The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  The moment I see Saberrak, he thought, this blade will cut her down.

  Knights I:VI

  Valhirst Rural Hills

  In and out his visions were, filled with black tunnels, falcon flags falling, and bright lights dancing eerily. Carried at times by someone, and unable to discern motion at all of the rest of whatever this was around him; it was another nightmare that was all too real. James Andellis felt helpless, at the whim of something, weak and feeble, no power to stand on his own. His dreams haunted him, something the wine usually drowned out for a time. Not now, the surreal sights of Lord Arlinne bleeding out on the battlefield recurred over and over, each time with more visual color. Wine bottles crashed empty from the sky, broken glass scraping his hands and tongue, yet no wine could he find.

  The ogre were even larger and more fiendish, unstoppable as the nightmare changed from real events to a harsher reality in his conscience. His beatings at the hand of King Avegarne resulted in his limbs being severed and placed back several times as the demonic ogre repeatedly killed more and more soldiers of Southwind, of which there seemed a never ending supply. James screamed, yet no sound came out of his lips. Only blood, thick like pudding, drained from his open mouth.

  “He’s trying to say something again, just stop for a moment, Saberrak.” Her elven voice pleaded for the minotaur to set him down, as they were right outside Valhirst.

  “He moans nonsense and prayers constantly, Shinayne. He’s a wino, a drunk, and it is just taking its toll.” Saberrak spoke in a weary tone. They had been on foot for the last day, the caravan having turned back east as they had taken them as far as agreed. No father wanted his family near Valhirst, and especially with dangerous acquaintances such as these. The gray gladiator laid the man down on a small hilltop that was not completely covered in snow.

  James faded again, not able to hear the voices of his friends, nor feel the outside world. His mind swam in a dark pool of what smelled like blood and wine, ogre hands reaching for his tabard, trying to pull him down into the liquid he stood in. He went for his blade, yet there was nothing strapped to his side. The sky turned green with an oversized moon overhead, the white moon but a faint sliver in the sickly colored horizon. Black clouds swirled and rushed past, carrying swarms of crows cawing a deafening melody that guided his attention somehow toward a mountain cliff of brown jagged stone.

  Trudging through arms and grasping hands of drowning ogre warriors, the knight began to scream for help, hoping he would be heard by someone. Echoes returned, but in guttural laughing growls not his own. Closer he came in this dark place, setting his boots on solid ground, and then he saw it. The cliff overlooked the Western Waste, a thousand corpses being devoured by crows and rats, Arouland lay in the field below filled with ogre and man alike. Small children with digging tools were opening the earth and dragging the bodies slowly into them. Several children at a time grunted and groaned over this morass of carnage and horror, trying to bury what the scavengers had not eaten.

  James hit his knees, hearing the faint singing of a woman he could not see, but her melody was beautiful, in a language he could not understand. The whole scene made his body tremble, then seeing his horse, mostly decayed with the ogre spear still through it, come trotting up toward him on the cliff, James began to scream, not for help, but for the madness of it all. The stallion just stared, waiting for him to mount and ride into battle.

  “Why is he screaming like that? Is there nothing you can do? You are a priest, aren’t you?” Gwenneth had been ignoring this man as best she could, but now she began to feel pity for him. Some of the things he had said while having these seizures and dreams, in and out of consciousness, had been most frightening.

  “I am praying for him, give me silence, please.” Azenairk was knelt at his side, one hand on his chest, the other on his forehead. In his native tongue, the priest begged Vundren, the father and Lord of his people, for mercy here to remove this knight’s afflictions and spare him should it be his will for useful purpose. He repeated the divine prayers normally given to those dying from injuries from war, as Zen saw it fitting to whatever this man had gone through to arrive at this state. The prayers caused a slight gold light to emit from the dwarf’s hand, yet seemed to do nothing. He began again, head bowed over James, as the others watched in silence.

