The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (22 page)

Evril Alvander, being warned from behind a stump from a man with a mountain accent, mounted his horse, hearing growls from the north and heavy footsteps on a quick move. “Ogre? How many dwarf?”

“Six boy, better hide, wake yer men, unless you have some…” Azenairk’s vision, accustomed to the dark, noticed now that the other three men were not sleeping but had throats cut and were very dead. “Vundren help me, ye surround me with dead men and murderers and chase me with ogre.”

“Farewell mountain man, enjoy your fate!” the boy waved, and rode back west down the foothills. He looked back, thinking of making for the scroll. Then the ogre appeared, the first two with spears from atop the plateau and then more shadows of ten foot tall killers ran down near his hill. Evril Alvander kicked his steed faster, knowing the job was done and the bodies would not have to be burned since the ogre would tear them apart soon enough. His mistress would be pleased and he would get her pleasures for an entire night as promised. All that was left was to beat himself some wounds of the ogre raid and have his story ready for Lord Alexei.

“
Coward
.” Azenairk breathed under his beard, keeping hidden to the left of the stump, warhammer in hand. Young Thalanaxe was not a warrior, he admitted this to himself, and had seen more real action in the last few days leaving Boraduum than in all his life. Trained, yes, he recalled the training with the Outguard and Temple Shields, but this was life and death of which he had no experience. The ogre approached, slowing their hunt and speaking to one another softly, as soft as guttural ogre could manage. They inspected the dead, looting weapons and picked for coins and food rations. One, the outspoken and scarred leader, barked orders to the others as it untethered three horses from the other side of the campfire and the bodies were loaded upon them.

“
Vregg id idullas, hrabekss ind
!” The ogre all laughed from deep in their filthy furs through tusked jaws and headed west, pointing at the distant rider. One ogre in the rear stopped, “
Unda hrabekk faden
froul
!” and it moved to the priest not ten feet from the dwarf in hiding. Azenairk froze, knowing if he were spotted he had nowhere to run. His knuckles went numb from the deathgrip on the hammer, his shield behind the tree stump, his body pressed against it, eyes shut.

The muscled giant warrior rolled the body over, picking out a coin pouch, a waterskin, smelling the air as if something was not right, squinting his warted face. Azenairk’s heart fluttered, ready to give this beast a warcry and a cracked skull in one more second. The ogre sniffed more, rolled the body again and pulled out a crossbow bolt from the back of the young human in robes. Placing the tip below his nose, he winced more, made a foul face of disgust, “
Tithjarrum
”, and tossed the bolt down the hillside. The ogre looked around spotting something lower where his bolt had landed and moved to where the dwarf was completely exposed. It picked up what looked to be a scroll tube or case, smelled it, and tossed it to the ground again, “
Bevrig, elda bevrig Sajogarne
.” Some more talk from the others kept its attention west, away from Azenairk Thalanaxe and it stomped uphill to meet with its kind and leader. The ogre, laden with easy treasures and food for a week, headed west to find the lone human and eat a meal of man and horse. The priest, for some reason, was not taken.

The cold frost of breath finally released into the mountain air as the dwarven priest fell into the stump and released his grip on the warhammer. He laid there for hours, staring at the sky, needing to sleep yet knowing the human should be buried properly. Azenairk lacked the energy to move, let alone bury a dead priest of another religion, but something in his conscience overrode his weariness and he moved downhill to see to the body.

The prayer was long and tiresome, as long as it took him to collect the rocks in the dark for this young mans burial. On the side of a foothill, in the middle of a cold mountain night, Azenairk prayed to Vundren and this mans God, Alden, for his safe passage to heaven and the afterlife. “Don’t know what you men of Alden do up ther besides play with feathers and such, but get there safe and God bless.” He put the last of the stones atop the mound, saying his final prayer in the old dwarven tongue.
“ Relianak, dandurs ufrimak, Vundren judissik ek mooriann.
Just in case you didn’t understand that boy, I asked Vundren to guard you in death as we worship him in life. Farewell.” The last of the Thalanaxe family put his fist on his chest, holding his Hammerpiece symbol of faith to Vundren, the God and creator of his people in the mountains. Opening his eyes, the stones looked perfect shining in the moonlight and Azenairk felt peace within his tired body and mind.

