Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  “I do not and I’ve heard enough. Your actions will destroy the world, Prince Sunar. For that I should slay you here and now and be done with it, but I, for one, intend to keep to the oaths I made all those years ago. I will help you locate your Neral and let us hope it has not been used. I will return here two days hence with either the location of your amulet or the amulet itself.”

  He was suddenly not there.

  The King of Mighty Uth stood and smoothed his robes down. “Brother, pray this is resolved soon. I have a Summer Festival to attend. I will make apologies for your absence while you search ceaselessly for that with which you have been so careless.” He strode imperiously through the portal back to whence he came.

  The Prince reached for the bottle that stood on the table and didn’t bother with a glass.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Festival

  “The very thought of being in close proximity to that many people turns my stomach.” - Ottkatla

  The Festival of High Summer was the second biggest event of the year. Marginally less popular than Discovery Day, the anniversary of the first time that Volcanium was mined in the Amaranth Mines. The vast wealth that some possessed in Amaranth was so dependent on the porous, semi-magical ore, that for one entire day, the whole city downed tools and celebrated their good fortune.

  The same could be said for Summerfest, as it was affectionately known, except that it had become so lucrative to work during the festival that many people didn’t see it as a day of rest at all, rather a chance to make money.

  The Langham Farm, just outside of South Gate, had been usurped in recent years as an extension of the original site of the fest, Warm Green, and renamed to match. Kenro Langham wasn’t overjoyed by the subtly worded demand from Burgomaster Garrick, but when he realized how much money he was going to make from it, he acceded happily. After all, money made Amaranth go round.

  Six fields as well as the original site were, for this day alone, populated by stalls by the dozen. Mainly traders from the city who made three month’s profit in one day, but also merchants from far and wide, as far as Lagutia, and as wide as the Free Mountain states. There was a lot of money changing hands on the day in question and days either side. And not just via legal trade. Pickpocketing was rife, as was mugging, overcharging, shortchanging and fakery. Let the buyer beware was the constabulary’s response to anything but the most violent exchange of funds.

  Competition and games were in high demand and made up another great chunk of the injuries reported during Summerfest. Jousting, archery, wrestling and contests of bare strength drew the high born and base alike. Other forms of entertainment, most safer, also had their places. There were fortune tellers, tattoo artists, whores, musicians, storytellers, puppeteers and an endless supply of talentless oiks trying to make a name for themselves as well as some easy coin. In fairness, any idiot could set up a stall selling punches to the stomach for a cobbit a go and turn a profit. On this day people were free and easy with their money and all was good.

  Always a popular attraction was the King. Good King Calra Alpre XVII was in attendance every year, as were his predecessors. For three hours on the traditional site of Warm Green, he sat in open court, listening to any and all petitions, requests and complaints. Widely regarded as a wise and just ruler, he had no real power in Amaranth itself, but all agreed to abide by his rulings who sought his favor on this day.

  So it was on this Summerfest, the three hundredth and fifty-third such occasion.

  Warm Green was a rather plain field just outside South Gate and was normally a play area for children. The grass was thick and lush and it was a true sun-trap, hence its rather prosaic name.

  King Alpre’s throne sat atop wooden decking, placing him a dozen feet above the supplicants and a rope barrier manned by guards did a reasonable job in keeping the crowd back. His two Denier guards discouraged any direct approaches so there was never any issue with people pushing to the front or using it as an opportunity to attempt harm to the King of Uth.

  It was balmy day, the sky deep blue and lacking in clouds. The stall that sold the ointment for burned skin would be over-run, mulled King Alpre, already bored.

  He’d been hearing petitions for only a quarter of an hour and had lost the will to live. Then again, he brightened, I could be Sunar right now. He laughed a malicious laugh, drawing a look of panic from the irksome little twit on the top step of the wooden stairs that led up to the platform where his replica throne was situated.

  “Oh, do go on, good man,” he recovered, smiling falsely.

