The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (4 page)

One thing caught his eye as he was carried, a dark stone room, empty save two giant pillars that held a chained man. Not one of his own, this man was tall, muscular, and naked. By the length of his unkempt beard and the layers of filth caking his hair and skin, he had been there a very long time. His eyes, the blue eyes radiating unnaturally in the dark, followed James for the brief moments of his escort past. The man stood up, keeping fixated on the stare between them, and then he was gone. The young knight fell in and out of consciousness many times only to awaken to the taunts of ogre offspring beating him while he was carried. The sight of those strange blue glowing eyes remained in his mind, however.

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Sunlight, bright and painful caused James to wince, making the bruises and cuts ache more than they did in the darkness.
How many days had passed since I had water or food? At least three days of travel
, he thought to himself. The ogre of King Avegarne, about a dozen he counted, had him bound and gagged, delivered several daily beatings, and let him soil himself, as they did themselves most likely. Carried, dragged along by chains, filthy and dirty, James was still in shock over what had happened. He knew they were heading east toward the keep for days now and he was surprised that he had not seen a patrol yet, or reinforcements. He lay in the grass watching these creatures eat the deer they had speared. They did not cook nor clean the animal at all, merely ripped and devoured the meat from the bones. The ogre left the carcass behind, in the open, giving the young knight nothing each time. He grabbed a handful of water from a stream they passed, getting some refreshing moisture to his mouth and throat.

Suddenly the ogre stopped, crouched down, and began talking in their guttural growls and thick words of native tongue. One vile creature drew a sword from his side, hidden under his wretched stink of worn animal pelts. Arlinne’s sword. Another, the one that was missing an eye, obviously from a very recent injury, pulled from his wolfskin sack the Chazzrynn flag, red with the black falcon and white trim. Tattered and bloodstained, the banner was wrapped around the knight’s shoulders while the other ogre handed him the deceased lord’s blade. A third removed the chains from his hands and forearms. The other seven drew their various weapons, as if the young man had energy to fight. “Hoddram, human, hoddram va.”
Whatever that meant
, James thought carelessly as they gestured him to go forward over the hills in front of them. The youth knew now that he was a message, a warning, a symbol of what the tribes in the west have done and will do to protect their stolen lands. Avegarne and his ogre army wanted him to live and return home as a living threat. His former captors waited until James was far ahead, though he traded suspicious glances with them until they could see one another no more.

The smell of food, a road to follow, water from a stream to quench his thirst of days, the town of Elcram ahead, he knew he was outside of Southwind Keep. James Andellis saw riders in the distance, farmhouses, and the keep, his home, on the horizon. His head hung low, he heard yells and alerts growing louder as he staggered toward the villagers who came up to him in his daze. Women and children were shocked and crying while the men stood quiet, knowing why only one returned from the west. Soldiers knew what it was to face an ogre, let alone hundreds protecting what they claim as home. James’ brothers and sisters of the keep arrived, moving the small crowd of pleas and tear filled questions away from the youth. The young twins, Alexei and Kaya T’Vellon, the legitimate children of Arlinne, were there as well. He could not look at them, wanted to hide the sword at his side, wanted this all to have been a bad dream. James desperately prayed that he did not have to be the one to tell them that their father had been killed, but there was no one else. Even if some of the regular army had fled, the ogre would outrun them and hunt them down. It was obvious to the battered knight that he was the first and only to return, he could tell by the desperate looks on the faces of all he passed.

The meeting hall was bitter cold that next morning; one of the children had started the fire warming for James, who had many visitors waiting outside the hall foyer in the morning chill. The knights and priests of the temple of Alden could be heard through the door trying to keep the crowd calm, assuring them of many hopeful things that the young knight would surely spoil with his words should he tell them the truth. He touched his wounds from time to time, staring at the blue light on his hands, recalling the blue eyes of a man chained. He pulled from memories too fresh the vision of Arlinne’s death, beheadings, brutality, and utter defeat. Avegarne the ogre king’s voice and haunting roar echoed in his mind when he closed his eyes, pushing him to bring more fear into his chest despite being safe in the keep. Staring at the brown stone floor and banners of Southwind and his kingdom that hung in the room, James drew Arlinne’s blade and thought of putting it through his chest as opposed to telling the details to the people of his home. He could not do it, with a resigned sigh he sheathed the sword. His breath stopped as he heard footsteps and the quick shut of the heavy doors of Mederris Hall, muffled voices insisting on seeing or hearing him were silenced with a
slam
. “James, please sit. How are you feeling this day? Can you talk?” The voice was calm, but hurried. It was Marcus Mederris, a close friend to the late Lord Arlinne and ambassador to the church of Alden for Southwind. Father Marcus had always been a great supporter of the Andellis family. A truer confidant James could not have asked for in his state.

