The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Dedication

  Forward

  Prologue

  Introduction

  Chapter1

  Chapter2

  Chapter3

  Chapter4

  Chapter5

  Chapter6

  Chapter7

  Chapter8

  Chapter9

  Chapter10

  Chapter11

  Chapter12

  Chapter13

  Chapter14

  Chapter15

  Chapter16

  Chapter17

  Chapter18

  Chapter19

  Chapter20

  Chapter21

  Chapter22

  Chapter23

  Chapter24

  Chapter25

  Chapter26

  Chapter27

  Chapter28

  Chapter29

  Chapter30

  Chapter31

  Chapter32

  Chapter33

  Chapter34

  Chapter35

  Chapter36

  Chapter37

  Chapter38

  Chapter39

  Chapter40

  Chapter41

  Chapter42

  Author

  Gratitude

  Epilogue

  The Exodus Sagas

  III

  Of Ghosts And Mountains

  by

  Jason R Jones

  “An exodus is a grand departure or escape of spiritual importance comprising of flight from persecution, loss, suffering, the past, or slavery; resulting in a journey to a place of holy sanctuary, guided by God.”

  For my sister, Anya,

  My true opposite, my other half, my voice of reason, and the little girl grown that I do not know half as well as I should. Yet there you are, in my corner when I am not even looking, usually when I need you the most.

  Forward to the Exodus Sagas

  There is little that can be read of the great kingdoms of the continent of Agara prior to the flood almost four hundred years ago. Most history that survived is in small collections in the castles and libraries of nobility or hidden away in old temples and cathedrals. The countries of the northern continent of Ala Sere, under the rule of the holy empire of Altestan, saw to it many times over that written accounts were destroyed. Nearly three thousand years of persecution has driven the northern cultures to flee south to a land where myth and legend, the arcane and the divine, still hold hope for mankind. The fair skinned native Agarians introduced the northern refugees to their ways, the magical fey shrines, the mystical elves and dwarves, and shared the shelters of a new world under the moons. Great kingdoms and cities of spiritual power were constructed out of these cultural friendships. It was not to last.

  The Emperors of Altestan had a lineage of men whose devotion to Yjaros, the One God, God of man, God of Gods, would not allow them to sit idly as their people fell under the supposed spells of lesser races. Great blended cities of various cultures and faiths were blasphemy to them and they felt the word of God guide them from his throne on the green moon. The Altestani and their mighty armadas swept over Agara destroying Kivanis, Aloeste, Arouland, and Mooncrest. They invaded and murdered those they crossed that were not human, much as they had done in their own lands so many thousands of years ago. Their belief that man was the chosen race and His children, drove them beyond care or reason. They made brutal examples of their interpretation of the will of Yjaros, despite the cries of many religions and worshippers of other Gods. Their armies massed by sea and land, cornering the last of the remaining clergies deep off the southern coast to Teirinshire in the kingdom of Chazzrynn. The Carician worshippers, bowing to lesser Gods of the white moon, had nowhere left to run and their allies had been annihilated or had surrendered. Branded as heathens and pagans by the oppression, they died as warnings to the southern populace. Yet victory was not to remain.

  Atop the holy tower of Arouland, a young boy named Tarum knelt above the hundreds of thousands that had conquered and killed in the name of their God. A pious priest of Alden, the Lord of Heaven, Tarum began to pray aloud. Soon he was joined by the thousands devoted to Seirena, Megos, Vundren, Siril, and long lost Annar. Even many of the Altestani, hearing the foreign words of prayer in unison, began to kneel and speak to God. The waters of the Vateric Ocean rose, and within hours a terrible storm swept over the cliffs of south and west. The flood did not stop for the priests and clergy, for the warlords or sorcerers of Altestan, not even for Tarum or the holy patriots of Alden. The ocean covered the western cities, drowning northern ships and southern civilizations together. The empires of the north took it as a warning from God for not recognizing the lesser Gods and for their pride in conquest. Many saw it as a trap or a trick of magical nature. The southern realms saw it as yet another act of the Gods that made a martyr out of the tyranny they had forgotten existed. But some knew the truth.

  The mortal wars of land and sea are mirrored in the heavens and in the realms of the two moons by the powers that be. There is a struggle for existence, for free will from a creator that demands obedience and one that has been and always will be. There are no known records or histories in writing of what the truth could actually be. Books are lost or burned, stories change with each teller and new generation, and many a man would alter a tale should it be to his benefit. Thousands upon thousands of years could not hold accurately all of the myths and spiritual journeys that have occurred by mortal and immortal alike. No dragon, elf, dwarf or man could assemble together in a lifetime enough to show and prove the truths to others. Once those that were there have passed on, every story becomes history. However, there is one man who remembers well far more than he should, possesses long forbidden powers in secret, and has been in existence to see more than any man should have seen. Blessed, some would say if they knew of him, cursed says he who has survived it, the truth is likely somewhere in the middle.

