The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  The masts had no air as they lay on the deck of the enemy ship, and their remaining leaders had no way to steer the burning vessel as it glided in the sea, undirected due to a destructive minotaur. Now, the decks smoldered and collapsed, terrorized by invoked arcane powers that had tore through it.

  Gwenneth saw the decks of the Headhunter fall, one onto the other, hundreds crushed or trapped. Her eyes closing, she fought to slowly fall onto the upper deck of the Harpy, her body numb, her ears echoing from the blasts of thunder. Gwenneth Lazlette breathed out a gasp, and inhaled deeply, levitating down to the top of the helm of the galleon. She stood next to the minotaur leaning on the rail, and the elven swordswoman at the wheel. Her body weak, vision cloudy, Gwenneth fell forward, right into James Andellis.

  “Easy there, easy, Lady of Lazlette.” James held her up, letting her stand on her own but giving support.

  “I will be fine.” Gwenneth blinked her eyes and tried to shake the vertigo off.

  “I know.” James nodded, yet held her up, leaning on the rail of the ship.

  No one issued commands, the ships separated now, and the barrage of men ceased to flood the Harpy. The trapped Altestani soldiers and slaves were cut down and mobbed, many jumping overboard to avoid capture.

  They all watched the Headhunter, the decks collapsing on top of the ones below it, men diving and screaming off of the slaveship. They passed the fissures of immense length burned and splintered through the wood, smoke rising from a courseless vessel with no mast, and no flags raised. They watched the ship fall behind in ruin as the Bronze Harpy passed her bow, veering toward Harlaheim, leaving their enemies to the Carisian Sea.

  The crew pushed the remaining slaves into the Carisian, all eyes then upon the waters to their south as the Headhunter faded into the distance behind them, smoke rising miles in the air. Swords waved, cheers went up from the near fifty men that still stood alive. James saluted them and Azenairk rushed to the upper deck. Then the rain came, gentle, mixed with parting clouds and sunlight as Harlaheim neared.

  Saberrak stood up next to Shinayne and Gwenneth, bowing slightly to the brave men of the Harpy, who threw hails and praise their direction, and then he watched the Altestani ship burn on the horizon. The minotaur bowed again, something new he had learned here on the surface, this time bowing to his vanquished enemies.

  “I can’t believe it.” James stared through the rain, watching the Headhunter smoke and fall back from view.

  “Trust in God, James.” Zen patted his shoulder.

  “And in minotaurs, elves, and mighty magicks,” James chuckled.

  “Those too. Not to mention brave knights and dwarven steel.”

  “Very true, very true, my friend.”

  They watched the last moments of the enemy ship, the tip of the aft rising up, then dropping below the water. Then, nothing remained to see, yet everyone watched the south, all in disbelief that they were alive.

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  “You see, my young apprentice, never doubt that which you cannot see.” Kalzarius watched as the lantern lights lit throughout the city as the clouds and rain cast over. They waited for the Bronze Harpy to arrive at the docks.

  “I know what I saw, Master. I saw the incantation of the sky, a spell that I would not dare touch after forty years of study with you. How old is Gwenneth Lazlette?” Cilano was still staring, amazed at the vanquished vessel, having been destroyed by a girl he fathomed to be twenty years younger than himself.

  “Why? Age does not always determine your talents, you realize.” Kalzarius smiled.

  “Yes. But I was wondering how she learned such power so young. Aelaine Lazlette must be powerful indeed.”

  “Well, I suppose I could take some credit there.” Kalzarius nodded to Cilano.

  “Perhaps I am studying at the wrong tower?” He smiled to his ancient and most famous teacher.

  “Baah, I taught Aelaine as well. In fact, I taught Lassado of Eisel Inne, so both other masters learned from me. You wait your turn now, and I will show you the true path to---“

  “I know Master, I know.” Cilano patted Kalzarius on the shoulder gently and smiled.

  “And do not forget it.” The old master pointed as he levitated toward the docks and the approaching vessel.

