The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth

by Jason R Jones

  “I will handle these,fools and their silly wolf banners, I have many eyes in the night. I could also have my students patrol the docks if need be. But beyond that, I can only give counsel, your majesty.” Just as he thought, his hand had seen through the clothing, and the brand was there. Kalzarius bowed with a serious demeanor. “That should take some pressure off of you.”

  “Yes, yes it will.” Phillip stood, defeated this day, but he was still king. “You have much to do, and by tomorrow, I shall have a long list of things I need done Kalzarius of Harlaheim.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, many things indeed. You are loyal to your king, of course?” Phillip thought of too much too fast. Diamond and Emerald, his Emerald Eight from Johnas, would have to follow Kalzarius closely, watch the tower, and hunt for those infamous secret entrances. His mind swam with plans on how to catch him with Richmond and Balric, for he knew, he sensed, that the old man was involved. Too many witnesses here now, but this wizard before him had outlived anything of use. “And your king asks for your loyal assistance, starting immediately.”

  “I will always serve the interests of Harlaheim, and always have, your majesty.” He winked to the king with a grin.

  “Then we will have no issues, you and I. That will be pleasant for us both.” Phillip tapped his rapier.

  “Surely it will.” Kalzarius started milling over in his mind how Cilano would have to watch the kings’ movements. The students would be taking hidden positions in parts of the castle, and who would start tracking the armies of Willborne, and even who would be setting up the opened and closed doors for the Red Wolves. His mind was racing as he smiled. “It will be a wonderful change of pace, your majesty, for us not to disagree. Good afternoon, King Phillip.”

  “I will see you tomorrow, Kalzarius, in the morning. Do not be late.” Phillip nodded to his hidden agents by the stairs.

  Kalzarius turned, sensing something arcane by the stairs, a pendant on a man he did not see. “On second thought, I have not flown home for so long, the balcony looks most refreshing.”

  Phillip watched the old man walk outside to the balcony, white and gray robes fluttering, and rose up and out into the air. He followed, slowly. He gazed across the city, the old libraries and castles, the gargoyle cornered Square, the statues of old Harlaheim, and then to the floating old mage heading toward the twenty stories of marble swirled gray and white that stuck out to the south and east like a thorn in the sky. He smiled down to the people that still loitered in L’Herrim Square and the castle grounds.

  “Hail King Phillip!” About twenty people of the thousands still in view, shouted up to the king as he raised his hand.

  “Long live the Red Wolves!” Someone, very drunk, shouted back over the crowd, then others followed. Then hundreds began to howl and laugh.

  “Capitan, you, yes you down there.” Phillip raised his voice to the front of the gates below the balcony.

  “Yes, yes your majesty?” He fell to a knee.

  “How many men with you, capitan?”

  “I have two fifty, sire.”

  “Imrpison anyone that speaks the name of the Red Wolves, beat anyone that howls, and do it in plain daylight. Now.” Phillip smiled, listened to the stomping of boots and plate armor, the orders were heard and repeated below, and people scattered. Then he heard screams of pain, steel into flesh, and blood curdling fear from men and women. He closed his eyes, the square filling with bloodshed and punishment, and it was sweet music to his ears. He whispered to himself.

  “God Bless Harlaheim.”

  Azenairk IV:III

  Kakisteele Throneroom

  “On your knees, Thalanaxe.” Mudren Sheldathain gave his prisoner a shove, but he did not fall. He hefted the blacksteel warhammer, as if threatening to smash his skull from behind, and hesitated.

  “No, not yet servant. I want him to swear and beg for mercy, as you did once.” Arabashiel motioned with her finger for Zen to be brought to her feet.

  Zen eyed the throne, while keeping his head down and trying to ignore the tingling sensation in his ash filled mouth. She sat, still injured and bleeding in a few spots, and the arms of the throne rose to her breasts. A brazier on each side simmered with quiet flames of green but were large enough to stand on for a moment. Four steps up the stairs, leap onto the brazier, then jump to the arm of the throne, c’mon Zen, that’s not too hard then. Shinayne does things like that all the time. Who ye’ foolin’, Zen, you be no warrior like that, oh Vundren, give me courage now. He felt Carice in his right hand, the broadsword of James in his left, still hidden as his arms were behind his back and the blades placed through his belt.

