The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

“Why is it so hot here, is it just me?” James drank again from his waterskin, streams of sweat still plaguing him.

  “By my best estimate, it is the month of Uhmm, the month of the dragon, therefore the middle of summer. We are further north, so it gets much warmer as we go, James. In Kilikala, this heat is a pale comparison to what we experience.” Shinayne looked again, the dots still on their trail, headhunters slowly climbing higher into the Willborne wilds.

  “It has been so long since I even kept track of the year, let alone the month or day.” James emptied his waterskin, the remaining liquid drenching his face and beard.

  “It is Sirday, third week in the month of Uhmm, and the year is three hundred forty five.” Gwenneth rattled it off as if she had a calendar before her very eyes.

  “That would mean I am thirty seven years, just recently. Thank you Gwenneth. Now I see why I am so tired.” James stood, breathed, trying not to think of more running or the lost years he had not been counting.

  “Try bein’ sixty four lad, and having shorter strides and all, and I’m not complaining. Summon your strength James Andellis, Vundren bless your legs.” Azenairk put his helmet back on, grinning toward the distant caps of the Misathi.

  “I am not tired in the slightest, at one hundred fifty three. Now may we move along, our pursuers are doubtfully going to rest and reminisce as we do.” Shinayne raised her chin a bit higher, smiling in the hot sun that scorched the bluffs.

  “Very well, Gwenneth, how old are---“ James was looking right at a raised hand.

  “A lady never tells, only offers. Be sure, I am younger than all of you and that is all need be said on the matter.” She smiled, concentrated, and resumed her hovering flight.

  “You count years by what, the seasons that pass?” Saberrak seemed confused.

  “By the winters, yes, in the south if you do not have a calendar to follow. There are thirteen months, three of winter, three spring, three of summer, one harvest month, and three autumn. Four weeks made up of seven days each makes a month. Three hundred sixty four days a year. Out of curiosity, how old are you gray one?” Gwenneth felt responsible for anything to do with mathematics, writing, or anything involving learning, her growing up in an academy left many instincts. She assumed Saberrak had no idea of such things.

  “Eleven winters.”

  “You are only eleven years old? How is that possible?” Gwenne was baffled, looking at the seven and a half foot beast of a horned warrior, who seemed rather well grown and mature for such an age, despite their differences.

  “I fought in the arena my first time at seven seasons, escaped nearly four winters later. The oldest minotaur in Unlinn died at thirty one years, and he could barely eat anymore the last two. How old do humans live, anyway? And elves and dwarves?” Saberraks statements put a somber cloud over the company, everyone deep in thought on many things involving life, time, and each other.

  “Oldest man I heard of was one hundred ten, an old sage in Hurne.” James marched on, head down, not wanting to think that his friend had less than a few decades left of life. Shame hit his throat, knowing he had wasted half a minotaurs’ days drunk.

  “There are elders in Kilikala that are nearing their eight hundredth year.” Shinayne lowered her chin a bit, feeling sadness creep over her. She quickened her pace up the hills.

  “My father lived to be over two centuries, but some dwarves last until nearin’ about two hundred fifty on occasion. I knew this priest once, he was---“ Zen felt the stare from Gwenneth, a stare that said be silent now or else, without a word. Zen picked up his steps to try and catch Shinayne and James, quietly. “Well, time to climb then, look at that hill.”

  “Seems that minotaurs just don’t live long then, eh? Someone has to be the first to go, just let me go out with my horns low, the enemy defeated and bloody, and a full stomach.” Saberrak the gray huffed out his chest, striding up with the elf, laughing to keep up the spirits of his friends who obviously had much on their minds now.

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  His hand was trembling, the feather quill gave it away. He looked up toward the woman he had known since birth, reluctant to sign his name to the parchment that would place her in power over the kingdom of Willborne. It was not right, he shook his head, trying to maintain his breath. He felt the stares of a red minotaur, a burned priest of the old customs, and Lady Katrina. His lordly blood knew she had a small claim, descended from her father’s birthrights to the throne, yet he would never have guessed it would be her to take the crown, or even dare try. And never had he or any of the nobles present at Willborne Keep here and now, dreamed that Rynnth, the dragon of Willborne, would ever awaken.

