The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains (62 page)

It stared, growling, chewing, it definitely understood.

The ruins of Stillwood were quiet once more. Kendari walked out slowly, head low, thoughts heavy. He kept the sword of suicide there, just in case he felt the need to end his life. Armondeen would take a direct western route of at least two weeks at a fast ride on a strong horse. He looked west, then to his boots, having nothing better to do than either kill himself or kill the deer, so he began to run at a light pace. He looked back, the deer ran behind him. He stopped. The deer stopped.

“Ths is going to be an agonizing journey.” He looked over his shoulder, the blade of death was right there, anytime he needed it.

“Not today sword, not yet.” Kendari began west once more, deer in tow.

Exodus III:XI

Deadman’s Pass, Misathi Mountains

“There comes a moment lads, when all resources are exhausted, there is no turning back, and every strategy is too much a gamble to even try. At that moment soldiers are made by simply choosing the direct approach over suicide or surrender, knowing in thine hearts and minds albeit either choice as being equally matched in odds of survival.”
---Words of Gindrach Hulaste, fourth Low King of Evermont, military philosopher for the Kingdom of Shanador, circa 181 B.C.

Shinayne looked out through the crack in the melded stone. The shadows grew, night was coming in a few hours. Three times this day, the Mogi had tried to break through to no avail. Hairline cracks were revealed with Gwenneth’s light however, the keen eyesight of the highborne saw as much. She knew it would not be another night before they broke through. Then, fifty or more on five, trapped in a cave, and Shinayne knew they would meet their ends. The storms brought no rain, but the flashes of lightning from the south and west reflected off of the slopes across the vale.

“Think, someone think of something.” The elf had filled her waterskins, packed the leftover cooked meats of scavengers, and sharpened her blades three times.

“We tried to run twice, they will not leave. They have no homes, no predators, and their patience is borderline endless. We are sure there is no other way out, Zen?” James was at his wits’ end with no ideas.

“None. Could take me weeks or more to go down, straight down that is, and might be for nothin’ anyway. We’d starve before I got us anywhere. I been praying a lot, Vundren’s mountains and all. But, that is that.” Zen had his armor on, he was ready for a day now, just like the rest of them.

“Saberrak?” Shinayne looked to her horned scouting companion.

“We have run all day, hid at night. Best I have is that they would never expect us to charge out with the sun down. Surprise might help, all I have, I do not think they will fall for me being the bait again.”

“Agreed. Gwenneth?”

“If you can keep me from being skewered long enough, I can unleash quite a bit. But they are big, fast, and everywhere. I have some ideas, but nothing safe, and nothing that won’t require us getting close and them chasing right behind. Sorry.”

“What we do then? I can’t live with getting’ ye’ all killed on account o’ me.” Zen hung his head.

“No one knows we are here, no one is coming, and there is nowhere for what, three days?” James checked his blade, examining the edge, it was sharp.

“Aye, three days is me best guess, northwest to Evermont.”

“We can starve here, as we won’t catch anymore scavengers, and we can’t wait them out. They are cannibals, they ate the last one of them we killed. They can likely eat one or two of their women and live a week. We won’t last another four days. Unless we ate each other.” James chuckled, he knew not what else to do with his tensions and fears but introduce some humor.

“My vote is Saberrak, he could feed us for a fortnight.” Shinayne elbowed the gray gladiator as she smiled.

“Funny.” Saberrak huffed.

“So, when do we charge then?” James was serious now, he did not want the joke to continue.

“Can I have an hour, I need to meditate and try to send word to Lavress.” Shinayne sniffled.

“Aye, make it two. I have me father and Vundren almighty, got some things that need said.”

“Agreed, I will, well, you know. Whoever listens I guess.” James smiled, walked to the rear of the cavern where they had been relieving themselves, and knelt to pray.

“Me too.” Saberrak walked toward the left side of the cavern.

“Who are you praying to then, horned one?” Gwenneth asked.

