The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  Azenairk had seen many instances of the same with his dwarven kin in Boraduum, decades of service in the temple had opened his eyes to things most men never see or hear of. The wagon rolled along, the young girls peeking back with blonde wisps blowing in each others faces. The priest had hoped they would not see some of the violent fits the knight of Southwind had had, but there was little room for privacy on the cold road to Valhirst in a pair of covered wagons.

  The next day the storm cleared as if it never was, leaving an ocean of snow dunes and white crested forests before them. Crisp air, crisp sunshine, and yet a frozen cold road bore them back through the hills of eastern Chazzrynn. Drifting giant clouds wandered above them in the blue, looking down it seemed, wondering who it was that travelled in such frigid desolation.

  Olenn Chilar and his family were rearranging the second wagon and planning for their parting. As agreed, one day out of Valhirst was the end of the road for them. From there, the old trapper had been convinced by his wife, Leina, to head back home instead of trading in Valhirst. She said she had heard enough about the dangers there, and was worried they might be taken for questioning with who they were transporting. She feared for the girls, and the unborn one in her belly, for Oggidan alone so long, and said she was done with the cold this winter and wished to be by their own fire, at home. No one could disagree with her, it sounded far more pleasant there than here.

  Zen shook his head from the first wagon, his tired eyes adjusting to the light with squints and a furrowed brow. His prayers were finished, again.

  “Lost hope, dwarf, leave him be. Best thing is what I did, leave the wine and he will tough it out the hard way. He will survive.” Saberrak snorted as he passed by the side of the covered wagon, peering in to see if James was conscious. The minotaur much preferred to walk the free land than ride comfortably anymore.

  “He is but a wino with a sword, Azenairk, there is nothing you can do but let him sober up. It will take time, not prayers.” Gwenneth did not look up, keeping her pace on the extra horse brought with the small caravan headed east. Her mind had been curious to ask this former knight some things about her father and the battle in Arouland many years back, but with his condition, the wizard kept her distance and silence.

  “I have dealt with this before, friends, and the elf agrees, we keep him tended and help all we can. While you sleep at night, she watches over him and I handle the days while she scouts ahead. He will get better, and needs all of our help here.” Azenairk Thalanaxe felt no anger, yet his words were stern and with purpose hearing the lack of faith from the minotaur and young Lazlette.

  “And when does the elf sleep then, priest?” the grinning minotaur snorted, stepping to see how far Shinayne was actually ahead of the rest.

  “Who ever said I sleep?” the elven swordswoman jogged past the horned warrior, having done a full circle around the caravan for the last hour, miles in a far route, spotting little of concern.

  “You do not sleep?”

  “I rest from time to time, and perhaps dream a bit, but no. After a century or so, most elves develop the ability to refresh mind, body, and spirit while awake. Jealous?” Shinayne laughed and squinted playfully up at the gray minotaur, then drank deep of her waterskin.

  “I much enjoy my rest, pointy eared one. It means a hard exertion and effort was paid by my body, and the rest deserved.” Saberrak did not understand how one could not sleep, so scoffed intentionally at the remarks of his elven friend.

  “Hmmm, have it your way then. My way lets me live for centuries, but if you insist….” Shinayne stopped in her banter, noticing again the same bird far above.

  Difficult to see in the daylight, light colored and circling since early this morning, something followed in the air. A dot in the sky to a mortal eye, but to Lady T’Sarrin, she could make out that it was larger than a hawk, white, and had a long neck that was trying not to look at them often, but failing to remain unnoticed.

  “We are being watched. There is a white bird trailing and circling us like a vulture waiting for a meal to fall.” Shinayne addressed her friends and trotted ahead once again.

  “It is a vulture, my mother's. Damn it! It’s Hithins, which means they know where we are.” Gwenneth began moving her arms in a rhythm of fanning motions and speaking softly in arcane tongues up toward the direction of the spying avian.

  “Won’t you have to talk a bit louder to get its attention?”

  “No, minotaur, it can hear me perfectly. Trust in the arts to do what you can not.” Her sharp tongue edged on frustration at the questioning of her capabilities, something her mother had put her through for many years.

