The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  “Hmmm, you do know a little. But how much, creature?” Gwenneth, talking to herself still, flew higher, up to the tips of the masts and above, eye level now with the approaching doppelganger who was also in magical flight, both drawing any assaults away from their vessels.

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  The great slaveship pulled alongside, thirty feet from the starboard side of the Bronze Harpy, showing all the decks and floors filled with dark skinned Altestani men ordering pale skinned slaves to ready hooks, ropes, planks, and weapons to board the ship. Hundreds more than were on the galleon, ready to raid and kill for their masters.

  Saberrak waited as it approached, twenty feet, fifteen, ten, and he dove into the water off the bow of the ship. His greataxe strapped tight on his back with a leather holster, shortsword in his hand, he swam under the crashing waves of the trireme with the three eyed and three dragoned flags. He breathed the water like air, feeling a tingle in his chest from the magicks the wizard had cast upon him. He grabbed at the underside of the ship, his hand sliding on the smooth wet wood. Suddenly this was all moving much faster than he had thought. He saw the oars pulling back, their passing overhead reminded him of how short the ship really was at this speed. His blade dove into the wood, splintering as it went, the minotaur being drug back by the current.

  The gray minotaur grabbed again, trying to slow his pace in the blue depths of the freezing waters, and then he saw the anchor. Iron and massive, shaped like a dragon with outstretched wings matching some of the flags, he reached and held onto it. Breathing in the water, hearing murmured blasts and yelling from above, Saberrak climbed the chain. Using the sword as a climbing tool into the wooden wall he braced against, air finally hit his lungs. He tried not to gasp out of reflex since he had not been truly holding his breath.

  Saberrak climbed higher, above the water on the side of the slaveship, out of view on the rear of the vessel. Fifty feet above the sea, he hung at the very top, hidden below the deck, waiting for the enemy to board the Harpy.

  “Patience Saberrak, patience.” He whispered to himself, reminding him that he had to wait just a bit longer.

  He knew that he could not take on the whole crew alone, so he paused, patient, until their focus was on the galleon. Then he would make his move.

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  The collision knocked barrels across the decks, men rolled out of their crouched stances, and wood groaned and thundered as the trireme crashed alongside the galleon. Scraping, the ships drove forward on the waves, the smaller Harpy being pushed closer to the coast and away from Harlaheim. Yells and battle charges sounded as planks and hooks from four of six decks of the massive vessel flew from portholes and bridges. Too many to count, the hooks that passed the magical barrier grabbed the siderail, and pulled the ships tight together.

  The crew of the Harpy got back on their feet just in time to see the planks fill with men from the Headhunter as they dropped between the ships. They swung by rope, climbed by hooked supports, and ran down planks. Men of various cultures, thin, strong, young and old, driven by finely armed and dressed masters with curved blades and headdresses above their darker skin. Hundreds charged the smaller galleon at once, war cries and enslaved screams filled the air.

  “Ahzsh Yjaros!” The foreigners screamed glory to their God.

  “Cut the ropes! Push the planks into the sea!” Shinayne left the helm, blades out, charging to the deck below her, rallying her men as the enemy boarded.

  “Fire!” James Andellis stood low, his men behind him loosing their arrows and bolts into the charging slaves that passed through the clear arcane barrier.

  “Now stand your ground men, we hold them here!” The knight stood at the front of the foredeck, dozens charging past those that fell from the volley. He raised his broadsword, the edge to his face, and saluted the mass of enemies that he stood against.

  Azenairk picked up his warhammer from where he had been praying on the middle deck, and stood hard as his men threw planks and cut ropes. He had done all he could, and felt that he would fight it out and let God decide. The slaves leapt onto the ship, the men cut and crossed swords.

  One of the slaves swung his machete at the priest, hitting his raised shield. He countered with a hard swing to the man’s ribs, shattering them beneath the flesh and then turned on another. There were many, too many, and Zen attacked the nearest one, swinging his weapon into their bodies, deflecting cuts from an array of swords, his men fighting and dying beside him. The battle began, the starboard side of the Harpy filled with northern invaders as the Chazzrynn men fought for the five fugitives before them.