Starting down the foothills again, walking this time, Azenairk noticed the melted patches of snow the further down he went. The Bori Mountains had underground molten lakes keeping the mountain range warm on the outside, easy to forge for his people, and melted any snow. The old dwarves in the taverns told him over the years that most of the rain and snow washed to the north, and that was the reason for the Hollowmoors, a vast swamp the size of a small country, infested with trolls. They said too, that deep in there, a city of the swamp devils lived, and even had a giant four armed queen of the trolls. Many stories were just the whiskey or the ale, but this one about no snow ever forming on the southern side Bori mountains in winter,
well the dwarves had a few things wrong
, he thought.

Azenairk kept his eyes and ears open, knowing the ogre were at most four hours west now and he was all alone coming into the kingdom of Chazzrynn. He had met men from here and the allied river cities of Larkenport, Bailey, and Willborne to the north. He had heard many a tale from the merchants that traded...
Crunch
, young Thalanaxe looked to see what it was he stepped in that gave way to the sound under his heavy boot. A scroll, most likely belonging to the murdered priest and forgotten by the ogre he thought. Azenairk wondered if the ogre could even read, not knowing much of their brutal culture, save that they were enemy to all but the giants of the Misathi Mountains, even hated their cousins the trolls. He opened the case, and opened the scroll, holding it to the light of the moons.

“Father Garret,

My friend of the cloth, may this letter arrive to you while you are blessed with good health in Alden’s blessing. I sincerely hope the warmer climes of Shalokahn are faring you better than the cold winter of Chazzrynn. I write to you in need of assistance with two most important accounts, important to our faith and to my kingdom. May it be known to you now, that I write this only to you and Lady Lazlette in Vallakazz and none other are aware of what I shall tell you. A scroll came to Southwind keep, by way of an elven noble from Kilikala, a minotaur, and one of our own lost knights from years past. The scroll is likely from the times of the Primalus Defectus, many millennia ago, as you are aware. However, the scroll is on a parchment unknown to me, and the ink appears to be blood. The preservation is immaculate, and most of all, the writing is staggered by the markings of impression, to have been finished within the last decade. All prayers and passages point to our faith, and are written in ancient Altestani, of course. The points of contention here are that a man trapped under the ruins of Arouland gave this willingly to the minotaur, and that his description befits a likeness of Annar, lost brother to our savior Alden. Second, that his disappearance after the fact implies some degree of speculated divine intervention or sign from God above in heaven. There is reference made to the exodus of our Lord when our faith was founded, and in great detail as Aldane histories also attest to. However, the scroll mentions two holy retreats of vast importance that occurred before then, and two yet to come long after. Not one great exodus, but five are written of in this most precious artifact. These findings are unheard of and nowhere written in any text in which I am familiar. The scroll is being taken to Vallakazz now, and I hope you and yours will meet its path.

Secondly, I believe that Lady Kaya T’Vellon is aware of the importance or value of this scroll. Her men of the knightly order of Southwind keep are suspicious, and seen everywhere. She reigns behind her brother with a skill at manipulation surely derived from the bitter depths of hell itself. I exaggerate, however, Lady T’Vellon does not share in our faith, and I fear may be planning to get the scroll, if not her brother’s position, very soon. Too long have we watched from the church, seeing her wicked ways of deception and ill bargains of sexual natures with the youth of this most important fortress to the kingdom of Chazzrynn. She rearranges our plans for this safe escort to you as I write and the plans for the protection of the scroll as well, having her brother always convinced of her view. Please alert those you can of the feathered cross, and with Alden’s help and love. Assure me this relic of our Lord’s brother, Annar, will not be lost to the ages as he was.

May mercy and sacrifice light your path to God, Alden,

Your friend,

Brevond Sancadiun”

“And I thought Boraduum had troubles and turmoil!” Azenairk rolled the scroll carefully, placing it back into the casing and safely into his pack. Convinced that this needed to get into proper hands, always taking the responsibility laid before him, he set out south knowing that somewhere through the hills and flatlands and snow he would find Vallakazz and deliver the message that Vundren now set upon him. “Forgive me father, it seems Vundren wants me to take the long way to your lost mines.” Azenairk smiled up to the night sky and trodded down the valley of the Bori Mountain
foothills, knowing his father understood.

