The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  “You were drunk again, slow, and we died…” The whispering heads took an angry tone now.

  James Andellis ran, as fast as he could. He stumbled, he fell, and he rolled down stairs. Every time he looked back, there were more rotted ogre following him. They walked through walls, sprang through the stone floors, and appeared from nowhere. As he ran, looking behind him at the closing ogre, James tripped. His head hit a railing, his body followed down a spiral staircase, and his head hit again to the stone floor.

  Everything went to darkness, yet the voices spoke to him as he lay paralyzed in the stairwell. Now, James could but listen, helpless, and alone.

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  “Ye got him, or no?” Zen dragged James by the boots, letting his rear drag a bit on the stone.

  “I can do this myself, Thalanaxe.” Saberrak huffed as they passed several sets of eyes peering out their doors in the hall of the academy. He kept James’ head from hitting the floor, lifting by his arms, leaving drops of blood from a cut across his hairline.

  “Two more floors is all, Two more, and then we clean him up.” Zen was tiring, but wanted the embarrassment to be over. He was hoping the Lady of Lazlette would not be offended.

  “Clean, for what?” Saberrak turned the corner with their limp and unconscious ally.

  “He has quite a cut, some swelling, and a lot of vomit, minotaur.”

  “Did it to himself. Leave him in it. Teach him a lesson.” Saberrak grinned under his horns as they started on the third flight of stairs since finding James Andellis.

  “I would guess that this is not the first time he done this, Saberrak.” Zen furrowed his brow in disagreement.

  “I would agree.”

  “Then there is no humility to lean upon. He is sick, needs help.”

  “He needs a nursemaid to clean him.”

  “I will have to do until we find one then.” Zen turned the corner and heaved out a breath.

  “The pleasure is all yours.” Saberrak chuckled, then winced, the reek of vomit was strong with an acrid bile aura.

  “Almost there, one more flight up, down the right, and into the room there, James.”

  “He cannot hear you, dwarf.” Saberrak scowled.

  “How do you know, minotaur?” Zen grinned from behind his black trimmed beard.

  “He is out, drunk, bludgeoned, and asleep.”

  “You were sleeping. How did you wake me up to go find him?” Zen smiled more.

  “Different matter.”

  “No, no it’s not. He is seeing stuff in that there mind of his. Students said he was having conversations in the middle of the night, lost in the tower. No one around, just him. And, so were you.” Azenairk nodded to Saberrak.

  “Different matter, I said.” Saberrak huffed as they made up the final stairs to the ninth floor.

  “Nope. You was walking up to the window, talking to someone, you said a name. It woke me up, and you got secrets. And he, he has secrets too. All the same.”

  Zen turned to the last hallway and stepped quiet and soft. He saw the light in the room Shinayne and Lady Lazlette were in, but snuck past wihout much noise. Saberrak followed in silence, knowing where they were. Into the opened door of their room they went, and hefted James to the sofa. Zen went to the door and closed it slowly, while Saberrak walked to the window and looked out to the middle of the night.

  “Who do you see out there, Saberrak the Gray?” Zen walked up to the window, peered out, and saw nothing but empty streets and magical lights. Saberrak stared, but never answered.

  Intermezzo

  South of Gillian

  Shanador

  I watch him sleep, my baby boy, tight and safe in the crib. Is his mind adrift with trying to understand what has happened today? Does he know his mother is gone? Can he sense the emotions in the air from myself, the priests, the servant help that stares in the distance? All my questions have no real purpose. Alessandeir is a baby, how can he understand a funeral?

  My mind leads my body to wander the stone halls alone in the night. Warm air floods in past the draperies. Midnight sparkles try to hide from my eyes when I look out and up. Carice is high in the open sky, just battling the occasional trespassing streak of cloud. Gimmor is coming, the green aura from the west slowly creeping above the red Misathi Mountains.

  “And where are the Gods and Goddesses this night?” I ask the open air from a balcony. “Are you laughing? Taking revenge?”

  “Released I am, free you said. Yet you take my wife and leave me a baby to raise in a castle not mine own. It is even in a kingdom I barely visited before my years of imprisonment. This must be amusing to you all, above, below, and otherwise. Which one of you is responsible, I do not know.”

