The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

  “Take positions on either side of the pass, keep hidden. Kill any that do not die from her fires.” Veuric spoke before Rynnth did as her mind controlled him with the blood he drank every few days.

  Faldrune hefted his two handed spiked mace and did as Rynnth, through Veuric, instructed. He could only speak Agarian, and he knew that the wyrm knew his words and thoughts. He kept quiet, always watching his Katrina for when she would make a move or give a signal. He had been spitting most of the blood out when she had made them drink from her tongue or arm, one time he held it in his mouth for half a day before letting it drip out of his nostrils while he pretended to sleep. His eyes still felt the heat, the blood, the will of the the winged wyrm, but not as strong as she might have thought. He knew Katrina had been doing the same.

  The supposed queen of Willborne took her longsword out of the sheath and planted it in the loose sandy soil of red like the mountains. She strapped on her shield, placed her helm on her head, and closed the visor. The crown set on top near perfect, she pulled the blade from the earth, and tried to calm her heartbeat with slow breaths. She was not afraid of the five fugitives that Johnas wanted, that the dragon wanted, nor the giants in the clouds. She was more terrified of what would happen after they killed them all, when Rynnth had no more revenge to take. Would she live to see Willborne again, would the dragon rule the kingdom like her children had ruled Bailey, or would they all become the next meal for the colossal wyrm that controlled them. Katrina thought these things, under her surface thoughts of heat, food, killing, and serving. She had learned how to keep her mind occupied for the dragon while maintaining her sanity and will underneath.

  “Hixreth, timogxeem xastra xuxdery kilaxiast, pruxellex asrex huum vuriu exeth.” She could have spoken in the Agarian tongue, but having a translating priest and the sound of her native language pleasured her.

  Rynnth seemed to laugh at the end of whatever she had just said. They all noticed as she was not one for any sort of humor. Veuric, Katrina, and Faldrune all felt the hair on their arms and necks stand on end.

  “What did she say, priest?” Faldrune growled it out, hating the suspense that Veuric was prone to at times.

  “Rynnth says that you are not to kill them, but take an arm or a leg and incapacitate them. She wants their appendages, she will burn them all slowly, over a week, and watch them suffer.” Veuric gulped, hearing the hissing snicker of the monstrous winged beast he served.

  Katrina looked to Faldrune, he returned the glance, then both blinked slowly to one another. Neither knew what it meant, just that they both meant something, and they knew that she did not know. It was enough.

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  Auf Alach had stopped, the clouds swirled around the home of the giants of the sky, and lightning crackled from the proximity of the storming castle and the peaks of the Misathi. The thunder was weak in comparison to the pounding fists of over a hundred giants as the bridge lowered out of the clouds.

  They had tracked the dragon to the west and followed. Their home moved slow, but their sight from above rarely missed anything. They had indeed lost the wyrm for nearly seven days and assumed she had gone underground. The last few days however, telltale signs of smoke south of Evermont gave her away. In late summer, with all the heat on the surface, no one but a dragon would want or wish fire during the scorching late afternoon. They had directed their dying king, Arytor the Spear, to guide their floating home south of the crossroads that the slaves used. There, in the distance, they saw the fires of their black wyrm.

  From the walls they shouted praise, from the windows they stomped and drank to the hunt, and from the bridge the women of Auf Alach threw handfuls of leaves and flowers as the chosen of the storm walked out onto the mountains below. Only Udmalyr Sun-born stared in silence. The younger brother that had fell to the trial of the storm hung his head as his two brothers went on to glory.

  Kimtor Seven-teeth stepped first, his bronze greaves, disc plated armor, and round shield all shined under the clouds. His helmet showed his tattooed face and beard of yellow and sprouted his braids out the top. He clanged his massive broadsword to his shield. He looked down to the seven fangs on his chain that held his bearskin cloak. He hoped to add more to it this day.

