The Last Pantheon: of hammers and storms

by Jason Jones

  ©2012-2017

  The Exodus Sagas

  The Last Pantheon

  Jason R Jones

  The Last Pantheon

  IV

  by Jason R Jones

  “An exodus is a grand departure of spiritual importance composed of flight from persecution, loss, suffering, or slavery, resulting in a journey to a place of holy sanctuary, guided by the divine.”

  for Mark, the king of the dwarves

  Darkness calls to me in sounds and known whispers, yet I hear the voices of past and present. Would they tell me of the future to come, I would perhaps listen more to their liking, whoever they are. Yet every noise that summons my senses, alone in the night with yet another ancient book in my hands, tells me that something watches, something waits for my words. A game of curiosity it is, for I say little aloud when immersed in solitary research, waiting to see if another immortal shows itself in guise. I shall not give in so easily to the haunting spirits.

  The more I read and recall, the more my mind unravels to the past and what has happened. Researching two thousand years of time to fill in the missing pages of life and history is not at easy at it may seem. For some, it may be easier to follow the dictums of the holy men, great kings, of power and wealth, perhaps even elven sages, or wise ancient dragons. I have found most carry a purpose, a bias if you will, toward their outlooks and positions. Carried from acts of terror, to nations begging for war, to righteous thoughts of arrogance, each to their own as they are made of what has happened. Generation after generation, country to kingdom, men seek the glory of overcoming what their fathers did not. I have not this desire, for I walked where angels stepped and demons fought, I recall the true battle for mortal existence.

  Books cannot hide their deceptions to my eyes, they are what they are. My library does not steal gold from itself, nor vies for a higher position over the rest of the furniture. When I find words untrue, no larger and more suitable tome comes crashing to my shelves intent on killing the other books. With men, with religions, and with governing mortals unto their lessors, it is not so. There is a truth, a solid and fascinating ordeal, behind every one of my collected tomes and scrolls. For my thoughts upon them, I could surely be hanged as a heathen traitor. Yet, I shall not be subject to opinions of those that delve not into the truths of the past, no matter who wrote them. In secret, I will learn of what was, and how it came to be that others believe in something quite different.

  Is all that I read a litany of battles and scripture most pagan and lifeless? No, certainly not. I enjoy a tale of fey origins, elven myths in poetry, and dwarven epics of heroes in song. Great knights facing wicked wyrms, giants of sky and mountain, archangels clinging to hidden clouds, and legendary places all but forgotten, those too, do I read and love. To my son, those are the favorites, and pleasantly, they are the most true of any tale upon my shelves.

  From the last remaining tome “Acretas Caricium”, known as the Secrets of the White Moon…

  Siril walked into the grand doors of bronze and steel and stone set into the golden hued mountains. He turned around, slow as he did, admiring the pillars and towers dedicated to his brothers and his sister, his mother and father. The view from there froze him with awe and admiration for the works of Vundren, the honor he had erected in stone, it was beyond words. Yet the darknened sky reminded him, a darkened sky that should not be.

  “Praise Vundren and his works, for such great things are wondrous, unmatched by any, mortal or immortal.” Siril turned back to the halls of the golden curved mountains with his hands held high.

  Sorrow filled his heart, his steps were heavy, and his wings were folded back behind him. Cavern by cavern, tunnels and stairs passed him by with not as much as a sound. The people of his brother, Vundren, they bowed to him as he approached, yet Siril could but keep a forward pace.

  “This place, our secret home, I shall not see you again.” He spoke to the walls and the men of the mountains.

  The glows were warm, the bridges of grand design were swept clean, and darkness seemed in awe of such a place. More doors, ever more tunnels, Siril kept his steps ahead, cherishing every one of them.

  “San Sidomius, I pray you survive unseen, a glory and peace upon this earth known as Siddora, as we have dwelled and laughed in your caverns, along your roads, and upon your peaks for so long. Now, it is your long silence without us, an enduring time unknown, until we may one day return.” Siril opened his wings and held out his hands, allowing the feel of this sacred place all about him.

