The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

  Lavress III:IV

  Temple of the Whitemoon, Central Chazzrynn

  Liogan Andellis was in a daze. The grass moved and spoke to him, the trees whispered his name, naked dryads with perky breasts and leaves in their hair snickered at him. Everything moved, the touch of air made his entire body tingle. He stumbled, the stones outside moved right in front of him. “Hello there, smooth white stones, hello.”

  Hello Liogan

  “The stones talk too, what about the trees?”

  We hear you, can you hear us?

  “Yes, banyans, you all hear me. This is like a dream.”

  He wandered the grove, talking, touching, sitting, standing, and meandering in a newfound world of pleasure and mystery.

  “How long will this last, the king---“

  “I told you, no interfering. If it is Her will, he will go to his king and save him. Too much time fighting the wicked and being surrounded by humans has dulled your sense of her mystery, Lavress. Your faith is not what it likely was when you were taken by the Hedim Anah.” Grnikol stood outside the stairs, next to the deadly elven hunter, watching this young boy with the gift of the Goddess.

  “Time is precious, this kingdom is in great danger. The men who rule Chazzrynn will not survive what I fear brews in the west. Eliah Shendrynn, in league with Salah Cam, the ogre of Avegarne and the trolls of Mun Parr, it is a force that a kingdom without a king could not stop. This Johnas Valhera, he plots from the east and has the kings’ son captive. Were the king to die, all of Chazzrynn may fall from our lack of action.” Lavress stewed, will or no will, he still wished to do what could be done to stop his enemies.

  “Perhaps the Goddess sees what you cannot, what no one can. The kingdoms of men are likely not her concern as much as the preservation of life. Do not judge or love by titles, names, or words. I am an ogre, cast out due to my size and raised by the temple, but still an ogre. Do you think me an enemy?” Grnikol stood, spear of twisted and enchanted wood secure in his hands, resting upon it as he watched Liogan dance and frolick in the grass.

  “Of course not. You are the guardian and protector of Princess Ramaya-nun, of her temple, and of all within.”

  “And all that was given to me was Her will, not my doing. Great things come from patience, men think great things come from destruction, conquest, and the rush of word and blade over others. That is why they live short lives of a most meaningless existence. They have forgotten Her, and for the most part, have forgotten her children. Alden, who gave his wings and blood to them on the earth, is the only one they still pay any mind to. Is that what it takes? For men to worship and believe, they need to see and see with blood and with their own eyes. Even then, they will eventually twist the faith, forget, and shed blood of innocents in the name of their worship. It is not what the Carician Gods of the Whitemoon set out to achieve for the world, for it to survive the dark father. Men are corrupt, and you may learn that in the most painful way, Lavress Tilaniun.” Grnikol watched as Liogan climbed the hill, twirling and touching everything, then he stopped and stared, frozen. Grnikol turned and walked down the stairs.

  “But not this morning, Grnikol, not today.” Lavress smiled and stared at the wonder of Liogan and his behavior.

  Liogan crawled like an animal on the hunt, closer to the top of the hill he crept. Peeking, then ducking, then peering over, he spotted the tents in the distance. Curious, he ran closer, hiding behind each tree and stone. The horses looked at him, and he to them.

  “Magnificent stallion, who lives here?”

  The men that ride us, the king’s men. What are you doing?

  “I am hunting, what should I be doing?”

  Your king is dying, I think they wait for someone to heal him.

  “Where? I might know someone.”

  In the big white and blue tent, the one with the falcon flags.

  “Thank you great beast, I will see what I can do for you.”

  Liogan crept, on all fours, to the tent with the pictures of falcons that moved when the wind told them to move. Men moved out of his way, a pretty robed lady in black waved her hand and they listened. She opened the flap for him, and in he went. Marcus shook his head and looked to the grass then began to pray quietly to Alden.

  There was a man Liogan recognized, gray and black trimmed beard, round old face and very little hair on top of it. He was pale, peaceful, dressed in nice clothing, except for his chest and arm that had white cloths and red stains. He sniffed, the arm smelled bad, so did the shoulder and his chest. The man was barely breathing, but his eyes opened.

