Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  It occurred to him that none of these books touched on Ain-Ordra or death or Necromancy.

  “What is this room for, Accus?” He turned to look at his companion, head down, tucking into the food on the tray.

  The Necromancer lifted his once bald, but now fuzzy, pate and scowled over in concentration. “I see your meaning, Melvekior. This is a room for welcoming guests, patrons or victims. There are no books on the Dark Arts here, not would we place such tomes on display. Such things unnerve the ignorant.” He picked up the roasted leg of a fowl and waved it towards Melvekior. “Eat, man. We have not had food like this in some time.”

  He stood and wandered over to the table on which the food sat and picked up a large chunk of cheese, discarding the knife meant to pare it down and took a hearty bite. “Ahh, thank you,” he said, his mouth full, to Finulia as she re-entered and he whisked the decanter of wine from her hands. “Well, we’ll need to rescue Janesca. We did everything he wanted so the King should be satisfied, but on the other hand, he may well try to kill us.”

  “I don’t see how we can. What you’re suggesting is throwing ourselves on the King’s mercy and I feel for sure that he will try to kill us.” Accus leaned forward. “We killed his brother. Not only that, did you see what happened to Thacritus?” He sat back, still waving his chicken leg. “No, we’ve got to stay away from the King. There’s no point all of us getting killed to save her.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about being a hero, Accus. We cannot leave her there to be tortured or killed. Besides that, isn’t she some sort of Necromancer anomaly?”

  “I didn’t think about that actually,” he responded.

  “What’s this?” came a small voice from near the door.

  “Nothing for you, Fin, go elsewhere please.” Accus dismissed her, thoroughly enjoying his new status as head of this particular chapter of their sect.

  She looked as though she might say something but merely blinked and then left, closing the door softly behind her. Of course, neither Accus nor Melvekior could see her stop and put her eat to the door.

  “Here is my suggestion.” started Melvekior, happier with her out of the room, “I’ll go back to that abandoned inn, see if I can find a way to that mirror and tell King Alpre that we did all we could. If he tries to arrest me or otherwise assault me, I’ll have to accept that I’m a fugitive.” It was only then that he fully realized the full extent of the trouble he was in.

  He’d been party to the killing of Prince Sunar of Maresh-Kar. An entire country would fall into turmoil once the news was out, not to mention the impact it would have on the rest of the Three Kingdoms. Surely their economies would all be affected and diplomatic relations with other nations would suffer, or maybe, in this case, prosper. Sunar was an arrogant leader who started wars rather than fostered peace, as King Alpre did. It was he who initiated hostilities with the Aelvar eventually leading to war with the Tarkan Mountain tribes and luckily for all involved, Mikael managed to broker peace. Wherever he was now, Mikael at least would be satisfied. He hated Sunar.

  Would that mean as well that his final request of Melvekior was now satisfied. He had entreated his son to protect the Aelvar, and with Sunar out of the picture it seemed less likely that there would be further conflict with them. Unless whomever was to replace him was as bad. Melvekior had to assume that it would be that fellow, Marcus and from what he could tell after a couple of brief encounters was that he would be worse than Sunar. Of course, he lacked the centuries of experience ruling and likely to have been groomed to host Sunar’s essence, so chosen for qualities other than his own suitability to rule.

  Melvekior couldn’t run though. Should he fail to present himself to King Alpre, his lands would be confiscated leaving all the people that relied on him, relied on his keep to house their families, out in the cold. He wouldn’t do that to them.

  "What would Almund do?"

  "Eh, what's that?" snapped Accus, obviously stressed.

  "Oh, nothing," mumbled Melvekior, his mind elsewhere.

  Sir Almund had started off as an errant knight. He had kept to the loosest possible interpretation of the Knight's Code and eventually had been abandoned by his friends because of his horrid ways. It wasn't until he had met a blind priest of Mithras, who bested him in combat, that he understood that his life was pointless without some sort of noble purpose.

  The story had really impacted Melvekior, driving home many of the lessons taught by Aeldryn but also it underpinned his own personal morality.

  It was clear to him that Almund would have surrendered to the King, trusting in justice and Mithras to make everything right. Could he, knowing what he did, trust the king though? That was the barrier for him. There was also the matter of his mother. She was mixed up in this but her simply couldn't see how. Mikael had warned him that the immortality necklaces had something to do with his mother's death but that didn't seem possible.

  He stood abruptly. "I can't hide out here forever. Tomorrow I will take accountability for all that has happened. You and Sjarcu were unwitting accomplices. That much is true and it is what I will report."

  Accus sighed. He knew that he would end up going with this brash knight. To his doom.

  His bed was very comfortable and he slept the sleep of the just. When he thought about it, King Alpre couldn't really blame him entirely. Sunar had his part, as did Mikael. Of course both of them were beyond reprisal. He went down to seek breakfast in an optimistic mood. Accus reported that Sjarcu had absconded in the middle of the night and Melvekior wasn't surprised. He had no investment in this and had little reason to face imprisonment or worse.

  Whilst they discussed the finer points of their story to ensure it was consistent, the door to the reception room burst open.