  James felt the cold hands caressing his legs, now standing in a graveyard overlooking deep caverns filled with ogre. His dreams had manipulated the landscapes of his memory, and the ground still sloshed with blood and wine up to his ankles in a place he had but seen twice. The sky was white now, the moons had shifted, casting a red illumination throughout his vision from the reflection off the crimson surface. Groans and growls echoed by the thousands from the black stone caverns far down the slope, and ogre arms and faces fought to be released from the marsh of blood and earth at his feet.

  James Andellis thought of hell, and if this was to be his next journey. Tears of red blood ran down his face, too terrified to scream in this insanity of ever changing scenery, he sat in the muck and drew his blade. The griffon pommeled broadsword was present now, and the steel drew out crisp and clean. He leaned his back upon one of the many headstones adorning the hill, those of his brethren and soldiers of Chazzrynn that had died over thirteen years ago. The fallen knight knew and felt the certainty that he had died, and this was the end, his final destination, his eternity for failure in life. He cared not for the horror of the clawed hands, or the ogre that spotted him from afar. He knew this for what it was.

  Turning to stand, broadsword out and ready to strike into his own chest, James read the epitaph on the stone he had rested on. “James of Andellis, Knight of Southwind Keep, Man of God, Child of Alden, Son of Chazzrynn. 308-331 AD.” His horrific agony could not be contained as he tried to destroy his own headstone in his tormented mind.

  “Tell us something Azenairk Thalanaxe, anything. He has not moved for over an hour now, is he going to live?” The elven noblewoman knelt next to the dwarf who was still in prayer. James' body was still, silent, laid on a hilltop overlooking Valhirst, covered in blankets and furs, what little they had. Saberrak and Gwenneth had started a fire and were watching the moons rise to the west as the sun set in the east over the sprawling coastal city.

  Zen rubbed his trimmed black beard and his shaved head, “He is at peace, the violent tremors have ceased, yet he remains in deep sleep. His heart be barely beating, and his breath is short. He is in his God's hands at this point, there is nothing more I can do but continue the prayers.”

  “Water?”

  “He just chokes it up, milady.”

  “Food, tilt his head up and---“

  “No. He will gag on it, Shinayne.”

  Shinayne placed her hand on his forehead, closed her eyes, and began to whisper an ancient fey prayer for the healing of the spirit. One usually said this prayer for those suffering from loss and grief of a partner or child, for someone who could not let go of the memory or ties to love that had to be severed. Most elves handled these feelings as they came, accepting them, and letting them pass for the decades it may take. From time to time, for even the wisest elven spirits, one could not let go, as centuries of closeness is much harder to forget than any human could understand.

  Lady T’Sarrin had no idea of what, or if, James had something he had to let go of, yet she knew of nothing else she could do. “Mother of the earth and life, Seirena, be with this one as he travels darkly through this night of loss and pain. Take from him these thorned vines that keep the trees of life from him, remove his suffering, and replace his loss with your love and compassion. Father Siril, Lord of the mind and sky, free this man from himself, from his demons of the past, take from him all that he need not, and bless him with what he yet needeth.”

  The words were poetic and beautiful in the fey tongue, more like a melody than a prayer, and the others listened intently, though not understanding a word. Shinayne had never said that prayer, merely heard it many times, and
had never prayed for anyone save another elf in all her life. Her hand remained on his brow, the place of conscience and doorway to the spirit in elven religion and belief. She admitted to herself she was not a priestess, nor much of an avid worshipper even, but her beliefs were strong and that would have to be enough. Through the long cold night, she and Azenairk took turns in prayer, without sleep, never stopping once.

  Saberrak stoked the fire with his greataxe, then stood to crawl into the pile of blankets on the hill. He stopped, seeing Shinayne and Zen over James. His eyes looked to his waist, to the scroll, and he took it from his belt. Without a word, he walked over and set it next to the pale shivering man, then walked away.

  Strange blue light emitted from over the hill, battle cries of ogre warriors and the clashing of weapons and breaking of bones rang from the valley behind the graveyard. James lifted his head, his clothes splattered with blood and torn from the ogre hands still grasping at him from the blood soaked ground deep in his terrible nightmare. Picking himself up, dragging his steel shield and blade, the weary knight trudged down the hillside toward the light.

