The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth

by Jason R Jones

  “I know this woman, capitan of mine, no need for alarm.” He sheathed his blade and hailed Kaya from the overgrown paths in the forgotten elven city.

  Kaya dismounted, seeing Cristoff and Tannek with Aariss Diravas and the Riverbows. She did not look to the shrine, nor the other elves in gray robes, just to the lord of the exiled caravan. She knelt, as did Angeline of Charity.

  “Lady Kaya, what is it? Rosana, is she allright, the queen?” Cristoff saw that look, her face was concerned with something, and his heart stopped with his breath.

  “She delivers soon, today, the priests are there. It is not that, my lord.” Kaya stood, all eyes upon her now.

  “What be the rush then, chargin’ with yer’ horse and all?” Tannek marched ahead, looking behind her for something, nothing was there but dusty trails of their passing.

  “Armondeen has arrived, my lord. They hold the north side of Mooncrest. Five legions. We killed some of their scouts, they are planning to take our friends should they find them, and…and…” Kaya felt the hopelessness of it. She gritted her teeth, then Angeline finished for her.

  “And they are planning an infernal ritual to summon a demon, a child of the rulers of hell, to desecrate the temples. The five you seek, are the offering. We need to go, Lord Cristoff, before they are found.” Angeline bowed, then looked to his hip. She saw the pyramid pommel on a longblade, black onyx it was, a blade she had fought twice in the past.

  “This is Angeline, of the Knights Soujan, she is an ally sent from Soujan Mountain.” Kaya nodded.

  “Five thousand?” Cristoff heard what was said, but the numbers took over his mind as he tried to fathom how they could engage such a force with one quarter that amount. He felt guilty now, wondering if his debacle in Freemoore with Prince Rohne had worsened the situation. “You are certain, five legions?”

  “Yes, my lord, we have both seen them with our own eyes.” Angeline looked up, her green eyes meeting the concerned brown squint of the regal lord that had led everyone here. “That blade you carry, I know its owner. He is with us, on our side, Lord Cristoff.”

  “You know Kendari of Stillwood?” Cristoff looked to the sword, then to this woman with the blonde and red braids and knowing stare.

  “Who be Kendari then, and what does it matter at this here moment?” Tannek broke the conversation, wanting nothing more than to find Azenairk Thalanaxe, before it was too late.

  “The dwarf is right, we should go. The armies will be ready by the time we arrive.” Angeline bowed again, then to the elven guardians who were staring at her.

  “The armies? Our armies? Who organized them?” Cristoff turned and looked, seeing Arylius and Aariss Diravas right behind him.

  “I did, my lord, in your absence. I thought it best they be ready, posted, and informed of what may be coming for us.” Kaya bowed her head. She hoped he was not going to yell, like Alexei used to, when she made a tactical error.

  Cristoff sighed. “Well done, Lady Kaya T’Vellon, my gratitude. Did you send word throughout the caravan, to arm the---“

  “I did, Julia Whiteblade is gathering forces and arming them from our ten thousand refugees.” Kaya smiled, let out a breath of relief, and walked with the legendary former Lord of Saint Erinsburg.

  The two walked off at a fast pace, speaking or battle plans and military positioning, as if the rest of the world had faded away. Tannek shrugged, bowed to the elves, then the sword, and marched off behind them as fast as he could.

  “Come elves, all o’ ye’ pointy eared warriors, come on now! We got ourselves a battle comin’!” Tannek bellowed over his shoulder as he ran back north and east, following the trails out of Tintasarn.

  “Anyone seen Dalliunn? Me lion been gone a long time now.” Tannek looked around, everyone was busy hustling back to the encampment. “Come on boy, where are ye’ now?”

  Angeline turned to the two elves she had never met, yet the winds told her she was beyond safe in their presence. They were staring at her shoulder, at the emblem of the Knights Soujan, the triangle of vines etched into her steel. “I must go, but I will see you both, very soon.”

  “You are one of them, they still exist, still protecting our fallen Gods.” Arylius looked into her eyes.

  “She would know our names, if she was one of the unseen, blessed by Seirena.” Aariss slung his bow, waved to his band of archers, and began to follow Lord Cristoff. He knew his cousin could not leave, the shrine of Loestiri was a holy place that he could not abandon.

