The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns

by Jason R Jones

  “What is a funeral for anyway?” Saberrak assumed it meant something for when someone dies, but where he was from that only happened from the hand of someone else. The bodies ended up in a back cavern and dropped into a deep chasm and were never seen again, or fed to wolves and other beasts.

  “It is where a person is seen for the last time, honored and spoken of, and there is singing and prayer to send them off with blessings. Have you never been to a funeral?” Shinayne was not all too surprised.

  “Was that what you were doing when I heard you singing outside the ruins when we met?”

  Shinayne could not answer, her breath stopped and her mind went instantly to her brave escort and guide, Nathaniel. He had survived an attack of a young dragon in his days as an elven ambassador to Kivanis many decades ago. But the trolls of Arouland, while on the trail of Lavress Tilaniun in the Deep South, had seen his fate sealed. Her aquamarine eyes filled with tears at the thought of losing him and having to sing the Vytha Vahann with only Bedesh the satyr to hear. Now her heart went to the pain of losing the satyr to Kendari the Nadderi swordsman and never finding Lavress, the man she loved. She stopped her thoughts, knowing full well that Lavress would keep Bedesh safe. “You heard me singing outside Arouland back then?”

  “Yes. That is why I sought you out. You did not sound so threatening like most everything else I met in my escape.” Saberrak chuckled.

  “Was it beautiful, did I recount his tales well?” Shinayne had not even thought that the minotaur could not understand the elven tongue, nor the blend of fey words and rites she had to use in his eulogy and prayers.

  “It sounded like something peaceful, sad, and far too beautiful for this world. You did well, I assure you.” the gray minotaur stood up, having enough talk of sad and pretty things with the emotional swordswoman by his side. He sensed her tears flowing and distracted her by putting his armor and boots back on. “To this funeral then, to sing for Sir Savanno.”

  “They brought his body from the trail to the south of here. They said it was mixed in with about fifty other Harlaheim men and even some women. The king here is not like the honorable King Mikhail of Chazzrynn. I will be glad to leave here.” Shinayne wiped her eyes free of tears and helped the minotaur get his scalemail and greaves back in place.

  “Still a better king than the creatures that rule where I am from. Things could always be worse, Shinayne. You could be in Unlinn.”

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  The stone structure was perfect in every regard, from the marble floors to the fifty foot high domed and decorated ceiling. At least three hundred men and women sat in the pews, nobility, clergy, and Cristoff in the front with his new friends. Savanno had grown up here it seemed, for he was well known by anyone in the Saint Erinsburg army and the clergy. In fact, Saberrak the gray noticed as he moved to the front to be next to the others, that half of those gathered were wearing the feathered crosses of Alden and were either priests or soldiers. The minotaur stared at the giant sized cross on the front wall above the altar, then to the stained glass windows on either side and even the dome that depicted so many things with angelic wings and swords. He did not even notice the stares he was receiving from everyone in the cathedral. He stopped in the front aisle, distracted from the beauty and artwork of the place, and was face to face with a decorated wooden box fitted to hold the brave lord of knights he was looking down upon now. The crosses reminded him of Annar’s story in the scroll, a story of sacrifice for lesser beings. His chest ached, on the inside.

  The old priest may have said something to the minotaur in a room full of humans, yet his extra two feet of height and two hundred more pounds was obviously intimidating to the man about to give the sermon. Saberrak smelled the sweat and fear from the white robed man on the other side of the altar behind the casket holding Savanno Lisario. He looked from the priest to the man inside the box that he had met and spilled blood with outside of the City of Harlaheim, a man he knew that went to duel another knight for his freedom and was victorious. His face was pale, head shaved, and his eyes were sealed shut by some sort of white paste. His tabard looked perfect with the crown and rose of his kingdom on the black backround. Saberrak looked at the rapier, tucked to his side under the white cloths that draped around him. Where the minotaur was from, that fine chain armor and sword would have been taken long before the body even stopped pumping blood. The horned warrior bowed his head at the corpse of Savanno, then to the nervous old priest, and walked to sit in the front next to Gwenneth and Lord Cristoff.

