The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  As he walked through town the mob dwindled into smaller groups of ten or so people, hundreds now talking and watching, waiting for the crazed youth to do or say something. James looked up; The Silver Chalice Inn and Tavern was before him. He was full of too many emotions to stand much more. He gripped his blade and entered the establishment, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Get inside, peace and quiet, no eyes upon me. I need a table to plan, a corner, time alone.

  The rooms were dark, dingy and smelled of pipes, ale, and wine. All stared, this motley crew of whores, drunkards, criminals, gamblers, and transient vagabond merchants. He was the youngest person inside by a decade or two. Of course, men like James Andellis did not frequent places like this in town, not a knight of Southwind Keep, mentioned to the royal knights of the Black Falcon.

  It does not matter anymore. All that matters is the ogre and king---James felt his chest, his heart tightened, his fingers twitched. As he thought of it, of returning, the visions and fears came with those thoughts. His breath would not come, eyes would not blink, and he stood still as a statue.

  “Can I elp’ ye’ son, what be yer’ pleasure then?”

  James only heard the voice, knew it came from a few steps ahead, in the shadows of this tavern with no windows.

  “Your finest bottle of wine, barkeep, and four glasses. First bottle is on me.” Determined to get rid of all this pain one way or another, James pulled some silver coins from his pocket and slammed them on the table. How the wine arrived, how it was opened, and how James got to the table were all a blur.

  “Who ye’ talkin’ to then?” The barkeep looked behind James to see who the other glasses were supposed to be for. All he saw was this knight, tears streaming down his face, standing alone and trembling.

  “One glass then. Black on blue.” James stuttered and took the bottle as everyone stared at him.

  The wine, a dergolian and jantheer grape blend from Caberra, tasted rich like dried fruit and the sweet berries of the earth. It warmed young James Andellis, and promised with the tingle and ease of its consumption that all this would pass much easier with more. And so it did.

  of spiders and falcons

  Knights I:II

  Hurne, Chazzrynn

  344 AD

  …thirteen years later

  “Every man is plagued with demons; the only ones that slow him down are the ones he chooses to dance with.”-an old elven proverb from the philosophies of Emonaia Chaldre of Gualidura Circa 243 BC

  War in Harlaheim was over, a truce struck years ago when King Richmond the First fell ill and passed. His heir, Richmond the Second, pleaded with King Mikhail for a cessation. Mikhail, having lost two sons in the sporadic wars of the last two decades, finally felt obliged to end it. Now Chazzrynn was growing with trade and traffic. Most of this went through Valhirst and the lordship of Prince Johnas Valhera, nephew by marriage to King Mikhail Salganat. The port city on the Carisian Sea held the largest populace in the kingdom, and many whispered that the Prince of Valhirst aided Chazzrynn more than both the king and his remaining heir.

  For ten years and three, northern war or not, James Andellis wandered below the Bori Mountains in his homeland. His days became an unrelenting hunt for ogre. His nights a drunken haze of taverns. Each season grew more dim, his years adding faster than should be, yet his sword still thirsted for ogre blood. Many men that met him would rather forget it, as James surely would when he awoke the next morning. Yet for all his years of hate and hunting, never did he seek out the king in Loucas, and never had he returned to Arouland or Southwind Keep. Hurne had been his home, on and off, for the last half decade, and likely to soon be his end. A finality not by an ogre warrior, nor an offended knight in passing duel, it was the wine that had become his true enemy.

  The lights of the lanterns shone barely enough to view across the room this time of night, and the barkeep strained his eyes to see if the man was still awake at the table as his hands polished mugs and chalices. Old Timber, that’s what they called him, as big and strong as a tree. He had to be, to run a tavern in Hurne. The trade city could be rough, with dwarf mountain traders from Boraduum, savage fur merchants from the Deep South, vagabonds from every city in Chazzrynn, and the occasional ogre raid in the coldest desperate parts of bad winters. Timber finished cleaning his steel mugs, wiped the bar, and came closer to the, yes, drunken mercenary snoring in his chair. Same chair, same table. Timber shook his head. This fellow, James, had been his most regular customer for over five seasons now. Only time he wasn't here was when he went on the hunt for a rogue ogre band for land owners somewhere else in Chazzrynn.

