by Marin Landis
“Feel what? Nothing is happening.”
“It’s like a pull,” Accus whispered excitedly. “It’s the pull of the Mother.” He tried to push past Melvekior, but he held out a mailed arm.
“No, I’ll lead, but are you saying that your Goddess is there?” Melvekior didn’t truly believe that Ain-Ordra existed. A mere bogey to frighten children and the weak-minded. Granted, Accus and his cult wielded powerful magics, but that stemmed from the place that all magic came from. He didn’t quite know where that was, but it made more sense than a Crone of Death skulking in the background waiting to steal a man’s soul. She was not mentioned in the canon of his church, save that such as She was of necessity an enemy to Mithras. Aeldryn had taught him that death was a natural consequence to life. Seeing the results of immortality he agreed. Thanks to his education he saw the Church’s teachings slightly differently to the run of the mill worshiper, understanding subtleties of beliefs and that many of the tenets of his faith were created by the leaders of the Church to maintain order amongst the faithful. Were a Death Goddess present in these caves he would agree to Her right to exist but that wouldn’t stop him defying Her.
“Not Her, but something of Her. It must be the Neral, Her seed. How comes it to be here I wonder?”
“Let us retrieve it first and then ask questions. There can be no danger but I’d still prefer to be above ground. Come.” He forged ahead and moments later noticed a pinprick of light beyond the aura of the torchlight and stopped. “Can you quell this light for a moment?”
“I could but then could not light it once more, but I too see that in the distance. Here,” he took the torch and thrust it beneath his jerkin. It was not actual flame so would not burn and its light was quelled, showing brighter the luminescence in the distance.
“Let us approach with caution,” Melvekior said as he started moving forward.
“Nothing here lives, Melvekior. I can sense no life force save ours, although my ability to do so is hampered, but I am sure I would sense life, or undeath.” He scurried behind the knight though, not being completely confident of his statement.
They hurried towards the light which emanated from the end of the passageway, from the opening to a larger chamber. Both were pleased that their journey was at its end. They could collect the substance and be gone.
The passage veered to the right and in their impatience they rushed around the corner without a thought to what might be around the bend and pulled up, their eyes instinctively protecting their eyes from the incandescence that stood before them.
Neither was sure what to expect, but what they saw was as far from their wildest imaginings as it could have been. Melvekior hadn’t really considered it, but was sure the Neral was a mineral to be extracted from the rock. Accus, a lot less naive, surmised a crystal formation that sometimes manifests in deep caverns and can provide an eerie light.
What they saw was utterly unexpected and the sheer shock of what lay before them overwhelmed their senses to such a degree that the gasp behind them, loud though it was, went by unheard.
“Child of Mithras, aid me!” came the unstoppable wave of psychic power, the words heard physically as well as mentally. The light dimmed somewhat and through squinting eyes, through the splitting headache both now had from the sonic shock of the booming voice, through sheer disbelief and a momentary refusal of the conscious mind to accept what it was seeing, they perceived a great being, half again as massive as Melvekior, composed entirely of a bright white light. His arms spread against the wall of the chamber, his head thrown back in what looked to be anguish, but so harsh to the eyes was the luminescence that his facial features could not be distinguished.
Then, all of a sudden, the light dimmed further and was no greater than that of a torch bought for an exorbitant amount and lit by magic. The being’s head flopped, chin onto chest and the struggle against the chains of what seemed to be naught but plain metal, that moments ago seemed so enormous, now ceased.
For seconds, they were stunned, the young knight and the middle-aged necromancer. This, they were not expecting. Where was the fabled ore, the seed of the Death Mother? Nothing else was in this chamber, save the being of light. Accus pointed wordlessly and Melvekior nodded, for the otherwise perfectly formed male humanoid was missing digits from his left hand. Three fingers short of a whole hand. The three Kings, Calra Alpre, Sunar and Thacritus had maimed this noble being to buy themselves eternal life. Melvekior’s fury rose. He already despised those three men and vowed in that moment that he would bring them down or die trying.
