“And our agreement then, our trade for the assistance of the Gualiduran Queen? How will that old chest of bloodstained relics appear, in such truth, to those that rule Harlaheim?” Ansharr grinned.
“Ahhh…your pokes deflect harmlessly from my honor, great dragon. I have three different men that would see Harlaheim restored above the corruption, all they need is a little guidance, something common to believe in.”
“And the fourth, you told me that the former king lives. Did he not lay siege to you, wish you gone and banished?” She grinned even wider now.
“He did. Following the kings before him, and to no avail in turn, like all the rest. Richmond the Second, what I do with him beyond hiding him under my tower, I know not. Perhaps he will have to answer that query himself, in time.”
“So, the chest for the ring. I agree, of course. Just be careful, young friend, I feel your involvement is deepening in the goings on of a kingdom that loves you not.” She rested back down, nodded toward a set of glowing keys in her organized treasures, and then closed her eyes.
“Someday, hopefully before my end, Harlaheim will realize I am but a permanent fixture there. My tower is as Castle L’herrim, the Library Fastine, and just as important.” He stood and hovered over to the large darkwood chest cornered in gold, picked up the keys glowing upon it, and waved his hand. The chest rose from the uncountable piles of coins, jewels, paintings, and treasures beyond three kingdoms combined.
Ansharr watched the master of the arcane levitate the chest and himself to the floor before her, by the time he landed, the keys could not be seen nor felt. The fact she wanted them to unlock her bonds, was thinking of them, reminded her of her dilemma. Though she had had the Knights Soujan bind her, even though she had enchanted the chains with arcane might herself, the calling fought her and a small part of her blood wanted to be free. She smiled that the keys were hidden by Kalzarius now, she knew her friend would not disappoint.
“Will you ever tell me what it is your tower protects? None of your predecessors ever have.” Ansharr toyed with him as he slowly began to take the enchanted ring from Ganidaea from the green scroll.
“Will you tell me who and what is below your mountain? Who those warriors truly are that come and go beneath?” Kalzarius winked at his old draconic friend as she shook her head to the no.
“Hmmm…seems you and I will always have secrets from one another then, won’t we?” She fought the anger brewing in her, as if her mother Rynnth knew what was about to happen.
“We shall. Are you ready, old friend?” Kalzarius opened the scroll as Ansharr gritted her teeth at him and nodded.
The scroll unrolled, smoldered from the very top, and hovered as it glowed with a golden light. The light flickered, sparkled, and within moments a figure appeared. She was the same height as the old wizard behind her, pointed ears sprouted from beneath braids tied with every manner of feather and fetish of the wood elven realms. Her face was serious in emotion, painted and marked with stripes and dots of tribal tattoos, and atop her shoulder winked a two-tailed owl. Her form solidified in masterful arcane illusion, all the way down her robes of animal hides, and to the tips of her bare feet. The apparition of Ganidaea Chaldre, elven Queen of Gualidura, smiled and spoke a moment later. The scroll continued to smolder, leaving traces of glittering dust to mark its disappearing magicks.
“Great Ansharr, guardian of the mountain, I have received your dear friend Kalzarius of Harlaheim. I bow to you both, as I am sure he is there with you now. The assistance you have requested was not an easy task. Yet, my priestesses and I were able to hear the calling of your mother through fey glamors, and we duplicated them into song and warding the best we could. The ring will fit over your finger upon my utterance of arcane enchantments, and it should protect you from your own blood and give you freedom. Should it not, if you are taken as you so fear, Kalzarius alone knows another passage that is embedded into the ring. Those words, when spoken from any distance, will take your life immediately, as per your request. I must go now, but should fate smile upon you, I will visit soon as it has been over a century since we last spoke in person. Blessings of the Mother, the stars, and the Caricians upon you both. Kalzarius, the ring if you would.”
The scroll’s last bit of parchment vanished from its hovering spot in the air, as did the bowing elven queen from Gualidura. Yet words a few moments later emanated, echoed, and repeated, from the sparkling dust that remained.
