The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns

The Exodus Sagas

II

Of Dragons And Crowns

By Jason R Jones

“An exodus is a grand departure or escape of spiritual importance comprising of flight from persecution, loss, suffering, the past, or slavery; resulting in a journey to a place of holy sanctuary, guided by God.”

For my mother, Cheryl

You have forever been in my corner, whether I was right or wrong, good or bad, and not once have you failed to be my biggest fan. Thank you for all that you are, the beautiful and eternal queen of the elves.

Forward to The Exodus Sagas

There is little that can be read of the great kingdoms of the continent of Agara prior to the flood almost four hundred years ago. Most history that survived is in small collections in the castles and libraries of nobility or hidden away in old temples and cathedrals. The countries of the northern continent of Ala Sere, under the rule of the holy empire of Altestan, saw to it many times over that written accounts were destroyed. Nearly three thousand years of persecution has driven the northern cultures to flee south to a land where myth and legend, the arcane and the divine, still hold hope for mankind. The fair skinned native Agarians introduced the northern refugees to their ways, the magical fey shrines, the mystical elves and dwarves, and shared the shelters of a new world under the moons. Great kingdoms and cities of spiritual power were constructed out of these cultural friendships. It was not to last.

The Emperors of Altestan had a lineage of men whose devotion to
Y
jaros, the One God, God of man, God of Gods, would not allow them to sit idly as their people fell under the supposed spells of lesser races. Great blended cities of various cultures and faiths were blasphemy to them and they felt the word of God guide them from his throne on the green moon. The Altestani and their mighty armadas swept over Agara destroying Kivanis, Aloeste, Arouland, and Mooncrest. They invaded and murdered those they crossed that were not human, much as they had done in their own lands so many thousands of years ago. Their belief that man was the chosen race and His children, drove them beyond care or reason. They made brutal examples of their interpretation of the will of Yjaros, despite the cries of many religions and worshippers of other Gods. Their armies massed by sea and land, cornering the last of the remaining clergies deep off the southern coast to Teirinshire in the kingdom of Chazzrynn. The Carician worshippers, bowing to lesser Gods of the white moon, had nowhere left to run and their allies had been annihilated or had surrendered. Branded as heathens and pagans by the oppression, they died as warnings to the southern populace. Yet victory was not to remain.

Atop the holy tower of Arouland, a young boy named Tarum knelt above the hundreds of thousands that had conquered and killed in the name of their God. A pious priest of Alden, the Lord of Heaven, Tarum began to
pray aloud. Soon he was joined by the thousands devoted to Seirena, Megos, Vundren, Siril, and long lost Annar. Even many of the Altestani, hearing the foreign words of prayer in unison, began to kneel and speak to God. The waters of the Vateric Ocean rose, and within hours a terrible storm swept over the cliffs of south and west. The flood did not stop for the priests and clergy, for the warlords or sorcerers of Altestan, not even for Tarum or the holy patriots of Alden. The ocean covered the western cities, drowning northern ships and southern civilizations together. The empires of the north took it as a warning from God for not recognizing the lesser Gods and for their pride in conquest. Many saw it as a trap or a trick of magical nature. The southern realms saw it as yet another act of the Gods that made a martyr out of the tyranny they had forgotten existed. But some knew the truth.

The mortal wars of land and sea are mirrored in the heavens and in the realms of the two moons by the powers that be. There is a struggle for existence, for free will from a creator that demands obedience and one that has been and always will be. There are no known records or histories in writing of what the truth could actually be. Books are lost or burned, stories change with each teller and new generation, and many a man would alter a tale should it be to his benefit. Thousands upon thousands of years could not hold accurately all of the myths and spiritual journeys that have occurred by mortal and immortal alike. No dragon, elf, dwarf or man could assemble together in a lifetime enough to show and prove the truths to others. Once those that were there have passed on, every story becomes history. However, there is one man who remembers well far more than he should, possesses long forbidden powers in secret, and has been in existence to see more than any man should have seen. Blessed, some would say if they knew of him, cursed says he who has survived it, the truth is likely somewhere in the middle.

Close to four centuries after the deluge as the Agarian calendar has shown it, the floodwaters have receded and one man is able to share of the journeys of those few he has seen gathered by divine fate. His story is one of pain and triumph, freedom, and mystery. Yet his tale is for another time. In the troubled kingdom of Harlaheim, old and decadent, grasping for strands of former glory, a gift is being read. The five bearers of the Scroll of Annar are in great danger.

Our teller of tales
began watching from afar, listening to rumors and stories of how these strangers met, and why they remained together. Finally free of many of his own demons and curses, this man put together the
sagas
of dragons and kings, wars and crowns
, and far off places where it all began. The last stand of forgotten deities, lost kingdoms, and
races destined for extinction has begun. He shall tell us, and his son, of the Exodus…

Prologue

Gillian, Shanador

Allessandeir stumbled, his small legs still wobbly at times when he
was tired. My
young child had been running
with the dogs and other stray
farm animals all day, yet I was
never more than arm’s reach away. His little white tunic was stained with grass and dirt, his sandals bearing the remnants of the weeds he had already conq
uered at a little over a year
old. His blue eyes were puffy and red, far beyond the time for sleep as the daylight said its farewells and allowed the moons their glory for a time.

I picked up my son, my
pride and joy, swinging him through the air like a dragon on the hunt. Hearing the giggles and seeing the open mouthed smile upon his face as he
swooshed,
gave me untold joy. My
boy held
my arms, letting me
know that he wished to remain airborne as long as possible.
Again and again, he
flew through the r
ising and falling sky inside our
small castle home. Candlelight and torches threw orange illumination, as did the warm fireplace across the main
room. “More, more dada!” he
sqwawked out his giggling words of excitement.

I, Lord
Sodom Azarris
, tired my
so
n out over the next hour, and
laid him in the crib. The maple beddi
ng was getting too small for him now, I
thought of building
another. This time, perhaps, I
would actually try and construct something by hand i
nstead of using my gifts of the arcane. I had built most of this of mind and magic, the rest I
had paid others to
do. The castle, the tower, my
stables and fences, the gate, the doors, even the furniture had been created or bought
if it were not here when I first arrived. Actually, I
had never built anything, cut wood, or created something that did not involve
the infusements of the crafts I
had been forbidden f
rom using for many centuries. I
laughed quietly
, looking at the kitchen, for I realized I
did not even know how to cook. “If it weren’t for servants, we would
certainly
starve
Alessandeir
.”
Though sleeping sound, I knew my only true confidant was my boy. I could tell him anything, at anytime.

My robes trailed behind me as I rubbed the rough beard grown this past winter, and
walked to the open do
ors of the castle manor. I
watched the rain pour down at the beginning of night, lightning flashing over the Shanador countryside. It ill
uminated the meadow to my
left, and the statue that m
arked her grave. Deep breaths I take
to keep from focusing
on it,
and breaking down again. It is
a beautiful statue of eight feet on top of the
same gray stone pedestal that I
had planned to build something else. Her sickness had bee
n rapid, and she kept it hidden. T
he pain ins
ide of her at the thought of me
knowing was greater than the actual pain itself. Gabrielle had died just over a year ago, of
denfora
, a sickness
that she had caught in Gillian
while visiting the markets. It had killed several hundred before the church of Alden sent word to the high priests, who later
contained and cured it. My wife and mother to our
child
,
was one of the first to be infected, months ahead of any chance of survival, especially since she had kept it secret.