The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth

by Jason R Jones

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  “Right there, moving fast, he is alone too.”

  “Very fast, like a deer or antelope in the wild. He is not trying to remain concealed too well either.” Codaius commented as they peeked over the hill at a fast moving scout. He had green garments to blend with the grass, a large sword across his back, and had come from the north.

  “You and Leonard take the right, Karai and I the left, surround him and strike quickly.” Kaya pointed to their spots, between two hills that this fast moving scout was surely headed between.

  They did as she said, rapiers drew from Harlian knights and a greatsword from the Bear of Evermont was pulled loose as Kaya readied her shortblade. The scout was fast, too fast to be normal, the steps seemed effortless as if the winds were assisting his motion. Up the hills he ran, in between them, not even trying to hide.

  Without so much as a word, two blades crossed in front of him, then one from the left and one from the right, behind his shoulders. His head was facing the ground, hands at his side, not even reaching for the hand and a half blade across his back. The scout put his hands in the air slowly, to about chest level.

  “Watch for more, he is likely not alone.” Kaya nodded to Karai and Leonard.

  “I am never alone, but there is no one else with me.” The female voice from beneath the green hood stated with perfect calm.

  “A woman assassin, Queen Andorra has been known to employ in such a manner.” Codaius raised his blade near the back of her neck.

  “I am no assassin, and I am not in league with Armondeen, let me pass.” Angeline of Charity kept her eyes closed, sensing through her blade that she need not resort to violence, yet.

  Kaya raised the cowl of her robes with her shortblade and flicked it off as she circled around the woman. The former Lady of Southwind looked at the red blonde hair in braids, her olive tan skin with light freckles, and into her green eyes as they opened. “She is not Armondi. Where are you from?”

  “I am northern Kivanite, if you speak of my heritage.” Angeline kept still.

  “Why are you here?” Codaius paced around as well, noting the large decorated sword on her back, it seemed to be looking at him but was not.

  “That is a long story. Let us say, I need to find Gwenneth Lazlette, and leave it there.” She looked to Kaya T’vellon.

  “I do not know what you are talking about. What is your name?” Kaya stared, her blue eyes did not flinch with the lie.

  “My name is Angeline of Charity, and I have seen you before, Lady Kaya of Southwind. Six years past, in Vallakazz, you passed through on your way to Valhirst, with your twin brother.” She bowed slowly.

  “You know this woman?” Sir Codaius blurted.

  Kaya rolled her eyes, now that he assured this woman that she was correct on identifying her. “On your knees, show me the brand.”

  “I am not with the White Spider either, m’lady. I am of the Knights Soujan, and I have been sent to find and help Gwenneth Lazlette. We have little time.” Angeline calmed herself as the southern lady was feeling threatened inside and thought her an assassin from her past.

  “No one out there Kaya, no one close anyway.” Leonard spoke as he returned from taking a view of the northern hills with Karai.

  “No one yet. But you have five legions of Armondi soldiers en route, to here.” Angeline took off her robes, her shoulderplates with the triangle of vines of her order, then her blade. She laid them on the ground, and pulled her shirt back over her left shoulder, baring it to Kaya. There were many scars, but no brand of a spider. “We are wasting time.”

  “How do you know this?” Kaya lowered her blade.

  Because the will of the Mother has blessed me. A long journey from Chazzrynn have I taken, just like you, and I follow the same people. Gwenneth will need our help, the earth has told me, so please, take me to her.

  The voice was her voice, but it was inside Kaya’s mind. She looked to Angeline, not recognizing her at all from memory. Yet she believed her. She watched her put her garments and armor back on, and then swore she saw one of the little angel eyes on her sword wink at her.

  “I will take you to Lord Cristoff, for we do not know where they have gone or how to get inside the ruins safely. But, show me this army first. I need to see it to believe it.” Kaya nodded for the knights to sheath their weapons.

  “Very well, but you are wasting precious time.”

  “If you want me to trust you, I need to see. On the way, tell me all you know.”

  “As long as you tell me the same.” Angeline nodded.

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  “Anyone seen Dalliunn? Damn lion always runnin’ off.”

