Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  The horses refused to go any further. No matter the cajoling and coaxing, they would not travel past the old ruined inn. “It must be the smell,” mentioned Sweyn, unconvincingly, “animals fear fire and they can probably smell the fire that was here.”

  “From fifteen years ago?” sneered Nuvian. “It’s the dead they can smell.”

  “We walk.” Melvekior looked around himself. It was a long, straight, road, underused and overgrown itself and on the way to falling victim entirely to encroaching nature. More like a path now. He selected some sturdy bushes a good two hundred yards back from The Waysider and tied the horses on the longest leash he could, utilizing ropes they each had in their packs. “They’ll have food until we return,” he motioned to the grass around them which a couple of the mounts had already started on.

  For himself he strapped his Heilig to his back in the leather holster made especially for the task and adjusted his chainmail shirt so that he had easy access to his sword and also the long knife he wore strapped to his lower right leg. His Brothers also carried more personal weapons in case the combat didn’t suit heavy weaponry. He waited until the rest of them had gathered their weapons and then started off down the road in high alert.

  “We’ll go light-eyed until we feel safe. Agreed?” Vigilance was an important part of functioning well as a Cardinus and it was drilled into them to take this very seriously. Light-eyed signified that all would be on full watch until further notice.

  There was a chorus of “ayes” and Melvekior walked forward, trusting in his brothers to watch his flanks and his back. Sweyn was at his left, keeping an eye on that side of the road and Nuvian on the right. In the rear, half a dozen feet behind was Randr, hammer in hand constantly looking left and right and behind, his entire self attuned to his surroundings, aware as much by listening as he was by seeing, trusting in turn that Melvekior would protect him from frontal assault.

  The village proper was not far ahead as the blackened, charred stumps of what once were outlines of homes and stores became more and more frequent. There were faint traces of roads on both sides of the main path. Ahead, maybe three hundred yards away was a stone structure. Some sort of church, reddish brown brick peeking through the out of control vegetation and trees that had sprouted in the absence of through traffic and gardeners. Melvekior called a halt. “This is fruitless, there is nothing here. Forward attention only,” he half suggested, half commanded, calling an end to light-eyed and asking for only average watchfulness.

  “You can almost feel the spirits all around us,” murmured Sweyn, followed by an assenting grunt from Randr.

  “No. You can’t,” countered Melvekior. “What you ‘feel’ is the lack of birdsong and all the other usual sounds you might hear in a village or even a quiet forest.” He held his hand up for silence and the group listened. True to his assertion, there was no noise. Nothing, no insects, no birds, animals; even the wind seemed still. Their breathing seemed loud, though they barely did so, listening so intently they were. The blackened skeletons of once charming homes and thriving businesses now enveloped by ivy and the odd pieces of metal and stonework that yet remained lent to the eerie atmosphere.

  “Still, it’s unnerving,” said Randr.

  “I agree. Let us be on with our mission. The church of Sehar. That may well be it. And the end to our quest, if indeed Ushatr was correct.”

  The church was relatively new. Sehar, a young Goddess, keeper of the eternal Wheel of the Sun, engendered support from many rural communities. Her worship was not forbidden to Mithraic peoples, indeed many revered both, recognizing Mithras’s seniority. This particular church hadn’t even attracted a resident priestess, being recently built when the ‘plague’ took hold in Summershade.

  Now as they approached it, they could see why it stood out so much to them. It was free from the almost omnipresent ivy. In fact nothing grew near the building; it being circled by an outline of bare ground.

  The structure itself seemed relatively intact. A large square edifice, constructed with large slabs of dyed stone, cut to an exact size, and smoothed once in place. It was an impressive piece of work, the front doors being built into an untarnished sun shape, complete with twelve rays, cast of highly polished bronze. Still now it reflected the actual sun convincingly and he almost doubted Ushatr’s intelligence for a moment. No unholy creatures could enter that place, surely. It seemed too pure, an island sacred amongst the filth and corruption of the blackened remains of the village. He shook that feeling away, it made no sense. There were no animals or birds here, that was odd, but it didn’t mean that the dead were near. Ushatr had hinted that some sort of answer may lie within this temple, but had no more information than, “there are Draugr in Summershade, lads, the church be the likely place.”

  Ushatr himself recounted that he had waited all night near a local burial site, thinking that he might see the risen dead, but there was nothing. Throughout the night he saw what he fancied to be lights and on investigation seemed to be a reflection from this temple. Though he didn’t enter it, he saw a need for an armed Cardinus. Melvekior wasn’t sure what they all could do, that the Silver Bear could not, but he wasn’t sure he’d risk his life without aid either.

  He stopped, raising his right hand into the air, fingers splayed. The sign for look around for signs of risk. They all did. For half a minute and there was nothing to note. He moved forward to within ten yards of the doors and did the same. He himself not only looked but cocked his head toward the church, listening for anything. It was as silent as the rest of the village and had he not had vigilance drummed into him over the last three months, he would have relaxed his guard.

