Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  Nuvian looked disgusted. “Never killed a woman before, not even a dead one.” He nodded to Melvekior, there was no need for gratitude, both knew what had happened. Randr and Sweyn had finished the armor clad figure, its head having been smashed in a few more times than necessary and Melvekior looked away when he saw it. There was enough material here for a lifetime of nightmares without having that on his mind as well.

  “What was she saying, Melv?” Sweyn asked.

  Melvekior looked over, squinting in confusion. “I heard no words, brother.”

  “There were, it was like she was trying to saying your name.” Nuvian offered. “Mmemm mmemm,” he affected a stutter. “Like she just couldn’t get past the M.”

  “Probably the only sound she could get past her mouth, not worth reading anything into it,” said Randr confidently. “Come, there is something here and he motioned for them to follow him to the crypt in the back wall, a coffin stuck snugly within.

  Melvekior paused before going with the other three, vigilance now at a minimum. Was the Draugr trying to say his name. The old stable-hand back from the dead all those years ago. He had ‘said’ something similar. Was Randr correct? He had after all heard them say nothing else. Why would they try to say his name? Deciding it made no sense, he walked to the back wall to stand beside the others and see what Randr was so interested in.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Katerine

  “Why had I never sought my mother’s grave before? It seemed an almost unforgivable oversight that I had not, nor had Mikael shown me.” - Melvekior

  Randr and Nuvian stood deathly still, looking at the plaque on the front of the coffin. It was a plain sandstone sarcophagus, the metal square, bronze, with the stylized sun of Sehar upon it.

  “Well, what does it say?” demanded Sweyn who had not learned to read. There wasn’t much call for that particular skill on the farm.

  “I, well, I’m not saying it out loud.” Randr replied and he shifted oddly, almost preventing Melvekior from getting a look.

  “Don’t tease him, you two, let’s just…” his words petered off as he read the inscription on the plaque.

  Katerine Martelle.

  It was his mother’s resting place.

  “Fuck,” he swore as he walked up and down, pacing along the back wall of the sepulcher, thoughts of the Draugr and whatever else may hear him banished, all immaterial in the face of what stood before him. He thought to punch something in anger but his training prevented him, nor did he whip up his hammer and smash the door of the room to pieces, which he definitely had an urge to.

  Instead, he pulled himself together and strode to the foot of the coffin. “Help me pull this out,” he said to nobody in particular.

  “Melv, are you sure you want to do this?” Nuvian asked.

  “I can’t just leave it there unopened, it’s maddening.” He took a deep breath, he wouldn’t weep before these men, as much as he was sure they would understand, there was no way he would expose his own vulnerability to that extent. “My father would never talk of her, how she died, why she died. If I could only have some answers, I would get some peace.” He secretly wished for some simple explanation, something that would mean he could end his current quest, or was it an obsession?

  He had hatched this convoluted plan and it was in full motion, but it could be stopped. He’d promised Ushatr three more months, but what is the head of a monastic order when one is a layman, an Earl for that matter. Which he would be once his father died. He had nothing to fear from the Church, so he thought. The next part of his plan involved travel to Amaranth, that most revered city, where the streets ran with opportunity for the ruthless and all answers could be found. It was the sort of place where one could indulge every vice, even fascination with the dead, somewhere he would not feel totally comfortable but what was discomfort in comparison to an unrealized quest. Whenever Ottkatla had spoken about destiny, hers and his, he paid close attention. Her fate was quite plain, the spirit Herjen controlled her future actions. Quite peacefully and amicably it had to be said, but he was still glad to be more free than that. He knew his destiny to be linked with the fate of his mother, he knew that from the moment he first looked back at the Draugr attack on his young person. It wanted him. Someone, or something, had sent it to find him and destroy him. It tried to talk with him, as did the female Draugr earlier. They wanted to give him a message and not only that, they recognized him. He wasn’t a random target and he wished he knew why.

