by Marin Landis
If he betrays me…he shook the thought from his mind. Povimus might think him a traitor, an apostate.
The time of the Imperturbation approached, where all would be silent for some minutes to give praise quietly for the bounty that Mithras has delivered, to give thanks to one’s fellows and think on one’s own shortcomings. While he had never enjoyed such times, as a warrior monk it was vital to the state of humility one should display to those weaker than oneself. He found it easy enough to do as Aeldryn had taught him the art of introspection and the benefits thereof. This would be the time he thought. Could he keep his eyes open and that remain unnoticed? He decided that he could not, someone would notice.
As the minutes wore on, he started to believe that quite possibly he had created his own reality. Nothing was happening, there was nothing odd about the day. Povimus just wanted to get this over and done with so he could hurry the new temple and his mother probably just wanted to give him some space on which was a presumably happy day for him. She could know nothing of what had been occurring so would have no reason to suspect he needed someone to talk to.
There was something though; a whisper. From his right beyond the heavy drapes that had been raised to cover the paintings of war and heroism that marked this a throne room rather than a sanctified place for such an event as this. “Steady now, Fodie.” He knew not what that meant, but it was out of place. Not everyone in this room was visible, nor were they all observing the Imperturbation. He could also feel something else. It was the presence of divinity, it was a building of Aur, the slow creeping escalation of energy from all around.
Was it Mithras, come to observe the occasion? He didn’t believe so. What was it then?
It was becoming more and more powerful. His body started to tingle, the hairs on his arms rose and his own power threatened to explode from him. Were he not deep within the Kehan it may well have done, but he kept it sharply under control. He had only experienced this sort of energy a few times before, in moments of extreme peril.
Events were coming to a head but he couldn’t say what events they were. Was it the God? What was Fodie?
Then something else, something utterly unexpected. The smell of a farm, the faint sound of pigs, the squeal and grunting of swine.
What in the Hells was happening?
The feeling was becoming oppressive and then, with no warning, the hall erupted.
“Sunar!” came one cry.
“Heretic!” another, in a reedy voice.
“Thou hast been found wanting,” a booming voice in his mind. A voice he recognized and knew well. Tiriel. His amulet grew red hot in a brief moment and he felt sudden agony as the finger-bone shattered, scoring shallow cuts against his chest and shredding his robes.
“Argh,” he cried and stepped back from the altar, looking desperately for some kind of weapon. It was then that he noticed that Povimus was moving away but didn’t seem panicked or shocked at Melvekior’s actions. It would have looked as though he was being attacked by a swarm of bees but Povimus reacted as though it was just part of the ritual to walk calmly away. Doubtless the insult of “heretic” was his. The crowd, two dozen, or more feet away, had started to react; puzzled looks and whispers, even some startled cries, though he could hear nothing of them so loud was the rushing of the energy in his ears.
What he did hear, again, was the shout of “Sunar!” and its apparent source, a crazed and dull looking man of about Melvekior’s height and rather much fatter. His lope was ungainly and his face twisted in bestial rage. Above his head he held a tree felling ax. Behind him ruffled the great curtains behind which he must have lay hidden. With an accomplice no doubt.
So fast was Melvekior’s mind working that events seemed slowed down. Adrenaline coursed through him and Kehan powered his mind. The weigh of the Aur, so strong was it, was almost physically pushing him down and he felt his knees starting to shake. He heard a loud intake of breath and caught a glimpse of a man with something that resembled a wooden flute behind the still ruffling curtains. He was raising the flute to his lips and aiming it towards Melvekior.
Enough’s enough, he thought. It was time to act, besides which, he had little choice.
