Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  “Enough!” bellowed a voice, Ushatr ended the bout. “It is plain you are the better fist-fighter. ‘Tweren’t real though and I have a feelin’ that Nuvian would have bettered you in a real situation. You ain’t got the killer instinct, Melv!” Melv? Nobody called him Melv. Ushatr walked over and clapped him on the back. The Bear put no effort into it but Melvekior had to put one foot forward to prevent falling. The man’s strength was ridiculous.

  Nuvian was on his feet and he approached too, hand held out in congratulations and Melvekior was astonished to see no enmity present in the smile he gave. “Guess ye’re not as green as the noble sons I knew.” He had the beginnings of a terrific black eye which Melvekior tried to ignore.

  “Aye, he’s not, but he will need help from the likes of you, Nuvian. He’s no killer and he’ll need to be. Let’s not make him a murderer though, we got enough o’ them here. Listen!” the giant man raised his already loud voice, “I declare Melvekior one of us. His father’s paid a lot of money to give him the chance to prove himself and he’s done that right here.” He clenched his enormous fist in front of his face and gritted his teeth furiously.

  A wordless shout of approval sounded in the palisade. It was almost bestial in nature and for a brief moment Melvekior felt a savage burst of glee and fury. That soon passed and he found himself being pounded on the back, punched on the upper arm and his hair ruffled most ungently. The congratulations of four score warrior monks was more painful than the actual combat.

  Once all the shouting and light violence had taken its course he was led again to the mess hall for the second trial. The Trial of Ale.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  God and the Hammer

  “He is my strength and my shield. He unburdens me of fear and makes of it a mighty weapon.” - The Maru

  Kenatt was the religious teacher. He called himself a Disciple, which sounded lofty in comparison to the rest of the other monks, but that’s where it ended. He was as crude and base as the rest.

  He interrupted Melvekior’s hangover the morning after the Trials, coming into the common dormitory with a large jug of water and a ghastly concoction made from stewed peppermint leaves. He nearly gagged while drinking it but it did seem to soothe his wayward stomach.

  The common room was for all low ranking brothers. Although there was little in the way of hierarchy here, there needed to be some perk to rising through the ranks and a room of one’s own was a tremendous perk. One he wouldn’t be here long enough to experience. He just needed to reach the rank of Adherent to achieve his goal. Once fully ensconced in the order he could travel to Amaranth to the High Church of Mithras. There his ultimate goal lay.

  Melvekior believed fervently in Mithras but didn’t understand His ways. Why would he take his mother? Was it to test him? To make him angry? What sort of plan could involve something so cruel? It wasn’t common to blame the Sun God for such things, but nearly every time Melvekior had asked his father about his mother, Mikael would tell him “Mithras took her, damn his soul,” and then say no more. Up until then his only real spiritual guidance had come from Aeldryn whose people had an odd relationship with the Gods. Legend said, and Aeldryn didn’t deny or confirm, that the Var, an ancient race of highly advanced, enlightened beings were the literal offspring of the Gods whose role it was to guide mankind and the other intelligent races to some unknowable purpose. His tutor many times voiced the opinion that the Gods only gave guidance as a narcissistic plea for attention.

  The Var chose the first race created by the Gods to assist them in categorizing and recording all other forms of life on Torgetiea and named them, in their vanity, the Aelvar, the children of the Var. This angered the Gods until this along with many other transgressions caused the Divines to rise up and strike down the Var, destroying them to the last man, woman and child. Their civilization and culture completely destroyed, the Aelvar also fell to internal strivings and fought amongst themselves. Two factions, the ones who wanted to dedicate their lives to the Gods and those who wanted nothing to do with them, came into being. The latter, who became known as the Talvar, left Aelvarim, their ancient homeland and made their way to the lands that now comprise the Three Kingdoms. The Aelvar who remained, made a terrific sacrifice to the Gods. All of their scientific knowledge and cultural advances, they discarded to devote themselves to the Gods, leaving themselves almost helpless. Many of the Gods still wanted nothing to do with them and spurned them, but a few, in secret, lavished favors upon their still loyal children. The Aelvar in time became less a people of reason and learning and more shamans and sages wise in the ways of nature. Rumors of their magical abilities abounded even in Melvekior’s time and again Aeldryn wouldn’t admit or deny, though Melvekior was certain he had seen him perform impossible tasks during the years they had spent together.