  Eybrol Raven-hair wore no helm, had no braids in his long black mane, and his beard was neatly groomed like the old statues of Annar. His armor was a solid bronze plate with greaves and gauntlets. He had no cloak, no jewelry, he needed none on the hunt. The younger brother stood a foot taller than Kimtor, nearly twenty seven feet tall. Eybrol had no shield, he needed none either. His bronze greatblade of over fifteen feet came up to his chest as he planted it hard in the bridge and waved his fists over his head at his people. They stomped and cheered, the women threw their traditional plants over his head, and he walked ahead of quiet Kimtor.

  Heavy steps sent rock spilling onto the southern slopes as the two brothers, sons of Arytor, giants of Auf Alach, marched toward their prey. Over peaks and into valleys, they stalked north and west toward Rynnth and her pets. They were silent toward each other, neither wishing to share words. Brothers by blood, but the crown and rule for centuries to come depended upon who took the head of the dragon. So for now, there was nothing to say among the two giant warriors.

  Eybrol hefted his greatblade over his shoulder and drew a dagger in his other hand. The sun beat down, the sweat marked them both as the hunt went an hour away from their floating home.

  “I would much like you to use that dagger on the hunt brother, my victory would be assured with that small blade.” Kimtor Seven-teeth laughed as they walked.

  “Surely this dragon is not a big as you say, Kimtor.”

  “She is, and with that knife you will but make her laugh at you.”

  “It has two uses, smaller brother. One is to take the teeth from my kill.” Eybrol stopped near a turn in the valley they followed.

  “That is my kill you speak of, younger one. But go on, your arrogance may amuse me.”

  Eybrol smiled then drove the dagger into the back of his brothers thigh. He wiped the blood across Kimtors bearskin cloak. His brother fell to a knee, roared in pain and surprise at the treachery, and drew his broadsword. Eybrol walked ahead, with longer strides, and sheated his dagger. He was safely out of reaching distance.

  “The other is to assure that it is my kill, my crown, and my kingdom. Good bye, Kimtor Seven-teeth, when I return, you will call me King Eybrol the Blade, King of Auf Alach.” Eybrol did not even turn to look, he knew his brother would never keep pace now, he had hit true.

  “Curses upon you, I call the Gods and the storms to see you fail! You are as false as your honor you have shown here! I will call you Eybrol Snake-tongue!” He yelled to his brother who had just won at foul play but Eybrol kept walking away to hunt for the dragon. His taunts and challenges fell on deaf ears that only wished to hear his own name chanted upon the throne.

  Kimtor tried to stand, the pain was terrible. He limped, blood running red down his leg, and continued slowly. He stopped, tore the bearskin and wrapped his wounded thigh tight. He knew he would not catch his brother now, but perhaps he could still have victory. The eldest son of Arytor grunted through the agony and shambled forward after his treacherous brother and through the western ends of the Misathi.

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  “Now?” James looked to Gwenneth.

  “Ready?” Shinayne looked to Zen.

  “Open it.” Saberrak huffed, his breathing was fast, his muscles bulged and flexed as he gripped a greataxe in each hand. He was crouched low, knowing what would be coming overhead.

  The sun had just left the valley of Deadman’s Pass, the fires of green cannibal shamans were not lit yet, and Zen was not praying by the stone, not this time. Gwenneth began to chant, her staff of Imoch glowed from green to red, three of the five ancient runes glowed deep green, she focused on allowing the energy to flow through her and out her fingers that pointed to the stone wall wit
h the crack. Hovering, she completed the invocation from the staff.

  “Yealvathoor umanti oor!”

  A ripple of deep blue snaked from her fingers then launched over the minotaur and into the stone. The rock exploded outward, two waiting Mogi giants blown off their feet with shards of stone that carried them into the valley below.

  With a savage growl and a horns down charge, Saberrak the gray ran after the cascading chunks of stone and into the pass. Shinayne kept pace, not turning to search the peaks nor survey the enemies on the slopes above. Gwenneth flew out after, James and Zen covering her on each side and on a dead run. A quick axe slash and an elven sword stroke opened the throats of the two giants struggling on the rock floor. No one missed a step nor paused, they knew they could not afford any delays.