Melvekior leapt up and forward into the air, his torn robe billowing and half baring his chest, and spun, the voluminous cloth, entangling the ax, unbalancing the man. In the same motion, the now furious Prince brought his foot down on the man’s bent thigh. No small man, Melvekior, his muscles honed by years of combat practice, possessed by an unearthly strength not so great as to be outrageously obvious, but enough to dwarf most men. The force of his landing with intent, his entire weight concentrated on that one spot; the flabby upper leg of a stumbling sewer worker, was enough to snap the bone therein. The howl of agony that rent the air was almost enough to fully drown out the incessant rushing of divine magic that was like a hurricane in his ears.
Melvekior looked up briefly and saw the eyes of the man with the flute. They were widening as he watched and his face jerked into the flute as if he blew into it. Something small shot from the end of the flute. To anyone not in the depths of the mystical combat trance, Kehan, it would have been almost impossible to see and definitely impossible to follow. His plan was to fall flat to the ground, possibly on top of the lumbering ax-wielder and take his chances that way but that became moot very quickly indeed.
Unnoticed by Melvekior as he concentrated on letting himself fall rather than gather his legs from beneath himself, so fast was his mind racing, the poison tipped needle struck something that shouldn’t have been in the way and fell to the floor, its venom and momentum unspent.
The Prince’s mind revolted as he didn’t hit the floor, some invisible force holding him a foot above where his erstwhile attacker lay writhing and moaning. The cognitive dissonance didn’t last long, even in his heightened state he didn’t have a chance to reflect on his situation before feeling his stomach lurch as he flew across the room and slammed into the back wall of the hall. He crushed a bronzed wall lamp, the air knocked out of him and he slid to the floor. A vast presence loomed above him as he strove to orient himself. He was nauseated and winded, he hurt in his chest, more than one rib broken, his face was sore and the heavy feeling again pressed him down. It was the being before him that represented the greatest danger though, more so than his injuries, the mysterious behind-the-curtain man, the downed ax-man and also Povimus who must have been in on whatever conspiracy drove this assault.
Tiriel. Exposed in all his glory. Majestic and terrifying.
His shape was simply that of a man. And half another in addition. Fully nine feet tall and shoulders as wide as a small man measured high, he floated four feet above the ground. His entire form appeared to be composed of a dazzlingly bright white light, save from his eyes which were black pits of ruthlessness.
“Thou hast betrayed us, kin of serpents. Thou get of the iniquitous and false Aurim. Thy end is come.” His voice reverberated around the hall, never made to contain the word of a demi-god. The windows which lined the first half of the hall shattered into pieces, the uncaring shards slicing through the assemblage causing more havoc than already there was. Cries and squeals of man, woman, child and animal alike pierced the air. Melvekior didn’t even question in his half-panicked state why there were animals in his Throne Room.
The towering angel extended his hands towards where Melvekior lay and the fallen Prince felt the heavy sensation in his head grow until it was an almost unbearable pressure. He felt a ‘pop’ in his face somewhere and felt a wetness creep down his lower face. He could feel his eyes bulging through the force that was being thrust into him. The pain in his chest also expanded until it filled his entire body, his organs and muscles starting to object. Melvekior felt like he could barely hold on. The wetness now ran down his cheeks, whether it blood or tears he knew not.
The irony of the situation was not lost on him nor was the surprise that he could still think clearly while his body suffered such distress. Such was
the power of Kehan. To his disquiet, the power of calm also allowed him to understand that he had not long left, that his body was revolting against the inhuman and unnatural pressure and was on the verge of shock and collapse.
He regretted little but that he had not spent more time with his parents and appreciated Aeldryn not a fraction of the amount he was due. If one’s soul could cry, his cried. “Óðkatle,” he shouted. Whether in spirit or with his last dying breath he shouted for the woman that he had always known was his compliment, the other half of his being. The furious warrior, his equal and mate. Scenes ran through his consciousness of times that had never been. Of adventures upon which he had never embarked. Of children he would never have. Of the carefree happiness he would never experience.
His vision faded and he flew. The shackles of the flesh fallen from him.
