The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

  “Ye’ cannot say that to me, I be a priest, and ye’ are the High Hammer. Ye’ made me come down here!”

  “Tannek, did I force yer brother down here, or did he come of his own footsteps?” Brunnwik lowered the bronze placard to the ground with the Marshall.

  “Just help out, brother. Ye’ walked down here free, yer elder asked for yer help and ye’ came. Stop yer’ gripin’.” Tannek looked at the stone slabs, a rectangle of sealed smooth granite with family names and symbols of sacred burial all over it.

  “Allright, allright. But ye’ be taking me’ atonements three times and relieving me o’ any guilt here, right?” Drodunn lifted with hs brother and slid the stone coffin out onto the floor of the tomb.

  Thud

  “Aye, I will, now open it.”

  “This is sacrilege in the highest offense, I cannot believe---“

  “Ssshhh! Shut yer’ beard!” Both Brunnwik and Tannek gritted their teeth glared at Drodunn.

  The stone popped, old air blowing dust out from inside, and the dwarven men slid the stone off carefully and set it down. Brunnwik laid his tools next to it and said a prayer to Vundren for light. He waved his hand toward the ceiling and green illumination appeared from the stones and shone down onto them.

  “See, if God was angry, he would not be answerin’ me’ prayers, would---aahhh!” Brunnwik froze, not expecting to see what he now saw. Drodunn and Tannek had the same reaction.

  “Would ye’ look at that!” Tannek spoke first, his mouth had gone dry from it hanging open so long, just like the other two with him.

  Before them, in the coffin of the first and only supposedly mythical King of Kakisteele, there was no body. No corpse or set of bones, not even dust or debris to say there had once been. A polished and radiant suit of plate armor rested, the steel was golden, thin, yet looked like nothing they had ever seen. Like overlapping half moons on the shoulders all the way to the greaves and boot coverings, it was beautiful without flaw, and engraved with etchings of anvils and hammers. The helm was matching, open faced and rimmed with a fused spiked crown with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Laying on the armor, arms folded as a resting body should, the gauntlets grasped an axe or hammer of unique design. A golden hammer on one side of the head, yet a blade like an axe on the other, the shaft wrapped tight with red leather and engraved with ivory plates. A stone tablet lay at the feet of the armor, inscriptions in the old form of the dwarven tongue.

  “What does it say, High Hammer?” Drodunn was curious now, despite opening a sarcophagus with no body and seeing the most beautiful ornate and invaluable battle dress fit for a king.

  “Here lies the only memory of Mudren, son of Sidderen, of Clan Sheldathain, King of Kakisteele, guardian of the Words of the Forge, blessed by Vundren. Blessings upon those that find this should they be his heir, blessings to the elves of Tintasarn, and blessings to the men of Mooncrest. Blessings upon the fey of the shrines, blessings to the angels in the clouds, and blessings to the dragons of the mountains. Nothing remains yet may his four children see brighter days, may they carry this Hope of his people, may he and his Queen Tehrina Undrabek, live in the halls of Mount Maonell, forever, with God.”

  Brunnwik had tears in his eyes. “Undrabek, I have seen that name in the books at the Historium. We need to go.”

  “What we do with this, then?” Tannek looked around, no one to see them, but taking it all the way back up a two hour climb did not look appealing.

  “We put it back.” Drodunn grasped his necklace in silent prayer.

  “Aye, we have what we need. We have the name, Undrabek.” Brunnwik lifted with Tannek, sliding the stone back on the coffin, then heaving it back into the hole in the tomb wall.

  “Now what, me’ High Hammer?” Drodunn finsished his prayer, asking for guidance.

  “To the library, to the books, then to the kings if what we find is close to what me’ thinks we are going to find.” Brunnwik marched back out of the tomb, the brothers Anduvann with him.

  “And what is that then?” Tannek took the lead, scouting ahead in case anyone was aware of them down here.

  “That Azenairk Thalanaxe is the true heir to Kakisteele, that it does exist, and that we can prove it.”

  “That would make him a king then, right?”

  “Aye, aye it would.”

  Kaya III:III

  South of Gillian, Kingdom of Shanador

  What is that?

