Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  “I’m staying,” she snapped. This was the last thing he needed. He couldn’t leave her, him, here, Mithras knows what would happen. And now people were starting to look. He’d been getting looks all night, wherever he went. He knew what those looks meant. People hated nobles, and with his chain shirt and emblazoned cloak he looked as noble as they came, but were mostly too fearful to say anything about it. Fueled by alcohol, emboldened by their compatriots they were becoming lairy.

  “Leave her alone!” came one cry. “You don’t own her, let her be,” was another. He sighed.

  “This is none of your concern,” he said to a group of men who had stopped their carousing to look his way aggressively. He turned to Mikael-Janesca and grabbed both of her wrists. “We’re going now, don’t make me put you over my shoulder.”

  “All right, they better have ale at the inn though, because I’m not done yet.” She was certainly done, she could barely stand. He moved to lead her over to the sleeping Necromancer. He would probably have to carry him and his puke stained clothing. He wondered why he ever saw anything interesting about drinking.

  A man barred their way. He was large, fat and bald and had piggy little eyes that were too close together. He also had an unfortunate high pitched voice and a lisp to go with it. “The lady said she wasn’t ready to go.” The man wore an ubiquitous leather apron, the kind that every food vendor, butcher, baker, cooper, you name the profession they all wore them. At their place of work. This man was just a slob. His beard was thin, his teeth rotten and his apron stained with dark marks, the origin of which were better left undiscovered.

  “It’s nothing to do with you, please move out of the way.” Melvekior tried to move past him, but the fellow used his bulk to block egress. Not wanting a fight, the young knight turned and tried to find another route.

  Wanting a fight, the fat man grabbed Melvekior’s shoulder as he turned. “The lady stays here,” he muttered, as if he had any sort of authority at all.

  Melvekior spun quickly. “Look here, it’s all very well and good trying to defend a lady’s honor to ingratiate yourself, but I imagine that saving her life multiple times wouldn’t entice even the ugliest woman to lay down with you. I suggest you back down this instant because I’ve had enough of your kind for one day.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. “Thinks he’s better than us.” “Oh Mr Knight suggests something does he? We should all do what he says.”

  Resisting the urge to whip out his mace and start braining people, he tried again to shove past the big guy, but again he stopped him. He was half a head taller than Melvekior and his hands were the size of dinner plates. This had the potential to hurt. Baldy pushed him in the chest and he pretended to stumble but he was actually reaching out for a tankard which he brought round to smash off the side of the head of the man before him. It shattered into small pieces of bleached ceramic. Big and bald looked shocked, but not for long as Melvekior followed up the tankard smashing with a pulverizing hammer blow to the same side of his head. He stumbled and as he did, Melvekior pushed his advantage by kicking his knee in. The man dropped to his knees, letting forth a curse tinged bellow.

  Mikael-Janesca nipped in front of Melvekior and slapped the downed man with a ferocious blow, right through the face. “How dare you defend my honor, you fat fool,” she screeched almost hysterically and ran out of the tent.

  The man looked confused and glared up at Melvekior who shrugged and stormed over to Accus. Not wanting to waste any more time he got down on his haunches, flung the lightweight fellow over his shoulder, stood and charged his way out of the tent in double time.

  His father was waiting for him outside and slapped him on the back as they started walking along together. “Great fight, son. I rue that we never got into any of those together when I was alive. We could have done some major damage.” His smile faded as they walked on and let the crowds behind. The noise of revelers could still be heard but they could converse now without shouting.

  Melvekior hoped that The Maiden would let them in at this late hour and not complain about his unorthodox entry. They had a short walk ahead of them and he didn’t volunteer any conversation, not knowing how drunk his father really was. The roads were almost deserted but the sky had a light tinge due to all the fireworks being set off. Not many sober people went to bed early on Summerfest.

