Table of Contents
Title
Dedication
Forward
Prologue
Introduction
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Chapter24
Chapter25
Chapter26
Chapter27
Chapter28
Chapter29
Chapter30
Chapter31
Chapter32
Chapter33
Chapter34
Chapter35
Chapter36
Chapter37
Chapter38
Chapter39
Chapter40
Author
Gratitude
Epilogue
The Exodus Sagas
IV
Of Moons And Myth
by
Jason R Jones
“An exodus is a grand departure or escape of spiritual importance comprising of flight from persecution, loss, suffering, the past, or slavery; resulting in a journey to a place of holy sanctuary, guided by God.”
For Mark,
My stepfather, the man that has taught me so much, and always been there for me through the best and the worst in life. You fight like there is no tomorrow. You bring laughter to the world and its troubles. Do not stop, never lose your faith, for you are the true, unstoppable, and devout king of the dwarves, if ever there was.
Forward to the Exodus Sagas
There is little that can be read of the great kingdoms of the continent of Agara prior to the flood almost four hundred years ago. Most history that survived is in small collections in the castles and libraries of nobility or hidden away in old temples and cathedrals. The countries of the northern continent of Ala Sere, under the rule of the holy empire of Altestan, saw to it many times over that written accounts were destroyed. Nearly three thousand years of persecution has driven the northern cultures to flee south to a land where myth and legend, the arcane and the divine, still hold hope for mankind. The fair skinned native Agarians introduced the northern refugees to their ways, the magical fey shrines, the mystical elves and dwarves, and shared the shelters of a new world under the moons. Great kingdoms and cities of spiritual power were constructed out of these cultural friendships. It was not to last.
The Emperors of Altestan had a lineage of men whose devotion to Yjaros, the One God, God of man, God of Gods, would not allow them to sit idly as their people fell under the supposed spells of lesser races. Great blended cities of various cultures and faiths were blasphemy to them and they felt the word of God guide them from his throne on the green moon. The Altestani and their mighty armadas swept over Agara destroying Kivanis, Aloeste, Arouland, and Mooncrest. They invaded and murdered those they crossed that were not human, much as they had done in their own lands so many thousands of years ago. Their belief that man was the chosen race and His children, drove them beyond care or reason. They made brutal examples of their interpretation of the will of Yjaros, despite the cries of many religions and worshippers of other Gods. Their armies massed by sea and land, cornering the last of the remaining clergies deep off the southern coast to Teirinshire in the kingdom of Chazzrynn. The Carician worshippers, bowing to lesser Gods of the white moon, had nowhere left to run and their allies had been annihilated or had surrendered. Branded as heathens and pagans by the oppression, they died as warnings to the southern populace. Yet victory was not to remain.
Atop the holy tower of Arouland, a young boy named Tarum knelt above the hundreds of thousands that had conquered and killed in the name of their God. A pious priest of Alden, the Lord of Heaven, Tarum began to pray aloud. Soon he was joined by the thousands devoted to Seirena, Megos, Vundren, Siril, and long lost Annar. Even many of the Altestani, hearing the foreign words of prayer in unison, began to kneel and speak to God. The waters of the Vateric Ocean rose, and within hours a terrible storm swept over the cliffs of south and west. The flood did not stop for the priests and clergy, for the warlords or sorcerers of Altestan, not even for Tarum or the holy patriots of Alden. The ocean covered the western cities, drowning northern ships and southern civilizations together. The empires of the north took it as a warning from God for not recognizing the lesser Gods and for their pride in conquest. Many saw it as a trap or a trick of magical nature. The southern realms saw it as yet another act of the Gods that made a martyr out of the tyranny they had forgotten existed. But some knew the truth.
The mortal wars of land and sea are mirrored in the heavens and in the realms of the two moons by the powers that be. There is a struggle for existence, for free will from a creator that demands obedience and one that has been and always will be. There are no known records or histories in writing of what the truth could actually be. Books are lost or burned, stories change with each teller and new generation, and many a man would alter a tale should it be to his benefit. Thousands upon thousands of years could not hold accurately all of the myths and spiritual journeys that have occurred by mortal and immortal alike. No dragon, elf, dwarf or man could assemble together in a lifetime enough to show and prove the truths to others. Once those that were there have passed on, every story becomes history. However, there is one man who remembers well far more than he should, possesses long forbidden powers in secret, and has been in existence to see more than any man should have seen. Blessed, some would say if they knew of him, cursed says he who has survived it, the truth is likely somewhere in the middle.
Close to four centuries after the deluge as the Agarian calendar has shown it, the floodwaters have receded and one man is able to share of the journeys of those few he has seen gathered by divine fate. His story is one of pain and triumph, freedom, and mystery. Yet his tale is for another time. Leaving the great fortress of Evermont, the five seekers of mythical Kakisteele are making their last turn toward a place cursed by the Gods over two thousand years past. Hunted, chased, followed, and blessed the same, they are all unaware of what awaits in the west and what would see them undone. They know not of the thousands that follow them and their hope. All they know is the final steps toward keeping a promise, into a realm that may not exist, are about to be taken.
