by Marin Landis
It was with great excitement that the Falcon village realized that Ottkatla had returned. Her absence was a sore point for the Falcon Folk, who loved her dearly, more so that she held within her the Herjen spirit, mysterious though it was. It was her intent to enter stealthily and make instantly for her father’s home. Her strategy was a dismal failure. She was seen straight away and hailed and then shouts filled the small town. The Folk no longer lived in caves as they had for centuries, but had learned how to make clay abodes. Having no use for competitive fanciness, all homes looked roughly the same, rectangular and plain, only larger if more people lived within. Ceilings were not high, walls just more than the height of a tall man. Chimneys were a recent addition to homes, the idea brought back by former prisoners of war.
All villages were built near hot springs which provided ablution and hygiene facilities for the tribes. Cleanliness was a major staple of life as was healthiness. While alcohol was common, abuse of it was rare, as was gluttony and other such loss of control vices. Ironically slaves or prisoners of war found themselves better fed than at home where a minimalist diet was the norm.
She strode through the village, shouting responses to greetings, waved a lot but didn’t stop. Nobody thought this odd. Of course she would want to see her family. At this time of day, her father, the Chief of the Falcons, Svatle and her mother, Tinota, would be finished any civic duties and at home tending to the family. She loved coming home and this was, every year, increasingly because of the nostalgia effect. She had outgrown the village if truth be told, outgrown the Tarkan way of life. She considered neither here nor Saens Martelle her home, more so the road where she was free and the only demands on her were from within. From the Herjen, as much a part of her now as her red hair, her pale skin, her freckles.
The shouts changed as she neared her home. There was another visitor apparently. An outsider, one who was most welcome apparently. In a village like hers, tight knit, people living in close proximity, shouting news was a way of life. Nobody had secrets; they would just be shouted.
“Who is the visitor?” she shouted as loudly as she could.
“The new Prince of Maresh-Kar,” came a voice.
“He is much improved on the last one,” came another.
“He is most handsome, for a ljusie,” a female voice shouted. ljusie was a term her people used for Three Kingdom citizens. It was derogatory, but not terrifically. It meant “naive and soft”.
Her heart sank. If there was a new Prince of Maresh-Kar it meant that the hated Sunar was dead, which was wonderful news. That would mean celebration for her Folk. Sunar was to blame for her people’s plight, the semi-slavery in which they lived. What none of them knew, probably, was that his successor would be that odious little prick, Marcus. He hated her and Melvekior and his presence here could only be a bad sign. She quickened her pace. Better to face the coming storm than hold back. Besides, she had a trick of her own up her sleeve. Mennin.
She changed direction when she heard that her parents had received the Prince in the Fest Hall, where any important people would be met. She hoped they hadn’t arranged a feast for him. Her people were often too hospitable, even to those who had wronged them. She internally, for the thousandth time in her short life, cursed Skollmak, for putting them through this. She would have gone to her death before submitting to the yolk of slavery. On the other hand though, Mikael saved her people from total annihilation, so maybe Skollmak was right.
The Fest Hall was the largest building in the village. It was in the region of seven score feet long and half that wide. It stood out by having a thatched roof and many windows. Before it was a large circle two hundred feet across, meant for feasting and cooking and fighting. A bonfire was in the process of being built, which mean that, indeed, a feast was being planned.
She could feel butterflies in her stomach now and she got closer. This was all very wrong. Marcus was an awful person who would likely try to force himself upon her and she would kill him and then there would be war. She couldn’t submit to him, even for the good of her people. Could she? The Herjen was driving her on, which was unsettling as well. It always had her best interests at heart. Should she lay with this man, just to keep the peace? She was a virgin but was not precious about that. The only man she had ever found attractive was Melvekior and he was but a boy and many leagues away.
She was about to enter the Fest Hall, dodging the greetings from all around her and the attempts to engage her in conversation, when she noticed a single horse only tied to the post outside the Hall. Surely Marcus, a renowned coward, would not come alone to a place where he might be attacked on sight. Maybe nobody knew he was here. She was ready to break the rules of hospitality.
The Fest Hall was packed with people and she was in no mood to be polite so she shoved herself forward, through the throng, elbows flying and face like thunder. All knew her and none would react angrily. Her heart was racing and adrenaline flowing.
Her parents stood at the back of the Hall, both talking politely to an armored figure. It didn’t look like Marcus. Too tall and upright and the hair was the wrong color. Her father looked over and smiled at her.
“My darling, you have returned at the perfect time. Look who has come to see you,” his grin was enormous. She didn’t understand.
The armored man turned his face. Then she understood and she could have wept with relief.
It was Melvekior.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Katle
“We were like babies fighting bears. What is the purpose of pride?” - Skollmak
Melvekior was amazed at his reception in the clan village. He was also amazed at the standard of living that prevailed here.
Their houses were incredibly primitive and extremely small, the villagers were crammed in. He knew this because his passing made a stir. People came out of their square clay shacks and stared or asked him questions. It soon became apparent that people had heard of him.