  He waved the group forward and they again stopped, this time at the doors themselves. They were huge. Ten feet tall, taking up the entirety of the height of the building and double that in breadth. A bright golden brown color, they exuded warmth and were cleverly fashioned as to not spoil the outline of the giant Sun, the symbol of Mithras and also of Sehar, who ensured that the disk of Mithras would wheel across the Heavens at the appointed times. She held an important place in the pantheon of Mithras and all present revered her to some degree, Sweyn being of rural stock more so than the others.

  There was no handle to the doors, no manner of lock or visible way to open them. Melvekior ran his hands over the bronze sun hoping, irrationally, that his merest touch might open the door. “What in the seven hells!” As close as he came to swearing, the ghosts of Aeldryn and Ottkatla ever-present. “Anyone know how you’re supposed to open such a door?”

  He pushed hard to which there was no give.

  “I’ll prise it open, stand away,” said Randr, a long knife in hand.

  “Have you lost your mind,” shouted Sweyn, “it’s a sacred place, you can’t go round prising doors open.”

  “Apart from that, you’re not opening that,” Nuvian pointed at the door, “with that.” He indicated the knife in the soldier’s hand.

  Randr shrugged and slipped the knife again into its belt sheath. Melvekior was continuously amazed at the abuse his companions could level at each other without becoming angry about it. He constantly had to check himself. ‘These people weren’t raised with the same manners as you, they know no better. You’re not planning to marry them, they’re your brothers in arms, you don’t need them to be polite.’ He could almost hear that in Aeldryn’s voice. Ever the diplomat.

  Melvekior reached back and unclipped his Heilig, raising it into the air for effect. All eyes were on him with that action, Sweyn’s in nervous disbelief, the others with curiosity. “Didn’t Ushatr say that these were blessed by Mithras?”

  He held the mighty hammer before him with both hands and touched it, as gently as he could, to the door. Six weeks ago he could barely wield the weapon and now, while it was still no simple task, he could hold it at arm’s length with little discomfort.

  Sweyn breathed out in relief and a light burst from the place where Heilig met bronze solar disk. The whole group,
on some level, expected this and none were truly surprised. They were however delighted and Melvekior could feel a warmth spreading through him. The slight headache he’d had all morning vanished along with his thirst, though his hunger to eat increased. He felt emboldened and ready and when he saw the doors start to move, he stepped back, gripped his hammer with both hands and held it above his right shoulder.

  Both halves of the sun started moving outwards towards them and looking through, only blackness was visible.

  “Light-eyed, keep it slow!” he shouted, only thinking afterwards that maybe he would alert any inhabitants of the temple by raising his voice. Once the doors had stopped moving he moved into the doorway, stopping that their eyes could adjust to the gloom. Were there no windows in this temple devoted to the Sun God?

  He stepped over the threshold and his hammerhead burst into light, as did the rest of the Cardinus’ sacred weapons, illuminating the room like it hadn’t been for more than a decade. The scene before them, in the stark light of Mithras’s blessing was something Melvekior would look back on as a turning point for him.

  At least two of the group shouted, incoherently. One a strangled yelp, Sweyn by the sounds of it and Nuvian swore. Randr might have made a sound but Melvekior could not be sure. His attention was firmly drawn to what he saw, and to his credit, his mind instantly focused on battle strategies. After a split second of deliberation, the only thing that made sense was encapsulated in his shout, “All on them, advance with force!” He bellowed a war cry and ran forward, adrenaline powering his limbs, Mithras in his soul and vengeance in his heart.

  The rest of the Cardinus, the last three months of training and indoctrination powering them to this point, followed a heartbeat later.

  What was once a beautiful room, the walls covered with flowers, the benches gently smoothed into shape by hand, the altar a gnarled and twisted root removed from a living tree, was now a dark and filthy pit of despair. None could look upon it with dispassion.

  When built, the ceiling was fashioned from the thinnest glass, purchased at an enormous cost from the Fovelish folk that lived a hundred leagues to the north and transported at an even more prohibitive rate, guarded ironically by a dozen Kurhu Deniers, all the way to this temple to better allow the Sun access. So thin was the glass that it was invisible to the naked eye, so eldritch was it that smoke could pass through it, but it protected the worshipers from the extremes of weather, rain unable to penetrate this enchanted barrier.

  Whatever corruption had taken hold of this place has warped the flowers to such a degree that now they were little more than blackened, rotting blossoms hanging limply from dark green vines stretching up to the glass ceiling and over it, completely blocking out all light. Not content with enabling the gloom, the cursed ivy had started stretching out along the floor. It made their headlong rush that much slower, but fast it did not need to be. Rapid though, was the overwhelming choice of the fledgling Cardinus.

  Strewn about the room were pieces of broken furniture, pottery smashed into pieces, piles of clothing and general detritus. Dark, diseased petals covered the floor and wooden furniture like a swarm of hungry beetles.

  Petals started to flip and flurry, disturbed by the first breeze in fifteen years as well as by the motion of the four heavily armored monks bursting in and charging at the slowly straightening up bodies that heretofore had lay supine for Mithras knows how long. They were recognizable immediately as Draugr; their gray skin, ragged clothing, unseeing eyes, relaxed muscles and wooden movements. The smell, of damp and earth and the cloying stench of corruption. None but the dead could tolerate such an odor for long.

