by Jason Jones
Shinayne and Saberrak rounded the corner first, slowing as well, then Gwenneth and James appeared behind them. They saw Azenairk, face down, trying not to look at what was before him. They saw it. The hundreds of steel spears that were driven into the stone, nearly ten feet tall they were. Only half still had charred bone remains, held up at the top, as the tips were buried into the skulls. The rest had fallen, or been taken down and thrown into the pile behind, a mound of thousands of skeletons of black bone and melted metals. It was obvious that they had been executed, murdered in some horrific genocide, and they all hung their heads as their dwarven friend wept on the ground before it.
Saberrak walked over to the odd slab of upright stone with all the words written upon it. He could read it, it was in Altestani, and the symbol of Yjaros, the three eyes in a triangle, was plain to see at the top and bottom. The flag of the emperors, the three black dragons on white cloth, sat still on a pole behind the slab. The minotaur hung his head.
James and Shinayne put their hands on Zen, trying to help him by letting them know they were there. Gwenneth walked around the spears, curious, as one of the spears had a platinum placard chained to it, but no body, hanging eternally on the spike of steel. It was in dwarven, not Altestani, yet she kept quiet.
“There, there…be children here…and not just…what the hells…children..and me people…why did…” He sobbed, wiping his eyes and trying to breath through his nose. But every time he looked up, it was too much to endure.
“Did anyone…say the prayers at least…give em’ any last rites…or ..no, they were just left…why…who could…do..this…”
His friends did not have answers to those questions, none they would like to say right now anyway. They knew the answers, they had all been told of what happened at Mooncrest and Kakisteele and Tintasarn, long ago when the northern empires destroyed the kingdom of the Crescent Moon. Still, nothing, no words or fancy fables could prepare one, especially a dwarf, for what was here.
“What does it… does it say, Saberrak?” Zen was trying to stand, his fingers pulling on his beard and wiping hard across his face.
“My friend, out of respect for you, I will not read this.”
“Damn it, horned one, I be asking ye’ to tell me. I cannot read it, stop the respect nonsense and by Vundren help me here.” Zen stood and walked forward, hand on his hammer and moons.
“No.” Saberrak huffed and backed away from the stone slab.
“Fine, Gwenneth, read it to me please.”
Gwenneth looked to Saberrak as he walked away, then to silent James and Shinayne, then to the placard on the spear.
“False king and traitor to God, may Mudren Sheldathain suffer the curses eternal for his unclean allegiance and betrayal to his kin.”
Zen looked to the spear, the placard, chains still holding it. He saw the platinum card with the engravings in his native tongue. He hung his head.
“I can read that one, I meant the one there, the slab o’ stone.” He pointed, fighting the tears as he stood next to the only remains of the dwarves of Kakisteele.
“Are you sure you want me to read this?” Gwenneth took a big breath, her eyes watering just a little, for the pain she saw in her friend.
“Aye.”
She traced her fingers along the words, reciting it in her mind as she translated it into Agarian. Another deep breath, and she summoned the courage to read it aloud.
“By the voice of God, the unfailing piety of the holy emperors three, may the eyes of Yjaros see mankind preserved. It has been found that unclean creatures have polluted this realm, and procreated in number, against the sacred laws of God. These diseased things, known as dwarves, have not the Grace to be allowed the air of the Lord. They stand in grave violation of natural law, and are hereby condemned to death. False worship was witnessed, breeding was discovered, and these living blasphemies have even dared to declare themselves a kingdom. Henceforth, they shall be put to the spear and the flame, and removed from this corrupt territory. This land is deemed infected, and now cursed, the child Arabashiel shall remain to keep the judgements of Gimmor and God intact, for all time.” Gwenneth took a deep breath, hearing the sniffles of Zen.
“Was…was that all of it then?”
“No, there is more.”
“Get it over with.”
“As you wish.” Gwenneth paused and read the bottom portion of the slab.
