The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (6 page)

LCMVXIILCMVXIILCMVXIILCMVX

James awoke, cold but covered with blankets and furs, in the back of what appeared to be a wagon. He shielded his eyes, despite lack of any radiant sunshine, as the white gray clouds hurt his eyes just the same. He reached for the bottle next to him with unsteady fingers, empty, then reached for the crate to find it also empty. A bit of panic set in his chest as he looked around his feet. Not only did he see at least fifteen empty bottles through blurred vision, there were axes, broadswords, short blades, and even a few larger two handed axes and blades. He could not recall much, but surely these were new, despite the rust and neglected appearance on most of them. The shaking knight looked over the side of the wagon, searching for the boys he had met, and his jaw fell open. He hid behind the wagon wall, “This must be a dream, must be, Alden wake me from this please.” James whispered in desperation. He had had too many of these dreams, of this place to count, and this one felt very real to him, too real. He squinted and leaned cautiously over the wagon again, trembling. The walls of the outer ruin were covered in snow, the tower of Arouland stood against the gray and white sky, the city still quiet like a grave in the western waste.

His eyes teared, his lip trembled, not ever wanting to see this place again, not even a drunken desire of the wildest nights, had James ever thought of coming here as long as he lived. His water filled eyes looked all around, the same, all but one spot to the eastern hill. Feathered crosses marked stone gravestones with the traditional round wreath of feathers in the middle, thousands of them across the top of the hill he had stood at so long ago. James gathered his shield and belt, fastening it quickly as he stood from the wagon. Guilt consumed him with every step, he thought of the men he had left in the cavern under Arouland. James doubled over as he walked toward the hill, hate and sadness washed over him, he had not known of any memorial site for those that had died, he never knew anyone had returned after that first battle. Just that plague had struck, that the ogre were getting visited by revenge that James could not have given them himself.

Vomiting and heaving dry since he had not eaten much in days, James pulled his steps closer to the graves, seeing now rows upon rows stretching the entire view of the hills above the ruins of the Teirinshire district. He wandered into the line of stones, looking at names, some had writing, and some did not. He recognized the last names of his brothers at a few spots, memory of his youth flashing back in jolts that found him on his knees more than once. The guilt held him from speaking, though his mouth was moving, nothing but gasps for air could be heard. He stood up to walk more, thoughts of how this came here and why he had not been found to join his brothers in laying these men to rest swarmed his mind into anger. He turned again, and looked at a stone a bit larger, polished marble, gray and swirled. Closer he came to it, knowing what it was, jittering from grief and anguish at the sight of it. He read, “Here lies Arlinne of T’Vellon, Lord of Southwind Keep, blessed are his days, blessed are his children, blessed is his sacrifice 279-331 AD” His face went white, the tears fell like rain. James pulled his Lords’ blade from the sheath, placed it on his chest and lay down over the grave. The knight wailed like a man who had woken from a nightmare to find himself alone with all he knew dead and gone. He stared at the stone and the broadsword, thoughts of placing it through his chest flowed and jumped through his half drunk mind.

Hours passed as he lay their curled up in a ball staring and crying with sword in hand. James did not know what to do next, his revenge and anger had kept him going day by day, as if some amount of ogre bloodshed would somehow reverse this. There was no changing this, no, not ever. This was forever, and James would never forgive himself for what he had not done, though he did not really admit to himself there was something he could have done. Screams, definitely several screams from the west, he heard them surely as he heard crows in the air above him quarreling over the lack of food in winter. Up in a blink, James heard them again, already on a dead run through the gravestones, he fastened his shield as he hurried downhill. Two sets of screams, men, or boys. He could see them now, outside the northern wall at least four hundred feet away. With speed he had not thought he had left, James Andellis ran through hard ice and snow, steps that would not fail him nor let him slip and be slowed.

Closer now, he yelled a roar that was more animal than man, yelling for the thing to stop what it was doing and pay him attention as he charged. The ogre cut off the head of the second young boy, spearing it down next to several others. One was the boy’s older brother. Screaming in pain from within, the old knight continued his run; sword held high, racing intent on killing this creature before it could harm the boys. He was too late, yet he did not care, a rage, a hatred had taken over, he wanted it all to end. He wanted to die, he wanted this ogre and all of its bastard race to die before his sword first. The ogre stood his ground, lifting his greatsword with two hands, wiping the blade on his horseskin clothing and motioning with the tip of his blade that he was ready for this insane human to be his third victim of the morning.