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  Gwenneth resisted more energy as spiraling waves of black rushed at her from the palms of the doppelganger, magicks of the dead, forbidden spells, arcane contraband for the mortal world. Her hand ached from unleashing so much power to dispel his attacks. She looked down at the crew. Seeing the battle in place, Lazlette pulled her staff with both hands, letting the barrier fade. She pointed the tip at the doppelganger, shards of ice by the hundreds launching forward.

  Flames erupted from his palm, melting the barrage. Another followed from the woman, this time orbs of shadow and electricity shot through the evening sky, unerringly targeted on Gregore. His hands pressed together, black eyes staring at the woman, and a red globe of illumination surrounded him, the sparking bolts crackling into it before they reached him. As they did, Gwenne uttered a quick dispel of her own, not on the globe, but on the shapeshifter. His form involuntarily reverted to a hairless beast, covered in arcane tattoos, with a black cloak around him that whipped in the wind. His curved noble sword and jewelry remained, and he hovered above the deck, fully revealed for what he was. Several of his men nearby took notice and began talking in Altestani, and word spread.

  “That was not nice. No, no. Not nice, little girl. No, no.” It waved its finger at her, eyes full of hate and menace. Gregore levitated further off the deck of the ship he had assumed command of, in case any men should feel brave enough to confront him.

  “I like to see who I am about to kill, doppelganger.” Gwenne Lazlette raised her hand, sending shimmering light around her body, protecting her. She flew forward fast, as did her enemy, charging each other in mid air, hundreds of feet above the sea.

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  Saberrak jumped aboard the upper deck of the trireme, seeing only five Altestani men there now at the wheel. He threw the shortsword end over end, plunging it deep into the back of the man at the steering. They turned, just in time to see their navigator lose his head from a vicious greataxe, the blood splattering across the deck as the body fell, while the head rolled past them. A secondary backswing chopped through the chain armor, through bone and flesh, blood running like water from the axeblade. The remaining Altestani men yelled in some foreign tongue the minotaur did not understand, and drew curved shamshir blades.

  They dove at him with fear and fury mixed, slashing at the horned warrior. His axe deflected one cut, another barely slicing his bicep and a small thin trickle of blood ran down. He lowered his head, and charged through the bearded northern warrior, trampling him. The gray gladiator reached down and grabbed him by the throat, lifted and turned, hurling him at the one that had cut him. The neck snapped during the throw, sending a scream that many likely heard. The Altestani swordsman ducked his comrade and attacked again, parried by the handle of the greataxe.

  Saberrak grabbed the man’s sword hand, and then drove his axe into the flank of his enemy. He heard men coming up the stairs to the aid of their masters as he pulled the curved blade from the hand of the dying soldier. With one brutal spin, he cut the man in two with his axe and his own curved sword. Four men stopped at the top stair, facing the bloody helm and seeing the carnage spread all over.

  Eyes from under horns, a face with horn tattoos splattered with blood, atop a seven and a half foot tall beast, the
men yelled “ech Midroon!” over and over, backing down the way they came.

  Saberrak assumed they meant minotaur, hoped they meant something worse, and dropped his weapons to his feet. He crouched below the wheel, grabbed with both hands, and lifted. He roared and snarled, his massive muscles bulging, wood splintering as his rage took over. The column snapped, the wheel still attached, and the horned warrior lifted it overhead and threw it at his four admirers.

  Down the stairs they went, men crushed by two hundred pounds of flying wood. Saberrak saw more attention directed his way, more Altestani warriors. He picked up the greataxe and the curved sword and marched toward the masts. Twenty men stood in his way at the lower stairs, armed with curved swords and small round shields, trained soldiers. The minotaur did not blink, feeling nothing, seeing only dead men ahead of him, slave owners needing his steel before he reached the massive wooden beams.

