The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns

by Jason R Jones

  “They had better know friend from foe, and drop their weapons, elf.”

  “I said stand down beast! Drop your axe now!” the Harlian man quivered as he raised his voice and approached the gray hulking warrior with his bladed spear directed at its chest. His twenty men, still in prison garb, followed hesitantly.

  “Or what, human? Do you not see the bodies at your feet? Perhaps you care to be yet anoth-“

  “Saberrak the gray of Unlinn!” Shinayne slapped Saberrak across his bovine snout and glared into his eyes, glowing blue again she noticed. “They are afraid of you, but I am not! Drop your axe for me then. Cristoff and the others will be here shortly, I promise.”

  The gray gladiator took a breath and let out a huff of steam on the cold winter evening, tossed his axe to the ground. He wiped some of the blood from his face and horns, then placed his hand on the throbbing gash in his thigh that still pumped blood slowly down his boot. It had healed some, on its own. “You realize, had I wanted to, I could have killed every single-“

  “Enough! I know, they know! This is not the arena my horned friend, it is not. We are victorious here, and these men do not know we are allies of their lord. All they know is that you and I just killed at least thirty men, and you look like something that is not had its fill of bloodshed. Calm yourself, the fight is over Saberrak. It is over.” Shinayne placed her hand on his shoulder and tried to get the tattood warrior to meet her gaze. He did, the blue fading, his chest relaxing, her hand on his shoulder seeming to help.

  The men scrambled to raise the portcullis as cheers went up at the sight of Lord Criistoff Bradswellen the Third. Lanterns and torches lit quickly, men and women from the city straggled in large groups having heard and seen the sounds of battle at the nearby castle. Cristoff rode in next to Norrice, James, Gwenne, and Azenairk and more yells and cheers went into the night.

  “It is a sad day, my people, my men, when your own king seeks to dishonor himself and his kingdom. By Alden’s light and mercy, and a few trusted friends, we have run aground our ruler’s plans for defiling Saint Erinsburg and our pledge to Harlaheim. Rest well tonight my men, for towmorrow we prepare to defend our city from the armies of the king that he will surely send. Give word throughout the city and the fields, every man is called to arms!” Cristoff bowed to all around him, and then to the surrounded elven woman and the gray minotaur.

  “And them, my Lord?” the brave sergeant that was held prisoner pointed toward their captives.

  “My trusted allies and deadly warriors, thank Alden they are on our side sergeant. It would be unwise to surround them with less than fifty. Send word to the church that priests are needed for tending to the injured and prayer for the dead.” Cristoff dismounted and walked straight to James Andellis. He gave a slight bow and smile, then shook his hand, forearm to forearm. “Amazing display, Sir James of Chazzrynn. I wish I had knights like you in my service, well fought, well won.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Well planned by you, I just followed my orders.” James smiled, this having been the first major battle that he had charged into, lead men bravely, and more than just himself had survived. He looked to the sky, then to the forest outside by mistake, and thanked God silently for victory.

  Exodus II:XIII

  Prison Under Castle L’Herrim, City of Harlaheim

  “When all seems dark and without hope, when there is nothing to cling to save faith and air, know that there is always someone listening should one ask for divine assistance. Be it mysterious, possible coincidence, or sworn blind luck, God always answers with his will.”-from “Sermons over the Carisian”, a book of prayers of the eastern monastaries, by Father Garret D’Ourmas 335 A.D.

  Yari looked up from his rat hole of a chamber that Florin had given him all these years, he had fallen asleep reading his torn and dilapidated spellbook once again. Pieced together with yarn and written most of the time with little light, the old wretched and foul smelling wizard could barely make out his own pages somedays. Days, he thought, what was sunlight anyway? He had not seen it nor felt it in uncounted time. His frazzled strands of hair and beard were a mess, yet he had not the care for hygiene or appearance. Yari had heard something, something besides the tormenting whines and sobs of the former queen who lay in wait of the blade and crowd. No, this was not Rosana, nor the pesky sprites and spirits that crept in from time to time to tie his hair in knots. He heard footsteps, ever so faint that they could go away should one not concentrate on them, but Yari knew someone was here.

