by Jason Jones
Saberrak reached, barely touching it nearly ten feet up with the tips of his fingers, and turned the sign over as the rusty chains rattled.
"Ole Brew Ha Ha, Pub n’ Kitchen. Its in dwarven allright, damned fool got his sign upside down is all.” Zen chuckled, then his face went pale and serious.
Creak!
The faded wooden doors opened, as if the wind had taken hold from a breeze, yet there was none. They opened full, letting the smell of cooked rabbit, potatoes, carrots, and other warm pleasant odors flood the outside. James smelled wine, as did Shinayne and Gwenneth. Saberrak smelled venison and Zen smelled thick meads. Besides the smells, the dwarven priest was staring at a room full of people, human and dwarven men sitting at tables, all silently staring back at him alone as the others had taken cover to the corners out of sight. There were maybe twenty, not eating, not drinking, just men of dwarven and human heritage in armor that made no noise, all gray and still.
“Come in travelers, and welcome to the Brew Ha Ha.” A calm voice, a dwarven mans voice, from behind the bar by the kitchen, echoed in the hollow stillness.
“I think yer full then, we will just go to the next one.” Zen turned and stepped to the side with James and Saberrak as quick as he could, his heart beating fast.
“What’s in there?” James whispered to his dwarven friend.
“Dead. Ghosts be me guess, they ain’t breathin’, not moving much, and they lackin’ some color too.”
“You sure, priest?” Saberrak twirled his axes and stepped out.
“That or the food and service be somethin’ terrible, cuz’ they ain’t eatin’ or drinkin’ neither.”
“Then if they are ghosts, why would someone be cooking?” Shinayne stepped out with Saberrak.
“Don’t know, you can go ask em if ye’ like, elf.”
Saberrak stared into the dingy room, seeing nothing but dust covered tables and chairs. They were empty, but arranged and orderly, as if the pub were still occupied. He smelled the air, the smells were gone save for burning wood from a fire. He saw a man walk out from behind the bar hidden in the shadows, a large man, larger than he was. He heard the others following in careful steps behind him.
“Sssshhhh, they have gone, for now.” The voice spoke, not the same voice that welcomed them, but this massive man holding his finger over his lips.
“Who has gone where, and who are you?” The gray gladiator huffed.
The man stepped from the shadows, his bald head covered in tattoos and scars, he stood over nine feet tall. A dark tail of hair was tied behind his head, adorned with feathers, and his smooth face showed the wrinkles of age. He looked down at the minotaur, his hands resting on a great curved blade at his side, ready to draw any moment as he peered around the room. He had a longbow over his back, hides and furs of browns and blacks, and his tan skin seemed to absorb the darkness. None of that was as curious as the one eye of blue that opened, in the center of his brow, where two would normally have been.
“I am Ihros Seeing-Owl, guardian of the Temple of the Whitemoon to the north and west of this ruin. You are in much danger here.” He looked around with his one eye, waiting for something, for it to come again. He closed his eye and listened. He could see the spirits when they appeared, a gift of his heritage.
“Danger from what? What happened to---“ Shinayne looked around, not smelling the wine nor food anymore, realizing something was not right. She looked up to the one eyed giant of a man.
“Saberrak what is that?”
“I do not---“
“I am kithian, descendants of the great cyclops, you need not fear me. It is not you that I hunt, and what you saw here, was not real.” Ihros Seeing-Owl opened his eye, he heard it to the north of ruined Estivar, his prey was on the run again.
Zen peered out from behind Gwenneth and James. The spirits were gone, the smells disappeared as if they never were. He whispered.
“Then who is it you be hunting then, the spirits I seen in here?”
“No, the one that brought them here. The one that let them out, the creature they are bound to.” Ihros walked past the five that his birds had told him of and crouched outside the doors.
“And what would that be…?” James was following the kithian, looking for something, surveying the sky and ruins and finding nothing.
“The banshee.”
“A ghost?” James asked.
