by Marin Landis
“I want some of that wine, old man,” he reached out for the cup and jumped, startled, when the codger slapped his hand away. Galtian wasn’t having that. He’d faced a lot today. He’d failed and also took some of the events as victories. If he wanted wine, he was taking wine.
Jumping nimbly on to the table and to the floor on the opposite side, he punched the old man in the side of the head, knocking him to the floor. Paying him no further heed, he scooped up the cup, filled it with Korf and downed the cup in one mouthful. That was better. Vile stuff, but it did the trick. Galtian filled his cup again and smashed the bottle against the wall. Let some other fucker pick that up, he thought, experiencing a bravado he rarely felt outside of his own domain.
“How dare you!” came the thunderous bellow from the long-haired old man. He certainly had a loud voice for such a frail old man lying on the hard stone floor, a bruise rapidly forming on the side of his face. “Do you know who I am?”
Galtian laughed cruelly, drinking his second cup noisily and discarding the drinking vessel carelessly. “I do know actually, yes I do.” He leaned down, putting his face right at the old man’s. “You’re a dead, old, man,” he whispered and shivved the old cunt in the guts. Something caught his eye. An amulet. It was a golden hammer. He ripped it from the dying man’s neck and stood. “Thanks for the necklace, grandad. Sweet dreams.”
Povimus tried to rise but didn’t have the strength, his mouth moving in the words of a prayer, but there was nobody who cared to hear it.
“Finulia next I think,” Galtian the Shiv murmured, feeling pleased with himself. He tied the thin chain of the hammer necklace in a knot and dropped it around his neck.
To one who didn’t understand the tableau before them it would look like a plain case of two divine beings and three humans having an argument. An argument so extreme that one of the humans could barely stand and one of them looked like she had taken a blow to the head, so alien were her responses and movements. To the curious it would be something worth watching. Maybe you’d have to brave too as the hall was deserted. Everyone who had come to watch Melvekior be sanctified as Prince of Maresh Kar, had left. The Guard however hadn’t deserted their post, but, under the watchful and canny eye of Galrath they had herded civilians out of the throne room and now blocked all entrance.
“Here are the options open to you, Shaer. Leave the lad his mother, for good and report back to your Master that we’ll maintain the existing state of play here and He’ll get what He’s always got out of it. I’ve had enough hiding and I’ve had enough of you. You haven’t changed in millennia and I doubt He has, so the other option, while less attractive for all involved should be mentioned.” He looked back at Melvekior and then at Tiriel and Faerlen. “Shaer, we don’t need Him. Do you know that? He’s a mere figurehead and does not have to live or even exist for His teachings and dogma to civilize the world. Your other option is that we will depose Him and replace Him with nothing. Then, of course. You also. Will be nothing.” His final words were a staccato and barely veiled threat.
The dull glow that shone sickeningly in his mother’s eyes grew bright and Melvekior started to experience an awful feeling in his stomach. Not pain from his wounds, but a deep fear, terror that his worst nightmare was coming true. He had lost both parents already and now he faced losing them both again. He tried to rise and failed. The pain in his abdomen was too great. What had Tiriel done to him? What damage had he wrought? Would he ever be whole?
He almost wished for his own death. He had broken vows, sacred oaths he had sworn to Mithras. He was a knight in the Brotherhood of the Hammer and yet he went along with his father’s mad plans to defy the Sun God. His feeling of malaise started to get worse. He turned away from the spectacle before him, from his parents, neither of whom he truly knew and closed his eyes. He felt both Tiriel and Faerlen shout out to him, but he ignored them. There was something else, an almost physical oppression. Not like the pressure that Tiriel had crushed him with, not born of a power of light, but of some ineffable blackness. A thing not of this whole affair and he knew this as that as it stood out as nothing Divine, but something dirty and obscene. It crept into his heart and now started infecting him, spreading to the extremes of his body all the while clouding his mind. He recalled the feeling when Thacritus had descended from the sky in a cloud of ravens. It was similar, but more powerful, more insidious, more ancient.
