Table of Contents
Title
Dedication
Forward
Prologue
Introduction
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Chapter24
Chapter25
Chapter26
Chapter27
Chapter28
Chapter29
Chapter30
Chapter31
Chapter32
Chapter33
Chapter34
Chapter35
Chapter36
Chapter37
Chapter38
Chapter39
Chapter40
Chapter41
Chapter42
Chapter43
Author
Gratitude
Epilogue
The Exodus Sagas
II
Of Dragons And Crowns
By Jason R Jones
“An exodus is a grand departure or escape of spiritual importance comprising of flight from persecution, loss, suffering, the past, or slavery; resulting in a journey to a place of holy sanctuary, guided by God.”
For my mother, Cheryl
You have forever been in my corner, whether I was right or wrong, good or bad, and not once have you failed to be my biggest fan. Thank you for all that you are, the beautiful and eternal queen of the elves.
Forward to The Exodus Sagas
There is little that can be read of the great kingdoms of the continent of Agara prior to the flood almost four hundred years ago. Most history that survived is in small collections in the castles and libraries of nobility or hidden away in old temples and cathedrals. The countries of the northern continent of Ala Sere, under the rule of the holy empire of Altestan, saw to it many times over that written accounts were destroyed. Nearly three thousand years of persecution has driven the northern cultures to flee south to a land where myth and legend, the arcane and the divine, still hold hope for mankind. The fair skinned native Agarians introduced the northern refugees to their ways, the magical fey shrines, the mystical elves and dwarves, and shared the shelters of a new world under the moons. Great kingdoms and cities of spiritual power were constructed out of these cultural friendships. It was not to last.
The Emperors of Altestan had a lineage of men whose devotion to Yjaros, the One God, God of man, God of Gods, would not allow them to sit idly as their people fell under the supposed spells of lesser races. Great blended cities of various cultures and faiths were blasphemy to them and they felt the word of God guide them from his throne on the green moon. The Altestani and their mighty armadas swept over Agara destroying Kivanis, Aloeste, Arouland, and Mooncrest. They invaded and murdered those they crossed that were not human, much as they had done in their own lands so many thousands of years ago. Their belief that man was the chosen race and His children, drove them beyond care or reason. They made brutal examples of their interpretation of the will of Yjaros, despite the cries of many religions and worshippers of other Gods. Their armies massed by sea and land, cornering the last of the remaining clergies deep off the southern coast to Teirinshire in the kingdom of Chazzrynn. The Carician worshippers, bowing to lesser Gods of the white moon, had nowhere left to run and their allies had been annihilated or had surrendered. Branded as heathens and pagans by the oppression, they died as warnings to the southern populace. Yet victory was not to remain.
Atop the holy tower of Arouland, a young boy named Tarum knelt above the hundreds of thousands that had conquered and killed in the name of their God. A pious priest of Alden, the Lord of Heaven, Tarum began to pray aloud. Soon he was joined by the thousands devoted to Seirena, Megos, Vundren, Siril, and long lost Annar. Even many of the Altestani, hearing the foreign words of prayer in unison, began to kneel and speak to God. The waters of the Vateric Ocean rose, and within hours a terrible storm swept over the cliffs of south and west. The flood did not stop for the priests and clergy, for the warlords or sorcerers of Altestan, not even for Tarum or the holy patriots of Alden. The ocean covered the western cities, drowning northern ships and southern civilizations together. The empires of the north took it as a warning from God for not recognizing the lesser Gods and for their pride in conquest. Many saw it as a trap or a trick of magical nature. The southern realms saw it as yet another act of the Gods that made a martyr out of the tyranny they had forgotten existed. But some knew the truth.