The position he held was not popular, but that he had taken it proved so. The story of Langan's revenge was on everyone's lips as Melvekior navigated his way through the twisting streets of the Falcon clan homestead.
When it was revealed, by shouting across the rooftops and children running here and there, that he was also the son of the Warlord Mikael Martelle that saved their people from ultimate destruction he became found himself struggling to make any headway with all the people around him. Eventually he shoved his way through, or more truthfully, his mount shoved his way through, following various sets of confusing directions, and found himself in an open area.
It was a large circular space, a fire-pit in the middle and on one side, the biggest building he'd seen so far in the village. Even that was embarrassingly small and crudely built, but these were fine people, free of the petty bitterness of his countrymen. He dismounted and as he did so a big man with an impressive ginger beard tied his horse to a post.
"Away, the lot o' yers," he bawled, causing some laughter amongst the children. Adults though did back away from Melvekior. His command of their language wasn’t perfect and he could only make out roughly half of what was being said.
"I'm grateful, sir," he said haltingly and held out his hand.
The man shook it extremely firmly and nodded. He had passed the handshake test apparently. "I'm no sir, Melvekior. I am Svatle."
Ottkatla's father! "Chief Svatle, please forgive my unexpected arrival, but I must speak with Ottkatla urgently." He stammered his way through the sentence. He didn't remember even being so nervous. He was eager to see her.
"Inside, please," the man said. He was about Melvekior's height and well built along with it. He had a mass of graying red hair and his beard was enormous and unkempt. His clothes were a rag-tag melange of furs and hides and he plainly didn’t care if anything matched.
He followed Svatle inside the hall and to the back. The building filled up quickly behind them, people talking loudly and shouting still, even in this enclosed area. The smell
of smoke was almost overpowering, much stronger than it had been outside. At least in here the stench of fish and tanning leather was much reduced. It was replaced by the smell of bodies, which wasn’t as unpleasant but it still wasn’t welcome. Many things he took for granted were here absent. Personal space being the one he wished for at that very moment.
“Melvekior, this is my wife Tinota,” he introduced a woman that looked like Ottkatla twenty years older and a bit heavier. Certainly still beautiful, but more worn and less vibrant. She wore similar furs. Melvekior guessed that these folk dressed entirely for protection and warmth. How they looked was a secondary consideration if it was considered at all.
She smiled and nodded her head nervously. Nothing like Ottkatla really, who would have scowled at best.
He was about to ask about their daughter when there was a disturbance behind him. He didn’t want to seem rude by looking away from his hosts, so he remarked casually how pleasant their village was. They completely ignored him and were both smiling broadly, at something or someone behind him. The chief said something in their language that he couldn’t understand. Melvekior sighed internally. Please let this day go without any diplomatic calamities.
He turned and there she was. Ottkatla.
She looked the same as she ever did. Tight hide pants and a vest that displayed her muscular, pale and freckly arms. Her mane of hair was as unruly as ever; it hung to her waist. She often wore it in a braid, but it was loose now and gave her the look of someone bigger than she was. Ottkatla had a strong face. Though her features were fine and her cheeks dotted with the sorts of freckles only a red-head enjoys, she often had her jaw set with such determination that she appeared considerably older than she was. Half a dozen years his senior. Years he cursed for he blamed that for his inability to truly be her equal. Now that he had conquered a nation and has some truly incredible adventures, maybe that would be a thing of the past.
Her eyes were wide in surprise and then she laughed. A hearty, happy laugh.
“Thank Garm for that!” she yelled and rushed at him and enveloped him in her deceptively strong arms. He had grown, without himself noticing, for her head came only to his chest and when he returned her affectionate embrace he noticed that his arms made hers look positively puny. He didn’t want to mention it. She was the best fighter in the world and would take that as a challenge.
Melvekior found himself at a loss for words, but fortunately she went from him to her parents hugged them fondly as well.
“I got such a fright, the crowd said that the Prince was here,” she looked at Melvekior quickly, “ and we didn’t part on the best of terms.” She laughed again. Not the carefree laugh of mere minutes ago, but the sarcastic, slightly malicious laugh he found so alluring.
Ottkatla’s mother, with the sense of the woman who knows what it is to fall in love and probably wanting grandchildren said, “Katle, my love, your dear Melvekior is the Prince!”
His erstwhile weapons and combat teacher stared at him, almost, but not quite, in disbelief, “How did you manage that?”
“It’s a long story, too long for just standing here, but I will tell you. For now, let it be enough for me to say that I caused the demise of Sunar and the Church crowned me the new Prince.”
“And you have come here to see me?” She sounded suspicious to him then. If he were her, what would he think was the purpose of his visit? He had a brief vision of himself on bended knee, Katle, now I’m a Prince will you have me?”
He blushed. “It’s a very, um, delicate matter. We might need to involve Foerlund, if we can and as much privacy as possible would be good.”
