by Marin Landis
The Captain of the Guard, Robion, chuckled. “Kill the idiot in the armor and leave the addle pate for last. He’s no threat.”
“Aye, Sir!” they shouted in unison and with the experience and practice of trained men who drilled together daily, they advanced. Two to Melvekior’s left and two to his right, leaving a gap in the middle, almost daring him to make his escape through the space they left. Of course, had he tried that he would have been cut down instantly.
Melvekior could feel the beginnings of a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. A common problem for him, with his long hair, but he didn’t care. Looking heroic was important to Melvekior, as was not looking like a peasant. Almost as important as staying alive and he didn’t greatly fancy his odds against these four men. None of them were free from scars, they held their weapons and formation like they’d been doing this for years and they probably had. The largest and most scarred of the lot shouted out some orders and they split into two pairs, advancing on him in a pincer movement.
He looked over at Sunar. The Prince held a thin-lipped smile as he caught the young knight’s eye. Melvekior nodded to him. Enjoy your last moments you creepy little bastard, he thought with more bravado than he truly felt.
The men weren’t in a hurry, but they were in formation. They advanced at precisely the same pace. Similar to how a man might advance on a chicken he wanted for his supper. Slowly enough not to frighten it but coiled, ready to spring at a single move. Grim faced they were, holding their short swords slightly behind, poised to strike, left hands holding bucklers large enough to block a blow but not encumber them badly. He gripped his sword tighter for an instant, smiling inwardly. Let them try to block his blade with one of them and they’d know all about it.
He started to swing his sword left and right in a sweeping motion. As many had before, mostly in a non-lethal situation it should be noted, Melvekior suspected that these combatants would underestimate the speed at which he could wield his broadsword. He had at least that on his side; the benefit of being the unknown.
“Aieee!” came the scream from a man to his right. Melvekior tensed and brought his sword to bear but it was clear straight away that this was not a battle cry. The man stumbled and then collapsed as though his legs had been suddenly yanked out from underneath him. The other man in the pair looked at his comrade in dismay and the other couple stopped reflexively, scanning the area from twenty feet away for whatever peril had befallen the man.
Taking advantage of what he hoped was the handiwork of his hidden ally, Melvekior sprinted towards the lone man with speed belying his size and armor. His sword thrust before him and shield raised he charged bull-like directly at his enemy. The seasoned warrior recovered quickly from the shock of his comrade so quickly downed and screaming and pivoted on his heel, attempting to swivel away from the inexorable charge of three hundred pounds of muscle and steel. His maneuver was successful in that he wasn’t on the receiving end of Melvekior’s rush, but a fighter with levels of strategy behind every attack such as the young knight was didn’t rely on a single tactic. Fully expecting at least a swivel away and being even a little disappointed that a mere twist was all he was met with. No additional attack, no feint or lure; maybe these guards weren’t as good as he originally thought.
He was moving too fast to come to a complete stop, but his momentum and sword were not his only weapons. Thrusting his left arm out to its full extent at the same time as swinging his sword around violently, he clattered his shield into the guard and at the same time twisted his own body athletically and dug his feet into the ground, halting his charge rapidly. Shocked at this display of physical virtuosity all were a slightly taken aback, especially the man who had just been pummeled with a twenty pound shield. He barely had an instant to recover his wherewithal when Melvekior, now turned and running again in his direction, sword arm raised, face eerily impassive, was upon him. He tried to raise his own weapon to parry the inevitable blow, but was sadly lacking in speed. He felt a tremendous blow to the side of his head and collapsed to the ground, senseless.
Melvekior meant these men no harm. The guardsmen anyway. Sjarcu had doubtless done enough harm with whatever punishment he had dealt to this man’s partner. He figured that a headache could be recovered from, not so a dissected neck.
The remaining two guards, true to their training, were now upon him, bucklers and short swords in action. Blocking a blow easily with his enormous shield, Melvekior was forced to dodge back wildly as an overhand slash nearly clove his skull.