Kalzarius walked ahead to Ansharr’s outstretched finger, he placed it on her smallest claw, and then looked up. He fell over, staff in hand, and summoned a quick protective barrier as Ansharr’s eyes glowed with red malevolence and hate toward him. Flames erupted from between her fangs, smothering the old mage’s wards, yet she fought to raise her head up not to harm him. The calling of Rynnth could sense her intentions, best as she had tried to hide them through others near and far. She opened her mouth wide and roared, tugging on the chains with draconic strength, flames spewing into her cavern.
“Ashalati muurtadi helivar huan helivo, terathii!”
The words of the wood elven queen echoed in the cavern from the fey dust on the ground, the dust swirled and shot into the ring of golden vines, and the light was blinding for but a moment.
Kalzarius wiped his eyes, stood, staff pointed toward Ansharr. He retraced the words that would be her end in his mind, not wanting to speak them, but fearful that he may have no other choice in a moment. His vision returned to normal, he looked to the gigantic winged dragon before him, one that he had known since he was a young apprentice. She was calm, resting, head low and eyes closed. The ring glowed on her clawed finger, and she was breathing deep and slow.
He pulled out the keys, jangled them a bit, and walked forward with trepidation. Her eye opened, his staff shot forward with purpose, and he stopped. “Ansharr, is it you?”
“I am fine, young friend. I feel the call no more, you may release me.” She yawned, feeling tired from a battle within herself, and saw that even her yawn had Kalzarius hesitate.
He unlocked the chains, one by one from the wall and spoke the words of arcane undoing as he went. He rounded to Ansharr’s head after he finished, and patted her nose again. “I must say, your roar is most terrifying, old friend.”
“Apologies abound, and my thanks dear Kalzarius. I never dreamed the day would come when I needed the help of others so desperately.”
“No need to apologize, I have needed your guidance dozens of times over the years. It is about time I repaid a few.” He laughed and rested on her forearm.
“You are certain on the chest, that you will make use of it beyond its previous failures in history?” Ansharr looked to the old box, sealed shut for over four centuries now.
“I have to try, and I may have a few that will see it through to a greater glory. It is beyond time, for sure.”
“You mean your rotten king, Richmond?” Her eyes squinted in disapproval.
“No, not yet anyway. But, the kingdoms are overtaken from the underground, ruled from below by those we cannot see nor find. It is time to fight fire with fire.” He walked over to the chest, knowing what was inside, what it meant for him and his kingdom. He had done his research, knew his histories all too well, and it was time that the White Spider had a predator on the field. This was all he knew of, he hoped it would be honored.
“Then be careful, for what is in those chests has never known victory.” Ansharr nodded.
“But it has known honor, freedom, and purpose across all of Agara. There is a first time for everything, my old friend. Are you well then? I must bid you farewell soon.” He waved his hand and the chests with the old crimson painting of a wolf’s head upon them lifted into the air.
“I am well, yes. But, since you hold my life in your hands, the least I can do is offer you a ride to the bottom of my mountain.” Ansharr grinned and spread her wings. She felt free, nothing in her blood nor mind to call her away from herself, and she needed to fly.
�
��I will never utter those words, and they will die with me, I promise you.”
“Still, I could use a stretch of my wings. Care to join me?”
“How could I refuse such a majestic woman?” Kalzarius smiled and bowed.
Ansharr lowered her wings and the two stepped out of the cavern into the entrancing sunlight. They gazed across the western horizon of troubled Harlaheim. Both lifted their heads up even further, dreaming to see where the seekers of Kakisteele may be at this moment.
Cristoff IV:I
Outskirts of Freemoore, West of Shanador
“Aye, lots o’ people there, eh’ Dalliunn? What ye’ smell boy?” Tannek Anduvann scratched up behind the lewirja’s ears and into his black mane of wiry hair.
“He smells Freemoore, my dwarven friend. One of the last free cities on Agara. Filled with merchants, mercenaries, adventurers, and treasure seekers cast out from most every country. Not a place I would take our exiled caravans, unless I wished to lose all we had in short order.” Cristoff nodded with his chin toward the sprawling lowland of huddled buldings. Unlike Harlaheim with its grand structures and high rising architecture, Freemoore barely had a building over two stories tall. Instead of up and outward with decorated magnificence, the free city built in, packed the city tight, and it seemed from the outside that there was little room to even move. Brown windowless wood and plaster, dotted with some stonework here and there, were what the people moved, lived, and worked out of.
