Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  It wouldn't have been right to sit down while the Chosen of Mithras stood so Melvekior too stood. Uncomfortably. The room felt very small, as did he. Legends of trolls and giants flooded back to him. Hestallr didn't really seem human, though he was hale and handsome. His hair a dark blonde, a shaggy but not unkempt beard and piercing blue eyes. He had the typical look of the Malannite, a look shared by the Martelles, in whose veins Imperial blood flowed.

  "My Lord, it is a pleasure to meet you in person. I regret the situation is not ideal." He was pleased with his greeting, though he felt more subservient than he sounded. Never before had he felt the need to show respect to someone, it had always been expected, but this was a legend. A man who defeated a God and re-established the Church of Mithras. It was said that the Sun God Himself granted Hestallr immortality as a reward for his service and looking at him, a person could well believe that. He must be at least sixty years old, and the lines on his face certainly stood testament to a life hard lived. His form though showed no sign of weakness or frailty, in fact quite the opposite.

  "Your father was my friend, Melvekior. I will miss him." He spoke not loud, but the sound of his voice seemed to fill the space around him so entirely that it was almost a tangible presence. Hestallr reached out his hand, his hand the size of the writing desk, and laid it on Melvekior's shoulder in a comforting gesture.

  "I," he tried to speak but could not and he felt a wash of emotion, the like of which he couldn't recall experiencing. He let out an involuntary sob and lowered his head that Hestallr would not see his tears.

  "Child," was all the big man said and gathered Melvekior into his arms, like he was a small boy. He knew his mother must have held him like this but those memories were lost. Mikael, eager to mold his son into a hardened warrior eschewed physical affection. Hestallr however was his spiritual father, the physical manifestation of Mithras. For the first time in years, Melvekior didn't feel that he needed to protect himself. He felt safe. Security had rarely seemed an issue but the impact of the risen corpse of Jemiah, as Aeldryn feared, had long lasting effects on the young noble. From that day he never felt as though he could properly let his guard down, like he had constantly to prove himself and be able to stand on his own two feet, not having to rely on anything but his own ability. Being comforted, like this, by what was almost certainly the earthly manifestation of Mithras allowed him the feeling that someone was looking out for him, someone was there to protect him against all the bad things in the world.

  He pulled himself together and drew back from the giant arms of Hestallr, wiping his face on his sleeve. The giant's eyes held nothing but compassion.

  "I have spoken with the King of Uth. He says you slew the ruler of Maresh-Kar and that he fears that you will make an attempt on his life if you are released."

  Melvekior started to object but Hestallr didn't look like he wanted to be interrupted so he stopped and listened.

  "When I threw down Apset from the Golden Throne, I was rewarded, Melvekior. Not with long life, but with vision. The ability to see what lay within a man's heart. That changed me and granted me more wisdom than I care to have. I know what is within yours and would tell you a story."

  The throne room in the Royal Palace of King Calra Alpre XVII was the busiest room in the palace. Every day, the King would sit, for two hours, on his crystal throne and hear his subjects. He didn't want to do this, but in the three hundred plus years he'd been king, he had learned the value of listening.

  He knew therefore the value of a chicken in Uth-Magnar and why a chicken was cheaper to buy in Arluth and why he needed to subsidize farmers. He learned about people in need and people who committed crimes. He understood the fears and concerns of the people, was an expert in the laws and statutes, most of which he had written himself over the centuries. His experience brought wisdom and he saw himself as the greatest of kings. His people were generally happy but he didn't want them to be too happy so he controlled supply and demand, prices and taxes, immigration and even the birth rate, through careful and subtle social engineering.

  Even today, facing the horde of diplomats and politicians from Maresh-Kar, demanding intervention, he still sat on his throne to listen to his people. As far as anyone knew, Sunar had disappeared without trace and Mareshians were concerned, this causing unrest in their small but rich and powerful city state. He’d had them installed in a nearby inn and promised them a private audience if they’d but keep their opinions to themselves and keep the hubbub to a minimum.

