by Marin Landis
Ottkatla looked shocked. She spun around and a light flashed behind her eyes. “Faerlen,” she said in a voice not her own, “what’s happening?”
Melvekior tried to reach up to his necklace to move the amulet from his chest, so hot was it burning, but he couldn’t move. This was similar, but more powerful, than the time that Finulia trapped him in ropes of fire. That was illusory though and he managed to summon the mental strength to defeat that. This time he wasn’t confident he would be able to do that. These were divine beings and he was also aware that he couldn’t just let loose with extreme violence like he had in the Necromancer’s den. One of these beings inhabited the body of the woman he loved, the other a man she loved like a second father. All these thoughts were running through his mind as he struggled against his invisible bonds, all to no avail.
“Someone has…Tiriel!” He shouted quite dramatically. “Tiriel’s essence is in this boy’s amulet!” He pointed at Melvekior, Ottkatla peering closely at it.
“His father wore something similar, if not that exact one, but it is different somehow. It calls to me and doubtless reverberates with him as well.” The voice that came from Ottkatla’s mouth was hollow and echoed strangely. Though Melvekior knew that these were agents of Mithras, at that very moment he meant them harm. He reconciled that in himself by reminding himself that they were rogue Anaurim, somehow and for some reason, hiding from the Light of Mithras.
“Ahh, this is Melvekior. How ironic. I don’t suppose he suspects, though he will suspect so much more now.” Foerlund, or Faerlen, spoke haughtily now, sure of himself now that the shock of the encounter had worn off. “We can’t allow him to jeopardize things. He’ll speak and then we’ll send him to the Wrack.”
Foerlund reached out his skinny hand and placed it on Melvekior’s forehead. The sudden pain was almost too much and without the invisible grip upon him he would have fallen. It was not only a physical pain, but a pain of grief and loss. He could see no future. He would feel agony like a knife in his brain and he would lose Bhav again and Ottkatla forever. He would see neither Hestallr or Ushatr again and his mentor Aeldryn was a lifetime away. He started to scream in anguish, the tears rushing down his face.
“All this will end, and you will go back to your friends and family and Ottkatla will love you.” The shaman cooed gently, as though he hadn’t just stated that he would send him soon to the Wrack. Melvekior had no idea what that was but it couldn’t be good.
A picture rose in his mind. His father. He missed his father terribly. The last time that he was ambushed, his father’s spirit inhabited a woman he had met in an inn and had warned him in a timely fashion. This time it was a memory of his father that came to him. It was maybe five years ago. His father had been drunk and annoyed about something Melvekior didn’t understand. He stalked around the dining room glaring angrily at the huge portraits of their ancestors, cursing them. This was nothing new, but that specific night he had turned to Melvekior and said, “Son, ye just watch out, it isn’t just this set of wretches that’ll do fer ye, but them an all,” his accent became steadily more common, the more he drank and Melvekior had to really concentrate to understand what he said much of the time. Mikael was waiving his arms about, and answered his son’s question that he hadn’t asked. “Them, those shit-eating Gods and their lackeys. They’re grand to be sure, but most of em will kill ye as soon as bless ye.”
His father knew. Knew much more than he ever admitted. He knew that Gods were once men and men would become Gods. There was a certain poetry in it. Who knows why Apset revolted against Mithras but maybe it was just.
Striving against the mighty force that held him, Melvekior turned his head and saw Ottkatla looking at him. Always with the red hair, he thought. It’s beautiful. He laughed and when he saw the shock on Ottkatla’s face, he laughed louder.
“It’s not…” she started to say, but ended her thought in an incoherent warning to Foerlund.
