The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  “Yesss my lord SSalaah.” The trembling troll rushed down to get the others. Screeching and hissing, the army of nine foot monstrosities gathered round each other, waiting for bats and wolves to lead them to another hunt for Salah-cam, another reward, and vengeance for years of an elf sticking his hot blade into them when he was angry. Revenge, slaughter, the hunt, killing, swarming, the trolls screeched in the night together, talking over the things they planned to do to Kendari, things they lived for.

  Heirs I:II

  Bori Mountain Foothills

  Garalan River Trail

  Chazzrynn

  Evril Alvander stretched from a hard four day's ride and warmed his body by the fire. They had crossed the Garalan River, south of Silverbridge, and the terrain became more difficult as they headed due north. The sky was dark, few stars shone through lingering winter clouds of gray, and the winds were inconsistent through the fingers of the ravine.

  “Middle of nowhere in North Chazzrynn, eh, priest?”

  “Yes, yes. I have never been this far outside civilization, not to mention we are heading through two other countries in our journey to the mission in Shalokahn.” The priest's obvious excitement brewing, he was nervous and in awe of the approaching Bori Mountains at night, moons rising from the west over them as they spoke. The young man, barely out of his teens from the Sancadiun family kept the rolled and sealed letter in a leather scroll case on his side. His ears perked hearing something in the distance up the crags, not sure of how far it was or what it could be. He moved to the other side of the fire, closer to the sleeping armed escorts of Southwind.

  “Don’t worry father, you are well guarded should anything come near. Most likely mountain goats wandered south, curious about the fire and smell of our dinner.” Evril looked over his shoulder in the dark of night, seeing no movement from the two Dunmoor men laid on their bedrolls, throats slit and done bleeding out.

  The young man, following orders, locked his hand crossbow into the cocked position and loaded a bolt tipped with white sticky paste. Pultfish bladder poison he thought as he carefully, as not to have the weapon discharge into his leg, aimed it up at the night sky ensuring it was in place.

  “Evril, there it is again, closer, it sounds like something is coming.” The young priest turned to stand and wake the others, fearing what would make such a noise this time of night in the mountains fingers. He turned and froze, seeing the cold white faces of his protectors, their eyes and mouths open in horror, throats cut open and soaked in blood, unmoving.

  “Perhaps it is Alden’s army, come to save your soul.” Evril pulled the trigger, bolt releasing mere feet away and lodging deep into the priest's back.

  “Aaaahhhh! Help me, God help me, Alden please!!” The priest, feeling nothing on his right side at all, screamed from the sharp pain through his back. He cried into the night, trying to scramble down the foothills. His muscles twitched rapidly in his face, turning his neck involuntarily and causing him to stumble down the hill. Father Brevond tried to scream again, but his mouth would not open, poison was spasming every muscle tight. Murmured desperation was all that escaped.

  His eyes began to darken, seeing the white moon in the sky and feeling only a slowing heartbeat and hot blood down his backside cooling in the cold snow. Hearing much commotion above, knowing his end was here, his hand struggled to move once more. Trembling against his own muscles, he reached the scroll case, crushing part of it in the spasming grip of his uncontrolled hand. Brevond began to roll his shoulder forward. To and back again, driving the bolt from the crossbow deeper into his body, yet he rocked forward with all his shaking strength. He hurled the leather scroll case down the foothills and rolled over in the process, his white robes stained red. The tip of the bolt now through his ribs and protruding through his abdomen, Evril stood over him in the night.

  “That was not a wise move, father.” Broadsword drawn already, Evril cut down through the young man's throat, spilling what blood he had left onto the white ground. He cleaned his blade on the dead priest’s robes and sheathed it, scouring the dark hillside for where the scroll had landed, curious to read what was on it.

  A blur, man-sized, yet a little stockier and clanking with steel plate and gear, ran past at amazing downhill speed. It skidded to a stop and took cover behind the overhanging stump of an old dead oak.