  The snow vulture began circling lower and lower, the tall towers of decaying Valhirst half a day in the distance with salt from the sea fresh on the air. Closer and closer the white scavenger bird lowered, eying the caravan and the emerald city of corruption to which it was heading.

  Hithins hoped he could pass on the message he had been given and get the daughter of his mistress to listen to reason. Landing safely on top of the covered wagon, the vulture bowed his head toward Gwenneth and her companions, noting the tense postures of all save the drunken knight who appeared to be sick, sitting upright next to the rear wheel, and vomiting profusely.

  “Greetings my lady, your mother will be glad to know you are well.”

  “Do tell me why you have come Hithins, besides to report to my mother our whereabouts.” Gwenneth knew that he had another purpose, perhaps a message, or he would not have answered her call.

  “Lady Lazlette begs you to return to Vallakazz, the threat has been uncovered, and you are safe there. Too much hunts you here in the open and Valhirst is not any safer.” Hithins noticed the awe of the commoner family and their children at a talking vulture, and bowed to them as well, winking at the girls.

  “If we had not left when we did, the scroll would be in the hands of either the church, the city, those thieves sent from wherever, or the professors. Which would be worse I do not know, but it is much safer with us, and with Kalzarius of Harlaheim. Be off, and tell mother not to worry.” Gwenne waived her hand, expecting more of a message than that from her home city.

  “My lady, you are hunted by far more than you are aware. A Nadderi killer, dwarves from the king of Boraduum searching for this priest, agents of the Prince of Valhirst, and Dasius of Caberra was tied in somehow. Not to mention his contact with Salah-Cam to the south, and the disappearance of Lady Kaya T’Vellon, who is rumored to have been involved in trying to plan your ambush. You are walking into a trap, set against you are even rumors that Altestani ambassadors are waiting in Valhirst having knowledge of what you carry. Do not be foolish, you need the protection of your city. The Lady of Vallakazz commands it!” The bird grew agitated, and talked faster as he saw that arrogant rebellious look on young Lazlette’s face.

  “Why are you hunted, Azenairk Thalanaxe?” the elven swordswoman spoke up.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, he replied, “I have a promise to keep, one that my kingdom would have me not keep. That is all.”

  “This cursed elf, how far behind us is he, and is he alone?” huffed the minotaur, nearly leveling with the vulture atop the wagon.

  “He can not be traced by magical means, Saberrak the Gray, he has many tricks and items of arcane protection. He is alone, for now, yet a swarm of trolls head north behind him. We know little of him, but he killed at least fifteen men we have counted in his attempt to get to you in Vallakazz.” Hithins fluttered his wings, not enjoying the intimidating closeness of the tattooed beast.

  “It knows my name.” Saberrak chuckled.

  “Of all those here, I would say you are closer to an it, than myself, minotaur.” Hithins backed up further as the horned warrior growled.

  “Enough. I have made contact with Kalzarius, he offers protection far superior to Vallakazz and has insight into the scroll beyond that of any in this kingdom. I have made my decision, you may tell Mother I appreciate the concern.”<
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  His feathers shook, wings flapping in frustration. “Foolish girl, now is not the time! This is more serious than spying in forbidden books or sneaking into summoning chambers! That scroll is rumored to be of the old Gods, and has powers and knowledge that any would seek to have for themselves! You are in real danger for once, Gwenneth, please turn back. Your mother and Middir will send Angeline to find you and take you back, and you know she will not fail.”

  “Will you help us, Hithins? Help me? Or just deliver the message you are instructed to give and delay us?”

  “You ask me to betray again, after all these years? At this moment?”

  “One last time, anything you can do. I will get this scroll to Harlaheim, to Kalzarius. It seems I could use a little assistance, given the situation. Please, my friend,” the young wizard had placed a bit of guilt into her words, and made no attempt to hide it. Decades of secret friendship was now leaned upon.

  “I will fly ahead, simply to see what awaits you outside the city, nothing more. And then I am gone, my friend. I must obey my mistress, you know this.”

