“Yay!”
“Would the brave lord Agrannar care to here a tale of his accounts?” Tubrey o’ Tarnobb shouted from across the hall, small pygmy of a man, but a great voice he had.
Saberrak watched as everyone dined, drank, discussed at the table a great many things. Lords and well spoken knights came and went, messengers bowed and relayed, and the minstrels awaited the minotaur. He waved his hand, slow and graceful, toward the little folk.
“Yay!” All fifteen Shans o’ Little Door went for every sort of instrument around their tables.
Noble men with their wives, some without, greeted the guests and knights throughout the dinner. Some talked to the dwarf on the kingdoms of his people. Others spoke to Shinayne about hers. There were many a fine knight that insisted on shaking hands with Sir James Andellis. Gwenneth and Saberrak, despite their valiant acts of heroism, seemed the least popular. Saberrak assumed it was his horns and savage look. Gwenneth was a prodigal student of the arcane, which left her alone in many ways, she was well aware. They looked to one another, ate, and smiled over the table of food as the rest of the room buzzed around them.
“Sir Jardayne, I am afraid I must depart this rather entertaining feast. Please forgive my absence and that of the Prince of Armondeen.” A strong man with dark eyes, black hair in a pulled tail, and finely decorated plate armor bowed to the Knight General next to Saberrak.
“I am sorry to hear that, Lord Harron. Express the same to young Prince Rohne for me. What is the trouble?” Jardayne stood, nudging the minotaur on purpose. Saberrak stood, having that sense now in this formal setting.
“King Ian, his health worsened. Queen Andora of Armondeen is concerned. She has moved him from Vin Armon to his manor, north in Forrivar. The Prince is rather distraught as you can imagine.” Lord Harron bowed, then looked to the doorway where a young nobleman in his teens, dark hair and eyes the same, spoke with a messenger upon a knee.
“Forgive me, Lord Agrannar, let me introduce one of our fromer knights of Evermont, now the Lord Amirak of Vin Armon in the capital of Armondeen. He is the right hand of his king and queen, high Amirak of the military, and mentor and guardian of the heir prince.This, is Harron Vir Magaste, and over to our right there, that is Prince Rohne, the heir prince and son of Ian and Andora.” Jardayne bowed slightly to them both.
Saberrak looked this man over quick, he was a warrior. His posture, his hand on his long curved blade, small scars under his trimmed beard and on his hands, the minotaur saw the signs despite the refinery and title. “So, Lord Harron, why would you leave your knighthood and become a lord in another kingdom?”
“Quite direct is he not?” Harron smiled to Jardayne then glanced to Saberrak, looking him over distantly.
“Lord Harron was once the Knight General of Evermont, and his blade was mighty in many a battle, Lord Agrannar. After saving queen Andora from bandits of the free cities, he was offered lordship from King Ian of Armondeen. It was an honor that our low king, and Lord Harron, could not refuse from our northern neighbors.” Jardayne smiled. He had been the Knight General for the last sixteen years since Harron had left, and relayed the reasons many a time.
“Like you, minotaur, I am also known for heroics. Although saving a queen is more profitable than saving the stunted of size.” Lord Harron looked the minstrels that were still warming their instruments to tune.
“I feel that heroism, regardless of cause or class, is deserving of equal glory. Do you agree, Lord Agrannar?”
“I fight for my---“
“Come now Sir Jardayne, he is not a lord of anything. You give too much grace here. Butchers and beasts at Symonds’ table, times have changed indeed since my leave.”
Saberrak looked to the lord before him, his blue paint so slight around his dark eyes, oiled hair and perfumed aroma, he stared down and growled very low. “I care little for words or titles when it comes to such things, Harron.”
“That is Lord Amirak Harron Vir Magaste, especially to you.”
“Lord Agrannar, you must be starving. Please, enjoy the feast while I show Lord Harron out.” Jardayne stepped in, he knew it would escalate. He knew Harron would not stop his well worded chastising of anyone that drew more attention than he. The knights’ only worry was that a minotaur such as Saberrak may not take it well, or worse, may retaliate. He walked aside Lord Harron, formally of Evermont.
