Once Were Men

by Marin Landis

  "We should sleep on it. I suggest you follow the compulsion placed upon you, it is to protect the child after all. We can discuss further in the morning." Speaking to Povimus was often unnerving as he didn't indicate when he was finished talking to you, just continued to stare blankly ahead. He could feel that bottle of wine getting closer however so he took the opportunity to scurry off to his chambers. The child slept the sleep of the dead and he was quite happy to just check on her every so often, waking only three times during the night to ensure her breathing was regular.

  He woke up and immediately shot out of bed to see to the little girl. In his mind he knew something to be awry; children were an irritant to him, but he also understood that this particular one needed him. When he saw that her, his, bed was empty, he panicked. He ran to the hallway and saw Brother Cadmae in the corridor walking to prepare for the morning Orisons, presumably.

  “Ahh, Cadmae, good morning. Have you seen a little girl?” he blustered.

  Cadmae looked at him in shock. Renward was half dressed and quite possibly maniacal. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to make himself appear a little more presentable.

  “Renward, what is wrong with you? Did you have a difficult night?” The shock had turned to concern.

  “No, nothing is wrong. I’m sorry. I found a waif, a stray and she slept in my chambers. Now she is not there.” Renward struggled to keep his speech slow and modulated, he could feel his pitch rising the longer the girl was missing.

  “She is yours. I see. She is at the Altar with Povimus and quite safe, I assure you. Calm yourself, man. Get cleaned up before you come before the Odalnir.” The priesthood of Mithras were nothing if not clean and well dressed.

  Ignoring Cadmae, he started off at full speed towards the Grand Nave through the chancellery and the residential suites. He stopped before bursting in, through the heavy curtains which separated the private chambers at the back of the Temple from the main body. He listened. There was no singing and no voices. He hadn’t yet looked outside to determine the time and nor had he a chance to consult the Sun Clock in the Solarium, so desperate was he to find his missing charge.

  Renward moved the curtain aside and looked towards the Altar of Mithras that sat beneath the Odalnir. True to Cadmae’s word, the little girl stood before the altar, Povimus beside her. He supposed they were speaking but he could not hear anything so he plunged through the thick drapage and made his way toward them. Neither reacted as he got closer, but he knew the blind priest would have noticed him. He was astonished to see the girl place her hand upon the altar. There must have been a good reason, none but the most sanctified of them were supposed to touch the altar and even then only to make sure it was clean.

  The Altar of Mithras wasn’t just an altar dedicated to their God, it was the foremost example of its kind. Fashioned by Hestallr himself from the broken Throne of Apset, it was a potent symbol of rebirth and redemption. To an ignorant bystander it would appear as nothing more than a roughly rectangular slab of pitted gray stone. It came to chest height on Povimus and the child would not be able to see its top, though nothing was ever placed upon it. A dark red stain lay across the front of the Altar, like a giant hand had smeared blood across it. Rumors being what they are, blood is exactly what most believed it to be, whose blood a matter of contention. Such discussions were best left where they were held, in secret where none could overhear. Renward would take part in no such conversations nor would any make an attempt to clean the stain for fear of Hestallr’s reaction.

  He was horrified to see the small child place her hand upon the red blemish. He darted towards her, ready to pull her away, when he heard the rumbling. It was faint but getting louder.

  “I weep for thee,” he heard come out of the child’s mouth, but it was no child’s voice, if indeed he had actually heard it. He experienced it, with his whole being, the voice of an adult, a voice tinged with sorrow and an impossible antiquity. He was confused and the low noise was getting louder. Renward reached out to grab the child’s arm to move her away from the altar. Povimus was simply staring into space, appearing almost as a dullard. The girl’s skin as he touched her arm, was warm, unnaturally so and he could feel now an even greater heat from the altar. Nay, not the altar but above it.

  The Odalnir.

  The head of Hestallr’s Hammer was as wide as a small room, the haft twice as long. It hung thirty feet above the Altar and had, to Renward’s knowledge, never moved or been touched by any hand other than than of its owner. It had no visible means of support and there was no trickery, but divine providence held it there, suspended above the bloodied Altar as a reminder of Mithras’s power and promise of redemption. The legend spoke of Apset’s theft of Mithras’s Hammer, the Odalnir and he threw it down to the depths of Hell, then imprisoning the Sun God in a casket beneath the ground. Hestallr, born of the Holy Mountain, inseminated by Mithras as a final act of defiance before being banished, traveled to the depths of the Underworld. Forcing his way through the fields of Ain-Ordra, the void of Noor and finally into the wretched Pits of Apset, he retrieved the Odalnir and climbed the Holy Mountain with no aid but his unassailable courage and fortitude. Once at the peak of the Mount, he cast down Apset from his usurped throne and opened the vile casket imprisoning Mithras. As reward, Mithras empowered Hestallr with eternal life and gifted to him the Odalnir.

  And now the giant weapon of a God was vibrating and humming and radiating heat enough to put to shame the finest summer’s day.

  *******************************

  "What actions have you taken to secure the site, Calra?" The creepy, almost whispered voice, came out of nowhere.

