“Saberrak, where are you going? Oh, my head and arm! By Alden we are alive, I think my leg is stuck but thank God we---“
“SSshhhh! I will be right back, there are men looking for us to the north. They head this way, many. I am going to give them a scare and a chase. You wait here until I get back, try to heal yourself and stay hidden. Wait for the others.” The gray gladiator crept out of the river’s edge and climbed over their dead trophy dragon. Then he heard them speaking in Agarian, and he knew they were searching for the dragon they had seen fall out of the clouds. Saberrak ran, full speed with horns lowered, right toward whoever it was, however many. All he wanted to accomplish was to keep them from James until he was healed and they could find their friends and get out of Willborne.
James looked around at the dragon he was pinned under and covered by, dead and lifeless and covering the whole river from head to tail. He held his hand up to the teeth of the beast, pulling the lip up by some red scale to reveal them. His eyes grew big as his hand was half the length of the black and yellow fang, one of hundreds for sure. He had no idea, in the heat of the ambush and battle, that the creature was as big as it was. It had happened so fast that the knight of Chazzrynn now felt fear at what sort of insane danger he had been in. A smile creased his face, knowing he had saved a girl from being this thing’s meal and stopped a false and evil practice from continuing upon poor people. His hand glowed blue, blue like the eyes of Annar, the eyes of Saberrak and the scroll, and he held it over his dirty white tabard with the cross of Alden upon it. He thought of the others, hoping they would find him and the minotaur soon. Slowly, through light concentration, James Andellis prayed to whoever would listen and began healing his injuries so that he had the ability to move out from under this beast.
His legs pumped harder, ignoring the pain more and more with every heavy step. He felt he was healing, though how he had now idea. He heard the chase begin and tried to make as much noise as he could with crashing through branches and growling as much in pain as in hopes to strike fear into whoever was over the next hill hunting for them. The forest was thick, too thick. Saberrak the gray saw flashes of men on horseback in armor, one with a large net held by another, then two more with longspears, and then he saw cages atop wagons over the hill. He kept running, further from the river, drawing as much attention as possible as he tore through forest and hills dodging trees to keep the steeds slowed in their pursuit. Yelling, men giving orders across several wooded hills, and the corralling began to get closer. Suddenly a net was thrown over him and he tumbled to the ground tangling himself further. He cut out in rage with the axe, yanked it free from his horns and stood up still half caught in the thick ropes as horses passed him by. Glaring at now at least thirty men around him, Saberrak stepped toward the closest man on horse, then felt it puncture him in the neck above his scale mail armor. He pulled the longdart out of his bovine muscle and black mane of hair, feeling drowsy as he did. Axe in hand, the gray horned warrior raised his weapon to cleave the armored man down when another dart hit his thigh. He looked down slowly, his reflexes dulling and eyelids drooping to close against his will. A third dart hit home in his other leg, and before the minotaur could reach it, he fell forward. A fourth dart saw him unconscious with eyes closed. He lay there unknowing and asleep as the schackles were put on his wrists and ankles, then six men carried his massive body to the cages.
“Four darts? Never seen that before, even an ogre takes at most two!” the men laughed as they closed the cage on their latest catch and waited for orders from the others as to their next move.
James heard them coming, heard the water splashing from horsehooves, and heard the oohs and ahhs of men who had just found what they were looking for up the river. He struggled against the wing and pulled his leg free from under the carcass of the dragon. Face down in the river, the knight crawled the riverbed to a stretch of cattails and crept inside for cover. His body soaked yet healed for the better of most his injuries, he held the grip of his blade and kept his shield underwater as the men surrounded the great red and black wyrm.
“Take the hide, the fangs, the eyes, claws, and the heart. Leave the rest for the wolves.” a fat bloated man with thin red hair and a curly beard sat armored atop a tan stallion pointing with his spear at the beast that lay in the river. His men, over a dozen, dismounted and drew knives and daggers from their belts, produced bags and sacks for the parts as ordered.