  Hunters I:VI

  Temple of the Whitemoon

  Kingdom of Caberra

  Green light, soft and warm, allowed the hunter to open his deep topaz eyes. His body felt no pain, only stiffness in his arms, ribs, and legs, and that too, was fading with each moment he was awake. Lavender and sage filled the room made of twisting roots and vines of deep green. The light came from the tips of the roots and plants, small globes of pure fey magic that danced, but stayed still when one looked upon them. Rose petals, he smelled of rose petals, and could tell he had been well taken care of while he slept. Tears in his armor and hide clothing had been repaired, his weapons polished, his hair washed and braided. His wounds from the sword fight with the Nadderi elf, Kendari, were healed with barely faint scars to show.

  Lavress Tilaniun rose from the bed of leaves and silken cloth, a room of healing power inside the Temple of the Whitemoon. His steps were silent, much like the temple itself. As he walked into the main room of the sacred chamber, several beings stood up from the stone steps and seats, many more floated or flew upwards from leaf sofas and perches on the trees that grew green underground and stretched into the earthen ceiling. Eyes stared from wrinkled little fey faces of the old, and pointy nosed glares from the young. They were everywhere, from the size of half his hand to the height of his knee, and no two fairies looked alike. Their whipsers were of him, Lavress knew, yet he simply nodded in his daze.

  Kilbura the sphinx, eyes staring at the wood elf of the Hedim Anah, sacred hunter of the fey courts, walked forward toward him. Pixies flitted, naked forest women his size walked from within the trees, small sprites sang a sad melody as he walked in. Even a small trio of brown haired nixie boys with wooden sticks and a jar of ink stood up, a foot high was all, but stood up at his presence.

  “Kneel, Lavress Tilaniun of Gualidura, Hunter of the Hedim Anah, Defender of the Temple, and Bane to the Nadderi.” The great sphinx waited for the elven protector to kneel, then nodded to the nixies.

  Lavress felt his eyes tearing, knowing that despite his failure with the book, he was receiving honors from the temple, and from all the fey present. His head lowered, wishing he could have saved the hiroon, wishing he had retrieved all four of the mystical elven tomes, and wishing Shinayne were here with him.

  One nixie flew, his translucent wings barely visible, and plucked a feather from the sphinx’s wing, then dipped the tip into a jar of blue ink on one of the white stone pedestals. He then flew to Lavress, another tying the marked feather with braided hemp into his hair.

  “For your loyalty in protecting this temple, I honor you as a brother. If you should need my help for anything, Lavress, I am in your debt.”

  The third nixie flew over, the other two passing him to reach another jar, lifting it off of the stone. He dipped the sharp stick, pointed and glowing, into the small jar of ink, and began to pluck it quickly under the skin of the wood elf's forehead. The tattooing did not hurt, and he would not have moved nor blinked even if it had.

  “For your bravery, your courage, your fearless spirit, and undaunted prowess in the face of your enemies, we give you the first moon of the Mother Seirena. Wear it well, my friend.” Kilbura let out a great sigh, one of tension more than relief. The fey cheered, music rang from harps and their voices, all looking at the round brown dot of a moon above his brow which matched the color of his other tattoos perfectly.

  Lavress smiled, drank the honey and rye wine he was offered, and found himself covered in the little spirits of the forests and sacred places. Something was not right, the sphinx had given it away already, but Lavress thought of what it could be. The Princess was not here, nor was Bedesh, and perhaps the canine guardian, Jeven
dial, and Kilbura were very close. The wood elf's mind thought of many reasons for his sorrow, and decided to approach him. As he did, the music stopped, the songs faded away, and the sphinx looked at them all.

  “Princess Finwel-Dur says it is time. Come Lavress, walk with me.”

  Confused, cup of wine in hand, Lavress walked alongside the great winged cat into the throne room and sacred and holy grounds of Seirena, the Goddess of the earth and fey. “My heart longs for your friend, great sphinx. The hiroon was a mighty warrior. I wish I could have gotten there in...…I am sorry.” The wood elf put his hand on the shoulder and wing of Kilbura, walking with him, offering support.

  The great guardian of the fey lowered his head, eyes closed while he walked beside the hunter. “I am sorry too, Lavress Tilaniun.”