  The Mogi howled their hunting cries, then dozens answered, then dozens more after that. From the cliffs all around they saw their prey, running into the valley, their valley, and heading north. The shamans chanted for their souls, calling the hunters to bring them to the fires they would start. The little vermin had killed many of their tribe, disgraced their sacred totems, and trespassed on the Mogi burial grounds where none but Mogi were allowed. The tribes all knew that they must kill them all for their transgressions, and kill them in the fires of their ancestors.

  “Raaghaha, rahaga, mogaha, ramogahi!”

  Spears hurled from the cliffs and peaks aimed at the minotaur and the elf. Too fast, stepping in broken lines to not be hit, the bone projectiles broke and scattered around them.

  “Left!” Zen yelled it loud, making sure Shinayne and Saberrak heard it as he pointed with his blacksteel warhammer. Gwenneth nodded.

  “Now!” James shouted as he saw the elf and the minotaur veer right to safety.

  Gwenneth did not look much past the pointed weapon of her dwarven friend, just to the rocks was all, she did not focus on the horde of things moving upon it. She repeated the chant of the invocation of the quake. Seconds later, the indigo light struck the slope and it shattered into a rumbling mass of stones. Five Mogi giants roared in desperation as the landslide buried them to the knees. They toppled over, more rubble showering and sliding over them as they fought to escape. Shinayne and Saberrak cleared the avalanche as it reached the pass and kept running. Zen and James took the far right as Gwenneth hovered over the loose rock.

  “Right Gwenne, to the right!” Zen yelled again seeing twenty Mogi clearing the peaks not a hundred feet away in the darkening sky.

  “Now!” James saw the footsteps of his friends head to the left, and called it clear for Gwenneth.

  “Inviernas, trebias, taroon!” She pointed the staff to where Zen guided with his hammer. Her hands ached as the relic of the archmage Imoch grew cold, colder than the ice of Vallakazz in midwinter.

  The slope of the mountain, hundreds of feet across, from the edge of the valley to the peak, shimmered with ice. Icicles by the hundreds that grew up instead of down appeared, mists clung just feet above the frosted red rock, and the charging Mogi slid and crashed down instead of giving chase north. By the time they reached the bottom, those that could stand were well behind their prey.

  “Behind us! Gwenne, behind!” Zen turned and saw them, nine there were and not the Mogi that had fallen on the magical ice either.

  “Now!” James looked to the rear, no one was there but the Mogi. He ran steady, keeping pace with Gwenne and Zen was easier than trying to keep up with Shinayne and Saberrak. He turned as she began to chant, three were waiting ahead in the curve of the pass.

  “Zen, behind my fire!” Gwenneth chanted quick, harmless green light erupted from the ground behind them. It covered the pass from north to south, flickered like green flames nearly twenty feet tall and five times that in width.

  Azenairk took a fast knee, sliding on his plate armor. “Vundath, ertha und estra undith Vundren ver!”

  As he finished his prayer he slammed the warhammer into the ground. He turned and ran to catch up as the Mogi cannibals charged the green fires they did not fear, not twenty steps behind him.

  Zen smiled, hearing the sliding of sharpened rock, the growing spikes of stone erupt from the floor in the pass, right behind the fires at a rear facing angle. The Mogi impaled themselves as they leapt savagely through the familiar flickering green light they thought was guiding them, surely from their shamans and ancestors. They roared and screeched in pain, giant slivers of blessed rock gorged through them, holding them helpless as they bled black into Deadman’s Pass.

  Saberrak turned left, then right, watching the eyes of the three Mogi before he and Shinayne. The elf and the minotaur crossed at the last second, confusing the gray giants of death. Their spears crossed, then an axe cleaved deep into an ankle, then another on the middle giant, and two elven cuts took the tendon of the third. The giants fell but turned to grab the blaspheming vermin, just as a broadsword dove into the ribs of the hunter on the right. A bolt of lightning charred through the back of the middle Mogi, dropping it dead.