  “Lord Caullin, you are thinking much on the matter. There are twelve lords to sign, and ten already have. What is it that perplexes you?” Katrina beamed her red unearthly gaze into the face of the old man. She stood as a soldier, at attention, helm under her arm, more intimidating than any of them could recall. She knew it, her glare and her presence were different, more than human.

  “There were twenty three nobles here, young Katrina, you have majority since you have executed eleven of them.” Lord Caullin thought deep, if we could muster a force to take her here and the dragon down in time, or will this signing mean the end, or maybe...”

  “I could make it twelve, Lord Caullin.”

  “I have but less than a decade of life to live, threats do not sway me as much as intention. You came here uninvited, killed many men, and brought this demonic winged beast as enforcement. I merely wish to know, why?”

  “The kingdom cannot abide more decline, more turning the people toward Alden and other false Gods, nor more wasted years where old men do nothing but let all crumble with them. It is time, like it or no, now sign.”

  “You mean war then, but with whom? Who has truly been our enemy? Chazzrynn. Harlaheim, Shanador, the dwarves in the mountains? Who?” The old Lord put down the quill, resigning that he at least wanted answers in his age, his pride shone.

  “All of them.”

  “You are insane, Katrina. Times have changed. Where we were once the center of the continent and kingdoms, now we are but a memory of old ways to a growing world around us, and---“

  Her three steps were slow, yet precise, her longsword drew on the third and slashed across Lord Caullin’s chest, shoulder to shoulder, deep and bone scraping. The parchment now splattered with fresh blood over the old and dried from earlier, fell from the table as Caullin fell back over with his chair and died. Katrina picked the paper up. She stood, glaring at the remaining Lord to sign the decree, the young and mighty Lord Waylen, and gently set it down in front of him at the long curved table. He was the last, as he was the rightful monarch of the favored ruling families and keeper of the founding lands in Willborne.

  The eleven men remaining, their guards, and their close advisors and family all stood and drew every shape of hidden edge. The anger on their faces was stoic and real, until Rynnth growled and opened one red eye halfway outside the doors. The men sat back down, quickly recalling their others being fed to this creature just recently.

  “Our flag and banners are of a sword and curled dragon, the two very things that forged this kingdom back thousands of years ago. Our eyes, green like the hills and valleys. Our hair, blonde like the bluffs and sun that warms us. We are the people of Agara, we are the center of this realm and its kingdoms. Long has all of this been forgotten, long have you counted your coins and peasants as Willborne fades away. No more. It is the month of Uhmm, the month of the dragon, and as you can see, Rynnth is here with us.” Katrina pointed out the guarded grand doors to the courtyard where an immense curled black wyrm lay basking in the sun. The lords here needed no reminding of the scaled horror outside the keep, none dared look.

  “She demands fealty, her worship assumed en masse once more, and vengeance for those that have slain her children in Bailey. And I will ensure she is appeased, for I am the sword of the dragon, and I am the blade of Willborn
e!” She raised her bloody blade, over the trails of crimson across the stone floor where Faldrune the red and Veuric had dragged the slaughtered bodies to be fed to Rynnth, and high with the banners of her kingdom.

  The young lord signed his name and offered it to Katrina’s outstretched hand. He looked to the other lords at the curved dragontail table, made of etched stone and wood, ancient and huge much like the keep of the founders they sat in. The banners sat still, the white and red cloth with a black sword and sleeping dragon, it had meant so little to he and the others all these years. Now, it was but a fearsome reality. He felt little decision here, sign, or die at the hands of those before him who now held the power by act of aggression.

  “So it is signed and so it be known, that on this eighteenth day of Uhmm, three hundred forty five years After the Deluge, in the kingdom of Willborne, the Lords noble have affirmed the crown to its rightful heir. By decree of the majority, by the blessing of Rynnth, Katrina Rendell, daughter of the late Lord Lyrus Rendell, shall be named sovereign over this realm. In old custom, the rites of the dragon shall be upheld by all Lords of Willborne, and will consummate the crowning of the Queen henceforth. Signed, by lords Jurriet, Lagaharne, Tormonde, Beallich, Undry, Rahander, Haget, Dimiste, Griffithson, Fiorning, and Waylen. So it is stated, so it is honored, so it is done.”

