The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth

by Jason R Jones

  Should this order continue to operate in any regard, they are subject to the laws of whichever kingdom they may be found residing within. The Church does not hold any ransom nor offer for said agents, and will not trade coin nor word for their welfare. They are in grave action against the Church and its beliefs, and will receive no merciful judgement should they be found still in operation.

  From the time of this letter, anyone belonging to this supposed Broken Wing may reach Acelinne and confess. Such an action will bring forgiveness, and immunity to any punishment---

  The rest of the letter was too soaked in the blood of Lord Bishop Trebaine to make out. Balric did not need to read more, he had read enough. The tapestries around him were cut and torn, the feathered cross disgraced, and the men were all dead. He knew there were others, in other kingdoms, but the secret order had no symbols. They had been based here, in Harlaheim, and he knew of no way to contact anyone. With Javiel dead, the Cardinal gone, and the order disbanded, Balric was indeed alone.

  Something moved behind him, too quiet, softer than the far off moans of misery from the former king of Harlaheim. Balric turned, sabre on guard, and stared into the shadows of what was now a tomb to unknown soldiers of Alden.

  “Trebaine?”

  It was Lord Rodreigo dell Amarr, he had gotten within the room unnoticed, and was staring up at the dead Lord Bishop. Balric followed the Caberran man’s eyes, he saw it, Rodreigo knew this man as well.

  “How did you sneak up so close to me, and how do you know him?” Balric pointed his blade and circled through the hanging bodies of the dark underground room.

  “What do you think, Balric D’Vrelle, that every Caberran noble sneaks around in guises to root out the wicked? Do the Knights of Saint Tarumin here train in stealth and secrecy?” Rodreigo smiled, his slicked back hair and oiled goatee shone in the torchlight. His accent was heavy as his eyes welled with tears.

  “No, Saint Tarumin is a pious order, they…you belong to the Knights of Saint Tarumin, you are a lord of…” Balric kept his distance, blade on guard, trying to figure this man out.

  “I am the Lord of San Tevida, in Caberra. I am the Lord Knight of the pious order of San Tarum there, and I lead prayers to Alden. As far as my ability to blend in and sneak up upon you with ease, that is from my position in---“

  “The Broken Wing, you are a member with no mark nor symbol, just as I am.” Balric knew it, members in the Wing never knew anyone outside the kingdom they trained in, so he would never have met Rodreigo.

  “Close. I have a symbol, here.” Rodreigo pulled his sleeve up on his left arm, revealing a wreath of black feathers that were tattooed in spiraling fashion from his wrist to his shoulderblade. “In my country, we are the Order de Pierra Mora, as you would say, the Broken Wing of Alden.”

  “Why the markings?”

  Rodreigo walked over to Lord Bishop Trebaine, lifted his sleeve on his left arm, revealing the same markings on the corpse that hung. “I knew Trebaine well, we trained together nearly twenty years past and kept in touch often. Until Richmond the Second took the throne, Bishop Javiel became corrupt and involved, and the chaos of Harlaheim overtook your order here, that is.”

  “You are a Lord Bishop of the Broken Wing?” Balric sheathed his blade.

  “I was, by guess at your letter though, we are officially ordered to no longer exist.” Rodreigo hung his head.

  “The letter is fresh, unopened until just now, yet dated three months prior.” Balric handed it to Rodreigo, who declined with a wave of his hand.

  “I need not read it, its message is here, hanging and littering the sanctum with corpses. I knew you were a member, you spoke of it, yet I assumed you had left or had no contacts here. It is forbidden to ask---“

  “To ask of anything pertaining to us of differing kingdoms. I know, to keep us honorable in assisting our own countries. Well, now we know. You need to get help from Caberra.” Balric tossed the letter to the floor just as Richmond walked in.

  “Ha! Help from Caberra? You know as well as I that those letters went out in secret, months ago. I would wager my lordship that the same has occurred in my country. So, should I go to find a tomb, and leave you alone here? I think not.” Rodreigo dell Amarr made the sign of the feathered cross on his chest as he let his eyes wander the corpses.

