"The Speaking Head of Malberon"
Nov. 21st, 2022 04:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Speaking Head of Malberon"
4/11/1218 DR
I.
The great central peak of Kylmor, white with snow that seldom left it entirely, could be seen thrusting up above the horizon. The rest of Androval could not be seen from this island, Nothing stirred on the Cold Sea but the shadows of seagulls wheeling overhead.
Down by the chill water, a shaggy black-haired head broke the surface. The sullen eyes, blue with strange amber specks, watched suspiciously for a moment. Then, heaving up from the Sea, Romal the Mongrel squeezed water from his tunic and pants before moving forward. Behind some boulders, he unrolled the travel cloak he had tied up behind his neck and took the heavy boots from where he had laced him to his belt. The straight sword, two feet long in its wooden scabbard, had been strapped across his back and he returned it again to its customary place at his right hip. It was a Signarm weapon with a blade one inch across, honed sharp on both edges.
Romal stood listening for another minute before starting to move up the slope from the rocky shore. With his wet hair tucked back, the strange pointed ears could be clearly seen. No Races other than the Darthim and Eldanarin had ears like that, except Romal who was unique unto himself. On either side of his neck, three parallel gill slits had closed up so tightly that only close examination under good light could have perceived them. Romal had needed no boat. He had swum the miles from Androval underwater.
Stealthily as any stalking beast, the Mongrel made his way up toward the level area of this island. The dark tower of stone blocks, eighty feet high, was surrounded by smaller wooden sheds containing workshops or used for storage. Head high pyramids of coal still stood at intervals. The pounding of hammers on metal and the low voices of craftsmen laboring together had ceased. From the tower itself, no black smoke rose to be dissipated by the salty winds from the sea. The fires had been allowed to die down.
Watching from his concealment, the Mongrel grew more unsettled than before. Had Malberon died? Had he stopped his crafting of the legendary weapons and talismans at last? Would there be no more Element Gems or Seven Swords or Brightbolts? Or had the greatest artisan of the Melgarin merely moved on to carry on his work somewhere else?
Surprised there had not been a single sentry watching from the shore facing Androval itself, Romal realized he had not seen anyone on this island. It was not at all what he had been expecting. He had to find out what this meant. Boldly as if invited, he stood up in plain sight and marched across the stained and chipped stone flagging of the courtyard to the open door of the tower.
Carved in the stone block over that door was a life-sized relief of a rearing horse.. the White Horse which the Melgarin revered and which they used to blazon everything from royal banners to war shields to infant's cradles. Clasping one hand on his sword hilt, Romal peered inside the opening and saw nothing but unused wooden tables and counters which had been stripped off all tools and scraps.
With an unexpected melancholy, Romal moved into the room. This abandoned tower, dark and silent where it recently had been filled with heat and activity, seemed like a dead thing to him. Where was Malberon? Was Romal too late?
The faintest scrape of a slipper on stone alerted him. Still gripping the hilt of his sword, the Mongrel swung over behind one of the pillars which supported the ceiling and readied for any attack. But it was a youth, unarmed, who had entered through the inner door. The la had not seen more than eleven years. He was both short and thin, his stick-like arms and legs exposed by the plain linen smock he wore. Thick untended black hair hair stuck out wildly over a narrow face.
"A thief will find little here that is worth his time," the boy said.
"I do not come to steal but to give warning. The most vile warlocks of this Age are on their way in their serpent-boats. Torture and anguish are the cargo they bring."
The youth did not react to the news. He faced an unknown intruder with as little interest as if he had found a mouse searching for crumbs. "They had better hurry then, if they hope to torment my master. Come this way."
Following the boy, Romal passed through a narrow corridor to a room little more than a nook large enough to hold a low platform piled with wool blankets. A single candle stub guttered on a shelf to show the wreckage of what had once been a mighty man. The blanket pulled up to his chin outlined a shrunken body still of more than average height but now reduced to little more than bones covered with skin and sinews. The exposed head was surrounded by a wild mane of white hair, the clean-shaven face so wrinkled that the features were hard to distinguish. But deep blue eyes opened as Romal entered.
"Ah. Good day," said the ancient one. "Please excuse me for not rising and offering you food or drink. I am not at my best."
"Master," the boy said, dropping to one knee. "I found him in the common room seconds ago."
"Thank you, Sirion. I was not expecting company. You must be Romal, called by some the Mongrel. Your features are so distinctive. The creation of Tollinor, are you not? A Human body with gifts from each of the Seven Races?"
Moving closer, Romal gazed down with a pity he seldom felt. His life had left him hardened and uncaring for the most part. "It is so."
