Melanthrix the Mage

by Robert Reginald

  Arik touched the middle finger of his right hand to the bare arm of his mentor, and quickly re-established a long-familiar contact; the latter immediately began transfer­ring images of the candidates and their accomplishments to the hieromonk.

  “Hmm, Radó seems rather immature to me, even for his young age,” Arik said. “I think I’ll pass on him this time. Brother Bayánik is at least passable, although none of this group demonstrates particularly strong lan­guage skills. Yevstáfy looks presentable, but he’s not quite adept yet, is he? He’s young enough that I can wait an­other year for him, too. I’ll test Bayánik tomorrow. But what about Afanásy, whom we discussed last year? He was a little green then, and we had such a good candidate in Görtenz that he was outclassed.”

  The abbot sighed deeply. “Ah yes, Brother Afanásy. Well, after some reflection, I do not think that friend Afanásy had a particularly good year, and I believe we should wait for him to mature a little more.”

  “You know as well as I that we must take these boys at just the right age if they’re to be trained properly,” Arik said. “How old is he? Twelve, thirteen at most? If he’s going to be tested, it must be now.”

  Jován moved his left arm back and broke contact, rubbing his hands together to ease the strain.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I can’t recommend him.”

  Arik looked his friend in the eye. “Why? What­ever has he done?”

  The older man rested his chin in his right hand, and idly began scratching his beard.

  “It is not so much what he’s done, father,” he said, “as what he hasn’t done. Afanásy handles all the chores as­signed to him, but he does no more. He attends mass and prayers as required, but he does no more. He performs his mental exercises, but he does no more. He trains with the defensemen, subject to his physical limitations, but he does no more. Indeed, with such things he never seems to do anything more than he has to.”

  The abbot cleared his throat.

  “And yet, his studies are exemplary. He reads bet­ter than most of the monks resident here. He loves to pe­ruse obscure texts and scrolls. I found him one day pour­ing through the old chronicles of the abbey, and when I asked him what he could possibly find of interest there, he quite simply replied: ‘Everything.’

  “And I believed him,. I be­lieved him, Arik! Afanásy has a great facility for lan­guage. From personal observation, I know that he reads some Greek and Latin, Slavonic and Magyar, perhaps even a touch of the Araby script, although no one has taught him that. He poses questions constantly to our resident masters, but some of his knowledge is self-taught. His Psairothi potential is unquestionably high: his lines are well-devel­oped, and he has met every challenge our adepts can throw at him. Indeed, I suspect that he can do even more than he admits or knows.

  “But that’s precisely the problem that I have with this boy, Arik: what he knows and what he will admit to knowing. For some months I’ve had the distinct feeling that he’s been holding back from me. I feel uncomfortable around him, and I know very well that it’s my failing. I ask God for His guidance, remembering certain ‘difficult’ pupils that I’ve had in the past, and I do sense that he’s trying to touch me in ways that I just don’t understand and to which I can’t respond.

  “I’m also concerned that he seems to have few friends his own age, if any. God knows that I’ve tried my best to reach him, but there is very little response beyond the usual, the most respectful, ‘Yes, Father Abbot.’ He’s quiet and agreeable at all times, almost to a fault, but I simply don’t know what’s going on in that little mind of his. I would rather see some passion there, some intensity, instead of the perfectly composed little gentleman. It’s, well, it’s unnatural.”

  The visiting hieromonk took a poker and stirred the unburnt portions of the wood in the fireplace, creating a cloud of sparks. He brushed one out of his beard before it took hold.

  “You’ve given me much to consider, my friend,” Arik said. “I had no idea that little Athy had changed so much. Do you remember his first day here? He didn’t shed one tear, even though I’m sure he was scared beyond his wits. There was no whimpering, no mewling, even back then. I don’t think I ever told you this, but only once on that long journey did he ever ask about his mother. He didn’t especially want his mother, mind, he just wanted to know what had become of her. I couldn’t tell him, of course, then or now.”

