by Marin Landis
“Master,” Melvekior turned to his mentor, “more than my father you have been a parent to me, you always knew what was best for me and I hazard to guess that you still do now. You are wise enough to not mention it for you know I will follow my own path regardless. I owe you a debt I can never repay. I have no idea when I will see you again. Will I see you again?” Melvekior was on the verge of tears. This stick-thin man, no, greater than a man, this shaman, wizard, teacher and sage. Learned beyond all imagining, yet he still sat here with the son of a minor nobleman and shared in his grief. His eyes, still bright, but shining with tears and joy. He reached over to Melvekior and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“You will, of course you will. You will someday repay the debt you believe you owe, so I imagine I will see you then. If I have my way, before then. Once you discover what it is you are looking for, I will be expecting a full explanation, so make the trip to Vanakot.” He looked deadly serious. “You will be the second of your kind to have done so.
“I am honored,” Melvekior acknowledged with a nod of his head. Outsiders were not permitted in Vanakot. Centuries ago, so myth and history remember, the ancient city of the Var people, Fana, welcomed all people into its mystical interior, but when the Gods went mad and destroyed the City of Dreams, the Var split into two distinct races, neither accepting foreigners into their midst. He wondered briefly if Aeldryn had the sort of clout to be allowed to invite him, but he didn’t want to admit doubting him. “Who was the first?” He asked, almost expecting the answer.
“You know, I can see it, but you don’t understand why it would be.” He smiled his knowing smile, infuriating and yet reassuring. “Your father was allowed succor in Vanakot many years ago. He prevented war between my people and yours and needed sanctuary, we provided it, causing much consternation at the time. There are things that are difficult to explain about your father. He learned to turn his misfortune into knowledge. My people recognized him as a Deathspeaker and his prophecies drew me here.”
“Wait,” interrupted Melvekior, suddenly extremely excited, “what’s a Deathspeaker. Are you saying my father could speak to the dead?”
“Nothing that trite, boy, the dead cannot speak, but they do know. There is a split second, when the anima rises from the material that it becomes one with the All. In that moment it can tap into the vibrations and memories of those nearby who have died or will die nearby. Your father had amazing prophetic powers. His nature meant that he mostly ignored them, but when the prophecies showed events he did not like he would act. Your father could change the future, the path of destiny and none but I and my people knew that.”
“So what is the debt between you? Is it now discharged? You seemed confident I would repay it.”
“He saved my people from war, not by any precognition, but with compassion. He then gave me the opportunity to raise you in the way of the Aelvar and made it seem as though he was doing me a favor. Of course, he was the Deathspeaker so it would be difficult to refuse such a boon. I kept his secret all these years and stayed here, far from my people to give you the sort of education that you’ll need. At first I believe he thought you would inherit his gifts but you did not and with that he was satisfied. He did however, let slip in his cups one night, not long after I arrived that you would in your turn become more valuable to my people than he ever was. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain and had done so years ago. I stayed because it was a joy to behold you growing into the man you are now and of course trusting your father’s future telling, I needed to make sure you would live to see adulthood.”
Aeldryn laughed, a carefree and infectious laugh.
“I’m glad you did,” smiled the new Earl of Martelle. He knew better than to question Aeldryn too closely. He wanted to be away in the morning and stopping the old Aelvar once he got started was almost impossible, but there were some things he needed to know.
“So, this amulet,” he started, fingering the ivory bird carving around his neck, “what is the story behind it.”
“Hmm, this is a mystery I would be interested in solving, but I fear it will be yours to solve. Which means my curiosity will be left unquenched for years to come. A great mystery, however, requires a good wine.” He reached behind him, into a small cupboard built into the base of the chair that Melvekior did not for the life of him expect to be there.
“I’ve never seen that before!” he said, chuckling.
“I have many secrets, young man,” Aeldryn replied pouring out two glasses of Halmsch, the thick dark liquid reflecting the low lighting invitingly.
