The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns

by Jason R Jones

  “None of the other knights are here, nor is Florin present, master.” Cilano looked across at the army in standing formation, loading catapults and ballistae as the sun set in the east behind the tower. The western horizon was dark, lit only by the white reflection of Carice and the sliver of crescent Gimmor peering from the Bori Mountains far across the bay.

  “Are you thinking there is motive behind that my student?” Kalzarius leaned on his staff from the top floor of his home, tired and weary from no sleep in days.

  “Yes, honestly. I think this is a diversion to keep us from what is going on in the throne rooms and so that we are unable to assist Gwenneth and her friends with the scroll of Annar. I have no doubt.” Cilano held his white bleached pine staff up, seeing the onyx gem glow with golden light, and stepped next to his master.

  “Is it time for me to rest then? You know what to do if-“

  “Kalzarius, master, I have done this with you several times. I know all of the incantations of the defenses, the triggers at the gates, and even the arcane energies to transform the trees should we be breached. I can hold the barrier for three or four hours, but I will wake you before then. Take a few hours rest.”

  “Very true, very true. You have been my best student Cilano, that much is certain. Wake me if anything transpires.” the old wizard walked from the balcony, and into his bedchamber. He was feeling his age catching up with him, sensing that he could not hold the defenses alone for more than a day at a time any longer. It was not always so, and Kalzarius worried much of what would happen to when he was gone from this world.

  “Master Kalzarius, why exactly do we stay here?” Cilano had been wanting to ask the question for many years, but rarely had the nerve. For some reason beyond him, it seemed like the time to ask.

  “We stay because this is my home, and a sought after place of learning steeped in history and tradition.” the old master of the arcane replied from the comfort of his bed, the swirling magical lanterns and lights outside the windows giving him solace and peace.

  “It has nothing to do with the prison below then?” Cilano dared to bring up the secrets he was asked to never speak of. He knew that there was a prison, the mythical prison of Et Mowginnar, and it was kept in a secret impassible chamber far below the tower. He had heard and read many things about what it was, mostly theological superstition and ancient speculation.

  “It does, and that information must never leave this tower. Should someone ever hear of it, and know what it is, it could destroy far more than this city or kingdom. She must never be unleashed, nor her servants of the prison of the dead. The exiled of the Gods must never be found.” Kalzarius knew that only he remained of the wizards and priests that had been passed the knowledge of the chamber that held an artifact of terrible damnation. None of them, not even he, knew how to open it, use it, or had even seen what was beyond. When he was young and rebuilt his tower over the old one that’s sole purpose was to guard what lay beneath, Kalzarius was sworn never to open it nor pass on the information except to the one who would take his place upon death. He was told it was of terrible power, and held beings that could not be controlled. A woman of ages old immortality was tied to the prison, and her name was never to be known nor the prison ever viewed. It had been there for thousands of years, taken from the north by someone speculated to be Megos himself, the God of the white moon and father of magic from long ago. Regardless of the history, Kalzarius had kept his word, and passed only the knowledge of its existence to Cilano, who would replace him as the guardian of the tower when the time came. The master of the tower thought of how unrewarding it had been to guard Et Mowginnar, a mystical prison he had never seen.

  “So that is the real reason that we do not leave this city, no matter how many times we are attacked, besieged, or betrayed.” Cilano closed his eyes and concentrated on the defenses, sensing if the enemy was approaching or not. They were not, and his arcane power and focus flowed through him and his staff as he cleared his mind.

  “You are correct. And we shall always be here, protecting what cannot be destroyed, what must never be heard of or found, and absolutely must never be opened. The prison of the damned will forever be held in secret, sealed off from the world under this tower. You will carry on this task after I am gone, and then pass it to another.” Kalzarius turned over on his side and began to sleep, comfortable in the fact that not even he knew how to open the outermost ancient gates of magicked iron that would lead to the prison. Those secrets had been lost for almost two thousand years. No one knew of them, supposedly.