  Close to four centuries after the deluge as the Agarian calendar has shown it, the floodwaters have receded and one man is able to share of the journeys of those few he has seen gathered by divine fate. His story is one of pain and triumph, freedom, and mystery. Yet his tale is for another time. Deep under the bloody and bejeweled streets of Devonmir, awaiting his death, lies the divine carrier of a forgotten deity. In an attempt to rescue their friend, his companions that quest for the mythical mines of Kakisteele will face more than just the dreaded arenas. Their hopes must pass through the dangerous Misathi Mountains and by those that inhabit her peaks. Ancient enemies hunt them tirelessly for what they possess, and what they do not yet have.

  Our teller of tales began watching from afar, listening to rumors and stories of how these strangers met, and why they remained together. Finally free of many of his own demons and curses, this man put together the sagas of ghosts and castles, giants and mountains, and far off places where it all began. The last stand of forgotten deities, lost kingdoms, and races destined for extinction has begun. He shall tell us, and his son, of the Exodus…

  Prologue

  Gillian, Shanador

  Clouds of midmorning drifted across the warming hills and dampened trees as I watched him run after the chickens. My son’s little legs had grown strong and his smiles were endless this past summer. Alessandeir rarely fell now when he ran. I tried for a moment to recall my youth of that age, I cannot. There is nothing of my childhood that stands out, just feelings of loss and forgetting. I have achieved something, the epiphany hit me. My son is happy, running, smiling, and free from worry even though his beautiful mother, Gabrielle, is dead. For once, I feel as t
hough I have not failed at something completely. We have wealth, protection, solitude, and many things that I had never thought important until recently. Now that they let me return to the world to have a chance at another…

  “My Lord Azarris?”

  The man had been waiting while I daydreamed out under the sky. Thanks be his patience and respect of my false title. Sir Ullimar of Gillian, older man, wanted to know if I had any sons for the Shields of Shanador this year. The knight of this district of the kingdom had no idea who I was beyond Lord Sodom Azarris, thankfully so.

  “Sir Ullimar, though my son will be a great man someday, I will have to decline unless Shanador wars against chickens.”

  His laughter was as hearty as mine, his beard wiggled up and down, yet his hand never left the scroll at his side as we watched my boy go after the larger flock of fowl.

  “Very well m’lord, truer words I have not heard this month.” his smile from under the gray and blonde beard was sincere. He breathed in my fresh country air outside of Gillian, which puffed his chest out even more. A hand taller than me already, the knight of Shanador was a giant in girth, much like his tan horse.

  “I can tell we are to talk, regardless.” I knew serious postures behind casual talk. His armor plates from shin to shoulder were adorned with the shield and stallion crests of the kingdom, shined to a beaming reflection. His sword pommel glistened with the sun upon it’s feathered cross of steel. A cloak of green and gold trim tassels was blowing in my breezes. His brow lines above his big crooked nose wrinkled with the realization that I was aware he had another motive for the ride today. “I am correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “On with it then.” I turned to face him, not wanting to take my eyes off of the moment we were sharing as my son charged through on a dozen hens before us. “What has happened in the north?”

  “The Decadecy Conclave, in Acelinne, all noble lords are summoned to the capital.” he handed me the scroll. I handed it back.

  “I am not interested in politics, nor religion, even once every ten years. I pay my taxes from my lands, and I tithe to the Aldane cathedral in Gillian. I have done my part for kings and church. I asked of the north, Sir knight.”

  “The ten low kings, the bishops, the cardinal, every knight and every lord are summoned by our high king of Shanador, Lord Azarris. Altestan has threatened war, we lost Rugeness last month.”

  “Rugeness? The capital of Kivanis? Then in essence, you lost the kingdom of Kivanis.”

  “Yes m’lord.”

  “And Caberra is still under treaty, which means you need to prepare for war with no allies. I have but a few hundred people, in my village of no name mind thee, Sir Ullimar. Shanador will need more than that to hold against Altestan and their empires spanning all of Ala Sere.”

  “It matters not, Lord Azarris. Please understand.”

  “I am no warrior, and my son is three. I have lost my wife to the denfora sickness last year, I must decline.” I had to avoid this, no attention, no problems, they had told me when I was released that if I began getting involved…

  “It is not an invitation, lord Azarris, it is an order. I lost two nephews at Rugeness, and my sons are of age. One in the Crossguard Legion, and one in the Shields of Shanador up with the Second Northern brigade. I understand how you feel.” he handed the scroll back to me, his offer a few inches closer this time, and stronger.

  “I do not believe that you do, Sir Ullimar, no one does.” This man had no clue whom I was, only a name on his list. A false surname, a lord and landowner, yet that I am not noble and not who he thinks me eludes him of course. Had he known of me, from millennia passed by, of what I am capable of, he would try to kill me right here and now. Any holy man would. “Very well.”

  His face looked relieved instantly. “Thank you m’lord, you have no idea how heavy these scrolls get when held out in such manner.”

  “It weighs nearly nothing, my son could hold this for hours. You are a bear of a man if ever I had seen one.”

  “Tis not the actual weight, m’lord, tis the weight of the words and the deed that no one wishes to hear, but must.” The knight of Shanador marched to his magnificent warhorse covered with green banners and silver steel. He mounted and said, “In one month and three days m’lord, should take you a week’s journey by horse to Acelinne.”