“I cannot face the children, especially Arlinne’s, my lord. I cannot speak to the people and the families.” James began to tear inside, guilt and remorse taking turns on his heart.

“You say what you can, young man, but I need to know how many others will be returning.” The man pushed on, wearily rubbing his shaved head and drawing his hand across his smooth, round face. The young knight shook his head and looked at Marcus with dripping eyes of sorrow, unable to speak. “Then, James, how many are hostage?” fear and concern, perhaps a bit of disbelief, crept into his insistent words this time. Again, James shook his head, eyes pleading for a stop to the questions, lip puckering as he fought back an unrivaled stream of sadness. “Tell me they are not
all
dead, James Andellis, tell me
something
.” Now Lord Mederris seemed as frustrated as he was fearful with his line of interrogation. The young knight lowered his head as he nodded.

“All of them my Lord.” was his only reply. A long silence followed, hours it seemed. The pious old man lowered his head as well, reaching into his belt pouch, producing a golden falcon’s head medal. James stared at it, knowing it was an award of the highest honor in Chazzrynn, chivalry, sacrifice and bravery to defend the kingdom, honor in battle. He did not deserve this, did not want it, and there was nothing in him that thought of reward or admiration for what happened this past week.

“This”, Lord Marcus Mederris stated, as he pinned it to the young knight’s tunic on the left shoulder over his heart, “was for Arlinne T’Vellon, Lord of Southwind, upon his return victorious. King Mikhail sent it two weeks prior, assured of a new age and victory in the western waste. I think
you
should have it.”

“You are bribing me to give answers my Lord, and with all due respect, I have nothing to say that has not been said already. You want me to give peace and reason, but there is none. This gesture is empty, and I have to make peace with the thousand men that lay dead, food for wolves, or worse.” James stood up, “With your permission, Father Marcus, I will take my leave.” Not waiting for reply, nor caring, the young knight turned and walked to the doors.
The leaders of Southwind and of Chazzrynn had made a terrible mistake, and many men had died for it, too many,
he thought. Now, instead of retaliation, restitution, or revenge, they wanted to make a hero so that their error was overlooked and forgotten, perhaps to cover up or invade again, and James Andellis would have none of it. “By the way Father Marcus, I saw a lone wolf on the battlefield as we charged. I could have warned them...”

“Nonsense, James! Stop the childish old wives tales! This is serious, that has nothing to do with what happened, and you know this.” Marcus’ face reddened, frustrated at the young knight, pointing his finger at him as he stood.

Pushing one door open, James shoved his way through the crowd that pleaded, cried and begged for his words that they thought would relieve their fears and pain.
Nothing I could say would do anything but the opposite
, he thought. Questions and swarming turned into shouting after a few minutes of James’ continuous walking and shoving ahead. Minutes later it was the same as days earlier, “traitor”, “coward”, and stones flew through the air, spitting and cursing the honored knight as he kept constant his pace. One woman called him an ogre-lover, and the crowd shushed as James stopped dead in his tracks. The youth, still bruised and scratched on most of his body, turned and stared through the crowd of his own people, until his obvious harasser met his gaze. He drew his blade, Arlinne’s blade, and marched at her with a vengeance and hate that he had only felt when he plunged his sword into the ogre king’s arm. His lunge was shortened by his steps, purposefully, and the blade came under her chin, the old woman of gray hair, baker’s mother he recalled. A hush fell over the mob, vicious people who knew him, yet had no idea of what he had been through. Alexei, Kaya, Marcus, and a dozen or so more of his brothers and sisters of Southwind moved in the distance, trying to get through the gathering. Young Alexei, perhaps seventeen seasons now, stopped, his eyes fixated on his father’s sword that James Andellis now held against the throat of an old woman. He could not speak, there were no words of revenge or arguing here, nothing but more pain. James turned and sheathed the blade. He walked through the northern portcullis of Southwind Keep, up the road to Elcram, still followed by commoners and soldiers alike.