  His mind was racing with what it could be, since the house wizard for the White Spider in Harlaheim had many glyphs and traps that should have gone off and alerted him if the creature was larger than a rat. Yari drew his gnarled wand of petrified blackroot vine and skulked past the cells into the hallway. He looked into the cell with Rosana who was sleeping rather peacefully at the moment, curled into a ball in the corner. Yari pinched himself in the arm to make sure he was not sleepwalking again. No, the pain solidified that this was real, so he walked further on down the corridor. “Hello there? Who has come to visit old Yari then?”

  “Me, old friend, and you have seen better days I see.” the black robes with gray and white lines and arcanes design of the highest quality flowed down the steps at the opposite end of the hallway. Kalzarius gently walked down the hall, his long white and gray speckled beard and hair seemed motionless in the still dead air of the place. “You have found yourself in a prison, working for the foulest of company Yari, but it was not always so.”

  Barely able to breathe or swallow, Yari began to bow, his eyes began to tear, then he straightened up as memory took over. “You saw to it old master, that I was banned from any academy or arcane tutelage long ago. What was I to do?” Yari walked forward, step to step, with the advancing great Kalzarius. He concentrated on the wand and felt the arcane energy flow into his hand as a faint yellow glow emitted from the gnarled item of magical focus.

  Kalzarius’ staff of dark brown wood and ancient runes came alive with green light a moment later, yet neither man let their gaze or step change one bit. “You should have stopped researching ways to bring your family back through vile and forbidden rites. Perhaps, you could have gotten past it and learned from it. There were other ways Yari. Now you have the queen prisoner my students have told me. I came to talk-“

  “You came to destroy me and see me fail once more by your word or deed! I know you, great Kalzarius and your mighty tower. Yes I know why you are here. You will have to do better than prey on my conscience to get past Yari. I have grown strong in these decades, and my research has never ceased.” Yari was jittery now, having lied about his research and power, having been caught working to imprison a noble monarch, and having his former master here in front of him. The old wizard thought of his decades of failed study, his lost family, and his pathetic life. He smiled as he walked, not fifty feet away from Kalzarius now. Yari stopped, closed his eyes, and thought of the queen.

  “I came to negotiate Yari. Had I wanted you dead, my students could have done the-“

  “If I destroy you, then I am proven to not be a waste of arcane study and life. And if I die by the hand of the great Kalzarius of Harlaheim, well, tis a good way to go for a wizard, eh?”

  “You are insane, my old friend. This is not why I came down to this filthy hole. I came to discuss getting the queen and you out of here. I came out of respect for a former student who lost his way after a terrible tragedy that he could not forget.” the master of the arcane readied his staff as he saw the eyes of Yari turn yellow and gold with arcane energy. “Do not do this Yari, I will have no choice.”

  “You already have no choice Kalzarius! Die old man!” Yari pointed his fingers at the old teacher of the arts and released three spiraling bolts of yellow arcane force, one from his hand and one from each eye. Before he knew if they had hit, his wand shot a crackling beam of arcing yellow light that illuminated the hallway and burned the eyes of both wizards.

  The light dwind
led a moment later, and Kalzarius stood with his palm out, glowing green having absorbed the deadly spiral bolts. The old master pointed his staff and sprayed a shower of green orbs down the hallway. As they neared Yari, they exploded in green acidic mist that coated the area and his adversary. Metal bars slowly corroded, stone sizzled, yet Yari laughed, seemingly unaffected. “Too predictable, old friend.”

  Yari touched a pernmanent glyph on his forearm that was an arcane seal against magical acids. “You think I would forget my lessons? Lishim, taharat mivvin!” the wizard of the White Spider threw his hands up then forward, releasing black and silver streaks of life draining luminescent energy that twirled toward Kalzarius.

