The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (29 page)

Johnas I:I

Castle Valhera, Valhirst, Chazzrynn

“Of
course
my king, I will see to the matter quite rapidly. I too, tire of trolls haunting the lands to the south and hindering the tradeways. The people need not feel the necessity for heavily armed protection to travel the kingdom. Luckily, trolls are much less organized and proud than the ogre hordes
you
must contend with. If, when the trolls are dealt with here in the east, you are in need of more men, please do not hesitate in your request for some of Valhirst’s finest.” Speaking eloquently, answering perfectly, and offering his allegiance to his old uncle, Johnas Valhera walked side by side with Mikhail Salganat in the adorned passages of Valhera Castle. Young Prince Bryant in step behind them, listening intently, as most teenage nobles do as their future becomes more apparent.

“Do not concern yourself with the troubles of what has crawled out from Teirinshire and Arouland, Prince of Valhirst. Southwind and Elcram have grown and improved over the last decade and the ogre are scattered into tribes that will never gather like those once held by the ogre king Avegarne. The plague assured us of that, and Lord T’Vellon continues that assurance today.” The aging King spoke solemnly, still uncertain if the son of his late sister understood the matter at hand, or was merely speaking to his ear. He noticed that Johnas was living well, not that he should not be as the Prince of Valhirst, the largest city in Chazzrynn and the merchant capital of the south. His nephew had always had a strong taste in finery, from his velvet red robes, to golden hilted weapons, and emerald studded jewelry. Johnas was fit and healthy, presentable at court, and well spoken.
Too well spoken
for Mikhail’s tastes and his resemblance to his late aunt was apparent in looks and in word. Blonde long hair, clean shaven, and his pointy nose, the old king saw little of the men in his family in Johnas. He had wished for his nephew to join him in battles, leading men, creating a greater Chazzrynn, yet this one had always been far too comfortable in the safety of his throne and his great halls of the castle to be bothered with much more than issuing orders for others to fight and die. Mikhail walked slowly, trying to remind himself that his nephew simply was not the charging and fearless noble soldier that the Valhera family line had been previously. He had been raised by his mother, and kept in the castle far too much as a child. Mikhail noted the swinging blade from his hip, engraved, bejeweled, a golden saber, that had not a scratch or edge to it at all and he shook his head. Mikhail thought for a moment, his armor plates clanking as he walked, of his uncle, Caddail. He was told by his father, the thirty ninth king of Chazzrynn, that he was a spitting image of his uncle Caddail Valhera, Prince of Valhirst. His uncle, this one’s grandfather, had fought bravely alongside King Mulvain in the Caberran war decades ago when Mikhail was but a prince himself. Harlaheim and Chazzrynn had united forces against the expanding Caberran fleet when he was young and he lost his father and uncle in that war. The southern kingdoms rose victorious, and Caberra stopped its advance, withdrawing to the north for fear of an opportunistic Shalokahn that would not hesitate to move on the injured kingdom. The men are still sung of on the day of their deaths, two brothers, great leaders, a day of victory, and this son of Valhera had done little to live up to that kind of ruler. A heavy sigh and a run of fingers through a gray and black beard as he walked, Mikhail tried to see the best in his nephew.

“Besides the trolls Mikhail, why the unexpected visit, if you don’t mind the inquiry?” Johnas, despite ten years younger at forty one seasons, could tell without effort that an unannounced arrival from the king was not for troll raids along south and eastern trade routes in winter. The look in the ever-glaring eyes of his son Bryant was enough to resign that information to the obvious.

“Willborne. I heard you were sending men and gold and supplies to Katrina of Willborne actually.” The king paused, waiting for the response from Johnas. Eyeing back and forth, he looked for any men that might be trailing them, as years had taught him that Johnas had spies everywhere.

“Preposterous. Why would I send men and such to a dying cause of a rebellious noble lady that has nothing of value? For one, it is treason, for two, I have no men nor gold to spare even if I wished my head on a chop-block for helping an unallied noble build her kingdom. Your information is defacing to me at best Mikhail. I would most enjoy talking to the citizen responsible for the spread of such unfathomed fictions. “

“It was Jeffers, brother to Captain Ellaird, your
missing
Captain. Jeffers says you had the captain take men to Willborne and then tried to have him killed to cover your trail.” The king stopped, turned to his nephew, looking him dead in the eye, waiting for hesitation, for a tremble, for a stutter, anything that could put truth to the accusation to which he had little real proof at all.

