by Marin Landis
“How did you know we were brothers?” One of them demanded. Was that an attempt at humor? Neither gave the hint of a smile.
“I meant…It was an attempt to be friendly,” stammered Melvekior, caught off guard.
“I see. Waving a sword around whilst doing so reduces the effectiveness of your attempt,” replied the same Aelvar.
“Lentar is correct, that is incongruous,” said the other one.
An entire race of pedants, thought Melvekior. He almost laughed. Almost.
He lowered his sword. “Apologies, you startled me. Us.” He took a step towards them. Neither reacted. “I am Melvekior,” he started moving forward and extending his hand. Surely they understood a handshake.
They did and both shook his hand. Firmly, with no implied threat, yet without warmth.
Ottkatla did the same and had the same result. She introduced herself and stepped back, her expectation, as Melvekior was for them to introduce themselves.
“What is your purpose here, Melvekior, Ottkatla?” Lentar spoke, possibly he was the senior of the two.
“I have come to seek counsel from Aeldryn. Have you heard of him?”
There was no physical reaction from either of them. Melvekior had half expected them to relax and as him why he hadn’t said so already.
“Do you suppose that our population is so small that we all are intimately acquainted? Are you familiar with every soul in your lands?”
“Um, I’m not. I apologize again, Lentar. I thought it might be common ground between us. Aeldryn is wise and we are close. He raised me in a fashion. My own father was often absent. You might know him though, he is rumored to be the only one of our kind to enter Vanakot.” Melvekior was eager to gain some sort of ground between them.
“Oh yes, I did hear something about one of your kind in Vanakot.” He pronounced it oddly, probably correctly, the vowels much more pronounced, the consonants clipped.
“Mikael Martelle. He brokered a peace between your people and the realm of Maresh-Kar…”
“Now, listen here, man,” Lentar stepped forward, his finger outstretched, similar to how Aeldryn would lecture him, “there was only peace because we allowed it. Mikael is welcome in our lands, but you we do not know. You mention that name like we should understand and help you due to a claimed relationship.”
“Aeldryn did spend some time with Mikael, Lentar,” interjected the other one, “this could be the offspring of the Deathspeaker. He has his look, though not his noble bearing.”
“I am his son, though I do not understand what a Deathspeaker is, I am Melvekior Martelle, my father was the warlord of King Alpre and a lot more beside. So you do know Aeldryn?”
“Yes, though your people vex us at this very moment. We need to establish the validity of your presence or we will feed you to the forest.”
That calmly spoken threat chilled Melvekior to the bone. The Aelvar stood, as if in thought, Ottkatla stood next to him and edged closer. “Melv, do you think we could defeat them? They don’t look strong,” she whispered to him. She had definitely lost some of her aggressive edge since Herjen had left her. He imagined her instantly leaping to the attack in times past were such things said.
“You could not,” Lentar spoke before Melvekior could respond. He lapsed back into silence. Aeldryn had done the same sort of thing when thinking, but Melvekior wouldn’t discount some sort of silent communication between these two.
“Have you met another of my kind, Melvekior?” asked the unnamed one after what seemed an eternity of silence, the only sound he could hear the dripping of water from mossy bark and Ottkatla’s breathing.
“No, not…Oh hold on, yes.” It was hazy to him, his encounter with the strange gardener. “Raelyn! That was him, he was some sort of spy I think. The gardener at my old palace in Maresh-Kar.” He stopped suddenly. He hadn’t wanted to reveal his connection with the throne of the country who had recently waged war with the Forest People.
“Come, we will take you to the Haylan,” Lentar said. “We will not move fast but it will be an arduous journey for you.” He started to move deeper in to the forest without a further word.
“Wait!” shouted Melvekior. “What is the Haylan?”
Lentar did not wait.
“He is the first among us, man, follow,” stated the second Aelvar curtly.
