by Jason Jones
Harron stared at her feet and calves, willing away thoughts of her bare body over him.
“They are but refugees, nothing more. Should they interfere, they will die. Their bodies will be further homage to Kashtamias, dark child of Shukuru, my queen.”
“There are men from Harlaheim, dwarves of the Misathi, and even knights of Shanador among them. I tell you once more, be cautious, and be quick in your justice. My Nataloni have seen them, this exiled Lord from the east and his following, and they must not live the night.”
“It will be done, our son will not see combat, and any trespassers will fill our sacred circle with their blood.” Harron tried not to reach up and touch her, yet he could smell the oils on her body and his curiosity lingered.
“Beware the lands to the south, two millennia of cursed condemnation could hold many strange things, Harron.” She stroked the top of his head with her fingernails. His hair was oiled, tied back, and his dark beard to match felt soothing to grip and caress.
“No matter what we find there, the treasures of your southern lands will be laid at your feet. The trespassers will bleed, and Kashtamias will be honored, hail the eleven.”
“Then go now, my dark beloved. Whence you return, this body of mine, is yours for nights eternal.” Her fingers gently touched his chin, then lifted.
Harron was weak, his eyes could not blink. Her feet were painted black from the nails to her ankles. Streams of blood were dried to her pale calves and thighs. Infernal scripture was written in darker blood across her abdomen and breasts. He stared at her pierced nipples of dark brown that held small golden chains to her naval. The chains dipped below her luscious endowments, behind them, and strung up around her neck. Her flesh was smooth, her voluptuous lips and face streaked with virgin crimson, the skin around her eyes painted blue in Armondi noble custom, with wide brushes, smeared much like his own. Harron looked up further, her hair was midnight, straight and bound in with a headdress and circlet of dangling jewels. Andora of Armondeen was lust and wicked beauty, the embodiments thereof in the flesh, and she was his.
Harron trembled as she raised him with her finger, by the chin, and let her hand draw faint red trails down his golden rings and steel plates of armor. She fondled his curved hilt, playfully sliding the decorated steel scimitar partway out, then letting slide back into the scabbard. His words were caught in his throat, he lifted his banner from the stand between the thrones. He looked up at the golden eagle talons, the scepter in one grip, a lance in the other. The flag unfurreled with a flick of his wrist, golden tassels upon a black cloth, and he bowed.
“My queen of Armondeen, bless me darkly, so that I shall feel your very breath in mine as I conquer in thy name.”
“With the sacred love between us, and the hearts of the eleven over you and I, you are blessed Lord Amirak Harron. Now go, show no mercy, expand our Armondeen, and shed blood in the name of our fiery firstborn Gods!” Andora pointed out the balcony as Harron turned away and marched to victory.
She watched, half hidden behind a black curtain, then she heard the chants. One thousand of their veteran cavalry saluted their Lord Amirak of the kingdom as he emerged from below Arnhast and mounted his black stallion. His tight features looked up to her, knowing she watched. His hair was pulled back yet the wind claimed a few locks to loose, his skin had the marks of blood and the blue painted eyes of Armondi nobility, and he looked more like her future king than ever before. He drew his scimitar and saluted her, then to his men as he raised the Armondeen banner, and the soldiers roared in unison.
The charge of a thousand steeds racing to join four thousand soldiers to the south thundered in the air. Hill after forested dark hill, they grew smaller as the queen watched them from the eleventh story of the Tower of the Scepter. The day was half over, yet Andora had much to do.
“Nataloni, dark ladies, to me now.” She snapped her fingers as fires lit unto wicks and braziers forged of bone came to illuminated life. There was no one in sight, yet all in the three towers heard and felt the commands infernal of their dark mistress.
Within mere seconds, her demonically possessed secret guardians were in the room, heads low, silent as always. They had warned her of a man named Cristoff, and that a small contingent from Evermont now rode with his thousands of refugees. The Nataloni Nochti had told her also how they had threatened her son in Freemoore, and had more than just peasants in exile. Andora strode naked down to the tenth floor, her black robed ladies were waiting with bows and silent respect. As she passed the open doors to the altar, her black robes were brought to her, and laid over her shoulders.
