Reign of Immortals Read online

  What was Summershade? And why did it cause consternation in his father so immediately. Obviously he would have to find out. He’d gain no more from spying on them like this so he left the room, checking that no trace of his presence remained and walked back down the stairs. He walked through a door near the entrance and down a corridor which opened up into the kitchen.

  There was always someone in the kitchen. Whether it be one of the guards stealing food or trying to make happy with one of the maids, the gardener bringing in herbs or Magret the cook cooking or singing or napping as she did in one of the pantries. He felt happy and at home here, it was the memories of Magret teaching him to bake or soothing his skinned knees or giving him a second helping of apple pie just because he was a growing boy. He even had a spot, a little place that he was rapidly growing out of, beneath the main workspace. A cubbyhole in which he’d successfully hidden from his father, from Aeldryn and also himself, when the faint memories of his mother became too much. He could just lay down to sleep, with the comforting noises of the kitchen; Magret singing her peasant songs, the soldiers making ribald comments he didn’t understand to the maids and the sound of food cooking.

  Magret was there, ladling something from a boiling pot into another pot. The smell of cooking meat permeated the room and the heat was instantly intolerable. She stood, the fattest person he knew, rosy cheeked and sweating, her white kitchen uniform stained with spilled stock and he couldn’t help but smile. She was the source of much of his happiness and she held an awesome degree of power in the house. Once she rang her bell, everyone went to the table. Whether it was the table in the kitchen or the one in the dining hall, the sound of cook’s bell meant that tools were downed, arguments put to bed and tellings off forgotten. Tradition and Mikael’s insistence on regular face to face interaction meant that no grudges were held for more time than it took to get to the next meal. Melvekior didn’t know the origin of this habit but it had served him well on many occasions. The chagrin he felt about being dismissed so suddenly wouldn’t last even until the next meal. Holding on to negativity was a welcome casualty of Magret’s bell.

  “Magret may I ask you something?”

  “Of course, dear,” she answered without looking up from her task.

  “Where is Summershade?” He tried to put as much nonchalance into the question as possible, which for a twelve year old wasn’t difficult. He’d made a career of answering, “I suppose so,” when offered food so that Magret or Aeldryn might think he needed feeding up. Neither were fooled of course, but he felt himself a grand deceiver.

  “Erm, about 10 miles to the south I think. Don’t have much call to go there really,” she answered equally casually.

  “Oh, so there’s nothing interesting there then?”

  “Depends what you mean by interesting, my love.” She put the ladle into the smaller pot and looked up at him, wiping her hands on the towel she had draped over her shoulder. “What are you fishing for?” She scowled slightly, not aggressively, but curiously.

  “What? Nothing.” He sensed straight away that his act was failing rapidly and he decided to leave it there. “Is that stew? Do you have any fresh bread?” That worked to distract Magret as she bustled about finding him a bowl and a hunk of bread as big as his head.

  Summershade, the name was utterly unfamiliar to him but if his father and his tutor had intended for him to pay no attention they were mistaken. There was a connection with the man who had attacked him and with a previous tragedy of some kind and also maybe the succession of kings. This was a mystery much too tantalizing for him to just forget about it, but something else happened to take his young mind off it for a while.

  A few days later, well before dawn, there was a terrific knock at the doors of the manse. Somehow the glaring noise was incorporated into a dream that Melvekior was having so he didn’t pay much attention at first. After what seemed long minutes but was in fact mere seconds, he sat up, hearing voices.

  He leaped from his bed, out into the hallway and ran halfway down the stairs being as stealthy as he could. There was a slight chill in the air, his nightshirt doing little to protect him from the cold. The voices he heard belonged to his father and one other. A woman, a young woman. From his vantage point on the stairs he could see them both clearly, his father shirtless and wearing only a pair of trews, his hair mussed as if he too had just been dragged unexpectedly from slumber.