  The bartender picked up his cheap wine bottle and glass, tucked it under the bar on a shelf designated just for James at the Trade River Tavern. Timber thought about what the people said about this one; nothing good, mostly. They told stories, rumors for sure, that he was a knight of Southwind once. A deadly blade they said, and that he lost his family to the ogre war, and also that he’d been run out almost every city in Chazzrynn this side of the Garalan River. Vallakazz, Elcram, Silverbridge, Thurick, and a host of smaller towns as well had said good riddance to this drunken one. That’s what the regulars and a few traders said anyway.

  Timber smiled, knowing from all his years owning this place, at least twenty now, that half of what people said had been spun a dozen times and dipped in ale before it hit the floor of this little tavern. If the old pine walls could tell tales, the barkeep thought and smiled again, hells, I’d be rich if I had a silver coin for half of them. As for James Andellis, Timber would take him for a knight, or at least a former one.

  Timber ran his fingers through what little black and gray hair he had left on his head, scratched his rough beard, and knelt down next to James. He looked him over quick, yes, the sword was there, shield along the back wall. He lifted the drunken knight over his shoulder, holding his breath in for energy. He grabbed the shield with his left hand, and turned toward the stairs, breathing out finally when he had gotten himself and his load up again. Up the stairs, to the extra room across from his own, where he flopped the man onto the soft bed.

  Winded, red faced from exertion, Timber looked about the room. It was the room that his brother had stayed in when he had first bought the place from an old dwarf that was bent on retiring and heading north to warmer climes. Timber's brother had died in a battle while serving in the regular army of Chazzrynn. Timber often wondered if this one was in that ogre war twelve or thirteen years ago to the south and west of here. Either way, the old barkeep thought, he did not really need to know, and James did not talk of his past. He guessed things were as they were supposed to be.

  The barkeep walked back down the creaking and slim wooden stairs, then he stopped. Muffled moans, tossing and turning in the bed again, his ears knew the sound well.

  “Time to fetch the bucket, eh James? Aye then, t'will be one of those nights again.”

  Timber leaned too heavily on his left leg, the right always giving him pain up through his back. His belly barely fit behind the bar should he not think to inhale hard first. Step by step, he gathered some rags and the horse pail he kept for James, right next to the wine he had not finished. In the morning he would want the wine again, but at night his mistress was the sickness of a day's drinking.

  “Maybe a shave, a good woman, and a bit more bathing would get you to forget about the wine, my friend.” Timber placed the pail down on the floor, next to the bed. There would rarely be a response, a look once in a while, but never much in the way of words.

  “Good night Sir James,” said the man, and he went to his room, closing the door on yet another evening with this one as his last customer and the only person left to talk to. He smiled as he lay in bed, thinking that the one person he had spent more time with in the last decade could barely remember any of it.

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  The heads were being torn and thrown at him, the ogre yelled, and the pounding of steel on
stone echoed over and over. Held by ogre on every limb, James tried to stop it, but he could do nothing. The pounding was closer now, drums, wooden echoes as the ogre laughed in his face.

  James rolled in the bed, sweating, shaking, desperately craving water, and the banging on the door would not cease. He opened one eye, wary of a possible mess on the floor. The pail was empty. More pounding on his door, a furious knocking.

  Did they not know how early it was, or that he hadn’t eaten?

  “Whoever it is had better have a good reason! Enter!”

  The door opened. Still reeking of wine, James looked with one eye as he stumbled to a stand, hand on his broadsword under the sheets. Farmer Reese Longhale. Hopefully this has to do with ogre business and not anything with his daughter, he thought. The other eye tried to open as James relaxed his stance and looked for his shield. His body ached from wearing his chain armor all day and night, his stomach hurt from no food, and his head was pounding as the blood seemed to claw its way painfully to the top and remind him that he had not had a drink yet this morning.

