The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  Crack and a thud followed as the body of the farmhand was launched overhead by the ogre child. James stepped ahead quickly, closing on the mother who stood ready. Her long clawed hands still fresh with sheep’s blood, she waited for the knight. He ducked as if to go under her reach and as she screeched out a roar, he spun to his right, blocking her hands with his shield. In a flash, the griffon blade cut deep into her flank. The child was on the move toward him, and James cut again at her chest as she turned, missing her as she back stepped. The ogre youth dove at James, knocking into his shield arm and the two fell to the ground, ogre on top, fists flailing with ferocity. Snarls and spit and rage came out of him, and James saw the mother coming in now, sure the two of them had him down for good.

  The sword held tight over the shield, James thrust it forward three quick times from his back. Each time he cut deep into the shoulders and neck of the young ogre, still larger than he was. Blood projected all over the shield, staining the white tabard and snow alike. As the beast child scrambled to get up, James cut wide across its throat, splitting open skin and vein and neck into a fatal mess of flowing ruby red and black. Suddenly, with a violent ear piercing scream, James was lifted into the air and slammed into the nearest willow tree, then again.

  His head ached from the jolting and hitting the iron winter bark, icicles fell for twenty feet around as he took a third blow from the ogre witch. James was pinned, so he kicked her chest and chin as fast as he could, all the while being plowed into the tree behind him by the arms of an avenging ogre mother.

  Crraaack, the tree roots gave way a bit from the icy ground and she fell forward with James against the willow. He scrambled over the fallen branches and roots to regain his stance. Quickly, and with fury, she rounded the tree, dripping blood from the wound in her flank. James jumped off of one of the upturned roots and hurled himself to her left side, plunging the blade deep into her chest, where it remained. He fell hard and tried to roll up to his feet, but the snow had given way and he sunk in too far to keep momentum. James turned in time to see that the ogre wench had the blade through her chest and out the back, but still had life enough to run. And she ran the other way. Never had James seen an ogre flee, at least not from him. Blood streamed more than dripped, leaving a heavy trail of dark crimson, making it easy to follow her, and so the old knight did.

  “Never seen an ogre with this much blood. Never,” he muttered as he went.

  Hours and miles had passed since James Andellis had seen a landmark he recognized. Hopefully, he prayed, she is not leading me to any more family unarmed.

  His sword, there it was, twenty feet ahead, apparently having fallen free of the ogre. He ran to it, picking it up from next to a frozen stream. James looked around, rapidly searching for the trail, but there was nothing. Suddenly his back felt the pain of claws ripping his flesh through the chainmail he wore under his tabard. He squinted and held in his pain, took one step forward, and spun round completely to his left, leading with the shield. He hit claws, yet it was his follow with a mighty sword swing that cut three quarters through the neck of the half dead ogre woman. Her pale yellow face of tusks and black mottled hair slumped to the ground, and he took a final arcing attack that finished the cut of the last one, loosing her head from her body completely. She had been in the frozen water, hoping to survive with an ogre trick that nearly succeeded. Like countless ogre since the Arouland slaughter, this one lay dead at the feet of James Andellis.

  James scrambled to get his armor off, groaning in pain and feeling blood run down his freezing back. Steam rose from the ogre corpse next to him, and slightly from his wounds as well. He knew this was not healthy with the cold, but he had to stop his bleeding so far from town. He said a silent prayer, merely mouthing the words to Alden for mercy and forgiveness, though he knew the prayer was not necessary at all. His hands glowed blue like the sky on a sunlit day, and he strained to reach the wounds. He was trembling, wet, and shirtless in the freezing winter. Slowly, warmly, and with a bit of tingling or numbing cold, the wound stopped bleeding. James held his hand there as long as he could, then quickly dressed.

  James looked at the head and picked it up by the greasy hair. “It’s a long walk back, so keep quiet, understood? Good.”