  “Who is it you speak to, my lord?”

  I jump back from the ledge, reaching for my sword that is not at my side, startled and turning fast. The priest, the one who presided over her burial, stands not two feet behind me. I should have heard him, my senses both normal and arcane are keen. Yet, for some reason, I still sense nothing, even now.

  “You tell me. Who is it that visits in the night without a sound to their steps?” A flash of blue behind the brown eyes of this old man lets me know.

  “Ahhh, a message from the dwindling Caricians. Come to comfort me after ripping out my heart and leaving me in more pain?”

  “No, Sodom, this was not our doing.” The old man speaks, yet the words that come forth are not his own. The voice is different, accentuated with a choir of words, a deep voice that holds power.

  “So who? The Nochtilians then? Come to seek revenge and further torment? Or does God have nothing better to do than kill innocents and spread disease, starting with the wife of Sodom?” I grow angry, my tone not hiding it, and I walk toward my study.

  As I stalk, leaving the possessed priest upstairs, I think of my sword. Before I realize it, the fireplace is at my feet and the blade is lifted from the mantle. I stare at it, turn, and the priest is here. He made not a sound, green twinkling eyes staring at me without the need to blink.

  “You know killing this priest I speak through will not settle anything. I am here to help.” The voice is feminine now, sparkles in the air, dust illuminating the sound of the words. The blue glow dwindles and deep set green eyes glisten with a shimmer of radiance.

  “The mother or the sister?”

  “The mother, of course.”

  “So it is Seirena that sends word through an Aldane priest in the night. Amusing.”

  “I have spoken to my children. They have spoken to Mowg at the gates of the dead, in Mictalan. He spoke to others. Your wife’s passing was none of our doing. She arrived, she saw the light, she ascended with thoughts of you and the child. Nothing more do they know, but it was not them.”

  “So I am to believe this was just coincidence? Surely you think me a fool for the ages then.” I hold back a tear of anger, another of sorrow, and the desire to plunge this blade into an innocent priest possessed by the Goddess.

  “No.”

  “Then whom?”

  “We do not know. The sickness is spreading, but it was not by divine hands that we can find. Yet it is not natural. We are searching the realms of known existence for whatever caused it.” The voice from the priest is warm, a woman's caring tone, and the eyes twinkle with immortal starlight.

  “The Gods do not know. I am not surprised. If you have nothing more for me, then leave.” I furrow my brow, pains in my neck and chest growing with so many things unanswered.

  I hear it, the priest of Alden possessed hears it, Alessandeir is crying. The blade is placed back above the stone where it belongs and I step fast to the stairs. Torchlight and candlelight spring to life at my whim, turning from orange to green on Her whim. I look back. The priest is smiling and following in complete silence, floating some inches off the floor.

  He is squirming, a wet cloth and hunger the culprits that wake my son this late. It is an uneasy feeling to change his bundle
and feed him milk in front of an old man controlled by an immortal woman. She feels it and reaches out her arms to take my child. Though the priest is old and floating, I let my son go. Yet, I stay inches away at most, my trust having limits that have grown short over the millennia.

  “Alessandeir, a powerful name. The milk please.” The words come out even more majestic, completely feminine, and a hum of peace emanates from the echo.

  My hand offers. I watch my son's eyes open blue and close again, quickly at peace at being fed. That peace runs to me, and I sit down in the wooden chair in his room. The silence is astounding, as if it were all that mattered at this moment.

  “He has your eyes, your powers, and your humor. Much of his late mother she left to him as well. He will be of you, but not like you. No matter how hard you try, Sodom, his path is not what you will try and make it.”

  “And his mother? She is…” I wince, not wanting an answer, but asking the question nonetheless.

  “Past the gates of Mictalan, past the steps of Vasentanessa, into Oasis. She wanders the Seven Heavens of my children. She is safe, there was no conflict.” The priest cradles Alessandeir back to sleep with an ease that I wish I had.

  “Undo it.”

  “You know I cannot.”

  “Then why are you here? To comfort me?”

  “No, to ask you to continue.”