  “Andellis, I paid you well in advance, fifty royal falcons fer ogre heads, and let ye stay at my home for a week there. Ye be hard to find. Last night one farmhand, a sheep, and three cattle went missing. Mind to take care of it, or should we get the Seneschal of Hurne involved here?” Reese spoke calmly, but the ultimatum was irrefutable.

  James thought a moment, looking at the old but strong man. There might have been two ogre out south near that hill. It was fuzzy in his head. Hard to remember much past an hour or so without a bit of wine.

  “On my way now, Reese, and a thousand apologies in advance. I had hoped killing the one would put the fear of God into the other, usually does.” He spoke with haggard truth and resolution in his weary voice.

  “Would do it myself, were I younger, as second chances are never much deserved. I went to the scouts, but they said they seen nothin’. I trust my ears, and they hear you are the best with ogre trouble.”

  “And who tells you that, then?”

  “Other farmers, folk here and there.”

  “You would get a more accurate tale from the ogre.”

  “Heads on poles can’t say much.” Reese chuckled.

  “Exactly.” James smiled despite the feeling of sickness in his stomach. “Time to put a few more up, I would venture.”

  James had seen a second ogre that week, and had previously had great luck in making his point by killing one and scaring off any others by placing the head on a spear as a warning. The ogre were less brave these last few years since losing their stronghold to plague in the western waste. James had heard that it struck quick, and saw firsthand the influx of small bands and desperate acts of survival from the foul beasts. From once striking fear into a nation, the last few years he had seen a northern migration and decline of a bestial race that he had hunted for too long. He snapped back to the room; Reese was still standing at the door.

  “One hour, Reese.” James said with a nod.

  The old farmer nodded back, turned, and shook his head at Timber who had been waiting on the steps for any signs of trouble between the two. Reese proceeded out of the Trade River Tavern, muttering the whole way. James nodded at Timber, who also walked back down the steps, most likely James assumed to fetch his leftover bottle like normal for the start of the day. So few enemies left, so little work remaining. Yet, James carried so much revenge still fresh inside of him. The wretched mercenary straightened his tabard and staggered down the stairs.

  Halfway down he stopped. “There you are. I knew you would come.” James groaned and ran back to his room. The heaves forced out were mostly dry, yet a bit of blood and bile hit the horsepail, mixed with sweat and tears from exertion. Strings of saliva strung through his beard to the pail, his face went from flush to cold, and then it was over.

  “Much better.” James wiped his face and took a breath, eyes on the stairs once more.

  The bottle was half full, set on the edge of the pine bartop close to the door of Trade River Tavern. The cork was shoved back down halfway.

  “Affairs in order, Timber?” James eyed the empty room, making sure Reese Longhale and any family were already gone.

  “No, not quite.” Timber smiled and lifted an old leather sack on top of the pine. James looked inside. Four fat Caberran reds packed with stained cotton between the bottles.

  “How much do I owe you?” With a pull of teeth on the cork, James opened and downed half the leftover wine.

  “Room, say the last week, wine, and food, let’s draw it to twenty silver falcons.”

  “I have fifteen. Likely the rest after I hustle back to Lord Berkin’s lands and collect. He was out east when I finished his ogre problem, owes me fifty. I hear he’s returned. Settle then?” James put his fifteen silvers on the bar and nodded. He hated the feeling of being short on coin, hated meeting the eyes of a good man when he was. The haggard knight knew it was a third of what he should have been charged.

  “See you this evening then. Careful out there.” Timber took the coins and handed the wine over. Then he slid two silvers back across the bartop. “You’ll need food then, Sir James. Bring me seven and a tale about a dead ogre, when ye’ return.”

  “Just James. You’re a good man Timber, let no man tell you otherwise.” James took the two falcons, made for the door, shield over one shoulder and wine over the other.

  “Don’t I know it.” Timber grinned and watched the door open and shut. The cold air rushed in with the light. Then, it was dark and empty once more, just as quickly.

