Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  The boy vanished out of the door under Melvekior’s gaze and he turned to find the barkeep’s eyes on him.

  “Room, sir? Or just refreshments?” The man’s voice was cultured and clear. No rude peasant, he.

  “Both, please.” He pulled out one of the stools at the bar and sat, the furniture creaking beneath the weight of him and his chainmail. “I’ll start with an ale, and of course your best room.”

  “Very good, sir,” the barkeep said and then scowled, looking slightly behind him. He turned swiftly, rising from his stool, expecting danger and it was precisely the sort of danger that Magret had feared, for standing behind him was a woman. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Ottkatla had won his heart, but he understood now that she’d had a total lack of competition and seemed a very long way away at that moment.

  Slender, she wore a plain white dress and a pinafore also of white, slightly stained and decorated by light blue flowers. Her hair was to her shoulders and dark, almost black. She shied back at his rapid turn and clutched a cloth to her breast, “Sorry, Mi’lord,” she squeaked.

  “No harm done,” he breathed and turned back to the barkeep who also now stared wide-eyed.

  “Your Grace, I did not realize, forgive me.” They must have seen the crest of the Martelle family on his cloak. It was nothing spectacular but instantly recognizable to many in the region, a simple sun design to display the family loyalty to Mithras on a field of gold and azure.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he started and then felt a lump in his throat, “my father died recently. I suppose that makes me the new Earl.” He steeled himself, displays of emotion were not for one such as he in this place of all places.

  “My condolences, Lord,” fawned the man and pushed a mug of ale into his hand. “You’ll have our best room and our best fare.” He motioned with his hand at the serving wench, “Janesca, get to it.” There was a hint of impatience there which Melvekior noted unhappily. His father never spoke to a servant in that fashion, even the guards who were soldiers well used to being commanded.

  “Just keep the ales coming,” he decided to see what people meant by drowning your sorrows.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Janesca

  “Fate spares no man.” - Mikael

  “…the customers are really nice and nobody tries to force you into anything, just your company is enough. These men, they’re just lonely. You’ll only have to do it for a few months and you’ll have enough money to buy your own apartment. Think on it.” The letter was signed “Soria”.

  Janesca put the letter down. She’d read it about thirty times over the last few days, her mind racing. Could she take that step? She knew men found her attractive, but to pay her money merely for her company, that didn’t sound like it could be true. Surely they’d want more. The thought of that turned her stomach. As did the thought of working for Fulgrin any longer. Janesca smiled when she thought of what Soria called him; halfprick. Soria was much more free with her affections than she, having bedded the proprietor of the Forthcrest more than once.

  In fact, it was that very quality of hers that had got them kicked out of their comfortable positions as ladies-in-waiting to Mistress Moine Forthcrest at the mansion. While Janesca prickled at being bossed about like a servant, it was warm, the food was plentiful and she was safe from wandering hands and demands for “extras”. Lady Moine taught her to read, how to sew and conduct herself like a lady. When she thought about her upbringing she could cry at the opportunity lost. Her parents were poor farmers and they couldn’t wait to be rid of another mouth to feed, sending her to beg for a position at Forthcrest Manor as soon as she was old enough.

  She wept every night for a week, but then met Soria and the mischievous older girl introduced her to a world of fun and adventure. Secret tunnels beneath the manor, listening at doors and petty thievery, not to mention stablehands, guardsmen and eventually Lady Moine’s brother himself. Janesca had nothing to do with the younger of the Forthcrest children, but Soria started up an ongoing affair with him that eventually led to their dismissal from the noble house’s service. Garen Forthcrest had promised to see them right but then refused to have anything to do with them, ignoring Soria when she accosted him in public. It ended one night when a man came to their shared room at the rear of the Inn. He punched Soria so hard that she couldn’t walk straight for a week and he said that any further embarrassment to the House of Forthcrest would be met with a worse punishment. Soria knew when she was beaten and ran away to Amaranth. This was three months ago and then last week a trader delivered a letter to her from the big city.

