by Jason Jones
Saberrak made a path, gently as he could, through the remains of long dead and charred dwarven bones. He stood before the doors, his eyes were glowing blue with faint flames, he felt it. He read the script on the door aloud, despite it being in the ancient Gimmorian tongue, rather than dwarven like the other passageways.
“Sealed forever are the souls that pass, the judgement of Gimmor is held by Arabashiel, child of God Yjaros and ….and….there is no name there, just markings where one used to be.”
Saberrak snorted, not liking the impulses he was feeling from the black onyx slabs before him. He tugged the handles regardless, and they held fast.
“Which key, chosen one?” Zen held up the ring of keys to the gray minotaur.
“Not Annar, surely not Alden. Not Seirena or Megos either. That leaves the triangle of vines, and the eyes on the twin moons, neither we are sure about.”
“The triangle was on Angeline, from Vallakazz, I doubt that symbol has anything to do with curses.” Gwenneth stepped over the skulls and bones, eyeing the massive doors.
“I feel them, they know we are here. I do not like this.” Shinayne looked around, something moved past her, brushed by her, the forces were getting stronger.
“Which key, Gwenneth?” Zen was in a hurry, anger and trepidation rising with every breath he took.
“Those other symbols, they are infernal and arcane blended, a Gimmorian script. They are wards of very hateful incantations, try the eyes, the one you are not sure about.”
“What is your reasoning, wizard.” Saberrak looked down to Gwenne, knowing they all watched his eyes now.
“Elimination, the ones we have used, plus the ones we are certain would have nothing to do with a door like this, equals an obvious fact. Use the one we know nothing of, trust me.”
“Sounds risky, and truth be spoke here, I do not follow ye’, but, I cannot argue either. Here goes it.” Zen put the key with the moons and feminine eyes into the lock.
The stone shuddered, the cavern shook from top to bottom, and the skulls skittered down the stairs from the vibrations. The onyx slab began to melt, as did the key, and they backed up quickly. Zen tried to pull the key loose, but Saberrak grabbed him and ran back. The door liquified into molten black lava, eating away everything, including the stone stairs and skulls.
Further back they went, as the cursed door became a sizzling puddle and then began to evaporate. The smell was acrid, the air was foul coming from the green lit chamber beyond, and soon a golden stair was all that remained of the once dark passage. The tremors continued, like a rhythm in the deep underground. They looked to one another, and walked up the golden stairs.
A lone figure, not a ghost nor shadow, stood at the top to meet them. He was short, stocky, and carried but a crossed crescent shield. His beard was mangy yellow, his eyes glowed red, and he was covered in soot and filth from head to toe. A dwarf, a dwarf with horns sprouting from his forehead and jaws, with fanged teeth, and with a demonic appearance, he nodded to them as they came closer.
“Come, Arabashiel awaits.” He spoke deep and sad, as if he had nothing to live for, and turned to walk in.
“Mudren, Mudren Sheldathain?” Zen took a quick look, yes, his friends were all armed and ready. None of them moved in fact, they waited for him.
“Aye, once I was.” He kept walking. “But no more, you will see, come inside. Best not keep Her waiting.”
“I have yer box, I am Azenairk Thalanaxe, the heir to Kakisteele. I am here to…” Zen hung his head, confused, then he felt anger.
“It don’t matter who you is, or what ye have. We all end up the same, and so do all who have dared pass into these lands.” His voice grew faint, his steps far ahead now, black shadows danced where his still shadow should have trailed.
“Side by side, let’s finish it.” Saberrak walked ahead, patting Zen’s shoulder, and stood with him. He raised his horns, stared into the throneroom ahead, and gripped his axes tight. He could faintly make out a figure on the throne, but it was immersed in shadow.
“Aye.”
“All the way, like I said. To whatever end, Azenairk.” Shinayne stood with Saberrak, took a sideways stance, and raised her chin high.
“By Alden, and all the others, I say we set this place free once and for all.” James saluted the throneroom.
“That’s the spirit, James. Allright, Gwenneth, any last words?” Zen tapped his hammer to his shield and grinned.