  “The more I think about it, the more I realize that I was a terrible father. I’m so proud of who you are, and while I had a hand in that, I don’t know why I didn’t spend more time with you.” His, her, eyes were downcast as they walked. “Actually, I do know. I was lazy. Children are a pain and I had other things to do. It was easier to use the debt incurred by Skolmakk and Aeldryn.” He reached out his female hand and gripped onto Melvekior’s arm with an unusually strong grip.

  Melvekior was glad he had his hands full with Accus, it would have been incredibly awkward had his father tried to hold his hand. He didn’t even like viewing him in his current form, the quite attractive, yet rotting Janesca, whose nude form he had once found quite arousing.

  “If we find a way through this, so that I can get my body back, I promise to be a better father. We’ll do things together. I’ll explain what happened with your mother.” He looked up at his son as they walked. “Melvekior, what do you think about that?”

  He wouldn’t say what he thought. That there was no chance he would get his body back and there was no way there would be a happy ending in this story. He planned to say something hollow and supportive when the hound came into view.

  He had led them down an alley that would exit in the plaza near to the Maiden and the end of the alleyway could be seen but something blocked their progress. He stopped.

  A large dog, black and from this distance Melvekior could make out no distinct features. It had the shape of a hunting mastiff, stocky and heavy set. Its head was low and he fancied he could hear a low growl emanating from it. The hackles on his neck rose and he felt the same as he did when he had heard the awful howling earlier. It was fear.

  “What’s that bloody dog doing? It’ll scarper when we get closer, probably sniffing for food.” Mikael-Janesca obviously didn’t see a reason to be worried.

  “Yeah, sure.” He wasn’t convinced but he started walking onwards.

  He got closer and the dog lifted its head, sniffing the air. Still totally black, he couldn’t make out any detail at all. Was there any detail. Was this a Hellhound, some sort of omen of death? If it didn’t run away soon he decided that he’d put Accus down and physically chastise the dog.

  Sure enough, the dog didn’t move, just stood there with its head bowed, facing him, features unreadable. Melvekior had a fair amount of experience with dogs, especially hunting dogs and mastiffs were one of his favorites. He prided himself on being able to read their moods. This one was unreadable.

  He stopped and placed Accus gently down against the wall, stood and drew his mace. He wore his sword, but it was only a dog, no need to get carried away. One swift kick to the rear end would send it packing.

  “For Mithras's sake, son, it’s only a…” Mikael-Janesca didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he let out a girlish squeal as the dog lunged.

  Powerful hind legs propelled the animal through the air. It was twenty feet away but it covered that in a flash. Whether it was the minor shock of being unexpectedly attacked or the ghastly repulsion one would feel to see a dog’s face burst forth writhing tentacles, Melvekior shied away, holding his arm before him. Luckily his armor afforded him decent protection and the creature’s face, if one could call it that, bounced off, with no ill effects.

  Having recovered some degree of composure he took a good look at the nightmare before him. It was certainly the body of a hunting mastiff, but the head, the maw, of some grotesque horror from a nightmare. Where there should have been eyes there was nothing, as if the animal’s fur had just grown over the sockets. The entire jaw and muzzle area was a mass of twisting, searching tentacles, their origi
n a profound blackness. They moved and swayed in a strangely hypnotic dance, weaving in and out of each other in such a way as to cast doubt on their physical presence. He couldn’t tell how far away they were or if they were close and in trying to determine this he felt oddly sleepy and then suddenly they were on him. He felt a searing pain in his eyes and he started to retch and cough, but something seemed to be thrust into his mouth and into his throat. He could neither see nor shout, his mind was torn between wanting to rest and wanting to escape. He started to panic and then suddenly he was free. He wiped the back of his hands across his eyes and there was wetness that he saw briefly was blood-red. The hell-hound had turned from him and was now facing Mikael-Janesca who stood defiant with a bloody dagger in her hand. Melvekior noticed at this stage that the canine’s back was scored with a huge slash wound.

