The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (16 page)

His son reached into the dusty wooden chest, opened the bronze latch, pushing past old moth-eaten cloths and trinkets of his mother. A rusty steel box with the family crest on it, that was his inheritance, that is if he weren’t searched by the merchant guard. Carefully, the young dwarven priest lifted it out in the dank room, and carried it over to his father’s bed, kneeling once more. “What is this?”

“Ahhh, open it, open it. In there lies your future, boy. Remember the tales of Mooncrest and the great Kakisteele mines, Azenairk?” his voice actually taking on a semblance of its former grandeur and spirit.

The young man bowed his head, knowing where this was going already. He had grown up on those tales, ones that everyone knew were millennia old, exaggerated, and just that,
tales
. The great city of Mooncrest north of the Misathi and west of Shanador, the mines of endless gold and iron built by Vundren guided dwarves that were never completed, and the great war fought there by elves, dwarves, men, and spirits of the forest….and the tales were never the same of this mythical forgotten place. Other families, even ones from other dwarven kingdoms, knew that a city near there had started long ago and was wiped out by war and plague. No two stories the same, but for almost two thousand years, the search for these non-existent ruins was abandoned by any and all who had heard of it. In fact, mentioning it in any seriousness at all, earned the inebriated old timer telling the tale plenty of ire and ridicule from anyone in earshot. This, Azenairk thought, was one thing he did not care to hear about now at the end of his family’s existence. He would rather marry a hundred women and try and procreate out of this mess, than hear any of the old Mooncrest mine stories. “Father, you need your rest.”

“Don’t you even try to pass me by here, boy. This has been in our family, secret now, for thousands of years, and ye can’t let the crows out there in the hall get it.” The old man opened the box with his gnarled fingers and swollen joints, revealing a bronze key the size of a dagger, an ancient bottle of some sort of dust, and a piece of parchment with the axe and moons crest of the Thalanaxe family. “It is here my son, the key to the mines of Kakisteele, the deed to the mines, and the dust for the demon of ruin waiting under the forges. Take it now, take it.”

“Father, this is ridiculous, no one believes in this any more, grandfather even said once that it was...”

“You promise me Azenairk Thalanaxe,
on my deathbed
, on the heads of your brothers and mother and our family line, Vundren keep them, that you take this and find it
for me!”
his voice was a yelling whisper, full of something not seen in decades. His father was delusional, the thought crossed the young dwarf’s mind for sure.

“You have nothing here, it’s gone son, all gone. When you find it, find the forges, the six legged demon that holds it cursed will come. When she does, you dump the dust of your ancestors down her damned throat, and pound her with that hammer I gave ye, once for your father, eh? Now get. Go before they come in to check on me.” his smile was so familiar, so full of life, Azenairk could not leave. He began to pray for the safe passage to Vundren’s gate for his father, praying for a sign, for something.

“I have made my peace with God, our keeper, I don’t need more words from you son, priest or not! I need you to promise me you’ll do this one last thing for me. I love ye, son, I wish I could go with ye, prove it to ye, and
be there to see it
. Go.” Kimmarik put the rusty box into his son’s hands, and looked at him one last time, his eyes tearing, closing, but not letting them drop by strength of will alone.

“All right then.” his eyes were staring at his father’s eyes, identical the two were except for color of hair, age, and held back sorrow. “I love ye, father. May Vundren keep ye, farewell, and you tell him I will see him soon enough.”

“Will do, son. Head south first, they will be watchin’ the eastern pass for ye, and the northern bridges too, once they realize you’ve gone. Guarantee they’ll be huntin’ ye, boy. Don’t let em’ catch ye. And thank ye, you be the last of my pride, don’t let me down, Azenairk Thalanaxe
. Don’t let me down
.” His raspy voice drifted off, his son shutting the secret door to the rear chamber. He lowered his head, and headed down the south tunnel, trying to hold onto those last moments with his father, ingraining them in his mind.

