The Melaki Chronicle

by William Thrash

  Melaki drove everything he had into reaching through the delving to that silvery-slimy cord: Talin's connection to the spirit. He did not even know if this was going to work. But his head was beginning to feel as if it would crack under the pressure.

  Melaki squeezed that cord and severed it. Instantly, the pressure in his head was gone.

  Talin's mouth opened in a wordless scream. His body jerked, evil flooding into him beyond any measure of control. His skin began to bubble and form pustules. The pustules were black. And then came the wail of horror from Talin's mouth.

  Melaki scrambled backward in fear.

  Talin's wail was strangled and then his body seemed to pull in on itself from the inside. His face crumpled inward, slightly, and his body pitched over. What was left did not look human.

  He got to his feet and ran to Tila.

  She was looking at him in horror. “Heretic.”

  Her wound was deep. Blood bubbled at the corners of her mouth. He delved her and saw the damage. Broken chest bones, punctured lungs rapidly filling with blood. She was dying.

  “Hush, Tila, my love. I will heal this.”

  “Do not touch me with your filth!” Blood spurted from her lips.

  “But--”

  “Never!” A cough bubbled from her. “Heretic! Die...”

  “My magic is not evil, Tila.”

  She did not answer; she was trying to reach for her sword.

  “I can save you.”

  “I would kill you.”

  And he saw it in her eyes. And he began to weep. He held her, cradling her as her gasps grew ragged and bubbly. He smoothed her hair, whispering to her and rocking her. “I love you.”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she breathed her last. She was looking into his eyes as she died in his arms.

  CHAPTER 8

  Melaki sat in the tavern in Balis Port. He regarded the mug of the strongest drink the bartender carried. He did not know what it was. It was good and it burned.

  The bartender had been nicer to him this time. He saw the death and loss in his face. Soldiers went through it all the time. He understood what Melaki felt. He only charged him half for the drink.

  But Melaki did not care about the price. He could have afforded to buy the tavern with what he had brought back, even after he gave half of the gems to the imperial officer. He could have bought all of Balis port. I could probably buy half the damned island. But neither did he care about the wealth. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be gone from this place of death and sorrow.

  The price of the drink mattered not to him.

  “Melaki?”

  He looked up at the familiar voice and almost fell out of his chair. “Domo?”

  The old friend nodded, grinning like a fool three bottles into a drinking night. He looked around. “Not much to offer, eh? By the gods, what happened to you?” He had seen the wounds across his face.

  He waved at his cheek. “Some demon-thing or something. Sit yourself down and explain how you come to be here.”

  Domo sat, slamming down a mug. Mead splashed over the edge. “Did I never tell you I was royalty?”

  Melaki chuckled, despite his mood. “My ass is more royal than you will ever be.”

  His friend brayed laughter. Then he took on a haughty air. “I am the king who loves to wander amongst the scum of the kingdom because of my love for the scummiest of people.”

  Melaki burped.

  “I was hoping to find you here.” Domo winked.

  “What? Just for an old drinking partner?”

  “Yes. But actually I have something for you.” He dug around in his pouches until he produced a crumpled scroll. The wax seal was still intact. He tossed it on the table as if it was a bone scrap from a meal. “There you go.”

  Melaki lifted it with two fingertips as if it was covered in filth.

  His friend smirked.

  Looking it over, he studied the seal. “Altanlean Rukha, Rashilla.” She had written him? He thought briefly of Talin's death. There was no possible way word could have reached the Altanles mainland when he had informed Senior Officer Mata of the wizard's death only the day before.

  “Maybe they want you back.”

  He snorted and took a drink. Dragging the scroll, he placed it into the pocket of his dirty robe.

  “You look as if you have seen quite a bit, then?” Domo turned serious.

  He raised his cup to the bartender who gave him a nod. Then he turned the cup in his fingers as it sat on the table. “This land is cursed.” All the lands are cursed.

  “What do you mean? Because of the necromancers?” Domo frowned.

  “More than that. The whole island is dead. It is death.”

  Domo leaned back. “I come with a group in the Third Charter. Maybe I can open up my own tavern.”

  “You?”

  “Me.”

  “Here?” Melaki shook his head.

  “It must not be all that bad.”

  “I have seen this land kill three, and I loved one of them.”

  His friend frowned and then nodded his head in understanding. He reached forward and roughly patted Melaki's forearm. “You have my sorrow, my friend.”

  The bartender tipped the jug. Amber liquid flowed into his cup, filling the pain in his soul.

  Domo sniffed the air. “I might have some of that.”

  The bartender growled.

  His friend leaned back, hands in the air. “Mead is fine. Mead is fine.”

  Gramm and Bena had returned to Soam's Crossing and stayed. They made no claims so where they stayed mattered not to anyone who claimed the stake. He had returned to Balis Port, his only two companions his horse Tila and his donkey Sala. He had found himself on more than one occasion hugging his horse and crying silently, petting her as he had stroked Tila's hair as she had died.

  “Turn around and go back, if you can,” he said to Domo. Then he lost control and tears wet his cheeks.