“Now you are saving horned beasts at the dinner table, Jardayne, you could have been more.” Harron walked to the prince of Armondeen. He spoke low as the feast went on.
“I am content with my title, unlike you were, Lord Harron.”
“I could use men like you, I have offered before.”
“And I denied, and still do, with complete respect to thee and thine king. Please, do not ask again.”
“My prince, it seems that Sir Jardayne is showing us out.” Harron bowed to the young prince.
Sir Jardayne bowed as well, the two looked like old and young versions of the same person. Same style of dark engraved formal plate armor, high boots, curved dress blades at their sides, even the eyes and hair matched. Thin rich colored faces with high cheekbones, yet Harron’s nose was prominent where Rohne’s was rather small and pretty.
“Prince Rohne of Armondeen, I sincerely wish you could stay. My condolences, and those of Evermont, go to thee and thine father, King Ian. We will keep his name at the top of the prayer list with the bishop and---“
“May we go, Lord Harron. This place bores me.” Prince Rohne turned his back and walked out the hall, royal messengers and servants in tow.
“Ah, to be young again. Good evening, Sir Jardayne. Do not forget my offer.” Lord Harron turned and followed his prince.
Jardayne looked to Codaius, they shared a nod, one that meant he had offered them both again this night, and they had both refused, again. The Knight General received nods from Sir Valonne of Cailoc, Sir Naghen of Nestrim, and even young Sir Anders of Carrelyn, knights of Evermont who traced their family line to the most recent city beyond Evermont. Upon their vows to their low king, all gave up their family name and honors, and took that city as their noble suffix. Ten knights for each of the ten seats of Shanador, one hundred in all, and all bowing to a low king that bowed to the high king in Acelinne. Five of Evermont’s oathed were with Symond now, and Lord Harron had wasted no time in his attempts to hire away at the loyalties of the five that remained. The music began, snapping Sir Jardayne of Highmont out of his focus on the departed nobility from Armondeen. He took his seat next to the bold minotaur, knowing that the horned one felt and spoke as he wished he could.
Flutes sang a low long tune, then the small drums and tambourines beat out a soft and steady march, and wood pipes whisteled soft melodies. Everyone ate quietly now, listening as the Shans o’ Little Door played, late as usual. The stringbox strummed, the fiddle hit staccato strokes with the tempo, and the harp covered the harmony with an unearthly elegance. Little Tubrey o’ Tarnobb cleared his throat, then he, a spotted goblin, and Pirri Ann the Golden, sang in trio.
Saberrak felt it. The melody, the slow harmony, and pain inside of him. He stood, back to the room, and walked quietly to the window facing the east over the Misathi. He felt the blue mist of his eyes coming, he did not want anyone to see. A storm was approaching, the pain in his chest came from up there, from Him, something was happening, yet he could only feel it.
“O’er the trails of Mountains we travel,
So much to see and to hear,
A battle was laid to unravel,
Yet a bold warrior was near.”
Saberrak felt the hand of someone on his shoulder, soft, standing with him as his eyes glowed blue and he stared into the sky over Evermont. He looked to his buckle with the fist of Annar, then to the fangs from the giant, and then he saw Gwenneth satnding with him. He felt loneliness, not his own, but from above. Annar was alone, in a dark place that used to be his home. It was cold, and Saberrak shivered in the warmth of Shanador. It was ruined, burned,
empty and Saberrak smelled the charred stone of a great castle far away. He lowered his head, fighting tears that were not from him, he had never cried once in his life.
“What is it, the song?” Gwenneth talked soft, staring out as well, hand on Saberrak’s shoulder, smoothly rubbing his gray hide.
“No. It is Him, he has arrived home, and it is gone, destroyed.”
“Him who, Annar?”
“Yes.”
Gwenneth thought to argue, to tell him it was illogical to feel such things from such a being, that it was easily explainable as an effect from whatever was in that scroll and now in him. She could have said many things. She continued to rub her hand over his gray hide, smiling back once in awhile as many were likely wondering what was wrong with their guest of honor. The melody played on.
“The dragon lay flame on the giants,
Killing and raging all day,
He would not stand for the tyrants,
His axes found their just way.
