THE MELAKI CHRONICLE
by
William Thrash
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by William Thrash
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The Dwarven Legacy – A Fantasy
The Goblin Adventure – A Fantasy
Cover Photo by Steve Groves
www.ESI-Media.com
Special thanks to Andrew "Sharkman" Taylor for use of his image.
The Melaki Chronicle is a work of fiction. Names, locations and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2014 - All Rights Reserved
There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.
~ Genesis 6:4
CHAPTER 1
Melaki was spared the executioner's axe by the slight lift of a hand. Amidst the chaos of blood and smoke, the gesture was at once lazy, but insistent, as if curiosity was piqued and the diversion might entertain.
Melaki looked at his unseemly benefactor. Surrounded by fellow Imperium soldiers, this one wore the shimmering black Imperium robes adorned with blue embroidery of an Elet - a searcher for those who possessed the capability to understand the arcane. Black, flat eyes regarded him in the flickering torchlight. A lined face suggested this Elet was old, while the oiled hair contained streaks of gray suggesting this one was not just old, but ancient to ordinary man.
Melaki did not ponder why such an aged wizard would be subject to such mundane duties. Instead he looked away. The bodies of his friends and family lay heaped ahead of him in a horrifying mix of blood, gore, and death. Behind, a line of others, all men, awaiting the axe. The Imperium did not absorb. No, in fact they slaughtered. Blood and death for their hungry god Amtar. The women they kept for sacrifices.
Jukta, the village elder had been warned. He had been advised by the couriers of the Meseditt Empire that the Altanles Imperium was once again surging forth to claim peoples for their sacrifices. The elder Jukta had assured everyone that the probability of the Altanleans choosing their village was slim. “Complacency breeds death,” the old village lunatic had muttered more than once. The smell of blood assaulted Melaki's nostrils to remind him of the lesson.
His family had already been beheaded. One of his closest friends lay decapitated on the heap in front of him. Imperium soldiers watched him dispassionately as the blood of those he knew pooled around their feet. Melaki felt no fear, but he did feel hatred. Also in the pile was the old village lunatic Nihtu who had whispered secrets to him of things best forgotten. But once told, those secrets awakened within him that which many considered a curse. The mystical in man had been on the decline for centuries. The giants were all but gone. Only in the Imperium did man cling to the mystical in vain hopes of producing a better life.
But what the Elet sensed was not the mystical talent the Imperium wizard expected. No, this was the secret knowledge that Melaki was taught by the old Nihtu. The Elet could not tell the difference. Both used the same pathways in the head, as it were, but the means were different. Melaki did not see why one way was forbidden and the other welcomed. Whatever the Elet saw in him satisfied the wizard's curiosity. With another flick of the wrist, Melaki was hoisted to his feet and led away from the bloodied stump where so many of his villagers had met and were meeting their end.
Looking at the carnage, Melaki remembered without bitterness his vision of this event. The dark of night was the same. The roiling waters overhead were the same. The torches cast an odd and wavering glow that he now understood as his vision swam from the clubbing his head had received. The gorstone buildings of his village burned brightly with a green hue just as in his vision. Everyone had laughed at his dreams, except old Nihtu, and that vision was the beginning of Nihtu's mutterings to Melaki. Many of those mutterings were about secrets universally avoided. The secrets of the giants were not only avoided, but shunned. The giants were cursed, everyone knew. But whereas everyone believed the giants were cursed due to their mystical secrets, Nihtu claimed the giants were cursed as a state of being, rather than for their knowledge.
Perhaps Nihtu was right. Melaki did not know. But once exposed to secrets everyone claimed best forgotten, Melaki could not unlearn what he knew. One might have as much fortune forgetting how to breathe.
“Take him,” grunted the Imperium wizard. A wave of the hand dismissed Melaki and his guards as the wizard returned to studying each villager in line at the chopping block.
Melaki did not feel gratitude or relief. Instead, fear washed through him as if he were under a waterfall. This reinforced his vision of the here and now and meant that his other visions were thus more likely to be true. His gaze drifted to the axe in the executioner's hands. The blade dropped in a curving arc from the handle a handspan before turning parallel. It dripped blood as if weeping. He made a reflexive lunge towards the chopping block without thinking. Death would be preferable. But his guards jerked him back and away from release and relief.
Once again his head was clubbed. Darkness closed in as his vision receded. He heard laughter from the guards and a mewling groan that he recognized as his own.
* * *
Melaki shifted uncomfortably on the white stone bench. Several of the other initiates suffered the same discomfort. A breeze drifted through the open window of the instruction room, but it brought no relief from the stifling humidity. He had suffered this same torment for more days than he cared count. Sometimes, the rain at least brought some relief, but never for long. Even the stone beneath him was damp to the touch.
He rolled his eyes before he could stop himself but it was too late.
“Melaki,” croaked the blue-robed scribe. His voice was the dry rustle of leaves disturbed by shuffling footsteps.
He immediately formed his face back to a serene but pensive look - one designed to forestall further interrogation. Unfortunately, it was too late.
