by Jason Jones
The deer nodded yes.
“Then we will have to clear the air between us, between you and I.” Kendari took a knee and hung his head.
“For I know who you are, and I have known for some time, Bedesh of Haven Glen.”
The deer let a tear drop from his eye, and nodded to the yes. The satyr, reincarnated as a deer by the Goddess, sent to watch over his own killer, nuzzled Kendari’s cursed face.
Kendari forced his eyes closed tight, felt the pain in his chest and throat, knowing he had murdered Bedesh in a sacred place, back in Chazzrynn. The horns, the little hooves, the nervousness, and all that he saw had been telling him. Kendari just tried to avoid accepting it. He whispered, not in a malicious tone, but in a quiet respectful one.
“I have never said what I am about to say, and do not ever expect to hear it again.” He looked to the deer, his green eyes watering as he met the forest brown stare.
“I am sorry, Bedesh, please, forgive me.”
Bedesh nodded his forgiveness, rubbed his head under Kendari’s arm, and stood overlooking the southern ruins of Mooncrest from far north. The moment lasted long minutes, long silence from the cursed swordsman and the deer, and the rain began to fall on a sunlit day.
“Enough of this then. I would assume that by your Goddess, I am not completely forgiven?” Kendari thought of the demon, the dark worship in Armondeen that he had seen, and where to go next.
Bedesh shook his head to the no, many times to the no.
“That bad? We saved many though, close?”
Bedesh shook his little horned head again, many times.
“Not even close? I thought not.” He chuckled.
“Then, we need to head north. I doubt the Temple likes my presence. I would surely be most unwelcome with your friends down there, and they need their moment of victory, without my interference. So, where there are dark streets and cities of wickedness, I will find my peace in a bit of bloodshed upon my steel. Your Goddess, desperate as she must be, surely did not choose me for my skills at conversation. I have always done what I do, alone, until now. To Armondeen, Bedesh, Queen Andora will be looking for us, so let us not
disappoint.” Kendari of Stillwood began to run north in search of deadly dangers in dark northern cities.
Bedesh took one last look to the city of Mooncrest, then to the sky, and then he turned north. He ran after Kendari, the elf that had killed him, the cursed swordsman he was ordered to protect, and the last of the Nadderi, who he had vowed to redeem. For such was the love of Seirena, and her mysterious ways.
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Hours of healing and tending to the injured and dead had passed. Sir Karai closed Leonard’s eyes by the Temple of Alden, they had carried him there, and laid him there in peace before the feathered cross, along with so many others. The knight of Harlaheim put his rapier across his folded arms, straightened his armband of the Order of Saint Tarumin, and knelt with Lord Cristoff in silent prayer.
“Alden take him, but know that his blade and his honor, will be sorely missed here. Amen.” Cristoff made the sign of the cross on his chest and circled it.
The former lord of Saint Erinsburg listened in prayer, hearing the silent song of God, knowing that many had fought and died for a greater good, a greater divine purpose. His ears heard prayer from behind him, from a kneeling Angeline of Charity by the Soujan Temple.
Cristoff heard dwarves praying by the Temple of Vundren, and elves in front of the Temple to Siril. They wept for Aariss Diravas and his fallen Riverbows. The once Lord of Saint Erinsburg smiled, then his eyes opened and his face lost all composure. He heard something else. It was a cry. Not a cry from a mourning soldier’s wife or mother, not a cry from an injured man from battle, or of the heroes he had followed in their exodus. It was the cry of a newborn child.
He stood, tears in his eyes, and rushed into the city streets from the temples. His shield fell from his arm, and the sound was beautiful. He remembered it with his children long ago, but this was different. The baby cried again, and Cristoff ran faster. He saw father Garret, he saw Brunnwik, and he saw Rosana on the wagon, laying down with something in her arms, an elven priest on either side of her. She was radiant as the sun fell on her tan face, and the light seemed to follow her as they pulled the wagons into the streets of Mooncrest.
Cristoff nearly fell, his legs trembling, and he put one hand on her forehead. Garret and Brunnwik bowed to him, smiles on their faces, and stepped aside. Garret looked up, seeing the temples, and walked toward them with a starry look in his eyes. Brunnwik walked with, just as entranced.