  “Young…Liogan…Andellis…you look different…what…is…it? Tell…your…king.” He could barely see, hardly talk, and this young boy of Southwind had a golden glow around him. He knew he was dying, or already dead perhaps.

  “You smell sick, what is your name?”

  “I am…Mikhail…Salganat…your…king.”

  “I can make you better, but you have to promise me something first.” Liogan sat, like a dog, his tail would wag were he to have one.

  Lavress stood outside the tent, next to Aelaine and the Chancellor, fifty men gathered close.

  “What is he doing? He is like an animal in there, on the floor, licking things. What did they do to him?” She was angry, nervous, the king had stopped breathing twice this morning, only to resume with much blood in his coughs. The silent men, some of Vallakazz, some Southwind, yet all of Chazzrynn, watched with disapproving eyes.

  “I have no control over the will of Seirena or her priests. We cannot interfere.” Lavress was calm, patient, standing in front of the flaps of the tent like a guardian himself.

  “He is asking strange questions, like it is not him. Can this be hurried?” Father Marcus was frustrated, yet not as much as Aelaine.

  “No, it cannot.”

  “I…will…promise to forget…this place…and remember…to…honor…God more…often…yes.” Mikhail was fading.

  “And, give Liogan, that’s me of course, a knighthood and let him go with Lavress Tilaniun wherever he wants.” Liogan scratched in various places that a grown man would refrain from scratching in front of a king.

  “I promise…to…ahhh..uhhh…eh…” Mikhail’s eyes closed, his last breath gave out.

  “Then may you, Mikhail Salganat, have all that I have inside me, I heal your injuries and infections, and hold you to your words. Do not forget what I have shown you, do not forget to give my children honor!” The voice was not his own, his hand touched the king’s shoulder, golden light brighter than the sun flashed.

  “That was not Liogan’s voice, that was a woman’s voice! Who is in there with our king!?” Aelaine fought to get in, Lavress would not let her pass. Marcus Mederris stood with him.

  “Stop, Lady of Lazlette, please. We cannot interfere.” He restrained her arms, shielded her eyes, he knew that voice and that glow, and who was truly in there.

  The soldiers were divided, they wanted to see and help Aelaine, yet they were afraid to disrupt whatever was happening. Then they heard it, loud and clear after the stange glow faded, laughter. Jovial, sincere, laughter rose in the tent from their king and Liogan Andellis.

  Lavress let go of the Lady of Vallakazz, let the men pass him by, it was their moment, not his. He stood in the flaps of the tent, watching the soldiers crowd around Mikhail. His bandages were removed, the wound never was if one were to look. Marcus Mederris saw the flush and full face of his king and hit his knees, feathered cross in hand. Aelaine wept, standing as the king stood before her, her hands over her mouth, fingers trembling. Liogan was laughing, Mikhail was laughing, though they knew not why.

  “Lady Aelaine, Chancellor Marcus, Liogan Andellis, I thank you all and all of you fine men of Chazzrynn. I could not be more blessed to have such loyalty and love in my kingdom. Now, now that I feel well enough for my armor, where is the army?” Mikhail did indeed look healthier than he had appeared in a decade.

  “In Southwind your majesty, they await orders, or our
return.” Chancellor Marcus, still on his knees, gave the update.

  “And the battle there, you were victorious I recall. Where is that elf, Lavress Tilaniun? Ah, hiding outside the tent I see. Come in my brave elven warrior, come in.”

  “Your highness, glad to see you alive and well.” Lavress bowed.

  “Much thanks to you. I am indebted to you and your order, whoever they are. I cannot recall much, but that I know.” He smiled to the savage elf.

  “I am honored only that it succeeded, and that you are well, your majesty.” Lavress smiled to Liogan, knowing it was him that truly saved the king, though neither of them would remember much of it.

  “Now, what news of my son? How goes the siege in Valhirst?”