  Mithras was one of the Gods who, if not openly hostile to the Aelvar, did not choose to support them, instead drawing the worship of the more warlike and fecund race of Man who seemed to the Var to have developed from the Earth itself without the aid of any supernatural agency. On the face of it Mikael was devout but secretly, beknownst to Melvekior, he wasn’t interested in seeking help from anyone but himself and the men he commanded. He supported the Church as reasonably as one might to further his own influence and keep it onside, but had no time for the priesthood.

  Much the same, it had to be said, as the Brotherhood of the Hammer.

  Never would Melvekior meet a man so immersed in the lore of the Church than Kenatt. He could recite all of Mithras’s teachings by heart and was able to explain in never-ending depth all of the meanings behind them along with numerous interpretations. He still possessed his grip on humanity, unlike many other Mithraic scholars who became detached from the throng of humanity, fancying themselves spiritually advanced, dropping out of society all together. Maybe this is why Melvekior expected something so different from the Brotherhood. An elite group of highly disciplined religious fanatics instead of this motley group of hulking warriors. Nuvian it turned out was the newest recruit, and job of challenging the applicants traditionally falling to the most recent initiate. While he was indeed an ex-slave from the Malannite Empire far to the North, he held no special enmity towards Melvekior and his like. That was itself a test of his mettle.

  Kenatt kept a strict and punishing routine and for six weeks, Melvekior was expected to endure the same routine. Up at dawn for morning orisons. To be repeated at midday, sunset and midnight. It wasn’t as though sleep was a luxury, he was expected to get eight hours a night. It wouldn’t do for him to be so tired he’d forgot what he’d learned the previous day. Prayers at each station of the Sun took a quarter of an hour and were designed to attune his spirit with Mithras and though after a couple of days of this he did feel pure and holy, he wasn’t convinced that he was any more attuned with the Sun God than before.

  The time in between sleeping and praying was dedicated to study. The holy books of Mithras were of two types. The original scriptures, the Maru, from an unknown time in mankind’s past had been passed down through families of the faithful. Never altered, never changed, the Church had decreed these short books the word of the God. Then there was the New Way, the dictates of Mithras through Hestallr, his vicar. While they didn’t contradict the original scriptures, they were totally different in tone and approach. Modern in fact. And they called for war.

  Six weeks was judged enough time to learn what the books had to say. Most of it was concerned with striving for a kind of pure life, living for Mithras and folk and family and abstaining from impure actions, namely lying, cheating, murder and preying on the weak. That is of course, unless your victims were non-believers. All bets were then off.

  It all made perfect sense and was the sort of thing you would come to of your own accord if you took the time to think about it. He didn’t need a book or a priest to tell him to protect his family against enemies, it was common sense. Nevertheless he did what was necessary and the six weeks flew past. When ev
entually he did return home, he’d be able to impress Aeldryn with his level of knowledge, if indeed he was still there. Probably unlikely.

  On the final day, which he was shocked to discover had come so quickly, Kenatt woke him halfway between the morning and midday prayers and told him that he was to report to Ushatr in the orchard before the midpoint hour of the Sun.

  “Your training with me is over, Melvekior. I’ve enjoyed our time together. I’ll always be here of course should you need guidance.”

  “Thank you brother,” they clasped hands. “I have one further question. May I ask as I ready myself ?”

  “Please do.” Kenatt loved feeling necessary and when relied on for information he was at the peak of his personal happiness. He sat down on Melvekior’s cot while the younger man began to dress in his now comfortable and reliable peasant’s garb.

