The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns

by Jason R Jones

  “You ten men protect our trail. Balric, gather what horses remain and lead us to Valhirst!” Johnas sheathed his blade as he mounted one of the horses belonging to a dead soldier.

  The men looked desperate, betrayed, and confused as the prince of Valhirst rode off leaving them on foot with an army of trolls and ogre bent on spilling blood. They fired into the approaching mob, as they had been since the first arrow struck from afar. Balric did as he was asked, yet felt words strum up from his throat past the difficulty that the domineering necklace impressed upon him. “My prince, should we not all flee?”

  “And take more risk of our pursuit? No. Those men are our insurance of a decent length of start away from our moronic foes. A risk that their blood will satisfy, hopefully. Now move! The White Spider will wage war on Salah Cam the old fashioned way, pure deceit and blessed treachery.” Johnas kicked his steed to the east, mere feet before trolls descended into the ranks of the men ordered to remain and cover. He smiled, knowing war would come one way or the other, just what he needed. Not to plan, not as ordered with him in charge, but war nonetheless.

  Balric and eight survivors escorted the prince back toward their home. Sounds of wood planks shattering from the caravan echoed with the melodius screams of Valhirst soldiers who did their part in dying horribly for their master. He tried to reach for his saber, even the shortblade on his other hip, but the necklace held more power over him than his hatred could muster. Black lightning ripped into the air followed by the loud and mesmerizing words of the undying wizard, Salah cam. Neither Balric nor Johnas could make out the details, but they both knew for certain that the traitorous old man beyond the touch of the grave now had much sway over the ogre and trolls that bordered Chazzrynn. He could fuel those long burning fires of hatred that had been sitting idle, and whip them into a murderous force.

  A force that should have been at the beck and call of Johnas, but now was held by his house wizard. Both men silently wondered who the archer was, who would try to assassinate the domenarch of the White Spider so far from any civilization, and how they even knew where to wait for him. His brow furrowed with paranoia, his sword thirsted for more blood, and Johnas Valhera paced in his mind over the lives he would have to end to reach the answers he needed. “Well, I did wish to have the scum fired up and excited about waging war. I shall still wager this day a success for the future. Balric, get us home.”

  Exodus II:XV

  Outskirts of Bailey, Willborne-Harlaheim Border

  “There are those that worship and those that speak words. There are those who surrender to God and those that grovel. Then there are those who are deceived by hopes that they will strike deals with God, and for those we send our deepest prayers, for they are truly lost.” –Ja Maharrime, one of the eleven prophets of Ladras who envisioned the coming of the floods of Agara and was crucified for heresy and blasphemy. Altestan, circa 92 B.C.

  Misty rain and fog dampened the view of Bailey, as did the moonless night skies of gray and ebony. Norrice and his men of Saint Erinsburg kept their steeds at a walking pace as both the horses and the men were exhausted. The bridge over the Devon River had few guards who were more concerned about catching rumor of the wars in Harlaheim than actually inquiring about the troupe’s business in Willborne. Beside the awkward stares at the minotaur and the elven woman, the borderguard paid little attention as to why escorts bearing the symbols of Harlaheim traveled with a decorated knight of Chazzrynn and such mixed company into their kingdom, especially with a handful of coin to assist their negligence. Capitan Norrice had thought of leaving Shinayne and her fellows there and heading back, but something inside him pushed him to see them to Bailey and find lodging for one good and safe night’s rest before returning to whatever battle awaited them in Saint Erinsburg. Regardless of orders, he knew that Lord Cristoff was fond of these travelers and would much appreciate the gesture. It is what he would do if he were here, Norrice reasoned.

