Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  He was at a loss for words. He couldn’t carry on the lie, but he struggled to open up, even to his closet confidante. He’d been forced to, to a degree, by Ushatr. He was considerably more threatening though.

  “Stay silent if you wish, though you would do well to remember that I once left my home to travel here and there. Your departure though was as unfortunate as it was expected, for your father has fallen sick.”

  His world swam in front of his eyes. Mikael sick? His father was an invincible monolith, how could he be sick. He knew it could not be true and then he laughed, a half hysterical cackle. That was the look on Aeldryn’s face, not fury or disdain or disappointment, but worry.

  “Why didn’t you tell me straight away? Or send a messenger? Forget that, you didn’t know where I was, but when you did…” His words were running fast and verging on hysteria.

  “I wanted to tell you in person, my boy, but, I’ll be the first to admit my own failings, I found it difficult to express. I have failed you in this and I’m sorry.” He bent to console Melvekior, who merely stared into space. “His ailment won’t have any major effect anytime very soon, but he is starting to grow weaker, so I will ask you to return with me tomorrow.”

  “I understand…” Melvekior started having odd thoughts, caught between memories of his father and the desolation of losing him. Had he ever felt as close to Mikael as he did to Aeldryn, to Ottkatla, even to Ushatr? He knew his father loved him but he was rarely at home and when he was he’d rather lecture him about being a man and protecting the family name. Why couldn’t he just have been his friend?

  Aeldryn could read minds, Melvekior didn’t quite know that at the time, but later realized that somehow he knew what a person was thinking and he knew what Melvekior was going through. “It is often the greatest sorrow of a father that he cannot be both a good parent and a good friend. You may be conflicted about what he means to you, but never mistake what you mean to him.”

  “I’ll go back to Saens Martelle straight away then,” he turned rapidly but felt a steel grip upon his arm. Aeldryn never joined in any of his martial training and resisted every offer to spar. He couldn’t even be cajoled by gentle mockery of his age, older than any older man of Melvekior’s people, or teasing reference to his body type which was lanky at best. The young Count had learned though, more than once, that he possessed an almost inhuman strength when he needed it and his grip was inescapable. So it was now.

  “Wait until I’ve cured this man; you are indirectly to blame. You may think you are not, but someone in your position, educated and trained beyond the desire of most men, are obliged to protect those who aid them in their quests.” He forestalled the objections that were incoming, releasing Melvekior’s arm and holding his finger up before his own face in that infuriating ‘I am right’ stance he often affected. “Your sojourn to Summershade was not to destroy a paltry double handful of Draugr, Ushatr could have done that himself while dancing a jig. He kindly, yet misguidedly, set you on the next step in your journey.”

  “Least I figured out what the boy was doin’, Aeldryn, while you was sittin’ thinkin’ he was sowin’ his oats and catchin’ the pox,” Ushatr’s booming voice from behind him startled Melvekior and he politely stepped back so that he wasn’t between the two tall men. Hoping at least a little that they would argue.

  “I’ll take the credit for shaping his mind and the blame for not trusting in him enough. Though he is still being reticent about his real aims. Has he fully revealed them to you, Brother?”

  “That’s the boy’s business,” he said with a finality marked with the clipped tones of the angry, yet nothing of his body language spoke of anything but amusement.

  “There’s no need to talk of me as though I’m absent. Aeldryn, the dead speak to me. And I believe this to have some connection to my mother. This belief was only concreted by my visit to that damned town.”

  They were interrupted by the return of Sjabandr with the requested items. Saving Nuvian was the only thing on anyone’s mind for the next couple of hours. Aeldryn directing Sjabandr in administering the treatments as previously and then falling into some sort of trance. Melvekior and Ushatr merely stayed in the background, not wanting to get in the way and also not wanting to leave.

  Finally after an interminable wait in which Melvekior was starting to become concerned for Aeldryn as well as his companion, Aeldryn breathed deep again and opened his eyes. Shortly thereafter, Nuvian stirred, croaked something unintelligible and lay back, his breath regular and color returned to his visage. He no longer poured with sweat.