  Looking down at the stone coffin before him, he wished for answers more so than he feared to see the corpse of his mother. Grabbing hold of the bottom at the end, with Randr and Nuvian at either side, they slid it from the crypt and lowered it to the floor gently, reverently. He didn’t hesitate. His mind was made up and he dared not second guess himself.

  Sliding the lid of the sarcophagus aside and looking inside confirmed his worst fear. The coffin was empty.

  He sank to his knees in resignation. “Why is nothing simple?” he asked nobody in particular.

  “Maybe it means your mother is still alive, Melvekior…” Sweyn was desperate for some good news or just some hope.

  “It doesn’t, my friend,” he said standing, remembering who he was and why he shouldn’t show weakness. He put his hand on Sweyn’s shoulder and looked him in the eye, “But thank you,” he looked at the other two who both had concerned looks on their faces, “thank you all. I didn’t come here in the hopes of finding my mother alive. I knew not even that she was interred here. If indeed she was. I have no doubt that she is dead and I have long since come to terms with that. It is the mystery that perplexes me and I feel that Ushatr has purposely muddied the waters or at least put me in the path of brutal discovery.”

  “Do you believe him capable of such trickery, Melv?” asked Nuvian.

  “Ha! More trickery than this, certainly. He will tell you that he is direct and honest, but his lessons are forever layered with hidden meaning. You think you’ve learned and then there is something else to learn. I bear no grudge, ‘tis his didactic manner.”

  “Have we learned enough then?” asked Nuvian, “Is our mission at a close? Did we do what we came here to do?”

  Randr shrugged, “How are we to know if there are more of these creatures?”

  “We look, we investigate,” said Melvekior. “Whether or not my mother was actually buried here is immaterial to our mission, though mayhap it influenced the decision to send us here. Either way, we seek out more Draugr and send them to Mithras.”

  On Sweyn’s insistence they put the wilting black vines to the torch. A mistake that almost cost them dearly. They started from the rear of the church for some reason unknown to any of them and within seconds of putting flame to vine a thick black smoke filled the room. “Down,” shouted Melvekior, Aeldryn’s teachings which often seemed utterly pointless, proving themselves useful again. They crawled on the floor, breaths held, past Draugr; limbs splayed at obscene angles, past remains of furniture and standing up when the floor vines caught light to make a mad dash for the luckily still open doors. They didn’t stop until there was a hundred feet between them and the church

  “So much for your bright ideas, farmhand” croaked Nuvian, who had taken a mighty lungful of thick smoke. He bent at the waste and heaved, eventually vomiting up what little there was in his stomach. Normally a signal for jollity and mockery, the site of Nuvian throwing up was no laughing matter this time.

  “Everyone else well?” Melvekior himself felt fine, he’d managed to avoid most of the smoke, but he had learned of the toxic and sometimes magical effects of burning certain plants. “I’m sure there’s nothing to be worried about,” he said, more concerned than he let on.

  Nuvian brushed off any concern displayed towards him and insisted they move forward with their quest. As it happened there was little to do. They found two Draugr after a full day searching through blackened ruins and made short work of them. They made camp outside the village and went with f
ull watch, meaning two of the Cardinus were awake at any one time. Melvekior was in no mood for conversation and sat all night contemplating his next move and listening to Nuvian cough in his sleep.

  They had easily completed their first mission as Heiligr and Melvekior believed that they would be assigned acolyte status for the destruction of the nest of Draugr. Too many questions remained for him to leave it there. He hid his uneasiness well from his comrades, but he knew it would eventually start to eat away at him until he gained some sort of closure. The answer to such a feeling was always the same whenever it came upon him. Work through the issue before it had a chance to gain hold. In this case it was part of his overall agenda. Join the church, gain access to levels of knowledge unavailable to him previously and find out the truth. About his mother and why he had this horrid fascination with death, or it with him. The Draugr attack on him as a child was only one instance and yet he felt it was incredibly relevant. He wasn’t stupid, he knew there was more to it than his father or Aeldryn would admit and the almost incoherent mumbling, “Emmemmemm”. He knew what that was, he’d been trying to deny it all these years. A childhood fancy, a mistaken mishearing caused by sheer panic, wish fulfillment in the hope of some meaning to what had happened. Numerous explanations had played through his mind for the last six years but in his heart he knew. The Draugr had been reaching out to him, trying to communicate and it might have, had Aeldryn not slew it. With magic he claimed not to possess. The deceit, the damned lies! It made him furious as he thought about it.

