The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  Zen lowered his head and headed down the south tunnel, trying to hold onto those last moments with his father, ingraining them in his mind.

  Silently as he could, Azenairk, last heir of Thalanaxe, stopped by his chamber and put on his brother Geadrik’s steel breastplate and greaves, armguards and leather gauntlets. Picking up the round steel shield that covered half his body, Zen teared up. It was adorned with the family crest, formerly his other brother, Tadnek’s, shield. He was a great soldier for the king, and Zen felt the sorrow coming now. The gold inlayed Book of Vundren, the Golhiarden text, was tucked into his pack with all the food and cold weather blankets he could quickly assemble. His Hammerpiece, a necklace adorned with the hanging holy hammer set on two round steel discs representing the moons, only given to confirmed priests of Vundren, he placed in his beltpouch as this was not a matter of the temple. Azenairk picked up his steel hammer, praying silently to God that he would not have to use it, not much anyway.

  In came a deep breath and toward the southern doors to the Bori Mountains he walked, probably guarded this time of night by at least a squad of six men on the outside. The doors pushed open, startling the dwarven outguard who had been staring at the cloudy night sky, black beards blowing in the mighty mountain winds. Tobacco smoke whisked, whiskey bottles got tucked away, and crossbows rose quickly. Sergeant Levrim Longrinik, a longtime friend of his dead brothers, was on duty, recognizing the priest a moment later. His hand on the hilt of a battle axe he motioned to his men to lower their bows. Levrim’s eyes were as shocked as his men since no one went through the outdoors at night.

  “Thalanaxe? What ye be doin' here at night surprising us like that now? This is no place for a priest, especially in the winter times. Ogre, giants, great horned cats…why ye all dressed for battle then?”

  Azenairk kept walking, furthering the shocked looks he imagined behind him. He paid no mind, walking quickly down the road to the lower foothills, a road he had been down twice in his life, this being the third time he had ever come through the outdoors, ever, and most likely the last. He heard the questions about his father, heard shouting too, for him to stop. He kept his pace, seeing well enough in the dark to move quickly down the snow covered trail. He knew it was marked by stacked stones every fifty feet or so, knew which way it went, and that it was too late to turn back now. Thousands of feet above ground level, far above the lands of Chazzrynn, Azenairk began his trek.

  Keep to the Garalan River Trails, don’t keep to the foothills, they be watching those for certain. Head into Chazzrynn, they will be less apt to wish to follow you. Then, the roundabout to find the Misathi, or a map so I know what in Vundren’s name I am doing then.

  The devoted son thought to himself as he walked, then wondered if his father had passed yet, if Vundren had taken him, if the vultures were looking for him or through his family’s belongings to repay the debts. He wondered if he would know when the moment came, if God would tell him or send a sign.

  Crackk, into the back of his breastplate he was struck and he fell forward, tumbling ten feet or more on the icy road south.

  “I can’t let ye go farther Thalanaxe, ye need to come back.” Levrim spoke with sincerity, yet had his axe and shield ready.

  “Ye fought with my brothers, and you guard the southern outdoor, just let me pass Levrim.” The young priest readied his warhammer, which he had never used once, but he was ready now more than ever. He had watched dwarven men train, his family fight, he hoped that would be enough.

  “They say ye owe a lot, and the law is the law, father. I have to...”

  Crracck, the hammer dented the shield the sergeant held up. Another, this one knocking him back a step or two and sent ringing pain through the dwarven guard’s arm.

  “Ye have to think o’ the past, and let me be. Things I need to be doin’, and I cannot explain it to ye Levrim.” Zen was ready for battle, seemingly on instinct. He heard yelling from the doors, more dwarves coming, shouting for something. Their was talk, and he heard it before it was repeated to him.

  “They be askin for a box, something old, ye know about this Thalanaxe?”

  Craacck!

  Zen swung hard into the outguard's shield, knocking him back once more as steel clashed with steel.

  “Alright then, the hard way!” furrowed brow and deep voice clear and unwavering, Levrim shouted. “Outguard, arrest father Thalanaxe!”

