by Marin Landis
“This boy,” Melvekior mimicked his tutor’s tone, “is more grateful to you both than words can describe but I no longer require neither ale nor meditation.”
“Mi’lord…” started Magret. She had started calling him this since the Prince’s visit. It was proper after all, but she still treated him like a seven year old with skinned knees and a tear-stained face.
“Melvekior!” began Aeldryn.
“Mi’lords and Melvekiors nothing, you’ve both got better things to do than tend to a moping youth.” He stepped over the threshold of his room and looked down the corridor to where a guard had been stationed whenever any of the family were asleep. “Frammel, will you send for Aldous please.”
He looked back at the pair that had awoken him; fat, ruddy cheeked Magret and tall, noble, arrogantly humble Aeldryn whose full name was unpronounceable. She had a smirk on her face and his eyes were slightly widened, an eyebrow raised.
“Yes, ok, I hope you’re both happy, you’ve got what you wanted.”
Magret laughed kind-heartedly and headed back to the kitchen, dropping off one of her parcels at the guard post, a small chair and a desk, for Frammel and his relief.
“While Aldous and what he represents is narrow and dogmatic, there is ultimate truth there. You will find greater and more beneficial solace with Mithras than in the dregs of a tankard. My initial recommendation, though crass, should still be given consideration.” Both Mikael and Aeldryn had agreed that the best course of action for the lovesick fifteen year old would be to employ the services of a courtesan. His father had even sent Aeldryn along with a bag full of gold coins to pay for such an event. Melvekior had been furious, yet secretly tempted. He didn’t see how this would alleviate his feelings of loss, though both had suggested it would be an efficacious way to speed up his recovery from the shock of Ottkatla’s sudden departure. The gold was in his bedside drawer, a constant reminder of its purpose.
Aldous was the Priest of Mithras who presided over the area in which Saens Martelle sat. He was a family friend, though Melvekior wasn’t very fond of him, and had administered his rite of passage into manhood as well as his parent’s wedding.
“Once I have seen Aldous, I will send Frammel for a woman. Let us speak of it no more.” He turned to re-enter his room and then thought better of it. “Pastaya,” he addressed him formally, “I will forever be grateful for everything you have done for me.” Tears unbidden filled his eye and he felt a sudden lump in his throat, but he pushed past it. “I, I just wanted you to know.” He didn’t really know how to say thank you effectively to his mentor for he didn’t yet know why Aeldryn had agreed to be his tutor nor enough about his people’s customs to understand the correct manner of delivering gratitude. In all this time, he hadn’t asked, he realized, his selfishness suddenly shaming him. “Also, please can I learn more about the Aelvar and where you come from.”
“Through more than my tutelage will you discover all these things about yourself, Melvekior. You are becoming a man and self-aware; you do yourself proud. We will talk of Aelvarim soon.” He reached out his hand, with its long, bony fingers and ruffled the boy’s hair. An unusual gesture for him and well received by the bereft young man. Aeldryn smiled and walked away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Heiligr
“The Heiligr were founded to give every man the chance to serve his God. For what else is there?” - Ushatr
Aldous found Melvekior whilst he was having his dinner; his appetite returned. He was alone in the dining room, only the paintings of his forebears large as life looking down on him for company. When he saw the priest enter he put his knife and fork down, stood, wiped his mouth with a napkin and held out his hand for the priest to shake.
Father Aldous was an odd sort of shape. His face wasn’t fat in the slightest and his legs were thin, even skinny. Yet the rest of him could be described by a kind man as corpulent. What little graying hair he had left he grew long and wore tied back and on his chin in a strip as wide as two fingers. He had a ready smile but it wasn’t comforting, it was lustful, even greedy.
“Father Aldous, thank you for coming, I did not expect you so soon.” He motioned for the priest to sit next to him at the table.
“This visit is overdue, young Master. I must admit, the company your father keeps is most unusual and I do not care for much of it.” Mountain folks with their heathen ways and numerous, uncaring Gods and the semi-legendary Aelvar who claim to be descendants of Gods, is what he meant. Mithraic canon requires His priests to be polite if utterly intolerant.