  What to do about Maresh-Kar was becoming a sore point for him. He couldn’t let that foppish cretin Marcus take charge. Though he was to be Sunar’s successor, it was with Sunar’s spirit guiding the body of Marcus. That would have been fine; Sunar was a competent enough ruler, though cruel and greedy. Marcus would either cause more war or bankrupt the Principality.

  “My Lord,” Ortense always got too close when she spoke, “I’ve turned the rest of the petitioners aside. There is an unusual guest.”

  “What do you mean a guest?” King Alpre demanded angrily. “You’re not supposed to turn anyone away!” Ortense took liberties and mostly had good cause, but that was no reason to let her think she could do it whenever she wanted.

  “It is High Priest Hestallr, Lord.” Ortense sounded even more nervous than usual. Her obsessive tendencies would be in an extreme state at this moment. Calra felt a moment of panic himself.

  What would he want here?

  “I see, thank you, Ortense.” He said trying to keep his voice steady. “Bring him in but put the guards at the edges of the room. I don’t want them hearing whatever his Holiness has to say.”

  He sat up straighter on his throne, re-adjusted his crown and cleared his throat. It wouldn’t do for his voice to crack whilst speaking with Hestallr. King Alpre knew his own limitations. His was the biggest Kingdom south of the Tarkans, he oversaw and owned a quarter of the most lucrative trade in the known world. He had lived for three centuries and the accumulated wisdom and knowledge that immortality brought was his. Long life also has its downsides. He’d lost his edge. His hunger. His taste for conquest, expansion, war, had long since died. Sunar’s death cemented that in his mind. All he wanted now was to fill Sunar’s boots and then look ahead. He certainly didn’t need any trouble from the Church and Hestallr was a difficult man to deal with. For one thing, he had full autonomy over Church business and secondly, he had killed a God. Or so the story went. Either way, the man terrified him like no other. It was like talking to a mountain that was going to fall on top of you at any moment.

  The ground almost trembled as Hestallr approached his throne. That was another problem with having this particular guest. Something about him set off strange reactions in the crystal from which his royal seat was made. The last time Hestallr was here, more than two years ago, the same thing happened and now it started again. A low hum and an almost imperceptible feeling, an odd vibrating sensation. He thought about standing but that would make him look ridiculous. Hestallr was probably the most regal and heroic being alive, standing next to him was enough to make any man look unimportant and small. He sighed and sat up straighter.

  And yet another problem was that Hestallr would not bow. He didn’t the last time, saying it was something to do with his religion, their religion; Mithras was the God of the Uthites. Calra was satisfied with that, he didn’t want to put himself above the Gods, no matter his personal feelings about them. The real issue was what was happening at that very moment. When the guards realized who passed, they saluted or took the knee, or in some cases made the Sign of the Hammer by raising their left fist upright. No religion of peace, the Mithraic faith, the Sun God gave his people strength to destroy his enemies.

  He pretended not to notice and busied himself signing some documents until Hestallr was within ten feet of him.

  “Ah, your Holiness. To what do we owe this grand pleasure?” King Calra Alpre XVII smiled his friendliest smile. It took all of his willpower not to stand and run.
Hestallr didn’t look in a good mood.

  “One of your prisoners, Calra, is Heiligr. Why is he so detained?” The rumbling voice of the giant Priest reverberated through the Grand Hall. Easily one hundred feet long, the guards seventy feet away heard him as though he stood nearby.

  Fuck! I bet it’s that damned Martelle boy.

  While he was infuriated that the Priest didn’t use any sort of honorific, he didn’t see what he could do about it. He couldn’t have the man arrested, it would cause riots and a scandal and it was probably impossible anyway. Nor could he beg Hestallr to be more respectful; that would be embarrassing, not to mention fruitless. The giant only cared about what his God said, everyone else was either a potential convert or already a member of his flock.

  “Really, High Priest? I was not aware. To whom exactly do you refer?” It must be Martelle, Mikael was always pretending to be devout. He was friends with Hestallr and took his advice when he declared peace in the war against the barbarians. Come to think of it, he probably had a bit of the mountain blood in him. Legend says that he sprang from a mountain when Mithras himself pierced the earth with his mighty spear. Could they make these stories more vulgar?