  “Bring him water and see that he is kept regularly hydrated. Also ensure that his chamber pot is changed frequently. He will pull through admirably.” Aeldryn stood straight, looking pleased with himself. “Now, if I may wash the road from my throat, Ushatr, let’s all have some of your special apple brew.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Truth and More

  “It only occurs to a person later in life how well they have been manipulated and directed in their youth. Thankfully, by this time, the necessity of such actions are clear.” - Melvekior

  “What ye’re about to see must be kept secret from yer Brothers, Melvekior. Ye are the first acolyte to have been in this place.”

  It was Ushatr’s hut out in the apple tree orchard. He’d been here more than once and he had always thought that inside the hut would be as interesting as the outside, which was not interesting at all.

  It was dark and they’d walked here with Aeldryn and Ushatr laughing over old stories of things they’d done years ago. It was nice to hear and an eye-opener for Melvekior in that he’d rarely heard his tutor laugh and certainly not at the types of things that Ushatr was talking about.

  Ushatr swung open the door and Aeldryn followed without hesitation and following suit, so did Melvekior. It was dark save for a glow from some sort of apparatus at the far wall, but Ushatr lit a lamp and then he had full view of what no acolyte had ever seen.

  It was a sparsely decorated one room cabin containing nothing but a bed, a pile of clothing and some jars, tubes and barrels from which the glow was emanating.

  “Oho, still going strong then?” Aeldryn rubbed his hands together in delight.

  “Aye, but I rarely partake. Drinkin’ by yersel’ is a maudlin affair.” He produced three stone cups from somewhere and proceeded to tap one of the barrels, filling each cup with a pale, misty liquid. “I sell it for a pretty penny to a couple of merchants who pass by here. Apparently it’s a bit stronger than the slop that passes for ale in the area.”

  This was obviously a joke; one that Melvekior didn’t get, but Aeldryn and Ushatr found it most amusing. He took his cup and joined in the toast.

  “To friendship,” boomed Ushatr.

  “Life,” intoned Aeldryn.

  They both stared at Melvekior until he said the first thing that came into his head, “Err, drink!” This started off another round of laughter and they all drank.

  This went on for half an hour. With the “do you remember…” being plentiful as well as amusing for the younger of the trio. He’d had a couple of cups of the cider, much less than his elders and was starting to feel a little dizzy when the mood changed completely.

  “So, Melvekior. Your plans. Let’s not beat around the bush. Tell us exactly what you intend.” The Aelvar sage was in full serious mode and Ushatr looked no less earnest, both looking straight at him. He was sitting on an upturned barrel, they on the bed. He remembered thinking that that bed must have strong supports to hold both their weight without collapsing. He shook his head, such thoughts were frivolous at this time. Briefly, he considered how to answer, though he felt emboldened and any worry about his desires being childish were two cups of strong cider gone. It wasn’t until years later that he wondered to himself if giving him that cider was a ploy to loose his tongue, but both men were virtuous and were free of such guile. At worst they would have seen an opportunity. After all, he knew that this convers
ation was on the immediate horizon.

  “Well, you’ve always said to me that in the absence of evidence, educated guesswork is often as good and often as correct. I can’t quite pinpoint it exactly, but there was something odd about the way you and my father acted when that Draugr attacked me those years ago. Something you knew but wouldn’t tell me. I assumed it was mere protectiveness, saving a child from some grisly truth, but there was more to it wasn’t there?” He didn’t expect an answer.

  “You are correct.” It wasn’t like Aeldryn to answer a rhetorical question, encouraging Melvekior the more.

  “It plagued my dreams and thoughts for a long time and I hid it well, I believe.” It was almost a challenge to Aeldryn, one to which he didn’t respond. “Then I, for peace of mind, put it away. Leaving it for another day. A very specific day. The day Ottkatla left.” He picked up his cup, made to drink from it, remembered it was empty and sought any dregs of the sour alcohol with his tongue. He found none so put the cup down, feeling slightly foolish. “That day broke my heart, she was my best friend and she wouldn’t stay, couldn’t stay. Damn that Herjen, whatever it is!”

