The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

  “Guess this will start sooner than I had expected.” Johnas smiled.

  “Guards!” The King of Harlaheim drew his ornamental rapier, never having used it before, then he doubled over in pain. The window crashed open, shards of glass shattering over everyone. The blade of Johnas pulled from his chest as moist air raged unnaturally from outside.

  Twenty armored guards fought the gale and rushed to protect their fallen king. Eight more servants appeared, drawing rapiers and charging Johnas and the false king. The Prince of Valhirst backed up with Ariili. He eyes caught a figure leap through the air and land on the table, she was surrounded by owls, bats, pigeons, and a hundred more swirling birds. The winds died down, the fog and clouds lifted from their abnormal flow, and a red haired woman glared at Johnas Valhera from atop the long dining table as she drew an exquisite hand and a half blade from her side.

  “Diamond, Emerald, Silk, and Ruby! Show our hosts here some southern hospitality!” As Prince Valhera looked for a clearer view of the lady with the birds, four scimitars and four shortblades pulled from scabbards of the servants by the wine rack. Masked now, all in black leather and garb, the four of the Emerald Eight moved in between their patriarch and the twenty four guarding the dying Harlian king.

  Complete chaos broke out in the dining hall. The false king had no one fooled and Ariili was mobbed quick by four royal guards. The four deadly agents of the White Spider slashed and stabbed, rolled and dove, cutting fast through armored soldiers of Harlaheim. Three grabbed their bleeding monarch and made for the doors. Then a swarm of avians of every type formed a tight line in the air and crashed into Johnas Valhera, dozen after unrelenting dozen. Feathers flew, screeches and shrieks echoed off of walls in the night, then the emerald kris blade began to slice a path. Johnas drew a dagger and swatted his way toward the woman.

  Angeline met the prince of Valhirst, blade to blade, parry to parry. Their blades danced up and down in chops, then side slashes, then thrusts as the faster Johnas backed his opponent away from her pets. His face was scratched, his hands both pecked and bleeding, yet he smiled and stepped in on the mysterious woman in green robes. Her blade was heavier, longer, but parried everything he managed to assault her with. The steel rang viciously, as if the blades hated each other more than their wielders.

  The four assassins of the Emerald Eight had killed seven and left four more screaming on the red carpets. They stuck close, eight blades weaving from what seemed one opponent, and stepped surely, killing quick anyone within reach. Their skills with parries and bladework were unmatched here with royal guard of Richmond. The feinted scimitar slashes were followed by deadly shortsword thrusts that punctured steel and flesh faster than the slow armored men they faced. Once five to one odds, now only ten on four.

  The birds and bats swarmed him again, this time circling like angry bees and he was the nest. Johnas swatted and ducked, then began moving forward once more. His female killer ran at him, leapt, kicked off the wall, and landed behind him. She looked back from the broken window she had entered through, sheathed her blade, and held out her hand with a smiling face looking to her adversary. An owl, white and brown one of small size, dove by her and dropped something in her hand. Then, she was gone out the balcony.

  Johnas looked to his rather torn up hand, held it up to his face as the battle raged on and the birds all scattered for the open window. The ring was gone.

  “Balric!” The Prince yelled, stepping over a bleeding and bulging doppelganger trying to change form to the King again, and joined his four in cutting down any survivors.

  Richmond ran down the stairs, shrugging off his guards help, dropping his blade as he held his bleeding chest. He reached the throneroom, there was Sir Phillip. He had men with him, he knew he was safe and would see Johnas Valhera beheaded along with his creature. Richmond knew he should have listened to Sir Sebastian when he came to him about the Cardinal, hopefully it was not too late.

  “Phillip! Help me, Johnas has attacked! Save your king!” His lips tasted of blood, the pain was sharp and deep.

  “Men, seize this false creature that appears as the king, and take its head!” Sir Phillip drew his rapier and his men stomped toward the king.

  Richmond turned and ran the other way, stumbling and holding his bleeding wound. He heard the screams of his guards and blade wielding servents from up the stairs, so he ran toward the front doors to L’Herrim in hopes the crowd would protect him. The passage opened, more guards came from the stairs as fog rolled into the foyer.