What was it that Ottkatla had told him was the best way to face off against two attackers on equal footing? That was it; allow one only to fight you.
These two men he faced were not specifically trained to fight in a pair which made his tactic possible, though one he would have to put in place very quickly. The attacker who had struck his shield was rearing for another strike, evidently hoping to use the brute force his size suggested he possessed to overpower the lone knight, the other moving to Melvekior’s right to flank him.
Melvekior’s armor weighed fifty pounds and was well crafted, but appeared cumbersome and many in his life would wonder at his insistence on either wearing it in non-combat situations or wearing it at all. A true knight, however, should wear the best armor and carry the best weapons possible. A truism he would share with anyone. In situations like this it afforded him protection against glancing and concussive blows and more importantly, the element of surprise. Nobody expected him to be able to run fast, charge, turn on a silver bit or throw himself into a roll to confound multiple opponents. But he was.
Again shocking all who bore witness to his movements, Melvekior threw himself forwards and a little to the right, expertly curling his body, his sword and shield also, beneath him and bursting to his feet in front of the guard who was attempting to come at him from the side. The man was quick to adjust, but Melvekior had a few moments of one man behind the other and he needed to make it count. His opponent was attempting a backhand cross body slash, keeping his small shield before him leaving no opening. It was more of a reflex move, Melvekior’s shield was huge and impossible to get past with such an attack.
Trusting to his own impeccable timing, Melvekior fell into a squat and stood rapidly then brought his shield up beneath the man’s wrist halfway through his attack, the downward swing halted inches from Melvekior’s left pauldron. The sword dropped from his enemy’s numb fingers and Melvekior shrugged off the smack of the buckler swung wildly at him. Surging forward, he carried the man with him and plowed into the other fighter behind him before he could bring himself to bear.
The young knight turned for a second to quickly assess the battlefield and ensure that the treacherous Sunar wasn’t sneaking up on him and saw a black figure next to the Prince who seemed to be coming up behind him. “No,” he shouted as loudly as he could but couldn’t afford to do more and swung back around and stamped on the first man’s chest to keep him down. The final man had scrambled to his feet, taken one look at the tableau before him and ran, half falling as he did, in the opposite direction. A sideways sword swipe to the helm of the rising guard, causing blood to jet from the man’s nose, knocked him out of contention, giving Melvekior the go-ahead to again spin rapidly around.
What he saw was not what he wanted to see.
Sjarcu, the Tavra, held the hair of the Prince in one hand, tightly. In his other hand was a small, rounded and quite thick, black blade, firmly buried in the side of Sunar’s neck. The Prince was quite evidently dead or on his way there momentarily. The dark elf dropped the Prince as though he were last night’s mutton and faced Melvekior. Then suddenly there was a gust of wind and he wasn’t there, his disappearance accompanied by a loud crashing.
“What in the Hells!” shouted Melvekior and he heard Accus screeching incoherently.
The world turned upside down at that juncture. He saw and heard everything like it were many miles away. Accus shaking his head and holding his hands over his ears.
Sjarcu lying in a heap against a tree twenty feet away and the birds. What seemed to be a thousand ravens flying in circles appeared and in a whirlwind of wings and talons, created a powerful wind in the midst of which, from somewhere above, the Mage King descended.
Melvekior could see everything so clearly but somehow was mesmerized by the whole ravens, Mage King, whirlwind tableau. The scene was like something from a surreal nightmare, but still he couldn’t look away, nor could he move. His arms seemed stuck before him like he was reaching for something, his legs rooted to the spot. Yet, he felt no panic, nothing about what was happening seemed worthy of worry.