  "There they are!" It was Finulia, screechily delivering them to the City Guard. Half a dozen men, the short spears and bucklers of the Amaranth Guard at the ready.

  "You traitorous bitch!" shouted Accus.

  "You betrayed Ain-Ordra, pig, rot in jail!" she shrieked back.

  "Hold!" came the cry from without the door. Melvekior stood to his full height, weapons sheathed, but he was ready for a fight should it come to it.

  A tall man, his bearing that of an officer, strode into the room, looked around briefly and snapped to attention.

  "Your Grace, would you be so kind as to accompany us?" This wasn't a request.

  "I will, Sergeant," Melvekior responded. This was better than he could have hoped for. Now he wouldn't have to find a way to the King. Assuming the he would hear him, but it was tradition that any judgment against a noble be made by the King.

  They moved at double time through streets Melvekior had never seen before, through the merchant's quarter to the poor quarter and then down a thin alleyway that ended in a brick wall; the back of another building. There was no way out, the walls on either side rose to fifteen feet at least. Melvekior experienced a moment of panic and Accus swore.

  They looked back. The Guard hadn't entered the alley and were merely waiting.

  "What's going on, Melvekior?" Accus queried.

  "You know as much as me," replied the younger man, unclipping his mace. He preferred the sword but limited space like this demanded a shorter weapon.

  There was a grinding sound and both watched in fascination as the wall of the building to their right shifted and moved slowly to reveal a lighted room behind. It was the same room in which Melvekior had met Thacritus and spoken with the King. This time though, there was no dessicated Mage, just an angry looking monarch.

  "I must admit, I'm surprised you survived your encounter with Sunar." King Calra Alpre XVII sat down in his customary chair. The room was no less dusty and unused than it was when Melvekior saw it last. There were no windows and the front entrance was boarded up. The secret door through which they entered was no longer visible. Melvekior found himself marveling at the engineering skill involved in such a feat.

  Torn between showing the proper res
pect to his King and wanting to strangle the man where he stood, Melvekior hesitated to sit. Accus did not.

  Calra didn't seem concerned. "Drink if you want," he motioned to the bottle on the table and then to the wine rack against the wall. He slurped noisily, as if he'd had a couple already and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The loose sleeves of his robes would no doubt have been stained were they not already a deep red.

  "I'm as surprised as you," Melvekior ventured. "The entire incident was eye-opening."

  King Alpre raised an eyebrow. "Ahh yes, the Angel. You wouldn't have believed it, but Sunar had no right to tell you about it. I won't go into detail but he was bound by oaths stronger than a king's command." He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. "No, I can't feel sorrow for him. He deserved his end. Where is the dark elf, Martelle?"

  "Gone. He was no ally of ours, but an interloper. He had some interest in," he didn't want to say Tiriel’s name, “the source of your power.” Did Calra understand what Tiriel was? How much did he know? He was very curious, but did not think it possible to question a King.

  “I see.” He stood and paced slowly over to the wine rack. Accus had finished the last in the bottle already opened. “There is a problem of justice here and of right.” The King spoke slowly. “What is your opinion of it all, Melvekior. Speak truthfully, I beg you. Imagine that I know everything that happened.”

  Melvekior felt a burden lift from him. Thacritus had probably divulged the entirety of what he had witnessed, but he would keep the identity of the Angel to himself. Assuming the block on sorcerous powers within the cave held against whatever magical scryings the Mage King was capable of bringing to bear, none but he, Accus and Sjarcu understood the true nature of the Blessèd of Mithras. He meant to keep it that way.

  “I defended myself against an attack on my person. In that I was justified. I have attempted at every turn to make right the error that my father made. While I appreciate the great loss that Prince Sunar felt, to prevent said loss was utterly out of my reach. If there is any guilt to be laid, it must be at my door. Accus here and the dark elf were but ignorant bystanders, nor is there any call, begging Your Majesty’s indulgence, to punish the workers and keepers of Saens Martelle.”

  “Your plea for clemency for the others is well heard, Martelle. But what is to be done with you. You, and no other, are guilty, by your own admission, of regicide. The usual punishment for such an act is of course a most gruesome death. I see you still have the spent Neral. I imagine it will be useless now, for a while at least and you will not be alive to partake of its bounty. Nor can I be sure that mine will still be effective, though I can sense, even now, the power within it. Thacritus tells me that the immortality we have enjoyed is still available to us, unless that creature returns.” He downed a glass of wine in one mouthful.

  He’s quite drunk, thought Melvekior. It would be a simple matter to overpower, even slay him outright and be off. He knew though that it wouldn’t be that straightforward, he would probably struggle to even leave this room.

  “Will it, Martelle? Will it seek revenge? Thacritus says not, but he has an agenda I do not understand. You and I are more alike than he and me. He is crazed.” He regarded Melvekior with watery, unfocused eyes.

  “My liege, the Angel said to me that he will seek no retribution.”

  “Very well. You are a brave man, Martelle. Your father would be proud of you.”

  With some unknown signal, the wall again slid open, revealing the night beyond and the wall of the building opposite. “Go, Accus, pray I never set eyes upon you again.”