With no further thought Melvekior followed, holding Ottkatla’s hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Haylan
“The Phage is from outside our world. We cannot return it and we cannot contain it. Who then must bear it?” - Apset
When Melvekior was training for the Brotherhood, he slept an average of five hours per night. He ate barely enough food to sustain a child and none of it was very pleasant. He would drill with Hartlo for countless hours, full days without a break, until he was collapsing with exhaustion and did nothing but stumble to his bed immediately afterwards. He would awake with pain in every muscle, his back feeling like he’d been stabbed.
Compared to what he experienced in the Eairood, those days were the height of relaxation.
He struggled to breathe, the thick air filled with spores and and moisture. He slipped over frequently, the ground covered with leaves and moss and who knows what. The two Aelvar, Kireim and Lentar, were seemingly tireless. He tried not to look too often at Ottkatla for she suffered similarly to him and brushed away his glances or inquiries. For hours they traveled and when at last Lentar stopped to announce that nightfall had come, though you couldn’t tell it, Melvekior almost cried in relief. Only to be devastated to be told that they’d travel through the night to make better time.
“We cannot!” cried Ottkatla, “there are limits to a person’s endurance.”
“We will lead you onward, child,” said Lentar, heedless of their exhaustion. “When you know the way yourself, you may set the pace.”
He knew Ottkatla wanted to cry. He wanted to cry and lay down and sleep. If there were any room. The woods were as thick as ever, possibly one could sleep leaning against a relatively straight bole but it wouldn’t be ideal and quite possibly short-lived.
This was a totally alien environment for them both. He the noble bred knight and she the barbarian warrior more comfortable in thatched huts and mountain air. This overpowering forest served to drive them into some sort of claustrophobic depression. It seemed that there was no end to the series of sodden obstacles in the guise of trees. There was no birdsong, no insects, no conversation no matter how often they made the attempt. Lentar and Kireim were stoic, neither breathing hard nor sweating nor complaining. They slipped through the smallest cracks between trees, climbed with almost unbelievable agility when there was no way through and pulled he and Ottkatla along with uncommon strength and no mercy. Their tall frames seemed to bend and twist into any small space with the expectation that the stragglers would do the same.
Eventually, through exhaustion and irritation, triggered by walking into a branch and being rewarded with a tender bump on his forehead, Melvekior lost his temper. "Enough, we cannot go on, and I will not. I may be lost and blind but you are just going to have to let us sleep and continue in the morning." He was bent at the waist and could barely see his feet, he knew the temperature was low but still sweat dripped from his hair.
"Blind? Do you struggle to see in the low light, Melvekior?" Lentar asked.
"Low light? It's pitch bloody black, you fool." He had lowered his voice but anyone that knew him would have been surprised by the venom in his voice. Rarely had he been treated this way by an enemy, and were the Aelvar not his friends?
"Of this we were unaware. It has been long rumored that Kingdom men were less physically able but we care so little about your petty activities that we have declined to discover the truth." From anyone else Melvekior might have taken offense but Lentar was unlike anyone he had ever known.
There was silence. Ottkatla held and squeezed his hand. She was being very calm about this whole thing, almost as if she was co
ming to terms with her sudden vincibility. It had changed her in subtle ways, almost like a transition to adulthood.
"There is Eremflet not far away, you may rest there until Dawn," Lentar announced. The more Melvekior dealt with him, the more he was convinced that somehow he was in communion with someone or something they could not see. His responses were often slow as if he consulted with another.
"What is that?" asked Ottkatla quietly.
"A storage bunker for weapons. Every few years one of your kings decides that the fabled wealth of Vanakot should be his for the taking. They only try once. Imagine an army forcing their way through here? The wood won't burn and then when they lose all forward motion, we shoot them and let the Forest have their bodies."
Melvekior repressed a shudder. Lentar's matter of fact communication style never sounded colder.
