The Melaki Chronicle Volume II

by William Thrash

  He had known it before. Known it for a long time. He knew his day would come. He knew the fear, the uncertainty and also the certainty that things would go wrong.

  Blood spattered his face.

  He was not sure it was not his. Roaring, angry, he whipped his blade even faster. Asturjani fell. It would have made a fitting end in a grand battle, one where bards would sing about his exploits for centuries to come.

  Seeing one last Asturjani in his sight, he screamed his dying rage at the man and charged. His sword rose and fell, hacking. Quivering, flooded with a berserk rage, he hacked the man to pieces at the foot of the tower stairs.

  “Eliam,” a hand gripped his shoulder.

  He spun instantly, sword swinging for a decapitating blow.

  A sharp crack against his wrist numbed his hand and he stopped his swing. It was Galli – he had used his bow to stop the swing.

  “Eliam, are you alright?” The bald man looked him over, seeing all the blood.

  He stood there, his sword high but stopped. His breathing was ragged and his vision swam in and out of focus. Berserker. Berserker? Me? After a hundred years?

  “Eliam, come out of it.” The man turned and strung an arrow. He shot over the shoulder of Melaki who was blocking the door.

  The so-called wizard was working his hands and arms, flinging them out, his robe whipping with the force of his movements. Asturjani went flying. Some exploded in sprays of blood.

  Eliam blinked. The wizard is real? He hefted his sword, feeling no injury. He moved past Galli and just behind Melaki. A small field of dead lay in front of the door. Body parts were everywhere.

  He felt it then. He had felt it many times – many hundreds of times. The slight waver. The slight hesitancy. He saw it in the Asturjani raiders.

  “Charge!” he yelled. He bulled past the wizard.

  “Eliam, no...” Melaki's voice.

  With a wordless yell of triumph he chased down two and cut them down as they fled. The others were getting away. And he did what he had done so many times before, victory flooding him, suffusing his skin, radiating from his soul – he howled in victory.

  Then he sank to his knees. It was gone. Very suddenly, all gone. The victory was gone. The vigor, gone. The triumph, gone. All that was left was a weariness that left him on his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks. He had seen it before, in others, the berserk rage but had never experienced it himself.

  Galli came up, stood beside him, and loosed an arrow. A cry from a distance told Eliam the wizard's assistant could have been a Callacan Royal Archer. “Are you alright? Eliam?”

  Melaki came and knelt by him, concern on his face.

  He scrubbed a hand across his sweaty face. “By the gods, I need a drink.”

  * * *

  Melaki helped Eliam to his feet. Of all the combats he had seen, in none had he seen what he had seen this evening. Neret and Tila had both been competent sword-wielders. Even the merchant Gram had been stunning with a greatsword. But Eliam had been a blur of skill and precision that had left Melaki so stunned he had almost failed to stop the outside rush of raiders. When the wizard thought the soldier could not possibly kill any faster, Eliam's speed of lethality had increased. Twice.

  Maybe I should take lessons.

  Galli heaved up, Eliam's arm around his shoulder. “We shall get you that drink, friend.”

  They escorted their suddenly weary friend inside.

  The tower was a wreck. Upstairs, things were broken, removed, or burned.

  “Galli, find him some drink.” Melaki suddenly felt sick.

  His assistant said nothing; he was looking at him with constrained sympathy.

  He ran up the stairs, two at a time. His upper floor was a shambles. Scrolls and parchments were half burned – what little was left. He searched frantically, calling forth a brilliant blue light. He scattered fragments, kicking over chairs and crates. His book of magic was gone. A year of notes, drawings, musings and discoveries, all gone. His carefully written parchments, pilfered.

  His howl of anger sent Rishtu cawing into the night air outside.

  * * *

  Melaki ate a few scrambled eggs the raiders had missed. “We can not stay here.”

  “This is our home.” Galli was perturbed.

