The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  Staring at the bodies left in their wake, Gwenne wondered who these travelers truly were. Gwenneth had never killed anyone before, nor used magic offensively like this, not to a taking of a life. The danger and excitement had her feeling something she had never felt, and she loved it. Her stern and serious face would show it not, however. And, since they all thought she was actually the Lady of Lazlette and not the daughter, Gwenne grinned, knowing that actually, she had not killed anyone this night.

  “Interesting city.” Saberrak huffed in the dark empty streets, shadows emerging from everywhere, drawing blades and keeping pace. “Your city guards only man the gates?”

  “Seems I was not the only one who was waiting for you,” Gwenneth replied, focusing on directing them to the fastest route with the best light. “I will send for the guard once we are safe, keep moving.”

  “I think your guards were paid off, my lady.” Zen motioned with his hand to the streets ahead, showing not one guard at a post this side of the city.

  Gwenneth kept them moving, her mind racing as to what was happening in her home.

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  Shiver crept out again from inside the alcove, and again crossbow bolts fired at the emergence of the steaming blade. Kendari stayed, back to the wall of a side entrance alcove, an entrance with a locked door made of Chazzrynn oak. The stairs down to the courtyard were only ten feet away and the drop from over the balcony about thirty feet. The Nadderi elf was pinned down by at least ten archers. He was helpless to escape, yet his enemies had seen four of their comrades killed on the temple steps so far. Kendari assumed they had not the courage to advance on him again. He would wait till they ran out of bolts, or grew tired and bored and finally charged him in full.

  Kendari had been watching the minotaur and the elven woman from afar, Saberrak and Shinayne, if he recalled correctly from his interrogation of the satyr. He saw them pass with others, five he counted, but could do nothing. Very much he wished to take the elf again in combat, but all the cursed swordsman could do was watch from pinned vantage while these men foolishly tried to cut down a trained elven noble who wielded ceremonial blades. He wished he was there, to see her face in pain once again.

  Another bolt, skittering across the stone wall above his head, forced him to duck. “Closer, but still here, waiting to see if you are as poorly trained in saber as you are in archery!”

  His taunts amused himself, but would do nothing to trick White Spider assassins into an attack they were not told, or were too smart, to take. Kendari drew his other blade from over his right hip, holding it reversed as always, and kicked the double oak doors again. There was no give there, barely a rattle. Yet a voice, after almost two hours here, a voice in Agarian neared the door.

  “Why would you be trying to come in this door and not the front, Olwynn? It is late and I need my rest for sermon...” the door unlocked and opened.

  “Evening father.” Kendari plunged Shiver into the priest's chest, then kicked him off the blade, the old gray haired man landed ten feet ahead. Shocked and bleeding to death in his white robes of the bedchamber, the priest gasped as crimson poured onto the floor under him. Kendari locked the door quickly.

  “Forgive me Alden, but I will be sending you some loyal servants, just a little earlier than you had planned.” Kendari smiled and walked over the dying man without so much as a glance.

  The Nadderi elf snuck through the temple chambers, a couple of screams from the sisters as doors opened then slammed shut with his passing. Kendari kept heading west, keeping to the dark, away from torchlight, knowing there was another entrance on the side that was closer to the gate and the guards. Hopefully closer to where the White Spider would not dare go. Another priest staggered into the dark hallway in the dead of night, seeing blades on a shadow with a pale face and green eyes, the man ran back to his room and slammed the door. The cursed swordsman heard praying as he passed. For a little fun, he plunged his blade through a gap in the wooden door about head level.

  “I would ask Alden to let me out quickly, or your sermon tomorrow will be just one large funeral, priest. Now, which way to the west exit?”

  “D-d-down the stairs to your right, th-th-then turn left, second-d-d floor and-d-d you can leave.”

  “God bless.”

