The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  “This is not the way, we are off his trail. I can feel it, Saberrak.”

  “I have the scent of those tracks, faint, but I can follow it. Your senses are wrong woman.”

  “Saberrak, please refer to lady Shinayne---“ Bedesh knew to stop talking as Shinayne stepped up to the gray minotaur. He knew well that stare and pace.

  “Lady Shinayne T’Sarrin of Kilikala to you, understood?” Shinayne walked up to the minotaur, her eyes beaming up from two feet below his.

  “Keep your voice down, my lady.” Saberrak hushed. “Unless you wish to see more blood this day.”

  “It will not be mine, stand assured.”

  “Whose then? Ogre, troll, perhaps some of my kin coming to hunt me down?”

  “All of that and more, if need be.” Shinayne gritted her teeth.

  “You are bold, too much so, perhaps.” Saberrak looked around now, he heard echoes faintly in the wind.

  “There is a fine line between bold arrogance and deadly confidence, my horned beast. Being a woman, I have had to teach that lesson many times, and a painful steel lesson it is.” She gripped her blade hilts at her side.

  Saberrak snorted at her motions and smiled. “Very well, then we go back and pick up the trail again.”

  “Finish with, my lady.”

  “Not a chance, Shinayne.”

  “If we go back, my lady, more trolls or worse,” whimpered an already nervous Bedesh, lowering his bow and taking quick count of the arrows he had few of left in the quiver. Seven remained.

  “It would be unwise to retrace our steps through the city, and I have no trail to follow on old ruined streets. Get me further out and I will track your friend, elf,” huffed the gray, not patient with lost time or feelings for direction. He wanted to keep the pace moving away from Unlinn. Saberrak knew what would be following, and wanted to get as far from that Chalas Kalaza as possible. “Is there not shelter near here? A city?”

  “My home is six weeks north at a quick pace, near Gualidura. Lady T’Sarrin’s is over double that across the Soltaic Ocean where it has never seen cold or snow. We are as familiar with the west of Chazzrynn as you, big-horn. This land is filled with humans, but not near here.” Bedesh grinned and blinked, pushing the familiarity and friendship a little fast, as was his nature. The satyr enjoyed getting a rise in attention out his conversations.

  “Where is he?! You tell him I am here, and to face me! I challenge your king filth ogre, and every last one of your bastard race! Come and meet your deaths one at a time, or together! I care not!”

  The three stood in quiet, hearing a roaring challenge from the north edge of the outer city, from a man the whole ruin could have heard. Grunts and yells, not in the challenging Agarian tongue either, came from the distance as well. Shinayne drew her matching elven blades, Bedesh nocked an arrow in the enchanted bow of his dead friend, and Saberrak smiled from under his horns and brands, gripping his double bladed axe and chain.

  Sounds of stomping ogre accompanied the yells of challenge from close by. They peered over the wall they hid behind, seeing a knight saluting the coming ogre with his blade, all alone. The ogre swarmed from all sides, thankfully intent on the lone challenger, for they did not notice the three crouched behind a ruined ledge.

  “We are cut off.” Shinayne whispered, keeping her back tight to the stone wall. “They come from three sides now, the only open path is there, in the field. Nowhere to hide.”

  “Fearless.” Saberrak huffed under his grin. He crept closer, wall to ruined wall, and got into position behind the ogre unaware. “I like fearless.”

  “Fearless and stupid. There are ten ogre around him, and a dozen more en route. He will be fearless and dead in moments. Care to join him?”

  “They will find us if we sit here, and soon. I would rather die out there than sitting down here with you.” Saberrak lowered his horns and crawled along the broken wall.

  “Milady, we are surrounded. What do we---“ Bedesh felt her gloved hand cover his mouth. She watched the gray minotaur stalk closer to get a look at the battle about to ensue.

  “This is not a good idea minotaur. Bedesh, stay back behind us,” Shinayne whispered and knelt next to Saberrak.

  “Are you afraid, elf?”

