“These must be the travelers from Deadman’s Pass then? Pleasure to meet ye’, I am father Drodun Anduvann o’ the Temple o’ the Cracked Wall, Vundren be blessed ye made it in one piece to us.” His long braids of red beard bounced off his knees, hair nearly gone on top but a few strands toward the back, and his belly looked a bit more full than his obviously younger brother. Still, the armor, family crested shield, and battle axe looked related, just as these two did. His robes and holy regalia of Vundren tried to cover it, but there was no denying that they were brothers, especially the bright brown eyed smiles that appeared here and there in the torchlight.
“Allright, allright. O’ course they be safe, me and mine went to get em. Ain’t no temple boys here, no, just Outguard Scout and killers in the mountains by my side! Ye’ be forgettin’ who guards the south brother, sure not that temple is o’ the cracked head?” Tannek pounded his shield, followed by the half of his men that knew the Agarian tongue.
“True on that then, younger brother. So, introduce me then to these here fine folk, would ya? Surely ye’ know them all well by now then?” Drodun walked up to Azenairk, bowing and shaking his hand in respect to an obvious fellow priest.
“This here is Azenairk Thalanaxe, last o’ his line from Boraduum, son of the late Kimmirik Thalanaxe, priest o’ Vundren liking to yourself. And this is…ahh…this is ummm…”
“Ye did not ask their names again, did ye’?” Drodun looked at his brother, shaking his head and sighing deep.
“Well, no. I figured by them comin’ with, they would be showin their intentions and all, what is the point then, really?” Tannek lowered his head, waved an arm around, pointing to the companions and his men, not lookin’ to his older brother.
“Ye and the men drinkin’ the mead and whiskey on the routes again, eh?”
“Aye, ye’ bleedin’ hogwasher, what of it?”
“Pardon the manners o’ me brother, he has to get back to duty and all.” Drodun smacked Tannek on the breastplate, hard, but with a smile.
“Aye, aye. I be seeing ye all in the city, be sure o’ that. Well met and all, come on men, come on Dalliunn! Vuak dermeth agra Vundren athik vuumber ahn!” Tannek pounded his armor, as did all his men, making a deafening echo in the small passage. They all turned, heading back through the tunnels to the far off southern doors.
“Father Thalanaxe, who be your friends here then?” Drodun held his hand out as he looked to the mismatched travelers. One of his priestly acolytes of the hammer and moons offered him a thick aged tome and the other a writing quill and ink. He began inscribing the names of the visitors to the great city of Marlennak into the golden edged book.
“I am Gwenneth Lazlette.” Gwenne admired the bit of sudden formality, seeing a book and someone that could write brought a smile to her worn and tired visage.
“Daughter o’ who and from where? Any title would be kind o’ ye as well.” Drodunn wrote, dipping the golden stick with feathers and a bone tip into a golden vial filled with deep blue ink.
“Yes, of course. I am the daughter of Aelaine Lazlette, the Lady of Vallakazz and mistress of the Lazlette Semanarium Arcanum. I am an honor graduate wizard of the academy, and master of the arts myself.” Gwenneth smiled wide, knowing Drodun was having difficulty with all the lengthy words and by his eyes she could tell he was indeed impressed.
“And yer father then?” Drodun looked up, wishing to finish with what was hopefully the hardest and longest one of the group, his hand already aching.
“I do not wish to---“
“She is the daughter of the great and late Lord Arlinne T’Vellon of Southwind Keep, a hero of Chazzrynn, honored among his people.” James spoke up, solemnly, but speaking for Gwenneth as to the father she rarely mentioned. He knew she would either be very angry, or perhaps find a bit of peace from the words he spoke. She did not look to him and kept her silent composure.
“Ye’ come from fine stock there, Gwenneth Lazlette, well met indeed.” The priest of Marlennak turned to the golden skinned elven woman and smiled.
She bowed. “I am Lady Shinayne T’Sarrin, once heir to the throne of Kilikala, and my parents have been missing since I was very young. Yet, the guardians that raised me and my sisters are Naladra and Eoehrina Hanaira, the king and queen of my homeland to the north.