Melvekior gave into the sadness, the lost hope, and lay down on the ground, neither parent noticing, though one would not care. Faerlen called out to Mikael who heard him not through the battle of wills that occurred twixt him and his one time mate. Even Tiriel, up until then determined to see Melvekior dead like the traitor he believed him to be, cried in dismay. Barely hearing this Melvekior let himself go as one might to sleep when exhausted.
There were voices now, soft, beguiling words and he strained to hear them. And then there was a louder, clearer voice. It was not seductive like the others, but forceful, commanding even. Familiar.
“I know you remember that night, my boy. The Laricon and the dead man who held you down and your friend Egalfas who scared me half to death. It is the same thing all over again. Open your eyes now, for I am with you.”
Melvekior opened his eyes. Aeldryn had spoken to him. Somehow. The dark force was no longer inside him, he could feel its black tendrils withered and retreating. It was still alive out there in the aethyr, but like that Draugr so many years ago, it had no power over him. He made his mind up to grow a Laricon for his chambers in the palace, but first his father was fighting a Goddess in this mother’s body. He almost laughed at his clarity of thought. He stood like he was waking from a wonderful night’s sleep just in time to see Mikael flying through the air, sword pointed firmly at the chest of the Bhav-Sehar entity. It was like a scene from an illustrated children’s book; his father flying, his mother incandescent with a bright blue, her hands each ablaze with a halo of brightest golden light.
He knew he was seeing it differently to any mortals who might be viewing it, not that he thought there would be any, but it was unreal enough to be beyond the capacity of many to comprehend. An ear-splitting clang resounded as Sehar batted away Mikael’s assault with the band of light around her arm and with her other hand formed a spear of pure light, stabbing it directly into Mikael’s chest. He shrugged it off as nothing and shot up a dozen feet and then down again like a bolt from heaven. This time Sehar wasn’t as prepared and although she managed to avoid being skewered, she fell beneath the weight and impetus of Mikael’s dive. Her head hit the ground hard and blood started to flow.
“Father, no!” Melvekior shouted.
Mikael took no heed as he rolled on top of Sehar and smote her with a mailed fist. The crack of bone was audible. Sehar tried to speak but merely managed to bubble out blood and spit. She struck out with her rapidly fading haloed fists. Mikael caught her wrist and twisted, faster than Melvekior could make out. Another splintering sound. All fight left her then and she slumped, chest heaving, her head to the side, her eyes rolling. Melvekior dashed forward and kneeled beside her.
“Mother?” he whispered. Mikael had ceased his assault for now and was shouting something intelligible. A foreign language maybe.
The eyes of Bhav tried to focus on him and he could see his mother there and not just the raving Goddess. She croaked something at him, but he could not hear. He leaned closer.
“Mithras comes, whelp, it is time to face your treachery.”
It was not his mother. He recoiled and scuttled back on his arse and elbows. Mikael was still shouting. Scrambling to his feet, he noticed Tiriel and Faerlen still both standing, looking out of place. As immortal beings they were children as compared to the power wielded by the fallen Goddess and the ancient warlord, but now something greater than all of them approached. He could hear it.
That was what Mikael was shouting. “Get those guards away, son, they will be destroyed.”
A rhythmic crashing was getting lou
der. Like a giant was smashing mountain sized rocks together, louder than thunder and terrifying. Why was Mithras entering in this fashion, why not just appear?
As if Mikael could read his mind he shouted again. “Clear the path, Melvekior, else your men die needlessly, the Sun God comes.”
Melvekior ran with a speed born of desperation. His men must not die. He didn’t know them, but they had been loyal. Galrath more than any other. He would not fail them like he had failed his parents.
“Galrath, take the men away, something comes from the North,” this was his best guess as that is where the sound seemed to originate. “Clear the path!”
Galrath issued some commands at the men who hadn’t already started running and then they all did.
Melvekior could smell smoke and the noise of a riot, but wasn't’ concerned about the state of the nation at this exact time. “Galrath, go!” he shouted in the voice of the man who didn’t move.
“Lord, I will not desert you. You did not desert me.” He referred to the Draugr in the dungeons.
