The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  Standing up slowly and opening her aquamarine eyes to the risen sun, her ears heard the shaking hands of James from some thirty feet away. Her mind and body more attuned to her surroundings now, her fears confirmed that this man was ill. Her senses of smell had picked up the wine and her elven eyes had caught his shaking and sweats in the cold. Now her elven senses pulled in feelings of great sorrow and fear from a very sick human man struggling with something inside him. Not focusing on the negative, Shinayne felt great bravery, a kind spirit, and a loving heart at the root of this knight, buried deep under his weights and worries. Comfort raced across her speculating brow, realizing that James was worth helping, regardless of his healing gifts or talents in battle.

  Shinayne thought, perhaps, I could help James Andellis bring out his true passionate self, to allow healing to begin, as such was the way of the elves when stricken with grief. The cure of her people was always found inside oneself first.

  The greataxe raised in the air, the huffing and growling surprised James and Shinayne as they turned to see the gray warrior on a knee ready to charge. His eyes still foggy from a food induced nap, his breathing came in and out like a beast that had just fought a war and was reaching in his chest for the last drops of strength to fight on. The two looked around, hands on hilts quickly. They looked fast for an enemy that Saberrak had seen and they had not. There was nothing to see. Chirping birds threw their morning song to the air, a rabbit dashed off through the brush, and the faint bubbling and running of the waters of a nearby stream echoed from under its icy cover. The minotaur had every bulging muscle tense, then slowly his breathing eased, his weapon lowered, and he lay back down. The knight and the elven woman looked at one another, then again at their horned companion, and then the two finally took a breath of their own.

  Saberrak closed his eyes, yet did not sleep. Chalas Kalaza was hunting him in his mind, close behind him, ready to drag him back down. His visions flashed to the ogre Zeress, back in the city of Unlinn, and back to the arena. His dreams had been about what the ogre slavemaster would do to him, or his brother, in front of thousands. What beasts they would feed his aging father to, or who he would make the minotaur kill for his crime of escape all plagued his mind. Saberrak saw the brown minotaur, Chalas, great two-handed sword in hand, that wicked grin that spoke volumes of how he enjoyed to kill, and that deep haunting voice echoing and reminding Saberrak that he would never give up the hunt. He hoped these dreams would fade soon, he needed more rest. Waking up sore and tired, cold and estranged, began to take their toll on the minotaur. The further away from that cursed place, the better chance he would have at forgetting, or wanting to forget, what would be transpiring below ground. He lay back down for another attempt at peaceful slumber.

  “What was that?” asked James, hand not quite ready to release the hilt of his broadsword. “He looked about ready to kill us both where we stood.”

  “He was ready. Whatever is chasing him in there, anything that puts fear into Saberrak, is something I care never to face.” The elf spoke in whispers, careful not to wake the gray gladiator.

  “Nor I. Alden give him rest.”

  “Siril make that rest peaceful, for his sake and ours,” Shinayne added.

  “Siril…that is who you pray to and call God?” James sat back down next to the fire and sheathed Arlinne’s blade.

  “My people, the Ah Kalai of Kilikala, are devout to Siril. But we are not as blind as you humans to believe that only one God exists.”

  “Heresy if I ever heard it,” James chuckled.

  “Heresy to whom? Those that tell you Alden is the one and only God? In Altestan they have one God, and it is not Alden. They kill any that do not bow to---“

  “I have read my history, tales of myth and all. But Alden is the son of God, he who gave himself to man for our salvation. He was sent by God, for us.” James was looking around, hoping someone had left a bottle of wine in the snow. His hands shook more.

  “I doubt the one God of Altestan sent Alden to kill his own people. History says Megos and Seirena bore Alden and six others to---“

  “Heresy and myth. God is not what Altestan claims, nor is it a multitude of womens fables and childrens tales. Alden is the Lord of Heaven.” James furrowed his brow and gave a sarcastic grin.

  “Myth? Very well. So what of women? Or elves, or our minotaur ally here? You believe we are godless or not worthy of your Alden?” Shinayne pressured with a grin.

