The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns

by Jason R Jones

  “Four silvers, Sir James, and keep yer southern eyes off me neice there, understood? She is leaving tomorrow, won’t be back, and ye got no business with her on account o me.” Darcy caught the stare, knew that she had been chosen last month to be the bringer of a good season by Lord Marcell and his priest, Veuric. He would be damned before he let some vagabond foreigner, knight or no, get her attentions or vice versa. The barkeep put his hand out on the mahagony, waiting for the coins to make their appearance. Darcy suspected something was not all in line with this southern man, his silence and disconcerted mind made it very apparent. He glanced behind his mahagony workspace to the loaded hand crossbow and shortsword that lay at the ready, just in case.

  James pulled out four silver coins from his ragged leather pouch, struggling with his trembling fingers to avoid the mass of copper bits that held the majority inside. They fell to the bartop and jingled in the heavy silence of the Floating Goblet Inn and Taverne. All eyes and ears seemed to wait as if James would stop breathing or the world would end any moment. Not only his own conscience at war here, the veteran knight felt the weight of those he did not even know upon his will and spirit. His guilt began to turn little nothings into treacherous and tangible threats. The cross stare from the man on the left, the woman cleaning dishes in the back had stopped, even the grizzled barkeep and owner seemed a danger to him for no obvious reason. The goblets floated still, the wine bottle looked immense and grand as if he were a young boy in a giant cathedral with too many sins, and as the barkeep slid the coins across the wood with his weathered hand, time stood still. James was in awe of a moment that seemed to call and haunt his waking mind, a powerless moment in which he had no control over the outcome.

  The moment passed, breath returned to the world after the knights’ lungs released it from capture, and noise returned to the small shack of a tavern in Bailey. The dark green glass bottle had many words painted on it, yet he only felt the weight as he carried it, his shame would not permit his eyes to view the object of his sin. James walked to a table in the corner, one that had been recently cleaned by the young neice of Darcy Loghmann, and sat down with his conscience weighing more than he and his armor combined. Then and only then, did he realize that he had forgotten to take a goblet or wait for the barkeep to present him one. He sighed, wondering if that was God working his will, Annar perhaps waiting outside again, or his own nerves and idiocy at the stressful moment of knowing he was doing something wrong, but continuing regardless. Tears filled his eyes, for what purpose he knew not. A gentle hand graced his armored shoulder and tabard, a woman’s hand. With a floating goblet trailing her, James looked upon the young girl whose eyes seemed to be moist as well.

  “A goblet, Sir knight…for your wine.” her voice was frail, meek, softspoken in the essence of a young girl and the body of a woman.

  He stared, first the goblet landing on the table with a flicker of her trembling fingers, then to her eyes and lips as the words echoed in his mind, and then back to the table. James had no words, did not know what to think nor say at this moment. Fear of her uncle and this strange dark tavern kept his tongue, as did his insecurity of conscience that she knew he should not be drinking and that perhaps God had told her about his vows as of late to remain abstinent from the wine. Insane, I am going mad, truly. He spoke to himself as she stared at him.

  “Simple trick really, I could teach you.” she gestured at the steel goblet once more, and it raised slowly once more, even though his eyes were completely fixed upon the intoxicating innocence behind her eyes.

  “What could you teach me girl, how to destroy myself? How to open the wine and let it consume me? Or how to spend fourteen more years drunk and romancing visions of my own blade through my chest on the field of battle?” James was angry, the innocence he had stared at was betrayed by his mind as it turned his deviated attentions from the bottle into an enemy from hell. It seemed that the bottle and this girl were signs from both heaven and purgatory waging war for his soul inside the Foating Goblet. He felt the tremors of a hangover, though he had not even opened the wine.

  “I was speaking of how to make the goblet float. Are you---“

  “That’s enough Taira, leave the man be with his wine for a spell, eh’? I could use ye in the kitchen now lass.” Darcy interrupted whatever conversing was taking place, his concern was for the oddity of this foreigner and the needed virginity of his neice for tomorrow morning. He waited, smiling falsely as he cleaned the bar, and stared until she did as her uncle politely ordered.

