Once Were Men

by Marin Landis

  The giant ball of rock and water and clouds seemed to shudder and slowly, but at the same time rapidly, the blue disappeared, the white faded and all that remained was a charred blackened ball with a faint undercurrent of orange. Melvekior knew that his physical self was weeping, but wherever his mind was simply recoiled from the destruction and he had no option but to watch further.

  The Sun God, satisfied with His handiwork raised His arms in a grand conjuration and vanished from his senses only to reappear a fraction of a second later as a speck on the lightly glowing sphere. Then there was a sound like a thousand serpents hissing as a deluge of water, from nowhere, washed over Melvekior’s destroyed world. Then faster, and ever faster, clouds started to form and the ball started to spin. Before long the world became again populated by insects and birds and animals, but nothing even faintly man-like.

  “Lo, I beheld what was mine creation and I was satisfied!” Mithras quoted again from the Maru, from the story of the creation of the world, which Melvekior knew now He did not do. He realized that Mithras was calling on older legend to say how existence came into being. Aeldryn had told him that this story was not strictly correct, it a mere allegory of how the world had come to be, but was told in a way that would not confuse lesser intellects. Like Mithras apparently. Melvekior almost laughed. The whole situation was too abhorrent though. His tutor had tried to explain that what he experienced as time passing was a state that was not real, but how his physical intellect interpreted the true nature of reality. It was as confusing as it ever was so he stopped thinking about it.

  Here was Mithras’s grand plan. Destroy the world to remake it. Without people.

  “Not without people, son of Miklos. Beings such as yourself will be granted an opportunity once we have seen how they may be of the most benefit.” He spun to identify where Mithras was as He spoke, but where before there was a lightless emptiness now there was a ruined throne room and five divine beings. All looked aghast, save Sehar who had a small grin on Bhav’s face. Even the usually serene face of Tiriel, unemotional even when trying to crush the life out of Melvekior, was twisted with trepidation.

  Mikael looked furious. “You will not do it! I will not let you,” he bellowed.

  “You cannot stop me, Miklos. You confounded me before, but that time is done.” The armored and human-looking Sun God smiled radiantly at Mikael.

  “The Warrior is not here, she is part of your plan,” Melvekior’s father responded quickly.

  “She is close, I will retrieve her in due time. She travels outside of, but with, her vessel. I fail to understand how you thought you would elude me, Faerlen. Maybe you no longer wanted to. Did the lure of her beauty fade after a few thousand couplings or did you just come to realize that there is more to eternal life than hiding in caves amongst unwashed animals.”

  Faerlen did nothing but look to the floor. Melvekior was furious at this. Ottkatla and her folk were no animals. His father was right. These people had forgotten their roots. Mithras wanted to destroy all life on their world so more proof wasn’t really necessary, but the scale of it was hard to digest. This made it much more personal. The awe and fear he had felt since realizing that he was in the presence of Divinity was fading and being replace with anger and frustration.

  What did he mean that Herjen was close? Ottkatla was with her and he couldn’t see her harmed. With a sharp shock he realized that he was more concerned about her safety than his mother’s. He came back to mindfullness with a jolt, noticing Mithras looking his way with a cruel smile on is face and the God faced Mikael once more. Then it was gone. Did he imagine it? Mithras had paid him little attention up until then.

  “It matters not, skrael,” his father raged. Melvekior had not heard that word before, but it sounded like an insult. Mikael was becoming angry, his face reddening, his knuckled white on the grip of the sword he wielded. “You shall not have me!” He swung the sword above his head and slammed it two-handed into the floor , cracking the stone and causing Melvekior alone to stumble. The rock creature moved not at all and the others seemed sure footed, save for Bhav-Sehar who lay, almost enraptured on the floor. She hadn’t said a word since the arrival of her Master.

  Mithras reached behind him and drew from his back a spear composed entirely of golden light. There were similarities to the lance of fire He had sent to destroy the world in His vision. “This has been a long time coming, old friend,” He sneered.

