The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth

by Jason R Jones

  “What.. is.. that, traitor…” His jaw and breath both struggled to emit sound. Bryant tried not to stare, but from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of steel in the dark, then another.

  “Your older brothers, Gartaine and Draile, were not killed in the war with Harlaheim all those years ago. And, your mother, Helinna, did not die of the fever, either.” Jehrale grinned and stared as he walked close through the open cell. The throbbiing was constant now, his mother wanted something, but she would have to wait. He drew a shortblade and placed it under the chin of Bryant. “Now you know.”

  Bryant felt the tears, but he could not cry anymore, he had not the strength. His lip puckered, eyes watered and burned, but all he could do was lay there against the wall in chains. His eye caught two more flashes of steel in the dark. He saw the outline of two black clad agents fall slowly, as if they were held from behind, and then something drug them back into the darkness. Bryant looked, all four agents were gone now. He stalled, spoke with all he had left in his chest.

  “Why, what… have I… ever done.. to you, Valhera?”

  Jehrale went to respond with something atrociously evil and foul, then he saw, just as the words went to his lips. In the eye of the heir prince, something moved behind he and Oggidan. He drew the kris blade and dove ahead and turned. Two slices of steel went through the air behind him, right where he had been standing.

  “Oggidan on guard, behind you!”

  The red headed boy spun round, blade out on instinct, drawing his off hand sword in mid turn. Both his edges met a broadsword meant for his neck. He was face to face with Knight of Southwind by the tabard and chevrons, barely older than himself. He glared, his two blades still pressed to the one sword of the intruder.

  There were no words, just stares and pacing steps. Jehrale Valhera circled with an elf, savage looking with tribal markings on his face, who held a falcata and a kukri dagger toward him in a loose and low stance with his chin down. Vermillion kept a sideways stance, guard high, leading with the kris blade and holding his shortblade off to the left.

  “Stand down men of Valhirst. We want the prince, nothing more.” The tan elf spoke quietly yet stern.

  “You cannot have him, elf.” Vermillion of the South nodded to Oggidan Chilar as they closed in step, nearly back to back.

  “Then by the title vested to me by King Mikhail of Chazzrynn, I, Sir Liogan Andellis, declare your lives forfeit.” Liogan Andellis nodded to Lavress Tilaniun, the two taking slow steps to flank their enemies, four dead agents bleeding out behind them. “Lavress, now what do we do?”

  “Oggidan.” Jehrale glared at the elf as the kris blade glowed green and hummed.

  “Yes master Vermillion?” The young boy with one hand spoke over his shoulder.

  “Show no mercy.”

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  The roar of the crowd did nothing for him, not even a hint of pleasure did he feel as he walked past the seven mangled bodies that littered the floor of Ajastaphan Arena. Chalas Kalaza had been all but abandoned here with his bloodshed. Agents hid from him, Cadius was now the domenarch supposedly, but had not been seen, and he had no army nor scouts to begin his search for Saberrak the gray of Unlinn. His take from the arenas was mounting though, up to five thousand in gold or more he surmised. Soon, he would have is own butchering guild, armed to the teeth, and he would seek out the gray gladiator that had escaped him.

  The brown minotaur felt his chipped horn, courtesy of the son of Tathlyn, and his hate brewed more. He sheathed his serrated greatblade and strode out of the arena doors into the barracks. He passed the fearful stares of captured men, dwarves, and every other sort of slave. Chalas walked toward the doors that led into White Spider territory, and the massive ogre guardians stepped aside without word. He had it here, the fear, the respect, and the adoration of tens of thousands of spectators that loved the blood he spilled and death he caused.

  He was undefeated still, in Unlinn, in Tre’hahdim arena, and in the secret underground arena of Ajastaphan. Though he wanted it to have meaning, it did not. He knew, though he had never heard it with his own ears, that many whispered of the gray minotaur that got away. The battle after the battle with Mafahann the two-headed ogre, between he and Saberrak, many thought Chalas had lost. It burned like a fire inside, a relentless flame of purgatory and hate, one that Chalas Kalaza would extinguish in brutal fashion.