  “What…what is all of this?” Richmond the Second wiped his eyes of the tears for Sebastian. He took another look, the bodies were still there.

  “This, is corruption at its highest degree, courtesy of Johnas Valhera.” Rodreigo put his hand on the shoulder of the former king.

  “Who are these men?”

  “Who were these men, you mean.” Balric sighed. “They were the Broken Wing, a secretly trained arsenal of deadly blades for the Aldane Church. Many who you may have met, belonged in secret. Myself, BishopJaviel was a contact of sorts, and even Sir Sulian Lisario. I trained some of these men, personally.”

  “And the man who invited Johnas to Harlaheim, was me.” Richmond stared, unable to fathom all that went on below his kingdom and behind his back.

  “No, you sought power through many means. One Madame Florin, was a Domenarch for the White Spider, for Johnas. You had no way of knowing what you empowered her to, and I had no knowledge of the plans against Harlaheim, until it was too late.” Balric kicked a crossbow bolt across the floor.

  “So, what do we do now?” Richmond looked to them both.

  “We? There is no we, Richmond. I have lost my woman Vanessa to treachery and betrayal, my Order through murder, and now my family to execution. He has won, Johnas Valhera has won. Even the kingdom I secretly fought and killed to protect, even Harlaheim, belongs to him as well.” Balric glared, not wanting to list the crimes that Richmond partook in now, but his eyes said it anyway.

  “I remember my oath to the Pierra Mora, all too well Balric D’Vrelle. Perhaps after you Harlians train in your Legion, your oaths are different, but I would expect not. So while there is the blood of the savior in the ground, the broken wing not forgotten, and a feathered cross upon holy…” Rodreigo paused.

  “…holy men, our blades shall never fail to cut the wickedness from the night. In Alden’s name, in secret honor, until my last breath, I swear.” Balric sighed, closed his eyes, then opened them as he turned his head up to stare at the ceiling. “I remember, but that order is dead now.”

  “We have a rightful king to protect. We have a base of operations under the Marble Tower of Kalzarius, we have God, and an enemy. We have our oaths, Balric.” Lord Rodreigo dell Amarr stood tall and smiled.

  “We also have just the two of us, two men Rodreigo, two men. Sebastian is dead. Two against thousands.” Balric closed his eyes again and thought of Vanessa. He saw now what an excellent job she had done to keep him distracted these last few years. She had gone for the heart, while Johnas gutted everything he knew.

  “Two men, so that is how it starts then. But I see three of us standing here.” Rodreigo turned, he heard motion near the entrance above. He remembered the bodies in the alley, they had company inside now.

  “How what starts? Are you mad?”

  “Revolution, in secret, someone needs to lead it. If we do not stop it, no one will and---“

  Balric heard it too, boots moving in silence, he interrupted Lord Rodreigo. “We talk later, time to move.” Balric whispered, drew his sabre, and made for an exit he knew of behind an old tapestry of the feathered cross. Rodreigo and Richmond followed close, leaving the bodies of their fallen brethren and family behind.

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  Kalzarius looked to Cilano, both men over the misty brazier of arcane sight that glowed bright magenta on the seventeenth floor. It was night, dark both outsise and in, the only illumination was what the master wizard and his eventual successor peered into. Capitan Jean-Ris of the tower’s gray guard stood in the distance and awaited orders. He and the fifty other students had been awoken by arcane alarms not one hour past. Kalzarius had returned wit
h several chests and seemed concerned about many things.

  “Send five students, Cilano, to the southern tunnels. Make sure they are not followed.” The ancient master did not look up, merely spoke what needed be done. “Capitan, take ten students to the eastern passages, send ten more to the western ones, and assure me that no one is nearing our underground.”

  “Should I raise the defenses and close the gates, master?” Cilano raised his brow and eyes just enough to meet the gaze of the famous wizard. Then he waved the waiting capitan on to carry out the orders.

  “No, no, not yet. So far there is nothing moving from our new king Phillip above ground, nothing from L’Herrim Castle. Yet four men left and only three return. Those three have thirty following, two of which have arcane talents beyond their black masks. Just get them here safely, and throw the others off their passing, would you?” Kalzarius watched as Balric led Rodreigo and Richmond through the undercity, unaware of how many followed them. The arcane liquid in the brazier shimmered as they moved closer to the tower.