  James looked to the girl, the young and understanding beauty, yet her eye contact was broken by her uncle’s demands from across the dingy room. He had thought to apologize for the venom that laced his words in response to her simple and pure gesture of politeness. He knew that she sensed something, as did he, yet his insecure revolt against any nicety at this struggling moment was impossible to contain within. James Andellis, knight of the realm of Chazzrynn, far from home and honor, reached for the bottle yet unopened before him. A gloved hand with a strong heavy grip pressed on his shoulder, and the other hand with short stubby fingers grabbed the goblet that hovered inches above the table.

  “I s’pose ye think this is allright to be doing here and now with all that weight on your pride and heart. I know what it is to be far from anything resembling home, and to wake up every day without a single soul in your family. I too wish to have fought alongside the king of Chazzrynn or the Lord of Saint Erinsburg in a great battle of righteous endeavor and justice to the wicked.” Azenairk squeezed the shoulder of his friend a little harder, set down the goblet of steel and lifted the bottle up in his hand assuming possession of the nemesis of James.

  “That be a paying customer, mountain man. I’d prefer if a man were able to drink his fill without a dwarf sneaking—“

  “I am his companion and friend, barkeep. And if I take his wine, it is my business! You have yer coins I am presuming, so stay behind that mahogany there or you’ll be lucky if tis’ just my fist that meets yer teeth!” Zen looked to Darcy and the patrons, then to his warhammer, then back to James. “Sir James, it is time to go son.”

  “Go where, Zen?” James stood up slowly, looked to the girl who was now peeking from the kitchen, dishes in hand. “To the lost mines, the mythical city to the far west, on a ridiculous hunt to nowhere and nothing? To leave our homes, to abandon great leaders and causes, for what?! For a rumor, a fairy tale, or for the possibility that we survive any of it and have something of any value in the end? And for whom, Alden, the woman in my head, who?!”

  “By Vundren yes, everything you just said and more my friend, yes.” Azenairk Thalanaxe smiled from under his bald head and trimmed black beard, eyes beaming as he stared up to his taller human companion. “Tis’ surely better than revisiting this bottle here and all the pain that it promises ye’. You vowed to help me, and as your God and mine as witnesses, I hold ye to it here and now.”

  “Why? What use am I to some far off quest? I don’t even know who to pray to anymore, who I serve, or what I stand for.” James looked around at the interested patrons and workers all waiting for a fight between he and the dwarven priest that stood toe to toe with him.

  “I have plenty of coin, so does the elf, and if ye wish we can buy ye enough wine to carry ye through to the end of it. I need ye, so does she, we can’t make it there without ye James. If ye stand for anything, stand with me so I don’t be getting killed in the Misathi Mountains without yer blade by my side.” Zen handed the bottle to James, feeling, silently praying, and hoping that the knight would do the right thing and give it back to the barkeep.

  Smashhh!!! James threw the bottle to the floor, his eyes tearing up to match Zen’s, the two of them looking at one another with understanding smiles.

  “That be enough then fellows! Back against the wall there and keep quiet! I won’t be letting you boys be wreaking my nice establishment, not without all your valuables first anyway.” Darcy aimed his crossbow dead straight
at the chest of James, the center of the feathered cross like a bullseye for his target. Two husky Agarian men rose from their seats as the doors shut by yet two more. Sneers and hollow smiles stretched from the five men now surrounding Zen and James, led by Darcy Loghmann. “Now, before you mess up anything else here, kindly empty your purses and pouches onto the table there.”

  James Andellis looked to his few treasures on his person, not willing to give any of them up. Zen felt the box with the key, the dust, and the deed to Kakisteele, and knew he would not give it while he still breathed, even if it was just an old tale of folly. Again, the human knight from Chazzrynn looked to his stockier and more pious mountain friend, and the look was met with the same understanding. The men thought of how much battle the Floating Goblet had probably seen in the last few decades, and resigned to give the operations here a small refresher in southern hospitality. James drew his griffon hilted broadsword at the same moment Zen pulled his warhammer free of the straps that held it.