  “Better hide boy, they’re a comin’.” Azenairk Thalanaxe did not have time to say much more, let alone notice the dead around the human youth. His breath nearly gone, the ogre, six of them, had been on his trail close to three days now.

  The dwarf looked south into the dark foothills and rolling land with little cover. He hung his head, trying to catch air, knowing he could not outrun the ogre. He barely paid mind to this human, or what he was doing, he just knew that they were coming.

  Evril Alvander, being warned from behind a stump from a man with a mountain accent, mounted his horse, hearing growls from the north and heavy footsteps on a quick move.

  “Ogre? How many, dwarf?”

  “Six boy, better hide, wake yer men, unless you have some…” Azenairk’s vision, accustomed to the dark, noticed now that the other three men were not sleeping but had throats cut and were very dead. “Vundren help me, ye surround me with dead men and murderers and chase me with ogre.”

  “Farewell mountain man, enjoy your fate!” the boy waved, and rode back west down the foothills.

  Evril looked back, thinking of making for the scroll. Then the ogre appeared, the first two with spears from atop the plateau and then more shadows of ten foot tall killers ran down near his hill. Evril Alvander kicked his steed faster, knowing the job was done and the bodies would not have to be burned since the ogre would tear them apart soon enough. His mistress would be pleased and he would get her pleasures for an entire night as promised. All that was left was to beat himself some wounds of the ogre raid and have his story ready for Lord Alexei.

  “Coward,” Azenairk breathed under his beard, keeping hidden to the left of the stump, warhammer in hand. Zen Thalanaxe was not a warrior, he admitted this to himself, and had seen more real action in the last few days leaving Boraduum than in all his life. Trained, yes, he recalled the training with the Outguard and Temple Shields, but this was life and death with which he had no experience. The ogre approached, slowing their hunt and speaking to one another softly, as soft as guttural ogre could manage. They inspected the dead, looting weapons and picking for coins and food rations. One, the outspoken and scarred leader, barked orders to the others as it untethered three horses from the other side of the campfire

  “Vregg id idullas, hrabekss ind!” The ogre all laughed from deep in their filthy furs through tusked jaws and headed west, pointing at the distant rider.

  One ogre in the rear stopped, “Unda hrabekk faden froul!” and it moved to the priest not ten feet from the dwarf in hiding. Azenairk froze, knowing if he were spotted he had nowhere to run. The other horses were too far to reach, the ogre would see him sure as day. His knuckles went numb from the death grip on the hammer, his shield behind the tree stump, his body pressed against it, eyes shut.

  The muscled giant warrior rolled the body over, picking out a coin pouch, a waterskin, smelling the air as if something was not right, squinting his warted face. Azenairk’s heart fluttered, ready to give this beast a war cry and a cracked skull in one more second. The ogre sniffed more, rolled the body again and pulled out a crossbow bolt from the back of the young human in robes. Placing the tip below his nose, he winced more, and made a foul face of disgust.

  “Tithjarrum,” it spoke and tossed the bolt down the hillside. The ogre looked around, spotting something lower where his bolt had landed and moved to where the dwarf was completely exposed. It picked up what looked to be a scroll tube or case, smelled it, and tossed it to the ground again.

  “Bevrig, elda bevrig, Sajogarne.” Some more talk from the others kept its attention west, away from Azenairk Thalanaxe, and it stomped uphill to meet with its kind
and leader. The ogre, laden with easy treasures and food for a week, headed west to find the lone human and eat a meal of dead men and horse. The priest, for some reason, was not taken.

  The cold frost of breath finally released into the mountain air as the dwarven priest fell into the stump and released his grip on the warhammer. He laid there for hours, staring at the sky, needing to sleep yet knowing the human should be buried properly. Azenairk lacked the energy to move, let alone bury a dead priest of another religion, but something in his conscience overrode his weariness and he moved downhill to see to the body.

  The prayer was long and tiresome, as it took him hours to collect the rocks in the dark winter night for this young man's burial. On the side of the Bori foothills, Azenairk prayed to Vundren and this man's God, Alden, for his safe passage to heaven and the afterlife.