  He looked the man in the eye. “Our home is no longer safe. Eliam?”

  The soldier grunted. “If the Asturjani are raiding this far, they will continue.”

  “Galli?” Melaki raised an eyebrow.

  “But--”

  “But you'll run off all the raiding parties?”

  “We can not just run.”

  He nodded. “I despise running from anything, but this is beyond our ability. Even if we could secure the tower, the raiders would roam all over the grounds. Your crop, the chickens, the animals--”

  “Yes, yes, I understand it. But we have built so much here.”

  “And lost it.” He was not happy about it. “We will rebuild elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  He leaned back from his empty plate. His vision echoed in his mind. Had it been a real vision as real as his others? It had been different. He had never had someone speak so directly to him from inside a vision. Anyone speaking to him had been invisible or unseen, just a voice somewhere. He had been told where to go. Dare he ignore it? Cilenn. “Cilenn.”

  “Cilenn?” Galli sounded outraged.

  Eliam looked blearily at them both. “At least Cilenn has never been attacked.”

  “But--”

  Melaki leaned forward. “I want you to hire a wagon or two for moving. Be quick about it. Eliam and I will scrape together anything left of value here.”

  Galli grumbled, but Melaki saw the wheels turning and grinding in the bald man's mind – then he gave a curt nod. “Very well, then. I will leave immediately.”

  “Good man. Cilenn will be safer for all of us.”

  Galli raised two eyebrows and looked down his nose. “And do you propose we grow potatoes in some tiny garden--”

  “I think we shall go into the records business.”

  His assistant rolled his eyes. “Records? I think you need to be brained up side the head with the empty jug Eliam drank. Or you needed it more than him.”

  Eliam squinted bloodshot eyes at them. “I will drink to that.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Adaris reviewed the reports. They were confirmation of what he already knew, thanks to the seemingly superior Callacan battlefield intelligence.

  Couriers would come and go. His own courier, his only one so far, had delivered a precious bundle of intelligence. He had eagerly broken the seal and unwrapped it, delving into the nuggets within.

  Later, he had become depressed. Everything in it he had already seen on that amazing map-table in the Callacan council chamber. He had read and reread, searching for anything he might grasp.

  His depression was not just over the impossibility of his task. No, in fact it was not impossible. Not impossible at all. He could indeed accomplish his task. His depression was over the details and method.

  His plan was simple. The problem was it was so devious that he was not sure the Kingdom of Callacan would not immediately declare war on the Tartessan Empire. That is, if the Callacans could spare any troops.

  He sifted two parchments out and looked over his assets in the region. The Tartessan information service had agents even here. Names and notes next to each filled the parchments. Useful people, directly paid agents, those willing to perform something in return for a favor.

  The meat of his plan was to change the reports sent in the next couple of weeks from the frontier. It was a very timely and risky business. He could use his agents to intercept those scouts, bribe, thieve, swap, change – whatever it took – so that the reports sent all claimed a lessening of activity on the border with the Asturjani.

  Such a move would put his life in danger and he would have to go into hiding as soon as he convinced Dosdaran to move against Vattonses.

>   A knock on his door.

  “Enter.”

  The tiny maid that picked up and delivered his laundry stood there, a neatly folded pile of his clothing and bedsheets in hand. “Your laundry, sir.”

  She was adorably pretty and frail almost to weakness.

  He smiled at her. She was very nice to him and so very sweet. “Come in, Elleri.”

  She smiled, lowered her eyes and blushed. Scooting past him, she entered his bedchamber and began putting his clothing away. Then she made up his bed.

  He covered over his report. A pit of acid in his stomach told him he was doing the wrong thing and he hated having to do it. Relations between the two countries would be destroyed. Would it be worth it? To see the Tartessans finally be able to deliver a solid blow to the Tordetani could promise a victory that sent the Tordetani to the peace table. But what if it didn't? What if the Callacan attack to relieve pressure from the Tartessan border only resulted in a temporary victory for Tartessan against the Tordetani? Then any further cooperation would be impossible. The Callacans would never again trust Tartessan.

