The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains

by Jason R Jones

  “Whatever they say, let me respond. Remember, we have nearly eight thousand people back there, their safety comes first.”

  “Yes sire.” Both exiled knights of Saint Tarumin and the old Capitan of Saint Erinsburg acknowledged their lord.

  “Do you speak ogre, Lord Cristoff?” Garret was praying, asking Alden to bless his pious knights of the saint of sacrifice, the loyal capitan, and their leader.

  “No, does anyone here?”

  Shaking heads answered that for him. “Then while you are at it father, pray that one of them speaks Agarian.”

  “I already did, my lord.”

  Five ogre came within fifty feet now, walking slow with long strides. They seemed uncomfortable, being so far from their numbers, as did Cristoff and his men. The horses whinnied, the ogre tensed, and the hot sun stole the breath from everyone. No one moved.

  Cristoff looked to the ogre in the middle. Yellow tusks shone, two from each jaw, straight and bestial. They were all nearly twice as tall as any of his men, dark tan and filthy, and wearing only hides and bits of piecemeal armor here and there. Wooden spears as long as two men, decorated with blood and bones, much like their oily hair, and all of them had but a black hole where their right eyes should be.

  “Rather savage and primitive I would say, sire.” Broushelle whispered.

  “No argument here, but they have reach, position, and sizeable numbers. We talk first.” Cristoff held up his hand.

  “Let us pass, we mean no threat or harm. We are en route to Evermont in Shanador.”

  Ullirut looked to his brothers, no one understood a word this man said. He understood, he had dealt with human slaves and learned the tongue from his witch mother. “You no pass here, horse man. You give to Deadeye.”

  “Give what, a toll or tithe? Very well, if these are your lands and your road, we will pay a tax then. How much?” Cristoff would normally never barter with an enemy, but avoiding a battle here would save many lives.

  “Five hundred and five wagons.” Ullirut smiled.

  “Seems steep, I offer three hundred, and three wagons, three empty wagons.” Gold they had plenty of, wagons they could replace in Belbeyre or Evermont, Cristoff was surprised that it would be that easy.

  “Four and four then, but not old ones or sick ones, strong and young with more women than men.” Ullirut Deadeye bartered as well, knowing he would take what was freely given, then take the rest with bloody force after.

  “Four hundred…strong and young?” Cristoff paused.

  “He means people sire, not gold.” Garret whispered.

  “You want, my people?”

  “You agreed, four hundred, horse man.”

  “Oh by all the hells, my lord there can be no dealing with these things! Be off, beast!” Broushelle had never heard of paying a tax with people, his anger spoke before his mind calmed.

  “Quiet, old slave. I want him now, four hundred and one. You will lick my spears clean.” Ullirut laughed, his brother laughing along without knowing what was being said.

  “You won’t need a spear in the afterlife, primitive.”

  “Broushelle, enough.”

  “We have deal?”

  “No, I do not trade people. Gold, supplies, even horses or wagons, but not my people. No deal.”

  “Bad decision horse man, you are far from man city, lots of crows and vultures to feed here. Ullirut Deadeye give you another chance.” The tribal chief stared with his one eye at Cristoff, then looked back at his mass of ogre, then smiled and looked back to the leader of the men.

  “Ullirut Deadeye will be all dead when we are done with---“

  It happened faster than anyone could respond or anticipate. The shaft of the wooden spear was in Broushelle’s grasp, the tip was two feet out the back of his chest, red with blood. The chief had hurled it with a furious throw from but thirty feet, his brother tossing him another before a single man had drawn a blade. Capitan Broushelle gagged on his words and blood, pulled his horse down with him kicking on the ground, and tried desperately to remove the spear that had pierced his armor front and back.

  Shouts and roars from six hundred ogre sounded the beginning of the charge. Thunderous trampling shook the ground as the breeze carried red dust to the north from the ogre advance. Cristoff ducked another spear, then another whisked past Garret, the five emmisaries of the ogre, with their army charging, had no fear nor honor.

  “Back to the line, back!” The former Lord of Saint Erinsburg knew his men would not arrive before the ogre and did not wish to hold them all with himself and three others. Leaving Broushelle dead on the ground, they charged east to their ranks of readied soldiers.

