by Dan Brigman
Melek dressed as quickly as the pain in his leg would allow, then blew out the candle on the small table and walked to the closed door. After opening it, Melek stepped through to orient himself. This place could only be Bregoth’s home. Peering down the long hallway, Melek noticed two closed wooden doors on either side about halfway to a similar-looking door. He could see light flickering in the room through the opening between the door and wall.
A small lamp hung on the wall near the far door, providing enough light to walk without danger of tripping. It had blackened the wall and ceiling over many years of use, and the faint smell of burning oil stung Melek’s nostrils. I need to be out of here, he thought, uncomfortably shrugging his shoulders and only then realizing he had spent more time inside in the past few days then he had in many years.
Melek limped down the hallway, then pushed the door open as far as possible. It struck something unseen and banged back toward his still-outstretched palm; he barely noticed the smooth wood of the door. Melek scanned the room momentarily and other than a squat table in the room’s middle, the space had the appearance of a normal kitchen. Even a small fire burned in the stone fireplace, which was large enough to roast an entire wild pig. On the table a metal pitcher waited with a large metal tankard sitting next to it. Condensation beaded down the pitcher’s side leaving a wet spot circling its base. A fork and knife lay next to a still-steaming plate of meat, buttered bread, and yellow potatoes. Melek’s mouth watered, and not until his stomach rumbled did he realize his hunger.
I’ll need food to do work for Kirian, Melek thought sarcastically. He paced to the table and poured some water before he grabbed the fork. Thoughts of the time since finding the stranger consumed his mind, while he methodically ate the food. Instead of troubling him, though, Melek mulled over the events to discover where he had gone wrong. He felt no pangs of regret or disappointment. The strange activity in the trip back to the village. Waiting for the man to awaken. The stranger’s mention of Arstle’s name. The rune on the man’s body. The battle in the village. He finally came out of the meditation when he felt himself reach down for another morsel, only to grab at a few crumbs of bread. Everything on the table had been eaten. The feeling of hunger had abated, but Melek thought another plateful would do him well.
Melek glanced out the small square window, over a wooden barrel, to notice the sun now barely stood over the horizon. He rose quickly from the seat, or at least as quickly as the pain in his lower leg would allow. Melek vaguely remembered the entrance’s location relative to the kitchen. He limped out the door and down the hallway. As he moved to the vestibule, the early morning light streamed through the open front door, illuminating the entire room. An image of Bregoth’s slain body flashed before Melek’s eyes, bringing him to pause at the end of the hallway. The image of the body lingered momentarily as Melek steadied himself against the stout wooden wall. He shut his eyes and sharply inhaled a breath through gritted teeth.
Reopening his eyes, Melek saw only the large blood stain on the well-polished oaken floor. Grimacing, he moved through the vestibule and past the bloodstain toward the morning’s brilliant light. Standing in the doorway, Melek’s eyes adjusted to light and he saw the work the stranger had mentioned.
Bodies neatly lined the street awaiting their burial.
20 — New Beginnings
From his vantage point Melek saw no end to the line of bodies.
Men, women, and even an occasional child lay in the street—all violently killed by sharp and blunt objects alike. He could not rip his gaze from the lifeless faces. All eyes were closed, yet visages of anger and even fear had been permanently etched upon their faces. Most of these people he had known his entire life or in the case of the young ones, their entire lives. He had never seen the aftereffects of a major battle, but he could not imagine it looking much different from the blood-darkened and body-lined street.
Strangely, not one of the carrion birds stood proudly on any of the corpses. Their normal enjoyment the flesh of the dead had been extinguished or blocked somehow. The distinct cawing of smaller black birds reverberated off the empty streets. Melek looked skyward for the source of the sound and immediately noticed only turkey vultures floating lazily in the crisp morning air. A meager number of flies flitted around the bodies, rarely landing for any length of time. Even the flies could not seemingly defile the betrayed corpses.