  “Kneel!” Mudren pushed again, but his prisoner would not fall to a knee. The cursed dwarf backed up, six steps, and kelt down. “He is too proud, my mistress.”

  “Would you care to beat the pride out of him, servant?” Arabashiel smiled, baring her fanged mouth, and her eyes glistened purple with wicked amusement. Her right hand smoldered, the long curved scimitar of embers and steel began to form from the dark realms. “Or should I do it for you?”

  “Let me try, my mistress. I have just the trick, right here, one that Thalanaxe will most enjoy.” Mudren tapped the warhammer to the golden stone. “Aye, he will indeed.”

  With a roar from deep within, and a savage eyed glare that was part curse and part angry dwarf, Mudren Sheldathain sprinted ahead with the warhammer back to strike. He ran right at Azenairk, weapon ready to crush his skull, and passed right by him.

  Whoosh!

  Thank ye’ Vundren, thank ye’ father, we come to meet ye’ soon now. Bless us. He thought and prayed fast, raised his head, and opened his eyes.

  “For Kakisteele!” Mudren lunged into the air from his dead run, armor, shield, and all. The warhammer slammed into her knee, shattering bone inside, and he clamored up the steps and stood between her legs.

  Crack, crack, thud, crack!

  “Aaaarrrgghhhaaa!” The cursed dwarven king slammed Zen’s hammer over and over into her face, her chest, and her swordarm. He unleashed a fury of two thousand years of slavery, a hate of servitude, and a vengeance of knowing all she had done to his people in the name of their wicked God.

  She was distracted, stunned, and Zen went into action. He pulled Carice and the griffon hilted broadsword free from behind. His steps were quick up the stairs, ducking a strike from her black feathered wing. He jumped to the lip of the brazier, his bare feet sizzled from the heat of the hot gold, yet he did not falter. No fear now, come on Zen.

  He heard her screams, and the painful roars of Mudren, as she plunged the scimitar through him. Zen saw her other arm grab Mudren’s head, and the scorching blade began to tear him in two, yet on he battled with the warhammer. Azenairk leapt to the arm of the throne, barely landing with wobbly balance, and he stood. He looked at Mudren. Don’t look, don’t look, just go, Zen.

  Slap, slice, slap, thud, Aaaarrgggghhh!

  First Mudren’s severed arms hit the stone floor, then his bottom half was sliced off with her ember scimitar, and then Mudren was held by the head. Then that too, was cut off from Arabashiel’s netherworld blade, and the pieces of the cursed dwarf fell down the steps of the throne. She went to stand. Now, Zen, gotta’ go now.

  Slice, slice, slice!

  Zen plunged Carice deep into her chest, the glowing elven steel went through her flesh with ease as blood poured, and she fell back into the throne. Then the broadsword of James Andellis dove into her neck, and Azenairk pulled himself higher. As she grabbed him, his shirt tore free, and he pulled Shinayne’s blade out and dove it up into her lower jaw and out her mouth. Blood sprayed all over them both, and her claws dug into his back. Arabashiel dropped her sword, it was no use with him this close, and she grabbed his neck and squeezed.

  Azenairk fought the grip, pulled the broadsword loose, and plunged it up through the roof of her mouth, and out the top of her head. Her scream would have driven the bravest of heroes into flight, but not Zen, not n
ow.

  Pulling down with his right arm holding Carice through her lower jaw, then pushing up with his left arm gripping the broadsword in her head, the dwarven priest of Vundren opened her mouth until immortal bone popped and skin tore wide open on her cheeks. He put his face in her fanged mouth, just as her fingernails clenched into his throat and neck. Her teeth scraped his face and drew blood. He did not care.

  Azenairk opened his mouth into hers, holding the blades open with trembling strength, and white golden light flashed. He heard children singing dwarven hymns, women chanting prayers to Vundren, all in the pouring light that swirled from his mouth into the fanged maw of Arabashiel. His eyes teared, from the song, from the pain of her fingers into his throat, and from the sight of little dwarven faces flowing down into the Gimmorian mistress of curses.