James watched as the dragon was ransacked for its supposed valuables. Despite its ferocity, wickedness, and destructive cruelty, James felt sorrow and pity for such a great animal being cut apart after death for profit by scavengers. With so many here, and the yells and rattle of wagon wheels approaching from the north, he dared not move, not until help arrived.
“Master, we have the minotaur! Gray one, full of battle scars but healthy, took four darts! Likely he killed that dragon there, probably worth a lot in the arena.” the younger slave trader spoke to his uncle who had taught him much of the world and the price of life.
“How much do you think?”
“At least five or six thousand gold coin. Add the soldiers from Harlaheim we captured, three farm children, and the dwarf, and the dragon parts we sell to the wizards of Devonmir and we’re close to twelve I think.”
“Very good, let’s aim for fifteen and see how far we can stretch it. You have one hour to clean out that dragon, see if there is anything of value in the gut as well. Then we head to Devonmir to sell in the markets, then a weeks rest. Nice work men, well done!” the fat man steadied his spear and looked south toward the mountain. “Any sightings of Katrina’s army yet?”
“No master, none. But for sure we know she arrived this morning early in Bailey. Best be off quick, or she will take half or more and that’s if she’s being pleasant.” the boy was learning more and more, thinking ahead and knowing the price of being caught, and the consequences. His father had taught him well. Would have taught more if his uncle hadn’t killed him a few years back in the tavern.
“No truer words you’ll be hearing men, let’s move out. No politics today, to Devonmir!” the horses and wagons rolled north behind the slavetrader and his caravan of men and goods.
James sat unblinking, motionless, holding his breath as the dragon head without horns or teeth or eyes lopped to the side slowly with a splash into the river. “Saberrak.” was all he whispered to himself as he prayed silently for the others to arrive as quick as possible.
Cristoff II:III
Road to Wynnegarde, Harlaheim
“One never knows who will be thine enemy tonight, nor whose ally again in the morning. All that is for certain is that alliances change like the seasons, rise like the moons, and seem to vanish often without notice.” ---excerpt from “Conquests of Teth”, written after the unification of the Altestan Empires, Holy City of Khi’Va, by Emperors Jahut, Sankillia, and Tormetirum, 2520 B.C.
The Bradswellen family had ruled Saint Erinsburg for generations upon generations, fought wars for Harlaheim without fail, and been faithful to Alden for as far back as history had been kept safe. The third Cristoff to rule looked to Queen Rosana, to Father Garrett D’Ourmas, to his capitans and soldiers all lined behind him, and to the thousands of citizens who believed in him more than their own country. He stared at the city, the knights of the Order, the cathedrals, his family castle, and the rolling rural hills and forests that led to the marshlands to the north. The smell of moist lilac and spring grasses blew on eastern winds as he waited for a sign, for a nudge from the divine to set his pace in leading his people to something better than the corruption that his country had dissolved into. The far off trumpet blare of notes from the south to signal the army of Harlaheim was enough.
“Bishop Garrett, why do you ride with me into exile? Are you sure God did not send you to stop me or strengthen my will to stand against an enemy one more time in my city? When I forbid you to ride out to the army, I did not mean to weigh this upon you.”
“G
od sent me north to here, and now here is moving west. I have written many tomes of Aldane history, interpreting God’s will, and prayer translations. I do not question the words I hear, and neither should you. For some reason that surely I will know when I am meant to, I am in your company, Lord Cristoff.”
“And you Broushelle, could surely be pardoned and seen as honorable should you choose to stay. This is treason in the highest regard, once we leave.” Cristoff turned toward his eldest capitan.
“Seen as honorable by whom, my lord? With Savanno and Sulian dead, Leonard and Karai here, and the queen with us, only you remain as one from which I would seek honor from in this kingdom. It is the greatest risk one could make, riding with you on this quest. But I will not let you take it alone, my lord.” Broushelle stood stoic as ever in his resolve.
“Have we sent riders with word to Capitan Norrice as he returns from his escort?”
