The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons Page 5

  “James, you need to call for a retreat, get the men….” Arlinne’s eyes closed and he fell to the snow.

  James pulled his blade from the dying ogre’s neck with the sound of steel scraping collarbone as the edge jerked free. Sadness swept over him mightier than any assault could ever have. There lay his Lord, in a crimson puddle of his own life, unmoving. James reached down in an attempt to heal the wound, knowing in his head and heart that it was too grievous for his mere gift. He tried to pray to Alden for mercy, his hand glowed a soft blue-white and trembled. Tears flowed onto his dirty, blood smattered face. The touch did nothing, for it was too late.

  The ogre, James thought as he dove for his sword from his knees. It was stepped on by an ogre boot. James reached for the griffon hilted blade of Arlinne behind him, and thrust it upward, blinded by the shadow above. The steel tip met furs, then flesh, and he pushed harder with a scream of hate and grief. James reached up, his vision clearing, and he grabbed a handful of greasy black hair. With a savage roar to match any ogre warrior, he chopped over and over until the head was in his hands and the body at his feet. He stabbed the blade, took Arlinne’s shield, and turned. James looked downfield, horror took over, and he dropped the ogre head to the snow. The ogre closing on him could not be counted, and he saw not one human standing.

  This day was supposed to be different…

  Suddenly from his right side, two men were running, the Chazzrynn banner still waved on the field, and James felt hope. Sword in hand from the earth again, he lunged forward and drove the blade through an ogre gut from the side. As it turned and roared, James pulled the blade free and slashed upward through its chest and neck. His boots crunched the snow, sun glaring in his eyes, and black blood was dripping from his gloved hand. Still, the black falcon waved on cloth, and still one knight of Southwind fought on.

  Two more ogre charged him, two more met death by Arlinne’s blade and the hand of James Andellis. Near the interior walls, one man fell as an ogre savage took his head with a rusty greatsword. James raised his shield as the thrown head cracked upon the steel. The second bannerman speared the ogre from behind, James slashed it down from the front, and the two met side by side.

  “Up! Up now! Plant the banner atop the walls, soldier!” James did not knowhis name, had seen him in house T’Vellon maybe, but he was not sure. Everyone looked different in blood covered helms on the field of battle.

  James followed, up the steps backwards and slow, protecting the soldier with the black falcon on sky blue cloth. Each step gave him a view of more field, more ruins, and more desperation.

  “No.” His own whispered disbelief brought no comfort.

  “Sir James, we need to retreat, look.”

  “No.”

  His eyes did not lie, though he wiped them twice with his sleeve. A wall of three or four score of ogre and chained wolves had formed. They were at the outer walls, moving in, surrounding the western ruin. The men had broken, fleeing, and being cut and clubbed down by the hundreds. No one remained ahorse, only loose groups of five to ten huddled against overwhelming ogre numbers. Those that ran were set upon by hungry gray wolves.

  James and this bannerman were the only men on the interior, the only men for three hundred yards or more. They were the only ones that had made it into the heart of Arouland, and they were much alone.

  “Wave that banner, soldier! Wave it high, and----“

  James saw the banner and halberd land below the walls, broken in the middle. Before he could blink and dare to turn, he saw the body of the man that held it. Three spears through his torso, falling from outcropping to ruined ledge, and finally to the ground thirty feet below, the soldier crumpled. Time stood still as James stared at the unblinking gaze of the dead soldier. James gripped the broadsword tight, knowing ogre must be right behind him having climbed up the battlements, but he was unable to move. With a sigh and a raise of steel, he glared at the approaching ogre horde, the only man standing in Arouland.

  A sudden pain paralyzed him, a sharp numbing pain in the neck and all spun into darkness. Dimly he was aware of the vast number of small echoing screams and roars of the battlefield, the stomping of hundreds of feet and boots, whinnying of frightened horses, and the sensation of being carried.

  I must be dying, the young knight thought. This must be it. Alden have mercy.

