The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  The strange man stood up, a strange spindle with parchment in one hand, keeping fixed on the stare between them, and then he was gone. The room passed.

  James fell in and out of consciousness many times, only to awaken to the taunts of ogre offspring beating him while he was carried. The sight of those strange blue glowing eyes remained in his mind, however. They haunted his unwaking moments and only added to his confusion.

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  Sunlight, bright and painful. It caused James to wince, making the bruises and cuts ache more than they did in the darkness. Ogre drug him, carried him, and beat him to the point he no longer cared. His mind shut it out, only to awaken to more pain.

  How many days had passed since I had water or food? At least three days of travel, he thought to himself.

  Wake up, James, wake up. You are not dead yet, wake up. You are alive, a prisoner, and above ground. Wake up.

  James opened his eyes and struggled to focus on what was happening. The ogre of King Avegarne, about a dozen he counted, had him bound and gagged, delivered several daily beatings, and let him soil himself. Dragged along by chains, filthy and dirty, James was still in shock over what had happened. The ears and hands were rotting around his neck. The heads dragging behind him were barely recognizable at this point. James knew one of the heads was Neill Sancadiun. He tried not to think of it, save when the crows began picking at them. James knew they were heading southeast, toward Southwind Keep, had been for days now, and he was surprised that he had not seen a patrol yet, or reinforcements.

  He lay in the snowy grass watching these creatures eat the deer they had speared. They did not cook nor clean the animal at all, merely ripped and devoured the meat from the bones. The ogre left the carcass behind, in the open, giving the young knight nothing each time. He grabbed a handful of water from an icy stream they passed, getting some refreshing moisture to his mouth and throat through the rags. Scabs had formed black across his hands, wrists, and face. His beard reeked of bile and sweat. James had tried not to think of it, but his own smell was as bad as his captors. He knew not to cry, though his memory recalled enough to force tears any moment. Each tear brought more torture, more injury from the beasts around him, and he could not risk it. James stared most of the time, or closed his eyes and went into a dark room alone in his mind.

  I shall starve to death, so weak. Alden, give me strength to fight, to die with honor.

  Suddenly the ogre stopped, crouched down, and began talking in their guttural growls and thick native tongue. One vile creature drew a sword from his side, hidden under his wretched stink of worn animal pelts. It was Arlinne’s sword. Another ogre, the one that was missing an eye, obviously from a very recent injury, pulled from his wolfskin sack the Chazzrynn flag, sky blue with the perched black falcon and golden trim. Tattered and bloodstained, the banner was wrapped around the knight’s shoulders while the other ogre handed him the deceased lord’s blade. The others drew their various weapons as if the traumatized knight had energy to fight.

  “Hoddram, human, hoddram va.”

  Whatever that meant, James thought carelessly as they gestured him to go forward over the hills in front of them.

  Their eyes met, ogre eyes to his human blue gaze. James knew it then, knew why. The man knew now that he was a message, a warning, a symbol of what the tribes in the west had done, and would do, to protect their stolen lands. Avegarne and his ogre army wanted him to live and return home as a living threat. His former captors waited until James was far ahead, though he traded suspicious glances with them until they could see one another no more. It was a quiet ending to the ordeal; strange to watch each other part in such a way, in silent fading steps. For many moments, James stood, not knowing what to think, or do, or feel. The stench of rotted flesh and the chaffing of iron chains haunted his every motion. He pulled the gag from his mouth and stumbled ahead.

  I know those hills, that treeline of pine and elm, and I know that farmstead.

  The smell of food, a road to follow, water from a stream to quench his thirst of many days drove him on. The town of Elcram was ahead, and he knew he was outside of Southwind Keep. Stumbling, staggering, as fast as his legs would take him, he ran. James Andellis saw riders in the distance, farmhouses, and his home on the horizon. The hours passed, his pace slowed, his head hung low, he heard yells and alerts growing louder as he trudged toward the villagers who came up to him in his daze. Women and children were shocked and crying while the men stood quiet, knowing why only one returned from the west. Soldiers knew what it was to face an ogre, let alone hundreds protecting what they claimed as home.