  “No, I thought he was sniffing out a trail toward the foothills, half hour back.” Cristoff nodded to the mountains.

  “So, yer’ cousin watches a sword? For ten years at a time, with other elves that watch the same sword?” Tannek asked, knowing the lewirja always found his way back.

  “Yes.” Aariss Diravis replied resolutely.

  “Don’t sound too exciting.”

  “They are priests of Siril, they are not seeking excitement, my bearded friend.”

  “And this sword, does it talk?” Tannek raised his eyebrows as they followed the trail up and down the sharp inclines and through the dead brush and groves.

  “No, it does not.” He replied. “Ssshhh.”

  “Allright, quiet then. Right, we might wake the sword.” Tannek rolled his eyes. “So, does it move, this sword?”

  “No, it was placed there over two thousand years ago, by the king of Tintasarn. It will not move until it chooses a new king.” Aariss looked around, they were close, his cousin Arylius should have heard them coming. Something was not right. “His priests bring nobility from the elven nations every ten years, but the sword has never chosen.”

  “So, a sword that don’t move, don’t talk, is supposed to choose some noble stranger ye’ bring it every ten years? But, for two thousand years, nothin’ has ever happened?”

  “If you put it in that perspective, perhaps it would seem odd. Yet, the way of Siril and of elven tradition and myth differs vastly from your culture, dwarf.” He smiled over to his stocky bearded traveling companion.

  “Right. So odd as this is, have ye’ ever thought it might be broken? Maybe ye’ not doin’ somethin’ quite the way yer supposed to?” Tannek winked with sarcasm. “I mean, if I had somethin’ not do what it was intended to do, for a couple millennia mind ye’, I might look into that.”

  “The sword of the dancing king, Loestiri it is called, is not broken. His dying wish, after Altestan butchered and cursed this realm and our home of Aloeste, was that the sacred blade of his wife was kept safe until another king came to restore Tintasarn. It is legend, written on the blade itself, and it is not broken, dwarf.” Aariss Diravis glared at Tannek.

  “It’s just very patient, then. Allright.” Tannek chuckled as they stopped, all three of them seeing stone towers of gray rise from deep within a grove of bare branches without end. The shadows of the mountains cast over them, despite the lack of sun, as if the forests were forbidden.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Cristoff, who had been paying little attention to their conversation, spoke up upon seeing the sad and hidden place.

  “This, is Tintasarn, fifth kingdom of the elven race. Much like Aloeste, it is a grim reminder of the hatred that Altestan holds for our people.” Aariss pointed to the overgrown forest with not a leaf on a branch, nothing grew anywhere in fact.

  “So then Kakisteele is where, other side of these mountains?” Tannek queried, looking up the shadowy south side of the peaks behind them.

  “Yes inside, if rumor be true. Mooncrest would be past the peaks as well, if we could traverse the storm.”

  “I still see no storm, yet the weather is still, the shadows are strange here, and the sun is blocked by clouds that do not move. Where is your---“

  “Avaray, toun ethrea dominae yaela
rouniae, Aariss?”

  Cristoff drew his longsword just as Aariss nocked an arrow and Tannek raised his shield. The voice, in elven dialect, was very close. Many blades drew around them, far too many.

  “You bring poor company to such a sacred site, cousin. Only elven nobility, would be kings of our race, and the devout are allowed.” Arylius Diravas held his curved blade with two hands on the elongated hilt. His bark gray robes were tied tight with swaths of purple and silver thread, his long dark hair was braided in five braids as were all priests of Siril, and his chestnut eyes glared with a seriousness that could not be ignored. His chiseled face, high cheekbones, and slim pointed ears looked very similar to Aariss.

  “Arylius, this is Lord Cristoff Bradswellen the Third, and Marshall Tannek Anduvann. They are enemies of Armondeen and seekers of Mooncrest and Kakisteele. I was showing them the way around the storm. I had hoped---“

  “The storm has stopped, two days past. Lead them around the peaks to the ruins. You know they cannot pass this way.” Arylius Diravas sheathed his great elven blade at his side, then the fifty hidden priests around them unseen, did exactly the same.