Johnas turned as well, meeting the gaze of the King of Chazzrynn, placing his hand on the black falcon emblem on the steel breastplate of Mikhail’s armor. “My king, Captain Ellaird ran off with a whore from Willborne, ran off and deserted to Harlaheim with her. He is a drunk, and a terrible husband. I sent men to bring him back and have him imprisoned for desertion. The men did not get there in time, but with the history of this particular whore,
Velvet Ribbera
, she would usually return in a few months when the coin was gone and the liquor too. I left my men, just a small brigade, outside Willborne to await his return since he would most likely be foolish enough to follow the little slut after he woke up empty pursed and alone. Simple strategy, my lord, nothing worth noting to you until finished, if even then.”

“And Captain Ellaird, has he returned or been brought in?”

“Unfortunately, no. Neither him nor the paid gutter wench at his side have turned up.”

“And the men?”

“Here in Valhirst my king. I need them here, however I left scouts and an ambassador from the ranks of my court to handle tracking him down and seeing justice done. And this, Jeffers? When may I meet with this
false accuser
face to face, my lord?” Johnas was showing signs of anger at this point. His face flush, his demeanor and tone steady with a rising voice of arrogance and frustration.

“He is dead. Poisoned from coated dagger wounds that my priests could not heal in time. His last words were as I just unveiled, prince.” Mikhail still breathed in and out despite weariness from his long journey and standing for hours now in his adorned suit of regal and decorated plate armor.

“Gambling debt most evident my king, Jeffers had a few vices to run from, some that were worth the chase I have heard. Well, I assure you, the statements of the dead gambler, his drunken brother and whore lover, are completely false. My records and barrack inspections are available to thee,
should
you require. This bothers me, Mikhail, may I retire to the hall and rest? You and the young Prince are welcome of course.”

“No Johnas, I have pressing matters at court in Loucas, and Bryant has a tourney to partake in with several of the King’s knights, and some from Harlaheim and Shanador. I have two days hard ride ahead, just some supplies, bill to the winter taxes for me if you would.”

“Of course my lord, safe journey. And fare well in the tourney, young Bryant.” Johnas bowed deeply, once to each of the Salganat men in front of him, and turned back down the corridor, headed for his great hall.

“Father, you
know
he is lying, why not do more to corner him? The allegations from the other men that went to Willborne, even our own men’s reports? For why do you delay in ridding us of this dubious and sniveling criminal of a Prince?” Bryant, young and barely chicken scratch for a beard, was full of righteousness and quick justice. His hand still gripping the hilt of his broadsword under the leather and chain gauntlet, hoping for the order to arrest, the boy stewed.

“Not yet son, not yet. We now know where he stands and how far his story reads. Now he must alter it and
make it real
. Back it up if you will. Now we watch his men, his comings and goings, and we wait. He will cover his tracks, and we will find them. Remember, Jeffers stated allegiances with Altestan, Harlaheim, and Shalokahn as well, and we kept those to ourselves. Now we wait to see what he does next. We do not go to Loucas, we wait to catch the birds he will send to the north. We inspect caravan, traveler, and every ship leaving Valhirst to the north and we will catch our pigeon. Once his contacts are cut, we will move in and take out the middle of the corruption. You will see, son. Be patient.” The two walked again, several armored men converging to walk with them from the courtyard and corridor of Valhera Castle, Mikhail’s men. All in the ancient royal blue décor of cape and cloth trimmed with gold and etched with the falcons of Chazzrynn. The King and the Royal Prince walked straight to the horses, prepared to wait outside the city by the coast of the Carisian Sea and the Bori Mountains to capture the eyes of and ears of Johnas Valhera, whoever they may be.