  The dream continued to change, long distances were covered in blinks of an eye, time slowed down to a crawl, only to be sped up toward the blue light in the valley of the ogre. James walked in slow motion, it felt, past ogre killing each other, through battles of knights and soldiers who were long dead. As he approached the valley, the blue light was shining more strongly, emitted from a man, the man he had seen chained to the pillar deep under Arouland while captured by the armies of Avegarne. He was swinging his chains wildly, the whipping blows bringing ogre after diseased ogre to their knees and into death. James realized he was dreaming to some degree, and that death here was but an illusion, yet the façade seemed very real. He was within reach of the flailing chains now, he was ignored or transparent to all that moved as they continued the horrific night battle. As the last ogre fell into the swamp of blood, the bodies were absorbed into the ground, some moving, some still and lifeless, ogre and soldier alike. The knight was numb now to the horror of it all, and barely felt the need to breathe anymore.

  “Why am I here?”

  The bloody and dirty bearded hulk of a man stepped forward, chains dragging through the crimson sludge, his eyes glowing blue like the ocean in the sun. “You can not escape it, you bring yourself here. I ask you, why are you here?” His voice was deep and resonating with power, lips not visible under his long beard.

  “I want to leave. I hate these dreams, but they won’t stop.” He hit his knees, sinking down in the bloody ground, leaning heavily on his blade.

  “Two of my brothers call for you, and my mother as well. They have done all they can, yet you see it not. Have you nothing left, take the walk to the dark that has defeated you, James Andellis.”

  “These dreams, this place, I cannot escape it. It will come again, should I leave.”

  “If you were healed, they would stop. If you forget, they will as well. Should you decide, you may never return to this place.” The man sank down where he stood, and crouched next to James as he spoke, his eyes dulling a bit as he made eye contact.

  “Help me, whoever you are, I want to leave here.” The tears fell hard, the sobbing interrupted his words, yet something brought struggling air into his chest once again.

  “You know who I am.”

  “Annar, so says the minotaur. But you are a myth.” James whispered. “Help me.”

  “I am Annar, brother to Alden, we have met. You were strong then, I admire that in you. Help yourself, James Andellis. You would heal an ogre king to save your men, suffer capture to save your lord, risk your life for friends or to defeat your enemies. Why not heal yourself and be free? You do all for those around you and nothing for yourself, save poisoning. Decide to live. You have been blessed since birth, you need not the help of anyone else, my son. Believe you are worthy of life. I forgive you, Arlinne forgives you, protect my words, carry on from your past, pass on my story. I will be watching.” His voice was soft now, a deep whisper with only warmth. The hand of Annar touched James on the shoulder.

  James looked to ask more, yet found it had all changed. Dawn was approaching, the ground was hard and cold, Annar was gone. There were no bodies, no war, no ogre hunting him like an animal like so many of his nightmares, yet he felt empty inside. Loneliness crept in, the kind that needed something or someone to fill it and keep it away. He concentrated on keeping it away, on being whole inside, gripping his blade till his hands hurt. His other hand glowed blue, yet he had not said any prayers, not even in his mind. For some reason he could not control or figure, James touched his hand to his chest, though he had no injury, and asked for it all to go away, for the terror and sorrow to end, for something to work, just this once.

  The light hummed, coursed through his body, and disappeared as it did normally when he had healed others on the battlefield. His eyelids drooped, he felt tired and drowsy like never before, he needed to lay back and sleep peacefully. And sleep peacefully he did, the grasses and vines wrapping gently around him, trees bending to shade him, and birds flying overhead to watch and protect him as their own. Like when he was born, yet James saw none of it.

  “Slap him, something!” Shinayne pleaded.

  “Open his mouth. What is that?” Zen wiped the blood from James’ mouth as he lay still in the light of dawn. “He’s not breathing elf, help me.”