  Then, the female Draugr had said the same thing. Tried to say his name with a tongue ill-used to speaking but could not. How did they know him he might wonder, but that he already knew.

  His mother. They knew him because she knew him. He had no illusions about her mortality and yet somehow she still lingered in this world. Did she sent the Draugr against him all those years ago? Impossible! Lest it struggled between passing on a message and slaying the living as seemed to be the wont of those vicious dead beings. The female one he fought today knew him and also tried to kill him, but he believed, could have tried harder. Did that one too, fight against its base nature. It proved his long theory of dead trying to communicate with him. He could not ignore this and yet he had nothing more to do than follow his original plan. There was no more fire burning in him than there was before, but in some way his determination might have been solidified by this.

  He could only do what he could do, so he put aside all his stress and decided to sleep when he could and accepted his relief when Sweyn came to take over the watch.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sickness and Messengers

  “There was always something unknowable about Aeldryn. The more I knew of him, the more surprising he was. Imagine my tutor, the stuffy pacifist, a Heiligr!” - Melvekior

  They were indeed advanced to acolyte status upon their return and full report of what had occurred. Melvekior declined to go into detail about his thoughts on his mother’s coffin and Ushatr, uncharacteristically, did not press him. This of course made Melvekior suspicious but he reasoned to himself that the reason could be Nuvian’ apparent refusal to recover quickly from the inhalation of death flower smoke.

  None at the monastery had heard of such a creeping plant and were at a loss for a cure for Nuvian’ condition. Melvekior asked permission to ride home and return with Aeldryn who he was sure would be able to help. This was denied and no reason given, but a messenger was sent and barely two days had passed when Aeldryn arrived on horseback. Melvekior then understood the reason. Nuvian had worsened rapidly and he didn’t look as though he would last the four, maybe five days it would have taken him to ride to Saens Martelle and back.

  However Ushatr communicated with Aeldryn it was effective. It was also fortunate that he was still there as he had threatened on many occasions to return to his homeland and the absence of his young charge would have made that easier.

  He was breakfasting when Aeldryn arrived and someone announced “visitor” loudly and even though his first thought was “Aeldryn’s made good time,” he didn’t truly believe it until he saw him riding through the gates. Riding through like he’d been here before and Ushatr treated him like a long lost friend, almost dragging him from his mount and delivering a hug that looked like it would crush the thinner man to breathlessness.

  Melvekior tried not to run but he did shuffle over faster than normal and once Aeldryn managed to extricate himself from the literal bear-hug, he embraced Melvekior, kissing him on the cheek and holding him tight. He half expected jeers from the others, but none came. All knew of Melvekior’s loss and were equally worried for Nuvian and besides if Ushatr thought it was manly to cuddle a friend now and again who of them could question the appropriateness of such behavior.

  Ruffling Melvekior’s hair like he was still a child, Aeldryn spoke up. “My friends, it has been too long since my last visit,” his voice rang clearly throughout the main square of the compound. There were a couple of “hails” and other shouts of agreement. “Tonight, we will feast, but for now, who will lead me to the afflicted man.”

  Why did Aeldryn wield influence here? Melvekior brushed that thought aside and half-dragged Aeldryn to Nuvian’ bedside in what made do as an infirmary. It was previously the bedroom of a couple of senior members of the temple, but they now just bunked in the barracks common room with the acolytes. There was little ego when a brother’s health was in question.

  Nuvian lay in his bed, unconscious, a sheen of sweat upon his brow. He would not suffer any blankets and wore only the thinnest of garments, them stained a sickly pale yellow by the terrifying amount of sweat that poured from the man. He had to be kept hydrated and a large vat of water sat beside his bed.

