The Melaki Chronicle

by William Thrash

  Gramm wandered over from where he had been talking to the bartender. “I do not think that talk was productive?”

  “For him, it was.”

  The merchant pursed his lips. “A good merchant finds a profit angle.”

  He felt dirty, used. “From mud?”

  “Even from mud, my friend, even from mud.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Melaki tried to hug Tila, but the woman twisted from his grasp. He wanted to hold her, to smooth her hair, to tell her that everything would be alright. He wanted to drive away the loneliness with love. “I love you.”

  She evaded his grasp and with a quick move, plunged her sword into his gut.

  “Tila, please, no.”

  “Heretic!”

  He began crying silently, wanting to beg and plead with her.

  He awoke crying, wetness on his cheek and pillow.

  His morning bath soothed him, a little.

  Down in the common room of the inn, Roke awaited. He was sitting at a table, the other chair pulled back, inviting him.

  Another guest sat nearby, eating.

  “Do I get to eat?” He sat.

  Roke waved and indicated the table. “Already prepared.”

  The innkeeper's wife set down a plate of cheeses and bread. On this island, it was almost a feast.

  “I have your animals prepared and even now being loaded with your gear.”

  Melaki scowled.

  Roke tilted his head and shrugged. “I get things done.”

  “Perhaps you should be handling this last necromancer. You could sweep in, squint menacingly, wave a scroll around, and destroy him.”

  “If it were so easy.”

  “What is so special about--”

  Roke's hand motion and his eyes darting to the other patron stopped Melaki. “Perhaps we can talk of this later.” His tone was not a suggestion.

  He grunted and ate his breakfast.

  “Shall we hold your room for you?” The innkeeper was a shrewd-looking man, but happy to have the payment in his newest venture.

  Roke and Melaki rose to go.

  “He will return in a couple of weeks, I am sure,” Roke said. “No need to hold it.”

  “Ah, very good. Where are you going?” The innkeeper was just making conversation.

  “Kellerran,” said Roke.

  One necromancer in Dramlos was such a secret?

  Outside, he mounted Tila. He patted her neck, wanting to think of Tila the woman, and trying not to.

  Another man joined Roke. Another soldier.

  Another imperial agent.

  * * *

  The road to Dramlos split at the tavern where he had helped the two brothers. He did not see them, but a thin plume of smoke rose from the chimney and a few horses were stabled.

  He wanted to stop and check on them, wanted to see some sort of happiness and contentment on this island.

  But they turned onto the capital road and rode on. The trees became thicker and taller. There was less vegetation around them, but the atmosphere was even darker. The tall trees blocked out the light from the waters above and Melaki felt obliged to keep a magelight going.

  A few of the first three charters had come this way and they stayed in the camp of a merchant who was arguing with his partner about the state of the inn. It was not habitable.

  He saw, the next day, Dramlos from a distance. They passed an advance scouting force of imperials blocking the road in the forest. Roke flashed his scroll, and they were through. Coming out of the trees and into a valley, he saw it. The capital was enormous, and situated atop two hills. The outskirts were unwalled and Melaki could see fortifications scattered, facing outward, to those who might come. They were fresh, and manned by imperial soldiers. Ballistaes sat prominently at intervals, well-fortified and the soldiers well-alert.

  They entered a very busy ring of soldiers in the city. So here was the imperial army. Still in Dramlos.

  “Seems to me you could rush--”

  “Tried it,” Roke said.

  “And?”

  “The losses were appalling.”

  “How can this army not overcome a single necromancer?”

  Roke turned to him after dismounting. “This one is far more powerful.”

  They entered a well-lit building. A fireplace roared heartily and several lamps and sconces gave forth light and heat. Large tables were scattered with maps and reports. Officers moved back and forth, on whatever duties seemed important to soldiers. Messengers came and went.

  “Roke,” said an officer.

  The agent threw down his riding gloves. “News?”