  “It is not that, it is---“

  “Perhaps God is who Altestan worships, but he is a wicked God. His children bless us, as best they can, and there exists many a God to worship for us all.” She smiled as James fumbled for words.

  “That sounds pleasantly nice, but unfortunately untrue.” James stood and stretched to loosen his anxiety and withdrawal. “In all my years in Chazzrynn, the temples of Alden have been blessed with a divine light that cannot be denied. Alden is God, he is the lord. Those that live without his blessing, they live an unlit existence that---”

  “And I have seen temples to Seirena, Siril, and even an old temple to Megos. They say Megos is the son of God, and the father of your Alden. But, at one and a half centuries old, what would I know, James Andellis?”

  “You are that old? You don’t look it,” James stared, forgetting the religious debate for a moment. The elven woman before him looked akin to a young human woman, twenty years old at most.

  “I will take that as a compliment.” Shinayne smiled. “So, tell me of why you are here, what happened? I mean, to get you to a drunken challenge in an ogre-filled ruin all alone.”

  “I would rather not---”

  “Annar is God, so I do not know what you two are arguing over. Let me sleep,” Saberrak huffed out from the other side of the fire.

  “Interesting, how do you know that, minotaur?” Shinayne smiled, then looked at James.

  “My father told me.”

  “And that is enough for you?” She looked beyond the flicker of flames in early morning to the gray gladiator half asleep.

  “Without question.”

  “Have you ever prayed to Annar, Saberrak of Unlinn?”

  “No, elf, there is no need.” Saberrak snorted out a laugh. “He is far away, so how would he hear me?”

  “Prayer, I agree, is wasted as wishful hopes for things God gave us the ability to obtain ourselves,” James commented.

  “Prayer is a connection with your faith,” Shinayne countered.

  “Words and more useless words.” Saberrak huffed and rolled over, giving them his back. “If Annar, or any God exists, they would prefer to see one's actions than hear one’s weakness.”

  “Agreed.” James took another bite of the venison, wishing it had flavor and spice.

  “Then what actions were you taking, James Andellis, in throwing yourself at death by ogre hands?” Shinayne raised her eyebrow toward the knight as he swallowed.

  “You have no idea, nor could you, of what that place means to me. Thirteen years of nightmares, and I wanted it to end. That is all.” James looked at his boots, not wanting to meet her gaze.

  “Faith or not, your death will serve nothing to change the past. It is the easy way out, much like the sickness that plagues you.”

  “We are trapped here, lost in the deep south, in winter, together. But do not take advantage of this necessity to lecture me. Why Alden led me back here is a cloudy puzzle in my mind, one that I doubt you can answer, Shinayne of Kilikala. No offense.” James growled, his tone low with conviction.

  “None taken. Broken men often doubt answers that are written clear to those around them.” Shinayne smiled. “You are here for a reason, as am I, as is the snoring horned beast to your right. For some purpose, our paths crossed. In that, I have no doubt.”

  “Some would call that coincidence, or wishful thinking in desperation,” James responded.

  “Regardless, we will need you unbroken to survive. We are days behind a dangerous cursed killer and his trolls, and my sen
ses tell me we are being followed. So, James once of Southwind, find your faith, and find it quickly.”

  James had no words left, her arguments were strategic in verse. He sighed and ate, trying to keep the food down and his mind off of the wine he craved. His eyes stared at the back of his shield, always taking his mind to the ogre he had killed. James knew his purpose, every scratch of it upon that shield.

  “Do you think every kill there will bring you peace?” Shinayne followed his eyes.

  “No.”

  “So why the reminder?”

  “Because when there are no more scratches to make, I will be close.”

  “Close to what?”

  “Revenge.” James sighed.

  “Is that what your fellow soldiers would wish?” Shinayne rested back against a branch, picking at willow root while it was warm with venison still.

  “I’m not sure. They do not say much when they haunt me. But avenging their deaths brings coin, and coin buys wine and food and shelter.”

  “So then it goes on, until when?”

  “When they are all dead.”