“No, a remnant of the dead that has conquered and consumed other spirits and ghosts in its ambitious and eternal unlife. The banshee form from hundreds or thousands of dead and cursed. The ones they consume sometimes appear in places to mark their passage, like just now. Ghosts of the enslaved ghosts, wanting to be seen. Then, they escape.”
“Escape from where?”
“Their place of death, the place my blackbirds told me you are heading to. The realm beyond the storm.”
“Which way would that be then? Is there a road?” Zen looked west then up to the kithian.
Ihros stood and pointed down a valley and toward the dark clouds. “No road, but they come from there, the cursed lands of the lost cities. You will not be able to pass the storm, and if you do, you will be most unwelcome by what lays claim to that place. Seek your treasures elsewhere, if you wish to live, for none survive there. It is a place of the dead.”
“That be my place yer’ speakin’ of there, my one eyed hunter. Whoever be there will have to be steppin’ aside.” The last Thalanaxe pulled out the box and the deed, showing it to Ihros Seeing-Owl.
“If you think what holds that place will honor a piece of parchment, then I will be seeing your spirits very soon. I must go, the banshee moves. For some reason, it does not like your presence.” Ihros ran north, following his senses of the dead, hunting for the things not allowed to leave the curselands.
“Ye can tell it the feeling be mutual then!” Zen put his things away and watched the cyclops run nearly out of sight. Zen turned to the west and walked toward the storm with his four companions.
“Already seein’ three eyed trees, ghosts that cook, one eyed giants, and we ain’t even there yet.”
Ihros sensed the banshee, saw the trail of collected spirits ahead in the trees, he stopped. Something about the minotaur was strange, a feeling, a glow in his kithian sight. He turned around to the five he assumed to be nothing more than fame seekers in search of riches and death. The cyclops walked up to the gray minotaur, face to face, drawing his four allies close and making them uneasy.
“What is your name, horned one.”
“Saberrak Agrannar the Gray, what of it?” He snorted up to the towering muscled hunter in front of him.
“Not even I dare pass beyond the storm, but if you are insistent upon going, I am familiar with how the place moves.” Ihros felt it, another spirit, something not of the minotaur, inside him. It was gone, elsewhere, but left something behind, he could see it. It was powerful, pure, the same feeling he felt when he communed with Seirena, a Carician spirit.
“I am listening.” Saberrak kept one hand on his axe handle, gripping it slowly, not knowing to trust this cyclops or no.
“Storms seek the sun and brothers lost, who shall never be again. Carice soothes and floods the pain away, until dawn doth shine once more. Beware the cursed that rise in fiery light, protecting the judgments of Gimmor.”
“That was rather cryptic, can ye write it down then?” Zen looked up to the stare between Saberrak and Ihros Seeing-Owl.
“I have it priest, no worries. What it means though---“
“It moves again, I must go. Be careful.” Ihros sensed the banshee heading north, fast now, and he knew it could not be allowed to reach a dwelling or city. He turned and ran, knowing his priorities for the Whitemoon.
“And you.” Saberrak huffed, releasing his white knuckle grip on his greataxe.
“Very well then, guess we head that way.” Zen started toward the west, in the clouded morning, his quiet friends behind him, all more puzzled than before.
“I d
o not like this place.” Shinayne raised her eyes to the west, then stalked quick and quiet, getting a start ahead with her minotaur friend and scouting partner.
“Agreed.” Saberrak huffed. “Let’s go.”
Masks IV:I
Southern Tradeway
Shanador
“Trickery is a necessary facet of success, undeniable as those who want your power or your blood, will surely come in great numbers one day, when you least expect it.”---words of Avricas Sassari, whispered into the dying ear the the eldest opposing elven councilor of Shalokahn, as he withdrew his blade from his chest. Circa 140 AD
Kaya leaned over in the tent and gently rubbed her hand across the swollen belly of Rosana. She felt the baby move, yet the former queen of Harlaheim remained asleep. Kaya smiled, the baby kicked again, yet she backed away and opened the flap of white cloth on the tent.