  “Kith kavvar!” Kalzarius replied with a shield of white light that spun and absorbed the spell completely, but Yari was casting again already. The noise of chanted words and blasting arcane energies colliding was deafening and cacophonous. Orange balls of flame smashed into arcs of lightning and swarms of hail. Forbidden necromantic black rays and shadow orbs were launched into white walls of force and enchanted light from glistening arcane sleet. Blast after bolt, ray after terrible exploding beam, the two old wizards threw their skills and energies at one another with old resentment and masterful precision.

  Rosana lay in her curled fetal position with her hands over her ears and eyes shut tight. The queen of Harlaheim forgot for a moment the swollen face and eye she had, her chopped off hair, and her starving and frail state of health. All she knew was that there was a firefight of magical powers that she could feel, hear, even smell, going on right outside her cell. She screamed, but not loud enough to breach the deafening roars of the arcane war raging. Sobbing now as the battle ensued, she wiped her eyes and watched smoke billowing in different colors and forms in the prison making breathing difficult. Rosana stood and went to the bars, tears streaming down her face. All she could see was the silhouette of her captor and the flashes of light and power bursting in front of him. She strained on the bars to see past the old wretch as to whom he was dueling with. To her shock and surprise, the bars pushed open, were pulled open in fact. A modest pop as the cell door opened from a man of immense size. His deep dark eyes looked at hers, his long black beard hung over his loose white tabard. She had never seen him before, but for some reason he seemed kind and familiar. She stood silent in the spreading smoke, and he walked away without a word. Rosana blinked, then came to as if from a dream, and he was gone. The blasts of arcane war ahead brought her to the here and now.

  The queen of Harlaheim stood still for a moment, waiting for someone or something to happen, to stop what she was about to do. Nothing. The fight went on, nearly two minutes had passed she figured since it began, yet it seemed like hours. Rosana stepped out into the corridor, trembling and scared, then turned toward the right and ran barefoot as fast as she could into the dark passages under Castle L’Herrim. She did not stop to look back, she made not a sound, and kept moving through stairs and tunnels that seemed to be designed as a crypt. She saw light from a grate over head, a grate that was slid off partially as if someone had used it to come in and out of. It was dark outside, cold too, but the queen climbed the chains that held an archaic and rusty chandelier to the top of an empty underground chamber. Pulling herself up with her arms and legs, holding onto the chains for dear life, Rosana climbed out the grate and into the city that she once ruled. Covered in blood, dirt, rust, and tears, Rosana ran through the nighttime streets, sure that she was being followed, and into the nearest building she could find. She opened the door to the royal stables, turned in quickly, shut the door behind her, and laid her back against it. Her sobs began again, for now she felt more helpless and more at risk than ever before. And she was all alone in a dark stable in the middle of the night.

  Kalzarius pointed his index finger and concentrated on the staff in his left hand, sensing the protective magicks working from the runes that he had activated silently during the duel. “Hashiana tethuri!” red lightning arced from wall to wall to ceiling and even the floor, chipping chunks of old mildewy gray stone from their solid hold. Dust flew and craters blasted out of the passageway as the electric swirls of heat and force landed into Yari. The old wretched necromancer gritted his teeth as his robes and chest burned. Then he pushed his wand into the red blasts of arcane energy, the wand flashed yellow with a soothing sick light that seemed to diminish the painful magical attack.

  “Surrender Yari, you have nothing left that can surprise me.” Kalzarius walked closer, staff glowing green in front of him, palm raised and ready to unleash even more arcane force should he need to.

