by Marin Landis
“I feel enjoined to your purpose, Abbot. Any opinion of me is inconsequential outside of my circle. I didn’t seek out any throne and I would feel no surprise if Hestallr didn’t push King Alpre into making me head of Maresh-Kar state to open up the door for the Church.”
Ushatr tried to look serious but broke into a smile. “You are one of the few brave enough to accuse Hestallr of such deviousness, but you are correct. While I am pleased to see you, Brother and your actions mark you a hero here, what is your purpose?” He helped himself to another flagon of cider, peering over at Melvekior’s nearly full mug and Ottkatla’s almost untouched drink. “Try it, girl, you’ll like it.”
She looked like she had been miles away and nodded, taking a long drunk. “It’s…refreshing.”
“Aye, ye’ll be refreshed shortly.” He responded with a laugh, a laugh which was becoming more frequent and loud. Melvekior wondered how many drinks he’d had before they arrived.
“That’s the thing, Abbot, I don’t know what to do. My purpose is to stop Mithras’s mad plan, rescue my mother and also to keep the reputation of the Church intact while promoting its ideals as well I can. My next step is what I was hoping you could help with. How can I get to Mithras? How can I defeat him?”
“Were your father not divest of his mortal shell I am sure he could have guided ye, he must have been grievously hurt to need to lick his wounds in private. Ye cannot get to Mithras, lest ye are Hestallr and can climb a sheer mountain with yer hands. Or can travel such as the Varalus. I cannot but maybe ye should seek the Aelvar hero, Aeldryn. The one that brought out all of this valor in ye. He might know a way.”
There was that laugh again, mocking this time and why did he accent the word ‘hero’ like that. Aeldryn was no hero, but a scholar he. Or was that the whole truth?
“Aeldryn was, is, a Brother of the Hammer? That much was clear when he came here?” Melvekior had never stopped to ask or saw an opening to do so.
“Aye, he is, a Brother to ye.” More cider down that gigantic hatch, his beard sopping.
“But how? He believes not in the supremacy of Mithras. He in fact told me many times of the futility of trusting Gods.”
“That he would. And that ye must take up with him. It is not for me to answer for him.” He sat back on his bed, looking for all the world like he was drunk. Melvekior had never seen Ushatr drunk, but he took that as a cue to leave.
“I’ll visit my brothers briefly, if that’s acceptable.”
“Of course, you don’t have to ask my permission. You might want to rethink taking her and fer daylight’s sake, don’t take the Jotnar; that will confuse everyone.”
“Ottkatla will be fine,” Melvekior knew the advice came from concern for her, but he secretly wanted to show her off.
“I will, Lord. Thank you for your concern.” She kissed the Silver Bear on his cheek and he reddened. Ushatr, scarier than Mithras and all his angels, blushed.
“Get ye away, I have thinkin’ to do.”
The visit to the Monastery was totally different to what he thought it would be. Of course his brothers were happy to see him. They either knew not or cared not about the events in Maresh city and none made reference to them. They drank beer and laughed at stories and accepted Ottkatla as one of them.
He was surprised at the last. Never had he seen a woman here before but when he asked Hartlo, who seemed fatter and more of a mischief maker than ever, the response was laughter at his expense.
“What woman in their right mind would come here?” They sat in the dining hall, Hartlo across from him, Ottkatla by his side, all his brothers here and there. Nuvian laughed and a few more turned to listen to this conversation. “All you’ve got here is a smelly crew of virgins. While my hammer would ensure her physical safety, not one could endure the feeble exhortations of love that would spring from each one of these boys!”
“I’ve been married!” protested Sweyn, as indeed he had.
“I’ve seen what you call a manhood, it’s as…” Nuvian stopped. He looked sheepish. “I beg your pardon, Ottkatla, I was about to be coarse.”
Hartlo beamed. “A gentleman, that’s what ye are, Nuvian.” Every monk in earshot laughed. He was no gentleman.