  A dark shadow of a figure crept from the left corridor, crossed in front of him, and was gone to the right too fast to catch. Chalas looked down, a piece of parchment fluttered to the black stone floor. He looked around, smelled the air, no one but him here. The minotaur picked it up with one hand, drawing his blood and flesh encrusted blade with the other.

  The parchment read only a few words, but his scarred face sported a grin nonetheless.

  Our silent feud must come to an end, come to the balcony, Domenarch Cadius of Devonmir

  “About time. We shall see how silent it is when you scream with your entrails falling down my steel, Cadius.” Chalas crumpled the paper and threw it to the floor. He turned and headed up the stairs to the left, curling up into the darkness. Agents with black masks nodded to him and gave him a wide berth, torches lit with arcane fires as he passed, and the doors to the White Spider balconies were open as he arrived.

  Cadius sat at the table, warlock mirrors out on display, two ogre sentinels on each side of him. Three dark figures also sat with the Harlain wizard, two agents and one dark clad elven woman. His eyes bore right into those of Cadius. His goatee was trimmed now, his banyan root staff was held tight in his hand, and he looked nervous. Chalas expected as much.

  “You failed to inform Johnas of my position, and took it for yourself. Clever, avoiding me was the only way for you to survive.” He snorted and kept walking forward, blade tapping the sofas and chairs as he lowered his horns.

  Cadius, despite the current arrangement, could not help but feel terror. Over eight feet and five hundred pounds of brown hide and muscle with no conscience was heading right for him. He nodded nervously, and the two of the Emerald Eight stood up at the table. Sylette Sassari of Shalokahn remained comfortable. Her matching elven blades, one long and one short, were at rest in their scabbards.

  “So this is him? The famous Chalas Kalaza, my family and I have profited from your kills, bravo minotaur.” Sylette winked at Chalas, her black hair pulled back and flowing behind her pointed ears as her deep brown eyes shimmered like magic.

  “And you let women speak for you as well, you are weak, even for a pathetic human.” Chalas dove at him, over the table, the two agents diving out of the way. Cadius blinked as the minotaur roared, and then stopped in midair. A strange glow of reds and orange formed around him, his body frozen in place over the table, his blade not half a foot from the face of Cadius.

  Cadius let out a deep sigh, wiped his face from the sweat that ran, and stood. “My lords of Devonmir, you have your gold and your new champion, as per the agreement with the patriarch of the White Spider.”

  The veil of black wall faded to nothing and three dark robed beings hovered through the dissipating mist that remained. They circled the minotaur in silence, each set of red eyes behind their cowls seemed appeased, yet they whispered in an unknown tongue to one another. Koligail, Trehad, and Maroguille all held a respectful finger toward the beast and killer, knowing well enough to hold the spell in place. They spoke, in unison, sending shivers up the spines of all but Chalas Kalaza. “We will take him below with the screams and shadows, send the gold to our thrones. Our deals are done and debts repaid, Domenarch Cadius, yet we will be in touch, often.”

  “And what will you do with him, my great lords?” Cadius shuddered, knowing full well these three were the dead or eternal damnations of dark infernal sorceries gone wrong. He had hoped to never be this close to them.

  “Our mistress to the magicks beyond has something special for us, Nareene always delivers the most wonderful and delicious of rites. You will see h
im in the arenas in time, and by then I would not recommend placing your bets against him. Come Chalas Kalaza, it is time to meet the spirits of the hells and become so much more than you already are.” The lords three bowed and hovered toward the stairs, this time with their prize held helpless and hovering behind them.

  “My family thanks you for the information, Lords of Devonmir. We call our debts even as well. Best dark wishes in your experiments.” Sylette Sassari spoke gracefully and bowed as the three hovered away with the famous undefeated brown minotaur.

  Ruby of the Sea and Emerald of the Ocean both bowed as well, then turned to Cadius and Sylette. “Our affairs here are settled, your domain is secure, and we must travel west. The Patriarch wishes the White Spider to find answers to Jade of the West and the fugitives that sank the Altestani vessel.”

  “I will inform Johnas of how greatly appreciative we are here, and how well the Emerald Eight have managed to handle our disturbances. I hope to see you both again.” Cadius looked over the railing into Ajastaphan Arena, admiring his new domain of power in the White Spider.