The scribe's crop punched into the nook between Melaki's shoulder and chest. “Are you once again supporting the outrageous claim that a millennium of mysticism is somehow now wrong?”
The claim, as it was, never gained traction with a scribe of the Altanles Rukha. The institute for instruction of wizards was a thousand years old and entertained no deviation from precedent. The Rukha taught those with mystical ability the rites of spiritism and blood. Melaki knew another way, taught from his old lunatic friend, that involved neither the danger of spirits or the blood of others. Indeed, a way existed to use magic that used the power inherent within oneself rather than relying on others - whether man or spirit. But this line of thought was considered heresy, primarily because the giants had worked with that particular knowledge and self-inherent power to wage their wars.
The giants were cursed, so everyone was taught, and this was true. Gods came and married women who produced giants. Knowledge increased and better ways were found for accomplishing things. But the giants turned against each other and used their knowledge of the magic and mundane to kill themselves in war. The rumors were that they were cursed by the Unknown God - He Without a Name. But Melaki did not believe the giants were cursed for their knowledge, but cursed for their existence as abnormalities among mankind. Perhaps the gods were not meant to marry with women. Nevertheless, mankind shunned not only the giants, who were all but gone, but also what they taught.
Melaki shook his head at the hypocrisy of man. Fortunately, the scribe took his head shake as an answer to his question. Man chose to retain the knowledge of mining and metals, but the rest they rejected. If all their knowledge was a curse, w
as not metal, also?
The scribe appeared satisfied and returned to the front of the chamber. “Melaki, please recite the wards.”
With a heavy sigh, Melaki stood. “First ward of help contains light, lifting, and minor warding.”
The scribe furrowed his brow, looked down, and struck a pose of intent listening.
“The second ward of healing contains augury, remedy, and cleansing. The third ward of harm contains curse, trauma, and affliction.”
The scribe nodded sagely.
“The fourth ward of hate contains death, blight, and disease. The fifth ward of heavens contains summoning, weather, and control.”
The scribe huffed and shuffled his feet. “And?”
Melaki squared his shoulders, bracing for the rebuke to come. “All are harder than the last and the fifth is the hardest to master.”
The scribe moved with seeming little effort, despite the white in his bushy eyebrows and hair, to stand once more before Melaki. The crop came up and punctuated his words with pokes to Melaki's shoulder. “Then why is it that you cannot grasp even the first ward despite your ability and knowledge?”
He remained silent.
"Why is it that you have failed six testings of the first ward when even the dimmest of your fellow initiates fail only twice?"
Melaki knew the scribe was within his rights to demand explanation. No initiate failed more than twice and few failed twice. The Rukha existed to teach those with ability the methods of using magic. No empire or kingdom on this world exerted more effort in teaching capable pupils the most efficient way of tapping into magic. The problem was not his intelligence; he was bright enough. The problem was not any difficulty in learning to work the magic; the instructions were simple. Rather, the problem that held him back was the method. Having learned the ancient way of the giants, at least in theory, the transition to what he considered an abusive form of magic was personally distasteful. It was nothing he could ever admit.
His shoulders slumped. He did not want to give in and use blood or someone else's life energy. He wanted to use the method taught to him of the giants. He knew, though, that he was struggling against something at which he could not succeed. What use in resisting? What if he relented and passed his tests? Could he live with himself after? Once a wizard, he might leave Altanles; nothing in the law directly kept him here once he was raised to wizard.
The scribe took his silence for shame.
Melaki wondered again how fast he would be sent to death if the wizards of the Rukha knew he remembered his previous life as a fisherman on the outskirts of the Meseditt Empire? All new initiates were burned as it were in their minds - their memories removed as if they had never existed. But Melaki knew the theories of the giant magic and knew how to block that searing. It was painful, but he had survived the burning. He hated the Altanles Imperium, but he had been treated well. The brutality of the Imperium, as exhibited by the slaughter of his village, was dispassionate. Melaki had found people here that reminded him of home. They were no different than any others he had known. They were not consciously evil in a social sense, but expedient. They believed they traveled a better way and worked to preserve life within their Imperium even if it cost the lives of those without.
“Remove yourself, Melaki. Present yourself to Scribe Enshar for duties.”
He ran his hand through his hair in frustration and did as he was told. He shut the door behind him to whispers from the other initiates. He stared at the white tiled floor of the hall and sighed heavily, once again. He was not going to work magic their way. The firm set of his jaw carried him forward through the arched halls to the Rukha's library. Another day of replacing scrolls and tablets in meaningless work only served to drive his frustration to nerve-wracking depths. So focused within himself was he that he almost walked into a black-robed wizard.
Of all the hells in existence...