  All was silent, the light shining white and blue in the throne room. The root statue of Seirena’ s face glowed with twinkling silver and gold, like dust or mist that held something otherworldly and mystical. Lavress touched his forehead, his lips, and his chin to be thoughtful, silent, and proud in the presence of the Mother and her children. He looked to the right of the empty throne, and there was the Princess, her hands clasped over…

  Lavress dropped his cup. It shattered on the floor as he hit his knees, his hand still on the wing on the sphinx. Tears flowed from his choking face, his lips puckering, wanting to cry out, desperately wanting this not to be. He maintained his silence, his breathing, and his grief.

  “No, no, no,no, no. Not him. He saved us, he should live.” All he could do was whisper through pursed lips as he stepped the still body of Bedesh, his bow laid gently upon his chest. His brown fur perfectly groomed, white satin cloths wrapped in honor, covered with leaves. The satyr looked at peace, the princess running her fingers over his small horns, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “We waited until you awoke to say the prayers. He died before we could get to him, Lavress, and died bravely. He would want you to keep your bow, and I feel you should as well. You will remember him often as you carry it.” Her words were like soft music, her tears seemed to heal his heart rather than make it feel more pain.

  “Is there nothing you can do, daughter of Seirena and Siril? Nothing at all? He died saving me, were I to take his place…” Lavress touched his face, knowing that he could do nothing, she could do nothing, or she would have already.

  “It has been three days, Lavress. It is not the will of the Mother, and there is always a higher purpose after pain, always. Our Mother, his Mother, my Mother, never question her will.” Finwel-Dur floated on her fey wings back to the throne, giving them time alone.

  Lavress took the bow, placing it on the ground, and placed his hand on his chest, his other on Bedesh’s. He asked for forgiveness, for safe passage, and for thanks to him. He sat for many long untold moments with his friend, the satyr.

  “I have spoken to him, and he said he will be seeing you soon. He enjoyed hunting with you, running with you, and hopes to do so again, very soon. He sends his thanks for his rescue, and says he will find you.” The princess' composure was delicate, her sparkling eyes under her crown of wood vine and jewels barely held back tears.

  “He will be honored as a guardian of the Whitemoon, and sung of in the prayers,” Kilbura added.

  Lavress stood up, wiping his eyes, and looked down to the satyr. “Good bye, Bedesh of Haven Glen.” The hunter picked up the bow, and took his place next to the princess, as did the sphinx.

  He kept his chin up, his mind focused, and his mouth closed as he knelt once again. The high priestess of the fey, one of seven children of the Gods, the princess Finwel-Dur, placed her hand on Lavress’ shoulder, and on the wing of her priest Kilbura, and began to sing in her ancient tongue to all present. The words had meaning, deep and powerful prayers, ones that Lavress could not understand, but felt nonetheless. Slowly, the leaves lowered, the earth rose, the grasses in the temple floor grew, and Bedesh was with the earth, the fey, and nature. He was taken by the Goddess in peace, love, and honor.

  Lavress wept quietly. His mind wandered in sorrow, for Shinayne, for his mission to come, for the satyr that had died so honorably to help someone he barely knew. The hunter felt it all, and kept it all inside, save for a few tears that escaped. It had been over a century since the hunter had felt such great sorrow. He would find Eliah Shendrynn, find his beloved, find the fourth book, but he did not know how to tell Shinayne that Bedesh of Haven Glen was dead.

  Lavress took the feather from his hair, walked to the sacred spot where Bedesh had just been, and placed the feather upon the mound of earth and grass.

  “Good bye, my friend. We will meet soon.”

  Exodus I:XII

  Docks of Harlaheim

  “Speak to a man of his home, and you shall know what he has seen. Speak to a man of his faith, and you may find what he has been told to believe. Speak to a man of his journeys, and you could feel the very world that has been under his feet.” –Bishop Ransen Wainwright, Temple of Golden Mercy, Vallakazz, Chazzrynn 310 AD

  James watched as Shinayne gave a sword salute to Captain Eoan Henterson of Silverbridge, handing him the Captain’s cutlass and the old flag of Chazzrynn, neatly folded. Most of the crew was in rough formation on the docks, inspired, sad, but victorious, and hopeful with the new captain from their own ranks. The Chazzrynn man had been there the longest, fought bravely beside Sir James they said, and seemed to have the approval of the crew. Most importantly, the men wanted Lady T’Sarrin to stay aboard as captain, but since she declined, they wanted her approval on who would take her place as captain of the Bronze Harpy. Though only captain for three days, the crew felt she had fought, sailed, and led them better than any captain could have, through the impossible.