  The elf followed the priest’s direction and spotted the west entrance. He stopped, also spotting the seven men aiming crossbows in the hallway directly at him. Smiling, slowly walking forward, he waited for the trigger fingers to twitch. The one on the left fired and the swordsman dropped to the floor, face turned aside, body flush with the cold marble. Every bolt went over his body, skittering down the stone floor of the dark corridor in the Temple of Golden Mercy. As he rolled over and kicked to his feet he heard the drawing of many blades from scabbards.

  “City guard will be here soon. Let us expedite this meeting, agreed?” Kendari stared at the men of the White Spider.

  “City guard is dead, now, so are you.” One of them spoke with great confidence.

  The seven assassins of the White Spider pulled their half masks up to right over their noses. They had been using them to hide their breath outside, now they raised them to hide their faces from those inside the temple. Two tried to get behind Kendari quickly, sliding along the walls to either side of the grand wide hallway. The Nadderi pointed out, mentally, that they were also young, doing as they were told and would be easily dispatched. He allowed them behind. Four more came on guard from his front, and one more, with many scars on his face and wrinkles around the eyes, stayed back behind his men.

  “Our orders are to remove you if you became an obstacle, Kendari.” The older member whispered through his men. “I say, we kill him for fun and let’s pretend he was an obstacle.”

  “Let us also pretend you have a few more men, so you can feel confident.”

  The cursed swordsman swaggered in small circles, blades held in typical alternate positions, glaring his eyes into each one of them. He was seeing who would tremble, and thus die first. The young red haired man in the back blinked several times, nominating himself to Kendari.

  He turned, feinting to confront the speaker of the band of cutthroats, then stepped quick with his left foot, putting his fist to his abdomen. With the reverse held blade, he drove it into the unsuspecting youth’s chest. Forward with his right foot, Shiver cut across the saber of his other flanking opponent with a downward faced sweeping attack, throwing the man's sword arm out away from the elf. In one fluid motion, the back held longsword cut down. Kendari continued his lightning quick steps, and the loose saber was knocked to the ground before the assassin could recover his guard. Disarmed, the criminal reached for a dagger from his belt as he backpedaled, but the speed of Shiver and its wielder caught him across the neck, searing flesh and blood in a steaming gash that left him choking for air, blood draining out of him like a midnight fountain. Kendari turned, pivoting gracefully on his toes to face the remaining five that had barely reacted to his inhumanly rapid attacks on their men.

  “Let me guess, they told you to surround me? That it would be an easy kill?”

  Having second thoughts, waiting for an order from their quartermaster behind them, seeing two of their men die in the blink of an eye, the assassins remained ready, but still.

  “I despise the saber, do you know why? It is for pirates, cavalry, thieves, and gentlemen duels. I kill pirates and thieves, hate horses, and am distrustful of royalty. So, my two blades against your five. I will even wait until you are ready. But make quick peace with God, as we are in a temple.”

  Kendari walked purposefully in the pool of blood at his feet, smiling wide and making as much eye contact as possible. He knew he had them scared, could tell by their stares, their lack of action, their hesitation. These boys were promised all the pleasures and riches of the White Spider, trained with stealth and saber, outfitted, and sent to die. Some of them, branded forever, were now realizing what membership entailed. They had bee
n told they were the deadliest organization on the continent, egos fed from the prince to the prostitutes. Johnas had failed to mention the names of Syrma Shatan, Avricas and Sylette Sasarri, and Kendari of Stillwood. The patriarch would never tell them that there were those far beyond their training that had never, and would never, be a part of their continents-spanning web of criminals. And now the boys shook in fear and the cursed swordsman almost felt a twinge of pity, then dismissed it as hunger, resuming his contemplation of the finish of those that came to kill him. It was them now, or himself later, someone had to die. The Nadderi looked up from the bloodstains on his enchanted boots, feeling content to begin the slaughter of these terrified five men and find an exit from this holy temple.

  “Shall we? The night is wasting.” Kendari tapped his boot in the puddle of blood he stood in.