I’ll sleep well tonight, thought Melvekior.
“The amulets, then. According to your father, if you remember, they are worn by the so-called Three Kings. Calre-Alpre, Sunar and Thacritus. Probably as some sort of material component to a pact between them and their houses. There has been peace in the Three Kingdoms for three centuries and before that there was no organization, no kingdom, the people who lived here, simple warring tribes. Then the discovery occurred and within half a century, Stonehaven, or Amaranth as it is now known, was an epicenter of trade, the Three Kingdoms’ stewardship of the Volcanium mines an almost literal goldmine. With such wealth at stake, and even considering the Deniers, it is a miracle that such a peace has been kept. It is contrary to everything I know of human nature, but there you are. The amulets may well even be some sort of magical focus that enforces certain actions, though you possess that one now as did Mikael and no aberrant behaviors have thus far been observed.” He paused for a drink.
Melvekior could already feel the effects of the alcohol and thought back to those years ago when his father warned him about resting on his laurels and being utterly responsible for all of the events in his life. Maxims he lived by and intended to keep their spirit intact.
“When Sunar visited and you beat upon his ward, who by the way will become the new Prince…” there was some amusement in Aeldryn’s words which Melvekior felt unwarranted. Nobody needed their liege lord to be an enemy, even for so small a slight. “At that time, Sunar, as was his wont, drank too much and fell to complaining that Mikael had a strong son and he had nothing, save the miscreant who you struck and he threatened to take you into his care at the Palace in Maresh city. Your father of course was outraged and was himself about to commit treason by thrashing Sunar when he noticed that the Prince was unconscious through over imbibing. The amulet lolling temptingly loose. He bade me create a perfect copy, which I did, shaping and artificing through the night. Before Sunar regained wakefulness I had replaced the fake around his neck and put him to bed so that nothing seemed amiss. I watched him carefully the next morning and he did not seem aware that he wore a replica necklace. I tried to determine the properties and purpose of the item but could fathom nothing of it, save that it was fashioned of no material that ever I had seen. I sought the knowledge of the church and neither Hestallr nor Ushatr could help, but tellingly they neither of them could handle it for long periods without intense unease. That is the extent of what I know. Should you be found with that, you will surely be branded a traitor, but your father believed it tied in with the death of your mother and these outbursts of undead activity, which two things he also felt closely related. Your intent to visit the Grand Library in Amaranth to seek out Bavh I believe to be an excellent first port of call. There are others in that city who may hold knowledge of such things. Look for the sign of the Phoenix, the creature depicted on the amulet. There is a correlation between the Amaranth flower and the Phoenix. Both possess eternal life and that might somehow be the key to the secret of the amulet. I remember many Kings before Sunar and Calra-Alpre so they are not blessed with any grand longevity, but Thacritus is certainly at least as old as me. Mayhap the amulet is his alone to command and the others his pawns, but supposition will mask the truth and I’ll leave it behind. Shallow is the extent of my information on this topic and thankfully so by the looks of you,” he finished.
Melvekior realized that he ha
d been nodding off and excused himself for bed, promising to breakfast with Aeldryn before he left for Amaranth in the morning.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Melvekior Sets Off
“Show fear and ye’re as good as dead!” - Mikael
Were you to give directions to Amaranth you would say merely, “Head west along the Great Caravanway and stop when you get there.” The “Way” as it was commonly known, was the lifeblood of the Three Kingdoms. Starting at Uth-Magnar it ambled south for dozens of leagues to Maresh City and then turned West all the way to the Tarkan mountains and Amaranth, passing through the The Great Forest, known as Eage.
All trade outside of the Three Kingdoms went through Uth-Magnar, filtered through the pockets of the King and his infamous gang of tax collectors. The sheer value of the Volcanium that was traded meant that Calre Alpre was the richest man in existence. More valuable a hundredfold than diamonds, more sought after than gold, Volcanium and its many uses was the most beneficial discovery for mankind since Mithras first threw down fire from the Heavens.