  * * *

  He had paid for a room at the inn outside of Balis Port. Ships left every day. He would pay for passage on the morrow. The room was expensive, with only part of a roof. But the innkeeper he remembered passing that first day had done a fine job of scavenging and making the mostly intact tavern liveable.

  He did not bother with the lantern and its golden glow. The fire gave some light and warmth. He preferred using his magelight with its familiar blue-white tint, and he did so now. He took off his robe, determined to clean it. He took out the crumpled letter from Rashilla, placing it on the small table. He was not sure if he wanted to read it.

  But she would not be able to force him to anything through words, would she? He stared down at the scroll. Of what was he afraid? Was he afraid? If she demanded his return for the tenth ward, was not he of a mind to refuse? What might she possibly say that would compel his return? She had no more say over his decisions than Domo, or Gramm or the now-dead Talin.

  He gently lifted the scroll and broke the seal. He sat on the bed and brought his light directly overhead. Her writing was angular and tight with a hint of force on the first letter of each word.

  “To the Wizard of the Ninth Ward, Melaki,

  I give my wishes that this finds you in health and prosperity.

  I had hoped that you would stay and we could explore the extent of your power together. The Rukha feels your absence.”

  He laughed. He remembered the jeers and insults as he had left. Only those of the tenth ward and the Elets had been disappointed on that final day. The Headmistress Renta had wanted him executed.

  “Well, it is I that feels your absence most keenly. I had thoughts of relocating to the Northlands to set up study there, but I am not sure yet. What are your plans? Will you return to Altanles?”

  He leaned back, looking up at his light. She would relocate? She had been at the Rukha for decades, if not longer. With her silver hair, she had to be at least four hundred years old. Maybe older.

  “I find my thoughts filled with that time you hugg
ed me and I am overcome by what the future could hold. I would discover what might be hidden, something dreadful in its absence, and fill the empty vessel between us.

  I await your response,

  Rashilla, Wizard of the Tenth Ward”

  He sighed and shook his head. Rashilla could not ever know the truth. To do so would destroy him as surely as Talin would have destroyed him.

  He threw the scroll into the fire.

  * * *

  “Yes, captain,” Melaki said.

  The captain of the boat was a fat man of quick moves. His voice was loud. “Tomorrow, mid-day. I will take payment now.”

  “And this is for myself and my animals?”

  “It is. If you do not like the price, find another ship. Iberia is a long ways off.”

  “No, no, I just want to make sure we have the passage and price right.” He deposited several valuable trinkets into the man's hand. “Tomorrow it is.”

  The captain grunted and shook his head.

  No one ever wanted to go to the Iberian Savagelands except the most daring and foolhardy traders.

  But Melaki was going to go. He would make a new life there. Someplace without the Altanlean Empire looking over his shoulder and delving his magic.

  * * *

  Melaki looked up at the tavern door.

  A familiar face entered.

  “Gramm,” he called.

  The angular man nodded, grinned and raised a hand. Then he turned to the bartender and ordered up a drink.

  Melaki watched him approach.

  The merchant sat at his table and arranged his ridiculous sword to hang over the back of the chair. “I see you are healthy...” Gramm's gaze caught on his face.

  “I can not heal myself. No wizard can heal himself.”

  “Why not?”

  He set down his cup of amber fire – whatever it was. “It is like looking in a mirror. Things are not where they are supposed to be. What looks like right in the mirror is really left. Everything is reversed and... not right.”

  Gramm shook his head, but a smile played at his lips. “You are a strange wizard, for sure.”

  “You, master merchant, are everything that I expect from a member of the CoinMasters Guild.”

  A grunt of approval from Gramm and the raising of his cup said that his comment was satisfying.

  “How is Bena?”

  Gramm frowned. “Still shaken, but she will recover. She has a hardy soul.”

  Melaki nodded. “Good. She seemed like such a pleasant lady. Very attentive and vibrant.”

  Gramm nodded. “She is a gem, surely.”

  “What brings you back to Balis Port?” Melaki sipped at his drink.

  “I need more supplies.”

  “Your tobacco is good. I would have more.”

  “No worries, friend. I will make sure you get your choice of my supply when we leave here.”

  “Ah good. I find a smoke of tobacco most satisfying when I want to...” When I want to be anywhere else but here. When I want to forget what happened here.

  The merchant nodded solemnly. “Gramm will take good care of you. Do not fear.” He patted Melaki's hand.

  Did he look so depressed that he garnered sympathy wherever he went? Or was it the ugly wound on his cheek? But the wound was not something of which to be proud. He could not tell people that he gained it fighting a dragon or an evil demon of great power. No, he had received it figthing the righteous indignation of a man seeking to do what he thought was right.

  Whatever he thought of Talin, the wizard had stood for principle and law right at the end. He had made a stand against the perceived heresy. He had defended what he thought true. He had died for his convictions.

  What separated one conviction from another? Did a wrong conviction make a man wrong? Did the right conviction make one more of a man than the one who had the wrong conviction?

  “Where will you go?” Gramm said.

  Should I tell him? It was not a secret. “Iberia.”

  His eyes lit up. “I have made a few runs there myself.”

  “And you were welcome?”

