“Not needed Cristoff, I am far too comfortable on foot, and my experience with a brahma in Chazzrynn was not pleasant.” Saberrak huffed in return.
“For you or the poor brahma?” Shinayne took advantage of the chance to raise some laughter in the room at the minotaur’s expense.
“For the little smelly pointy eared elves we trampled on our short trip, Shinayne.” Saberrak fought back, snarling and smiling, receiving some oohs in low tones from the others.
“I am not smelly, unless you think fey aromas and flowers dipped in honey are foul smelling.” the golden tan noble elf retorted quickly.
“Is that what you smell like, elf?”
“As a matter of fact, yes hairy horned one, that is my scent.” she turned her back to him, drawing out her new matching longblade and shortblade given to her by Ansharr. She did a slight twirl, then bowed, and stood once again to face the minotaur, triumphant.
“Then yes, I think you are foul smelling indeed.” Saberrak smiled, unable to not at least grin a bit as everyone else began to laugh. He walked by the blushing elven swordswoman, who was pointing her blades at him playfully, and he pat her on the shoulder.
“Azenairk Thalanaxe, do me a favor and walk into my treasury. Over to the left there beside the statue of the dragon there is a helm that will fit you nicely I believe.” the ancient red wyrm directed the dwarven priest through the stockpiles, statues, art and troves she had spent centuries collecting.
Zen stepped carefully past more gold and platinum than he had ever seen, glistening and reflecting the magical light from the torches on the walls of what looked to be the open air vault of five dwarven kings. He looked down at a shelf containing an open faced steel helmet with winged dragons etched on the brow and winged talon like sideguards along it designed with scales and a small ridge atop. As he picked it up, it seemed to weigh little more than an apple, yet he could feel the strength of the steel and see the fine craftsmanship. He placed it on his head, and it did indeed fit perfectly.
“It is enchanted with divine powers of a long dead priest of Alden named Tarum. He is now revered as Saint Tarumin, and has many temples, churches, and even a city named after him as well as an order of knights or two. It was a gift to me over four centuries ago from Tarum himself. It should keep your spirit well protected from darkness and evil as well as protecting your head.”
“I cannot accept such a gift, such a relic, even if it be of human descent of another faith.” Zen bowed and went to place the invaluable helmet back.
“I was not asking you to take it, good priest of Vundren, I was insisting on giving it to you. I am allowed that in my mountain.” Ansharr smiled, her soft voice almost overpowering. She watched the dwarf place it back on his head, bow once more, and walk out of the treasury cavern.
“James Andellis, would you please go to the center by the stone pillar and take the round shield that lay beside it. It has arcane protections that will keep you ever falling gently, and it is strong enough to repel any attack.”
James picked up the round steel shield, shining on the outside rim but cracked and old appearing on the outside. He bowed to the dragon, admiring the near weightless shield, and walked out and up the stairs to the top of the treasury. He felt Saberrak’s arm stop him, and he turned to look at his horned friend, who pushed him off the edge of the twenty foot drop back into the treasury. Everyone lunged forward for a moment, then saw the knight of Chazzrynn floating slowly to the bottom, gentle and in control of where he was landing. They all looked at Saberrak disapprovingly.
“Had to make sure it worked, right?” he smiled and snorted, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed contently.
“Saberrak, since you are so eager for attention this day, go to the left wall and take the bracelet made of platinum and pearl from the small wooden chest there.” Ansharr pointed her clawed finger toward the area she had mentioned.
After meeting James on the steps and exchanging smiling glances of friendship, and James thudding his shoulder into the minotaur a bit which did little, Saberrak picked up the bracelet and put it on his wrist. He watched it shrink to fit tight, and looked up to the dragon. “Now what?”
“And to your right, on the floor there, is a belt with the buckle that resembles a fist. The bracelet is a small token really, but it will let you read several languages as if you knew them by heart. Agarian, dwarven, elven, and the trade language of the southern tribes. The belt will gift you with a tireless strength that can endure days without rest. Both were given to me from a dying merchant that found his way to the mountain many years ago.” she received a slight bow from the horned warrior, and she gave one back, but she did not expect words of gratitude from Saberrak. She knew that this scroll, the divine voices and omens, and just being on the surface world had him overflowing with distraction. She knew his mind had not left the scroll, he was wondering where it was as if it called to him.