“We have my lord. They will be brought by quickest route to our pilgrimage, rest assured.”
“All of the food storage and treasures loaded so that we may indeed survive this long road ahead through Shanador?”
“Yes my lord, if we stay to the main trade roads north of the mountains we will have several cities in which to purchase what we need. As of now we have almost two weeks worth to feed the thousands here. Barring any entanglements with ogre from Bloodskull or food shortages in Shanador, we would be able to make the western coast with gold and food to spare.” Sir Karai, no stranger to war or siege, was confident in his counts.
“God be with us, and our friends who trek through the Misathi Mountains ahead. I fear for them more than for ourselves.” Cristoff kicked his steed forward, listening to the muffled conversations that echoed softly by the thousands behind him. He had not words to say, nothing bold or unknown to declare, his people knew the reasons why he was abandoning Saint Erinsburg and they trusted him more than any king or cardinal.
The white stallion stepped forward as the once queen reached out her hand to the once lord and grabbed onto it with a tight grip. She thought of the knights that had died, her husband Savanno, his nephew Sir Sulian, and all the treachery and injustice in the kingdom. Rosana looked behind her, to her kingdom one last time as her horse trotted to keep pace with Cristoff’s. There was nothing but sorrowful memories of this place for her, pain and suffering that had killed all of her love and spirit, and nearly her as well. She felt a small unborn kick in her belly, and looked to the regal man beside her who was abandoning all for his people, and no doubt for her to no small degree. He had undaunted bravery to face the unknown with such a heavy burden of responsibility and honor. To follow a dream, or even the dream of bold heroes from elsewhere, for his people, was something that few men would dare. Yet here he was, leaving a glorious battle behind, for once, for her and for the chance at something that may not exist.
His mind swam with contradiction and doubt. What am I doing, abandoning my city and the battle for a hope of strangers and valor? What would my father say, or Alden? Do they whisper me a coward behind my back? God, a helping hand if you would, for these decisions do not easily come today.
Rosana raised her hand with his in it, sensing Cristoff needed to feel he was doing right, and the cheers of thousands roared toward the skies and heavens over Harlaheim as they went into the western horizon. No one was in front of them to see the unrivaled tears of joy, fear, and unity that shone on their faces as Cristoff and Rosana led their people to freedom from certain death. No one felt as they did at that moment in hoping to believe in something that may not be waiting at journey’s end, yet daring to give up everything to have the chance that it may. And no one knew how inspiring it was to be cheered on by thousands for taking but a few strides toward a new beginning. If ever there were a time Cristoff felt pride as a leader or had faith in himself, it was now.
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“No nobility to greet or negotiate, your highness. That is unlike Lord Cristoff, unless he means to accept the siege and delve directly into battle.” Sir Phillip stared around the southern walls of Bradswellen Castle. He saw torchlight, closed and barred gates that likely held the citizens of Saint Erinsburg inside, yet it was all too still on the south side.
“Like a ghosttown my queen, I would venture a trap. Cristoff is far too experienced in war to ignore our arrival. We should make camp for the night, sound the trumpets again, and wait him out. We should discuss this in your tent my queen, I have a few proven strategies in mind for breaching his walls.” Sir Sebastian surveyed the east and west, even past the royal Harlaheim battalion behind him. Nothing, not a soldier or peasant to be seen.
“Well advised, good knights. Set up camp and work on your strategies and so forth. Prepare the siege and rams, ready the archers with flame, and leave me be until midnight. I will pray that Lord Cristoff makes the right decision for his people, and pray in blessed silence and seclusion. Send my scouts if you would, for I need their eyes and ears this night.” Florin felt to vomit as she spoke of prayer for anyone or anything, yet she had to play the part, for now anyway.
“Yes my queen, as you wish.” the knights of Harlaheim withdrew from the front lines to instruct the capitans and sergeants in their duties forthcoming.