  The officer said, “No change. The piglet comes and we drive her off.”

  Piglet?

  Roke nodded and sighed in frustration.

  “This is who you went for?”

  The agent glanced at Melaki. “He might be our best chance.”

  The officer shook his head.

  Roke raised an eyebrow. “This is the only one who has beaten everything he has faced.”

  I have been lucky, is all...

  The officer, hands behind his back, walked up to Melaki and looked down his nose. Not rude – inspecting. “I do not see--”

  Roke interrupted him. “We have nothing to lose and my masters have everything to gain.”

  What?

  The officer looked disturbed. “As you wish. We can get him through probably after we drive off the piglet again.”

  “Piglet?” he said.

  The officer raised an eyebrow at him. “She will come again tomorrow. Perhaps you can defeat her.”

  “I am sure,” said Roke, “that he will wave his hand and she will be no more.”

  The officer frowned. “I will lick the mud from your boots, by the gods, if you do so.”

  “Well, I--” Melaki said.

  “Come.” The officer beckoned. He stood over a table. Spread out were several maps pieced together showing the capital city. “We control this band of city here.”

  Melaki blinked. “That is all?”

  The officer straightened. “It is secure, but we can advance no farther and the undead are easily managed by us this distance from the necromancer.”

  “Managed?”

  “They are sluggish. The farther away from their master, the more sluggish. The closer we move, the more deadly they become.”

  He grunted. That made sense to him.

  “Unfortunately, the containment can only end in the necromancer's victory. He bleeds us dry, summoning more and more of the stronger kinds of undead with each day that passes. The skeletons are nothing, but stronger things are coming out. Piglet was the first and stopped us dead.”

  “And there are stronger ones than Piglet?” He still did not know what he was talking about.

  “Aye, but their kind varies. Piglet seems less powerful but unkillable. The ones coming after are more powerful, but are easily killed with ballistae. If they get in our lines, they are deadly.” The officer looked at him dubiously. “How much experience have you had with necromancers?”

  “He is--” Roke said.

  “None,” Melaki said, interrupting him.

  The officer frowned and sighed. “Though it pains me to send you out, Roke is perhaps right; you are our best hope. Unless the Imperial Court sends a whole contingent of wizards...”

  “It could be an eventuality,” Roke said. “But that would take some time.”

  “Time is something not in good supply.” The officer walked away.

  “Come, I will show you to a lodgement. On the morrow, you will go forth.” Roke led him out of the building.

  * * *

  Melaki petted Tila's nose. Then he scratched Sala behind the ears. “You two behave and look after each other.”

  Both animals looked at him, not moving.

  All through the night, he had been awoken by bursts of battle, seemingly timed. The necromancer must have been sending regular waves to prick the lines in an effort to tire the defenders.r />
  The soldiers around him, besieging or being besieged as it were, had good spirits. But he could tell this was not an army on the march to victory; it was an army waiting.

  Roke came up to him and glanced at his pack – the pack with his notes. “You do not trust me--”

  “Of course not. I think you will do anything for the empire.”

  “It is so.”

  “Even transgress the law.” Melaki was accusatory.

  “It is so.” Roke's neutral tone offered no argument. He handed him a smaller satchel. “Food.”

  Melaki had already eaten. The satchel was for the foray. “You never told me what was so different about this necromancer.”

  The agent nodded. “I was just going to tell you, so you know what to expect.”

  Did he believe him?

  “This necromancer uses magic.”

  Melaki was nonplussed. “I thought that was rather obvious.”

  Roke stared at him. “Not just necromantic magic.”

  Hmm. Necromancers had their own magic: death magic. It was distinctly different, supposedly, than spirit-magic. Admittedly evil, claiming to call upon the most vile of demons, necromancy embraced the evil rather than trying to manipulate them. The magic was different. “He uses our magic?”

  The agent nodded.

  Melaki felt sick, immediately uncertain what he was supposed to do against something which would be even more powerful than Talin. He doubted his little trick would work. But he could try it.