“I understand that, Father Aldous. My father has become unconcerned with people’s beliefs, merely how they prove themselves in other ways. Ways of which you would also undoubtedly approve.” Melvekior wanted the old priest to like him but never missed an opportunity to defend his father.
“My Gardens are tended by the Virtuous,” Aldous quoted scripture, the words given to the Most High by Mithras himself. “That doesn’t mean I have to encourage their behavior, nor do I desire to be around them. I am grateful that neither are here.”
“The Mountain Woman is no longer resident,” he said, not wanting to sound like he cared one way or the other.
“I see. Let us get to the point, Count Martelle, you didn’t invite me here for tea. Evidently.”
Self-righteous tosser, thought Melvekior, I’m not going to give you any tea for that. “I am transparent as always, Father. Indeed, I seek a boon. I would like to join the Church, as a crusader.”
If portly, self-important Father Aldous could have looked more surprised, Melvekior couldn’t imagine how. His eyes widened and for a few seconds he merely stared, then he let out a short laugh.
“I see, you jest,” he laughed again, less confidently now that Melvekior wasn’t joining in. “Or do you? Explain, please do.”
“No jest involved. You see, after the passing of my dear mother,” Aldous held up his hand in a blessing, “I had purpose. That purpose was to grow into a man who would make her proud. That has now happened. As you can see. Not merely grown in body, but in mind, I am finely educated and hearty in spirit. I believe that my mother would admire that whom I have become. Would you agree, Father?”
“Wholeheartedly, young Martelle; you strike an impressive figure and you are possessed of a rare wit it seems.” His attempt at comfort came across as leering, his smile more of a spreading of the mouth and his eyes closed a little. The rumor that Aldous would ‘fuck anything that moved’ didn’t seem as ludicrous as it had when Frammel voiced it from his cups one evening.
“Every man needs a goal, my tutor has told me, though he has been frightfully deficient in suggesting any, my father likewise. I cannot follow in his footsteps, there being a relative lack of war currently. Besides, Sterchan is in line for that position should, when, my father retires. What else could I do? Sit around the keep waiting for death, or marry some brainless noble’s daughter? Both amount to the same in the end. I crave meaning, Father. Direction. Stability. The Church offers that.
“The Heiligr are not to be taken lightly, young man,” he started to assert his authority. “There are vows, binding and sacred oaths and risks. Do you understand that the majority of recruits do not survive past six months, that you will be in constant peril?”
“Of course, did you think I just pulled this idea out of my backside?” he snapped. “Look, Aldous, I’ve tried to be polite but I haven’t the time, nor do I like it. This is a request at this stage. I know you cannot refuse the son of a nobleman should he wish to put himself forward but I’d prefer that I wasn’t entering the seminary under a cloud.”
That smile again. He really was an ingratiating son of a bitch, thought Melvekior.
“Of course, Lord Martelle, I will see to it straight away. I’m sure that your savage taught you well and your time amongst the Brothers of the Hammer will pass without event.” This was a veiled threat, Melvekior was sure of it.
After fantasizing briefly about holding his knife to th
e fat priest’s throat for his insolence he stood once more. “It’s been a pleasure. I’ll present myself to the Abbot in one week’s time.”
Aldous knew when he was being dismissed but he didn’t like it. His face was red and he couldn’t prevent his displeasure showing on his face. He stood up suddenly and with a simple, “Very well,” he stormed out.
Melvekior didn’t care. The Brothers of the Hammer were legend and there was no better way to test himself. That they were a religious order was all the better. He craved knowledge of the Divine and the Afterlife and Aeldryn was no help being fervently religious but closed mouthed, Ottkatla less so but her heathen gods seemed brutal and uncaring. At least Mithras was caring. Towards his followers anyway. Aeldryn’s job was done, Ottkatla’s time finished. His father was always away. There was nothing left for him here, no way to grow, nothing to achieve. It was time to leave.