“Annar I guess, who else?”

“Oh.” Gwenne got quiet, being the only one not in prayer. She looked to her books, her staff that glowed, and felt terribly alone all of the sudden as she faced death all by herself.

Zen picked up on it, just the slight lack of words, the missing sarcastic retort, he knew.

“And Vundren, I ask ye’ give Gwenneth Lazlette the strength and stamina to help us make it out alive. Ye’ already gave her the smarts and the courage and she be damned fearless as it is. Anything for her would be appreciated.”

He said it loud, where usually his prayers were quiet. He hoped it worked.

Gwenneth choked back her tears, even though everyone had their backs turned or heads down. No one had ever prayed for her and she had never prayed. She did not know what to do, what to say, or whom she would say it to.

“
Thank you Azenairk
.” She whispered to herself.

LCMVXIILCMVXIILCMVXIILCM

Rynnth flicked her forked black tongue slowly, she smelled the storm, the cannibals, and even the giants in the clouds. Her body writhed and snaked from her renewed energy. Centuries underground had made her weak and feeble for her size, but now she felt young. Days upon days basking in the hot sun of the crossroads at the edge of the Misathi Mountains in wait for her prey had warmed her black scales and draconic blood completely.

She looked to the three horses that remained, not at all hungry anymore. She did miss the screams of the men burning though, she had enjoyed eating them all. Every time one thought ill of her, thought of running, or even spoke, she charred him and those close to him. She did not need eighty weak willed men with horses, not when she had three slaves and was at full strength.

“
Gilthirix vax avux astrixieras
.” She hissed.

Veuric sat on her back, his black robes tied around his waist, pale skin now red and burned. His mind was lost in her will, all he did anymore was speak to her, sing to her, do what she willed when she willed it. His burned face, black on one side, sunburned red on the other, turned toward Queen Katrina and Faldrune the red minotaur.

“Her majesticness Rynnth says to be ready. Many are coming, and all will die.”

“What shall we do?” Katrina was weary. She and Faldrune had buried the remains and gear that the dragon had not consumed, seventy men worth, and the hooves and saddles. The heat was exhausting, staying here at a mountain crossroads that no one used was pure boredom, and there was no escaping Rynnth. A small pond kept full just around the northern slope, a natural spring had saved them from thirst. Charred animals and horses were the last ten days’ cuisine, but no starvation. The lady of Willborne knew Evermont was not far, but not close enough for them to make a run for it. Night was coming, there was no escaping the mountains without light to see. The only light was the constant wall of flame that Rynnth lit over and over at the crossroads, breathing to keep the stone melted, the smoke as cover, and the ground impassable.

“Take positions on either side of the pass, keep hidden. Kill any that do not die from her fires.” Veuric spoke before Rynnth did as her mind controlled him with the blood he drank every few days.

Faldrune hefted his two handed spiked mace and did as Rynnth, through Veuric, instructed. He could only speak Agarian, and he knew that the wyrm knew his words and thoughts. He kept quiet, always watching his Katrina for when she would make a move or give a signal. He had been spitting most of the blood out when she had made them drink from her tongue or arm, one time he held it in his mouth for half a day before letting it drip out of his nostrils while he pretended to sleep. His eyes still felt the heat, the blood, the will of the the winged wyrm, but not as strong as she might have thought. He knew Katrina had been doing the same.

The supposed queen of Willborne took her longsword out of the sheath and planted it in the loose sandy soil of red like the mountains. She strapped on her shield, placed her helm on her head, and closed the visor. The crown set on top near perfect, she pulled the blade from the earth, and tried to calm her heartbeat with slow breaths. She was not afraid of the five fugitives that Johnas wanted, that the dragon wanted, nor the giants in the clouds. She was more terrified of what would happen after they killed them all, when Rynnth had no more revenge to take. Would she live to see Willborne again, would the dragon rule the kingdom like her children had ruled Bailey, or would they all become the next meal for the colossal wyrm that controlled them. Katrina thought these things, under her surface thoughts of heat, food, killing, and serving. She had learned how to keep her mind occupied for the dragon while maintaining her sanity and will underneath.