  “I fear nothing.”

  “Prove it.” Saberrak grinned. His grin was matched with one of a trained elven swordswoman who stared hard into his eyes.

  “Are you challenging me into this man’s fight, minotaur?” Shinayne wanted to be furious, but her pride would not let anything but a sparkle grace her eyes.

  “I am. I hate ogre, was owned by one, and I won’t let anyone die at their hands if I can help it. But, we have not much time. In and out, a quick kill and flight across the field. It’s our only way out regardless. On the way, we pick up someone who knows this place so that we can get away from here to safety.”

  “Something hunts you, I sense it. Not these ogre either, you want out of here quickly.”

  “That talk is for another time. The longer we stay, the sooner we are spotted and hunted down. That man knows where a city will be, right?”

  “Likely, yes.”

  “Then we cut our way from behind, take him, and get out of this place.”

  “Agreed. You take the left side near the idiot knight, horned one. I shall go right and take them from the trees. Bedesh, cover us.”

  “Easy elf. Let’s just get closer first, quietly and slowly.” Saberrak growled low.

  “It is not elf. It is Lady Shinayne T’Sarrin of Kilikala. And I do not take orders from minotaurs!” Shinayne snapped.

  “Very well, elf, you lead then.”

  “As you wish. You may follow, minotaur, but be quiet.”

  As Shinayne stepped with inhuman speed and grace from wall to ruined ledge, Saberrak grinned to Bedesh.

  “I like her already. Arrogant, fearless, and difficult, just like me.” Saberrak snorted.

  Curses I:I

  Beneath the Ruins of Arouland

  Chazzrynn

  Blood dripped from the troll's missing arm, yet it still had two, and two arrows buried deep in its soft green and warted flesh as well.

  “Ther a wass a mintar’ and a smaller mintar’ master, and a witchy one likings to you. The witchy woman one cutsss off mee arm,” hissed the troll, trying to speak the little Agarian it knew through black fangs and the pain of its third arm slowly regrowing. The seven other trolls listened and looked, scowling and smiling, hearing every mispronunciation as if their kinsman had some important revelation from their wretch of whatever they call a God to deliver to them. Kendari stepped toward them, slowly, looking one last time at the mess of three dead trolls and an albino minotaur that bloodied the newly found underground chamber. As he stepped forward, each of them stepped back, not daring to meet the dark green gaze of their employer. Weapons not even drawn, only the injured troll messenger stood halfway still at Kendari’s slow approach, slow and silent as death itself.

  “My-No-Tar. Say it correctly, minotaur, you wretched excuse for a scout.” Kendari pulled one arrow out, flesh attached still and blood running green from the open wound. The troll flinched, feigning a smile of enjoyment, though the elven mercenary knew better, he knew that it hurt for he twisted as he pulled.

  “It is pronounced, minotaur, and did it look like that one?” the hunter nodded toward the dead white shaggy one, face up and split wide open on the stone. Before it could answer the troll felt another arrow rip from his chest. This time there was no smile, only screeching and backing up with claws raised. Kendari dropped the arrows, letting them clatter on the stone floor, showing his complete lack of concern for this band of swamp savages. Hissing ensued from the other seven, seeing their cousin injured and mistreated, and troll fevers began to boil. Red eyes gleamed where there were once shining black dots decorating the darkness of the underground.

  “Whatever is out there, has killed one of its own, freed something there from those chains, and murdered three of your
kin. Not to mention the other nine that have not returned last night and this morning,” the cursed elf stated, placing hands on his blades, turning his back and pacing a step or three. It was a gesture that quickly dismissed the growing thoughts of mutiny in the chamber. Fearful, the trolls watched his hands.

  “Shall we find them?”

  Kendari turned in the light from above, showing his dark green eyes, pale ivory skin, and his black hair pulled back tight. Yet his curse was most evident from under his cloak, the myriad designs of black veins that patterned in swirls, thorned vine blotches, and midnight edges mystically over his entire face and skin. They marked him as Nadderi. The trolls knew only that he was a living curse of elvenkind, cursed by his own people for crimes that could never be spoken nor redeemed.