The sword cut across to the ogres’ face and was deflected easily by the beast, who returned a mighty downward chop at James. His shield turned up cracking loudly in the air, never slowing his attack, James countered with a low cut into the ogre’s thigh, hitting flesh through the hides. The greatsword pulled back into an arcing cut that the man barely got his head under, swinging the broadsword across his foes shoulder and down again into the muscle on his forearm. Ogre blood ran down the his own hands and onto the huge blade, the ogre back stepping now, swinging high then low to keep his human enemy at length. No use, the knight pushed past every laid attack with shield and sword, countering every effort of the beast. James closed in on his ten foot tall adversary, stepping forward under the blade of his foe, shield raised, then feinted the block when the blow came, sidestepping to the right. As the ogre sword hit the hard earth, James’ blade went up through the jaw and mouth and into the base of the killer’s skull. It twitched and trembled as it strained to lift its weapon for another attack. James did not wait to test what it had left; he pulled the blade free, placing it perfectly into the center of the upper chest and out the back of his enemy dropping it lifeless to the ground. He took a knee, staring at the ground, the blood, and the bodies of the two young boys. He could not cry, numb from the battle and the horror of this morning, and his only thought was that he had no idea what year or day it was.James lay down again, staring at the blade of Arlinne, wanting someone to put it through him, someone to come by and end his life, wretched as it was. Off in the distance he heard a crash of stone, then a wall collapse. James looked around the southern wall where he had heard the noise, expecting an ogre army with catapults responsible. Expecting his wishes to have been granted, and for his day to finally arrive with a last battle against the ogre of Avegarne, he stood to face the western waste and whatever was to come crashing from it. He held the sword to his chest and saluted the tower of Arouland, and walked into the ancient ruined city with a smile. He walked to meet his end.

Saberrak I:I

Upper tunnels of Unlinn

The cavern was cold, colder than he had ever felt in his entire life, however long that had been. He touched the rough stone passage wall, feeling bits of frost on his fingers,
what a strange cold that grows on the very walls
he thought. The gray skinned minotaur carefully stepped, heel to toe, quietly following the cavern his father had told him would lead out. His thick skin did not suffer the chill air, his bare feet and tuarine muscled body could tolerate almost anything. Saberrak gripped his axe with his left hand tightly not knowing what was around the next turn and his vision was keen even with no light to be found for hours now. He smelled the air, slowly as to not stir even an echo of sound. Trolls ahead, he knew their stench, ogre also. The gray beast had fought and killed many of them both, bastard cousin races, in the arena of Unlinn where he was raised. The minotaur moved round the corner, crouching to hear if his pursuers were any closer. His owner had sent one of the deadliest of his stock after him and not alone. Chalas Kalaza, the feared brown minotaur champion, and two whites that followed with him had been chasing the fugitive for almost half a day. The white shaggy albino minotaurs he feared little, bigger and stronger yes, but feral and more like animals than any other of his race. Saberrak could out think and out move them. It was Chalas that Saberrak held a healthy fear of as he was at least a foot taller and undefeated in the arena since Saberrak was a young bull. The gray one smelled again, knowing they would not give up their hunt, and waited until he knew if they were together or separate. That fact would decide whether he took them separately and made a stand, or continued toward the surface.