Silently as he could, Azenairk, last heir of Thalanaxe, stopped by his chamber and put on his brother Geadrik’s steel breastplate and greaves, armguards and leather gauntlets. Picking up the round steel shield that covered half his body, adorned with the family crest. It was formerly his other brother Tadnek’s, a great soldier for the king, the stout nosed dwarf felt the sorrow coming. The gold inlayed Book of Vundren, the Golhiarden, was tucked into his pack with all the food and cold weather blankets he could quickly assemble. His Hammerpiece, a necklace adorned with the hanging holy hammer set on two round steel discs representing the moons, only given to confirmed priests of Vundren, he placed in his beltpouch as this was not a matter of the temple. Azenairk picked up his steel hammer, praying silently to God that he would not have to use it, not much anyway. In came a deep breath and toward the southern doors to the Bori Mountains he walked, probably guarded this time of night by at least a squad of six men on the outside.

The doors pushed open, startling the dwarven outguard who had been staring at the cloudy night sky, beards of black, gray, and red blowing in the mighty mountain winds. Tobacco smoke whisked, whiskey bottles got tucked away, and crossbows rose quickly. Sergeant Levrim Longrinik, a longtime friend of his dead brothers was on duty, recognizing the priest a moment later. His hand on the hilt of a battle axe, yet motioning to his men to lower their bows, Levrim’s eyes were as shocked as his men since no one went through the outdoors at night.

“Thalanaxe? What ye be doin here at night surprising us like that now? This is no place for a priest at night, specially in the winter times.”

Azenairk kept walking, furthering the shocked looks he imagined behind him. He paid no mind, walking quickly down the road to the lower foothills, one he had been down twice in his life, this being the third time he had ever come through the outdoors
, ever
, and most likely the last. He heard the questions about his father, heard shouting too, for him to stop. He kept his pace, seeing well enough in the dark to move quickly down the snow covered trail. He knew it was marked by stacked stones every fifty feet or so, knew which way it went, and that it was too late to turn back now. The devoted son wondered if his father had passed yet, if Vundren had taken him, if the vultures were looking for him or through his family’s belongings to repay the debts. He wondered if he would know when the moment came, if God would tell him or send a sign.
Crackk
, into the back of his breastplate he was struck and he fell forward, tumbling ten feet or more on the icy road south.

“I can’t let ye go father Thalanaxe, ye need to come back.” Levrim spoke with sincerity, yet had his axe and shield ready.

“Ye fought with my brothers, and you guard the southern outdoor, just let me pass Levrim.” The young priest readied his warhammer, never been used once, but he was ready now more than ever.

“They say ye owe a lot, and the law is the law, father. I have to...”
Crracck
, the hammer dented the shield the sergeant held up. Another, this one knocking him back a step or two and sent ringing pain through the dwarven guard’s arm. “All right then, the hard way!” furrowed brow and deep voice clear and unwavering, “Outguard, arrest father Thalanaxe!”

He didn’t have much time, the other five soon to be within range, Azenairk swung low at the feet of the sergeant, and as he backed up, hammer high, the priest pushed him back with his shield, slamming him in the face and breaking his stubby nose. He followed his staggered opponent with a mighty swing to the chest, denting in his breastplate and knocking him to the ground, gasping for air. Azenairk quickly grabbed Levrims battle axe, after slinging his warhammer to his side.

“Vundren edstrik valkir ner heshnik”
he phrased the prayer perfectly, having never done it under pressure before and the axe glowed bright, just as bright as the sunrise over the western peaks. He winced from the intensity of it, and tossed it into the air toward the advancing outguard. The weapon weaved and bobbed, swirling blinding light shimmering from its steel blade. The guard tried to see it, covering their eyes with their shields, swinging, even shooting their crossbow bolts at it. They tried to get under or past it, yet they could not see with the blinding motion and dazzling rays of light plaguing them in the dark of a cloud covered night. The priest pushed on, harder down the frosted trail of ice and stone.

The tree at the base of the foothills was sturdy enough for the dwarf to lean on, his breathing heavy and stocky, muscled legs tired. He glanced up, the sun rising in the west over the distant hills and forests in the lands below the mountains. He looked one last time at the outer walls of his home, miles away up the Bori mountains. He could not see it, Boraduum, but he knew as sure as the sun was rising that it was there, and that he was being followed, talked about and cursed for not facing the debts of his family, for not presiding over the funeral. The sun was orange, lighting the fog that covered all as far as his eyes could see, illuminating trees and cliffs and hills in every southern reach. He had to go down there, into Chazzrynn, the land of humans and fierce winters.