  The nods he received from the mass of trolls made him grin. Showing his face usually had such results, and Kendari had become accustomed to using that intimidation, easy as it was. It was the gravest elven curse that could not be removed and was only given to the foulest elves by the Court of the Whitemoon. It was a curse that Kendari, unlike most other Nadderi, had endured for the last four centuries of existence. Nadderi disappeared, committed suicide, were hunted and killed, or did not survive their administration of punishment. Kendari had never seen one of his kind that had lived for more than a decade, or a moment within reach of his blades. So to spite Seirena and Siril he not only survived, but he vowed to make the Gods wish they had never cursed him, until his very last breath.

  That day may be closing, thought the killer, running his fingers through his tied hair, knowing that a few telltale signs of gray had woven their way in as of late. So far, however, the elven swordsman in his seventh century of life had lived up to his vows of vengeance.

  “Let us hunt.”

  The Nadderi elf ignored the excitement so easily roused in his hissing and screeching mercenaries. They began moving toward the surface through the passageways he had hunted for months now. Kendari knew to stay away from the dead trolls, for the decaying process released something in the air that one did not want to catch. Trollice they called it, and it was for the most part incurable unless burned off quickly as the onset occurred, or one had friends and money in the local temples or churches. Troll breeding was a horror that even the cursed hunter did not want to see again, and trollice was the only other way the foul race of giant fiends survived. Kendari had seen his fair share of those infected, transforming green and soft, mushy rabbits and birds at times that had become too curious and were thus infected from the bodies of the dead trolls that had not been burned. The hunter also was well aware of the games the trolls played at night with those they found infected, and that thought did bring a smile to his black veined face.

  “Left, that passage has collapsed it would seem.”

  Kendari paused as the trolls stumbled around each other in confusion. He took a slow breath, eyes upon his boots, and waited as the furious pace to nowhere began to dwindle. Then, he raised his hand and gestured.

  “Left is that way.”

  More light and traces of snow, yet the other trolls he had sent searching for treasure seekers here in the ruins of Arouland still had not returned. Usually they were late due to rending and playing with their captives, and feeding voraciously on their finds, but lately here the ogre had been emerging from various places above and below the lost city. Kendari had interrogated an escaped dwarf just the day before, who confessed before his unfortunate death by the blade that he and others had escaped from Unlinn. The elf knew the city well, had traded captives there before, and escape was a rare thing indeed. Now some collapses dotted his passageways and new areas were being uncovered monthly by human explorers and groups from the east. The chamber with the giant chains intrigued him as to exactly what was held there, how long it had remained, and lastly who had cut those chains and why. Kendari saw much changing here with the fade of plague and rise of ogre, rewarding him with long awaited killing and looting for his employer, Salah-Cam.

  The cursed swordsman drew out his necklace from behind his steel fitted chain shirt, hidden under warm black clothing. He whispered Feszra Faeyl to the small round red stone set in a clawed hand and his eyes glowed red, the same color. The trolls stopped behind him, shuffling, sniffing for a smell of the magic, whispering in their decadent savage tongue to each other. Kendari walked closer to what led to the outside, now a recent cave-in of a rubbled staircase. He kept walking, hand on the pommel of his enchanted longblade, the smooth onyx pyramid fitting in his gloved hand perfectly.

  No vibration from the sword, he thought, which meant nothing hidden by the arcane was nearby. So whatever is around will be visible and in plain sight.

  His eyes gazed ahead, knowing he was close to another set of stairs below the undercity of Arouland, these were clear and now he sensed it. Arcane flashes of orange and blue came into his vision, small dots near the surface, he could see the magic in a way from far distances as he concentrated on the amulet.