Two miles outside Maresh city, Ottkatla and Herjen stood awkwardly. There had been little conversation between them on their journey to this cave. It wasn’t a big cave, a normal sized person would have to crouch to enter but Ottkatla knew that this was where the Jotnar hid. Hid not because it feared anything but because entering a city would cause panic and bring down attacks from all and sundry. Jotnar were creatures of legend, old tales of evil rock trolls that ate children were all that remained of their interaction with human beings. The red-headed warrior had no doubt that he would not have been well received.
“Mennin,” she whispered and even before she had finished the word, the cave started to move. The entire cave.
The rock opening unfolded like a mother’s hand when gifting a small toy to a child. It opened and reformed, into a shape much like an incredibly stocky person, but eight feet tall and composed entirely of rock. Not smooth stone, but sharp edged and irregular featured bits of boulder almost haphazardly thrown together in a pattern resembling a person.
“In all my travels, I have never seen such a thing.” Herjen said, her accent almost as alien as the creature before them. She wore clothes for the journey from Ottkatla’s home, Ottkatla’s clothes. A fact made ironic considering that she had worn Ottkatla’s body for so many years.
“It is comforting to know that you are still able to feel wonder, I…” she stopped and looked to the sky. “Did you…”
Mennin moved. While that was unusual, he moved fast. Faster than a walking pace and he seemed to have purpose. Before this he had followed her, with little input into their path or reaction to her instruction save to walk in her footsteps. Now he ran, implacably, for what could stop such a being?
After him they ran and he moved faster until Ottkatla was running at her top speed, sprinting and yet not tiring. Beside her Herjen kept pace easily, not breathing heavily for what being of light breathed? Before she had a chance to properly dissect the mystery of not being out of breath herself, she heard it, loud and all-encompassing, and time almost stopped.
“Óðkatle.” It was her name. Pronounced in the old tongue, the accent perfect. Impossibly she knew the voice, shouted though it was from seemingly miles away.
It was Melvekior.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Unleashed
“Those who keep men like cattle, shall themselves be penned and slaughtered.” - Mithras
It was almost like a dream. These Halls of Mithras were real, but also ethereal. The slight unreal quality was caused by his vision, he assumed. It wasn't quite right. Hazy in fact. He looked to the sky. Was that rain? He felt some drops on his face. It was also extremely windy.
Why was nobody else here?
The Halls themselves looked exactly as he had expected them to look. From here they were all he could see, maybe half a mile away and enormous. They stretched across the horizon as far as the eye could see. Grand stone buildings adorned with gold. All else was featureless and flat plains, though he paid little attention. This was the ultimate adventure and he was eager to begin.
It didn’t take him long to reach the mighty doors and he had planned his journey well for he hadn’t even noticed them until he was right on top of them. In fact, when he considered it briefly, he didn’t even remember the walk from where he was to where he now stood. Nevertheless he pushed at the doors without hesitation and stood expectantly.
There He was. Mithras.
He was beneficent after all. The relief he felt was all-encompassing. Whatever happened whenever that was had no meaning now and all he could see was the Sun God. In all His glory, precisely and exactly as Melvekior had always pictured him in his mind. Larger than life, a giant. His hair a golden gray, swept back from his forehead in an unruly shock. His skin, a little darker than a mountain dweller, as if he’d been tanned by his own radiance, glowed with a warm light.
Melvekior fell to his knees and then to lay face down before the might of his God. The God he had forsaken and paid the ultimate price. He was a little shocked he would prostrate himself so abjectly, but how else could he explain it to himself?
He paused briefly. What was his mind telling him? He craned his neck to look up again at the awesome figure before him, the golden scale armor of Mithras shining and glinting. The face of the wondrous God before him smiled beatifically. It reminded him of his father. In fact Mithras was the double of his father, or maybe more correctly, Mikael was the double of Mithras. He had no idea. If Mikael was to be believed they were once comrades. He wondered on that momentarily, in his uncomfortable position, and then noticed Mithras extended His hand towards him.
He was incredibly excited. To touch the hand of God….
“Melvekior, can you hear me? Hold on to my hand.” The Voice of Mithras.