  Low moans, whispers of and with the still air, and glows of orange and blue hummed to the Carician son in return. Siril smiled, still walking, and heard the grumble and storm deep below, from the sacred forges of his brother Vundren. Siril let his smile fade, recalling again the words he must come to relay.

  The pounding grew loud, louder than Siril cared to hear, and he stepped among the majestic forges deep beneath the earth and mountains.

  “Brother, I have come to you, for we must talk!” Siril yelled in song through the storming bellows and flaming hammers that wreaked sacred might upon holy steel.

  Vundren raised his hand, and the hammers of ten stopped their symphony upon anvils and forges the same in number. The lord of the mountains nodded to his devout, small versions of himself they were, and he walked to his older brother and embraced him in the dark underground of their secret home.

  “You are alone, Siril, tell me why?” Vundren grew concerns across his brow, his beard was black with ash, silver with age, and long upon his massive chest. His wings smoldered with cinders upon white feathers, and his hands were black from his works neverending.

  “Ten forges I see, where last I was here, they were but three. You have accomplished much, Vundren.” Siril admired the ten massive towers of stone, all in a ring, deep in the earth to match those sacred temples above. He saw symbols, designs to represent the Caricians, their parents, and the mortals that had sworn to them long ago in secret.

  “Your words avoid my question, those games I do not enjoy, brother. Speak.” Vundren nodded toward the silent forges, then his eyes of iridescent blue glowed and fell upon his elder.

  “Walk with me, Vundren.” Siril took his arm and stepped to leave the forges under the golden mountains.

  The moments were heavy, tense, and the air was as a force that Siril felt he must endure. Step by step, stare by stare, the Carician brothers walked shoulder to shoulder and wing to wing unto the outside world.

  Dark sky and winds with wisps of black cloud whipped through the grand empty city and its vacant temples. Gimmor was full, round and green, as it was close over the northwest horizon. Carice was but a sliver behind it, gleaming as if fighting to avoid an eclipse with desperate passing. Both moons were fast vanishing away. Siril gazed to the sky, his blue eyes searching the quiet for something.

  “Tell me now, Siril, what words must we speak?” Vundren stretched his wings and let the wind take the ashes that his building and forging had covered him in.

  “Do you see our home, the house of our father, Vundren?” Siril looked to the moons as he spoke solemnly.

  “I do, it is night, an easy thing to see Carice with a clear sky.” Vundren grumbled to Siril, not having the patience for poetic roads to things he needed to hear.

  “Brother, look again.” Siril closed his eyes to fight the emotion that wanted tears to fall.

  “I see the green moon of Yjaros and his slaves, I see our home before the heavens, and I see San Sidomius below us, our secret home here on the world, one built by me and mine. What is it you wish me to see?”

  “Brother, the moons are passing t
he northwest, low and….”

  “Falling behind the horizon, out of sight. It is late morning…” Vundren held his breath, eyes looking the sky over, everywhere.

  “And there is no sun, no light, there is no day, brother.” Siril put his hand upon Vundrens shoulder.

  “Solumet, has failed, and been taken. Moresse, the blackened sun is there, and so is Solesse, the sun of Solumet, just as dark. So it has begun, the end is here, as Yjaros proclaimed.” Vundren turned to Siril with a stare most desperate.

  “That is not all, brother.” Siril met his eyes.

  “Mother?”

  “The Soujan guard her, for now. Haddius is nearly here, I feel him, as we are close in spirit. Vasentanessa is in hiding.”

  “What then, brother?” Vundren was lost, fearful for his family.

  “Alden, they desecrated him, and they took Annar.” Siril felt Vundren hit his knees upon the plateau, yet more words he needed to speak. Yells and cries of pain and anger from his brother rose and echoed, yet Siril kept on.