  “Ready! Loose!” Cristoff, with Karai, Leonard, and Garret beside him, raised and lowered his longsword quickly, and the arrows fired into the charging horde of Deadeye ogre.

  One hundred fifty archers launched their flights, and twenty ogre fell. The charge continued.

  “Ready! Loose!”

  Again the flights arced into the air, another fifteen fell, trampled by their own. Feathers from arrows were sticking out of dozens of ogre, yet they came within a hundred feet now, almost too close for another volley.

  “Cavalry, draw and hold! Halberdiers ready! Archers, fire at will!” Cristoff raised his blade, his knights and priest did the same, then the soldiers on horse drew longswords as the footman took a forward stance. Flights whisteled through the ranks dropping but ten of the charging ogre.

  Screams and shouts of terror rose from behind, fear spread as the populace of the caravan saw their men stand strong as over five hundred ogre crashed into their wall. Spears splintered upon shields, spears took men from their saddles, and the wall was pushed back like an ocean wave receding from the sands. Most men ahorse were thrown from the impact, then they fought to stand amidst the carnage and confusion, and then many never stood at all.

  The ogre split, a third went north to pass the men and get to the caravan, another third into the foothills to the south intent on the same. Ullirut stayed in the middle, cleaving and killing anything smaller than himself. He saw the victory here, his remaining ogre were worth four or five of the scared men now without horses. The steeds ran and scattered, the archers withdrew to safer ground, and the wall fell into a disarray of armored men that had broken the charge, but lost their ranks and formation in the clash. Now the ogre waded into the melee swinging blades and spears wildly through their enemies.

  Cristoff pulled his blade from an ogre chest then stood up. He saw the plan plain enough. He would be occupied with fighting here while over half the ogre looted, killed, and pillaged in the rear. He cut down low across an ogre thigh, ducked an axe swing that buried into his struggling steed on the ground, and then plunged his sword through the ribs and released. It fell dead beside him.

  “Karai, to the south, stop them in the foothills! Leonard, north and protect the right flank of the caravan. Garret, to the women, protect the queen and the people!” Cristoff picked up a shield from one of his dead soldiers and marched ahead with what remained of his men. The soldiers surrounded him, shields high, swords cutting toward the center of the ogre horde with their lord, outnumbered now, and outmatched.

  “God save us.” Night was but a few hours away, and then there would be panic then for certain. Cristoff whispered a prayer for help, he did not think his days would end like this.

  James III:I

  Deadman’s Pass, Misathi Mountains

  …The Altestani commander plunged his blade through James, through his stomach and out the other side. Whiskey poured instead of blood, and he fell to a knee. He looked up to his adversary, the curved shamshir blade was raised high over his head for a final blow. Just as the turban wearing northern man of dark skin went to finish him, a black scaled dragon swooped down and took off the man’s sword arm with a roaring bite of teeth and jaw…

  …James stood, surveying the red mountaintop he teetered upon, the red sky, the crimson clouds, and the red sun. The Altestani m
an from the Headhunter was falling, tumbling, screaming at him as he fell forever into the endless slope to his death. The second dragon roared, dove at James, and breathed flames all over him. He tried to scream but no longer had a tongue. He could not run, or he would fall, his body was a skeleton, burned to but armor and bone. He was so hungry…

  …Chasing, they would not stop chasing him, not ever. Mogi giants, with mugs of mead in their hands for weapons were running after him on the red slopes that never ceased. They threw the mugs at the skeletal James Andellis, knocking him down each time, but he got to his feet just before they trampled him. He ran into a cave, red cave, red torches, blood ran down the walls…

  …Cristoff was burning in the cave, so were Savanno and Kalzarius. They were chained and bloody, fires sprouting from skulls at their feet, through the sockets, and they moaned in silent incineration. Kaya was there, so were the dwarves of Marlennak, and so was Taira, the girl he had rescued from sacrifice in Bailey. They all burned slow, not able to lift their heads as he passed. He stood, a skeleton with a sword, James watched them turn from red to black with ash…