  “Continue what? My life, taking care of a small child alone, riding this tormented existence to the end?” My bitterness could break the peace in the room, as if it has power in this moment.

  “The story.”

  “Why? I use it to put him to sleep is all, that is the only purpose, to calm with words of---“

  “No. There are others listening, besides your boy, others in the earth and clouds that hear your words. Please, continue.” The priest holding the spirit of Seirena hands my sleeping son back to me.

  “Who?”

  “That is what we need to know, stars are watching, spirits spying, and we do not have answers as to why they listen to you, but they do.”

  “So myself, this tragedy, her death, and my raising my son alone, it is a lure?” I place my face in my hands.

  “It may seem that way. The sickness began with your late wife, somehow, but we know little. Be careful, Sodom.”

  “Very well, but you will find the answers to her passing. You will tell me when you know. Can you tell her that---“ I look up. The old priest is staring at me with a peculiar look in his eyes. Eyes of brown, with very little sparkle. She is gone.

  “If it is confession you want, I am here, my lord. I—I—I shall retire, if that is alright. I---uh, pardon my lord, God bless.” The priest has no idea how he is here in the middle of the night, and it shows on his face as weariness takes him, and he leaves. Then, he stops, he looks down and sees he is feeding my son with a milk bladder.

  I nod, knowing any words to him would just further confuse the situation. I take my son as he offers with a look of bewilderment. Blue eyes, baby eyes in the dimly lit room, gaze up at me with a smile I can not resist. Seirena is gone, yet the peace remains, and I feel comfort at this very moment. For this little time, the tragedies of past and present do not exist for me. I have only words, words of grand tales for my son. I pull the drapes open to the sky, and speak again to the quiet but watchful night.

  “I see you are awake, Alessandeir. We had a visitor.”

  His eyes roam my face, his hand grips the blanket over and over as if mashing it into something precious. The wind takes wisps of his blond hair, tosses them around , and I gently caress them back to place each time. Alessandeir is waiting for more words, eagerness shining in his dimpled smile, and he is at peace without knowing what has transpired.

  “So, where was I whence you drifted off. Yes, I remember.” He grins at my words, at the vibration of them as his head is at my chest, and I smile down to him. “It was there, in Vallakazz, that the five were brought together by divine purpose.”

  “There was little to hold James to anything, his life had been revealed as empty. His wine, his gift, and his hatred of ogre, were most of what made him. Yet, it was no coincidence that he survived, no mere chance of who he met, my son. The bottle had him, the death grip was there, and yet a purpose was starting to emerge. He was needed, yet he did not come to terms with that reality, not yet.”

  “Shinayne fought to keep Lavress and her lost friend secondary to the will of whatever placed her in the city of the arcane. They were alive and together, and for the elven noble, she accepted that would have to suffice for now. Saberrak was drawn to the scroll and it to him, yet none knew for certain why. Azenairk accepted his long route, always thinking of his father's wishes, but he knew he could not find Kakisteele alone. And Gwenneth was fascinated at the chance of danger, the intrigue captured her, and she was now involved, whether anyone approved or no.”

  I think back, drawing on things seen and heard years ago. My legs rock back and forth in the wooden chair, Alessandeir will not sleep, and the story continues into the night. My mind wanders to my only living relation, James Andellis, perhaps understanding his bitterness and plight more than anyone.

  “Now, unbeknownst to the five bearers of the scroll of Annar, many more were involved. Kendari of Stillwood was tasked and would not accept failure. His employer, Salah-Cam, would see the great relics as his, and he double dealt toward his greed every hour. Lavress and Bedesh were on the run, safe for now as they headed north to the Temple of the Whitemoon.”

  “Prince Johnas was aligning his secret army of the underground. Any opportunity to foil others and come out ahead he took, regardless of how many trained killers it cost him. The White Spider was out in force, watching the inner cities and the night, waiting for a chance to prove their worth to the patriarch they served. Murder was on the breeze, the hunt was on, and midnight wars were about to begin.”

  I sigh, then yawn, my tired voice barely hanging on. My son is not giving in, not tonight, and I feel the words carry me on into the morning hours. Moons above, the stars alive and listening, even the wind brings refreshing air into the room as a reminder from my immortal visitor.