  Her disappointment in losing her position at the manor and being forced to submit to the depredations of Fulgrin and the Inn’s patrons nightly lasted a lot longer than a week and though she cursed Soria with every fiber of her being, she still secretly admired her bravado and don’t-give-a-farthing attitude.

  According to the communique she had made her way safely to Amaranth and now worked as an escort in a place called Baboo’s. Janesca wasn’t stupid enough to believe the whole thing but it did sound attractive. And really, what other choices did she have? Janesca was disgusted at the thought of pleasuring men for money, but if she just did it for a few weeks and saved the money she’d be able to open her own business using her reading or embroidery skills. Maybe she’d meet a man who’d keep her. She’d keep her past quiet, no decent man would want a whore, and she’d make a wonderful wife. Children and a husband and her own home were in her future; she just knew it. A passing gypsy had read her fortune a couple of months ago and confirmed it.

  The journey would be dangerous, the Forest was a dark place full of murderous bandits, who’d make fast work of a pretty young woman by herself, but if she joined a caravan that should be safe enough. Paying for a place in the caravan was a different matter altogether. Most of her wages went on paying for her room and Fulgrin laughed cruelly when she asked for an advance. She didn’t press the issue. The last time she complained of being paid a pittance, he beat her and said that she could always sleep on the street and she was lucky he didn’t give her to the groups of Tashers that frequently asked how much she cost.

  She couldn’t quite figure out if it was her desperation to be away from Forthcrest or a subliminal desire to get back at Fulgrin, but she’d been secretly pocketing coin from the takings and the tips when she could. All tips went to the establishment, but she’d been increasingly flirtatious, bringing in extra gratuities from company starved men who hoped in vain that their generosity would lead to greater delights. Some were becoming quite insistent so she knew that the time of departure would have to be within the next couple of days.

  Then she saw that Knight, the young nobleman who drank enough ale to sink a horse and had to be helped to bed. It took her almost an hour to divest him of his armor, although she had to admit to herself that if he insisted that she join him in bed it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He was extremely handsome and potentially wealthy. And heading her way. She’d ask him in the morning if she could tag along, his mount looked like it could carry a bear and she didn’t weigh much. Nobody would dare try to rob a noble knight such as him so she’d be safe from bandits too. Her last waking thought was of Melvekior with his frightening scowl and his muscled form.

  She awoke from dreams of children and a cottage with gardens, to Fulgrin banging on her door. “Wake up, no sleeping in for you!”

  Groaning inwardly she sat up, feet on the floor, head in her hands. And then she remembered the Knight. She perked up immediately, this might be her last morning here. She leapt from bed, fixed her hair in her small hand mirror and hurried downstairs. The sooner she cleaned the common room, the sooner she could have breakfast and then she’d have a couple of hours to herself to prepare and plan.

  Dashing through the kitchen she was relieved to see that there was nobody wanting breakfast in the main room of the inn, so she got to work. The place was still a mess from last night but Fulgr
in had wanted her to see the Lord Martelle to bed so had let her off her cleaning up duties. Not that it made much difference; the work still had to be done and he wasn’t about to do it.

  She noticed rather quickly that beneath the table the young Lord was sitting at was a silver coin. What a stroke of luck! That would buy her a month’s worth of lodgings somewhere modest in Amaranth if passing merchants were to be believed. She stooped quickly to pick it up and slipped it into the inner pockets of her shift.

  “What have you got there, girl?” Her heart sank when she heard those words fall from Fulgrin’s repulsive mouth.

  She stood and turned, affecting as innocent an air as she could. “Why, Fulgrin, sir, it looks as though that young knight left some coin behind. Best we return it to him.” She thought of trying to switch the coin or even lying but didn’t want to get caught out, not at this late stage of her escape plan. She held out the coin to the innkeeper.

