The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

  “Nooooo! What have you done! Nooo!” Eliah fell to his knees, terrified.

  Fadim drew a knife in his left hand, now he had to kill them. He stopped as his first step began, the eyes on the decapitated head opened. Black mist poured into the air, blacker than oil, and swirled straight for Eliah Shendrynn.

  “Nooo! Get away!” Eliah ran out as fast as he could, but not faster than the raging midnight shadows that slammed him to the ground and poured into his mouth and ears. In seconds, it was over.

  Fadim stood still and stared at what was happening, the dead ogre rattled the chains that held them, and the eyes of the skull closed once more. Vanessa watched as well. Eliah Stood, turned toward them, then vomited all over his chest and fell again.

  “Get out of me! You thieving wretch of a whore!” It was Eliah Shendrynn, but his voice was different.

  “It is mine, focking elf, mine, get out!” It was not Eliah Shendrynn, not his voice at all, but out of the same mouth.

  The struggling elf drew his blade, then sheathed it, then fell to the ground shaking his head back and forth, arguing and moaning to himself, the scene was disturbingly mad.

  Vanessa turned to Fadim, he looked at her in return, and she unsheathed an ornate scimitar of curved elegance, her black wooden wand was already in her left hand.

  “You and your master have allied with the dead, those that manipulate souls and possess, and I pity that you must die here. I will mourn for Balric, for he truly loves a woman named Vanessa who does not exist.” Fadim strode directly at Vanessa Blackflame.

  She met his challenge, the feeble burned and scarred Caberran girl ran to the edge of the crevice, scimitar low to her side. His Shamshir, like a stroke of lightning, slashed at her, she parried it. Fadim’s knife followed, right for her heart, Vanessa parried it with a backslash.

  “Impossible, you are not Vanessa.” Fadim was stunned, she was well trained, like him, it was not believable.

  Vanessa angled her feet toward the right side of the crevice, her face was unemotional, and her dark eyes watched his without so much as a blink. She weaved the blade up to draw his parries, then feinted low to lure his crosscuts. Vanessa pulled back then feinted a lunge, pulling him close with his blades crossed and ready to disarm her. She feinted again, to the left, then the right, putting Fadim off balance fast. Not one blade made contact with the other. As she raised her blade to cut him down, she kicked him in the ribs, the razor sharp tip of her secretly bladed boot penetrated deep.

  Fadim leapt to the stone slab at the last moment before he fell into the crevice. His side was bleeding, his ribs likely broken, he had not expected this. His hands slipped, his shamshir fell into the endless black, yet he stuck his knife hard into the stone that still held the severed head of Salah Cam. Slowly, in agony, he got his shoulder over the edge, then the other, safely out of sword reach from Vanessa.

  “You, you tricked Balric, me, everyone, you are a splendid actress for a whore. Who taught you the arts of the blade?” Fadim pulled himself up to his hands and knees. He knew Vanessa was afraid of the dead ogre, she would not come around to reach him on the slab over the pit. He kicked the shadow spewing decapitated head of Salah Cam into the pit, then held his bleeding side.

  “Johnas Valhera.” Vanessa pointed the wand at Fadim, cold and composed, she waited to see his eyes.

  “Who are you?” Fadim stood then turned to face his opponent.

  “Sapphire of the East. And you are a traitor, good bye, traitor.” Vanessa focused and unleashed not one, not three, but five spinning blasts of red hot fire from her wand into the circular chamber. The rapidly expanding bursts slammed into Fadim, the dead ogre, and filled the entire room in explosive flames.

  Fadim screamed, his skin burning, clothing on fire, and he was blown into the crevice. The only light was his own incineration, all was dark, a freefall with no end in sight.

  His fall stopped a long minute later, his eyes closing, death taking him from the burns that stole his flesh. He felt something around his waist, soft yet strong, constricting and wet. It held him in the dark, the cold mucous extinguished the flames, yet his body was still moving down. He could scream no more, his body had nothing left, he lay limp on a pulsing serpent in the dark. Then orange light appeared below, still moving down, far beneath the surface of the world.

  “No.” He saw the outline of the thousands of feet of tentacle that held him. It was taking him down to something.