  The crossbow bolt released with a sharp crack, then cracked again as it deflected off of the shield of Azenairk Thalanaxe who put it in front of his friend who had been the target. “By Vundren, I think they want a bit of trouble here James!”

  “Let us not disappoint them then my bearded friend!” James smiled next to Zen as the two stepped forward to resolve the issues of the dark and less than friendly tavern in Bailey.

  Shinayne II:IV

  Keervinn Keep, Bailey, Willborne

  Shinayne felt something in the air, an emotion or secret sensation in the humid keep of Marcel Keervinn. Lord of a rural and run down community for certain, yet his name was foul in her heart and on her open mind. She blocked out the voices of Capitan Norrice and his men conversing with Saberrak and Gwenneth. She ignored the fresh roasted chicken and potatoes brought in with homemade wine. The only constants on her thoughts were that one, James was in spiritual turmoil. Azenairk had sensed it as readily as she and he had gone to help wherever the knight had wandered. And two, that something foul stirred in the great hall of Keervinn Keep, at this moment, and her name had been mentioned by whomever it was that gathered there. A cold chill ran up her spine, one that she could not ignore without further investigation. Shinayne T’Sarrin opened her eyes and walked toward Gwenneth and Saberrak amidst the feasting and discussion that she had chosen to remain apart from.

  “I must attend to something, stay ready.” she whispered softly enough to avoid any eavesdropping but loud enough that the minotaur and the wizard heard their friend clearly as she passed out the door of the guest room and down the hall.

  “Where is she going now? We are tired, wet, hungry, and the minute we get settled, everyone leaves? Am I missing something here, wizard?” Saberrak huffed as he ate the leg of chicken from the second plate of food he waged war upon. He looked to his axe, sharpened and ready, then to Gwenne who was now comfortably reading the tome that Ansharr had given her by the green light of the staff propped against her bed. “Be ready? When am I not ready? Hrmphh!”

  “I am sure Shinayne has secure reasoning to do what she is doing, her senses are far beyond your understanding horned one, she is a highborne elf…and a woman. James and Zen need God time, surely, and you need to chew softer so that I may further understand the infrastructures of the old Landruthem Dracothelian in peace.” young Lazlette did not look up from her tome, the language of old draconic tongue and verse was far too interesting.

  “The old what?”

  “The language and dialects of the northern and western dragons, Saberrak. It is quite difficult, so please keep your heavy eating and grumbling conversations outside the door if you would. Thank you.” Gwenne went back to the book after casting a disapproving glance at the minotaur’s line of questions.

  Saberrak huffed again, chewed louder and left his mouth open on purpose as he went. He took a taste of the wine, gargled it for several moments until he was sure Gwenne was leaving for the other room. As she walked out, slamming the door behind her, Saberrak smiled and returned to his meal. “Stay ready, she says. I am always ready, best they know that by now.”

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  The elven noble crept through shadow and alleyways, under the fogs, and moved with the dark gray of heavy night in Bailey. Not a soul, no movement from behind her or to any peripheral, the streets of this little town were dead with activity. Shinayne arrived behind the keep that stretched out like a snake, misshapen, reconstructed, with additions that allowed stone of different sizes and color. The miniature pines and oppressing banyan trees gave her ease of cover to the newer rear of Keervinn Keep, and there she saw the faint tease of torchlight from the third floor high. Two guards also, human, moving like slow bumbling statues that did not belong in the night. The noble swordswoman crept up the sidestairs, hopped the old rusted garden gate, swiftly clung to the shadows through the second floor balcony that was covered in hanging moss, and walked right behind the two men in heavy armor.

