Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  Sunar dropped to the floor, his legs thrashing, strength gone from his arms. Unable to hold his head up, he twisted his face, cheek against the plush carpet, so that he could still see Thacritus lour above him.

  “Little brother, I will not slay you, though that would be just. I will not allow, however, you any more of the Neral. You put us all at risk. Should that creature,” he spat the word, “break free, we might all be doomed.” The Mage turned his back on his brother and then was not there. No puff of smoke, no hand waving, just not there.

  A low moan escaped from the supine man’s throat and he suddenly inhaled a vast gulp of air. He choked and wheezed like a man almost drowning and after a while took to coughing. The coughs eventually turning to sobs. He was to die. His life, his charmed life, was going to end. He knew he was the useless brother. The runt. He’d faced that all through his childhood.

  Calra had always looked after him and Thacritus barely tolerated him. Growing up, their father had only time for Cal, the eldest, and his mother figure was always someone different. Whomever his father wanted to copulate with the most of all his concubines at the time. All of them inherited the Warchief’s disdain for the fairer sex and he failed to pass along any sense of familial affection. Fathers and brothers existed to compete with and beat on when there were no outsiders to dominate.

  Their ruthlessness and callous disregard for others had served them well, but now Sunar knew that if Critus cared about him as more than an ally in their game of kingdoms he might well have done more to save him. As it stood, he would have to take action himself. He couldn’t defeat Critus. Yet. Strong he might not be, nor brave or intelligent, but devious certainly. And he possessed the heart of a cruel maniac with an overwhelming desire for revenge.

  That damned knight, Melvekior. His father Mikael had wrought his downfall. Would that he were still alive, that the Prince could wreak his vengeance, but the whelp would do. There was at least ten good years left in this body. He would make them count and if he couldn’t secure transmogrification, or whatever Critus called it, he’d take them all with him.

  Feeling a bit better now, he stood and smoothed down his nightclothes, his hand smearing the spittle and mucus he’d coughed up and this brought about a fresh reaction. Fury. He grabbed either side of his robe and pulled, ripping it down the middle and angrily stepping out of it he threw it to the floor.

  The doors of his bedchamber were tall, to the ceiling and made of a dark wood. They were so heavy that opening them was an actual effort and Sunar tried to pull them open dramatically to frighten the guards on the other side, but succeeded only in opening them slowly. On the other side, his office, which functioned merely as an ante room, but had an impressive collection of bookcases, a large desk and some reading chairs; possibly giving the impression that the Prince cared about what other people felt and believed and wrote down. In fact he did not and this room was only for effect.

  The two guards on the other side of the door snapped to attention. They, in fact, had heard an angry exchange through the door but had been instructed to ignore anything but direct cries for help from inside that room. Perpetually worried about their jobs and safety, the Prince’s guard detail was not a role that many relished, thus it was shared as a type of punishment among the military of Maresh-Kar. It spoke volumes about the reasonableness of such a system that Sunar hadn’t noticed that his guards were never the same people twice in a row.

  “Wine, bring me wine. And that serving wench, Reni, or something like that. The one with the enormous bosom who just married. Then have my horse and bodyguard readied for a short excursion in about an hour.” They both started off, eager to leave his presence. “Only one of you, by the Gods! Do you seek to leave me defenseless?” he stormed. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.” He spun dramatically and returned to his chambers to prepare the whips and honey.

  “What now? We’ve made an enemy of Sunar, that’s for sure. Wasn’t that the whole point of this exercise; to make an ally of him?” Accus sat with his back to a tree, his clothes covered in dust and his face and bald head black with the dirt of the cave.

  “Just shut up for a minute, would you?” Melvekior snapped. Accus was indeed correct, their original mission was in an utter shambles and he’d achieved the opposite of his intended goal. He’d wanted to mollify the offended Prince and restore his name. Instead he’d started on a path which would thwart the short-term goals of one of the most powerful men in the Three Kingdoms. Not to mention that he’d given his word to his own monarch and ignored the magically delivered dictates of a Mage King.

