The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth

by Jason R Jones

  Saberrak and Shinayne stood silent, heads hung as the dwarven hymns began. Gwenneth walked away, not wanting to show her emotions that were roiling inside after the reading. James walked with her, but she turned instead and put her head on his chest and cried. He held her hair, embraced her, and then his blue eyes caught something. He tried to close his eyes, not wanting another interruption. He opened them, no, something was there. James turned his head around.

  “Saberrak, Shinayne, we have company.”

  They let their dwarven friend continue his prayers. They looked, and stared in awe. Hundreds of small gray lights shimmered from the outer walls of the cavern. They walked slow, hid behind homes and rock columns, and tried to remain unnoticed. Yet all four not in prayer, caught their motion.

  Their ghostly heads peeked from windows, out of old doors left open, and they pulled their ethereal beards in confusion. Hundreds of dwarves, the spirits thereof to be precise, crept round the pile of remains, enchanted with the words they were hearing. There had been no sound in Kakisteele, not beyond what She would command from below, and certainly never a prayer to Vundren. The spirits of the long dead were curious, beyond that even, at how this could be happening.

  Exodus IV:V

  City of Kakisteele

  “To the women of this cursed realm beneath the rock, I condemn your ashes and the ashes of your children to eternal dark damnation. To the men, you will forever walk this silent haunt, and give to me my every wish as you wander eternity in silent unrest and purgatory.” Last rites of Arabashiel, thirteenth born Gimmorian, Mistress of Curses, sent to stand Judgement over the Kingdom of the Crescent Moon, by God. Circa 1682 B.C.

  Azenairk stood and turned, feeling many eyes upon him. His hand went for the warhammer at his feet, he pulled his Thalanaxe crested shield from his back, and he spun around.

  Clang

  Clang, C-Clang, C-clang, clang…clang……clang

  His hammer hit the stone floor and bounced entirely too much before it stopped. His jaw would have done the same had it not been attached to his black bearded face. His brown eyes like saucers, unable to close, he looked upon hundreds and thousands of men, bearded men. They were gray, ghostly gray, yet many were young in years, or had been when they were alive. He was surrounded by dwarves, dead ones, silent spirits of the murdered soldiers from a kingdom nearly forgotten.

  “By Vundren, the ghosts of Kakisteele.”

  The ghosts nodded, many smiled, and some even got on their translucent knees around Zen. Their wounds were but dark gray on their shimmering forms, yet burns, cuts, and even more horrifying wounds were evident. They moved without sound and beckoned with their hands for the living dwarf before them to follow them away from their pyre of desecration.

  “Follow you, aye, allright then.” He followed, slowly, and picked up his hammer as he stepped. Zen cast quick glances to his friends, they seemed nervous. He nodded, received reluctant nods back, and they fell in behind him. The ghosts did not pay them much more than passing looks, their focus was on the dwarven priest of Vundren.

  Through markets of empty stock, by stables with nothing more than bones, and past even villas built into high rock ledges of sandstone they traveled. Whether needed or not, the ghosts of Kakisteele abided the roads, kept to the light, and even walked in a fairly organized manner. Their steps made no sound, yet they seemed to converse with gestures to one another, and their mouths even moved from time to time. Though no sound came forth, some even seemed to laugh to other ghosts, reinforcing that they indeed could understand one another.

  The cavern of the great city grew smaller, darker, and a bridge came into view. Rough yellow stone with platinum rails, orange flames without heat rose from golden braziers set on the walkway, and the stalactites hung overhead by the tens of thousands.

  “Where are we heading, Zen?” James asked quietly as he admired the view over the long drop to a stalagmite field below the bridge. He saw mushrooms, larger than horses some of them, colored green and blue and teal. They glowed in color, as if the fungus knew someone was above, walking the lonely bridge that had no end.

  “Dunno’ James, somewhere deeper inside. They want me to follow em’.” Zen tried to take it in, yet his eyes were awestruck with the now two thousand or more spirits of his ancestors walking in front of him.

  “Try talking to them, in dwarven maybe.” James prodded, hand tight on his broadsword, eyes looking every which way.