  “Pray you do not see us again.” Ruby of the Sea added.

  “For that means you are unable to handle things without our guidance.” His twin, one of the quadruplets, Emerald of the Ocean commented in return.

  “Then, I hope to never see you again.” Cadius corrected. Those two were silent, as always, and left without word nor hassle.

  “And you, dear Sylette, where do we stand with the Sassari family?”

  “I have a name, that was all I needed to put reason to my cousin Vossir’s death. Though I will admit, we suspected one of yours responsible for the deed, the Lords of Devonmir gave me one much more probable and valuable to Shalokahn.” Sylette Sassari drew her paired Simnorri blades in a flash, then spun them as if they were lighter than air, and sheathed them with a malevolent grin.

  “And that name was?”

  “T’Sarrin. Shinayne T’Sarrin of Kilikala. She passed through here recently, rescued that gray horned beast with the Lazlette woman, and left many dead behind her. Whether it was her or your traitor, Kaya T’Vellon, that killed Vossir, it matters not. Between the Sassari family and the T’Sarrin family there is a history that leaves no room for coincidence.”

  “Then we, the White Spider and the Sassari family, hunt the same group to the west. Perhaps a union?” Cadius admired her, desired her, she was thin and elegant, deadly and intriguing all with one breath.

  Sylette laughed loud and wickedly. “Amusing, truly, but I work alone. Farewell Cadius, tell your spiders to stay out of my way. If another of my family ends up with so much as a hair out of place in this city, my brother Avricas will be here, personally. Pray he does not bring Surma Shatan with him.”

  “I will be sure to pass the word of warning along. Farewell.” Cadius walked between his ogre as he watched the lady assassin of Shalokahn leave the balcony. He made motion for more wine from his two ogre guards. They looked to one another, shrugged, and began arguing over who would grab and pour.

  “Ahhh…almost perfect, almost.” Cadius released several months’ worth of tension with a collapsing thump into his chair, spilling some of the wine. He poured some more for himself, looked over the arena, and thought of Rinicus three-blades, his old friend for so many years. He looked up, hoping his beheaded friend could see that he had gotten some vengeance on his murder. Then he looked down, realizing that like himself, Rinicus would be deep in the hells when life was over. He drank, laughed, and drank some more as the soon to be dead were announced into the arena.

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  His falcon hilted broadsword plunged down from his mare again, and another Harlian soldier felt the kings steel through his chest and met the blood smattered field. Arrows uncounted covered his men and the Harlian forces, their steeds, and the field before Castle Valhera, yet he fought on. Mikhail Salganat turned his horse to the left, trampling another Harlian soldier, then charged ahead toward the raised blade of the Captain of their forces. He did not care for numbers, he knew not how fared the north or south fronts, just that an enemy was still keeping him from his son.

  Banner with the black falcon behind him with his squire, he raised his shield with the same symbol, and charged the Harlian leader. His shield caught the rapier, yet his point reached fast to the thigh of his foe. As his enemy went to raise his shield and counterattack, Mikhail smashed his steel shield up into the other, and slashed his sword across the Harlian’s chest. His mare kept the charge, his men cheered as their king had dispatched his third Harlian officer with his blade, and the king of Chazzrynn raised his bloody blade high. A few more men were cut down, more surrendered, and soon he heard the hails and roars of victory behind him. It had been long since he had won a field, but that feeling came back as if it were yesterday.

  He turned around to rally his forces, Lord Corey beside him, but as he looked, the hope was stolen from him by his own eyes. Out of two thousand men, he had but three hundred or less following. Mikhail looked north and saw the same, General Fandruss and Sir Jallan having few foes left but perhaps one hundred men alive. The king looked south, he saw Aelaine and Kendrynn Shilde, and two hundred men at their front. He guessed that he had just over half a legion remaining, another full when he summoned the reserves and archers, and he knew that not one Valhirst soldier had come out a gate so far. Johnas Valhera had decimated his men, and his own Harlian forces, with senseless abandon and cruel cowardly volleys.