"But how can you live here? Does it not drive you mad?" Ottkatla's voice was becoming shrill. He was impressed that she had held out this long. He was increasingly unhappy and didn't suffer from a dislike of enclosed spaces.
"Lead us to the bunker please, Lentar," Melvekior interrupted, sensing that she needed sleep.
Calling it a bunker was a kindness. It was more like a large pit with a wooden covering. There was enough room though for them to lay down. The cold hit them when they stopped moving. Ottkatla had thought to bring a bottle of some strong spirit that almost made Melvekior gag when he took the offered large swig. It warmed him long enough to fall asleep, the object of his affection next to him asleep even quicker than he.
His mind made his strange surroundings into a dream and he woke relieved not to be imprisoned by Sunar for stealing his throne. Instead he woke on the floor of a deep pit, the walls stacked with polished wooden boxes. They looked masterfully crafted and about the size of a coffin. He hoped they were not but recalled the purpose of this place. Ottkatla was asleep still and he moved quietly and slowly as not to disturb her. He smelled. He was not surprised. He also was very hungry and had a bad taste in his mouth. Their packs were nowhere to be seen; there was trail food to be had, but he must have left it outside the Eremflet.
He stood and turned to the box that had been moved onto another so there would be room for him and Ottkatla to sleep. It was a light gold color, the wood plainly treated with some agent to give it a shine. He ran his hand along the top lip until he found a catch, the wood was as smooth as it looked, and pulled. The lid came unlocked and he lifted it with two hands, it being a lot heavier than it looked.
Within were arrows. Dozens, hundreds, of arrows. Not uniform like the arrows he had seen in the armory at Maresh-Kar palace, but with short feathers fletched into them of every color. No two appeared the same. All were tipped with similar arrowheads however, some of which were stained with what looked to be blood.
"I wonder how many deaths were caused by what's in that one box alone." Ottkatla said, startling him slightly.
"Enough to discourage your people from trying to again enter our lands, I hope," Lentar interrupted. Melvekior and Ottkatla both looked up to see Lentar standing at the top of the pit, looking down upon them. "Are you ready to continue. We are close to your destination."
If Melvekior thought the day before was difficult, he hadn’t counted on how he might feel having rested. While he felt rejuvenated at first, the aches and pains soon become debilitating agony. That rested feeling was an illusion, a trick of the mind. He felt like someone had wrenched his insides out and he could tell, by the almost constant grimace and low curses that Ottkatla felt the same.
“Did you two even sleep?” he asked.
“Yes, we slept in Vanakot,” Lentar replied.
Melvekior was astonished and a little annoyed by this revelation. “How long did we sleep?” Ottkatla asked.
“Most of the night. I see your expression, Melvekior. I mentioned that you were close to your destination.”
“Well, how far is it? How long to get there? I would be less irritated if you gave us more information.”
Lentar’s expression did not change. “It is as far as we have already come this morning and will take again the same amount of time. If want to talk longer, it will take more time.”
“Right,” Melvekior snapped, “let’s just go.” He was beginning to think that these Aelvar were nothing like Aeldryn and he hoped that Lentar was not typical of those people.
They set off, again the tangle of mossy trees made their way difficult but it was with a sense of renewed hope similar to how they felt yesterday when they first met the two inscrutable Aelvar. Melvekior hoped that Aeldryn would be present to give them succor, he felt no warmth from Lentar and Kireim was a silent partner who offered little. The disappointment he felt was almost palpable and probably emerged in his treatment of his unwilling hosts, but he had expected so much more. His tutor had been kind, intellectual, curious and loyal.
You’re being foolish, he told himself, there are good and bad in all communities, why would the Aelvar be any different?
He determined to get his head down and make the best of whatever situation and circumstance he met.