  Mikael moved with a confusing speed. He seemed almost in two places at once, his sword high in the air, once there, then in an instant on Mithras. The sword held aloft was a feint, for he shoulder barged Mithras from his feet and he slammed backwards into the altar and grunted, the air rushing from his body. Much like any mortal would do. Mikael then was on Him immediately, kicking Him mightily in the ribs, the blow lifting him from the ground, into the air and to the floor some feet away. His spear dropped from His hands and vanished into the air. Mithras tried to rise, but Mikael was there again and he swiped the flat of his sword against His face, blood spraying, Mithras’s neck twisting and face contorting grimly.

  Along with a feeble attempt to crawl forward He tried also to mutter some words through broken lips and a presumably dislocated jaw. The Key, Mikael, Warlord of Heaven as told in the ancient books, brought his mailed foot down heavily on the side of the head and neck of the Sun God. Mithras collapsed to the ground.

  Could it be that easy?

  A wail spewed from the mouth of Bhav, still Sehar’s voice and grew louder.

  “Silence, He yet lives. We must but decide his fate now.” Mikael looked more furious than ever, his voice was uneven and he breathed heavily.

  “None may decide my fate!”

  All eyes went from Mikael to the battered body of their erstwhile leader.

  The figure of Mithras rose. The body broken, the spirit indomitable. Melvekior could feel a cold wind starting up and it felt the same as the vast expanse of blackness from the vision. Mithras held out his arms and His body flew from Him, gore spattering the others present, leaving behind a golden being. Much like Tiriel’s spirit figure, but golden in color. Sun incarnate. The feeling that he must debase himself before the God returned and he gritted his teeth in the effort to remain upstanding.

  He reached out His golden hand and Bhav with the spirit of Sehar rose into the air.

  “Thou hast attacked me, faithless Miklos and defied my will, thou who didst swear to uphold it.” The voice of the God was not merely physical but invaded his mind and reverberated through his entire being. The power present was palpable. Thou hast harmed those who have been true to their word and their Master’s edicts. Whilst thy martial prowess is significant, thou canst not stand again my wrath. Nor wilt thou makest the attempt.” He reached out his other hand and Melvekior felt an irresistible pull as he was lifted into the air, his arms pinned to his sides.

  “No!” came the cry from Mikael. The heart rending cry was more poignant than Bhav-Sehar’s when she thought Mithras was dead. He started to understand then what he meant to Mikael, to what lengths his father had gone to prepare him for some future he alone guessed at.

  Melvekior struggled but he felt like a child in the grip of a monster. He looked over to his mother who wasn’t similarly gripped. He was relieved briefly, for he thought the God might take his fury out on her but the grasp upon her seemed almost gentle. In the palm of a great hand she lay, close to unconsciousness, a rapt look upon her face as she gazed, eyes half-open at the golden being holding her aloft. Mithras then removed his hand and she stayed floating in mid air, her back now arched, the same beatific look upon her lovely face. He then reached behind Him for His spear which materialized in his hand.

  “So help me, Maedhras, you dog, if you continue this action it will spell your doom!” Mikael shouted, the sound cracking the altar that Povimus had put in the throne room.

  Mithras only laughed. “Tiriel, restrain him whilst I remove all traces of his progeny,” and pulled his arm back, the
lance aimed directly at Melvekior.

  Mikael launched himself at Mithras, his sword in his anger discarded. Tiriel was on him though, impeding his progress. Mithras’s aim surely perfect, Melvekior saw his own death approaching for the second time this day. How many other men in history died on their coronation day? It was ill-fated. No crown would ever touch his head again, he vowed and then laughed. He would be dead.

  “He is brave, Miklos,” thundered the God scornfully. “He laughs in the face of his own demise. I have no thought to save him though, no more than thou hadst when betraying me!”

