The Exodus Sagas: Book II - Of Dragons And Crowns (40 page)

“For you or the poor brahma?” Shinayne took advantage of the chance to raise some laugh
ter in the room at the minotaur’
s expense.

“For the little smelly
pointy eared
elves we trampled on our short trip, Shinayne.” Saberrak fought back, snarling and smiling, receiving some
oohs
in low tones from the others.

“I am not smelly, unless you think fey aromas and flowers dipped in honey are
foul smelling.
” t
he golden tan noble elf retorted quickly.

“Is that what you smell like, elf?”

“As a matter of fact, yes hairy horned one, that is my scent.”
s
he turned her back to him, drawing out her new matching longblade and shortblade given to her by Ansharr. She did a slight twirl, then bowed, and stood once again to face the minotaur, triumphant.

“Then yes, I think you are foul smelling
indeed
.” Saberrak smiled, unable to not at least grin a bit as everyone else began to laugh. He walked by the blushing elven swordswoman, who was pointing her blades at him playfully, and he pat her on the shoulder.

“Azenairk Thalanaxe, do me a favor and walk into my treasury. Over to the left there beside the statue of the dragon there is a helm that w
ill fit you nicely I believe.” t
he ancient red wyrm directed the dwarven priest through the stockpiles, statues, art and troves she had spent centuries collecting.

Zen stepped carefully past more gold and platinum than he had ever seen, glistening and reflecting the
magical light from the torches on the walls of what looked to be the open air vault of five dwarven kings. He looked down at a shelf containing an open faced steel helmet with winged dragons etched on the brow and
winged
talon like sideguards along it designed with
scales and a small ridge atop
. As he picked it up, it seemed to weigh little more than an apple, yet he could feel the strength of the steel and see the fine craftsmanship. He placed it on his head, and it did indeed fit perfectly.

“It is enchanted with divine powers of a long dead priest of Alden named Tarum. He is now revered as Saint Tarumin, and has many temples, churches, and even a city named after him as well as an order of knights or
two. It was a gift to me over
four centuries ago from Tarum himself. It should keep your spirit well protected from darkness and evil as well as protecting your head.”

“I cannot accept such a g
ift, such a relic, even if it be
of human descent of another faith.” Zen bowed and went to place the
invaluable
helmet back.

“I was not asking you to take it, good priest of Vundren, I was insisting on giving it to you. I am allowed that in my mountain.” Ansharr smiled, her soft voice almost overpowering. She watched the dwarf place it back on his head, bow once more, and walk out of the treasury cavern.

“James Andellis, would you please go to the center by the stone pillar and take the round shield that lay beside it. It has arcane protections that will keep you ever falling
gently
, and it is strong enough to repel any attack.”

James picked up the round steel shield, shining on the outside rim but cracked and old appearing on the outside. He bowed to the dragon, admiring the near weightless shield, and walked out and up the stairs to the top of the treasury. He felt Saberrak’s arm stop him, and he turned to look at his horned friend
, who pushed him off the edge of the twenty foot drop back into the treasury. Everyone lunged forward for a moment, then saw the knight of Chazzrynn floating slowly to the bottom, gentle and in control of where he was landing. They all looked at Saberrak disapprovingly.

“Had t
o make sure it worked, right?” h
e smiled and snorted, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed contently.

“Saberrak, since you are so eager for attention this day, go to the left wall and take the brac
elet made of platinum and pearl
from the small wooden chest
there.” Ansharr pointed her clawed finger toward the area she had mentioned.

After meeting James on the steps and exchanging smiling glances of friendship, and James thudding his shoulder into the minotaur a bit which did little, Saberrak picked up the bracelet and put it on his wrist. He watched it shrink to fit tight, and looked up to the dragon. “Now what?”

“And to your right, on the floor there, is a belt with the buckle that resembles a fist. The bracelet is a small token really, but it will let you read several languages as if you knew them by heart. Agarian, dwarven,
elven, and the trade language of the southern tribes. The belt will gift you with a tireless strength that can endure days without rest. Both were given to me from a dying merchant that found his way to the mountai
n many years ago.” s
he received a slight bow from the horned warrior, and she gave one back, but she did not expect words of gratitude from Saberrak. She knew that this scroll, the divine voices and omens, and just being on the surface world had him over
flowing with distraction
.
She knew his mind had not left the scroll, he was wondering where it was as if it called to him.

“Gwenneth Lazlette, hold out your hands.” Ansharr concentrated on the arcane verse, but did not need to speak it loudly. She pointed to the
old red
wood staff topped with an emerald
, it
s runes glowed a fai
nt red continually, and a green leatherbound tome followed, gently floating through the air to Gwenne’s hands, guided by arcane energies controlled by the dragon. “I give you the staff of Imoch the Eternal. He was the ruler of Kivanis, long before it was known as Kivanis, when mighty wizards and archmages held respect and power there. There is much to learn in that staff, the ancient glyphs and runes will guide you. And, as promised, this tome will teach you my language, mostly in regards to the arcane study. Once finished, there are three basic rites you will understand, and the book will vanish and return here.” Ansharr looked down at the dark haired student of magic.

“I am most honored, great dragon of the mountain. Thank you.” Gwenne curtsied and stepped back to examine what she had been given. She had earned every little scrap of enchantment her mother had given her, and created more herself than ever she was gifted with from others. She was in awe of the power she felt from the staff, and amazed that she should receive such a gift for what she considered so small a task.

“Lord Cristoff Bradswellen the Third, if you would please.” Ansharr gestured to the human lord, who shook his head in return.