  He reached out as though to take it and then at the last second he slapped it from her hand. “Stupid girl,” he said, his mouth twisting, “do you think I hadn’t noticed the reduction in tips and the whorish way you’ve been putting yourself about. I put that coin there, to test you.” He stepped forward menacingly, his round, bald head quivering and his cheeks red. “What is it eh? Have you gotten yourself with child and need money to rid yourself of it? Worried that your looks will fade before you find a man good enough for you? Spawning a bastard would put paid to that little plan wouldn’t it?” He grasped the front of her simple dress and brought his face right up to hers. “Wouldn’t it?” he bellowed, spittle flying.

  She tried to pull away from him, moving her face to the side, but he was too strong.

  “Always too good for me, that’s what you think isn’t it?” He brought one hand down, tearing some of the buttons on her dress, exposing her breasts, his breath hot on her face. He shoved her and she fell uncomfortably onto her back, winded and watched him loom above her. She was surprised at how calm she was. This wasn’t the first time she’d been assaulted in this manner, but previously her attacker had realized what he was doing and wandered off drunk. Fulgrin hadn’t been drinking and she didn’t think he was going to stop. She could see him fumbling with his belt and then suddenly he shot backwards and flew hard into the bar. Another figure took his place, a more imposing figure and one she was very glad to see.

  “Lady, take my hand,” he reached down and pulled her up and guided her to a seat. The young knight Melvekior then turned to where Fulgrin lay against the bar. She hoped fervently he would slay him and then at least one of her problems would be solved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Propositions and Force

  “Nobody is ever as they first seem and mostly they’re much worse.” - Mikael

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” Melvekior shouted. He was furious. He’d risen early to brush down his mount before breakfast and returned to the common room to find the proprietor about to rape the waitress. Only last night he was bemoaning the character of those around him and felt he had found a haven of high character. A place a man could find good food and ale without being accosted by bandits or beggars. This fellow, he forgot his name, seemed absolutely agreeable yesterday and now it seems that was a mere front.

  He heard shouting, stormed into the Inn, grabbed Fulgrin by the collar of his waistcoat and thrown him against the bar. He was sorely tempted to draw steel. His armor was upstairs, his sword too, the mace he brained the bandit with was on his horse, but wisely he always carried a long knife strapped to his ankle. He wasn’t sure that was the right path to follow though; the man hadn’t gone through with the deed, but nevertheless some sort of punishment was necessary. Death just seemed excessive.

  “She’s a thief, Mi’lord.” Fulgrin gasped. “I was going to teach her a much needed lesson.” He sat up obviously hurt, but not badly enough to stay down.

  “Is the punishment for theft rape now?” He knew it wasn’t. Brutal though Sunar was, Three Kingdom law was quite reasonable. A rapist might face the gallows in some circumstances but theft, unless on a grand scale was considered minor. “What did she steal?”

  “Tips, Lord Martelle, and also she’s kept money she found on the floor. I proved her deception to myself just now when she believed a silver bit dropped by yourself had found its way beneath the table. I saw her pocket the money and that’s when I acted.” He was plainly feeling more confident now, a smug look on his round face.

  “How much has she stolen?” asked Melvekior.

  “Umm, I don’t know, quite possibly in the region of five silver bits…”

  “No way, if I’ve taken anything it’s because you don’t give me my share of the tips and it’s me that earns them. Nobody would tip you, you’re ugly and everyone can see through your pretendy accent.” Janesca was starting to become emboldened too, knowing that a huge warrior stood between her and Fulgrin gave her confidence.

  “Add three silver bits to my account and we’ll leave it there. If you so much as raise a hand, or anything else, to her I’ll beat you senseless. Is that clear?” He spoke his words slowly so that there would be no misunderstanding.

  “Lord and Lady Forthcrest make the laws here, I shall be informing them of this.” He flinched slightly whilst making this threat, but pulled himself to his feet.

  “I have no interest in the opinions of those two blowhards, so you can tell them that if they cause any harm to…” he paused. He’d forgotten her name.

  “Janesca,” she offered brightly.

  “To Janesca, then I’ll extend my offer to them. Now get out of my sight you little prick!” he shouted this last sentence, loudly enough to cause Fulgrin to scurry back into the kitchen.

  He turned to the girl, she was no longer crying or upset and she looked at him with bright, expectant eyes.