  Hestallr raised an eyebrow.

  “Tell me it’s not the Martelle boy,” Calra hastily continued. “He’s not so much a prisoner as a guest. While I figure out what to do with him.”

  “Why is he detained?” Hestallr’s normally slow, almost ponderous tone was now reaching the point of insult. His expression didn’t change. Angry when he came in, angry now.

  I’m still the King here, Calra re-assured himself.

  “If you must know, he slew Sunar.” No reaction. “I know that you weren’t his biggest supporter, but he was the rightful ruler of Maresh-Kar and Melvekior murdered him.”

  “Do you know why he was in an altercation with Sunar? The boy has little rebellion in him, this I do know.”

  “The boy’s father stole an artifact from Sunar and the Prince wanted it back. Presumably, the new Earl didn’t want to give it back.”

  Hestallr nodded. “That seems reasonable.”

  The King of Uth breathed a silent sight of relief. If he wants the little bastard, he’s welcome to him. He’s more trouble than I want at the moment.

  “I will administer the coronation myself. The boy being Heiligr.”

  Calra didn’t expect that. “I beg your pardon, Holiness. What is your meaning?”

  “Martelle’s coronation as the new ruler of Maresh-Kar,” said Hestallr, again just on the verge of being disrespectful. “You said yourself that he killed Sunar and he is of noble blood. It’s a simple matter of conquest. You did it yourself, all those years ago. Don’t you remember?”

  “How could you…” he stopped himself. Of course he knew, he had the Sun God’s confidence after all. He swore to himself, but then leaned back. Hestallr was still inscrutable, but Calra fancied he could see the slightest smile on the man’s face. Yes, he knows that he’s got me, but it’s not such a bad idea. There would be no confiscation of land, always a messy business. There would be no fussing about an heir, in fact, the Martelle’s were one of the senior ranking noble families living in Maresh-Kar state and doubtlessly the boy had been raised to rule, even if a minor estate. Marcus be damned. Plus the little bastard would owe him. He had no control over Sunar, but this could actually work really well. "Yes, yes, that sounds fine to me."

  Had he just been manipulated by the most honest man alive? Regardless, the solution was a good one. Martelle wasn't a bad fellow and now he would have another ally on the Elder Council. As long as Hestallr left soon. Povimus, the Eminent of Mithras in Uth-Magnar was much less formidable and listened to reason. The Bane of Apset was almost impossible to influence.

  "I'll let the boy know," said Hestallr, his face impassive.

  "Of course," Calra jumped to his feet. "Ortense," he bellowed.

  His secretary appeared, almost as if from nowhere, hiding as she did within the curtains of the hall, on hand permanently for advice concerning minutiae that only she would know. Also, she was terrified that the King would have her executed and was constantly in a state of wariness.

  "Ortense, see His Holiness to the suite of Earl Martelle and see that the bodyguards are sent away as well. They are no longer required."

  "Do you understand what I have told you?" asked Hestallr in response to Melvekior's slightly dumbfounded expression.

  "Yes, Lord, I do, can it be real?" He didn't want to doubt the Living Mountain, the Scourge of Hell, but it seemed unreal. From a prisoner facing death to the ruler of his homeland.

  "It will not be as simple as that. Contrary to what that oaf of a king believes, I understand the politics of this world very well. There will be a contingent that objects," he stressed the word, "to you and your position. We have his blessing however and Thacritus will be uninterested, as will the Collective of Kuhar. There is nothing to stop you assuming control."

  "I don't really understand why, though. I didn't kill Sunar, it was Sjarcu."

  Hestallr was infinitely calm and utterly patient. He wasn't called the Living Mountain merely due his vast bulk. His reactions weren't slow but he rarely displayed any fleeting emotion. Quick to judge, but slow to anger and he was never reactive. Everything in his actions and motions seemed planned and well considered. "How else does one become a king, Melvekior? You will be lauded as the Conqueror of Maresh-Kar, deposer of the Tyrant, Sunar." Hestallr laughed. It was a suitably deep and rumbling laugh. "As for your friend, Sjarcu, I understand that he too had a hand in releasing Tiriel?"