  Looks like a brand, a spider.

  What does it symbolize, father?

  I do not know, my lord.

  Will she live?

  I am trying, God wills what God wills.

  Will she ever walk again?

  I saw her in worse form on the rocks, only Alden can answer that.

  She was the only one alive?

  Yes, though I cannot say how she survived the fall. Divine grace and the mysteries of the heavens, the only answer sometimes.

  How many were there?

  Thirty two I counted and buried. Yet, the wolves had surely taken some of the corpses, more helms and swords than bodies I am afraid.

  Harlians?

  All indeed, by the crown and rose chevrons I saw, from Devonmir by the stamps on their blades.

  Harlaheim will see much more of that with Richmond on the throne, Crossguard Legion or not.

  The Cardinal will not allow atrocities like that to continue, I know him well.

  I know Richmond, he will not do anything, but he will order it out of the cities and have others do it for him. He is not above even the foulest deed, just too cowardly to do it himself.

  You know what we do then?

  What is that? Take his pregnant queen, his two best knights alive, and his northern city and head west on some myth? Live in exile following strange divine signs and words, seeking heroes we admire, and hope we do not all die in the process?

  That, yes, although with less sarcasm.

  Sorry father.

  You are forgiven. We pray, Lord Cristoff, like for this woman here, we pray.

  Healing an injured woman, yes a miracle I agree, is not the same as the eight thousand souls that now try and buy food before the harvest from Gillian.

  It is, I pray now for her, whoever she is. I pray to Alden that Gillian has exactly what we need. I pray for guidance, for you, and for the the people. Prayer is asking, it never hurts to ask.

  Garret, you make it sound so easy.

  It is, it is called letting go of what is making you think it is difficult. Then, ask. You are a pious man, blessed, and if thousands would follow you in this manner, it is not due to the shine on your armor or the magnificence of your horse. It is God given to men, the ability to lead without force.

  My Lord Cristoff, a man from Shanador requests your greeting, outside here.

  The Lord of Azarris Keep? Lord Wydrich?

  No my lord. They say he passed a few weeks ago, leaving no heirs. Most of their people have left to Gillian to seek out family. They say they have an empty castle, stables, and lands for the most part. I believe they have a surplus of crops, my lord, and they will invite us for a time.

  You see Cristoff, just ask.

  Father Garret, I will return soon. Please watch Rosana for me. I will leave Sir Karai here, and take Leonard with me.

  Kaya could only listen, it was muffled, hard to hear. Her body was numb from the pain. She did not sleep, could not tell if she was hungry or no. They gave her water often, though poured through a cloth and dripped into her mouth as her jaw would not move. She had no idea who was speaking, what they looked like, all she saw were blurs of steel inside a covered wagon with white cloth. The man that washed her and prayed for her had a gentle touch. He had cut off her clothing, slowly, as her blood had dried it to her swollen skin. She perspired in the heat, perspired in the night with the pain, and could only breathe and moan. She could not move.

  “Alden, our father of sacrifice, Lord of Heaven, take the infections from this woman, take her pain, heal her body that
she may live, I ask in the name of the feathered cross, your will be done, Amen.” Garret repeated the prayer seven times, laying his hand on the broken body of the woman before him.

  The touch was soothing, warm, she tried to smile.

  “Very good, I do believe you just smiled. Rest now, rest and sleep without pain my lady…”

  Kaya fell asleep, yet less restful dreams came to visit. Chalas Kalaza the brown minotaur, slashing his blade through a hundred men to get to her, Johnas Valhera stabbing her over and over in the throat, and pale elves of the Sassari family from Shalokahn danced upon her grave. The minotaur ate his way up her legs as she lay in her own coffin, Johnas drank her blood as it all spun above flames, and the elves kept dancing in hell. She awoke as the blood was dumped into her mouth from her own severed appendages.

  “Aaahhhhhh….ahhhhh….ahhh…” was all she could let out in the tent. It was night, she could see stars and the white moon through the flap, through her own tears of horror.

  “Easy now, just a dream, just a dream. Garret said you had been having them. Rest, it is just a cloth with water, nice and cool. Here now.”

