by Marin Landis
Sjarcu could feel himself getting sleepy. What was going on? Then of course, he realized, poison.
"What is..."
"On the spines?" She interrupted. "There are a range of venoms I can administer. You have a sedative running through your veins right now. Please don't think that I feel any mercy towards you, but it will allow you to recover shortly and then you'll be able to struggle to save the Talvar. Should you do so however, Runild, my lovely sweet Runild, will die a horrible death."
"What? What?" He tried to make sense of it all but his mind was so fuzzy.
"I have poisoned her, you dolt. Gray veins. She will perish in a month, ever so slowly. It would be horrible to watch, so my advice would be to put her out of her misery. It would certainly be kinder. And then instead of trying to save her, fruitlessly let me add, you'd be able to search for a way to counteract the poison that I've been feeding the Arbora for the last twenty years."
She stood, her limbs creaking quietly. He could barely keep his eyes open and could hear nothing of Runild.
"What of Sjahothe?" He mumbled, his lips heavy and tongue enormous in his mouth. "Does he not live?"
"I have no idea, but he was never one of us anyway." Her cackle was the last thing he remembered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
True Love
“I once fancied myself a champion of the people. Standing up for the downtrodden and poor against rich bullies like Melvekior. Then I realized that ‘the people’ were mostly useless bastards who deserved all they got. In fact, the more pathetic they stayed, the easier it was to elevate myself.” - Galtian
Nocturne close was still and that was nothing new. His shop was closed, the graveyard hadn’t homed a new corpse for a while, officially not in decades. He had made use of it many times though. Where better to hide a corpse than with another. The mist that gathered at the bottom of the cul-de-sac was on purpose; some magic of Finulia’s. The lamplight gave it an eerie appearance, again an affectation of the onetime object of his affection.
Pah! Who was he kidding? He still loved Finulia and he hoped she was here. He had a plan. An incredible plan. She would be amazed and he had no doubt that she would be impressed. And if she wasn’t, then to the Hells with her, he’d burn the place to the ground.
No, again he was fooling himself. This was Ain-Ordra’s temple. There was nothing he could do to Finulia, apart from shivving her and he wasn’t sure he could go through with that. That wasn’t what he wanted.
He made his way down the short road to the house. Nothing gave away its true purpose, save a small crescent moon ornament; the symbol of his Mistress. Lapsed as he was, a failed Necromancer, he still held her in great reverence. The reverence that made him think of his grand plan.
The door was locked, but he had a key, which he was happy to find still worked. He wouldn’t have let that stop him. A window was nothing to the likes of him.
The house was quiet, but clean; the entrance hall well maintained. As well as it ever had been. He knew that the flesh golems did most of the work in the house, but Melvekior had killed them. Was killed the right word? They weren’t really alive to begin with. Maybe Finulia had created more of them, or some sort of other servant.
He heard a door open to his right, from the public sitting room and he hurried through the entrance hall to the door and burst through. A servant was in the room, not a flesh golem, but a female in a shapeless dress, headscarf and a selection of bottles and plates in her hand. She was clearing up hurriedly as if he was an expected and important guest.
“Where is the mistress of the house?” he demanded. She paused, her back to him, about to escape the room into the small dining room beyond and probably into the kitchen past that. “Well?” he snapped.
She turned. It was her, Finulia. “What do you want?” she asked, fearful, if her timidity was anything to go by. She almost shook as she stood, hunched over, skin paler than he’d ever seen. There were dark patches beneath her eyes and she squinted as though she had a headache.
“Finulia, what has happened to you?” Emotions roiled within him. He hated her for rejecting him, but loved her for saving him.
She stared like she didn’t have an answer. He could see her eyes filling with tears. Something was happening. A feeling inside him. Was it love? Sympathy. He almost felt like trying to make her feel better, with no thought for his own gain.
Frustrated, he became angry, “Finulia, what the fuck is wrong with you? You can get a servant for this. Hells, I’ve seen you make a servant.” His fist was clenched and he took a step towards her. She flinched slightly but then thrust her jaw out defiantly.