  He leaned down to retrieve his mace that he hadn’t even realized that he’d dropped. By the time he had returned to upright the creature was in full pounce again, too fast to stop and landed atop the body of the young woman, her dagger slashing ever more feebly at the side and back of her attacker. Two thin tentacles different to the others, almost translucent, snaked out from the writhing mass at the center of the creature’s face and attached themselves to her eyeballs. She screamed and went stiff, dropping her weapon.

  Bellowing a war cry that consisted of pure rage he charged forward with his mace held high. The creature didn’t move and as he swung his weapon down he could see her body convulsing beneath the unkind ministrations of this revolting horror. The full weight of his strength and fury propelled the mace into the nightmare head of the devil dog and as hard as the bone was, it couldn’t withstand the force of the blow. A high pitched keening erupted from the canine as its skull broke open and whatever repulsive matter that passed for brains was turned to mush. It fell to the ground lifeless, the tentacles limp and the whine silent.

  Mikael-Janesca still thrashed on the ground, her foot connecting with the dead dog’s head, spraying more ichor in every direction. He leapt over and grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Father, father!” he implored desperately. She stopped shaking and opened her eyes suddenly. She had the unfocused look of someone newly awoken, the eyes unable to keep still. She looked at him and screamed. A deep, fearful scream and Melvekior didn’t know what to do or how to react. Thankfully it didn’t last long and instead began to sob. She gripped onto his neck and wouldn’t let go.

  “Alive, I am alive,” she wept. “Don’t let me go back to that place.” She grabbed him still tighter. “Promise me, you will not let me go back there.” She stared him directly in the eyes.

  “Of course, you have my word. I will never let you go back there again, father.”

  She broke into a new fit of tears. “I am not your father, Melvekior. That thing, sucked him out. I am myself again.” She was inconsolable after this and he could get nothing from her.

  Looking around he realized he should make himself scarce. He wouldn’t be able to explain the monster nor why he carried a woman in floods of tears. His head was swimming. No matter how unreal it was that his father had lived again for a while, in the body of a young woman no less, it was still difficult to accept that he was now dead once more. If that was even the case, maybe Mikael was still in there somewhere. It wasn’t much of a hope, but the way things were going anything was possible. Or probable, as the local saying went.

  He carried her, like she was a babe in arms, to the edge of the alley and then put her on her feet. “Stand, for Mithras's sake. Let’s get some food and rest for you.”

  This was the only time where it could be said that it was fortunate that she smelled like a vintner’s apron. They walked, she leaning heavily upon him, the thirty feet from the alleyway to the Maiden, in front of which stood, if not the same disapproving man as the other day but a similarly attired and identically facial featured doorman. The Plaza was empty and a fine mist had come to wreath the statue of the three kings in a haze. Their backs were to his place of residence and that summed up perfectly the welcome he had received from this damnable city.

  “Lord Martelle,” said the doorman and opened the door, not even glancing at Janesca.

  “Be a good fellow, run her a bath,” Melvekior said and carried her hastily up to their room, went back to the alleyway and retrieved Accus who hadn’t moved a muscle and whom he’d almost forgotten in the unreality of Janesca's revelation. Him, he dumped unceremoniously on the couch in his suite, he wasn’t going to pay for a separate room for him.

  He bathed Janesca and put her to bed, not surprised that he still felt familial towards her rather than attracted. She was very grateful and very tired. He burned her dress in the fireplace and instructed the concierge to bring her fresh clothing for the morning.

  It was two hours before sunrise before he at last stripped off and lay down to sleep, next to the comatose woman.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Legacy

  “That single memory of her was all I had. And the words that I couldn’t quite hear. They came to me in the wake of my father’s second death, Melvekior, my little Prince.” - Melvekior

  He woke to feel the sun on his face and the smell of fresh bread in the air. For the briefest second he thought himself at home, at Saens Martelle, in his own rooms. He’d rise and spend the day in combat training with Ottkatla and dream about being a real live knight.