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  Cold, rough stone was against his face, and his beard and skin were stuck to it with dried blood. The pain that wracked his neck and head barely allowed him to notice that he was no longer out in the bright light of day. James peered around with one eye still shut. He was in a cold cavern bearing few torches, underground, and surrounded by at least one hundred ogre. Snarling, spitting, gleaming malicious scowls and smiles adorned their hideous countenances. James Andellis closed his eye, sure this must be a nightmare. He pulled his face free of the dried grime and stone and opened both eyes. The laughter was insidious, a sick joyful roar of beasts, and James got to a knee. They howled, an anticipated eagerness befouled their stares, yet their eyes looked behind him.

  This is not happening.

  One ogre did not make a gesture of emotion at all, the one standing behind him. James tried to stand but his vision blurred as the pain riveted through his neck. He turned and looked up instead at his captor and noticed it was not dressed like the others. This ogre wore black leather boots, tanned animal hides that were fitted and sewn like long esteemed robes, and he carried a large curved blade, smooth and polished, unlike the rusty, dirty weapons of the others. His hair was pulled back in tails and braids and his garments did not seem to smell. James stood slowly, pulling all the strength he could to tolerate the pain, gritting his teeth, and then he felt weight at his side.

  How odd, he thought, leaving me armed.

  Arlinne’s blade, the blade of the lord of Southwind, it was inches from his fingertips in the sheath. He looked around now, viewing the ogre women, as hideous as their children, peering from behind them. It was then that the aroma and the reality hit him.

  This will be much worse than dying.

  Low groans and talking in the ogre tongue went about, and James could see several of his human brothers tied up and gagged behind the ogre guards, as well as many of the regular Chazzrynn army. There were perhaps sixty or so captives at his quick glance. The flag of Chazzrynn lay on the floor, the black falcon banner smeared with blood. The red feathered cross on white next to it, the standard of Southwind, was draped over a body; a body with one arm. Despite the dirt and grass and weeds stuck to it with blood, James knew it was Arlinne T’Vellon.

  “Tell me, human, what is your name?” demanded the ogre standing over him. The words were spoken in perfect Agarian , although deep and bestial. A parchment was curled in his hand. He had an air of supreme leadership and respect, at least from his own kind. When he spoke, the other ogre were still.

  James hesitated, and then replied with the smirk of one who knows death is near. “Give me yours, ogre, and release my---”

  Crack

  His jaw went numb for a moment from the backhand of the ogre lord as several others lurched forward, surrounding the young man, ready for anything. James stumbled back and then regained his composure. His eyes went to the parchment in the ogre’s hand. James spit the blood to the floor and breathed in.

  “I challenge---“ He was again interrupted.

  “I am Avegarne, son of Hedrigurl, King of these lands. You have invaded unwisely and killed many of my people. Now, your name boy, and remember this, every slip gives my men the head of one of yours.” The ogre king’s purple and mottled eyes did not blink when he spoke through his tusked teeth. James knew he was as serious as death.

  “I am James Andellis, of Southwind Keep, knight thereof.” He spoke as calmly as his nerves would allow and clenched his right hand on the grip of his blade. He waited for the time to strike.

  For it would be better, he thought, to kill this bastard ogre king than
to face execution or enslavement. He watched Avegarne move, almost graceful in spite of his heritage.

  “James, is it?” Avegarne unraveled the parchment, glanced at it, then smiled to his kin.

  “Jullr ganst urgeth ast.”

  The words, foreign to James, seemed to bring muffled laughter to the ogre from their supposed king. He watched as Avegarne gave his back and appeared to be reading his letter of mention.

  “I, Lord Arlinne of house T’Vellon, dutied magistrate of Southwind Keep, do with great honor, make recommendation for James of house Andellis to his majesty’s Knights of the Black Falcon.”

  Not realizing it, James’ mouth was hanging open, in disbelief that an ogre could read or speak Agarian. The kick to the corpse of his lord broke the trance.

  “Lord Arlinne, I presume?” Avegarne tucked the parchment away and grinned.

  “Yes.” James was trembling, fingers vibrating on the griffonhead pommel of the blade at his side.

  “I understand a knight may wish to die with honor, you have a blade, and my permission.”