  King Calra Alpre XVII spun, startled but at the same time he knew exactly who it was. His brother, Thacritus. Or what was left of him. Since their half-brother's catastrophic attempt at extending an already long life, Thacritus had changed. Dramatically.

  He was always physically inferior to him but Calra hadn't really paid much attention to it and didn't have a clue that it was that insecurity that drove 'Critus to seek power in the most unlikely place. The Guild of Mathematicians. From there he became involved with the Geometers, a splinter faction of the Guild that dealt with theoreticals and abstracts and, it was rumored, other, more occult sciences.

  Now though, since the release of the source of their unnatural longevity, the younger brother had lost the outward appearance of a human altogether. Where before he was emaciated to the point of apparent starvation, now he was mere bone with a thin, almost translucent, film of skin, stretched across his skeleton. He was the faint yellow of sickness and old age. What little hair he had remaining stood up in wisps on his mottled head.

  Calra was happy, and felt it was in everyone's best interests, that Thacritus wore a hooded robe. It was pure black and while that meant something in the Mage King's realm, it meant nothing to the King of Uth. At least he didn't have to look too closely at the revolting sight that was once his timid little brother.

  "Damn it, 'Critus!" he snarled, instantly furious as one is when given a sudden shock, "Can you not knock like a normal person?" This was the second time in as many days he had appeared from nowhere like that. The first to demand he turn over the Akashic. Thacritus was not pleased when he revealed that Hestallr had made off with her.

  There was no reaction on the Mage's nightmarish visage this time, maybe he was losing all of his human traits more definitely.

  "What actions, Calra?" the Mage repeated.

  "None as a matter of fact. What actions would you have me take? The tunnel is blocked off. I sent men, they can't get through. To clear it would take weeks. Nothing is getting in or out, there's no point wasting any more time on it."

  "You fool!" hissed Thacritus. "Is your memory so feeble that you cannot remember the events of that time? Are you so caught up with your money and machinations that it has escaped you why that 'creature'," he almost spat the word, "was there in the first place? The Phagia! It
will take us all."

  "Nothing can get out, Thacritus, why can you not understand? We should have collapsed that tunnel three hundred years ago."

  "You were warned Calra, I will take my own precautions." He was no longer there.

  "I believe the time has come to take precautions of my own," said Calra Alpre to no one in particular.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Avatar

  “When She was with me, I could see and hear eternity, all knowledge was open to me. When She went from me, everything about me was permanently diminished, including my faith, and only my desire to hold my son again kept me from taking my own life.” - Bhav

  “Don’t touch that!” bellowed Renward, struggling to make himself heard above the ever louder thrumming of the Odalnir. Povimus was still staring sightlessly into space. The little girl was now openly weeping, her head bowed and right hand touching the blood smear, her fingers clawed and scratching at the stone. His attention was drawn now to the massive hammer above his head. It was now shaking and the vibrational humming was starting to hurt his ears. It was shining with an ethereal light which was spreading out in a sunburst from an incredible bright and dense core.

  For a brief second the light of a thousand thousand candles filled the church and a sound so loud it left silence so profound behind it that the world seemed to stand still. It appeared to him that at the moment of the sonic explosion, the little girl’s eyes glowed with the same fiery light as did the Odalnir. He dismissed it briefly as an illusion caused by the trauma of the event, but soon saw that the light did not fade even as the other aftereffects took form. Povimus screamed and held his hands before his eyes, blood seeping from between the fingers. There were shouts of surprise from around the room as even the priests on the outskirts of the nave were caught in the shock of the explosion, then shouts of concern and enquiry as he could see on the periphery of his vision, several figures running towards them.

  He himself felt slightly detached from reality but knew he must help Povimus. His desperate apprehension for the well-being of the child had vanished, but still he noticed that she seemed largely unaffected, in fact she no longer wept and was in fact turning towards him.

  “There is no need for fear,” she said softly, with enough power to rock every man and woman in the hall on their heels. Of the eight priests in the room only Renward continued moving forward. His need to see to Povimus was greater than his awe of a little girl with some abominable power. He grabbed a wrist of the still screaming man and held his other hand up in an attempt to forestall any interference.

  “Povimus, Povimus,” he needed to repeat himself more than once to get the attention of the stricken priest and coerce him to stop his howling. “What happened, are you in pain?”

  “Nay, it is worse, Renward,” Povimus wailed. He pulled his hands from eyes dramatically. Down his face ran blood, originating from the milky orbs of his eyes, but those orbs were opaque no longer. Instead they moved erratically here and there and Povimus seemed to be crazed as he again covered them with his hands. “I can see,” he shouted, “my vision, it is restored!”

  Renward had no words, but he knew who had the answers.

  She stood now and seemed no different, save her eyes. The Odalnir was now still and no longer shined. There was intense quiet, Povimus’s sobbing faint behind his hands. A small piece of Renward’s consciousness wondered what was wrong with him. Surely if he could see, that was a miracle. That bolstered him somewhat, this was no attack but a visitation.

  “The return of thy vision is the smallest of gifts from Mithras.” That voice, almost whispered, that penetrated his consciousness and banished all other thought. “Thou hast been purified,” she waved her arm imperiously around the room, “and will have no further need of thy healer.” She turned to Renward slowly and a dread feeling rose within him, completely obliterating his previous.