  “Thank you, Hithins. Pick me out a ship as well.” Her mood and tone changed quickly after getting what she wanted.

  The snow vulture bowed and flew east, rising fast above the trees of Chazzrynn. The wagon proceeded with a nod from Shinayne, who was helping James Andellis to his feet, assisted by the dwarf. His groans and sweats began again, yet some consciousness came to his eyes feeling himself on his feet once more.

  “You were just talking to a bird, were you not?” The knight's eyes opened for the first time in over a day.

  “Yes, a friend of Gwenne’s mother. We need you sobered up, James. There will be much danger ahead of us in Valhirst.” The elf seemed concerned, for she knew that Saberrak had left the last of the wine off the trail a day and half a day behind them, seeing that as the only way to stop the man from his pitiful state.

  “I need wine, where is the wine?” James stumbled and looked into the back of the wagon, searching for what he needed.

  “You need prayer and time away from the wine, my friend. There is no more wine, let God help you.” Azenairk placed a hand on the man’s back, muttering a blessing for mercy in his native tongue.

  James drew his broadsword, and spun round, face red with rage and tears in his eyes, drunk beyond sanity. “Where is it? Why would you do that to me?!! The nightmares will not stop, God has nothing to do with this, and they will get me there and take me to the hill and…” his body fell limp, his head snapped to the left from the blow of a fist from the gray minotaur. Saberrak caught his body as it fell, picked up his sword, and threw him over his shoulder, his pace never slowing.

  “Saberrak! That be not the answer to his condition, he needs prayer!” the dwarf had not raised his voice once till now, and his concern and compassion showed readily.

  The horned warrior kept walking, keeping pace with the caravan. “Have your God talk to him while he sleeps then. If he does not change his demeanor, I will leave him in Valhirst to find his end. You have less than a day, dwarf, and I do not intend to change my mind and wait for him to pull a blade on me, or anyone else, again.” Saberrak strapped the griffon hilted broadsword to his side, keeping it safely away from James Andellis.

  Curses I:V

  Central Chazrynn Wilderness

  “For crimes that may never see forgiveness, hatred that is beyond redemption, conscience that is without regret, and evil that knows not itself; you are hereby given the thorn of Nadderi to curse and mark you for all eternity, your only atonement shall be your death. May it come quickly by your own hands.”-last rites of the placement of the thorn, translated from the scroll of Maglesh, Order of the Whitemoon.

  Scattered at best, sometimes the Nadderi searched the trail for an hour for one hoofed track, rarely finding evidence of the elf that had freed the horned captive. Kendari had followed it for several days now, sure the markings were more recent with each passing hour. He was getting closer, he could feel this elven hunter in the tracks or lack thereof. He knew what kind of training and mindset one must have to not be seen, heard, nor followed, and keep such a pace for so long. The cursed elf thought like his prey, moved where he thought he should move were he the hunted, and through the Chazzrynn forests he had been accurate beyond doubt. The satyr was not as cautious, or as light on his feet as his rescuer, which proved an easier mark to follow.

  Kendari of Stillwood, in his over six centuries of cursed elven existence, knew when something was not as it should be. He had stopped for a night in Vallakazz, perhaps by mistake, but regardless his progression had incurred only a small delay. By now, he thought the trolls of Salah-Cam should have been close. During the day he had little care of much more than gaining on his target. Yet at night, he listened and watched from high points in the willow trees and hills for signs from the south, signs of his screeching reinforcements. He heard none, saw none and his mind calculated that the trolls were delayed, failed to follow the trail he left uncovered, or might not have been sent at all. He wondered if the trolls had followed the wagon trail instead to Valhirst, perhaps thirsting for a meal. Wagons held no interest to Kendari, he kept his pursuit north.

  He stepped out from behind the brush covered hill of frozen willows, feeling closer to his enemies, his hand gripping the hilt of Shiver in anticipation. The cold air, murder on the breeze, the feel of enchanted steel in his hand, and the swift steps of his boots were closing in on the satyr and the wild elf hunter.