To his right and several paces away, Melek heard a sharp sound of metal striking soil, then the sound of something softly hitting the ground. Within seconds the sound became rhythmic to Melek’s ears. Closing his eyes and sighing heavily, Melek stepped down from the doorway onto the street. When he glanced in the sound’s direction, Melek saw the stranger digging on the side of the street with a crude metal shovel. Kirian seemed not to notice Melek as he limped to the stranger’s position. Past the man, Melek noticed newly-dug graves for at least thirty people. Melek stopped and could do only stare at the man’s efforts to help bury the Olst’s people. Why’s he doing this for my people?
“I’m doing this because—” The man began to say before he dug into the ground. Then, as if to himself, the stranger said, “You helped me in my time of need, although I still wonder why.”
Melek had not realized he had spoken aloud until Kirian answered. Despite the apparent strain in his voice, he did not stop digging. Still staring in wonderment, Melek attempted to shake off the sense of uneasiness which had come over him since he had stepped out of the home. He noticed the man’s white shirt lay several paces away on the ground next to one of the newer graves. A sheen of sweat and dirt covered the stranger, but apparently the effort of digging did not tire him. From the look of him, he is used to hard labor, Melek thought curiously. Melek recalled vaguely that he had never considered the man muscular during all the caretaking. The once-glowing symbol had fallen out of sight as if it had never existed.
Interrupting Melek’s thoughts, Kirian stated, “If you’re going to stand there goggling at me working, then I’d prefer that you go back inside and warm your feet by the fire.” He paused his digging before looking behind Melek. “Otherwise, get to digging.”
While the statement held no malice, the tone obviously jarred Melek out of his introspection. Melek peered at Kirian, who stood a few inches into the ground, and noticed Kirian’s gaze had fixed upon something behind him. Turning and following the gaze, Melek’s eyes fell upon a shovel positioned against a building he had walked past.
“Right,” Melek uttered. He strode to the shovel and picked the person nearest to him.
The boy at his feet had been an apprentice horse trainer, no more than thirteen years old, yet now he lay dead on the ground. His future had been destroyed in the span of a few minutes. Kole, Melek pondered. That was his name. Good lad. His face held peace, but the massive slash across the boy’s stomach froze Melek’s attention. The only recent memory he had of the boy was of giving the boy his horses to tend nearly two months ago. Kole had been eager to help Melek, but Melek had barely said two words to him. Kole had mentioned something about wanting to be a scout like Melek. Why’d the elders’ words come true? Why now? Why’d the boy have to die from the fear of grown men? Melek felt his cheeks grow damp. Tears spilled openly at the disgrace Melek felt as the questions raced through his mind.
Melek slipped his gaze from the body and gripped the shovel’s handle, as if it were a weapon he would use to defend his life. He began to dig. Any arising thoughts about those he buried, he pushed away with apathy. Soon Melek dug without thought. As he shoveled dirt into the fourth grave, Melek realized Sol had reached the horizon. Filling the hole and patting the top layer of soil with his shovel, Melek felt exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. His tongue had swollen in his mouth. His legs felt like jelly with throbbing feet holding him aloft.
When he heard movement behind him, Melek turned and noticed Kirian leaning against the building with two ceramic bowls. He smiled gently before motioning a bowl toward Melek. The sun’s fi
nal light gave him a glimpse of steam rising from the tops of the bowls. Two pewter tankards sat on the ground next to Kirian. He seemed to be completely covered in dirt, yet he appeared to be just as energetic as he had been this morning.
Melek sighed in relief at the sight of the bowl as he watched Kirian sitting gracefully upon the ground next to the building. Without speaking Melek limped to the man’s side. He sat down, grunting in pain from the pressure in his back and legs. He glanced at his left leg and was surprised again that it was not ablaze, considering the fiery pain consuming his nerves and skin. Closing his eyes and rubbing his lower back momentarily, Melek felt weariness nearly overwhelm his strained body, yet the food’s scent wafting up from the bowl brought his eyes open enough to grab the dish.
