The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth (57 page)

Harron stared at her feet and calves, willing away thoughts of her bare body over him. “They are but refugees, nothing more. Should they interfere, they will die. Their bodies will be further homage to Kashtamias, dark child of Shukuru, my queen.”

“There are men from Harlaheim, dwarves of the Misathi, and even knights of Shanador among them. I tell you once more, be cautious, and be quick in your justice. My Nataloni have seen them, this exiled Lord from the east and his following, and they must not live the night.”

“It will be done, our son will not see combat, and any trespassers will fill our sacred circle with their blood.” Harron tried not to reach up and touch her, yet he could smell the oils on her body and his curiosity lingered.

“Beware the lands to the south, two millennia of cursed condemnation could hold many strange things, Harron.” She stroked the top of his head with her fingernails.

“No matter what we find there, the treasures of your southern lands will be laid at your feet. The trespassers will bleed, and Kashtamias will be honored,
hail the eleven.”

“Then go now, my dark beloved. Whence you return, this body of mine, is yours for nights eternal.” Her fingers gently touched his chin, then lifted.

Harron was weak, his eyes could not blink. Her feet were painted black from the nails to her ankles. Streams of blood were dried to her pale calves and thighs. Infernal scripture was written in darker blood across her abdomen and breasts. He stared at her pierced nipples of dark brown that held small golden chains to her naval. The chains dipped below her luscious endowm
ents, behind them, and strung up around her neck. Her flesh was smooth, her voluptuous lips and face streaked with virgin crimson, the skin around her eyes painted blue in wide brushes, much like his
own
. Harron looked up further, her hair was midnight, straight and bound in with a headdress and circlet of dangling jewels. Andorra of Armondeen was lust and wicked beauty, the embodiments thereof in the flesh, and she was his.

He trembled as she raised him with her finger, by the chin, and let her hand draw faint red trails down his golden rings
and steel plates of armor. She fondled his curved hilt, playfully sliding the decorated steel scimitar partway out, then letting slide back into the scabbard. His words were caught in his throat, he lifted his banner from the stand between the thrones. He looked up at the
golden eagle talons, the scepter in one grip, a lance in the other. The flag unfurreled with a flick of his wrist, golden tassels upon a black cloth
, and he bowed.

“My queen, bless me darkly, so that I shall feel your very breath in mine as I conquer in thy name.”

“With the sacred love between us, and
the hearts of the eleven over
you and I, you are blessed Lord Amirak Harron. Now go, show
no mercy, expand our Armondeen
,
and shed blood in the name of our
fiery
Gods!”
Andorra pointed out the balcony as he turned away and marched to victory.

She watched, half hidden behind a black curtain, then she heard the chants. One thousand of their veteran cavalry saluted their Lord Amirak of the kingdom as he emerged from below Ar
n
hast and mounted his black stallion. His tight features looked up to her, knowing she watched. His hair was pulled back and curled into a tail, his skin had the marks of blood and the blue painted eyes of Armondi nobility, and he looked more like her future king than ever before. He drew his scimitar and saluted her, then
to
his men
as he raised the Armondeen banner
, and the soldiers roared in unison.

The charge of a thousand steeds
racing to join
four
thousand soldiers to the south thundered in the air. Hill after forested dark hill, they grew smaller as the queen watched them from the eleventh story of the Tower of the Scepter. The day was half over, yet Andorra had much to do.

“Nataloni, dark ladies, to me now.” She snapped her fingers as fires lit unto wicks and braziers forged of bone came to illuminated life.
There was no one in sight, yet all in the three towers heard and felt the commands infernal of their dark mistress.

Within mere seconds, her demonically possessed secret guardians were in the room, heads low, silent as always. They had warned her of
a man named Cristoff, and that
a small contingent from
Evermont now rode with his
thousands of
refugees.
The Nataloni Nochti had told her also how they had threatened her son in Freemoore, and had more than just peasant
s
in exile.
Andorra strode naked down to the tenth floor, her black robed ladies were waiting with bows and silent respect. As she passed the open doors to the altar, her black robes were brought to her, and laid over her shoulders.

“Hail dark lord of hell, hail firstborn
son of the Mother and the Creator
, and hail Ruler of Infernium in all
your
fiery glory.”
She got on her knees before
the altar to winged Shukuru, the stone statue
was covered in blood from too many victims to count this day.

“
Hail, Andorra, pious queen and priestess of the eleven.”
Her ladies knelt and replied with
whispered voices. They arranged the corpses in the order she had commanded. The fires were lit, the inscriptions just as the dark tomes had shown, and all was prepared.
They saw her nod, and they knew it was time to leave
her to communion
.

Andorra looked to the ancient red leather tomes on the altar, she had eleven passages to recite eleven times each to complete the dark incantations that would allow an immortal from the hells to step through. Kashtamias, the very demonic son of Shukuru and a mythical knight in the armies of the sevent
h hell, would be here within a day
. Harron would be tracing a
n identical circle, a
port
al, an infernal beacon of blood
so that Kashtamias could step through to the curselands with a proper offering. Everything had to be perfect, not one rune nor corpse nor candle out of place.

Andorra heard her doors close, heard her Nataloni guardians take their shadowy positions throughout the tower
, and she knew now that she was alone. She was also nervous, for this was a more powerful rite than she had ever performed. It was the same rite that her uncle Trehad had used to contact the netherworlds with his two peers, Koligail and Maroguille. They had not been accurate, their egos and power were too great, and they demanded more than they should have. For their sins against the eleven, they were stripped of flesh. Now, they would suffer eternal torment in service to the darkness, forever banned from furthering their powers yet driven to use them. They were now lords of Devonmir, rich, powerful, and utterly devoid of furthering themselves or becoming whole once again. Andorra loved her body, she loved that others loved it, and she did not wish to end up like Trehad. The queen of Armondeen began inspecting every corner of her dark floor of demonic worship, taking her time, making sure it would all go perfectly.
For there could be no errors with the forces she paid homage to, none whatsoever.