  His words would not come, despite many a question from blurred faces. James could not talk, everything echoed in his ears. He pointed west to Arouland, and men went that direction. His hand trembled as he pointed toward his mouth, wishing food and drink. No one understood him, and soon there were too many people and voices.

  James’ brothers and sisters of the keep arrived, moving the small crowd of pleas and tear filled questions away from him. The young twins, Alexei and Kaya T’Vellon, the legitimate children of Arlinne, were there as well. He could not look at them, wanted to hide the sword at his side, and wanted this all to have been a bad dream. James desperately prayed that he did not have to be the one to tell them that their father had been killed, but there was no one else. Even if some of the regular army had fled, the ogre would have outrun them and hunted them down days ago. It was obvious to the battered knight that he was the first and only to return, he could tell by the desperate looks on the faces of all he passed.

  James took off the string of hands and ears, dropped the bloody banners draped about him, and clutched the sword hilt. As he trembled and teared, trying to draw steel, his body went limp and fell to the ice hard dirt road.

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  The meeting hall was bitter cold. One of the children had started the fire warming for James who had many visitors waiting outside the hall doors in the falling snow. The knights and priests of the temple of Alden could be heard through the doors trying to keep the crowd calm, assuring them of many hopeful things that the young knight would surely spoil with his words should he tell them the truth. James touched his wounds from time to time, staring at the blue light on his hands, recalling the blue eyes of a man chained. He pulled from memories too fresh for comfort the vision of Arlinne’s death, the beheadings, the brutality, and the utter defeat. Avegarne the ogre king’s voice and haunting roar echoed in his mind when he closed his eyes, bringing more fear into his chest, despite being safe in the keep.

  Staring at the brown stone floor and the banners of Southwind and Chazzrynn that hung in the room, James drew Arlinne’s blade and thought of putting it through his chest as opposed to telling the details to the people of his home. James stood, no one was here, yet still he trembled. The tip of the blade touched his chest, his eyes squinted shut, and nothing. He could not do it. With a resigned sigh he sheathed the sword. His breath stopped as he heard footsteps and the quick shut of the heavy doors of Mederris Hall. A brisk wind of winter cold rushed in from long down the hall, then stopped fast. Muffled voices insisting on seeing or hearing him were silenced with a slam. The footsteps came closer, only one person, yet James did not move.

  “James, please sit please, rest son. How are you feeling this day? Can you talk?”

  The voice was calm, but hurried. It was Marcus Mederris, a close friend to the late Lord Arlinne and chancellor to the church of Alden for Southwind. Father Marcus had always been a great supporter of the Andellis family. A truer confidante James could not have asked for in his state.

  “Dunmoor and Mederris drew the best shots of reed, father Marcus. God abandoned the rest of us.”

  “That is not true, James.”

  “I cannot face the children, especially Arlinne’s, my lord. I cannot speak to the people and the families.” James began to tear inside, guilt and remorse taking turns
on his heart.

  “You say what you can, young man, but I need to know how many others will be returning.” The man pushed on, wearily rubbing his shaved head and drawing his hand across his smooth, round face. Papers and parchments fell from his left hand onto the small stone table. Marcus rummaged through them, mouthing words without sound, eyeing James every few moments.

  James shook his head and looked at Marcus with pleading eyes of sorrow, unable to speak.

  “Then, James, how many are hostage? Where is Lord Arlinne?” fear and concern, perhaps a bit of disbelief, crept into his insistent words this time.

  Again, James shook his head, blue eyes begging for a stop to the questions, lips puckering as he fought back an unrivaled stream of sadness. Even thinking of it was as if an iron wall was crushing his spirit.

  “Tell me they are not all dead, James Andellis, tell me something.” Now Chancellor Mederris seemed as frustrated as he was fearful with his line of interrogation. The knight lowered his head as he nodded.