"The strength of a Troll, the speed of a Snake man. Wiser than an Eldanar, crueler than a Dartha. I believe that is how the campfire songs go?" asked the withered face.
"It is so," repeated the Mongrel. "And I am addressing the great Malberon?"
"Heh, what is left of me. Human flesh and blood was never meant to live twelve hundred years. We are not the Eldanarin. I am a tree which will bring forth no more leaves, a stream which has gone dry. At least my greatest creation has been realized in these end days."
Surprising himself, Romal sank to one knee beside the swaddled old man. "More than all your ensorcelled weapons and talismans? What could this final product of your skill be?"
The weary eyes turned toward the small boy who stood in the doorway. "Sirion."
II.
The boy had brought in a three-legged stool and a wedge of yellow cheese, both of which Romal accepted. "If you have a boat on hand, oh Malberon, now is when prudence would demand we board it. Darthim have been seen off the northern shores of Signarm, sailing in this direction. They will not dare land on Androval itself of course, but this small island holds a treasure worth capturing. You. Your knowledge."
"May they pay as heavy a price as I have for that knowledge." Despite his appearance, Malberon still spoke with a clear, steady voice. "I was at the Corruption, you know. Three hundred mystics and dreamers we were, kneeling before the apparitions of the Sulla Chun on the isle of Ulgor! What they told us blasted many minds beyond repair. Babbling, raving, foaming like mad dogs, many of our throng died from what they were told"
"So have I heard," Romal added quietly.
"The Halarin took notice. Jordyn Himself acting in accord with Cirkoth and Eryasha intervened. They sent warnings which few among us heeded, then opened a chasm in the sea floor. The waters broke Ulgor from its foundations and wedged it down into the rift, miles beneath the surface. Thousands of mortal lives perished, the Sulla Chun were taken and forced into the Space Between Spaces from which they will not escape until this world is unmade."
"Yes. But you survived that cataclysm."
Malberon made a dry, sardonic snort at that. "Fourteen of us took heed and fled in time. Myself. Sinjir and Wakimbe the Cat's Claw. Tollinor Kje and Karina of Myrrwha. We brought with us the secrets which became Voodoo and Alchemy and shape-shifting. The Midnight War began at that time, and the Darthan Age dawned."
"That was so long ago," Romal ventured to say. "More than a thousand years ago did this happen. You are mortal, it does not seem possible that you still live to this day."
"Hah. There is much no mortal Man knows of those dim forgotten days. Some of the Arts taught by the Sulla Chun were not wholly malicious. My lesson was a skill which could be used to good ends, I knew how to ensorcell. I could draw down gralic force into metal and wood. The Eldanarin admitted me to their own island of Elvedal so that I might teach them. They knew nothing of smithcraft. But their own gralic powers were vast. Working with the golden Elf-folk, I brought cyrinkyl, the star-snow into the world. I invented ensalir, the blessed silver which no creature of the night can endure. King Elzulang himself worked side by side with me to forge Sagehelm, the Eyeless Helmet of Truth. All this I performed while centuries passed in the world beyond."
Royal got to his feet. "As much as I want to learn this secret history, I say again that the Darthim are on their way. Torture is their greatest joy. You will suffer beyond your worst nightmares if they drag you to the skinning chambers."
"Let them do their worst," said Malberon. "The thinnest thread binds my spirit to this body. No lore will they drag from a dry old corpse."
The boy Sirion spoke up, "I pray you sir, hear my Master's words and take them to heart. Never does he speak without purpose."
"I hope this proves to be wise," Romal said, looking toward the open doorway of that cell. "Say on, great Malberon. Much do you know that no other remembers."
Propped up on folded cloths, the white-maned face smiled. "Indeed, I have a promise for days to come that you must hear. In time, I left Elvedal. The ways of the immortal Eldanarin are not well suited for we who are given only so many years. My heart yearned for the green fields and hearty meals and full-throated laughter of my own kind. So to Androval I returned.
"At the urging of the King, who was Belmir the First in those days, I set to crafting weapons for the defense of my Race. Then was I at my peak! Ideas brewed in my mind swifter than steel could be forged or ensorcelled. The Elemental Gems. The spear Brightbolt, Shai Tazam. The Seven Swords. I labored hard and was content."
Romal gave a start and slid his sword from his sheath. "Voices! From the shore, I tell you. The Darthim are here."
As the boy began to move toward the door, Malberon stopped him with a word. "Hold. It is not yet your hour, Sirion. Let our guest know that I have cast my most potent spell. Not infusing gralic force into steel or stone, but into the unseen seed that each Melgar bears within even the tiniest scrap of their skin or hair or blood. It is a charge that will breed true for long ages to come."
