The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (9 page)

“Saberrak the gray of Zeress, now let’s move.” huffed the gladiator, not in the mood for these games or for giving their enemies any more time to close.

“Saberrak eh? And where is Zeress? I have never heard of it. Is it near here?” the satyr spoke too fast, too curious for Saberrak’s taste and he received the same stare as the trolls did in return. A stare Bedesh could not hold, he was nervous and blinked too much when he felt pressured.

“Just Saberrak. Zeress is the slavemaster that owned me once, not a place, and I will not be returning to where I came from ever. Just Saberrak. Enough questions.” Saberrak stated with absolute resolution that almost seemed a threat to Bedesh. He understood perfectly, deep secrets thought the satyr, provoking more curiosity that he dared not investigate, at least not yet.

The elf moved forward, shaking her head in superiority and disagreement with this new warrior, at least on the outside. Inside she knew there was not enough elven coin on her to buy help like this, not help that could rend a troll in two like this minotaur. Being noble and wise, she knew she should show quite the opposite of what she thought, keeping her one step ahead of everyone. “This is the trail we were following when our scout was killed last night” she stated, pointing the tip of her blade at a faint line of dirt on a piece of cobblestone. “Can you follow that, Saberrak the gray, no longer of Zeress?”

Saberrak snorted at the sarcasm and arrogance of this elf thinking she must be royalty or thinks herself as such anyway. She was not like the elves he saw in Unlinn. They were pale skinned, dark haired and had dark eyes, more like men with tight features and pointed ears. Some he had seen even had strange black markings on their face, not like his tattoos, more akin to birthmarks or a disease he recalled. Even the ogre gave wide berth to those elves when they came to trade underground. No, he thought, this one was elegant, bronze and tan, with otherworldly and enchanting features unlike he had ever seen. Most likely her melodic voice he heard, most likely others heard it as well. And traveling with a furry little horned goat man with a bow, out here in this dangerous ruined place,
such arrogance
thought the minotaur. “I can follow your little elf tracks easily, perhaps in the dark.” He replied snidely. The minotaur appreciated confidence, but would not think to mention that to the elf, she had enough an ego already he assured himself.

Huffing out his chest and smelling the air, the Saberrak followed what little he could of the trail, Bedesh and the elf close behind him. He knew not where he was, where he was heading, but strength in numbers was better than dying alone and lost in the middle of nowehere.

“ I don’t know if we can trust him Bedesh, keep a close eye on his movements and see if he is really on the trail or no.” said Shinayne in high elven, sure that the gray warrior could not speak her native tongue.

“Yes my lady”, was about all Bedesh knew in high elven, but he understood much of what he heard, growing up with wood elves to the north. The dialects were similar and he knew also that Shinayne was distrustful of the minotaur; it showed in her every gesture. The satyr felt safer with the big horned brute in the lead than without him and that is all that he needed, a little bit more security in this dreadful place.

Light snow flurried through the cold air, and Shinayne watched as the minotaur saw what must be his first snowfall, probably the onset of his first winter. She followed his movements, realizing that Bedesh was not, and the path through the city he took. His scars she noticed as well, dozens across his back split with a mane of black hair starting from between his huge curved horns.
How strange this must be to him
, she thought. For a moment Shinayne had forgot to concentrate on Lavress Tilaniun, for a moment the elf also forgot her parents in exile. She did not feel momentarily the resentment of assassination attempts on her father by the failing elf kingdom of Shalokahn. Shinayne had not felt in hours the pain of loss when she and her younger sisters were left to live with her aunt and uncle, relatives assigned to the throne of Kilikala for safety of her family, crushing the dreams and prides of a young princess. No longer an heir, no longer the daughter of the king of the most powerful and beautiful of elven nations, that pain had only left when in the company of Lavress of Gualidura. Now Shinayne realized that he must have moved further ahead, for she was not reminded of why she needed him so, the hurt that he removed. She quickened her pace, hoping to
feel
closer to the elf her heart yearned for.

“This is not the way, we are off his trail, I can feel it Saberrak” Breathed the elf, desperately wanting to sense her lover getting closer.

