The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains (30 page)

“What was that?
Alden have mercy
!” James grabbed Gwenneth to her feet, the others standing up from their crouched positions.

“The dragon from my meditation, my vision, I
told
you!” Shinayne ran, drawing her blades, just in case.

“Back the way we came! Stay under it so it cannot breathe again!” Saberrak picked Zen up, heaving him over his gray muscled shoulder, and ran harder than ever.

They turned the bend, past the cave, and came head on into a small army of marching soldiers covering the pass. Staring back at them in chain and plate armor, their horses being pulled in the rear of the formation, they looked surprised to see the running band. A banner with a curled dragon and sword on a white background was carried by the man in the middle, and all eighty drew swords.

James was running with Gwenne, looked to the men, he recognized the flag of Willborne. He signaled, blade held to his cheek. “Knights of Willborne, on your honor, I am James Andellis, Knight of Chazzr---!”

“
Charge!
” The knights of Queen Katrina rushed Deadman’s Pass, placated at finally getting a bit of a fight before the dragon incinerated their enemies.

“You have no friends anywhere, do you James?” Gwenne spun around, James with her as they ran back the way they came once more with eighty armored men ahorse and hungry for blood on their heels.

“How was I to know it was
their dragon
?”

“Here it comes! Get low!” Shinayne yelled out, crouching behind Saberrak who held Zen. James put his shield in front of Gwenneth as she began to chant her arcane words.

The flame erupted over them, the dragon slowed this time, scorching everything within sight with horrid hisses and serpentine screams. She passed again, rising in the smoke filled air. This time the red minotaur jumped off, spiked mace in hand, and landing hard on the ground. He stared at the gray minotaur with his horns lowered.

Fire burned her hands, the spell held once more, yet she felt dizzy. Everything blurred, her balance failed and she fell over onto James who was right behind her. “I can’t, can’t do another, too much heat,
dragon too…huge...”

“Gwenneth fainted, we have to get out of here!” James ran ahead, dodging flames from melted rock, Gwenne over his shoulder, just as Saberrak setting Zen down and drawing his axes.

“
Hellpp, Saberr
—“

“Shinayne!” Saberrak looked, the red minotaur charging him ahead, yet his elven companion was gone, nowhere. He turned and lowered his horns, meeting the stare of Faldrune the red, growling in anticipation.

“Careful lad, he looks mean that one!” Azenairk looked ahead, the dragon was turning, the minotaur with the mace on a dead run, eighty knights behind them, then he saw it. A pair of orange eyes from the cave, a set of ears above a mass of thick black hair, a hand waving him inside.

“This way horned one, come on!” Zen grabbed Saberrak’s arm, pulling and tugging before he took to run and face this other minotaur. “James, get in here, it’s Dalliunn!”

With much effort, the dwarven priest finally snapped his minotaur friend out of his stance, James running into the cave ahead of them, Gwenneth over his shoulder.

Saberrak pointed his enchanted axe at the red warrior, then ran in after his friends. Flames covered the cavern entrance moments later, yet Dallunn Cloudwatcher kept running. “Where is Shinayne, where is she?!”

“
Verrrli shinnnbe, verrrli aukse?”
the lewirja kept his pace, not stopping for small talk.

“He don’t talk our language, rememb---“

“Yes Thalanaxe, I remember.”

The tunnel under the rock was dark, the stomping of armored men into it from behind threw echoes all down it, and the sound of a roaring dragon trying to burn down the very mountain above was deafening. They kept running, down, then up, nearly blind, then there was light far off. Saberrak heard more stomping ahead, more running, much more.

“
Saberrak! Hurry!”
Shinayne’s voice carried down the tunnel from up ahead.

“Where
are you
!” Saberrak smelled something, he smelled Zen, lots of Zens.

They turned in the dark cavernous passage, right into bright open mountain range again, running alongside a small army. Red trimmed beards with long braids, helms of black polished metal and armor to match, axes, spears, and bows in their hands. At least four hundred strong, an army of dwarves led them into another canyon pass in the Misathi, Shinayne running in the middle. Into another cave and out of sight, then more twists and turns, and out once more into the Misathi Mountains, they ran as fast as they could. Dwarves stopped, closing levers behind them, sealing off hidden cavern doors, sealing their trail in several spots. The roar of the dragon echoed above them, a mile back and away or more.