  Three riders approached on the dark road into Bailey, one bearing a covered lantern. The town was quiet, dismal, with as many low stone buildings as abandoned wooden ones, almost all with thatched roofs. Norrice looked about over the riders sent to greet them and noticed the animals that roamed and the poverty that presented itself with every glance. Poor, run down, and silent it was. He noticed the only striking monument in the whole area was to the south. Past the thousands that lived likely impoverished in this rural setting turned into a mecca of depression and strife, a lone mountainous crag of a hill loomed hundreds of feet above everything else south of the town. Lit only by the occasional flash of lightning in the blanketing clouds or stream of escaping light from the green moon, the mountain hovered over Bailey only a few miles away. Norrice was drawn back from his glare at the ominous lone peak to the faint aroma of old haypiles, animal dung, and the gallop of three horses closing in to meet them. He pulled the reins up and signaled for the company to hold behind him.

  “Hold there, horseman. What brings you and yours this late into Bailey? And whom might you be?” the man in the middle of the three spoke quickly, agitated, and with a heavy and rich Agarian accent. His obvious sons kept their left hands on the reins of their steeds and right hands on the hilts of their longswords hidden under the drapings of long raincloaks.

  Norrice gauged the man speaking to be at least fifty years of age by the wrinkled skin and full beard of gray to match his thinning hair and eyebrows. The other two kept their cloaks drawn over, yet flashes of light from the ominous storm allowed him to glance that they were young enough to be his sons for certain, and the resemblance was definite. The capitan of Saint Erinsburg turned to look past his men, hoping one in the company of five would assist him in the greetings as he was not accustomed to travel or diplomacy, only a mere soldier until just days ago.

  “Well speak up then! I have not all night for you Harlian!” the old man showed his impatience and crassness as moments of silence passed.

  “I am Capitan Norrice of Saint Erinsburg, here on escort from Lord Cristoff Bradswellen the Third. And you are?” Norrice heard relief on the way from several hooves in the muddy road behind him. He was nervous, not wanting to say the wrong word or introduction. He had only known other capitans, bishops, and his lord; he had never dealt with anyone other than nobility from saint Erinsburg his whole life.

  “I am Marcel Keervinn, Lord of Bailey capitan.” he waited for a bow or sign of respect from the nervous man before him in the night, which he finally received. Lord Marcel watched as an elven woman on horseback led by a tattooed minotaur arrived by the side of the inexperienced leader of the escort. He noticed the sign of relief on Norrice’s face as pressure vanished upon the turn of his head to see them next to him. “You arrive late into my town, too late indeed.”

  Shinayne bowed from the saddle as she removed the hood of her cloak. “My lord, please excuse the hour of our arrival into Willborne, the storms have slowed our travels beyond our liking. We wish to stay only a night as our journey takes us further west into Shanador and the Misathi Mountains. We have traveled for too many days through this unfortunate weather, would you permit us your grace and hospitality?”

  “If you are traveling to Shanador, why would you not depart from Devonmir? It is a faster route. And who are you, elf?” the Lord of Bailey knew already that there was something amiss with this group. He had seen minotaurs before, Lady Katrina of Willborne had a red minotaur named Faldrune that guarded her at Willborne Keep. Dwarves and elves he had seen in his years also, but none as beautiful as the noble creature before him now.

  “I am Lady Shinayne T’Sarrin of Kilikala.” she bowed again. “And you know even better than me, I am sure, that Devonmir is no place for a lady. Even with the civil unrest and wars in central Harlaheim, Devonmir is a cesspool that would stain my noble eyes from a mere night through.”

  “Truer words could not be spoken, my lady. Yet I still have issue with so many, fifteen I count, armed men, women, and beasts arriving at this hour in stormy sk
ies. How can I be certain of your intentions?” Lord Marcel was being coy at this point, and it showed, he revealed it with intention to the elven woman.

  “Ahh Lord Marcel, we are but refugees from the horrendous battles that rage inside your neighboring kingdom to the east. Had we taste for bloodshed or trouble, our stay in Harlaheim would have been joyous with no cause for departure, would it not? Surely your lordship could find us accommodation that we would gladly offer a fine coin for.” Shinayne played coy in return, allowing her smirk to reveal across her lips and her aquamarine eyes to flash and sparkle at his. She despised old crotchety men that thought with their loins rather than their hearts, but the elven noble knew that the horses and the men were done in and the weather was looking more dangerous by the hour; they needed shelter and rest above all else.