CHAPTER NINE
Ushatr
“Imagine an angry bear. Now imagine you stepped on its foot with mailed boots. You’ve just imagined Ushatr in a good mood.” - Melvekior
The Monastery of the Hammer was a pleasant two day ride from Saens Martelle. There wasn’t much of a road, more like a pilgrimage trail that had been beaten out by generations of the Faithful paying advance penance by traipsing dozens of leagues to the ancient edifice. It was the wrong time of the year for the pilgrims so he encountered nobody on the way. It was the first time he had set out on his own and he left Aeldryn a short note saying that he’d be back in half a year and not to worry. Mikael would be overjoyed at his quest even more so that he meant to join the elite martial wing of the Church.
The Martelles had been patrons of the Church since Mikael rebuilt their fortune two decades ago and though the rank and file of the priesthood despised men like Melvekior and his father, they dared not voice such dissatisfaction. High Priest Hestallr was a canny man who felt that vows of poverty were nonsense. As founder of the Brothers and almost single-handedly responsible for the Church’s resurgence over the last half century, not to mention notoriously grumpy and a virtual demi-god, few would defy him.
Thus, when he arrived at his destination he was received with what passed for a warm welcome amongst the monks.
The monastery was surrounded by farm land; well-ploughed fields and well-fed kine. He could hear pigs somewhere close but couldn’t see from where and he saw no buildings, apart from the palisade wherein he imagined the main buildings would be. The path took him through what he initially took for a very small forest but then realized it was an orchard, the trees obviously tended by the Order. Apples, pears and a bright yellow fruit were being grown here, all in demarcated areas. It was an extremely quiet, calm place.
He slowed down, the morning air had taken on a pleasant aroma, something unknown to him and he found himself wishing, for not the first time, that Aeldryn were present. A man couldn’t bring his tutor along to join a martial order and prove himself a man so he dismissed his folly the instant it came to him. He was doing just fine by himself.
He almost jumped out of his skin, so deep was his reverie, when he heard the man speak.
“Where d’ye think ye’re going, boy?”
It was a man in peasant clothes, leaning against some sort of long handled farming equipment. He was a very large man, with a ruddy weatherbeaten look about him and gray hair, worn long for a farmer. His arms were heavily muscled and his feet bare. There was no sign of friendliness about him. Melvekior took a deep breath. His first inclination was to speak down to the peasant and shoo him off, but that didn’t seem a wise course of action. This was no ordinary peasant. The man’s accent reminded him of his father which was also a little unsettling.
“I’m no boy and I’m assuming this path leads to the monastery? That being the case, that is where I am going.”
The man smiled, “Aye, ye’ll be the one. A fat ninny of a man came screamin’ through here a couple of days ago shoutin’ about the son of a noble house and here ye are. Not many travelers this here way otherwise. Those cock-gobblin’ priests are of no use to me or God and if ye’re upsetting that one, I’ll let ye pass.”
Taken aback slightly by the man’s language and implied threat, Melvekior managed a smile himself. “Thank you, brother,” he said out of some instinct.
“Ye’re no Brother, yet, if ever.” His demeanor continued to be pleasant, “Rap loud on the gates and say that Ushatr has given ye leave to pass.” The man turned and started walking into the orchard, Melvekior wanted to stop him but couldn’t think what to say or even why he wanted to stop him. He waited there a couple of minutes and dismounted once he could no longer see or hear the peasant. His leather boots sank into the soft earth around the trees and he walked roughly ten feet from the path to a tree upon which he had marked Ushatr’s passing. He looked up at the branch he had witnessed brushing the top of the man’s head. He was sure it was the right one, but that would make the man a foot taller than he. Even Aeldryn was only an inch superior in height to him. No wonder they had him doing all the manual labor. He must literally be as strong as an ox.
He remounted his steed and gave him a gentle kick and slowly trotted down the path, the feeling of peace returning.