“Praise be to God, may the spirits of these wicked things never reach their false heavens. May their offspring watch as God sees their blood collected. May the heathen women scream as the blood is boiled to ash, and may this race be nevermore. The pagan men shall be silenced, never to visit unto the eyes of the Chosen Men that have inherited the world under God. A curse upon them, a curse upon their deaths, and a curse upon their remains has been invoked by the will of God. Amen.
Prince Admiral Azriid Ka’Joor VII
Thirty Seventh Agarian Executional, 4792 H. I.C.
“H.I.C. is, the ummm…holy imperial calendar, I believe. Sorry…” Gwenneth stammered a moment, then hung her head.
Azenairk felt anger, not an anger he had ever felt before. This was something else, a rage that he thought would be against Vundren to even dwell upon. He breathed deep, trying to take his eyes off of the genocide before him. He had to make peace with it, it was long ago, he tried to talk to himself. Instead, he felt the urge to pray, to say the last rites of the dwarves of Kakisteele.
Saberrak and Shinayne stood silent, heads hung as the dwarven hymns began. Gwenneth walked away, not wanting to show her emotions that were roiling inside after the reading. James walked with her, but she turned instead and put her head on his chest and cried. He held her hair, embraced her, and then his blue eyes caught something. He tried to close his eyes, not wanting another interruption. He opened them, no, something was there. James turned his head around.
“Saberrak, Shinayne, we have company.”
They let their dwarven friend continue his prayers. They looked, and stared in awe. Hundreds of small gray lights shimmered from the outer walls of the cavern. They walked slow, hid behind homes and rock columns, and tried to remain unnoticed. Yet all four not in prayer, caught their motion.
Their ghostly heads peeked from windows, out of old doors left open, and they pulled their ethereal beards in confusion. Hundreds of dwarves, the spirits thereof to be precise, crept round the pile of remains, enchanted with the words they were hearing. There had been no sound in Kakisteele, not beyond what She would command from below, and certainly never a prayer to Vundren. The spirits of the long dead were curious, beyond that even, at how this could be happening.
Exodus IV:V
Upper Northern Caverns
City of Kakisteele
“To the women of this cursed realm beneath the rock, I condemn your ashes and the ashes of your children to eternal dark damnation. To the men, you will forever walk this silent haunt, and give to me my every wish as you wander eternity in silent unrest and purgatory.” Last rites of Arabashiel, thirteenth born Gimmorian, Mistress of Curses, sent to stand Judgement over the Kingdom of the Crescent Moon, by God.
Circa 1781 B.C.
Azenairk stood and turned, feeling many eyes upon him. His hand went for the warhammer at his feet, he pulled his Thalanaxe crested shield from his back, and he spun around.
Clang
Clang, C-Clang, C-clang, clang…clang……clang
His hammer hit the stone floor and bounced entirely too much before it stopped. His jaw would have done the same had it not been attached to his black bearded face. Zen’s brown eyes like saucers, unable to close, he looked upon hundreds and thousands of men, bearded men. They were gray, ghostly gray, yet many were young in years, or had been when they were alive. He was surrounded by dwarves, dead ones, silent spirits of the murdered soldiers from a kingdom nearly forgotten.
“By Vundren, the ghosts of Kakisteele.”
The ghosts nodded, many smiled, and some even got on their tran
slucent knees around Zen. Their wounds were but dark gray on their shimmering forms, yet burns, cuts, and even more horrifying wounds were evident. They moved without sound and beckoned with their hands for the living dwarf before them to follow them away from their pyre of desecration.
“Follow you, aye, allright then.”
He followed, slowly, and picked up his hammer as he stepped. Zen cast quick glances to his friends, they seemed nervous. He nodded, received reluctant nods back, and they fell in behind him. The ghosts did not pay them much more than passing looks, their focus was on the dwarven priest of Vundren.
Through markets of empty stock, by stables with nothing more than bones, and past vacant villas built into high rock ledges of sandstone they traveled. Whether needed or not, the ghosts of Kakisteele abided the roads, kept to the light, and even walked in a fairly organized manner. Their steps made no sound, yet they seemed to converse with gestures to one another, and their mouths even moved from time to time. Though no sound came forth, some even seemed to laugh to other ghosts, reinforcing that they indeed could understand one another.
