The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth

by Jason R Jones

  “Feast, my children, bring me their heads!” Arabashiel stood, the bones of her arms now had tendons and sinew starting to regrow, but she was weak. Her body trembled, she was smoldering still from the arcane forces that had nearly destroyed her body, and her blood was in puddles across the stone stairs and floor. Her blade vanished back to the netherworld, she had not the strength to keep it here. The Gimmorian being stumbled toward the throne, glaring at Mudren Sheldathain. He moved from the throne quickly, in awe at what the mortals had done to her.

  “Bring me the dwarf, your heir that has sought you out, you will kill him for his blasphemies, I command it.” Her words drifted as she slumped in the throne. Her eyes closed, her powers drained from battle and healing, and she rested as her eternal body rejuvenated. Arabashiel had not the strength to stand, yet her foes were broken and beaten, so she smiled.

  “Yes, my mistress, it shall be done.” Mudren turned after his kneeling was dismissed with a wave of a bony finger. The demons screeched into the air, those hundred or so that had survived, and the dust began to settle. He stomped down the stairs into the sacred forge, cross crescent shield sharp and tight on his arm, and his red soulless eyes searched for Azenairk Thalanaxe. The once dwarven king, cursed eternally for saving his family, felt that he had a spark of will in his chest. She was weak, for the first time ever, and he marched harder to find this dwarf with his iron box. The ceiling in the forge had fallen in places, making walls of impassable rubble, yet the cursed dwarf searched for Azenairk Thalanaxe in the wake of dark catastrophe nonetheless.

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  “I do.” Katrina smiled, her eyes fluttering open, her hands were resting on something stone to keep her from falling over. Her head swooned in an ocean of wine, yet her strength was fast returning. She saw a man in black robes before her, a stone altar, and felt a hand on hers.

  “And do you, Lord Valistor of the noble house of Waylen, swear to honor this union as a husband, to protect the sanctity of the great kingdom of Willborne as king, and rule with honor under the ancient worships decreed here this morning?”

  Katrina looked to her right, Valistor Waylen was dressed in black robes, adorned with sashes of old words in the draconic tongue, and had his hand on hers. His eyes were glowing red, his pupils were slivers, and the room was not familiar to her. It was cold, damp, and filled with torches of greens and blues. She saw statues of dragons, some small, some enormous, everything wobbled in her vision as she came to. The queen felt her heart quicken, her breath come faster, she realized she was underground, in a cavern.

  “I do.” Valistor smiled to her and whispered. “You look radiant, my queen.”

  Katrina went to pull her hand away, then she looked down. She was in white robes, sashes of her kingdom across her shoulders, and her skin was decorated with draconic markings and symbols, in blood.

  “No, no, no….where are we…no..how did she…she is dead…no, …No!” She jerked her hand free, but men from behind held her still. She turned her head, there were hundreds of men, noble men of the kingdom, all kneeling behind them. She saw the flags of Willborne, her sword and another were hovering over a fountain of blood, and the statues seemed to move. There were bodies, many dead around the fountain, and her stomach turned. Katrina tried to fall to her knees, but the men held her up. She sobbed, as she wiped her face, the tears were as blood.

  “Noooooo!”

  Yes

  Katrina shuddered, she knew that voice, her eyes burned, and she stood against her will. Her hands trembled against the stone altar, her body shook, and then she saw the eyes. At first the statues, the ones that had been so still, their eyes gleamed red. Dozens of dragons moved from ledges, alcoves, and bared their fanged smiles.

  “By the powers given to me, by her majestic and divine graces….”

  “Do…not…do…this…Valistor…” Katrina’s jaw was tightening, against her will, yet she spoke through her gritted teeth.

  “…I seal this marriage, in old custom, with the blood of the eldest dragon…”

  “It is already done, Katrina. Willborne will rise again, in glory, with you and I on the thrones.” He smiled, then took a knee before the altar as it illuminated with a gigantic red glow from behind the priest.

  “No, no..stop…this…No, no…” Katrina knelt, she did not want to, but something in her veins, in the wine, she had to kneel.

  The priest turned, his body surrounded by red light from a single eye, a draconic eye that was taller than him. He drew a kris dagger, and laid out his palm. A black forked tongue, badly burned, flicked out. He cut it, gently, and filled a goblet with the blood that poured forth.