  The first and closest to the door didn’t even manage to rise to their feet before being brutally smashed down by Melvekior and then Nuvian. To the right came Randr and more hesitantly, Sweyn to the rear.

  Striking a moving body with the Heilig was not at all like Melvekior thought it would feel. There was more resistance and there was certainly more noise that he had imagined. His hammer struck with awesome force, driven by momentum and energized by the light of Mithras, smashing into the side of the neck of the rising Draugr, knocking it back to the ground. The hammer, already shining brightly, crackled briefly and then there was a brief noise like rushing air, and whatever fueled the Draugr was no more. Uncaring in his fervent state whether it was the Heilig and the power of Mithras that slew the creature or his mighty blow, he moved to face one that had almost risen entirely to its shaky feet. There were grunts as heavy hammers swung and thuds of metal into semi-necrotized flesh and as more rose from their deathly sleep more of the dark purple petals flew into the air making the entire scene even more surreal than already it was.

  The Draugr was turning to face him and he ran full force into it, his hammer like a battering ram, throwing it off its feet and onto the ground where it slid into another rising cadaver. Limbs were tangled but Melvekior was mindless and chopped down brutally with his weapon, once, twice and three times to ensure neither moved again. He scanned the room, his brethren were in no danger and easily had the better of these creatures; none near them remained standing or moved. Half a dozen more had risen at the back of the room, near where a staircase down met blackness. His lifelong training combined with an aggression he didn’t truly know he possessed and a passion for his quest drove him.

  “Do not falter or pause, brethren. At them!” He clenched his fist and he thrust it towards the now shambling Draugr, moving implacably in their direction. He didn’t have the wherewithal to fear, nor, swept up in their own fervor and energized further by his, did the other three. They met the advancing half dozen corpses with the glee of the Hammrammr, the legendary forerunners of the Heiligr who fought for no God, but for their love of carnage and destruction. Within a dozen heartbeats all six lay inert amongst the feet of the four men.

  “Injuries?” inquired Randr.

  “None,” they all responded.

  “Let us move down, then. Ushatr was correct, this place is a hive of Draugr. They are less ferocious than I would have imagined, but we must keep our guard up. Light-eyed and slow, brethren!” Melvekior was starting to find his feet in issuing commands and none objected. There were no ranks within a Cardinus; a well chosen and properly trained group found its own way without interference from without.

  The stairs were dark, abyssally and unnaturally so, but no match for the holy light of Mithras. The stairs were about twenty feet wide and mercifully free from the horrid remnants of dead flowers. As they approached the bottom, walking slowly so that Sweyn could ensure nothing came up behind them, Melvekior noticed that the staircase ended in a hallway running left and right and directly ahead a closed set of double doors, with a similar solar motif as the front doors. These however were open a crack.

  Melvekior held up his hand, fingers out and they all stopped and listened. Nothing. The vile Draugr though, made no sounds, save when they fell to the ground, their unholy life extinguished. Any choice they made was as educated as the next so as soon as he had their attention, he reached out and pulled the doors open.

  There was movement, three of the dead stood in this room. Stood as though waiting. Two of them were plainly women in life and the other some sort of soldier, male if his general shape was anything to go by. His actual features, presumably blurred by death and time, hidden behind his full set of plate armor and horned helmet.

  The women started waggling their hands before them as if trying to bring about some magical effect, but there was nothing visible. The armored figure drew a longsword and came closer to the Cardinus. Then in a flash, he attacked.

  They were ready, but this was a different proposition to the sleepy and untrained fodder from the main room upstairs. The speed of his attack was that of a strong, trained warrior. Randr had to leap backwards to avoid being cleaved in twain, “Flank it,” he shouted.

  There was a horrid screech, like flint being scored across glass and the females leapt to the attack. The vicious sounds of screams fr
om dessicated throats rent the air, throats that hadn’t been used for over a decade poured forth their fury and anguish. Both women leapt at Melvekior; he could see clearly their jagged nails as they reached for his face. Remaining calm in the face of the horrific attack he spun to his right, bringing his hammer round into the head of the right hand Draugr. There was a wrenching sound and she toppled, the other nimbly leaping out of the way and onto the young Heiligr. Panic gripped him and her odor caught him unawares. He was transported back to that night when he was held, helpless, the creature’s foetid breath upon his face as it squeezed his neck. He stumbled back, hammer falling from his grasp as he desperately tried to dislodge the furious female. She wrapped her legs around him and grasped onto each side of his head and neck. Her strength was prodigious and he found that he could not budge her. He heard the shouting of his companions and felt something pulling at her.

  The ghastly female screeched again, the sound of metal scoring metal and made to bite at his neck, his one hand pawing at her arm, his other trying to get a grip of her thin, greasy hair.

  His panic deepened as he tried to get her off him and his hand slipped from her hair, unable to attain purchase. Her breath on his neck was hot and fast. Why would she even have breath, he wondered, isn’t she dead? His brain more calm and collected than his body and without warning, her head was pulled back and she was slammed hard into the ground, the head of a glowing hammer smashed down upon her still screeching face and she was no more.