  “What has been tried thus far?” Aeldryn asked, his hawk-like visage peering down at the patient. Unusually, his brow was furrowed and manner still. He must be truly concerned, thought Melvekior.

  Sjabandr had been tending to him with his limited knowledge. “Ahh, Aeldryn sir, I’ve tried a feverfew and borage tea, combined with a parsley compress. This would normally work on a reaction to toxicity, but I’ve seen nothing like this before. I’m out of my depth.” His head hung low and Melvekior was shocked by his honesty. A side-effect of being the presence of someone so learned, he supposed.

  “Don’t be hard on yourself, brother,” said Aeldryn encouragingly, “Purple Hedera, or Death Blossom, is so rare as to be virtually unheard of. You see, it’s not native to any land, but can be grown only in the blood of the undead. And, the undead have no blood, so there is some mystery there certainly.” He was well away into his teaching mode, but Melvekior knew that while his mouth spoke, his mind raced. “It is my theory that if some creature recently dead were to be raised and then slain again before the blood has the chance to harden, it may create the correct environment. Of course, I cannot test this so it remains an hypothesis. There is much I would ask a Priest of Ain-Ordra, had I the chance.” He stopped his blank stare at the ceiling and peered pointedly at Melvekior, making his charge slightly tense. This meant that there was some lesson in all this for him. Probably quoting the name of the Death Goddess meant that somehow Aeldryn knew his plans. The adherents of Ain-Ordra were a secretive lot but they would have answers for him, he was sure. He had but to find them and the only place he knew where everything was not only possible, but probable, was Amaranth. The Eternal City, Stonehaven, source of Volcanium and birthplace of the Three Kingdoms. His next stop.

  “Know you of a cure, brother Aeldryn?” Melvekior almost lost his footing he was so shocked. The exchange of ‘brother’ between the two of them could mean only one thing. Aeldryn had once been a Brother of the Hammer. And probably still was. He understood that there were things about his mentor that he did not know, but would never have guessed at this.

  “Yes, and it is the same as that which you tried, but with one subtle difference. We must lure this man’s soul back to his body for the link twixt the two has been compromis
ed. Bring the tea and the compress,” he reached into his satchel and drew out a handful of dry green leaves, “also, a bucket of steaming water in which these are soaked.” He handed the leaves to Sjabandr who exited the room in a hurry.

  “How did this happen, Melvekior? You should have been more careful.” Aeldryn asked, again head tilted slightly upwards, eyes on the featureless ceiling. His tall, lean frame an imposing presence. The striking, sky-blue robes he wore making him stand out from the plain decorations and almost lack of color in the room.

  “It wasn’t my fault, we needed to cleanse the church and nobody knew this would happen…” he started his explanation but was interrupted almost immediately.

  “You do not become the superior man by blaming others. You could have foreseen such an event had you thought about it. In the same way your father and I knew that there was a more than average possibility that you would set out on your own when Ottkatla had left. Neither of us guessed you would come here and I don’t understand why you did.” He was still looking away, but Melvekior had grown used to his ways. He multi-tasked almost all of the time; right now he would be running over the steps for curing Nuvian and also how many ales he could drink later without feeling the effects of the alcohol. Melvekior laughed to himself, Aeldryn had never been drunk in his lifetime, probably not in his own either.

  “I’m sorry, Aeldryn,” he looked down in faux bashfulness. “I needed to get away for a while, to separate myself from everything. I know that my attachment to Katla was childish and misdirected…” He stopped and looked at the tall Aelvar sage, whom he found looking back at him, an odd look on his face.

  “Go on, Melvekior. I’d be interested to hear more of this fascinating story.” He didn’t often get facial expressions from Aeldryn, other than when admonishing him for poor work or a smile for exceptional work, but this was something different. He couldn’t determine whether he was seeing fury or disdain. The first he could deal with, the second he wanted to avoid at all costs.