  The walk took hours as the winter winds had covered the tracks. Stumbling in exhaustion, trembling weak and cold, James found his own bootprints. Not to town, not for help, but to his sack of wine bottles. He sat down on his shield next to the frozen trees, dropped the lifeless ogre head, then pulled out his wine and drank until another bottle was empty.

  He wandered back to where the body of the younger ogre lay, and set about placing heads to poles. James took his knife and scratched two more lines on the back of his shield. Two more kills, next to countless others. His mind felt this place familiar, felt a sick semblance of victory, and his eyes closed as exhaustion took him against his will.

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  The wagon wobbled from side to side on the tracks in the snow; the light load and nervous, cold horses did not help steady matters. The two Chazzrynn boys at the front, shivering and passing the wine bottle back and forth for warmth, were glad to see the sun peeking out in the cloudy sky and hoped that a little warmth would keep the chills away on the next few days of their journey.

  Both Konrad, and his younger brother, Baunnar, had left Silverbridge months ago, after their father's passing. They sought trade for his blades and axes in Hurne. Perhaps it was the wrong time of year, or their youth, but neither could quite place their finger on why they could not be as successful as their late father, Otto. They were down to their last few dozen silvers, with half a crate of wine, and their belongings. They had not much to lose.

  Konrad had mentioned to Baunnar that he overheard that King Mikhail had opened the way for travelers and merchants into the western waste since the ogre had all but vanished in the last few years. He also heard from some savages trading furs that a sickness had come over the ogre there, and that the great wars were over. The two red headed young men both grew up on stories of thousands of men in many a battle that had died there, never really winning the lands back, and that they were deemed cursed by the church and the king. Since neither boy could really admit to being as great a bladesmith as their father was, they agreed to go and get as much as they could from the ruins and shine them up to sell back in Hurne. The trip was just about four days south and west, and four back, and they both thought it would put them in the market and then some, after a few runs. However, keeping to a visible road in winter had proven more difficult than they had thought.

  Konrad sat up next to his little brother, who was only fifteen seasons, in the seat of their wagon. He was looking east, along a shoreline of a frozen stream, pointing his hand and staring.

  “Look at that, brother. You don’t see that often now.”

  Baunnar gazed east, curious at seeing so much red in the snow, and what looked like a pair of recently decapitated ogre heads on wooden poles and a knight of Southwind laying dead next to them. A crow took flight as the wagon approached, its meal ruined from atop the bloody shaft of oak.

  “He’s been drinking, Konrad, look at the bottle in his hand. Died drunk, just like our dad.”

  “Let’s get our first bit of treasure, or get a bodyguard for the horses, little brother.” Konrad said, eyes gleaming, smile as wide as the wagon.

  The two tied the horses to a frozen willow and jumped off, warming their blood and intrigued about the battle that must have taken place.

  “Look at that sword. Gold falcon marks of a noble blade.” Baunnar fingered one of the red curls atop his head, knelt, and took a closer look. Broadsword, well folded steel, not a nick on either edge. Griffon wings for the short crosspiece, body for the handle, head for the pommel. The gold had not tarnished one spot, and the streams of sunlight shone true upon an excellent blade.

  “Worth a lot, Konrad. Can ye get it from him?” Baunnar whispered to his brother. />
  “Aye, easy enough. He’s dead or drunk he is.” Konrad wiped his trembling hand across his face, small frosted goat hairs for a young red beard sparkling under his anxious blue eyes. He eyed the four bottles of wine scattered about the snow then glanced at the ogre heads atop the oaken spears, recently whittled it would seem.

  No sooner had the boy reached out his hand, than an empty wine bottle broke over Konrad’s head and the tip of a knife pulled from a boot was at his throat. He froze still, in pain, his eyes opening to meet a blue eyed gaze that showed no emotion behind the brown grizzled beard and stringy hair. The man was still, unshaking, staring with eyes that could paralyze a man.

  “That sword has more meaning to it than your little life, boy. Unless you want to end up like that,” James pointed at the body of his victims from a few hours back, “I would suggest giving an old knight a ride and keeping your head attached.”