The Mongrel shifted his weight from foot to foot, his head cocked as he listened. "No longer can I wait. I go to slay or be slain. Lad, I do not know if it is within your strength to carry or drag your Master to safety but you must try now."
Malberon laughed, which provoked a coughing spell. "Yes, yes. Our Sirion does not look as if he is very strong, does he?"
III.
Emerging into the late afternoon sunlight, Romal felt his annoyance at Malberon's recalcitrance forgotten. The fuming deep-rooted hatred he nursed for the Darthim swept away all other thoughts. Even if the Melgar craftsman had not been on this island, Romal would have gone there solely for a chance to slay some Darthim.
An nameless infant had been cut from within a Human woman before its time. Tollinor Kje himself, the Firstmade of his Race and the most wicked, had infused traits of the other Races into the babe. Called Romal, 'born to do evil,' that child had grown to become as strong as a full-grown Fighting Troll and as quick as a Snake man. He had the resistance to gralic force of an Eldanar and a Dartha combined. The gill slits on his neck made him amphibious like the Gelydrim. What traits he should have received from the Trom were never clear; certainly, he did not have their passionless cold intellect.
Seeing the long graceful serpent-boat with its fanged figurehead with emerald-green painted sails tied up at the shore made his pulse race dangerously. There they were! Six of the accursed ones. Tall and slender, shrouded against the sun beneath fine textured cloaks and cowls, the Darthim made their way leisurely up the slope to where he awaited them.
Tollinor had intended to shape Romal into a living weapon, an invincible warrior who could face any opponent from any Race. But the young Mongrel would not be tamed or broken. Despite all the abuse and conditioning, something in his spirit resisted. At sixteen years, while being taken through the hills of Signarm, Romal had killed his keepers and struck out on his own. Now, a decade later, all his deeds and infamy meant little to him compared to his hatred.
As they saw him, the Darthim slowed their pace. The tallest among them threw back his hood to reveal a narrow face with thin lips and obliquely feline green eyes. The fine straight hair fell past his shoulders. Like his skin, it was pure white without shading. Where the Eldanarin were a golden folk, their counterparts the Darthim were as pale as ivory,
"Have you no awe-inspiring threats to throw at us?" purred the silken voice. "Will you not unnerve us with a speech about how your sword thirsts for our blood?"
Romal laughed. "Words should be better than silence."
"To the gentle playroom of Tollinor himself shall you and the ancient Melgar be brought. To Maroch we will take you."
"You can try," retorted the Mongrel, hefting his sword and stepping toward them.
The lead Dartha lifted a girlishly delicate hand, red haze swirling around it. He called out not in the common speech Prilyrdyn but in a sorcerous language few heard and lived to repeat.
Down by the shore, a dark shape nine feet long heaved up from the ocean and roared with hissing sibilance. It resembled a huge grey shark that walked on thick hind legs with its body parallel to the ground and its tail extending out behind it for balance. Where the side fins should have been, two short arms ended in taloned paws and its eyes fixed on Romal with naked bloodlust.
A Malak. Created like many other unnatural creatures by Darthan magick, the Malakim swarmed the waters around Maroch. They could not be tamed, only unleashed.
The six Darthim had hastily stepped far aside as the brute stomped across the courtyard straight for Romal. The Mongrel's confidence in his own prowess was great but he was realistic enough to recognize that death was certain if those jaws closed around any part of him. To his left was a wooden platform that had once held supplies for Malberon. He needed to leap up there so he could strike down at the monstrous beast..
Then a skinny young form brushed past him to race toward the Malak. Romal was so taken by surprise that he failed to grab at the boy to hold him back. Was the child mad beyond all measure?
Barefoot, wearing only the plain smock which reached his knees, the lad ran fearlessly at the beast. Double rows of fangs gaped wide. And Sirion struck a simple backhanded slap that threw the huge shark-thing off its feet with a crash.
Romal had witnessed much in his life but this sight left him staring with his mouth open and his sword lowered. If the Darthim had attacked him then, they could have killed him without resistance. But they were as dumbfounded as he.
The Malak had gotten clumsily to its feet again. The great tail whipped from side to side as the brute growled. Then SIrion raised a small bony fist and brought it down on top of the Malak's head with the decisive sound of a skull fracturing. Down dropped the monster without any attempt to break his fall.
Seeing the wide-eyed stares fixed upon him, Sirion struck an insolent pose with fists on his hips. "You see the Legacy of Malberon. I am but the first. My Master has endowed we Melgarin that each generation will have a Champion like myself."
Instead of commenting, the Mongrel whirled and vaulted directly at the Darthim, who were themselves only just then remembering that their most bitter enemy was close at hand. Striking first, Romal lopped off a Darthan head cleanly enough but then he was retreating back from a bristling flurry of steel.
