THE MELAKI CHRONICLE
Volume II
by
William Thrash
Other Books
by William Thrash
MANSION – A Horror Novel
Winning Hands – A Western
The Dwarven Legacy – A Fantasy
The Goblin Adventure – A Fantasy
The Melaki Chronicle – A Fantasy
DRAGON, RAMPANT – A Novel
Cover Photo by Steve Groves www.ESI-Media.com
Special thanks to Andrew "Sharkman" Taylor for use of his image.
The Melaki Chronicle Volume II is a work of fiction. Names, locations and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2014 - All Rights Reserved
The Emims dwelt therein in times past, a people great, and many, and tall, as the Anakims; Which also were accounted giants, as the Anakims; but the Moabites called them Emims.~ Deuteronomy 2: 10-11
CHAPTER 1
Melaki, Wizard of the Altanlean Ninth Ward, heard the raven squawking while he drowned.
Not now!
He flailed about in the water, anger suffusing him.
Why now?
The waters surged around him, swirling. A body floated past, eyes open, and then another. He looked around in the gloomy light of the water rising above him and saw bodies everywhere. A few still kicked feebly up above him – trying to stay on the turgid surface. More and more were being driven under by the avalanche of water from above.
The raven screeched in alarm.
The sky had opened with those strange, heavy drops – larger than anything he had ever seen. It had happened right after the smoking things had crashed through the layer of waters above.
Such a fragile atmospheric condition destroyed with the falling of some heavenly rock. He knew the waters above had not always been there – perhaps a temporary condition from a previous catastrophe. The written records of events of disastrous magnitude stretched back into the eons of time. Happening again and again.
Even the giants had warned of things to come.
He sighed, and he did it underwater. Why this dream now?
The droplets had turned harder, heavier. It seemed as if the weight of the air had left and wind came rushing straight down, driving the water down. The heavens disintegrated, the water coming down to where even small buildings were battered and washed away. The winds had been bad enough; the pounding water had ripped apart roofing, wearing away plaster, and softening all of the mortar that held things together.
The raven squawked.
He was no longer in water. He was standing on the hill overlooking his property with the lighthouse. But everything was different. The ravines were less pronounced. The gullies were softer. There was a blinding light overhead. His lighthouse was gone – destroyed down to a the barest hint of stone foundation. Melaki saw people there, dressed in simple clothing – not elaborate like the Callacan fashion of his new home. These people wore whites or simple solid colors. Many were old and fat. Some of the younger ones held small, black squares in their hands and alternately tapped on them or held them up as if looking through them. They paid little attention to their leader.
The man who led them was simply dressed as well, almost like a servant. But he led them. His words hurt Melaki's ears... No, they hurt his mind. But then he was given understanding.
“These stones here outline the walls of an ancient Callaecian granary--”
That was where my lighthouse was. That was no granary. He recognized the cliff. He recognized the odd-shaped rock just up from where his entry had been. He glared up at the amazing light, brilliant in the sky. It hurt to look at it. So the ancient fables of a burning ball of fire in the sky were true?
The man led his group of people inland several paces and pointed to a large rectangular foundation. “This is the foundation of a large temple--”
That was my stable, you fool! He felt despair. He was gone? His lighthouse gone? Drowned under water in unthinkable proportions?
The raven squawked.
A rage built in him that vibrated from the inside. His limbs quivered until he thought he would explode. A growl grew in his throat until he was shouting in his dream – his vision. The vision shattered.
Sputtering water from his mouth, he rolled out of bed just as the sword came hacking down onto his pillow.
The raven squawked some more.
Wonderful. There is more of them. Melaki patterned a fast magic shield and slammed it into the side of the man, shoving him to the side – toward the window through which he had crawled.
Shaking his head, the assassin hefted his sword and charged.
He got no further than raising his foot.
Melaki patterned another shield and slammed it forward, knocking the killer back and out through the window.
A dwindling scream told the wizard that the assassin was on his way back down from whence he had come, but faster this time. There was a sharp grunt, distant, from the man, then all was silent.
The raven squawked.
“I know Rishtu. Thank you.”
The bird was up on top of the lighthouse, keeping its watch at night as it would do. Melaki had called the bird to him and eventually released him, but not before laying some heavy patterning in the mind of the large and intelligent black bird. Rishtu would guard him, watching, calling out at approaching danger.
He felt worry from the bird.
“I am coming. Have no fear.”
The night was dark, offering little illumination. Melaki kept witchlight going, as it was called in the Kingdom of Callaca.
Many towns nearby kept torches going, soaked in pitch, lit all night long. Sometimes the wizard considered the night to be the most beautiful time of the day with its constant spread of firelight near and far.
He leaned over the sill of the window. Down below, perhaps halfway up the tower was another assassin, dagger in his teeth.
Melaki shook his head. “Turn around and crawl back down.”
The assassin growled.
