Once Were Men

by Marin Landis

  He raised his hand open palm out to show that he meant no harm to anyone. The figure approached and as it did Melvekior could see that it was an unremarkable person, dressed in brown robes. His thinning hair was cut short in the Imperial style, he seemed to be approaching middle age and he looked neither friendly nor aggressive. The man spoke, his accent betraying nothing apart from how neutral it was, “Hello strangers. You aren’t disciples and yet possess magic, so you are welcome.” He held an arm out and then swept it behind him to indicate they should enter through the door behind him. He looked to Accus who was holding his face where it was scraped and bleeding but little.

  “Thank you,” he said as he walked past the man into a well appointed room. Not fancy, but not threadbare either. A couch and two chairs made a little arrangement around a table, a door on the other side of the room. That door however was closed and had some sort of circular plate on it where a knocker might be on any other door.

  Once he and Accus were both in the room, the man bad them sit, so they did, on the couch and waited. Melvekior wanting to make a good impression so keeping polite and Accus, still tending to his bleeding face.

  The man sat opposite, on a single chair, he smiled. “What do you want here?” It was a direct questions but not hostile.

  “Again, sir, thank you for allowing us in. My name is Melvekior Martelle, I am a Knight of the Hammer in the Church of Mithras and I have come here on a holy quest. I seek audience with the Oracle of Noor. I believe she is known as the Viterorm.”

  The man nodded again and looked at Accus who looked at Melvekior pleadingly but after a couple of seconds of silence, also introduced himself. “I am Accus of Margeld, recently a devotee of Ain-Ordra. I am also a Mage of the Second Circle.”

  “Welcome, both of you. Any and all with magic are welcome here. Our Lady cares not for your predilections or the oddity of your fellowship. My name, as it’s only fair that you know of me as well, is Arcado. I am the gatekeeper to this realm as well as its one and only guard.”

  What powers must he have if he’s the only guard, thought Melvekior. He looked at Accus who was probably thinking the same thing.

  "Down to business then. You can't see the Oracle." He stated quite bluntly. "I'll take you back to the surface." The man stood and started walking to the door they came through.

  "Hold there, Arcado," Melvekior interjected, hardly used to rejection or his needs not being met. "I'm here on a vital mission, the reason I need to see the Oracle while not for your ears is extremely important."

  "Tell me what it is and I may reconsider." Arcado turned to Melvekior and raised an eyebrow, like a man playing cards and waiting for his opponent to make his next move.

  Melvekior had met his share of fussy bureaucrats and recognized one when he saw one. Flaubert was like this and necessarily so. Surely none would come all the way here, possess magic enough to be allowed entrance and then ask a frivolous question, wasting the Oracle's time. What else would an Oracle do? Especially an ageless one.

  "What difference does it make? Surely all men's cares and worries are as nothing to an ancient being like the Viterorm," he countered.

  "As you say, so why waste her time with your petty issues?"

  Realizing that he couldn't argue his way in, Melvekior changed his approach. "I guarantee that I will be able to repay any information I receive with a tale worthy of the Oracle's time."

  "Go on," the gatekeeper responded, his interest piqued.

  "I require information from centuries past. Of men who lived and passed from our earthly domain to attain something greater. In return I offer a tale of modern days, involving those same men and what they have become." He felt a bit smug. He knew he had negotiated that perfectly. What else could a being desire, but unique perspectives and stories?

  "I know that you are speaking truthfully," Arcado said, nodding his head. "Very well, you will be admitted." He turned to Accus. "You will not, though I'm sure any of our libraries would suit you. We always welcome Mages of the Second Circle into our midsts." There was a certain mocking tone there.

  Accus didn't care. "Yes, that would be most welcome." A coward at heart, he had no desire to face an immortal sage that knew his hour of death, such was the rumor.