  He looked up to his left, Johnas and the false King with four masked men approaching quick. To his right, the balcony had royal guard taking aim at none other than him, their own king. Behind, swirling in panic as he was, Sir Phillip marched with more guards all pointing rapiers at him. Richmond ran into the fog as fast as he could, not able to see anything.

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  The staff pushed back, a saber and shortblade crossed over it, inches from his own throat. Kalzarius was ready, the words arcane of a spell to incinerate this assassin had passed his lips and waited for a final gesture. “Balric, stop!”

  Kalzarius’ words held power, Balric felt the arcane energy force him back a foot or two. Yet the necklace had him lunge right back through, intent on murdering this wizard. “I cannot!”

  “What goes on here?” The accent was Caberran, yet two blades unsheathed from behind them.

  Balric rested for a moment, he sensed his priorities had changed. It was Prince Edians behind him. He turned and lunged, disarming the shamshir in one unforeseen chop. His shortblade aimed for the chest, parried at the last moment by a rapier from Sir Sebastian who was more than ready. He countered with his saber, knocking down the rapier of the Harlian knight. He saw two targets, then he stopped.

  “Run Prince, run!” Sebastian stepped in front of the Bishop, between him and the visiting Prince.

  “No, stop! It’s gone, Kalzarius take it off!” Balric dropped his blades, struggling to reach under his robes and get to the necklace.

  “Kalzarius? What are you doing here, what is all of this?” Sebastian picked up his blade, and the blade of the Caberran Prince. He stepped on the two swords of the Bishop and kept his sword pointed an inch from his chest.

  “No time Sir Sebastian, no time. Help me get this necklace from Balric’s neck. I will explain later.” The old master of the arcane assisted the black robed Harlian man. The necklace, heavy thick platinum, glowed as it fell to the cobblestone.

  “What is that that it glows so?” Prince Edians Del Barrato took his blade from the knight.

  “Luiminaro duthes sestralic!” Kalzarius pointed his fingers, unleashing a ray of orange and purple light. Moments later, a puddle of melted precious metal seeped into the stones of the street. “Nothing now, nothing. Angeline must have succeeded.”

  “Who is Angeline? What is the meaning of this, you must tell me!” Sebastian still held his blade to Balric.

  “We must save your king, unworthy as he is. Your kingdom is under attack on the most high and noble level, Lord Knight Errant. Prince Johnas is---“ Kalzarius stopped.

  Bells gonged from the castle cathedral, moments later from another. The Prince of Caberra, Balric, Kalzarius, and Sir Sebastian listened, frozen in the night, as the bells tolled and rang throughout the city. They tolled for only one reason in such manner, the king must be dead.

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  “Attention!” Sir Phillip came to point, all the men as well.

  The throneroom was dark as Johnas Valhera helped the guards carry a very dead looking Richmond down the spiral stairs on a wooden stretcher. Ariili the doppelganger looked pale, blood on his royal garb, unmoving. It looked believable indeed. Johnas’ cuts and blood looked real enough, as they actually happened minutes ago, though not from any blade. Four masked bodyguards watched from shadows and hidden vantages within the castle, cleaning their weapons of the blood from the butchery in the dining hall. None of them had as much as a s
cratch.

  As the duplicate body was presented in the hall, three hundred men of the royal guard, Harlaheim capitans, and ranked Crossguard Legionairres all knelt in unison. The bells tolled again, and Johnas took knee next to Sir Phillip by the throne. Tears ran from many a man, false ones from those where Richmond once sat, and a few tired sobs echoed in the castle.

  “Did you attain our missing monarch, as expected?” Johnas, face streamed with false tears and forming scabs, whispered from his lowered head.

  “He will die from bleeding, if my men do not get him first. They are on his trail. Either way, he sits dead before us here.”

  “Not good enough, I do not play well with failure.”

  “Your Bishop was supposed to take care of it, not I. I do not play well with blame.” Phillip looked from his respectful position of sorrow, tears in his eyes waiting to fall.

  “Well spoken. I had not expected the woman, whoever she is. I will send out my four to eliminate them. Balric, the woman with the birds, Sebastian, Richmond, and the Prince of Caberra will die tonight. You do as ordered.” Johnas looked to the priest that entered. He would be concerned should the doppelganger in guise as Richmond be young, but Ariili could control his very bloodflow and heartbeat with ease in his ancient age.