  In old Agarian blended with song and sermon, the priest of L’Avia Sangrit Cathedral spoke volumes about the life of Savanno Lisario. From his youth here in Saint Erinsburg, to the knighthood of Harlaheim, his oaths to the Order of Saint Tarumin as a holy soldier, and finally his honored position of Lord Knight Errant of the kingdom. Saberrak heard the life story of a man he barely knew. Two wars, sixteen major battles from which he only withdrew his men one time, the man seemed to the minotaur like a legend. Cristoff, his cousin, spoke at the altar of his times with Savanno at battles in Caberra, Chazzrynn, his own Harlaheim soil, and even skirmishes in Willborne. Too choked in tears to continue, the Lord of Saint Erinsburg left the altar and resumed his seat next to Shinayne and James. All stood and bowed their heads, and the choir songs flowed of melodies that Saberrak had never heard. He had in fact never heard songs in unison ever before. Feeling something in his chest that he did not care to feel any longer, the gray walked to the side of the aisles and slowly exited the cathedral with his head aimed toward the floor. Gwenneth alone followed him outside the doors, not minding the gazes and stares received by present company.

  There were no words between them, the prodigal daughter of Lazlette and the horned gladiator of Unlinn. For no reason in particular, she simply placed her hand on his shoulder as he watched the sun overhead and the birds pass by. Saberrak knew that the injustice done could not be repaired and that the king of this country deserved deaths a hundred fold. He felt anger, sadness, and that something must be done. Letting the tension out in deep huffs of his mighty chest, the minotaur bowed his head and looked to the west. He thought to himself, this is not my country, it is not my fight. My fight is to the west for Azenairk and I have my word to keep to a friend instead of a hatred to feed here in Harlaheim.

  Saberrak did his best to let it go and focus on what he needed to do for his friends instead of for revenge. He said a few words of thanks and blessings silently, that Savanno be avenged, Florin and Richmond to get their just dues, and that he arrive safely in whatever battle lay after the ones down here. He looked up to the sky and sighed again, then sat down outside the cathedral courtyard. Without a word, Gwenneth sat next to him. The two sat in silence for what seemed an eternity. The bells rang once more, and people began to leave the funeral slowly. Almost every one of them reached down to Saberrak as he sat outside. They touched his shoulder as they passed by, silently thanking him for being there, for his bravery in freeing the occupation, for helping their lord reclaim the city, and for his honoring of Savanno as best he could. Saberrak stood before long, head bowed, and allowed each of them to bow to him in respect that he did not understand. To the minotaur, he had not done enough, had much more to do, and was merely a brutal warrior. To the people of Saint Erinsburg, he was a hero and a godsend that had brought them hope.

  Johnas II:IV

  White Spider Throne Room, Valhirst Underground

  Vanessa Blackflame stared into the quiet chamber of the White Spider, at the silent men stalking in and out of the secret passages, and at the empty onyx throne. The marble warlock mirrors had been silent for several nights since Johnas, Balric, and the entourage to meet Salah-Cam in the south had left. Fadim had been taking the young red headed boy, Oggidan, under his wing as instructed by the Prince. Like she was a ghostly prisoner, eyes were always on Vanessa, but no one spoke to her. She sat in the throne room of the underground, alone, knowing she could not escape and even if she could the
re would be nowhere for her to hide where they could not find her. Not even the fortress of the king of Chazzrynn had kept her and the man who loved her safe for long. She could feel Balric getting further away, days now since she had seen the man who was her only protector, her only care in this dark life she had been born into. The scars and burned flesh still had no feeling as her hand gently caressed over them. Vanessa had stopped screaming in the middle of the night and every time she gazed into a mirror, yet the pain of Gwenneth Lazlette’s lightning would be felt forever on her face and neck.