  The tall merchant shrugged, looking at the ceiling. “Well, a merchant is almost always welcome where he goes and a smile does not hurt, either.”

  “They liked your tobacco?”

  “Among other things. Altanlean glass trades very well there.”

  “Perhaps then I will be able to keep my supply of tobacco.”

  “On that, I do not know. I go where the trade develops. But perhaps looking for avenues of trade in Iberia might make my list.”

  Melaki glanced at a soldier who was watching them. What does he want? “What do you trade for when you are in Iberia?”

  “Furs, mostly. Splendid furs. Sometimes silk, though the price is very high.”

  “I leave tomorrow. Perhaps I will buy some silk robes.” His tone was dry.

  Gramm chuckled. “Only if you want to dress as a woman.”

  “The scandal.”

  He laughed heartier until a hand descended on his shoulder.

  He and Gramm looked up at the soldier who had been watching, listening. There was something contained about the soldier and it came out in the iron of his voice. “Perhaps my friend of the CoinMasters Guild would allow me to take his seat.”

  Melaki knew Gramm was a smart man. He was not a timid man. The merchant could feel currents in conversations, words, and gestures and could profit from them. He had been elected into the most prestigious merchants guild in the Altanles Empire. Gramm immediately rose to his feet with a broad smile.

  “I do believe my companion was tiring of my blather about trade,” the merchant said.

  A curt nod from the soldier.

  “May your day be prosperous, Melaki,” Gramm said. He bowed his head slightly and left the table.

  “As yours, friend.”

  The soldier sat.

  “Drink?” Melaki offered. An eyebrow was raised as if doubting the soldier just wanted friendly company.

  “You are Melaki, native of the Meseditt Empire. You are yet newly raised to the Ninth Ward.”

  Anyone could see the braiding on his sleeve. Anyone might have heard his name, even without Gramm just using it. But to know he had been a native of the Meseditt Empire spoke of secrets not usually told by anyone in the empire.

  He sat up straighter.

  The soldier did not elaborate on his native stature. Melaki's memory had been supposedly burned away. When the soldier changed the subject, Melaki breathed a sigh of relief. A failed burning, though unheard of, was probably grounds for execution in one holding such power as he did within the empire. Wizards were considered equal to royalty.

  “I am Roke, an agent to the emperor. I have use of you.” The man's eyes were black and piercing. His hair was short. His armor was that of a common soldier.

  “I am not for hire.”

  He said nothing, producing a rolled scroll tube. He dropped the parchment out and unrolled it. The imperial seal and signatures shown apparently gave the man authority equal to that of the marshal in command of the Northlands.

  Melaki raised his eyebrows. “This? Given to a common soldier?” He could tell this was no common soldier. Something about the eyes said so.

  “It eases my way to travel in a common fashion. I see more, hear more and accomplish more. Who cares to look at a common soldier?”

  He nodded. “But I have said I am not for hire. I leave tomorrow.”

  “I have canceled your board.”

  Melaki surged to his feet. “You what?”

  The soldier grimaced and placed a pouch on the table. “Your fee, though I had to threaten the captain to get a full refund. He wanted to keep half.”

  He snatched the pouch and opened it. The same trinkets he had given were inside. Frowning at Roke, he pocketed the pouch and sat down. “What is this about?”

  “Be at ease. Would you like another drink?”

  “I will buy my own. Be on with your business with
me.”

  “Dramlos.”

  Melaki shrugged, angry that his departure had been canceled. If the man carried that kind of authority there would be little he could do to protest. “I have not been there. What of it?”

  “Our forces surround the city--”

  “I thought you had conquered it all.”

  “We did, but one necromancer eluded us.”

  “One?”

  “He has raised some powerful forces.”

  “Storm in there and kill him. You wiped out the entire island. One necromancer is stopping you?”

  “The emperor wants this handled a different way.”

  Melaki went still. What did the emperor care? A dead necromancer was a dead necromancer, whether by spear, arrow, ballista or pike. He leaned back, frowning at Roke.

  “I see you grasp something special about this. Very good. I understand you destroyed the undead that killed your friends...”

  So the story goes.

  “...I believe you are the key to solving our dilemma.”

  “Exactly what is the dilemma?”

  “This necromancer is different. I will say no more of it.”

  “And you will compel me with your authority on pain of what? Death? Flogging? Skin flayed from my bones? My fingers broken one by one?”

  “I have seen things in your notes--”

  “You transgressed my privacy?” Fear flooded him. His magic was a death sentence.

  “I do not know magic, but your research appears disturbing. But I would have to consult with the Rukha before--”

  “They know nothing of it. The diagrams are merely my musings for an eleventh ward.”

  An eyebrow told Melaki that Roke saw right through it. “And yet you refused the tenth ward. Why research for an eleventh?”

  Melaki was silent.

  A flash of teeth and a chuckle from Roke preceded his rise from the table. “I am so pleased that we came to an agreement.”

  “You can not do this to an imperial wizard.”

  For a moment, he looked sad. “But I can, Melaki, and I must. For the good of the empire. I will come to your inn on the morrow.” He gave a nod and left.