“Hail dark lord of hell, hail firstborn son of the Mother and the Creator, and hail Ruler of Infernium in all your fiery glory.” She got on her knees before the altar to winged Shukuru, the stone statue was covered in blood from too many victims to count.
“Hail, Andora, pious queen and priestess of the eleven.” Her ladies knelt and replied with whispered voices. They arranged the corpses in the order she had commanded. The fires were lit, the inscriptions just as the dark tomes had shown, and all was prepared. They saw her nod, and they knew it was time to leave her to communion.
Andora looked to the ancient red leather tomes on the altar, she had eleven passages to recite eleven times each to complete the dark incantations that would allow an immortal from the hells to step through. Kashtamias, the very demonic son of Shukuru, and a mythical knight in the armies of the eighth hell, would be here within a day. Harron would be tracing an identical circle, a portal, an infernal beacon of blood so that Kashtamias could step through from here to the curselands with a proper offering. Everything had to be perfect, not one rune nor corpse nor candle out of place.
Andora heard her doors close, heard her Nataloni guardians take their shadowy positions throughout the tower, and she knew now that she was alone. She was also nervous, for this was a more powerful rite than she had ever performed. It was the same rite that her uncle Trehad had used to contact the netherworlds with his two peers, Koligail and Maroguille. They had not been accurate, their egos and power were too great, and they demanded more than they should have. For their sins against the eleven, they were stripped of flesh. Now, they would suffer eternal torment in service to the darkness, forever banned from furthering their powers yet driven to use them. They were now lords of Devonmir, rich, powerful, and utterly devoid of furthering themselves or becoming whole once again.
Andora loved her body, she loved that others loved it, and she did not wish to end up like her uncle, Trehad. The queen of Armondeen began inspecting every corner of her dark floor of demonic worship, taking her time, making sure it would all go perfectly. For there could be no errors with the forces she paid homage to, none whatsoever.
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“This is insane, we do not even know where they are headed!” James rounded a corner in the mines.
“Zen, stop!”
“Dwarf, slow down, now!” Saberrak roared after the others’ pleas and shouts did nothing. Still, the dwarf ran in the middle of the thousands of ghosts, as if he were one of them.
“Horned one, just grab him!” Shinayne yelled.
They all ran after, over several bridges, around great stone columns that spanned ceiling to floor over hundreds of feet, and even into darker tunnels that shimmered. Picks and hammers and tools lay covered in rust, barrels and wagons sat in dilapidated ruin, and the stairs went high into the upper mines of Kakisteele.
Suddenly there were left turns, cross tunnels, and the ghosts all split up at least five different ways. No noise erupted from their charge, even as mining dwarven spirits joined them, so following Azenairk through the dark shafts and mines was easy, if one listened.
“Rrraaahhhh!”
Zen swung his warhammer in a brutal whirl, something had grabbed him. He could see enemies everywhere, his brethren were on the charge, something was behind him. His arm was grabbed in mid swing, it was strong, he struggled and pulled
to be free. Another Altestani soldier, perhaps another winged demon, he and the dwarves had fought many already.
“Open your damn eyes, Azenairk.” Saberrak huffed and smacked the side of his helmet as he held the blacksteel warhammer tight.
“Wha…wha…where are they?!” He blinked, not realizing he had closed his eyes, he had seen them and run with them, plain as daylight.
“Where are who? There is nothing here but your ghosts running around.” Saberrak looked, something was not as it should be.
“No, naye gray one, we be fightin’ the northern oppression here, and their demons, look!”
He was frantic, not even paying mind as James, Shinayne, and Gwenneth arrived from the other tunnels, green light pouring over them all. Everywhere he looked, shadows of men with pointed helms and curved blades lunged from the dark into his gray dwarven allies. Demonic shadows tore into them in silence, they fought back, it was war. Gray on black, a war with no noise.
“I need to fight, Saberrak! Let me go then!”