“Gwenneth Lazlette, hold out your hands.” Ansharr concentrated on the arcane verse, but did not need to speak it loudly. She pointed to the old redwood staff topped with an emerald, its runes glowed a faint red continually, and a green leatherbound tome followed, gently floating through the air to Gwenne’s hands, guided by arcane energies controlled by the dragon. “I give you the staff of Imoch the Eternal. He was the ruler of Kivanis, long before it was known as Kivanis, when mighty wizards and archmages held respect and power there. There is much to learn in that staff, the ancient glyphs and runes will guide you. And, as promised, this tome will teach you my language, mostly in regards to the arcane study. Once finished, there are three basic rites you will understand, and the book will vanish and return here.” Ansharr looked down at the dark haired student of magic.
“I am most honored, great dragon of the mountain. Thank you.” Gwenne curtsied and stepped back to examine what she had been given. She had earned every little scrap of enchantment her mother had given her, and created more herself than ever she was gifted with from others. She was in awe of the power she felt from the staff, and amazed that she should receive such a gift for what she considered so small a task.
“Lord Cristoff Bradswellen the Third, if you would please.” Ansharr gestured to the human lord, who shook his head in return.
“I cannot, wise dragon. I merely helped these brave-“
“And for your valuable assistance that surely saved their lives at the hands of a salisan army, and the help you will be giving them for as far as you travel with them, I will reward you. I insist.” she pointed again to the back wall, to a breastplate of fine steel with gold etchings of roses, swords, and vines all delicately intermingled. The shoulderplates, armguards, and greaves were all decorated similar, and upon touching the suit of ancient armor, it hummed and glowed a faint white light.
“What is this?” Cristoff looked fearful of what it may do, that perhaps it was warning him of something.
“That is the armor of the first king of Harlaheim, an Agarian man by the name of-“
“Herrimus, from which L’Herrim castle was built and started the line of the strongest ruling family for the kingdom, and many of the centuries it has existed here on Agara. I know the story well, and it was said his armor could deflect nearly any blade and made his voice difficult to resist.” Cristoff lifted the breastplate, feeling the steel lighter than it should be due to the enchantments placed upon it.
“All true, but the powers do not manipulate others, they merely make your voice heard to all around you, louder perhaps. He was buried below long ago, and I was given his armor to bestow on one I see fit. I believe you should wear it, Lord Cristoff.” Ansharr bowed to the stunned Lord of Saint Erinsburg, who paused a moment, unblinking, and returned the bow graciously.
“A mighty gift that I hope to be truly worthy of someday, wise Ansharr.”
“I am certain you already are.” the red dragon looked to Shinayne, and smiled fondly as the elven noblewoman bowed deeply to her. “You have had time to feel out your gifts already this morni
ng, Lady T’Sarrin, but I should tell you their importance. The matching set of curved elven blades, tradition passed down through the nobility as you know, came from the Prince of Aloeste. The last highborne noble to leave the northern continent, the last high elven city to be abandoned as the rule of the Altestan Empires became too great, Prince Lliannis founded Sar Aloeste on the northern coast of Agara, and gifted the dragons that resided there with his fathers blades to form a pact of honor and friendship. The stones in the pommels of those elven blades are said to be blessed by Siril and taken by the God of the elves from the white moon itself. Carice and Elicras he called them, blades of the white moon, and they are powerfully enchanted by the fey and far older than me. Your meditations should hear their song and your enemies will feel their sharp edges more than any other sword.”
“Blessings upon you and your kind, great dragon, and please accept my deepest gratitude. I have heard their song already and it is beautiful beyond compare.” Shinayne bowed once more, her hands resting gently on the blue stained and faded leather wraps of her swords, fingers caressing the smooth white stones in the pommels, and her previous remaining longblade was strapped behind her shoulder. The elven swordswoman had never felt such balance as she had this morning in the face of the western sunrise. Even though Lavress was more distant than ever from her, the kata dance with the ancient matched blades felt perfect and brought her to a place of peace and serenity.