  Katrina read the words, always hoping for this one day, killing and fighting for it since her father’s death many years ago. She had been named Katrina Willborne by her own sellsword army, since she was the only noble still fighting for their kingdom. Her title and reputation as but a mercenary had grown since these nobles never shed her a silver coin for her actions, so she collected from other kingdoms to survive. Now, the lack of applause, the fear instead of glory, and the silence in the sacred keep of her forefathers was menacing. Blood stained the stones, half the nobility slain by her sword with an ages old dragon at the doors that she was bound to, the power she now held seemed hollow and not truly hers. She felt this all through senses not her own, through eyes glazed with Rynnth’s, and with force of death rather than pride.

  Young Lord Waylen approached with a jeweled crown of diamonds and gold upon a golden tasseled and folded flag of age old cloth. “I, Lord Valistor Waylen, by the noble right passed to me, do hereby offer you the crown and ruling banner of Willborne. May you bring, a new…age and joy..to our lands with your…rule.” He knew this would not last, the others around him likely scheming Katrina’s demise even now, as he was. The men they had present, perhaps a few hundred, would not live long against the dragon, not now anyway.

  “Ithrixis, sanranix, vool ada voomix urr.”

  “The magnificent Rynnth has asked for the goblets of those noble lords present, to be brought forth to her.” Veuric spoke, his voice devoid of emotion or conflict, his charred face sporting but one working eye. He drew a knife from his tattered robes of black and red, and bowed his head as he walked toward the outstretched clawed hand of the dragon.

  Without hesitation, Katrina took a knee and bowed her head. Faldrune the red minotaur took cup by silver cup to the dragon and the priest. The slight cut upon scaled claws drained deep rich blood into the goblets, and the minotaur walked with the same crimson glare in his eyes to place them before the lords of Willborne.

  The faces of disgust were barely hidden, revulsions and fidgeting whispers from blue blooded men encircled the dragontail table. A meeting place for thousands of years, for the fathers and father’s fathers of these ruling men, and each one felt the sting of what they were being forced into. Finally, someone broke the almost silence.

  “I will not drink the blood of this dragon, I will not. To hell with you Katrina, and your pets!” Lord Haget, long gray braids swaying in step with a hulking yet venerable man, slammed his fist down as he passed the table. “Well come on then, will you all give in to this folly? Who is with me?”

  “I am!” Lord Rahander and his three sons and a few men at arms turned behind him and began to walk out the side columns to the exit opposite the dragon.

  “And I!” Lord Beallich, walking stick in hand, assisted by his daughters to keep in step and stand up from his chair, shuffled out the same passage.

  “Lord Waylen, surely you come with us?! What delays you? Loyalty to this terror and treasonous woman? Fear of a beast? Come now, you are the rightful heir and ruler here, not her.” The Lords placated and pleaded as they bravely avoided confrontation.

  “Tiavixan, urthrix andas ul orixtranius.”

  “Rynnth says let them leave. Minotaur, close the doors behind them.” Veuric sheathed his knife and spoke calm.

  The shadow of the giant winged black serpent left the front doors, tail sliding along stone behind her. The steps echoed the sides of the keep, and men hung their heads, paralyzed with fear. They heard the door slam shut from Faldrune the red. They heard the gasps, then the pleading. All heard scrambling and screams from men and women outside the stone walls as if it were right in front of them. Then the sound of a thousand wooden homes suddenly in flames, and the terrorized agony of those being burned in a gout of fire and ash, and moments later the smell of charred flesh and bone swept in from open windows.

  “Let me be the first to drink from my cup, so that the dragon be appeased and honored.” Valistor Waylen, the one who may have been king of Willborne, drank his goblet down, every horrid drop. He looked to the other lords, each following in turn around the table, each gagging as they swallowed.

  Veuric began a hymn or chant of some origin they all seemed suddenly familiar with, yet had never heard before nor understood. The dragon snaked her head inside the double doors, watching as the eyes of the remaining nobility met her gaze and turned as crimson. They sang the words that they had not known, in a language not their own. Katrina placed the crown upon her brow, singing in tune with the rest, and knelt before Rynnth.