He felt tears unbidden rising in his eyes. In the midst of this chaos, a simple gesture moved him beyond all others. Was he becoming hysterical with stress?
“My friend,” he said, “you have done more than you know. What comes cannot be stopped better that one of us survive to keep Maresh-Kar out of the hands of the avaricious. You have my regency. Now go.” Galrath looked shocked. “Go, by the Gods or I’ll arrest you for treason. I’m still the Prince.”
“Lord!” he saluted and then gripped Melvekior’s shoulders. “Friend, live through this!” and then he was off, running to the side gate where his men had gone. It was an eerie scene. No person in sight where normally there would be dozens. The rumbling of the strange booming almost too loud to bear and the shaking of the ground which surely announced the arrival of Mithras.
Melvekior ran back into the hall, spending the time to close off the palace to intruders, knowing it would make no difference to a God.
Mikael was pacing. “We face him here,” he shouted at Faerlen who merely nodded.
Tiriel seemed to be in shock. He hovered a foot off the ground, his face a picture of misery.
The clashing of stone and shaking of the earth was growing rapidly.
“He comes,” shouted Mikael above it all. A shriek of laughter could be heard from Sehar and the great doors to the throne room, each easily a ton in weight, blew from their hinges into the hall, slamming into the walls of the side, shaking the room. Stones fell and masonry cracked and dust rose, obscuring their view. They didn’t need to see clearly to understand what was happening. A figure loomed through the smashed doorway. As tall as Tiriel and half again as wide. He had presumably moved extremely fast to get to their location but now had slowed down, but approached them quickly enough for Mikael to move rapidly into a defensive stance, Melvekior, weaponless and wanting to hold his Halnir, but the thought of it seemed ludicrous considering against whom they all strove.
“What in the name of Garm’s shitting arse is that?” Mikael’s vulgarity tore Melvekior from his brief reverie as the figure hove into full view.
It was not Mithras.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mithras
“Poison is a girl’s best friend.” - Runild the Librarian
It stood, motionless now that it had reached its destination. More correctly it would be “he”, but none present seemed to know that. It answered to no prompting and didn’t move when Mikael prodded it with the sword with the name Melvekior couldn’t remember.
“Looks like nobody’s coming to yer rescue, Shaer,” Mikael crowed, at a loss so turning his ire back to his defeated ex-lover.
“The greatest hubris is often manifested by those on the brink of destruction.” A voice quoted the Maru. Melvekior spun. It was in fact THE voice, the author of the Maru and the being to whom he had sworn his life and his blade.
The light that surrounded the majestic figure wasn’t alike to the Aurim he had seen before. It was a golden glow, much akin to the Sun at its rising. His form was, as His Anaurim, tall and perfectly formed. He had hair of bright yellow and a strange tint to his skin; darker than Melvekior’s but not so dark as Herjen’s. His features were fine, his nose aquiline, his brow strong. The eyes of Mithras were, surprisingly, a dark color and there was no glow to them. Was that an affectation of the others? Nothing would surprise him at that stage.
The urge to prostrate himself was overwhelming and he was drawn to bend at the knee though he knew this was no God but a man, an ascended and powerful mortal. He started to walk towards the Sun God, his neck bending as he did so.
“Hold, son,” the commanding tones of his father stopped him where he was. “That is a trick. You do not feel that way naturally. All in this room are denying that compulsion at this very moment.”
Mithras’s eyes burned into his. He was determined to meet his stare, but could not for more than a few seconds. A mixture of shame and fear took him, no unnatural feeling but how he felt to be confronted by his God and not feel appropriately awed. Instead he was feeling angry. Angry that his mother lay, possessed by another’s spirit, at the feet of his father. Angry that he had been lied to for his whole life. Now, he was angry that Mithras had tried to enforce His will upon him and that he was powerless to ignore it without his father’s assistance.
He looked away and the Sun God turned his sight upon another. The stone creature that had recently entered the hall.
“What is that doing here?” Mithras demanded with disgust in his manner, his lip curled in a sneer.