The cavern of the great city grew smaller, darker, and a bridge came into view. Rough yellow stone with silver rails, orange flames without heat rose from golden braziers set on the walkway, and the stalactites hung overhead by the tens of thousands.
“Where are we heading, Zen?”
James asked quietly as he admired the view over the long drop to a stalagmite field below the bridge. He saw mushrooms, larger than horses some of them, colored green and blue and teal. They glowed in color, as if the fungus knew someone was above, walking the lonely bridge that seemingly had no end.
“Dunno’ James, somewhere deeper inside. They want me to follow em’.” Zen tried to take it in, yet his eyes were awestruck with the now two thousand or more spirits of his ancestors walking in front of him.
“Try talking to them, in dwarven maybe.” James prodded, hand tight on his broadsword, eyes looking every which way.
“Good idea. Vershem va duthes dom Sheldathain dures?”
The ghosts stopped, hearing the name of something they did not care for, and glared with darkening appearances and hollow angry stares at Azenairk. He stopped, they all stopped, no one moved as terror took hold. One dwarven ghost, an older one with a ghastly spear through his transparent head, walked ahead with hands raised.
He made eye contact with Zen, knelt onto a knee, and touched his finger to the wide stone bridge. His finger grew black, then shadows came from his fingernail, and the shadows traced words onto the moist sandstone. The dripping of water from stone spikes above was the only sound in the cavern as the living held their breath.
Azenairk followed the words, not knowing that all his friends watched closely over his stocky shoulders. It was in dwarven, yet he translated it knowing his companions would want to hear it.
“Do not mention the name of the traitor again, it angers us.”
He nodded to the spirit that was writing the words, words that disappeared shortly after his finger passed. Zen watched him continue, sweat dripping from under his helm.
“We must pass the mines, and take you to the stone tablet. Then you must go, you cannot be here. She will kill you.”
Zen spoke to the spirit. “I have come here to free you, I not be goin’ anywhere just yet.”
The dwarven ghost looked confused, and wrote again on the bridge.
“Our people are divided in damnation, the women and children are lost. There is no peace here to be had, no king will come, you may take the tablet and leave us. Go before She sends him to find you.”
Azenairk took out the rusty iron box and set it down. He opened it and took out the ages old parchment, the deed to Kakisteele, and rolled it out carefully. Then, he set down the bag of dust he was told to use on some six legged demon, and then the key. He looked up to the dwarven spirit, and tapped his shield.
“I am Azenairk Thalanaxe, last of me family, and heir to this city. I have come to set ye’ free, old spirit, Vundren willing o’ course. I did not travel six or more kingdoms to see some tablet and go.” He smiled.
The dwarves gathered close, speaking to one another in silence. They glared at the parchment, then up to Zen, and then smiled back to one another. The old dwarven ghost smiled from his braided beard and raised his eyebrows with some semblance of joyful disbelief. He touched the parchment, his ghastly gray hand merely passing through it, yet it brought an even wider grin.
He spoke over his shoulder, and the thousands of dead warrior spirits all began some silent conversation. Some were crying, some reaching to touch him, and even some spirits raised their hands or fell to their knees in soundless prayer.
They began to embrace each other in dwarven fashion, yet all they could do was pass through Zen.
“This seems to be going well then.” Zen looked over his shoulder, feeling the breath of his four friends. They raised their eyes from the parchment, to him, then to the countless dwarven ghosts around them.
“I would say that is a very optimistic opinion, from where I am standing.” Gwenneth looked with her arcane sight, seeing nothing of the spirits in front of her. Her seventh sense was aware of things unseen, and her normal vision saw the dead plain enough. Yet something stirred in the air, something foul and full of wicked enchantment.
“This be a bit creepy already, morbid in fact, so try and be a tad supportive here.” Zen turned back around and faced the ghosts.