“Piss off, gnome!” she sneered, her old spite returning. “You just don’t know when you’re not wanted. You think you can waltz in here and rescue me from my shame? From my failure? I am where She has put me.” She bowed her head. She was a beaten woman, reminding him of his mother. Unable to control him, despairing of his actions and attitude, she had all but given up on her son. This infuriated him all the more. His mother hadn’t lashed out like this, though.
Still he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should do something for her.
Galtian stepped forward and reached out and slightly up with his arms, making an attempt to enfold her within a comforting embrace and even as he was doing he knew what a ridiculous notion it was. He smelled wine, which wasn’t surprising and she was plainly in need of a bath, her hair matted and dress filthy.
“Get your disgusting little paws off me!” she shrieked, flailing her arms wildly. Finulia caught Galtian across his ear with a solid blow. On top of everything else, his stress levels rose to unmanageable levels. He pushed away his initial thought; he wouldn’t stab her unless there was no choice, but there was no way she could treat him like this unchallenged.
Galtian stepped back, his ears ringing from her blow and landed a punch on her jaw. She wasn’t a tall woman but she stood four inches above him, his gnome blood ensuring his reduced stature. Nevertheless, he’d lived a hard life and was a fighter. Every bit of respect he’d ever had was hard won and despite his size, his strength was equal to that of any average man. Finulia herself wasn’t a healthy specimen, her debaucheries having caught up with her by the looks of it. She rarely exerted herself and even now her efforts were minimal. Add to that the fact that she’d never been struck by anyone before Melvekior knocked half of her teeth out and her reaction was beyond that which he expected.
She fell to the ground and sobbed. A bruise on her cheek was forming and swelling and the tears ran down her cheek to mingle with snot as she bawled like a newborn.
Half of him was cynical enough to imagine her using tears to get her own way, but then again she had never displayed those sorts of qualities before. No simpering maiden, her. She wasn’t vital to his plans, but they would run more smoothly were she to accompany him to Fovelia.
He got down on his haunches and put his hand gently on her arm.
“The Dark Lady has sent me to you, I am sure of it. You hinted at this yourself once upon a time.” She shied away from him but didn’t try to escape, looking back at him with an unreadable expression. “I have an idea. I suppose you could say that She sent it to me in a vision.”
“What vision?” she demanded. There were flecks of blood on her chin.
He recounted his failed mission to destroy Melvekior. Her disdain was made plain by the spat, “pathetic!” at the end of his story.
“And how exactly would you have faced off to such demons? You can barely get through the day without wine. The Finulia of old would have cause to call me pathetic. You, now, are just like any other wretched whore, but without the dignity of providing a service. Cast aside this self pity, The Mother has sent me to you. I have had such ideas and what is almost a compulsion. My people. My father’s people. I must reach them, it is important.”
“They were once the Mother’s people, Galtian.” Her interest was piqued plainly. She started to sit up, her expression regaining some of
the intensity it once had.
“Aye! And She wants them back. I don’t know why, but I feel it connected to Melvekior and whatever unholy beings he has surrounded himself with.”
“Really?” She was sitting now, a frown upon her brow. “I wonder why that would be. He has abdicated his throne, you know? The King now rules Maresh-Kar.”
“So, will you come?” He felt like he was begging, though he knew he was not.
“Of course,” she stood, straightening her shift as she did so. Plain and filthy though her attire be, the Finulia of old would notice allow herself to be anything less than pristine and he was gratified to see the change. “I would do literally anything to ensure that oaf attains his just desserts.” She started walking towards the door.
“Wait…” Galtian dared. He felt some remorse for striking her but still felt she should show him more respect than she was currently.