“You shall see, Maedhras,” Mikael responded cryptically. Melvekior suppressed a smile. His father didn’t know any better than Mithras what it was but he used the ignorance of others like a weapon. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was enjoying seeing the interaction between beings so incredibly powerful. When one compared them to each other there were the same as run of the mill people going about their lives. The jealousy, the spite, the anger and passion. They saw each other as equals, he was starting to see them as inferior. They were ruled by their emotions. Revenge had kept his father and Mithras going for centuries. Sehar was fueled by love for Mithras and Tiriel acted out of devotion to his Lord. Faerlen and Herjen by fear. How could his entire world be playthings for spoiled children? This is how he felt and it must have shown on his face for his father noticed and nodded, apparently pleased.
“How did you get it to serve you?” Mithras seemed almost enthralled. He took a step toward it and then thought better of it and stepped back. That was another difference Melvekior noticed. He did not float like Faerlen and Tiriel. He knew that Mikael would eschew such frippery, but surely Mithras did not spend time enough from his Halls to find walking and standing preferable to being where he wanted in the blink of an eye or flying as Tiriel did. As presumably they all could.
“My son,” Mikael swept his arm towards Melvekior. “Do ye not remember, Maedhras, of that we spoke of those many years ago following the sacking of Rhoda? How we have become greater than that which bore us, and we could spawn such get as to overcome even us. I have done so, yet in doing so I have changed. That is his real power and he has yet to understand it. Such turmoil has been mine for years after millennia of surety.”
“You have grown soft, Miklos. It hurts me not to destroy you now that I see this. You seek the company of abominations and place your faith in rumors, blind to your feelings for one child over so many others. This too will make no difference to my plan, Miklos. I will have you and all of these to enact my purification. Behold and tell me that it is not attractive to you.”
Melvekior could not see for very briefest of moments and then saw, or more accurately, dreamed. In his mind, and he could not escape from its vision, a figure, a shape, formed of men and women. They held each others outstretched limbs in a pentagonal shape, the center of which was a filmy substance that shimmered and glowed with an unearthly light. The shape floated in blackness with pinpricks of light
behind and then another lone figure arose. A nude man with golden hair. In the blackness of space he rose and as he rose behind him the Sun followed. Even that bright orb could not eclipse his majesty. His environment, impossibly harsh and distant could not have sway on this epitome of ascendance and perfection. He rose until he could be seen, from Melvekior’s perspective, through the five sided Anaurim creation. He could see now that the five figures were the Angels of Mithras, from the most ancient of apocrypha, those books that until now he had not been able to understand. That formed the smallest part of his religious education. The books that spoke of Mithras’s quintet of devoted followers that dwelt with him in His Halls and whose existence lay in half a dozen copies all in the vaults beneath the Monastery of the Hammer.
His view point shifted slightly to that of the Sun God as He peered through the center of the angelic pentagon. There was something else in the firmament, a blue and white sphere and the moment he saw it a range of emotions flooded him. Shock, at first when recalling what Aeldryn had told him on a number of occasions but he hadn’t really been able to comprehend. That the land on which he lived was a tiny part of a huge rock that floated through an indescribably huge ocean of blackness. He tried but he couldn’t see how that could possibly be true. Now he understood that it was. Secondly he felt awe, that he was such a small part of a greater whole and that in fact even those he considered important were nigh as unimportant on a scale such as he witnessed at that moment. Finally, he felt fear, a crawling sort of dread that suffused his entire being. Mithras meant to end life on the sphere he called home. And this was a demonstration of how he would do it.
As he watched, with ever increasing uneasiness, he felt the power building and a thin stream of fire burst forth from the outstretched hands of the being from whose vantage he experienced this horror. The lance of flame shot through the center of the shape formed by His servants and grew in magnitude far beyond anything Melvekior could have imagined. It burned with the fury of a thousand suns and roiled and turned as it sped like a fiery spear cast by a hero from the beginning of time. At a velocity unfathomable it tore the void apart as it ripped and slammed into the spherical paradise that he knew was the world on which they all stood now.