  “Aariss Diravas, you and your Riverbows need to watch the front of Cristoff, quickly. Arylius, cousin to Aariss, you will come soon, but not now.” Angeline smiled, hearing the forests speak their names to her.

  The elves stared again, not daring to believe the mythical guardians of the Caricians still walked the earth, yet seeing one of them here and now before them. They smiled. Aariss bowed to his cousin as he marched off to the north with his men. Arylius bowed to Angeline and his cousin.

  “A Knight of the Soujan you may be, but you are incorrect, I cannot leave this place. Your Order is never wrong, if that is indeed who you are. I will pray, should battle come, that Siril watches over you closely.” Arylius made the symbol of peace, from his heart, to chin, to his lips, and then folded his hands together and bowed.

  “Have your priests ready, as I said, we will see you soon. Blessings of the Mother upon you.” Angeline bowed and smiled as she turned away.

  He stood, back to the shrine dedicated to Siril and the blade Loestiri, and watched them go. Arylius felt something, many things, so much was happening at once. He held up his hand for one of his priests to come, knowing he could not break a sacred vow to Siril, but he had to help somehow.

  “Master Arylius?” One of his brethren asked.

  “Send word, as fast as you can, to the Temple of the Whitemoon, on the northwestern side of the ruins of Mooncrest. You know the place. Be careful, as Armondi soldiers are everywhere, but get to Mirash, the great sphinx. Tell him that my cousin needs their assistance. Go.”

  “We will not follow?” The priest sounded confused.

  Arylius watched the elves of his cousin and the others with him fade from view into the foothills. He wanted to go, but his vows would not allow it. He closed his eyes and sighed, praying for those feelings to fade as well.

  “No, we cannot get involved in a war. We have a shrine to guard, our vows, and but fifty blades. It is---“ Arylius was cut off.

  “I beg to interrupt, brother Arylius, but I was not speaking of the people. I was speaking of the sword. Look.”

  Arylius raised his eyebrow, turned, and fell to his knees. “Oh by Siril and all the stars, how is this?”

  The blade hovered, inches over his head, Twenty feet from its eternal shrine, spinning with a low hum and a white glow. It ceased its revolutions and moved, slowly, through the air. Loestiri seemed to be following those that had just left.

  He looked up, it passed over him, and continued ahead. Arylius felt a tear in the corner of his eye. He prayed to Siril, thanking him for sending a worthy king, one that the sword now sought out after two milennia. All the elven priests were praying, all over the ruins of Tintasarn, watching Loestiri move through the air.

  “Priests of Siril, elven brothers of the moon and stars, it appears that we will draw steel with our new king this day!” Arylius drew his elvencraft blade and held it high.

  “Arah!”

  The fifty followers of the elven God, Siril, drew their blades and chanted a simple battle cry to the cloudy sky. They followed the floating blade, out of Tintasarn, over foothills, and past the overgrown brush and forest. As they walked behind Loestiri, small buds grew on the trees, tiny bits of green sprouted from bushes, and even smaller dots of grass formed behind the passing sword. Springs flooded from fountains, birds chirped from the silent city, and life came fast and furious as the sword hovered away.

  The elves cried, gripping their blades tight, letting the tears cascade down their cheeks and face
s. None could believe this day was happening, it was a dream, a myth that the king would come and reopen Tintasarn. Kilikala still ruled from the north, Gualidura had their queen deep in their forests, and Shalokahn was but a crooked council far to the east. The two other known elven kingdoms, Aloeste and Tintasarn, had been destroyed by Altestan long ago. For the Loestal river elven nation, scattered as they were across the continent, this was a moment like no other. For soon, they would have a kingdom once more, and a king. They kept their slow march, encircling Loestiri, and watching the trail ahead.

  Exodus IV:VIII

  Sacred Forge of Vundren, Depths of Kakisteele

  Saberrak Agrannar collided with the immortal woman that towered over him, his horns now covered in her blood. His enchanted axe whipped down into her thigh, then the other chopped into her hip, and she stumbled backwards toward the stairs. Suddenly, he was thrown back through the air, a mere shove of her hand toward him, and he crashed against the stone wall. The minotaur felt no pain and was back on his feet in a flash.