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  Snow began to fall again, this time harder and with wind blowing from the east. The five midnight travelers, backs to the wall of the western tower of Lazlette, took rest and cover from the cold. Bolts clanked on the gray stone, two of them ended with Saberrak pulling them free of his flesh with a low growl. Blood ran down his leg and shoulder, though he did not seem to mind. Shinayne paced in front, weapons still drawn, waiting for more assassins to emerge from the shadows. She noticed the bleeding on the minotaur, and looked at her hand which had stopped letting blood for now, though her leather glove was soaked and split.

  “Still with us?” Shinayne looked to James.

  “Seems that way.”

  “Then help him, please.” The swordswoman nodded for the knight, seemingly still exhausted from too many nights with the bottle, to tend to their horned friend.

  “I thought ye said there was a hunter loose in the streets of your city, my lady. That seemed to me more than one.” Azenairk was trying to dislodge the bolt and dagger from James’ shield without ruining it further.

  “What I told you was true, dwarf. I had no idea there were that many laying in wait for you, nor that any beside myself was aware of your coming,” Gwenneth remarked quickly, never liking any accusations that her words were not correct.

  “Then may I ask again, who or what is this hunter after, if not us and that scroll?” James queried. His mind was forgetting that he had given mercy to a burning assassin, and killed two others. Somehow, killing ogre was nearly pleasureable, but his mind did not know how to handle killing a man. It had never happened, until just this night. He had won duels, hurt men, maybe even permanently, but to his knowledge they had lived. James focused harder on the matter at hand. “What is it that you know, if I may ask?”

  “Tomes of High Elven Magic. This killer thinks they are here, when really they are heading north with an elf and a satyr. I did not think any attention to your scroll was being paid , besides my own notice and that of a few trusted professors at the academy. All eyes are supposed to be on the other end of the city.”

  Shinayne, facing away from them, watching the snow drift across the beautiful city, heard what she needed to. Lavress, she thought, had the tomes and was heading north with Bedesh. Hunted, but he was alive and with diversions to aid him. A smile and dampened eyes rose upon her face, the elf thanking Siril silently for whatever blessings he had given to her lover to have made it this far in one piece. Shinayne thought too, of Bedesh, thankful that he had found a way out of wherever the Nadderi and his trolls had taken him. That wish, sincere as it was, did not sit well for Shinayne. She knew full well what the trolls and that swordsman had probably done to poor Bedesh of Haven Glen. If she had one wish now, gazing at the stars, it would be for another chance at that cursed elf, and a chance to save her little horned forest friend whatever pains he had suffered at his hands.

  “Is that your elf and satyr she is speaking of?” Saberrak whispered.

  “Yes, yes it is,” she whispered back.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that, elf?” Saberrak nodded to Shinayne as he pulled back the punctured leather on his shoulder for James to see the bleeding wound.

  “Kilikala, many decades of training with Tarakis Hanaira. And you?”

  “Tathlyn the gray, too few years with my father, in Unlinn.”

  They nodded silently, respectfully, to one another.

  James concentrated, pushed out the thoughts of wine and more wine for a moment, and placed his hand on Saberrak’s shoulder. The minotaur looked down at him, a look that would have backed up even the bravest of men, yet James had his eyes closed. He focused on the light releasing from his body through his hand and to the torn flesh of his horned friend. He opened his eyes, the light blue glowing under the tower of Lazlette, staring at the flesh and skin mending from the puncture. As it closed, James looked up, everyone was staring at him. Saberrak had a look of bewilderment and amazement, one that the knight could not place.

  “You saw him, under the ruins, chained up. You saw the same man with the same blue glowing eyes as the light from your hand. That was thirteen years ago and you did see him, didn’t you, James Andellis?” Saberrak looked at him, knowing that it was impossible, yet he had a feeling that he was right.

  “No, Saberrak, it could not have been the same man. I was there, carried out by ogre, the lone survivor of my men, sent as a warning to Southwind Keep. The man was naked, bearded, with glowing eyes, but that was thirteen years ago. That man surely died down there.” James did not look up at him, instead concentrated on repeating his gift to the wounded thigh of the minotaur.