  The rams continued, the catapults flung stone into Valhirst, and King Mikhail raised his hand for the flag of Chazzrynn. His first thought was retreat and regroup, yet the main gate was almost broken through. He thought next of Bryant, in there, somewhere. He waved the banner of his realm, signaling Lord Burrain, Lord Dimitri, and Chancellor Marcus to bring the reserve legion and the siege ladders. Another charge of men, tools of war and siege en route, and another roar of victory erupted. The gates to Castle Valhera fell in at both the south and western fronts.

  “Brave men of Chazzrynn, into the castle!” King Mikhail roared like a lion, like warlord on fire, and like a fearless Salganat King.

  Thunder echoed from a gray sky with no storms, turning the heads of all to the west. Even Johnas Valhera on his battlements, directly above his uncle, turned to see what it was. At first, only helms rose slowly over the horizon, a row of helmets fifty men wide. Then faces appeared, bounding up and down on armored steeds. Lances lowered as the charging cavalry crested the hill, five deep, then ten, then sixteen rows deep could be seen and heard. They parted as they came around the artillery and camp of King Mikhail, no one knowing for sure whose side they were on. Everyone was ready fo an attack as the cavalry charged toward the dwindling battle. Suddenly, a white flag unfurreled, then another with the red feathered crosses of Alden, and then banners of the black falcon rose from bannermen into the wind. Lord Alexei T’vellon drew his broadsword and pointed it up to the battlements, right at Johnas Valhera.

  “For Chazzrynn, for honor, and For King Mikhail!”

  “It’s the Knights of Southwind!” Lord Corey smiled so hard it hurt his face. The cheers went loud, the reserve army charged alongside, and the invasion of Castle Valhera began.

  “Ready, loose!” Johnas Valhera’s voice could be heard from above.

  Arrows by the thousands flew outside of the courtyard and through the gates. Lord Corey was feathered and dropped dead as were the men with the battering rams.

  “Now!” The voice unseen again, but the Prince of Valhirst it was for certain.

  Burning oil flooded down the battlements. The screams of men having their flesh and features melted away was a sound Mikhail had hoped never to hear again. His forces were trudging over the dead and dying, right into arrow fire, and cramming into the broken castle gates.

  “Light them!”

  Torches by the dozens flung over the edges of the castle and created a wall of fire around the moat. The cavalry was in disarray, steeds balked and reared, even
the Knights of Southwind were held up at the bottleneck. Arrow slits by the dozens suddenly held archers in black masks that fired into the slow moving mob of Chazzrynn soldiers.

  Still, the two thousand men of King Mikhail and Southwind charged in, gloriously, face to face with three thousand well rested soldiers. The ladders hit the castle walls by the dozens, the reserve legion began their climb, and King Mikhail charged through with Marcus Mederris one side and Alexei T’vellon on the other. The king looked to his left, he knew the stairs to the battlements, and he knew Johnas was up there. Bloody broadsword in hand, he led his entourage toward the courtyard, and to victory.

  “I am coming Johnas Valhera! Your king comes for justice!” Mikhail heard growling as he ran the stairs and his men charged the Valhirst soldiers. The clash of blades and men nearly drown it out, yet it sounded like many large felines from his left beyond the walls.

  “I am waiting uncle, I see you brought my crown!” Johnas drew his longsword and raised his shield seeing the king approach. He pointed toward the keep with his blade, far above the courtyard. “All of Valhirst to arms!”

  Black clad agents poured from every vantage, crossbows fired, daggers flew end over end, and fast blade cuts into weary soldiers spilled blood over the stone. Lord Unarvin charged his men into the legions of King Mikhail, followed by the armies of Valhirst. The courtyard was filled with battle, the balconies and battlements swarmed with southwind swords, and masked men cut from corners and shadows.

  Johnas Valhera watched as his thousands battled thousands in the courtyard, flashes of black clad agents whittling down the numbers too fast to count. He waited for Mikhail to make it up the steps, then he ducked under his shield as an explosion erupted behind him. Smoke and rock was everywhere, he could not see five feet in front of him, yet the breeze was slowly assisting. Johnas stood and glared down at his south wall as two hundred men of Vallakazz poured in, led by Captain Shilde and Aelaine Lazlette.