Melvekior reached out his hand, the amulet flaring brighter than the Sun at midday in the Summer, brighter than the strange metal that Aeldryn had brought from his homeland and it burned hotter than any fire. His undershirt burst into brief flames then turned to ash and fell away, his leather armor, hardened by fire, crinkled and cracked, falling away and he stood naked as the day he was born. He could sense more than see, the Halnir he wore at all times and the amulet of Tiriel somehow merging with each other, in the impossible heat, fusing and become one. His hand reached over to Foerlund who screamed as incoherently as Herjen in Ottkatla’s body did. Melvekior could hear none of it, the rush of the heat and the power subsumed all of his senses. He knew fear when he saw it though as he grabbed the shaman by the throat and lifted him from the ground. The scrawny man’s body writhed and struggled, with fear more than anything; he wasn’t hurting him. For a being with immense power like Faerlen had, and like Herjen had, being defied and bested in this manner by a mere mortal must have been terrifying. Melvekior didn’t care. All he knew is that these two threatened him and his loved ones and Mikael was right. They were shit-eating lackeys.
He laughed again, at his father’s vulgarity and then threw Foerlund hard. Into the outer cave wall. The body slumped to the ground as if lifeless, but it was not, though unconsciousness took it.
“Leave her body, now!” roared Melvekior, impossibly loudly, turning to Ottkatla who stared almost in shock and then fell to her knees, head thrown back and mouth wide open as a stream of white light flowed from her and coalesced into a figure at the side of it’s previous host. Similarly to how he had first, and also recently, seen Tiriel, it was a perfectly formed figure of light, but unlike Tiriel it unbidden mutated into the a form that resembled flesh and blood. Even in his almost insane state he could still appreciate the breathtaking beauty of the female figure before him. Toned and heavily muscled, more so than any female he had seen, he curves and contours were absolutely fascinating to him. Her skin was a dark brown hue and her head completely bald. He tore his gaze away, lest she sense a weakness there and turned his attention to Ottkatla. He could just tell somehow that she was wasn’t injured in any way.
He got down on his haunches beside where she had dropped into the fetal position. He smoothed her damp hair back from her face, ignoring the two Anaurim beside them, but conscious that they must not be off before he had spoken to them. He could feel his overwhelming rage slipping away as he realized that Ottkatla was going to be fine and that he would not be subject to the Wrack, though he was damned sure going to find out what that was. Her breathing was normal and she merely slept. Satisfied, he stood and noticed then too that Foerlund was conscious and looking at him, as was Herjen, standing, impossibly gorgeous and nude mere feet from him.
“Can we take her inside and make her comfortable?” Melvekior said. “I mean no harm and wanted only to talk.”
Foerlund stood and nodded. “I will assume blame for that, I thought you hunted us, but it seems not, for we remain here.” He moved to the entrance to his cave and moved the skin-fur door aside.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Truth
“Even the smallest coincidence, the faintest connection between two events that might appear to be pure chance, may well be the result of a well laid plan by those with great foresight.” - Aeldryn
Ottkatla was tucked up in Faerlen’s surprisingly large and soft bed in his equally surprisingly luxurious suite of small caves. The rest of them sat on the floor around a fire-pit, the atmosphere more relaxed. Whatever Faerlen had feared from Melvekior’s appearance and the amulet had not come to pass so he had reverted to what was his presumably pleasant self. Herjen had, at Melvekior’s urging, donned a robe of Faerlen’s, the shaman passing him one as well. He felt almost disloyal to Ottkatla when looking at her naked body. She laughed, but agreed, for what good it did. The robe was too big and she didn’t bother to keep it securely fastened, exposing vast swathes of her appealing body. Melvekior avoided looking the best he could, this was, after all, a situation mor
e serious than any other.
“It feels good to be myself again,” she spoke first while they made themselves comfortable and calmed down after their altercation. “Katle is much more willful than you’d believe.” She stretched out her legs, making sure to pull the robe over her midriff as she did. “On the other hand, she spoke with the Jotnar and the young one stands outside the town. There were some complications that we should discuss.”
“Oh, that’s something at least, no matter what else happens today,” Faerlen looked pointedly at Melvekior. “Please tell us what you know and why you are here. In exchange, young Melvekior, I will tell you things that will amaze and horrify.”
“I will, Foerlund, or Faerlen as we all know is your actual name,” Melvekior said, sounding more confident than he felt. “Can either of you explain what happened out there. I almost felt possessed, as your kind is like to do, but I was not.”
“You don’t know do you?” Faerlen asked.