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Johnas walked briskly through the outer stone corridors of castle Valhera, servants that had been hidden in draperies and alcoves following in line behind him. No one spoke a word, no one dared. His velvet robes flung off his shoulders by his own frustrated hands being caught before the floor by the young men in tow. His decorative saber and jewelry, gaudy yet valuable, tossed over the shoulder, one by one, his pace never slowing. Not one piece of finery hit the ground, not one ring or necklace, or emerald bracelet. Johnas stretched his hand out, for the servants to take off his white blouse, which two did, stepping up their pace to take it quickly and gently from the outstretched arms of their master as he rushed below. The Prince turned left, then an immediate right, down the center of the great hall, several more of his staff waiting in line. His leather armor, golden bracers adorned with emeralds the size and shape of eyes, all black leather garb, and reaching for his blade from the blonde man behind him, Johnas walked through the humongous red curtain behind his throne into the passageway without light. Snapping his fingers, rows of torches, on either side of this hundreds foot long tunnel illuminated with magical flame. He drew his shortsword, kris style with a wavy blade, enchanted by his former wizard to be ever-sharp, never dulling, and able to cut through the thickest of steel. The pommel had an emerald with a black growth or imperfection in the stone, resembling a black eye. The prince knew that no ones thoughts’ were as of right this moment, about killing him, for the gem would glow and hum if that were the case anywhere near. He dropped the scabbard, caught by yet another follower, who slowed his pace, as did the rest, knowing full well that the prince intended to use the weapon upon entrance to the underground domicile of the White Spider, of which he was the secret patriarch.

The old red minotaur called Heathen, stood at attention best he could in his old age, full of scars. His hands on the curved executioner style scimitar, the red bowed with his one horn. Johnas had been saved by this one many times over the years, and remembered the one fight this minotaur lost to Faldrune of Willborne, the only fight resulting in his dishonor by losing a horn to the giant minotaur bodyguard of Lady Katrina. Despite his loyalty, Johnas had never seen Heathen the same since, having grown quiet in his old age and shame. The dispute was over some illegal trade to Altestan that went missing through the free cities between Chazzrynn and Harlaheim and Johnas had accused Lady Katrina Willborne of the deed, in which he was correct. The challenge that ensued cost him the pride of his greatest killer, one with no conscience and the shipment that surely Katrina profited from.

“You’re back to me my Prince.” Heathen, straining to stand straight, managed to reach his full eight feet in height and pulled out a metal rod with a golden spider with a glass abdomen fixed atop of it.

Johnas turned his back, as routine dictated even for himself, and waited for the old red minotaur to check him for the brand. If he had said no, or tried to pass, he would have been cut down by the guardian of the sanctum for sure. The rod of the White Spider, checked for two things, as crafted by house mages and ordered by Johnas himself. The prince had to ensure that the brand was in place, that those coming inside were indeed members, the glass abdomen could see through a foot or more of almost any material. Second, for the Prince’s protection, the golden spider glowed if any illusory magic or tricks of changelings were in place. After more than one account of being impersonated by doppelgangers and expert wizards and having to kill them, Johnas had put the proper protective standards in place.

“Welcome, Prince Johnas Valhera
. Next
!” Heathen yelled for the line of twenty servants now, to turn their backs and ensure they belonged. Never more than a whisper for the Prince though, as he did not wish for those on the other side of the door to know he was coming, for everyone else, they were announced upon passage.

“And greetings to you, Heathen.” The patriarch of the White Spider recalled the day when his red minotaur slave was named. He had been having difficulty in his younger days, with a militant wing of the Aldane, not truly associated with the church. Their zeal for religion and moral behavior was inconveniencing Johnas, and Valhirst needed not so much,
worship
. In an attempt to drive off the soldiers of Alden from the city, he had organized a little scare, making an example at night of one of their outspoken priests. The minotaur, Heathen, walked in past the beating at the front of the temple and to prove himself, killed every single human in the building, from acolyte to bishop.
Only
Johnas trusted him from that night on, and named by the shocked entourage of terrorists with him that whispered the word
, Heathen.
He
became the one killer that the prince leaned on the most. Until that lost battle in Willborne, the red minotaur had been Johnas’ most trusted member. Now he thought the spirit of his old horned slave was but a shade of what he once was.