  She however was wide awake and she stood tall and proud before his father, as if his equal. In fact she simply did not recognize Mikael’s authority in any way, but that wasn’t entirely obvious and didn’t enter Melvekior’s current view of the world. She was tall for a young woman, two heads shorter than the man she faced and her physique was lithe as could be easily seen due to the clothing she wore. One would expect a traveler, even in this temperate season, to be attired against the cold. Not so here. She wore no dress or robes like other women he knew, but hide leggings and leather boots. Her arms were bare and her tunic cut low on the chest, her pale skin reflected the light of the lamp Mikael had hastily lit. Suddenly interested in the swell of her bosom, Melvekior felt a little odd but put the feeling aside. Who was this woman and what did she mean here?

  Her most striking feature was the mane of unruly red hair that fell to her waist. Untethered and unbound, he could imagine it never having felt a brush and then it struck him. She was of the Mountain Folk. The rebellious tribal people whose uprising had recently been quelled by Sunar’s armies with Mikael at the helm. He was more interested now than ever.

  “I’ll take you to your room,” he heard Mikael say, with none of the disdain he normally reserved for foreigners of all kinds.

  “I saw stables as I was scaling the wall. I will be fine with the horses,” she said bluntly bending her legs to pick up her belongings; one rucksack and one large, long bag which looked capable of holding a body.

  “From tomorrow maybe,” Mikael said that little bit more sternly which warned of intolerance to any further disobedience. He picked up the lamp and walked into the corridor off which the guest rooms were situated. Upstairs was for family only, Aeldryn being an obvious exception.

  She nodded and as she did so looked up and caught his eye. He had thought himself well hidden but she knew he was there. She regarded him briefly and followed Mikael without any further ado.

  Melvekior watched her walk away and felt a shiver of excitement. A young tribeswoman. Here. Sleep eluded him until an hour after dawn while he imagined her purpose here, each new imagining more fanciful than the last; the truth of the matter more prosaic than any of them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ottkatla

  “I thought his mouth might never close.” Ottkatla on meeting Melvekior.

  She sat at breakfast the following morning, at the head of the table, dressed in the same clothing and was more than likely the cause of the strange smell in the dining hall. It wasn’t an offensive smell, almost like when Magret made dripping from congealed fat, but it was unusual. Melvekior walked in to see Mikael just sitting down at the table’s other end.

  “Ye cannot keep smearing that stuff all over yerself. It’s warmer in the lowlands and besides, lass, we live in a house designed to keep heat in and wind out,” his father said emphatically. Then, “Mornin’, son. Welcome Ottkatla to our home, she’ll be here for a while.” He sat and started helping himself to some fruit from the bowl in front of him.

  Melvekior noticed Aeldryn enter and he found himself unsure of the correct etiquette. While Mikael cared little for niceties, Aeldryn drilled into him to always be polite and mindful of his manners, particularly with those weaker or less fortunate. Melvekior couldn’t quite understand the reason for this but paid heed to his tutor. He knew to be gracious and welcoming to their house guest and knew that Aeldryn would be judging him on his performance. He also knew to always make swift judgment of a person’s character for, to the skilled practitioner, this would be a terrific advantage.

  “Lady, I am
honored to meet you. You are welcome at our table.” For her to be a guest of Mikael’s she must be of some import, so he thought it best to welcome her as he would a female relative of a minor noble. As ever with his father, it was a mystery how he knew these exotic people. Tribesmen were slaves or enemies, not breakfast companions. This young woman was neither aggressive nor did she seem very servile so her reason for being here was of great interest.

  She looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite fathom. It wasn’t a sneer and it wasn’t friendly. Apprehension possibly, but of course there was no need for that so he dismissed it as the facial nuances of a wholly different type to those he had previously encountered.

  Mikael didn’t notice his son’s graciousness and started speaking to a maid, but Aeldryn did. He nodded slightly and sat himself down at the chair next to Ottkatla, indicating Melvekior to sit opposite him, on her other side.