“
Marlennak
!” Azenairk pointed to the dwarven army that now protected them, and then to a magnificent sight. There, a mile down the slopes, tucked between two mountain valleys, were the stone pillars of a dwarven fortress. “Thank you Vundren, thank you father!”

“
Auchs immmi Marlenenen eakkki!”
Dalliunn Cloudwatcher licked Zen’s face as he ran alongside the five friends he had met and the small scouting army of dwarves he had brought to save them.

“Yes, yes, you done good my feline friend, you done good.” Zen patted him on the rump as he scampered ahead, leading the entourage to the doors of the dwarven city.

“What is Marlennak, priest? You know these men, this place we are heading to?” Saberrak caught up to Shinayne, receiving many a stare from the stocky warriors he loomed over by nearly three feet.

“No, but we are all cousins, we dwarves. Where Boraduum keeps the secret family laws of Vundren, Fazurand holds the holy faith of our people, and
Kakisteele
, the place we seek, is supposedly the sacred forge---“

“And what does this city keep secret then?” Saberrak huffed.

Zen repeated the question from his friend at the top of his lungs in the dwarven tongue, surrounded by four hundred redbeards. “
Kuak durrin vun darvin Marlennak?!”

“
Vuumber! Vuumber! Vuumber!”
The dwarves, including Zen, chanted it loudly in unison, banging their fists or weapons upon their steel shields, they had done it hundreds of times before.

They were all shocked, hearing it echo in the mountain so loud and bold, it made their four hundred sound like five thousand strong. Zen had tears in his eyes as they reached the base of the steps to Marlennak. Forty feet of high pillars, six wide, doors of red stone and steel that took ten dwarves to even open, he had never been so happy to see another city. He recalled the tales of great battles in his mind, battles his father and fathers before that had fought here against ogre, giants, and even dragons. He had never thought to see the great city of Marlennak, not ever.

“And what does
Vuumber
mean then?” Saberrak helped James wake Gwenneth as they started their climb up the massive stairs. He looked to his smiling dwarven friend.

“War.”

LCMVXIILCMVXIILCMVXIILCM

Arytor the Spear tried to lift his head to see his sons as they spoke, he could not. His silver braids were frayed, his skin was loose under his white robes and furs, and his eyes had gone gray with age. Upon his brow, the platinum crown weighed heavy with sapphires galore. His daughters had taken his fist adorned armor and set it on a pedestal on display many decades ago, and his spear and sword and shield, all of bronze, rested across the room as well. He groaned amidst the heated discussions, signaling his eldest girl to lift his head, not that he would see much more than a blur or three. He heard her come to the stone throne of furs and jewels that no longer shone nor glittered for him, and felt the touch of Jafrine Second-girl, then the lifting of his face to the argument in his castle of Auf Alach in the sky. For thirty decades or more he had ruled after his father met his last days, now he must decide who would take his place.

“The old wyrm, known as Rynnth, keeps a human Queen and a horned pet as well. They hunt other slaves in the Misathi that killed her children, so the sly serpent says. I gave them until sunrise to leave our lands, as you told me.” Kimtor took a knee in the room of the king, his father.

“And…what did…this dragon…do then?”

“She has returned, and attacked in the Misathi, just this day, father.”

“I would have slain the dragon, and brought the serpent’s head here and laid it at father’s feet!” Eybrol Raven-hair yelled it to the top of the throneroom. His two handed blade pointed up as his head shook with waves of loose tied black and golden hair.He received much in the way of shouts and yells to his favor as the youngest son.

“I could have killed it with one strike of my blade, and taken the horned slave, and all the others, and had them polish father’s armor for days so it shone like the sun! All before you set foot on the low earth!” Udmalyr Sun-born received more praise for his boasts as the second son, and he smiled from his shaved head and golden mustache, tattoos of the sun depicted all over his face.