“Let’s imagine I don’t know anything. To be perfectly honest, I don’t have time for games that involve me guessing things while other people watch smugly.” Melvekior knew that Mikael was right, people do respond to directness better than beating around the bush. Wasting manners on people with none was a model of futility.
“Your father, Melvekior. I’d be very surprised if he didn’t engineer this whole thing, knowing full well what would happen when you had a stress reaction, wearing both that Mithraic symbol as well as a relic blessed by Tiriel.”
“He’d have a hard time, Faerlen, he’s dead these past few months. I’d be surprised that you knew him, but he seemed to have a whole web of associates of which I knew nothing. I suppose you met him when he brokered the peace between Skollmak and Alpre?”
“I’ve know him a lot longer than that. Melvekior, your father is one of us. The most devious and cynical of us. We are, like you, constantly shocked by our underestimation of him.” Faerlen looked earnest. Melvekior almost laughed at his stupidity.
“My father merely shared a name with the missing Anaurim, Faerlen, I’m surprised that one such as you would be fooled that easily.”
“He was hiding in plain sight, Melvekior, don’t you see,” interrupted Herjen. “While my most recent journey with Ottkatla was more important, sending her to your home was a masterstroke of planning. Your father isn’t the only wily one, he had no idea what was right under his nose.”
“We can’t be sure of that. We might have been playing right into his hands all along,” Faerlen stated emphatically.
“It can’t be, he died. Twice. I was there for both times. He went to a gray land and wandered and then came back with the power of this,” he grabbed hold of the knuckle bone of Tiriel. “He was then attacked by a horrible demon dog sent by Ain-Ordra and died a second time.”
They looked at each other. “That would have caused him to desert the body he was in certainly,” mumbled Faerlen in a distracted fashion, “but no, we would know if he had met his end.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” Melvekior said, “my father was just a man. His passing would have gone unnoticed by the likes of you.” He realized as he said this that he was rapidly losing respect for these divine beings.
“We’ll accomplish nothing arguing. In time you will see that we are correct.”
There was a moan. Ottkatla looked like she was coming round.
Glad to be past that, Melvekior was eager to get to the matter at hand. “My mother, Bhav,” he started.
“There’s more proof,” broke in Herjen, plainly more dogged than Faerlen. “Katerine, as she was known in her early days, was nothing, a waif and one possessed by Sehar, damn her bitch soul. Yet Mikael married her. That’s just too much coincidence. Mikael wanted you to be born. You. You are mortal but the scion of two demigods, has that not occurred to you? He often spoke about the offspring of mortals and divines and wondered whether they would be greater than a God or just greater than a man.”
Melvekior was feeling frustrated. He didn’t know what he’d expected from these two. Possibly some co-operation, like he received from Tiriel. A certain amount of wisdom and grace definitely. What he was getting was a load of obfuscation and misdirection. Whether or not they were being truthful about his father, they were being extremely contrary. He didn’t even have the time now to discuss or contemplate the ramifications of their assertions being true. He needed to protect his mother. At any time, a more powerful version of these two could be taking control of her and whisking her off to Mithras only knows where.
“Enough, I beg of you. Let me keep this brief…”
Again he was interrupted, this time by Ottkatla, “Yes, please do, my head is killing me. Do not forget to explain why there is a nearly naked woman in here and why you yourself are without clothing.”
She waved away his ministrations and seemed to be her old self, though the loss of Herjen plainly wasn’t apparent yet, so he surged onward with his speech.
“Sehar uses my mother’s physical form to search for Anaurim, lost minions of Mithras. Lost since His battle with Apset and presumed imprisoned as He was. She gave up my mother as her avatar when I released Tiriel from his captivity at the hands of Apset and the Three Kings of these lands. Bhav, my mother, fears that Sehar could return at any time and take her from me yet again. I too fear that such a thing could occur so I entreated Tiriel to ask Sehar a boon. That I hunt down the missing Anaurim myself and return them to her.”
“I knew it!” stormed Herjen, her fury apparent. “You will not be able to do so, boy, I will not submit.” She stood,her robe falling open, as open as Ottkatla’s mouth.
“Herjen,” she said in wonder.