  “I would never.”

  “So be it, I have offered, as is custom. James, I have tasted the human wines from Caberra, read histories from a temple I raided in northern Harlaheim, and enslaved many of your kind, women and children alike. I have sold minotaurs, dwarves, even young giants from the mountains. I have not been so lucky in my travels to capture a wizard though. My men tell me you have magic powers, saw you make magick from your hand outside the east wall. I will let your men live to their failed lives when you teach me what you know.” Avegarne paced three steps up, turned back, and paced three forward facing the prisoner.

  James wanted to strike as anger at the words of pillaging and slaving began to build in his chest. His eyes darted to the bound men, back to the ogre, then to Avegarne, He had seen Niell Sancadiun among the captives bound and held on the floor yet could not hold his pleading stare.

  “What are you?”

  “Ahh, answers you want now? You and yours thought only a few of my people here, so you came to slaughter. You are surprised, your arrogance crushed, as you met defeat at ogre hands. And now comes the desire for conversation. Very typical, for humans.”

  “When the old gods left us, the ogre broke and went to scavenging. Our great tribes were gone, cities became ruin, and between giants, trolls, our own wars, and men, we scattered. Yet there are those that still rule my people, two great cities have endured. The Ogori, we are not extinct as men would believe. Your people abandoned this land, and now you wish to take it once more. Your king used his mighty pen to write a war upon my people here. When word reached me in Bloodskull, deep to the northern Misathi, I came to preserve what my lesser cousins have fought hard to claim.”

  “Fought hard to steal,” James replied.

  “Call it what you will. Men think that pieces of paper with writing, or strong words spoken to each other, gives you rights to lands. I say, put those declarations to ogre blood and steel, and then you have the truth.” Avegarne kicked the corpse of Arlinne again as he grinned at his captive.

  “You will not survive the second assault. When the armies of Chazzrynn come for us, your smile will be hard forced, ogre.”

  “Your king wars on too many fronts. Harlaheim and Willborne are far from here. But, in truth, I do hope more of yours come, for it only expands our lands. Now, teach me whatever it is that you did with your hand.” With gritted teeth James spoke, “I cannot teach it to you, I do not know how it happens. Nor would I, filth, even if I were able.”

  Glorious, brave, he thought, and James drew his blade in one fluid motion, lunging forward, straight at Avegarne’s chest.

  The ogre king drew his curved sword a mere second later than the knight and swung up, quickly deflecting the attack through his bicep. Blood ran down James’ blade, black ogre blood. As he withdrew to attack again he was grabbed from behind, tackled to the ground despite his efforts, as heavy ogre feet stomped his hand until the blade came free. He lowered his head, feeling foolish for his actions and ready for death. Grimy ogre hands yanked handfuls of hair, forcing his eyes to face Avegarne, yet James squeezed them shut.

  Then he heard it, the muffled screams and tearing of skin, the cutting of flesh; the sound of beheadings. He dared not look. James knew what was happening, yet pinned to the stone floor by six of his foul captors, he was powerless to do anything as ten of his men were brutally executed. Heads torn from bodies, no weapons, just brute force and murderous muscle. The sound was terrifying.

  A mighty roar from the pits of the cursed creature’s belly echoed in the cavern. Besides the desperate murmuring among the captives in terror, and the sound of ogre children giggling, all was still.

  “Heal it human, now!” Avegarne bellowed, spitting and dripping his blood onto the floor. The ogre king lowered his blade to right under the knight's chin, nicking it ever so gently, permitting a drop of blood to trickle onto the steel and dry quickly.

  James moved his eyes only to see the faces of his comrades. Their eyes wide, mouths gagged with rancid rags, and the look of terror was upon each face. He could not tell what they would say. They looked at him directly, but was it with fear that he would let them die, or anger that he might give in to the enemy? Confused, James recited his pledge, a knights’ pledge to Chazzrynn. He had been practicing for months, on the chance it was he who was mentioned, and so it was.