Movement, the priest noticed something, many things in the distance overlooking a small cliff by a valley. Ogre, four, no, six Azenairk counted. They were watching something, moving cautiously with something in the valley below them, crouching and sneaking behind trees, each carrying longspears twice as tall as the dwarf. Azenairk began to head that way, having no fear of ogre in high ground, yet not wanting any confrontations outnumbered six to one. If he took his time, thought the stocky priest, maybe he would have help from behind him, for no dwarf would pay mind to him with ogre to kill, no matter what the debt. Steadily, and quietly, the young dwarf crept closer to danger, leaving his home behind. Moving through fog patches, around rocky outcroppings, and through foothills and fingers of the Bori Mountains, Azenairk Thalanaxe felt blessed by Vundren, for the feeling of futility and lack of purpose had left him hours ago. He knew he would have to make good on his promise to his father, or die trying.

Exodus I:IV

West of Southwind Keep, Chazzrynn

Forest branches seemed to lash out at the gray minotaur as he charged through the trees, not having time to duck. His massive body cut the path for James, who could barely keep up, both of them running low on breath. Saberrak noticed the elf had no difficulty maneuvering through the woods, and stayed a step or two ahead of him without effort. Running at this pace for almost a day now on and off, James had been slowing, looking back to see if the small tribe of ogre still pursued. And every time he looked, they were still only a few hundred yards back, dozens of them. They had run east, randomly, and the ogre were not giving up.

“How close are they?” the gray gladiator pushed harder, feeling frustration from inside himself, not knowing where they were heading and not enjoying flight from battle. He had always fought to the death, had that mindset, and every time he had won, in Unlinn at least. Here, on the surface in the cold, the strange land of Chazzrynn, he had been running.

“Which ones? The six right behind, or the ones behind them, or the five on brahmas?” James was gasping, his armor slowing him, feeling his age and lack of health. Sweat poured down his face into his beard, evaporating slightly in the winter wind.

“What is a brahma?” Saberrak tried to keep pace with the elven woman, now attempting to dodge the branches. He heard many surprising clanks and growls from the human behind him as they quickly ran into thicker woods. Not prepared for the change in strategy with the forest, James now had to watch more than the back of his horned ally.

“Brahmas, large smelly and hairy. Four legged beasts of burden, horns…big enough for…a pair of…ogre….or three men…to ride on…huge shaggy….war beasts.” James saw the clearing, his breath giving out, beginning to stumble as he spoke in gasping Agarian.

“Reminds me of someone we know, James…” Shinayne stopped, drawing her short and long curved elven blades out, positioning behind a tree at the edge of the clearing. She knew that James was out of breath and they would have to stand here.

“I am not shaggy, elf.” Saberrak huffed, loosing his great twin bladed axe off his back, straps falling to the snow covered forest floor. He too, felt the need to stand. The ogre were not going to give up and the clearing would only give them room to surround with those big beasts in the rear. “Shield up James, stay in the cover of…”

“Southwind keep!” James pointed, kneeling from exhaustion. Through the clearing to the north he saw the great walled keep, its guard towers, the fifty foot castle walls stretching over the hills into the sky. He saw the smoke trails further north, from Elcram, and the faint outline of the slanted roof of the church of Alden. “Thank you merciful one, Alden be praised, thank you!” the knight staggered forward, ignoring the crashes of trees and heavy boot steps charging through the forest edge. “To Southwind, hurry!”

Too late, the frontline ogre had closed at the end of the woods, six of them, armed with swords of polished bone and spears taller than the almost eight feet of Saberrak. James pulled his shield, drew Arlinne’s broadsword, marching toward the first beast in his path, the path hopefully to wine. The yellow-skinned brute swung his bone blade two handed, at the head of the knight, missing the determined man and cleaving half through a maple tree, blade wedged. James wasted no time, nor slowed his pace, eyes set on Southwind. He cut low into the ogre’s thigh, hitting bone at the end of his follow through, and then plunged the tip of his blade into the ribs of the crouching giant, the crosspiece stopping at furs and skin. James pulled the blade out from behind him, as he had not even stopped his forward momentum, hearing the familiar sound of ogre corpse meeting the ground a moment later.