Drodun wrote and dipped and wrote in the silent tunnels of the south side. He would hope the men had less in the way of titles and names, his hand throbbing now. He smiled and nodded to Shinayne, then looked to the bearded man with the sash.
James bowed as well. “I am Sir James Andellis, Knight of Southwind Keep, honorable Knight of Chazzrynn for King Mikhail Salganat, and I have never and will never know of my parents. I was raised as an orphan as were most of my order.” He breathed out, always having trouble with never knowing his past or family. That was why he seemed insistent that Gwenne honor hers, at least she knew.
“And James was actually knighted in the field by the King of Chazzrynn, received a falcon medal of honor, and brought down the commanding officer of an Altestani warship in single combat.” Gwenneth smirked, adding a bit of his glory to the book to compensate for the lack of parents, though she did not know why. Perhaps it felt like gratitude.
“Excellent service Sir James, aye.” Drodun sighed, his page filling quick, the words losing their neatness, he realized he had erred in asking the details, although, these were the most noble and interesting visitors Marlennak had seen in centuries. He looked to the seven and a half foot minotaur with suspicion with all the tattoos on the face and quite a beastial disposition.
“And lastly, you, my horned visitor.”
“I am Saberrak the gray, formerly of Unlinn. Son of Tathlyn, older brother to Tychaeus. I do not know who my mother was by name, most minotaurs don’t. I have nothing else, no other names.” He said it without pride, without his usual huffs of honor and intimidation. The lists previous of such great histories and honors had left him quiet.
Drodun sensed it, they all did. It was quiet, as if something was supposed to happen but no one knew exactly what. Drodun looked to his belt, saw the old fist of Annar on the minotaurs’ buckle. “Well then, Saberrak Agrannar of the Grays, son of Tathlyn it is then. Well met.”
“What does that mean? That is not my name, dwarf.” Saberrak liked the sound, but felt more shame and anger than any gratitude in falseness.
Zen spoke first, quickly. “It fits fine. Agr, means of the spirit of. In our tongue, we add it to Vundren, saying agrvund to those that are blessed into the temples at an early age. Ye definitely be young, and ye definitely have the spirit of Annar in ye, enough said there. Take it, the priest gives ye honor and you deserve my horned friend.”
All his friends nodded and smiled in agreement, realizing how important having a full name was in the world, and how they had taken theirs for granted for so long. Saberrak smirked a bit, huffed out his chest, and raised his head a little in the cramped passage.
“Saberrak Agrannar of the Grays, son of Tathlyn. Suppose it’s fitting then.”
“Well met to ye all, and welcome to Marlennak! Now, let me give a tour around and show ye a bit o’ the city. We be starting on the south side, we will head over to Redbridge into the heart o’ the city with all the homes and merchants, and then I will take ye over Blackbridge to the actual forges, temples, and libraries. From there, I will see about getting us in to see the two kings in Castle Vairrek…you all being noble and such as it were…and then…” Drodun walked and talked, guards and acolytes falling in behind him and his most noble guests followed closely through the hidden dwarven city of the Misathi.
Cristoff III:II
Mountain Cliff Tradeway, Shanador
“Broushelle was right, crows swarming as we speak, but there is nothing left to see.” Sir Leonard looked to the priest of Alden, finishing his funeral prayers for the third death the exiled company had in just a few days. These were not lost scouts of theirs nor feeble peasants whose time had come that he had se
en in the rocky foothills. He had not recognized the bodies, had not gotten close enough in fact.
“Please Alden, Lord of Heaven, Lord of Mercy, Lord of Sacrifice, allow your light from above shine down to guide our lost brothers and sisters here to your home. Take them from us, and honor them as we have in life, and let them pass to life eternal, with you. Amen.” Garret D’Ourmas repeated the prayer three times, eyes closed, feathered cross in hand. He looked up from the three mounds of earth to the mounted knight, once of Harlaheim.
