The Exodus Sagas: Book I - Of Spiders And Falcons (45 page)

“Trees will run out, human.” a grin as wicked as she had ever seen crawled upon his jaw.

Her blade trembled as she maneuvered to stay out of reach. “I wish no quarrel minotaur.”

“None ever do.” his head careened around yet another bark covered obstacle between him and the woman he stalked.

“I am friends with a minotaur, and he is near here, right behind me. A gray one, he will be most displeased should he find me in any bad form. He is much taller than you, and bigger. I would be careful and reconsider if I were you.” her voice carried no err of fear, lies were her specialty.

“What is his name then, little woman?” the blade chopped out, striking off a large branch, mostly so he did not have to duck under anything to keep his steps in time with hers.

“Saberrak the gray, and I have seen him kill much bigger beasts than you, you would be wise to...”

“Show me to him then, I would much like to see my
smaller
cousin Saberrak.” despite his interest, the horned killer continued his hunt, chopping across quickly, this time taking the tip of Kaya’s steel shield off with the cut. Sparks flew upwards, shearing metal and screeching echoed in the cold forest.

“I am traveling to meet him actually and ...”

The minotaur lunged, and as he did, she slipped on the snow while backing up, landing firm on her rear. The shadow of the beast was over her, and a steel blade was tight under her chin. She looked at her shortsword, gauging where to place it in this creature as to escape. Terrified, tears began to well in her eyes, dried only by the cold breeze.

“You have seen my prey, the gray minotaur known as Saberrak? Do not lie or I will take your head and enjoy watching your blood stain the ground.” his eyes had no care, no emotion save for hate and wickedness.

“Yes, five days back, and I know where they are heading.” a small warm trickle of blood ran down her neck as she spoke, the blade of the minotaur had pressure on her throat that the slightest motion of speech cut the skin.

“Take me to him and you live woman.” his nostrils flared, hoping she would deny and he could cut her pretty head off from its body.

“Agreed.” the blade released and Kaya stood up, not daring to attack this killer.

“The horse is tonight’s meal, it looks tired of carrying you. Needs a rest I think, unless you disagree.” the minotaur walked over toward the stallion, his greatsword drawn out. The horse began to whinny, as if trying to communicate with its rider, trying to send a message for help.

Lady T’Vellon knew why this beast wanted to kill the horse, he wanted to make sure she could not run. Which is exactly what her mind told her to do now, yet her legs would not move, her body knew that to run would be certain death, no matter what her mind tried to say. She was paralyzed with fear, her thoughts were numb and confused as to her next move, and she always knew her next move. “No, I am sure the horse will be fine after…”

The sound of steel through bone and flesh, the gurgling whine and gasp of her steed released as the minotaur drove the blade through its chest up to the hilt and withdrew it. Hot steam and blood pooled on the ground where the stallion fell, its legs kicking, mixing the blood and snow into an awful sight that brought tears to the woman’s eyes. “I am Chalas Kalaza of Unlinn, and I am the only warrior that can bring Saberrak back, or kill him. He is an escaped piece of property, a prized trophy, and dead or alive, he will be returning with me. You
will
take me to him.”

Kaya stood, her legs trembling from shock and cold, her dark brown hair matted with snow and tears. She had but one chance, to lead him to Valhirst and get him into Johnas’ chambers where Heathen could throw him into the pit. Desperate thoughts wore her hopes down, for she knew that getting in herself after all that had transpired would be precarious indeed, but now with eight feet of horned beast having her hostage, Kaya began to see little more than futility. “I am Lady Kaya T’Vellon of Southwind Keep. Bringing me safe and unharmed to Valhirst will earn you much, Chalas Kalaza, and get you to the one you seek.”

He pointed with the sword in one hand for the woman to start marching and he followed not more than six or seven steps behind her. This strange surface world with its cold and weakness held no interest for him. All that he knew was to bring Saberrak back to Unlinn as his glorious prize. The horned killer had his guide in place, knowing she would likely lead him into a trap.
The moment he saw Saberrak
, he thought,
his blade will cut her down
.

