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    The Tomb of Baligant
    The Tomb of Baligant
    The Tomb of Baligant
    Ebook345 pages3 hours

    The Tomb of Baligant

    By Jonathan Moeller

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    About this ebook

    The Paladin Raelum has followed the renegade Adept Marsile to the edge of the world. With the aid of his companions, Raelum must stop Marsile from releasing the horrors sealed in an ancient tomb.

    But Marsile is not Raelum's only enemy.

    For the power of the tomb wishes to claim Raelum for its own...

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJonathan Moeller
    Release dateMar 19, 2013
    ISBN9781301402250
    The Tomb of Baligant
    Author

    Jonathan Moeller

    Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

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      Book preview

      The Tomb of Baligant - Jonathan Moeller

      THE TOMB OF BALIGANT

      Jonathan Moeller

      ***

      Description

      The Paladin Raelum has followed the renegade Adept Marsile to the edge of the world. With the aid of his companions, Raelum must stop Marsile from releasing the horrors sealed in an ancient tomb.

      But Marsile is not Raelum's only enemy.

      For the power of the tomb wishes to claim Raelum for its own...

      ***

      The Tomb of Baligant

      Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller

      Smashwords Edition

      Cover image copyright Nejron | dreamstime.com & Sergey Borisov | dreamstime.com

      All Rights Reserved

      This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

      ***

      Chapter 1 - Pursuit

      Marsile blinked awake, pale sunlight brushing his eyes. He winced, expecting to feel molten agony in his back and his joints.

      Instead, he only felt a dull ache in his knees. Marsile sat up, the satchel holding the Book of Stolen Blood sliding against his chest. He frowned and opened the satchel, touching the leather of the book’s cover.

      Of course, he whispered, laughing as he remembered the life force he had stolen from the unfortunate Brother at St. Tarill’s. Halt!

      His servants stopped, robes rustling.

      Bring me food and drink.

      Two servants bearing food and wine stepped forward. Marsile ate with a will. He could not remember the last time he had been so hungry, nor could he remember the last time his stomach had held food without a trace of pain or nausea.

      You, said Marsile, taking a drink of wine, mirror.

      The ghoul complied, holding up a mirror in its skeletal fingers. Marsile gazed at his reflection in pleasant surprise. Most of the lines had vanished from his face. His hair now held more black than gray.

      He looked almost healthy.

      But it never lasted. The stolen life energies would dissipate within a few months. The gray would creep back into his hair, the lines etching his face anew. No matter what spell Marsile used, he could not stave off aging and death forever.

      He laughed, running his fingers over the book. Death stalked him, but at long last, he had found the key. A little while longer, a brief journey, and he could escape death’s clutches forever.

      You, he said, pointing at one of his ghouls. How long have I been asleep?

      The creature did not answer. The domination spell invariably wore down a lesser demon’s already feeble intellect until the creature became nothing more than a raging beast.

      Answer me. How long have I been asleep?

      Twice, master, rasped the creature.

      Twice what? said Marsile.

      Twice. The sun. Comes and goes, said the ghoul.

      Two days, then, said Marsile. He looked at the ancient, overgrown road, now crusted with snow and ice. His servants would have made thirty or forty miles while he lay unconscious. His eyes strayed to the Alderine River on his right, the cold water the color of dark steel. Have we passed a bridge?

      No, master, said the ghoul.

      Good, said Marsile. He did not want to backtrack. Prepare my chair. His servants assembled the sedan chair, and Marsile sat down with a contented sigh. Follow the road until I command otherwise.

      His servants resumed their stride, picking their way along the half-vanished road. Were there any roads on the far bank of the Alderine River? For that matter, would the weather hold? A strong blizzard might stop him for months.

      Marsile shook his head, dismissing his concerns.

      He pulled the Book of Stolen Blood from the satchel, opened it, and began to read.

      His excitement grew. The book had clearly been written by one of the Hierarchs of the Old Empire - Arazhon or Ramhirdras, perhaps, or Siglorel, or even Baligant himself. It described the ways a wielder of the High Art could manipulate, use, and control demons and further master blood sorcery. And the book held powerful spells, stronger than any Marsile had seen. One spell of blood sorcery was similar to the one he had used to heal his wound. Yet with this spell the stolen energy would dissipate in years, not months.

      He flipped through the rest of the book, intending to study it in depth later. To his delight, he found an improved spell for controlling lesser demons. Once Marsile had mastered it, he could control twice, perhaps thrice, as many servants as he had done previously.

      He closed the book, intending to walk for a while, and he heard something crashing through the brush. Something large and dark blundered through the trees. A renegade ghoul, perhaps? Or a bear? Bear meat would make a welcome addition to his supplies.