His chain and hook tied loose around his belt and leather loin cloth, the gray minotaur heard nothing and continued up his dark road underground. One step at a time, he knew at the sign of the cold that he was near. His father, Tathlyn, had told him which cavern to follow and when the uprising distraction from the gladiatorial arena happened he did what he was told. His younger brother was left there, and many others that were on the wrong side of the arena deep in the earth when the moment struck. Tychaeus had been as much a friend as a brother, and friendship in the deep slave city of Unlinn was something rare and to be kept quiet. His scars grew uncomfortable, feeling them tingle with life and sensations that had been very long lost. So many scars, markings of hundreds of battles and kills, he had those and his slave tattoos to remember this place with. He had hoped to be with many other minotaurs, a few humans, even dwarves that had been enslaved or born into it like Saberrak had, but they had all been hunted down by the pet gladiators of the owners or lost in these strange winding tunnels. Depending on the violated property master, ogre, human, or a host of other races, an attempted escape could mean anywhere from fifty lashes and the pit or death outright. Saberrak’s master, Zeress the Black, a foul ogre warrior with a passion for tattoos and marking his combatants, would have a public slaughter and charge double in the arena for the viewing. He would also do it himself, Saberrak had seen, with his metal whip and curved serrated blade. It was a known custom to cut a minotaurs horn as a sign of defeat and dishonor and the gray beast had seen his master perform a few of those displays to ones who disobeyed, seen it entirely too close. His rewards were black ink to mark victories, Saberrak rubbed under his eyes where two mirrored patterns adorned his face, tattoos mimicking the curved horns on either side of his head. He had been awarded, more forced, those markings from a pit fight with just himself against a Misathi giant that stood twice as tall as he did. His test of “manhood”, Zeress had called it, a fourteen foot tall test that he was not supposed to survive.

He could smell them now, Chalas and his two bestial cousins, closer now and Saberrak picked up his pace in the quiet darkness. He climbed over ledges, around stalagmites, and over underground pools that seemed lifeless and dreary. He dodged small chasms that he found ways around and down slick and cold drops into still more cavern. Using his chain and hook, he climbed over a ledge twice as tall as he, hoping the minotaurs that pursued would lose his trail. The horned gladiator could hear now, his enemies closing, sloshing the water, and the clack of hooves. The white minotaurs, besides red eyes and shaggy hair, had hooves instead of feet, unlike the rest of his kind. Most minotaurs suspected this was due to their closeness to beast as opposed to man. His kind, the grays were known for hunting, his red cousins famous for their fearless brutality, the dark browns for their wickedness, and his black skinned descendants for their silence and wisdom, passing down generations of history to one another. None of them truly recognized their unkempt albino descendants as anything but a disgrace to the minotaur breed. The gladiator snapped out of his thoughts and prejudices and moved on.

Close now
,
maybe a hundred or so steps behind me
he thought. Saberrak saw light, not the thousand torches of the arena or the foul smelling lantern radiance either. White light, from cracks in the top of the cavern, too far to reach, and plants growing through the cracks, or had been growing but now dead from the cold, roots of some sort he imagined. Over fifty feet for certain, but there they were, seven, no eight, beams of soft light from ceiling to floor and a bit of a cold stirring movement in the air. He kept moving in this strange environ, despite the fascination, the minotaur was well aware of his chase and the consequences of his capture should he fail. He rounded a turn in the cavern that had still more lines of white from above and the walls were lined like the deep city of Unlinn, chiseled stones, manmade, and not natural. Saberrak smiled as he moved quicker now, he thought of how he fled a city under the ground to escape to a city built underneath a city on the surface. Regardless of his ironic conclusions the smells of troll could not be denied as the beast sniffed the air. And the blood. The gray warrior could distinctly, eyes focusing and caution taking his movements down, sense the odors of fresh blood, none like he had ever been near or passed before. His breath now visible from his bull nostrils, Saberrak crept with a silence only his breed could claim.

The violence sounded brutal, and was just as savage to his eyes once he peered around the side of a broken wall. Glowing streams of white light forced down into this perfectly round pit. Trolls, three of them, at least two feet taller than the horned gladiator, swarmed about a man of incredible size for a human. He stood the same height as Saberrak and looked just as muscled. His long beard stretched over his dirt covered chest. Chained to pillars of stone at least eight feet across, this man stood silent and barely moved as claws from the horrid troll cowards ripped his flesh spilling blood from dozens of wounds. His only motion was to look up, meeting Saberrak’s gaze from fifty or more feet away, while he had barely even glanced around the wall for more than a few moments. He knew Saberrak was there. Those eyes, glowing blue, like light shone from within, inhuman, yet a man for certain being ripped apart and staring at the gray minotaur with effervescent blue eyes. The sickly green and deformed cowards continued pleasuring themselves with the torture of this man who was chained with restraints that could hold a giant. The maiming continued and Saberrak crept closer, unable to release his eyes from the stare across the room, gripping his axe in one hand and the chain and hook in the other.