  “No, Yjaros have mercy, almighty God, creator of the earth and moons, no.” Fadim was helpless as he saw dozens more of the massive tentacles. They came from something in the ground, rivers of fire far below flowed around the thing. He saw others, held by these worms of the deep, they went further down. The tentacles had no end it seemed, travelling into caverns and holes from a mass that was pulling him in, he heard screams, besides his own. He saw the body of Salah Cam held by one tentacle, the head by another. There were so many.

  “Nooo!”

  Cristoff III:IV

  Shanador Tradeway, North of the Misathi Mountains

  Cristoff Bradswellen raised his head, shook the blood saturated hair from his eyes, and got to a knee. His mind swam to the raging melee around him. His horse was dead, he had taken another after the initial charge. He had been struck off that steed after deflecting an ogre spear. It was dark, the last of the light was fading behind them in the east replaced by western moonlight. He saw the bodies, hundreds of his men around him, hundreds of Deadeye ogre warriors lay dead as well. The battle still sounded heavy near the caravan, in the hills and on the road, all around him. He heard ogre in the southern foothills fighting the merciless charges of Sir Karai and his cavalry. Cristoff could hear Leonard calling for aid, but there was none. The former lord even made out Garrets voice, calming the people as ogre breached their supplies and began to kill.

  “My lord! Get up, you must call a retreat and---“

  Blood splattered across Cristoff as he was pulled to his feet, the head of the soldier fell. His longsword drove ahead with both hands on the hilt into the ogre, his shield was lost on the field. The ogre roared and raised his axe in fury. Cristoff was weak, but he stepped to his left and split the ogre open from belly to spine as the axe embedded into the corpse of the headless soldier. He dove the point through its back and out through the heart, then fell to a knee, too tired to stand.

  He looked now, squinting to see the field. He had twenty men remaining against over forty ogre led by a bloody chief Ullirut Deadeye, not fifty feet away and closing. He turned to look behind him. Garret was with ten men, fighting the ogre that had made it through to the people, outnumbered five to one. He could not see Sir Leonard, the north flank was a lake of dead bodies. Archers fired from the caravan at the approaching ogre that had trampled their way past his missing knight. Cristoff saw Sir Karai leading another valiant charge into the foothills, yet he had but fifteen horse perhaps against a scattered hundred ogre that were regrouping.

  He wanted to yell, to give orders, but his breath came in short gasps and he had ten ogre heading right for him. He looked, no one to stand with him, no one to sound the retreat, and his voice would not come.

  Here it is then, but I will take the chief with me, Alden mark my words and let me die well…

  Cristoff stood, summoning what strength he had left. He ran, his armor heavy, his men saw him take the charge on foot. Twelve of twenty made their way toward him, ignoring the ogre they fought, all on foot as well. They ran, charging with raised blades and bloody halbreds, toward forty ogre warriors that surrounded the chief.

  Stomping, well timed stomping of thousands came from the foothills behind the ogre. It echoed loudly like thunder through the mountain vales, stopping ogre and man alike to turn and stare. Cristoff slowed, his courage stolen as he heard the heavy steps of what was surely another ogre tribe. Unlike him with thousands of peasants in exile, the ogre had a city of vicious warriors nearby. He had known as much but had taken the chance, for his people and
their future. He hung his head as his few remaining men reached him. Then he heard it.

  “Vuumber!”

  “Vuumber!”

  “Vuumber!”

  The sound of stomping was accompanied by a war chant, the ringing of steel on steel, in time with the steps and words. It was terribly intimidating to all the men, most trembled in fear of what would emerge. The people of the caravan screamed in terror of the unknown in the night. The ogre were still however. Cristoff furrowed his brow in thought, listening close.

  “That is not the ogre tongue.” Cristoff looked up, west, into the foothills.

  A volley of arrows landed from the dark sky into ogre ranks, hundreds of flights, twenty of the warriors around chief Ullirut fell to the ground feathered with shafts.

  “Those arrows did not come from us, we don’t have that many archers left.” Cristoff walked forward straining to see what stomped in the dark of the Misathi toward them.

  “Ye’ ogre want a fight?! We be more than happy to oblige ye’ then! Come pick on some yer’ own size!” Tannek Anduvann raised the golden battle axe of King Therrak as he shouted his challenge onto the field.

  “Vuumber!”

  “Vuumber!”

  “Vuumber!”