  “…All hail Rynnth, our Goddess, our savior, and the dragon of Willborne…” The priest offered the goblet to Valistor, and he drank deep of it.

  “All hail Rynnth!” The gathered shouted in prayer.

  The cup was offered to Katrina, yet she did not drink, she gripped the altar with all her strength. Her nail broke, then another, and two of her fingers split form her effort. Suddenly her hair was pulled back, her jaw opened by strong hands, and it was poured into her mouth. She stared ahead, blood running down the sides of her face and neck, trying not to swallow. The eye squinted at her as the torches intensified. Rynnth stepped forward, in her gigantic girth, and grinned at Katrina.

  “All hail the children of Rynnth, the seventeen that have answered the call of her divine blood to Willborne.” The priest drank of the cup, then set it on the altar.

  “All hail the children of the dragon!” The shouts echoed in the cavern once more.

  I told you that your service was forever, and you betrayed me. Now, your kingdom, your rule, and your people are mine. You will rule as I command, you will breed and produce loyal princes when I say, and you will serve until I tire of seeing you suffer. Then, Katrina, you will burn for a thousand years in my fires, until I grow weary of your screams. Only then, will I let the hells finally have you, only then.

  The voice in her head was powerful, she could not respond, only listen. Her body started to calm, her eyes stopped their tears, and Katrina smiled to Rynnth. She looked at her missing eye, her missing horns, and her broken wing. Her draconic idol was badly scarred and disfigured forever. She could not remember the fights that may have caused it, but she felt angry for whoever would dare hurt her mistress. Her mind went blank, her thoughts drifted to Valistor and the ceremony, and she walked to the blood filled fountain. Valistor Waylen did the same, walking hand in hand with his queen, and they knelt, together.

  “By her divine will and grace, a new day is born, and a new kingdom. You will serve her, and the land, and her children, against all enemies. Your hearts are no more your own, but are for she who blesses us. The swords.” The priest motioned with his hands for the king and queen to each draw their own blades that hovered over the fountain.

  Katrina drew her longsword, as Valistor drew his, now facing the gathered nobility and the seventeen wyrms that stalked the massive cavern. None were as large as Rynnth, but they both could feel by their blood, that they were her relatives. They turned, swords in hand, and faced one another. The light grew strong in the flames, in the room, and in the eyes of the dragons. The humming sounded as a monstrous choir, as the people and the draconic voices chanted together. Then, Valistor plunged his blade into Katrina’s chest, and she did the same into his.

  Their eyes met, first in shock, then agony, and then they pulled their blades free. With their left hands, they dug their fingers into each others’ chests, felt for the pumping heart, and began to tear. Katrina stared into his eyes, not even blinking, and Valistor did the same. Within moments, they each pulled their blood covered hands out, each holding the heart of the other into the air, still beating.

  “Praise be to Rynnth, hail her powers beyond death, and give to us our immortal rulers.” The priest fell to his hands and knees.

  “Hail Rynnth!” The dragons bowed to her, the people fell in worship, and the lights flash
ed bright with deep magicks.

  Katrina took Valistor’s beating heart, and placed it into her chest. The blood pouring from it melded with her own, her body accepted it, and began to heal. Valistor did the same with her heart, and they each watched one another. Their eyes were crimson now, with but slivers of black in the center. Her fingernails turned ebony, his canines grew longer, her tongue became forked, and they smiled to one another. The priest walked up to them as the chants began once more, and he placed a crown on each of their heads.

  “I give to you, Queen Katrina and King Valistor, may their rule bring us into a new age, and a new Willborne. Long live the king, long live the queen, and forever live the dragons of Rynnth!” He knelt once more, at the feet of his rulers, and began to cry tears of blood.

  “Long live the queen!”

  Katrina smiled to the noble guests at her ceremony, and raised her blood covered blade high.

  “Long live the King!”

  Valistor grabbed Katrina, and kissed her passionately, their forked tongues and fangs embracing as much as their bodies were. The nobles roared and the dragons screeched in delight.

  “Forever live the dragons of Rynnth!”