Thine bravest men would have sought cover,
Despite we smalls passing the road,
And while their blood spilt on each other,
Saberrak went with horns lowed.
His shoulders throbbed, something trying to pierce them, Saberrak held on to the stone trim around the window with a white knuckled grip. The stone cracked, he gritted his teeth, growling out to the storm as thunder rolled to the west over the city. Wings, his wings were ripping out of his back, finally after thousands of years, Saberrak let the tears fall.
“Are there wings coming out of my back?” He whispered in pain.
“No, nothing. Just keep breathing.” Gwenne started to well up, her eyes getting wet now, she knew he was in pain. She faked a smile, maintaining composure. She heard a chair slide, she looked to Shinayne and nodded that all was fine, fake smile, fake nod, but more attention was not needed now with more eyes turning from the music to the minotaur growling out the window.
“Are they staring?” He huffed out as quiet as possible.
“I have that all under control. Just keep breathing, it will be over soon.” Gwenneth smiled to the musicians, nodded, and winked. They smiled back, assuming he was choked up over their melody.
“Oh, oh oh, dead titans and dragon,
Would that they now are but bone,
So, raise up your wine and your flagon,
For Saberrak o’ steel and o’ stone,
Oh, oh, oh he faced them alone,
Oh, oh, oh, he faced them…alone.”
The last note carried, the string, the harp, the trio of voices, and lastly the soft wood flute. All was silent. Saberrak felt it, the song, the pain of Annar up somewhere watching him, he knew that He saw him this very moment from wherever He was. Saberrak shuddered, his muscles bulging, he was lifting a pillar, a pillar of his home and temple off of his throne of stone. Annar heaved it into the dark ashes of his ruins and yelled, wings spread out, he had to let them know he was still here, alive to all the world and heavens. Saberrak roared something bestial, savage, from pain and defiance that welled inside. The thunder cracked loudly with the flashing storm at the same moment, thankfully covering his yell that would have put a healthy fear and terror into anyone inside the room.
“I am home, let the world know, tell the moons, tell my brothers and sisters, tell my father, I am home. And there will be much vengeance upon the wicked.” The words were gone, the feeling left, Saberrak was back in Evermont now. The blue light faded from his eyes, his body relaxed, yet the tears fell down his tattooed face under his horns.
The room was silent, moments after the song for Saberrak eneded. Shinayne stood, as did Zen and James. They stood with Saberrak at the window, looking to him, then to the storm, then back to him.
Tubrey o’ Tarnobb bowed, as did his players, he waited a moment, then looked up.
“Did Lord Agrannar find pleasure with our melody?”
Everyone waited, turned to the five guests at the window, and looked with revered silence.
“Gwenneth, please, speak for me.” Saberrak whispered, eyes tearing beyond his will, looking to the sky and the storm, not sure why he felt to do so or had these emotions of things he could not truly see. He knew he could not turn around, not yet, he needed a little more time.
Gwenneth wiped her eyes quickly, nodding to the confused looks of James and Azenairk, and the knowing look of Shinayne. She turned and curtsied in grand fashion with a most beautiful smile.
“Lord Agrannar says that it was the most divine melody he has ever heard. Your poetry and skills are beyond compare and he is too choked for words at the moment on account of your ballad. Please, continue.” Gwenneth waved her hand gracefully and smiled true to all present in the kings’ hall.
“Yay! Yay! Yay!” The noble crowd carried on in applause.
“Thank you.” Saberrak whispered to his friends as his eyes searched the sky and the clouds over the Misathi Mountains. For what or for whom, he was still not sure.
Silently and respectfully, Azenairk, Shinayne, Gwenneth, and James just stood with Saberrak. They could not thank him, there were no words. He had saved them without fear more than anyone could have. He was their strength, and they were his. They watched the sky, as he did, with their gray minotaur gladiator touched with the spirit of Annar.