  And he flung the lance unerringly accurately, with the precision of a God and the strength of a force of nature. Melvekior looked at the last moment to his mother, her face regarding him spitefully and mockingly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Others

  “Neither Kings nor Gods are important. Obedience is the goal.” - Gravandr

  The heat from the lance of Mithras wasn’t like a normal heat. It wasn’t like putting the blade of a spear in a fire for twenty minutes and then shoving it in someone’s abdomen. It was the burning of one’s soul. Only a creature without a soul could withstand such a weapon and there were no such creatures in existence.

  So Mithras believed.

  Had He even wondered about such a thing? More than likely, He had not. It did occur to Him though when the trajectory of his spear of light was interrupted by the sudden intervention of the rock being that had until then done nothing but stand motionless. He had seen such things in His dreams and knew them to be an ill omen, but He knew not how.

  He was starting to understand.

  Melvekior thought he would be deafened permanently, so concussive was the sonic shock.

  At least I’m not dead, was his first thought. His father’s bellow was loud, as loud as anything else that day up until then. The cry of the God, more surprise than anything. Then incomprehensible rage and there was also something else present in that screech of fury.

  Then, loudest of all. Tiriel. All eyes were upon him at that moment. Melvekior would remember that exact moment for his whole life.

  Mikael was reaching across Tiriel’s shoulder, towards him, Melvekior, a look of anguish upon his face, changing rapidly to wide-eyed astonishment. Behind him stood Faerlen, watching, not making any moves to support anyone. Tiriel himself, having engaged Mikael in a grappling sort of combat, had prevented him from rescuing Melvekior, but now was letting forth a horrid, soul-wrenching scream. At first glance it looked as though he wore a hood, an executioners black cowl, but it was not, the darkness through his body of light was spreading. Rapidly. And behind him, there was more darkness, but it was a living being.

  Melvekior had to blink. It was he, Sjarcu, again appearing from nowhere. Again the wielder of a weapon. Again having buried that weapon to the hilt in an unsuspecting combatant. Was he friend or foe? It was impossible to tell. He felt a tug at his arm. It was a woman, also from nowhere. He recognized her but couldn’t say from where in the confusion.

  She mouthed something at him and he pulled back from her. He could move. He looked at her questioningly, the howl of pain from Tiriel still drowning out every other noise. She pulled him again and then he felt himself propelled headlong after her, another arm at his back. They burst through the doorway, from where hours, minutes, ago he had seen the man with the ax come and the other with the strange mouth weapon.

  He experienced inside, more than heard or felt with his physical senses, Mithras in his unfettered madness. A keening laughter, tinged with madness and an almighty flash and wave of heat, both physical and ethereal. The last thing he knew was the return of the vision of the angelic pentagon and Mikael was no part of it, but in his place a thin, dark skinned woman, her face a mask of viciousness and spite.

  It was bright and he closed his eyes against the glare. He could hear a voice and he could feel pain. He lay on the most uncomfortable bed he had ever experienced so he decided to get up. The voice grew louder as he woke up fully and braved the glare. It all came flooding back as he rose and panic flooded his mind. Before him was a magnificent being of pure light hovering a foot off the ground and looking down on him. His fright intensified with the thought that Mithras had returned but recognition hit him. It was his father, as he had never seen his father.

  Similar to Mithras his figure of light was a golden color. Mikael’s was darker, a more smoky sort of gold color and in his right hand was a sword, his eyes though were his eyes, the eyes of his father, not the eyes of a God or an angel.

  “My son,” he spoke in his own voice, much to Melvekior’s relief. “You see me in my ultimate form. Much, some, of my failure as a father has been due to a reluctance to show you this world and it has come to pass prematurely.” Mikael spoke with his formal accent, only infrequently betraying his rough roots. “My body has once again been torn from me and I stand devoid of flesh. The search for a suitable replacement is an onerous task.”

  “Father is that your way of telling me that you are leaving for an indeterminate amount of time? Why all this charade? You could have told me so much of this to no ill effect.” Melvekior was still a little groggy but felt compelled to speak his mind in what would probably be a short window.