“You may inform Lord Cristoff and Capitan Broushelle that we will be delayed. I cannot simply bury our own that pass on and leave those that may or may not be ours to rot in the summer sun. My faith will not allow that, not for any man. Where were they from?” Garret had just buried two elderly Harlian women from Saint Erinsburg, their life just gave out on the journey. The other was a scout, his horse was frightened in the foothills by something they assumed. They found him dead under his steed this morning, crushed by the weight and from two rocks that followed.
“Father, I am of the Order of Saint Tarumin, and I deeply feel the same way as you. However, the road is treacherous, the heat is rising, and we have spotted ogre already on three instances. Please remember, we have women, children, and the elderly with us. We incur the safety of nearly eight thousand lives here. Every hour we delay, gives time more a chance to do its work upon us. We need to reach Gillian and…Alden have mercy, he just does not listen to reason.” Sir Leonard was talking to himself upon his horse in the midmorning glares of the western sun, Garret had begun to walk back into the foothills below the cliffs where the bodies had been reported.
The looming rock face was high, only the sparse misguided tree root broke the empty red mountain cliff of hundreds of feet. Crows cawed, issuing their displeasures at interruption as a knight on horse and a man broke their scavenging. Upon a small plateau in the hills, parts of bodies lay scattered. The blood was dry, a head here, the corpse twenty feet to the left. Another looked torn in half, entrails strewn about from impact it would seem. A third, legs twisted and broken like the arms, bone showing through from black garments, body and head swollen. Twenty more, crossbows riddled through them, smashed upon the low rocks another fifty feet eastward.
Garret breathed deep, the odor was terrible. He looked to the carnage, the blood, then up as he realized these bodies had been pushed or thrown from the cliff far above. He began to think Leonard was correct in his assumption, he looked to the company from Saint Erinsburg to the west, thousands traveling on. He looked up to the knight from Harlaheim, to the shovel across his steed, then to the rocky ground. He closed his eyes in a silent moment.
“Beheaded one first, then the slave torn in two, then the woman in black. Then we get the rest over there. Help me please, Sir Leonard. Alden bless these poor souls.” He went ahead, taking the remains as carefully as he could, Leonard assisting in silence.
Sword…
“Did you hear something father Garret?” Leonard turned, drawing his rapier slowly, gazing around.
“No, please, it is just the crows echoing off the cliff. Let us be done here soon.” Garret brought the first of the bodies, piece by piece, to lower ground with soil in which to dig, twenty feet off the tradeway.
Sword…
“There it is again, something stirs up there. Be it the crows, then they are speaking to us father. Let us go, I feel uneasy here.” Leonard walked up toward the crows that watched, surveying the hills and cliffs around him, looking for motion or the source of the voice.
Sword…
He looked down, the voice came as a whisper of a whisper, so faint and strained as to not be real at all. Auburn hair in a loose tie, all smattered with dried blood upon a swollen head that was face down. Her legs were twisted and broken behind in a terrible form, one arm broken and flopped over her back with bone protruding out the shoulder. Crow marks upon her back, where they had worked their way through the black cloth and leather to what appeared to be some sort of brand of a spider. Leonard looked at the closed eyes, kneeling to see them on this poor corpse of a woman. One swollen eye of slate blue opened, and his heart nearly stopped. He gasped.
Sword…
Tears in his eyes, all alone on the rock, Leonard drew his blade and placed it over the brand. One quick plunge down through the heart and her suffering of days and nights as such would finally be at an end. He put the tip to her pale and crimson marked flesh. He saw what looked to be a smile try and form from a broken jaw and bulging face, then she blinked twice.
Sword…
“May Alden bless you, take you in peace, and keep you safe in your journey to heaven. Have you any sins to confess before you die?” Leonard looked, a definite smile formed, tears dripping from her eye to the red rock. He had to do it, no human should be allowed such suffering, he tightened his grip with both hands, hoping for a quick end for her pain, and his own for every second of delay.
Sword…please…
“Then by the light of Alden I strike and pray you find---“
“Stop! Stop there Sir Leonard, I will be the judge of Alden’s word and will, not your blade if you would.” Garret saw the knight taking his time with the one body on this plateau, then saw the blade raise up and hold on the corpse of the woman for some moments. Something told him to walk over and inspect, though he knew not why.