  “You will need many shields, James Andellis, for there are more ogre than you can count in Chazzrynn, let alone this continent.”

  “Who says this is my first shield in which I scratch my kills, Shinayne T’Sarrin?” James took another bite of venison, hoping this attempt at eating would stay in his stomach.

  Curses I:II

  Sullan Swamp Trail

  The Deep South

  Bedesh strained his swollen eye to get a better look at where they were going. His wounds ached, his other eye was swollen shut as last night's amusements at the hands of trolls took their toll. The elf that led them had no patience for the sadistic behavior, having cut one of them half a dozen times for its transgressions on the satyr. Of course, even worse, Bedesh was never too far from the regenerated troll who had been punished, seeing a hatred in its eyes and a vengeance that he had done nothing to deserve. He knew, given half a chance, that troll would tear him to pieces. The cold was nearly as cruel as the trolls, and further south it only grew colder each day.

  Hopelessness crept at his every thought, being bound and carried like gear and treated like less than that. Being in ogre hands may have been better and he wished that the trolls would have left him, not seen him, or decided that he was not worth the weight. With his head hanging over the smelly fiend's back, Bedesh could only tell that they headed east and south by the position of the rising sun and moons through the long march. A march no satyr or man could have taken, as the trolls and the elf had only stopped for a few minutes in the last two cold days. The land had become less hills and more snowy flatland and frosted marsh, reassuring the satyr that they were heading deeper into the Deep South, where any help would be most unlikely indeed. Even the Whitemoon Court had no hidden temples within days this far south. Bedesh knew now that he was no more than a prisoner left to the devices of a wicked elf and his swamp demon trolls. His blade was with the pale marked traitor to his kind, his bow, Nathaniel’s enchanted bow, left on the trail days behind. Bedesh knew he had no chance of fight nor flight.

  The hand went up from their leader, signing to stop, and the four trolls did so, having been cut into discipline much the last few nights. Kendari saw the camp, a few burning caravans from those unfortunate enough to cross their path. The Nadderi listened, hearing troll feasting, scuffling, and a voice speaking Agarian, a human. He listened to him giving orders to the trolls, his trolls, the ones that had hundreds of pounds of gold and silver and looted treasures from those Kendari had killed. Magical trinkets, scrolls, potions, jewelry, coins, ancient books, all his hard work for months, and this human was ordering his thugs around. The cursed swordsman smiled, lowering his hand, and making his presence known by loosely and casually walking into the camp at the edge of the dark Sullan Swamps. His four remaining henchman had seen that arrogant walk, hands away from his blades, chin up, and his wicked grin. They knew it all too well, someone was about to die.

  “Kendari, welcome back, you have done well here.” The man spoke with confidence. “Disorganized, but profitable. Salah-Cam will be pleased.”

  He looked well-muscled, clean shaven, even his head was tan from years outside. The snow crunched as he walked, his heavy breastplate and chain armor were covered in nicks and cuts from many battles. He carried a few scars on his face and even his metal gauntlets and longspear had seen action. Kendari noticed all of this at a glance, noting the broadsword at his side as well. This man had training and experience behind his forty or so human years alive.

  “Yes, my friend,” signaling the troll to drop the prisoner at the spot by a burned wagon he pointed to. “We have collected much for Salah-Cam, even a prisoner…”

  “What you failed to collect is what he is interested in elf, what went right under your nose.” The mercenary was serious in tone now, hand on his spear, a few trolls gathering behind him as he spoke.

  Kendari knew what was about to happen and he paced, knowing to stall was his best course. He made no sudden movements to startle anyone. “And that was..?”

  “There was a minotaur Lord Cam had seen, right next to you, that carried something of enormous value to him. A scroll, an ancient one, that had an aura of great power he said, and could have been noticed a mile away. You have a necklace to see such things, I assume. He sent a message to me by way of one of his fiendish bats, as he was watching you.”