  “The storm stopped? How?” Aariss nodded to the other priests, knowing he was safe from harm.

  “We do not know, but water is trickling from the fountains as well. It is a sign, cousin. We saw the moons last night, faintly, but we saw them through the shadows over Tintasarn. And…the sword moved.” Arylius, disappointed as he was at his cousin’s actions, could not help but smile.

  “It did not.” Aariss grinned.

  “It did, cousin. It moved nearly half a handwidth across the stone in the shrine to Queen Huliyas and King Akhirre, last rulers of Tintasarn. Loestiri, the blade of the dancing monarch, has sensed something. Blessings of Siril upon us.”

  “Two thousand years, and it moved half a handwidth? I woulda’ expected a bit more---“ Tannek saw the glare from the elves, and from Cristoff. “Just sayin’, just sayin’ is all.”

  “The blade of the dancing king moves, and if the moons can be---“ Aariss was cut off.

  “Loestiri, the blade of the dancing monarch, cousin. I know you share not our faith, but please, use the appropriate names to our sacred relics.” Arylius corrected his cousin.

  “Fine, as you wish. I have these two and one hundred fifty of my Riverbows, may we enter?” Aariss smiled and pleaded with his eyes to his older elven cousin. “They are good men, I will hold my honor upon it.”

  “How long have you known them?”

  “Four days or more, but they stood against the Prince of Armondeen, and they seek a righteous dream. They follow five brave souls here, one of which is the supposed heir to Kakisteele.” Aariss bowed to his cousin again, knowing that he was held by his vows to forbid anyone not of Siril from entering.

  “Uhhh..ain’t no supposin’ bout’ it then, Azenairk Thalanaxe is the rightful king o’ those mines and kingdom.” Tannek commented, as politely as he could.

  Arylius sighed, looked to his brethren, then nodded. “Very well, but be silent. Things are changing here. We are in prayer and meditation most of the day. You can show them the peaks, but under our direction and escort.”

  “You are most gracious, cousin.” Aariss bowed and made the sign of elven peace and love, his heart, to his lips, then to his eyes with his hands folded over each other. At the end, his hands opened to release his gratitude to the sky and stars. Arylius and his fifty priests returned the gesture, then the one hundred fifty archers slung their bows and did the same, all in silence.

  “Arylius, bein’ a fellow believer in many odd things, hence me bein’ exiled here, I have to ask ye’ somethin’.” Tannek smiled.

  “Yes Marshall Anduvann? You wish to see the sacred blade?”

  “Aye, for certain, but, ye’ ever brought women here, I mean, ever?”

  “No, our priests here spend a decade in protection and prayer over Loestiri and the shrine it was placed in. We are all trained in the deadly arts of the blade, all men as we cannot be distracted by beauty or emotion, and we are deeply devoted by those secret vows. Why?” Arylius walked with his cousin and his friends to Tintasarn.

  “Just curious, tis’ all, thank ye’ much.” Tannek rolled his eyes, wondering why elves, for all their senses, had not the common one.

  “My gratitude for allowing us in your realm, Arylius Diravas.” Lord Cristoff shook his hand, forearm to forearm, and saluted his chest in Harlian fashion.

  Arylius smiled, as their hands touched, he felt it. His devotion and training in elven meditation was far advanced. After four hundred years, he could tell things with simple contact from most living things. His eyes closed, then opened slowly.

  “Lord, says my cousin and your former title, far behind to the east. Friend and brave warrior whispers the sky, as to who you are. Yet, father, protector, and king, say the stars upon our meeting, Cristoff Bradswellen the Third. Blessings of Siril upon you.”

  Cristoff just stared, then nodded, he did not know what to say. He tried to make the gesture he saw the elves doing, with the folded hands and opening them to the sky. Instead, after feeling slightly embarrassed for his hesitation, he made the symbol of the feathered cross upon his chest, and circled it.

  “May Alden shine his light from heaven, upon us both, my elven friend.”