  The five hundred exiled dwarves, once the Southern Outguard Scout of Marlennak, responded to their leader and marched onto the tradeway road. The bows were tossed to the far left and right of the formation. The archers readied their shields and axes, the front aimed their spears of steel for charge, and they waited for the order to kill the ogre that had attacked the caravan of human men, women, and children.

  “Ughteras, vorbrenn, artariuk dwargeliks!” Ullirut roared his rallying call for his men to charge the dwarves and take all of their heads.

  “Ye’ heard em’ men, they want our heads they do! I hate ogre! Exiled Battlebeards o’ King Thalanaxe, Charge!” Tannek slapped Drodunn on the shoulder and led his men running onto the field. Drodunn raised his axe and charged in, as did old Brunnwik the High Hammer.

  “Vuumber!”

  “Dwarves? From where, how could this, why would they…Thalanaxe?”Cristoff stared as the ogre ran from his caravan and people into an advancing and well formed dwarven army. He shook his head, stopping his minds’ questions, and raised his sword.

  “Knights and men of Harlaheim, flank them from behind, Charge!” Cristoff found his voice, some strength, and ran with his weary men of just over fifty in all. Sir Karai was still ahorse, Garret right behind him, and Sir Leonard emerged bloody but alive from the dark field of battle to kill the ogre, side by side with his lord.

  The moons watched as the two hundred raging ogre, fatigued from battle and bloodshed, met a wall of tight formed dwarven spears. A second row of spearmen plunged over the heads of their brothers, building a pile of ogre corpses. When the ogre gave up trying to charge over their own dead, they split to flank on the left and right sides. Tannek had them all too well trained in fighting ogre, and the dwarves on the sides held up their shields like a sheet of steel. The ogre pounded away, grabbed and tossed dwarves with their infuriated hands. Then the ogre began to fall. From under the wall of shields, the archers snuck low and hacked calves, ankles, knees, and hamstrings.

  Just as Ullirut decided to withdraw, the remaining men and knights of Harlaheim crashed into their warriors from behind, slashing swords with fury, pinning them between spears, the foothills, the dwarven axes and shields, and then there was nowehere to run or escape. His one eyed ogre lasted another minute, maybe less, then he was swarmed by ten dwarves and pulled down in the dark. Every ogre was dead, all but one, the Deadeye tribe was vanquished.

  Torches lit from man and dwarf alike, the caravan approached, the injured were being tended to. Rosana watched and Kaya peered out the open flap of their wagon. Two dwarves held each leg, two men on each arm, and the dwarf with the golden axe held a gauntlet full of greasy hair. He pulled it hard, forcing the huge one eyed ogre chief to look up to Cristoff.

  “You don’t want to see this Kaya.” Rosana closed the flap, relieved it was over.

  “Yes I do, please. Open it.” Kaya asked.

  “Why?” Rosana scrunched her face at the thought of what would likely happen here.

  “Victory is seldom in this world, as is justice.”

  “And salvation?” Rosana looked to her recovering sister in exile. She wanted to know Kayas past, but thought it better she did not, not yet.

  “Yes, that too.” Kaya smiled, seeing the red bearded dwarves meet and talk with the remaining Harlian soldiers.

  “Any last words, beast?” Cristoff drew his longsword.

  Ullirut spit, all he could do besides struggle with the nine that held him.

  Cristoff knew it was justice, and one less ogre. With him dead, they would have no word to Bloodskull to alert others to try the same. He would be saving his people from an assured retaliation. He raised the blade as the dwarven leader pulled Ulliruts head down by the hair for a clean stroke.

  “Wait, wait a moment would ye’?”

  Cristoff thought. These dwarves might prefer mercy, perhaps an honorable fight, or chaining him to the mountain. He paused, pushing his anger aside, thinking of what he was doing. Then he saw the golden axe, the dwarf held it out for him to take.

  “For me men, you get the kill, but with a dwarven axe. Cleaner and easier anyway. They call that compromise I think sir…” Tannek smiled.

  “Lord actually, Lord Cristoff Bradswellen the Third, exiled from Saint Erinsburg.” Cristoff took the golden axe, it was heavy. He raised it over the neck of Ullirut Deadeye.

  “Marshall Tannek Anduvann, exiled from Marlennak. Well met and all. Ready to see the fires o’ hell, ye’ one eyed ogre beastie? Hope so.” Tannek nodded to Cristoff.

