Four hundred years ago, you were here…
You should not have returned, cursed one…
Your home still stands, go and see…
You learned the art of the blade in that grove…
You had friends and family here, remember…
“I said silence, damn you! I remember, I do not need your haunts or whispers, rest and leave me be.” Kendari turned full circle, nothing in sight. No noise, no motion, not a single living thing stirred or sounded. He was alone.
The cursed elf felt the sickness, his body began to sweat, this place was too strong. The memories flooded, the feelings attacked him, and his hands began to tremble as he approached his childhood home. One would never be able to tell of all the dilapidated and ruined houses which was which. But, Kendari knew. A thousand dwellings, roofs long gone, walls falling in, overgrown with wicked looking brush and roots of dead trees, but he counted his steps from the statues. The third road, barely visible now, fourth house on the left, and he was home.
Kendari hit his knees, his swords dropped to the patches of grass and cobblestone, and he wiped his marked face with his gloved hands. He looked up, still two stories tall, red stone on the bottom, wooden double doors with gold handles, and bleached white wood for the walls and frame. The windows held stained glass no more, roots of trees had shifted the whole base to a strange angle, but it was his home. There was no doubt.
You were born here, raised here…
You ate your meals here, ran out the steps…
Your room was the one on the right, go in…
“No! Shut your mouths, all of you! I will kill you, show yourselves, I will cut each of you down!” Kendari stood, pain shooting up his chest now, nearly intolerable. He was crying, he could not control it.
You already did, all of us, remember…
“I had no choice!”
We all have choices, you chose to murder your entire city…
Those that were with you all took their lives…
Only you remain…
Do you remember your friend, Bilrossi the Small…
Your friend you killed while he slept, the twig, helpless…
“I had no choice!” Kendari fell back down, the emotion, the memory, stronger than any sword he had ever met.
Your family, they pleaded, they did not believe it…
You wanted fame, glory, to win and to rule…
You hated your father for loving your brothers more…
So you killed them too, all of them…
“I was young! I did not know what would happen!”
We all know right and wrong, it is instinct…
You chose to ignore it, and now you have won…
You are the deadliest elf with a blade…
And what do you have for it, Nadderi…
Go to your tree, go and end it, take the sword…
“No!”
Kendari stood, in great pain, shaking. He picked up his swords, sheathed them, and stumbled in search of the tree, the tree of Nadderi, the tree of judgement that had the thorns. He remembered them putting the thorn in him, the pain had never stopped. It was still there four hundred years later. After the battle was lost, his surviving mercenaries had all committed suicide as their faces changed like his, all but Kendari had ended their lives immediately following their sentence, as did most so judged and cursed.
He fell again, crawling now, he passed the stairs that led down to the sacred tree of Stillwood. It was here that judgement was passed, very seldom, as elven sin is rare. The curse had been administered to forty three before his company were captured. Kendari and his surviving men numbered seventeen that night, and sixteen put their swords through their own chests moments after. He had met only a few like him ever, but they were pitiful creatures that deserved death, and he had given it to them. Since Stillwood was abandoned, no one knew nor recorded when, or if, the elves of the other kingdoms came here to punish their guilty in the old tradition. As far as he knew, Kendari was the only Nadderi alive.
He looked up, his vomiting had ended as nothing but bile remained. The tree hovered over him like a thousand guillotines. White branches full of nails, seven trunks twisted into one, roots that climbed and dove into the earth like giant serpents, and black thorns were the only fruit that the skeleton of a tree bared. A rusty elven blade, curved and stained, rested in its driven spot in one of the trunks. He remembered when the elves offered it to him, when they pulled the nails out of his arms and legs, his body next to his vanquished and dead comrades. Kendari recalled the sickness, the hatred that nature felt toward him all of the sudden, how his hair darkened and his skin paled with the spiral black marks that never left. He remembered running, screaming, being chased by the Hedim Anah into the Gimmori Mountains. Then he was visited by Nareene, a priestess then, and mortal. She worshipped Vasentanessa, the lover and judge, but in secret she worshipped another. By the time he knew, she was gone, the deal done, and his chest had the flames of hell to mark ownership of what lay inside.