  “My dear, I am so happy to see you,” he said without a hint of unfamiliarity “I am Aeldryn, tutor to young Melvekior here.” There was his mistake, he had forgotten to announce himself, displaying arrogance and making an assumption. Both terrible errors in his tutor’s eyes, who ironically was quite possibly the most arrogant person Melvekior had yet to meet. “Would I be correct in thinking that you are versed in all your people’s Sagas; The Songs of Battle and the Songs of Invention and even the Songs of Mastery?”

  The young woman perked up at this and after a second, her eyes widened and she smiled. “You are Aelvar!” It wasn’t a question. Her pronunciation was odd, too many vowels and rough, but it seemed that the word was almost the same in both of their native languages.

  “Yes, my dear, we share your love for song and history. Less out of necessity of course, than from an appreciation of beauty.” There was his arrogance coming to the fore. The tribespeople of the Tarkan range had only an oral tradition and wrote nothing down. Although why this was Melvekior had yet to discover.

  As he watched the almost excited exchange between ancient Aelvar and teenage girl, Melvekior came to a sort of awakening. He didn’t realize it at the time, but Ottkatla was the first female he ever found attractive and at that moment, as she laughed sweetly at something Aeldryn said, the sun shone through the glass doors and struck her almost orange hair in such a way as to make her glow. He was mesmerized. Her pale skin and freckles, her reckless and casual perfection, the effortless way in which she carried herself and total lack of self-consciousness; all of this was irresistible to the young man.

  “Don’t get too carried away, boy. She is Herjen.” Mikael said out of nowhere through a mouthful of the fist-sized apricot that he so enjoyed. Melvekior found them tasteless, though refreshing; the smaller, more common version appealing to him more.

  Aeldryn froze momentarily, then recovered rapidly. “Is that so? I did not know that Herjen were anything but a legend, and equally surprised I am, Mikael, that you know the term.”

  Melvekior’s father laughed. “You conquer a people, you learn their legends.”

  “What’s a ‘hair-yen’?” Melvekior often missed out on subtleties of adult conversation but found himself very interested in this one?

  “A Herjen is the weapon of the Gods, Melvekior. The Tarkan barbarians, ah, tribesmen, sorry my dear,” he looked towards Ottkatla and blushed slightly, probably on purpose, “believe that in their hour of need, the Gods will send a weapon to save them.”

  “Surely, it cannot be Ottkatla,” said Melvekior more hurriedly that he wanted. “The tribes have only been part of the Three Kingdoms only for a few years.”

  “The Gods do not work to your timetable, sterlige.” She almost spat, her face now as red as her hair. She looked furious. “It is my duty to serve my people as my King dictates. Believe it, I would not tolerate your outlandish ways otherwise.”

  Melvekior was stunned, he didn’t expect this level of aggression from her. He could feel his cheeks coloring and he was lost for words.

  Mikael had a small smile on his lips and he leaned back, almost as if he was expecting something to happen.

  “Calm thyself,” cooed Aeldryn, “the lad means no harm.” He winked at Melvekior and then turned slightly to look at the Lord of the Manor. “Mikael, why have you brought Ottkatla here? She knows not, nor can I fathom it. Reveal thy plan, for she suspects the unthinkable and should the truth be beneficial in any way, that taint should spoil the benefit.”

  “Why? Ye don’t care about the how? That is much more impressive, but what impresses you no man knows.” He stood and walked over to where his son sat and put both hands on him, one either side of his neck. He stood in thought for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I learned how to fight on the streets of Stonehaven, now called Amaranth to please the popinjay Prince. And not just fight, but win. All of ye have seen the fruits of my victories, bitter though they have been. My son,” he gripped tighter on Melvekior’s shoulders, “should be more than that. Not just a victor, which skill he will learn from me, nor a mere strategist and thinker, as ye will teach him, my friend, but an artist in both mind and body.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully and all paid close attention. For all his casual attitude, he demanded to be heard, with his presence and his reputation. Mikael’s clothing may as well have been worn by a peasant farmer, his loose trews and course shirt unadorned and simple, but his bearing and manner betrayed his nobility. As did his hair, the vivid blond shock of which stuck up like that of a bird of paradise, in the style of the modern rake. The style inspired by him, though he knew not and would care little.