An hour later Florin exited the rear of her tent dressed in black with her cloth mask pulled from neck to nose. Her rapier sharpened and dulled black over flame, her ten best remaining assassins of the White Spider at her side dressed the same, she rushed on foot to Bradswellen Castle in the dark of night. They had informed her of an entrance on the north wall that appeared to be unguarded. Through the green moonlight of Gimmor they ran, from banyan shadow to stable wall, all eleven in a line with one purpose. To assassinate Cristoff, his capitans, and any of the fugitives and friends of Kalzarius that may be with him. Having left without word to the king and queen, Father Garrett of Shalokahn was also suspect and to be eliminated if present. Florin knew that the true queen of Harlaheim would also be here if Kendari of Stillwood sought a reward, which was debatable at best. Either way, Florin would have all the enemies of the White Spider and her new kingdom silenced by night’s end.
The lock and handle dissolved with a sickening pop and sizzle from the acid. The door opened silently and Florin moved through the courtyard and toward the barracks through the darkest corners as fast as she could move her agile legs. No guards, no army, no people. She looked around trying to envision where Cristoff would have hiden everyone so well from view. She had expected to be murdering guards and her agents behind her to be shedding blood already. Not so it seemed, so the lady assassin and domenarch of Harlaheim moved her men into the royal keep.
Through doors with no resistance, hallways with no watchmen, and up stairs unchecked, Florin’s pace and that of her trained killers slowed to a cautious one. Blades drew in the candlelit silence of the castle interior, none certain what in Alden’s name could be transpiring. What trick or deception, what illusion or trap waited for them once they found the lord and his people? They could only assume and continue the hunt. The double doors of heavy oak and regal Harlian design pushed open with ease revealing a soirre’ of candles and torches flooding out the darkness that now hid only in corners. The banners still hung with crown and rose, yet nothing appearing to be Cristoff sat at the end of the great hall. Female she seemed, long black hair over white flesh, dressed nearly not, and sitting most unlike a lady with curved green metal serrated edges in hand, staring with unnatural red eyes from her black winged pose on the throne.
The men went five to a side, made it halfway to the throne and stopped as the flames from every source turned red and flared and the doors slammed shut on their own accord. Florin stepped slowly, wondering what sort of demonic trick this could be, who was this deceiver, and where the hell her targets were hiding. She turned behind her to see the pale face of an elven man, pointed ears, all in black with swirls of a curse marking him as the infamous Kendari of Stillwood.
“Where is Cristoff, what g
oes on here!? Where are the fugitives of Chazzrynn with the scroll?! Where is…why are you…” Florin felt fear, from just two beings against her and ten, yet a stifling fear that ripped her dominion, position, and confidence from her very soul.
“What do we do my queen?” One of the masked assassins spoke up in whispered worry.
“Oh, my apologies.” Kendari bowed as Nareene laughed. “I almost forgot, here be the queen of Harlaheim before me. Looking for someone, Florin? Florin, domenarch of the White Spider whose men have tried to kill me twice in your hole you call a country?” he paced closer as she backed up toward her men and the intimidating sight upon the throne.
“I am here for Cristoff, but if you insist, you and your little demonic whore can add yourselves to the list.” Florin stopped, her men crouching low with blades en guard.
“I believe, I am already on the list, courtesy of one Johnas Valhera. I am here to send him a little, red, message. Care to indulge me?” Kendari winked to the Harlian woman, knowing full well that Nareene, high priestess for the demon Cancuru and temptress of hell, would try and out-murder him quickly. He hoped the wink would give him the advantage and convince her as he drew Shiver with his right and the holy longsword of Cristoff reverse with his left.
Curved blades reaking with sulphuric flame and fangs dripping with blood tore into the masked killers on the right of the hall. Nareene had not pleasured herself with mortal murder in many years and the urge was overwhelming with all the fear and sweat on the air. Rapiers and shortblades broke, some cutting her immortal flesh, yet three men screamed out in horror as their crimson life was splattered across the tapestries.
The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns Page 49