“She begs for the sword father, let her have it. She has endured enough, I beg you.” Leonard kept his blade pointed to her skin, flies buzzing to survey what the crows had missed.
He looked the woman over, so swollen he did not know how she could even talk. Garret swatted the flies in the air, knelt down, and looked her in the eye. “Tell me if you feel this.” He touched her heel with his hand and squeezed just the slightest.
Yes…sword…please
“If you can feel that, your back may not be broken. You may live, if you wish, there is a chance.” Garret smelled the infection from her body, saw the crow marks where she had started to become a meal. He looked up, one tree branch to break a hundred foot fall, maybe, then another hundred from there to here. He shook his head.
“Father, the rot would have spread, the marrow would have poisoned what blood she has left by now. Do not let her suffer any longer.” Leonard shook his head, sword still ready to end it.
“And it would take a miracle to save her, heal her, and see that she could even have the chance of a normal life were she to live.” Garret looked to the bones he would have to set, knowing that even moving her may kill her in this state.
“Yes, a miracle and then---“
“Miracles are what I do, Sir knight, if Alden wills them. Sheath your sword.” Garret looked, brown eyes full of care and youth, he glanced at yound Sir Leonard and then his blade and back up.
“It could take days here, the company will not wait for---“
“The go and tell them I will catch up in time. Leave your horse so I may do my duties for the church and see the bodies put to the earth, saving those I can. Sheath your sword Sir Leonard, now.”
“You are stubborn, senseless at times, Alden have mercy. Yet, I cannot leave you alone here to die, very well then.” Leonard sheathed his rapier.
“Thank you. Now, keep the crows away for a time while I pray.”
“As you wish father.” Leonard waited as patiently as he could.
Garret placed his hand on the back of the broken woman, hot sun starting to warm her cold flesh. He closed his eyes, feeling only a faint pulse of her life, fading quickly beyond even that. He asked God in his silent reverie to help this woman and to feel for the infections and causes he would cure if he had the strength. He felt the poisoned blood in her shoulder and torso, then the breaks in her bones, there were nineteen. Garret sensed infection spreading in her face, her throat, her back, and even her legs. He sat back down from his kneeling position, coughing himself as if what he felt were inside him as well. He got back to his knees, and began to pray despite the feeling of futility in his mind
. He pulled the golden feathered cross from his robes.
“Alden, Son of the Gods and Lord of men, He who sacrificed himself for our salvation at the hands of demons, He whose wings were torn from him for love of man, I beg you help me heal this woman that she indeed live. Should she be of value to you, to our journey, should she live in your grace with lasting purpose, Amen.”
His hand went to her back, golden light flowing from fingertips into pale flesh. He concentrated more, and more light shone in small flashes as he thought of her infections and poisoned blood. He thought of her pain, asking silently for Alden to take it away into the light, so that she may rest in preparation for the setting of bones and more healing. More flashes of light struck from his hand and into the morning skies below the cliffs. Then he sat down, exhausted.
No one moved, the crows did not bother and the flies did not buzz. Leonard looked to Garret, seeing the look of weariness on his face. He put his hand on the priests’ shoulder, then knelt next to him. He looked then to the woman, still, eyes closed, unmoving. He hung his head and said a silent prayer for the woman himself.
“You tried father, you tried. There was nothing that could have saved her. Twas a miracle she lasted as long as she did. Alden have mercy.”
Garret looked to the woman, then to Leonard. “What can I get for you my child, will be time to move soon.”
“Father, she is dead, it is enough now---“
Water…please….water…
Sir Leonard gasped again, his heart stopping. He made the sign of the cross on his chest and circled it, bowing his head in prayer. “I…I…I do not know what to say.”
“To those of greater faith and understanding, greater knowledge of his will for us will seem, at times, miraculous indeed…”
“…to those of lesser faith…the Aldane texts, Psalm twelve, Book of Saint Tarumin, I now it well.” Sir Leonard had not blinked, just stared back and forth between this woman still on the rocks and father Garret.
“Not as well as I.” Garret walked to the horse to get a waterskin for the woman he had saved.
The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains Page 24