  Lord Marcel looked to his town, then up to the weather, and then a look around the small army that was behind this capitan of Harlaheim and the well spoken elven lady. His mind withdrew for a moment to his meeting with Katrina, the Lady of Willborne who held the greatest army and most of the power in this kingdom of free cities. She had told him earlier this week to be on guard for a group that held a scroll stolen from Prince Johnas of Chazzrynn and that they had also stolen a key to a very important place from the dwarves of Boraduum. She had mentioned a minotaur also, and Marcel realized that these were the very folk that had been described. Lord Marcel Keervinn smiled, rarely having anything of worth travel through his dismal and secretive little domain in Willborne. Her orders were well remembered in his head, and he bowed to the elf from atop his stallion.

  “I may have room for five or six at the Bordermark Inn, we could probably use some distraction tonight anyway.” all three men looked to one another and laughed heartily at some joke or inside jest that no one else could have understood. “The rest of your men and horses can stay as my guests at the keep. The stable is stoned in, dry, and even has a fireplace to keep your men warm. Follow me.”

  “You are most gracious my Lord Keervinn of Bailey, I am in your debt.” Shinayne bowed, her golden hair drenched from the sporadic rains that interrupted the constant mist from gray clouds above.

  Saberrak waited until the men had turned to lead the company into Bailey then spoke quietly to Shinayne. “That was easy, finally a town that did not stare at me in terror or try and kill us upon entering. Nicely done, elf.”

  “Too easy I am afraid, my horned friend. It took little to get what we needed this late, and he has not even asked for payment. I sense something dark and wicked about this place. A land with few laws could hold a number of problems when---“

  “Let us get out of the rain first, and get warm before you begin with these feelings you have again, shall we?” Saberrak snorted, steam issuing from his bovine nostrils as he walked Shinayne’s horse into the dreary town. Saberrak marched forward behind the three horsemen and turned to see the rest following. His eyes turned back to the front, watching the cloud covered mountain as if it were staring back at him.

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  James had not spoken in days of travel, had not prayed, and felt not the urge to do either. His confusion over religion, the divine messages from the scroll, all that had happened, and what he was even doing this far from Chazzrynn had nearly taken over his every waking thought. He sat at a small round table inside the small keep that housed the rural nobility of Bailey. The fireplace was lit, his friends were unloading their gear and getting dry, yet the knight of Chazzrynn felt nothing but confused emptiness. He had wished to stay and fight beside Cristoff to whatever end. He had wanted to return home and serve his king and redeem his lost honor throughout Chazzrynn. The promise he had made to Azenairk upon Soujan Mountain now seemed foolish and rash. His mind could not fathom traveling so far to the west, so far to a place that may not exist, and his mind began to convince him that it did not and could not be. He stared down at the broadsword with the griffon hilt and thought again of the late Lord Arlinne of Southwind Keep. A cloud of doubt and isolation surrounded him and prevented any chance of faith he may have held.

  “James? You are awfully quiet. What troubles you?” Zen placed a hand on his shoulder in hopes that his friend of the feathered cross would snap out of whatever held him hostage at the moment. He had not seen James pray with him in the mornings, and despite being of different races and religions, Azenairk knew that lost feeling across the face of a man anywhere.

  “I need to get some air, I will return.” Sir Andellis stood up, sheathed his blade, and walked out of the large stone common room. Down the torchlit halls to the foyer, the guards stepped aside with a slight bow of recognition. James barely noticed them as he walked past and out the aging double doors and into the open rains of Bailey. He walked across the weathered cobblestone roads that ran with mud and water. He walked past closed homes and shops and the occasional citizen that kept their distance late at night. Dark buildings, quiet stables, stormy skies and rain, and a thick humid fog to breathe were all that James held company with.

  He looked up at the sound of a door opening with a loud creak. He could smell the wine, ale, and pipe smoke from several city blocks away. The perceived warmth called to his mind, the closeness of people drinking in misery sent him false security. And his nose guided his bootsteps toward the lit tavern. James looked up, straightening his long white tunic and blue sash on instinct.

