by Marin Landis
Behind the Mikael’s golden body of light Melvekior could see a lithe red-headed form picking its way through the rubble towards them. Accompanying, Ottkatla, for it was her, the Jotnar, seemingly unconcerned with barriers, also moved inexorably towards their position.
“Know also, that Sterchan and Alpre, have wind of these events. Pick your battles, son. The duty of rule weighs heavy.”
He wasn’t there.
Melvekior had a vision, maybe a daydream of his father in that moment of his sudden absence. “My son,” Mikael in his earthly body. Smiling.
"There were people milling about but none near the palace, so of course it was logical to assume that Mennin had gone that way. I was fascinated to hear what the spoiled city people had to say, most of them were in a terrible state of panic and fear, but there was no time. By the time I got to the gates I think most of the damage was done bar the outpouring of heat and light that came at the end. The doors looked like they had been smashed in by a ballista and I'd almost cleared the locked gate when a flash of light and almost intolerable heat shot from within. My clothes and hair were singed at the ends and I was forced to drink lest I choke. While panic is something for lesser warriors than I, my heart was racing at the though that you would be dead. There are dead bodies aplenty in the remains of your throne room, Melvekior and then there was Mennin, standing like nothing had happened. I clarified that none of the corpses were yours and Mennin started off as though he had some purpose. Shortly after that I saw you. He must have known you were here somehow."
Ottkatla had lost none of her self-assurance he was happy to see. All her life she had her natural abilities bolstered with that of a divine spirit known as the Herjen. Only recently had this been revealed to be an actual Messenger of Mithras, hidden from her brethren. The Anaurim, Herjen, then vacated Ottkatla, leaving Melvekior worried that she would be changed dramatically. That was not to be, in fact she was, if anything, more determined to prove herself. As far as he knew though, she had yet to be tested in combat. Where previously she was one of the finest warriors anywhere, that might all have been lost with the Herjen spirit leaving her.
She had listened with interest to his story and then Sjarcu and Runild told of them men they had killed. Ottkatla had hugged him fiercely and squeezed his hand when he described his mother’s unwilling part in the events.
"So, what now?" asked Runild. She was becoming prickly, through boredom or what Melvekior couldn't fathom but she was decidedly less friendly than when she'd saved him from the collapsing palace. Maybe she was wounded and wouldn't admit it.
"Our path is clear," responded Sjarcu,"we seek out Surakoita and confront her on her faithlessness and destroy her should it become necessary."
"You are quick to turn on your mentor," Melvekior noted.
"I am quick to take the most reasonable path, friend Melvekior. Personal considerations are of no consequence. She raised me, but not as a mother, even a Talvar mother. I see the love your father holds for you, and believe my people are missing a key component to our lives. Maybe had I been raised in such an environment I would hesitate, but cold logic initially and then expediency have determined, still determine, my path."
In a way Melvekior felt sorry for Sjarcu, but then remembered that he was an assassin, employed by evil beings, though evil in himself he seemed not.
"My plans are to save my mother and stop Mithras’s mad plan. Both goals are entwined. I will seek the council of Hestallr and Ushatr. I believe there is a separation between Church and God and to judge from Mikael's words, Mithras is not necessary for the Church's good works and influence to succeed. I pledged my life to an ideal, one in which I still believe. Those ideals did not originate with Mithras, nor do they stop with Him."
"I must also challenge my beliefs,” said Runild, “Does Surakoita truly represent Her Dark Majesty, if she aligns herself with Mithras, no matter how dastardly the purpose of that allegiance? I will take it before Kvalishskaiinetta, loathe though I am to do so. Though I will warn you all now that there will be repercussions. I know little of Mithras, but to see his angels and feel the power of Him, and Melvekior, your father is one of them!" Was this the thing that was making her anxious? He admitted that the situation had been quite overwhelming.
"I agree," Ottkatla stated, "we should watch out for revenge. From a source that can appear and disappear at will and wields unimaginable power." From anyone else that might have sounded sarcastic, from Ottkatla it was a request for strategic thinking.