  He didn’t have much time, the other five soon to be within range, so Azenairk swung low at the feet of the sergeant, and as he backed up, held his hammer high. He pushed him back with his shield, slamming him in the face and breaking his stubby nose. He followed his staggered opponent with a mighty swing to the chest, denting in his breastplate and knocking him to the ground, gasping for air. Azenairk quickly grabbed Levrim's battle axe, after slinging his warhammer to his side.

  “Vundren edstrik valkir ner heshnik” he phrased the prayer perfectly, having never done it under pressure before and the axe glowed bright, just as bright as the sunrise over the western peaks. He winced from the intensity of it, and tossed it into the air toward the advancing outguard. The weapon weaved and bobbed, swirling blinding light shimmering from its steel blade. The guard tried to see it, covering their eyes with their shields, swinging, even shooting their crossbows at it. They tried to get under or past it, yet they could not see with the blinding motion and dazzling rays of light plaguing them in the dark of a cloud covered night.

  The priest pushed on, harder down the frosted trail of ice and snow covered stone. He twisted down roads better dwarven men had met peril upon. Azenairk ran on easy flat stretches, hustled down steep grades, and never looked back for his pursuers.

  Azenairk's legs felt numb, hours now down the mountain slopes of twisting roads. The tree at the base of the foothills was sturdy enough for the dwarf to lean on, his breathing heavy and his body tired. He glanced up, the sun was rising in the west over the distant hills and forests in the lands below. Zen looked one last time at the outer walls of his home, miles away up the Bori Mountains. He could not see it, Boraduum, but he knew as sure as the sun was rising that it was there. Zen knew also that he was being followed, talked about, and cursed for not facing the debts of his family, for not presiding over the funeral. Surely his holy title would be stripped soon, if it had not been already.

  Vundren help me. Vundren watch over my father, take him to the mountain.

  The sun was orange, lighting the fog that covered all as far as his eyes could see, illuminating trees and cliffs and hills in every southern reach. He had to go down there, into Chazzrynn, the land of humans and fierce winters. He knew the dangers of the kingdom of the black falcon, where men battled beasts in the frozen frontier.

  Movement. The priest noticed something, many somethings, in the distance overlooking a small cliff by a valley. Ogre, four, no, six Azenairk counted. They were watching something, moving cautiously with something in the valley below them, crouching and sneaking behind trees. Each carried a longspear twice as tall as the dwarf. Azenairk began to head that way, a cautious follow, having no fear of ogre in high ground yet not wanting any confrontations outnumbered six to one.

  If I take my time, he thought, maybe I won’t get noticed. Moving through fog patches, around rocky outcroppings, and through foothills and fingers and steep valleys of the Bori Mountains, Azenairk Thalanaxe felt blessed by Vundren. Something hurt inside, briefly, then it was gone. The relief made him smile before he realized what it was. A tear fell quietly, then another, and he knew.

  He knew he would have to make good on his promise to his father, or die trying.

  Curses I:III

  Tower of Salah-Cam

  Sullan Swamps

  The Deep South

  Gimmor, the rising green moon, cast a shadow of strange light over the dark Sullan Swamps and the crumbling rotted tower of Salah-Cam deep in the center of the frozen south. Kendari rattled his blade along the second wagon pulled and driven by trolls whipping trolls.
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  “I know you can hear me in there, not one of you tries to run, scream, nor does anything that I will have to kill you for. Should you disobey, I will watch as the trolls have any pleasure they wish upon you. Understood?” No one inside said a word, just glazed eyes in the shadowed moonlight shivering, and that was all the answer he needed.

  The captives had been quiet the last few days travel. Usually the Nadderi had one or two that caused trouble, but not this time. He sheathed Shiver, and motioned for the troll brigade to stop their movement, allowing a few more whips to straggle out unnoticed. The elf did not care what they did to each other now that they had arrived. The cursed one looked to the strange purple and blue lights on the fourth floor, the top story where Salah-Cam did his arcane research and odd experiments.