  The woman’s voice was soothing, a rich accent carried her voice, Caberran or Harlian, Kaya could not tell. The cloth did feel comforting across her brow. She could make this woman out a bit, the low light from only a few candles helped. Her vision had gotten better out of her left eye. Rich dark hair tied in tails and noble braids lay down her shoulders, her tan face was beautiful young, about her own age or less, and her eyes a rich brown shining with care. She was pregnant, the round tummy gave that away despite the evening gown of loose white cloth covering her thin frame.

  The cloth went dry, then it was wet again. The taste was awful, bitter, like chewing leaves with lime and grass. Kaya scrunched her face from the acidity, causing more pain to herself.

  “Careful now, this is rather bitter I am told. It will help you sleep, help you with the pain, and keep the nightmares away. Father Garret’s instructions I am afraid.” Rosana watched as this poor woman struggled with life, with breathing, with sleep and pain. Her unborn child kicked, squirmed, and was most active at night. She could sympathize with sleepless agony and discomfort. The cloth dripped more green drops of the herbal mixture from the priest, and the once queen watched the woman fall back to sleep.

  Her dreams were less violent this time, darker though, full of shadows. Spiders made of skeleton parts and fastened with auburn hair climbed from every corner and came in every size. Her body was covered in brands, her face, her hands, even her breasts as she looked at her naked form in the black lake she stood over. Not spider brands though. She shuddered, but the eral spiders just walked around aimless. No, they were brands of a black falcon, of the feathered cross of Alden, of skulls and trident forks with flames. Her womanhood was raw, it itched, it was cold. She looked around for the cause spotting a row of burned beds asmolder with corpses holding their crotches. They looked up in death, glazed eyes of men she had never seen, all waving her to come forward, to pleasure them again. Kaya ran, her legs became eight legs without flesh, and she skittered as a spider and fell into the lake of black.

  “Ahhhh…ahhhh…help…help…falling…ahhh.” Kaya T’Vellon managed a few words, light from outside came in fast as the tent flap opened.

  “My lady, another nightmare, eh? Sir Karai!” Cristoff yelled behind him as he knelt next to the woman Garret had saved.

  “My lord?” Karai was still in his morning clothes and chewing on eggs and bread.

  “Send for father Garret, she has awoken.”

  “Yes sire, but he is at the abandoned church north of Azarris Manor. He is in prayer with Queen Rosana.”

  “Then ride out and bring them back, sir.” Cristoff’ voice was stern, serious, he did not often take that tone with anyone.

  “Your lordship, right away.” Karai bowed quick and left the tent.

  “Do you need water?” Cristoff looked around for the cloth and bowl.

  “No…thank…you.” Kaya spoke as best she could to the handsome man with the gray beard and long hair. She could see bright eyes, a tan face, and regal nose on this Harlian man. He had a crown, small as it was, but she guessed him a humble man. He reminded her of her late father to some degree.

  “Ahhh, you can speak. That is an excellent recovery then. Amazing indeed.” Cristoff sat, waiting in uncomfortable silence for the priest in early morning, not knowing what to say.

  “What is your name then, since you can talk.”

  “Kaya…my…lord?”

  “Kaya then. I am Lord Cristoff Bradswellen the Third. Well, I was. Now, well, I will not bore you with details. You are in good care, be certain of that. You are lucky to be alive, and even moreso that father Garret found you.” Cristoff went to leave, hoping someone more skilled was available to watch over this crippled woman.

  “Details…please…my…lord.” Kaya eked the words out so soft she thought they might not reach his ears.

  He stopped in the flap of the tent, looking outside to Azarris Manor and the surrounding tents and lands his people had stayed upon the last few nights. Cristoff sat back down, pulling his chair closer to Kaya, trying not to stare at her broken face and body. It was now mostly purple, a little green, and still swollen in most places.

  “Very well, I suppose you have earned a good story then. Where do I begin?”

  “The…beginning.” Kaya smiled, though it hurt, it was her only way to show humor laying on her back, arms and legs wrapped up tight, covered in white cloth head to toes.