  Ushatr pushed a cup into his hand and he drank greedily. It took a few seconds to realize that it was cool water he’d been tricked into drinking, but finished it anyway in a single draw.

  “I had long since planned to leave when she did and my plan was clear. Join the Church, seek out the library in Amaranth and study beneath Bavh, learning the secrets of the dead.”

  “What then, son?” Ushatr asked, no trace of mockery in his voice.

  “That was as far as I’d got. I knew to enter the library I would have to be a man of academic standing. An Earl’s son I may be, but that counts for nothing in the eyes of the Church.”

  Ushatr burst out laughing. Even Aeldryn looked amused. “I don’t think he meant the pun, Brother.”

  “No, I did mean it,” Melvekior answered keeping his own mirth in check, just enjoying being the cause of joy amongst his two idols, rather than exasperation or concern.

  From somewhere Aeldryn produced a large candle, as fat as a maiden’s wrist and as long as a man’s forearm. He lit it, Melvekior strained to see how, dripped enough wax on the floor to stand it up and thrust it down with a thud. The flame stayed lit when by rights it should have been extinguished, but he was past being surprised by Aeldryn’s actions after seeing him drink Ushatr’s homemade booze and swap vulgar banter with thirty Brothers of the Hammer.

  “Now, I’ll admit that I’m shocked by what I hear. Not that you’re doing it, that much I admire. I’m shocked that I hadn’t foreseen it. You kept that secret incredibly well, my boy. Ergo, it is time for me to start treating you like the adult that you most obviously have become without either of us noticing.”

  Ushatr leaned back, nodding gravely. Melvekior was getting hungry and he was eager to get back to Saens Martelle now that he’d sobered up a little. He knew though that nothing could halt the inevitability of an Aeldryn lecture.

  “Your mother,” this drove the thought of food firmly away, “was a Priestess of Sehar. Your name, in fact, is a portmanteau of two words in an ancient language referring to the disc of the Sun as Sehar wheels it across the heavens. She thought to glorify her Goddess with the miracle of a temple built with the roof of a wonderful substance which protected from the heat but allowed in all the light. Glass so fine that incense could pass through but rain may not. It was not long after the temple was consecrated by Hestallr himself that darkness fell across Summershade, or Summerlight as it was then known. Out of nowhere the undead appeared and overran the town, a last ditch attempt to destroy the horde of Draugr by a heroic female in blue robes was recounted by refugees from the temple village. She shone as bright as the noonday sun as the throng of vileness descended upon her and though through her waves of cleansing light incinerated dozens of the mindless creatures, there were always more. Eventually she was overrun, but in her death she purified Summershade in a holy light, annihilating all of the risen dead but also destroying much of the village; it became uninhabitable. Not that any wanted to live there any more.” He paused to gauge the reaction, but finding Melvekior interested rather than upset, he continued.

  “Your father and I visited weeks later with the intention of creating a memorial to your mother. You were a mere child, five years old and inconsolable. You kept running off and hiding in the forest so we didn’t want to risk doing so earlier. I always struggled with revealing that news to you at the time, but Mikael was insistent, wanting you to be a strong man. Whether that had any influence on the man you are now is unknown to me, but your strength of character is plan for all to see. Your mother’s,” he almost stumbled here, still uncertain about delivering that message to his young charge, “body was missing. We assumed it was lost in the explosion, taken to the Heavens by Mithras’s cleansing fire. Regardless, we created a crypt in the church and put a plaque on an empty coffin. That you found it empty is, of course, no surprise. That there were still Draugr there is no surprise either. There may still be a residue of the necromantic force that created those beasts somewhere in the environs of Summershade.”

  “So there was no surprise that an ostler killed at the time of Summershade’s destruction rose from the dead years later to attack me in my bed?”

  “Quite right, the…”

  “Me, fifteen miles away, in a keep. It found me. Totally randomly?”