  What other choice, though, did he have? Mithras had obviously used him as a tool of salvation for one of his heavenly host. An angel, a Blessèd, one of the Sun God’s direct representatives. Melvekior had not even hoped to even see one in his lifetime, let alone rescue one from captivity. He knew a divine sense of purpose and while panic lurked in the back of his mind, he felt an overwhelming rightness about what he’d done.

  “I am going to have to face what I’ve done. There’s no escaping for me, but they don’t really know you, Accus. Go now, slip into the shadows and return to your previous life. You,” he turned to Sjarcu, “I believe intend me harm in some way. Nevertheless, I will also say to you, ‘go’, before the wrath of three kings comes down upon me.”

  Any further utterances were forestalled by a movement at his feet. Melvekior had dragged the body of the angel from the cave and it lay now on the ground. As the Blessèd of Mithras sat up, it looked just like any other mortal, save it would be nigh on ten feet tall when standing. It’s eyes opened to reveal eyes that appeared human. There was no burning light emanating from them, they were a normal gray color and the creature looked unfocused straight ahead of himself. Suddenly it bowed its head rapidly as if struck from behind, the jolt surprising Melvekior and the others as they watched the divine being expectantly. An “oh’” escaped from the lips of the angel as, steadying itself with one arm, it got to its feet and indeed it towered over Melvekior, himself a large man, by a significant amount.

  “I have been separated from my brethren for centuries. This is quite a shock.” The voice of the angel was not at all booming or dramatic, but like that of a man. The accent archaic and words carefully uttered, as though he had not spoken any for many years and was making sure he was using the correct ones.

  “Emissary of Mithras, I am your humble servant,” Melvekior fell to one knee. He was unsure of the expected etiquette but obeisance seemed safe.

  “Please, do not, I am the servant here. And you have saved me, Melvekior; I will forever be in your debt. Wouldst that I had my own free will to properly show my gratitude. Alas, I do not, I am the instrument of the Most High.”

  The angel stretched his arms, as though waking from a deep slumber and enormous wings of a brilliant white spread behind his outstretched limbs. They were definitely not there before and indeed held an almost unworldly appearance, as if not fully realized into this world. His entire countenance at this point became more angelic. The suffering they had all seen on his face, for a male he was most assuredly, something much more apparent than before, now vanished; replaced by a look of utmost serenity. Melvekior had always thought such beings mere legend and utterly sexless, but here was proof of another level of being, attainable by him and any other who rose to prominence in Mithras’s service. Or so it logically seemed.

  It was then that Melvekior noticed that the Blessèd hovered half a foot from the ground. The dirt that covered him earlier now flew from him in a cloud of dust, his hair became fuller and the fullness of his figure became even more prominent. He was ultimate male perfection incarnate. So much so that Melvekior began to feel a little uncomfortable at his admiration of his physique.

  “Enemies approach, Melvekior. The Mage will be here momentarily but will not reveal himself until Sunar arrives. Feel free to relay that vengeance has no place in my heart and thus I will not pursue justice.” His voice now was as they had all expec
ted, deep, sonorous and all-pervasive. He spoke to their souls.

  “Wait, Lord. What is your name?” Melvekior blurted quickly.

  “I am named Tiriel, Melvekior. You have my gratitude and will one day receive its benefit. Farewell.”

  There was a rushing of air and a flash of light and the being was gone. Melvekior felt a sense of loss and also disappointment. He’d rescued an incredibly powerful creature from centuries of captivity and he wasn’t rewarded in any way. He quickly dismissed the thought. He didn’t need reward for such a deed, but some recognition would have gone a long way. What cared a God for a man’s needs however. He felt a grim determination; he’d achieve the greatness he knew was his destiny somehow.

  He realized that he was standing open mouthed, staring into space and saw Accus on his knees holding his head as though in pain and Sjarcu watching him closely.

  “What will you do, dark one?” He looked at each man in turn, “Accus, did you make your mind up?”