Kendari looked up the tree, over a hundred feet of death waiting for him in the silence of Stillwood. The Nadderi tree called to him, without words, it told him to take the blade and join the other elves it had cursed. He spit on it.
“I will outlive this curse, wait and see!”
No you won’t, Kendari kinslayer, you will die here…
You want redemption, justice, and forgiveness…
It will never happen, not ever, the Gods despise you…
But you may die fighting…
“And which hunter of the Hedim Anah or guardian of your pathetic temples do you wish to see slain?” Kendari calmed his voice, resisting the urges and messages to end himself, defiant to the taunts of the spirits that lingered here.
Not one that can be slain, but all who cannot…
They honor that request for you, to see you to your end…
Now you must die, and die you will, finally…
Kendari glanced around, the sky darkened with sudden breezes and clouds. The wind whipped leaves and brush. Footsteps came from every direction. Slow steps, cautious steps, he saw the feet as he sat on his hands and knees. Transparent, devoid of color, just white to gray to black they were, but feet walking in Stillwood. Hundreds at first, then thousands, their soft steps crunched the grass and ground into a deafening breach of the dead peace that existed. Swords drew, thousands of swords, phantasmal swords from all those that died in Stillwood that night four hundred years past.
The Nadderi swordsman stood. He met the hateful gazes of the dead, they remembered him well. He drew Shiver in his right, then the holy crossblade in his left, held reverse. He crouched low, and looked at the horde of spectres that waited. He smiled at the ghosts of all the elves as he stood in front of the Nadderi tree, green eyes glaring at his father and brothers, his childhood friends, the army of soldier swordsmen he had killed. When the battle took place centuries past, his army was two thousand strong, he and sixteen had been captured after a nearly victorious battle. Ten thousand dead in his revolt, and they all stood here before him in undeath, swords drawn on just him.
Time for judgement, Kendari of Stillwood, time to end it…
“Not even close.”
Cristoff III:III
Shanador Tradeway, North of the Misathi Mountains
“How many did your men count, Sir Leonard?”
“Two hundred nearly sire.” Leonard was breathing heavy, his steed as well, it had been a fast charge back in the summer heat.
“Sir Karai?” Cristoff sighed atop his stallion.
“Just over that in the foothills, my lord.” Karai patted his mare.
“How far is it if we retreat to Gillian, father Garret?”
“Five days at a quick pace, Lord Cristoff.” Garret was nervous, four hundred ogre from Bloodskull now stood between them and the west.
“And to Belbeyre, how far past them?”
“Maps say about six days, my lord. We could head north, to Acelin
ne, it would be but three days. Tis’ a safe distance.” Capitan Broushelle added.
“No. If we leave north, we expose ourselves to another side, open ground. They would surround us quick. Charging cavalry would be useless, remember the women, the children, all those that cannot fight. We keep close to the mountains.” Cristoff watched another scout, this one on foot, run up and take a knee. He was covered in sweat and gasping for air.
“My…Lord!”
“Easy son, rise, what did you see?”
“Stormbats, leaving another…score of ogre…like messengers…another two hundred…coming from the …western…slopes!”
“Six hundred ogre? The bats must have informed them of our coming. I knew they were pets of someone.” Sir Karai drew his rapier.
“Likely about our numbers and supplies. Tis’ summer, near harvest, that is when the ogre raid I have heard. We have even numbers, but one on one against an ogre, we won’t last but a few hours before they…” Broushelle paused and sighed.
“Reach the people.” Sir Leonard finished the words for him.
“If we were not loaded with wagons and commoners, we could charge through, over and over, break their morale. But, if we do that, they could come directly for the supplies and the defenseless, which is what they want.” Cristoff looked to the west, seeing the first of the massive beasts cross the tradeway road. Within moments, he saw hundreds. Over ten feet tall, spears in hand, stringy hair and bloody skin banners, the ogre covered the road from the foothills.