  Saberrak turned around as Shinayne kept running ahead. He was barely out of reach from the kneeling cannibal but threw his axes both end over end. They drove into the chest of the Mogi that still lived. It fell down on all fours. Zen ran beside it, crashed his warhammer twice into the temple, then once on the back of the head, and it fell dead. James grabbed one axe, Zen the other, both of them tossing the weapons to their owner. Saberrak caught his axes, then all four began their run again as more Mogi swarmed behind them, dozens more.

  Shinayne leapt up onto a hillock of stone, the spear rammed the rock floor where she had just been. She ducked the swing of the shaft held by the Mogi shaman, then jumped up on the side of the slope. Another lunge meant to impale her and the elven noble sidestepped and climbed a few feet higher. She feigned to be losing grip, feigned a slide down, but dug her bootheels into the rock. The fetish covered horned Mogi reached out to grab the sliding elf, now eye level at fifteen feet off the valley floor.

  Carice and Elicras tucked under in a close guard, Shinayne somersaulted right at the face of the shaman. His hand went underneath, his spear rose but not in time, and the highborne elf struck out twice as she passed his horned face. Both enchanted blades cut deep gashes across its neck, black blood poured thick. She wrapped her arm around one of the chains that connected his tusks to the horns on his head, and swung onto its shoulder. Before it could cover its throat or reach for the elf, her blades dove down through the softer flesh between the neck and collarbone, one blade on each side. Shinayne rode the falling beast to the valley, just as her friends rounded the corner.

  They all heard the chanting, now mostly south and east of them. The valleys to the south suddenly radiated a dozen green glows, the sun fell behind the peaks to the east, and the last sliver of light faded on the horizon.

  “Raaghaha, rahaga, mogaha, ramogahi!”

  “Raaghaha, rahaga, mogaha, ramogahi!”

  “Raaghaha, rahaga, mogaha, ramogahi!”

  It grew louder, more of them, the Mogi were angered and the shadows moved in the southern peaks.

  “We killed how many?” James looked south, not believing what he was seeing as more than twenty fires shone in eerie green light behind them.

  “Forty, there or abouts. Nearin’ sixty with the ones Saberrak killed few days back.” Zen wiped the sweat from his face, not daring to take off his helmet.

  “Looks to be a few more than that left.” Saberrak huffed. He began to run north.

  “A few?” Shinayne looked south, then she saw the heads clear the cliffs. Twenty, thrity, fifty, then even more Mogi spread across the slopes of the pass after them. “Run! That is more than a few Saberrak!”

  “A few more than we care to handle.” Saberrak smiled as Shinayne caught up.

  “Gwenneth, behind!” Zen ran as fast as he could go, pointing his warhammer, covered in Mogi blood, to the rear of the cannibal horde.

  “Now!” James kept close to Gwenne and waited for the next wave of Mogi. He knew thi
s night would never end.

  Johnas III:IV

  Docks of Valhirst, Chazzrynn

  The setting sun in the east was tranquil, the waves gently sloshed into the piers, his city was quiet from here. Johnas Valhera, dressed in the finest Harlaheim robes and garments of greens and gold and polished black leathers, watched the last minutes of light escape over the Carisian Sea. He knew the captain of the Morninghawk was waiting, right next to him. Vermillion and Oggidan stood behind him with fifty of Valhirst’s finest as well. The Prince took long steps, stretching his stiff legs from the journey back home.

  “Yes captain?” He asked, already knowing what the question would be.

  “Your highness, may I take my daughter and wife now. I have done as you asked, more actually.” He trembled, this man was not the monster that Prince Bryant had told them over the years, he was far worse.

  “No.”

  “But Prince Johnas, your word, your honor, what would you have me do?”

  “Nothing. Your ship, well the heir prince’s ship, is now mine. I truly have no further use for you.” Johnas Valhera, Prince of Valhirst, Regent of Harlaheim, Patriarch of the White Spider, and Ambassador of Caberran Trade watched as the Harlian Galleons made port. He smiled, five thousand hired blades, an entire kingdom with a retainer of Crossguard Legionairres to the north, and his crown was surely en route via Mikhail Salganat as they stood on the docks. He had no doubts that the king would come for his only son.

  “I want my wife and daughter, sire. I will do anything, anything you ask. Please.”