About the author
Jason R Jones was born September 1975 and grew up in Monroe, Wisconsin. He is an honorable veteran of the United States Marine Corps, a saber fencing enthusiast, and a loving father to his sons, Alexander and Adonis. His love, Blanca, tries to keep him to task when he is not escaping to write. Jason’s flare for short stories, poetry, drama, and fantasy has existed since he can remember. He is the oldest of four siblings followed by Jeremy, Anya, and Cody, and has resided in Southwest Florida since the year 2000. Interests in fine dining, music, meditation, ancient history, film, world religion, and mythology keep him very busy and inspired. He plans to bring out many tales of his own life hidden deep within his epic series. The novel, “of ghosts and mountains”, is the third installment of eighteen in The Exodus Sagas Octavodeciad, followed soon by the finale to the first quartet, “of moons and myth”.
Graphic Design by Robert Martinez
Illustrations by Jenna T. Lefevre
Visit The-Exodus-Sagas.com & JasonRJones.com
Follow on Twitter twitter.com/#!/AuthorJRJones
Find on Facebook facebook.com/#!/jasonjones02
Special thanks to,
The love of my life, Blanca, and my sons Alexander and Adonis who receive the highest thanks that written words cannot describe. To my family, my friends, and to all the fans…thank you.
---JRJ April 2012
Epilogue
Vin Armon, Capital of Armondeen
The storm was suddenly full of vengeance this night. Low clouds fell fast from the eastern highlands and the southern curselands. Her black mare snorted in disapproval despite the proximity to home that it was well aware of. The rain was but sheet after midnight sheet of mist and little more, yet the wind and bolts that the dark sky threw made up in ferocity what it lacked in pour. All the steeds, not just hers, all hundred in the thick of the southern Armondi forest road were uneasy. It was as if the sky had sent a warning after dusk and all horses and riders but one would have stopped for the night. For that one, they pushed on, as would any noble escort with Queen Andora of Armondeen. Fierce thunderstorm or her wrath and disapproval, the choice was easy to decide upon.
Fortress Arnhast stood menacing with its three twisted towers above the southern reach of Vin Armon, the capital of her kingdom. Andora looked to the black walls when the lightning allowed. All dark in the tower of she and her husband, the tower of the Scepter. The old infermed King Ian was now far north with the clergy of Alden in Forrivar. No light from the tower of the Lance where her lords and knights would gather to maintain their forces. Many a candle burned from the tower of the Talon however, and she knew what that meant. Her Lord Amirak and son were home, and
the green moon was full somewhere beyond the gale above.
“Make way for the Queen!” The royal gatesman saluted, his spear down, and took knee before her. His pointed helm and rain washed armor, both of overlayed steel scale, shone with the torches they had kept lit for their queen Andora and her escorts. Steel spikes rose from clanking gears and chains that raised the ivy covered portcullis.
“Lord Harron and Prince Rohne have returned?” Her dark eyes and hair, fair skin and elegant curved features, gave the illusion of beauty and desire to most men.
Knowing her anger and title, most men looked down to avoid a chance look to her chest or a sneaking glance to her lips. All here remembered what Lord Harron did to the last man that made a pass of flattery toward the sultry figure of Andora. The gatesman looked to the skeleton still in the iron cage to the south of the gate. He responded with his eyes low, although a peripheral eye wandered to her smooth white leg beneath the robes that fluttered in the wind.
“Yes, your highness. Early this morn, they arrived safe in thine castle.”
“Any visitors or retainers? Lords from other cities sending word?” She simply looked down to make sure none of her men looked directly at her in any way.
“None, your highness.” He saw her sandaled foot, toenails painted black, the ankle and shape was nearly perfect.
“Good. Carry on.” Queen Andora dismounted, one of her robed escorts, all women, helped her down. Another handed her wooden staff etched as a snake with scales in the polished black wood.
Her armies were spread but strong in the Armondi cities of Feldumesh, New Aloeste, Barivow, Vin Osrow, and even with the dying king in the city of four rivers, known as Forrivar. Vin Armon had little, just royal guards to protect and welcome, spies and messengers, and of course her assassins that had been frequenting the merchant city of Freemoore.
The Nataloni Nochti, Andora’s own hidden trained killers with secret unholy skills that allowed them to perform beyond a normal blade in the night. All men, twenty two now she had, and none of them remembered birth nor childhood after what she and the summoned had done to them. The merchant lords that did not focus their efforts on Armondi trade, seemed to disappear with little trace. Andora hoped to attain the city within a few years time at most.
The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains Page 53