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“This is
insane
, we do not even know where they are headed!”
James rounded a corner in the mines.

“Zen,
stop
!”

“Dwarf, slow down,
now!
” Saberrak roared after the others’ pleas
and shouts
did nothing. Still, the dwarf ran in the middle of th
e thousands of ghosts, as if he
were one of them.

“Horned one, just grab him!” Shinayne yelled.

They all ran after, over several bridges, around great stone columns that spanned ceiling to floor over hundreds of feet, and even into darker tunnels that shimmered. Picks and hammers and tools lay covered in rust, barrels and wagons sat in dilapidated ruin, and the stairs went high into the upper mines of Kakisteele.

Suddenly there were left turns, cross tunnels, and the ghosts all split up at least five different ways.
No noise erupted from their charge, even as mining dwarven s
pirits joined them, so following
Azenairk through the dark shafts and mines was easy, if one listened.

“
Rrraaahhhh!”
Zen swung his warhammer in a brutal whirl, something had grabbed him. He could see enemies everywhere, his brethren were on the charge, something was behind him. His arm was grabbed in mid swing, it was strong, he struggled and pulled to be free. Another Altestani soldier, perhaps another winged demon, he and the dwarves had fought many already.

“Open your damn eyes, Azenairk.” Saberrak huffed and smacked the side of his helmet as he held the blacksteel warhammer tight.

“Wha…wha…where are they?!” He blinked, not realizing he had closed his eyes, he had seen them and run with them, plain as daylight.

“Where are who? There is nothing here but your ghosts running around.” Saberrak looked, something was not as it should be.

“No, naye gray one, we be fightin’ the northern oppression here, and their demons, look!” He was frantic, not even paying mind as James, Shinayne, and Gwenneth arrived from the other tunnels, green light pouring over them all. Everywhere he looked, shadows of men with pointed helms and curved blades lunged from the dark into his gray dwarven allies. Demonic shadows tore into them in silence, they fought back, it was war. Gray on black, a war with no noise. “I need to fight, Saberrak! Let me go then!”

Saberrak squinted, then he saw it. He closed his eyes, and saw it more clear, still no sound, but it was there. He walked over to a tall shadow of a demon fighting against the wall against three gray dwarven phantasms. His hand waved through them all, even the shadow
of the demon
, as if he were not there. Everyone stared and saw it.

“They are not real, my dwarven friend. This is but a curse, a memory of what happened, there is nothing you can do here.”
Saberrak hung his head, seeing the face of Zen go from a war frenzy glare to a sorrowful admission of the obvious.

More dwarves ran past, their gray forms passing through the five companions as if they were not there. Some called to them, waved axes and screamed words for them to join, but no one heard anything. Demons, like the ones outside from the clouds, emerged from shadows with armies of human men. The battle that took place so long ago, was repeating before their eyes, yet they were but bystanders that could merely watch.

Zen swung his hammer through an Altestani shadow, then through a demonic one, nothing. He was paid no mind, as if he were not in existence. To be sure, James and Shinayne stuck their blades into the enemy shadows, and the same occurred, nothing.

“Zen, it is not real. Something is causing it though, my friend, and we need to find out what that is.” Shinayne sheathed her blades and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Aye, I think I know. And She done crossed the line with this nonsense then. Where is She?
We be having words, I assure ye’.
” He thought of the demon that supposedly held the mines cursed, far below in the dark depths. He recalled the songs, passed on for generations, and began to follow the ghosts or apparitions thereof. Slowly this time, he stepped further into the mines, and he vowed to see this all undone.

Their march was slow, into cramped tunnels that held but jagged rock walls and the afterlife of once bustling mines. Spots of silver, gold, even platinum could be seen. It was not much, as these upper mine
s seemed expanded to the reaches
of the mountains they lay inside. Carts and wooden platforms to raise and lower, pulleys and wheels with ropes long frayed, and empty barrels marked their path further south, and further down.

Another door appeared, after the mine tunnels converged once more into a grand pathway underground. Golden swept, with letters in diamond dust, yet dents of rams and scratches of claw and steel littered its once perfect dwarven designs.

“
Virnu Cadro
, means fourth born son. Which one Saberrak?” Zen held up the ring of keys.

“Haddius, he was the fourth born Carician.” He knew it, as if it were his own family being spoken of. Saberrak watched the key with the half white and half blue moon with waves go into the lock. It flashed, the light pushed it out and back to the dwarven hand holding it, yet it creaked open.

White light flickered from a steel pillar with a globe atop of it, casting shadowy reflections into another cavern. The sandstone walls were lined with dwarven writing, dwarven apparitions stood circle around something, unmoving in their gray eternity. Golden doors opposite them could be seen as the chamber was wide but not deep. No battle raged here, no motions save the failing light above a circle of
ghosts, and as Zen approached, they parted for him.

He looked down, closed his eyes, and opened them again to be sure it was not what he thought he had seen. It was. Zen knelt, setting his warhammer, then helmet, and then his shield all to the stone floor. Gripped in his hands tight was his hammer and moons, the sacred symbol of Vundren, God of the dwarves. His eyes teared, staring at the broken chunks of white stone.