  “I can make it much faster than that.” I stated with no emotion, my feelings tied to whatever decree was inside the parchment. Alessandeir distracted me as he ran across my feet, being chased now, in full retreat from the clucking of feathered soldiers.

  “My lord Sodom Azarris, little lord Alessandeir, God bless Shanador!”

  I returned the salute to the chest, though not as heartily nor as strong as Sir Ullimar of Gillian. The heavy thunder of hooves from he and his small retinue of five blonde bannermen heading east was all that I heard, dust from my road marking their trail. I looked to the scroll of parchment with the royal stallion and shield seal of Shanador and cross of Alden upon the wax.

  “Dada? Where is that giant knight going to? Can he stay with us and fight my chickens?” my boy asked, sweating from his hairline and temples.

  “He is Sir Ullimar of Gillian, heading into the city I imagine. He can fight, I am sure of it, but I would not let him harm your chicks.” I smiled. “Now come on boy, you need a bath.”

  “Awww! Dada, can I be a knight like Sir Ulommaddedar instead of a bath?” His inquisitive blue eyes like the sky beamed into me. He was very serious.

  “Ullimar, son. Sir Ullimar.” I picked him up, holding him upside down over my shoulder, by the calves. He giggled as his face turned red like strawberries.

  “Sirrr…Ooohh…Limmm…Aaarr! I am like him, and I will get the chickens!” He threatened valiantly and loud, terrorizing the birds of dinner as if they understood his intentions from aloft.

  “Very well, chicken slayer, bath time.” I heard his grunted displeasure as the sun brightened his swishing dark blonde locks. Surely his gestures were in disagreement with my planned cleanliness. “With me, or with Ranny, the housemaid. Your choice.”

  “You Dada, you. She makes the water too hot and does not let me play long enough.” As soon as I swung him around and let him down to the grass, the red went away as blood went where gravity now allowed. My son stood and ran toward the keep. I ran after.

  Past the chickens and the stables that held our horses we went. The servants parted from sweeping the bridge and courtyard, young blonde girls moving away from a charging three year old. I chased up the stairs past Ivonin the stableboy, through the curving of the upper foyer where Ranny was carrying vegetables of green for dinner. I could hear the mutterings and laughter of the servant family all the way from the third floor as I let my son best me in the race yet again.

  “Ranny, some hot water if you would!” I yelled down far enough for her old ears to hear it.

  “Already there m’lord Sodom! Dinner in an hour men, in the hall or the courtyard m’lord?” her voice was strong, like her family that had been there since Gabrielle’s passing.

  “Courtyard Ranny, I like the yard and the chickens!” Alessandeir voiced his opinion in huffs from the chase, stripping down already.

  “Courtyard, good housemaid, and bring the family if you would!” I invited, the loneliness of dining in the hall with candles, myself, and my son was too much still. I feared the dark, it reminded me of my late wife’s shadow and hair, Gods rest her. The company was admittedly more for me than anything else.

  “You honor me m’lord, it will be done!”

  “Ahhh, enough yelling back and forth for today, son. Let us get you cleaned up, shall we?” I heard the plop of child into marble tub, the water steaming with lilac and lavender scents.

  His head rose back over the bubbles. “Dada?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I hear a story?”

  “About what?”

  “Knights and giants and chickens!” his giggling blabbered water all over me a
s he fell with innocent laughter back under his bubbly horizon. Sunlight wandered through clouds and our window in the stone keep of a home, making the moment feel magical indeed.

  I looked at my robes, black, of the finest silks, with my arcane designs embroidered in blues, now wet. I rolled up my sleeves to assist with the chore of getting Alessandeir scrubbed, an Annarian task it was, always. My eyes looked to his, his looking at the underside of my exposed forearms. I looked down, the burned in sigils of ten black skulls on the left and ten black tridents on the right arm. I quickly covered the reminder of past penances, when I did, his eyes were staring at mine with questions he decided not to ask.

  “A story of giants…hmmm…let me think.” I reached for the bath brush and a cloth.

  “Dada?”

  “Yes son?”

  “Will I become a prune and get eaten if I stay here for the whole story?”

  “No, but just in case, let’s get you clean and into a towel before I begin.” I brushed and wiped for minutes, dumped the herbs and water over his curls, then lifted him out clean. I realized that this may have been the shortest and easiest bath ever given.

  Towel around him, his energy spent and sapped by hot waters and bubbles and chicken chases, Alessandeir hung his head over my shoulder as I walked to his room. I could tell by his grip that he may not make it till dinner.

  “So do you remember Saberrak the gray, the minotaur from Unlinn?” I spoke to see if a tale of mine could stir his tired spirit enough to have a full belly before bed. My mind went to where I had possibly left off a year ago.

  “Yes, but I want to hear about giants.”

  “Then listen closely, for Saberrak knows much of giants. I can tell you what I know of him, and that is in no small fashion, about giants.” I stood him up on his bed, pulling the laid out tabard and pants over and under as he balanced his hand on my shoulder.

  “Giants like Sir Ullimar?”

  “No my boy, real giants, four times taller than the knight we saw today.”

  “That is humongous!”