Gwenneth I:I

Lazlette Semanarium Arcanum, Vallakazz, Chazzrynn

Long black hair dangled in front of her deep green eyes, eyes wide and agaze staring at the open tome in front of her, a tome she was not allowed to read for many more years. The tome was covered in silver etchings of protection from unwanted readers, easily overcome with a few utterings of arcane notation, her skills well beyond those of the peeping pupils here. For her transgressions against Lady Aelaine Lazlette, for delving into her private library of magical texts, and for reciting and placing to memory the elemental archpassages of control, Gwenneth could be expelled, or worse. That worry was an empty one however, as the daughter of Lady Lazlette, high wizard and overseer of Lazlette Semanarium Arcanum, was sure her mother was still teaching the ninth years their final coronation displays and object manipulations for the upcoming ceremony. Gwenneth was also certain that her mother was busy and nervous on the seventh floor of the west tower, herself safely distanced on the eighth floor of the north tower. The prodigal wizard had placed a glyph of awareness over the wooden oak doors to her mothers’ class which would glow and fade sending a slight tingle of the arcane to her ear, if and when her mother passed by. Lady Lazlette usually noticed them after the fact of release, yet the scolding for those tricks fell far below what Gwenneth would receive should her mother catch her with the forbidden books in her private study.

“
Caeldwiss efvias Selnivius
, the lightning from the clouds. I rather fancy this as opposed to the meager tricks and invocations in the graduate elemental curriculums. What do
you
think, Hithins?” Gwenne smiled, looking up to the snow vulture perched on the black iron chandelier over the table where she read. “I could pluck your white feathers with this, Hithins.” Gwenneth Lazlette drew a black wooden wand with gold engravings from inside her robes, dangling it in a playful manner, awaiting attention and confirmation from the bound creature.

“You would not dare, rebellious one, for I would tell my mistress about the incident with the
Tandorial demon
you summoned into this very chamber.” Hithins craned his neck back, egotistical as usual, his refined voice so unbefitting a scavenger bird. “Or the real reason Jamai Tanzikahn of Jal-Adeen missed coronation last year with a case of nightmares and delusions that took weeks to dispel.”

“That little teachers’ pride deserved everything he received for telling my mother I possessed the ability to conceal myself within the walls of this college and had been doing so. And the demon was an accident of
simple mispronunciation
. I destroyed the little nuisance quickly if you recall.”

“You, my lady, just keep those striped rabbits coming from wherever you get them and our engagements will remain confidential. You know how Aelaine despises my love of real food, so we have an arrangement, but no more demons please, no matter how small and
manageable
they may be. The smell of acrid acidic blood after you scorching its flesh was enough for an eternity of servitude.” The vulture turned his neck, eyes turning bright orange, shining toward the door. “She is coming, your glyph failed young Lazlette!” his well spoken voice trembling in fear of what Aelaine would do to him if she found him betraying her.

“It did not fail, Hithins, she must have noticed it and bypassed it, making her presence untraceable by magical means. She suspects something. Not a word.” Gwenneth waved her left hand quickly, closing the book with magical wind, careful not to touch it as it floated on the invisible airs she created and back onto the top shelf in its place fifteen feet from the ground. She knew, had she touched it, her mother would be able to tell with arcane divinations who had last handled the tome. The lights of all colors of green and white and orange lit up around candles and torches of an enchanted nature, shedding an aura throughout the giant study that Gwenne had been trespassing in. Her mother near, the esteemed wizard moved behind the giant black curtains. “
Indomi dedomi selnilii
” her eyes closed, feeling the arcane energies shadow her, blend her outline and blur her body as one with the dark drapery of the study. Gwenneth Lazlette could see the room, yet her eyes and features could not be seen, not with normal sight at least. The shelves she had pilfered through since she was little, small tomes, hundreds of books, were all organized and neat on half a dozen bookshelves that she had wondered of all her life. Now she had but maybe twenty or so on the top shelf to view. At thirty years old this past autumn, the prodigal daughter thought her skills had nearly surpassed her mothers’ who was nearing her fifty fifth year and twenty of those spent as High Wizard of the Semanarium that her great grandfather, Flanius the Archmage, had founded over a century and a half ago. It was still spoken as rumor that Flanius and his brethren had achieved some forbidden long life from their arcane knowledge and were hunted down by agents of the Altestan Empires of the north for using such power. A gamble that any wizard worth her robes would face, since such practices are forbidden and watched for by secret sects of the northern oppression.