  “You’ll need to get another job, I’m afraid, he won’t have you around any more. And, look, I don’t know what problems you have in your life to make you so desperate for money, but it’s always preferable to earn it honestly.” He turned to walk to his room. He’d outstayed his welcome and he knew it.

  “Wait,” she said louder than she needed to and grabbed his hand. “Lord, take me with you to Amaranth. I will earn honest money there, I promise.”

  He looked at her face. By Mithras, she was beautiful and she looked so earnest. He was not about to take responsibility for her and his reasoning was sound. He didn’t trust anyone, she was a stranger, he knew himself to be vulnerable to beautiful women, she would slow him down. The list of reasons it was a bad idea was lengthy.

  “Absolutely not. I do not require a servant and besides, you have no plan. I will be responsible for you. I simply cannot.” He pulled free of her grasp and walked to his room, ignoring her sobs. He’d had enough of being disappointed by people. Janesca was an unknown proposition, so why did he feel guilty. His father, on many an occasion had warned him of riding to the rescue of women in trouble. Her virtue was safe and that was enough, there was no need to become her guardian through guilt.

  With his mind made up, he collected his things, donned his armor and went to settle up. The maid was nowhere to be seen, but Fulgrin stood behind the bar, sulkily wiping some glasses. He flinched when he saw Melvekior “She’s run off, probably back to her parent’s hovel. Good riddance.”

  “How much?” Melvekior asked in clipped tones.

  “Including the cost of the girl’s treachery, nine sibits and a quarter.” He betrayed his origins neatly by referring to silver coins as sibits.

  Melvekior, reached into his belt pouch. He’d brought twenty gold crowns. Enough he thought to keep him in luxury for months to come, but he was starting to think that he’d been optimistic. He removed one and placed it on the bar. “Spend the rest on finding a new servant girl. I recommend an ugly one. It might help you keeps your passions in check.”

  With that he left the Forthcrest Inn, his illusions a little more shattered than when he entered.

&
nbsp; He fed and watered his horse before leaving, tipping the stableboy generously.

  “Did you see Janesca go past here?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” the boy responded oblivious to the whole situation. He looked and smelled as though he slept in the stable and Melvekior had to stop himself directing the boy to Saens Martelle and the mercies of Magret. Not everyone is there for you to save, he thought, imagining his father saying the words.

  He mounted his horse, waved to the boy and trotted towards the great Forest, about half a day to the west. The road was clear and the morning warm and he soon found himself flagging. The ale he drank last night was the most he’d ever drank in one sitting and it started to take its toll.

  He’d felt out of sorts all morning, concerned about things that were a nonsense, thinking something was about to go horribly wrong. Knowing the symptoms of a hangover, he kept himself hydrated and an eye out for somewhere to have a little rest. After roughly two hours he noticed a turf hut, a couple of hundred yards off the road to the North. He knew of these from tales of Aeldryn’s travels. Huts in which someone could seek shelter for no cost. There was a strong tradition amongst travelers that they would try to leave something of use for the next person to visit as in incentive to maintain the abode when used. He doubted that this honor system would work, judging by the people he had met recently.

  He watered his mount and went inside. It was crude, a wooden bed was all the furniture it had and draughty, though there was no signs that the roof leaked. He didn’t plan to stay long enough to find out. Moving the bed so that it blocked he door, he used his cloak as a pillow and lay down, sleep coming rapidly.

  He woke in his room at the keep. Someone had left the window open and the shutters were banging, making an awful racket. He swung his legs out of the bed, onto the floor and instantly felt the cold wind cut through his thin body. Dressed as he was in his night clothes, it didn’t occur to him that it was odd that he was wore chainmail beneath the gown. He stood and walked to the window to close it and nearly jumped out his skin to see a figure rising from without the window. He could see its features perfectly although there was no visible light source. It was a dark night, clouds covered the moon and yet it was bright enough to see the figure of his mother before his face. Clad in rags, her skin was mottled, rotten and yet glowing with a horrid, pale green light. Her eye sockets were dark and her mouth wide open as if silently screaming.