  This was odd for Adaris. He normally expected Oolan to make prudent decisions. He saw no need for a gamble on this scale. Was the emperor sick?

  Elleri stood there, twisting her fingers nervously. “You look so sad...”

  He was startled and put his hands over his parchments, not sure what she might see.

  She jumped, agitated by his sudden move. She scrambled for the door, her face flushing red.

  “No, wait,” he said. “Please, I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “You must be awfully busy. My sorrow for interrupting--”

  “Nonsense. I was just...” He pursed his lips, frustrated at his task – wondering if there was a way out. However, he saw Elleri twice a day and enjoyed the glimpses he caught of her as she scurried about her own simpler tasks. “Would you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Me?” Her hand went to her throat as if to guard it, or clutch protectively.

  “Yes, I would be pleased to take dinner with you.”

  “Me?” Her pale skin turned even redder.

  “Tonight.”

  She appeared to be having trouble breathing but her eyes were aglow with hope. “Why-- I-- Yes.”

  He smiled, leaning forward. “Wonderful. I look forward to it.”

  * * *

  Melaki rode Tila over the last hill before Cilenn. His donkey followed him, pulling their cart and a hired wagon piled high with the salvage from their lighthouse.

  They had received half of their purchase price back for handing the lighthouse back to the city of Roka. It was the way of things. But money was not a concern to Melaki. His wealth had remained intact, buried where it was in the cellar. He could buy a town or two outright, he supposed.

  Cilenn was different from Roka. Whereas his previous home town had slender white towers tightly packed together, Cilenn had more spacious and spaced towers painted in green and white. The ave-nues were broad and uncramped. Everything about Roka had been cramped.

  Riding down toward the metal gates, he wondered how safe they would be here and to what purpose? Some evil was here? Or was it an abomination? He did not remember. A lich? The figure had not answered him.

  The guards looked them over and one moved to stop him. “Hail, he of Atlantis. Are you here on official business?”

  “I am no longer of Atlantis; I am of Callacan, coming from Roka.”

  The guard inclined his head and stepped back. “Good day to you, wizard.”

  Melaki rode ahead and was stopped by the exclamation of the guard.

  “By the gods, you have not drunk yourself to death?”

  Eliam laughed. “No, Seren, I have not. Though I tried.”

  “We wagered you would run off to the Asturjani border and fling yourself on their swords.”

  Eliam's chuckle was rueful. “Was I that obvious?”

  “So you tried then?” The guard sounded amused.

  “Sometimes that is all that is left for old soldiers.”

  “It is good to see you alive.”

  “You as well. May the gods go with you.”

  They moved ahead again.

  Galli said from behind him. “Where are we headed?”

  Melaki turned. “I do not know. I believe I was supposed to know when I saw it.”

  Galli looked perturbed. He liked things planned, orderly, expected.

  “Have no worries.” He turned back just as Rishtu flapped down and landed on his head. The big black bird cawed. He angled his eyes up and said, “My shoulder, Rishtu, my shoulder.” He reached up and offered his hand. The bird clawed onto it and he lowered the flapping bird to his shoulder.

  A man coughed, deep.

  Rishtu flapped suddenly, a wing hitting him in the face.

  The man coughed again, deep. Ailing.

  Melaki looked down to the side. The man stood on a corner, looking away and coughing into his hand. He started to hobble down the side street.

  Curious, Melaki turned Tila and slowly followed the man. He heard Galli grumbling behind him.

  The man stumbled along, looking this way and that, behind him to Melaki and ahead to a row of square-towered buildings.

  He followed the man, still.

  Finally the man turned. He coughed, flecks of blood on his fist. “What do you want of me?”

  Melaki tilted his head at the man. “You are ill.”