  “You are dead wrong Kalzarius, I have spells you would not dare to master in your pretty white tower!” Yari’s chest was black and burned, as were his stank robes, yet he walked closer, wand raised and fingers pointed toward his enemy. He thought of the words of a foul forbidden summoning that produced life draining cold from the shadows themselves, unstoppable by any arcane means. The price was high, as Yari would age several years he could ill afford as part of the casting pact with the spirits of the dead that the spell connected to. He cared not, for to see Kalzarius beg for mercy on his knees, the old student would sacrifice almost anything. Yari stared at the smoke filled corridor and the shadow that the torches produced off of Kalzarius. “Githmoori gianvi gissel Ul—“

  Hearing the words of dark incantation that he recognized, Kalzarius focused on the stairs behind Yari quickly. “Feshrool!” he vanished and appeared behind his former banished pupil, struck his staff forward and concentrated on hurling Yari toward the spot he had been standing in a moment before. As Yari was thrust forward into the shadows, they sprung alive with silver sparks and outlines that swarmed him as he tumbled across the stone floor. “Alavinia tethur tethada!” the old master chanted as the screaming began. Not wishing to see his former student devoured by the infernal shadows that would rip him to bones, he launched a series of white orbs of pulsating ice and force into the ceiling above the horrific scene about to occur. The stones cracked and crumbled, one after another, blow after arcane blow, covering the passage nearly to the top. Only the hissing of dark animated shadows from the nether realms was audible when the dust settled. Kalzarius knew it was only a matter of moments before the shadows finished Yari’s corpse, and then came for the nearest mortal they could detect; his time was little. He would have to teleport his presence back to the safety of the tower and let the spell run its course.

  “My queen?! Queen Rosana?! Where are you my lady? We must hurry!” the old wizard looked in each cell, seeing foul prisoners, murderers, all men. There were no women here at all, but there was one cell that was open and empty, the metal melted by acid recently and broken open. Hearing the motion of enchanted shadows from hell clattering the rockpile behind him, Kalzarius knew he had to leave for he had no power to do much but slow the demonic darkness that had been summoned. He turned, seeing red eyes and silver streaks in the dark that could only be destroyed by means he did not possess at the moment, the old wizard hung his head. He glanced at the pile, the empty cell that his student spies had told him the queen was held in, then to the screaming hisses of the netherworld bent on devouring him. “Damn it! Feshrool!” he vanished into the temporal existence between there and his tower for a moment, then felt whole and safe a moment later in the study of the eighteenth floor.

  “Master, master! Where is the queen, are you allright?” Cilano rushed to his master’s side as soon as he heard the hum of the arcane transportation.

  “I am fine Cilano, I am fine. The queen has escaped into the city I fear, or is somewhere under it. I could not find her.”

  “And the foul wizard that was guarding her?”

  “Yari, a former student of mine, before your time I am afraid. He is dead, unfortunately, he left me with no choice.” Kalzarius thought of the terrible pain Yari had gone through when his family was killed all those decades ago and how it changed him and his studies. “He had been dead a long time to this world, my student, no
w he can rest with his loved ones, I hope. We will find the queen, send our scouts now that the siege is quiet, and send the students again. She could not have gotten far."

  “As you wish, master.” Cilano turned and walked away to head downstairs. He stopped, feeling that Kalzarius was saddened or disturbed by something, then dismissed it and carried on to organize the hunt for Queen Rosana.

  “Poor Yari, one of many caught in the dirty politics of the kingdom. One of many wasted lives that had such promise. Megos, if you can hear me up there in Marthentine, your home on Carice the white moon, please let his death not be in vain and keep Rosana safe.” Kalzarius bowed his head, knowing that since Rosana had been a prisoner once again, then Savanno and Sulian must have failed. He had hoped to see them locked up as well. The old wizard knew, against his hopes, that they must have been killed.

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  The first warm morning breeze marked the beginning of spring and the stained glass windows and heavy wooden doors to Castle L’Herrim were open. Light and fresh air poured in for the first time in over three months, refreshing the rather empty throneroom. Richmond sat in his throne, watching the tapestries decorated with the crown and rose of Harlaheim flit in the slow breeze. His red robes and regal long draped style of lordship was nearly matched by Florin’s white gowns that trailed behind her almost six feet. Her hair braided with Rosana’s to hide the ruse, her face veiled slightly with the finest lace, and for once she did not have a weapon in her grip. The young king noticed her twitching and wringing her hands in anxiety of being dressed in such a manner to which she was not accustomed. Her hands needed something to do, a blade to grip, and her breathing was short and fast.