  “Don’t know what you men of Alden do up there besides play with feathers and such, but get there safe and God bless.” He put the last of the stones atop the mound, saying his final prayer in the old dwarven tongue.

  “Relianak, dandurs ufrimak, Vundren judissik ek mooriann. Just in case you didn’t understand that boy, I asked Vundren to guard you in death as we worship him in life. Farewell.” The last of the Thalanaxe family put his fist on his chest, holding his Hammerpiece symbol of faith to Vundren, the God and creator of his people of the mountains. Opening his eyes, the stones looked perfect, shining in the moonlight, and Azenairk felt peace within his tired body and mind.

  Starting down the foothills again, walking this time, Azenairk noticed the melted patches of snow the further down he went. The Bori Mountains had underground molten lakes keeping the mountain range warm on the inside, easy to forge for his people, and melted any snow outside them. The old dwarves in the taverns told him over the years that most of the rain and snow washed to the north, and that was the reason for the Hollowmoors, a vast swamp the size of a small country, infested with trolls. They said too, that deep in there, a city of the swamp devils lived, and even had a giant four armed queen. Many stories were just the whiskey or the ale, but this one about no snow ever forming on the southern side of the Bori mountains in winter, well the dwarves had a few things wrong, he thought as he crunched through the icy patches.

  Azenairk kept his eyes and ears open, knowing the ogre were at most four hours west now and he was all alone coming into the kingdom of Chazzrynn. He had met men from here and the fractured river cities of Larkenport and Bailey which lay in broken Willborne to the north. He had heard many a tale from the merchants that traded... Crunch.

  Zen looked to see what it was he stepped on that gave way to the sound under his heavy boot. It was not ice or snow, for it made a different sound. A scroll it was, most likely belonging to the murdered priest, and forgotten by the ogre. Azenairk wondered if the ogre could even read, not knowing much of their brutal culture, save that they were enemy to all but the giants of the Misathi and Bori Mountains. Ogre even hated their cousins, the trolls. He opened the case, and opened the scroll, holding it to the light of the moons. It was in Agarian, yet Azenairk was fluent.

  “Father Garret,

  My friend of the cloth, may this letter arrive to you while you are blessed with good health in Alden’s light. I sincerely hope the warmer climes of Shalokahn are faring you better than the cold winter of Chazzrynn. I write to you in need of assistance with two most important accounts, important to our faith and to my kingdom. May it be known to you now, that I write this only to you and the Lady of Lazlette in Vallakazz and none other are aware of what I shall tell you.

  A scroll came to Southwind Keep, by way of an elven noble from Kilikala, a minotaur, and one of our own lost knights from years past. The scroll is likely from the times of the Primalus Defectus, many millennia ago, as you are aware. However, the scroll is on a parchment unknown to me that appears to be pressed skin, and the ink appears to be blood. The preservation is immaculate, and most of all, the writing is staggered by the markings of impression, to have begun perhaps two to four millennia past and been finished within the last decade. All prayers and passages point to our faith, and are written in ancient Altestani and Old Carician.

  The points of contention here are that a man trapped under the ruins of Arouland gave this willingly to the minotaur, and that his description befits a likeness of Annar, lost brother to our savior Alden. Second, that his disappearance after the fact implies some degree of speculated divine intervention, or sign from our God above in heaven. There is reference made to the exodus of our Lord when our faith was founded, and in great detail I might add, as the oldest Aldane histories also attest to. However, the scroll mentions two holy retreats of vast importance that occurred before then, and two yet to come long after. Not one great exodus, but five are written of in this most precious artifact. These findings are unheard of and nowhere written in any text with which I am familiar.

  The scroll is being taken to Vallakazz now, and I hope you and yours will meet its path in time. The scroll has an affinity to the minotaur whom received it, and he feels compelled to not let it out of his sight. I believe the knight that travels with them saw this same chained man below Arouland many years before. There is more that they are not sharing with me, so I hope you and the Aldane may give them the safety they need to perhaps discuss the finding further.