“If we go back, my lady, more trolls or worse” whimpered an already nervous Bedesh, lowering his bow and taking quick count of the arrows he had few of left in the quiver.

“It would be unwise to retrace our steps through the city, and I have no trail to follow on old ruined streets. Get me further out and I will track your friend, elf.” huffed the gray gladiator, not patient with lost time or feelings for direction, he wanted to keep the pace moving away from whatever else followed. Saberrak knew what would be following, and wanted to get as far from that ruin as possible. “Is there not shelter near here?”

“My home is six weeks north at a quick pace, near Gualidura. Lady T’Sarrin’s is over double that across the Soltaic Ocean where it has never seen cold or snow. We are as familiar with the west of Chazzrynn as you, big-horn” Bedesh grinned and blinked, pushing the familiarity and friendship a little fast as was his nature. The satyr enjoyed getting a rise in attention out his conversations.

“
Where is he?! You tell him I am here, and to face me! I challenge your king filth ogre, and every last one of your bastard race! Come and meet your deaths one at a time, or together! I care not!”

The three stood in quiet, hearing the roaring challenge from the north edge of the outer city, from a man the whole city could have heard. Grunts and yells, not in the challenging Agarian tongue either, came from the distance as well. Shinayne drew her matching elven blades, Bedesh nocked an arrow in the enchanted bow of his dead friend, and Saberrak smiled from under his horns and brands, gripping his double bladed axe and chain. One thing more than confidence or arrogance the minotaur admired was absolute fearlessness. Some stupid human challenging a city of trolls and ogre. “Fearless” he huffed under his grin. Following the elves’ keen senses, the three rushed back north through the western waste to see who else was here doing battle against the horrid natives all alone.

Kendari I:I

Under the Ruins of Arouland

Blood dripped from the trolls missing arm, yet it still had two, and two arrows buried in its soft green and warted flesh as well. “ther a wass a mintar’ and a smaller mintar’ master, and a witchy one liking you. The witchy one cutsss off mee arm” hissed the troll, trying to speak the little Agarian it knew through black fangs and the pain of its third arm slowly regrowing. The seven other trolls listened and looked, scowling and smiling, listening to every mispronunciation as if their kinsman had some important revelation from their wretch of whatever they call a God to deliver to them. Kendari stepped toward them, slowly, looking one last time at the mess of three dead trolls and an albino minotaur that bloodied the new underground chamber. As he stepped forward, each of them stepped back not daring to meet the dark green gaze of their employer with their black ones. Weapons not even drawn, only the injured troll messenger stood halfway still at Kendari’s slow approach, slow and silent as death itself.

“My-No-Tar. Minotaur, you wretched excuse for a thug.” Kendari pulled one arrow out, flesh attached still and blood running green from the open wound. The troll flinched, feigning a smile of enjoyment though the elf hunter knew better, he knew that it hurt for he twisted as he pulled purposefully. “It is pronounced, minotaur, and did it look like that one?” the hunter nodded toward the dead white shaggy one face up and split wide open on the stone. Before it could answer the troll felt another arrow rip from his chest, this time there was no smile, only screeching and backing up with claws raised. Kendari dropped the arrows, letting them clatter on the stone floor, showing his complete stone-faced lack of concern for this band of swamp savages. Hissing ensued from the other seven, seeing their cousin injured and mistreated, bravery began to boil like a wave of warm air between them, rising and blowing troll pride quickly. “Whatever is out there, has killed one of its own, freed something there from those chains, and murdered three of your kin along with the four that have not returned last night and this morning” the cursed elf stated, placing hands on his blades, turning his back and pacing a step or three, a gesture that quickly dismissed the growing thoughts of mutiny in the chamber. Fearful, the trolls watched his hands. “Shall we find them?” Kendari turned in the light from above showing his dark green eyes, pale skin, black hair pulled back and from under his cloak the myriad designs of black veins that patterned in swirls and edges mystical over his entire face marking him as Nadderi. They knew only that he was a living curse of elvenkind, cursed by his own people for crimes that could never be spoken nor redeemed. It was the gravest elven curse that could not be removed and only given to the foulest elves by the Court of the Whitemoon. It was a curse that Kendari, unlike most other Nadderi, had endured for the last four centuries of existence. Nadderi disappeared, committed suicide, were hunted and killed, or did not survive their administration of punishment. Kendari had never seen one of his kind that had lived for more than a decade, or a moment with his blades, so to spite Seirena and Siril he not only survived, he vowed to make the Gods wish they had never cursed him, until his very last breath.
That day may be closing
, thought the killer, running his fingers through his tied hair, knowing that a few telltale signs of gray had woven their way in as of late. So far, however, the elven swordsman had lived up to his vow.

