The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains (2 page)

“The ten low kings, the bishops, the cardinal, every knight and every lord are summoned by our high king of Shanador, Lord Azarris. Altestan has threatened war, we lost Rugeness last month.”

“Rugeness?
The capital of Kivanis
? Then in essence, you lost the kingdom of Kivanis.”

“Yes m’lord.”

“And Caberra is still under treaty, which means you need to prepare for war with no allies. I have but a few hundred people, in my village of no name mind thee, Sir Ullimar. Shanador will need more than that to hold against Altestan and their empires spanning all of Ala Sere.”

“It matters not, Lord Azarris. Please understand.”

“I am no warrior, and my son is three. I have lost my wife to the denfora sickness last year, I must decline.” I had to avoid this, no attention, no problems, they had told me when I was released that if I began getting involved…

“It is not an invitation, lord Azarris, it is an order. I lost two nephews at Rugeness, and my sons are of age. One in the Crossguard Legion, and one in the Shields of Shanador up with the Second Northern brigade. I understand how you feel.” he handed the scroll back to me, his offer a few inches closer this time, and stronger.

“I do not believe that you do, Sir Ullimar, no one does.” This man had no clue whom I was, only a name on his list. A false surname, a lord and landowner, yet that I am not noble and not who he thinks me eludes him of course. Had he known of me, from millennia passed by, of what I am capable of, he would try to kill me right here and now. Any holy man would. “Very well.”

His face looked relieved instantly. “Thank you m’lord, you have no idea how heavy these scrolls get when held out in such manner.”

“It weighs nearly nothing, my son could hold this for hours. You are a bear of a man if ever I had seen one.”

“Tis not the actual weight, m’lord, tis the weight of the words and the deed that no one wishes to hear, but must.” The knight of Shanador marched to his magnificent warhorse covered with green banners and silver steel. He mounted and said, “In one month and three days m’lord, should take you a week’s journey by horse to Acelinne.”

“I can make it much faster than that.” I stated with no emotion, my feelings tied to whatever decree was inside the parchment. Alessandeir distracted me as he ran across my feet, being chased now, in full retreat from the clucking of feathered soldiers.

“My lord Sodom Azarris, little lord Alessandeir, God bless Shanador!”

I returned the salute to the chest, though not as heartily nor as strong as Sir Ullimar of Gillian. The heavy thunder of hooves from he and his small retinue of five blonde bannermen heading east was all that I heard, dust from my road marking their trail. I looked to the scroll of parchment with the royal stallion and shield seal of Shanador and cross of Alden upon the wax.

“Dada? Where is that giant knight going to? Can he stay with us and fight my chickens?” my boy asked, sweating from his hairline and temples.

“He is Sir Ullimar of Gillian, heading into the city I imagine. He can fight, I am sure of it, but I would not let him harm your chicks.” I smiled. “Now come on boy, you need a bath.”

“
Awww!
Dada, can I be a knight like Sir Ulommaddedar instead of a bath?” His inquisitive blue eyes like the sky beamed into me. He was very serious.

“
Ullimar
, son. Sir Ullimar.” I picked him up, holding him upside down over my shoulder, by the calves. He giggled as his face turned red like strawberries.

“Sirrr…Ooohh…Limmm…Aaarr! I am like
him
, and I will get the chickens!” He threatened valiantly and loud, terrorizing the birds of dinner as if they understood his intentions from aloft.

“Very well, chicken slayer
, bath time
.” I heard his grunted displeasure as the sun brightened his swishing dark blonde locks. Surely his gestures were in disagreement with my planned cleanliness. “With me, or with
Ranny
, the housemaid. Your choice.”

“You Dada, you. She makes the water too hot and does not let me play long enough.” As soon as I swung him around and let him down to the grass, the red went away as blood went where gravity now allowed. My son stood and ran toward the keep. I ran after.