Now that the light was less blinding, they could have a better look at him. If perfection in the human form could be imagined, this would be it. Sculpted from the stuff of creation seemed he, from his wavy hair, now seen to be a light brown color, shoulder length and drenched with sweat, to the jutting, square, jaw. Approaching ten feet tall, his heavily muscled shoulders and limbs looked easily strong enough to burst from the flimsy chains that held him. The rest of his physique was as masculine as would shame a chaste lady into averting her eyes or a wanton one to smile widely. His legs seemed buckled now, his strength gone and he was held partially upright by his bonds.
His eyes were closed, though beneath the lids, the orbs could be seen to be moving rapidly back and forth. The infrequent clenching of his jaw another sign that this titan yet lived.
“It is an avatar of Mithras, we must save him,” choked Melvekior, moved almost to tears so pitiful did this obviously celestial creature appear now.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” muttered Accus darkly, “you noticed its hand.”
“His hand,” snapped the knight, “and yes, such perfidy shall not go unpunished. I swear, by the Light of…”
“This is no time to be dramatic, Melvekior, we must keep our heads.” Accus interrupted, if a little fearfully. He did not want to risk Melvekior’s ire a second time. His head still hurt from the first time he had underestimated the young man.
The holy knight spun, in a fury, his eyes wild, his righteous anger flaring, ready to lambaste Accus for his defiance. For not many reasons would Melvekior turn on a companion, but in defense of the chosen of Mithras he would. He stopped at the unexpected sight before him.
Behind the cowering Accus, stood another figure and Melvekior started in surprise.
“What!” he shouted and Accus turned slightly and also jumped in shock.
The figure before them held his hands out and stepped back, head slightly bowed. “I did not mean to startle you, friends.” He continued to back away towards the entrance to the room.
It was a man about Melvekior’s age, but as different to the Earl of Martelle as could be. Where Melvekior was tall and fair and hale, this man was the height of a mere adolescent, slight in build and his skin held an unhealthy green, even grayish hue. His hair was jet black, shiny and straight, cut severely across his eyes and at his shoulders. Odder than his hairstyle was his dress, peasant clothes similar to Accus, if Accus had slept rough for a week. Filthy and ragged, once white, but now a dirty gray.
“Explain yourself, whoever you are!” demanded Melvekior, while a stirring of memory kindled in the mind of Accus.
“A Tavra, you are a Tavra!” exclaimed the necromancer. “I had thought your people died out, though some claim to have seen your kind.”
The Tavra, lifted an eyebrow, lifted and inclined his head. “It’s amazing how many people believe it to be so, when we live in plain sight.”
Both could see now the unusual nature of his eyes. Enormous pupils, but no iris. It was disconcerting and the last thing that Melvekior wanted to see at that moment.
“Devil!” he spat and drew his sword, reaching back with his left hand for his shield. “You will not desecrate this Angel any longer.” He stepped towards the newcomer with grim determination on his face, his nostrils flared and his jaw set.
Accus feared Melvekior more than he cared to admit and involuntarily took a step backwards.
Sjarcu stood his ground, “I have been here less time than you,” he managed to get out before he was forced to deftly avoid Melvekior’s downward slash. Crouching and moving to his left, he came back up, a long knife suddenly in his hand. “Do not, youth, I represent no harm to you.”
Melvekior’s reply a surging forward with his shield before him, an impenetrable wall of steel and following that wall a deadly blade as long as the Tavra’s arm. The assassin made no attempt to withstand the blow but took the brunt of the knight’s charge and flew backwards a dozen feet, coming again to his feet in the blink of an eye.
“I seek no confrontation, but will retaliate, I warn you.” His voice took on an edge now, no longer the soft and carefully pronounced diction he displayed moments earlier.