  Both the young men stared, hearts beating out of their chests, legs going numb from surprise and fear. They eased and blinked after what seemed minutes frozen in place. They were knelt next to this man, disheveled, unshaven, and reeking of wine and ogre blood.

  “Yes sir,” Baunnar mumbled out.

  James put his steel back in his boot, smiled, and pulled himself up, tabard crunching when pulled from the snow it had been frozen to. He eyed their wagon, recognizing the small crate half covered on the back with the tent and bedrolls.

  “Still got wine in that box, young gentlemen?”

  The boys nodded with smiles of relief, looking to each other to see whether they should run from this man or trust him.

  “Wonderful, Alden be praised and all that. I am James Andellis and my service is yours while there is wine to drink. I will take care of the ogre, you do whatever it is you are doing. Now, let us open one of these Caberran jewels up for a test, eh?” James walked over and climbed into the back of the wagon, pulled out his corkscrew, and took a full drink of the red heaven. Mellenas grape, bit ripe, but better than the swill he had been getting from Timber lately.

  Baunnar leaned his ear in to Konrad as a brotherly nod requested. “He is drunk as a fish, brother. Take him with us, just keep saying yes to whatever he speaks. He won’t know nothin’ from nothin’.” Konrad smiled as he walked closer to the wagon.

  “Leave him on the wagon, looks imposing enough. Hide the coins though,” Baunnar added.

  “Agreed.”

  “We’re off, young knights, let’s ride,” bellowed James, happy to have the wine, a vanquished foe, and a lot less of a walk back to the tavern. “To Hurne, my young friends, the Trade River Tavern awaits. On your way, pass by fat Lord Berkin’s manor for my pay of late. Then we shall eat and drink together in warmth!”

  The boys looked at each other and shrugged; they didn’t care about the wine in the slightest. Some dwarven armorer in Hurne told them to buy some for the trips in the cold to keep them warm, but neither boy was fond of it. Konrad smiled at Baunnar, and the three took off to the southwest, listening to recent and bloody tales from this wreck of a knight.

  For days he stayed in a drunken haze. James slept, stumbled, and drank the wine, bottle after bottle. The boys ignored his questions of how much further, and that they seemed to be taking the long way. They knew he’d forget after another bottle, and they had no intentions of telling him where they were going. The food was nearly gone, the wine running short, but the boys knew they had to be close to the ruins in the far south and west. Then, they were certain that they would have more than their father ever did.

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  James awoke, cold but covered with blankets and furs, in the back of what appeared to be a wagon. He shielded his eyes, despite lack of any radiant sunshine, as the white gray clouds hurt his eyes just the same. He reached for the bottle next to him with unsteady fingers, empty, and then reached for the crate to find it also empty. A bit of panic set in his chest as he looked around his feet. Not only did he see at least fifteen empty bottles through blurred vision, but there were axes, broadswords, short blades, and even a few larger two handed axes and weapons. He could not recall much, but surely these were newly aquired, despite the rust and neglected appearance on most of them. Shaking, he looked over the side of the wagon, searching for the boys he had met, and his jaw fell open. He hid behind the wagon wall.

  “This must be a dream, must be, Alden wake me from this please.”

  James whispered in desperation. He had had too many of these dreams, far too many to count. Yet this one felt very real to him, too real. He squinted and leaned cautiously over the side of the wagon again, trembling. The walls of the outer ruin were covered in snow, the tower of Arouland stood against the gray and white sky, the city still quiet like a grave in the western waste.

  “This is not real. Wake, damn you, wake please.”

  His eyes teared, his lip trembled, not ever wanting to see this place again. Not even a drunken desire on the wildest nights had James ever thought of coming here, not as long as he lived. His fearful eyes looked all around, the same, all but one spot to the eastern hill. Feathered crosses marked stone graves with the traditional round wreath of feathers in the middle, thousands of them across the top of the hill he had stood on so long ago.