James I:III

Valhirst Rural Hills

In and out his visions were, black tunnels and bright lights. Carried at times by someone, and unable to discern motion at all the rest, of whatever this was, around him. James Andellis felt helpless, at the whim of something, weak and feeble, helpless to stand on his own mentally or physically. His dreams haunted him, something the wine usually drowned out for some time. Not now, the surreal sights of Lord Arlinne bleeding out on the battlefield recurred over and over, each time with more visual colors. The ogre were even larger and more fiendish, unstoppable as the nightmare changed from real events to a harsher reality in his conscience. His beatings at the hand of Avegarne resulted in his limbs being severed and placed back several times as the demon ogre repeatedly killed more and more soldiers of Southwind, as there seemed a never ending supply.

“He’s trying to say something again, just stop for a moment Saberrak.” her elven voice pleaded for the minotaur to set him down, as they were right outside Valhirst anyway.

“He moans nonsense and prayers constantly Shinayne. He’s a wino, a drunk, and it is just taking its toll.” Saberrak spoke in a weary tone. They had been on foot for the last day, the caravan had turned back as they had taken them as far as agreed. No father wanted his family near Valhirst, and especially with dangerous acquaintances such as these. The gray gladiator laid the man down on a small hilltop that was not covered in snow.

James faded again, not able to hear the voices of his friends, nor feel the outside world. His mind swam in a dark pool of what smelled like blood and wine, ogre hands reaching for his tabard, trying to pull him down into the liquid he stood in. He went for his blade, yet there was nothing strapped to his side. The sky turned green with an oversized moon overhead, the white moon but a faint sliver in the sickly colored horizon. Black clouds swirled and rushed past, carrying swarms of crows cawwing a deafening melody that guided his attention somehow toward a mountain cliff of brown jagged stone. Trudging through arms and grasping hands of drowning ogre warriors, the knight began to scream for help, hoping he would be heard by someone. Closer he came in this dark place, setting his boots on solid ground, and then he saw it. The cliff overlooked the Western Waste, a thousand corpses being devoured by crows and rats, lay in the field below filled with ogre and man alike. Small children with digging tools were opening the earth and dragging the bodies slowly into them. Several children at a time grunted and groaned over this morass of carnage and horror, trying to bury what the scavengers had not eaten. James hit his knees, hearing the faint singing of a woman he could not see, but her melody beautiful, in a language he could not understand. The whole scene made his body tremble, then seeing his horse, mostly decayed, come trotting up toward him on the cliff. James began to scream, not for help, but for the madness of it all.

“Why is he screaming like that? Is there nothing you can do? You are a
priest
, aren’t you?” Gwenneth had been ignoring this man as best she could, but now she began to feel pity for him. Some of the things he had said while having these seizures and dreams, in and out of consciousness, had been most frightening.

“I am praying for him, give me silence please.” Azenairk was knelt at his side, hand on his chest, the other on his forehead. In his native tongue, the priest begged with Vundren, the father and Lord of his people, for mercy here to remove this knight’s afflictions and spare him should it be his will for useful purpose. He repeated the divine prayers normally given to those dying from injuries from war, as Zen saw it fitting to whatever this man had gone through to arrive at this state. The prayers of healing and removal of affliction caused a slight blue and gold light to emit from the dwarf’s hand, yet seemed to do nothing. He began again, head bowed over James, as the others watched in silence.

