closed his eyes briefly and muttered, “May Illiana preserve us.”

  “What can it mean, though?” said Tiron, the best bowman of the group. “The spiders are no mere animals. They didn’t come here on a whim.” He grimaced. “If Mogra is stirring, now …”

  The knights traded dark looks, and Baleron suppressed a swell of unease. Things were even more dire than these men were aware. He knew what Mogra intended, or at least part of it, and the men were right to be afraid.

  They found survivors in the mill house. Bodies littered the ground around the mill and on the decks over the water, dripping their blood down into the rushing currents. Inside the main building, more webs suspended inert forms.

  “Cut them down, and—” Baleron began, indicating the shrouded bodies. He never completed the sentence.

  A huge, multi-legged horror dropped down on him out of the darkness above. The chamber was large and open, draped in shadow despite the daylight outside, and there were many pieces of equipment and machinery to hide behind, with high ceilings and thick rafters. The spider rushed down at him from the rafters, descending with its spinneret. Baleron sensed a chill, and a pungent odor struck him. He glanced up just in time.

  The spider’s legs opened to clutch him. Baleron dodged aside, then spun. He ripped his blade loose. Slashed at the oncoming face of the creature. The blade bit into two of the eight eyes, spraying ichor, and the monster hissed in pain.

  “My lord!” cried one of the men, and leapt to Baleron’s defense. Before he could, another shape dropped out of the darkness above and pinned him to the floor.

  Baler
on moved to help, but the spider he’d just wounded pounced at him, coiling its long, segmented limbs and then leaping with inhuman speed and strength. Sweat flew from Baleron’s hair as he dove aside, striking the deck and flipping over. The spider stalked toward him, venom dripping from its fangs and hissing on the floor. Darkness shrouded it, light provided only by the rectangle of illumination from the open door, but Baleron could clearly see the glaring red eyes and the glistening fangs about to rend his flesh.

  He slashed out with his sword and hacked halfway through a leg, then rolled to the side just as several men reached him. Three more had gone to assist the downed man, and another group battled a third great arachnid that had appeared from the shadows behind some machinery.

  Baleron turned to Tiron. “Shoot it.”

  Tiron had drawn his sword, but he shoved it away and readied the bow that he’d slung across his back. As he worked, the spider hissed and circled the knights, preparing to lunge once more. Wide-eyed, the men rotated, readying themselves for battle.

  “Look at the size of that thing!” one marveled.

  “Beware,” Baleron said. “They’re children of Mogra. They have intelligence.”

  The spider hunkered low, coiling itself for another pounce.

  “Now!” Baleron said.

  Before the creature could lunge, Baleron sprang forward. He hacked at a foreleg and felt his blade connect. Three of the knights behind him rushed in, hacking and swearing. The spider spat venom at one’s face, and the man screamed and fell to his knees. Baleron used all his strength to bring his sword down again on the forelimb. Crack! The limb spattered green blood, half of it dropping away.

  Enraged, the spider wheeled on him.

  “Now!” Baleron told Tiron.

  The bowman loosed his shaft, and an arrow sprouted in the monster’s head. The horror stiffened, ichor leaking around the missile. Baleron thrust his sword into the thing’s head, then again. The spider sagged to the floor, dead.

  “Thanks,” Baleron told Tiron, and the bowman nodded raggedly.

  The other knights were just finishing the other two spiders, reducing them to chunks of dark flesh and severed limbs writhing amidst puddles of green fluid. One man had been killed, though not the one who had been pinned to the ground. He had been bitten, though, and was unconscious and feverish. A clammy sweat sheened his face, and his skin was hot to the touch.

  “Build a litter for him,” Baleron instructed. “Something a horse can tow. And him as well,” he added, indicating the man blinded by the first spider’s poison. Baleron hoped one of the priestesses of Illiana could heal him. Baleron’s men nodded, and several moved off to see it done. Baleron turned his attention to the dark forms of humans in white shrouds above. “Now find the spans that hold them up and hack through them. Get them down from there.”

  The knights obeyed, and in minutes a dozen forms had been lowered from the ceiling to the wooden floor. One stirred feebly, drawing Baleron’s attention.

  “A survivor!”

  He knelt over the form and ripped away the white strand of webbing from its head. Auburn hair matted the pretty, freckled face of a young woman. She breathed in and out, and her eyelids fluttered.

  “Get her out of there,” Baleron said, and moved to the next one, then the next, checking for signs of life. In all, nine of those that had been cocooned by the spiders lived.

  Baleron ordered them brought to the stream and cleansed of the webs and toxins. The water roused them, and the knights were able to find some food for the townsfolk. Several vomited after eating, still ill from the poison, but after a few hours all of them were awake and able to move about. When they realized that they were the only survivors of the town and that their families and friends were all dead, they wept and prayed. One tried to throw himself off a cliff and had to be restrained. In the end, all were willing to depart Talun. Baleron meant to bring them to Theslan, the seat of his dukedom, and to have priestesses, accompanied by a good number of warriors, return to Talun and purify it before it would be resettled.