  “All hail Queen Katrina!” The room filled with the repeated chant in the Agarian tongue.

  “Tuvyeras, higithix uhrdes uloith andas uolixis!”

  “My queen, her magnificence says she has heard dwarven prayers in the mountains to the north. She says it is those that killed her children. You must go.” Veuric bowed to his new queen and to Rynnth.

  “As she commands. Faldrune, with me.” Katrina marched toward the dragon, bowing before beginning the long climb from arm to wing, to spiny ridge to scaled seat behind her neck. She had so much to do here, so much for the kingdom, yet the will of her mistress ruled out any of her own desires. They were but fleeting feelings deep under where none could see. She could not contest and do as she pleased.

  “My queen, where do you go?” Lord Waylen, still in mild disbelief over what had happened, perhaps in shock like many of the remaining lords, looked at the armored woman on the back of the great wyrm.

  “Gather your men, I demand ten of your finest knights on horse. Ten each. We go to avenge the deaths of the children of Rynnth, to the north!”

  The dragon roared, took flight, and circled Willborne Keep while the eight nobles organized their men. Her draconic hearing kept focused to the north, where prayers were being shouted from high, echoing like whispers, in the dwarven tongue. She felt it, the pain of her lost children upon the voice from the north, she knew exactly who it was, and where they were.

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  “Vun das Vundren eirim entik Vundren!” Zen slammed his warhammer into the rock cliff once more, a flash of light and a spark, then more rubble loosed and tumbled into the valley. His prayers held power, he was throwing more stone down upon their enemies than even the minotaur could with the help of James Andellis.

  Saberrak heaved from his side of the trap they had set, James grunting and pushing with his back. Bovine muscles rippled with bulging veins and strength from under his gray hide. The boulder teetered, then rolled ever slowly, and finally over the precipice and into the same valley below. Between the fingers of the foothills in the Misathi Mountains, small avalanche after wave of rolling red roc
k smashed into the hunters from Devonmir. Their trail was blocked.

  “They are splitting up, thirty or more around the south pass with dogs, twice that marching north to cut us off. Time to move!” Shinayne yelled from her clifftop with Zen and Gwenneth, over across to James and Saberrak. She received the nods that they had heard her.

  The valleys grew more rough, the climbs steeper and rockier, and little foliage could be seen as they traveled west into the Misathi. The five companions met up minutes later, pursued up through the fingers, and soon on their north and south sides by those that wanted them dead from Devonmir. Unforgiving red stone, jagged steps, and never an obvious trail to follow, they searched for the valley of Deadman’s Pass through the heights to no avail. The half day lead they once had was lost in the twisting foothills and treacherous bluffs and cliffs of the mountains that none of them knew.

  “Just head west, look for the biggest valley, and let us hope tis’ the right one.” Zen was nearing exhaustion. He had traveled down the Bori Mountains fleeing ogre before, but never ran up and through high peaks to escape anything. The effort was more than he imagined and the heat was cooking him inside his steel plate armor.

  Gwenneth was sweating, walking now as the effort of floating was too hard in the brutal clime. She looked to the rock, heat rising in myriad ripples in the afternoon sun. “We need water, to hells with the valley, find me water.”

  “Food. I am starving, what do we hunt?” Saberrak snorted as he jumped over another rock ledge and peered toward the west.

  “If I am not mistaken, we still have three groups of soldiers and slavers from our friends back east on our trail. We killed maybe twenty or more and slowed them in the foothills, but we will be surrounded by nightfall if we do not push on.” James was irritable, frustrated with all the running, wanting a fight, a rest, or both. His mind drifted to the cold of Chazzrynn, the wine and the food. He gritted his teeth in his steps, forcing thoughts of the bottle out.

  Barking in the distance, the yelling of men to hounds and then each other, and they all knew it was close. The echoes in the rock swept depths and mountainsides would not give hint of which direction their enemies would emerge from first, yet they were being tracked by smell and losing time. Fatigue set in, lack of water and shade took their toll on all but Saberrak and Shinayne. One tireless beyond any of his kind, and the other having grown in the heat of her homeland, they urged their friends further west. Their steps turned to stumbling, one foot in front of the other in the Misathi became a chore they could endure little longer.