“Anything, Galtian, but not that.” She stopped and then turned. “Actually, while I wouldn’t let you rub your greasy little body over me, I do owe you a debt of gratitude. You have pulled me out of my self-pity. And now we have a purpose.” She held out her hand in the sign of the Soul Wrack; palm upwards, fingers curled in a claw-like fashion. “For the glory of Ain-Ordra!”
Her beauty had returned. Her hair seemed more red than before and she appeared taller. Her nails were no longer filthy, but finely manicured and painted a deep red color. Her limbs clean and her eyes vibrant. He could feel his heart racing and the blood pounding through his veins. He adored this Finulia and would follow her unto death.
“For Ain-Ordra!” he shouted, his voice cracking halfway through, ruining the effect.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Untrodden Path
“It has always been a naive myth that the Gods are noble. Even the Ancient Ones, those we call the Primitives, can be meddlesome and spiteful.” -Aeldryn
Vanakot was a myth, simply because nobody knew anything about it. Aeldryn had hinted at only one outsider ever visiting. Now he was to be the second, if he could find it. He didn’t expect Aeldryn’s offer to mean a great deal in the context of an entire race, but if the rest of his people had only half of his teacher’s grace and intelligence, he would have a valid reason for trying to enter.
What would he even be entering? This was his thought when he set off from the Monastery and started upon the long road to Eairood. The forest itself had never been charted fully by Three Kingdom men, hence the name, Eairood, the endless forest. It was sacred however, and the boundaries of it quite evident if Ushatr was to be believed. Which of course he was. Almost due east from the Monastery, roughly two score miles south of Uth Magnar, was the Green Road. When the Aelvar were seen, rare as that occurrence was, it was on this road. When Sunar made war upon the Aelvar, it was down this road his armies traveled. Only when they entered the sylvan domain of the Aelvar, did Sterchan realize the futility of the exercise and in frustration start a campaign of slashing and burning to draw his enemy out. And it worked. Unfortunately for the Mareshian armies, it worked very well.
Destroyed to a man, save one, Sunar’s disastrous assault on the Aelvar came to a quick close with clear threats of retaliation. In a panic, Melvekior’s predecessor had begged his fellow monarch, King Calre Alpre for help. Alpre had no idea what to do, but luckily for the whole of the Three Kingdoms, Mikael Martelle, the King’s warlord had some sort of history with the King of the Aelvar and managed to broker a peace.
“The tree people must have been very grateful to your father if they sent Aeldryn to tutor you, Melvekior. Surely he is wise even amongst his own kind.” Ottkatla observed when he had finished telling her the story of Sunar and the Aelvar.
“I simply do not know, Katle,” Melvekior responded, a little distracted by his own thoughts on the matter. “Aeldryn hid many of his abilities and probably didn’t even scratch the surface of his own personal knowledge to teach me.”
“What do you mean ‘hid his abilities’?”
“More than once he used magic. He said it wasn’t, but it was. He also killed a Draugr with some sort of magical weapon. A Draugr that he sensed hours before it arrived.” Melvekior paused. “It’s funny how I’m just remembering that now. We were having outdoor lessons and he knew there was something. He must have been ready for it.”
They spoke as they packed up camp. They had enough food for several days but the only directions they had was into the Eairood and Vanakot should be around there somewhere, said Ushatar. They should be coming up on the Forest soon so wanted to be fully rested.
Sure enough, within an hour of dawn the trail suddenly stopped and in front of them was a forest the likes of which neither had experienced in their pasts.
A wall of verdancy faced them; as far as they could see to the north and to the south it ran so skirting it was unthinkable. Besides, this is what Ushatr must have been referring to when he said “ye cannot miss it, lad, it’s a bloody great forest with nary a way in!”
The trees grew close together, so close that trunks twisted and turned around each other leaving no clear path from their position. How would armies enter? A person could squeeze in between, of that he was sure but soon become utterly lost.
“We are supposed to navigate this?” queried Ottkatla, her voice a little higher pitched than usual.
Melvekior turned to her, half amused. “Are you scared of the forest, unbeatable warrior?”