  “I, uh, this might sound odd, but I have been curious for a while now.” He knew he should tell the whole truth, but something stopped him. “What does Mithras teach us about Death?”

  “You know this, Melvekior. The righteous will rise up and live forever in the Lands of Eternal Summer. Those who reject Mithras are doomed to return and suffer once more through another life in this world of iniquity.”

  “That I know, certainly. Can a person be brought back from the dead?”

  “Not through any human agency. Nor should it be attempted. Necrolatry is a most grievous sin.”

  “So, it can be done? People do it?” He’d never heard of such a thing.

  “There are rumored to be groups of grave-robbing Necromancers. Evil, wretched fiends, causing the dead to walk. They are without souls, mindless automatons, not true resurrection but a corrupted travesty thereof. What is the purpose of these questions, Melvekior? You will be late for Ushatr.”

  “No purpose, mere curiosity. Thank you, Kenatt, I will always remember your kindness.” He shook hands with him once more, it was a warmer clasp this time.

  Kenatt smiled widely. “Go, go!”

  He went.

  Situated in the orchard, in a clearing, was a shack. It barely stood and looked as though a stiff wind would blow it away. There were no windows, but there were openings. The door didn’t shut properly and there were no floorboards, merely the earth. It was Ushatr’s second favorite place. His orchard and his hut. None came here without his leave and anyone who did would regret it.

  He sat outside of the hut enjoying the late morning sunshine. He had no chairs, preferring at that moment to perch on the edge of the wood pile. He held in his hands a staff. Four feet long and made of Marithian hardwood. He’d brained many an unbeliever with this staff and secretly preferred it to the hammer, but it wouldn’t do for anyone to know that. He was polishing it with a rag and an infusion of flax seed. It didn’t smell great, but it protected the wood and gave it a pleasant shine.

  “Do you feel wiser now, boy?” he asked without looking up. Melvekior had walked up and not announced himself, waiting for the big man to finish what he was doing. Even spoiled noblemen respected Ushatr. If they liked their bones intact.

  “I do. It was an enlightening experience, master.”

  “Not as much so as spending a dozen years in the company of that Elf your father employs, I’ll wager. Nor will spending the next six weeks training here benefit you as much as a single week spent with that possessed barbarian.”

  Melvekior didn’t answer. He was worried about what was to come.

  “What do you really want here, Martelle?” He stood, staff held carefully, almost reverently. “Rememberin’ how I feel about falsehood. Ye’re not devout, ye need no sanctuary and only combat will hone yer skills further.”

  Explanations and excuses ran through Melvekior’s head but he saw the look in Ushatr’s eye. The look he always had, the look that said ‘I’m going to let you dig your own grave.’

  “You’re not totally correct, I do need sanctuary. Not from pursuit or a vengeful woman, but from the tedium of no purpose. I yearn to experience and not just learn. I came here a callow youth and stand before you a slightly less callow youth. Six more weeks will drive me six weeks closer to adulthood.” He paused here and felt his throat close. He knew Ushatr not well, but not since he was younger and under the influence of his father did he feel such an imposing presence pushing him to do the right thing. He wasn’t clear in himself if he liked this giant man, but felt almost compelled to be utterly honest with him. There was always the consideration of not being laid low by him. The Silver Bear had a reputation for violence that Melvekior had yet to witness but believed. Now he was within striking range he could almost feel the hardly restrained belligerence and intolerance. He was the perfect man to lead a squad of heresy crushing warriors.

  “Are ye finished?” It was almost a growl. Melvekior got the sense of cornered wolf giving a warning growl the instant before it leapt for your throat.

  “No,” he replied quickly, “merely formulating my response. I, nobody knows this, so I struggle to vocalize my thoughts. My mother died in circumstances I believe would be suspicious but none will tell me of them. I do believe, and the Elf you refer to taught me to question assumptions, but I have no choice but to make them, and the conclusions I have come to is one I barely even dare to believe.”