Darthan fencing was subtle and tricky. They wielded thin thrusting weapons more like needles than normal swords, and the blades were made of Gremthom, the 'red iron' which inflicted burning pain to even the slightest scratch.
But even more than the advantage of his unusual speed and strength, Romal brought hard-earned experience to the fight. The Darthim may have studied under their experts and practiced faithfully, but Romal had spent his adult life in mortal combat against foes who were earnestly trying to slay him. There was no uncertainty in his moves. When he saw an opening, he took it.
In those amber-flecked eyes was neither weakening doubt nor the rage which clouds judgement. Within seconds, a second Dartha dropped to his knees with his intestines sliding out in a horrid pink splash.
Sirion had held back from the melee. Spotting the youth, one of the Darthim swerved over and lunged to drive his thin sword forward. But the deadly point stopped short, not even breaking the boy's skin. In the instant that he took to react to this, the Dartha was lost. From the center of his chest emerged the sword that Romal had thrust between his shoulder blades from behind.
He was the last of the white-skinned sorcerers to fall. Tugging his blade free, the Mongrel gave Sirion a gaze not entirely friendly. "So, you yourself are Malberon's final talisman?"
"It is as my Master promised," the boy answered gleefully. "He said I would enjoy power such as mortal flesh has never known before and that each generation of Melgarin to come would see one such as me born."
"Right glad I am that his Art worked," Romal said. "Fighting a Malak was no long-cherished ambition of mine. Hold. Were there not six of these torturers?" With the final word, the Mongrel had spun on one heel and pelted back toward the tower with his bloodied sword still in hand.
Seeing there were only four corpses stretched out where they had fallen, Sirion understood and rushed after Romal. Both seized with trepidation, they hurtled to the bedchamber and stopped short as they saw what had been done to Malberon.
V.
Still wet and an unlovely bright crimson, blood covered the folded cloths where the artisan had rested his head. The severing had been clean, as befit the exceeding keenness of Darthan blades. Malberon's arms hung down on either side of his body, showing no signs of a struggle.
Sirion was not aware of Romal wheeling around and running back out of the room as soon as they took in the scene. The boy fell to his knees, stricken to the heart and unable to catch his breath. He slumped forward and covered his face with both hands, unable to weep but unable to bear the sight. After a few minutes, two strong hands lifted him to his feet and Sirion looked up.
"The serpent-boat is gone," Romal told him. "With that wind today, the two surviving Darthim are well out into the Cold Sea beyond where we could catch them, even if we had a swift boat of our own."
The youth tried to speak, took a steadying breath and managed to get out, "We have a small coracle with oars, tied up nearby. But it is of no use for pursuit."
Romal said. "Sirion, we will bury your Master here and then I will take you to your people in Androval. Your new strength and imperviousness are his last gift to the Melgarin. You must grow to be their Champion."
"Oh, there is no doubt of that!" Sirion said. "My life will be one of duty, to protect my people and to avenge my Master."
"I myself have already declared a vendetta without mercy on the torturers of Maroch," Romal responded grimly. "Now the Darthim have two implacable enemies."
"Why would they do such a thing? I can not understand it. The Darthim may well have sought his death, but to cut off his head... and take it with them?"
"Best not to dwell on such thoughts," Romal said. "I have found that nothing is too vile for them."
VI.
In a stifling, oven-hot chamber deep within the Burning Pyramid on Maroch, red light streamed up from slits carved into the stone floor. Not far below, the Captive lay dying as it would linger on so for thousands of years to come. Even mortally wounded, that Sulla Chun radiated sheer malevolent gralic force. It was tapping into this anguished force that gave the Darthan magic such potency.
Taller and brawnier than the rest of his Race, Tollinor Kje stepped back from his labors and placed the square box of ebony on a stand before his thronelike chair. The Firstmade of the Darthim grinned with a joy he could not restrain. Before his fellows, he had to hide every thought behind an unreadable face with no expression. Here, alone in his workchamber, he could allow himself to laugh.
Tollinor swung open the elaborately engraved lid of the box. Inside was a head, its thick white hair forming a cushion beneath it. The face was dry and withered, the eyes closed. The greatest of the Darthan Kjes spoke in the forbidden tongue, "Hear me, Malberon..."
Those dead eyes clicked open, rolled up so only the whites showed. Somehow, without lungs to force air, the thin lips parted and a hollow voice answered, "I...was Malberon. I am dead."
"Nevertheless, you will serve me now. I have use for your knowledge. I greatly desire to ensorcell a sword which will be known as Hellspawn. Speak on."
"Let the dead rest.. Let me go..."