Past the chickens and the stables that held our horses we went. The servants parted from sweeping the bridge and courtyard, young blonde girls moving away from a charging three year old. I chased up the stairs past Ivonin the stableboy, through the curving of the upper foyer where Ranny was carrying vegetables of green for dinner. I could hear the mutterings and laughter of the servant family all the way from the third floor as I let my son best me in the race yet again.

“Ranny, some hot water if you would!” I yelled down far enough for her old ears to hear it.

“Already there m’lord Sodom! Dinner in an hour men, in the hall or the courtyard m’lord?” her voice was strong, like her family that had been there since Gabrielle’s passing.

“Courtyard Ranny, I like the yard and the chickens!” Alessandeir voiced his opinion in huffs from the chase, stripping down already.

“Courtyard, good housemaid, and bring the family if you would!” I invited, the loneliness of dining in the hall with candles, myself, and my son was too much still. I feared the dark, it reminded me of my late wife’s shadow and hair, Gods rest her. The company was admittedly more for me than anything else.

“You honor me m’lord, it will be done!”

“Ahhh, enough yelling back and forth for today, son. Let us get you cleaned up, shall we?” I heard the plop of child into marble tub, the water steaming with lilac and lavender scents.

His head rose back over the bubbles. “Dada?”

“Yes?”

“Can I hear a story?”

“About what?”

“Knights and giants and chickens!” his giggling blabbered water all over me as he fell with innocent laughter back under his bubbly horizon. Sunlight wandered through clouds and our window in the stone keep of a home, making the moment feel magical indeed.

I looked at my robes, black, of the finest silks, with my arcane designs embroidered in blues, now wet. I rolled up my sleeves to assist with the chore of getting Alessandeir scrubbed, an Annarian task it was, always. My eyes looked to his, his looking at the underside of my exposed forearms. I looked down, the burned in sigils of ten black skulls on the left and ten black tridents on the right arm. I quickly covered the reminder of past penances, when I did, his eyes were staring at mine with questions he decided not to ask.

“A story of giants…hmmm…let me think.” I reached for the bath brush and a cloth.

“Dada?”

“Yes son?”

“Will I become a prune and get eaten if I stay here for the whole story?”

“No, but just in case, let’s get you clean and into a towel before I begin.” I brushed and wiped for minutes, dumped the herbs and water over his curls, then lifted him out clean. I realized that this may have been the shortest and easiest bath ever given.

Towel around him, his energy spent and sapped by hot waters and bubbles and chicken chases, Alessandeir hung his head over my shoulder as I walked to his room. I could tell by his grip that he may not make it till dinner.

“So do you remember Saberrak the gray, the minotaur from Unlinn?” I spoke to see if a tale of mine could stir his tired spirit enough to have a full belly before bed. My mind went to where I had possibly left off a year ago.

“Yes, but I want to hear about giants.”

“Then listen closely, for Saberrak knows much of giants. I can tell you what I know of him, and that is in no small fashion, about giants.” I stood him up on his bed, pulling the laid out tabard and pants over and under as he balanced his hand on my shoulder.

“Giants like Sir Ullimar?”

“No my boy, real giants, four times taller than the knight we saw today.”

“That is humongous!”

“I am aware. When Saberrak was young, very young, he was forced to fight in the arenas of Unlinn like his father. His master Zeress, the ogre that owned him, had lost too many fights to the king of the ogre that month and needed a victory desperately.” I noticed some interest back in those baby blue eyes, so I continued. This story, where I left off after her passing, would hopefully take my mind off of it all for a time. I tried to banish the thought of a noble meeting in the capital to which I have been summoned. I tucked the scroll from the king away in my robes, vowing to read it later, alone. The fear of someone finding out about me, alive or immortal, and losing it all again, weighed on my serenity.

“After the plague had finished its course in Arouland and Unlinn, the arena was flourishing underground once more. King Avegarne the rotted had a prize fighter, Chalas Kalaza, who had all but won his freedom, and Zeress had left only fighters far too old, or far too young.”

“Dada? Where are the giants?”