  Secondly, I believe that Lady Kaya T’Vellon is aware of the importance or value of this scroll. Her men of the knightly order of Southwind Keep are suspicious, and seen everywhere. She reigns behind her brother with a skill at manipulation surely derived from the bitter depths of hell itself. I exaggerate, however, Lady T’Vellon does not share in our faith, and I fear may be planning to get the scroll, if not her brother’s position, very soon. Too long have we watched from the church, seeing her wicked ways of deception and ill bargains of sexual natures with the youth of this most important western fortress to the kingdom of Chazzrynn. She rearranges our plans for this safe escort to you as I write this, and the plans for the protection of the scroll as well, having her brother always convinced of her view. The ties between Lady Kaya and Prince Johnas of Valhirst have been documented well enough to have her charged. I would ask you urge the Aldane in Shanador to act upon this, before she acquires more for her liege lord in the east. Please alert those you can of the feathered cross, with Alden’s help and love. Assure me this relic of our Lord’s brother, Annar, will not be lost to the ages as he was. The truth of our faith, the lost truths, must not be left to discovery by the faithless or ignorant.

  Something mystical, surely divine has emanated from these pages before my very eyes. It has already some physical connection to the minotaur who received it, yet I shared this with no one, not even they that carry it.

  May mercy and sacrifice light your path to God, Alden,

  Your friend,

  Father Brevond Sancadiun”

  “And I thought Boraduum had troubles and turmoil!” Azenairk rolled the letter carefully, placing it back into the casing and safely into his pack. Convinced that this needed to get into proper hands, always taking the responsibility laid before him, he set out south knowing that somewhere through the southern hills and flatlands and snow, he would find Vallakazz and deliver the message that Vundren now set upon him.

  “Forgive me father, it seems Vundren wants me to take the long way to your lost city that does not exist.” Azenairk smiled up to the night sky and trod down the valley of the Bori foothills, knowing his father understood, wherever he may be.

  Sorceries I:I

  Lazlette Semanarium Arcanum

  Vallakazz, Chazzrynn

  Long black hair dangled in front of her deep green eyes, eyes that were wide and agape staring at the open tome in front of her. It was a tome she was not allowed to read for many more years. The book was covered in silver etchings of protection from unwanted readers, easily overcome with a few utterings of arcane notation, as her skills were well beyond those of most here. For her transgressions against Lady Aelaine Lazlett
e, for delving into her private library of magical texts, and for reciting and placing to memory the elemental archpassages of control, Gwenneth could be expelled, or worse.

  That worry was an empty one however, as Gwenneth smiled, reminding herself she was the daughter of Lady Lazlette. The only child to the high wizard and overseer of Lazlette Semanarium Arcanum, and the ruling noble of Vallakazz. Aelaine had but one daughter. That daughter was sure her mother was still teaching the ninth years their final coronation displays and object manipulations for the upcoming graduate ceremony. Gwenneth was also certain that her mother was busy and nervous on the seventh floor of the west tower, herself safely distanced on the eighth floor of the north tower.

  The prodigal wizard had placed a glyph of awareness over the wooden oak doors to her mother's class, which would glow and fade sending a slight tingle of the arcane to her ear, if and when her mother passed by. Lady Lazlette usually noticed them after the fact of release, yet the scolding for those tricks fell far below what Gwenneth would receive should her mother catch her with the forbidden books in her private study.

  “Caeldwiss efvias Selnivius, the lightning from the clouds. I rather fancy this as opposed to the meager tricks and invocations in the graduate elemental curriculums. What do you think, Hithins?” Gwenne smiled, looking up to the snow vulture perched on the black iron chandelier over the table where she read.

  “I would most rather not speak on this subject, therefore relieving myself of implication, assisted or otherwise.”

  “Should I, or should I not?” Gwenneth pressed.

  There was no response from the bird above.

  “I could pluck your white feathers with this, Hithins.” Gwenneth Lazlette drew a black wooden wand with gold engravings from inside her robes, dangling it in a playful manner, awaiting attention and confirmation from the bound creature.