  “It was. You describe him as I saw him. He healed my wounds with the same light, and gave me this scroll when I freed him. He had been there a very long time. Who is he, James?” raising his voice, Saberrak was getting impatient, wanting answers from a man that did not wish to recall the place and time in question.

  “Perhaps then, it was long ago, but perhaps.” James was tiring, his eyes getting heavy fast.

  “You went from no, to perhaps, just tell me---“

  “The battle of Arouland was long ago. There, I saw a man, I think. As you say, I saw him, the same way. But it cannot be the same man.” James slumped against the wall and nearly fell, the blue light fading from his hand as his eyes rolled back in frustrated fatigue.

  “What did he say, what did he---“

  “I do not know, I could not help him or anyone else! Understand?! I might as well have been dead like the rest of my men! Now, if you don’t mind, let us retire the matter entirely.” James had not felt the pain in many days, since the two young merchant boys were killed north of the ruins. He had held it all in for too long and had not had enough wine today to keep it at bay.

  “From what I know, no men survived the battle of Arouland that you speak of, and I would much prefer not to hear more of it either.” Gwenneth ended the discussion, staring at the sword, knowing now it to be the blade of her father and the rusty medal of Chazzrynn pinned to the tabard of James Andellis. She realized now where she remembered the hilt of that blade from and remembered where she had heard her father perished. That sword, the griffon hilt, was her father’s, or an exact replica, she knew it.

  “Agreed. There were no survivors and that is how everyone remembers it, so shall we? May we get out of the cold, my Lady of Lazlette?’ James stood up, unable to concentrate on the wounded minotaur with all this distraction.

  “One moment.” Gwenneth raised her hand, touching the stone door in the alcove, illuminating arcane words that had not been there a moment before. Tracing them, muttering a few words of indecipherable incantation, the stone door slid open on its own. Gwenne walked into the dark corridor to the spiral stairs, waiting for the rest to enter, then waved her hand.

  “Shiliaaf,” she whispered, and the door slid shut again concealing them in the darkness of the western stone tower of Lazlette. Gwenne watched carefully, keeping them out of view from the nighttime watch of her mother's academy.

  “Keep quiet, stay to the shadows, and follow me,” Gwenneth whispered.

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  The woman’s hand touched the neck of one of the men on the marble floor.

  Warm, but no heartbeat, two cuts that had bled out maybe several minutes ago, she thought.

  Seven altogether she noticed in the dark, the western door to the Temple of Golden Mercy left open, snow collecting on the corners and melting in the pools of blood. Recent snows, recent deaths. The corpses were still, the killer responsible nowhere to be seen, and Angeline listened to the air around her. The cathedral began to stir from the eastern side, no one down here yet to see the dead.

  Angeline sheathed her hand-and-a-half sword, letting it swing back behind her hip and knelt down near one of the corpses. She tugged the leather armor and blood soaked shirt off of him, inspecting his body for markings. Sure enough, as she had suspected, a pink and white branding scar on the left shoulder blade, one of the White Spider, and it was fresh.

  Tell me.

  The mysterious bodyguard tied her long curly hair back with a knot in black cloth, closed her eyes and whispered to the walls and the stone floor. The echo of her unspoken whispers trailing down the hall, reverberating back, but the sound was slightly different. Not in any spoken language understood by even the most scholarly professors, but a language that had never been written nor taught to anyone not of Angeline’s secretive sect. The whispers told her, her eyes opening, that the killer was nearby, the being responsible was very close, to her left, in a stairwell.

  Thank you.

  Just in time, the strange warrior drew her enchanted hand-and-a-half blade, left hand below the right, and turned the blade to parry. Her blade met two rapid cuts from longswords, sparking as they clanged on her steel weapon. Two more came, slashes out from the dark figure with menacing eyes, one met the crosspiece and she turned her wrist to deflect it harmlessly. The other blade, rippling with heat, cut across at her exposed neck which Angeline reared back from by inches. The smell of burned hair filled her first inhaled breath.