      And then to his utter astonishment, Tored the ghoul clawed its way free from the trees and staggered to the middle of the road.

      How had the wretched thing survived St. Tarill?

      You lie to Tored, hissed the ghoul. Wounds and burns marked its gray flesh, and the skin had burned away from most of its right arm, revealing rotten muscle. The snapped-off heads of a several crossbow bolts jutted from Tored’s torso. You lie! No meat for hungry Tored.

      The creature loped towards Marsile’s litter.

      Oh? said Marsile, focusing. His domination spell had lapsed from the ghoul’s mind. I got you into the monastery, did I not?

      You lie! shrieked Tored, clawing at the air. No flesh! Tored devours your flesh instead!

      Marsile lifted his hands and cast the domination spell over the ghoul, crimson astralfire dancing around his fingers. Tored skidded to a stop, yellow eyes widening, and Marsile’s will hammered through the demon’s mind like an axe through rotten wood. Tored snarled, thrashed, then went limp.

      Master, croaked the ghoul.

      Very good, said Marsile, rubbing his temples. How did you survive?

      Too many Brothers. The ghoul shuddered, flakes of burned skin falling from its shoulders. And the Adept. And the Paladins, with horrible light. Tored ran before the Paladins took him. Tored is clever. Marsile laughed, and Tored snarled. Tored is clever! Otherwise he would not have survived for three centuries in this cold woods.

      Marsile frowned. You mean to tell me you’ve existed for three centuries? Marsile supposed it was possible, but he had never heard of a ghoul existing for more than two hundred years. Sooner or later, the demons inhabiting their flesh became reckless, made too many mistakes, and perished. Then again, these empty lands did not hold many living hunters.

      Master, said Tored. Three hundred years, long and cold. He whimpered. Before Tored died, he lived on the other side of the river. In the great city, aye, where the King of Arvandil reigned. There were people then, living people. But all the people died. So Tored came to this side of the river, looking for flesh.

      You say you know the lands on the far side of the river?

      Aye, Master, said Tored. Not always empty. Once it was the great kingdom of Arvandil.

      No doubt, said Marsile, thinking. All of the maps in his books had been created by the Hierarchs before the fall of the Old Empire. But in the fifteen centuries since, kingdoms had been founded here, realms built by the Seeress’s barbarian followers or refugees from the ruin of the Old Empire. Yet those kingdoms had long since fallen into ruin, ground down by the Ashborn and the demon hordes beyond the Silvercrown Mountains. Marsile knew the way to Moragannon, but what dangers lay between here and there?

      A guide might prove useful.

      We shall make a bargain, you and I, said Marsile. I am going to Moragannon.

      Tored stared at him for a long time. Had the ghoul recognized the name?

      Tored knows it not, the ghoul said at last.

      You may have seen it, said Marsile. A great black fortress, sitting upon a spur of the Silvercrown Mountains.

      Tored flinched. The black castle? The great lords lived there, long ago. A very bad place. A great lord is buried there. A bad place. Anyone who goes inside never comes out again. If you go inside, master, you will never come out again.

      Do not think to command me, said Marsile. I offer you a bargain. I shall release you from my service. In exchange, you will take me to Moragannon.

      Why bargain? said Tored. You tell Tored, and he goes.

      Because, said Marsile, glancing at his silent servants my domination spell will reduce your mind to jelly within a few months. You would not make a good guide then, I daresay. He clenched his will and lightened his spell about Tored. You shall take me to Moragannon.

      The ghoul licked its lips.

      Do not think to betray me, said Marsile, smiling. If you run off, I can find you again. Or perhaps you think to kill me in my sleep?

      No, master, said Tored, shaking its head, no, no.

      Yes, said Marsile. My servants watch over me. Lift one finger against me, and they will rip you to shreds before I even wake. And I am a light sleeper. Betray me, Marsile lifted a hand, summoning power, and you shall see what I can do.

      A blast of white astralfire erupted from his hand and lashed at the ground before the ghoul’s feet. Tored flinched back, gibbering in terror, babbling promises of eternal loyalty.

      Be silent, said Marsile. Walk before my servants. I shall call you if I need you. And do not think to flee. Tored loped to the front of the column.

      Marsile watched with a satisfied smile. Sheer terror, he judged, should prove sufficient to keep Tored cowed.

      Forward, said Marsile. His servants resumed their shuffle, Tored loping at their head. Marsile walked among them, enjoying the lack of pain in his limbs. A morning’s stroll, and then he would return to the sedan chair and the books taken from the abbeys…

      Something like a finger of air brushed Marsile’s head.