Lentar was correct, Vanakot was not far and his expectations were again shattered. Rumor held that the Aelvar, the Forest People, lived in quaint little tree houses, served by woodland spirits and frolicked with the animals. Lest they were crossed, then they become vengeful demons. He knew most of these expectations were built by stories he had heard and the bitterness that existed towards them in Maresh-Kar. Ottkatla had spoken more than once of her folk’s reverential feelings towards the Aelvar so he had expected something that was a combination of what he had heard and how he personally imagined Aeldryn’s people would live. This was no fairy tale people, nor were they the mystical aesthetes that Aeldryn had seemed.
Vanakot was vast. If Amaranth was a cancerous sore on the land, a great festering amalgamation of humanity in its extremes, Vanakot was a serene village, logically imagined and lovingly built. From what he knew of the Aelvar, they once dwelt in Fana-Alvar as one race with the Talvar until some sort of rebellion against their masters occurred. The exact nature, Aeldryn did not ever reveal to him, but the Aelvar then migrated here, to the Eairood to start new, peaceful, lives.
They had suddenly and unexpectedly emerged from the tangle of trees into an open space. The air was fresh and they sucked in oxygen like they’d been underwater all the while taking in the view. Before them was a river, flowing from ahead of them and curved round to the right. A path, a road in fact, twenty feet wide, ended where they issued from the Eairood and led roughly one hundred feet away to a stone bridge that crossed the river. Three archways the bridge had on its bottom side, to what purpose he could not imagine. Decorative maybe, but a feat of engineering certainly.
Across the bridge was a narrower road, leading up a gradual rise, on either side of which were rows of houses. Houses the like that neither he nor Ottkatla had seen before. Of all shapes and sizes they were, but all were stone built, not of slabs but small stones the size of a man’s head, joined with some sort of lighter colored rock. Some were painted, some a natural rock color, some with a large leafed plant up one side or another, but all the walls without exception were topped by a straw-gold thatched roof. Some houses were single storied, some double and he fancied he could see even taller ones in the distance, poking out from the numerous trees that spread throughout the village. Each house that he could see had around it a garden. Flowers and trees were plentiful and his entire vision was awash with color.
There were people visible to them as well, some gardening, some sitting on the grass, a couple dangling their legs in the river. There were two children on the bridge, looking over the edge. They all shared the look of their guides, dressed in hides, tall, slender and marked with a slightly alien look. One of the children pointed in their direction and said something to her companion who smiled over at them. Melvekior found himself waving almost automatically.
“Melvekior, it is beautiful,” mumbled Ottkatla, half bene
ath her breath. “And so calm.” He regarded her. She looked relaxed for the first time in a while.
If someone had told him what to expect he would not have believed it, who could have imagined this amount of space in the Forest? And how was it done? He would have to leave these questions for another time.
“I did not believe I would see such a sight, but when I think of Aeldryn’s garden and that of Raelyn whom I knew only briefly, I understand now. They shared a love of gardening, of growing things, tending and nurturing life.” He looked around, trying to take it all in. “I had feared that after meeting those two that I had made a mistake, but there can be no mistaking now that coming here was the correct decision.”
“Come, we go to check the veracity of your invitation.” Lentar spoke, almost bring them back down to earth. He did look more friendly and less severe now, his words still harsh.
They crossed the bridge and followed the road up the hill. Everyone they passed spoke to Lentar and Kireim, their language incomprehensible to Melvekior and Ottkatla. The tones were pleasant though and there was much physical contact between the Aelvar, like they were all related and felt no compunction about holding and cuddling and nuzzling each other in public. It was infectious and Melvekior found himself hand in hand with the woman he loved, his step lighter, his aches all but forgotten.
The walk took a while and it was such a pleasure to be able to breathe and view colors more than dark green that his sore feet and even the stress over his mission, his father, Mithras, even his apostasy was immaterial. He asked Lentar how he knew where Aeldryn lived and was rewarded by laughter for the first time from the two Aelvar. It wasn’t mocking in any way, just genuinely humorous. Neither would answer that question and Lentar merely said, “We are almost there.”