This meant that the Way was maintained in pristine fashion. The road was even, wide enough for three caravans abreast and clean. Dead animals, fallen trees and the like were quickly moved away by crews whose job consisted of traveling from the Eternal City to the capital of Uth and back, repairing holes and keeping the road fit for merchants taking their valuable cargo from Amaranth for sale to the rest of the world. There were regular sweeps by the King’s Tax Collectors, to ensure public “safety” and banditry was rare. Which didn’t mean that banditry was unheard of.
A case in point was the situation in which Melvekior found himself shortly after leaving home. He left just after sunrise speaking to Aeldryn, who rarely slept, briefly, wishing him a fond farewell. He was a little sad but intended to visit Vanakot once he had finished with his current business. The depth of his quest he didn’t contemplate, for he was sure it would have given him pause. He intended to barrel headlong into this mystery no matter where it took him. It was just over an hour’s ride on horseback to the Great Caravanway and he’d been heading west towards his destination for a further hour when he saw figures in the distance. There was nothing but low hills and fields around, no buildings or even any trees, so nothing to indicate why five men would be loitering in the road. He’d yet to meet anyone else and he assumed they must be merchants. Until he got closer.
Under closer examination he wondered if they could be Tax Collectors, the hard men and women under the King’s employ who extorted, rightly or wrongly, money from travelers. Merchant and common man alike. They had a fearsome reputation for violence and were chosen from amongst the professional armies of the Three Kingdoms, soldiers who were too old or troublesome for regular service. Each cadre of six was led by an officer of the crown said to have unlimited power and authority. All the better to line the King’s coffers. He decided that they weren’t Tasher’s, as the Collectors were disrespectfully known, when he got close enough to observe the quality of their clothing, the state of their horses and the manner of their comportment.
King’s men would be well uniformed, keep their mounts in peak condition and at least sit up straight.
Instantly Melvekior was concerned. He was extremely well dressed. While he couldn’t pass as a rich merchant, his armor, to anyone with an eye, was recognizably well crafted and valuable, his mount a cut above the nags these men were riding and his cloak, if nothing else he wore, betrayed him as a nobleman of some kind. He learned at that precise moment the value of remaining inconspicuous, though rarely would he make use of that knowledge.
The men lounged arrogantly on their steeds, arranged as they were, blocking the road. The man at the front picked at his teeth with a knife; what little teeth he had left. He’s trying to scare me realized Melvekior. He’d recently faced the risen dead; gap-toothed peasants, even in groups of five, did little to instill trepidation in him.
“Good Morning,” started the Earl of Martelle, projecting his voice in a manner designed to display his station, “if you have no purpose blocking the way, please move aside.”
“I’ll move aside ya, boy. Give over yer valuables.” He spoke as if accustomed to obedience.
“’And yer armor,” shouted a fatter man on a horse to Gappy’s right.
They were barely even armed, a couple of clubs, a couple of shortswords. One had a crossbow laying lazily over his knees. He probably imagined it was a threat.
“Are ye deaf, or just stupid?” The head bandit demanded.
Melvekior realized that he’d been thinking of tactics and strategies that his father and Ottkatla had taught him about situations like this. Mikael would have already charged into their midst, Ottkatla would have tried to reason with them and ended up slaying them all for fear of being violated. What sort of man was he, a ruthless killer or would he take life only when absolutely necessary? Aeldryn would have said that no man can be labeled definitively, but that circumstance will dictate his actions depending on a multitude of factors. What he knew for certain was that he would not become a victim.
He moved his horse closer to the group, nudging the horse of the man who demanded his armor aside so that he sat side on to the first man who spoke. “I am neither, brigand. Move aside and let me pass, I have no desire to slay you, but as you can see I am heavily armed and you threaten me with a toothpick. I will give no further warning.”