“This is no laughing matter. I don’t like being enclosed, Melv. Caves are fine. They offer a way out. That…does not.” This was a novel experience for him. He’d always seen Ottkatla as fearless and able to handle anything. “Don’t look at me like that, I will do it. There is nothing I fear enough to let it stop me!”
“Aye, you’ll see, it will be fine.”
He trusted Aeldryn more than anyone. He knew, felt, that he was on the right path and even an offhand invitation like Aeldryn gave was enough to see them through.
The moss on the trees was damp and try as they might they could not avoid it. Entering the forest itself was the most difficult part, a journey of about twenty yards took as many minutes. Squeezing through narrow gaps, contorting their limbs and bodies, their breathing heavy, Ottkatla’s most of all, all the while Melvekior trying to make small talk to keep her mind away from the thought that they might never get out of this living prison.
Eventually they pushed through into a clearing where a good few feet separated trunks and branches from each other.
“I never thought I’d be so grateful so see the sky!” Ottkatla gasped, dropping to a seated position, her breathing slowing as she took in great gulps of air.
“It’s like the air between those trees is thick,” Melvekior noted, himself taking deep breaths. “Aeldryn did say to me once that there was a profound connection between his people and the trees of their home. That the Kinu, the magic in the air that keeps us alive, was created by trees and that there was strength in being amongst them. I dismissed it as pointless information, the sort that he loves, but maybe nothing he told me was pointless. I intend to tell him that, I feel more grateful for him as time wears on.”
“You become wistful, Melvekior. It is this forest, there is something about it and yes, you should have taken him more seriously. To my folk, the Aelvar are sacred, part of the earth, much like Mennin and the Jotnar. Their purpose is unknowable not because they are dismissive of us, but because we do not properly listen. Aeldryn was a vital part of your upbringing, your father was wise in that, as Mennin was vital to saving your life, all our lives. The more I experience their like, the more I am convinced that we are blind to a great deal.” She frowned as she stood and then held her arms to her sides. “It is gone, Melvekior!” She laughed.
“What?” he couldn’t help but smile, she looked so happy.
“My fear. The forest no longer traps me, but holds me. Oh, Melvekior, there is magic here.”
“Yes, there is.” A voice startled them. Melvekior’s hand went to his sword, Ottk
atla fell into a crouch. From the forest came two men. Or something close to men.
They looked similar to each other and it was plain they were kin to Aeldryn and also to Raelyn. There was something feral and at the same time, ancient, about these people. He had thought Aeldryn merely tall and weird looking, but Raelyn had much the same look and now it seemed reasonable that this was a trait of the Aelvar. The Anaurim had an otherwordly quality about them, Mennin an earthly quality, the Aelvar were different again. In that moment he wondered how they all viewed him, what opinion they had of the men of the Three Kingdoms, the Barbarian folk.
They were tall, easily topping six feet, and thin. He knew though that their muscles would be of iron. What luxury could there be in this place, what easy living? Both had similar hair, brown like an autumn leaf, long, like it had never been cut and almost unkempt. Some care must have been taken lest knots and tangles appeared. Melvekior knew this from a half year rebellion where he refused to have his hair cut or brushed and it ended up painful and filthy. Eventually Magret had a guard hold him down and cut it down to the scalp.
The Aelvar, for they plainly were, wore tunic and trews of animal hide, sewn and patched for functionality rather than cosmetic attractiveness. Their feet were clad in hide boots, presumably hardened though Melvekior had noticed that Aeldryn often wore no shoes.
Both men held a similar expression. Angry? Intense? He could fathom not which one, but it wasn’t a welcoming bearing they held.
“We mean no harm, brothers.” Melvekior said holding his arms wide, aware that one of them held a sword. Peaceful though he was and he assumed them to be, he would not go without a fight should violence be the result of this exchange. That wasn’t a real option for him but he would never leave himself defenseless, nor Ottkatla. She held no weapon but Melvekior knew well her lethality wasn’t reduced whilst unarmed.