Melvekior did not respond, his training such that he was not distracted by the jibes or taunts of an opponent. Pressing his perceived advantage he again thrust his shield before him, trying to push the Tavra into the wall and limit his ability to evade attacks. His intended victim wasn’t so easily defeated though. Understanding what Melvekior was trying to do, Sjarcu leapt high into the air, impossibly high, barely though evading the sword waved inefficiently at him, and landed behind his armored assailant. Kicking out a foot out to attempt to unbalance his opponent, he himself was unbalanced and while he was successful at knocking Melvekior’s knee forward, he did not manage to dodge Accus’s magically lit torch. At the last moment he saw it swung by a skinny hand directly towards his face. He felt a huge blow to the side of his head and fell to the ground, pinpricks of light bursting forth to confound his vision.
“Little bastard!” Melvekior shouted as he turned.
“Just wait, damn it all!” Accus shouted. “This fellow isn’t responsible for what’s happening here.”
Not truly wanting to slay a downed opponent, he paused. “What? How do you know?”
“Does he look three hundred years old? He’s followed us down here. Look, he has no light source. I don’t care how odd his eyes are, he can’t see in pitch blackness.”
“Is this true, dark elf?” Melvekior didn’t know if this truly was a dark elf, or if even such a thing existed, but he knew stories of the night folk with their sharp features and legendary fighting ability and this “Tavra” seemed to fit that bill, down to the unsavory cast of his skin.
“I am here for this creature, but I did not place him here.” He raised himself to his hands and knees, hand probing behind his ear from where blood seeped. Accus discarded his torch onto the floor and helped the small man stand.
“Then explain yourself, as I first requested and there will be no more acrimony, save if you intend harm to that poor creature hence.”
“Truly, knight, and you, sir,” he bowed his head briefly towards Accus, “I came here on a whim, on a trail of the Divine. I saw you come into this tunnel and followed.”
“The Divine, you mean the Angel?” Melvekior’s patience had worn thin already and adrenaline was still impacting his speech.
“That I did not expect, but I have followed the trail from a village west of here, to a keep that looks to have been yours Sir Knight,” the Talvar raised his eyebrows and inclined his head at the shield that had knocked him from his feet. “I then felt the presence of Gods and the residue of that power brought me here. That,” he pointed at Melvekior’s chest, at the amulet, “drew me.”
“Sunar’s amulet,” Melvekior started laughing. “Could you not have had it from him anytime in the last three centuries?”
“The Prince of Maresh-Kar has held that for all of those years? Is that true?”
“It is,” Accus interjected, “but its power was drained before he could use it and we now must do his will in retrieving more of the Neral. I’ve given up thinking it is sacred only to my brotherhood.”
“And you believe that he,” Melvekior indicated the chained being, “is the source of the Neral?”
“This creature is composed entirely of the substance, though how I do not know.” Accus admitted
“This poor soul is a Blessèd of Mithras, whatever he is ‘composed’ of makes no odds. He will not be harmed while I draw breath.” He glared at the Tavra who stood contemplating the enraged knight.
“I agree, new friend. I believed I would be retrieving a mere trinket or a mere man, not the living source of a legend. To slay such a creature would be wholly unreasonable.” Spoke he with such an earnest attitude that Melvekior relaxed a little, yet still expecting some treachery.
“So, what now.” Accus inquired. Without the same empathy as the other two he knew he wouldn’t, at this stage, be able to dissuade or influence either of them, and hoped he could come out of this situation alive. Sunar will have us all slain. Immediately if we’re lucky. Unless you have a plan to get us out of this?”
“I will not be leaving while he is chained,” started Melvekior. “That is final.” He looked at Accus thoughtfully for a second. “You, however, do not need to pay for my sins. Take yourself away back to your brotherhood and forget you ever met me. Blame that odious little shopkeeper for sending me your way and return to your blasphemous ways. I shall bother you no more.”
Secretly glad of this outcome, Accus nodded.
“I can offer you sanctuary,” Sjarcu stated, looking at Melvekior. “Although I believe, he would not welcome the attention he would get from my people.” He glanced over at the chained and still unconscious creature.
“I am tempted. However my lands will be forfeit should anything of that nature happen. I will make a public declaration of my guilt, which by law will save my family home. For now though, I would appreciate your help with these chains.”