The fat man laughed, Gap-tooth spat, two of the men looked at him as though he’d just grown another head and one of them, suddenly wide-eyed, moved his horse slightly towards the front reaching his arm out as though to take hold of the leader. “I think we…” he started.
Melvekior reached down with his right hand, slipping his horseman’s mace from its sheath. It was a three foot long piece of metal with a head comprised of four flanges and made for exactly this type of combat. Without pausing he brought his hand round from his left hip to a full extension of his arm. There was an awful cracking sound as four pounds of steel smashed out what was left of the man’s teeth, broke his jaw and sent him spinning to the ground with a spray of blood and spit and a muted grunt. Melvekior looked down to see the man’s eyes rolling in his head, the remains of his face twitching and he wondered briefly if he would die. Probably so.
“I suggest you put him out of his misery,” he said coldly and rocked slightly forward in the saddle, clucking his tongue. His mount moved slowly forward as he looked straight ahead. Well trained as it was, his mount didn’t react to the smell of blood and fear and this helped him keep his nerve as he rode nonchalantly away.
Never before was he forced to defend himself from an opponent who meant him real harm. The feeling was certainly different to smashing through the ranks of lifeless corpses in Summershade. The man he struck was quite possibly dead by now, either from the injury he had inflicted, the mercy or, more likely, ruthlessness of his comrades.
He rode the next few hours slowly, in a sleepy daze, waving idly to passing merchants, in deep thought. Nothing he’d learned so far had prepared him for this feeling. An unassailable guilt. Did that man have children or parents that would miss him? Why did he turn to banditry? Was his feudal lord so hard that he rebelled and turned to a life of crime? Maybe he had a noble cause beneath the rough exterior.
The more he thought about it, the more angry he became. All men were free of tyranny in the Three Kingdoms. Slavery for men such as he had become illegal over a century ago. He would have been able to earn an honest crust in any major town, not to mention Amaranth, the city where all desires could be achieved. Instead he preyed on the innocent and hardworking. Lone travelers such as he. How many children had he made orphans, how many parents childless?
By the time he had reached the Forthcrest Inn he’d put himself in a furious mood. It was only his need to move forward with his plans that stopped him from going back and teaching the rest of that band of ruffians the error of their ways. That sort of scum needed to be wiped out so that decent, hard-working fami
lies could live their lives free of fear and violence.
Was this what it was like in the outside world? He’d spent his whole life sequestered within the walls of Saens Martelle and then when he finally took a step towards worldliness it was in the direction of a monastery. God-fearing people were more well behaved and decent than the sorts of indigents he had just met. No follower of Mithras would behave in such a way.
He stepped into the inn feeling defensive, apprehensive and ready for trouble.
Never having frequented many taverns as had other young men of almost eighteen years old, the place didn’t live up to his expectations. Warned frequently by Aeldryn of the evils of alcohol, which served to dissuade him from drinking too much wine, as well as lectures on the sorts of people one would meet in such places, gave him an overall negative impression of bars, public houses, inns and the like. Magret had also warned him on numerous occasions of “loose women” whatever that meant and Egalfas told him with a wink that it was in these places those women would be found. He could see nobody that fit that description in the Forthcrest Inn.
The room he entered after tying his horse to the hitching rail was light and airy, the floors and tables clean and it the aroma was pleasant, as if the room had been washed with lavender water and then filled with the odor of freshly cooked meat stew. As well as half a dozen large tables with benches, there was a bar with high stools propped up against it, behind which a middle aged man stood wiping bottles with a cloth. A young boy approached him as soon as he walked through the door.
“Are you on a wagon, mister, or an ‘orse?” The boy was clean and rosy cheeked, a wide-eyed look about him.
“My horse is tied outside,” he replied. He caught himself about to add “and don’t even think about stealing anything from my bags” but stopped. He didn’t want to put ideas in the boy’s head, nor did he wish to seem overly aggressive.