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  The flapping of demonic wings passed him by from far above, the dust settled slowly, and Azenairk Thalanaxe felt around the ground for a weapon. He found an elven longblade and took it, Shinayne’s Carice, and he found a broadsword. The griffon hilted blade of his friend, Sir James, and he slid it into his belt. His warhammer was nowhere to be seen, but he could only see ten feet around with the sandstone clouds left in the wake of the explosion. His leg was healed, he dashed from anvil row to furnace to forge, keeping hidden. Stones still fell, the echoing crashes never ceased, and the ground continued to tremble. He peered around and saw the red glowing eyes, they were searching for him, it was Mudren Sheldathain.

  “Oh heavenly father, Vundren, God, help me now. I be alone here, and I need ye’, I do.” Zen prayed quietly, and hid behind the forge of Vundren. He saw the glimmer from the blades of his friends, he set his shield down, and held them in each hand. He had not heard anything from Saberrak nor Shinayne, it had been many minutes since the collapse. He tried to listen for Gwenneth and James, but he heard just stone rumbling and demons hunting the passages, nothing more. He knew they were either dead or fleeing to the temple, he wanted to yell for them, but he knew he would be revealed.

  “Thalanaxe, where are you, coward?” Mudren stalked ahead, picked up the blacksteel warhammer he had nearly stepped upon, and continued searching the dusty forge. “Come out, she wishes to meet you. You will not be harmed, much.”

  Clank, ca-clank, ca-clank…

  Mudren looked fast and saw something metal skitter across the stone floor. He rushed over, warhammer raised, shield ready, and he stopped. He winced, looking down at his old iron box. The warhammer hit the floor with a thud, he knelt, and his mind flooded with memories. The box was empty, but he remembered the ashes of the women and children, he had saved some of them before Arabashiel desecrated them here for all eternity. He had placed them in a leather pouch, with the key to Kakisteele, with the deed, and sent them away with his wife Tehrina and their four children. He sent his armor, his hammeraxe, even his crowned helm with his boys, and he had tried to sneak back in to get some survivors and get the sacred tablet, but he never made it. He started to remember.

  “It cannot be…my iron box…my…oh Vundren, why be I cursed to suffer this?” He whispered, tears fell from his demonic eyes, and he fell to a knee. His mind swam in the guilt, how he had fled the battle and not died with his men, and how the demons and soldiers of Altestan had burned him alive until he begged for mercy. She, Arabashiel, had given him mercy, her own twisted form of it. It was so long ago, he had forgotten of the thought of the chance that his wife and children had made it out alive. He realized now, that they must have, and he smiled through his tears.

  A glowing blade at his throat, then another across his neck, eneded his focus on the past. He had not heard anything come up behind him, but now he felt it, someone was there.

  “Ssshhhh. Not one noise, or yer’ head will be on that there floor. Understood?” Zen felt naked, he had taken off his armor and his Thalanaxe shield quietly by the forges. Barefoot, with but his clothes, his helmet, and the glowing sacred weapons of James and Shinayne, he had crept behind the once king of Kakisteele. “Now, turn around slowly, Sheldathain. I don’t know if ye’ sold yer soul to her, or if ye’ was cursed into this, but I ain’t takin’ any chances. Where are me friends?”

  Mudren turned, box in hand, tears streaming down his face from wicked red eyes. Small bony horns protruded from his face, yet he still looked like a dwarf. He whispered, as his jaw trembled with sorrow. “I do not know, her demons fly north and up, so they must be runnin’, if they lived.”

  “She ain’t dead then, is she?” Zen knew the answer already. His friends, alive or no, could not help him finish it now.

  “Me wife, is she safe then?”

  “I am sure she be in the halls of Vundren, do ye’ know how long ye’ been here?” Zen looked around, trying to see his friends, and looking for the immortal woman or her spawn. He saw nothing, it was quiet, dust covered and broken. Mudren shook his head, his lips trembling, he said naye without a word.

  “Mudren, it has been over two thousand years now. Yer’ box, and its contents, been secretly passed, from here, through Marlennak, Fazurand, and Boraduum. As I told ye’, I am Azenairk Thalanaxe, last o’ me clan, and supposedly your only livin’ relation. Now, how do we kill this witch and end it?” Zen saw his eyes go wide, saw his smile grow, and he knew that he knew, after all this time.