The mortal wars of land and sea are mirrored in the heavens and in the realms of the two moons by the powers that be. There is a struggle for existence, for free will from a creator that demands obedience and one that has been and always will be. There are no known records or histories in writing of what the truth could actually be. Books are lost or burned, stories change with each teller and new generation, and many a man would alter a tale should it be to his benefit. Thousands upon thousands of years could not hold accurately all of the myths and spiritual journeys that have occurred by mortal and immortal alike. No dragon, elf, dwarf or man could assemble together in a lifetime enough to show and prove the truths to others. Once those that were there have passed on, every story becomes history. However, there is one man who remembers well far more than he should, possesses long forbidden powers in secret, and has been in existence to see more than any man should have seen. Blessed, some would say if they knew of him, cursed says he who has survived it, the truth is likely somewhere in the middle.
Close to four centuries after the deluge as the Agarian calendar has shown it, the floodwaters have receded and one man is able to share of the journeys of those few he has seen gathered by divine fate. His story is one of pain and triumph, freedom, and mystery. Yet his tale is for another time. In the troubled kingdom of Harlaheim, old and decadent, grasping for strands of former glory, a gift is being read. The five bearers of the Scroll of Annar are in great danger.
Our teller of tales began watching from afar, listening to rumors and stories of how these strangers met, and why they remained together. Finally free of many of his own demons and curses, this man put together the sagas of dragons and kings, wars and crowns, and far off places where it all began. The last stand of forgotten deities, lost kingdoms, and races destined for extinction has begun. He shall tell us, and his son, of the Exodus…
Prologue
Gillian, Shanador
Allessandeir stumbled, his small legs still wobbly at times when he was tired. My young child had been running with the dogs and other stray farm animals all day, yet I was never more than arm’s reach away. His little white tunic was stained with grass and dirt, his sandals bearing the remnants of the weeds he had already conquered at a little over a year old. His blue eyes were puffy and red, far beyond the time for sleep as the daylight said its farewells and allowed the moons their glory for a time.
I picked up my son, my pride and joy, swinging him through the air like a dragon on the hunt. Hearing the giggles and seeing the open mouthed smile upon his face as he swooshed, gave me untold joy. My boy held my arms, letting me know that he wished to remain airborne as long as possible. Again and again, he flew through the rising and falli
ng sky inside our small castle home. Candlelight and torches threw orange illumination, as did the warm fireplace across the main room. “More, more dada!” he sqwawked out his giggling words of excitement.
I, Lord Sodom Azarris, tired my son out over the next hour, and laid him in the crib. The maple bedding was getting too small for him now, I thought of building another. This time, perhaps, I would actually try and construct something by hand instead of using my gifts of the arcane. I had built most of this of mind and magic, the rest I had paid others to do. The castle, the tower, my stables and fences, the gate, the doors, even the furniture had been created or bought if it were not here when I first arrived. Actually, I had never built anything, cut wood, or created something that did not involve the infusements of the crafts I had been forbidden from using for many centuries. I laughed quietly, looking at the kitchen, for I realized I did not even know how to cook. “If it weren’t for servants, we would certainly starve Alessandeir.” Though sleeping sound, I knew my only true confidant was my boy. I could tell him anything, at anytime.
My robes trailed behind me as I rubbed the rough beard grown this past winter, and walked to the open doors of the castle manor. I watched the rain pour down at the beginning of night, lightning flashing over the Shanador countryside. It illuminated the meadow to my left, and the statue that marked her grave. Deep breaths I take to keep from focusing on it, and breaking down again. It is a beautiful statue of eight feet on top of the same gray stone pedestal that I had planned to build something else. Her sickness had been rapid, and she kept it hidden. The pain inside of her at the thought of me knowing was greater than the actual pain itself. Gabrielle had died just over a year ago, of denfora, a sickness that she had caught in Gillian while visiting the markets. It had killed several hundred before the church of Alden sent word to the high priests, who later contained and cured it. My wife and mother to our child, was one of the first to be infected, months ahead of any chance of survival, especially since she had kept it secret.