  James plunged his glowing broadsword into her side, blocked her slashing ember scimitar with his shield, and spun low with the massive force of the blow. His blade sliced clean across her calf and blood ran down his edge with the blue flames licking up from his hand. The knight rolled low across the stone floor, avoiding another mighty swing of her blade.

  Carice and Elicras both slashed in lightning strikes across marble flesh, glowing as they drew immortal blood. Shinayne leapt over the stairs, trying to get behind Arabashiel. Her right hand drove her longblade deep into the back of the winged woman, then her shortblade stabbed higher as she pulled herself up. Just as the Gimmorian guardian spun, the elven swordswoman kicked off of her back, a reverse flip in the air, and landed on the top of the stairs behind her.

  Azenairk ducked low in his charge, as bolts of flaming electricity blasted from Gwenneth overhead into screaming Arabashiel. His glowing warhammer slammed into the back of her knee as she turned on Shinayne, the sound of breaking bone echoed in the cavern. A red smoldering bolt sizzled above in between black feathered wings, then another, and Arabashiel fell forward. Zen did not hesitate, he ran ahead, and slammed his hammer into her face, then again, then twice more. Her head snapped to the side from each swing, her bones cracked, and her blood showered the steps.

  She felt the broadsword dive into her shoulder, the whitemoon blades into her chest, the minotaur tore his axes into her ribs, and the warhammer pounded into her cheek and head, over and over. Arabashiel’s back was on fire from the onslaught of arcane incantations, her flesh was melting, never had she felt such pain, such pleasure. It was ecstasy. Her eyes opened ahead, now on her hands and knees from the five mortals laying waste to her body, and she saw her demons. Hundreds poured and screeched down the tunnel from the throneroom, summoned by Mudren Sheldathain, moments away. She smiled, shadows erupted from her mouth and nose, and she laughed as her blood soaked the stairs. Purple light illuminated from her eyes, as the enchanted blades neared her neck, and then she stood.

  Her wings flapped hard as she turned toward Shinayne, her mouth opened, and shadows from within her whipped into the elf. Before her enemy knew what had happened, Arabashiel grabbed the blinded elf woman and threw her into the cavern. She turned on the knight, and glared at his holy blade. The wounds of the arcane spells, the warhammer, and the minotaur’s axes were healing as if they never were.

  “Aaahhhhhh!”

  Shinayne saw only black, her eyesight gone, smothered in darkness, yet she knew she was falling. She dropped her blades in the air, and covered her head as she fell, and then landed on the stone floor, fifty feet away. Her shoulder throbbed, her hip ached, her head was bleeding from impact, and still she could not see. The highborne elf wiped her eyes, nothing, all black.

  Saberrak dropped his weapons, grabbed Arabashiels arm holding the massive scimitar, and began slamming his horns into her shoulder. She ignored him it seemed, laughing wildly, and grabbed James Andellis with her free hand.

  “Mortal fools, suffer my wrath!”

  James stabbed down through her forearm, his blade cut all the way out the other side, and then he saw but darkness as she opened her mouth. Shadows clouded his vision, he was flying, through the air at a terrible speed. His sword was likely still in her arm, as he felt it not in his grasp, and then he swung his shield arm out. The knight hit something steel, one of the furnaces over the forges in the cavern, and his head snapped back. Slowly, his head bleeding profusely now from a two cuts, he floated to the ground as the enchantments on his shield took hold. He settled to the cavern floor, blinded with swirling shadows across his face, and then he collapsed.

  Arabashiel smashed her fist into Saberrak, still he held on to her arm. Another blow to his head and the minotaur held, as the dwarf slammed her legs with his hammer and acidic rays of power ripped into her chest. She had forgotten how truly powerful she was, and her wounds were healing as fast as the injuries came. The Gimmorian mistress slammed the gray minotaur into the ceiling, her demons flooding the air around them now. He roared and kicked, his eyes glowing blue with flames and rage. He would not let go. She drew the broadsword from her forearm, it burned her hand, yet she whipped it end over end at the dwarven priest at her feet.