  Then he opened his eyes and saw that these weren’t his rooms. They were much nicer in fact, but that didn’t stop him from being briefly homesick. He sat up and saw that there were people in his room. His companions, as he thought of them. His father, or maybe not he remembered, and a Necromancer by the name of Accus who couldn’t handle his drink but said he held the secret to helping him sort out the problem of his father’s spirit inhabiting a young woman’s body. That might no longer be a problem.

  The young woman in question and Accus sat at the small oval table in the dining room part of his luxurious suite. Accus he imagined would normally have stayed in his room at the temple to his awful death Goddess, Ain-Ordra.

  At the time of his rising they were eating a breakfast of bread and fruit, chatting amiably. He wore his black, red-streaked, robes again as his peasant garb he used as a disguise was covered with every type of stain imaginable. She was wearing a simple maid’s dress, cut off at the shoulder, white with light blue flowers stitched into it.

  Realizing he was nude, he wrapped a sheet around his lower half and walked over to the table, taking a seat and offering a “Good morning, how are you both?”

  She smiled. Accus winced and closed his eyes as though pained. “I need more sleep, friend Melvekior, could I lay on your bed for a short time? I’d quite like to discuss the beast you faced last night, I believe I slept through the entire episode, but my head and my stomach do not agree.”

  “Go ahead. If you are going to vomit, make sure you use the chamberpot.” He waved his hand towards the bed.

  Melvekior sat at the table facing the woman. He placed his forearms on the table, hands flat and looked her directly in the eyes. “Who is this I am looking at?” he asked.

  “My name is Janesca, Melvekior. I’m very pleased to be in your company. I was in a bad way last night, but I’m sure you can understand that.”

  His heart sank. It was true then. Mikael had shuffled off this mortal coil again and Janesca was once more in control. He noticed that her cheeks were rosy and her skin less pale. He sniffed deeply and he could not detect the aroma of death about her.

  “I’m happy to be in yours as well,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment. Then again, wasn’t it too strange for his father to be a young woman? At least he’d had some extra time with him. It was more than most people got when their loved ones died. It was all a little surreal though, he preferred everything simple. Besides which, his father had answers. Answers he might never now get.

  “So, my father is definitely not there?” He asked mildly.

 
“No, I am positive of that. It’s very obvious when someone is sharing your body and there is nobody else here now and I hope there never will be.” Her accent was slightly rustic but not entirely common. She must have had an education somewhere. Now that it was no longer his father, and didn’t seem to be a rotting corpse any longer, he allowed himself a closer look. She had naturally wavy brown hair which hung to her shoulders in soft curls. Her skin was freckled and pale, and her shoulders were shapely. Her face was very attractive and although she was no striking warrior maiden like Ottkatla, she was certainly attractive in a more feminine way. Plus she was the only woman he’d ever seen properly nude.

  “My eyes are up here,” she laughed. He reddened.

  “I, just, uh…,”

  “I’m teasing. You’ve seen me with nothing on more than once and were a perfect gentleman, so I’m not offended. I did want to know though, what our plans were now. If we had any plans together that is.” She looked down at her hands for a second and then started to peel a small orange fruit she took from the bowl in front of her. She looked up at him expectantly, almost shyly.

  “I don’t know. I had hoped we could salvage my father’s spirit and also save you. I suppose though that things have righted themselves and everything is back where it should be.” He felt dejected, but wanted to look on the bright side. His father lived a long and happy life and had a short extension in which he spent time with his son and had a couple of exciting fights. He broke off a chunk of bread and smeared a wedge of butter over it. The food was certainly good here and he suddenly realized how hungry he was.

  “He said I could suffer side effects. He was asking me all sorts of questions.” She looked over at the sleeping, and lightly snoring, Necromancer. Melvekior didn’t trust him, but was surprised that he hadn’t just absconded. Then again, he had the amulet sacred to Accus’s religion and Janesca held some professional interest to him as well.