  …He was running, down the cavern, trying to reach the outside. His bone feet clacked on the red stone as he ran. His sword weighed a thousand pounds since he had no muscle or flesh. It was storming in the cavern, green lights passed him by, bolts of lightning too, and he ran faster but it never ended. His blue sash fell behind, then his white tabard, and then he dropped the broadsword with the griffon hilt and crosspiece. Just a skeleton of James ran down the empty cavern now, yet light ahead he saw…

  …The dragon was submerged, smiling, her head as big as a galleon. She breathed bubbles, drinking the whiskey and wine that flowed like rivers at the cavern’s end. James the skeleton could do nothing, standing in the wines and whiskies with but his bones. He saw Shinayne float by, then Saberrak, and then Zen. The dragon let them pass, kept drinking, and breathing hot bubbles from the endless bath of spirits. He was hungry, not thirsty, he tried to tell the dragon but James could not speak, so he waved his arms. She rose, flapped, and flew off through the ceiling of the cave, too high for James to follow…

  …”James, where is my father’s sword?” Gwenneth was there now, asking James the bonepile things he could not respond to, he could not respond at all. “James, why have you never kissed me?” Still, he just stared, his skull atop the collapsed parts that were once him. “James, why didn’t you warn us of what you saw or heal us when you knew we would be hurt?” Gwenneth was decaying now, her body withering and darkening, she was becoming like James. “James, why did you decide to drink when you knew it meant your death?” His skull tried to shrug, he could not, he felt the last lingering feeling, his last sense of hearing fading. He tried to move, he could not. Now, there was nothing left to move, and it became dark, so dark…

  James jumped up, sword in his right hand, whiskey flask in his left. His heart was pounding through his chainmail, his face and neck were covered in sweat, and his hands were shaking something fierce. He looked back behind him, Shinayne was there sleeping, Gwenne’s staff glowing faint green for light, Saberrak was snoring, and Zen was as well. All of them were in the same cavern for two days now. He remembered.

  The chase through the Misathi at night and all the next day had nearly killed him. Saberrak had run off alone to lure them away, yet some of the Mogi had followed them as well. The roars, the chants, they had kept running all day and into the night. They hid in a cave, a small one, and they had killed two of the Mogi giants at the entrance. Saberrak was still nowhere to be found. Azenairk had prayed to his God and melded the stone together to seal them in as more arrived. All but a small crack for air and to peak outside remained of the entrance. A day passed, they had argued a lot. James now recalled he had snuck a few flasks from the Bearded Hammer Pub, purchased in secret from the others, and he drank to calm himself. Shinayne had cried a lot, wanting to go out and find Saberrak.

  That next morning they heard many roars, fighting in the mountains, but no one went out. James remembered pounding, Saberrak yelling and slamming his fists into the cavern. Zen had to pray again to move the rock. As Saberrak ran inside, at least fifty of the Mogi were running down the valley of Deadman’s Pass after him. He was covered in black blood, he smelled terrible. Zen closed the cavern entrance right before the cannibals reached him.

  They had taken turns at watch, leaning against the stone and spying out at green fires in the vale. The chants carried on all night, but in the day the Mogi were gone. James drank more, thought he heard Saberrak say he killed more than ten while he was out, but there were too many. That was yesterday, James surmised, but he was not sure. Gwenneth had been freezing the ceiling with her arcane spells, and when it melted they filled their skins from the dripping water. But there was no food. They had all been starving for days now.

  James looked to the whiskey flask from Marlennak. He slid it out the crack in the stone and heard it fall. It was dark out, the flames were there, but not the chanting. He had fallen asleep to the chanting earlier, helped by the whiskey no doubt, but his nightmares had awoken him. The pain in his stomach went beyond pain, it was now terrifying. He knew, surely they all did, that they would starve to death here inside this cave. Zen had tried to meld the stone to forge another way out on the other sides, but they were there too. The Mogi had surrounded the small mountain and were waiting.