  “You have seen what entitlement does to people, even the most willful. I,” he paused, his emotionless countenance betraying not the reason, “didn’t want you to think yourself an experiment. I love you more than any other, like a father truly should, but loving another sometimes requires sacrifice. Often the sacrifice of not being loved in return. I was, and still am, ready to make that sacrifice. There is more in your soul than any know; that too I wished to hide. Not just from you, but from others. We six, and now you, are not the only beings capable of exhibiting power. In fact, I think we have seen a glimpse of one of them. The female in the vision who replaced me. I know her not and will discover her identity soon.”

  “I can reveal her identity now, as could Runild were she conscious…” the interruption came from behind Melvekior. Sjarcu, the Talvar, not as black as he was, covered with the dust of the rubble around them, as were they all. Melvekior took briefly in the ruin of his palace. It was almost complete and he saw people in the distance running to and fro, but he paid them no close heed at this time.

  “I’m awake!” a female voice sounded. “I’m just stuck and was listening to the conversation, though I cannot see those talking. And my leg is killing me where that little monster scraped me!”

  A few seconds of searching discovered Runild, her face white, hopefully just from the dust, pinned beneath large shards of rock. Several minutes of hefting saw her free and she stood unaided, any damage confined to her pride and clothing as her tunic and leggings had a jagged rent exposing her entire left leg. “The Gods of Luck have been with you,” laughed Sjarcu mirthlessly.

  “After what we have seen today, the sight of you is still amazing,” she walked toward Mikael. “May I touch you?”

  He stood, if stood is right term for floating a foot off the ground, without reaction. “It is not advisable, Runild. Though when I secure a new form and have grown into it somewhat, I’d be happy to accept such an invitation.”

  “Father! Even as an ascended being you are…”

  “A man. Yes, it is true. She takes no offense. Ottkatla is nearby, maybe you and her should have some alone time. Though her bodyguard may object.”

  “Ottkatla! I must…”

  “There will be time for that,” Mikael interrupted him a second time in as many seconds. “Let us return to the matter at hand. Dark One, Librarian, who is the woman in the vision?”

  “It is Surakoita. A legend to my people, in fact she speaks for Sjahothe who is the closest our people have to a God. Though I am starting to believe that the things she has told me are not true.” Sjarcu trailed off here, some internal thought evidently plaguing him.

  “Sjahothe does exist, but I doubt in the manner you believe him to. Another matter for another da
y. Runild, how does a bookish woman such as yourself know of her? Have you a tome with such revelation?”

  It was Runild’s turn to laugh, though it ended in a coughing fit. She waved away attempts sympathy from Melvekior, citing “dust.”

  “I am pleased to note that my identity is hidden from even you, Lord Martelle.” She grinned. “Surakoita, or the Faceless One, was, is, my teacher and mentor in the Church of Ain-Ordra. She is chief amongst Her assassins. In the spirit of revelation, I will admit to being a spy. An occupation I am considering surrendering, though let me make it clear, I was spying on King Alpre in Magnar.”

  “Doubtless, your order operates in all cities.” Mikael responded. “I thought you a mere Librarian, Aeldryn would doubtless chastise me for using the word ‘mere’, though how come you to be mixed up in this?”

  Melvekior’s mind raced. It was unlike his father to flower up his language with fripperies. Why mention Aeldryn? On purpose, or was it him being charming to an attractive woman?

  “My target was Tiriel. I assume the real reason was to make space for Surakoita in that thing’s plan. I had no idea that Mithras was such a fiend, I thought Him to be a shining example of purity and the like. And to think I was working for Ain-Ordra but in fact for Mithras is mind-boggling.”

  “Were it not for Mithras you may have succeeded. Never have I seen such torment in an Aunaurim, Dark One,” he turned his body to face Sjarcu. “I would suggest that you say your prayers but you believe us not to be Gods, and wisely so. There are those greater than us and with them you may find succor. For now, son, it is clear that Mithras must be stopped at all costs and while I can be of limited assistance, seek out Hestallr. Also, the Jotnar with your beloved is proof against Mithras, but has an agenda none can know. They approach now.”