  “I can start there, very funny indeed. I was the lord of Saint Erinsburg until not too long ago, passed down from generation to generation. I am the third of my name, and like my forefathers, I have defended my city and lands, and the kingdom of Harlaheim, against every enemy. I only retreated once, and I returned three nights later and defeated that army. I was young then, not like now.”

  “You…are…not…old.”

  “No, I suppose not, thank you. Anyway, the king we have now, has been dealing, killing, destroying the name of our country, and running it into the ground without a care. Talks of revolt whispered, my cousins acted upon it, and they died for it.”

  “I…am…sorry.”

  “That is the risk, they knew it, I knew it. My wife and children left years ago, wanting to live with her family in Caberra, in peace, away from politics. So, alone, I have ruled and watched my kingdom fall from poor king to worse, and done little. Then, I met some folk, on my cousins’ honor I had agreed to take them somewhere, and it all changed. My whole life, my outlook, my thoughts, and I realized how much time I had wasted in not searching for something better. I rooted myself in Bradswellen Castle, therefore my people as well, all awaiting the next war or tragedy.”

  “And…these…people…changed…you?”

  “No, not truly. We had a moment, where we heard God speak, and it was the first time for me. Years in the church, not once did I hear words to my prayers. Then we had a few battles, and these folk helped me win back my castle from the kings’ armies. I heard God tell me to follow them, but I did not. Then, my dead cousin’s wife came to me, with child, yet married to our most wicked king.”

  “The…lady…is…a…queen?”

  “Yes, she was the Queen of Harlaheim. Arranged marriage you see, from her father, the king of Caberra and our current king, Richmond the Second, well his father actually planned it when the children were young. That is why she wed my cousin, Savanno, she did not know her father would truly make her go through with it. But he did, and she kept it secret. And, it nearly killed them all and brought down the entire kingdom. I knew of course, but I kept it secret as well.”

  “Why?…did…you…love…him…that…much?”

  “Yes, but despised him the same, my cousin. Lord Knight Errant of the kingdom, and of the Order of Saint Tarumin. I loved him, because he was better than me, more bold, I admired him above all others. And, he married my first love, she chose him back when we
were young. I carried that resentment until the day he sent a knight to find me and beg for help, and I buried those feelings and went to his rescue. It was too late, he went for her in the city, and he was killed. Now, she is in exile with me. I am sure the church and Harlaheim would see us dead, so we travel west, to a new beginning.”

  Kaya saw his tears, not falling yet, but they were there. She cried too, though with all her perspiring, no one would know.

  “Sad…I am…sorry…my…lord.” Her eyes were closing, back off to sleep.

  “Don’t be. Everything happens for a reason. I just spent most of my life not listening to it. Now, I follow the heroics of those that have saved me, inspired me, and carry an honor and valor I always wished to serve. They are the most unusual company I must say. But, Mooncrest and the mines of Kakisteele sound better than burned alive in Saint Erinsburg or waiting for the guillotine.”

  “Did…you…say…Kakisteele?” Her eyes opened just a bit, hearing a familiar word.

  “Yes, why? You have heard of it?”

  “Yes…yes…I have.” She tried to smile but had no energy left.

  “I hope you do not mind the trip then, for that is where we are headed, Kaya.” Cristoff watched her drift off once more.

  “Sounds…good…to…me…very….good…”

  Lavress III:III

  Southwind Keep, Chazzrynn

  Rain poured from a vicious summer storm, the night was interrupted by thunder and lightning constantly, and the air inside the keep was humid with so many packed inside. Wolves howled to one another in the brief intermissions, letting each other know of the bountiful food the battle had left around Elcram and Southwind Keep.

  Inside, the scenery was no more pleasant. The dead and dying lay covered in tents in the courtyards, the screams of saws and medicinal tools echoed from the cathedral, and victorious soldiers kept vigil beneath a king that lay dying upstairs. It was somber, quiet, and sticky with blood and rain in the air, mud and steel on the ground. It had been hours since anyone had come to give them word, piece of mind good or otherwise, on the status of King Mikhail. The arguing, even through stone walls, was evident to all.