Had I told her of the people I know, my past, the great rulers and spiritual places, any of it, she may be alive tonight to share the rainstorm with us, and see our son grow. In my grief, I demolished the shrine to the Gods I had begun to build, and placed her grave on top of it, out of spite. The same flames of incineration, the same anger that knows no bounds, and the same power in my veins crushed the stone shrines to dust in moments. That same raw emotional and arcane power was used many times before to deal wickedness and revenge, and led to my curse of thousands of years. I hoped and expected the God of mercy to intervene, the God of magic to stop me, the Gods of strength or war to hear it, or maybe they all would see what they had done and change it. Nothing occurred, no signs, no visits, they leave me to mortality, alone, to raise a son. A false given surname to cloak my former identity, one that my late wife now bears in the epitaph upon her grave. Azarris, I thought, whose name was this before me that I know nothing of and pass to my feeble and fated attempts at a family? Divine intervention to disguise and hide, never to heal or help I brewed. I waited one moment more for a sign that the Gods were listening or seeing my pain, but stillness won out beyond sympathy.
I paced back inside, the storm coming of no interest without someone to share it with. Sitting in the oak and leather chair, I mourned staring at my hand-and-a-half sword, ancient, engraved, and deeply enchanted over two thousand years ago. Its straight blade was still perfect, all the way down to the ramskull crosspiece. The curved black horns stretched out either direction on the guard, ruby eyes in the skull, and the grip and pommel resembled a leather wrapped vertebrae. It looked imposing, hanging above the mantle, and I had thought of using it, at least on a tree if not myself, to relieve some of the guilt and sorrow. I heard him cry out in the night, my boy deciding not to sleep again, the thunder rolling in the distance.
I raised my exhausted and irritated son to my arms, his soft blonde hair wet from tears and sweat. I danced and hummed alone in the castle, taking Allessandeir by all the mirrors, tapestries, and pictures on the walls, soothing him back to calm. He touched all the tapestries of dragons, griffons, knights, and symbols of the great kingdoms. My boy grabbed at the faded blue tapestry, nearly pulling it from the gray stone wall. The decoration was of a griffon, rising up on its hind legs, wings spread out. “You like griffons do you? Or do you prefer dragons?”
“Grfins dada.” his little voice muffled from laying his head on my shoulder.
“Yes, griffons, I like them too. Should I tell you about them?” my voice cheering up, not that I was feeling good about much the last year, but I had to, for my son. He still did not understand, nor I truly, that his mother was gone, never to return. The nursemaids sufficed, yet I wondered. He had been playing outside more and more lately, I think he is searching for her at but a year old. I had not the answers for him, not yet.
“Grfins dada.” my boy, sleep coming again to war with him, repeated himself in comfort of my embrace and voice, his blue eyes battling their own eyelids to stay open and stay awake.
“I know a woman, an elf that is, that rides griffons. Did you know that?” receiving no response, I looked at his eyes, expecting them to be closed. They were not, for my boy had heard the word “story” again, and that meant hours of talking for me. I relinquished, feeling I could use someone to talk to at this moment anyway.
“I told you of Lady Shinayne T’Sarrin, from Kilikala, remember? Of course you do, you are a genius like your father. She sailed as a captain in the elven navy, you already know that. But, did you know she was also the captain of the Kilikala Griffon Wing for a time?” I tried to recall where I had left off in the tales. Keeping thoughts of missing my wife away by escaping in tales to my son, the best defense I had found.
“Ahhh, that we haven’t gotten to yet. Very well, let me tell you more of Shinayne then. Harlaheim was cold and wet from late winter rains. Enemies seemed to be all around, but not found. The shadows were deep and long from the high rooftops of the decadent city at night, and the docks were not any more welcoming. Several times Lady Shinayne, as she was known back then, had encountered those seeking the scroll of Annar and her friends. And several times she and the horned gladiator had taken them down in the mysterious streets of Harlaheim. The elven swordswoman was the deadliest blade in the city, some say the kingdom at that time. With the Cardinal away in Shanador, the kingdom was suffering under the rule of…oh I forget, there have been so many rulers in Harlaheim.” I looked to see the expected sleep had taken my boy away into dreams. As I gazed, his eyes opened and met mine with an eagerness at more of whatever I was planning to share.