He leaned on his elbows, hands clasped out as he leaned over. He watched the would-be killer climb. “You cannot win, you know.”
Another growl.
“Your effort is useless. Why not go back to Tarep and tell his scheming kingship that yet another assassination attempt is a failure?”
The assassin growled again, climbing higher.
Melaki shook his head again, almost feeling sorry for the Altanlean assassin. “You can tell him he has nothing to fear from me.” But he knew Emperor Tarep had probably sent him directly to the lich Mokura to be turned and used at his whim. The king of the Altanlean Empire would be tireless in exacting revenge for a failed plan.
The assassin kept climbing.
“Would you so readily throw away your life?”
Taking the knife from his mouth, the hired killer sneered. “You are a dead man and I am the instrument of that message.”
Melaki chuckled.
Rishtu the raven flapped past in the darkness.
“Can you climb any faster? I was in the middle of an entertaining dream.”
From below a voice drifted up. “My lord, do you want me to arrow him?”
The voice was his servant, a calm little bald man oiled in the way of Callacans. His attire was always of the most brilliant blues.
Sometimes brilliant enough for a headache. “No, Galli, I think I have it under control here.” He looked down at the climbing assassin.
“Are you sure my lord?” Galli was faithful and steadfast.
“If you think you really need the practice...” The wizard smiled. Galli did not like being questi
oned on his abilities. He would sulk.
A cough drifted up from below.
Melaki groaned; Galli had taken insult. He would have to apologize to Galli in the morning. Leaning over, he looked into the assassin's eyes from just a pace away. “Come on up, then.” He pulled back and stood a pace from the window.
The assassin finally crawled up and grasped the window ledge. He was chuckling, low. “Surrender now and I might kill you fast. Painless.”
“Should I be frightened?” Melaki patterned a force shield and pushed.
The killer went flying out from the tower.
Taking two paces forward to the window, the wizard patterned another form of force. “I warned you.”
Just beginning to fall in mid-air, the assassin's head exploded in a shower of bone and blood.
He heard a grunt of disgust, faint, below. He raised his voice. “Let Rishtu feed on them. Clean up the remains of the two in the morning.”
He heard nothing but the door of the lighthouse slam shut and the bar drop into place.
* * *
Lagash swiped the head from the messenger with a flick of his sword. “I care not that the Atlanteans show vigor in battle.”
In the dark of the throne room, his underlings cowered. He paced back and forth amongst the marble columns in the palace at Galvir.
He thundered. “I. Care. Not.”
Silence was all about him. Only the sound of spurting blood from the headless corpse answered him.
He kicked the twitching corpse, desiring silence. Desiring sole attention. Desiring worship. “I. Shall. Be.” He swept his arms out.
Aggravation wormed its way through his flesh. Such was the curse for taking on flesh. He followed the forms of his master, Lucifer, declaring his will to be more than he was. Declaring his will to become more than he was and by thus declaration accomplishing such.
Puny man had no idea of the power behind words. Puny man had no idea that speech could be so powerful. Puny man was destined to fail, trod under the feet of the gates of Hell. Some men were even so stupid as to begin thinking gates of Hell meant doors. They cared not for the term's original usage meaning ranks of soldiers.
Such was just one in many of the insult in dismissing the gods of Satan's world. Lucifer had won the world outright from Adam. Satan's lieutenants administered the suffering of the world, over every town and kingdom. Over every region and continent.
The gates of Hell would prevail. In the end, they would win. Lucifer had declared it: “I will be like the Most High.”
The Most High could not be defeated. But His agent could. His fleshly form was just flesh and would some day come to attempt to retake the world from misery, depression, sickness, murder, and hate.
On this world, though, Lucifer had made his claim and won ownership. Defeating the avatar of God was a formality.
By all the hells, I will prevail. Lagash paced. The peoples of Atlantis pushed, having established a colony to the north in the mountains that divided lands. The Euskaldan, they called themselves. At least, that was the newest term they called themselves.
Man was forever changing what he called himself. As if each new term empowered him to be more than what he was.
Pathetic. Pretentious. Arrogant. They learn nothing from the giants.
Lagash considered changing form to put extra fear into his subjects, but decided not to. Too much fear and he would need to begin doing things for himself.
One of his human worshipers had constructed a cunning table laid out with images and renditions of the land as if taken from high in the air. Various pieces represented his forces and those of the kingdoms around him. To the north, he could count on the Asturjan Tribes ignoring him and instead forging west again in their annual and futile attempt at taking the Kingdom of Callacan from the northeastern edge of the peninsula.
To his direct west, the main part of the Kingdom of Callacan resisted. To the south west, the Kingdom of Callacan ended on the borders of the Tartessan Empire which was constantly at war with a neighbor on Lagash's southern border, the Tordetani Empire.
Lagash led the Vattonses in a struggle to bring the entire Iberian Peninsula under his control. He was well-situated in the middle of all of them. He could strike wherever he wanted.