  Arabashiel gagged, coughed, and screamed to get the light and ashes from her mouth, yet it was no use. They dove into her throat, down to her chest, and consumed her in divine revenge. Light poured from her healing wounds, bright white light, and her eyes cried blood as she looked to the dwarf responsible. Her legs trembled as she stood, her arms gripped his neck, and with all she had left she ripped the Azenairk’s throat out and hurled him down the steps.

  Zen tried to scream and roar in pain, but the air came and went from his neck, a neck torn open wide and pouring his blood all over the golden floor. He stopped his roll, and came face to face with the smiling head of Mudren Sheldathain. His body went to stand, yet he could not. The deathgrip on the enchanted blades of his friends was tight, yet he was fading fast. Crimson came in coughs and gags, and he dropped the swords to the floor, then touched his neck and thought of a prayer. He could not speak, his throat was still in her hand. Please Vundren, heal me wounds, or take me to yer halls on Mount Maonell. Just let me see her die first, then I can go.

  Arabashiel walked down the steps, trying to summon her sword, but it would not come. She tried to fly, but her wings were disintegrating fast. The thirteenth born Gimmorian pointed to Zen Thalanaxe, went to speak, and then her eyes flashed white. Her teeth went white, then her veins, and then Arabashiel fell to the ground. The immortal mistress of curses lifted her head, and part of it fell like ash to the floor. Black midnight hair curled into white dust, her skin peeled to gray debris, and then the white light rose slowly from her remains, and disappeared.

  All was still in the throneroom of Kakisteele, nothing moved, and the fires of divine lights faded from all around until but pitch black darkness remained. Mudren Sheldathain was in pieces, Arabashiel was dust and ash, and Azenairk Thalanaxe let his eyes close. He felt not his heartbeat, nor the air in his chest come or go, and his body went cold. He tried to pray, in his darkening mind, one hand on his neck, the other on his hammer and moons.

  Thank ye’ father, glory to Vundren, it is done. God, please watch over me friends. Send them me love, tell them I couldn’t have done it without em’. Please accept Mudren and I into yer halls, and let me be with me family…

  Angeline IV:II

  Ruins of Mooncrest

  “Every movement, every flicker from the corner of your eye, and every single noise upon Her lush lands of life, is a sign sent from the Mother. Follow the signs, embrace them, and She will always lead you to where you need to be. That is why you are here, whether you admit it or not.”---Words of Larens of Guidance, spoken to Angeline Berren, on the side of Soujan Mountain. Circa 335 A.D.

  The little form was quick, hiding from shadow to shadow, sneaking into the ruined city. The skies were gray, yet light of the sun was trying it seemed, to pass through. Angeline saw many soldiers being ordered out of the ruins by their superiors. Her eyes saw a ruined city from milennia past, yet she followed her feelings that told her to follow this little sneak. She was no war leader, as the men and women organized a defense of their caravan. The lady of the Knights Soujan was here for something else, something with Gwenneth Lazlette, yet she could not feel her anywhere. Her eyes caught something to follow, and in all her training and faith, she knew not to question it.

  Angeline waited behind old elven buldings, then ran behind platoons of marching Armondi men, keeping hidden from sight. Along the sandstone pathway she crept, at the base of the mountains, weaving between old fortress walls. The figure moved fast, despite being half her height, and it was headed for a tall structure with no stairs and open floors. The southside of a ring of tall temples was busy with nearly a legion of men coming and going. Soldiers came from both directions now, scouts converged near them unaware, and Angeline rushed behind the little man that she had felt to follow. He, it, whatever the stealthy shadow was, had gotten itself into a tight spot. And now, Angeline was only one sound or false move away from being found by what she knew to be wicked men serving a dark purpose.

  Do not move, do not speak, I am a friend. I am right behind you, yet if you move, you will be seen. Hold still.

  Tubrey o’ Tarnobb looked around, scratched his head, and tried to calm his racing heart. Someone spoke in his mind, a woman, a voice he had never heard. He froze regardless, crouching behind a row of ceramic garden pots holding dead vines, and saw the Armondi soldiers pass by. He looked, the temple he was trapped at had no stairs. He had been tired of waiting for the big and strong warriors to charge in. He wanted to help, to find his heroes, yet now he felt very foolish and scared for sneaking in here all alone.