They spent the night there, Hartlo giving up his cell for Ottkatla. There was no suggestion that Melvekior share with her and there was not even a warning to the others from the rotund weapons master. These were the finest men he had ever known; loyal, decent, true friends. He fell asleep with a drunken smile on his face.
In the morning they saw him off, knowing only that he traveled far and had some mission Ushatr had entrusted him with. They warned Ottkatla off him a hundred different ways and he vowed to return soon. They dropped hints of something big, but said that Ushatr wouldn’t tell them until it was happening, so he should make it back for then.
He felt a sadness he didn’t expect when leaving. He didn’t belong in a palace with responsibilities. He needed adventure, to learn and do something worthwhile. He needed companionship and brotherhood, not servants and obsequiousness. He wasn’t interested in a life where there was no challenge or where his achievements were mere reflections of others.
Aeldryn would know what to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Shortcut
“My decision to return their sovereignty was nothing to do with the exiled Prince and his concubine, but everything to do with wanting less enemies at my doorstep.” - Calra Alpre
They traveled by night. The journey wasn’t long but they didn’t want to be seen by anyone, suspicions were rife. Besides, night suited them.
The Talvar youth, dressed in plain clothing suited to a peasant were it not entirely black, and the young librarian were an unlikely pair. Thrown together by a mentor that had betrayed them and the ideals she had raised them with, now determined to confront their mistress.
In their world, knowledge meant the upper hand and the question they asked themselves, and each other, more than once was, “Does she know what we know?”
If they were expected, it would make it that much more difficult to reach Surakoita, let alone confront and defeat her. If that was possible in the first place. She had trained them both, so presumably was as skilled if not more so than either. What neither of them spoke aloud was their concern that if she was going to be recruited by Mithras, the Sun God, it would be almost impossible to stop her. Neither of them would back down from this challenge, no matter the perceived odds.
Runild was still, not that she would admit it, a little shaken from her encounter with Galtian Morevem. She had underestimated him and he had used that to slide in behind her while she fought his men. He had slashed the back of her leg, inexpertly, but with a poisoned blade. He wasn’t to know that as a Shadow Assassin, many common poisons were ineffective against her. Similarly she knew she had been poisoned but its nature. Her panic had devastated her and the thought of being killed by an unseen enemy terrified her. Fortunately, her immune system, strengthened by years of childhood inoculation, had fought off the venom relatively quickly. Her mind had not recovered as rapidly, self-doubt creeping in. None knew of her fear of snakes and spiders and now she understood the basis of that fear. Disease, corruption and poison. Her tools. And her dread. She spoke none of this to her companion, for he had his own internal struggles.
Sjarcu’s honor and that of his people were at stake. Surakoita was Talvar. She had raised him to despise the Gods, to rail against them and to actively interfere with the spread of religion amongst his people. He had been extensively trained to do just that. To find out that his entire reason, his purpose, was a sham, infuriated him. Surakoita was not just a lackey to Mithras, but she was the Faceless One of the Shadow Assassins, an order dedicated to furthering the causes of Ain-Ordra, the Goddess of death. Her role in Talvar society was to protect it from the depredations of the Gods, to secure the scientific basis of their small but robust society. The head of the Shrike, the shadowy group of freedom fighters founded by Sj
ahothe, the First Denier and a traitor to that as well. It was more than honor, it was revenge. Sjarcu believed he would be good at revenge and felt a strange satisfaction in knowing that there was not only something in his life that truly energized him, but that it was noble and proper vengeance. All his love for Surakoita, almost a mother to him, had transformed into regret and a desire for her demise.
“What will you say to her?” he asked Runild as they followed the road, keeping a close eye on the road ahead and a keen ear on the road behind. It was barely a road compared to the streets in and around Maresh city and there was little maintenance apparent. Few traveled to and from Fallset, trade was restricted to foodstuffs and most of the residents had no purpose in leaving. The religions represented in Fallset weren’t the kind that attracted pilgrims and had good reasons for staying away from the more concentrated areas. The last temple of Ain-Ordra that existed openly in Uth-Magnar was vandalized so frequently that it was a terrific failure and had to be abandoned after the death by stoning of a priestess. The average citizen didn’t like human sacrifice.