  “Oh yes,” the older man said, “I remember him, all right, and what a well-behaved little lad he was, too. Brother Mílo gathered him up in his bear-like arms, and asked: ‘Are you going to be a big boy now?’ Athy looked him straight in the eye and said: ‘Yes, sir. Yes, I am.’ Everyone laughed. He did not like being laughed at, even at that young age. Those were the days, eh?”

  Jován suddenly pushed his chair back and threw his hands out towards the fireplace.

  “What’s that?” he yelled, generating an orange flame of protection from his rings.

  Arik came to his feet in one smooth motion, pulling a long dagger from its hidden sheath.

  “Where?” he asked. He quickly scanned the room. “I see nothing but smoke and fire and shadow.”

  “I could have sworn...,” the abbot said. He rubbed his brows and sighed. “I must be getting old, Arik. I thought I saw a pair of eyes staring at me out of the flames. Then I blinked and they were gone. This business with the Nörrlanders must be affecting me more than I’d thought.”

  Then he sat back and yawned widely.

  “The bell for evening prayers will be tolling soon,” the old man said. “We must go prepare ourselves. I give you permission to test the acolyte Athanasios on the mor­row. Perhaps we should not deny him the same chance that we were given at his age, the same opportunity to succeed or fail on his own merits.”

  He awkwardly reached for the cane laying to one side of his chair, staggered to his feet, and then embraced the traveler.

  “I’ll see you at prayers, Father Arik. Peace be unto you, my old friend.”

  “And to you, Father Abbot,” the hieromonk said. “And to you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I SHALL NAME HIM Afanásy”

  On his cot in the dormitory for boys aged ten to thirteen, Afanásy jolted awake out of his trance, then just as quickly settled back down again. He’d nearly been caught by Jován, bless his interferring soul, but the boy’s fear was quickly overwhelmed by the surge of excitement that he felt at having successfully penetrated the abbot’s antechamber.

  They know who I am! he thought to himself, and they haven’t told me. Why? I must find out.

  Earlier that week he had finally unearthed a cryptic entry in the old ledger books of the abbey, in a volume dated ii Kyprianos iii. On the second day of May in the Year of Our Lord 1166, the abbot had noted in his cramped Greek lettering:

  “F[ea]st. [of] S[ain]t. Athanasios. AR here with Child, after delay en route. Boy healthy. In honor of the Pillar of the Church, whose celebratio this is, I shall name him Afanásy.”

  This child was obviously he, but what did it mean? And who was the mother that the two men had discussed a few moments ago? What about his father? He would give anything to know the answers to these questions. He would know the answers, no matter the price.

  He had carefully torn the ledger page from the book, folded it, and put it with his small cumulation of pre­cious things, things that belonged to him, not the church. These included a miniature bronze torc inscribed on the in­side with incuse cuneiform lettering, which he had owned (and had been trying to decipher) for as long as he could remember; a curious green crystal that someone had left in his room a year after his arrival; and a few other trinkets that he had kept for no reason that he could understand.

  Manipulating the visiting hieromonk hadn’t been all that difficult, although he still had to be very careful around Jován. The abbot somehow had notions about his abilities that weren’t too far from the truth. It was time to move on before he was accidentally discovered. He’d outgrown this
place anyway, had read all of the scrolls and volumes in the library, and even some hidden books in the monks’ quar­ters, including one filled with writings of a salacious na­ture. The volumes that he really wanted to peruse, the ones referred to cryptically by various masters of the Psairothi arts, were just not here, but he would find them somewhere else, never mind. And then he would know everything that he wanted to learn.

  Afanásy’s musings were suddenly interrupted by a shower of water and a howl of laughter. He looked up to see a small cloud dissipating above his head, and just be­yond his bed a crowd of his stupid compagnons headed by the acolyte Benedím.

  “Nasty is a patsy,” they chanted, “Nasty is a patsy.”

  “What’s the matter, Nasty?” yelled Benedím, “did our naughty little boy wet his panties?”

  Which again prompted catcalls and laughter from the boy’s dozen accomplices.