"Never! I compel you. Speak on, Malberon..."
11/23/2022
4/11/1218 DR
I.
The great central peak of Kylmor, white with snow that seldom left it entirely, could be seen thrusting up above the horizon. The rest of Androval could not be seen from this island, Nothing stirred on the Cold Sea but the shadows of seagulls wheeling overhead.
Down by the chill water, a shaggy black-haired head broke the surface. The sullen eyes, blue with strange amber specks, watched suspiciously for a moment. Then, heaving up from the Sea, Romal the Mongrel squeezed water from his tunic and pants before moving forward. Behind some boulders, he unrolled the travel cloak he had tied up behind his neck and took the heavy boots from where he had laced him to his belt. The straight sword, two feet long in its wooden scabbard, had been strapped across his back and he returned it again to its customary place at his right hip. It was a Signarm weapon with a blade one inch across, honed sharp on both edges.
Romal stood listening for another minute before starting to move up the slope from the rocky shore. With his wet hair tucked back, the strange pointed ears could be clearly seen. No Races other than the Darthim and Eldanarin had ears like that, except Romal who was unique unto himself. On either side of his neck, three parallel gill slits had closed up so tightly that only close examination under good light could have perceived them. Romal had needed no boat. He had swum the miles from Androval underwater.
Stealthily as any stalking beast, the Mongrel made his way up toward the level area of this island. The dark tower of stone blocks, eighty feet high, was surrounded by smaller wooden sheds containing workshops or used for storage. Head high pyramids of coal still stood at intervals. The pounding of hammers on metal and the low voices of craftsmen laboring together had ceased. From the tower itself, no black smoke rose to be dissipated by the salty winds from the sea. The fires had been allowed to die down.
Watching from his concealment, the Mongrel grew more unsettled than before. Had Malberon died? Had he stopped his crafting of the legendary weapons and talismans at last? Would there be no more Element Gems or Seven Swords or Brightbolts? Or had the greatest artisan of the Melgarin merely moved on to carry on his work somewhere else?
Surprised there had not been a single sentry watching from the shore facing Androval itself, Romal realized he had not seen anyone on this island. It was not at all what he had been expecting. He had to find out what this meant. Boldly as if invited, he stood up in plain sight and marched across the stained and chipped stone flagging of the courtyard to the open door of the tower.
Carved in the stone block over that door was a life-sized relief of a rearing horse.. the White Horse which the Melgarin revered and which they used to blazon everything from royal banners to war shields to infant's cradles. Clasping one hand on his sword hilt, Romal peered inside the opening and saw nothing but unused wooden tables and counters which had been stripped off all tools and scraps.
With an unexpected melancholy, Romal moved into the room. This abandoned tower, dark and silent where it recently had been filled with heat and activity, seemed like a dead thing to him. Where was Malberon? Was Romal too late?
The faintest scrape of a slipper on stone alerted him. Still gripping the hilt of his sword, the Mongrel swung over behind one of the pillars which supported the ceiling and readied for any attack. But it was a youth, unarmed, who had entered through the inner door. The la had not seen more than eleven years. He was both short and thin, his stick-like arms and legs exposed by the plain linen smock he wore. Thick untended black hair hair stuck out wildly over a narrow face.
"A thief will find little here that is worth his time," the boy said.
"I do not come to steal but to give warning. The most vile warlocks of this Age are on their way in their serpent-boats. Torture and anguish are the cargo they bring."
The youth did not react to the news. He faced an unknown intruder with as little interest as if he had found a mouse searching for crumbs. "They had better hurry then, if they hope to torment my master. Come this way."
Following the boy, Romal passed through a narrow corridor to a room little more than a nook large enough to hold a low platform piled with wool blankets. A single candle stub guttered on a shelf to show the wreckage of what had once been a mighty man. The blanket pulled up to his chin outlined a shrunken body still of more than average height but now reduced to little more than bones covered with skin and sinews. The exposed head was surrounded by a wild mane of white hair, the clean-shaven face so wrinkled that the features were hard to distinguish. But deep blue eyes opened as Romal entered.
"Ah. Good day," said the ancient one. "Please excuse me for not rising and offering you food or drink. I am not at my best."
"Master," the boy said, dropping to one knee. "I found him in the common room seconds ago."
"Thank you, Sirion. I was not expecting company. You must be Romal, called by some the Mongrel. Your features are so distinctive. The creation of Tollinor, are you not? A Human body with gifts from each of the Seven Races?"
Moving closer, Romal gazed down with a pity he seldom felt. His life had left him hardened and uncaring for the most part. "It is so."
"The strength of a Troll, the speed of a Snake man. Wiser than an Eldanar, crueler than a Dartha. I believe that is how the campfire songs go?" asked the withered face.