  The death-stare was gone and an inquisitive look remained. The Bear leaned back and lay his staff over his knees. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “There is, was, a village near my ancestral seat, called Summershade,” Ushatr raised his eyebrows at this, “now, I’ve been told, in ruins. Destroyed by some calamity or invasion, leaving behind a curse. The dead rise, Ushatr, and seek death upon the living. Such a being visited me years ago, when I could not defend myself, but it did not kill me. Instead, I believe, and I recoil from the very thought that it sought, in its mindless way, to embrace me. And I have often thought back to that night trying to remember what it said. It said, Mithras keep us all, ‘mem-mem’, a pet name I am sure I remember my mother calling to me. I swear it Ushatr, but my tutor and my father denied that anything but a deranged old lunatic attacked me, so I have nobody to tell and it drives me mad.”

  “Now, son, you have me to tell,” the old man reached out with one of his giant hands and lay it upon the shoulders of the vulnerable young man. Melvekior looked into his eyes and there was compassion there and concern and something else, an understanding. How could he even tell what was in a man’s heart by looking into his eyes, wishful thinking. Before he could think, the old man drew him into a bear hug and for the first time since his bedchamber was invaded, he felt safe. Ushatr believed him and the Dead held no power here.

  He pulled back and smoothed his hair back from his face, some of it damp from tears and sweat. “That’s not even the extent of my worries, Lord,” he tried to keep his voice calm, but a little it wavered, but he needed to get this out. “I am convinced my mother lay in her grave close to Summershade and reached out to me through that…”

  “Draugr, boy, that is what we call them and I have encountered them in the past. But not for many years. There is some pattern to their appearances, but it would take a more canny man than to figure it.” He stood and paced a little while Melvekior continued.

  “I came here for a multitude of reasons, Ushatr. I do desire to become a Brother of the Hammer, but also I need the knowledge the Church holds. I surmised that my best bet of entering the Martyr’s Library in Amaranth was to become an acolyte in the Order.”

  “What then?” he murmured.

  “Well, then I’ll know more and can plan from there.”

  The older man gripped the staff with both hands before him, almost as though he intended to snap it over his knee. “Your plan is flawed, Melvekior. Your intention just. Stay with us for the remainder of your training and serve with us for a time equal to your training and I will offer you the benefit of our records and memories. Summershade is not unknown to me and not far from this Order house.” Melvekior didn’t at the time put any relevance on thos
e last words, but would come to understand that Ushatr was dangling a carrot before him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Brothers of the Hammer

  “The Heilig was more a symbol to me than a weapon. It signified that I wasn’t alone in my struggle and there were people who would risk their lives that mine might be saved.” - Melvekior Martelle, Brother of the Hammer.

  His Order hammer was the heaviest weapon he’d ever lifted. So much so that he struggled to wield it at his first attempt. “How am I to defend myself with this? I’ll be skewered the moment the fight begins,” he complained.

  They all stood, the newest initiates in the center of the stockade waiting for Hartlo, master of weapons. Melvekior fancied this a name to refer to his job as teacher and trainer, not as someone who had mastered the use of all weapons. He’d trained for years under the greatest fighter of an entire race, possessed by the ancient spirit of war. Even his father, the King’s foremost warrior, would hesitate to cross swords with her. He simply could not imagine anyone coming close to her levels of puissance.

  When he saw Hartlo, even his meager expectations were lowered. The man was a barrel. Many of the Brothers of the Hammer were portly, but this man was enormous. He walked ramrod straight as though he might fall over were he to lean in any direction, though to say he walked was incorrect, it was more of a waddle. Had he not sworn to Ushatr that he would put his entire effort into meeting his obligations to his fellow monks, the sight of Hartlo would have sent him into fits of laughter and a voluntarily early exit from the seminary.

  As the trainer drew close, he noticed that his hammer was strapped to his back and he unkindly wondered if he could reach it in a hurry with his stubby arms.