  “Good idea. Vershem va duthes dom Sheldathain dures?”

  The ghosts stopped, hearing the name of something they did not care for, and glared with darkening appearances and hollow angry stares at Azenairk. He stopped, they all stopped, no one moved as terror took hold. One dwarven ghost, an older one with a ghastly spear through his transparent head, walked ahead with hands raised. He made eye contact with Zen, knelt onto a knee, and touched his finger to the bridge. His finger grew black, then shadows came from his fingernail, and the shadows traced words onto the moist sandstone. The dripping of water from stone spikes above was the only sound in the cavern as the living held their breath.

  Azenairk followed the words, not knowing that all his friends watched closely over his stocky shoulders. It was in dwarven, yet he translated it knowing his companions would want to hear it.

  “Do not mention the name of the traitor again, it angers them.”

  He nodded to the spirit that was writing the words, words that disappeared shortly after his finger passed. Zen watched him continue, sweat dripping from under his helm.

  “We must pass the mines, and take you to the stone tablet. Then you must go, you cannot be here.”

  Zen spoke to the spirit. “I have come here to free you, I not be goin’ anywhere just yet.”

  The dwarven ghost looked confused, and wrote again on the bridge. “Our people are divided in damnation, the women and children are lost. There is no peace here to be had, no king will come, you may take the tablet and leave us.”

  Azenairk took out the rusty iron box and set it down. He opened it and took out the ages old parchment, the deed to Kakisteele, and rolled it out carefully. Then, he set down the bag of dust he was told to use on some six legged demon. He looked up to the dwarven spirit, and tapped his shield.

  “I am Azenairk Thalanaxe, last of me family, and heir to this city. I have come to set ye’ free, old spirit, Vundren willing o’ course. I did not travel six or more kingdoms to see some tablet and go.” He smiled.

  The dwarves gathered close, speaking to one another in silence. They glared at the parchment, then up to Zen, and then smiled back to one another. The old dwarven ghost smiled from his braided beard and raised his eyebrows with some semblance of joyful disbelief. He touched the parchment, his ghastly gray hand merely passing through it, yet it brought an even wider grin. He spoke over his shoulder, and the thousands of dead warrior spirits all began some silent conversation. Some were crying, some reaching to touch him, and even some spirits raised their hands or fell to their knees in soundless prayer. They began to embrace each other in dwarven fashion, yet all they could do was pass through Zen.

  “This seems to be going well then.” Zen looked over his shoulder, feeling the breath of his four friends. They raised their eyes from the parchment, to him, then to the countless dwarven ghosts around them.

  “I would say that is a very optimistic opinion, from where I am standing.” Gwenneth looked with her arcane sight, seeing nothing of the spirits in front of her. Her seventh sense was aware of things unseen, and her normal vision saw the dead plain enough. Yet something stirred in the air, something foul and full of wicked enchantment.

  “This be a bit creepy already, morbid in fact, so try and be a tad supportive here.” Zen turned back around and faced the ghosts.

  “Sorry. Yes, Zen, I think being surrounded by ghosts on a bridge in a cursed underground city, hunted by demons, is indeed great.” Gwenne smiled her best false grin.

  “Allright, keep it honest then. I see yer’ point.”


  “I hear whispers, coming from the dark ahead, faint, a woman’s voice.” Shinayne listened close, it was almost inaudible, but she was sure she heard it.

  “I hear nothing, you’re just on edge elf.” Saberrak huffed. “Just calm your---“

  Gong!

  Gong!

  Gong!

  Three distant tolls of an unseen bell echoed in the caverns. The ghosts drew weapons of ethereal steel, donned helmets that were not there previously, and armor and shields erupted from shadows around them all. Suddenly, they looked more like an army of gray phantasms rather than forgotten dwarven spirits. They raised their axes and hammers, slammed their shields in unison, and mouthed words that made no noise. Yet Zen knew what they were saying. He read the lips of thousands, and whispered it aloud.

  “Vuumber? By Vundren’s steel, they be called to battle with somethin’, even after they be long dead and gone.” Zen grabbed his things, shoving them into the old box fast, and drew his warhammer. He yelled what his deceased brethren could not voice. “To war!”