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  The painting of Richmond the First, a faded full length pose of the man in regal blue velvet robes on the throne, opened and creaked. Richmond looked up, dagger in hand under the sheets, then relaxed seeing Florin step from the secret passage. Her blue velvet cape fastened over the black tunic decorated with the crown and rose looked stunning, especially with the silver crown of the queen atop her dark short locks of hair. Her eyes of rich brown seemed to smile more than her mouth as she bowed slightly and walked over to the bed.

  “It is done then?” Florin stayed clear of the window and spoke softly, knowing guards were positioned on the other side of the door.

  “Almost. The bishop will do as I have asked, which will make me appear merciful to the people and the church by staying the execution. When I leave here with Rosana and her lover, you head to Saint Erinsburg along the forest road. Imprison Javiel after I leave, the scrolls should prove enough to the knights. They will be looking for you, and most likely try and turn the army to their cause with myself, you, and the bishop out of the picture.” Richmond stood and looked out the window, admiring the moons journeying slowly over his city.

  “And what of Savanno? What if he and the queen delay?” Florin paced slowly, tapping her rapier to her boot.

  “He will take her to Shanador, the only safe haven they have. Let whatever attempt to enter the city seem victorious, then we will make an escape. Caberra would imprison him, Chazzrynn is too far, and Willborne is not safe; he knows this much. When they leave, you kill him and capture her. You know what to do from that point on. By the time you return, all will be ready. We have little time Florin, the cardinal will arrive and try and wrest the throne. This bolstering of my rule will fail unless I have an heir on the way, the people behind me, and you to blame for much treason and atrocity.” Richmond smiled, knowing full well that his plans would work if all carried out his orders.

  “And the other knights? I may have to kill a few that become suspicious you realize. That leaves Kalzarius and the Cardinal to deal with.” the Seneschal of Harlaheim drew her steel blade, admiring the craftsmanship of the thorned vine crosspiece and etchings of roses upon the straight edge.

  “Do what you must. The queen will have come back to me out of love, I will have the praise of the army and people for ceasing the siege and stopping the killings in the city streets you have yet to perform, then the citizens will love me. Once I have a loyal and forgiven queen bearing my child on the throne, the cardinal will have no power. That will leave Kalzarius alone, without Savanno’s allegiance, to speak ill of a king with the whole of the city behind him. Not even the cardinal would dare question me. Then we will hand pick and place the knights we want into the church and the court.” Richmond smiled at Florin, knowing she was despising the thought of bearing his child, no matter what the pay was. “Then you will mysteriously die after childbirth, and enjoy your life wherever, with all your gold.”

  “Pardon my leave, your highness. I have people to slaughter and riots to start in your city. I must earn my execution well. Good night.” Florin stepped into the shadows of the secret door behind the painting and closed it behind her. The thought went through her mind to kill him, but it was not time, not yet anyway.

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  Sir Sulian waited for the guards on patrol to pass by in the poorly lit street. His cloak covered his face and armor well, his tension t
hankfully could not be seen in the dark. He motioned to the eight soldiers of the Order of Saint Tarumin that he had gathered from the church. The knight of Harlaheim turned the corner and knocked three times on the worn wooden door to the abandoned stone carcass of a building. It opened, one of Cristoff’s men that had come with Savanno stood ready with crossbow in hand. He nodded, the nod was returned, and the men followed Sulian below to the dingy basement.

  “Here, take some food.” Sulian tossed small bundles of wrapped roast chicken and bread, his men did the same, plenty for the ten men from Saint Erinsburg and his uncle, Savanno. The candles provided just enough light to make out that there were men here, nothing more.

  “Where is Karai and his men?” the former Lord Knight Errant opened his food, began eating on reflex as they were all starving from the journey and hiding out. He saw much fewer men that he had expected.

  “Karai has been summoned by the bishop along with his men. Protective detail to the bishop he said, he can do nothing about it, the church and order sanctioned it. Sir Leonard’s men will be spreading the word in less than an hour that you were seen by the docks. Florin is nowhere to be seen, which worries me the most.” Sulian removed his tabard with the symbol of the crown and rose emblazoned upon it, and tossed it into an empty crate, then motioned for his men to do the same.