  “Very well, we have reached an accord. Follow me.” He walked to the door with the metal disc in its center. He pulled it open and beyond was nothing or rather a white-blue opaque mist that swirled in on itself, forever shifting. He again, like at the last door, stood to the side and indicated that they were to walk through before him.

  Melvekior didn’t pause. He wasn’t entirely fearless, but he didn’t see how this could harm him. Accus took a deep breath and plunged through before he had the chance to worry about what would lay on the other side.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Viterorm

  “Every time I thought that events couldn’t get worse, they got weirder.” - Melvekior.

  He stepped through the doorway into the mist and felt a brief moment of confusion and dizziness as he stepped out into something completely unexpected. He knew that he wasn’t outside, but it was extremely warm and humid. The light was low but as with the rest of this complex, it didn’t seem to come from anywhere in particular. A peculiar and interesting sort of magic, it didn’t just replicate a torch but turned the whole idea of a light source on its head. It didn’t seem to be provided by Volcanium either as you would be able to feel the heat from a specific place. The heat was all around here with no way to tell if that too was some sort of magical effect.

  The appearance of his surroundings was far, far from what he had anticipated. It was like a forest, but the trees were smaller and thinner, with larger, broader and fleshier leaves. They were also of a color much darker green than he had previously experienced. He could make out a path through the overgrown vegetation, the ground a firm but damp earth. There was nothing to indicate otherwise so he walked the faint trail. It didn’t last long, sixty feet maybe until it ended at small stream, maybe his height wide on the other side a small island. The path had ended and he contemplated stepping over to investigate the island, just because there was nowhere else to go.

  Could this be some sort of mistake? Was he sent to the wrong place?

  Such were his thoughts when an alien one entered his mind.

  This is the correct place.

  He stopped still. Of course, the immortal Oracle of the Goddess of Magic would speak in his mind, it made perfect sense. He smiled a wry smile, more so for the Oracle’s benefit than through genuinely feeling amused.

  I cannot see you. Your reactions are as nothing to me concluded be it.

  “Oracle, my greetings. I cannot see you either. Are you hidden?” He spoke at a conversational volume, hoping the Oracle wasn’t deaf. It felt odd talking to nobody, but this whole situation was odd as were the words and concepts that came to his mind.

  No. You will need to focus on the other side of the water. Do not come any closer. I am easily harmed.

  He peered and saw naught but more of the squat trees with the broad, deep green, leaves, the size of dinner plates. One of them had a worm, no a slug resting on it. White and about as long as his middle finger, it lay there, feelers waving in the warm air.

  Yes. My form is that of a slug.

  He wanted to laugh, but that would have been most impolite. A slug?

  Centuries have passed since someone was amused by that fact. It is unusual. The humor escapes me. All humor escapes me.

  He was determined to get his information and then leave. This was so far out of the ordinary to be repellent to him.

  “Oracle, I wouldst make a trade with thee,” he started to talk formally in order to make a proposal but on second thoughts the Oracle wouldn’t care. He was on the verge of giving up trying to predict the behaviors and moods of creatures different to himself. Gods, slugs, assassins. “I need knowledge. Knowledge from the mists of time. Knowledge that I think you only can supply.”

  Your rhe
toric will not convince me to be more accurate. Tell me directly what you wish to know.

  “There are six Anaurim. Three are missing.” He would mirror this creature as well he could. “I wish to find them. One of their number told me that you could help me find them. It’s monumentally important that I find them as quickly as possible.”

  Details are all that is important to me. Tell me your tale. I will then decide what I will tell you.

  He had no choice, but it seemed unlikely that the Oracle would renege on the deal, so didn’t feel coerced. He recounted the story of the Neral, the Kings and the Anaurim. It took him longer than he expected and while telling the tale he realized how utterly unbelievable it seemed. He didn’t feel different to when he set out from Saens Martelle to seek a Priestess, one that turned out to be his mother that had been possessed by a Goddess. He must be different though. For one thing, he was a Prince now and no longer felt guilty issuing instructions to subjects. Maybe it was because he was confident that he was doing what was best for those involved and he didn’t know anyone else who would take the role on or make a good job of it. He had toyed with the idea of handing the crown over to Langan, the Tarkan Tribesman he had met during Summerfest. Met and fought. The people wouldn’t have taken well to that.