  A hand covered his mouth, he went to gasp, and it gripped tighter. He struggled, then the voice came again in his head.

  I am Angeline of Charity, of the Knights Soujan, a friend to those you seek. Hold on tight, I will get us to a safe spot.

  Tubrey nodded as best he could, grabbed on to her green robes, and closed his eyes. He opened them, as he felt them both lift into the air with a mild breeze.

  I am Tubrey o’ Tarnobb, leading minstrel for the Shans o’ Little Door, and how are you speaking to me? Oh God, oh lord Alden in heaven, please put me down, please don’t look, oh God---

  Just hold on, little one, I will not drop you. We need to get out of sight, up high, to the top of this tower. Just remain calm.

  Calm, calm, I am calm, how high is this thing anyway? It is like twenty stories up, the soldiers look small, smaller than me, this is not good, not good, oh God---

  “Put your feet down.” Angeline settled to the uppermost floor of the open stories of the temple and removed her hand from the mouth of the pygmy man.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, God bless and all. I was trying to see, and find them, and where are we, what was I thinking---“

  “Whisper now, quiet. We are…we are…oh Seirena.” Angeline looked down, her green eyes starting to tear, and she knelt to touch the triangle of vines engraved on the very floor she stood upon. “This is a Soujan Temple, a sacred place to my order.”

  Charity hummed a faint song, Angeline felt sadness from ages past from the stone, yet she felt something mystical as well. Tubrey reached up and touched her shoulderplate, tracing the triangle of vines, then looked to the stone floor of gray marble.

  “That is the same symbol, what does it---“

  Angeline walked forward, near the edge overlooking the center of the ring of old temples. She saw all the Carician symbols, every one of them, decorated high upon burned and war charred marble structures. Her eyes looked north, beyond the ruins to where the soldiers marched. The legions of Armondeen were there, by an outpost, right outside the city. She looked down, through the maze of bridges that connected the temples to one another, and she saw a glowing red circle in the center. Men with blue painted eyes knelt before it, sang dark chants together, and then she saw.

  “Oh no.” She hung her head as a tear fell from her eye, then the other. “I am too late.”

  Tubrey walked up beside her, quietly, and peered over. Down below, surrounded now by one hundred soldiers, were his friends. He saw Saberrak Agrannar gagged and chained with too many restraints to count. There was Shinayne T’Sarrin, chained and her head placed on some wooden block. There
was a soldier with a large curved blade over her. Sir James Andellis was chained as well, on the ground, staring at his feet. Shinayne and James had something wrong with their eyes, like moving blindfolds of some strange design were over them. Then Tubrey teared as he saw her.

  As if the sight was not terrible enough for his little eyes, he saw Gwenneth Lazlette. Her back was covered in flights, her body was just laying in a puddle of dried blood, and she was not moving at all. They had not chained her, for obvious reasons, and her staff was set along the temple wall and flickering green. As he gasped he closed his eyes and turned away.

  Tubrey fell back into the arms of Angeline, and she held him tight. He cried, hand over his own mouth, and dared not look again. Angeline stroked his curly hair, far above, on the lost and mythical Soujan Temple.

  “Enough now, enough. We can still save them. We can.” Angeline drew Charity, and looked to the hilt. The little angels were winking, their feathers were glowing, and she felt in her pouch. Something there they wanted her to see.

  “How? Gwenneth is…she is…she’s dead. There are one hundred men there still, and they are going to kill them. Lord Cristoff is back with the---“ Tubrey shook his head and wiped his face.

  “They will come. Can you get those chains off, were I to get you close enough?” Angeline felt the feather, the one Annar had left her with when he disappeared into Hyrastrian, to go to the heavens. It was throbbing with a pulse, with a heartbeat, and she took a deep breath then looked to Tubrey.

  “Yes, I have these.” He produced some small files, a little chisel, and some small picks in a folding leather pouch with straps. Tubrey looked up, his big brown eyes puffy with tears, and saw the disapproving gaze of Angeline. “What? We minstrels get stiffed on coin so often, since we be small and all. I have to make sure fair is fair, once in awhile, just on those that don’t pay, mind you. I am no thief, not by trade anyway.”