The Nadderi elf ignored the excitement so easily roused in his hissing and screeching mercenaries and they began moving toward the surface through the passageways he had hunted for months now. Kendari knew to stay away from the dead trolls, for the decaying process released something in the air that one did not want to catch.
Trollice
they called it, and for the most part incurable unless burned off quickly as the onset occurred, or having friends and money in the local temples or churches. Troll breeding was a horror that even the cursed hunter did not want to see again, and
trollice
was the only other way the foul race of giant fiends survived. Kendari had seen his fare share of those infected, transforming green and soft, mushy rabbits and birds at times that had become too curious, infected from the bodies of the dead trolls that had not been burned, allowing rot to spread. The hunter also was well aware of the games the trolls played at night with those they found infected, and that thought did bring a smile to his black veined face. More light and traces of snow, yet the other trolls he had sent searching for treasure seekers here in the ruins of Arouland still had not returned. Usually due to rending and playing with their captives, feeding voraciously on their finds, but lately here the ogre had been emerging from various places above and below the lost city. Kendari had interrogated an escaped dwarf just the day before, who confessed before his unfortunate death by the blade, that he and others had escaped from Unlinn. The elf knew the city well, had traded captives there before, and escape was a rare thing indeed. Now some collapses dotted his passageways and new areas were being uncovered monthly by explorers and groups from the east. The chamber with the giant chains intrigued him as to exactly what was held there and how long it had remained, lastly who had cut those chains and why. Kendari saw much changing here with the plague and ogre vanishing and a definite increase of activity, rewarding him with long awaited killing and looting the looters for his employer, Salah-Cam.

The cursed swordsman drew out his necklace from behind his steel fitted chain shirt hidden behind his black clothing and cloak. He whispered
Feszra Faeyl
to the small round red stone set in a clawed hand and his eyes glowed red the same color. The trolls stopped behind him, shuffling, sniffing for a smell of the magic, whispering in their decadent savage tongue to each other, but keeping distance from their deadly leader. Kendari walked closer to what led to the outside, now a recent cave-in of rubbled staircase. He kept walking, hand on the pommel of his enchanted longsword, the smooth onyx pyramid fitting in his gloved hand perfectly.
No vibration from the sword
, he thought, means nothing hidden by the arcane nearby so whatever is around will be visible and in plain sight. His eyes gazed ahead, knowing he was close to another set of stairs below the undercity of Arouland, these were clear and now he sensed it. Arcane flashes of orange and blue came into his vision, small dots near the surface, he could see the magic in a way from far distances as he concentrated on the amulet.
Several
he thought,
one very close
, a sword, an enchanted sword being held now by the way its aura moved in his vision. Kendari put the necklace back, letting his eyes turn green and adjust to the dark once again. Most often the treasures he killed for were scrolls of old texts, wands or potions of useless or expired magical infusions he sold off. Not for over a century since he found his other longsword that burned hot with arcane heat had he sensed or seen a treasure he actually desired.

“Gentlemen, we have something to kill for, this way if you would.” sarcasm dripped as the Nadderi drew the other blade from over his hip, small trails of heat and steam whisked about in the cold air emanating from the straight longsword. The trolls hissed and screeched in some deprived glee, like nine foot tall starving hideous children looking for a plaything. They put as much distance as possible between them and the elf upon passing him up the stairs, especially with the heated blade drawn. That too, put a grin on the murderous elf’s face and he turned to follow his troupe to the surface.