  “Lord Salah-Cam…heh!” Kendari whispered sarcastically . “A self-proclaimed lord of trolls and snakes in the middle of a frozen swamp. His tower has more falling apart than standing up. Since we are giving out titles, I would guess I am the Grand Knight Errant of slum castle, and these are my royal green squires.”

  His sarcasm could not be contained at the thought of the wretched wizard telling men he was a “Lord” of anything. He had a lot of coin and treasures to pay for dirty work, this exiled human in search of immortality, that was all that kept Kendari around.

  Up the twisting half crumbled stairs that wrapped the tower he went quietly. Kendari of Stillwood expected the usual confrontation. Especially since the other mercenary would not be returning. A point that Kendari was all too eager to antagonize the old man with, despite knowing it would only inflame the situation. Peering through the eroded wooden door, left half open as it no longer closed fully anyway, the Nadderi watched as the bats from the rafters gazed at him. So did the mangy wolf by the table and the green glowing mist inside the glass globe atop the podium. The device Salah-Cam watched the world with on his lonely nights could sense most things near and far.

  The ancient human paced back and forth, glass bottles in hand, strange colors of red and glowing black leaving trails of mist. His black robes showed pale white skin and filth through their holes, the wizard’s yellow teeth and few strands of hair bobbing as he limped in the warm darkness. Warmth at least, thought Kendari, since the chamber had magical heat.

  “You are late, so very late my old friend. You are slowing with age.” Not even glancing, knowing exactly where the elf was from his spies and misty crystal ball, the dying wizard greeted his mercenary with contempt, speaking with his back turned.

  “I have arrived with the idiots, a few short, and with gifts and treasures, Lord Cam.” Kendari flung sarcasm as he strode toward the old man. “Someone mentioned you had apparently received a noble title. Should I bow or curtsey?”

  “Difficult to say. I have never seen you take an interest in women, so curtsey perhaps?”

  “Die already.”

  “You missed an important scroll, powerful magicks on that scroll, too busy playing swords with a woman. An elven woman you failed to kill, of course.” Salah-Cam poured the red liquid into a burning kettle over an arcane flame, purple light and smoke rose again from the boiling mass. “The minotaur found something, he keeps it hidden even from his friends, the minotaur you dared not face.”

  “I was busy with an army of ogre, a knight of Southwind, and a highly trained elven noble your majestic-ness. I will track the minotaur, kill him, and get the scroll. Yet I brought more than you asked already, so the payment will be those enchanted boots I have been promised, and the coins, the emeralds too, or no deal.” Kendari paced the chamber, glaring murderously at the crystal ball and the bats, knowing full well that Cam could see every gesture even with his back turned.

  “I sent a man named Wellings from Vallakazz to take care of it. It seems you can’t handle all I require alone.” Smiling at the taunts, enjoying the games, and finished with his preparations for this evening, Salah-Cam waved his hand. He began curling one gnarled bony finger at a chair. It skittered across the stone floor to meet him as he sat to rest, long dirty fingernails clacking with one another.

  “Never got his name, he would not tell me. Now I know.”

  “The two of you obviously settled that he would go after my scroll, since you are here.”

  “Doubtful. We had some communication difficulties.”

  “What happened, mighty Kendari?”

  “Oh well, you see Salah,..he died.” Grinning from ear to pointed ear, hands on his hilts, Kendari was merely toying with him, knowing that he was most likely aware of the henchman’s demise.

  “How?” the facetious question whispered out of the crooked smile of the old rogue wizard. His narrow nose was crooked with sprouts of gray and black hair growing from each nostril and each ear.

  “Easily.”

  “Pity. He took orders better than any other fool I employ to raid and pillage, murder and capture, or any other task I pay handsomely for. His allies charged me much and will want answers.” His false concern and sorrow for the hired soldier of Vallakazz were amusing at best to the elf.

  “You know what happens when you try and undermine my methods and loyalty, Cam. Heads roll, men die quickly, and the trolls fear me more than they do you. You should be careful in your betrayals. Some may be growing tired of them.” The threat was real, no playful tones nor humor emitted from the lips of the cursed swordsman.

  “Fool. He was a man borrowed from Johnas of house Valhera.”