Melvekior walked to the fallen Blessèd of Mithras and stared down. Not truly devout or as pious as he should be, being a warrior monk, Melvekior felt instinctively that Mithras had chosen him for this task and felt at peace. As though he had completed his life’s work. During his ordination as a Brother of the Hammer, he believed that Mithras had touched him as he swore a sacred oath to uphold the Sun God’s law. Since then he had thought little of it, his upbringing directing his behaviors in line with the teachings of the God. Now he knew he had a purpose greater than himself.
The chains looked old. Rusty and discolored, they seemed barely anchored into the wall and he reached out to grasp the setting that half hung out of the brickwork. Attached was a two foot long set of chain links that attached themselves via a clasp to the wrist of Mithras’s emissary. The metal was cold, even through his chain gloves and he had an instant feeling of revulsion. Dark and ancient magic ran through the metal, that was plain. Wishing nothing more than to be rid of it, he yanked on the chain hard and it came out of the wall with a shower of dust. The Blessèd slumped down further to the floor and Melvekior stepped over him to pull out the chain connecting his left wrist to the wall.
Pulling out the second chain caused a lot more dust to explode inward into the room. Accus swore and Melvekior looked up to see a hole where the chain’s setting had been hammered into the wall. Beyond the head sized hole was blackness, but a crack was spreading towards the rough ceiling.
“This room will fall, Melvekior. Let us go, now.”
“Come knight, bring him.” The dark elf, his voice losing some of its composure, betraying tension. He was moving with purpose towards the entrance to this room with Accus a hair’s breadth behind him. Neither wanted to die here. Neither did the young knight, but he baulked slightly at the thought of being crushed beneath tons of rock because he wasn’t strong enough to bear the weight of the huge being that lay on the ground before him.
He bent at the knees, reached out his hands beneath the other’s armpits, clasped his hands at his full stretch behind the angel’s back and heaved himself to his full height. Surprisingly, the Blessèd of Mithras was not heavy and he was easily able to lift him, if not navigate easily. Being careful not to bash his cargo into the wall, he walked carefully backwards into the tunnel, the creature’s residual glow providing light enough
for him to see.
“Damnit, knight,” Accus swore and scurried around the front of him. He lifted the angel’s legs and started taking small, rapid steps.
“Go, go, go!” Melvekior picked up the pace and eventually, Sjarcu in the lead, somehow able to pick his way through the almost pitch black before them, they came out into the light, leaving the dark tunnel behind them with the rumblings of some distant rockfall reminding them of their narrowly missed fate.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Temporary Reprieves
“I cared little for either of them, even at the beginning. Soon enough I was merely keeping up a human charade.” - Thacritus
“Are you quite mad?” The Mage shouted, his face red and contorted with rage. He had appeared in Sunar's private chambers quite literally out of the blue and began to shout before the Prince even properly understood what was happening.
“Do not presume to appear in my home and make demands of me, Critus, I’ll…”
A strange croak escaped his throat as the breath dried up, his airwaves constricted by some invisible force. Thacritus was pacing back and forth now, shouting almost incoherently, spittle flying from his wrinkled lips.
“You utterly stupid little bastard. I should have dealt with you years ago. I just bloody knew you would try something like this one day, but Calra convinced me that you had more sense.” He stopped and looked down at his youngest brother. Although in an entirely different body to the one he first knew him as children, he would recognize his demeanor anywhere. The way he wore his clothing, his indolence, sloth and entitled attitude. The slack-jawed leer almost constantly present on his face. Oh, how I despise him, thought the Mage, realizing now how much he did hate Sunar. And had for centuries, possibly since their childhood.
The Prince was on his knees, one hand at his own throat, the other lifted in supplication to his tormentor. He’d been awake and almost to bed when the Mage King had appeared and thus in his nightclothes, an overly sumptuous ensemble of scarlet pantaloons, voluminous beyond reason and an open chested robe of maroon lined with golden filigree, he cowered, panicked to the point of despair.
