Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE Melvekior

  CHAPTER TWO Lessons in Time

  CHAPTER THREE Summershade

  CHAPTER FOUR Ottkatla

  CHAPTER FIVE Instruction

  CHAPTER SIX The Prince

  CHAPTER SEVEN Lessons in Loss

  CHAPTER EIGHT Heiligr

  CHAPTER NINE Ushatr

  CHAPTER TEN Trial by Combat

  CHAPTER ELEVEN God and the Hammer

  CHAPTER TWELVE Brothers of the Hammer

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Passing Out

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Village of the Damned

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN Katerine

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Sickness and Messengers

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Truth and More

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Mikael

  CHAPTER NINETEEN Strange Treachery

  CHAPTER TWENTY Melvekior Sets Off

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Janesca

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Propositions and Force

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The Maid and the Goblin

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR All Gone Wrong

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Forester's

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX The Immortal City

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Galtian

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Finulia

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Treachery Everywhere!!

  CHAPTER THIRTY Surprise

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE King Calra Alpre

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Festival

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Fight

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Hell

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Legacy

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Three Kings

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN The Soulless One

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Found Faith

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE Encounters

  CHAPTER FORTY Prison

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Sunar

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO Mine

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE Unexpected

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR Temporary Reprieves

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE Reckoning

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX Decisions

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN Prisoner

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT Rebellion

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE Pardons and Rats

  CHAPTER FIFTY They Come

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE Beyond the Grave

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO Epilogue: Ottkatla

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE Epilogue: Janesca

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR Epilogue: Sjarcu

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE Epilogue: Others

  CHAPTER ONE

  Melvekior

  “There was never a day I didn’t think of her.” - Melvekior

  There was barely enough light to see, but what little escaped from the hooded lantern in the hands of the child was enough to illuminate the entirety of the canvas. He was dwarfed by it, life-sized as the likeness was.

  “Mordecai the Austere. 2nd Earl of Martelle,” read the plaque at the base of the painting. His great-grandfather. He could see the similarities when he thought of his father. The same shock of hair, gray on Mordecai, the color of straw on Mikael, though heading the way of his ancestor, swept back from the forehead. The same, almost perpetual, sneer and effortless haughtiness; yes that was the word for it. Even he, as Mikael’s only son, and heir, received little in the way of affection from his father. He knew his father loved him, but there was a distance almost impossible to bridge that was plain to him even at this tender age.

  “He was a rotten bastard you know?” came the voice from the darkness, softly spoken yet strong, the speaker used to command.

  Melvekior, the twelve year old son of the Earl of Martelle and destined himself to be the next bearer of that title, knew full well that his father had entered the dining hall not long after him so was not surprised by the interjection.

  “Forgive me for waking you, father. It occurred to me as I slept that I should know ‘who’ I was and ‘how’ I was.”

  “What you make yerself into is more important than all that stuff and nonsense, boy,” spoke Mikael in no louder a voice. He walked over to a dark wood bar and poured out a large glass of halmsch, a very heavy and very sweet fortified wine. He then poured another and walked over to place it on the corner of the dining table near where the boy stood, whose eyes were now on his father rather than their forebear.

  “Thank you, father,” he said trying to sound casual while secretly astonished and simultaneously overjoyed by the symbolism displayed by this simple act. Never before had he been allowed alcohol.

  The taste was quite contrary to what he had expected and he took too large a mouthful, innocent of the impact it would have. He coughed and spluttered a little, relieved that his father refrained from the sort of sarcasm so beloved of him. Only then did he realize how cold he was, dressed simply in a thin nightgown suitable only for the journey from his bed to his dressing room. The liquor had a pleasant warming effect and he settled into a large leather chair across from his father, savoring the moment. The lantern he placed on the small round table in between them, using its base to move aside the delicately laced circle of cloth meant to protect the table.

  The silence between the two extended further than mere familial comfort and Melvekior knew he should offer some insight. His father, forever the didact, betrayed none of his demands in his demeanor, yet his son understood. Too often had he waited too long and the results had been undesirable.

  “I have two questions, father,” he began, draining the last of the thick liquid from the glass, emboldened by the inhibition reducing qualities of the wine. He wasn’t brave enough to ask the question he really wanted answers to; that would merely ruin this rare moment of closeness twixt father and son. “Why does my sudden quest for identity warrant this,” he raised his glass in reference, “treatment? For surely they are related, and why are you up at this hour watching me?”

  “Aye, ye’ll have yer answers. My grand’da has nothing to offer you and I wanted to make sure that was understood. If for him, this wine you drank would be had by another. The Dartonnes or the Cammevar or another o’ them noble houses with more money than heart. That painting is there to remind me, and now you, that to blame others for our misfortunes is the worst stupidity and goin’ soft comes a close second.” Mikael stood and poured himself another glass of the thick liquid, coming to the end of the bottle. His movements created shadows against the wall and Melvekior jumped slightly, the halmsch having numbed his perceptions somewhat.