  “What else transpires, Kalzarius?” Cilano tried to follow the gestures his master employed to move the sight of the brazier and its liquid. It had taken him hours to view outside the tower, yet his old mentor moved it around, through and below the reaches of Harlaheim in quick simple flicks of his fingers. Suddenly the room went even darker, nighttime waters of indigo waves appeared in their view.

  “The docks, a ship is arriving. Caberran noble ship, two tridents and golden sails I see here. It is arriving from Chazzrynn, and has made quick time through the waters. It has three doppelgangers on board, and no one is aware of it. See the sickly yellow and black auras there, the shifting ones? Even from miles away, I can see a doppelganger that has little skill to mask itself.” Kalzarius watched with his arcane sights, close to the cabin of the Caberran galleon, then he tried to listen in. He heard mumbling, waves and wind, but he did make out a name.

  “Who is it master, why would one Caberran vessel with shapeshifters be making a quick journey to Harlaheim?” Cilano was curious, but not as intent on filling that curiosity as his master. “Has Johnas Valhera allied with Caberra?”

  “Doubtful. Wil dell Escada, not who he says he is, something important, something about war. We need to meet him at the docks, secretly.” He heard words being spoken, enough to garner that this man held important information, and that the doppelgangers would likely kill him once he disembarked.

  “Shall I head to the dock under guard, master?” Cilano knew the answer, summoned his staff from its leaning position across the room with a gesture of his palm, and began walking out the balcony.

  “Be careful, Cilano. The fact that I see none of the agents of Harlaheim does not mean they are not there. Make certain those doppelgangers do not reach the city, by any means necessary. Use force, but with caution.”

  “I was trained by the famous Kalzarius, still am, no need to worry. I will bring this Wil dell Escada safely here.” Cilano walked off the edge, floating down seventeen stories to the courtyard. By the time he reached the ground, gray cloaked arcane students and guards fell in step with him.

  The guards slowly brought in three heavy chests, the ones Kalzarius had returned with from Ansharr on Soujan Mountain. He pointed to where they should be placed, too weary and fatigued to speak simple commands, his focus was on all that moved in and out of the dangerous city. He looked at them, three old chests of curled dark wood, and three faded symbols of wolf heads in faded crimson upon the lids. He smiled, reveling in his childhood fantasies of being a revolutionary swordsman knight. He was chosen for so much more, his gifts of the arcane and understanding the ways that magicks flowed and moved, were beyond his youthful skill with a blade. Now, even after he had passed the century mark of his years, Kalzarius of Harlaheim still grinned when his blood felt thoughts of revolution.

  A tap on his shoulder let him know he had drifted off again, his students had become concerned more often. His powers, when exerted to limits that most would trade their souls to have, seemed to drain him into a slow daydream for hours on end. He rarely slept more than a few hours per week, his beard and hair of shining white and gray swirls did not grow anymore, yet matched his swirling tower in color and design more each year. It was a slow transformation, he knew, that used to happen to old archmages of centuries past. Kalzarius sighed, not wanting to dwell upon such dark and mysterious inner changes as of right this moment.

  “Thank you. How long was I there, dreaming again?”

  “Four hours, master.” The student kept her head low and respectful.

  “I see.” The old master of the arcane resolved to inspect this phenomenon within himself sooner than he had anticipated.

  “The three men, Balric, Richmond, and Rodreigo have arrived and are below. We were not followed, master. Sir Sebastian of Harlaheim---“

  “Is dead, I am aware and saddened. When the sun rises, take half the students and guards to where he was left, there are many more there. Use your channels and kinesis spells and see to opening the ground and interring the bodies into the earth. Touch nothing, but cover them quickly and return.”

  “Yes master. Should I send them up to see you?” The student bowed again, trying to hold her excitement from her voice at being given another assignment from the great Kalzarius.

  “Yes, yes, we have much to discuss.” He bowed as his gray garbed arcane pupil, one of so many, left him with an energy he wished he had.