  A shout rang out from the lines two streets away. “Piglet!”

  Roke nodded to him. “Let us see what you can accomplish against this.”

  Melaki followed him along with several other rushing soldiers. Other soldiers stayed behind, but called luck to those soldiers on duty. They entered the broad avenue leading to the capital palace. Enormous barricades had been constructed across it with one, small opening firmly fortified. Directly facing the opening was a well-protected pair of ballistaes. Two more ballistaes were either side of the central position.

  To their left, two ballistaes thumped in firing. Something flying and wicked-looking spun in the air and tumbled to a stop on their side of the barricades. Soldiers went to work hacking and stabbing the thrashing thing. But it was not the flying thing that caught Melaki's whole attention.

  Lumbering to the entry of the barricades behind a wave of zombies was an enormous fat woman easily two men tall. She was almost the size of a cozy inn. She was naked and gray. Greasy hair hung over red eyes and her teeth were fangs. Whatever she had been, this one was no longer human. Enormous sagging breasts swayed with her movement. Fortunately, the massive rolls of flab hid other undesirable areas. Her entire body was pockmarked with bruise-like marks.

  Already, the two ballistae at the entry had fired. The bolts sank into the flesh of the woman-thing, but she plucked them out and tossed them away.

  “Piglet,” said Roke.

  Men at the barricades were piking zombies and hatchetmen finished them off.

  A scream of rage split the air. Piglet picked up a zombie by the arm and swung it back.

  “Careful, here.” Roke bent his knees, ready to spring.

  What?

  Piglet hurled the growling zombie through the air. The creature spun, growling, grasping, towards them over the barricades.

  More ballistae thumped, sending bolts into Piglet.

  Melaki formed a killing pattern and threw it at the zombie. His magic... was nullified. Frantically, he formed a force pattern and threw it. The zombie bounced in midair and went sailing back over the barricades.

  A few soldiers cheered.

  He reached out and prodded Piglet, delving the evil, the magic, the threads of pattern. He could sense the silvery-slimy cord. But it was as if he was looking at it through very thick glass.

  “I feel you.”

  “What?” he said.

  Roke looked at him. “What is the matter?”

  “You feel what?”

  “I said nothing.” He shook his head.

  Had he heard it in his ears or in his head? He shook himself and prodded at Piglet again. Without much thought, he formed another force pattern and deflected another hurled, growling zombie. Piglet's connection to Earth was being shielded. He considered the glass-like obstruction. It felt wrong, evil.

  “You will fail.”

  He looked around. It was in his head. He went back to studying the shield. It felt magical in nature, as if to stop precisely what he was doing.

  “I see you, wizard. Not even of the tenth ward. How do you expect to defeat one such as me?” Laughter echoed in his head. Bad laughter.

  He shook his head and watched as more bolts were shot into Piglet. She ripped them out. The shield did not vibrate in such a way that indicated... He strode forward to the central pair of ballistaes.

  Piglet was tough, but she was only shielded against magic.

  A zombie went flying overhead. Melaki ignored it. “Hold your next bolts until I say.”

  The crews looked at him, then at his robes and then at their officer. The officer nodded. They prepared the bolts and then looked at him.

  He prepared a fire pattern in his mind and a force pattern. Almost done with the patterns, he nodded.

  The two ballistae thumped.

  Melaki finished the patterns and threw all of his concentration into both.

  Piglet was screaming, picking up another zombie. The bolts burst into white hot flames as they shot through the air, and then they accelerated beyond the eye's ability to follow. One sank deep into her belly. The other sank deep into her throat.

  The strangled cry that erupted from Piglet was followed by a crackling sound of fire from her two wounds. Smoke erupted from them.

  “Loaded,” said the crew officer.

  Melaki repeated the patterns, and then nodded.

  Two more bolts flew and both erupted in flames, though not as hot as before. They accelerated, though, just as fast.