  “May I fear not my end, but the dishonor of my kingdom, may I protect the people at my highest cost, be sworn to duty and service, and stand against all enemies of the crown in life and death,” James whispered the words, and looked again at the faces of the men, hearing anticipation in the enemy voices. “Black on blue, strong and true.”

  “Fine words human. Now on your feet or it will be your head torn off next.” Avegarne glared down at both James, and his own bleeding arm.

  James stood, and the ogre brutes let him stand. He faced his enemy and bent down to pick up his blade, yet an ogre foot stepped on the hilt. The ogre grew closer, weapons drawn, at least a dozen now, awaiting the human’s next display of stupid chivalry and bravado. James reached out his hand, whispered a prayer to Alden the God of charity and lord of Heaven, and asked for forgiveness and mercy. His outstretched hand glowed a gentle sky blue and it touched the bicep of the ogre king. The blood dried, the wound healed to pink, then sickly purple, then moments later it seemed a day old scratch without even much of a scar on the mottled yellow flesh.

  Silence. From the men, the ogre women, the ugly bestial children, the brute warriors, and even the towering ogre king himself. The dark gray gloom in black shadow made the only noise besides crackling torches in this cavern, and even they seemed to quiet.

  “How do you do that, James of Chazzrynn?” whispered Avegarne, looking at his arm in amazement.

  “I do not know, your highness, now let my men go.”

  “Not a chance of that, young human. Now teach me how to do what you did or you will not see the light of day again.” The ogre spoke with cruelty and a wickedness that was impossible to reason with.

  James knew that this gift could not be taught, he had tried in the past. Lowering his head, he refused.

  “Should you refuse, you all die here, and now.”

  “I cannot teach it, and you cannot learn it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it is a gift from God, Alden, for me.” James tried not to look at Niell, yet a stolen glance or three showed him struggling against two ogre and his gag.

  “And you think I cannot learn this, why?” Avegarne nodded to his kin and grunted something of a short order.

  James raised his eyes from down to up, right into the unforgiving eyes of King Avegarne. “Because, you are a godless beast, unbefitting the grace of Alden, and so cursed.”

  “I rule the city of Linn, the ruins of Teirenshire, Unlinn and Arouland. The ogre will not fall to southern men, not while I live. I wish you well, James of Andellis. Do pass on my regards to
your king.” Avegarne nodded to his subjects, time stood still, and then his ogre moved by the hundreds.

  The next few hours became a blur of beatings, beheadings, howls and roars from a brutal tribe of ogre. The screams of “traitor”, and “coward”, and many a curse in Agarian and ogre alike were thrown at him as his men died. Heads were tossed at his feet, tortured friends’ cries in the cavern were followed by harsh ogre laughter, and they even made his comrades stone him more than once before their own executions. Bound by force, made to witness every horror, James Andellis was powerless to stop it. Every scream or plea he made to stop only intensified the carnage. He begged, he challenged, all for naught.

  He was finally carried, bloodied and half conscious, paraded like a trophy of war throughout the cavernous undercity of Arouland. The ogre waved Lord Arlinne’s bloody broadsword and falcon banner over James as a sign of dishonor. A string of ears and hands and heads were placed around James’ neck and trailed behind him across the ground, strung together with ropes and chains like a savage parade of sick trophies. It all happened so quickly, yet each moment took forever. The blows had dulled his awareness; James felt dead already.

  God, mighty Alden, take me now. Let your will be done, give peace to my men.

  His prayers went without answer. One thing caught his eye as he was carried, just one vivid memory. A dark stone room. It was empty, save two giant pillars that held a chained man. Not one of his own, no, this man was tall, muscular, and naked. By the length of his unkempt beard and the layers of filth caking his hair and skin, he had been there a very long time. His eyes, the blue eyes radiating unnaturally in the dark, followed James for the brief moments of his escort past.

  Who are you? James thought aloud.

  There was no answer, no retort, yet James knew the strange man heard him. Something in his eyes told him so. Cages passed, cages carried by ogre, cages with some surviving Chazzrynn soldiers. They were heading down whilst James was carried up, closer to the surface. Had he the strength, the knight of Southwind would have wept or fought. He could do nothing.