Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  Wrestling wasn’t really the correct term for the event that was taking place, but Garrick wouldn’t allow blood sports in his city so the more correct name for the event “Fighting” had given way to the more sportsmanlike “Wrestling”. The event itself hadn’t changed one bit.

  Melvekior was surprised at this when in his first event he had fallen into a wrestling crouch and his opponent merely ran up and took a wild swing at him. Shocked, but never unprepared, he was able to block the strike and catching on that there were no holds barred, kicked the man square between his legs. The man was dragged off vowing revenge.

  He watched the other matches with growing interest and noticed a man of the Mountain Folk, heavily tattooed, hair in long braids and painted with woad, crush his opponent without breaking a sweat. He was not of the same tribe as Ottkatla but they would be close neighbors assuming his knowledge of clan tattoos was correct. The only other combatant that looked like he knew what he was doing was a giant of a man with the muscles of a blacksmith. He wore a leather apron that had numerous burn marks, so the chances that he was an actual smith were high. Having no concept of defense he merely pummeled the men he was fighting with powerful blows.

  The bouts were uninteresting for Melvekior until it was the match that decided who would be in the final. He’d already made the last two by beating everyone sent against him within seconds. It was like sending kittens to attack a bear. Some of them were as big as him but none had ever been trained in any sort of martial art and Melvekior was confident, even cocky, after his recent successes in actual life or death situations. Still, he eager to see who would win between the smith and the tattooed Mountain Man, for he’d rather face the local than the other.

  There was little contest. The smith was past his prime and ran to fat, coddled by an existence of safety and plenty. The Mountain Man on the other hand, a savage by Amaranth standards, was hard and hungry, fast and brutal. The smith found it impossible to connect with any of his big blows and was tired from all the little punches and kicks he’d taken. His reactions were slower than they were an hour ago and his failed strikes less accurate making them easier to dodge.

  Melvekior had noticed something else. A merchant, fat and arrogant looking, as many merchants were, who paid close attention to the hill-dweller. Every time he won a match he collected money from another man, evidently a bookmaker, who had exchanged money and small tokens with dozens of people throughout the duration of this contest. The merchant only bet on the tattooed outsider and became increasingly angry every time he collected money from the bookmaker. The young knight wasn’t particularly bright but he fancied something amiss with this situation.

  After the final punch to the smith’s huge stomach had forced him to surrender, he made his way quickly over where the money was changing hands.

  “So my original wager still stands?” the merchant was demanding from the bookmaker who sat on a fold-up chair with a strongbox beneath his feet.

  “For the fiftieth time, yes. Of course his odds are going to fall for the next fight after every fight he wins, but overall, you still get the same odds for a bet you made two hours ago.” The bookie was precise in his speech and if you knew where to look you could see his position being watched closely by two heavily armed men. Melvekior imagined that such a man would have a reputation as someone not to be robbed and he looked quite comfortable even handling large sums of cash as he was.

  “Sir,” Melvekior started, addressing the merchant, “I will be facing your man in the final round. Pray tell, where did he learn his craft?”

  “Hah! I’ve seen you fight, noble, you have no hope of winning. You’ll get no inside information from me.” He flounced off cockily.

  “It’s a pity you can’t fight him instead of his slave, Sir Knight, although his money is as shiny as the next man’s.”

  “I share your dislike for him,” he said to the bookie, “I hope you won’t be too badly impacted when I take the trophy.”

  “I won’t be, a good numbers man knows how to play the odds.” He laughed. “Fancy a flutter yourself, Sir Knight?”

  Melvekior frowned. “Absolutely not,” he stated. And walked off, ruminating on what he’d just heard.

  He faced the Mountain Man. He wasn’t totally sure he could win this fight, but he didn’t need to. His plans had changed.

  The mountain tribes had lived in a warlike state for centuries, constantly vying with each other for domination, but the civilizing influence of Uth and Maresh-Kar, twin states sharing borders and laws, had changed all that. Offering an easy life, many of the tribes-people had migrated and settled within the borders of both countries.