“Aye, ‘tis her, I will explain in time.” He stood and held his hands out, “I have no thought of forcing you to return to Mithras, Herjen, I thought it would be something you would be grateful for, but I’m starting to understand that your exile is self-enforced. That should have been obvious to me all along, I see that now.” He was disappointed in himself.
“You are minions of Melvekior’s God?” Ottkatla seemed genuinely confused.
“I’m sorry, Katle, this must seem extremely odd, but it will, in time, make sense. Suffice it to say that Foerlund is really a divine being named Faerlen and Herjen was a similar entity. She resided within your body in order to direct you to take certain actions. I’m on a quest to bring them to their kin, but we’ve run into some complications.” He turned back to the two Blessèd of Mithras.
From behind him he heard a snort. “That’s tame compared to what I’ve been through over the past couple of weeks, but yours does seem more important, so I’ll keep it for later.”
“Thank you Katle,” he knew how difficult this must be for her, especially as she was here face to face with the spirit that had inhabited her body for a decade, that she often felt was a curse. “What now then?” he addressed Faerlen more so than the female messenger.
“How much time do you have before Sehar once again takes your mother, and though it may sound hollow, such practice is an anathema to me.” His lip was curled and his lower jaw set in a grimace.
“Assuming I can find Mikael soon we’ll have almost a year to formulate another solution,” he thought of Aeldryn, his tutor, as he said those last few words. Words he had heard the Alvar sage use many times. Maybe he should seek him out, his advice was always reliable. “Is that your true form, Faerlen? I don’t understand what manner of beings you truly are, but Tiriel and Herjen are,” he struggled for the exact term, “perfect and…”
“I am not. Yes, I see your point.” He didn’t seem to take offense. “We were once mortal, like you, Ottkatla,” it didn’t escape Melvekior that while the shaman was talking to him, he used Katle as his example. “Then we ascended in days long gone, the method and manner a story for a different day. We were given new forms. Forms composed entirely of Aur, the stuff of creation. We can, however, suppress the physical manifestation of this, but it is a strain. Herjen, as you see her t
here in her absolute perfection, had that exact look about her as a mortal, but her limbs were not as fine, nor her breasts as round and her mouth was much bigger. Or so she told me.” Faerlen laughed at this stage, almost wistfully, as though remembering a time long ago. “Our suppressed states are an idealized version of how we looked as mortals. Not only that, as you know, we can inhabit the body of a mortal. Sometimes for a short time and sometimes for a longer period of time. Indeed, if done at the moment of a not too traumatic death, the original shell can be used as long as it would naturally live. Or longer. You might not want to talk about your father, Melvekior, but I’m guessing he tells you of his advanced age but has the body of a hale middle aged man.”
Melvekior nodded, “Yes, but I do not accept that he is one of the Anaurim. It makes no sense.” He knew that he was protesting for no good reason and that in itself pushed him further towards considering that such a far fetched idea might be true.
“So say you. I am an example of such a process. This body was that of a Malannite with a weak heart. He died as a young man, but I healed his weak organ and have lived here for over a century. The body has changed and grown into quite a convincing approximation of my original self. My true form, suppressed, would look far stronger and more attractive, but would be recognizable. I imagine to you, and it would be to me in your place, that this is remarkable and a little difficult to believe. You have seen it with your own eyes and now you understand the truth of it.”
“I know that it will be difficult for you, dear spirit-daughter,” Herjen said to Ottkatla. “We have shared much and though you did not know my true form, you did understand that there was something within you.”
“Now I know, I will not have you back inside me, you can believe that.” Ottkatla said sharply.
“Aye, she is right to be angry, she must feel like she was used to do your dirty work.” Melvekior was angry for her.
“That is precisely how I feel. Why could you not have done those things yourself? I am sure you could have taught Melvekior to fight. You could have brought Mennin here. Why interfere with my life?” Ottkatla was extremely angry, her voice was getting louder with each word she uttered. Her face was red and she was clutching at her tunic. Would she be as formidable without Herjen guiding her hand? He didn’t know and he hoped he wouldn’t find out here. He didn’t even want to know who Mennin was at this time.