  “I..I..she cannot be killed, Thalanaxe. Not with a thousand men and holy blades, she…she..” Mudren shook as he spoke in hushed tones.

  “Allright, ye’ be scared, me too then. Me papi and me father, Vundren rest em’, told me to dump that dust down her throat. They also said she had six legs, but nevermind that now.”

  Mudren smiled again, blades still across his neck, and he put the box down and touched Azenairks shoulder.

  “Ye’…ye’..have the ashes then? The women and children, they was blessed in the forge o’ Vundren, when she had em burned alive. Ye have em’?”

  “Aye, didn’t know that was what they was, but aye, right here.” Zen patted his hip, the bag of dust was there, ready.

  “She be tall, twelve feet or more, too tall for a dwarf to get up to her face and survive it. Unless…” Mudren thought hard, she was weak, resting on the throne. But not for long.

  “Unless ye’ knock her down into that throne, by surprise, and I climb up fast. Still, I need both me hands, a blade in each here, to get that far up while ye’ distract her.” Zen lowered his head, he did not know how he was supposed to do it, especially now without his friends.

  Mudren Sheldathain stood, slowly, the glowing swords still on his neck. “I got it, it be a long shot, but just maybe.”

  “Aye, what?”

  “A kiss.”

  Zen looked down to the pouch, it was full, and now that he knew what it was, his face grimaced at the thought. “Ye’ mean, put it all in me mouth, and then kiss her and blow the dust or ashes or whatnot into her mouth? Ye’ belong with me friends, crazy ideas like that. Allright, how we get close enough?”

  “Ye’ be me prisoner, Thalanaxe, be silent, and don’t swallow.” Mudren took a knee before his only heir.

  “What ye’ kneelin’ for then?” Zen pulled the blades back, sheathed one in his belt, and grabbed the pouch of ashes.

  “For forgiveness, so when I die in there, I get to see me wife and kids, and Mount Maonell. Please Thalanaxe, bless me and forgive me, with the grace of our father, Vundren. Before it’s too late then.” Mudren Sheldathain knew why he still walked all these centuries still, it was her will and curse, and either way it turned out, he was dead or dust. “Hurry, Thalanaxe, before I change me mind.”

  Zen gri
pped his necklace with the hammer and moons, put his hand on the only king of Kakisteele from ages past, and prayed. “Vundren, father on the mountain, forgive Mudren, yer’ loyal son, for all he has done. Bless us in our battle here, as we fight to free yer’ forge, and see evil undone. Should we be in yer’ halls soon, know that we tried until the very end.”

  Mudren rose to his feet, a semblance of brown coming back to his eyes, forcing out the red. “If I change back, if I attack ye’ or she takes me over, kill me quickly then.”

  “Do the same for me. And if the dust don’t work, what then?” Zen lifted up the bag, and looked back toward the entrance to the thoneroom.

  “Me father, Aidrek Sheldathain, used to tell me things, many things, when life don’t go in yer’ favor.” Mudren took position behind Azenairk, looking much like he had him hostage. He placed the glowing blades in Zen’s belt, in the back, hidden from view. “He used to say, son, when all else fails, fight like hell.”

  Zen felt the tears coming, he fought them, and smiled. “Me father, Kimmarik Thalanaxe, used to say the same thing to us boys. Ye’ ready?”

  “Aye. It been a pleasure to meet ye’, Azenairk Thalanaxe. Wish we had some more time, aye, I do.”

  “Same here, aye, well met, Mudren Sheldathain.”

  Mudren started to walk ahead, pushing Zen like a prisoner with his arms behind his back. “One thing, should ye’ live to see brighter days, rule me kingdom, well our kingdom, rule it better than me, son.”

  “Ye’ have me word, on the hammer and moons o’ our father, I promise ye’. And I always keep me promises.” Zen quaffed the dust into his mouth, it was bitter, it tingled, and he threw the pouch into the darkness. With his head low, his hands behind his back on the broadsword and the elven longblade, he marched with Mudren into the throneroom.

  “You found him, well done, servant. Bring him to me so that I may watch you punish him.” Arabashiel was almost healed, her flesh was nearly formed on her arms and chest, and her face held but scratches from the many wounds.

  “Yes, my mistress, as you command.”