  All went well until a disastrous and costly war with the Aelvar of Silverwood almost brought Maresh-Kar to its knees. Instantly anyone not Mareshian or Uthite became a slave and was forced to work towards restoring the principality’s former greatness.

  The tribes were outraged by this and united under a single chieftain for the first time in their history. Their freedom and sovereignty was paramount to such proud people and they’d rather have been undone and destroyed entirely than submit to the yoke of servitude. Even the might of a combined army of Tarkan barbarians was no match for the discipline and ferocity of the forces of Uth and Maresh-Kar, led by the brilliant Mikael Martelle.

  Then something unthinkable happened. On the field of battle, Skolmakk the Unifier, surrendered to General Martelle. A tenth of his army sent into slavery, with conditions on both sides. Many believed that both leaders tired of needless killing and made what agreement they could to stop the killing of innocents, but neither would talk of it.

  Martelle was hailed a hero but refused to don that mantle. Skolmakk himself fell into obscurity, branded a traitor by many of his people.

  Of interest to Melvekior now was this man he faced in the contest of wrestling. One of the conditions of surrender by the Tarkan barbarians was that their people in slavery were not to be badly treated, no physical harm may come to them and in turn they promised not to slay their owners when presented an opportunity. Did making your man fight that you may profit fall within such limits? Melvekior did not believe so.

  They circled each other slowly and as they did so Melvekior started speaking. In Calimtan, the language of the Mountain Folk. He had begged Ottkatla to teach him her native tongue, hoping they would become closer, which she did and they didn’t. He felt a little embarrassed upon thinking of his motivations and how utterly transparent they must have been. At least his teenage horniness was now paying off.

  “My friend. Why do you stay in that fat fool’s service?” said Melvekior in a spiteful tone, so that anyone hearing and not understanding would hear only hatred in his voice. “Surely he works outside the spirit of the Accord.” The Theitis Accord was the peace treaty signed in blood by Melvekior’s own father and Skolmakk.

  Only the slightest raising of the eyebrows betrayed that the braided warrior before him was surprised at being addressed in his own language. “He has an agent in my village who will kill my family if I make any such move. Were that not the case I would eat his heart before his dying eyes,” he spat.

  “Surely there are cheaper servants? What is your value?” Melvekior stepped forward and hammered at his opponent’s head, the blow being blocked by a forearm. There was little power in the blow, style over substance, merely giving the appearance of fury. He then leapt back to circle again. The merchant was howling his derision from the sidelines.

  “He makes a fortune betting on me. I am undefeated. This festival is a mere trifle for him and just to satisfy his blood lust. Lagutia and Maresh-Kar are the big arenas where the serious money is to be made. I am tired though, friend and I fear that when I fail, my wife and children will die.”

  He leapt at Melvekior, with full force, inspired by fear and driven by desperation. He clamped his hands onto the young knight’s face and drove him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him and pinning his legs. Holding Melvekior’s arms down with hi
s elbows he started to apply pressure to his skull. “Forgive me,” he said in Calimtan, “I cannot allow my family to suffer.”

  With a monumental effort, Melvekior freed one of his arms and yanked at the tribesman’s braid, puling him back just enough to free him from the crushing grasp of his attacker. The tattooed warrior reared back and when Melvekior released his hair aimed a thunderous head-butt at his face. Melvekior ducked his head, chin to breast, and his opponent’s forehead cracked into the top of his skull, driving a spike of pain through his brain. That was nothing compared to the damage that the tribesman did to himself however. Almost immediately a large bump, the size of a hen’s egg sprung from the man’s brow and he fell back onto his haunches, holding his head in pain. Melvekior skittered back and jumped to his feet, rapidly running through his list of options.

  Dramatically and heroically, if only in his mind, he collapsed to the ground. As he lay there, pretending to be unconscious, he was sure he heard, in Calimtan, the words “thank you, my friend” before a wild cheer went up from the crowd.