"It is so," repeated the Mongrel. "And I am addressing the great Malberon?"
"Heh, what is left of me. Human flesh and blood was never meant to live twelve hundred years. We are not the Eldanarin. I am a tree which will bring forth no more leaves, a stream which has gone dry. At least my greatest creation has been realized in these end days."
Surprising himself, Romal sank to one knee beside the swaddled old man. "More than all your ensorcelled weapons and talismans? What could this final product of your skill be?"
The weary eyes turned toward the small boy who stood in the doorway. "Sirion."
II.
The boy had brought in a three-legged stool and a wedge of yellow cheese, both of which Romal accepted. "If you have a boat on hand, oh Malberon, now is when prudence would demand we board it. Darthim have been seen off the northern shores of Signarm, sailing in this direction. They will not dare land on Androval itself of course, but this small island holds a treasure worth capturing. You. Your knowledge."
"May they pay as heavy a price as I have for that knowledge." Despite his appearance, Malberon still spoke with a clear, steady voice. "I was at the Corruption, you know. Three hundred mystics and dreamers we were, kneeling before the apparitions of the Sulla Chun on the isle of Ulgor! What they told us blasted many minds beyond repair. Babbling, raving, foaming like mad dogs, many of our throng died from what they were told"
"So have I heard," Romal added quietly.
"The Halarin took notice. Jordyn Himself acting in accord with Cirkoth and Eryasha intervened. They sent warnings which few among us heeded, then opened a chasm in the sea floor. The waters broke Ulgor from its foundations and wedged it down into the rift, miles beneath the surface. Thousands of mortal lives perished, the Sulla Chun were taken and forced into the Space Between Spaces from which they will not escape until this world is unmade."
"Yes. But you survived that cataclysm."
Malberon made a dry, sardonic snort at that. "Fourteen of us took heed and fled in time. Myself. Sinjir and Wakimbe the Cat's Claw. Tollinor Kje and Karina of Myrrwha. We brought with us the secrets which became Voodoo and Alchemy and shape-shifting. The Midnight War began at that time, and the Darthan Age dawned."
"That was so long ago," Romal ventured to say. "More than a thousand years ago did this happen. You are mortal, it does not seem possible that you still live to this day."
"Hah. There is much no mortal Man knows of those dim forgotten days. Some of the Arts taught by the Sulla Chun were not wholly malicious. My lesson was a skill which could be used to good ends, I knew how to ensorcell. I could draw down gralic force into metal and wood. The Eldanarin admitted me to their own island of Elvedal so that I might teach them. They knew nothing of smithcraft. But their own gralic powers were vast. Working with the golden Elf-folk, I brought cyrinkyl, the star-snow into the world. I invented ensalir, the blessed silver which no creature of the night can endure. King Elzulang himself worked side by side with me to forge Sagehelm, the Eyeless Helmet of Truth. All this I performed while centuries passed in the world beyond."
Royal got to his feet. "As much as I want to learn this secret history, I say again that the Darthim are on their way. Torture is their greatest joy. You will suffer beyond your worst nightmares if they drag you to the skinning chambers."
"Let them do their worst," said Malberon. "The thinnest thread binds my spirit to this body. No lore will they drag from a dry old corpse."
The boy Sirion spoke up, "I pray you sir, hear my Master's words and take them to heart. Never does he speak without purpose."
"I hope this proves to be wise," Romal said, looking toward the open doorway of that cell. "Say on, great Malberon. Much do you know that no other remembers."
Propped up on folded cloths, the white-maned face smiled. "Indeed, I have a promise for days to come that you must hear. In time, I left Elvedal. The ways of the immortal Eldanarin are not well suited for we who are given only so many years. My heart yearned for the green fields and hearty meals and full-throated laughter of my own kind. So to Androval I returned.
"At the urging of the King, who was Belmir the First in those days, I set to crafting weapons for the defense of my Race. Then was I at my peak! Ideas brewed in my mind swifter than steel could be forged or ensorcelled. The Elemental Gems. The spear Brightbolt, Shai Tazam. The Seven Swords. I labored hard and was content."
Romal gave a start and slid his sword from his sheath. "Voices! From the shore, I tell you. The Darthim are here."
As the boy began to move toward the door, Malberon stopped him with a word. "Hold. It is not yet your hour, Sirion. Let our guest know that I have cast my most potent spell. Not infusing gralic force into steel or stone, but into the unseen seed that each Melgar bears within even the tiniest scrap of their skin or hair or blood. It is a charge that will breed true for long ages to come."