“I cannot, wise dragon. I merely helped these brave-“

“And for your valuable assistance that surely saved their lives at the hands of a salisan army, and the help you will be giving them for as far as you travel with them,
I will reward you. I insist.” s
he pointed again to the back wall, to
a breastplate of fine steel with
gold etchings of roses, swords, and vines all delicately intermingled. The shoulderplates, armguards, and greaves were all decorated similar, and upon touching the suit of ancient armor, it hummed and glowed a faint white light.

“What is this?” Cristoff looked fearful of what it may do, that perhaps it was warning him of something.

“That is the armor of the first king of Harlaheim,
an Agarian man by the name of-“

“Herrimus, from which L’Herrim castle was built and started the line of the strongest ruling family for the kingdom, and many of the centuries it has existed here on Agara. I know the story well, and it was said his armor could deflect nearly any blade and made his voice difficult to resist.” Cristoff lifted the breastplate, feeling the steel lighter th
an it should be
due to the enchantments placed upon it.

“All true, but the powers do not manipulate others, they merely make your voice heard to all around you, louder perhaps. He was buried below long ago, and I was given his armor to bestow on one I see fit. I believe you should wear it, Lord Cristoff.” Ansharr bowed to the stunned Lord of Saint Erinsburg, who paused a moment, unblinking, and returned the bow graciously.

“A mighty gift that I hope to be truly worthy of someday, wise Ansharr.”

“I am ce
rtain you already are.” t
he red dragon looked to Shinayne, and smiled fondly as the elven noblewoman bowed deeply to her. “You have had time to feel out your gifts already this morning, Lady T’Sarrin, but I should tell you their importance. The matching set of curved elven blades, tradition passed down through the nobility as you know, came from the Prince of Aloeste. The last
highborne
noble to leave the northern continent, the last
high
elven city to be abandoned as the rule of the Altestan Empires became too great, Prince Lliannis founded Sar Aloeste on the northern coast of Agara, and gifted the dragons that resided there with his fathers blades to form a pact of honor and friendship. The stones in the pommels of thos
e elven
blades are said to be blessed by Siril and taken by the God of the elves from the white moon itself. Carice
and
Elicras he called them, blades of the white moon, and they are
powerfully enchanted
by the fey
and far older than me. Your meditations should hear their song and your enemies will feel their sharp edges more than any other sword.”

“Blessings upon you and your k
ind, great dragon, and
please accept
my deepest gratitude
.
I have heard their song already
and it is beautiful beyond compare.” Shinayne bowed once more, her hands resting gently on the blue stained
and faded
leather wraps of her swords, fingers caressing the smooth white stones in the pommels, and
her previous remaining longblade
was
strapped behind her shoulder.
The elven swordswoman had never felt such balance as she had this morning in the face of the western sunrise
. Even though Lavress was more distant than
ever from her, the kata dance with the ancient matched blades felt perfect and brought her to a place of peace and serenity.

“I am aware you have lost your mounts in the fight with the lizardmen, so please allow me to take you to the bottom of Soujan Mountain and save you a day of hard travel. I can only carry three of you safely, so we will be making two trips. Who will I be flying down first?” Ansharr walke
d out the entrance as she spoke
and stretched her wings out wide. She turned her long neck back around to
the brave companions behind her
and smiled as she saw their shocked looks of awe and child-like anticipation at the thought of riding on the back of a flying dragon. When she received visitors, which was very seldom, Ansharr often observed the same look when the offer was made. It brought a sparkle of joy through her heart and a gleam to her majestic eyes to be so admired in her old age.

Gwenneth
II:I

Soujan Mountain, Harlaheim

The wind was whipping her dark hair all over, then it would stop as Ansharr raised her wings. That moment of stillness where the air seemed to wait inbetween the updraft and the downbeat of dark red dragon wings put the wizard of Vallakazz at calm and ease. She heard Lord Cristoff spitting her hair out from his lips every opportunity he could and also heard S
aberrak groaning and growling when
the descent would drop quickly or turn sharp. Gwenneth stared out over the pines and hills that stretched out from the mountains, taking in the view that none but the creatures of the sky could ever see. Birds circled below her instead of above, she looked down upon valleys and
roads from the scaly back of the old dragon, and felt a bit of inspiration and wonderment for the first time in many, many years.

The dark robed prodigal daughter
of the arcane gripped the redwood staff of Imoch tightly, feeling the power it contained gently flowing in tune with her pulse. She tried to read the top set of draconic runes near the embedded emerald, but they merely glowed a deep red as she stared at them. The language was not one that she could simply try and guess at, the deciphering would take some time. Gwenne looked up and down the staff, noting five circular sets of engravings that she knew meant five different arcane powers that were imbued into the ancient and mighty gift. Her staff had two, which was the most any master student ever could achieve with years of study in enchanting such items. Middir, her mother Aelaine, and Kalzarius had three powerful sets of glyphs engraved on theirs, but she had never seen any wizard with four, let alone five. Gwenne surmised that Imoch must have been a very potent and wise master of the arts indeed.

Her hand kept tight on the leathery ridge that protruded from the spine of scales on Ansharr’s back. Her, the armored lord, and the gray minotaur were set between the wings of the enormous dragon and felt safe there as the fluid and rhythmic strokes kept them on a gentle glide through the Harlaheim sky. She would have to yell to speak to Ansharr,
as her neck was at least fifty
feet ahead, turning from left to right, surveying their flight and the area around them. Gwenneth felt the tap of a gloved hand on her shoulder as the air
whooshed
once more around her from the mighty beating of
hundred foot long wings. She turned her
neck halfway to at least hear what Cristoff wanted, as she did not feel all too comfortable turning completely around her first time on the back of a dragon and still a thousand feet in the air.