“Bloodskull is said to have ten thousand ogre up in their city in the cliffs. If we delay, more will come.” Father Garret held his feathered cross tight.
“I heard twenty thousand.” Sir Leonard retorted.
“Never mind that, we have minutes here to decide. More will come, especially if we run. If we take heavy losses, the caravans will be slaughtered. We need to form a slow moving wall of horsemen, followed by the footmen with halbreds and spears. Every man with a shield if possible. Put the archers in between, keep them low and covered. Once we fire, we keep a slow withdrawl back until we are out of arrows, then we stand. Not one ogre breaches our wall, understood?” Cristoff worried for Rosana and the unborn boy, his people, and that one ogre in the ranks of the caravans would kill dozens.
“And if they overrun us, what then?” Sir Leonard drew his sword, nodding for his squire to gather his men.
“Open combat, drive them to the mountains, corner them, do all you can. God save us.” Cristoff drew his longsword, the pyramid pommelled blade from the elven mercenary.
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It was their spot, their kill, their take of any and all that was here. Ullirut Blackeye knew that this could bring his tribe great respect in the city with what these little men had. His bats had been killed, so he sent more, they returned and told their old witch, his mother, that human men came from the east with small swords and horses and supplies. An easy kill it would be, plenty of slaves and food, and human treasures that would all be his, all for the Blackeyes.
Ullirut stood, twelve feet tall, the tallest in his tribe. His one eye of seagreen gazed to his family, all in bits of steel armor, hides of most anything, all dyed black, and all with their right eyes burned out at birth leaving a blackened socket. He saw the army, maybe six hundred men, easy for his tribe to kill, a good fight it would be. The Deadspears would not go to the low grounds to hunt, neither the Mountaintusks, the Rottenclaws, or the Bonefaces. Only the Blackeye were bold enough, and the Bloodskulls.
He wanted the glory, wanted the name of the city in the mountains to change, it had been Bloodskull for many generations. Ullirut was tired of giving to the chief of chiefs that sat the mountain, the tribe that held the name. Kahamut Bloodskull was the seventh one of his tribe to keep the city and his tribal honor. No more. Ullirut knew that treasures, victories, steel, and glory would allow him to challenge Kahamut Bloodskull. If he won, the city would be named Blackeye once again, and he could be the chief of chiefs in the seat atop the mountain over the city.
“Nethtut, Kirrut, Aggund, Lutto, hergi ughth newarst ukathi!” Ullirut, strongest and tallest, chief of the Blackeye, ordered his brothers and sons to walk with him to give greeting to the five that rode their pet horses ahead on the road. Five came, so five would greet. He knew men would beg and offer treasures, they always did.
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“What is going on, my queen? I hear the people talking, they are frightened.” Kaya could talk much better now, her jaw had healed over the last week, thanks to father Garret.
“Roasana, call me Rosana please. I am no longer a queen.” Rosana, heavy with the discomfort of the wagons and restless child in her womb, peeked out again from the flaps. The caravan had stopped, it had been nearly an hour. She saw the ogre now, she had never seen one before, only heard stories. From such a distance, she could only make out that they were tall, hide wearing savages, nothing more.
“Very well, Rosana then.”
“Ogre they say, from Bloodskull. Lord Cristoff, Garret, his knights, and Broushelle are riding out to them. The army is in a line, waiting. I do not think Cristoff would allow a fight, not with all of us so close.” Rosana held her belly, the kicks were neverending, the heat here was suffocating without the ocean breeze.
“Ogre? Tell them they need to charge, charge the leader or the tallest ones, kill them first…get them back!” Kaya tried to stand, she could not, her legs were still bandaged and healing, her hips were wrapped tight, and her left arm as well. So much had been broken.
“How would you know that, a lady and all? Rest, you need your rest Kaya.” Rosana patted her head, eased her with stroking her hair, and peeked again.