The Imperium held a strict dress-code for those who wielded magic. Initiates wore white robes. Senior initiates, those who had received all instruction but not yet ready to test wore silver belts. The life of a senior initiate was short as testing took place every third moon. Few were retained as senior initiates unless the Dara-Scribe deemed them requiring further mental conditioning. Once tested and passed, the initiate became a mage of the first ward and donned the shimmering black robe of the Imperium Magistery. A mage of the second ward wore a silver belt in addition. A mage of the third ward added a silver medallion bearing the seal of the Altanles Imperium. A fourth ward mage had a single line of silver embroidery on cuffs and hem. One who passed the fifth ward test was a full wizard and all of the trimmings were gold.
There were other ranks above wizard at the bidding of the Imperium, but the Rukha only taught the five wards. A council of wizards assessed and promoted beyond the five wards. Melaki had heard that there existed ten wards, but how one attained the sixth ward and beyond, he did not know. There were also scribes - those who retired from the duties of the Imperium's wizards.
Before he knocked heads with the wizard in the hall, Melaki dove for the side. The wizard had seen him, but moving was not the responsibility of the wizard, rather the initiate. Colliding with the wizard would have been disastrous and deserving of punishment best avoided. Melaki instead collided with the wall as he dove out of the way.
“Sorrow, Wizard,” Melaki mumbled as he rubbed his head. He saw the black robe and the gold adornments and the extra piping - a full wizard of the tenth ward. He was not sure if he was fortunate for avoiding the collision or foolish for having hurt his head.
The wizard regarded Melaki and simply raised one eyebrow.
Melaki recognized the wizard as Talin, a conceited and pompous ass always critical of others. He could see the disdain in the wizard's eyes. He was becoming well-known as an initiate that might be better used as a sacrifice. Admonishing himself for not watching his walk, he continued his trek to the library. Frustration nipped at his edges and he came to a stop outside the library door.
He slowed his breathing and focused inward. He knew he could attempt the magic that hovered in the back of his mind to calm himself. But he resisted. Or so he thought. Once he opened the door and entered the library, he knew he had failed.
Scribe Enshar was bent over a scroll, his back to Melaki. “Ah, here on duties again, are you? I detected you outside the door.”
Melaki's frustration came rushing back.
The scribe straightened and turned. His hair was long and loose, not oiled like most. It was also snow white, though the face not lined as nearly as his hair would suggest. “You know that initiates using magic is forbidden. Need I remind you of the punishment?”
“I was just trying to calm myself.” Anger edged his words and his fists clenched involuntarily. But he was not mad at Enshar and the old scribe knew it, too.
Enshar pursed his lips and regarded Melaki like an unusual problem. "I imagine I am to give you duties to reinforce your shame at failing the tests so many times. But that has not worked, has it? Come with me.”
Melaki followed the Scribe into his private study and sat in the chair to which he was waved.
“Now, let us approach this a different way. Describe to me your own assessment of your failure.” Without waiting for a reply, Enshar leaned back and began tamping tobacco into his ivory pipe.
No one at the Rukha had ever asked Melaki for his own opinion. Other than academic arguments over spirit magic and giant magic, his reasons were never asked for or considered. In the moment it took Enshar to light his pipe using magic, he made up his mind to expose his reason. “I see visions.”
Enshar froze. One eye looked his way while the other seemingly remained on his pipe. The silence stretched.
Melaki fidgeted. He wondered if he had made a mistake. Had he violated some unknown law of this Imperium that he had yet to learn?
“Visions.” The word came out as a grunt.
He nodded quickly. The frustration was rising in him, and anxiety, too. He c
losed his eyes and tried to stop his ragged breathing. Focusing inward, he pushed at what he imagined his anxiety might look like inside. He pushed harder and herded the ugly beast back into a cage. Shutting the cage door and locking it, he concentrated on his breathing. Yes, it was calm. He opened his eyes.
Enshar's lips were pursed in anger and Melaki knew he had tapped magic in calming himself. Another failure.
With a swift motion, Enshar jerked a box from the shelf and flipped open the lid. With angry fingers, he plucked from the box a block of incense. Using spirit magic, he lit the block and blew on it until it produced a steady stream of fragrance. Setting down his pipe, he held his hand over Melaki's head and blew incense into his face.
“I--” Melaki said.
“Silence! I will induce a vision within you. I will see the end to this failure of yours, one way or the other.” He drove his gaze into Melaki's eyes.
The room swam as he listened to Enshar mutter words of magic. The scribe was enticing the spirits and exerting control on Melaki. His ears began to ring and his mouth went dry. The room went black and sounds came to him as if he were at the end of a long underground tunnel. But this was different from his other visions. Something was here with him. Abruptly, he was watching a blood sacrifice. The change from tunnel to altar wrenched his being. His stomach lurched. With another wrenching change, he stood atop a mountain on the Altanlean coast as the entire world shook and heaved. Buildings crumbled and the ground rent. The ocean appeared to rush in. One last abrupt change and he was underwater, in the ocean, sinking.
In a panic, he flailed out, striking at the vision. He became aware he was convulsing in his chair and struggling to breathe. With a heave, he coughed up a small plume of saltwater that drenched the front of his white robe. Gasping, he blinked until his vision was clear.
The Melaki Chronicle Page 1