She had been sneaking out in early morning for five days in a row, escaping the tents of thousands of refugees from the east, the close watch of human and dwarven soldiers, and even the all too curious ears of Shanadorian merchants that had come to trade food and water to the caravan led by Cristoff Bradswellen the Third. Many people had been talking of her, too many.
Though no one knew her past, the name Lady Kaya had been circling among everyone. Most knew now over the last two months that Rosana was with child, that Shanador in the summer and harvest months was indeed warm, and that the woman that father Garret found in a mass of dead near a cliff, had survived.
Kaya had mingled, assisted in walking by either knights of Harlaheim or dwarven soldiers formerly of Marlennak, and noticed the people from Saint Erinsburg watching her, and the growing closeness between the former queen and their lord. Rumors and whispers caught her ears often. Late night campfire talks of everything from the five great heroes that Cristoff followed, to their destination, to who was in love with whom, it all drank and whispered and danced under the stars every evening. That was when she noticed them.
Kaya limped out of the tent, dragging her right foot and holding her left shoulder in her morning robes of white. Her garments were wrapped tight, but still caught a bit of morning breeze. Kaya had been under Garrets care for nearing two months now, her bruises had healed, so had the cuts, and she felt whole and recovered. Past the dwarven guards with red beards and black plate she hobbled, receiving nods and little more in the first hours of daylight. The woman once known in dark circles as Jade of the West, once the Lady of Southwind Keep in Chazzrynn, now walked over the dry grassy hills of western Shanador, alone. Two more hills, past a grove of rich pines, around the base of a rocky overhang, she walked slow and calm in mind of every step she took. A small pond lay ahead, nearly dried, now a mile or more away from the outskirts of the caravan. Her limping increased even more.
Time moved slow for Kaya, the moments seemed eternal as she watched the hazy orange western sunrise. She heard footsteps, a rush of grass, a twig snap, she had expected as much. She breathed deep, limping in small circles, watching the shadows and yet keeping her back close to the cliff face she was under. A pond, perhaps once a lake, was hidden over this cliff, Kaya had seen it last night. Three, then five, seven in all came from either side of her this early morning.
“May I ask why you would disturb a lady seeking solace in prayer?” Kaya looked shocked, her hand trembled a bit, her eyes went wide with innocence.
“Got a hefty price on yer head lady, that is the rumor anyway.” One of the masked men in all black pointed his small crossbow toward her chest. Three more did the same at an angled distance while three larger men with daggers and shortblades moved right to her front.
“I have no idea what you would be referring to. Price? For what? I paid the merchant caravan well in advance for my jewelry and passage to the west.” Kaya waved them off with her hand, the other holding her limping gait in check by balancing her against the rock face.
“This is not about jewelry, Jade of the West.” The man with the scar through his eyebrow and the warts on his eyelid spoke up, pointing his serrated shortblade at the woman they had tracked, trailed, and now had all alone.
“I purchased jade, but it was from Caberra, to the east. The price was fair. I cannot believe you would pull blades on an injured lady over the price of such things. Truly?” her long auburn hair flicked back in defiance, her slate blue eyes looked angry and offended, her limping steps backed up toward the rock wall, away from them. “Who is it you work for? Strange affiliations for merchants and jewelry, I must say.”
“You are lady Kaya T’Vellon, a former agent for the White Spider, and the only price we are concerned about is the one that goes with your corpse.”
“I am lady Kaya Bradswellen, second cousin by marriage to lord Cristoff, you are quite mistaken. Now leave me be and find someone else to harass.” Kaya waited, seeing the confused looks on a few of the men, she read their eyes, saw them darting back and forth.
“And why the masks?”
“Just check her Aidrey, check for the brand.” One stated.
“Kill her, I don’t trust it. Check the brand after.” Aidrey replied.
“I say we have our way with her, kill her, let the wolves have a bit if we were wrong. If we was right, hells, we’ll be rich anyway.” Another spoke up.
“She matches the description, it’s her, I know it.” Yet another of the seven killers put his thoughts aloud.
“She is limping all over the place, riding with nobility, sure it’s her? Don’t seem right Aidrey.” Still another voiced his concerns.