  Bottle in hand, the remains of last night, the former knight of Southwind walked out into the cold from his only home. It was not a real home, but the closest thing he had to it anymore. The sky was gray, soon to snow by the looks of it, and James had it hard enough with what was already on the ground. Crunching in the early morning, his boots followed the main road out of Hurne, trade wagons uncovering as he went. Dwarven smiths and sheep traders from the Bori Mountains in the near north were up earlier than the rest, never making time for small talk or delay. James turned and looked north as he walked the opposite way, admiring the gray and brown peaks that those stock and strong dwarven men traversed up and down every month. He passed tanners and pelt merchants from south of Elcram, and Deep South savage tribesman selling blades. Their faces decorated with paints, pale thin hair and beards in braids, these men had been known to kill if stolen from or given a bad trade. They only came in the winter months which lasted about seven out of the thirteen in Chazzrynn.

  The Hurne city guard gave the ogre killer their usual stares of disrespect and spit as he passed south. They were armed heavily in the cold months, which were often desperate times, with double cloaks, plate armor, body shields, broadswords and spears. James smiled at them and mocked a salute with his right arm over his chest. The best of terms were long gone with the lord and his men here since James had bested Seneschal Crail of Hurne in a duel some years ago. The bitterness came from the fact that James could barely stand up that night, and was rumored to have been laughing the whole time. That’s what they told him, and James started to chuckle to himself despite the stares of the guard. He wished he could remember these things, but no memories ever surfaced , the blackouts ensured as much.

  Hours later, he reached his pole, the rotted ogre head still fixed upon it, and the city of Hurne far behind to the north. Not much was left after the crows and mice had their fill. James Andellis surveyed the lands of farmer Reese cautiously as he knelt close to the ground. Fence line broken to the west he noticed, blood spots and tracks, two sets. One was definitely an ogre dragging something, and one smaller, like a large man, he surmised. James set down the sack of wine bottles, giving a wink as he stepped ahead and sat next to them.

  A bottle later, with a bit of dried meats he had left in a wrapping of stale bread, he was ready. The knight pulled his shield from his back, readying it on his left arm, and drew the polished, gold hilted broadsword from its sh
eath, Arlinne’s sword. He stepped over the broken wood fence and followed the tracks.

  Easy enough for a blind man.

  Carefully trudging through the snow covered pasture into a small thicket that fingered into heavier forest, with oaks and river willow trees, James followed the tracks. The trees were aged and stretched into the clouds. He heard the faint bellow of sheep from ahead, then they silenced, yet he kept his steady but cautious approach. Two more hills, another valley, and he stepped over the frozen stream bed. He looked in circles around himself, besides leafless and iced trees. There was no cover to be found. His ears caught muffled voices, deep chords, and the shuffling of feet in the snow. Moving quickly now, James saw more red frozen spots in the snow to chase.

  Whoosh, and a crash of wood and ice. James ducked down as another branch hurled with incredible strength and horrible accuracy went past him by at least ten feet. Two branches, frozen solid, splintered hard against trees to his rear.

  “You are no warrior of note among your kind!” He taunted, shouting left yet moving right.

  James moved faster now, knowing the direction of his enemy, in and out of trees, and over massive frozen roots. Suddenly in the silence, there it was, she was, and an ogre child with her.

  “Hoda ethtu kur,” James told her, Your death is upon you in the ogre tongue; his taunts and intimidation were well rehearsed. A fast salute of steel and an angry visage he gave. James could see more blood behind her, more than the drops in the tracks.

  James stopped, ducking yet a third hurled limb ripped from an oak well above his reach, but not the reach of this beast. One sheep ran as the ogre child stood up from holding its mouth and neck. The other livestock lay half eaten, and the farmhand looked long dead and twisted into a merciless position impossible to survive. For a moment, or perhaps two, James paused, seeing mother and child together. Despite their hideousness, they were out in the terrible cold, surviving on what they could. He felt a spark of pity in his chest. It was short lived.