  “With eighteen men behind us nephew, this will be dangerous indeed. Perhaps you should allow me to go this alone, you risk much.” Savanno stood and placed his white armband on his bicep, centering the red feathered cross perfectly. It was obvious that he had no intention of hiding who he was. “Men of Saint Erinsburg, remove your tabards.”

  Every man except for Savanno Lisario had chainmail armor and a cloak to cover, no symbols or designations of king or city to mark them. “If this is not the will of God, I am sure he will send me a sign uncle.” Sir Sulian walked halfway up the stairs, and turned to face the crowded filthy basement full of men who were about to commit high treason on so many levels.

  “Thank you nephew, you are a finer knight than myself, your father would be more than proud.” the veteran lord of knights saluted his nephew, the eighteen men surrounding him did the same; sword blade raised to the center of their faces then lowered and sheathed.

  “Men of Harlaheim and Saint Erinsburg, we are about to commit high treason, if any of you want out, now is the time.” Sulian paused, waiting respectfully for anyone who had a change of heart. Hearing nothing, he continued. “The queen has been imprisoned, awaiting a possible execution, and the king has been overthrown. Seneschal Florin is in control of our beloved city and in command of the army. A siege on the tower of Kalzarius holds most of the standing army, but Castle L’herrim is well guarded. You know some of the royal guard, and unfortunately we will have to cross blades with many of them. There is no easy way in or out of the castle, only a few shortcuts we are aware of from the sewers. We will have to enter from behind the dining hall, fight our way to the north towers, and once we have the queen, we have to fight our way out. Then we get Savanno and her majesty to the north gate and out of the city. We meet back here to hide, then one by one we resume our posts in uniform.” there was dead silence, broken by deep sighs from the soldiers, but not a word.

  “The king has been sealed off as well, and Florin and the bishop both control soldiers that are on patrol. They will fight to the death to stop us, and we will fight to the death to save the queen. If you have reservations, speak them now.” Sulian looked over the men, seeing them come to a tight stomp of attention, nothing more.

  “Then let us invade L’herrim and steal our queen.” Sulian walked up the stairs, pulled his cloak over his head, and peered down both the left and the right of the cobblestone street. With Savanno behind him, he ran north through the shadows and alleyways to a sewer grate that was already open, and climbed in. One by one, the eighteen men led by the most loyal knights in the kingdom, snuck their way under the castle in the cold winter night ready to face hundreds and die for love, justice, and the queen of Harlaheim.

  Azenairk II:I

  Ansharrs Cavern, Soujan Mountain, Harlaheim

  The mountaintop he stood upon was dark reddish brown stone, and was surrounded in thick gray clouds. The sun was shining, but from where, the dwarf could not see. The moons were moving across the bright blue sky, orbiting much faster than normal. Azenairk Thalanaxe looked around, down, and even above, seeing nothing but the peaks of mountains and clouds as far as his eyes would let him. His armor weighed nothing, nor did his shield or warhammer; in fact most everything seemed to move with ease and comfort. There was no warmth, no cold, not even a breeze that he could feel. Zen walked down the sloping tip of the mountain into the clouds below him.

  The songs in his dwarven dialect were faint, almost a whisper. They arose from nowhere in the thick mist, so thick he could barely see his boots past his steel plated greaves. He saw green and white light ahead on the stairs, his mind finally came to. “Stairs? Who would be building stairs on the top of a mountain? Stairs to what?” he walked slower now, listening to the whispering hymns grow louder. Zen clutched his Hammerpiece pendant on his chest, the hammer and moons of Vundren, and closed his eyes as he tried to make out the chanting melody.

  “O’er than mountains to the westest climbs, be it darker than the blackest o times,

  Forgotten men and the haunting of vines, marketh a kingdom o the forbidden mines,

  Where be forges sacred all in a line, and deep depths o great His and divine,

  Be’ith platinum and the forging ring, and nights upon where dead dwarves sing,

  Anvils for hammers more than here be, guarded by She the demon you’ll see,

  An to it many a still man will go, seeking a riches despite whats below,

  Dyin from hell or from ghostlier steel, dyin the dark death o’ Kakisteele.

