The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

  “Stop. Close the trunk Balric. Captain, your wife and daughter are fine, but I would get us there a bit faster, they seem hungry.”

  Balric did what the necklace made him do, against his will, he closed the lid. He stood, refusing to sit there any further. He glared at Johnas and fought his own tears by biting his lip.

  “Thank you my Prince, we will be ahead of schedule, please, please, don’t hurt them.” With five men behind him, some doppelgangers in guise and some human agents of the White Spider dressed as Chazzrynn navy, the Captain begrudgingly left to his duties as outlined by Prince Johnas Valhera. He had no choice.

  “You are a monster, not even human, and I pray I am there at your end.” Balric watched the blonde Agarian man sit back down and tap the trunk as he smiled.

  “Doubtful, but I will be there at yours. They behead assassins of monarchs in Harlaheim, but I am sure you already knew that.” Johnas chuckled, pointing an accusing finger for crimes he had yet to force Balric to commit.

  “I will see you dead, somehow, someday. I promise you. If not me, it will happen by my word.” Balric shook, his hands trying to reach for his saber, his dagger, they would not go.

  “I am not at all frightened of you, D’vrelle. Do you know why I tell you all my plans so often?”

  “Amuse me.”

  “If you did manage to escape, which will never happen, who would you run to? I am surrounded by blades, minotaurs, doppelgangers, or my assassins night and day, so you would indeed run.” Johnas drew his blade, the curvy kris shortblade with the strange dark emerald pommel. He felt it throb in his hand, he closed his eyes.

  “To the church, the high monarchs, the Aldane, anyone with a conscience.” Balric smiled, watching a madman romance a blade in his hand like it were a piece of priceless art.

  “Yes, and with the monarchy wanting you for murder, the church in my palm, and all allies of those that you know dead, you would have to go far. Far enough that no one would care.”

  “I would find someone, I assure you.”

  “Yes, very well. And do you think, beyond a doubt, that any sane person would believe the insanity about a noble Prince such as myself? The White Spider, murderer, his webs are everywhere, he brands them on the shoulder, he sees everything, in every city, underground even! No, they would think it a crazy tale, from an insane Harlian man who cannot abide his king being replaced by Johnas Valhera, a foreigner. And that is if I take it myself, I may place it simply in the power of one of mine own. Hence, the perfect plan, even should you oneday, elude me.” His green eyes opened, staring at Balric, waiting for a response.

  “I will find a way.”

  “And since Vanessa Blackflame is revealed as one of my closest agents and no longer a threat I can hold over you, do you happen to have any family in Harlaheim that I may watch for you, until you come to your senses?” He smiled again, grinning from ear to wicked ear.

  “Bastard, you are a dead man!” Balric fought with every muscle until his face turned blue, it was no use. He and the White Spider were heading to Harlaheim, in Prince Bryant’s pirated vessel, and he was powerless to do anything about it.

  “Ahhh, that would be a yes then, I will look into the matter upon our arrival, be certain.” Johnas laughed, from the maniacal pit that no human should have, yet he did, and he laughed some more on top of that.

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  The black mask was cloth, still hard to breathe as he was unaccustomed to it. The blood was drying on his face and hands, not his own, but the blood of Lord Russavagan who had died early this morning. The battles had gone back and forth for days and nights, Bryant would not give in. Traps, poisoned arrows, surprise skirmishes, doppelganger assasins, and sudden drops into spike filled pits had left him with less than four hundred men.

  Only Lord Ibromm was still with him, dressed the same in stolen black clothing and leathers. They had killed nearly one hundred of the Valhirst assassins, ten of those had turned into pale hairless shapeshifters upon death. They stole the clothing off the rest, disguising a platoon as agents themselves, trying Johnas Valhera at his own game. Bryant had ordered the forces split, his men to the north tunnels, Ibromm’s to the eastern ones, and he and the lord with him would head deeper down toward the center, seventy men dressed all in black, no falcons to be seen.

  “If the king knew of this place, he would surely have the entire Chazzrynn army level Valhirst to the ground, my prince. There is an entire city below here, an immense and deadly maze before us. I had no idea, in truth, I thought you were a bit mad for so furiously believing in this, White Spider, propaganda. Now I see.” Ibromm kept his broadsword at the ready, staying close to the heir prince as they hunted into caverns under Valhirst in the dark.