  “Balric D’Vrelle was pinned down in Valhirst, deep under cover, yet he could not get close to Johnas or the Altestani ambassadors. Nor could he get close to the woman he loved, the servant of the Prince, Vanessa Blackflame. But I should pick up with Southwind Keep. For it was there that James began his journey, and someone else was about to follow. Lady Kaya T’Vellon has much more to this tale, dark as her part is, much more than I have shared, my son.”

  “Kaya was no ordinary lady of an orphan keep. She was known and feared in the deadly upper ring of the White Spider, and known as…”

  Masks I:I

  Eastern Trail

  Southwind Keep

  Sleet and bombardments of large wet snowflakes covered the sky in front of her as she watched the road to the east. It was early morning, a glimpse of light blue and gray peering from the western horizon over Southwind Keep. The sleet smelled of the Bori Mountains to the far north, and hills of rolling farmlands, all were barely sensed in the aromas of the early morning snow shower. For someone that had lived here all of her life, the smells and sounds western Chazzrynn were welcoming and understood. A storm was coming. The winter trees and quiet of the small iced forest was peaceful to her troubled mind. Kaya T’Vellon watched the west, making sure she had not been followed.

  She knew, from Dasius in Vallakazz, that James Andellis and his companions had arrived with no escort and no letter from the church, as far as he could tell. The Lady of Southwind knew that meant one of two things. Either her men were dead and exposed and the group carrying the scroll had their letter, or one or both of her men had run into trouble, fled, or escaped and would be heading back west. This being the third day out in the cold of early morning, Kaya was weary and nervous. The fear of a failed mission for the White Spider was enough to keep her awake, as were the consequences of her brother or the king finding o
ut her true allegiance, named and sealed by the church of Alden.

  All her men had to do was get the scroll, keep the letter of recommendation, and abandon them in the Chazzrynn wilderness. Then the assassins in the arcane community of Vallakazz were to cover the western gate, and the four would never have been seen again.

  Kaya was frustrated, hearing that nothing thus far had gone right, nothing according to plan, and the companions were with the scroll safely in the academy. Now she had to dispose of her own men and abandon Southwind Keep, leaving it unoccupied by Johnas’ organization. She hoped that he would not have her killed for losing the keep, since Elcram held no members of the White Spider inside of value. The worth of this noble fortress to the White Spider was hopefully less than the lady known as Jade of the West had appraised.

  Evril had returned last night with fresh wounds from ogre clubs, very believable, to all but herself. Kaya knew that the young knight had been lying to her brother Alexei and the others, as she had arranged. She had seen ogre wounds, even grazing ones to the face, and Evril Alvander must have hit himself mercilessly several times, but not enough to fool her. She planned to meet him for his reward in the stables this morning. His eyes told her, other than self inflicted swelling, that something had not gone to plan and he had arrived half a day earlier than expected. Before this morning was over, Kaya would have all the answers she needed and all loose ends tied off.

  Lady T’Vellon saw the faint figure of a horse walking slowly down the trail toward her, barely visible in the black and gray haze of snowy dawn. Content with herself and her patience, she walked ahead in the tree line, keeping just out of sight. The man on the back of the horse was slumped over, likely due to exhaustion and an attempt to keep warm. Kaya drew her shortsword and waited, her long gray robes and winter clothes pulled around her as she stepped in the snow. She knew who it was, he was one of hers, and he had to be silenced.

  The young red headed knight of Dunmoor raised his head, seeing the keep on the near horizon. His horse was wobbly, the ground slick, and the breeze unforgiving. His last two days had been hell since the food they had packed was on the other knight's horse, the one that did not make the journey back, thanks to a giant horned snowpanther. His leg throbbed, a massive gash had crusted over in scab, his woolen trousers now frozen into the mesh of dried blood and flesh. The heat and pulsing pain told him it was infected, yet he was too cold and hungry to look, he just wanted to get home to Southwind. He pulled his waterskin out from beneath his arm, the water warmed now, unfrozen from his body heat. He raised it to his cracked lips.