  At the last moment, he formed a force pattern in his mind similar to the force used to cause pressure. His energy drained fast.

  Piglet had turned, bleeding black rivulets of smoking ooze. It was trying to get away. The two bolts impacted, one straight into the rolls of her back, deep. The other went wide and he threw his third pattern on that one. The bolt sank into Piglet's shoulder and a ripping sound could be heard above the din of battle. Piglet's flesh ruptured at the shoulder in a violent explosion of force. An enormous flabby arm went spinning off over the houses.

  Piglet fell.

  “Forward!” An officer's shout was drowned out by cheers and shouts of vengeance. The imperial soldiers poured out of the entry and charged the stricken Piglet. The pouring soldiers fanned out, pushing the remaining zombies back while others set to work hacking and stabbing at Piglet until it no longer moved.

  Melaki sank to the side of the ballistae fortification, sitting heavily. He felt drained.

  “Come to me; come to your doom.”

  “Shut up.”

  The crew looked at him oddly, wondering if he meant to stop cheering.

  He shook his head and waved them off. “Not you.”

  Roke clapped him on the shoulder. “Impressive.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “You look weary?”

  “Yes, I do look weary. You know why? Because I am weary. That took a lot out of me.”

  “You will not have much time to rest. Once those zombies are cleared, you should head to the palace.”

  Yes, the palace. The bad things always want a palace here on Earth. They are all different versions of Talin – of the empire. “Yes, yes, fine.”

  “The way is clear.”

  Melaki got to his feet and heaved his pack and satchel. With a nod to Roke, he went through the barricade gate.

  The soldiers called luck to him as he passed.

  He paused for a moment to regard Piglet. It smelled even worse than it looked and he moved on quickly to avoid losing his break
fast. Soldiers were dismembering it, just in case.

  Force could bypass magic shields if used on something not magical. That was interesting. He wished he could find a place to scribble that note but he could feel the eyes of hundreds on him as he walked up the broad avenue and up the hill.

  At the very top the avenue sloped down, out of the imperial view, towards the palace. It was a large collection of buildings, but in the vein he had seen at Kellerran. The domed structure would be the throne room.

  He did not sense forward; there was no need. And though his trek seemed to take an hour, he went unmolested by undead. But he felt the eyes on him. The dead eyes. The natural ones, recently dead and the unnatural ones, long dead and summoned recently. But he felt no threat. He felt a strange quiet.

  The entire imperial army could have barreled in and conquered... But no, this eery quiet was for him. He felt the eyes. He felt the undead. They were all around him. He half wanted to turn around and tell Roke and the imperials to flee the island. There were far more undead here than they imagined.

  But he was drawn on towards and through the gates of the palace. Strange things regarded him from their perches atop the walls. Half-human, half animal. Things with wings.

  What can I possibly do against all this? I have not a speck of power compared to what controls all of this, even when rested. Is this my doom, as the necromancer suggested? Is this my end? Will there be an afterlife? Will Tila be there?

  Without a conviction to live – with his previous hopes of leaving the empire dashed – he entered the palace building. What did he have to lose? He had little to gain except perhaps the promise of freedom if he could survive. The palace was white marble, soaring overhead with long windows of colored glass. The entry contained a ghoul holding a broom of all things.

  The thing pointed to a doorway, crazy and evil eyes rolling to regard him no matter how it turned or where he moved. It went back to sweeping.

  The normalcy of the act struck Melaki and put him off balance. He went through the door, feeling as if every step were going to be his last. As if at any second, the undead would erupt at him and overwhelm him.

  He did not extend his senses. The usage of power would have been pointless; he could feel the evil like a slick of slime on his mind. In the throne room. He followed the corridor as it turned back and headed along the central axis. Rooms were passed, doors closed. Ahead were the grand double doors of the King's sanctuary. Two skeletons stood before it, clutching halberds. Their heads followed him.