  She’s come here for me, Mithras protect me, he thought panicking. He could not run but was affixed to the spot by the terrible power in those eyes.

  “Renward, collect thy belongings, we leave anon.” She held out her hand to him like a little girl might to her father. He took it automatically and led her, almost by instinct, to his chambers and started to pack for a long journey.

  As they left for wherever it was this child mandated, the population of the Temple lined up to congratulate and commiserate. Povimus was missing, but the others all seemed either delighted or envious in a comradely manner. To them it must have seemed like a messenger of their God was taking him away for some Holy Quest. In fact, that’s what he too believed, but being the one whisked away, it held more trepidation than anything. Nor would the girl reveal anything, she merely stood, inscrutable and childlike. Whenever he spoke, she hurried him along with clumsy hand movements, even his departure was rushed. He barely had the chance to respond to all the backslapping and called out wishes of good luck and “blessings, brother.”

  He choose two horses, the smallest one for her and the big brown male for him, from the Temple’s limited stables. He worried at first that her riding skills would fail to be up to the task, but the beast seemed to be as completely compliant as he. He thought about that. Last night he would have done anything to protect her and his main drive was to ensure her health and safety. Now he was free from the compulsion, but a mixture of fear and wonderment and devotion to Mithras meant that he would do whatever she wanted.

  They took the northern fork of the Great Caravanway and started a moderate pace. He caught up to her and kept apace, not wanting to lag behind. It drew stares and bandits were not unknown. The King’s men wouldn’t ignore a young girl so obviously leading either. That’s not to say that they would inconvenience them for care of a minor, but as an added excuse to extort money.

  The journey wasn't a long one but it was uncomfortable. The child didn't respond to any of Renward's promptings. It was like she was on an automatic path to wherever it was she was going. She sat her horse woodenly, but like him on that first night, it did exactly what she needed it to do.

  They were still in the farmlands north of Uth-Magnar when they turned off the well maintained road and on to what was barely a path. There was a way though, the grass trodden down from years of use, but unsuited for horseback. She was unconcerned though, brambles and branches slapping her and threatening to unhorse them both made no difference. Plainly this path was made by a person, or people, walking rather than mounted. Renward got the feeling that whatever was inhabiting the girl's body was not there at the time but had, somehow, left instruction to the body to travel this exact path.

  Maybe half a mile of brush turned into low hills and what was possibly their destination. Ruins. What was once a mighty stone building, now exposed to the elements and forgotten by time. Grey stone peeked up through the grass in places and a couple of walls survived but nobody could live here or call this shelter.

  "What could our business here be?" Renward said aloud, finding the silence now maddening. Realizing then that no birds called here, no insects chirped and had he sat still long enough he believed he would notice that nothing living here stirred. "Would you but speak, I would be relieved." He was respectful but one must have reassurance sometimes. Faith can never be entirely enough.

  They came to the outline of what once must have been a house, or other building, the foundations and remaining walls marking it as a massive structure. Bushes and plants, even a couple of small trees, thrust themselves through the stone, destroying any sign or clue of what function it held before nature reclaimed it.

  In what appeared to be the remains of a central hall a large, rectangular slab, cracked and pitted, was the resting place of a body.

  Shocked at first, he realized that if he had been brought somewhere for a specific reason it would be for his healing ability. He knew he had a real gift and not just from his depth of learning but also his power to calm pain and initiate incredibly fast healing. He certainly wasn't sought after for his bedside manner. In fact it was
only his exceptional abilities that made him stand out at all. It was this belief that was the source of his dissatisfaction with life and attitude toward others. Ironically, were he to accept his generally average nature he would have been happy rather than an embittered man whose best friend was a wine bottle.

  The body didn’t move, nor could he, from this distance, see any obvious signs of life. Renward pushed past the girl who had stopped and was staring blankly ahead. The body was of a normal man. Renward looked closely for some sign that he was brought here to revive a great hero or an important prophet, but it looked like neither. A simple man, wearing farmer's clothes, not particularly good looking and certainly not physically impressive. This child was no doubt possessed by a divine being of some kind, an emissary of Mithras, so there could be no mistake.

  "What must I do?" he turned to the child and asked. There was no response. He waited a short time and asked again with the same result. He shrugged and decided to take some action.

  He started to examine the body. It was breathing, barely. It had a heart rate and was exuding heat. So, without a single doubt, alive. He pulled back the eyelids. Light brown eyes, no response to movement or the light stimulus, the pupils neither contracting nor expanding. He examined beneath the clothing. Exactly what one would expect from a male of approximate middle age. No sweat present which was a little unusual, but nothing to indicate anything terrifically out of the ordinary. It was, for all intents and purposes, a sleeping man.

  One that won't wake up, he thought after shaking the figure vigorously by the shoulders. He shook it harder, pulled the short hairs at the base of the neck and pinched the soft flesh on the upper arm. There was no response.

  "You're as bad as each other," he said aloud, hoping against hope that this would elicit something, anything. Of course it did not.