Our teller of tales began watching from afar, listening to rumors and stories of how these strangers met, and why they remained together. Finally free of many of his own demons and curses, this man put together the sagas of moons and dark angels, truth and myth, and far off places where it all began. The last stand of forgotten deities, lost kingdoms, and races destined for extinction has begun. He shall tell us, and his son, of the Exodus…
Prologue
Gillian, Shanador
I stretched my legs as the walk took me down over my green hills. The dirt road was moist in the morning, preventing the flying dust that would mark my passage home. Veering off quickly to the right, I walked the horse by the reins to a grove of young maples near one of the many barns on my lands. The sun was sending the sky its first bits of coral, pink, and orange in the west. The black star dotted sky that held two crescent moons of green and white, began to come alive with indigo and rich blues. Dawn was fast approaching, and I had littl
e time.
“Jahirium” I whispered to my magnificent black mare, and she and the saddle sparkled out of existence, back to the arcane energies I had summoned her from.
“Timiorus de muniore” I quietly stared at my keep, from two miles away or more, and focused on the courtyard before the gray stone foyer and doors.
I was in silver clouds for a blink, maybe less, then I was home. My four stories of stone seemed to welcome me without word, south Shanador breezes caught my robes, and the air was heavy in Shaltyn, the month of harvest. I smiled and looked out at the sunrise over the western peaks of the Misathi foothills that I could only see faintly on a clear morning. My arcane powers still there, latent, easily accessed and used. Yet I knew I must be careful. I looked to the white stone ring on my right hand, then the green one on my left. I was not concerned that the powers who dwelt on the moons could sense me or my use of the arcane, it was far darker beings that those rings concealed me from that held a healthy fear and respect in my conscience.
It was Aliday, first day of the week, day of prayer and rest for those that worshipped Alden. In Shanador that meant everyone for the most part. I heard the bells from Gillian far to the north over my lands, the cathedrals would be filling in the hours to come. Ranny and her family would be going to the city, leaving me and my son Alessandeir, all alone for half the day or more. I smiled again and walked inside my home.
Quiet, all was still, I walked into my halls and rooms as if the world had stopped and stolen the noises of which I was accustomed. I removed my leather gloves, my black cloak, and the sword. Then I set the hand and a half blade with the ramskull crosspiece and ruby eyes above the mantle, hanging above the fireplace that hinted with telltale warmth that it had been aflame last night. Though I was only gone for a week to Acelinne, courtesy of faster travel by old arcane skill, what I may of missed at home danced through my thoughts. I heard them, the servant family, the animals outdoors, and then I heard my son. None of them knew I was home. I smiled and sat in the small east facing dining hall near the kitchen, where we ate breakfast.
“Dada is home Ranny, so I want sausage and fruit.” Alessandeir let out a yawn as he stumbled his first steps after the stairs down from his room.
“He will be home soon, young lord, soon. Sausage and fruit it is.” Ranny was still upstairs, waking her family from the servant and guest rooms.
“He is home, I know it. Not soon, now.” My son was sure of it, and demanding in tone.
I saw him look outside, his little four year old frame in the doors of the foyer, peering out north to the countryside. He stood still, hand on his right hip, leaning with his left on the wall, posed much like myself at times. I remained hidden, back resting in a chair in the morning sun room, shadows of dawn still cloaking my silent presence. Yet he knew I was here, I could tell.
“My young lord, the Lord of Azarris will be gone for some time now. Acelinne is a bit of a trip, dearheart. And who knows how long the conclave will last? Not I. Then, he must make the return.” Ranny picked him up, a struggle for her age, yet she did and held him with a smile.
“But he is home, I saw.” Alessandeir smiled.
“You saw it where little lord, up here?” She touched his forehead as she matched his grin.
“Yes.” He giggled out as she set him down again.
“Children, niece, boys! Help me get the morning ready now, hurry up!” Ranny telled upstairs, rousing her family of five to action in her old years.
“Yeah! Hurry up! I have sausage you have to cook!” My boy yelled, taking the mantle of authority in my absence it seemed.
“Now, now, little lord. I will do the cooking. My boys need to saddle the horses, their boys need to get them brushed, and my niece and you need to eat and get dressed for temple. Tis’ Aliday, and you need to be coming with us to Gillian.” Ranny was walking toward the kitchen.
“Awwww uhh. I don’t want to go to Gillian and the smelly church of Alden, Ranny. I will wait for dada.” Arms crossed, defiant, blonde curls over a pouting face, my four year old stood his ground.
“Well your father, Lord Azarris, would wish it. If I were to leave you here alone---“ Ranny gasped as she turned and saw me sitting not five feet from her. She put her hand over her chest and made the sign of the cross and circled it.
“Dada!”
I stood as I was charged by my son, grabbed him, and swung him up into my arms. It seemed he had grown in this last week. He hugged my neck, I squeezed back, he smelled of sleep on his skin and faded lilac in his hair.