  “Zen, wait!” Shinayne yelled.

  Despite her voice in the dark, no matter his closest friends, Zen ran with his forgotten kin to battle the unknown.

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  “Go with the blessings of the eleven Nochtilians, my love.”

  “I shall return to escort you when it is over, beloved.”

  Queen Andorra of Armondeen wiped a smear of blood across the face of Harron, then kissed his forehead. She walked to her left in the uppermost eleventh floor of the Tower of the Scepter. Fortress Arnhast in Vin Armon was quiet, as the forces had all but left to the south, all but her Lord Amirak and the legion of royal cavalry that waited outside the gates. The reserve legion had left to meet with Prince Rohne and the other Armondi nobility already.

  She sat in the throne, the one next to hers was empty as King Ian was dying of age and a little poison, far to the north in Forrivar. Her robes were black, her bodily markings of blood and paint were perfectly inscribed, she knew it was time to bring the messiah of Shukuru to this world. The bodies they had fornicated with, mutilated, and sacrificed to their dark worship still lay in pools of blood before the thrones. Two girls, young virgins bought from the island of Yallah, and now two blackened sets of eyes stared at the stone ceiling.

  “You have been ordered ot retrace the circle of Kashtamias, in exact duplication, with the blood of those that have disturbed the lands to the south. The son of Shukuru is most anxious to consecrate our new lands, assist in building the temple to the Nochti, and begin our worship. Are you prepared, Lord Harron Vir Magaste?”

  “I am, your majesty.” Harron remained on a knee with his head bowed.

  “You have five legions of Armondi soldiers at your discretion. All I ask is that the true children of God are appeased, and that you protect our son, Prince Rohne. Will you see my wishes granted?” Andorra let her silk robes with demonic runes fall from her body as she stood from the throne.

  “I will, your highness.” He tried not to look, as the robes fell to his feet from the steps. Harron knew she was completely naked and covered in virgin blood. His loins stirred, it was with much trembling and force of will that he resisted taking her again. “There is nothing that can stand in our way.”

  “My personal guard, my dark ladies in the night, have seen a caravan with many thousands that have made journey across Shanador. My dreams have been accurate, and they are seeking the same place as we.” The queen stepped forward, her blood soaked womanhood was inches from his mouth.

  Harron stared at her feet and calves, willing away thoughts of her bare body over him. “They are but refugees, nothing more. Should they interfere, they will die. Their bodies will be further homage to Kashtamias, dark child of Shukuru, my queen.”

  “There are men from Harlaheim, dwarves of the Misathi, and even knights of Shanador among them. I tell you once more, be cautious, and be quick in your justice. My Nataloni have seen them, this exiled Lord from the east and his following, and they must not live the night.”

  “It will be done, our son will not see combat, and any trespassers will fill our sacred circle with their blood.” Harron tried not to reach up and touch her, yet he could smell the oils on her body and his curiosity lingered.

  “Beware the lands to the south, two millennia of cursed condemnation could hold many strange things, Harron.” She stroked the top of his head with her fingernails.

  “No matter what we find there, the treasures of your southern lands will be laid at your feet. The trespassers will bleed, and Kashtamias will be honored, hail the eleven.”

  “Then go now, my dark beloved. Whence you return, this body of mine, is yours for nights eternal.” Her fingers gently touched his chin, then lifted.

  Harron was weak, his eyes could not blink. Her feet were painted black from the nails to her ankles. Streams of blood were dried to her pale calves and thighs. Infernal scripture was written in darker blood across her abdomen and breasts. He stared at her pierced nipples of dark brown that held small golden chains to her naval. The chains dipped below her luscious endowments, behind them, and strung up around her neck. Her flesh was smooth, her voluptuous lips and face streaked with virgin crimson, the skin around her eyes painted blue in wide brushes, much like his own. Harron looked up further, her hair was midnight, straight and bound in with a headdress and circlet of dangling jewels. Andorra of Armondeen was lust and wicked beauty, the embodiments thereof in the flesh, and she was his.