  Suddenly remembering his father’s words, he forced himself to awareness, “What’s the second answer, then?”

  “Self-awareness, boy. Ye’re startin’ to think about yer purpose and yer place in this world. Ye are becoming a man and that’s worth a drink of anyone’s.” He drained his glass in salute, smacked his lips and murmured a goodnight.

  Melvekior, now more sleepy than he’d a right to be, responded with “but why are you up, father?”

  “Just checkin’ on you, son, there’s some odd characters abroad now.” He left without a further word and the young man settled down into the comfortably cushioned chair and drifted off to sleep.

  “Is there someone to fear, Aeldryn?”

  “Yes. I will be a force to be feared, if ever again you come near me with alcohol on your breath and a clouded mind.” The Aelvar was neither subtle nor scared. Tutor to the young noble and the only one of his kind Melvekior had ever seen. Or even heard of associating with the regular folk of the Three Kingdoms.

  Melvekior regarded him through a haze and a headache. The single glass of halmsch his father gave him had caused him to rise late, dress hastily and put paid to the limited concentration a twelve year old possessed. Aeldryn was of above average height, though not freakishly so and had human attributes, his hair as blond as Melvekior’s, his eyes as blue. In fact,
Melvekior wondered why anyone would consider him any different to anyone else. His bearing, unearthly intelligence and unusual perspectives were all that differentiated him from a Three Kingdoms citizen. The legends that surrounded his people though made him seem exotic. They were rumored to have incredible magical powers, but Aeldryn would, disappointingly, admit to nothing of the sort. They were heathens, that was certain and followed strange Gods. This was another oddity about Aeldryn’s presence here. The first being that Aelvar didn’t reveal themselves often to outsiders and he would not enter into a discussion about this, secondly that his father would allow such an unbeliever in his home. Their family had an historically close relationship with the Church.

  They sat at a large table in the library, papers and maps strewn haphazardly across the large slab of polished and stained wood. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling on three walls, filled with hardcover tomes, papers glued together and dozens of maps and loose sheets in no sort of order. Aeldryn could always be found here, his elegant nose in a book, his blue robes splayed over his knees as he sat cross-legged on the floor, eschewing the use of chairs whilst concentrating. Now, though, he stood, while Melvekior sat and made an attempt to seem interested in the displacement and eventual enslavement of the barbaric Mountain People.

  The young Earl-to-be squinted up at his mentor. “I promise you I will never drink another drop of wine,” he said earnestly.

  “One of the finest promises a young man can make and the easiest to break,” said Aeldryn. “Best that you do not make such a claim, but,” he straightened up and looked up, through the skylight, “as it’s such a grand morning, let us take our lessons outside.” The vaulted ceiling was composed entirely of glass, the entire library a recent addition to the keep, the books rescued from a life of darkness in an old wine cellar. A marvelous contraption of ropes and shutters enabled one to create as much shade or allow in as much sun as was required by simply turning a pole against the wall. Today, they were fully open, the light perfect for reading, but not ideal for a first hangover.

  Melvekior pushed himself to his feet, not sure that Aeldryn’s plan was a good one.He followed his teacher into the main house, through the dining room where he’d spent the night curled up on a chair and then out through the back doors. The gardens were well kept, another hobby of the Aelvar’s and the section behind the dining room was ideal for studying, possessed of a table and chairs as it was. Ostensibly for breakfasting, the small round table would do as well for writing or placing papers on, but never had Aeldryn mixed outside lessons with the sorts of education that required books or pens. This would be all about the world around them and Melvekior felt a frisson of excitement. He was sure that Aeldryn possessed certain natural gifts that superseded the order of things and was desperate to learn these forbidden arts.Every time he broached the subject he would be silenced, but sometimes, when pontificating passionately about the way of nature, strange things would happen. His hands would glow almost, bird song would become much louder and once Melvekior was sure he saw what could have been described as a small winged creature composed entirely of sunlight. Aeldryn dismissed the inevitable questioning as fanciful imaginings but without the usual conviction he carried in his voice.

  The east side of the house, apart from the patio on which the furniture sat, was an expanse of a deep green, well maintained grass ringed with flowery borders before giving way to the woods that enclosed Saens Martelle on three sides and almost a fourth. Even during the day, the Mellek Woods looked inhospitable. Named after the patriarch of the Martelle clan who built the original family seat almost a century previous, it was considered ill-luck to take an ax to any of the trees and therefore no path lay through the maze of oaks, beeches and northern pine. It was out of bounds to Melvekior and he had no desire to plumb its murky depths. Often he thought he could see movement from within it and frequently would find droppings in the grass, which he initially took to Aeldryn for identification until the housemaids realized what he was doing and caused an unrealistic fuss.

  “It is a fine day and the Sun blesses us with His warmth, let us sit upon the grass and I will tell you tales of the forest.” Aeldryn gestured grandly; for all his age, and Melvekior guessed him to be ancient, he still took immense pleasure in the feel of grass upon his bare feet and the sun on his cheek. Gathering his robes about him he lowered himself to the ground sedately, another reason Melvekior felt him to be older than he appeared, and sighed in contentment.