  Afanásy dug his fingers into his hands, drawing blood, then rubbed his palms together, smearing the sacrifi­cial offering on his ka-ring, all the while muttering to him­self in Greek, “Mênin aeide, Thea.” He took a deep breath, gently drawing all the moisture out from his clothes and bedding, and then carefully breathed out again through his slightly opened hands, blowing the vapor toward the boys. They would wake in the middle of the night, having wet their beds quite thoroughly. Benedím would find him­self coming and going both ways, and wouldn’t be able to stop until morning. Afanásy grinned to himself in satisfac­tion. When you came right down to it, the dumb ones were surprisingly easy to twist.

  “Boys, boys, now stop this,” the voice of Brother Nathanaêl boomed from across the room. “Enough! What’s the matter with you, playing these kinds of pranks on each other? Enough, I say. Do you want me to report you to Father Abbot? Now, settle down on your cots be­fore you go off to prayers. If you’re not careful, the Dark-Haired Man will get you for sure!”

  “Ah, everybody knows there ain’t no Dark-Haired Man,” Benedím said, drawing gasps from his accom­plices, for no one had ever been foolish enough to chal­lenge the dormitory monk directly.

  “What did you say?” Brother Nathanaêl said, turning on Benedím.

  He grabbed the boy by both arms and yanked him off the floor.

  “What did you say?” the monk repeated.

  “Friend Benedím,” he said, “you will work garde-robe duty for the next ten days. By yourself. And if I do not find all of them spotless of piss and poop each and every day, your service will be extended until such time as they are. And, in your spare time, which you seem to have so much of these days, you will pray in the Chapel of Saint Abêl for God’s forgiveness of your many detestable sins.”

  He then released the boy and turned his attention to the others.

  “As for the rest of you, Brother Nate has a little word of advice: do not doubt the power of evil. Satan is as real as Almighty God Himself, and he’s always eager to capture the souls of innocent little boys. And his chiefest ally, his greatest servant, is The Dark-Haired Man.”

  Nathanaêl set his fists on his hips and proceeded to declaim with some evident relish.

  “Now let me tell you something about The Dark-Haired Man,” he said. “He was once just like you and me, lads, just another young boy, unspoiled and true to the Holy Faith. They say that he lived in the Duchy of Pynchóv, being the younger son of a wealthy nobleman of that place, a century or more ago.

  “Then one day, not very long after he reached his eighteenth birthday, he was riding in the woods and met a well-dressed man outfitted all in black, who saluted him and said: ‘Aren’t you Lord so-and-so? Why, I’ve heard such good things about you, such promising things. What a shame your brother will inherit your father’s title and you’ll get noth­ing. He’s stupid and ugly, and you’re handsome and smart.’

  “‘Yes,’ said the boy, ‘all this is true, but what can I do about it? The law is the law, and he is, after all, first-born.’

  “‘Ah,’ the devil said, for that’s who he was, my boys, the Evil One himself, ‘Should he meet with a small accident before he marries, why, you would be first-born.’ And so it happened. But the duke of that time, a powerful Psairothi, somehow discovered the crime and challenged the lad to the Code Duëllo. But he, being the coward that he was, refused the fight and ran away, vanishing before he could be caught.

  “Today he roams the wilderness of the north, his dark hair tumbling loose down his back, looking for other young men to seduce into his evil ways. The devil gave him long life and the ability to change his shape at will, as­suming the forms of beasts and men alike; but to sustain himself he must feed on the blood and souls of innocent boys. He has long yellow teeth”—he mimicked them with a quick downward slash of two fingers—“and glowing red eyes”—he used his hands to form two circles around his own sockets—“and a hideously crook’d nose, but he shuns the True Cross and can be seared with holy water. He fears the bright light of day.

  “Do not scoff at his existence, my boys, for I have seen this foul fiend with mine own eyes, having narrowly escaped his clutches in my youth. Yea, I could even smell his rotten breath scorching my face. Thank the Holy God that I wore about my neck an icon of Mary the Mother of Jesus, or I would be dead, dead, I say, or even worse, made one of his slobbering slaves! ’Ware The Dark-Haired Man!”