  “Damn it, this last passage leads upward, likely to the city streets. It must be down further, the sanctum where they all gather, we are lost again.” Bryant turned around, pulling his mask low as to get fresh air.

  “What if it’s not, could this maze be but a ruse, a diversion?”

  “Why build all of this, arm it so, only if…” Bryant thought.

  “…If the only way deep inside was actually from the top, not from underneath.” Ibromm pulled down his mask, his beard itching fierce as he finished the heir prince’s thoughts.

  “That would be insane, truly mad and unlikely.”

  “Remind me again who it is we are dealing with here, young prince?” Lord Ibromm chuckled and looked up the stairs leading to the surface.

  “Point taken. Let us see what is up there then, but be ready to call for the men to come back down if it gets tight. Valhirst soldiers will likely spot us in the city streets.” Prince Bryant pulled his mask back up over his nose, and headed up the stairs.

  The door was unobtrusive, normal, even a bit run down and worn. He sheathed his broadsword, motioning for Lord Ibromm and their men to do the same. Air rushed into the passage as the door pulled open, lamplight and torchlight glimmered all around, both shrouded in nighttime summer rains. Soldiers of Valhirst were posted in two groups of ten, one up high on balconies of Valhera Castle, the other in the courtyard. They turned to Bryant.

  Calmly, holding in his fear, Bryant walked into the courtyard, one hand swinging mildly in step, the other on the hilt of his blade. He nodded, the guards returned the slight nod. They stepped aside, as if they knew he would be heading past them beyond the courtyard. He did. Utter silence, he knew his men were behind him and Lord Ibromm was over his shoulder, all masks up. Two more heavily armed guards stood at the ornate velvet draped doors to the interior of Castle Valhera, just two.

  Bryant waited, nonchalantly looking to see all twenty he had passed watching the procession of black clad men emerge from below. He gave the signal for half the men to head up the stairs to the balcony, then slashed his hand across his neck, signaling them to kill the soldiers. He did the same to the other half, pointing to the ten in the courtyard. As soon as his men went into action, he charged the two unsuspecting castle guards, Lord Ibromm at his side.

  Two broadswords, steel washed with blood and rain, plunged through shrieking steel plate as gloved hands covered their mouths. Ibromm and Bryant laid them down, death taking them quickly, and turned to see mostly the same to the twenty regular infantry of Valhirst. Their men had approached and cut them down fast in the night, steel scraping, muffled yells of terror and dying, but little else issued as thunder followed a flash from the slow rainstorm overhead. Waving his hand forward, Bryant stalked into Valhera castle, where many a time he had met with Johnas, at his father’s side, to discuss many a political matter. Not this time.

  In across red carpets and past emerald green draperies as tall as five men, the spearhead in guise dove into the thronerooms and fine rooms of Johnas’ castle. Decorated Valhera soldiers turned from their posts, just in time to be showered with crossbow fire from stolen weapons. The moment they realized these were not the secret scouts of Prince Johnas was a moment too late. Bryant and Ibromm followed wet f
ootprints, recent on the plush carpets, to behind the very throne of the Prince of Valhirst. They spotted a door, well concealed, with the design of a spider upon the center.

  “Now or never, Prince Bryant.” Ibromm wiped his blade on the ebony garments, listening for the sounds of pursuit. There were none, they had been quick indeed.

  “Men, we cut down any and every man inside, for this is the heart we have been searching for, the very lair of the wretched Prince of Valhirst and his White Spiders. Leave none alive.” He whispered to his men, their eyes above the masks all stared with intensity and yearning for their crusade to reach victory.

  Down the spiraling stairs they went, arcane torches of green and reds and orange dancing without heat along the walls. Deep down, one minute, then two, further than the passages they had been trekking for days previous. The curving steps ended in another door, open a crack already, muffled voices from inside drifting out. The heavy breathing slowed, Bryant paused, drew his broadsword out and closed his eyes in silent prayer to Alden for victory. He heard crossbows from his men, blades readied, and he kicked in the door and charged.