"And not only from that contingent, but Surakoita has an entire order of Shadow Assassins at her beck and call. Though when they find out her actual goal, they will eject her. If they don't kill her." Runild paused. "If they can kill her. There’s only one way to find out.” She looked pleased.
“I am not pleased by all this talk of betrayal though necessary it seems. I am the worst of all. I betray my God.” He thought of Aeldryn and shuddered at the thought of doing him harm or what could drive him to do so. There was nothing. His father was pointing him in the direction of the Aelvar, that was certain. Not only that, but what was that about Sterchan and King Alpre. How could they know of these events? He silently chastised himself. Kings had spies everywhere. There were two spies right in front of him. Was he sure of their allegiances? He would trust whom he must as long as he must.
“Neither your father, nor Aeldryn, would appreciate hearing you talk like that. I less than them. Melvekior, you are a hero. If there is to be any blame, it lies on the shoulders of your Gods who are not Gods. You fought to stop that today. You faced up to beings who dwarf your power. They have used you, they’ve used me dammit!” Her face was reddening and had she not looked so beautiful he might have worried that she might turn violent.
“You are right, of course you are. This is no time for self-recrimination. Let us travel to the Monastery of the Hammer. They will stand against any corruption, I am sure of it. First I must find Galrath, he will secure the city and oversee its rejuvenation.” He was starting to feel his resolve returning. Ottkatla was talking to him like an equal and that made him feel like he could face anything.
“Is that him there. With the King?” Runild asked with an edge to her voice.
Melvekior turned, half expecting her to be joking and yet she was not. It was a sight to behold. They stood, four of them and a living statue in a field of rubble. He hadn’t thought how that might appear to a bystander, but it looked a mess. Not one of the palace walls stood above head height. Mithras had completely destroyed the entire building. How they had survived was a mystery. A mystery that he would one day solve, but he suspected that one of the Anaurim had spared them, probably his father. Around the field of rubble was the palace gardens unaffected by the implosion of the main building. The gardener’s hut still stood a few hundred feet away. He resisted the urge to go to it, see if Raelyn was there for there in lay another strange thing to think through. There were others concerns at that moment, however. Mainly the column of mounted soldiers that rode slowly down the avenue towards the remains of the palace. They had come close enough within a short space of time for the three lead figures to be identifiable.
One of them was Galrath, the other King Alpre and the third and man he hadn’t seen for years. Sterchan. He had met him as a child and had felt uncomfortable in his presence. He remembered that the man was terrified of his father. He wasn’t optimistic.
“Let me do the talking. Alpre is arrogant and Sterchan is an ass. He’s the one on the right, the King’s new warlord since the death of my father.” He held his hand up to silence the questions. “Let us pretend he is dead, for the sake of getting through this as painlessly as possible. Whatever it is.” He mumbled the last sentence half to himself.
“Your Majesty,” Melvekior stated gravely.
“Your Highness,” Alpre returned, with faux shock, “what a state you are in. Can I be of immediate assistance? Should we retire to your legendary tavern and speak like gentlemen?” He peered down impe
riously at Melvekior and his friends. He didn’t spare a glance at Mennin and he was definitely worth a glance, but little seemed to ever cause Alpre to lose composure.
“We’ll be fine here, I intend to help with the rescue and clean detail.”
“There’s certainly no need for that. Come, Mi’Lord, let us speak in private.” The edge in the King’s voice made it clear that this was no request.
“I said, we’ll be fine here,” countered Melvekior with even greater spite in his voice. He wasn’t about to be bossed around by this man, for whom he had little respect, in the ruins of his own palace. Never mind the couple dozen guards and Sterchan next to him. He met the warlord’s gaze and smiled. Just to remind the man that he was the son of his, superior, predecessor.