“I am aware you have lost your mounts in the fight with the lizardmen, so please allow me to take you to the bottom of Soujan Mountain and save you a day of hard travel. I can only carry three of you safely, so we will be making two trips. Who will I be flying down first?” Ansharr walked out the entrance as she spoke and stretched her wings out wide. She turned her long neck back around to the brave companions behind her and smiled as she saw their shocked looks of awe and child-like anticipation at the thought of riding on the back of a flying dragon. When she received visitors, which was very seldom, Ansharr often observed the same look when the offer was made. It brought a sparkle of joy through her heart and a gleam to her majestic eyes to be so admired in her old age.
Gwenneth II:I
Soujan Mountain, Harlaheim
The wind was whipping her dark hair all over, then it would stop as Ansharr raised her wings. That moment of stillness where the air seemed to wait inbetween the updraft and the downbeat of dark red dragon wings put the wizard of Vallakazz at calm and ease. She heard Lord Cristoff spitting her hair out from his lips every opportunity he could and also heard Saberrak groaning and growling when the descent would drop quickly or turn sharp. Gwenneth stared out over the pines and hills that stretched out from the mountains, taking in the view that none but the creatures of the sky could ever see. Birds circled below her instead of above, she looked down upon valleys and roads from the scaly back of the old dragon, and felt a bit of inspiration and wonderment for the first time in many, many years.
The dark robed prodigal daughter of the arcane gripped the redwood staff of Imoch tightly, feeling the power it contained gently flowing in tune with her pulse. She tried to read the top set of draconic runes near the embedded emerald, but they merely glowed a deep red as she stared at them. The language was not one that she could simply try and guess at, the deciphering would take some time. Gwenne looked up and down the staff, noting five circular sets of engravings that she knew meant five different arcane powers that were imbued into the ancient and mighty gift. Her staff had two, which was the most any master student ever could achieve with years of study in enchanting such items. Middir, her mother Aelaine, and Kalzarius had three powerful sets of glyphs engraved on theirs, but she had never seen any wizard with four, let alone five. Gwenne surmised that Imoch must have been a very potent and wise master of the arts indeed.
Her hand kept tight on the leathery ridge that protruded from the spine of scales on Ansharr’s back. Her, the armored lord, and the gray minotaur were set between the wings of the enormous dragon and felt safe there as the fluid and rhythmic strokes kept them on a gentle glide through the Harlaheim sky. She would have to yell to speak to Ansharr, as her neck was at least fifty feet ahead, turning from left to right, surveying their flight and the area around them. Gwenneth felt the tap of a gloved hand on her shoulder as the air whooshed once more around her from the mighty beating of hundred foot long wings. She turned her neck halfway to at least hear what Cristoff wanted, as she did not feel all too comfortable turning completely around her first time on the back of a dragon and still a thousand feet in the air.
“My lady of Lazlette, may I inquire-“
“Call me Gwenne please, Lord Cristoff of Saint Erinsburg.” she said it sharply to the esteemed veteran soldier. She hated the formality that carried with her name, since it had nothing to do with her powers at all, it was simply a reminder of who her mother was.
“Very well, Gwenne, why is it you disagree with the divine omens and heavenly gifts that Saberrak has been gifted? Did you not attend church or temple in Vallakazz?” his words were genuine, but he held back from asking what she thought of being the only one that heard nothing in the cavern, for Cristoff believed she was lying and had truly heard something but kept it to herself.
“I did when I was young, and most everything I have seen of religion can be explained by simple methods of very minor incantations that allow one to produce a desired affect. I have argued the powers of faith versus the study of arcane arts with several priests, only to find what they had was terribly weak compared to what I could perform. Divinity is weak, false, and requires far too much blind belief for me.” Gwenneth avoided the questions pertaining to Saberrak, hoping her thoughts on religion were enough to keep him satisfied.
“So do you feel the same about Azenairk then, and the voice in the light we all heard?”