Saberrak squinted, then he saw it. He closed his eyes, and saw it more clear, still no sound, but it was there. He walked over to a tall shadow of a demon fighting against the wall against three gray dwarven phantasms. His hand waved through them all, even the shadow of the demon, as if he were not there. Everyone stared and saw it.
“They are not real, my dwarven friend. This is but a curse, a memory of what happened, there is nothing you can do here.” Saberrak hung his head, seeing the face of Zen go from a war frenzy glare to a sorrowful admission of the obvious.
More dwarves ran past, their gray forms passing through the five companions as if they were not there. Some called to them, waved axes and screamed words for them to join, but no one heard anything. Demons, like the ones outside from the clouds, emerged from shadows with armies of human men. The battle that took place so long ago, was repeating before their eyes, yet they were but bystanders that could merely watch.
Zen swung his hammer through an Altestani shadow, then through a demonic one, nothing. He was paid no mind, as if he were not in existence. To be sure, James and Shinayne stuck their blades into the enemy shadows, and the same occurred, nothing.
“Zen, it is not real. Something is causing it though, my friend, and we need to find out what that is.” Shinayne sheathed her blades and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Aye, I think I know. And She done crossed the line with this nonsense then. Where is She? We be having words, I assure ye’.”
He thought of the six legged demon that supposedly held the mines cursed, far below in the dark depths. He recalled the songs, passed on for generations, and began to follow the ghosts or apparitions thereof. Slowly this time, Zen stepped further into the mines, and he vowed to see this all undone.
Their march was slow, into cramped tunnels that held but jagged rock walls and the afterlife of once bustling mines. Spots of silver, gold, even platinum could be seen. It was not much, truly little ends of small veins, as these upper mines seemed expanded to the reaches of the mountains they lay inside of. Carts and wooden platforms to raise and lower, pulleys and wheels with ropes long frayed, and empty barrels marked their path further south, and further down.
Another door appeared, after the mine tunnels converged once more into a grand pathway underground. Golden swept, with letters in diamond dust, yet dents of rams and scratches of claw and steel littered its once perfect dwarven designs.
“Virnu Cadro, means fourth born son. Which one Saberrak?” Zen held up the ring of keys.
“Haddius, he was the fourth born Carician.” He knew it, as if it were his own family being spoken of. Saberrak watched the key with the half white and half blue moon with waves go into the lock. It flashed, the light pushed it out and back to the dwarven hand holding it, yet it creaked open.
White light flickered from a steel pillar with a globe atop of it, casting shadowy reflections into another cavern. It was simple, decorated with writing to the walls and little more, yet it appeared as if this cave was turned into an alcove for gatherings. The sandstone walls were lined with dwarven glyphs, dwarven apparitions stood circle around something, unmoving in their gray eternity. Golden doors opposite them could be seen as the chamber was wide but not deep. No battle raged here, no motions save the failing light above a circle of ghosts, and as Zen approached, they parted for him.
He looked down, closed his eyes, and opened them again to be sure it was not what he thought he had seen. It was. Zen knelt, setting his warhammer, then helmet, and then his shield, all to the stone floor. Gripped in his hands tight was his hammer and moons, the sacred symbol of Vundren, God of the dwarves. His eyes teared, staring at the broken chunks of white stone.
“What is it Azenairk?” James stepped forward, passing through the ghosts as if they were but a figment of light and nothing more.
“It…it..is the Golhiarden. It is…the tablet, a fourth of it, the testament of Vundren to his people, my people.”
His hand trembled, daring to touch such a holy relic, yet his fingers felt it. It glowed with a golden light as his fingers brushed it, the golden script slowly illuminating despite its broken existence.
“It is the words…words of the Forge…the sacred commands of Vundren…divided to the four realms for safe keeping, long ago. I have seen, at a distance mind ye’, the tablet o’ Laws, in Boraduum. He created this, for us, to guide in all things of faith, laws, the forge, and war. I have to repair it, heal it, or try anyways.”
Zen had not the tears left, his body felt the power radiating from what lay broken before him. He looked back up to his friends, and they nodded respectfully.