  “Ech midroon!” They yelled again as if twenty men may not be enough.

  “Yes, ech midroon!” Saberrak roared as he lowered his horns and charged them, twirling the bloody axe as he ran.

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  The griffon pommeled blade cut through another slave with a crosscut to the chest. James parried a spear thrust, spun with his shield, and knocked the slave into the sea. His weapon chopped down through the face of another man with a scimitar, then the knight kicked him off the rail to follow his ally. The men fought hard, holding the foredeck, but the numbers around them were growing, being rallied by an Altestani officer of some high rank on the deck across from him on the enemy vessel. James eyed him, saw them point himout with their blades, and he backed up a step to accept the unspoken challenge.

  “James, no!”

  He heard Zen shouting, but kept his focus. James leapt onto the plank, one of still dozens in place allowing the mass of soldiers onto the Bronze Harpy. The knight walked carefully across the wooden platform, crouching behind his shield twice as arrows fired. After the ringing of deflection, James wavered, then steadied, the motion of the ships rubbing making the plank unstable. Three slaves charged him to protect their commander.

  The first lunged with his saber, and James pinned it down with his shield to the wooden plank, and then cut across the man's throat with his broadsword. The second weaved two long daggers, running forward, his arms out, ready to thrust at any open vital spot on the knight. Sir Andellis stepped ahead, letting the edges hit his shield, swung high at the warrior's head, then spun on his right heel in full circle, crouched low. The edge of the sword took the foot off right above the ankle, then the follow through pierced his chest as James walked over the screaming body.

  The third slave, larger and more muscular, obviously an oarman, held a great scimitar in two hands, standing halfway across the platform over the turbulent waters. The knight of Chazzrynn marched forward, seeing the curved blade come up and across at his head, raising his shield, he advanced. It sparked off the angled protection, just as James lowered his head and unleashed a vicious sideswing from the broadsword. The cut sliced under the slave’s armpit, splitting him wide open. He turned halfway behind the crouching warrior, and cleaved the back of his neck with a clean slash of the edge, cutting the head from the body.

  The knight turned toward the Headhunter, and raised a blood soaked blade to the withdrawing Altestani officer, challenging him up close. James held no fear, marching in salute directly onto the second deck of the enemy ship. The two stood in that moment of matched stares for a short eternity. The dark skinned noble accepted, drawing his scimitar and bowing his adorned headdress in return, their blue eyes of differing nations both holding the stare of hatred.

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  Shinayne parried with her elven longblade, and thrust forward into a half lunge with the curved shortblade, driving the point into the slave warrior that faced her, his handaxe dropping to the deck, his body following. Surrounded, unable to see James or Azenairk, the swordswoman surveyed quickly. She saw Saberrak on the enemy ship, and witnessed his greataxe cutting through many an enemy soldier. She glanced at the sky, where Gwenneth and some robed creature were hurling deadly fantastic magicks at each other, encircling one another in rapid flight. The foredeck was holding, but the main deck was swarmed, along with the aft of the ship where she stood. The Harpy was holding, but locked against the larger ship, helpless to its will and size. She did not see James anywhere.

  Siril help us, guide my blades.

  The elf went into action, the edges of her swords cutting into enemy men as she dodged, sidestepped, and wove her way through the plague of human slave warriors. First, the curved blades cut from behind, through the hamstrings of a tall warrior that had just cleaved one of her men down with an axe. Stepping quickly, her left weapon pierced the chest of a young slave trying to flank her, just as her right cut twice across the abdomen and throat of an Altestani soldier who turned to grab her. Shinayne rolled forward under several blades meant for her head, springing up and driving both points through the body of another slave.