  “I see how that might look…”

  “Can you see how that might look?” interrupted Melvekior again. “It seems that nobody else but I could see how that might look for years.” He was becoming upset. A combination of the talk of his mother, hearing how his father was unwell and the impact of alcohol on a novice drinker. “It was looking for me, Aeldryn, and the one we put to rest in the Temple, in Summershade, sought me out as well. They both tried to name me, they tried to say my name!” He was standing by this time, his voice rising to fever pitch.

  His next bellowing shout was cut off by Ushatr, crushing him to his chest in an embrace that would have shamed a bear.

  “Now then, son, I won’t let them harm ye,” soothed the implacable giant.

  “Aye, we won’t, lad,” Aeldryn’s voice cracked, “we won’t.”

  Neither of them were to know that his next utterance was a muffled, “She won’t stop calling until she finds me,” but after that one attempt he had enough sense to keep that to himself.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mikael

  “I’m a terrible father, a worse friend and I’m not even a very good lover. I am good at killing people, so maybe you can take that away with you.” - Mikael

  It took half a day to travel to Saens Martelle. At first the brightness of the sky and the haze caused by his hangover confused matters and he didn’t properly recognize their route, but how many routes could there be? There was only a single way to his ancestral home, one road, not even a well maintained road, infrequently used as it was. Before his confusion could set in properly, there he was, riding up the familiar lane to the avenue and the entrance guardpost, the same as it ever was.

  The two large gates, blocking the road off, were black iron and taller by half than a man. Sure, a person could skirt around the gates and squeeze through the trees and the brambles that encompassed the estate, but one would have to tear down the gates to get a horse or carriage through. None would though, it would be folly to attack this one house with such a force. Nevertheless, Mikael had always thought it prudent to house a guard within the small hut to the right of the gates. At the rear of the hut was another gate, much smaller and left open, for once closed could not be opened from this side. Some sort of latch made by Aeldryn made it impossible. He’d always meant to figure that out but never found the time. Once Ottkatla came, he had little inclination to do anything but spend time with her. It seemed of such little consequence now, he thought, but then again, Aeldryn had spent time discovering the ability or learning it from someone. Ha! He had the time and
then some.

  Frammel stuck his head through the window of the guardpost, noted the identity of the approaching riders and moved to open the gates from the opposite side.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, Count Martelle,” he said loudly as they passed through. Melvekior was sure he could hear a slight mocking tone and was glad of it. Frammel was one of the few people he’d known all his life and he still felt a little guilty for just riding off without a proper goodbye.

  In their hurry, they didn’t pause, but Melvekior waved a friendly hello.

  There was a wooden post near the main entrance to the manse to which they tied their horses and not far away was Mikael himself, looking for all the world like nothing was wrong.

  Saens Martelle had been built by Mikael on the ruins of their family mansion, built in its turn by the first of their line, Mellek-Esh. Before that he had no knowledge of his ancestry; his father sometimes talked about the Malannite Empire far to the North, about whom Aeldryn spoke with disgust. Part keep and part house, it was an impressive, if not vast creation. Square and squat, like a squashed tower, it rose a mere two stories, it even had crenelations around the perimeter of the roof. There were several outbuildings and an extension with a glass roof, built under protest but hidden from the road. The walls of the main building were covered in ivy, which momentarily gave Melvekior pause and unwelcome flashbacks.

  Where the road ended before the grand main entrance was a long oval of dirt, meant for visitor’s coaches and in the long grass a further thirty feet from the house, was the tree.

  More than merely a feature of the garden, to him it was a part of his childhood. It was nothing special but he’d sat beneath it so many times, used its wispy branches as cover so often, that he felt it almost a second bedroom. And certainly he wasn’t the only one to feel that way. The low hanging branches made ideal cover for secret lovers, perfect for midnight trysts between guards and maids, or Mikael and whores. Until Ottkatla came of course. She spent so much time outside, in her sparring ring, that the window of safety beneath the tree was reduced considerably. Being caught by the weapons mistress, doing something unsavory, was a very risky proposition.