Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  “Sire, I am not waking you merely to extend that invitation, but to inform you of a potential emergency. Galrath believes it to be a matter of great urgency and insists that you commanded him report only to you should anything seem unusual.”

  “That I did, and now regret it heartily.” He sighed and threw back his covers. He was naked and unconcerned though he knew there were clothes that such people as he were expected to wear. Why would a person wear clothing to sleep in? He missed Ottkatla at times like these. She would know how best to ridicule soft practices.

  “See him to my map room,” he ordered as he dressed. He noticed that his clothes were clean or rather he had clean clothes, more than likely not the same ones he had stripped from himself while half asleep last night.

  “Ahh, the Cartografica,” corrected Flaubert, leaving instantly as much as to avoid the wrath of a recently woken Prince as to obey his command.

  Melvekior ignored him and dressed.

  They were standing outside the room when he arrived. His painfully thin majordomo and the tall, well-built newly promoted Master of the Jails. Everyone seemed to have multiple titles here, no matter how basic their actual position.

  He strode past them, waving them inside.

  “Sit, if you wish. No thank you, Flaubert, that will be all.” He headed off any questions.

  “Sire, I will stand. I am most grateful for this opportunity and I hope I am not wasting your time with this, but something’s wrong.” He seemed nervous, maybe even a little shaky, his skin pale and his hair damp as though from sweating.

  “I see. Well first of all, I require direct conversation. Don’t stand on ceremony, I am a knight first, a Prince second.” He liked the sound of “Prince Melvekior”. It reminded him of his mother.

  “Yes, Sire. Something is down in the dungeon. Something horrible.”

  “What something, Galrath?” He took a chair himself, hoping he wouldn’t have to wheedle this story out of the man.

  “People, Sire. People who should not be there.” The man looked stricken.

  Melvekior sat up straight. “Flaubert!” he called. He would know who should and should not be in the dungeons.

  The door opened almost instantly and Flaubert was there.

  “Just listen and comment when necessary.”

  Flaubert nodded and tilted his head towards Galrath in the attitude of someone listening intently.

  “The last prisoner to be released was Caravice Wintom. He had lost every ounce of sense during his imprisonment, but something was in his cell. Or rather behind his cell. And was trying to get through when we released Wintom. I think it was people. I saw them but, and I do feel slightly ashamed, I locked ‘em down on the fourth level. Something smelled off, Lord.”

  “All the residents of the fourth level are accounted for, there could be nobody else there.” Flaubert asserted and sniffed as he did whenever he felt that his words needed to be taken extra seriously.

  “I saw ‘em,” muttered Galrath, pronouncing it like “I sore em”. “They was shambling down the corridor and I locked ‘em in. At least a handful.”

  “Shambling you say?” Melvekior didn’t like the sound of this.

  “Yes, Lord, like as they just woke up.”

  “Flaubert, are there only cells on that level and nothing else?” Melvekior asked.

  “There is a corpse pit, Lord.”

  He started to like this less, knowing where it was going.

  “What exactly is a corpse pit, Flaubert?”

  “Victims of Prince Sunar. He couldn’t always justify his actions and often had people killed and their bodies dragged down there in the dead of night. Sometimes when…”

  “I’ve heard enough. Galrath. You are not to tell anyone of this. We will both go now and see if those people are still down there.”

  “There’s nowhere else they could be, Lord. Of course that any are alive would be impossible, maybe you are overtired, Galrath, it’s been a long week.”

  “Flaubert, keep your mouth shut for now,” Melvekior snapped, losing patience. “Let’s go.”

  Melvekior hadn't been this way before. Galrath took him past his old cell, which was a jail in name only, down a flight of stairs through a set of rooms that had mere numbered doors. He was sure he heard some shouts from behind a couple of the doors but didn't ask.