Thacritus floated grotesquely to the ground, like a dying bird in slow motion, his robes loose about his frame. The ravens around him took to the dead and fallen, cawing hideously and going about their work with uncaring precision. There were few screams and Melvekior thanked Mithras for his inability to move. He had spared those soldiers and now that was moot for the Mage King had taken them without thought for mercy. The hooded figure of the Mage turned its head towards the paralyzed knight and bony hands emerged from the sleeves of the robe to pull back the hood. He had expected an old man, many decades, even centuries old, but not this, this skeletal horror before him. There was no hair upon the skull of Thacritus, save for a few clumps of wispy fluff. Even in this horrid circumstance Melvekior wondered why he would not just shave them off with a sharp blade. The pate was mottled with brown spots of age and the skin wrinkled with the stretching and contracting of countless years of facial expressions. The Mage’s eyes were deep and dark containing a spark of malevolence, the dark irises almost as colorless as those of Sjarcu the dark elf. The lips were as thin as the leathery skin that covered the lich’s face and it was now clear that this was no longer a man, but an undead wizard whose life had been extended artificially and unnaturally by magical means. The sight of the horrid face of Death seemed to spur him forward and he wrenched himself from the invisible grip of the magic that held him.
He could feel his hands and he could move his legs. He realized that he had dropped his sword and bent at the knees to pick it up, keeping his eyes firmly on the robed, gaunt figure before him. The cavernous eyes widened a little as he witnessed the unraveling of his enchantment, but there was no other reaction.
Accus groaned from his place against the downed tree as he watched the avian butchery taking place. Melvekior payed no mind.
Through gritted teeth he spoke as he held his broadsword loosely. “Your captive is free, Mage, did you know that? No longer will you be able to prey on his essence.” He raised his head in defiance of the foul being.
A hiss was the response from the dead lips and a rasping voice escaped the unmoving mouth. “I know, Melvekior. How could I not? You bear witness to what I have become.” More hissing and rattled breath arose from the throat of the stick dry being before him, the dessicated tongue struggling to pronounce the words. “I was not like this before, then the weight of centuries three lay upon my back in an instant. Only the darkest and most profound arts keep me within this deceased shell. Unlike him,” the right arm came up limply to indicate dead and partially devoured Sunar. “He will never rise again, his spirit resides now elsewhere facing the bitter consequence of cheating death.”
“The rewards of iniquity are seldom sweet to the tongue.” Melvekior quoted the words of the First Prophet of Light. If a skull covered with the thinnest skein of flesh could smile, Thacritus would have done so.
“Spare me the words of those long dead,” he hissed. “I long only to hear of that which flew, doubtless in haste, to his heavens. Will he seek retribution, Melvekior? For his long captivity; which now seems redundant seeing as we didn’t reap any more than was originally taken.” His grotesque head tilted to the side in enquiry.
“He will not. He bade me assure you that he would pursue no such end.” Melvekior watched closely for a reaction and he saw the slightest nod of the head. Enough of a distraction. Almost as if merely sheathing his sword he reached back and flung it with great force, a skill he had practiced long and hard. “I, however, will,” he shouted as the blade left his hand, turning over and over in the air. Were his aim to be true, and were the sharp point or edge to strike first rather than merely the hilt or the flat of the blade, it would cause grievous harm to anyone. Anyone not a dessicated, living corpse.
Time seemed to slow as Thacritus watched the broadsword fly toward him and, as intended, bury itself in his chest. He gave no more attention to it than a man would a fly, brushing it away with his hand. It fell silently to the grass. Melvekior cursed and steeled himself for the inevitable backlash, an eye on the Mage’s hands to anticipate his next move.
“Feel fortunate that I am in a surprisingly generous mindset. I have lost my flesh but for many that would be seen as a boon. I can at last pursue avenues previously denied me. Pray you do not hear from me again.”
He was not there and maybe even more so than the Mage Lord’s charnel appearance, Melvekior found this unnerving. For something to be in front of him and then without warning, it was simply not there and he was looking at the trees on the hillside, disorientated.