  “All of them, my Lord. Some were caged, perhaps ten to twenty. They were taken below. That was many days past now,” was his reply. A long silence followed, hours it seemed.

  “James, there were twelve hundred men that left for Arouland. This is not possible.”

  “It is.”

  “You lie”

  “They are dead; I do not lie---“

  “You are broken of mind and spirit, and you need more rest.”

  “I am the only one that will be returning!” James raised his voice now and the echo startled them both.

  “Then explain how this is, James.” With a soft lowering of his hand, Marcus spoke quietly.

  “Because, Lord Mederris, twelve hundred, that was also the number of ogre we encountered. Perhaps more. They were prepared, waiting, and organized by a king named---“

  “Stop it, James.” Marcus frowned and rubbed his head again.

  “I do not lie!”

  “There is no ogre king, no army of thousands of ogre, there---“

  James stood with trembling strength. “Then what killed us all? Why will none be returning besides me? Who is going to save the men sold below to the city beneath the ruins?”

  “There is no city beneath the---“

  “I have seen it, we have men there.. Will you be leading this attack?!”

  “James, sit down, now.”

  Slowly, James sat again in the chair and wrapped the blanket around himself. It seemed no amount of fire would warm him through. He stoked the logs furiously until his face began to sweat, then threw the iron on the floor.

  Marcus waited for the echo of the rattling to cease. “James, we have not the men to mount another offensive. You know this, and even if half of what you say is true, we have not the forces to face such a number. Winter is fully upon us in weeks, we must defend these next cold months with less than half of our men.”

  “So they are left to rot?”

  “No, but our scouts have not returned yet.” Marcus sighed. “In the meantime, we need to send word to local lords nearby, and to the king. We need more men, and we need proof, and a cause. Otherwise, nothing happens.”

  “What will you do?” James breathed deep, his trembling slowly starting to fade as his mind raced to revenge.

  “I shall take Southwind, until the time that Alexei and Kaya T’Vellon are of age. You will take house Andellis, as Baril is old and sick. Together, we will---“

  “You speak of this as if nothing happened.”

  “What would you like from me, James? We must plan this, for the days will go on and leadership must---“

  “I am waiting to hear the plans for burying our brothers, saving those that may be alive, waiting for your grief to match mine own!” James lowered his head, struggling with fear, terror, and tears.

  “Now is not the time for grief. Grief is for women. Now is the time we must assure survival, James.”

  The old priest lowered his head as well, reaching into his belt pouch and producing a golden falcon’s head medal. James stared at it, knowing it was an award of the highest honor in Chazzrynn, representing chivalry, sacrifice and bravery to defend the kingdom, honor in battle. He did not deserve this, did not want it, and there was nothing in him that thought of reward or admiration for what had happened during the past week.

  “This”, Marcus Mederris stated, as he pinned it to James’ shirt on the left shoulder over his heart, “was for Arlinne T’Vellon, Lord of Southwind, upon his return victorious. King Mikhail sent it two weeks prior, assured of a new age and victory in the Western Waste. I think you should have it. I sent sealed your mention, as Arlinne wished. Do not make me withdraw my approval, James. But, I will need you here until matters are settled, the west secured and safe.”

  “You are bribing me to give answers my Lord, and with all due respect, I have nothing to say that has not been said already. You want me to give peace and reason, but there is none. This gesture is empty, and I have to make peace with the thousand men that lay dead, food for wolves, or worse.” James stood up,

  “With your permission, Father Marcus, I will take my leave.”

  Not waiting for a reply, nor caring for one, the young knight turned and walked to the doors. The leaders of Southwind and of Chazzrynn made a terrible mistake, and many men died for it, too many, he thought. Now, instead of retaliation, restitution, or revenge, they wanted to make a hero so that their error was overlooked and forgotten, perhaps to cover up or invade again when convenient, and James Andellis would have none of it.