  The third underground level was significantly less pleasant. It was cold for one thing and smelled bad, and was merely two long parallel corridors joined by a short hallway. The doors of the cells were all open and the stench became slowly more unbearable as less fresh air was available to breathe. After looking into one room and seeing what looked to be dried feces he didn't look into any more. He concentrated instead on breathing as little as possible. At the end of the second corridor there was a metal door with a hatch across it. Exactly what one would expect from a dungeon cell.

  "Here it is, bear with me when I urge caution." Galrath drew his sword and took a set of keys from his belt, inserting a large gray one into the door's lock.

  "Surely you don't expect Prince Melvekior to enter a potentially dangerous situation?" Flaubert was flabbergasted judging by his outrage.

  "Don't be ridiculous, man, I've faced worse than a couple of dead bodies," Melvekior spoke in the sort of voice he knew would have to be standard when dealing with Flaubert. The tone that brooks no argument. He drew his long knife, feeling oddly naked now without his armor. "You can stay at the back in case we're both overwhelmed and can run for help."

  The door creaked open and led into darkness. There was some fumbling from behind Melvekior and Flaubert produced a torch, lighting it from the one on the wall. Galrath reached out his hand and took possession of it. He would hesitate no longer and started down the steps. There was a light breeze down here and the smell not so overpowering, the air even slightly fresh.

  "Maybe I have imagined it, but it seemed so real," said Galrath when he reached the bottom of the steps. The torchlight didn't extend far but for the twenty or so they could see there was naught but empty passageway. “No, there was definitely something. Lord, please indulge me.”

  He sheathed his sword and picked up a fresh brand from the floor. He replaced the burned out one in the sconce nearest him and pressed the one in his hand firmly against it.

  "Let's move." There seemed to be no hierarchy down here and Melvekior was fine with that. He followed behind Galrath keeping his eyes peeled.

  They walked about seventy feet when the Head Warden spoke again, "This is it, Wintom's cell. Mind the dip in the floor." He disappeared into the room, followed quickly by Melvekior and Flaubert.

  There was an odd shallow gutter around the edges of the large square room. On the floor near the door was a large stone hoop with a chain connected to it. The back wall of the cell had been broken down, by the looks of it, from the other side.

  "I knew it! You see, Flaubert, something or someone did that." He kicked a couple of the chunks of stone.

  "According to the maps, I've never been down here myself, you understand, we can get to the corpse pit this way," Flaubert beckoned to them and left the room.

  Galrath lit a torch outside Wintom’s previous abode. There seemed to be a number of torches strewn about the place; presumably piles were left at the sconces. Being down here in the dark would be nobody’s idea of fun, corpse pits or no. The corner was mere feet away from the door to the cell and Flaubert had obviously decided that nothing down here served to endanger his fussy self so he took the lead.

  “Yes, here it is. You now can see Head Warden, that nothing is out of the ordinary.” He waved his hand towards what Melvekior could dimly make out was a large pit full of bones. He couldn’t see how far back it went, the size of the hole impossible to judge in this light. There was a strange chill in the air and a slight smell of corruption and earth. To be expected, Melvekior supposed, but that smell was slightly familiar to him.

  Galrath pushed past, his neck craned as he struggled to see, hold
ing a torch before him. Ledge, maybe six feet deep, served as a walkway for him as he slowly edged along the side of the corpse pit. He stopped suddenly, peered down and then started to back up. “Flaubert, would you mind explaining then why some of the corpses seem whole? Has there been recent executions?”

  Melvekior looked to where he believed Flaubert stood, hearing his sharp intake of breath. A thought was rising within him and when the answer came, it was one he had hoped not to hear.

  “To my knowledge there hasn’t been any need to use this place since Wintom was imprisoned here. Prince Sunar thought it a jolly jape that Deena, his concubine and Wintom’s lover, would lay interred so close to where he would be forever entombed.” There was silence for a few seconds, Melvekior absorbed what he had just heard and it did nothing to calm his rising terror.