  “It was Shukuru and Cancuru, and their armies seek us out, we are next, brother. Alden spoke of this day, should it come, that he would flood the armies of Yjaros if they dared harm us. We must go, Vundren, there is much we must do.”

  “No!”

  “Vundren please.” Siril stood as his brother now did, both looking to the sky, to where there should be sunlight, yet there was but darkness. The sun was covered, unseen, the darkness of doom looked down upon them. The end was here, as Yjaros had threatened, as it must be.

  “No!”

  Vundren turned and stomped through their home, the caverns alive with light as he marched on. Siril followed, pleaded, but Vundren heard him not.

  Into the forge Siril followed, and his eyes befell many of Vundrens people, thousands, all upon their knees, waiting for their lord and God.

  “My faithful, my devout, it is time! One hundred of you shall stay here in Thane Kalivak, and continue our works. The rest of you shall take the blades we have, and depart. From golden mountains to the red peaks, to the southern gray heights, and the deep brown depths of the east, you shall go. Take what we have, the blades of we nine, crafted for those mortals that cannot be seen by wicked eyes. Take them to my Mother in the Siddoran earth, so that we may endure the dark night so long ahead!” Vundren spoke as thunder, his people put their heads to the stone and mouths to song, praising him and his.

  “Brother, what madness is this, what is it you have done?” Siril looked as the people of the mountains went through passages he knew not of, with blades of white shining steel he had never seen.

  Vundren paid his brother no mind, his words as an earthquake. “Once I leave, seal the doors, all eleven, with the keys I have fashioned. No one shall find this place, not ever.”

  “You will condemn them to death?” Siril was confused.

  “No, to a life eternal, here, in Thane Kalivak, to guard and carry on what cannot be written, for all time.” Vundren turned to his brother. “The blades will continue on, the hammers will forge more, until there is enough to stop Yjaros, and keep Mother safe.”

  “You named the forge, Thane Kalivak? But why?” Siril was puzzled at went on without his knowing of it.

  “It means the sacred forge of the mountains, given from lord to mortal men. That is what it shall be, for that is what is about to be done. This was our home, brother, but we must leave it, and its secrets.”

  “What goes on here, what is this place to you more than I am aware? What secrets are held, besides we Caricians having a place upon the mortal world?”

  Vundren raised his hand and opened his palm. One of his devout brought a blade, one too small for Vundren, fit for a mortal to wield. He took the steel and cut it across his arm, and it drew blood.

  “These blades, they do not suffer immortal flesh, Carician, or others.”

  Siril was without words, his eyes looked to the wound that was not healing, then to Vundren, and then to the blade.

  “Brother, why would you do such a thing, craft such weapons, and how?”

  “I learned the melting of this metal through working the stone, aeons ago, from our Mother, Seirena. Then, the whispers came, it was Siddora, the earth itself telling me in the storms. From those words came a rare platinum I was led to, yet it was frail until Solumet showed me the sunstone, mined and powdered below that would heat it as the sun. Your starstone graces the edges, the cold water of Haddius takes it to be reforged, and our father, Megos, showed me many a metal that blend with this to make it strong. Titanium I honor Annar with, for he saw it here, where I did not. Our sister told me to bury them to cool slowly, with a long lasting kiss of darkness, giving them even more strength. Alden blessed these forges, due to his love for me and my work, and the name and song of the Soujan is sang into each one---“ Vundren stopped his recitation as Siril raised his hand.

  “Brother, how it is that they cut your flesh, as if it were mortal? For nothing you have said could account for such a thing.” Siril was concerned that these would fall into hands of wicked men, in turn, being used against them.

  “That, is another matter. Our sister, Vasentanessa, is close with the Gimmorians, as you know. I was asked to escort her, protect her, centuries ago. I overheard words of power spoken, at a meeting between our Mother, our Father, and their sister---“ Vundren was interrupted again, this time with a fearful quiver in the voice of his elder brother.