  “Fool, I work alone. Now you have a Chazzrynn Prince to pay. Not my problem really, you should try and keep your word.”

  “That was the fourth man you killed, the fourth one that I paid for! Prince Johnas has allies, many, and I will not be on the wrong side of his wrath when he one day rules this kingdom.”

  “Am I supposed to care about this? I told you, I work alone. And it was five, actually.”

  “Five?”

  “I lied, last winter. That was me that put Holcine of Hurne to the blade, and his head under your bed.”

  “I should burn you to ashes and toss them into a pisspot!”

  “You would be dead before you mouthed a word. If you want thugs from the White Spider, then I am gone. Before I go, get me an iron rod and I will mark your stinking old corpse with spider brands if you like. I am truly disappointed you would consider allying with them. I thought you better, uglier, but better.”

  “You are testing my patience, cursed one,” Salah warned with a raspy hiss.

  “And you are testing mine. More with stench than anything else. Perhaps I should wear a mask as well?”

  Standing up in a flash of speed impossible for a man of over a century of magically extended life, Salah-Cam’s hand pushed into the air toward the ground as if something were there.

  “Tindalliov Kivrindil”

  Serpents appeared, as big as small trees, red eyes and black shadow scales. A half dozen of them rose around the wizard. They rose and grew, then curled with arcane power, staring at the elf. Kendari drew both blades and stepped forward on guard, ready for anything.

  “Gerrianol mivrinsal” the wizard pulled a straight black glass wand out as he uttered the incantation, his eyes turning solid black, the lights dimming, and a faint wind with the smell of the swamps rolled in. Salah’s body shimmered, looked stronger, posture and muscle returned and grew to that of a healthy man a third his age. Kendari looked to his left, trolls on the stairs with glossy eyed looks that coated their natural red nighttime glare. They had been enchanted.

  “Threaten me in my home, you curse of an elf that bites his master’s hand?! Fool! I could have you in the cages with the rest of the rot in mere moments!”

  “Fancy words, bag of bones. I could have you cooking on the end of this blade before your tricks managed a blink.”

  “You have no idea the power I wield, Kendari. You are surrounded.” His whispers through half a set of yellow teeth sent grins across trolls and bats within earshot.

  “Did I mention I have a satyr captive?”
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  The old man lowered his wand, snakes recoiling into the shadows, trolls lurking back down the stairs. “A satyr, alive?”

  “Yes.” Kendari sheathed one blade to his side, the other he kept out, just in case. “And all I want are the bracers you promised, and the boots to go after the minotaur and your scroll.”

  “Kendari, wonderful, wonderful, of course. Where is he?”

  “Are we done for now?” the elf looked out the window, swatting loose bat from the sagging wood, admiring the night sky and the creep and crawl of creatures in the frosted swamp.

  “A thousand apologies my damned and pointy eared killer, just keeping you on your toes. Cursed face and flesh or no, you are the best. But you are not young anymore either, even for an elf. Let me see the forest creature.”

  “This way, ahhh wait...treasures first old man.”

  “There on the pedestal, the boots, bracers, the payments too, in the drawer below. Hurry, Kendari, hurry up.” The excitement was gnawing at him as he shrunk and shriveled to the husk of a man, the arcane spell wearing off, shimmering traces fading in the darkness.

  Kendari grabbed the bracers and boots he knew to be magical in nature, pulled out his necklace and concentrated on looking for the enchanting auras the gem allowed him to see. The old wizard had not lied this time, and Kendari placed them on his forearms, clasping them over his chainmail and replacing his boots with the new ones. He knew the bracers were enchanted, nearly flawless and indestructible, and the boots had dark fey magic allowing only the slightest noise, even when running on leaves or cobblestone.

  He tried to concentrate on the minotaur and elf he would be hunting, and not on what he knew the old man would do to the captives. He had seen what happened to them, for days and nights, used for horrific experiments and worse. Sometimes having to be destroyed outright after unfortunate arcane transformations. Despite his nature, Kendari could not appreciate the foul workings of this wizard, especially loving the grace and art of swordsmanship. Kendari hoped that he would be gone before the research, as Salah-Cam called it, began.