  “Galrath, if you jest about the preserved corpses to frighten Flaubert, admit it now and we can go and have a nice glass of wine.” The newly crowned Prince didn’t want to sound scared before his subjects, but he was almost at breaking point. He heard a strangled sob which he recognized as Flaubert’s and turned to find Galrath standing close to him.

  “My Liege, let us walk slowly but steadily towards the exit,” the Head Warden whispered to him. Then loudly, “I think we’re done here. I would be grateful for some wine after my long shift. I’ll arrange a detail to fill this pit in, if that’s agreeable, Lord.”

  Melvekior didn’t need to be told twice, nor did Flaubert who evidently heard some of the urgency in Galrath’s voice and was walking rapidly past the closest torch.

  “Run, Lord!” shouted Galrath and could barely be heard above the sudden unearthly howling that rose from all around them. He was given to think of the hound he had slain in Amaranth, the beast sent by Ain-Ordra to take his father to the Hells. The smell of earth combined with the cloying sweetness of corruption rose in the air as if from the throats of a thousand corpses.

  “Go Flaubert, keep the door open and prepare to lock it behind us.” This was a real test of loyalty thought Melvekior and almost laughed at the inappropriateness of it all. He turned to see the light of the torch fly in the air into the middle of the pit and almost cried out in despair, but moments later the form of Galrath turned the corner as if walking through quicksand, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. He could see Galrath’s shoulders and arms pumping as if he were merely exaggerating his movement's and not trying desperately to shrug off the hand attempting to pull him back. A hand over his shoulder, two around his waist and one on his right calf and a look of sheer terror on his face.

  A primal, grunting yell came from Galrath’s mouth, a vocalization of his terror and desperation to be free. Melvekior froze for no longer than it takes to form a thought and plunged his long knife into one of the arms holding Galrath’s middle. Usually when you stab a person in the arm, deeply and viciously, he or she will let go what it is they are holding, but not so here. There was no reaction and more worryingly, Galrath’s forward motion was halted. He held out his hand in supplication to Melvekior and tried to say something but the hand on his shoulder fish-hooked him and all he could manage was a strangled gurgle. Frantically Melvekior grabbed the hand proffered to him, dropping his knife and holding onto the doorway to Wintom’s old cell for purchase. It was no good, he could not hold against the inexorable tide of force. There were at least four creatures, men, Draugr, he knew not, pulling Galrath to his doom and his strength would not prevail against them.

  Galrath’s eyes were rolling in his head as he panicked, frantically trying to release his limbs from the dead hands gripping him. Melvekior could hear Flaubert screaming from the end of the corridor and he could barely see and all he could smell was that damned earthy smell and the stench of decay. His hand came up, almost of its own accord and grasped the Halnir, the golden hammer of the warrior priests of Mithras, that he wore alongside the phoenix medallion.

  It came to him then, the smell of earth wasn’t what he always thought it was. It wasn’t earth from the grave, soil through which earthworms processed human flesh, the moist, damp, darkness from which there was no return. It was the earth of the Sacred Mountain, through which Mithras sent his strength to his people. A vision formed in his mind, a story he had read many times, but never understood. The birth of Hestallr, the legend of the Living Mountain, who had sprung fully formed from a great chasm, rent in the earth after a grand calamity in the Heavens. He was formed from the stone and the earth of the Sacred Mountain, he was of it and it was in him. A mere mortal, he struggled for countless hours, in the dark, through a frozen blizzard, climbing bare-handed the sheer face of the peak that touched Heaven to confront Apset upon Mithras’s throne of gold and fling him down. A man who defeated a God, that the Sun might rise again.

  That was the earth he could feel, that pervaded his mind and protected him against the corruption of death. The Halnir held tight, he slammed his fist against the cold, hard packed earth of the floor, the scream of “Mithras” almost torn from his lungs, obliterating the howling and Flaubert’s screams and Galrath’s panicky moan. It was as though time slowed down to almost a standstill for Melvekior and even the bright burst of light that sprung from his fist seemed to take long seconds to illuminate the grim scene before him. Only marginally slower than the light were the tiny shards of the chain, broken when he brought the Halnir to bear, turning in the air, slowly, like leaves borne on the wind. He could see now the figures behind Galrath and as the light touched them, their faces, so impassive until then, twisted and contorted in long forgotten pain as they were reduced to naught but dust.