  Kendari knew nothing of what he spoke, but admittedly, had not thought to detect anything on the minotaur or his allies in the fight. “I am sure Salah-Cam will be happy with what I have obtained for him, and I will hunt down this scroll for him after we drop off our current stash at his keep.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye, it is.”

  Kendari paced slowly, noticing the loot had been rearranged, most likely by this one to line his own pockets. So Salah-Cam, the backstabbing wretch of a sorcerer, sent another to take over, had been scrying on him, after decades of working with him. The elf thought of the last time the cowardly fool had done this, or tried, anyway. It always ended the same.

  “I did not get your name, wise mercenary…” cut off again.

  “I did not offer it, Kendari kinslayer, cursed of his own people and unwanted by ours. You are to head back to the keep in the swamps, and I will handle things here. These three trolls will escort you.”

  The mercenary stood his ground, spear in hand, not looking the elf in the eye, tipping Kendari that he was full of fear and doubt. His insults and interruptions started to boil the anger in Kendari’s veins, bringing the familiar smile.

  “Your name, mercenary. This should be a pleasant meeti...”

  “Enough talk! You failed Lord Cam, and have been replaced. You can get placed on my spear here, or talk it out with him.” His pride and confidence were beginning to diminish under the constant stare and grin of the famed Nadderi killer.

  “If you interrupt me, insult me, or order me one more time, your corpse will be a day’s meal for the trolls and your head will be on your own spear, human.” Kendari walked directly up to the man, at least a foot taller than himself, and stared into his brown eyes.

  “You are about to be relieved from your curse, Kendari.”

  “Let me know when.”

  The spear lifted from the ground, spun forward butt end first, the elf easily ducking under. Then the point shot in a forward thrust with both hands guiding the shaft through where his opponent stood, yet he had moved to the side in two simple reflexive steps. Another thrust at the elf’s chest and this time the front third of the weapon fell to the ground, a clean cut from the longsword of the Nadderi, a blade that had not even been drawn a second earlier. The mercenary drew his broadsword, dropping the remainder of his spear, and waited for the elf to move.

  “Stop smiling, filth!” the mercenary roared and lowered his stance.

  “Would you rather I frowned at your demise?”
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  Kendari was toying with him, seeing the trolls encircling, screeching and growling their savage language.

  “Kill him!” The broadsword pointed at the face of the elf who was still standing with his enchanted blade lowered, hand on the pyramid hilt of the other blade over his right hip. The trolls backed up, wanting a fight, not caring which one died, which one they tore apart after, but knowing the blade the elf was tapping with his off hand was the one they preferred to the heated blade in his right hand now. They ignored the order from the human and waited in anticipation.

  “I would run or put my sword through my chest if I were you, they won’t help you.” Kendari stepped forward, eyes fixated on his enemy’s. “They know me all too well.”

  The man's blade came cutting down at Kendari's shoulder, parried inches from his own face, turning his arm in and pushing the sword away, mocking his attack. The second attack was a backswing as the man turned around, a fancy maneuver that left his back open to the elf, who laughed out loud knowing he could have cut the man down twice in the time he spent spinning. The counterattack hit air only as Kendari backed up one step to avoid the obvious.

  The mercenary pursued with attacks that, despite his strength and accuracy, the elf parried perfectly in the center of the blade each time, using technique and skill to make it seem effortless. Sweat poured down the man's brow, realizing the elf had not drawn his second weapon yet, the one he had been warned about, and he was tiring. He feigned wearing out more, slowing his attacks, making the follow through a little longer than needed, secretly building energy to corner this little elf and crush him in surprise. The mercenary knew how to break arrogance and outthink what he could not out move.

  Kendari noticed the trick, and played along, knowing the better show he gave the trolls, the less discipline he would have to enforce after. The Nadderi counter attacked in obvious strikes that were set up to be parried, allowing him to be backed up, seemingly unable to get through the clashing of steel this man wove. The elf tripped and stumbled back, barely avoiding a cut to the head, and dropped his eye contact and smile. The mercenary cut low, parried again by the elf, crosspiece to crosspiece, and Kendari let out a weary breath as he let the man push him back, blade to blade, all an act.