“I kept my promise.”
“Thank Alden you are alive, Cristoff.” Rosana could not wipe her tears of joy, but he did it for her.
“Are you well, my queen?” Cristoff kissed her cheek.
“I am my lord.”
Rosana pulled the white blanket back, revealing a beautiful boy with a full head of dark wet curls. His eyes were squinted nearly shut, but he calmed as Cristoff touched his forehead with his finger. The smallest smile curled on his lips, as newborn children often knew and felt things that adults could not.
“May I…may I …hold him..our…your…” Cristoff stumbled over his words.
“Of course, my love, show our son his new home.” Rosana carefully lifted her baby up to Cristoff.
He wept, like a man reborn, like he was a father anew. Cristoff Bradswellen the Third raised the baby high to the sky above Mooncrest. Cheers from thousands honored him and the child, and people flooded toward the former queen of Harlaheim.
“I give to you, Savanno Bradswellen the First, firstborn child of Mooncrest!”
Cristoff held the baby close now, and stood next to Rosana in the wagon as thousands lined up to catch a glimpse of the baby, and the two brave nobles they had followed, all the way across the continent.
Tannek Anduvann cheered with his brother Drodunn, and Dalliunn licked Cristoff’s face. Angeline sat with the minstrels, telling them of how Tubrey saved the day and helped bring Gwenneth back to life. Garret walked the temples of the Caricians, smiling as if a new world had been discovered. The people walked with Cristoff and Rosana, lined up to bow to the elves and dwarves, and dared to dream of a new home here, in such a fabled place.
Marshall Tannek walked toward Azenairk Thalanaxe, pushing through the crowds. He took a breath, took a knee, and looked up to the five brave heroes. He smiled to Shinayne T’Sarrin and her beloved Lavress that she would not let go of, to Saberrak Agrannar the Gray, to Gwenneth Lazlette, and to Sir James Andellis. His face went serious as he looked to his king in the golden armor and crown. He tried his best to hold it as the rains flowed from the sky.
“No one has ever fought for somethin’ more than you have, Azenairk. I tell ye’ now, on Vundren’s blessed certainty, that me and mine would fight for ye’ and die for ye’ and yer friends, against any army, anywhere ye’ say. I never believed in much until I met ye, me king. Ye’ be blessed though, King Thalanaxe o’ Kakisteele, and I will cross axes with anyone who dares speak otherwise.” Tannek stood, pounded his axe to his shield, and roared through his read braided beard over the masses.
“Hail Sir James of Chazzrynn and Lady Gwenneth!”
Hail!
“Hail Saberrak Agrannar and Queen Shinayne of Tintasarn!”
Hail!
“And Hail to me king, the Holy Hammeraxe o’ Vundren himself, King Azenairk Thalanaxe o’ Kakisteele!” Tannek raised his axe as thousands chanted their hails and honors toward them.
Hail, Hail, Hail!
“Hail to the fallen soldiers, brave men and women that done fought and died for us. May they find their ways, to whichever afterlife, to whomever they call God, and rest in peace.”
The symbols of the Caricians, faded as they were on the temples of ages past, shone with golden light into the city. It was not normal light, nor hidden to just a few. No, this light shone and hummed through the vibrant day and illuminated the faces of eve
ryone there. Thousands hit their knees, women cried, and children stared in awe. The waters rushed into the ravine, stone cracks began to heal in the streets, and the winds brought a flash of sudden gold across the horizon.
Everyone winced and rubbed their eyes, then someone pointed to the fields. Slowly, they all saw crops of corn, wheat, barley, and more. Fruit bearing plants suddenly dangled ripe in the city. Fish jumped from the waters of the trenches, a herd of deer chased a herd of antelope in the foothills, and hundreds of hooves sounded as thunder.
Garret bowed, as did the dwarven and elven priests. Cristoff hit his knees in prayer, baby in arms. Gwenneth bowed with grace, James saluted the temples, Saberrak lowered his horns, and Shinayne bowed hand in hand with Lavress. They gazed across all their friends gathered here, for them. Then, all stared at the sky above the temples, all witnessing a miracle, together.