  That decade of refreshing vigor faded, Mikhail read the faces of Aelaine and Lavress. No one else made comment, just looked to one another as if someone else had the answer. The Lady of Lazlette and the hunter of the Hedim Anah just lowered their heads, trying to remain still. Without words, they gave away to the king that there was something they did not want to say, eyes they did not want to meet his on this subject, and Mikhail sat back down.

  “Tell me. Tell me what has happened to my only son.”

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  The rock hit him in the chest this time. Clack, clack, clack.

  Another, this boy was ruthless, it hit the leg. Clack, clack.

  “You are not much of a prince now. I think you are good target practice for stones though.” Oggidan had been sent by Vermillion of the South to keep an eye on the prisoners, Prince Bryant Salganat most of all.

  “You would do well to run, young one. When my father comes, and his army behind him, Valhirst will be---“ Thud, the rock hit him in the mouth then bounced along the stone floor.

  Clack, clack, clack

  “With you chained up to the wall like this, I thought it would be easier to hit your face. In the dark, I am still only getting one out of six or so, those are not good odds.” Oggidan laughed.

  Blood dripped from his split lip, his head had several lumps, and his entire torso ached from days and days of these rocks from this curly red headed bastard boy with one hand. He looked to the other cells, his men chained similar. Some had been killed, some hung from the walls he had heard when guards talked too much, and some were sold to the Taberlo slave trade.

  The sounds of war and siege had stopped yesterday, whatever assault his remaining soldiers had attempted had come to an end. His missing ring finger throbbed, but they had burned it shut with a hot brand after they cut it off. Bryant remembered the battle, the severed tongues of his men, men that he was tricked into killing. He recalled the fight between he and the black robed man known as Vermillion, the one who did not talk much. It all happened so fast. Their blades locked, two shortblades against his shield and broadsword. There were flashes of steel, dodges, parries, it looked glorious at the time. Then, all went black. His temple throbbed the worst, knowing he had taken a blow from a sword pommel there, and awoke here, in chains.

  Thud, clack, clack, clack

  Right in the forehead, Bryant raged out in anger, the chains stopping him ten feet before the boy leaning against the bars with a handful of stones in the dark.

  “Direct hit! I am getting better at this! And do not ever call me boy again, or cry about your father. When he does come, he will die too. We have a plan for your daddy, be sure of that.”

  “Then why not kill me now?”

  “Prince Johnas wishes that honor for himself, wants to see you beg.”

  “Will not happen. The king will see this city leveled to the ground before that, I know my father.” Bryant walked backwards, resting against the wall again. The smell in here was awful and full of mildew. The only light was a torch of strange green light some fifty feet down the prison walkway, and the food was but old bread and ground salty meat served with stale water. He was weak, hurt, and constantly tormented and tortured by this boy and other agents.

  “You invaded with a thousand men from inside, and four more thousand laid siege. Now, you have nothing, they all retreated. Your father got that many more? No, Vermillion says he don’t. And when Prince Johnas returns, he is gonna have many more.” Oggidan picked up his rocks, walked back to the bars, and took aim.

  “Returning from where?”

  Thud, clack, clack

  It hit him in the chest, he winced on instinct now, his whole body was sensitive from the bruising that was surely underneath these dirty rags.

  “Harlaheim. He has more than one kingdom ya’ know, he will have them all, like the Altestani did up north on their continent. Then, Johnas will be a great emperor too, you’’ll see.”

  “Is that what he tells you? Ha! Is that before he cattle brands you, or after? Stupid little whelp, whoever took your hand did the people a disservice by not finishing the job and ridding a bit of idiocy from the world.” He tried to invoke some anger, get some more information from the boy, likely at the cost of great pain.

  Thud, clack, clack

  His elbow spasmed in sharp pain, his laughter stopped and his face turned red trying to fight the ache.

  “Won’t work, the Emerald Eight are training me, orders of Prince Johnas himself. Then, I will take my revenge on Kendari, I will take both his hands, and his head. We’ll see who is stupid then.” Oggidan was serious now, sensitive to his missing appendage still, he threw harder.