“The only last words you will here, shall be Hers.” Gwenne’s eyes flashed with electricity, white pulses that matched the green glowing staff in her hand, and she smiled into the throneroom of Kakisteele.
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Harron saluted with his hand held high, and his loyal lord and knight captains knelt before him, all but his son. He made a fist, letting his trailing legion of cavalry know to halt before the ruined outpost. He looked west, the sun was rising through a cloudy horizon. The Lord Amirak of Armondeen gazed up, Gimmor was full and Carice was but a crescent in the early morning sky, as Andora said it would be. Four legions of infantry remained on a knee as he passed the tents, his cavalry pulling up to them and dismounting as he neared the hill where his knights and lords awaited his arrival.
“And where is the storm that has circled this place for supposed thousands of years?” Harron laughed as he dismounted his black stallion.
Sir Yaelsh smiled, with his scarred cheek and lip, then stood with a high handed salute next to Prince Rohne. His black hair was short, his armor gleaming and black, and his eyes had a wild dark look to them.
“My Lord Amirak, the winds were gone when we arrived. I say, they never were. My men thirst for some killing, I hope that caravan arrives to quench it.”
“Direct, as usual. Glad to have you and yours, Sir Yaelsh.”
“I have seen them, the storms here, when I neared these lands years ago. Black and mighty, impassible indeed. But now, just a circling gray breeze, my brother.”
Bishop Thohne rose and embraced his older brother. They looked like twins, only the wrinkles of age set them apart. “The eleven favor us, and they have removed the storm to allow us.”
“Indeed they have.” Harron motioned for Orlimane and Cetreus to rise.
“Welcome, Lord Amirak, the camp is set. It has been difficult to remain outside such a vast ruin. Are you prepared?” Old Lord Cetreus motioned to the packs on his horse. His gray wisps of hair blew in the breeze, as did his stringy black and silver beard. He seemed impatient and frustrated, as always.
“I am, we have much to do.” Harron climbed to the top of the hill, he looked over the ruins of Mooncrest, the charred temples, the green marble tower, and the vast castles and dried up city long forgotten.
“I think the temple district would be fitting, for what we are to bring about.”
Sir Orlimane spoke dry and deep, like a grave. His bloated body, thick, fat, and muscular, wobbled in his heavy armor. His shaved head and layered neck were pale, even for an Armondi man, yet like all the others nobles here, his dark eyes had a smear of blue paint across them, out of respect for the blue eyed Altestan nobility they were supposedly descended from.
“I would agree, Orlimane. My Prince, what are your thoughts.”
Harron nodded to his son, keeping his respects, despite present noble company all aware of who his father truly was. Harron knew, as did they, that Ian could not make children with his first queen. Harron knew he had not the will to try with Andora. Yet, Harron let the nation believe what they wished, all to his secret power, lust, and avoiding any challenges of treason or adultery.
“I agree, Lord Amirak. The summoning should take place in the heart of the once sacred city. The temple district will do, the desecration will be fitting.” Rohne sneered, then turned to his father.
“Your journey was less than boring, I heard.” Harron spoke low.
“Yes, I stand corrected. The five fugitives, now trespassers in our lands, were not in Freemoore. Howeve
r, their followers were. Should Evermont assist them, I will expect to be allowed on the field, I owe the Bear of Evermont a brutal death.”
Harron put a hand on the Prince’s shoulder. “You did well, my Prince. Now we know that the gathered forces were not a waste of effort, for a small army and a caravan of refugees may be en route. You accomplished much for your kingdom, and have my thanks.”
“Save the flattery for someone you need to impress, Lord Amirak. I know what is said of me in the corners and tents of the soldiers. They follow you, not I.” Rohne turned and looked into the ruins.
“That merely comes with age and experience. Be patient, my prince.” Harron tried to maintain eye contact, but his son seemed distant, angry, and he felt the loss of control.
“Fear not though, when Ian is dead, and I am king, that will all change.”
“As you wish, your highness. For now, we need to prepare, your mother is waiting from the tower.” Harron surveyed the five thousand men making camp in the flatlands north of the hill and outpost.