James felt the cold hands caressing his legs, now standing in a graveyard overlooking deep caverns filled with ogre. His dreams had manipulated the landscapes of his memory, and the ground still sloshed with blood and wine up to his ankles in a place he had but seen twice. The sky was white now, the moons had shifted, casting a red illumination throughout his vision from the reflection off the crimson surface. Groans and growls echoed by the thousands from the black stone caverns far down the slope, and ogre arms and faces fought to be released from the marsh of blood and earth at his feet. James Andellis thought of hell, and if this was to be his next journey. Tears of red blood ran down his face, too terrified to scream in this insanity of ever changing scenery, he sat in the muck and drew his blade. The griffon pommeled broadsword was present now, and the blade drew out crisp and clean. He leaned his back upon one of the many headstones adorning the hill, those of his brethren and soldiers of Chazzrynn that had died over thirteen years ago. The fallen knight knew and felt the certainty that he had died, and this was the end, his final destination, his eternity for failure in life. He cared not for the horror of the clawed hands, or the ogre that spotted him from afar. He knew this for what it was. Turning to stand, broadsword out and ready to strike into his own chest, James read the epitaph on the stone he had rested on. “James of Andellis, Knight of Southwind Keep, Man of God, Child of Alden, Son of Chazzrynn. 308-331 AR”. His horrific agony could not be contained as he tried to destroy his own headstone in his tormented mind.

“Tell us
something
Azenairk Thalanaxe,
anything
. He has not moved for over an hour now, is he going to live?” the elven noblewoman kneeled next to the dwarf who was still in prayer. James body was still, silent, laid on a hilltop overlooking Valhirst, covered in blankets and furs, what little they had. Saberrak and Gwenneth had started a fire and were watching the moons rise to the west as the sun set in the east over the sprawling coastal city.

Zen rubbed his trimmed black beard and his shaved head,” He is at peace, the violent tremors have ceased yet he remains in deep sleep. He is in his Gods hands at this point, there is nothing more I can do but continue the prayers.”

Shinayne placed her hand on his forehead, closed her eyes, and began to whisper an ancient fey prayer for the healing of the spirit. One usually said this prayer for those suffering from loss and grief of a partner or child, for someone who could not let go of the memory or ties to love that had to be severed. Most elves handle these feelings as they come, accepting them, and letting them pass for the decades it may take. From time to time, for even the wisest elven spirits, one can not let go as centuries of closeness is much harder to forget than any human could understand. Lady T’Sarrin had no idea of what or if James had something he had to let go of, yet she knew of nothing else she could do.
“Mother of the earth and life, Seirena, be with this one as he travels darkly through this night of loss and pain. Take from him these thorned vines that keep the trees of life from him, remove his suffering, and replace his loss with your love and compassion. Father Siril, Lord of the mind and sky, free this man from himself, from his demons of the past, take from him all that he need not, and bless him with what he yet needeth.”

The words were poetic and beautiful in the fey tongue, more like a melody than a prayer, and the others listened intently, though not understanding a word. Shinayne had never said that prayer, merely heard it many times, and had never prayed for anyone save another elf in all her life. Her hand remained on his brow, the place of conscience and doorway to the spirit in elven religion and belief. She admitted to herself she was not priestess, nor much of an avid worshipper even, but her beliefs were strong and that would have to be enough. Throught the night, she and Azenairk took turns in prayer, without sleep, never stopping once.

Strange blue light emitted from over the hill, battle cries of ogre warriors and the clashing of weapons and breaking of bones rang from the valley behind the graveyard. James lifted his head, his clothes splattered with blood and torn from the ogre hands still grasping at him from the blood soaked ground deep in his terrible nightmare controlled mind. Picking himself up, dragging his steel shield and blade, the weary knight trudged down the hillside toward the light.

The dream continued to change, long distances were covered in blinks of an eye, time slowed down to a crawl, only to be sped up toward the blue light in the valley of the ogre. James walked in slow motion it felt, past ogre killing each other, through battles of knights and soldiers who were long dead. As he approached the valley, the blue light was emitting stronger, from a man, the man he had seen chained to the pillar deep under Arouland while captured by the armies of Avegarne. He was swinging his chains wildly, the whipping blows bringing ogre after diseased ogre to their knees and into death. James realized he was dreaming to some degree, and that death here was but an illusion, yet the façade seemed very real. He was within reach of the flailing chains now, he was ignored or transparent to all that moved as they continued the horrific night battle. As the last ogre fell into the swamp of blood, the bodies were absorbed into the ground, some moving, some still and lifeless, ogre and soldier alike. The knight was numb now to the horror of it all, and barely felt the need to breath anymore.