“Very well,” responded King Calra Alpre coldly. “I hereby relieve you of your rule. You are plainly unable to maintain proper stewardship over even the smallest Principality. I will set up a temporary administrator and then annex Maresh-Kar into Uth. It stands within my lands anyway.”
Melvekior almost laughed. Almost. Mikael knew this was coming, but how. And how did Alpre arrive here so fast. Almost instantly, he knew. Spies and those damned mirrors. A cold feeling spread through him. People other than angels and Gods were there to kill him. Who sent them?
“I’d like to make an alternate suggestion, Your Majesty. Stay, help me rebuild this palace and then go about your Kingdom’s business and leave me to mine.” He knew he was playing a dangerous game. Alpre could just trample them all, save for Mennin, and be done with it, but that wasn’t his way Melvekior guessed.
“Unacceptable,” scoffed Alpre. “Melvekior, you are a good man, and I owe your father a debt of gratitude. Which I am now paying by making my offer as an ally, a friend, rather than as a conqueror as my military advisor here,” he tilted his head towards Sterchan, “recommended.”
Melvekior looked the King in the eye. I know you, you parasite, he thought, vowing revenge deep down in his quiet mind.
“I accept, on the provision that my lands and keep become my sovereign property and I retain a tithe of the already collected assets of Maresh-Kar, along with my majordomo, Flaubert. Also, the annexation will be without bloodshed and the raising of the Church will be completed as well as the Sun God’s worship unimpeded.” His forearm already bared, he reached out to Sterchan, who understanding, handed him a short knife. The kind a man might use for cutting his fingernails, or assassinating a friend.
Melvekior sliced across the underside of his forearm, halfway to his elbow. Scarlet flowed and in some way he was relieved that his blood was unchanged and unremarkable. Alpre dismounted, did the same and they both swore the Blood Oath.
His time as a Prince was over and he felt strangely elated. First the Monastery and then Vanakot if needs be. Excitement ran through him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Brotherhood
“All will pass, save the soul. It directs itself unerringly towards its own creation, wherefrom comes all life.” - Aeldryn on the Nature of Things
“It is very peaceful here, the arrangement of the trees seems to calm my spirit.” Ottkatla had probably never seen an orchard before, but she was right. He had started to feel more relaxed as he neared the Monastery. There was a slight kernel of worry in his heart, though. Worry that his Brothers would turn on him as Povimus did. For that reason he took a slight detour. The horses they rode, the clothes on their back and the weapons they wore, all new. Purchased with the almost inconceivable fortune he inherited from the Mareshian fortune. Flaubert had taken himself and his sister off to Saens Martelle, given him some money and insisted on dealing with the banks himself. Melvekior trusted him and that felt good.
“Slow right down here,” he indicated the ground with his hand. He would never have thought of issuing an instruction to Ottkatla a year ago, but a lot had changed. She was no longer the host of an ancient warrior spirit, he was no longer a child. He’d found and lost parents, won and lost a throne, gained more resilience than he could know.
If Ushatr was angry with him, he might escape with a beating. If his Brothers decided that he had betrayed them, they’d probably kill him. He doubted they would harm her, though, but he still believed that the Silver Bear was the best option.
The hut was there, but was different to when he was last here. It had been patched along one side. Maybe it had been struck by lightning or Ushatr himself in a bad mood. He dismounted and knocked on the door. There was no answer, no response. He listened at the door and jumped when he heard Ottkatla’s exclamation.
“Garm!” She rarely swore, but taking the name of her God in vain was the equivalent.
He spun, hand instinctively at his sword hilt. Ottkatla’s face was a picture. Calm even at the sight of Mikael in his body of light, unfazed by the stone being Mennin whom they left at the borders of the Monastery’s land, the color had drained from her already pale face and her hands shook as she slowly alighted from her horse. She was plainly trying to say something but it wouldn’t come out.
The object of her discomfort, twenty feet away. A man, or so it seemed at first glance, but a huge man. Almost seven feet tall, his silver hair long and unkempt, his short beard a similar hue, but shot with black. To Melvekior’s relief, his face was one of joy and he smiled a broad smile.