She frowned, he remembered that look well. “It all sounds mysterious, Prince Melvekior, let’s do it. Papa, is Foerlund in his cave?” She turned to her father.
“I believe so, shall I come along?”
“If you like, there is no urgent need, is there?” The question was directed to Melvekior.
“None, Chief Svatle,” he pronounced his name flawlessly, having practiced meeting Ottkatla’s parents countless times.
“Right then, I have news as well, but it’s waited long enough that a while more will have no bearing.” She was eager to be off, already pushing her way through the crowd.
He too started shoving, taking his cue from her ungentle manner of making her way through the throng. They were just exiting the building when Svatle started speaking loudly above everyone else, drawing attention away from the hurried pair.
She broke into a trot. “He still lives in a cave, and refuses to spend more than an hour or so indoors. He’s an odd man, Melvekior, but very wise.”
“I know the reason why that is. I’ve discovered much about his background.”
She threw him an inquiring look. “Let’s just get there, this is all too tantalizing for me.” She laughed and picked up her speed as they came to the outskirts of the village. Here were the blacksmith and the tanner, the dye maker, the storage buildings and pits and all the other cottage industries of the Tarkans. Some Melvekior didn’t recognize and didn’t get the chance to worry about so fast were they moving. After only a few minutes they had left all the buildings behind them and were on a path that led toward a series of openings in the hillside. The plateau they were on wasn’t large and was bordered by mountain on three sides. He believed that much of the land had been cleared manually but if the village expanded more they would run out of space. He was astonished that such an incredibly easily defensible position was so easily taken by his father, but Mikael had noted more than once that military strategy was limited to Imperials like him. To other people war was a thing of passion, to him it was an art, a science.
Ottkatla broke into a sprint here and stopped just shy of the largest cave mouth. Melvekior was a brief second behind her.
“Foerlund’s cave is not far now, any closer and he’ll hear us. What are you getting us into, Melvekior? What do you know of him that I do not?” She was breathing deeply but he suspected she could keep up that pace for a lot longer beside.
“I fear it will not have the same impact if you are pre-armed. Trust me, this time, please,” he pleaded.
“I will. Always I will, but do not ask that often of me.” She smiled and walked. He kept at her side.
As they walked past caves still decorated with red and blue paints, hides and furs still lining the floors, the ground outside kept clean and free from stones and dirt, she looked thoughtful. He knew why. She yearned for her people to return to the days before trade started with the Three Kingdoms. That was the beginning of the end as far as she saw it. Many of the tribespeople believed that the Herjen would save their people by destroying their oppressors. Ottkatla believed that it would destroy these new ways, the easy ways, the ignoble ways.
He was in a good position to help her people now. He couldn’t very well overturn the deal that his own father had made, but King Alpre could. After all it was his deal in essence. Even that thought, wouldn’t drive the Tarkans back to their more simple way of life. They’d tasted the easy life of the cities. Melvekior suspected that if the strictures on these people were lifted, many more of them would move to the big cities and become Kingdom men and women. This existence was harsh and he was getting a first hand look at how harsh. They had nothing. They were barely better than beggars on the streets, but he was trying not to judge them harshly. After all, their leader’s daughter was his best friend. Maybe that wasn’t the right term, but he loved her more than anyone. More than Bhav even, for whom now he was risking his relationship with Ottkatla, which looked like it was progressing in the right direction.
There was no easy way through that political morass, and he rued yet again the circumstance that had thrust the massive responsibility of ruling a kingdom, no matter how small, into his already complicated life.
They approached a small dark cave, the area before it spotlessly clean and the entrance was well lit, though he couldn’t see how. He was reminded of the cave of the Viterorm, where al
so lights shone with no visible source. He who had grown up with luxuries such as Volcanium, took such things for granted, though at least with that mystical mineral you knew from where the light emanated. There was a door of sorts. It was a barrier of furs and hides, none fresh and he reached out to feel one of them that looked particularly furry and soft.
“Don’t,” hissed Ottkatla, “he might be angry to be disturbed.” She put her face close to the hide door and said in a low sing-song voice, “Foerlund, it is I, Ottkatla.”
Immediately there was a noise from within, a scraping sound and then footsteps. The hides rustled and it became clear that there were many layers within this barrier, probably to keep the heat in and to make ingress less than simple. Though Melvekior couldn’t imagine anyone coming all the way out here to rob a virtual hermit. Besides, what the Viterorm told him about Foerlund meant that he needed little in the way of protection. Maybe though there were more people like Sjarcu. He hadn’t asked the Dark Elf when they were together, but he remembered him saying something about tracking Tiriel and it didn’t seem like it was for peaceful purposes.
A man stepped out from behind the hides. He was of average height, extremely thin and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. He also looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He was dark around the eyes and he looked groggy. “Katle,” he exclaimed loudly, smiling, “I’m so glad to see you.”
He turned to Melvekior. The smile faded fast. Melvekior’s amulet suddenly heated to almost unbearable levels and he felt a pressure in his head.
“What are you doing?” Foerlund shouted.