  Several he thought, one very close, a sword, an enchanted sword being held now by the way its aura moved in his vision. Kendari put the necklace back, letting his eyes turn green and adjust to the dark once more. Most often the treasures he killed for were scrolls of old texts, wands, or potions of useless or expired magical infusions that he sold off. Not for over a century had he sensed or seen a treasure he actually desired. Everything he craved was held by Salah-Cam in the eastern swamps, and thus he worked for such pays.

  “Gentlemen, we have something to kill for, this way if you would. We shall leave left and right for another day.” Sarcasm dripped as the Nadderi drew the other blade from over his hip, small trails of heat and steam whisked about in the cold air emanating from the straight blade.

  The trolls hissed and screeched in some deprived glee, like nine foot tall starving, hideous children looking for a plaything. They put as much distance as possible between them and the elf upon passing him up the stairs, especially with the heated blade drawn. That too, put a grin on the murderous elf’s face and he turned to follow his troupe to the surface.

  “Why not trained salisan lizard men for old Kendari? No, I get trolls, and inbred, moronic ones at that. My thanks, Salah Cam, bloody thanks.” As he whispered curses to his employer, who was far and away from here, his eyes caught something. The trolls were heading up to the surface, yet Kendari spotted another dead body, another albino minotaur at the base of the crumbled stair. They had passed it, as rock covered it from view in the dark from that side. Now, however, Kendari wondered who or what was killing so much so fast, and so recent, in the tunnels where he was the greatest threat.

  Laughter, hissing, cackling, mind numbing troll laughter is what the elf walked past as he approached the upper wall of the old guard summit. His mercenaries parted and quieted a bit, allowing him to peer over the crumbling wall and see what the entertainment was on the surface. The elf instantly recognized the sword, a broadsword laid with gold and ending in a griffon's head pommel, with winged crosspiece, wielded by a brave and foolish human. Kendari thought broadswords a bit too short and heavy for his taste, lacking the balance and length of his blades and being relegated to getting closer to his opponent took much of the foreplay out of the killing he enjoyed. Besides the blade he desired, the man wielding it was yelling challenges in Agarian, dirty, blood smattered, unshaven for years, and obviously insane.

  A lost knight of Southwind? the elf wondered by his tabard, yet nearly stumbling and surrounded by ten ogre all ready to fight over who gets to beat him to death first, and not a one of them speaking anything contrary.

  “I shall wage he lasts about to the count of ten.” Kendari looked to his hideous mercenaries as they looked to him with confused stares. “Nevermind, none of could count to ten. As you were.”

  Kendari knew that this was still ogre land, despite King Mikhail of Chazzrynn declaring it open a few years back, and the ogre did not like visitors. They had become embittered years ago after the plague and would
kill troll, minotaur, human, or anything else on their territory. Kendari knew they even had a king, and that no barter or amount of coin would get this fool, or even himself, out of ogre hands. Not that the Nadderi elf cared in the least who might dare oppose him, ogre king or human. The trolls began chattering and hissing, shielding their eyes from the gray overcast sky to better see.

  “Quiet idiots, we wait until they finish this one off, and then take them and the blade as they calm down. Wait for my order.” The elf crouched by an outcropping of rubble he could slide down quickly and prepared for ambush, that was, unless the ogre left the sword in the street below.

  He thought through his strategy quickly, admitting his trolls despite being eight in number, would barely be enough to keep the ogre distracted. The ogre were trained, some in battle, and had weapons. The trolls would be pummeled, yet would most likely stand up and continue the fight after a few moments of their monstrous regenerative capabilities. In the meantime, Kendari thought he would cut his way to the leader who would most likely take the kill with him as a trophy. Then he would cut him down quickly, leaving the squabbling mess until he got tired of hearing it. Finally he would finish the remaining weary and exhausted ogre off and make his way back to the troll camp to the east to take the haul back to Salah-Cam.

  Easy enough, and so thought out that the cursed hunter barely got a smile across his face in anticipation. How many times, he wondered, have I killed small platoons or tribes of this race or that to loot and test my mastery of the sword? How many ventures leave me craving a worthy opponent? It has been centuries.