The Mongrel shifted his weight from foot to foot, his head cocked as he listened. "No longer can I wait. I go to slay or be slain. Lad, I do not know if it is within your strength to carry or drag your Master to safety but you must try now."
Malberon laughed, which provoked a coughing spell. "Yes, yes. Our Sirion does not look as if he is very strong, does he?"
III.
Emerging into the late afternoon sunlight, Romal felt his annoyance at Malberon's recalcitrance forgotten. The fuming deep-rooted hatred he nursed for the Darthim swept away all other thoughts. Even if the Melgar craftsman had not been on this island, Romal would have gone there solely for a chance to slay some Darthim.
An nameless infant had been cut from within a Human woman before its time. Tollinor Kje himself, the Firstmade of his Race and the most wicked, had infused traits of the other Races into the babe. Called Romal, 'born to do evil,' that child had grown to become as strong as a full-grown Fighting Troll and as quick as a Snake man. He had the resistance to gralic force of an Eldanar and a Dartha combined. The gill slits on his neck made him amphibious like the Gelydrim. What traits he should have received from the Trom were never clear; certainly, he did not have their passionless cold intellect.
Seeing the long graceful serpent-boat with its fanged figurehead with emerald-green painted sails tied up at the shore made his pulse race dangerously. There they were! Six of the accursed ones. Tall and slender, shrouded against the sun beneath fine textured cloaks and cowls, the Darthim made their way leisurely up the slope to where he awaited them.
Tollinor had intended to shape Romal into a living weapon, an invincible warrior who could face any opponent from any Race. But the young Mongrel would not be tamed or broken. Despite all the abuse and conditioning, something in his spirit resisted. At sixteen years, while being taken through the hills of Signarm, Romal had killed his keepers and struck out on his own. Now, a decade later, all his deeds and infamy meant little to him compared to his hatred.
As they saw him, the Darthim slowed their pace. The tallest among them threw back his hood to reveal a narrow face with thin lips and obliquely feline green eyes. The fine straight hair fell past his shoulders. Like his skin, it was pure white without shading. Where the Eldanarin were a golden folk, their counterparts the Darthim were as pale as ivory,
"Have you no awe-inspiring threats to throw at us?" purred the silken voice. "Will you not unnerve us with a speech about how your sword thirsts for our blood?"
Romal laughed. "Words should be better than silence."
"To the gentle playroom of Tollinor himself shall you and the ancient Melgar be brought. To Maroch we will take you."
"You can try," retorted the Mongrel, hefting his sword and stepping toward them.
The lead Dartha lifted a girlishly delicate hand, red haze swirling around it. He called out not in the common speech Prilyrdyn but in a sorcerous language few heard and lived to repeat.
Down by the shore, a dark shape nine feet long heaved up from the ocean and roared with hissing sibilance. It resembled a huge grey shark that walked on thick hind legs with its body parallel to the ground and its tail extending out behind it for balance. Where the side fins should have been, two short arms ended in taloned paws and its eyes fixed on Romal with naked bloodlust.
A Malak. Created like many other unnatural creatures by Darthan magick, the Malakim swarmed the waters around Maroch. They could not be tamed, only unleashed.
The six Darthim had hastily stepped far aside as the brute stomped across the courtyard straight for Romal. The Mongrel's confidence in his own prowess was great but he was realistic enough to recognize that death was certain if those jaws closed around any part of him. To his left was a wooden platform that had once held supplies for Malberon. He needed to leap up there so he could strike down at the monstrous beast..
Then a skinny young form brushed past him to race toward the Malak. Romal was so taken by surprise that he failed to grab at the boy to hold him back. Was the child mad beyond all measure?
Barefoot, wearing only the plain smock which reached his knees, the lad ran fearlessly at the beast. Double rows of fangs gaped wide. And Sirion struck a simple backhanded slap that threw the huge shark-thing off its feet with a crash.
Romal had witnessed much in his life but this sight left him staring with his mouth open and his sword lowered. If the Darthim had attacked him then, they could have killed him without resistance. But they were as dumbfounded as he.
The Malak had gotten clumsily to its feet again. The great tail whipped from side to side as the brute growled. Then SIrion raised a small bony fist and brought it down on top of the Malak's head with the decisive sound of a skull fracturing. Down dropped the monster without any attempt to break his fall.
Seeing the wide-eyed stares fixed upon him, Sirion struck an insolent pose with fists on his hips. "You see the Legacy of Malberon. I am but the first. My Master has endowed we Melgarin that each generation will have a Champion like myself."
Instead of commenting, the Mongrel whirled and vaulted directly at the Darthim, who were themselves only just then remembering that their most bitter enemy was close at hand. Striking first, Romal lopped off a Darthan head cleanly enough but then he was retreating back from a bristling flurry of steel.