“Nothing. Sjarcu, I talk only when it furthers my goals. I’m not going to be able to talk the Faceless One to death. I am looking forward to seeing her face though. With its cold, dead eyes.” She laughed a laugh Sjarcu had heard only once before; when she was kicking him in the ribs after rendering him helpless with some choking powder. No enmity existed within him for that episode. He had been unprepared and smitten by her womanly charms. He still was. She was a beautiful woman, and he a virile young man. A virile young man without a clue how to approach a woman or any clue what to do once you had made the approach. This was something Surakoita had not prepared him for. Previously he had imagined her the epitome of feminine beauty, with her angular features, hard body and piercing black eyes. All other females seemed sluggish or weak by comparison. Until Runild. She was vicious and focused, yet soft and smelled wonderful. He knew he wanted to touch her but not really why. Of course he wouldn’t try.
“Agreed. We should take no chances.” During his training he rarely faced off directly against Surakoita, but her speed and knowledge of combat was second to none. Certainly she was more than a match for him. Against two of them, in the right circumstances, she might fall to direct force. More comfortable, for both of them, was the indirect approach.
“This entire journey is a chance. We intend to confront and fight the head of the Shadow Assassins, a high ranking Priestess of Ain-Ordra. I have to quite possible commune with Death Herself in the form of the First Dead, Kvalishskaiinetta.” She shook her head and set her jaw grimly. “Aye, it’s a chance. A chance we will be killed.”
“I believe we will not. Take heart.” He stopped his stealthy movement and softly gripped her wrist. “I hear something,” he spelled out in the Petuhe, the silent language of touch. He had never spoken of it with her, but the Shrike were adept in its use and he assumed too would be this Shadow Assassin. Both were the same group, he believed, led by the same person and used for the same purpose.
She in turn stopped and gripped his wrist. “Lead us to it until I signal.”
He moved to the front, she the rear and held onto his arm as he fell into a crouch, the better to remain silent. To her credit, she moved almost utterly without noise, her soft furred slippers not merely warm, but ideal for sneaking.
“I hear it, a fire.” She signaled by tapping a definite rhythm into this wrist. He didn’t stop until a few moments later when the source of the sound became visible.
A campfire, around which two men slept and one kept watch. Two on bedrolls, blankets spread over them. The third, his back against a large pack, bare feet near the fire, the smell of roasted meat in the air. Sjarcu, though he had never eaten meat, felt the pangs of hunger. Plainly this man was supposed to be watching the camp but was poor at his allotted task. He was a hard looking man, his face scarred, the white lines stark in the firelight, a sword lay on the ground near his hand.
Merely travelers, nothing for us
Travelers? Here?
We travel do we not?
We are suspicious, as are they, and there is someone else here?
Three only.
No. At least one more. Female.
Sjarcu looked around the campsite more deliberately.
There. Behind the tent material.
The night was dry and it wasn't uncommon that on nights like this a person would sleep beneath the stars and hang their tent up for a few hours. This was not the case here, believed Sjarcu, as he angled for a better look. He beckoned Runild over and grabbed her wrist.
You see? Captives.
He indicated two figures, bound at the hands and the ankles, heads covered with sacks. An occasional wriggle could be seen, betraying their not-dead status. The canvas had been arranged in such a way as to limit their visibility from the road. Plainly they hadn't expected anyone to be sneaking through the woods at night.
Let us free them and slay these brigands, Runild signed.
We should ascertain the full story first, Sjarcu responded. He liked women being tied up no more than Runild, but he wouldn't slaughter men who might be on perfectly reasonable business. It didn't seem likely but what harm in gaining more information. His Talvar upbringing promoted gathering facts before impulse.
He stepped into the light of the campfire, the man sitting with his feet towards the fire, jumped up, his sword in his hand. "Up, up you dogs!" and then, "What do you want here, demon." He glanced quickly at Runild who also stepped from the shadows of the surrounding trees.