  “With this pounding, I can barely think straight, but I will travel with you, my friend. I am re-evaluating my life choices and though I still believe the Path of the Restless Dead to be my ultimate calling, it may serve a different purpose than that I originally believed.” He stood straight up, the pain evident on his face and stepped toward the young knight. “I call no man friend lightly, but I have faced my own death with you more than once and I’d like to see where this will all go. Should I return to my former life now, I would forever regret that decision.” He held out his hand, his face more earnest than Melvekior had ever seen it. All hints of the spiteful Mage he had first met gone, all trace of the sarcastic coward vanished. “Of course, I may regret this decision very soon if two Kings are on their way here to seek payback.” A grim smile played across his features.

  “Face death again you might, Accus.” He took the man’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  “The Mage of whom Tiriel spoke is near and yet he is hidden to my eyes.” The Talvar spoke urgently.

  “One threat at a time then, let us wait until Prince Sunar closes. Will you stand with us and face the coming storm, dark one?”

  “I will. I also prefer Sjarcu to ‘dark one’,” the vowels of his name odd sounding to their ears.”

  “Well met, Sjarcu,” Melvekior nodded. “He who stands beside me in battle is my brother.” He intoned, the words of a long dead ancestor. “When this is done, if we survive, I entreat you to tell me your story. How came you here and why.” Melvekior looked straight ahead, only half concentrating on what he was saying.

  Almost as if on cue, the sound of faint hoof-beats and then nothing.

  “They must dismount to come this far. There are five of them, four heavily armored and one more unsteady on his feet than the others.” Sjarcu said, his head cocked slightly to the side.

  “I hope your magic is reliable, Sjarcu.” Melvekior said, still looking in the direction from which the Prince would come.

  “It is,” he paused as if looking for the right word, “not prone to disruption.” Was he referring to the lack of magic in the tunnel, wondered Melvekior.

  “Regardless, ready yourselves for battle.” The knight fell into a crouch and unslung the shield from his back and lastly whipped the knight’s sword from the scabbard at his belt. It was a wide blade, a broadsword and rightly named. No family heirloom, this was an everyday blade, made for killing. Melvekior had no time for fancy weapons or dancing styles. Faster, stronger and more direct. That was how Ottkatla had taught him to fight, no messing about. Your life or theirs. This philosophy had saved him at least twice in the past few weeks.

  Sjarcu on the other hand looked to have an entirely different approach. Two long knives, with waved blades as long as the distance from a man’s fingertip to his elbow, appeared suddenly, one in each hand. Without a word he slipped behind a tree and might well have not been there. Melvekior hoped that he hadn’t just made off.

  Accus was on the verge of panic. Not a martial man and there were no corpses to reanimate or leather clad guards to fight his battles for him. He had a dagger and held it before him inexpertly.

  “Do not fight unless to defend yourself,” said Melvekior. “Let us wait silently.” He drew himself up to his full height, his light brown hair blown by the wind. With his armor muddied and shield an entire morning unpolished, he didn’t cut quite the figure he would have hoped but needs must when the Gods shit on your parade. Gods do what they will, thought Melvekior grimly, Princes and Kings must fall like the next man. He had lost much respect recently for the Crown. Raised to believe in the right of Kings to rule and their inherent nobility, he had first hand seen the folly of such beliefs. And now The Three Kings sought to harm him, or so it seemed.

  He would not go meekly.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Reckoning

  “He who stands with me is my brother.” Melek-Esh, Malannite Exile

  Sunar was feeling good. Rejuvenated by this ride out, he was looking forward to teaching Martelle a lesson and smiled as he thought of the tortures he could visit, quite legally, upon the traitor. Quite forgetting that he had sent the young man on an almost certainly fatal mission and was going to use him as a patsy in his political and familial wranglings. Like most good psychopaths Sunar felt a self-righteous hatred towards his enemy and was utterly convinced that his cause was just.