  As the holy light spread, Draugr after Draugr was destroyed until only Galrath remained, kneeling and head held in his hands, Flaubert prone on the ground and Melvekior still on one knee, suddenly exhausted.

  No, not all were destroyed he realized with horror. A single figure walked slowly in his direction, eyes with a grim intelligence fixed upon his. Melvekior stood, hand still tightly gripping the holy symbol of Mithras and with growing revulsion, he realized that he knew upon whose ghastly visage he laid eyes.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Beyond the Grave

  “Where Life walks, Death follows.” Words inscribed above the entrance to the Temple of Ain-Ordra, Fallset

  The figure before him was not as rotted as the others had been and there was even some faint blonde color in her hair. Melvekior imagined that she would have been young when she died.

  The rest of her though was an example of man's inhumanity to man. Her face was only half there, the lips entirely missing, the eye sockets empty, the ears absent. She held her arms out before her, revealing missing fingers and one wrist that hung limp. Her torso though betrayed her death. A horizontal gash lay across her lower abdomen, dried and blackened entrails hung out looking more like dried seaweed than organs.

  Melvekior felt sick when he thought of the suffering she must have endured and vowed once again that he would destroy any having a hand in such treatment.

  He stood as she approached, a low groan escaping from her throat. "Ererio," it sounded like. "Ererio," over and over again and with a heavy heart he understood that she called his name the best she could with her mutilations and of course she wasn't functioning like a living being.

  He nodded, "Yes, it is I, Melvekior."

  A stream now of noises started gushing forth from her and it all sounded like nonsense to him.

  "Strike it down, Lord." Galrath had regained his composure enough to stand and offer advice, but looked scared to approach.

  "I will not, she is trying to communicate," replied Melvekior.

  He held up his hand to stall any further words from Galrath. She, Deena, continued to try to make herself understood, but realizing that none were responding, started repeating the same word. "Araree."

  Melvekior felt almost ashamed that he was so poor at understanding her, but Galrath had children and was more expert at deciphering imperfect speech.

  "Caravice,
Lord, she is asking for her lover."

  She nodded vigorously and made a single low moan.

  "Make it happen, Galrath. Can you and Flaubert bring him immediately to the floor above where it will be more comfortable? Choose the cleanest room and carry him if you have to. I have no idea how long she will be able to continue in this manner." He lowered his voice and spoke half to himself, feeling oddly emotional. "We owe them both this much at least." Looking up he saw Galrath still there. "Go, man, no word of this to anyone, you or Flaubert."

  It took a short while for Melvekior to figure out that the Draugr could understand every word that he said. It was only a one way communication though, her moans were next to incomprehensible.

  She shambled after him when he heard Galrath's distinctive farmer's voice from above. He checked every few feet that she was following, but she seemed strong enough. In his mind he was still in a slight state of shock, though he tried to act in a normal fashion so none suspected. He was as shocked as anyone by the destruction of the other Draugr but he was prepared to lie to maintain the illusion of control. He didn't mean to summon the holy light but the ability was within him and he knew that word of it would get round, only making his ascension to the throne of Maresh-Kar that much smoother. The people here were desperate for guidance and while religion wasn't banned outright the trend was that it no priests were allowed to set up a place of worship in Maresh-Kar. That was now changing and he himself started to be hailed as a Chosen of Mithras. This event would help cement that.

  Caravice was waiting in a room on the third level, standing gormlessly, almost confused about where he was. He'd been cleaned up since his pardon. His beard was short and his hair also had been cut.

  He didn't look up as they entered the room, Flaubert and Galrath flanking him. Both were a little wide-eyed at the unusual nature of the situation and Melvekior was himself trying to keep his composure.