  He trembled as she raised him with her finger, by the chin, and let her hand draw faint red trails down his golden rings and steel plates of armor. She fondled his curved hilt, playfully sliding the decorated steel scimitar partway out, then letting slide back into the scabbard. His words were caught in his throat, he lifted his banner from the stand between the thrones. He looked up at the golden eagle talons, the scepter in one grip, a lance in the other. The flag unfurreled with a flick of his wrist, golden tassels upon a black cloth, and he bowed.

  “My queen, bless me darkly, so that I shall feel your very breath in mine as I conquer in thy name.”

  “With the sacred love between us, and the hearts of the eleven over you and I, you are blessed Lord Amirak Harron. Now go, show no mercy, expand our Armondeen, and shed blood in the name of our fiery Gods!” Andorra pointed out the balcony as he turned away and marched to victory.

  She watched, half hidden behind a black curtain, then she heard the chants. One thousand of their veteran cavalry saluted their Lord Amirak of the kingdom as he emerged from below Arnhast and mounted his black stallion. His tight features looked up to her, knowing she watched. His hair was pulled back and curled into a tail, his skin had the marks of blood and the blue painted eyes of Armondi nobility, and he looked more like her future king than ever before. He drew his scimitar and saluted her, then to his men as he raised the Armondeen banner, and the soldiers roared in unison.

  The charge of a thousand steeds racing to join four thousand soldiers to the south thundered in the air. Hill after forested dark hill, they grew smaller as the queen watched them from the eleventh story of the Tower of the Scepter. The day was half over, yet Andorra had much to do.

  “Nataloni, dark ladies, to me now.” She snapped her fingers as fires lit unto wicks and braziers forged of bone came to illuminated life. There was no one in sight, yet all in the three towers heard and felt the commands infernal of their dark mistress.

  Within mere seconds, her demonically possessed secret guardians were in the room, heads low, silent as always. They had warned her of a man named Cristoff, and that a small contingent from Evermont now rode with his thousands of refugees. The Nataloni Nochti had told her also how they had threatened her son in Freemoore, and had more than just peasants in exile. Andorra strode naked down to the tenth floor, her black robed ladies were waiting with bows and silent respect. As she passed the open doors to the altar, her black robes were brought to her, and laid over her shoulders.
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br />   “Hail dark lord of hell, hail firstborn son of the Mother and the Creator, and hail Ruler of Infernium in all your fiery glory.” She got on her knees before the altar to winged Shukuru, the stone statue was covered in blood from too many victims to count this day.

  “Hail, Andorra, pious queen and priestess of the eleven.” Her ladies knelt and replied with whispered voices. They arranged the corpses in the order she had commanded. The fires were lit, the inscriptions just as the dark tomes had shown, and all was prepared. They saw her nod, and they knew it was time to leave her to communion.

  Andorra looked to the ancient red leather tomes on the altar, she had eleven passages to recite eleven times each to complete the dark incantations that would allow an immortal from the hells to step through. Kashtamias, the very demonic son of Shukuru and a mythical knight in the armies of the seventh hell, would be here within a day. Harron would be tracing an identical circle, a portal, an infernal beacon of blood so that Kashtamias could step through to the curselands with a proper offering. Everything had to be perfect, not one rune nor corpse nor candle out of place.

  Andorra heard her doors close, heard her Nataloni guardians take their shadowy positions throughout the tower, and she knew now that she was alone. She was also nervous, for this was a more powerful rite than she had ever performed. It was the same rite that her uncle Trehad had used to contact the netherworlds with his two peers, Koligail and Maroguille. They had not been accurate, their egos and power were too great, and they demanded more than they should have. For their sins against the eleven, they were stripped of flesh. Now, they would suffer eternal torment in service to the darkness, forever banned from furthering their powers yet driven to use them. They were now lords of Devonmir, rich, powerful, and utterly devoid of furthering themselves or becoming whole once again. Andorra loved her body, she loved that others loved it, and she did not wish to end up like Trehad. The queen of Armondeen began inspecting every corner of her dark floor of demonic worship, taking her time, making sure it would all go perfectly. For there could be no errors with the forces she paid homage to, none whatsoever.