  Capitan Jean-Ris bowed as he walked forward, his brow sweating from the long treks of stairs and tunnels in the heat of the harvest humidity. Three figures stepped slowly behind him, yet before words were shared, he produced a rolled scroll of purple glimmering parchment.

  “A flying toad gave this to me, master Kalzarius.” The capitan looked at his left shoulder, and indeed met the eyes of a green fat toad with bat wings folded neatly on its back. “This toad, to be precise.”

  “Lassado of Eisel Ine sends word from Shanador, in peculiar fashion as always. Thank you, capitan.” Kalzarius took the scroll of odd color, reached his hand to the magically altered amphibious avian toad, and sat down slowly into a red velvet chair.

  As he began to open the scroll, prying eyes of the toad overlooking from his shoulder, the great wizard of Harlaheim motioned for his three guests to sit. He read the words of his distant friend, one of the only three masters of arcane tutelage that still taught on the continent. Kalzarius at the mighty Marble Tower in Harlaheim, Aelaine Lazlette and her four towered Semanarium Arcanum in Vallakazz, and Lassado of the domed fortress of Eisel Ine outside the capital of Shanador, were all that remained today.

  Dearest fellow Masters of Magicks

  Recently, I have left the council of Shanador, and I was paid little mind as always. However boring and tedious the discussions of old low kings, their knights, their chattering ladies, and my great High King Borgaine and Queen Findyra the fair may have been, I did receive an awakening snore that brought my attention to great curiosity. It seems that Gwenneth Lazlette and four cohorts have crossed through southern Shanador, and without a visit to me. Besides being mildly offended, which I will soon recover from with aid, I heard they were wanted and hunted by Altestan, some spider organization, Armondeen, and now Willborne. After my laughter subsided, I heard that they seek the ruins of fabled Mooncrest to the west. I laughed some more. Then, I heard that a caravan of exiled refugees follows them. I watched the prodigal daughter of Lazlette until she passed into a cursed realm that I could no longer scry. I would much like to know why and how she carries the legendary staff of Imoch the Eternal, and how she was allowed to learn such powerful incantations as I witnessed. Perhaps you were also unaware, but she assisted in thwarting a mighty dragon and drove off a giant castle in the sky not too long ago I heard. They are most sought after, yet Shanador is reluctant do do more than watch and let them pass through. So, I assume you would like my assistance. I will go to Evermont and assist as best I can, since you know low king Symond and I a
re close friends and lovers of tea and history. Next time, keep me better informed.

  Lassado of Eisel Ine,

  Lastly, please feed mighty Titan, my most reliable messenger. When he gets hungry, well…do not let him get hungry, and we leave it there.

  Kalzarius laughed out loud, not having spoken to Lassado in many years. Through arcane accident, his friend had forgotten his own last name many decades ago, before they had met. To this day, though mildly insane and prone to odd conjurations and strange experiments, Lassado had not been able to find trace of his name nor lineage. He looked to the toad on his shoulder. It fluttered its bat wings and blinked. “Titan?”

  Croak…croak…

  As Titan the toad croaked, the scroll went up in a flash of purple laughter and sparkling dust.

  “I have gnats surely trying to seek what lies in my kitchen, ninth floor, help yourself. I will have a message to return to your master in a few hours.” The master of the Marble Tower nodded as the bat wings lifted the fat toad off toward the stairs.

  Kalzarius wiped his brow, wisked his hand through the glittering dust, and thought of the here and now. Sir Sebastian, likely the knight with the most knowledge of Harlaheim, was dead. Balric sat quietly, full of anger, deep in thought. Richmond looked as though he had been sobbing, and his gaze upon the floor was distant. Lord Rodreigo from Caberra held firm, his face showed resolve and purpose, the old mage knew he was ready.

  With a gesturing finger, two old books lifted from shelves in the dark room above the grand city. Kalzarius snapped his fingers, candles lit with magical light from all around, and the books floated to a table of brass and oak. Staff in hand, he walked slowly over to the table, and motioned with his eyes for his three guests to meet him there. Richmond was the last to rise, only following the other two men like a lost puppy it seemed.