  At least last year there were plenty of fights, he thought, I hope it picks up a little. And that’s when he saw the fellow in the armor.

  Melvekior, Accus and Mikael-Janesca had arrived at the festival location at first light. Accus had complained about the early hour but still agreed to attend because “Watching you negotiate with the King should be worth a laugh.” The knight snorted at the Necromancer’s lack of faith, he was a master of diplomacy and was trained in courtly etiquette. Nothing could go wrong. It was a sunny day, with blue skies and no shelter anywhere from the sun in this field, he realized and so caught up with planning that he didn’t notice his father walk off.

  “This area here,” began Accus, “is where the King will hold court. People line up for hours to get his attention, so get ready for a long wait.” Without his black and red robes, and facial make-up, he looked just like anyone else. Necromancy wasn’t popular and nobody would admit practicing the black arts for fear of attack or shunning. He was dressed in typical peasant gear, white shirt and brown pants, with leather shoes and a straw hat. He couldn’t look less like a death-dealing, corpse fiddler if he tried, mused Melvekior.

  “Well, I’ll pay someone to stand in line for me,” was the response from the irritated knight, starting to get hot already. He began to look around for a likely peasant.

  “Don’t be foolish, man,” Accus snapped, “Anyone you pay will just take your money and run off to spend it on cheap ale. Just wait here yourself, stop being so spoiled.”

  Melvekior knew that the man was right but before he could argue that he was wrong, Mikael returned with some sort of charred meat, tearing into it like he’d never eaten. Melvekior looked at his father. The father that had died months ago, but was now inhabiting the body of a nineteen year old woman. He still found it difficult to reconcile those facts and while he could see that this person had the same habits as his father, and definitely the same speech patterns and predilection for foul language, the body was one he’d previously found rather attractive. Previously. No longer.

  She, he, wore a simple brown dress, courtesy of the Necromancers of Ain-Ordra. Melvekior nearly asked where the dress came from, but then thought better of it.

  He now kept the amulet that had started all this trouble. The amulet that belonged to the Prince of Maresh-Kar. The one Mikael stole. Of course it wasn’t just a normal amulet; it stored Mikael’s soul at the moment of death and then transferred to the first available body. The one it lived in now.

  Fearing royal retribution, Melvekior decided to come clean to the King and this was the quickest way to get an audience, so here he was. Standing in line like a commoner, waiting to see his own King. “We’ve been here two hours,” said Melvekior after twenty minutes, “and we’re no further forward.” Mikael and Accus had taken to sitting on the ground and had purchased ale from an entrepreneurial vendor who tempted hot and bored hopefuls with over-priced and watered-down beer.

  “It looks as though you’ve got his attention though,” said Accus motioning towards the throne with his head.

  He was right. Although there were still half a dozen people in front of them, the King’s attention was firmly on Melvekior.

  “He doubtlessly recognizes my crest, but I’m sure he cannot play favorites to other nobles.” Melvekior now stood even more upright in his shining armor, his cloak displaying the Sun of Mithra on a sea of azure, as visible as he could make it.


  The remaining time went by in a flash now that he had the King’s attention. He couldn’t be seen to look bored.

  “Next!” shouted a short bald fellow in odd pants that were too short for him. He stood next to the King and looked on disapprovingly.

  Melvekior stepped forward, and climbed the steps to the platform on which the King sat. The king was a handsome man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes and he regarded Melvekior intently. One either side of the King was a man, a man out of legend. A Denier of Kurhu. They wore nothing but loose knee-length trews and a pair of brown leather slippers. For whatever reason they did this, it gave them an opportunity to display their toned musculature, adding more weight to their invincible warrior reputation.

  Accus and Mikael scurried up after him and waited behind when he approached the throne.

  “Your Majesty,” intoned Melvekior with a precise bow. Low and from the waist. The exact bow that one should use in this situation.