  One glance and he knew he had found it, there was no conflict of truth to it. A giant mosaic of a white marble spider adorned the dark stone floor. A throne of onyx and emerald was erected to his left, while ornate and dark chairs and tables to seat hundreds lay to his right. Gold coins, stolen art, jewelry, cages, weapons of every make and metal were strewn about the place. Strange marble slabs of white and black with gold lettering or symbols glowed by the throne, and tunnels with barred doors holding slaves and prisoners went every direction. A row of fifty men with daggers and masks stood disorganized before him, another fifty or more beyond that in the heart of the chamber with crossbows, all moving slowly as Bryant and his men charged in.

  Battle cries echoed, crossbows let loose at their targets, and black masks faced black masks in the deep underground. The muffled whispers and groaning never stopped, and the men of Chazzrynn flew into frenzy the moment they saw they were outnumbered. They had the surprise from the north, as most of the White Spider were facing the west entrance by a pit full of bodies and Chazzrynn uniforms. Bolts from crossbows volleyed into the front forces while Bryant and Ibromm cut their way past the dropping agents who could not match the reach of their broadswords on charge with their small blades. Some seemed injured, some had broadswords, and some just gave up. Moments into the melee, it was but a slaughter.

  Bryant reached the archers in the rear, cutting them down, Ibromm and twenty of their men in step and formation with them. Their opponents seemed slow, weak, not what he had expected. Some of them were already down on the ground, some covered their heads and cowered, yet no one called for surrender. Bryant was confused now, looking around, he saw hands waving from his enemies, half of them not fighting at all, yet being cut down in force. He looked to the pit.

  “Cease the attack, stop! Stop and cease, now!” He yelled, tears welling in his eyes, tightness in his throat. He pulled down his mask. He heard more whimpering, muttering, and he looked again to the pit, hoping he was wrong. He was not.

  A pile of maybe thirty bodies lay dead in the pit, throats slit and spikes through every part imaginable. Yet ten feet down he saw it. There on the Chazzrynn uniforms, empty uniforms and armor, lay a pile of tongues. He looked to a table, blood covered, sewing thread and needles with a blood covered set of filet knives. He moved to one of the men, pulled the cloth mask off, and there was a Chazzrynn soldier, mouth sewn shut, covered in blood. He cut the threads, and the man yelled in tears. He had no tongue.

  “Tell me it isn’t so my Prince. We did not just kill our own men. This is not true, who could have done this?” Lord Ibromm hit a knee, bowing his head and praying over and over to Alden for forgiveness. Their men began removing their masks and the masks of others, cutting sewn mouths open. Their tortured brethren moaned, spit up blood, vomited in tears and groped at the legs of their comrades begging for anything, yet nothing decipherable emerged.

  Bryant looked to the man at his feet again, the man was pointing to a set of decorative vases near the throne, then another set of golden urns near the tables. Feverishly, he pointed to his nose and breathed in deep, then to the vases again. Bryant went to inspect. They were filled with water, brackish smelling liquid. A chain held a red chunk of hardened powder on a hook, and the chain went through the vase and into a small hole on the wall.

  “Check the urns, vases, walls, there is poison here! The men were drugged, take the chains out, quickly!” Bryant received nods from the thirty tortured men remaining. “Was it a gas or mist?”

  The men with no tongues all nodded in affirmation as the standing soldiers of Prince Bryant searched for poisons on hooks and chains over foul water. They found eight, removing them carefully. Then the doors opened, two from the left, one on the right, and two above in hidden alcoves off of dark draped balconies. A dark robed and masked figure stood in the shadows, a younger red headed man, maybe a boy even, stood next to him. The men all cluttered together in the center, healthy and injured alike, as fifty crossbows aimed at them from every direction, above, behind, and from both sides. They were surrounded.

  “Surrender, Prince Bryant of Chazzrynn.” The voice was soft, nearly elegant, and he drew two shortblades, one in each hand. The boy next to him drew one, the other affixed to a gauntlet already, due to a missing hand.

  “Never! You are beaten Valhera!” Bryant drew his sword and pointed it high, rallying his men who did the same.