  “Ogre tracks heading east, a minotaur with them. There is Bedesh heading north, their paths not crossing less than two days apart.” Kendari looked behind him, to the south, as he spoke to hear his own voice on the air. “And where are the idiot trolls, I wonder.”

  His heart tightened, he felt ill at ease, like something was watching him. Kendari had felt the powers of wizards and churches trying to watch his motions from afar and was more than adept in stealth and using arcane trinkets to not be noticed. This was different. Something, someone, was here, now, close, watching him move, keeping pace, but invisible to his green eyes as he looked around. His blades out, his off hand held in reverse as normal, the air steamed from Shiver’s heat once drawn. The Nadderi kept moving, not daring to slow his steps and give whatever was here the chance to get an advantage. The shadows hid something that moved faster, out moved the elf, and was off to the left and speeding to cut him off. Stopping quickly, the cursed swordsman prepared for what was about to rush in front of him, his stance perfect and low.

  “Show yourself, shadows are not your ally with me.” He warned aloud.

  The air warmed and the outskirts of vision blurred with a fog that came from nowhere in midday. Kendari’s heart rate moved faster against his will and a smell of perfume mixed with decay dampened the wind. He knew this aroma all too well, its danger, its meaning, and its face, her face. The shadow of the willow in front of him crackled with a sizzling noise and splintered apart as a pale skinned woman appeared in full motion toward him, her dull black feathered wings tucked behind her shoulders.

  Her hair was long and black, darker than the deepest shadows. Her eyes glowed crimson to match her lips, and her skin was a pale white, adorned with elegant designs and brands of a long lost and infernal language. Barely clothed in black leather garments meant for the foulest of bedchambers, her fanged mouth smiled with an otherworldly beauty and a sinful intention that was followed by two well placed attacks with the black curved and serrated blades, both aflame in each hand.

  The Nadderi parried them both, backing up slightly, and countered with a spinning reverse cut from his left hand, meant to draw her guard high. As she parried, he plunged Shiver into her belly. The sizzling of flesh and sound of metal through skin echoed in the concealed forest. Both froze for a moment, parries and blows standing still, and their eyes met.

  “Seriously, Kendari? That was a little premature after so many years, was it not?” her voice had power, sounding like a cacophony of dark seduct
ive whispers in a cemetery. She stepped back two steps, the wound dripping deep red and black blood to her groin and thighs, and then closing as if it had never been.

  “I expect more from the deadliest swordsman alive, more foreplay, if you will.” Her laughter was deafening, sinister, and alluring, not to mention intimidating.

  “Nareene, whorespawn of Yomyae. I had hoped you had forgotten me by now. Thought perhaps Cancuru had eaten you, dreamt of it, in fact. You must be bored in hell indeed.” The elven killer stepped forward, prepared to give another lesson should this temptress require one.

  “That was less than polite, cursed one. It is now Nareene, high priestess to Cancuru, lady of promises, mistress of pleasures, and no longer associated with my old mortal worships, Kendari. You know these things, with all we have shared….all the nights…surely you think better of me than that.” Nareene’s laughter again cascaded from some foul place far from the mortal worlds and spread poison on the wind. Her blades glowed red with hellish magicks, the small fangs she bit into her own curled lip produced the same color onto her chin. One blade smoldering to dust on the breeze, she wiped the draining blood from her abdomen, touched herself with a pleasuring moan, and licked her blood-covered hand.

  “A thousand apologies priestess, but I am busy on the hunt and have little time for what you call, foreplay.” Kendari lowered his guard, slightly, as this demoness had shown an explosive temper in centuries past.

  He remembered his first meetings with her, shortly after his sentencing by the Order of the Whitemoon, after they placed the thorn of the Nadderi inside his abdomen for his crimes. She had come at a moment of weakness and hate, promising all his vengeances to be redeemed upon his former kin. She had come in many guises, pretending to be a mortal priestess of Vasentanessa and in love with him. Nareene came with many gifts, including Shiver, his enchanted longsword. She had guided him to killing many swordmasters and famous warriors early in his curse, then began simply pushing for him to kill for little reason at all, praising him every few years, now every few decades.