  The monk drew his six-foot frame up to its fullest extent, raised his arms over his head, and yodled the low, moaning cry of the damned. His fingers cast a long, wa­vering shadow that ran up the cots to the far wall.

  “Now go to prayers, the lot of ye!” Brother Nathanaêl shouted, and they all ran off squealing, like mice scurrying for their hidey-holes.

  All, that is, save the acolyte Afanásy, still sitting on his dry bed, who quite pa­tiently asked: “And what happened then, sir?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”

  The next morning, the Feast of Saint Pêrêgrinos the Beknighted, dawned fair and warm, with a light breeze blowing from the south. After morning prayers the visiting hieromonk tested the acolyte Bayánik and found him want­ing. He then broke bread with the abbot, and talked to him again for an­other hour, before the latter left to attend to the monastery defenses. As soon as he was alone, Arik sum­moned Afanásy to Jován’s chambers.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked the boy.

  Afanásy paused a moment before responding.

  “You’re the one who brought me here, aren’t you, sir?”

  Arik started.

  “Who told you that, son?” the priest asked.

  “No one, father,” came the response.

  The hieromonk ran his hand over the stubble of his bare head.

  “Let’s start over again, shall we, lad? I’m Father Arik Rufímovich, and I’m here to test you for possible training at the Megalê tou Genous Scholê, the Great School of the People, in Paltyrrha. Would you like that, friend Athanasios?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said.

  “Good,” Arik said. “I’m told that you know the Neustrian game, les échecs. Since you must relax be­fore I can test your abilities properly, I propose that we play a match first. The abbot’s pieces have been laid out for us before you. All you need to do is to pull up a stool. Which color would you like?”

  “Black, sir,” Afanásy said.

  “Why black?” Arik said.

  “It’s easier to defend than attack,” the boy said, “and I like black.”

  “Very well, then, since I’m white, I’ll begin by moving my pawn two spaces forward, thus. Now, it’s your turn,” the hieromonk said.

  But when Afanásy touched his black pawn to make the counter­move, suddenly his left hand was riveted to the board, and his eyes rolled upward into their sockets as a surge of energy swept up his arm into his body, momentar­ily driving out his consciousness. When he could see again, he had been transited to another reality.

  He was standing on a flat plain hatched with strange cross­marks. Surrounding him on eithe
r side were his com­rades-in-arms, all dressed alike and ranged in two lines. His body was covered in black armor and his left hand gripped an upright sword. On the opposite side of the field was another group of warriors clothed from head to toe in white armor, also in two lines. Two of the soldiers, one of each color, had already faced off in the center of the plain.

  Afanásy instinctively tensed, looking right and left for any danger to his king, then almost fled the field when he saw the long black hair writhing and moving as it hung behind his monarch’s helmet. The king’s head turned down and looked right at him, and Afanásy noticed two red spots where the eyes should have been.

  “What’s the matter, little boy?” the monarch hissed, a forked tongue flickering out from the opening in his ar­mor. “S-snake got your tongue?”

  And then Afanásy would have run, run as fast as his short legs could carry him, run anywhere but this awful place of death, except that he couldn’t. He was nailed to his square, unable to leave it, because it wasn’t his time. He was still looking at his terrible king when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. A white knight had moved in front of the white pawns onto the field opposite him.

  “Your turn, little boy,” the black monarch said.

  Afanásy found himself leaping over the soldier in front of him, moving sideways to offset the move of the white knight opposite. He could only move when it was his turn, and then only in ways prescribed by the rules; otherwise, he was stuck within the confines of his square. Pieces began to fall as the game progressed, but here, in­stead of cleanly being removed from the board, they were struck down by the awful weapons of war, with limbs and heads being hacked off and blood spurting everywhere, with men and horses groaning their death rattles and crying piteously for a succor which never came. But still the game remorselessly moved toward its end, as the number of players steadily diminished through deliberate murder and assassination.