  “Hello, Sir Martelle. Accept my condolences on the loss of your father. He was a decent fellow and will be surely missed.”

  “I am most flattered that you recognized my humble crest, sire. In fact it concerns my father that I am here.”

  “Oh yes? Do tell…”

  Melvekior became distracted right then. Right at the second that he noticed the King was wearing the twin to the medallion that Mikael had stolen from Sunar. He was suddenly glad that he no longer wore it.

  “Everything all right, Sir Martelle?” grinned the King, obviously enjoying the noble’s discomfort. Most of the supplicants were from the lower classes and lacked manners. He was secretly indifferent to their petty struggles, having heard it all before a thousand times.

  “Err, yes, Your Majesty. I…uh, I’ll be honest,” he lowered his head and his voice, “it concerns your amulet and Prince Sunar.” He looked up at the King, hoping for some hint of recognition in his eyes, maybe an invitation to talk in private, but there was nothing. In fact, quite the opposite. King Calra Alpre, turned his gaze away from the knight and spoke loudly.

  “I officially recognize your sovereignty over Saens Martelle, my condolences again.”

  “Next!” shouted the King’s servant before Melvekior could get another word out. A hayseed shouldered past him, “Yore Mahdjesty, oim wunnering about moi farm you see.”

  And that was his audience with King Calra Alpre XVII well and truly finished.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Fight

  “I owe Accus and Janesca a debt. For, if nothing else, they can substantiate what happened. It seems but a dream.” - Melvekior

  “I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Melvekior when they were out of earshot. “Did he not hear me? What do you think?” He turned to Accus and Mikael.

  “He heard you well enough,” said his father, “he was just not interested. He probably hears two hundred petitions on this day and most of them will be weird or petty. He knows our family, and obviously knew of my death and I’ll bet you a gobbit to a pinch of shit that he thought you were trying to wrangle money from him somehow.”

  “He was wearing the amulet.” Accus was reasoning it out, coldly. “Do both amulets contain the holy substance? This is very intriguing.”

  They sat on a bench on the side of the road, Melvekior looked over at the stalls, the tents and the throng of humanity and wished he was a child again. “Father, have I been here before?”

  “You were about four years old, your mother and I came to Summerfest. You loved it. I recall that you got lost amongst the crowd and your mother was frantic until you came back with some sort of dolly.” He laughed shortly. “I hated that stupid thing, but you wouldn’t put it down.”

  Melvekior was quiet, he did remember it. A ribboned stick with a jester’s head on top that jingled when shook. I did love that, he thought and smiled to himself, then remembered where they were.

  “Accus, what do you think is happening?”

  “It could be nothing, he might have misheard you. Or,” he emphasized that word, “he heard you and didn’t want to talk about it in public. That would be my strategy. If he and Sunar both possess such amulets, he may not want word of it getting out. In fact, he could easily be blackmailed with this knowledge.” He stopped and frowned. “The implications are huge.”

  “If I were he, I’d want us dead,” murmured Mikael.

  “What? Why?” blurted Melvekior in disbelief. Such a thing wasn’t possible, the King was a good and decent man.

  “Think about it, son. If there is some sort of body-snatching conspiracy where the King and the Prince are going to inhabit some hapless twit’s body when they die, there’d be riots. People wouldn’t stand for it. Why do you think Accus is dressed like a farmer? He dresses like a Necromancer, five minutes later he’s hanging by his neck from a tree with a lynch mob calling down the wrath of Mithras.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Well,” said Mikael, “something strange is happening to me and I think it’s a natural consequence of being alive after I died. I’m having thoughts of self-destruction which are quite disturbing.”

  Accus perked up at this. “Really? Fascinating. Are you also having violent impulses towards others?”

  “No, just you.” Mikael was only half joking.