      He whirled, raising a hand, and his servants stopped. He scanned the trees on both sides of the wide river, seeking for unseen foes. He saw nothing but gray water and barren branches.

      Again the feather-light presence brushed Marsile.

      It was not touching his skin, but the inside of his mind. Marsile snarled a spell, focusing his will. He sensed the presence of a spell of the High Art, its subtle power centered on him, on his blood.

      Someone had used a spell of astral resonance to find his location.

      Marsile turned in a circle, snarling in rage. How could this have happened? Few Adepts had the talent to work such a spell, and those who did always needed some blood to cast the location spell. Marsile had always taken great care never to leave such traces. Could he have erred? Such folly could cost him dearly…

      He remembered the vault beneath St. Tarill, the jagged iron bar plunging into his flesh. His fingers brushed his side, feeling the faint scar beneath his robes. He had plucked the iron bar from his flesh and flung it aside. After stealing the Brother’s life-force and fleeing the monastery, Marsile had forgotten about it.

      More than enough blood had stained the iron bar to fuel the spell.

      Fool, he growled, fool, fool, fool.

      Carandis Marken must have survived the ghouls and Nightgrim’s hunger. Now the young Adept had the ability to find Marsile. Suppose some of the three Paladins had survived? They would continue their hunt for Marsile. And guided by Carandis Marken, they could find him. They had defeated the ghouls, defeated Nightgrim...

      An even more alarming thought came to Marsile’s mind.

      What if they had not destroyed Nightgrim? Suppose the draugvir had escaped? Would he come after Marsile?

      The young Adept and the Paladins worried Marsile.

      Nightgrim terrified him.

      It had been a mistake to awaken the greater demon, even if it had gotten Marsile the Book of Stolen Blood. Marsile had almost failed to master a weakened, emaciated Nightgrim.

      A rejuvenated Nightgrim might prove beyond his ability.

      Marsile would deal with Nightgrim when the time came. For now he had to stop Carandis Marken. Sooner or later the girl would gather of force of allies powerful enough to kill Marsile.

      Again the feather-light touch echoed in Marsile’s skull. He had to kill the girl here, in the depths of the wild. Here, the advantage lay with Marsile. Carandis had only a few Paladins for allies. Marsile had his demon servants, the ability to dominate many more, and the puissant force of his own magic. For a moment he considered turning, meeting his enemies, and annihilating them.

      He rubbed the scar on his side, dismissing the ideal as foolhardy. He had underestimated Oliver Calabrant’s red-eyed squire, and the boy had almost killed him. Marsile did not want to take the risk of open confrontation.

      A trap, then, he murmured, then raised his voice. Tored, come here!

      The ghoul shuffled over and dropped to its haunches, tongue wagging like a dog’s.

      How far it to the great bridge over the Alderine River? said Marsile.

      Not far, master, said Tored. Perhaps the walk of a day and a night. People call the bridge Abbotsford, now.

      Abbotsford, said Marsile. Why?

      Long ago, when Tored lived, said the ghoul, a great monastery sat on the hill by the bridge. The First Brother charged tolls when folk passed. Now ruins. And a village. It was there when I came over the bridge.

      A village? said Marsile, intrigued. He had set traps for his pursuers in both Coldbrook Keep and St. Arik’s. Both had failed, but perhaps Marsile could attempt something on a larger scale at this village. He climbed into his sedan chair, bidding his servants to lift it. Take me to this bridge.

      Aye, master, said Tored.

      Marsile smiled, whispered a spell, and sent a burst of astralfire shooting past Tored’s ear. Do not think to betray me.

      Tored shuddered and loped away.

      ***

      Chapter 2 - Servants of Baligant

      Marsile found the bridge the next day.

      The thing looked ancient, older than anything Marsile had ever seen, save perhaps the oldest scrolls of the Elder People in the Conclave’s library. The bridge rose in a high arc over the Alderine, high enough to allow ships to pass underneath. Millennia of rain and wind had worn and pitted the bridge’s gray stone, yet it still stood, older than men, its builders long ago vanished.

      The bridge, master, said Tored.

      Yes, I noticed, said Marsile. If the bridge still stood, what other relics of the Elder People might lie beyond the river? Once Marsile had reached Moragannon and learned its secrets, perhaps he should make a thorough search of these lands. The Elder People had wielded arcane powers greater than anything mortal men had ever mastered, at least until the superior numbers of the Old Empire had crushed them. What mighty secrets might lie buried here?

      Over the bridge, Marsile commanded. The ghouls shuffled forward, Tored sniffing the air.