  “It is not a bribe, James. You are the only knight that has---“

  “By the way Father Marcus, I saw a lone wolf on the battlefield as we charged. I could have warned them... the report from the Bori Mountains was right.”

  “Nonsense, James! Stop the childish old wives' tales! This is serious. That has nothing to do with what happened, and you know this!” Marcus’ face reddened, frustrated at the young knight, pointing his finger at him as he stood.

  “Men are dead, many men. And it was no glorious death either, not for any of them.”

  “That is war, young Andellis. And if we want to return and avenge them, I need you to be---“

  “A hero? Someone to relive what happened over and over from lords to king? To petition for more soldiers to go and die? To wait and recite, and beg for a bloodthirsty justice, one that may come in time when you see fit?” James trembled as he spoke.

  “Yes, by Alden's wings, yes!” Marcus roared at the man thirty years his junior criticizing his motives. Then he breathed deep and calmed. “You are young, you are in shock.”

  “Go to hell, priest.” James spat on the floor.

  “Your first battle, your first defeat. Just tell them what happened and I will make sure we get reinforcements.”

  “And if they say no? Should I twist the story a bit perhaps? Maybe we could get more men if I add some flare to the details, father.”

  “I need to attend to the T’Vellon twins, for by birth Alexei is now lord of Southwind. Kaya will need consoling as well. I have much to do.” Marcus stepped forward to stand with James Andellis.

  “Rest now. Just sit back down and rest. I will organize this and tell you what needs to be said.”

  “No.”

  Pushing one door open, James shoved his way through the crowd that pleaded, cried and begged for words that they thought would relieve their fears and pain. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, were here on the packed dirt road from Southwind to Elcram.

  “James, do not go out there!” Marcus bellowed as the doors slammed shut. Nothing I could say would do anything but cause pain, he thought. The sky was gray with a thin unseen cloud cover. No shadows, no wind, just crisp cold air and a torrent of voices James wished to be away from.

  Questions and swarming bodies turned into shouting after a few minutes of James’ continuous walking and shoving ahead. Minutes later it was the same as it was days earlier in the ogre den, “traitor”, “coward”, and stones flew
through the air, spitting and cursing the honored knight as he kept constant his pace.

  One woman called him an ogre-lover, and the crowd shushed as James stopped dead in his tracks. Still bruised and scratched on most of his body, he turned and stared through the crowd of his own people, until the obvious harasser met his gaze. Hate filled his eyes, and it was a real hate, and James knew only that hate. There was nothing else inside of him.

  James drew his blade, Arlinne’s blade, and marched at her with a vengeance and rage that he had only felt when he plunged his sword into the ogre king’s arm. His lunge was shortened by his steps, purposefully, and the blade came under her chin. An old woman of gray hair, the baker’s mother from northside he recalled, more wrinkles than a prune. A hush fell over the mob, these vicious people who knew him yet had no idea of what he had been through. Alexei, Kaya, Marcus, and a dozen or so more of his orphan brothers and sisters of Southwind moved in the distance, trying to get through the gathering.

  Young Alexei, perhaps thirteen seasons now, stopped, his eyes fixated on his father’s sword that James Andellis now held against the throat of an old woman. Blue light flickered from the hand of the knight onto the hilt.

  There was a silence, a grief, and an unspeakable horror to it all. Slowly, blades drew against sheaths within the masses, James heard them where others perhaps did not. He looked to the steel, the blue light, and the eyes of his people. All of them, without exception, told him without words to leave.

  James could not speak, there were no words of revenge or argument here, nothing but more pain. He turned and sheathed the blade. He walked through the northern portcullis of Southwind Keep, up the road towards Elcram, still followed by commoners and soldiers alike. Soon the crunching of snow underfoot was louder than the voices and James could get a rational thought in here and there.

  Keep walking, do not look back, they care not for you. There is only a dishonorable agenda there, and you need time away, time to heal and think. I will plan my own attack, my own rescue, and my own vengeance.