All but Zen. The dwarven priest, now the king of a place that he was told did not exist, looked to the lofty doors of Kakisteele upon the mountainside. He waved his hand up slowly, toward the peaks, right above the golden doors in the sandstone rock. His eyes watered, his lips trembled, and his heart was pounding hard.
There, waving back to him from a white passing cloud, was his Thalanaxe family. His father, his brothers, him mum, and his papi all waved. No one else saw it, but Zen did. The cloud was a mountain to him, and he whispered up to those he loved and missed.
“We did it father, we did, and fought like hell we did.”
I know son, I told ye’ that ye’ was the best o’ me. I wish I could be there with ye’, to see what ye’ make of it. But, Vundren willing, I will watch over ye’ from time to time.
“Aye, I would like that then.”
Anduvann fighting beside Thalanaxe, just like in the histories, never would I dreamed it been you, son.
“Aye, and the strangest o’ company and companions done followed.”
Followed? Naye, Azenairk son o’ Kimmarik son o’ Pentrik, naye. They was sent, and you know that now, ye’ do.
“Is that so father? Sent by whom then?”
By the many, and we leave it there then. No time to explain, I have to go now, son.
“Give me love to Tadnek and Geadrik, and Mum and Papi for me.”
Aye, I will, they see ye’ and hear ye’ too.
“Tell Vundren that Mudren Sheldathain fought hard, gave his life for us and all.” Zen kept waving, staring at the fading clouds above the Kaki Mountains. People looked to him, but no one saw what he saw.
He knows son, and he said to tell ye’ he is very proud o’ ye, told me himself he did. But I think I am more proud than even He is, me little agrvund…
“Good bye father…”
“Good bye son…”
Zen let his arm rest back down, the cloud passed by and the white light faded to the east, beyond the mountains. He saw his friends waving too, but they waved to the people that had begun to gather in the city.
Zen felt Shinayne’s hand take his, her beautiful smile radiating next to him. Then Gwenneth took his other hand, and raised it high. James and Saberrak leaned on his shoulders. Zen smiled wide, knowing they had not seen what he had in the clouds, yet he embraced his new family as the unrivaled cheers began again, in their honor. He wanted this closeness to never end, right here and now, as they were at this moment.
Zen whispered and prayed. “Long live Mooncrest, long live Tintasarn, and long live Kakisteele. Thank ye’ Vundren, for me friends, and all ye’ have given me.”
A deep dwarven voice answered him, not his father nor his brothers, nor Mudren Sheldathain. It was someone else.
You are most welcome, King Azenairk Thalanaxe, My certainty on that…
Special Gratitude to the Following
My Mother
My Father
My Brothers, Cody & Jeremy
My sister, Anya
Jason Alan
Craig McElroy & Chuck Mount
Lynne Lucas
The wonderful support of Pelican’s Nest
Rocky Patel & Padron Cigars
Andres Castro
Tony, Eric, Mike, Dan, Wade, Scott, & Jazz
Big Rob Martinez
Pegasus Games
Jackie, Dick, Joanna, Ed, Susan, & Gary
The Teasdale Family
Bill & Bob
All my fans, near and far
And most of all,
Blanca, Alexander, Adonis, and baby Mateo, my family
About the author
Jason R Jones was born September 2nd 1975 and grew up in Monroe, Wisconsin. He is an honorable veteran of the United States Marine Corps, a saber fencing enthusiast, a loving father to his sons, Alexander, Adonis, and Mateo, and a devoted partner to beautiful Blanca. Jason’s flare for short stories, poetry, drama, and fantasy has existed since he can remember. He is the oldest of four and has resided in Southwest Florida for over a decade. Interests in fine dining, music, meditation, ancient history, film, cigars, world religion, and mythology keep him very busy and inspired. He plans to bring out many tales of his own life hidden deep within his epic fantasy series. This novel, “of hammers and storms”, is the fourth installment of eighteen in “The Last Pantheon” which completes The Exodus Sagas Quartet. The Miraculous Tales Quartet begins soon, with book five, “from tower to temple”.