“I fought ogre, many a time. They do not negotiate, they do not greet, and they only follow the strong. Trust me…ahhhh!” The strain of her blood pumping harder hurt almost everywhere. The pain settled her down regardless of her struggle.
“Calm yourself, calm. The men will handle it, I am sure. I know Lord Cristoff, he will not let harm come to us. You fought ogre? Truly? Where?” Rosana peeked again, the men getting closer to the ogre. Five of the tall beasts were walking to greet them now.
“In Southwind, Chazzrynn, my homeland. I have killed many.”
“What sort of lady are you, a soldier, a mercenary?”
“You could say that I suppose. And you, Rosana, what sort of woman are you?”Kaya laughed, it hurt, but she laughed.
Rosana chuckled, the pain and pressure was not pleasant, but the laugh felt good anyway. “Not like you, no. I am not brave, nor trained with a blade. I was never allowed. I grew up in the palaces of Caberra. Dresses, courts, dinners, jewelry, and my fathers’ rule. There was no fighting for his daughter, only his sons, my little brothers. I did kill a man though, more accident than anything.”
“How is that? An accident you say?”
“Yes, it is a long story, but I found myself hiding in a stable. There, the dying nephew of my husband, a knight, he gave me his blade. There was an assassin behind me, he thought I was someone else. When I turned, he had stepped closer to grab me and the rapier just went through him. I had my eyes closed, I could not have hit the wall had I tried, but I killed him.”
“And the knight, he lived then?” Kaya smiled, thinking of how her blade rarely missed its mark, eyes closed or no.
“No, Sulian Lisario, no, he died there. He died saving me, just like my husband, Savanno. Swords and war kill so many in Harlaheim, it is, it is very sad.” Rosana wiped a tear, just one, remembering all that had happened months ago.
“I am sorry. Chazzrynn is much the same. I am afraid my past has had its fair share of bloodshed.” Kaya was somber, forgetting the ogre threat, thinking of Southwind Keep.
“You are wanted, perhaps in exile?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“Then no worries, dear Kaya. For here, we are all running from something or someone. Is that why you were found the way you were, the past caught
up?” Rosana stroked Kaya’s hair, then picked up her brush from her vanity box.
“Yes, I finally had nowhere left to run.” Kaya was crying, she remembered now, the chase, the kiss of Norrice, the jump.
Rosana brushed her hair, trying to calm the broken woman, broken like she was in more ways than one. “A new beginning awaits us, believe in that. At least you are not married to a king in another country, no?”
Kaya laughed, they both did, it hurt but they could not help it, tears streamed from pain and laughter the same. “No, that I am not. Nor am I with child, though at least you can walk.”
“Soon Kaya, soon you will walk. Then, maybe you can show me how to wield a blade like a real woman.”
“Yes, I could do that. It would be an honor, Rosana.”
“Honor is for men. Let us make it, fun, like sisters. I never had a sister, only brothers.”
“Same for me, only a brother, and I was the eldest as well, though not by much. Sisters it is.” Kaya smiled.
“My last name will surely follow me in many ways, and yours?”
Kaya thought hard. “Yes, mine will have quite a price on it.”
“Then, we shall take Lord Cristoff’s, Bradswellen. Sounds regal and noble, what do you think?” Rosana chuckled.
“I like it, Rosana and Kaya Bradswellen, sisters.”
“Now, to get him to agree to that, that is the difficult part.”
“He loves you, still all these years, I can tell when he speaks of you.” Kaya looked to Rosana.
“I know he does, I know.”
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Cristoff Bradswellen the Third held the reins tight, his steed was not like his well trained stallion, Leonis, that perished on Soujan Mountain. This animal had not been around ogre, the dead, or anything but other horses and men. It was jittery as the beasts approached. Capitan Broushelle was sweating in his armor and old age. Sir Karai and Sir Leonard stood stoic, mounted, staring as the setting sun glared across their shaved heads. Father Garret, youngest of them all, seemed as calm as the breeze.
The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains Page 43