“Zen is different, he does not preach to us nor try to explain every little thing in the world as being the result of a God that he has specific relations with. He is humble, reserved, and has a gift that is not like any temple clergyman I have met in person. I have seen his little miracles or divine magicks, they are true and real, unlike many of the priests who claim to have done things before but cannot explain how or why. Zen is blessed, and I will leave it at that.” Gwenne turned her head back to the front, seeing the ground getting closer.
Cristoff spoke louder as the wind picked up. “And the minotaur?”
“Cursed. Whatever was in that scroll is gone, and it went into him. It cannot be traced, but we all know it is there and has had an effect on him. If it were good and divine, why would it be hidden? It is hidden from my powers and skills, likely for a reason, and there is something there that is telling him to do things he would not normally do. You can keep your blind faith in it all if you like, my lord, but I know deception when I see it. I say it is a curse in the guise of a blessing, and it will come to remind us of that someday.” Gwenne tightened her hand around a large red scale as the dragon glided across the open ground beside a barren hill at the bottom of the mountain. Her wings went up, and the motion slowed into a hovering and then they landed.
Saberrak, Cristoff, and Gwenneth slid down the side of Ansharr as she crouched low on all fours to ensure they would not have far to drop. “I will return in a short while with the others.” the dragon beat her wings hard and lifted off of the ground slowly, safely away from her recent passengers. She rose in the air, short dives into glides, then one after another, she flew off and up toward the top of the mountain.
“Sometimes, young wizard, blind faith in things majestic and unexplainable is all we have to go on.” Cristoff watched the dragon fade from view into the afternoon sky, still feeling the sensation of flying in his body as he stood firm on the ground.
“And sometimes the truth need be found by those educated and skilled. The majestic and mythical wonders all came from somewhere, and nothing is unexplainable, my lord. I would think the poor blind man would give anything to have the understanding, power, and reason
of a wizard of the arcane. Knowledge is power, my lord, plain and simple. Blind faith is for those that do not have the ability to find the truth and need to put some meaning to their measly lives.” Gwenne walked over to sit by a stump of a dead tree by the road. She pulled out the tome of the draconic language that Ansharr had given her, and began to read. The tongue was old Agarian, but she understood it well enough to absorb the written words. Gwenne knew that to uncover the powers that lay in the staff of Imoch, and to enhance her skills beyond her mother’s or those of Kalzarius, she would have to fully grasp all that was in this book and more; especially if, and when, she reached the fabled librabry of Carados in the lost city of Mooncrest.
Gwenneth saw Cristoff give up his battle of questions, resigned and reserved with a sigh. She smiled, knowing that her knowledge of things would always win over those of forced faith and hopeful divine explanation. Her professors, her mother, and most every student at the academy in Vallakazz had been secretly in awe of her ability to retain what she learned. Gwenne enjoyed philosophical debate, especially with those far less educated than her that held positions of elevated power. Nothing pleased her more than to put another noble in their place in regards to religious and spiritual beliefs, for Gwenneth Lazlette had none of her own, save that what she had was vastly more potent and tangible.
James II:I
Soujan Mountain, Harlaheim
His mind could barely concentrate on anything besides the woman’s voice, a voice only he had heard most unexpectedly. Despite being on the back of a gigantic ancient red dragon with Shinayne and Azenairk; James was focused on the confusion of that moment earlier in the morning. The veteran knight of the kingdom of Chazzrynn had seen signs before. His gift of healing with a touch of his hand had been there since he was a child; the faint blue glow that he had thought required prayer to Alden was something few knew of. The feeling of wholeness in the churches of his youth, the wolf on the battlefield that superstitiously warned him of danger, and the man with the glowing eyes under the ruins of Arouland all felt connected and spiritual to him. Now, they all confused him. He had thought himself blessed by Alden, pious and exceptional, and that his purpose fell in line with the tenants of Aldane religion and disciplines. Now, the scroll and the man were undoubtedly Annar, the brother of Alden who had been lost from the world of men for thousands of years. And when a divine omen between he and the recipient of some powers of the scroll made contact, it was not the voice of the Lord of Heaven he heard, in fact far from it.
The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns Page 27