Melek saw the outsider watching him, and he nodded in thanks. Melek relished every bite as he quickly devoured the plain stew. He remembered the tankard and set the bowl down, grabbed the tankard, and drank the ale within in one long swallow. Melek wiped his lips and thanked Kirian again
“Ah, you are welcome. I think you would’ve worked until you passed out, had I not interrupted you. You do your people honor,” Kirian replied solemnly. The men sat and watched the sun fall below the horizon, cloaking what remained of the town in dim light.
“What will you do now?” Kirian asked suddenly. “You are one of the only two Olst now.”
“What do you mean, two Olst?” asked Melek in a halting tone. The momentary relief that the meal had given him dissipated like smoke from a dying fire.
“Between you and the only other man who could not have been here during this disaster…” Kirian trailed off while sweeping his hand outward across the expanse of the clan’s home and village. Melek followed the movement, and despite the growing darkness, he could make out the burned-out husks of buildings. At least half of the once-meager buildings lay in ruin with river stone fireplaces jutting up from the piles of wood and ash. Nearly all the other buildings stood burnt beyond recognition. Melek scanned in mute shock for the span of a breath and then noticed the remaining bodies still lined upon the street. It was as if he had forgotten about all the death while he had dug. The very act to help memorialize the dead had itself become a mindless endeavor. Despite the carnage, Melek could not muster any thoughts for the future. His head tilted downward, and he stared at the ground. An absolute unfamiliar feeling filled his mind: utter despair.
Everything Melek had ever held dear had been cut down or burned to the ground. Everything he was charged to protect was gone. The elders’ prophecy tolled through his mind. Fear’s presence will bring destruction to our people. Everything he knew had been destroyed beyond recognition. And he had been a part of that final process. The severity of the events threatened to rip Melek’s sanity away. Oblivion whispered. Called for him. Only one thought kept him from the brink of losing himself. Two Olst. Instantly and unbidden, a spark of hope ignited. Hope to rebuild his people.
“What do you know of the second Olst?” Melek asked in neutral tones. He reined in his escalating hope in case the man gave him more devastating information. “There are those who fled during the battle. But they aren’t Olst any longer.”
“Without being completely sure of his whereabouts, I know of one other Olst who still lives. He goes by the name of Arstle. He was my mentor of sorts, years ago. I have not seen him in many months, and our last meeting was not the most pleasant.” The bitterness in Kirian’s voice grew as he spoke. Before Melek was able to respond, Kirian continued, “Arstle would give me a tongue-lashing if he knew I was telling you any of this information. I tell you only because I see your loss defies any oaths I made to my previous master.” Kirian added with a seemingly misplaced grin, at least in Melek’s estimation. “Besides, what can it hurt to tell you that one of your people still lives?”
As Melek responded, he peered into Kirian’s eyes. “The man you speak of so lightly, who goes by the name Arstle, is not an Olst any longer. He murdered my father in cold blood many years ago.”
Kirian’s shocked face held proof enough for Melek that the stranger had no idea of the crime. The momentary hope in Melek’s mind disintegrated with the mention of Arstle, but a smoldering fire of loss intermixed with curiosity grew, despite his attempt to quash it.
“After we finish burying these people, I’m leaving. I thank you again for your help.”
Melek remained seated with his back against the wall. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the hard-wooded wall. Taking a deep breath of the early night air, Melek fell into a deep and unbothered sleep.
Melek slept through the night remembering no dreams. He awoke to the soft prodding of a boot against his leg. The half-light before sunrise barely allowed Melek to recognize the man standing over him. Melek immediately felt the soreness of nearly every muscle that came from the previous day’s hard labor. He attempted to rise until Kirian set a bowl of steaming porridge in his lap. Melek opened his eyes and looked upward at Kirian. He seemed as though he had not spent the previous days burying bodies and bringing a man back from near-death.
He said, “Eat. You’re almost fully healed, but you still need to eat all you can.” Not waiting for a response, Kirian paced to the next body in the line and began digging.
Melek complied, then performed his normal morning routines. His body cried out with displeasure. By the time Kirian had dug a hands-width into the ground, Melek joined him to bury the remainder of the people.