  When he had finished there was a short pause.

  A score of centuries ago and a little more, Garm allowed Mithras to ascend to Godhood. What you believe Gods to be, they are not. Six of his closest praeter-humans alongside him made the leap to divinity and became what you know of as Anaurim. They are beings composed of Aur, what you know of as Neral in a more subtle form. The lover of Mithras, Seharas, was chief amongst them and was a more advanced mentally, yet emotionally stunted, individual. She was spoiled and insisted that she inherit more of the Aur than the others. Of course, as people do, they fought, but Mithras stopped them and made threats. It was and probably is an uneasy truce. Apset and Tiriel you have also spoken of and I will not dwell on them. There were two friends, Mikael and Faerlen…

  The Oracle must have noticed his reaction through his mind.

  Yes. Your father must have been named for one of this pair which is of no import. The final Anaurim was the lover of Faerlen and onetime of Mikael, a wondrous warrior who was unmatched for many lifetimes. Her name was Herjen.

  “Herjen! Herjen?” he shouted as much in surprise as relief or wonderment. “It cannot be!”

  It is so. Why is that of such consequence?

  “Then you will tell me all you know, Viterorm.” He held her interest so now he bargained. Something else sat on the periphery of his memory but he couldn’t quite make a connection. He put that aside for now, lest the Oracle drag it out of him and he lose his leverage.

  I will, should it be relevant.

  “The Tarkan tribespeople have a legend of a Herjen, a powerful spirit who enters into a relationship with a member of the tribe and is a semi-mythical savior figure to those people. My friend is believed to have the Herjen within her and the evidence points to that being indeed the case.” He almost couldn’t believe it himself, he knew where to find one of the lost Anaurim!

  I am satisfied with what you have told me, our bargain has proven beneficial. I have little else left of interest, would that I had more, for your sake. Be assured that the Anaurim are not the beatific beings you seem to believe. Tiriel was said to be a kind and helpful mortal. Apset too had the interests of others at heart.

  “Things must have changed, Oracle.” Apset was a vile betrayer, that knowledge was common. The niggling doubt in his head caused by the Viterorm’s words vanished as soon as it came into being. His belief system was a little frayed but not dramatically enough to question that.

  Our time is at an end, I must nourish myself and rest.

  “How do I get…” he started and then realized that he was back in the ante-room, staring blankly at the door.

  He rapped on the door. He banged on the door. Nothing he did brought about any response.

  I might as well take advantage of the peace and quiet, he thought and lay down on the couch, his legs hanging over the arm and closed his eyes.

  Some time later he found himself being woken by Accus. He felt well rested, like he’d spent a night in his own bed rather than splayed over a too-short couch.

  “How long have I been asleep,” he asked sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Hard to say really, about ten hours.”

  “What? That can’t be true, I barely put my head down.”

  “You’ll see,” Accus replied smiling, “when you go back out. It’s morning.”

  Melvekior noticed then the robes Accus wore. It was worrying enough that he had changed clothing, into an outfit he didn’t previously have, but that they were robes that looked like a Mage belonged in them. “What do you mean ‘you go back out’? Are you not coming back out?”

  “No. This is perfect for me, Melv.” He rarely used the diminutive form of Melvekior’s name, so it was serious. “Here I can learn, in safety, without harming anyone or needing to sacrifice or do anything weird. Pure knowledge, that is all they care about here. I’ll be safe from the vengeance of Runild and her associates. I can come and go as I wish, also I can help you if you ever need assistance from the Mystery School or the Augurium.” He placed his hand on Melvekior’s shoulder, facing him. “I’ve never been so clear and sure of a decision. This is the right thing. I hate to leave you but I know how self-reliant you are anyway.”