  He waited for minute after minute and when he was satisfied, if disappointed, that nobody was coming to check on him he opened his eyes and climbed to his feet. The cheering had faded and the party relocated to a nearby ale tent, the only person still left the bookmaker who fixed him with an amused stare.

  “You are a terrible actor, young knight. It’s fortunate that most people are gullible enough to believe what they want to be real. The noble savage versus the ignoble noble.”

  Melvekior grunted. “Do you know that merchant’s name?”

  “I do. Koehle Poeledin. He has many powerful friends, but I suspect you are not one to care. If you had a headache, say, and you wanted to find some strong drink you might wish to head to the Midnight Elderberry. It’s rumored to be an excellent place to drink yourself into a stupor to recover from a long day fighting.”

  Melvekior felt that he was getting used to the intricacies of dishonesty and double speak so merely nodded his thanks and set off towards a quieter part of town. He’d get directions when he got there.

  How did he end up here and why did he care what happened to this tribesman? Those were his thoughts as he stood beneath yet another sign, this time a cleverly designed black sign. So black you couldn’t read the words on it. The Midnight Elderberry. Only somewhere so pretentiously named could have such obscure signage.

  The answer to his self-posed questions was simple. Ottkatla. He still loved her. Maybe not with the same childish infatuation that he had carried with him for his entire youth, and her teachings had doubtlessly saved his life and would do so again in the future. In addition to that, she was the master-at-arms of Saens Martelle and he would keep faith with her and her people even if it killed him.

  A terrible thought occurred to him. Had he, subconsciously, sought out the most physically able man he could in order to find a suitable host for the spirit of his dead father? Was it possibly some sort of instinctual behavior or was it a magical coercion placed on him somehow? Accus? Would he dare?

  Too many questions. He shook his head and pushed at the door of the Midnight Elderberry. It swung open easily and the hall behind was dark, light was conspicuous in its absence. Who makes a dark hallway the first thing a customer sees? There was only one door, right at the end and he pushed it open. A room, this one had people in it.

  About the same size as any common room, and similar in many ways. A counter, behind which stood a man selling refreshments and a smattering of tables. The light was very low however and there was no fireplace or laughter. The whole scene was muted. A couple at one table had eyes, and hands, only for each other. Two men sat at another table, talking in low voices and the enslaved tribesman sat at another table, a bottle before him. Looking up, he saw Melvekior and his eyes widened somewhat.

  Melvekior strode over and sat opposite him and motioned at the barkeep to bring him a glass. He still had a sore head and he hoped that some liquor could solve that little problem.

  “What do you want, man? I don’t think it wise that you come here.” The Mountain Man looked a little angry, but if truth be told, now that Melvekior wore his armor and carried a sword he didn’t fancy his chances.

  “I’ll overlook your surly attitude, and also, you owe me one. I could have beaten you out there, you were reckless. Tell me the name of your village and I’ll do what I can for your wife and child.”

  “Why would you put yourself out like that? I’ve got nothing for you, you know. Nothing. I’ve got nothing.” He held his head in his hands. Drunk and emotional.

  “I’m repaying a friend. The name of your village and where are you headed next?” Melvekior had little patience for this and was absolutely exhausted.

  “I am Langan, my wife is Odertha, we, she, lives in Abst.” He looked up, eyes red. “If you can help her knight, do so, but do not attract the wrath of Poeledin, he has no mercy and will not hesitate to slay her. Or you.”

  “And after here? Where will you go?”

  “There is an underground tournament in a few days in Amaranth itself. Big money, for Poeledin.” He slammed his fist on the table in impotent rage.

  “I’ll do what I can, try to get some sleep.” He put his hand on the tribesman’s forearm in a show of support and then stood to go.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Hell

  “In the case of Ain-Ordra, I agree with the Talvar.” - Melvekior

  The instant he set foot outside of the tavern, he heard it. A howling as though from far away, the call of a beast from nightmare. No hound or wolf he knew made such a sound. It chilled him to the bone and he shivered to have heard it.