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  Baleron led the band and their wards back through the mountains. It would take ten days to reach Theslan, but he sent runners ahead to alert them of his coming, with instructions to send out word to all the towns in the region to be on alert for attack by spiders or other agents of the Shadow. When Baleron would reach a south-facing slope of the highlands, he could peer in that direction across the broad plain that separated the free kingdoms of the Crescent Alliance from the dark empire of Oslog. The plain terminated in the dread chain of mountains known as the Aragst, whose peaks were high and black and jagged, the Wall of Oslog. Beyond them lay the dark land ruled by Mogra, the Spider Queen, now swollen with her terrible progeny.

  With the Moonstone destroyed, she’s free to give birth, Baleron thought. Or so Throgmar said. Yet it had been three years since the War of the Black Tower and no doom had come, no great horror. The priestesses of Illiana hadn’t detected anything that would signify the coming of Lorg-jilaad into the world. Mogra had apparently not delivered him yet.

  But now she sends her spiders into the Crescent. That must mean something. But what? Whatever it was, Baleron feared that it had something to do with the coming of the Dark Lord, the sire of Gilgaroth, the most powerful and dreadful of the Omkar, the being known as Lorg-jilaad. When he came, it was said that no champion of the Light could stand against him.

  One night, as Baleron was on watch and the others slept, he noticed a figure stealing up to him. He tensed, his hand straying to his sword, then relaxed. It was only Liessa, the freckled girl, the first cocooned person that he’d saved.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “No, my lord,” she said, and sat beside him.

  He perched on a boulder overlooking the broad panorama of the mountains. White-capped peaks, dark silver by starlight, thrust into the black belly of the night, and frigid winds howled all around. Baleron wanted to light a pipe or roll a cigarette, but he knew the winds would only blow the flame out and scatter the precious tobacco. But it was watch for another two hours, and he would suffer till then. Maybe when he didn’t have to command such a view in order to be on guard, he could find a boulder somewhere out of the wind and sneak a smoke before climbing into his bedroll.

  Liessa sidled closer to him, one arm brushing his. He could smell her hair, just faintly. He caught the trace of some flower. Where had she had the time to find such a thing?

  “Is it true what they say about you, my lord?” she said.

  Baleron allowed himself a small smile. “They say a lot of things about me, Liessa.”

  “Some say you slew your father.”

  “Ah. That. No, I did not kill my father. Interesting that Jered allows that rumor to keep circulating, though. He’s quick enough to quash any rumors that make him look bad.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, my lord.”

  “You can call me Baleron. I lost the kingship when Jered returned, and I don’t prize my dukedom that highly.”

  “Are you a prince now, or a duke?”

  “Both, if you like. Or neither. I really couldn’t care.” His gaze turned southward, where he could just see across the broad plain the rearing black teeth of the Aragst Mountains. Somewhere behind those mountains, Mogra schemed. Unless she’s here now. That notion caused a chill to course down his spine. Was it possible Mogra was on the move? The spiders might indicate such. I need to consult with the priestesses. Maybe they know something.

  “My lord? I mean, Baleron?”

  He shook himself. “Yes?” She had been saying something.

  Her face was very solemn. “I was asking about Lady Rolenya. Are you two still … together?”

  He had known this was coming. Liessa wasn’t particularly subtle. But the truth was complicated.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered honestly. “There was some … friction between us. She left. I’ve only seen her a couple of times since then, though we’ve exc
hanged letters. It’s been three years since the War, when the problems happened, and I still don’t have an answer.”

  “You two are quite the storied couple, you know. Poor, cursed, tragic, maimed Baleron, the rogue prince and scoundrel, black sheep of the royal family, in love with his beautiful, blessed sister.”

  “She was not my sister.”

  “But you two were raised that way.”

  Baleron sighed. “Yes. I suppose.”

  “Is it true that she’s Elf-kind?”

  “Yes. She is one of the Valdar.”

  Liessa twined a finger through her hair and leaned into Baleron, just a bit. “If you two aren’t together, does that mean … well … I mean, are you a bachelor?” It was dark, but even so Baleron could see that her face had flushed.

  Gently, he pushed her away and stood. “Go back to bed, Liessa.”

  She pouted. “But …”

  “I’m cold and tired, and it’s a long march again tomorrow.”

  She watched him out of her pretty freckled face, one finger still twining in her auburn hair. “If you change your mind, my lord, come find me.”

  She returned to her blankets. He let out a breath and turned back to the mountains. Back to the south. To Oslog. I’ve got enough problems without more women in my life. He only wished he had an answer to the question she’d posed. Were he and Rolenya still together? He knew she still loved him, and he still deeply cared for her. But …

  Baleron pushed it from his mind and attempted to light his pipe. Sure enough, the wind scattered the ashes, and he was left coughing on the dust.

  Four days later his band reached the walled city of Theslan. My home-in-exile. He forced his back to be straight as he passed through the thick walls of the east gate. I’m lord of the city, remember. I must project pride and strength. These were good, hardy people. They didn’t deserve his condescension or despair. Still, it was hard to escape the thought that it had been a hard fall from King of Havensrike to Duke of the poor, barbarous border province of Theslan. Both the city and the province it commanded bore the same name, which, to Baleron, revealed the horrible lack of creativity among these very practical people. Practical, he reminded himself, but good, and worthy of respect.