They stopped their debates with the raised hand of the scarred one known as Aidrey. He sheathed his shortblade and walked forward, dagger in hand.
“You want to see? You want proof boys? Here, I will show ye’ then.” He backed the limping woman back against the wall, she had nowhere to go, he knew she could not run anyway. They had been watching her for over a week now. Aidrey grabbed her bedclothes, as she fell to a knee, whimpering.
“Ain’t no agent, one of the Emerald Eight would never cower and cry like that. We got the wrong woman then, maybe she is dead, like they said in Devonmir.” One of the men with the crossbows lowered his aim.
“Please, please don’t hurt me. I am nobility, I can pay, please stop!” Kaya pleaded.
“Damn it! Shut up!” Aidrey slapped her across the face, sending the crack of flesh echoing off the rock, her head turning to the side with a muffled scream.
“No one is gonna hear us out this far anyway, no matter how loud she screams. I say we---“
“Please, please, if you are going to rape me, just…just..let me know how many of you there will be…I need, I need..to prepare myself…please.” She sobbed, on her knees, noticing the aim of the other two men was held low and the others had relaxed their blades as well.
“There is only seven of us. Don’t worry bitch, we will make it quick.” One man chuckled, hearing possible pleasures.
“I ain’t raping no one until we see if it’s her!” Aidrey pulled her to up to her feet.
“Look at her, she don’t know anything about what we are even talkin about here, tis obvious.”
“Then hurry up! We know it ain’t her, just look for the brand and then I get her second, after Aidrey.”
“Then me!”
Aidrey smiled, smelling the fresh lilac in her hair and on her flesh. He looked into those blue eyes, at her fair skin, then yanked the robe down over her shoulders. She resisted, meekly, but he tugged again. His eyes went wide with curiosity as he saw black leather armor and chain links beneath her robes of white.
“Surprise.” Kaya whispered.
Her hidden shortblade slid like lightning from her robes and cut Aidrey’s throat through from ear to ear in one stroke. She plunged the tip into his groin and held him upright with her arm under his gushing throat. She grabbed his dagger and threw it end over end into another agent who fell holding his chest. Her own dagger pulled from her thigh and spun through the air sideways and landed deep into an enemy
stomach. Kaya walked forward, hand on her blade, Aidrey bleeding all over her, being used as a human shield.
Four crossbows fired amidst yelling and confusion, all four bolts landing hard into her victims’ back. They dropped their crossbows and drew small blades and scimitars as the body of their quartermaster hit the ground. Wide eyed, the four remaining White Spider agents watched the lady wanted by Johnas Valhera as she dashed ahead, rolled, and spun up to her feet with her blade too fast to see. Two more of their seven fell holding their necks from deep lacerations. She did not seem injured in the least, the limp was gone, and the two remaining bounty hunters tried to shake off their shock.
They flanked her, the former lady of the Emerald Eight, and slashed their blades simultaneously, keeping her contained. She feinted to the left, then the right, then twirled ahead and ducked their curved swords meant for her neck. Kaya lunged with incredible reach and strength, thrusting her point through the heart of the assassin on her left. As he fell she took his shortblade in her left hand.
Blades rang and echoed, the masked agent slashing with precision, timing with his steps, countering with his dagger now and keeping distance. Kaya T’Vellon pursued with amazing speed, perfectly placing her attacks from high to low, then placed her heel behind her enemy’s with a quick step. He stood tall, whipping his dagger and scimitar in a blurry of defense, then the scimitar flew out to his right, disarmed.
As he backed up, a shove from the two shortblades locked on his dagger sent him over backwards, onto his shoulders. The morning sun blurred his vision, then there was a blood covered shortblade at his throat. Dust scattered across his eyes as the shadow of Jade of the West covered his view.
Kaya stepped on his wrist, holding the dagger harmless and placed her second blade at his groin, then her knee upon his chest. His breathing was heavy, sweat dripping from his hairline, yet the woman over him was calm as ice.
“How many in the caravan, including the merchants?”