The day passed much the same as the previous one, except the two men conversed about what had happened. Both men seemed to the other like leaves floating down a stream: men without purpose or guidance. Instead of blocking out each person’s identity to not succumb to the devastation, Melek told stories about each person being buried. Kirian listened wholly, attentively, and never interrupted the impromptu burial ceremony. When Sol reached its zenith, the men ate a small meal of cheese and stew, warmed by a fire Kirian had started outside and stoked throughout the morning. After eating heartily, they resumed the solemn duty. Not until the sun had passed the horizon did the men realize very few corpses remained aboveground. They glanced at each other in the failing light.
Melek broke the silence. “We finish this tonight.”
Kirian nodded as if he expected no less and moved toward the former clan leader’s home. Melek watched the man disappear inside.
What’s he doing?
In answer to the question, Melek noticed as the home’s entry slowly glow more and more brightly with moving light. Then Kirian walked out the door to Melek with two bulls-eye lanterns.
“Thank you,” Melek responded gratefully.
Kirian gently set one of the lanterns down near Melek and moved back to the next body in line. Kirian refilled the lantern’s oil only once before they finished, yet with Melek’s recollection of each person, the time slipped away unnoticed. As they patted the soil on the final grave, the half-moon of Einmyria had risen high in the sky. The relief of finishing the arduous task fell over them like a soft blanket. Melek wasted no time in placing the shovel next to the building and going inside the clan leader’s home.
“Goodnight,” Melek murmured.
When he walked through the doorway, he chuckled at a realization. I am the clan leader now. The thought, while somewhat overwhelming, quickly flitted away as he remembered he would have no one to lead but himself. And Arstle. The thought clawed its way to his consciousness.
Brushing aside flitting idle thoughts, Melek focused on nothing more than sleep. Melek awoke to light streaming into the room he had recuperated in after his clan’s death. He realized, with a start, the morning had nearly passed during his slumber. How late through the night did we work? Melek thought sleepily. After rubbing his eyes, Melek noticed Kirian slept soundly in the high-backed wooden chair near to the bed. The man had taken his shirt off before sleeping, and the blanket Kirian used had slipped toward his stomach. The sight upon his chest caught his breath. I nearly forgot about that. His sleepines
s dissipated instantly.
The rune itself seemed harmless, as it did not glow with a radiant whiteness. Now it looked like a symbol of the sun, yet Melek knew differently. The symbol was more than a simple circle with short wavy lines coming out at eight equidistant points along the circle’s circumference. It was an ancient marker for those who were believed to carry great power. And while it did not glow brightly, the rune held the purest white radiance. What little Melek knew of the meaning behind this symbol he tried to recall.
Eight lines represented the great human houses behind all creation: or so he had been told by his mentor many years ago. No one house held more power than any other, yet they had struggled with one another for millennia. The house of Tloffia was considered the oldest by modern reckoning. It still received respect by those who knew of such things. Melek could not remember anyone in his clan ever seeing a rune inscribed on a person. Now I’ll never know. Melek knew that in his studies he had never been taught about the powers of the runes. He had merely been taught to recognize the runes and to control the fear they could spark in his mind. The power of a rune holds supposedly limitless potential. All the Olst had been taught that simple tenet from childhood.
Melek watched Kirian slowly awaken. As he stretched his arms upward, the blanket slipped from his lap to the floor. Melek immediately noticed a patchwork of scars directly below the rune to his waist. Kirian yawned and he slowly opened his eyes to notice Melek staring at his exposed chest.
“Blighter’s tears,” Kirian cursed under his breath. “I did not mean for you to see that.” He hesitated. “No matter. I can explain it as we travel.” From the astonished expression upon Melek’s face, Kirian saw his brief words did nothing to soothe the man’s mind. “Well, let your mind be worried about troubles we may face upon the road. Not something you probably know little about.” Not waiting for a response, Kirian stood up, grabbed his worn shirt lying on the back of the chair, and hastily shoved it over his head.