“Well, be that as it may, we need answers Cristoff. If it was just you and I, maybe a small force, we could hunt the west for a year if ye’ like. But, we got a king somewhere out there, and ye’ got nearly eight thousand strong o’ people to see safe. Be needin’ the right direction to the Kaki Mountains, and me bet is we can get it in there.” Tannek looked with a stern glare to Freemoore, not wanting to travel into such a lawless place either.
“Egglii ummmbri hiihiikal duuri vunii!” Dalliunn Cloudwatcher padded back and forth on his four clawed feet, twirling the warhammer of Zen Thalanaxe. He was excited about something.
“Dalliunn here says he smells em’, inside the city. They been here Cristoff, and his nose is never wrong in all the years I known him.”
“That city holds at least fifty thousand people, master Anduvann. Your lewirja friend is an excellent scout, but I scarce believe he could smell those we seek through that settlement.” Cristoff steadied his black mare, looked down at Tannek and the vivacious lion-man, and then back to Freemoore.
“Ye lead thousands on faith to a place most say don’t exist, so have some faith on me friends’ nose then, Harlian. He ain’t wrong, never is.” Tannek tugged on his red beard, dumped some water on his black plate armor, and then drank from his flask of whiskey. As his armor steamed, he offered a swig to Lord Bradswellen the Third, and received the usual quick nod to the no.
“If we are to go in there, it must be just a few of us then. I do not want to draw attention.”
“Well, we got yer two knights and lady Kaya scoutin’ the northwest. Yer’ lady queen is havin’ labor pains with me brother, Garret, and the high ham---“
“She is not my lady, dwarf. She is the queen of Harla---“
“Aye and whatnot then, she be with ye’ and in pains surrounded by priests then. Whether ye’ admit to what ye’ two have or no, I been here three weeks with ye’ and we all see it.” Tannek barked back to Cristoff.
“And what is it that you see then?” Cristoff was turning a shade of red in his cheeks, his graying beard did not hide it, and it was not from the sun.
“Exactly. So, ye’ and Rosana aside now, it be just you, me, and Dalliunn goin’ in there. We follow his nose, find some answers, and send someone with word on where we’s at then. Simple and quiet like.” Tannek took another swig of whiskey and then washed it down with another wineskin that smelled of ale.
“That plan is not even a true plan, Marshall Anduvann. It is reckless and risky at best.” Cristoff looked back over his shoulder to the caravan of his people of Saint Erinsburg, the dwarves of Marlennak, and all the wagons and horses in the heat of the harvest month of Shaltyn. They headed west, yet they had not seen a sign nor track of those they searched for.
“Aye, Lord Cristoff, tis how things be done sometimes. Let’s go then.” Tannek began marching into the city, Dalliunn beside him.
“Squire!” Crisoff shouted over his shoulder.
One of his men took a fast knee on the grassy flatland, then stood and helped his lord dismount. “Yes m’lord?”
“Inform father Garret and the dwarven priests that the marshall and I seek answers in Freemoore. Should we not return by nightfall, send men to find us.”
“And the caravan m’lord?”
“When Sir Karai, Sir Leonard, and Lady Kaya return from their routes, they have command until my return. Continue west and make camp before the sun falls to the east.” Cristoff took the reins and nodded to his squire as he received another sweeping bow.
“Be careful m’lord, Alden watch over you.”
“He does, no concern squire, he does.” The former lord of Saint Erinsburg walked at a quick march to catch up with the dwarven marshall and his lewirja scout. One hand on the reins, another on his longsword, he could feel that this was a bad idea already.