  She had no idea of the layout or design of this old crumbling stone keep, nor had she the intention of discovering it. Shinayne merely followed her intuitions, her hearing, her elven eyesight, and that sense inside that told her there were things allying against her this night up above. Curiosity with a strong defensive anger toward deception riddled her veins and drove her forward alone in the dark of the molding moss covered castle. Finding the spiraling stairs from the second to the third floor at the end of the blackened hall, the elven woman cautiously stepped as a cat on the prowl upwards, avoiding every loose rock. Her aqua eyes spotted a wire across from a chandelier through the guardrail and across the top step of the stairs, it was shining with cleanliness. Obviously that is rather new or checked often, guess they do not care for visitors or spies here, Shinayne thought to herself.

  The highborne elf stretched her leg high over the wire, hands now on the hilts of her enchanted blades, Carice and Elicras. Back against the stone wall and golden hair under the torchlight, keeping form to the shadows it produced, Shinayne was now a few feet from the cracked door that held the men her senses had warned her about. She looked back down the stairs, past the tripwire, gauging how many of her steps it would take to escape should anyone appear from the hallway entrances before her. Eight steps down, easy enough, she surmised in silence. Or, a quick roll to the linen closet across the hall. Shinayne took three light, small steps forward, quietly turning the old iron round knob on the door that concealed the smell of linen, wool, and a slight must. Reaffirming her sense of delicate and faint smells, the door opened just wide enough before the ominous creak that was sure to sound, and revealed a linen closet large enough for her to stand inside. Just in case, she whispered to herself.

  Back against the wall next to the meeting room once more, Lady T’Sarrin quieted and slowed her breathing to an almost lifeless trance, opening her senses of hearing and focus on what transpired in verse beyond the door. Simple mumblings at first, then askewed voices, and shortly the whispered tones became words and phrases in the Agarian tongue that she could understand from afar as her elven senses tuned in closer.

  “Listen Veuric, it is not like the other times, I assure you. These are not good people we are talking about here, they are spies from Harlaheim and other realms. Your father would have done this easily, and had the preparations all set by now. If your father were here---“

  Shinayne listened to the voice she knew as Lord Marcell, sensing his tone of manipulative words and guilting statements to be pressuring someone obviously younger.

  “I know what my father would have done for ye’, Marcell, anything you asked! He lived in fear of that mountain that shadows our southern border, more of what would happen if he did not keep with your old customs! He had nightmares of the poor innocents taken to that cave and—“

  The elf listened to an angry youthful human man, pressured and confused, yet defending his deceased father she guessed, more than whatever it was they were corrupting him toward actually doing now. She heard footstep
s pacing, yet not close to the door yet. Shinayne tightened her grip on her blades and watched the hall and stairs as she continued to listen in the dark.

  “Your father, rest his soul, had nightmares because he did not believe! His faith turned to that Alden and the merciful poor man’s cross of weakness! He lost faith that in that mountain, in God, nameless, all knowing, secretely speaking to us here in Willborne, and God decides the weather, the storms, when the sun shines, and everything that transpires here! For a good season in the fields, guidance in our kingdom, healthy children their must be—“

  “A sacrifice, I know damn you! I know.”

  “Every winter, a virgin. Every trespasser that would harm the struggling kingdom of Willborne, last country of the true Agarians, must pay with blood. God was here before the men from the north came, when we lived simply, thousands of years ago. But we cannot just kill or capture and throw people to the mountain, you know this.”

  “Of course I know, I am the last priest in the kingdom that knows the old passages that can never be written. Only in Bailey can the priesthood live, next to the mountain. It takes hours to speak the passages in that divine dialect, I practice them weekly Marcell. I can only pass them to my firstborn son, or to a man of God’s choosing when or if he speaks to me on the mountain. I know the traditions, far better than you I think. I am not fighting you on the girl that was chosen for this year’s sacrifice. Just the last few years, all the others that---“

  The elven noble perked her ears, hearing conversation from the two guards a floor below on the lightless balcony. Something about flatulence and having to relieve themselves she understood from afar, and understood it was not important to her. Perhaps these men find it amusing and needing of the descriptions of words to explain bodily functions, she thought in mild disgust. She focused her pointed ears once again, closing her eyes, and stretched her senses back into Lord Marcell’s chambers from her position outside the closed oak door.