  “The Floating Goblet. Sounds and looks like the place to be this time of evening in the grand metropolis of Bailey.” he read the sign and told himself outloud that he should enter. His humor was false, his body moved against the better judgement of his conscience, and he convinced himself that all would be fine.

  The aroma hit him square in the face, his eyes dialated to adjust to the darkened room and lanternlight that threw more shadow than illumination. Three women drank from cups as they cleaned and caroused, one of them very young and dressed in white garments. Five men, including the man behind the mahagony plank of a bar, sat staring at James as they smoked pipe and drank from wine in steel goblets. The goblets behind the bar were indeed floating about three feet in the air, dozens of them, enticing one to want to reach out and take them. Chuckles from unknown reaches of inebriation littered the thick air from man and woman alike as James approached the bartop. Their rough features, unkempt hair of blondes and light browns, and more than a few missing teeth on the men, all drew the knight of Chazzrynn closer for reasons unknown.

  “What an honor we have here this rainy night, a soldier of Chazzrynn graces the Floating Goblet for some whiskey or ale from Baily?” the man behind the wooden stretch spoke with an old Agarian accent that seemed to sing as much as speak from the curls of dirty blonde beard and mustache. His hair was braided and knotted past his shoulders, his hazel mottled eyes winced from the smoke that chased his words from the pipe in his hand, and his other hand waved toward the steel and silver chalices afloat behind him. His dirty tunic, once white for certain, allowed a wipe of a hand before he reached out to shake the hand of James Andellis with an inviting and curious smile across his grizzly jaw. “I’m Darcy Loghmann, friend, what can I pass yer way then?”

  The words hung in the air forever, James had not thought of an answer, did not want to say the words for it seemed something was stopping him from speaking. The words and thoughts of wine, finest bottle, Caberran if you have it sir, and many others fired into his mind, into his throat, but his mouth would not move.

  “Ahh, vow of silence I suppose then? How about you help old Darcy out and point at your poison then, brave knight of the south?” he laughed, followed by the men and women that sat and stood in the quaint little tavern room. Rain battered the glass in the windows, wind pushed the roof to moan, the fireplace crackled with anticipation, and James raised his hand to shoulder level. His eyes quivered, his stomach turned with anxiety, sweat rolled down his temples into his trimmed beard, and finally his finger pointed out to one of the bottles on the top shelf near the ceiling. The rack held hundreds
of bottles, but the veteran soldier knew the label of a Caberran red wine, knew the elongated neck meant it was Mellenas, and saw that there were a few others just like it should he be in need.

  “Mellenas? Fine choice there…” the tavern owner and innkeeper waited before he reached for the bottle, wanted a name, that personal closeness, and the three or four silvers for the bottle in advance from this stranger that did not speak.

  “James, Sir James Andellis, knight of Chazzrynn. The bottle please, and one glass.” his mind drown out by visions, just snippets really, of Lord Christoff, the late Lord Arlinne, and the late Sir Savanno Lisario. He saw them all, brave and lordly men, men he could not help, could not save, and his guilt and shame impacted his heart, wave after unseen wave. The goblet floated toward him with a simple gesture from Darcy, a minor magical trick that was likely the only reason this run down inn and tavern still survived.

  The young girl in dressed in white gowns fit for sleep on a cold night glanced at James, the only thing that took his mind away from the bottle and the past for a moment. She went from a dirty table with a rag and tray full of glasses, two trying to float away as she walked. Her long dark blonde waves hung with the humidity and smoke, barely moving from her shoulders and face. Just enough though, for James to see her blue eyes fixate upon his for a long moment as she reached for the hovering goblets in midair and pulled them close to her serving tray. Young, perhaps twenty if that even, she glided like an angel through a room far from sacred or holy. His eyes wondered what she was doing here, the look apparent in both of their stares, then James returned to the matter at hand as his conscience battled with his demons, the latter winning the current challenge.