The young, beaten and nauseated knight turned to his only conscious companion and shook his head. “Only one King left to face. We may yet survive this.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Decisions
“Trust neither a King nor a beggar.” - Mikael
“None will think to seek us out here,” muttered Accus as he entered what he once saw as his home, his place of worship and his refuge. His time with Melvekior had driven home to him that he didn't need to hide from his frailties and inadequacies, but that he should face them and conquer them. He had come to this temple of death on a whim and stayed for the sense of belonging and power. At first he lusted after Finulia, but soon enough realized that she was colder than the grave.
It was a large, if unassuming house, near the business end of a cul-de-sac, appropriately named Nocturne Close. The front door, that none but Sjarcu paid any attention to, was adorned with the moon sigil of Ain-Ordra, for this was her main Church in Amaranthe. A Goddess of Death had little place in a city named for eternal life, but men like Accus were not in short supply. Men who felt no kinship to others, who didn’t mind getting their hands dirty. Men who saw only death in their own futures.
Even the lowliest beggar could achieve greatness in the Church of Ain-Ordra, for all were equal in Death. Few sought her out though. Even beggars desperate enough to steal or maim for a crust of bread balked at serving the Night Mistress; it was rumored that the initiation into Her dark ranks put one’s soul in jeopardy.
Finulia was there in the main hall to greet them, obviously not as dead as she had looked when last he saw her. Missing a couple of teeth, she reacted furiously when she saw Accus and just as quickly shrank back when she recognized Melvekior.
“You’re in no danger, Finulia, just bring some refreshments to the drawing room and stay out of our way,” sighed Accus wearily. He looked like he had no time for the woman who was once, his mentor and object of desire. She scuttled away, looking browbeaten.
Melvekior only had a brief recollection of this place. He had come with expectations of assistance, lured here by a horrid little man, Galtian Morevem, only to find himself ambushed by two hulking cultists. He’d incapacitated them and fared less well against Accus and Finulia, but with a little help from Janesca, managed to crush them into obedience as well.
I must remember to pay a visit to that little bastard, thought Melvekior. Revenge was never far from his heart. For now though, it was the revenge of other, more influential people he was worried about.
The drawing room was luxurious and the chairs looked inviting. For once, he threw caution to the wind and started to unbuckle his armor, being careful not to scratch it, but being less careful of the chair on which he placed it. Finulia aimed an irritated look his way to see a dirty metal shirt being placed on an expensive Mitchurian lounging chair, she o
pened his mouth to remonstrate with the young knight but thought better of it and placed her burden of a laden tray down on the low table in the center of the room.
“Do please be careful, Sir,” she said carefully. “Those chairs are worth easily at least as much as your entire suit of armor and I hazard to guess that the repair work would certainly cost us a fortune. Might I bring you a sheet to protect the upholstery?”
Her voice was shrill and unused to expressing anything other than a command or a spell of vile magic. Pleasantries rolled from her tongue like bones through a grinder. She reddened as she stuttered, making her look angry, as indeed she was.
“I’m happy with that,” Melvekior flared his nostrils no trace of happiness on his grim visage. Bending down to unhook his greaves from his sabatons he noticed the sheer opulence of the carpeted floor. Gold swirls in a pattern he couldn’t appreciate from this angle, but the thickness and softness of a mere floor covering screamed wealth. This was more richly appointed than his home; how would such a place make money? Leaving his metal boots on the chair and taking amusement in watching Finulia squirm, though secretly hoping he wouldn't have to experience her power again, he settled down into another of the lounging chairs and placed his bare feet as close to the tray as he could without touching the fussy looking food on it. He knew this would annoy Finulia and Accus too.
“Wine please, Finulia,” he said, looking around the room. It was akin to a fancy library and reading room. Maybe forty feet square and three walls were covered in shelves, packed very carefully with books. Books that looked almost like decoration. Standing he walked over to read a couple of the titles. Countless books on the nature of things. Nature of Man’s Humours. Nature of the Hound’s Loyalty. A never ending stream of gold-embossed books about the nature of things. How could such thick books be about such small things. A dog is loyal because that is all he knows. What else was there to say about it? Pointless frippery.