      Twin statues stood before the bridge like silent guards. Countless years of wind and rain had not erased the alien cast of their features, the angular bones, the dagger-sharp ears, the haughty sneers. Each statue held a slender sword and star-shaped shield.

      An inscription marked the shields, written in the characters of the Elder People.

      What do they say? said Tored.

      Ware, traveler, for beyond lies the realm of the Hierarchs of the Empire of Men, who taint the land, said Marsile. Tored shivered. Fool. The Elder People and the Old Empire destroyed each other long ago. Over the bridge!

      They crossed the bridge and Marsile bade his servants stop as he examined his surroundings. Perhaps he could make a stand here, kill Carandis and the Silver Knights as they crossed the bridge. Ahead land rose in a high crag, and atop the crag sat a cluster of ruined walls and crumbling stone towers. Almost surely the ruins housed demons of some kind.

      The monastery, it was, said Tored.

      No doubt, said Marsile. He saw a haze to the east. Through the trees Marsile glimpsed open fields, and the logs of peasant houses.

      A village, said Marsile. Perhaps a peasant had already seen them. Marsile pulled a vial of dried blood from his belt and worked a blood spell, one designed to sense both the presence of living men and demons.

      He extended his magical senses and blinked in surprise. A large number of powerful demons clustered in the ruins above. Marsile had never sensed such a powerful group of demons in one place. Though, oddly, the auras of his demon servants seemed more powerful than he recalled. Marsile must have miscast the spell. He commanded his servants to lower the litter, and he stood up.

      A surge of energy howled through him the instant his feet touched the ground. Marsile gasped, his head spinning, and grabbed at a servant’s shoulder to keep from falling. After a moment the shock faded, and Marsile stood straighter.

      He realized what had happened.

      The astral world, he whispered. The astral world is closer here. He sensed it all around him, energy welling up from the earth. The Hierarchs of the Old Empire had torn open a rift to the astral world, fraying the boundaries between worlds…and Marsile had traveled closer to the heart of the fallen Empire.

      And, presumably, to the location of that rift.

      He muttered the spell again, focusing his will. His servants were indeed stronger. Any demon here would find itself stronger, faster, tougher, better able to draw on the power of the astral world through the damaged barrier between worlds.

      And Marsile’s spells would be far mightier.

      We are stronger here, said Tored. The ghoul’s speech sounded clearer, its words less slurred.

      Marsile looked at the ghoul. Could the nearer presence of the astral world have strengthened Tored’s wit? And you failed to mention this?

      Tored shrugged. I forgot.

      Indeed, said Marsile. Follow me. Do you know anything of this village? How could any human village survive in a land where demons were so powerful?

      Yet that smoke had to come from somewhere.

      No, master, said Tored. I did not come here often.

      Marsile led his servants to the edge of the trees. The village looked larger than he would have thought, home to about eight or nine hundred people. The square tower of a stone Temple rose over the thatched roofs, crowned with the rose sigil of the Divine. It looked normal enough, yet something about the village troubled Marsile.

      It struck him.

      The village had no wall, no palisade, not even a fence. Every settlement from here to the sea had a palisade to keep out wandering ghouls. Especially here, where the dark power saturated the very ground, would not a village without a sturdy wall become a haunted ruin?

      Something was wrong here. Yet even as Marsile watched, he saw villagers moving about their business, men chopping firewood, women carrying bundles of cloth, children playing games.

      Wait here, Marsile commanded. Come if I call.

      He stepped from the trees and walked across the empty fields. Dead cornstalks cracked beneath his boots. Marsile considered discarding his red Adept’s robes and disguising himself as a Brother, but discarded the notion. Someone had destroyed the monastery on the hill. Suppose the villagers themselves had razed it?

      Marsile stopped at the edge of the village, listening. The lack of a wall amazed him. Anyone, or anything, could wander into the village at any time. A fat woman waddled past him, carrying a pair of buckets, and Marsile cleared his throat.

      The woman turned, dropped her buckets, and gaped at him.

      Your pardon, I beg, said Marsile. Pray, what is this village?

      The woman said nothing, eyes wide.

      I am a traveler, he said, seeking lodgings. Might I find them here?

      A…a traveler? said the woman, blinking. She squinted, as if trying to remember something. Travelers…travelers are welcome here, my lord. She did a crude curtsy. The Divine…commands us to help all travelers, and we are faithful folk of the Divine, so we are.

      Well and good, said Marsile. It sounded as if the woman had recited a long-rehearsed speech. Lodgings?

      Lodgings, said the woman. You must speak with Walchelin, yes.

      Walchelin? said

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