Darthan fencing was subtle and tricky. They wielded thin thrusting weapons more like needles than normal swords, and the blades were made of Gremthom, the 'red iron' which inflicted burning pain to even the slightest scratch.
But even more than the advantage of his unusual speed and strength, Romal brought hard-earned experience to the fight. The Darthim may have studied under their experts and practiced faithfully, but Romal had spent his adult life in mortal combat against foes who were earnestly trying to slay him. There was no uncertainty in his moves. When he saw an opening, he took it.
In those amber-flecked eyes was neither weakening doubt nor the rage which clouds judgement. Within seconds, a second Dartha dropped to his knees with his intestines sliding out in a horrid pink splash.
Sirion had held back from the melee. Spotting the youth, one of the Darthim swerved over and lunged to drive his thin sword forward. But the deadly point stopped short, not even breaking the boy's skin. In the instant that he took to react to this, the Dartha was lost. From the center of his chest emerged the sword that Romal had thrust between his shoulder blades from behind.
He was the last of the white-skinned sorcerers to fall. Tugging his blade free, the Mongrel gave Sirion a gaze not entirely friendly. "So, you yourself are Malberon's final talisman?"
"It is as my Master promised," the boy answered gleefully. "He said I would enjoy power such as mortal flesh has never known before and that each generation of Melgarin to come would see one such as me born."
"Right glad I am that his Art worked," Romal said. "Fighting a Malak was no long-cherished ambition of mine. Hold. Were there not six of these torturers?" With the final word, the Mongrel had spun on one heel and pelted back toward the tower with his bloodied sword still in hand.
Seeing there were only four corpses stretched out where they had fallen, Sirion understood and rushed after Romal. Both seized with trepidation, they hurtled to the bedchamber and stopped short as they saw what had been done to Malberon.
V.
Still wet and an unlovely bright crimson, blood covered the folded cloths where the artisan had rested his head. The severing had been clean, as befit the exceeding keenness of Darthan blades. Malberon's arms hung down on either side of his body, showing no signs of a struggle.
Sirion was not aware of Romal wheeling around and running back out of the room as soon as they took in the scene. The boy fell to his knees, stricken to the heart and unable to catch his breath. He slumped forward and covered his face with both hands, unable to weep but unable to bear the sight. After a few minutes, two strong hands lifted him to his feet and Sirion looked up.
"The serpent-boat is gone," Romal told him. "With that wind today, the two surviving Darthim are well out into the Cold Sea beyond where we could catch them, even if we had a swift boat of our own."
The youth tried to speak, took a steadying breath and managed to get out, "We have a small coracle with oars, tied up nearby. But it is of no use for pursuit."
Romal said. "Sirion, we will bury your Master here and then I will take you to your people in Androval. Your new strength and imperviousness are his last gift to the Melgarin. You must grow to be their Champion."
"Oh, there is no doubt of that!" Sirion said. "My life will be one of duty, to protect my people and to avenge my Master."
"I myself have already declared a vendetta without mercy on the torturers of Maroch," Romal responded grimly. "Now the Darthim have two implacable enemies."
"Why would they do such a thing? I can not understand it. The Darthim may well have sought his death, but to cut off his head... and take it with them?"
"Best not to dwell on such thoughts," Romal said. "I have found that nothing is too vile for them."
VI.
In a stifling, oven-hot chamber deep within the Burning Pyramid on Maroch, red light streamed up from slits carved into the stone floor. Not far below, the Captive lay dying as it would linger on so for thousands of years to come. Even mortally wounded, that Sulla Chun radiated sheer malevolent gralic force. It was tapping into this anguished force that gave the Darthan magic such potency.
Taller and brawnier than the rest of his Race, Tollinor Kje stepped back from his labors and placed the square box of ebony on a stand before his thronelike chair. The Firstmade of the Darthim grinned with a joy he could not restrain. Before his fellows, he had to hide every thought behind an unreadable face with no expression. Here, alone in his workchamber, he could allow himself to laugh.
Tollinor swung open the elaborately engraved lid of the box. Inside was a head, its thick white hair forming a cushion beneath it. The face was dry and withered, the eyes closed. The greatest of the Darthan Kjes spoke in the forbidden tongue, "Hear me, Malberon..."
Those dead eyes clicked open, rolled up so only the whites showed. Somehow, without lungs to force air, the thin lips parted and a hollow voice answered, "I...was Malberon. I am dead."
"Nevertheless, you will serve me now. I have use for your knowledge. I greatly desire to ensorcell a sword which will be known as Hellspawn. Speak on."
"Let the dead rest.. Let me go..."
"Never! I compel you. Speak on, Malberon..."
11/23/2022