  “And what would those orders be?” Phillip stood as the priest raised his hands and waved the honor guard of Harlaheim to take the body to the cathedral.

  “You are the Seneschal. Now, you have the throne. I want Willborne next. Katrina knows too much and is moving fast.” Johnas stood as did the rest of the men in formation. He wiped his eyes.

  “You still need Chazzrynn, Prince Johnas.”

  “I already have it, I received word this morning.”

  “And Caberra?”

  “Trade and peace agreements signed by Edians and Richmond and the Cardinal, it is done. Once we take our armies, mass them together, Shanador will come to their senses. All in good time, be patient.”

  “And what will your title be then?” Phillip lowered his head, placed his hand over his heart in line with the floor, a soldiers salute as the body of the king exited L’Herrim Castle.

  “King of Chazzrynn, Regent of Harlaheim, Ambassador of Trade to Caberra, and eventually, Lord Protector of Willborne. I think those will fit nicely as I work within my webs toward Shanador and Altestan. You will take the brand, the oath, and refer to me as your Patriarch. I have much to teach you, Phillip.” Johnas hid his smile, the doors shutting, the men standing in salute awaiting orders.

  Seneschal Phillip stepped in front of the throne. “Capitans and generals, legionairres of Alden, men of Harlaheim, an attack upon our sovereignty occurred this evening here in L’Herrim. With the assistance of Prince Johnas Valhera of Chazzrynn, the assailants were deferred, but only a few killed. Our king, Alden rest him, did not survive the assault.”

  Phillip paused, letting his youthful appearance and sorrow show itself to those gathered. He looked as though he could not continue, yet he did with much outward effort.

  “Lord Knight Errant Sebastian, Bishop Balric D’Vrelle, and the visiting Prince from Caberra have gone missing and are suspected as the plotters of this most heinous assassination. As Seneschal, I must see justice done. With Florin’s demise and the queen’s disappearance, their motives are now plain to see. They want Harlaheim to fall.” Heads turned, shocked murmurs began, and Phillip restrained his grin as the doors opened suddenly. The timing was perfect.

  “Seneschal Phillip! Another atrocity!” The Cardinal was being held up by two royal guardsmen, blood over his white robes of the feathered cross, gray hair all amiss and frazzled.

  “What has happened your grace?!” Johnas boomed over the gathered company, drawing his blade half out and stepping forward.

  “The Bishop, one of mine own, yes, yes, Balric has charged into the Cathedral L’ Sann, cut down the guards and taken the body of the king! None survived! Sir Sebastian and the Caberran Prince were with him! What wickedness runs riot in the night, such madness!?” Ariili fell to his knees in shaking horror and sorrow, back in guise as the Cardinal. The guards tried to help him up, the scene was sad and the words infuriating all at once.

  “Perfect, bravo, I applaud you doppelganger.” Johnas whispered under his breath.

  “By order of the throne of Harlaheim, with the blessing of the Cardinal of the Aldane, I demand the heads of those responsible!” Seneschal Phillip drew his rapier and pointed to the open doors of L’Herrim.

  “The king is dead, long live the Seneschal!” Johnas raised his blade beside Phillips, crossing his steel over the rapier and resting it gently on top, where it belonged.

  “Long live the Seneschal!” It boomed from over three hundred voices in the night, all saluted with anger and outrage, all wanting revenge for the murder, and all loyal to the man now in front of the throne. They marched out into the city to find the assassins of their king, to find his stolen body, and to bring justice.

  Exodus III:VIII

  Castle Vairrek, City of Marlennak

  “The holy stone tome shall be divided for safe keeping, each remaining king shall carry a fourth to his domain. To Boraduum go’ith the Words of Law. To Fazurand travel the Words of Faith, and in Marlennak they will protect the Words of War. Kakisteele will keep the Words of the Forge, all hail the Golhiarden, the Words of God, testament of Vundren. May he bless us in our desperate times.”---From the breaking of the tablet, Dwarven Book of Kings, passage one hundred eighty six. Circa 1801 B.C.