“Sorry. Yes, Zen, I think being surrounded by ghosts on a bridge in a cursed underground city, hunted by demons, is indeed great.” Gwenne smiled her best false grin.
“Allright, keep it honest then. I see yer’ point.”
“I hear whispers, coming from the dark ahead, faint, a woman’s voice.” Shinayne listened close, it was almost inaudible, but she was sure she heard it.
“I hear nothing, you’re just on edge elf.” Saberrak huffed. “Just calm your---“
Gong!
Gong!
Gong!
Three distant tolls of an unseen bell echoed in the caverns. The ghosts drew weapons of ethereal steel, donned helmets that were not there previously, and armor and shields erupted from shadows around them all. Suddenly, they looked more like an army of gray phantasms rather than forgotten dwarven spirits. They raised their axes and hammers, slammed their shields in unison, and mouthed words that made no noise. Yet Zen knew what they were saying. He read the lips of thousands, and whispered it aloud.
“Vuumber? By Vundren’s steel, they be called to battle with somethin’, even after they be long dead and gone.” Zen grabbed his things, shoving them into the old box fast, and drew his warhammer. He yelled what his deceased brethren could not voice.
“To war!”
“Zen, wait!” Shinayne yelled.
Despite her voice in the dark, no matter that they were his closest friends, Zen ran with his forgotten kin to battle the unknown.
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“Go with the blessings of the eleven Nochtilians, my love. They call for us, to take what is ours.”
“I shall return to escort you when it is over, beloved.”
Queen Andora of Armondeen wiped a smear of blood across the face of Harron, then kissed his forehead. Then, her fingers dipped in the small urn of indigo paint, and that she wiped across his closed eyes, ear to ear. She walked to her left in the uppermost eleventh floor of the Tower of the Scepter.
“Praise the blood of the firstborn.” Andora spoke softly.
“Praise Shukuru, and their glory in damnation.” Harron responded.
Fortress Arnhast in Vin Armon was quiet, as the forces had all but left to the south, all but her Lord Amirak and the legion of royal cavalry that waited outside the gates. The reserve legion had left to meet with Prince Rohne and the other Armondi nobility already. They were waiting for their Amirak, their warlord, for the man blessed by the infernal and beloved to their queen.
She sat in the throne, the
one next to hers was empty as King Ian was dying of age and a little poison, far to the north in Forrivar. Her robes were black, her bodily markings of blood and sapphire paint were perfectly inscribed, she knew it was time to bring the messiah of Shukuru to this world. The bodies they had fornicated with, mutilated, and sacrificed to their dark worship still lay in pools of blood before the thrones. Two girls, young virgins bought from the island of Yallah, and now two blackened sets of eyes stared at the stone ceiling. Nine more were wrapped in black cloth in death, as they had begun to reek of decay long after their purpose had been served.
“You have been ordered to retrace the circle of Kashtamias, in exact duplication. Once through to our world, you must seal the circle with the blood of those that have disturbed the lands to the south. The son of Shukuru is most anxious to consecrate our new lands, assist in building the temple to the Nochtilians, and begin our worship. Are you prepared, Lord Harron Vir Magaste?”
“I am, your majesty.” Harron remained on a knee with his head bowed.
“You have five legions of Armondi soldiers at your discretion. All I ask is that the true children of God are appeased, no witnesses not of our faith are left alive, and that you protect our son, Prince Rohne. Will you see my wishes granted?” Andora let her silk robes with demonic runes fall from her body as she stood from the throne.
“I will, your highness.” He tried not to look, as the robes fell to his feet from the steps. Harron knew she was completely naked and covered in virgin blood. His loins stirred, it was with much trembling and force of will that he resisted taking her for the third time this day.
“There is nothing that can stand in our way, Andora.”
“My personal guard, my dark ladies in the night, have seen a caravan with many thousands that have made journey across Shanador. My dreams have been accurate, and they are seeking the same place as we.” The queen stepped forward, her blood soaked womanhood was inches from his mouth.