The other two men, roused quickly by their comrade, scrambled up, also both scooping up short swords from beside their bedrolls. They stood silent, breathing heavily, their adrenaline up.
"It's a black elf, Manna," said one of them. Sjarcu was unsure whether that was the name of the first man or just a generic reference.
The first man peered in the low light. "It's all the same, what's it want here?"
"I seek no fight, friend. Nor would it go well for you to use your weapons." He held his hands up, weaponless, though the sleeper who spoke flinched. "I mean no harm. Had I wished I would have cut your throat from behind and stabbed these two in their sleep."
"What we want is to know why you have those two tied up behind that," she pointed to the tent hanging from the tree."
"You mind yer business, bitch," the man spat, still looking at Sjarcu. That was, as it turned out, a terrible mistake. Runild was behind him and skewering his neck with her knife before either of the men at the rear of the camp could react. She twisted the blade a couple of times, yanked it out and then spun, crouching.
"Ouergh!" one of the men shouted as he bore down upon her, the other looking at the black elf in panic. He turned to flee. Sjarcu didn't want a noisy battle or an uncooperative prisoner, both could prevent him from achieving his ultimate goal. He moved far faster than the fleeing man and he kicked his leg brutally, causing the man to run careening into a large tree, scraping his face painfully against the bark. Before he had even hit the ground, Sjarcu was on him. The Talvar had his short assassin's blade in his hand and buried it in the brigand's temple. One twitch and that was it. He tried unsuccessfully to retrieve the short knife but it was too slippery with blood and brain matter, so he leapt to his feet and made his way back to the campsite.
Runild was on her haunches by the bound women untying one of them. He ran to the second and untied her as well. He left the bag until last as he didn't want to scare her with his slightly unusual appearance. She was grunting and thrashing until he pulled her head free at which time she caught sight of him and thrashed even more, like seeing his face was worse than getting kidnapped and raped. He had to hold her down to remove her gag as she beat against him feebly with her fists. She was nude and there was dried blood on her legs, so it was certain that she had been ill-used.
"Quiet, Kitze, they are freeing us. Those men are dead." The woman released by Runild was tall and semi-clothed. She reached out to the ot
her, now finished her efforts with Sjarcu and pulled her close to her. They held each other for a few moments and then the taller one turned to face them.
Sjarcu noticed straight away how well made these two women were. Finely muscled, like dancers or knife fighters, they did not look like they had the sheltered life of courtesans or librarians. He stifled a smirk at the thought. Too much they reminded him of Surokoita in comparison with how he imagined Runild would look unclothed, that he failed to think of anything but covering them.
“Here, wear these men’s clothing.” He said hurriedly, starting to undress the corpses.
There was an odd silence and he turned to see all three women looking at him, strange looks on their faces.
“Sjarcu! They cannot wear the bloodied garb of their tormentors. Have you no sensitivity at all?” She didn’t have that small smile she wore when teasing him and he had no idea how to react. Would the light have been better, all three women would have noticed a crimson tinge to the gray skinned Talvar’s cheek.
“I have an old woman’s robe in my pack,” he said quickly and divested himself of the thin pack he wore on his back wherein the robe was folded carefully.
Shortly after, the women were clothed from spare clothing from both Runild and Sjarcu. They told their story, Kitze and Rejana, and it was a sad one. They had escaped from a brothel outside of Maresh-Kar, an illegal one that paid no tax to the crown, and had soon thereafter been captured by these men, ill used and then tied up. They had heard their captors discussing their fate, which was to be sold back to the brothel. They seemed extremely grateful and vowed to pay the pair back however they could.
This left Sjarcu and Runild in some indecision. What would they do with the two women? They couldn’t leave them to the road’s tender mercies, nor could they take them to Fallset. Or could they?
“What say you, Sjarcu?” Runild asked, lounging by the fire, her hunger sated, both for food and for violence.