“
Hixreth, timogxeem xastra xuxdery kilaxiast, pruxellex asrex huum vuriu exeth
.” She could have spoken in the Agarian tongue, but having a translating priest and the sound of her native language pleasured her.

Rynnth seemed to laugh at the end of whatever she had just said. They all noticed as she was not one for any sort of humor. Veuric, Katrina, and Faldrune all felt the hair on their arms and necks stand on end.

“What did she say,
priest
?” Faldrune growled it out, hating the suspense that Veuric was prone to at times.

“Rynnth says that you are not to kill them, but take an arm or a leg and incapacitate them. She wants their appendages, she will burn them all slowly, over a week, and watch them suffer.” Veuric gulped, hearing the hissing snicker of the monstrous winged beast he served.

Katrina looked to Faldrune, he returned the glance, then both blinked slowly to one another. Neither knew what it meant, just that they both meant something, and they knew that she did not know. It was enough.

LCMVXIILCMVXIILCMVXIILCM

Auf Alach had stopped, the clouds swirled around the home of the giants of the sky, and lightning crackled from the proximity of the storming castle and the peaks of the Misathi. The thunder was weak in comparison to the pounding fists of over a hundred giants as the bridge lowered out of the clouds.

They had tracked the dragon to the west and followed. Their home moved slow, but their sight from above rarely missed anything. They had indeed lost the wyrm for nearly seven days and assumed she had gone underground. The last few days however, telltale signs of smoke south of Evermont gave her away. In late summer, with all the heat on the surface, no one but a dragon would want or wish fire during the scorching late afternoon. They had directed their dying king, Arytor the Spear, to guide their floating home south of the crossroads that the slaves used. There, in the distance, they saw the fires of their black wyrm.

From the walls they shouted praise, from the windows they stomped and drank to the hunt, and from the bridge the women of Auf Alach threw handfuls of leaves and flowers as the chosen of the storm walked out onto the mountains below. Only Udmalyr Sun-born stared in silence. The younger brother that had fell to the trial of the storm hung his head as his two brothers went on to glory.

Kimtor Seven-teeth stepped first, his bronze greaves, disc plated armor, and round shield all shined under the clouds. His helmet showed his tattooed face and beard of yellow and sprouted his braids out the top. He clanged his massive broadsword to his shield. He looked down to the seven fangs on his chain that held his bearskin cloak. He hoped to add more to it this day.

Eybrol Raven-hair wore no helm, had no braids in his long black mane, and his beard was neatly groomed like the old statues of Annar. His armor was a solid bronze plate with greaves and gauntlets. He had no cloak, no jewelry, he needed none on the hunt. The younger brother stood a foot taller than Kimtor, nearly twenty seven feet tall. Eybrol had no shield, he needed none either. His bronze greatblade of over fifteen feet came up to his chest as he planted it hard in the bridge and waved his fists over his head at his people. They stomped and cheered, the women threw their traditional plants over his head, and he walked ahead of quiet Kimtor.

Heavy steps sent rock spilling onto the southern slopes as the two brothers, sons of Arytor, giants of Auf Alach, marched toward their prey. Over peaks and into valleys, they stalked north and west toward Rynnth and her pets. They were silent toward each other, neither wishing to share words. Brothers by blood, but the crown and rule for centuries to come depended upon who took the head of the dragon. So for now, there was nothing to say among the two giant warriors.

Eybrol hefted his greatblade over his shoulder and drew a dagger in his other hand. The sun beat down, the sweat marked them both as the hunt went an hour away from their floating home.

“I would much like you to use that dagger on the hunt brother, my victory would be assured with that small blade.” Kimtor Seven-teeth laughed as they walked.

“Surely this dragon is not a big as you say, Kimtor.”