  Sitting on the stone table, surrounded by tomes harboring ancient dust, were the iron key, the dust, and the deed to Kakisteele. Azenairk accepted the iron box, full of rusty runes, back from the High Hammer and placed it in his pouch. He looked up, sighing in the long hours of what must have been night or early morning. He could not tell by the lack of sky, just by his weariness and the tired looks on the faces of Gwenneth and Shinayne. King Therrak and King Rallik poured through books handed them by Brunnwik, acolytes of Vundren ran with gnomes back and forth to the Historium Calaudrumm Vem, and candles dripped down their already cascading and formed stalagmites of wax that reached the floor.

  “That says it, right there, no denyin’ it brother.” Rallik pointed to the ancient Dwarven Book of Kings, despite four volumes of other histories that lay on the stone table.

  “Aye, but it says there that the only King o’ Kakisteele was never crowned formally t’all. Says that he was Mudren Sheldathain is all, it don’t be sayin’ who he married, just that he had a wife and children. We needin’ to find who his wife were to see if the deed is authentic n’ can be traced.” Therrak rubbed his brow, plucked a red eyebrow, then rubbed his beard.

  “There be nothing there to see me’ kings, I have done searched em’ all. No records of who she was, just the name Sheldathain over about five er’ six times.” Brunnwik rested in a chair, he was exhausted. There was about close to nothing, not anywhere. It seemed the place of myth, was just that.

  “That family name I never heard of, and I know them all in Boraduum.” Azenairk picked up his heirlooms carefully and put them back in the box.

  “None with that name here neither, not in Marlennak.” King Rallik sighed and sat back down. He reached for his mead and drank.

  “Nor in Fazurand, I visit the Moon Hammer often, bout every three years or so at the temple. Never heard that name besides in these here old books. Sorry father Thalanaxe.” Brunnwik felt awkward, he did not want to say the words that were on all the minds of those here. “Sheldathain, Sheldathain, rings a bell in me’ head, but likely from these tomes I dig into from decade to decade. History n’ all, just that.”

  “So, what are ye’ sayin’ then?” Zen sat, next to Shinayne who was deep in meditation.

  “It be forged, a folly, old as it is. Ye’ got nothin’ here and nothin’ worth risking yer’ neck over, Azenairk.” King Therrak felt awful. Having heard the story of how these folk met, what they had been through, and the hopes they had, he hated to be the
one to speak the disappointing words aloud.

  “That cannot be true. I, we all, heard the words from the dragon. Ansharr would not have led us astray.” Gwenneth remained standing in frustration, looking to words she could not read, flipping pages with symbols she did not understand. “I need to learn the dwarven tongue.”

  “Don’t ever be trustin’ a dragon. They supposed to be all dead, n’ for good reason.” Rallik nodded to Gwenne.

  “Aye, the fact ye’ slew two, met and spoke to another, n’ got chased by the mother o’ the two ye’ killed would make the five o’ ye havin’ seen the most dragons in what, bout a thousand years, give er’ take. They be part snake and serpent, forked tongues n’ all. I’d kill one before believing it, even if it told me that me’ mountains was red and the sky be blue.” Therrak concurred with his brother.

  “Then what do I do with this then, I have it for a reason.” Zen felt his pouch, he would cry if he were not so drowsy.

  “It be all ye’ have from yer’ late father, old Kimmarik, Vundren rest him. Keep it, remember him for the warrior he was, but stop yer’ dreamin’. There ain’t nothing’ there but death and ruin, ancient Altestani sorceries and curses, and folk tales to lure the hopeful to their ends.” The High Hammer had to say it, had to stop them from going, he had grown fond of them. The name Sheldathain lingered on his mind, having seen it somewhere, but he could not remember.

  “I made a promise to my father, on my words before Vundren, on his deathbed. I cannot break those, cannot take em’ back, n’ I’ll be damned if I don’t die tryin’.” Zen stood, pounding his fist on the table, then marched off into the city to find James and Saberrak. They had gone to Greenbridge to secure rooms for them all, but they had been gone half a day.

  “Zen!” Gwenneth shouted, waking the quiet highborne elf from her rest.