“Very well, young Alessandeir, a long night indeed we have ahead of us.” stumbling for my place in the story, or for a beginning to where I had left it previous, I sat in the oak and leather chair in front of the fire. The ruby eyes of the ornamental blade, my blade, stared as if wanting to hear as well. “Alas, she was remembering fonder times of the heart I believe on the night that it happened. You see my son, Shinayne was not always the bold leader that she is today. Deep in the forests of mystical Gualidura, having run away again...”
Introduction
Shinayne II:I
Sesperian Forest, Gualidura 302 AD
“To see fate unravel is a blessing of the heavens. To interpret what one sees and pass it on is a gift of the Gods. To truly understand the will behind what one sees and says, is divine serenity and a sacred service, which few in this world posess.”-Transcripts from an unmarked elven tomb outside of Haven Glen.
“Your father, King Naladra, would be most displeased if he knew you were here Shinayne. More to my concern is his demeanor towards Gualidura should he assume my lack of action toward sending you home by the quickest route at my disposal and not properly reprimanding young Lavress here. Where is Nathaniel, your bodyguard?” Queen Ganidaea Chaldre walked slowly and gracefully as she spoke, admiring the spirit of the young displaced noble of Kilikala. She had little love for Naladra Hanaira, the
King of Kilikala. The daughters of the T’Sarrins fared far better with the adopted mother, Queen Eoehrina, than the adopted father in her wise opinion. Still, her favored hunter, Lavress Tilaniun, could not be found smuggling highborne nobles from the elven homeland into her forest realm, not with the eyes and ears of the Hedim Anah secretely upon him. Rebellion and love, she thought, would be marked against him in the eyes of those that secretely protect the elven race. The shaman queen waited for the protests of young Shinayne.
Shinayne bowed silently and perfectly, as her noble elven upbringing would demand in the presence of a queen. She noticed her lover do the same, and since the question was directed at her, Lavress was obviously waiting for her to speak for herself. “Queen Ganidaea of Gualidura, should it be your wish to side with a man who is not truly my father and see me sent off against the will of my beating heart?” her highborne elven dialect was more eloquent and soft than the wood elven tongue, yet the language was understood and recognized with ease by any of elven blood. Shinayne stared with her aquamarine eyes at the tribal and savage grace that the painted and tattooed monarch of Gualidura displayed. Her face was decorated with deep indigo and black markings of the fey and the shamanistic achievements with her people. The noble elf knew she was well over two centuries old, more than twice her own age. Yet her deep green eyes held a youth to them behind the feathered fetishes and markings of a much older elven queen.
“Of course not young T’Sarrin, for I knew of your parents long before your current guardians took the throne of Kilikala, and I would never stand in the way of love. I am simply full of curiosity at your intentions in my realm. Are they of defiance to the ruling Hanaira’s or purely out of an unbridled love and commitment to my hunter, Lavress?” Ganidaea walked once more through the courtyard of the Sesperian Forest, her naked footsteps leaving no marks in the grass surrounded by red pines that stretched further up than elven eyes could see. Her braziers lit the beshadowed meeting place with fires of green and blue littered with smoke from the exotic incense burning within. The shaman queen absorbed the air of the forest, the fey aromas, the closeness to the Goddess Mother Seirena, and even soaked in the daytime shadows that the gargantuan and ancient trees blessed the grove with. She could sense things here, even from others far away, as she was centered along a deep root of her faith and power in the divine, the fey, and her arcane gifts as a result of whatever beautiful power emanated in this wooded abode. She watched the young noble from Kilikala plan her carfeful response.
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