  He and his quartet of guards had been forced to leave their mounts as the trees were too thick and the terrain too steep for horses. They trudged along through the course brush and ever thickening forest. The Prince hadn’t been this way for centuries and it was totally unfamiliar to him. His previous visit may as well have been in a different life. It certainly was in a different body, one he missed very much. He’d never been able to find one with as much effortless grace.

  It wasn’t long before his guards stopped and he along with them. He pushed to the forefront of the group and saw the knight and his odd friend just outside what looked to be a cave entrance.

  Rubble poured from the mouth of the tunnel entrance, like ice from a carelessly knocked glass and it took a few seconds for him to register what had happened. A cave-in! “Damn it!” he shouted involuntarily.

  The knight stood in a fighting position, a wide bladed sword in one hand, a large shield emblazoned with a Sun motif in the other. His armor, though dulled with dirt, his handsomeness and martial stance made him look quite heroic. It was almost a shame to give the order.

  “Kill them!”

  Melvekior’s heart was beating fast. He knew this was a no-win situation. The Prince of Maresh-Kar approached with undoubtedly highly trained and skilled soldiers and would seek his death. His brothers in arms were a Mage who couldn’t fight his way out of a potato sack and a dark elf who might not even be there.

  He would win, of that he had no doubt, but would Accus survive? He who had decided to stay for no good reason other than he wanted to see life from a new perspective.

  And what good would come from this? Kill a Prince, be branded a traitor, lose his home, his friends lose theirs, spend the rest of his life as a refugee. He felt his anger rising. He didn’t deserve this. He had sought to help his father, then obey a King’s command and then serve Mithras. What other choice did he have?

  Not one to whine when life wasn’t fair, Melvekior determined that he would go down fighting. If he was to die, then so were those who had wronged him. Sunar would be first and then should Calra decide to follow through on his threats he would put him to the sword or die trying. Yes, that was the plan.

  He felt a lot better about his future as he saw the men emerge from the thicker forest into the sparser area in front of the cave. Four of them, Sjarcu was right, and they were well-armed as predicted. Following feebly behind was their leader, the Prince of Maresh-Kar. A loathsome and cowardly individual who looked like nothing more than a straggler tailing the soldiers. Physically unimpressive, he nevertheless made up for that with an attitude of superiority and wealth. His tailored outf
it though had not survived the trip well. The doublet and hose scratched and torn, his red cloak lined with white almost in tatters. Sunar’s black hair was matted to his head, the sweat running from his receding hairline. He had a manic look on his face, almost triumphant.

  He looked over at Melvekior and proclaimed with his high pitched voice, “Kill them!”

  The four men, dressed similarly in the uniform of Maresh-Kar soldiery and armored identically as befitted personal guards of the Prince himself, fanned out.

  The crest of the Principality of Maresh-Kar was a simple golden Sun upon a field of azure, each of the Sun’s sixteen spiked rays representing a virtue that the nation’s leader possessed in its highest form. This adorned the red and black tabards of Sunar’s four man army. Beneath this, a shirt of the lightest chainmail money could buy, a layered mail skirt, high leather boots and conical helm complete with noseguard. Not quite the protection that Melvekior was afforded by his thick chainmail and heater shield, but they were, all things equal, more agile and unburdened than a man in such heavy armor.

  A man that wasn’t Melvekior. A man that hadn’t been trained daily from a child in the arts of combat by the renowned knight, Mikael Martelle and by the fearsome Ottkatla of the Mountain Folk, a woman so hardened by her breeding and determined by her circumstance that she lived, breathed and slept combat, who was literally possessed by a spirit of vengeance and violence. A woman whose service to the Martelle family was a mystery.

  Seeing before them a single man in cumbersome armor, holding aloft an unreasonably large sword and an equally over-sized shield emblazoned with the Sun of Mithras, their confidence grew. This man couldn’t be a proper warrior, he was too ridiculous. He couldn’t swing that sword. Their other soon-to-be victim a man almost too puny and scared to deserve the attribution; he sat against a fallen tree a look of terror on his face. This was not what they were expecting when their master told them he had a dangerous mission for them.