  The young Count dropped to the ground unceremoniously, glad of the opportunity to rest his oddly aching muscles. The grass cushioned his behind nicely and he immediately felt more relaxed. Squinting his eyes against the bright sunlight, he looked around them, making doubly sure there were no book or writing implements in sight. There were not, he smiled absent-mindedly, starting to feel sleepy again.

  “We’ll defer the Mountain People to another time, one more suited to their particular climactic conditions.” As always he seemed smugly proud of any alliteration or rhymes in his speech. It wasn’t hollow pride though, he spoke at least half a dozen languages well enough to impress a native speaker with flowery phrasing. “Today, we will take our cue from nature and there it is right there.” He raised an eyebrow at his young charge.

  “What?” Melvekior blurted louder than he intended, concerned that he missed something in his doziness. He saw a maid in a bedroom on the second floor of the keep and she waved down at him with a smile. He waved briefly and smiled back, hoping not to be rude but still trying to notice what Aeldryn had mentioned.

  “I see nothing, maestro,” he used the honorific in an attempt to deflect any consternation his obliviousness may have caused.

  “Indeed, nothing but that pretty young lady in your father’s bedroom. I too noticed her, but her nature is not one we will be studying today, or in fact on any day soon. Close your eyes, forget what you can or cannot see, and tell me what you sense.”

  Melvekior put his arms behind him and leaned back, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath. Absolutely nothing. It was a calm day, the breeze almost imperceptible. He inhaled deeply through his nose, hoping to catch a whiff of something, anything. Maybe one of the flowers in Aeldryn’s gardens, an elderflower; that had a strong smell he remembered, but Summer had passed and this wasn’t the time for that. He had a brief vision; a day similar to this at the front of the house under the giant willow tree. His mother sat on the grass, her head slightly tilted as she was wont to do, hair worn to the side, the sun shining in his eyes making it difficult to see. She was saying something but he couldn’t quite hear what it was and it produced in him a brief moment of melancholy.

  He felt a poke in his side, “Enough thinking, open yourself up to that which is around you!”

  Forcing the thoughts of his mother away, the boy let his training take over and let his body relax, like he did when he wanted to surrender himself to sleep. He imagined, or experienced, his physical self flattening out, his consciousness expanding beyond the borders of his body and then it was there. The birdsong.

  The more he listened, the more he could make out. There was at least half a dozen different birds calling and squawking all around him and even above his head. He opened his eyes and discovered his tutor standing over him, his long thin arm held out. He grabbed hold of the delicate, yet surprisingly strong hand and allowed himself to be pulled upright.

  “Are those real?” He’d never heard so many at once before.

  “All quite real, I assure you that you have never listened properly before. The birds are always there. They feed on insects and small rodents, keeping the numbers down to stop them taking over the land. They also spread vegetation, seeds and the like. Often unknowingly, on their little talons or stuck to their feathers, but often purposely, to build their stick lairs or decorate already existing nests.” He looked sharply at the boy who had laughed at this last statement. “You think birds do not appreciate the beauty of form as we do? Look to their gay colors and variegated coat
s. Impudent rogue!” Aeldryn swiped playfully at him, laughing now too.

  Of a sudden, the air was cold, and Melvekior tensed, straightening up, laughter instantly absent. He saw a shadow through the trees. Something on its hind legs. Aeldryn in turn must have noticed his charge’s reaction for he spun round and then as quickly spun back. “Lesson over. Time for lunch now,” and pulled at the boy’s arm.

  “No, someone is in the woods, they might be lost.” He tried to pull his arm back, but the grip was steely. Aeldryn was certainly not the soft scholar he appeared.

  “There is nobody there. If anything it is two bucks vying for supremacy. When the season comes…” he stopped there, his natural urge to teach overcome by something more urgent.

  Melvekior could smell something in the air. Like freshly tilled earth combined with the sweet decay of moldering fruit and he looked back as Aeldryn dragged him towards the house with anxious force. He was sure that he could see something in the forest. A shadow, a dark shape between two trees at the edge of the gardens and it was facing them and watching them.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed as Aeldryn twisted his arm, hard. He stumbled through the dining room door, into the safety of the house and only then did he realize that he was scared. The older man pulled the doors shut smartly and pulled the curtains to.

  “There, that will keep out the chill. Odd that, eh lad?”

  Normally not very observant, Melvekior sensed that Aeldryn was pretending somehow. Something was definitely out of the ordinary.

  “I’m suddenly very hungry; why don’t we do lessons in the kitchen? I’ll explain the theory behind how Magret makes those huge dumplings.” Aeldryn’s voice was still tense but Melvekior did feel hungry and maybe he could convince Magret that she needed to cook some as part of his schoolwork.

  With his mind on food instead of dark shapes, Melvekior rushed ahead to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lessons in Time

  “Why would any parent abandon his, or her, child to the cold world without providing it with a weapon and a sense of self-preservation?” - Melvekior