As he walked through town the mob dwindled into smaller groups of ten or so people, hundreds now talking and watching, waiting for the crazed youth to do or say something. James looked up at The Silver Chalice Inn and Tavern. The worn knight, full of too many emotions to stand it much more, gripped his blade and entered the establishment, slamming the door shut behind him. The rooms were dark, dingy and smelled of pipe, ale, and wine. All stared, this motley crew of whores, drunkards, criminals, gamblers, and transient vagabond merchants. Of course, men like James Andellis did not frequent places like this in town, not a knight. “Your finest bottle of wine, barkeep, and one glass.” ordered the young man, determined to get rid of all this pain one way or another. The wine, a dergolian and jathneer grape blend from Caberra, tasted rich like dried fruit and sweet berries of the earth. It warmed young James Andellis, and promised with the tingle and ease of its consumption that all this would pass much easier with more.

James I:II

Hurne, Chazrynn 344 AD, thirteen years later

“Every man is plagued with demons; the only ones that slow him down are the ones he chooses to dance with.”
-an old elven proverb from the philosophies of Emonaia Chaldre of Gualidura.

The lights of the lanterns were barely enough to see across the room this time of night, and the barkeep strained his eyes to see if the man was still awake at the table. Old Timber, that’s what they called him, as big and strong as a tree. He had to be to run a tavern in Hurne. The trade city can be rough, with mountain traders from Boraduum, savage fur merchants from the Deep South, vagabonds from every city in Chazzrynn, and the occasional ogre raid in the coldest desperate parts of bad winters. Timber polished glasses, wiped the bar, and came closer to the, yes, old drunk mercenary snoring in his chair. Same chair, same table, Timber shook his head. This fellow James has been his most regular customer for over five seasons now. Only time he was not here was when he went on the hunt for the rogue ogre band for land owners somewhere in Chazzrynn.

The bartender picked up his cheap wine bottle and glass, tucked it under the bar on a shelf designated just for him here at the Trade River Tavern. Timber thought about what the people say about this one, nothing good mostly. They tell stories, rumors for sure, that he was a knight of the kingdom once, and that he lost his family to the ogre war, and also that he’d been run out almost every city in Chazzrynn this side of Addisonia. Vallakazz, Elcram, Silverbridge, Thoranak, and a host of smaller towns as well have said riddance to this drunk one, that’s what the regulars and a few traders say anyway. Timber smiled, knowing in all his years owning this place, at least twenty now, that half of what people say, whether elven, human, dwarven, whatever breed or nation, has been spun a dozen times and dipped in ale before it hits the floor of this little tavern. If the old pine walls could tell tales, the barkeep thought and smiled again, hell, he’d be rich if a silver coin he had for half of them.

Timber ran his fingers through what little black and gray hair he had left on his head, scratched his rough beard, and knelt down next to James. He looked him over quick, yes, the sword was there, shield along the back wall. He lifted the drunken knight over his shoulder, holding his breath in for energy, grabbed the shield with his left hand, and turned toward the stairs, breathing out finally when he had gotten himself and his load up again. Up the stairs, to the extra room across from his own, and he flopped the man onto the soft bed. Winded, red faced from exertion, Timber looked about the room, the room that his brother had stayed in when he had first bought the place from an old dwarf that was bent on retiring and heading north to warmer climes. His brother had died in a battle, served in the regular army of Chazzrynn. Timber often wondered if this one was in that ogre war twelve or thirteen years ago to the south and west of here. Either way, the old barkeep thought, he did not really need to know, and James did not talk of his past. He guessed things were as they were supposed to be. “Good night Sir James.” Said the man, and he went to his room, closing the door on yet another evening with this one as his last customer and only person left to talk to. He smiled as he laid into bed, thinking that the one person he has spent more time with in the last decade, barely would remember any of it.