While allowing the Asturjani and Callacans to fight and weaken themselves, and likewise the Tartessans and Tordetani, he focused instead on countering and destroying the threat of the Atlantean colonists to his direct north. Despite his efforts, and despite the Euskaldani also facing pushes from the Jubalites farther beyond, they were holding firm.
“I will not be defeated by those who should be my servants. Most especially not Atlanteans.” They should have been his footsoldiers, steeped in wickedness and evil. Such was the petty struggles that the lieutenants often fought, using man, for their own amusement. He had tried to coordinate with Goroth, the demon ruling over Atlantis. But his efforts had met jealousy, suspicion, greed, and futility. Goroth had a firm control over the Atlantean king Tarep, even tainting the man with necromancy.
Goroth had sneered that Lagash led in the physical, instead of behind the curtains of flesh and spirit.
Which is probably why Goroth fights me. He sees me as weak. Lagash allowed some of his true form to show. “I want all men conscripted to fight. All. Even the slaves.”
His subjects shrank back from the reptilian eyes and the horns on his head. They shrank back further from the red glow in his eyes.
“The Euskaldani Atlanteans will not defeat me nor shall they hinder my conquest.”
* * *
Eliam hefted his few belongings and left the barracks of the Callacan Royal Soldiers.
I never expected this day to come. I thought I would die in battle. He had come close, many times, fighting the Asturjani for one hundred years.
Two soldiers at the wall waved to him, familiar and friendly.
He had seen many like them die. No other soldier had ever reached his age. He had joined the royal army when he was two hundred and four. At three hundred and five, he was prematurely whitehaired. Too many battles. Too many close scrapes against the scythe of death.
“That blue goes good with that white in your beard, Eliam.” One of the soldiers grinned.
He had been allowed to keep his subcommander leathers. He wore the common brilliant blue billowing shirt of a citizen now under his black leathers. It showed at the sleeves where it puffed out at his shoulder down to where it tucked into his black bracers. He grunted up at the soldier. “May the gods bless you with children before you get too old.”
The two soldiers laughed. His words were a common insult, often used in a friendly way.
The soldier leaned down, looking at him as he passed under the gateway. “And how many do you have?”
Eliam laughed. He had bedded many a woman in his youth. But he had never married. Career soldiers lived and died before their one hundred-year discharge.
Then he fell silent. A hundred years was supposed to have given him an estate. He had often dreamed during nights of battle that he would someday claim his estate and grow olives or breed rabbits. He was the only soldier in the history of the Kingdom of Callacan to attain the promise.
He had been denied.
It was a bitter medicine after so long fighting and bleeding for the kingdom. But funds were depleted, no land was available, and the promise was too old to keep. He had heard all number of excuses.
He left with little. His only consolation was the coin he carried. Being housed and fed by the kingdom, he had little on which to spend his monthly pay. He drank sometimes and that was his current plan.
He walked away, not looking back.
* * *
Adaris rolled the parchment and resecured it with the gold ribbon. “I am summoned,” he told his assistant.
Being summoned by the Tartessan emperor was not unusual for him. He served the spy service for the empire, answering only to the Spymaster Roldon. Two other spies shared his ranking with
in the service.
He walked out of the room where he spent most of his time poring over reports. The chamber was lined with parchment, books, and even old tablets. Information was victory.
The palace was functional, but elaborate in its simplicity. Black marble from distant lands made the floor, the walls and the columns. Gold sconces held torches and tapestries of the finest silk shimmered with the passage of people. The throne room was overwhelming to most people. The throne and all the stands and sconces were silver. It showed well against the black marble with its gray veins.
He did not see Oolan on the throne.
“There you are,” said the emperor. He had come up from behind and fell into step beside the spy. “Come with me.”
Adaris did as he was told, and followed Oolan into his private chamber.
The emperor turned and spoke low. “I have read your report and I am interested in pursuing something I wish kept secret.”
“Of course, my lord.” His report had been the weakening of the border between Tartessan and Vattonses.
“I desire you to emplace yourself in the Kingdom of Callacan.”
“They are supposed to be our friends. To what end?”
“Not to spy on them so much as to spy on the Vattonses from their area.”
“I see.”
“If the Vattonses are weakening their positions to the north as well as here, then I desire you to begin influencing the Callacans for a confrontation with Vattonses.”
Adaris nodded, thinking through the situation. The Tartessan Empire was constantly fending off the Tordetani to their east. No sense could be negotiated with them. This drew off much of their available forces. They also faced the Vattonses to the northeast in what amounted to a stalemate all the way around. Unable to concentrate enough forces, they could never win a battle.
They had made peace long ago with their neighbors, the Callacans, to the north. If Adaris could be successful in influencing the Callacans to push against Vattonses, then the Tartessans might be able to strike a winning blow against the Tordetani.
The Melaki Chronicle Volume II Page 1