  They parted with a hand clasp, Melvekior feeling genuinely upset but also happy that Accus had found some measure of peace and agreed with his decision. At least he also had a purpose and a plan. His sudden appearance at the T-junction at the Great Caravanway was a nice touch and he was grateful for that too.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tarkan

  “It is always enough to do the right thing. Sometimes you have to do it with a sword.” - Melvekior

  There was a time when only Garm lived anywhere near the mountains. All the folk had moved to the temperate plains to the south and the north. Or they had claimed the forests to the east as their homes. All the different peoples he had created quickly learned that their delicate bodies fared better in warmer climates. Except for his chosen people and they were deeply flawed.

  He wasn’t lonely. That wasn’t part of his make-up. Garm however did like to watch things and had discovered long ago that living being didn’t act in any way how you thought they would. It fascinated him. No matter the behavior, he marveled at it. He didn’t understand morality. Either it was or it wasn’t.

  He understood preference though. He might have preferred people to be well behaved but they had free will and he was uninterested in suffering as much as he was indifferent to joy, in fact often bad behavior was far more enlightening. His preference was his mountain. He chose it because it was the tallest mountain in the world. Garm had been everywhere so he knew this.

  He made a giant throne come to be on the mountain and when he sat upon it he could see everything. He was delighted with this but it wasn’t enough.

  One day he noticed a snow falcon at the very base of his mountain and saw how it hunted. He imagined an entire race of snow falcons and the joy they would bring him.

  Of course no bird, no matter how fascinating could compare to an intelligent biped, so he made a rudimentary human from the avian, then an entire family for her to raise and then he watched them for the next seven centuries.

  The Falcon clan was the pre-eminent group of Tarkan barbarians, who were by and large a peaceful people. This would be a surprise to many Three Kingdom citizens who viewed them as blood thirsty savages. The Falcons were the first clan and every other clan had split off from their or one of their offshoots. Garm had created them to be the Mother Clan and so they were. Ottkatla would trace her ancestry back to Gampasha, the Mother of the Falcons and the first of the Folk; to her family this was a matter of real pride. After spending time with the strict Aeldryn, she was war
y of pride, particularly pride in something she had not herself achieved.

  To start a new tribe, one would need the backing of a shaman who could show though omen and portents that splitting was the will of Garm. This was very rare and with the predisposition towards honesty and honor, never unless there was a real belief that it was the right thing to do. Material wealth was as nothing to the Folk, they didn’t call themselves barbarians, and their currency was stories and tradition. They had no written tradition, only the shamans had any ability to make runic signs, the average person had no need to write or read anything. Sagas were learned as children, depending on the role of the parent, which would mostly determine the role of the children.

  All children would learn combat and hunting and fishing, leather-working and mining and smithing, cooking and medicine and breeding. Communing with the spirit world was left to shamans and all knew of Garm, yet none worshiped him in a way that Three Kingdom people would see as worship. There were no temples, no hymns, no prayers, just an acknowledgment and the occasional curse. There was no atheism in their culture for one could literally climb the Ufgarm, the seat of Garm, and see him sitting in his giant throne cut into the mountainside. A person would have to be a gifted climber and survivalist to do so, but it was certainly possible. No outsider had ever done so, nor was it clear if any even knew of Garm. Certainly the Folk would never discuss him. Even Ottkatla had not mentioned anything to even Aeldryn, who was most inquisitive.

  Of the five tribes currently extant, Falcon was the largest clan, followed in order by Bear, Wolf, Taraba and Raven. A Three Kingdoms native could not tell them apart, with the exception of a very few people, but the differences were very apparent to each other. Tattoos, hairstyles, clothing, accent. All would betray one’s clan. To no ill effect, however, theirs was a kinship that more civilized people would struggle to understand.