  Gwenneth stood, staring, staring at the corpse of James Andellis. Her eyes fluttered, attempting to keep the tears away as the others surrounded him. She had barely known him, yet she had never seen a dead body of anyone she had known. She could not move, could not speak, the quiet horror froze her.

  Saberrak grabbed the knight by the shoulders as he crouched between the elf and dwarf. “You listen here, Andellis, and listen good. These two here have spoken thousands of words for you. I have but a few. Either die here, now, and get it over with. Or, stand up and carry on. There is no wine for you either way.”

  “Nicely put, minotaur! How can you be so cold at a time like this?” Shinayne reared her hand back to slap the gray as James head thudded back lifelessly to the frozen earth.

  “Get back, Saberrak, let me---“

  “His eyes are opening, they’re open, Shinayne!” Zen had been praying and humming hymns of his temple for hours now, hoping this man would survive. His heartbeat had been fading, his breath shallow and almost non-existent for hours, and nothing would wake him. The minotaur had put the scroll next to him in the night and Zen had not said a word about it. Anything was worth a try as James was surely dying. A moment ago, he was dead.

  The elven woman, followed by the minotaur and the wizard, crept close to the knight as his eyes flickered open. His face was full of color, not the pale portrait of death and sickness he had become. His irises had renewed blue, it seemed, not clouded by bags of weariness, red from the wine and pain. There seemed peace in but a glance as he awoke to the morning light rising from the west behind him. They watched as he changed in front of them like nothing had happened, from dead to alive. His hand covered his eyes from the light.

  “Good morning. Where are we?”

  Gasps came from lips, hands covered mouths, and no one blinked as James Andellis spoke to them for the first time since escaping Vallakazz.

  “Outside of Valhirst.” Shinayne spoke softly, teary eyed, but glad to see him awake after the last few days of such sickness. The others stood over him, silent, but surely feeling the same. “We prayed for you, Zen and I, and Saberrak as---“

  “I know, I heard you.”

  “You did? How?”

  “Another time, perhaps. What is your plan, Lady T’Sarrin?” James sat up slowly, felt for his blade, and smiled, feeling it where it should be at his side. He peered around. “I see we are on foot now.”

  “I snuck in and secured a ship with Hithins, the talking vulture. Leaves in a few hours at midday for Harlaheim. The Bronze Harpy, good crew, Captain Dennilar the Crab. Lives up to
his name, no doubt.” Tears rolled down Shinayne’s face beside her smile, seeing him try to stand on his own. She would not share that they were planning on taking him to the closest Aldane mission in an hour, and leaving him to the priests so they could carry on their quest.

  “Broad daylight, wonderful. How many waiting for us?” James pulled his shield from the ground and strapped it tight, then drew his broadsword out, checking it for any dings or scratches. The others watched in silent amazement.

  “Dozens of soldiers and archers, surely assassins of the White Spider, and Hithins detected shapechangers moving about in several groups. The Prince controls the guard, but his Captain is rumored to be employed by the White Spider, and they know we are coming.” Gwenneth, still skeptical of his health, gave a slight, half hearted smile toward the knight and reminded him of their odds.

  “I spoke with this captain of the guard, he would not give his name. But he told me that we were walking into a trap,” Shinayne added.

  “You spoke with them? Why?” James was confused, in many forms.

  “No, he sought me out inside the city, he found me. Harlian man, your age, James. He said he was there to bring down a crime lord, and that we should enter precisely at midday. He will join us on the ship, as he and his woman are escaping as well. He will provide a distraction that will get us to the docks.” Shinayne wiped her tears with her sleeve.

  “How can we trust him?” James asked, picking up the scroll and handing it to Saberrak with a nod.

  “He gave me this.” Shinayne handed a piece of torn parchment to James, one that the Harlian man had given her, in case they asked.

  James held it up, looked at the design of black feathers scripted across the parchment. The feathered cross seal stamped with three imprints at the bottom gave way to a small red streak, then ended in a shield with ten feathers drawn carefully into it.