He reached out for the light.
A hand grasped his and pulled. The agony was unlike anything he had ever experienced. His entire body was wracked through with pain. He felt like he had been trampled on by Hestallr’s enormous feet and thrown from a mountain. The hand gripped tighter and yanked with more urgency.
“Come on, he won’t last much longer.” That was a familiar voice. His father.
He opened his eyes and his father leaned over him, his brow furrowed. Melvekior blinked, trying to remember where he was. “I died. What…”
Mikael laughed. “So you did. Come!” This was no request this time. Mikael, not Mithras, hauled him to his feet, ignorant and uncaring of his pain.
“Who won’t last much longer?” Melvekior asked, the fog slowly clearing from his mind. As things became clearer, they became a lot more chaotic. The sound of screams, squeals and shouts were there but drowned out by a titanic struggle. The struggle between two great beings, one of them Tiriel, his friend and the other, he guessed to be Faerlen. To tell them apart was impossible and even painful as the ferocity of the light they emanated was brighter than the sun at full midday. To him and probably the braver of the coronation attendees who remained it appeared that a star had collided with another right there in the throne room.
He quickly took stock. His body was damaged and he was bare from the waist up. His chest was scored with slashes from the exploding talisman that Tiriel had gifted him with. The object, that in his mind certainly, had started this entire series of misadventures. A finger-bone, one of three, that had been removed by a captive Tiriel and used by the Three Kings of these lands as a means of immortality. There was minimal pain and scabs had started forming. He struggled to breath easily and there was a terrible ache in the small of his back, he guessed from the crushing weight of Tiriel’s assault.
Bodies littered the part of the throne room near the temporary altar. Those who hadn’t been wise or scared enough to move away from the initial attack on their Prince. Povimus was nowhere to be seen, nor was the man with the flute type object, the curtains that had obscured his position now incinerated. The attacker with the ax was doubly dead, his skin burned and charred, with little of the pink flesh remaining.
He saw some movement through the open and blasted doors that barely remained standing, a glimpse of black clothing and then nothing. He had more pressing events to wo
rry about. His father was marching towards the warring angels and there was something different about him. Melvekior had seen him before in full armor, the scale mail of the Malannites, but not like this. As the warlord strode in the direction of his brethren he seemed to grow and the overlapping sheets of metal that he wore started shining with a golden light. Different to the bright white of his fellow Anaurim, it was warmer, less threatening yet no less bright and certainly more magnificent.
Four steps he took and whipped out a mighty sword, raising it aloft to point at the high ceiling.
“Cease your struggle,” he said. Not loudly, in fact it hardly seemed to at the volume of normal speech. Yet the heavenly beings chaotically striving for domination above them stopped their struggle. Almost as if they had never fought, the two beings of light floated serenely towards Mikael and floated before him.
They both were the same relative dimensions as a man but perfect in every way. Tiriel was the larger of the two, by a couple of inches, and bulkier as well. Faerlen looked older, his beard and thinner hair making him look more ancient yet his fluorescent skin was as smooth as his brother Anaurim’s.
“Mikael, you hold the Skeyn Arbarakha,” stated Tiriel without emotion.
“I do and I am considering rending your head from your shoulders for your actions against my son.” Mikael had more passion in his voice. Melvekior could feel his rage, checked and tempered but simmering beneath the surface still.
“Do not, Mikael, for we may banish each other or restrain or even wound unto centuries long hibernation, but that final death; it is blasphemy!” Faerlen seemed more scared than Tiriel.
“And yet I will bring it upon any who harms Melvekior,” he turned to his son, his face grave. “He has a purpose unknown to me, but it is a grand design that thus moves him. You should not interfere, Tiriel.” He pronounced the seven fingered Anaurim’s name curiously, heavily accented, as though the Torgete language they all spoke, with varying dialects, was not his mother-tongue. “Also, we should all be aware, that outside of this sphere another approaches.”