  Chop, thud, thud

  Cheers went up into the sky at night, boots stomped, and shields clanged as the ogre chief was beheaded. The injured were healed by father Garret, father Drodunn, and the High Hammer Brunnwik. Prayers and miracles of Alden and Vundren went out in pious requests and they were answered. Just over four hundred were buried, only twelve were dwarves. Just the same, every dwarf paid their respects to the fallen soldiers of both races, as did every Harlian, regardless of the language of the blessings, or the God they were spoken to.

  “Marshall Anduvann, you said a familiar name when you came to our aid.” Cristoff stood in front of the unmarked grave of Capitan Broushelle, paying his last respects to the man that had served him for many decades.

  “I did? Don’t recall much o’ that moment, all hopped on whiskey and battle does that to me.” Tannek smiled.

  “You wouldn’t be heading west, would you? Far west?” Cristoff smiled back.

  “How far west?”

  “Very far west.”

  “To what?” Tannek grinned.

  “Whatever is there.” Cristoff noticed.

  “And what is there Lord Cristoff, do you think?”

  “A place that does not exist?” He saw it in Tannek’s face.

  “You following anyone in particular there?”

  “Maybe a beautiful elven woman and a noble knight, and what about you?”

  “Perhaps, I saw a horned gray beast and a lovely black robed wizardess?” Tannek saw the knowing look, he knew them.

  “And a priest, a very loyal dwarven priest that travels with them?” Cristoff knew he knew, he smiled.

  “Naye, we be following a dwarven king though. He just don’t know it yet. I have his armor, helmet, and royal axehammer with me.” Tannek lifted the flask to his lips, drank, and passed it to Cristoff.

  “Ahh, well, to a good journey then, wherever you are headed.” Cristoff sipped the whiskey, it was strong. He laughed out loud at their incidental meeting and patted Tannek on the shoulder plate, relieved to have the company.

  “Aye, to Azenairk Thalanaxe, wherever he is, and to the fallen men here tonight that died in hopes he finds it. Hope we find him soon.” Tannek drank again, smiling.


  “Yes, and to Sir James Andellis, Lady Shinayne T’Sarrin, and Gwenneth Lazlette.” Cristoff took the flask and drank again.

  “Aye, aye. And to Saberrak Agrannar o’ the Grays, may he keep em’ all alive and safe in the Misathi.” Tannek nodded to Cristoff, then went to set up camp, leaving his flask.

  “We have much to talk about, you and I. Sleep well, Tannek Anduvann, and thank you.”

  “Aye, I bet we do. No thanks needed Cristoff, we dwarves was lookin’ to kill somethin’ anyways. G’night.”

  Exodus III:XII

  Misathi Crossroads, South of Evermont, Shanador

  James was crouched on the ridge high above the valley, red rock peaks all around him. He looked across in the dark to Shinayne, she was still, poised, on the ridge opposite Deadman’s Pass. He could just make out her eyes and form in the moonlight. The knight of Chazzrynn waited, he knew they were coming. For an entire night they had ran and killed and run some more. Then the next day, then all this past night again, they had fled. They had taken caverns, hid over the peaks, done everything imaginable. The Mogi could not be shaken off their trail, would not cease, and last count had still over thirty that hunted them.

  He looked over his shoulder, Gwenneth and Zen were sleeping, exhausted they were. Gwenne had her head curled up into Zen’s lap, and the dwarf rested his face on her calves, both asleep on a small flat plateau of stone in the Misathi. There were no more blankets, spare clothes, or items of comfort. They had used them all to make enough fire to cook their last meal of vulture, crow, and hyena four days past. James had carried Gwenne up this slope hours ago, she had fainted and collapsed from using her arcane powers too much in the night. Zen was simply done in. His armor used to make less noise when he walked, he had lost many pounds of padding on this journey, and James could tell he was a bit thinner.

  His blue eyes wandered to the north, to Saberrak. He could just make him out as well, standing in the middle of the pass. He had not tired, not a bit. James had killed maybe three Mogi with his blade, Shinayne perhaps five or six, as Gwenneth and Zen had been trapping and assaulting with the arcane and divine together killing dozens and slowing them with many an obstruction. Saberrak, however, had gone off twice and though quiet about it, James knew he was killing many. His ferocity was more and more with each kill, and he grew more silent with each day that passed. James hoped that was a mindset, one that the minotaur would come out of, as it was a bit frightening at times.