“Shall you begin giving orders, should I follow like a pup---“
“The camp is good, the men will not see what we are doing. We need not frighten them, in case they are needed.” Harron ignored the young and rash defiance that Rohne had been becoming more and more prone to.
“I know, I picked the spot, father. Since I will be standing back here, in safety.” Rohne walked to get his horse, knowing full well that his mother, Andora, had given orders that he was to stay away from any danger or combat.
“Careful, my prince, titles only here. Besides, if there is a battle, I will need your courage with the reserve…” He stopped his comforting lecture. Harron waved his summoned captains toward him. His son ignored him, and kept his pace away from the hill.
“Men, pick only your squires and servants that you greatly trust, or can be killed if need be. You will be with me, at the site to welcome Kashtamias, Knight of Infernium.” Harron received the nods and bows he expected from his four loyal Armondi nobles.
“And the city, brother?” Thohne Vir Magaste looked across the ruins, watched the strange black clouds circling above it, and then gazed to the golden mountain ridge on the southern edge.
“I need one legion, yours Sir Yaelsh, if you would. Break them into their ten platoons. Set two on patrol around that ravine, three along that mountain trail, two to the western palace district, two to the east side, and one here at the outpost.” Harron strategically pointed to where he thought any danger might arise, and where the five he was to sacrifice could emerge from.
The Smiling Knight grinned, drew his scimitar, and marched to give the orders. “No looting, not yet, correct Lord Amirak?”
“Correct. We will have time for that after the summoning. And when they appear, I want them alive.”
“And if they struggle or fight?”
“No rape, no killing. I need all their appendages, and I need them alive. Understand?” Harron gritted his teeth and tried not to grin. He had fought with Yaelsh many times, in many bloody battles. Keeping him to task was always difficult.
“And the refugees? Prince Rohne mentioned some knights, a lord from Harlaheim, and a dwarven brigade that accompanies them. If they come?” Lord Cetreus queried.
“We have seen no sight of them west, yet some of my scouts have yet to return.” Sir Orlimane spoke up.
“If they come, and I hope they do, we slaughter them all. We take the women as slaves, butcher the men, and hang the children from the temple walls.” Harron nodded with a serious look to his eyes.
“May God watch over us all. Would you all give me an Amen?” Thohne made the sign of the feathered cross, backwards on his priestly tabard, and began to laugh. They all followed in chuckles, even Orlimane and Cetreus had trouble keeping their solemn disciplined dispositions.
“Amusing, enough now.” Harron wiped his smooth face, as if wiping the smile away. “In truth, the killings do as much to appease the eleven, as they do to make a statement, a statement that will keep these lands Armondi, by both fear and rights.”
“We are about to become very rich men, and we get to kill and hang and bleed to do it. I say, blessings abound.” Thohne chuckled more, eyeing the ruins that held an impassable storm for thousands of years, now theirs for the taking.
“We will set the circle in the center of the temples, I will need silence, and Prince Rohne will remain back here to ensure no one gets anxious. Set your men, and meet me there.”
“Hail!” They said in unison the the infamous general of the armies of their kingdom.
“Hail the eleven, and the son of Shukuru that we will honor, very soon.”
Harron smiled and led the noblility and their servants over the hill, out of sight from the main armies, and into the ruins. Soldiers with blades and shields, many with halberds, and some with crossbows, all carried Armondi banners into the city with Sir Yaelsh. They fell into groups of one hundred, as ordered, and marched through Mooncrest to their posts and patrols.
Harron saw many winged forms notice them, from the clouds of black above. He reached into his saddlebags, took out an iron inverted ringed triangle covered in dry blood. He held it up to the sky, to the far off circling demons by the thousands, and it glowed red and a wisp of black smoke trailed behind him as he continued on.
The clouds glowed red the same, and wisps of smoke dangled and grew from them. Harron pointed, saying nothing, to where he would perform the rites to Shukuru. The wisps of smoke went there, from the clouds above, down between the temples, and touched the ground. Harron smiled, seeing the demons fade back into the black swirls, just as Andora had told him they would.