“Coming son, they are coming. Be patient now.” I smiled, loving every breath my boy took as his curiosity and attention rose. “Determined to save face, and gain some coin, the ogre slaver took a gamble. The gray one was only seven, but nearly grown for a minotaur. Zeress had heard that his father Tathlyn was secretly training him to fight, and the ogre wondered just how much. Against his better judgment, which was poor to begin with, he took young Saberrak to the pits and challenged…”

Introduction

Saberrak III:I

Arena City of Unlinn, Chazzrynn 341 A.D.

“
The fear cometh, or it cometh not. Who it be or what it was, will matter little. How one stands before it, lowers horns with it, and makes it tremble is all that will be held for the counting.”
---Last words of the minotaur slave, J’rannen the black of Unlinn, spoken to his two sons before his fight with Shelyr-kas the brown of Halay, in which he died honorably and quickly, with his horns lowered. Circa 167 A.D.

“Is Saberrak coming back?” Tychaeus had watched his father pace back and forth for hours it seemed. His scar covered gray hide went from silence to shadow in their barred cavern home. He had not spoken much in countless hours, not to anyone, and not eaten. Only three and too young for the arena, yet Tychaeus knew well enough that his older brother had been taken there to fight.

“He had better. They take minotaurs at seven winters now,
damn focking bastards
! I should
never
have trained him, then he would have another season or two.” Tathlyn stalked, his hand in a fist on his chest, the other stroking the gray and black beard of thin hair from his bovine chin and nose. He twisted it back and forth, wrapped it painfully in his fingers, and gritted his teeth. His horns swung from side to side with every step, turning his neck muscles back and forth in disbelief and frustration. “Zeress is mad, insane for taking your brother so early!”

“What do we do then?”

His footsteps of hundreds of pounds echoed in the rock quarters with iron bars they called home, deep underground. There was one door, locked and chained from the outside like so many hundreds of others in the slave caverns. He stared out into the dismal torchlight of Unlinn and toward the arena he could not see or hear. “We wait, son.”

“Wait for what, father? Can I go and fight too?” Tychaeus snorted, rubbing the seven or so inches of white bone horns on his head.

“
No!
” Tathlyn the gray, nineteen seasons old and over four hundred pounds of enslaved minotaur muscle, roared as he spoke to his youngest son. His dark brown eyes bore into the widened gaze of Tychaeus, his horns lowered on either side of his little ones’ head, nose to nose now.

Tychaeus trembled, hot breath rushed into his face, making him wince. His father was famous here, among the minotaurs anyway, and his anger was legendary in the arena. He dared not push him any further. Tychaeus recalled the time his father picked up Saberrak and threw him into the bars. That was a year ago by the stones they used to count the seasons. His older brother was twice his size then, reminding him of how young and small he was at almost four winters. He looked away from the glare of his father.

“
No!”
The growl was lower, with purpose and less fury. Tathlyn turned his sons head back to look him directly in the eye. “Even if you tremble, even if you feel you are wrong, you look your enemy in the eyes. Understand? Only a slave looks away or down, only one who is broken.”

“I am a slave father, I---“

“
No
, I was born above ground, in a kingdom called Halay, taken captive in one called Harlaheim. This is temporary, we will be free one day and we will travel to Halay, the land of our people. You will be free one day son. You are no slave, remember that.” His growl was like a whisper of thunder now, powerful, potent words, undeniable.

“Still, you are not my enemy.” Tychaeus tried to look away, the conversation was making him fearful and sad now.

His hand turned his youngest ones’ head back straight again as he knelt on a knee in the dim shadows of his stone and steel prison. “I may be one day, by Annar I pray not, but if they make us fight in there you must never look away Tychaeus, never.”

“Who is Annar, father?”

Tathlyn stood up, bones popping with old age as he relaxed his posture and focus. “Annar is the God of strength, the Lord of the blood and of battle, the protector of the true and powerful. Like us, they say he is imprisoned for fighting for his blood against the demons. Southern tribes of men pray to him, as do the giants, as do we grays, blacks, and reds.”