  “Boys, back to the wagon now. Whoever put you to this has had their laughs. Let us leave.” James voiced as loudly as he could, which was not much, but no answer was returned.

  James gathered his shield and belt, fastening it quickly as he stood from the wagon. Guilt consumed him with every step. He thought of the men he had left in the cavern under Arouland. James doubled over as he walked toward the hill. The heaves produced bile and wine, staining the white to a sickly red for a streak. A hate and sadness washed over him. He had not known of any memorial site for those that had died, he never knew anyone had returned here after that first battle. Just that plague had struck, that the ogre were getting visited by revenge that James could not have given them himself.

  “Not real, not real, Alden have mercy this is not real. Boys, get back here now!”

  Vomiting and heaving dry now since he had not eaten much in days, James pulled his steps closer to the graves. Crunching steps in snow brought him to rows upon rows stretching the entire view of the hills above the ruins of the Teirinshire district. He wandered into the line of stones, looking at names upon feathered crosses. Some had writing, and some did not. He recognized the last names of his brothers at a few spots, memories of his youth flashing back in jolts that found him on his knees more than once. The guilt held him from speaking, though his mouth was moving, nothing but gasps for air could be heard. He stood up to walk more, thoughts of how this came here and why he had not been found to join his brothers in laying these men to rest swarmed his angry mind .

  James turned again and looked at a stone a bit larger than the others, polished marble, gray and swirled. Closer he came to it, knowing well what it was, jittering from grief and anguish at the sight of it. James read, “Here lies Arlinne of T’Vellon, Lord of Southwind Keep, blessed were his days, blessed are his children, blessed is his sacrifice 279-331 AD”

  James’ face went white, the tears fell like rain. James pulled his Lord's blade from the sheath, placed it on his chest and lay down over the grave. The knight wailed like a man who had woken from a nightmare to find himself alone with all he knew dead and gone. He stared at the stone and the broadsword, thoughts of placing it through his chest flowed and jumped through his half drunk mind.

  “I am coming brothers, just late is all, but I am coming. Forgive me.”

  Moments passed as he lay there curled up in a ball staring and crying with sword in hand. James did not know what to do next, his revenge and anger had kept him going day by day, as if some amount of ogre bloodshed would somehow reverse this. But there was no changing this, no, not ever. This was forever, and James would never forgive himself for what he had not done, though he did not really admit to himself there was something he could hav
e done. Misplaced and unanswered blame mixed with killing ogre was all that James had become.

  “Alden take me, end it, as it should have been ended all those years past.”

  Screams, definitely several screams from the west, he heard them surely as he heard crows in the air above him quarreling over the lack of food in winter. Up in a blink, James heard them again, already on a dead run through the gravestones; he fastened his shield as he hurried downhill. Two sets of screams, men, or boys. He could see them now, outside the northern wall at least four hundred yards away. With speed he had not thought he had left, James Andellis ran over hard ice and snow, steps that would not fail him.

  Closer now, he yelled a roar that was more animal than man, yelling for the thing to stop what it was doing and pay him attention as he charged. The ogre cut off the head of the second young boy, spearing it down next to several others long wasted to bone. One was the boy’s older brother. Screaming in pain from within, James continued his run. Sword held high, he was intent on killing this creature before it could harm the boys. He was too late, yet he did not acknowledge it. A rage, a hatred had taken over, he wanted it all to end. He wanted to die, he wanted this ogre, and all of its bastard race to die before his sword first. The ogre stood his ground, lifting his greatsword with two hands, wiping the blade on his horse skin clothing. It motioned with the tip of its blade that he was ready for this insane human to be his third victim of the morning.

  James’ sword cut across to the ogre's face and was deflected easily by the beast, who returned a mighty downward chop. His shield turned up, cracking loudly in the air, never slowing his attack, James countered with a low cut into the ogre’s thigh, hitting flesh through the hides. The greatsword pulled back into an arcing cut that James barely got his head under, swinging the broadsword across his foe's shoulder and down again into the muscle on his forearm.