“I knew you were home, told you Ranny.”
“By the wings of Alden, Lord Azarris, you scared me near to fatal you did.” Ranny was recovering her breath and rocking back and forth to do it.
“Apologies abound, I was trying to keep quiet and not wake anyone.” I nodded, boy attached, then again as her two sons in their forties, two grandsons in their twenties, and her niece somewhere in the middle, came down the stairs after hearing Ranny gasp. All dark blonde, dark eyes, tall and thin they were. Shanadorian and Harlian mixed it seemed, which was common in this part of Shanador.
“Jaern and Kifan, please bow to our returned lord and see to the horses. My lord, how could you have possibly made it to Acelinne and back in just over a week, if you don’t mind me asking?” Ranny bowed now and insisted her tall sons do the same.
“Ahhh, little mysteries good housemaid, tis all.”
I returned the bows with a slight nod and a smile, then the same to Kifan’s two sons, Hestal and Fourn, and lastly the quiet woman, Myrmya the widow. They all were of Azarris since their service was to here and to my name, my family, yet none truly knew of me or that the surname was not at all mine by blood or lineage.
“What was the capital like, dada? Was it huge? Did you meet the king and queen?” Alessandeirs blue eyes and smile asked the questions while his little body struggled down to put his feet on solid ground.
“Acelinne is immense, son, majestic and more. Did you know they have over fifty castles there?” I smiled, seeing him grab the fresh juice of orange and apple as fast as Ranny set the goblet down.
“Fifty?! That is a lot, that is like ten and ten and ten, and then more than that!” He slurped, dribbled, and looked at his fingers trying to somehow reach fifty. The smell of sausage caught both our noses as Ranny cooked away.
“It is. And yes, I saw King Borgaine and Queen Findyra the Fair, I even saw the Shield of Shanador in the Aldane Citadel.”
“You did?! Did you hold it and fight with it?” The plate set down with still steaming lamb sausage in front of him.
“No son, no. They do not let anyone that close, tis a holy relic to the church. The last man to hold the shield was---“ My son cut me off.
“Sir Foltaires the Pure, over four centuries ago when he fighted to protect Saint Tarum from the Altesarron Empires, way, way, way, south of here, in Ardolander. Then the floods came, and they all died.” His sausage chewing was mingled with his accurate, albeit four year old, rendition of history.
“Yes son, he fought against the Altestan Empires in Arouland. He was a very holy knight indeed. Very good, your mind is akin to a sponge.” I shook his hair amess with my hands as he ate.
“And that was the lastest time Altesarteran invaded Agara, cuz’ they all died in the flood there way in the south.” He smiled, knowingly, innocent, and devoured his breakfast and juice.
“Altestan son, yes that was the last invasion. But, they are not all dead, no. The empires to the north are vast, more than we know.” I thought back, remembering wars that no one living could recall over two thousand years past, I had been there.
“Like thousands?”
“More than that I am afraid.”
“Hundreds?”
“No son. Altestan is comprised of dozens of nations, and they occupy a dozen more that they have conquered or hold allied treaty with. I would say, tens of millions live under the rule of the three emperors today, maybe more.”
“Dada,
what is a million?”
“It is---“ We all turned, the housemaid, her family, my son and myself. Marching, commotion of organized soldiers to the south of the keep, near my home and getting closer. I could feel the ground shake beneath my sandals, the echo of armored men, I grabbed my sword from the mantle.
“Dada, dada, what is that noise?” Alessandeir ran after me.
“Stay here son. Ranny, keep them all inside.” I gave her eyes a stern stare, ignored my sons’ pleas to follow, and stalked out my northern doors and circled around my keep. It had been nine years since my release, I was surprised it had taken them this long to find me.
“Uvirool tapeshti.” I whispered an arcane protection that turned my clothing as strong as steel. Five more steps.
“Caiferitus pron pilool.” I drew my blade as an ebony essence swirled below my feet that would allow me to shift between any and all shadows at will. My powers came back to memory faster and stronger than I could have hoped, the energies flowed without effort. Around the east side, marching over the hill behind my home, I was ready for them. I dropped the leather sheath.
“Involius trebori.” The wind rushed from behind me, I felt stronger, faster, more aware of everything around. My eyes sensed for the demons, there were none. I reached again with my magicked sight, standing over where the noise should emerge from, by the eastern bluffs. Nothing enchanted or cursed, not the Soteth sorcerors of Altestan, in fact, I felt nothing in the realm of the arcane at all.
Line by line, rows of men emerged from the east. Men with gray beards, shorter men, stockier men. I let my guard down and picked up my sheath, relaxed my powers of the arcane, and rested my sword. I heard my son running up behind me, obviously having escaped the housemaid and her family. I was less than surprised.
“Dada, what is it? Who are they?” He tugged at my robes of black and indigo, put his arms up for me to lift him, yet his eyes never left the view of one thousand dwarves marching west in the early morning.
The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth Page 1