  The young scarred wizard watched as the Altestani man tightened the steel gauntlet on young Oggidan’s hand, where a hand used to be anyway. Vanessa felt a bit more at ease with Fadim in charge of Valhirst while Johnas was away, yet she knew that all eyes were on her whether she saw them or not. There were no tantrums of opium and wine, no wanton killings of the homeless for sport, and she felt able to sleep without Johnas invading the bed and having his way with her every night. Despite her relief, she knew he would return and it would begin again, or the Prince would tire of her burned face and kill her like he had so many other women who turned against him or displeased him. Vanessa hoped and prayed to herself that he did not return from the meeting with the trolls and ogre leaders in the west. Her head lowered into her hands, knowing that to pray for that would mean Balric’s death most likely as well. Futility and hopelessness set in once more on her emotionless face.

  “Now remember, young one, that your parries do not have to be perfect with your right. The short blade is locked in the gauntlet and your arm is protected up to the elbow. However, your off hand, your left that is, with the other short sword is where your feints will draw from, and those attacks must appear perfect. Understand?” Fadim stood up from the red headed boy with one hand and drew his shamshiir knife from his side. He readied the curved blade and his throwing knife to be used as a second weapon, crouched low on guard, and waited for the boy to begin.

  “Master Fadim, what is a feint?” Oggidan readied himself in a similar stance, yet had a confused look in his eyes that needed answering before he charged the deadly dark skinned man.

  The trusted assassin of the White Spider smiled. “Put up your blades boy, and parry my attacks as best you can.”

  “Yes sir.” Oggidan put his shortblades to guard, elbows in, grip at chest level, angled in. He stared at Fadim and his dark clothing contrasted by the gold and steel of his curved shamshir and the knife in his left hand. Sweat trickled slowly down his temples and the back of his neck. The Altestani man stepped forward quickly and Oggidan backed up, white knuckling the short sword in his left hand. He saw the slash of steel from the curved blade of his teacher matched with a direct thrust of the knife toward his chest. The boy rasied his left blade to parry the closing shamshir and parried down with his steel gauntlet that had a blade affixed to it. His motions were quick, defensive and accurate, as were his steps and posture. He had been practicing.

  In a flash of blades faster than the untrained eye could gauge, the flat edge of the curved northern sword and the pommel of the knife hit Oggidan in the head twice. As the one handed redhead riposted his teacher, his arms were both nicked near the elbow, his attacks parried aside, and he was backpeddling rapidly. Two more lunging attacks came in from the older Altestani assassin, both parries went high to guard this time, and Oggidan hit the ground as the man’s fists thudded into his chest and stomach. Unable to breath and barely able to see, the youth scrambled to stand back on guard, but was met with the curve of the shamshir at his throat. He looked up, teary eyed, angry and humiliated.

  “You are dead, young Oggidan. I used two feints to throw you off. As I went for your head and chest, the very moment I saw you raise to parry, I changed directions on each attack. You thought I was cutting here,” Fadim pointed toward his chest. “when in reality, I hit you twice here at the last moment before our blades were to touch.” he pointed the tip of his blade to the swelling lumps on the boys head.

  “So a feint is like a lie? You mean to do this, but you trick them and do something else?” Oggidan looked at his hand, the steel one with the blade fixed into it, then back up at his instructor.

  “No. It is outsmarting your opponent. There is always someone younger, faster, better trained, or who has a better weapon. The ability to outthink your adversary comes in many forms, the deadliest is the feint. Only one who has been burned by it, or has not mastered it, would put its name to bad taste.” Fadim helped the boy to his feet, nearly pulling his strapped on steel hand loose in the effort.

  “And my arms?” Oggidan held his bleeding forearms, still ripe with the sting of sharp steel.

  “Stop cuts. I saw your pathetic ripostes, and I moved with your motions and cut into your arms while protecting myself. Not much of an immediate effect, but after a few of them, or a few minutes of bleeding, I have the advantage.” Fadim smiled again and sheathed his sword and knife at his side.

  “My stomach?” Oggidan looked angry and paced while he spoke, trying to figure out how to learn as quickly as possible to avoid any embarrassment in the future.