  "Yes, Sjarcu helped me carry him from the collapsing mine, he would have otherwise been crushed. There was great personal risk to him, but he stayed to assist in the rescue of Tiriel. He was a hero."

  Hestallr laughed again. "The irony. It is the second time recently his path has crossed mine. Come now, let us give your acceptance to the King." He turned to leave.

  "Do I have any choice?"

  "There are always choices, such as the choice not to sound like a whiny child.”

  Melvekior nodded meekly. That didn’t feel good, if there was one person he needed to impress, it was this person. Then again, if this turned out well, it would be an incredible opportunity, so he should grasp it with both hands.

  “You are correct of course, Lord.” He stood and waited patiently for Hestallr to contort himself through the too small door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Rebellion

  “I frequently get the feeling that there is a level of machination and design of which I know nothing. I am frequently proved correct in this, but then there’s always another level.” - Melvekior

  The Grand Hall looked different to the last time he was here. There were fewer people the first time, King Alpre not wanting all the details of Sunar’s death being spread around every gossip mill in the Kingdom. Alpre himself was still ensconced on his throne but his awful manservant hovered at his shoulder as well as a woman sitting at a small desk, quill in hand, frantically scribbling on a parchment. Presumably she was writing whatever the King was saying.

  Melvekior had to hurry to keep up with Hestallr and was amazed at the amount of servants and guards they passed. Word of his presence must have spread and the religious and curious lined the halls. Many bowed as the High Priest walked past, many others made the sign of the Hammer and some even tried to touch him. He acknowledged them all slightly, either with a nod, a smile or a whispered word of gratitude or blessing.

  King Alpre stopped what he was saying as they approached. “Just in time. Melvekior, Earl of Martelle, have you heard our offer?”

  Melvekior dropped to one knee and bowed his head. There’d been enough bad blood between him and his father’s friend, his King. “I have, Your Majesty, it is most gracious and merciful.”

  “Rise, Sir. You will face me as an equal soon enough.” He felt Calra’s hand upon his forearm and he stood up to look his King in the face.

  “Sire, I fe
el I have made some rash decisions, but for good reasons. I would ask a boon of you, before I can give you my ultimate acceptance.” He felt that he couldn’t let this go, his father’s words still haunted him, referring to the pendant he stole saying, “it has some relevance to the death of your mother”

  “Go on,” said King Alpre, trying his best to look beneficent, unwilling to risk the ire of Hestallr as well as wanting to keep Melvekior onside.

  “This pendant, which I still wear, though it be stolen and has caused us much grief, my father claimed it has a connection with my mother’s death. I left my home on a quest to discover those reasons and now I find myself in this position. Do you know anything of my mother’s death?”

  The King stood and grasped Melvekior’s arm in a warrior’s grip. “I swear to you, I know nothing of this. Your mother was a wonderful woman, but this I will vow.” He motioned to the woman who started writing again. “Whether you accept our offer or not, I will do everything in my power to find the truth of this matter. You have my word, Melvekior.” He let go and reclined once again on the dark blue crystal seat.

  The message was broadcast far and wide. Prince Sunar was dead, killed in a rockfall while touring the Amaranth Mines. He left no direct descendants, but as with all monarchical systems there was a line of succession. Heir apparent, Marcus Soderae, upon hearing the news, was properly grief stricken and went into mourning. Publicly anyway. He hadn't expected to ascend to the Princedom so soon, Sunar being of reasonably sound health. He had yet to barely even consider hurrying the occasion along.

  He sat in his library, consoling himself by drinking a forty year old bottle of brandy and gleefully writing his coronation speech when there was an impatient knock at the door.

  Marcus was very similar in looks to Sunar. His hair though was worn in the style of the Mareshian noble, rather than the Malannite norm that his adopted father sported. The fashion in court was to wear one’s locks long, perfumed with oil and cut over the ears. He was no taller than average and his build slim, that of a fencer he fancied though he was poor at the sport.