“Brother!” he boomed.
“Garm!” screeched Ottkatla in a manner totally out of character for her and she fell to her knees, her eyes averted, her hand clawing at her head.
“Daughter, be at peace,” Ushatr spoke as he rushed to her and swept her up as any other man might do a small child. “I am not he, but I am of him, as ye are also.”
Almost embarrassed, as though he intruded on a personal moment, Melvekior sidled up, unsure, as often he was, of the correct etiquette.
“Katle, are you well?”
She pulled her face from Ushatr’s chest and looked him full in the face, tears streaming down her face. “How have we not known?” She shook her head and the Silver Bear dropped her, not ungently. “Melvekior, this is how my people see Garm. Is this your mentor, Ushatr?”
“Aye, it is,” Melvekior responded, a little bemused.
“My Lord, I apologize, but you must know how you appear.”
“Aye, I do.” Melvekior knew Ushatr well enough to know that he wasn’t all that comfortable talking about feelings and was probably a little embarrassed of his own tenderness with the confused young woman before him. “There is a story in there for ye, later. Now, there are other matters, that my Brother here should relate over a glass of cider.”
Ushatr strode past Ottkatla and put his arm around Melvekior’s shoulders, steering him towards the hut.
“I am sorry to say it was yer Da’ that caused the damage to my hut,” Ushatr had poured all three of them enormous mugs of cloudy cider and then proceeded to sit on his bed, drain half of his own in one draught and drop that nugget of information upon Melvekior.
“Why did he do that? I apologize on his behalf, Brother.” Melvekior knew his father was rash, but to do that to Ushatr was suicidal.
“I don’t suppose he meant to,” the big man laughed, “but he was flying through the air at the time. Propelled by this,” he held up a meaty fist the size of Melvekior’s head and then some.
“Ahh,” said Melvekior hesitantly. Were it anyone else he might have taken umbrage but Ushatr was generally good natured, if violent and threatening. He must have had a good reason for any such actions and he knew first hand that his father could annoy and might not show Ushatr the sort of respect that everyone else showed him.
“Fret not, we’re still friends. Besides he’s tougher’an he looks your old man. Take a lot more than one punch, mighty as it was, to keep him down.” He finished off his mug and looked like he would stand but then shook his head and relaxed. “What exactly happened to ye? I know that something has happened, but not what.”
Melvekior recounted what he knew. Ushatar was mostly silent, onl
y reacting with an interested ‘hmm’ once when Melvekior mentioned Mennin. When he had finished the tale, Ushatr stood, his enormous frame seeming to take up most of the space in the hut even though Melvekior knew it didn’t.
“The Jotnar. Where is he now?” Ushatr asked, excitedly.
“At the boundary of the Monastery lands. I was a little worried about what my reception might be. Povimus after all tried to kill me and it might be thought that I’d become an apostate, which in a way…”
“Nonsense, did your father not explain well enough my role and that of Hestallr and Gravandr?” Ushatr seemed almost put out.
“Not well, Lord Ushatr,” spoke Ottkatla.
“Mithras is a figurehead, a physical representation of that which we have been sent to establish and grow across this landmass; Torgetiea, it is named by the Empire north of here. His perceived brand of nobility and order are the perfect mix to encourage peace and co-operation in these lands. Gravandr has already had some success in Malann, there has been little war here, save your predecessor’s unfortunate tantrum and he had rejected the teachings of Mithras so it was no surprise. You have seen to that nicely. Well done, lad, though it done ye no good.” He grunted, almost a laugh it was. “The irony hasn’t escaped me, maybe it has you, that your erstwhile subjects will now see you as an enemy of the Church.”
He had thought of that. If Alpre makes it known that Povimus wanted to kill him as an apostate to the new state religion and later turns up eviscerated, Melvekior’s name would be mud. Which is of course precisely what Alpre would do.