  “Come, brave Harlian and mighty dwarf, let me show you the sword Loestiri and hallowed Tintasarn. Then we shall inspect your Kaki Mountains and see if there is a way through to your heroes.” Arylius, high priest of Siril, led the first strangers in over two thousand years, into the lost elven city.

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  His eyes remained fixated, unblinking, with one knee upon the golden carpet that led from the grand double doors all the way to the thrones. The one on the left had never been filled, as low king Symond had never married. Jardayne tried not to shift his weight too much, yet after the hard ride from Freemoore to Evermont, his body ached for rest. His fast ride had not been in time, for word spreads faster than hooves in the realm of politics.

  The only saving grace he had was that Lassado of Eisel Ine was here. Otherwise, he may have been imprisoned and stripped of title already. The men and knights, even the city and her people, they all had heard that Armondeen and Evermont, Rohne and Jardayne, had had bitter words. Rumors of war, threats of attack, and movements of forces could be heard whispering on every street corner.

  “Five days, Knight General Jardayne of Highmont, five days!” Symond let his small circlet of crown fall off the back of his bald head and slide behind his back onto the seat of the throne. He cared not. “I have been here, with but three knights, to organize all that the High King of Shanador has ordered from each of us! And you ordered Sir Codaius to the west? Your disloyalty is appalling!”

  “Please forgive me sire, I thought to meet you on your usual route, near Freemoore, and escort---“

  “Lies! You took those fugitives, the ones causing all the commotion on the continent, and sought their glory rather than that of your sworn low king!” Symond stood and pointed his finger at his highest officer.

  “No, it was not that way, sire. I do not lie, I swear it was----“

  “They receive the royal treatment of my castles, the escort of my bravest men, and you leave our city with just Anders, Valonne, and Naghen to protect it?! Fool of a knight, and poor leadership indeed have you shown me here.” The hand of the old man to his right, gently resting upon his shoulder, helped him set back down in his throne.

  “Sire, my king, please forgive me. I thought it in Shanador’s best interest to see these heroes to Freemoore, then things changed.” Jardayne had not looked up once since it began.

  “Aye, things have changed. The heroes you thought best to honor and protect, have left to their western treasure hunt. They are trespassing upon Armondi soil, and everyone is aware of it, Jardayne.” Symond rubbed his head and tight gray beard, then reached for his goblet of wine and drank. “And they are aware of the suppo
rt Evermont has shown. Imagine when I must explain this to the High King.”

  “My liege, those lands are far more than a piece of Armondi territory.” Lassado, old and frazzled of hair and beard, waved his hands when he spoke. His purple tattered robes had designs of script that glowed and flashed for no apparent reason, and his sky blue eyes had an awkward constant glare, as if he did not ever blink. “You know the history there. Altestan, when Armondeen broke from Shanador, gave those lands to them to hold cursed. Should we honor the orders of Altestan, from two thousand years past, and be wary of Armondeen? I think not.”

  “Powerful as you may be in the arcane realm, Lassado, those decisions and opinions are not yours to take part in. The High King, the council of low kings and knights are---“ Symond was cut off.

  “Horse shit, sire. Fresh steaming Shanadorian horse shit. Smell it? I do.” Lassado tapped his staff and flies buzzed out from it, as did a strange odor.

  “Mind your words, wizard. Master of Eisel Ine or not, I am the low king of Evermont.”

  “Elected, like all the others. Elected to serve the ideals and honor of your people. And I am here as your counsel. Though you did not request it, I am here nonetheless. Those lost kingdoms to the west, three cities, mythical places, are not belonging to Armondeen except by parchment written by long dead enemies. If someone wants them free, I say more power to them.” Lassado grinned to Jardayne, seeing that he was raising his head up slightly to view the conversation he was hearing.

  “And to what end, old relative? War with Armondeen, perhaps Altestan? Those five are now spoken of in every kingdom. Seekers of Mooncrest I heard, slayers of Altestani warships they say, destined to whatever and whatnot. From Chazzrynn to Kivanis, Caberra to Shanador, even Harlaheim and Willborne speak of them or want them dead. I have not the power to start a war, with anyone. I speak not for all of Shanador, damn it!” Symond pounded his fist on the throne.