  Azenairk remembered the drunken songs sung in the mountain taverns in his homeland of Boraduum far to the south. He recalled the old dwarf’s tale of the once sought after mines, and the warning within. The priest kept walking down, shaking his head as the rhythmic whispered singing continued from all around, hearing the pounding of whiskey glasses and ale mugs along with the chant that repeatedly came from everywhere around him. The light grew closer, brighter, and the music faded as a hum overtook the whispering dwarven folk song.

  The misty clouds gave way to better vision, the stairs wound round a mountain for miles, a mountain that seemed to stretch in all directions with no end. A dwarf stood on the steps below him, green glow from his muscular build and skin. He was a bit taller, in fact nearly twice as tall as Zen if he guessed it; maybe nine feet tall actually. Naked too, save a kilt of white shining steel plate that nearly matched his pale and unearthly pallor. The only hair was the white beard that hung from his face and dozens of braided strands that were pulled back off of his head and held with shining white metal clasps. Its blue eyes were bright and glowing, like Saberrak’s after the scroll had released the strange magicks into him.

  “I am dreamin or dead, there is no fooling about it.” Zen got on a knee before the hulking dwarven man, then noticed he had feathered wings behind his back, great white wings. “Oh, dead then I would guess.”

  “Your father sends his love and pride to you, son. Do not worry for him or yourself, all is as it should be.” the voice echoed across the mountains and clouds, but not from this being with the green eerie glow to him.

  “You must be Vundren, and I must be heading with this messenger ya sent me then?” Zen looked around for the voice, knowing it had not come from the silent figure he knelt before. The priest felt his face and beard, making sure it was there and he could feel it.

  “Answers that cannot be given at this time, for you have much time before those are made clear. The last Thalanaxe has a burden and promise to keep, and you are to know only that you are blessed and watched over.” the voice was fading, and the dwarven dialect was getting crowded over with song again. A gleaming hand from the huge
being rested down on the shaved head of the priest, gently with strange warmth.

  “I don’t suppose I can see my father…father?” Azenairk began to cry, hoping it was possible to speak with his idol, since he had not been able to stay for his passing in Boraduum. His heart filled with sadness and grief.

  “He is well, worry not. Keep your promise young Azenairk, and awaken. The halls of the peaks are closed for you, but prayers stream from them to you, and your pious words and deeds are most honored here. Awaken, Azenairk Thalanaxe, awaken.”

  “Could you send him a message then?” Zen looked up, seeing nothing but clouds again, hearing nothing, feeling not the stone below his feet and the weight of his armor. The dwarven angel or messenger or Vundren himself was gone. Zen felt something inside him fight to remain here, then he thought again that his father was here, somewhere. “ Ya tell him that…”

  “He is stirring Shinayne! He is breathing! Help me, get him up!” James leaned the dwarf up with the elf’s help, just as Saberrak sat Cristoff down and propped him up along the wall by the carved entrance to the cavern where he had collapsed a moment ago.

  Gwenneth and Saberrak rushed over to the dwarf who sat up in a puddle of his own blood. “Zen, can you hear us? It is Gwenne and Saberrak, and-“

  “I love him with all my heart and miss him more than he knows! I will keep my promise and find it, I swear on the beard of Vundren Father, I will…” Zen opened his eyes, seeing Shinayne, Saberrak, Gwenne, and James staring at him as he was yelling in their faces. He turned a deep red, viewing the looks of shock from his friends. He even saw Lord Cristoff peering from across the entrance, having heard the echoing shouts that could have woke the dead from their rest.

  “Well then…that was quite embarrassing and loud then. I ummm…you all didn’t hear much o that then, right? Where are we now, and where’s the dragon? Where’s the scroll?” he tried to change the subject quickly. The priest stood up, dizzy but feeling healthy and thoroughly humiliated. The smiles and smirks that turned to slight chuckles from his allies only made him blush again.