  “How observant of you. Did you train in magic to learn that or did you steal those robes?”

  “Be at ease. Why do you not get healing?”

  The man spat on the street. It was bloody. “I can not afford the price. My business has been closed.” He started looking around, as if looking for escape – a way out.

  A way out of your debts? Unable to open your business to provide money for healing? Getting worse? He leaned over, towards the man. “Where is your business?”

  The man pointed to one of the tower buildings. “There. But not for long, I suppose.”

  One of the three towers had a sign depicting a parchment, a quill, and a seal.

  Melaki swallowed. “Are you a records-writer?”

  “I am. Did you use magic on me to figure that?”

  Melaki waited for a coughing fit to subside. “No.”

  The man crossed the cobblestone street and approached the door. Producing a large key, he inserted it into the steel lock. The lock was showing signs of rust – not good for a merchant. The man must have been ill for some time. A sign on the door indicated the business was closed due to illness.

  Melaki dismounted from Tila.

  The man looked back at him. “I am not open.”

  “I do not need your services.”

  “I have nothing. What do you want?”

  “What caused your illness?”

  “I do not know. Maybe my time in the mines as a youth. And this humid air does me no good.”

  They stood on the street, the white tower tall before them. The cart and wagon were stopped. A few people wandered along the street, heading with a lazy purpose to wherever they had to go.

  Melaki knew he did not have long before a guard came along. Wagons were not supposed to stop on the streets. “I would heal you.”

  “I have no pay.” The man said it as a final rejection. He turned and pushed open his door. “Would that I did.”

  He turned. “Galli, would you lead the cart and wagon to a drover for now? You know where I will be.” He pointed at the sign.

  Galli grunted and nodded.

  Melaki took Rishtu off his shoulder and pointed to the sign. The bird flapped up and rested there, its head swiveling, watching.

  He pushed into the business after the man.

  “I said I was not open.”

  “What would you do if you were healed?”

  The man's bushy brows lowered. “Dance a happy jig.”

  “Would you reopen your business?”

  “I would have to; it is my only inc
ome.”

  “Would you sell it?”

  The man entered an enormous coughing fit. He finally spit out, “Who would buy it? My location is not a good one.”

  “I would.”

  “You?” The man stared at him for a long time, his body twitching as he resisted more coughing. Then he said, his voice soft, “I would go south, away from this damned humidity. Tartessan. I have a sister there.”

  “Allow me to heal you and purchase your business.”

  “It will cost me nothing? I have no money.”

  “Only that you sell me your business.”

  “And if you can not heal me?”

  Melaki grinned. “I can. I am not very good at healing, but your condition is healable. If I fail, you keep your business and owe me nothing.”

  “By the gods, you are a fool to want this, but I have nothing to look forward to but death. Do your best, wizard.”

  Melaki directed the man to sit.

  The man shook his head. “Sitting compresses and hurts my lungs--”

  “Sit.” He pointed.

  The man sank down into a chair, his eyes squinting painfully.

  Melaki delved. Delving health was simple. What he saw shocked him. Both lungs, rotted, almost gone. He stepped back, shaking his head. “How do you yet live?”

  “Are you not able to...” But the man could not finish, he was panting in pain.

  He reached forward suddenly and gripped the man's shoulders. He formed a cleansing pattern in his mind and went to work. He would need to cleanse the lungs and then repair them before they bled full from the cleansing. Tricky. He wondered if he could block the cleaned areas with force? Stop the blood from filling the lungs? “I am going to try something. I must clean your lungs. It will hurt.”

  A barely contained cough.

  He began cleaning and formed a shield of magic, pressing against the cleaned area. He wondered if it would be more efficient to clean and then shield and then heal, a portion at a time? He had two lungs – he would try healing two different ways.

  He drew a deep breath, conditioning himself to recede in his mind, letting it work without his intense concentration. It was his most efficient form of magic. He began cleaning, followed immediately by a shield.