Lords IV:II
Tintasarn Border
Southern Ridge of the Kaki Mountains
Gray clouds circled and blanketed everything above ground it seemed, the winds blew slow but steady, yet there was no rain. Sandstone ridges blocked their north and western views, and sunshine was but a memory of days past as they undoubtedly neared the Kaki Mountains.
“Master Aariss, this trail will not allow my wagons and people much further, it is too treacherous a climb. Is there another way?”
Lord Cristoff looked south, nothing but more foothills covered in dense, thick trees, ages old and bare. The path they followed, albeit secret and sound, was but a few feet wide. It would take quite a toll and time for the now over ten thousand to follow.
Aariss Diravas put his hand up, his elven Riverbows all took knee from his silent command. “My lord, this is but the only safe route into the lands you seek, the only one I am aware of that is. My cousin, Arylius, is not far from here. He and his priests of Siril guard a sacred shrine for a decade at a time, a few hours ahead perhaps.”
“I see the Kaki Mountains, and I feel we should turn west, if memory serves me.” Cristoff tried to recall the directions that Ansharr the dragon had given to the five, months prior.
“Yes, but the storm that surrounds everything north of Tintasarn is deadly, no one passes through there. Not with the peasants you protect for certain.”
“I see no storm, my elven friend, just gray clouds most unnatural in their circling. Perhaps---“
“The storm has been there, night or day I cannot recall, but it is there. It has been there for thousands of years, I doubt we could---“
“Aye, but it ain’t there now. Maybe they killed it or somethin’? And if the storm ye’ say is always there, now ain’t there, then that’s the way we need to be headin’ then. Just me thoughts. Or always in elven be somethin’ different from always in dwarven.” Tannek Anduvann spoke up, looking west, seeing no storm to block their path.
“You are a sharp bit of beard, are you not?” Aariss raised his eyebrow to Tannek.
“That be the rumor, elf.” Tannek took a swig from his flask of whiskey, offered it to Cristoff and Aariss, receiving the usual refusals.
“But, if we be afraid o’ the storm that I do not see, then let us continue on, to more elves then.”
“Dwarven t
heories upon ancient curses do not sway me or mine, Tannek Anduvann.” Aariss snapped back.
“Oh, aye. Sure I be wrong on this, maybe it is a quiet storm, all invisible and still, just waitin’ to pounce on us and---“
“Compromise then.” Cristoff nodded to both men to cease their quips. “I will not risk the people, storm or not, into the cursed city before we survey the area. However, we cannot delay much more, the ones we seek are in there, somewhere.”
“What be yer’ plan then, Cristoff?”
“Set camp, and we ride ahead to Tintasarn, to meet the cousin of Aariss. Maybe we can find a way in, or at least receive some guidance on the area.” Cristoff wanted to charge in, yet he thought of the people, and Rosana in painful labor.
Sir Codaius, Lady Kaya, Sir Karai, Sir Leonard, and Julia Whiteblade rode up together, as the caravan had all but stopped. The exiled people of Saint Erinsburg, Marlennak, and now some from Freemoore, all felt relief with the lack of glaring sun. Yet none of them, nor their leaders, had ever been where they now stood. Their was an unspoken tension in the air.
“Why have we stopped, m’lord?” Kaya T’Vellon spoke softly, bowing as her mare struggled on the angled ridge.
“We will be setting camp here, there is good cover, and low ground right behind us to the east along that stream. The trail we take, will be taken by us alone.” Cristoff spoke stern and confident, receiving nods from everyone around him.
“If I may?” Sir Codaius asked of Cristoff.
“Yes, knight of Evermont, by all means.” The lord nodded.
“Armondeen will surely have heard of the incident at Freemoore, and they know by now of your journey. We need to have scouts out far north, for they will send spies and scouts of their own. We need to protect the people, m’lord.”
“You know the Armondi, where I do not, Sir Codaius. Volunteers to take the northern watch?” Cristoff looked at his captains. He saw Kaya, Codaius, Leonard, and Karai all raise their blades.
“Who will be in charge?” He looked to the men, hoping there was no conflict of rank or kingdoms among them.