“What do you want?” There were two of them. Both dressed in peasant clothing, plain tunics, gray trews and barefoot. Were all the serfs here of such size, Melvekior wondered. They’d opened the gates at his pounding and stood, with absolutely no weaponry, challenging him with the same sort of confidence as the oaf he’d met in the orchard.
“I’ve come for an audience with the Grand Master of the Hammer,” he assumed that this would get him places. Part of the patronage agreement that Hestallr had with contributing noble families was that sons of the houses could be trained by the Brotherhood upon reaching manhood. The leader of the Order was rumored to be a beast of a man, but incredibly effective, so urgently sought after by rich men wanting their sons elevated from their privileged upbringings. The Brothers were an elite military arm of the church, Hestallr himself initiating the group for exactly such a purpose. Their refusal to join in the subjugation of the Mountain barbarians set them at odds with King Calra, or rather set Hestallr at odds with Calra. The relationship had been tense ever since which, when told to Melvekior by his father seemed to be accompanied by some glee. While Mikael openly despised Sunar, he merely disliked the King of Uth and reveled in any difficulties he faced. Hestallr was not to be trifled with, even by kings.
“Have you now? You’re out of luck I’m afraid, the Grand Master doesn’t grant audiences.” At least half of this man’s words were pronounced in a way destined to offend. Melvekior didn’t bite.
“How does one join the Order then? To whom must I present myself?” He kept his voice carefully modulated. Aeldryn had stressed many times that anger clouds judgment and promotes disharmony, a state detrimental to progress.
“You’re either in or you’re not, is what I know.” The same man spoke again, the other merely smirking irritatingly. He was as big as Melvekior and had a similar physique, that is to say heavily muscled but lean.
“If that is so, I am in.” Melvekior laughed.
To his relief, they also laughed. For a brief few moments and then lapsed suddenly to seriousness once more.
“Well and good, but on what authority?”
“I am the Count of Martelle. My father is Mikael Martelle, the King’s Warlord. I know that means something.” He could feel himself losing his temper at these guards, if guards they were. They appeared common, if very strong, louts. Such men to whom he would deliver a sound thrashing were he not seeking audience with their masters.
“It means nothing to me.” The man shrugged and looked at his partner, who also shrugged his shoulders and look disinterested.
“What if I said that Ushatr had given me leave to pass? Does the permission of a farmhand grant me leave to pass if the good name of my father does not?” He felt desperate. What was wrong with these people? He doubted he could fi
ght his way in and besides that was an insane idea. He checked himself. Fighting was always his first port of call. He had been trained in diplomacy. Was it too late now?
“Ushatr? Big fella, angry sort?” They both laughed at this.
“I suppose that would describe him. What…?” He felt as though he were missing something important that these men knew. Then it dawned on him. The Hammer of Mithras, the Silver Bear, Grand Master of this monastery. He’d already met him.
“By the Hells, you are Brothers of the Hammer! Where, then, are your damned hammers?”
This caused another bout of laughter and this time Melvekior joined in and it was an almost hysterical relief to realize that this was some sort of test.
Once Melvekior understood that the Brothers weren’t the armor plated heroes that he’d expected and had discovered his manners, he was ushered in politely. There were no stone armaments in sight, no blacksmith working furiously to craft enough weapons to arm a thousand men and no drilling of the faithful in military exercises. It was a small village enclosed by a palisade and other than the irregularly pointed, eight foot high fence, it would have been alike to the center of any hamlet.
He was initially confused. How could these people, as minimally impressive as they seemed on the surface, be the Church’s elite? They had no discipline, their leader picked apples for a hobby and none of them wore armor. A score of heavily armed men could ride in and annihilate these yokels. He was, however, determined to maintain an open mind. The legends couldn’t be that wrong. Aeldryn was rarely wrong and most of the information Melvekior had was gleaned from his tutor. He’d even seen a troop of holy warriors at his mother’s funeral and while that was many years ago, he remembered their golden armor and sun motif shields. This was like visiting a cattle market. In fact there had been a man leading a cow out of the gates as he was being admitted.