  Zen blocked the blade with his shield, then felt a mighty kick to the same spot. He flew back, rolled over and over, and landed on his face, next to the anvils by Vundren’s Forge. He looked for his glowing hammer, it was thirty feet ahead, under a swarm of winged demons that were beginning to land. The dwarf heaved himself up, then fell back down. He gritted his teeth and looked at his leg, it was broken and laying to the side in a horrid angle.

  “I cannot see. James, where are you, who is there?” Shinayne heard something and felt around, she found Elicras, but not Carice. She was trembling, hurt, and bleeding all over.

  “I am…here…cannot see..either…help…me…” James tried to stand, he stumbled, his head was throbbing with sparks of pain as blood ran down his face.

  Saberrak felt the heat of Gwenneth’s barrage, felt his body grinding into the stone ceiling, yet he was healing also as the blue from his eyes intensified. She had him under the throat with one hand now, yet he held her swordarm, and his horns had bloodied her face and shoulder as her marble flesh was torn and showing the white bone underneath. He turned his head to Gwenneth, seeing the demons surround them, and not seeing anyone else. He forced words out from his strangled throat.

  “Gwenne, run…get them out of here…go!” He looked to his axes on the ground, to his broken, blinded and bloody friends, and then to her purple eyes. Her wounds were healing, it was useless. He roared again, smashed his fists and horns into her arm and hand and face, she would not let go.

  “You can run, but they will find you. Your souls are mine!” Arabashiel slammed Saberrak down to the ground, then into a wall, and then grabbed him by the horns and threw him off. He landed seconds later, covered in her blood, and scraped across the stone floor.

  Gwenneth was exhausted, her fingers and hands burned, yet she hovered forward in front of her friends to protect them. She ignored the demons, her staff was aglow with green force, and she glared at Arabashiel.

  “Vulthes variem nuath dinoor de!” Flames erupted from her palm, blinding the demons and burning the air, showering the twelve foot winged Gimmorian woman with a wave half as tall as the cavern.

  “Hathis duras Imoches dast!” Gwenneth combined the might of the fourth rune of the staff, forcing her powers to blend with it. The flames turned blue, the force intensified, and the cavern shook. The air rippled with force, arcane powers she had never unleashed.

  Arabashiel put her hand out, dropped her infernal scimitar, put her other hand forward, blocking the blast that continued to melt the arriving demons and her own flesh. Slowly, she held it at bay and began to walk forward against the might of the hovering wizard. Never had she seen such power, especially from a mortal. Her hands burned, her shadows wavered, yet she fou
ght with her dark magicks against the mighty flames.

  Gwenneth was shaking, the ceiling was cracking, but she summoned more. “Jistrix aglothes, umdre anaste tierex!”

  Calling upon old draconic magicks, she infused the flaming incantation with both force and heat, and now with corrosive bile that would be attracted to her enemies. The shower of arcane majesty turned from blue to purple, spreading over the stairs and half the cavern. The noise was that of one hundred furnaces streaming from her hands. It melted demons by the dozens, Arabashiels blocking hands looked as but bones even past the wrists, and splinters of rock began to spike through the ground. Gwenneth shook, violently, trying to maintain the magicks she was unleashing. Her eyes watered, her nose began to drip blood from each nostril, and then the cavern erupted between her and the Gimmorian immortal. Nothing but a storm of blue and purple fires colliding with a shield of immortal shadows could be seen.

  The mistress of curses foced all her power back toward Gwenneth with an immortal scream, the collision of force drowned out all sound for a mere second. Then the dark cavern went bright orange, then blue, and flames exploded in every direction. Arabashiel fell back to the stairs, the flesh on her arms was gone up to the shoulder. Gwenneth was hurled through the air, into James, and the two slid back by the stairs to the mines, into darkness. Saberrak grabbed Shinayne just before a giant stalacmite fell from the ceiling, and ran toward the forges with her over his shoulder. Demons poured into the chaos as arcane winds whipped them from the air and smashed them every direction. Zen covered his ears in the explosive debris, trying to focus and heal his broken leg, hidden behind a row of anvils. Stone shattered, the ground cracked as the ceiling fell in massive pieces. The darkness, the dust, and the destruction was a tangible force that blocked all sight and sound. Then, there was but dust.