  There was an audible sigh from the young tribeswoman, for her fears were unfounded and she was able to relax a little, her attitude towards the young noble now softened. “I apologize, Melvekior and am pleased to meet you.” She stood and performed a small bow, uncomfortably they all noticed but, it was well received. For all the undercurrents of suspicion and doubt, all he knew is that he was happy she was here and no longer angry with him.

  Magret bustled in with a platter of boar sausages, fresh bread, butter and cheese, the smells instantly pervading the room. She took one look at the girl and tutted. “Now there’s two of ya to feed up eh? Make sure you eat all of this, I won’t have any waste.” She rounded the table, now empty handed and unexpectedly took hold of the girl’s bare arms and then enveloped her in a terrific sort of hug, normally reserved for Melvekior when he’d hurt himself. Ottkatla didn’t resist, in fact seeming to take great pleasure in the contact, her face upturned over Magret’s shoulder, a smile playing on her lips and her arms around the cook’s wide back.

  “Kitchen’s in the back. As is my quarters when yer tired of the nonsense these boys’ll dish out and whatever else ails ya.” Again there was some subtext Melvekior knew he was missing, but there was the smell of hot sausages and melting butter which took priority. Magret gave a quick “my lord,” to Mikael and left in the same busy fashion as she entered, leaving the room a little warmer and a lot happier.

  After breakfast they stood in the long grass at the front of the house. Mikael sat on his chair before the giant willow tree watching with interest as Ottkatla stretched and bent and twisted her lithe figure this way and that. Melvekior had seen his father watch women before and this was different. There was no hunger, but the same sort of interest he displayed when Aeldryn spoke of ancient Aelvar battles. Melvekior was interested too but merely stood and tried to pretend he wasn’t staring. Aeldryn himself had a piece of charcoal in his hand and was doing another one of his endless sketches of the tree.

  Egalfas sauntered over from the path, his time at the gate finished and he too tried to pretend he wasn’t gawping in astonishment at the lightly clothed barbarian in tight leggings bending into impossible shapes.

  “Egalfas, just in time,” Mikael bellowed, wrenching the young guardsman from his reverie. He straightened up and stopped on his journey, likely to the kitchen.

  “My Lord,” he said, “nothing to report. The road is clear as it has been all night.”
He slowed down as he spoke, the realization coming that there was someone here he hadn’t seen before who may well have arrived on his watch.

  “Never mind that, boy,” Mikael interrupted as the guard started to splutter. “She’s a guest, an honored guest,” he continued as everyone stopped what they were doing to listen, “and as penance for letting her in to my house while I slept, you’ll have to fight her.”

  The confusion on Egalfas’s face deepened at this news. Obviously he would be able to easily beat this young girl, but that was too obvious. Something was happening that neither he, nor Melvekior, understood.

  “To first blood, my Lord?” Aeldryn stepped in, obviously fearing the worst.

  “Of course, what do you take me fer?” said Mikael. “No, no, leave yer armor. Just fight her. Imagine she was an intruder that you had failed to catch and she was a danger to Melvekior ‘ere.”

  Egalfas had started removing his belt and chain coat, presumably to make it more of a fair contest, although it seemed utterly unfair. Aeldryn was not worried about the outcome as he stood back with an air of indifference, though closer examination would not how he carefully considered the young woman, now finished stretching out and was standing casually looking at Egalfas with a blank expression on her face.

  “C’mon then, what are ye waitin’ for?” Mikael barked.

  Hesitantly, the guard stepped towards Ottkatla and extended his hand in a semi-formal manner. Melvekior had seen it in sparring sessions between the guards; a bumping of fists to says “good luck” or “may the best man win”. She was utterly impervious to any such overture and merely stood.