  There were two men playing dice in the street outside the Elderberry, their game lit by a lantern they had placed on a stool next to their game. They ignored the howl and there’s no way they could have missed it.

  “Hey, you two,” Melvekior barked in his best attention-getting voice. “Did you hear that?”

  One of them looked up blearily, squinting, the other seemed a little more coherent and he looked up and sideways as one does when listening intently.

  “Didn’t hear nothin’, boss. What was you hearin’?”

  Melvekior looked up and down the street. It was getting late so there was little traffic in comparison to daylight hours, but there were still people abroad, mostly to and from taverns by the looks of it. Summerfest was a popular time for revelry and he expected there were plenty of people who wanted to get away from the crowds of the fair itself. None of them had stopped as a person probably would when such an inhuman sound was heard. The only conclusion he could come to, is that only he heard the noise, but how could that be, and why?

  Maybe it was time to find his father and their pet Necromancer, if they were still together. Accus had no reason to remain, apart from the fear of Melvekior’s retribution.

  He walked towards the ale tent that was the last place he had seen them and he was irritated to see that most of the traders had called it a day and all that was left was a series of these tents, catering to the reveler. He could see one that was obviously a mobile brothel and another that offered some sort of opiate to be smoked through a complex set of tubes.

  So popular was the one he approached that all the tables and benches within were full and patrons had spilled onto the field outside, the area lit by Volcanium powered lampposts. He’d never seen the like. It was a tall metal pole with a large ball of glass at the top. Within could be seen fist sized chunks of Volcanium that gave off light enough that people could see what they were doing, even if nobody else wanted to. The alcohol had lowered a fair few inhibitions that was for sure. Men and women were engaged in all sorts of inappropriateness on the grass, but he noticed that none were close to the pole and as he got closer he could see why. The pole gave off an enormous amount of heat. Even though it was a warm summer’s night, it wouldn’t stay warm all night but the Volcanium also produced heat enough to keep people warm and drinking cold ale. He surmi
sed that the provision of the lampposts wasn’t a civic kindness but a merchant driven ploy. He was starting to seriously dislike merchants.

  He stepped around the lovers and the sitters and the sleepers that dotted the field on the way to the tent. The closer he got the louder the noise from inside the tent. He shouldn’t have been surprised at the scene that greeted him but he was after all a conservative young man.

  Accus was asleep on the floor between a table and the edge of the tent. He’d been sick and the evidence lay on the grass where he lay, on the tent wall and down his robes. Melvekior took a closer look. Yes, he was breathing and looked healthy enough, but he’d certainly feel the pain in the morning.

  Mikael-Janesca was sitting at a table, half a dozen men watching her in an arm wrestling contest with someone Melvekior had never seen before. The men were cheering and whooping as it became apparent that the man she vied against was not going to win. She picked up a tankard of ale with her free hand, sucked down the contents of it in one gulp, slammed it back down on the table and then slammed her opponent’s arm down onto the table. She then jumped up and down, arms raised above her head, in victory. Her thin dress was now so dirty and covered in spilled beer and worn with such little grace that her heaving bosom threatened to break free. Melvekior guessed that the men cheering her were not doing so because they liked to watch contests of strength. Mikael-Janesca was too drunk by the looks of it to realize what was happening.

  Melvekior moved between bodies and excused himself past half a dozen merrymakers to put the flat of his hand on his father’s shoulder blade. “It’s time we went, I’ll collect our friend.”

  “Melvekior!” shouted his father in a woman’s voice, from a woman’s throat. He’d never get used to this. “Have an ale, the night is young.”

  “No, we must go,” he nearly added “father” but he stopped himself. He felt exposed enough as it was, being the only sober person in a crowd of dozens. He grabbed her arm and she pulled away violently.