  “You recited the words, stolen from the lips of the dark maiden? The concubine of Yjaros, the voice of the darkness? Do not speak of her, not even here, for she can hear her own name upon the lips of any that speak it aloud, brother.” Siril lowered his head, feeling more in danger here than before, were that such a feeling was possible.

  “I did, yes. I heard only a few words, but they were powerful indeed. And in that, the blades are empowered to defend us, for they can only be wielded by the Soujan who learns their name, through our Mother, so it was spoken by me, and so it is. They will not be used against us, brother. But, they may be the last hope we have, for they will surely cut Gimmorian and Nochtilian flesh alike. This night, this darkness marks an age of mortals, our time has passed.” Vundren handed the blade back to his patiently waiting devout of the mountain forge. He was handed a set of silver keys, on a silver ring, all with symbolic depictions upon the heads.

  “Surely, would these weapons fall into the hands of Shukuru or Cancuru, they would---“ Siril saw Vundren raise his hand for silence and for his devout to return the blade.

  “Take it, Siril.” Vundren handed him a straight longblade of glistening edges, white engraved steel, and a curved crescent crosspiece. White leather wrapped the handle that ended in a small round pommel with a sapphire encased within.

  Siril held it still, admiring its beauty, for it was beyond those of Vundren he thought, more of his own dreams in design, and he was in awe for a moment.

  “Beautiful indeed, brother.”

  “Strike me, Siril, if you can.” Vundren chuckled.

  “I will not.”

  “Try, for me.” Vundren urged on, bearing his broad chest to his elder.

  Siril went to pull the blade to a stance and strike his brother, but the blade would not move, nor his arm. Siril pulled, the blade feeling near weightless in his mighty grip, yet something stopped him, or someone.

  Siril listened, his ears far beyond any mortal or immortal, and there were voices, many thoughts and voices, within the blade. He dropped the weapon fast, but it merely hovered.

  “What foul sorcery is this?”

  “Nothing foul, nor sorcery brother. What you hear is the will of the Soujan, for they pass on, into these blades.”

  “That is sacrilige.”

  “No, it is their will, to be reborn, long from now. Until then, they guard these blades for their people, through Mother and Father.” Vundren took the blade and handed it down to his awaiting devotee.

  “Mother and Father know of this?”

  “Yes, and
they honor it. This is a mortal choice, by the most devoted of them, devoted not to us, but to one another. They ensure that they are taught, where all else could be destroyed and forgotten, but this, this cannot be undone.”

  “Brothers, come.” A deep voice issued in the forge of Thane Kalivak, a voice of another Carician son breaking the silence.

  “Haddius, good you are here. We must discuss what Vundren has done.“

  “That will wait, come now.” Haddius spoke to his elders, sorrow in his tone.

  To the plateau over San Sidomius they walked, outside the mountain, above the sacred city. No mortals dwelled here, not yet, as the city of dreams was not finished by its Carician architects. Yet someone walked the long road up the mountain to speak with the three brothers.

  Vundren stood on his mountain as the stone, Siril looked to his sky, and Haddius listened to the coming storm far off in his waters. The Caricians watched as a white light approached, growing stronger the closer it came. Before long, up the mountain, there was but a blinding light.

  And Haddius knelt to the light.

  Siril looked to Vundren, who looked back, both shielding their eyes and confused the same.

  “Why do you kneel, Lord of Oceans, I feel not our Father before us, nor our Mother.” Vundren looked at his younger brother, his green beard, moist blue marbled skin, and wondered what the light was that Haddius would kneel so.

  Then, Siril gasped, and went to a knee, also bowing his head. The light grew closer, a song radiated from its force, yet Vundren did not kneel. He focused on the stone and his might, and an axe formed to one hand, then a brilliant shield in the other. Soon his body was covered in armor, his head bore a helmet, and he stepped toward the light, ready for battle.

  “Who dares force their will upon my brothers in the darkest of nights? Face me upon my mountain, for I am Vundren, and I fear you not.”

  The light took form, a small form, that of a child. The light fell to feathers, the song in choir from the glowing eyes, of Alden.