  James saw a faint light grow to the left from his four inch crack in the red rock. Sunlight, it was dawn. An agonizing hour passed, then another, the heat would rise in the cave slowly just like the days prior. Then he heard it, crows fighting, squawking at one another, then a snarl. Wolves or hyenas, it was hard to tell. The knight of Chazzrynn listened to the sound of scavengers eating the two dead Mogi that rotted outside the closed cave. Near delirious, James pretended he was eating the dead giant too, he started to chew on his pasty saliva. Then he looked to Zen, bolted up, and ran to wake his dwarven friend.

  “Zen, Zen, Zen! Wake up, open the cave, wake up, wake up!” His nerves were shot, he trembled just from moving, and the hole in his stomach radiated pain and weakness through his whole body.

  “Whiskey. Ye’ smell o’ whiskey James Andellis. Hand it over.” Zen rolled over on the stone floor.

  “I gave it to the giants, I put it outside, it’s gone!”

  “Likely story, what is it?”

  “Food, there is food!”

  “Where? Show me.” Zen was serious.

  “There! Hear it? Ssshh, don’t scare them, open it up and let’s eat.” James was like a child, his mind was on edge, his sleep was scattered, and the hunger had gotten to him.

  “Get the others, quietly now James, careful then.” Zen knelt next to the stone, touching it, silently humming something.

  James woke the others, Shinayne first as she was quick to rouse, then Saberrak who anyone could smell a mile away at this point, and lastly Gwenneth who he thought of kissing for some reason but had no idea where the thought had originated.

  Over the next few minutes of shooshing each other and watching the stone slowly slide and meld away, each of them was paranoid beyond words. Shinayne held her blades with a deathgrip, Saberrak his axes, and James stood in front of Gwenneth as she prepared something magical. They guarded Zen with their backs to the stone walls as if death itself waited for them out on the slopes.

  As soon as their dwarven priest stopped, Gwenneth stepped out and looked. She said something in the arcane tongue, then again, but all of them rushed out with her shielding their eyes and gasping at the fresh air. Three hyenas and four vultures lay still, ten crows fell to the ground a second later, the same. Shinayne and James wasted not a thought and grabbed them all and began throwing them into the cave. Saberrak sniffed the air.

  “Hurry, all inside now! Zen, shut it!” The gray minotaur stood in front of them as they took the last of the sleeping scavenger animals and ran back in the cave.

  Saberrak shoved James suddenly, just in time for a spear o
f bone to miss his head. The horned warrior’s greataxes slashed up twice, cutting the spear once and knocking it loose with the second strike. Zen was praying loud, sweating, chanting in the dwarven tongue and holding his hammer and moons as his hand pulled the softening rock back closed.

  The Mogi warrior slid off the slope from above the entrance and made for the entrance. Saberrak stepped twice and rammed his horns into the chest of the snarling fifteen foot cannibal. They snarled, roared at one another, wrestled, then the Mogi picked Saberrak up. His axes cleaved into collarbone on each side of its neck, dropping it to its knees in growling pain. Saberrak saw shadows over his head, above the entrance, there were more.

  Black blood poured over the body from the giant, then sprayed the entrance from another axe slash, then covered the floor with the consecutive hacks that took its head. Saberrak dove in the wedge that remained from the divine prayers that Zen evoked to close the mountain cave. His horns were grabbed by another Mogi cannibal that had reached through.

  James took a two handed chop, then another, then a third, and the forearm attached to Saberrak’s horns was severed. The guttural roar of the stone crushing the shoulder of the Mogi outside was almost as horrid as the black blood that ran through the crack of stone Zen had left open. The severed arm twitched then released and fell to the ground.

  The stomping of the slope and mountaintop went on for hours, the angered Mogi had missed their catch again.

  No one spoke, there were no words. James had thought quick, acted fast, and likely saved them from certain death from starvation. They all smelled the whiskey and none approved. Still, no one said a word to him. Saberrak nodded, an unspoken thanks for the food and the timely swordstrokes.

  Vulture and crow necks snapped, hyenas were bled out and skinned, and a fire was started with gathered bones and cloaks they no longer needed. Gwenneth kept the fire going with arcane energies from her staff and Zen prayed to Vundren for the smoke to funnel out the crack so they did not suffocate. Saberrak and James cleaned and cooked the scavenger meat while Shinayne kept watch out the small fissure over Deadman’s Pass.