  “Kill them.” Vermillion nodded, as cold as his words, and he eyed his targets, making out who would be in which order to die.

  The first volley hit, dropping at least thirty in but the blink of an eye. Those that did not die outright, screamed in pain as a corrosive devilfruit seed paste ate its way into their bloodstream. Those in high vantage spots reloaded, while a dozen doppelgangers sprouted claw and crawled down the very walls. Vermillion of the South stalked into battle, Oggidan beside, and thirty men with them. Bryant charged, Lord Ibromm beside, and fifty injured and vengeful soldiers with them. Screams flew through the air, the muffled tongueless raged for revenge, and crossbows let loose again. The doors to the underground throneroom slammed shut by doppelganger hands, who then assumed guises of Chazzrynn soldiers and waded into the battle. Vermillion cut left and right, precise stabs and determined thrusts unstoppable as he made his way to the invading prince. Bryant slashed wildly, parrying and slashing his way to who he hoped was Johnas Valhera.

  “For the king, for God, and for Chazzrynn!” Bryant and Ibromm led a second wave of fury into the enemy. The blades clashed in the middle of the sanctum of the White Spider, a battle for blood, for honor, and revenge. A battle no one would ever see, deep underground.

  Exodus III:V

  Deadman’s Pass, Misathi Mountains

  “To follow the will of God is to be understanding and obedient to the love which is shown. Beware of false Gods, for their will is not of love, but of lust, power, and they shall enslave those like them with the golden promises of greed from the seven hells.”---from the sacred tablets of Jelen, high priestess to Alden, written in the lost Tower of Genesis. Circa 1852 B.C.

  The pass was more of a canyon, once a river thousands of years ago, now an immense crack in the Misathi Mountains. At times, it was but twenty feet wide, while the looming rock walls reached hundreds of feet into the air above them. It would rise, fall, twist and turn. Sometimes it rose to open valley between enormous peaks and clouds and mist. Then within an hour, the downhill trek would resume, the ocean of mountain trail plunging deep into the range of red rock once more.

  “There is another, they are set every few miles. They mark something, and someone put them here for a reason and decorated them so. I do not like this Saberrak.” Shinayne noted more and more high poles with the demonic horned skulls atop. The fetishes looked more fresh and recent as they traveled further west. Chains now, feathers galore, and rings and hooks were all intermingled w
ith the polished skulls that no one could derive origin from, no one wished to get any closer than they already had in fact.

  “We have passed what, a dozen so far? Nothing has happened, so just keep moving. You are worried out of boredom.” The gray minotaur huffed. Though he kept an eye above them, feeling what Shinayne was speaking, something watched them every step of the way.

  “Still, I saw what I saw in my meditations.”

  “And what of it? Keep quiet and run along.”

  “You have not talked about what happened in Devonmir yet. Something from the arenas keeps you quiet, what is it?” She kept her pace, slower that the lewirja named Dalliunn, same as the horned warrior beside her.

  “Do not wish to either, nothing to tell. I was imprisoned, sold, forced to fight several times, and I watched many die by my hand and the hand of others. All for amusement to the eyes of the rich and powerful, all for blood and gold. All that remains is Chalas Kalaza, then I am free.” Saberrak jumped a small rock, passed another horned skull totem, this time cleaving the pole in two with his greataxe as he passed.

  “So that is it. He still lives, so you are not free?”

  “Never will be until that last tie to Unlinn is severed. He won’t rest, so neither can I.”

  “Stop and look at me, Saberrak the gray.” Shinayne stopped, anger in her voice.

  “What, highborne elf of Kilikala, what do you want?” Saberrak stopped, a few feet further, turned and growled his response.

  “I am not them, nor is Gwenneth or any of your friends. We are not wealthy slave dealers or corrupt nobility. We saved you from there, and would have died for you. What is it that makes you so sour in that regard? That he lives? Well so do you!”

  “I did not ask to be rescued, and I would have killed him!” Saberrak got right over his elven friend, nostrils flaring two feet over her golden curls.

  “We know you would have! We heard them chanting your name when we broke in the doors, damn you!” Shinayne was on her tiptoes, yelling right in the gladiators face, no fear or holding back whatsoever.