  “May your men, your travels, and your blade, be blessed by Siril, Captain Henterson.” Shinayne smiled.

  “Aye, and yours as well, Lady Shinayne T’Sarrin.” Eoan bowed deep then raised his cutlass high, still in the scabbard, but bringing a rowdy cheer from the surviving crew.

  The men shook hands, said their thanks to Sir James, the minotaur, and the dwarven priest that had somehow healed some of them during the siege without a touch. Hesitantly, due to what they had seen her unleash, the men bowed to the Lady of Lazlette as well. The sailors had some repairs to see to and much cargo to trade and sell, but for now, they wished to be near their champions. They broke out the wine and whiskey, and the tales began that night, recounting the entire journey from Valhirst to Harlaheim. Seventy eight had died in battle, quite a tale for the seas. Seventy eight that had fought against over five hundred and would be hailed in death, most victorious indeed by the forty three survivors, and their five heroes.

  “That ship will be famous for decades now, quite a feat young Lazlette.” Cilano bowed and greeted the woman he had heard of as the prodigal girl at the Lazlette Semanarium Arcanum in Vallakazz. Many years had passed since the man had visited there in his youth, and he thought often of the four towers over Lake Pellicram.

  Gwenneth passed by the man who was obviously an aged student, giving barely a nod of greeting, walking quickly to meet the man she admired most in all the world. She cared little for the crew of the merchant ship, though they all wished to give her thanks. The men were still in awe, hours later, at her dazzling display of magic and power, but she had little to talk about with sailors. She cared not for fancy traditions or ceremonies, or less fancy and traditional in this case. She was simply glad to be here, and to be off of the galleon. She straightened up, walking with her staff proudly, and trying to remain composed at the sight of her favorite teacher from so many years ago, Kalzarius.

  “Gwenneth? My, how you have grown, my dear. You are surely your mother's daughter.” Kalzarius hugged the girl, kissing her forehead, though she was as tall as he now, and it was not much of a stretch down for the old man anymore.

  “Kalzarius, you look exactly how I remember you. Why all of the men?” Gwenneth looked about, noticing well over fifty armed
wizards and guards, not to mention the thousands that had gathered as the battle of the ships had been taking place near the city port.

  “We will have time to talk of that when we are in safety. Please get your companions. They are at risk even now, even here.” The old wizard started to walk back north to the tower, his legs sore from the walk down, and from old age.

  “I will fetch the others, if you wish it, my lady.” Cilano bowed, received the noble wave of a hand, and went to retrieve her comrades at the dock. He had heard that young Lazlette was cold, having grown up with such wealth of knowledge and privilege. Now he saw the truth to it.

  “Tell me what possible troubles could we have here, in your care, great wizard?” Gwenneth bowed playfully, letting the little girl out for but a moment, then regaining her strict self. Her eyes fell upon the black and white marble tower, taller than any she had ever seen, and had dreamt of seeing again since she was a child. The walk would take time, but her eyes stayed fixed on the place she had called home for many years of study in her youth. There were not enough hours to stare at its majesty, even in the scattered cold rain.

  “With all fairness, this concerns all of you. Let me explain it once, when your allies catch up. You do have the scroll, of course?”

  The old man leaned more heavily on his staff than she remembered, and spoke softer as well.

  “Of course. Saberrak the Gray carries it, the minotaur. He is the only one that cannot read, yet he found it, and is quite protective of it.” Gwenneth pointed back at the horned warrior, now that they were approaching. For a moment, she had forgotten about the stone scroll of Annar, elated to see the old master of wizardry.

  “A minotaur? You have a minotaur in possession of one of the most sought after relics in the last millennium? Sometimes I wonder, Gwenne. All power and little common sense. Speaking of which, I was meaning to…”