  Accus hesitated, looked at Melvekior, but then turned and moved quickly through the opening which closed rapidly after him.

  “You will stand trial, Martelle, yet you have my word that your home will be left intact and your fortunes untouched. Would that I could set you free but I have a duty to my kingdom.”

  Lying bastard, Melvekior reached for the bottle and drank deeply.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Prisoner

  “My father set me on a path of vengeance and I walked it.” - Melvekior

  As a member of the nobility, imprisonment was a relative luxury. After a brief journey to Uth-Magnar and a meeting with the King's Justiciar, he was shown to a wing of the palace used for visitors and those, like he, under house arrest.

  He had signed a document describing the terms of the imprisonment. He was charged with regicide and thanked for his good graces in surrendering himself without any issue. He was to have no visitors save for religious purposes and was to attempt no conversation with any of his guardians. His incarceration was pending a decision by the King's Elder Council on his guilt or innocence. Guilt would lead to a simple hanging and innocence to freedom and his involvement in the death of Sunar struck from record. His wishes regarding Saens Martelle would be held as sacrosanct whatever the outcome as would be the promises of freedom for Janesca.

  His mind raced as he read and signed the document. He had no choice but to sign although he paid little attention as he mentally reviewed what he knew of the Elder Council. The three Kings of the land were represented, as was Amaranth, a leader from Kuhar and an emissary from the Church. Could he even count on the Church to find him innocent? And while Thacritus seemed unconcerned, who could tell what such a man would do. Melvekior's mood started to blacken. He'd have to escape. And then what? Live as a fugitive? Bear the guilt of Egalfas and Magret and their families being thrown out of his ancestral home. Not to mention that his name would be sullied and quite likely that of the Church. There were many downsides to escape, but realistically, they weren't as uninviting as the alternative.

  His 'cell' was more well appointed than Saens Martelle. In fact the bed alone was about the same size as his childhood bedroom. The paintings on the wall were probably priceless and there was a decent writing desk and a shelf of books. A sideboard with glasses and two carafes of wine and one of a darker, stronger spirit also held fruit and cheese.

  He hadn't even been disarmed.

  Not long after he was ushered into the room the door opened and a man burst in. He was young, a few years older than Melvekior, with closely cropped blond hair and in the uniform consisting of the royal colors; purple and gold. He didn't even look around, just started fussily straightening all the things that Melvekior had touched.

  "Hey! Who are you?" Melvekior demanded abruptly.

  The fellow looked at him as though he were insane. "I'm the butler, Sir, for you and the other guests on this floor." He didn't stop working.

  "I won’t need you all the time, once a day at the most. You can go now.”

  The butler stopped re-arranging fruit and looked at Melvekior, rather insolently for a servant. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, Sir. Pray make that easy for me.” He walked out, closing the door softly.

  A prisoner with a servant is still a prisoner, Melvekior thought disconsolately.

  For days he did little but think. His reality was unhappy. He was yet to reach a score of years and might well never do so. He had sought adventure and he had found it. He tried to blame others. His father for stealing the necklace he still wore. Aeldryn for not preparing him fully for the greed and stupidity exhibited by Kings and peasants alike. Ushatr for encouraging him to follow his heart. Even Ottkatla for instilling in him an unshakable belief in his own abilities.

  His hope at this stage was that the Council of Elders would find him innocent. Past that he didn’t think. Were that not to happen, he would take matters into his own hands.

  He ate well and slept poorly. After two nights he remembered the Kehan and used it to help him sleep. He was also able to get some clarity around his position. He drew unto himself a new purpose. Should the Council find him guilty and sentence him to death, he would escape. His servants would have to fend for themselves. He would not feel guilty. If the Church did not support him, Mithras would, of this he was sure. He had to put his trust in Mithras. That is precisely what Almund woul
d do.

  When, four days into his captivity, there came a booming crash on the door, he felt fully composed and willing to take whatever came his way. It sounded like they were hammering on the door with a battering ram which was a little intimidating, but he supposed the dramatics were a good sign. What would be the point in scaring a condemned man.

  It was odd that there was knocking, what with that butler hovering around constantly and the guards outside the door. He walked confidently to the door and pulled it open. No contingent of heavily armed men there but one man only.

  At first he thought it was Ushatr, there was something about the bearing of both of these men that reminded one of the other. This man was even larger though, older and radiated authority like no other being he had met before. Both Calra and Sunar were confident. Their kingship made them powerful and their attitudes displayed that, and unlike them his was not dependent on status or perceived power. The man before him was impressive initially and instantly because of his sheer bulk. It was almost like being confronted by an oak tree that was not there the night before. Colder. A mountain. Always in the future would he compare, in his own mind, Hestallr, to a mountain.

  “Melvekior. Brother.” The sound of boulders grinding against each other. A voice that was deep enough to feel in your gut and was immediately persuasive. He didn’t know whether to bow or kneel, so he did neither, but only moved back so that the Chosen of Mithras could enter the room. He ducked his head to get through the doorway and filled the room, making a mockery of proportions. There would be nowhere to sit and Melvekior felt a brief moment of panic when he realized that this man was his spiritual leader but he could offer him nowhere to recline.