The outer markets were hovels of cluttered wagons, most without wheels. Covered in colorful blankets and cloth to hide their condition, the stands and merchants both pleaded with but a look for passersby to spend some coin. Meat too dry and withered from the sun, skins of lizards and strange beasts, armors and weapons of every make, and even fetishes of savage beliefs were held out in front of them. People here had little shame, showing their wares directly into the faces of travelers, and shouting prices loudly over one another. Black skinned Jaali men and women sold exotic jewels, thick and tall Shanadorians traded cloth and steel, mysterious eyed Armondi children ran across sandy streets too fast to see, and olive-tan skinned folk from the western islands of Yallah and Falligarde walked, chins held high, with their black braids decorated in golden clasps and their white drapes of cloth dragging in the dirt.
Elves sold woodworkings and charms in simple shops. They were not savage Gualiduran elves, nor golden highbornes either, but blue eyed and fairskinned elves of the Loestal River regions that were once prosperous in this area and to the north. Cristoff had heard of them, and what Altestan had done to their capital of Aloeste, long ago. Though beautiful and graceful indeed, they did not have that passionate zeal to their motions as he had seen from the elves he had met. Dwarves shouted in differing languages, trying to gain the attention of Tannek who waved them off with his hand. They were tan, scruffy, surface dwarves that had left their homelands for far too many generations. Thinner, with no care for their beards of mismatched frazzle, Tannek scoffed at their unkempt appearances. Their wares looked as mediocre human quality at best, junk to any dwarf from Marlennak.
As for a central keep or structure of authority, there was none to be seen. Merchant princes and other self-named lords draped colorful banners across their homes and their hired brigades. Guards made up of mobbing peasant women drew their blades on soldiers comprised of but a few scarred red and brown minotaurs, all over a price dispute between two sellers. Elven scouts kept their bows in hand while arguing with their translators, who in turn yelled at one another as the opposing men of ebony skin from Jal-Adeen crossed their arms and tickled the pommels of their long curved scimitars. By confrontations’ end, the Jaali merchants removed their necklaces displaying a golden triangle with three emeralds, the sacred symbol of Yjaros, God of the northern empires.
Centaurs trotted slowly in tight groups through city streets, lewirja prides traded feathered fangs and dangling claws, and even some Caberran seafarers held small caravans of trade that likely came through the islands and Armondeen. Flashes of green flames that sizzled from the mouths of performing wizards erupted with cheers. Floating magicians entertained children with simple tricks and tucked coins into
their worn robes. Horned lizard mounts big enough for two men to ride padded by fast in lines as they watched six men eating a boiled snail the size of a wagon wheel. Drunks wandered from tavern to street, bottles in hand, and food of every discomfort and rare pleasure steamed the air and mixed with animal scent, dung, and sweat. Whores beckoned from every corner and shoddy balcony, showing their breasts and legs to lure any man of any race into their rooms. Following Dalliunn’s lead, Tannek and Cristoff fought the crowds into the center of Freemoore.
“Seen anything like this before, Lord Cristoff?” The former southern marshall of Marlennak shoved past another interfering juggler, knocking him into a wagon, smiling shortly after hearing him crash into something and lose his balls.
“No, the poverty and trade districts in my kingdom are…cleaner, more organized, and mostly Harlian. This is…unreal to see, and quite a mess.” Cristoff looked down some of the sidestreets when the crowd allowed. He saw naked children, starving dogs, and here and there a dead body left out in the sun with but a cloth to cover it.
“Aye, this be humanity when no one be in charge, the direct result it is.”
“Where is he taking us, into that tavern?” Cristoff looked to the lewirja entering a round plaster and stone structure, largest they had come across yet. The signs above the multitude of doors each had a different language, but one in Agarian was hanging proudly above a row of well fed horses. Tethered and guarded by forty armored soldiers with the green and gold flags of a stallion on a shield, the steeds drank from troughs as their riders did from pitchers of water and ale. Shanador banners with five mountain peaks underneath marked them as standards of Evermont. Beside the steeds was a motley purple and green painted set of box wagons. Curtains of mismatched color, donkeys tethered with the giant horses of Shanador, and three little pygmy men chatted with the men of Evermont in serious manner.
“Yep, he done gone in already. No Kings Well, must be room for hundreds in there. Seems like the place to be in the grand heat and stink o’ Freemoore it does.” Tannek read the sign in Agarian, then the one in dwarven on the next door over, just to be sure.
The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth Page 19