  Thud, Clack, clack

  The glancing blow went off his ear, but Bryant turned his head quick anyway, sighed, then dropped limp. His arms hurt, but he did not move, he left his mouth open a bit to look uconscious. Another rock hit him, below the neck. He remained loose despite the pain, it took all he had not to grimace or flinch. He heard the footsteps come closer.

  “Shart, shart on me! I focking killed him! Wake up stupid prince, shart, shart, shart, I am---gggllllgghhh!”

  Bryant kicked up with his legs and pulled with all he had left in his arms. His calves wrapped around this boys’ neck. He twisted his body, turning Oggidan over sideways, then locked his feet together and squeezed. His shinbones were tight on the windpipe and back of the neck, no sound issued. Oggidan reached for his shortblade, since his gauntlet blade was by the bars and his pile of rocks. Bryant twisted the other way, nearly breaking the boys’ back as he turned him over again. He wrenched back and forth, then heard the steel sword hit the cold stone, he kept squeezing. Something moved, a shadow, then his forehead was struck and all spun into darkness.

  Gasping for air, his eyes nearly falling from their sockets, his head ready to burst from the pressure, Oggidan crawled around the floor in search of his breath. A rough hand pulled him up.

  “I told you to be careful, to watch him, not to fock around like a fool. Is this man in a cage?” Vermillion’s deep voice was intimidating, even to other trained killers.

  Oggidan nodded.

  “Is he a warrior, a killer, trained to fight?”

  Oggidan nodded again.

  “Then why would you poke and play with a caged and wounded animal? There is nothing more dangerous, is there?”

  Oggidan shook his head no, holding his throat and rubbing it in hopes the air would return soon.

  “Next time, he will kill you. Sword or no sword, he will do anything to be free. What will you do?” Vermillion picked up the gauntlet blade the boy used for his missing hand, then his shortblade and handed them to the Oggidan.

  His voice eked out from the small swollen passage in his throat. “Make sure there is no next time, keep my distance.”

  “Correct. It is like the moon I showed you, your boundaries are like a circular moon around you in every direction. This, is no different. Upstairs, time for another lesson.”

  Vermillion of the South drew his paired shortblades of masterful quality, and silently walked up the stairs. He looked back to make sure Oggidan followed, glanced at Prince Bryant who was breathing heavy and out cold, then turned and continued up. He would hang three more for the prince
’s attack, after he cut out their tongues. Then he would grind them and serve the tongues again, another meal fit for a prince.

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  The riders charged off with the sealed letters from their king, six men in all. The rest broke camp, packed their gears and tents, and readied for war. The letters had been simple, send me your men, to Valhirst, prepared for war. They rode to Southwind Keep, Saint Gavrielle, Addisonia, Vallakazz, Silverbridge, and even the capital city of Loucas. After his grieving sight of his sons’ finger and royal ring, having read the letter from Johnas Valhera, Mikhail had resolved not to give in to terror, extortion, or any demand or trick of the Prince of Valhirst. If it was war Johnas wanted, he would get it. His crying had lasted hours, but his resolve was stronger.

  The sun was warm, the breeze felt refreshing, but the king cared not. He was as stone, cold and quiet, armored and armed, and sitting atop a white steed awaiting the ride to Valhirst.

  “Your majesty, Johnas wants you to meet him in all out war, you are walking into a trap. The man is always steps ahead of you, why take his bait?” Chancellor Marcus, despite his queries, was dressed in his armor and ready atop his brown mare.

  “It is in Gods hands. I cannot leave my son to die in Valhirst, yet I will not give my crown to that wretch either. If I wait, he will attack other cities, murder nobles, and take it one way or the other. My only hope is, I can outnumber him with aid from the other lords and cities, and hit his walls faster than he thinks I will.” Mikhail looked east, waiting to give the order.

  “I will stay with you, as I know he has been rumored to house wizards among his council.” Aelaine vowed to herself not to get involved, she hated war. It cost her former husband in Arouland fourteen long years ago. Yet, she could not leave now, her king would need her.