“You knew the demons would be there?” Thohne commented upon seeing the infernal magicks already taking place.
“No, Andora did. There are legions of the dead as well. They serve Zafiel, ruler of Nirakas. They say he was close with Arabashiel, a Gimmorian supposedly cursed to here, hence his demons and dead are in her command above. They recognize and sense the power of their superiors, when it is shown with conviction, brother. They will leave us be.” Harron smiled, still holding the unholy symbol of Shukuru high as they marched in.
“Conviction, yes. Blessing that Alden’s faith is not so aware.” Bishop Thohne laughed again.
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Their steps were slow, cautious, yet side by side the five companions walked the golden floor of the throneroom. Dark shades of figures danced along the cavernous walls, to their left and right green fires roared from giant black braziers filled with skulls, and the air was a tangible heavy force of thick suffocating stale air. The towering golden throne ahead only a few hundred feet, smothered in circling shadows, they saw the cursed dwarf, Mudren Sheldathain, take a knee on the steps that led to where he must have once sat as king.
“My mistress, my Gimmorian Queen of Judgement, they have arrived.” His defeated and hollow voice echoed in the once lustrous and holy place, now full of darkness, death, and eternal torments of the past.
“Sit next to me, servant.” The shadows parted, black feathered wings unfolded, and Arabashiel, the thirteenth Gimmorian immortal, opened her purple gleaming eyes.
They froze, the mere glance of her seductive smile and dark glowing orbs halted their steps with unseen power. She stood, to a height of over twelve feet, her wings stretched with black feathers to twice that across, and her body looked to be made of dark green marble. Smooth it was, without an imperfection, and white silken garments over her breasts and hips were her only coverings. Her hair moved, long and black to the floor, waves of straight midnight that danced with the shadows around her.
Pointed black nails, gleaming black teeth with slightly enlarged canines, and her face appeared to be carved by divine artisans. Despite the darkness that emanated from Arabashiel, she was intoxicating to behold. Her small telltale horns barely shown, appearing as a circlet of black curled spikes that made a ring around her forehead and hid into her hair. Th
ose lustful feminine purple eyes blinked slowly, she spoke in whispers, and she stretched as if she had been sleeping for centuries.
“Welcome to eternal damnation and the curse of endless wars for trapped spirits. Here, we are all judged and kept, from myself, to the smallest rat. There is no leaving, but, you may exist to serve.” Her voice was slow, hollow, and carried a seductive sorrow with its force.
“We travelled far then, and you are now free to go. I declare it.” Azenairk nodded, then pointed his warhammer toward the hall behind him.
“Most amusing thus far, and a bit of a release from eternity it was, but your travels end here.” Arabashiel stood slowly.
“On the contrary, I think ye’ be sitting in my throne, demon. Time for your curse to end. I offer ye’ the painless way first, let me dead go to peace, leave to yer hell or moon, and I won’t hurt ye.” Zen stared with a conviction he had never held before, his hand trembled with anger, and he felt no fear from the immortal woman nearly three times his height.
“I am the daughter of Yjaros and She that cannot be Named, a Gimmorian, and eternal. This place is mine, deemed by God, and I cannot leave, not ever. Neither may any transgressors, these are the edicts of God, the only God, the true God. Your lives, words, and faiths are false, of lesser things most impure. Kneel, and offer, lest these moments be your last. I will not warn again.”
“Afraid not. I am giving you one more offer, to leave in peace.” Zen began to march ahead. “There will be no kneelin here, none.”
“Thalanaxe, you and yours killed my hydra, you owe me a sentinel for my eternal halls. Behold, you brought me a minotaur though. Perhaps you are not as useless as I had thought.” Her whispering laugh entranced, and Mudren Sheldathain laughed with her.
“Naye, I brought ye’ a warhammer for your head, will that suffice?”
Azenairk walked forward, felt something enchantingly warm from his helmet, the helm of Saint Tarumin from Ansharr. Her words did nothing to him. As he stepped, he glanced back, he saw his four companions were struggling to move ahead with him.