  “Double feints. I knew you expected me to take my low attacks and feint to strike high again. So I did as you thought I would, then struck low once you went high. Very simple actually. In time, you will learn. I am no faster than you, Oggidan, just confidant, trained, and more experienced.” Fadim bowed to the young man that he had been asked to train by Prince Johnas Valhera. He knew that the boy had lost his hand to Kendari, a wanted sellsword and mercenary. Also, that his family had been massacred by something while returning from trade in Valhirst. He felt pity for the boy.

  “You can teach me all of that?”

  “I will train you so if you wish, and I can teach you well enough to go get your revenge on the marked elf that took your hand. Kendari is his name? Yes, I will teach you to take revenge as well, young Agarian.”

  Having gotten his breath to steady once more, and a crowd of a dozen criminal members gathered to watch the young boy training with one of the Emerald Eight of the White Spider; Oggidan took a stance again. “Again then.”

  “Enough for today young—“

  “Master Crimson of the North of the Emerald Eight, one of the deadliest agents of the underworld, and he is too tired for me?” Oggidan looked around as low laughter and oohs and ahhs went around.

  Fadim stopped and looked at Vanessa sitting on the throne staring back at him. He was in charge while the Prince was away, yet he wondered if this scarred slave girl was reporting on his movements. He looked at the marble tablets she had next to her, then turned to the boy that had taunted him. He drew his weapons. She was watching him, he knew it, had caught it. She played the part of victim well, but his senses in just that glance told him otherwise.

  “Very well, young one.” Fadim dove into a forward roll that landed him a few feet from the boy. His shamshir cut high and was parried, his knife cut low and was parried. His arms dove forward with speed and precision, driving the boy to parry faster and faster. His feet moving with the offensive dance of his attacks, Fadim cornered the boy and went to slap the flat of the blade across his face. Oggidan went to parry high, then low, then feinted his parry back to high. Their blades stopped inches before Oggidans face.

  Silence through the whole chamber came louder than any noise could have. The Altestani man stared his brown eyes intently into the blue eyes of the boy half his age. He had parried perfectly and seen his feints coming, even used one of his own. His fist struck out from the left, the pommel of the knife smashing the boy’s nose into an instant stream of blood from each nostril. Oggidan fell back into the wall then slumped to the floor, dropping his shortsword and holding his face.

  “Satisfied? Now, today’s lesson is over, and it was this. A swordsman’s best weapon is the feint, for it kills quicker than any set of flashing young stupidity or years of rigorous training. Remember that for next time Agarian, and learn some respect.” Fadim could not believe how fast
the one handed boy learned to watch for feints and feint his parries to lure him in where he wanted him. He turned and walked away. No one likes someone else in charge, no one in Chazzrynn liked the Altestani, and now they would see him as a vicious man who beats his students. Perfect, he thought. He would soon weed out those that might seek to step up the ladder while Johnas was away. Fadim smiled at Vanessa, who was still staring at him with even wider eyes now. “Let Johnas know that Oggidan is learning quickly, for an Agarian boy that is.”

  “Is that an order, master Fadim?” Vanessa stared at him again, like she knew something that he did not want her to know.

  His curved steel edge was at her throat in a flash, drawing a rapid silence from the room once more. “Your stares and disrespectful tones may amuse your bedmaster or your enslaved lover, but they do nothing for me woman. You would do yourself a favor to remember that while Johnas is away.”

  Her dark eyes stared into his, inches apart, and Vanessa did not flinch. She whispered softly. “I can see it, Fadim, you would do yourself a favor here and try harder. Kill me if you wish, I may welcome it with my recent failures and current position. But you, my northern spy, are as false as they come. Do you know why I stare at you so?”

  He whispered back, just as soft with his quick and heavy accent. “No, why don’t you enlighten me, slave.”

  “Because I once saw a look of kindness, hidden conscience, and deeper meaning in the eyes of Balric, long ago, that others could not see.”

  “Your point?”

  “I knew from the moment I saw his eyes that he was here to stop Johnas. You have that same look when I stare at you, no matter how you hide it from the others or the Prince, I see it. You may fool them, but I know you are here to bring the White Spider down and Johnas with it. Be careful.” she trembled now, realizing the conversation had gone on too long and the others had most likely noticed that his blade had lowered.