“And I delivered the words of my father and stared the beast in the eyes as its pets cowered in fear! It dared not strike me for I uphold the honor and I am the eldest!” Kimtor Seven-teeth slammed his blade into the stone, through the fur rugs, shaking the castle floor in the clouds. The oldest son received the pounding of fists, more praise and howls from the thirty gathered now in his skyward home, more than his younger brothers had.

“We are in our…last circle of these Misathi…then we will go north to the Surrinan…and do battle with Tauf Terrash and your…cousins…once the winter is passed the tenth time…soon. A new circle will… begin.” Old Arytor the Spear spoke slowly, and all listened.

“My time is short, I will not see the battle…nor the storms it…brings…or the one after that…with your mother’s cousins in…Udref Lor to the…far west.” His rasping voice fading, the old giant king of Auf Alach needed sleep, sun, and more sleep.

“I cannot decide, between you boys…I cannot see…well…hear too well…either…I call…the trial…of…storms.” Arytor the Spear slammed his fist upon the arm of the throne with what he had left. Nearly seventy decades, and he would not live another tenth of one, he knew. His oldest held the rights, yet many spoke that Eybrol and Udmalyr were mightier, stronger, and would have a better rule. Arytor was fading, he could not decide, he could not see their eyes any longer to judge.

The gathered giants hammered their fists and yelled in praise to the old king, and parted as their women passed food. Ogre pies, lamb and beef stews, and charred human skewers were brought on silver platters with golden goblets of rich red wines and slabs of cheese. The hundreds of chained pets, little humans in rags, pulled together to raise the enormous fans, back and forth, bringing air to the old giant on the throne. Arytor touched the diamond on the left arm of the throne of the sun, and let the old magicks pass through him. The stone ceiling lifted, separating in four places, revealing the clouds above and bright blue light of the sky. The women sang songs of battle, of trial, and of family as the men ate and watched the three sons of Arytor the Spear stand underneath the open air.

“By our father, long lost Annar, and…by…his brother…our…long lost Solumet…we ask the …judgement…of the storms…that…it be…for who should take…my place…take…my throne of…the…sun…and my armor…of…the fist of…war…and have the..right to kill…the dragon to..set it in the….blood of our…enemies…so…be it. I call for the thunders…upon my…sons.” He felt the jet stone on the right arm of the throne, and he let the storms hear his calling.

Thunder beckoned, dark clouds washed over the open skies, and flashes of lighting crackled into the stones of Auf Alach. Silence reigned as the three boys, three heirs to the floating city of their people, stood to see who would win the honor of slaying the dragon and taking the throne when their father died. They raised their weapons to the clouds. The bronze straight blade and round shield of Kimtor Seven-teeth, the two handed sword of Ebyrol Raven-hair, and the two twin bronzeblades of Udmalyr Sun-born all reached up, their eyes closing as the storm came unto them.

The first bolt struck Kimtor, his arms jolting and shaking as it passed from his blade, through his twenty five feet of body, and into the stone floor. The fur rugs around his feet rose up and smoldered. He yelled as loud as the thunder that followed, then lowered his weapons. The pain was excrutiating, numbing, yet the fact he still stood and was staring at his younger brothers overrode any discomfort.

The second bolt lashed down through the blades and bald head of Udmalyr, it fizzled, popped, arcing between both his weapons and bald head. Smoke rolled from his nostrils, then his mouth opened and a slight trickle of blood appeared. He fell to a knee, then to the ground, curling in agonizing pain. His face went from a tan yellow to a deep red of defeat and throbbing nerves.

Another thunderclap, and another bolt shot into the greatsword of bronze held by Eybrol, the youngest. It warped and whipped around his body, sparking through his chest and into the floor. He opened his eyes, staring at his oldest brother in defiance and victory.

More lightning cascaded, into Kimtor, knocking him to both knees, yet his shield and sword held high. Smoke hovered around his scalp and braids, dark ash falling around his face. He roared, feeling the intense burn through the whole of his body, and he stood. Much praise was yelled amidst the thunder that boomed overhead.