In this fourth installment of The Last Pantheon, our heroes rise to the call of honor and friendship, placing their lives on the line for their friend. Azenairk Thalanaxe is bound to his promise to find Kakisteele, yet without his closest allies, the quest surely would have fallen to ruin.
What they sought was an ancient ruin that most believed did not exist. In this place there were curses, lost people, dangers, demons and ghosts, even an immortal Goddess and her pet hydra. Time and storms had kept this place secret, yet, it was full of mystery and answers to a world gone by. What is to be found and made of Kakisteele and those lost cities, one can only dream. It is a place rich with history that the world has mostly forgotten. Answers to matters of faith, living, cultural reference, and mythology are certain to be found once the ruins are cleared and explored.
By way of fate, the ruins of Mooncrest are protected by a storm of divine providence, and held by immortal powers that prevented it being looted and destroyed further. It laid in wait for the ones that would eventually find it, and now it is preserved for the future occupants to unlock all of its mysteries.
In America, we too have our histories and sites that are very important as to where we came from. Some are centuries old, some even moreso, and many are in disrepair or scheduled for destruction. Many are abandoned or not funded for upkeep, each place allowing our own history to slowly fade away.
There is an organization, based in Washington DC, that fights to save our places of historical note, their art, their relics, and all that reminds us of our past. The National Trust for Historic Preservation is taking on the battle of time and abandonment that much of our American sites are suffering from. Everyone has a history filled with buildings that were as much a part of it as were the people that walked beside them. This is ours, here and now, and it needs help to carry onward. If you want to join the Trust and help, their site is listed below.
National Trust for Historic Preservation
Savingplaces.org
Epilogue
South of Gillian
Shanador
A tear falls from my eye, then another, and then I wipe my sleeve across my face. It is hard to tell this story, even to my son, for in my life, victory and honor have been unfamiliar dreams.
“The old gods, they brought them back to life? So did the Armondeen people leave them alone, dada?” Alessandeir yawns from his bed. His blue eyes are puffy, from tears of joy, sadness, and weariness.
“No, I am afraid not, son. Prince Rohne, Thohne, and Andora were defeated yet wanted revenge. But, that story is for another time. It is late, the moons are high in the sky, and little boys should be asleep by now.” I smile to him as I po
int out his window.
“But what happened to Johnas and the spiders and the wolves and the dragons and all them?”
“Agara was a dark place then, son. Harlaheim, Willborne, and Chazzrynn were held by King Johnas Valhera. And, King Phillip, King Valistor, and Queen Katrina had all made an alliance under him, thus his webs grew even more. He set his eyes on Caberra and Kivanis, obsessed with ruling the continent. Shanador had protected the realms so long that they were stretched thin, and Altestan knew it as well. Dark times son, for everyone.” I recall it all, as if it had happened yesterday.
“Not everyone, cuz they won and freed Mooncrest, right?”
“Very true, very true. No worries, there is so much more to tell.”
“And they had hope, right?”
“Yes indeed. Hope came with the Red Wolves and Kalzarius in Harlaheim, as the forces of Johnas now had an enemy in the dark streets and cities at night. Hope also came from Vallakazz and Southwind Keep, as Alexei T’Vellon and Aelaine Lazlette had survived.”
“And the prince, Bryant, he survived too.”
“Yes, yes he did. The greatest hope though, was that of Mooncrest. Word spread fast across the kingdoms, then the whole continent, then the known world within all but a year or two. The mythical city of temples, the mines of legend, and the fabled elven kingdom all had been the things of history and dreams. Yet now, thousands of people from all over Agara, noble and common alike, traveled to see the wondrous lands that had been reopened and freed, by but a few. The five companions became legendary, the city grew and flourished, and it was full of love and hope under the moons.” I begin to drift, thinking of all I know of Mooncrest, now, and back when it had been destroyed two thousand years ago.
“Did you meet them, the heroes of Mooncrest?” His blue eyes widen, fighting the sleep as questions rise in his curious mind.
“I did.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you help them win, were you there for the battle dada?” Alessandeir sits up in his bed now, he wants more.