  The elf spun, dropping low and cutting through the calves of two different human men that had been charging from behind and had lost her. Blood ran down her matching swords and she plunged them into their hearts as they hit the deck screaming and holding their legs. Shinayne crossed her longblade overhead, stopping a scimitar from another dark skinned northern soldier behind, rising up, splitting him from groin to chin with a dragging backcut from the edge of the shortsword. Her elbow crushed his temple, sending him down to the deck.

  Three men surrounded her as she came close to the main deck, a trail of dead behind her. Two with scimitars and one with a spear, all signaling to each other to take her together. She crouched low, facing the spearman, then sprang out, sidestepping his thrusting point and dove both blades high into his chest near the shoulders. Shinayne crouched and sprung, kicking herself into the air, somersaulting over the soldier, using the lodged weapons as leverage and balance.

  Two sword cuts slashed through his body, from his own men, and the elf landed behind him, her swords ripping through his shoulders as she held on to her grip. She pulled them free as the spearman dropped, turning from behind him and cleaving the throat of the darker swordsman as she danced through the battle. As he fell, she felt the cut to her side hit flesh and armor from the third warrior's scimitar. Her shirt was moist and hot with blood, but she did not hesitate. Shinayne stabbed her shortblade through his forearm that held the scimitar, crosscut him twice across the torso, then kicked him back off the rail and into the sea.

  Her men were thinning, but the enemy slaves fell into the waters as their planks and bridges were thrown off the Harpy. Many of the crew rallied behind her after the dazzling display of swordsmanship they had just witnessed. Shinayne made her way back to the upper deck of the rear of the ship, leaving drops of blood behind her as she watched more men board the Harpy. She needed to see if there was any hope left as the never ending supply of slaves continued to flood in. Now high up at the helm, she realized they had barely made a dent in the Altestani forces.

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  Seeing his men dying, unsure of what more he could do besides fight, Azenairk concentrated on his men, their wounds, their weapons, and their enemies. He hit his hammer hard on the deck, breathing deep and humming as he closed his eyes in the middle of the siege. He felt the hopelessness of fighting these odds much longer, and the need for something. He had faith beyond faith, and he let his mind and heart reach outside himself, asking for God's help, his mercy, and his strength. His mind dove into deep focus for but a moment, feeling Vundren, the father of his fathers. Zen spoke his name under his breath, and touched his Hammerpiece symbol, then picked up his warhammer as he opened his eyes. Making his peace, he was ready to fight to the death with his friends.

  “Open the mountain gates, tell them the last Thalanaxe is coming!”

  He looked at his men, some dying, but then they
stood up next to him, wounds healing, and they stared in astonishment. The same look that the dwarf gave them, as six, then eight, then twenty men stood from the bloody deck. Their cuts were gone, like they never were, and they picked up their swords and charged back into battle with their leader on the main deck of the ship. The eyes of the slaves were agape at the small wonder, seeing the near dead and dying stand anew to fight once more.

  Azenairk looked at the blades of his men, seeing a slight metallic sheen and sparkle to them, something new to their weapons. Maybe thirty of his men, over half that still lived, had an unexplained glow about their weapons if one were to look. And the priest looked hard, seeing the parries cut the enemy blades clean through. Their attacks sliced through any armor or shield, the weapons of his men moved a little faster, struck surer, and seemed sharper than possible. Many dead sailors remained still, yet the ones who seemed healed had an inspired look to their eyes that Zen could not deny, and it had not been there before.

  “Aye, Vundren, maybe I’ll fight a bit more then!”

  The first plank collapsed, split in half by a jagged rock that passed by in the few feet between the ships. Its jagged spike of rough brown stone was jutting out of the sea some twenty feet high. The rock split every rope, every hooked ladder, and almost every plank that connected the ships together. More than forty slaves fell into the Carisian and many Altestani soldiers as well. Hundreds still fought on the deck of the Harpy, more planks began to rise and fall from the Headhunter, yet a hard blow had been struck.

  Azenairk's men let out a battle cry, diving into the fray again, with healed wounds, new life, and glistening blades. The dwarf lowered his head, and charged in with them, smiling for small miracles.