  “Well, that should come next. What you’re experiencing isn’t unusual in instances of undeath. There are few in our order with the power to raise the dead to unlife, but those that have been successful, for research purposes, made startling discoveries. Of relevance here is the levels of aggression towards the living. The necessary rituals necessary to re-animate the dead are always followed by rites of binding to prevent the subject from immediately taking its own ‘life.’” Accus wiggled the forefinger and middle finger of both hands in the air when he said the word life.

  “So, you’re saying that me wanting to kill myself isn’t unusual?”

  “Correct, you’d merely be correcting the natural order of things. And the compulsion to do so will become ever greater as time passes.” Accus almost looked smug.

  “And what will happen if I do? Where will my soul go?” Mikael was starting to speak with an even higher pitched voice than normal.

  “To the Lands of the Dead, our Mother’s realm and then pass on to its eventual destination. I suppose you follow Mithras?” Melvekior and his father both nodded. “Then it will be to his halls your soul will pass.”

  The body of Janesca visibly relaxed. Melvekior did not.

  “What about all the dead in Summershade, the Draugr? Why do they not harm themselves?” he asked angrily.

  “I have no idea. Whomever raised them must have had some way of preventing it.” He looked overjoyed at the prospect.

  Melvekior shook his head. He didn’t believe a thing Accus told him. These followers of Ain-Ordra were idiots from what he could see.

  “Father, we must find a way through this. You have another chance to live.” He was almost pleading. “Accus, truthfully, can we stop the decay of this body and return my father to his proper form. And give this woman her body back, of course?”

  The Necromancer looked thoughtful for a second and then raised his head with a determined set to his face. “Hmm, all we need to do is get your father to the Necropolis of Ordia in Fallset, hundreds of miles away, where they will be able to reverse the necrotic rot and then we can go about finding another body for him and perform the almost impossible task of recalling this woman’s soul to her body while simultaneously transferring his anima to the new host.”

  Melvekior knew the he was being facetious and was becoming annoyed with it. “Well then why did you agree to accompany us if you knew it was impossible?”

  “First of all, you were going to bash my brains in if I didn’t and secondly because I thought King Alpre would have some answers.

  The young knight’s heart sank. He didn’t want to lose his father again, although it didn’t really feel like his father right now. He looked over and saw the resignati
on in his father’s eyes, and they really did look like his father’s eyes now. Was that real or just an illusion?

  “Well, if I’m going to drop to bits in a couple of days anyway, I might as well try my hardest to get drunk.” Janesca stood and started walking across the road to an ale tent, followed by Accus who’d never been drunk.

  “Wait…” Melvekior shouted but he didn’t wait.

  A couple of hours of disconsolately wandering around the fair, everyone else happy and laughing and mostly drunk, led him to the contests of strength on the far field. I might as well have a go, he thought and walked to the small table where a man was sitting scrawling something on a parchment.

  “Sign up is closed for all events,” the man muttered without even looking up.

  “Have all the events started?”

  “Not yet. The wrestling has yet to start, but you’re too late to sign up.” He looked up at Melvekior and raised an eyebrow. “Although, I’m sure there’d be many people wanting to bet against such an august personage as yourself, hmm.” He put his stylus to his lips momentarily and then stood. “Wrestling has re-opened, stand in line behind the noble knight,” he announced loudly.

  There was no massive influx of additional participants but a few more people did, sizing him up all the while. He could feel his heart start beating faster. Damnable peasants, entering just so they can have a fight with a nobleman without being arrested. I’ll give them a fight, he thought.

  The jousting field was roped off and three smaller squares were created, each with an adjudicator carrying a white flag they would throw in the arena to indicate the fight was won. Melvekior stripped off his armor and left it with the organizer of the event, making it very clear nobody was to touch or even look at his belongings. He also stripped off his shirt to reveal muscles as toned as a Denier of Kurhu, but he was larger still, being of Northern stock. There were a couple of cheers from maidens standing in the crowd at the edge of the arenas which further served to get Melvekior’s blood up.