Melanthrix the Mage (4 page)

Arik came to his feet in one smooth motion, pulling a long dagger from its hidden sheath.

“Where?” he asked. He quickly scanned the room. “I see nothing but smoke and fire and shadow.”

“I could have sworn...,” the abbot said. He rubbed his brows and sighed. “I must be getting old, Arik. I thought I saw a pair of eyes staring at me out of the flames. Then I blinked and they were gone. This business with the Nörrlanders must be affecting me more than I'd thought.”

Then he sat back and yawned widely.

“The bell for evening prayers will be tolling soon,” the old man said. “We must go prepare ourselves. I give you permission to test the acolyte Athanasios on the mor­row. Perhaps we should not deny him the same chance that we were given at his age, the same opportunity to succeed or fail on his own merits.”

He awkwardly reached for the cane laying to one side of his chair, staggered to his feet, and then embraced the traveler.

“I'll see you at prayers, Father Arik. Peace be unto you, my old friend.”

“And to you, Father Abbot,” the hieromonk said. “And to you.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I SHALL NAME HIM
Afanásy
”

On his cot in the dormitory for boys aged ten to thirteen, Afanásy jolted awake out of his trance, then just as quickly settled back down again. He'd nearly been caught by Jován, bless his interferring soul, but the boy's fear was quickly overwhelmed by the surge of excitement that he felt at having successfully penetrated the abbot's antechamber.

They know who I am!
he thought to himself,
and they haven't told me
.
Why? I must find out.

Earlier that week he had finally unearthed a cryptic entry in the old ledger books of the abbey, in a volume dated
ii
Kyprianos
iii
. On the second day of May in the Year of Our Lord 1166, the abbot had noted in his cramped Greek lettering:

“
F[ea]st. [of] S[ain]t. Athanasios.
AR
here with Child, after delay en route. Boy healthy. In honor of the Pillar of the Church, whose
celebratio
this is, I shall name him Afanásy.”

This child was obviously he, but what did it mean? And who was the
mother
that the two men had discussed a few moments ago? What about his
father
? He would give
anything
to know the answers to these questions. He
would
know the answers, no matter the price.

He had carefully torn the ledger page from the book, folded it, and put it with his small cumulation of pre­cious things, things that belonged to
him
, not the church. These included a miniature bronze torc inscribed on the in­side with incuse cuneiform lettering, which he had owned (and had been trying to decipher) for as long as he could remember; a curious green crystal that someone had left in his room a year after his arrival; and a few other trinkets that he had kept for no reason that he could understand.

Manipulating the visiting hieromonk hadn't been all that difficult, although he still had to be
very
careful around Jován. The abbot somehow had notions about his abilities that weren't too far from the truth. It was time to move on before he was accidentally discovered. He'd outgrown this place anyway, had read all of the scrolls and volumes in the library, and even some hidden books in the monks' quar­ters, including one filled with writings of a salacious na­ture. The volumes that he
really
wanted to peruse, the ones referred to cryptically by various masters of the Psairothi arts, were just not here, but he would find them somewhere else, never mind. And then he would know
everything
that he wanted to learn.

Afanásy's musings were suddenly interrupted by a shower of water and a howl of laughter. He looked up to see a small cloud dissipating above his head, and just be­yond his bed a crowd of his stupid
compagnons
headed by the acolyte Benedím.

“Nasty is a patsy,” they chanted, “Nasty is a patsy.”

“What's the matter, Nasty?” yelled Benedím, “did our naughty little boy wet his panties?”

Which again prompted catcalls and laughter from the boy's dozen accomplices.

Afanásy dug his fingers into his hands, drawing blood, then rubbed his palms together, smearing the sacrifi­cial offering on his
ka
-ring, all the while muttering to him­self in Greek, “
Mênin
aeide, Thea
.” He took a deep breath, gently drawing all the moisture out from his clothes and bedding, and then carefully breathed out again through his slightly opened hands, blowing the vapor toward the boys. They would wake in the middle of the night, having wet their beds quite thoroughly. Benedím would find him­self coming and going both ways, and wouldn't be able to stop until morning. Afanásy grinned to himself in satisfac­tion. When you came right down to it, the dumb ones were surprisingly easy to twist.

“Boys, boys, now stop this,” the voice of Brother Nathanaêl boomed from across the room. “Enough! What's the matter with you, playing these kinds of pranks on each other? Enough, I say. Do you want me to report you to Father Abbot? Now, settle down on your cots be­fore you go off to prayers. If you're not careful, the Dark-Haired Man will get you for sure!”

“Ah, everybody knows there ain't no Dark-Haired Man,” Benedím said, drawing gasps from his accom­plices, for no one had ever been foolish enough to chal­lenge the dormitory monk directly.

“What did you say?” Brother Nathanaêl said, turning on Benedím.

He grabbed the boy by both arms and yanked him off the floor.

“What did you say?”
the monk repeated.

“Friend Benedím,” he said, “you will work garde-robe duty for the next ten days. By yourself. And if I do not find all of them spotless of piss and poop each and every day, your service will be extended until such time as they are. And, in your spare time, which you seem to have so much of these days, you will pray in the Chapel of Saint Abêl for God's forgiveness of your many detestable sins.”

He then released the boy and turned his attention to the others.

“As for the rest of you, Brother Nate has a little word of advice:
do not doubt the power of evil
. Satan is as real as Almighty God Himself, and he's always eager to capture the souls of innocent little boys. And his chiefest ally, his greatest servant, is
The
Dark-Haired Man
.”

Nathanaêl set his fists on his hips and proceeded to declaim with some evident relish.

“Now let me tell you something about The Dark-Haired Man,” he said. “He was once just like you and me, lads, just another young boy, unspoiled and true to the Holy Faith. They say that he lived in the Duchy of Pynchóv, being the younger son of a wealthy nobleman of that place, a century or more ago.

“Then one day, not very long after he reached his eighteenth birthday, he was riding in the woods and met a well-dressed man outfitted all in black, who saluted him and said: ‘Aren't you Lord so-and-so? Why, I've heard such good things about you, such promising things. What a shame your brother will inherit your father's title and you'll get noth­ing. He's stupid and ugly, and you're handsome and smart.'

“‘Yes,' said the boy, ‘all this is true, but what can
I
do about it? The law is the law, and he is, after all, first-born.'

“‘Ah,' the devil said, for that's who he was, my boys, the Evil One himself, ‘Should he meet with a small accident before he marries, why,
you
would be first-born.' And so it happened. But the duke of that time, a powerful Psairothi, somehow discovered the crime and challenged the lad to the Code Duëllo. But he, being the coward that he was, refused the fight and ran away, vanishing before he could be caught.

“Today he roams the wilderness of the north, his dark hair tumbling loose down his back, looking for other young men to seduce into his evil ways. The devil gave him long life and the ability to change his shape at will, as­suming the forms of beasts and men alike; but to sustain himself he must feed on the blood and souls of innocent boys. He has long yellow teeth”—he mimicked them with a quick downward slash of two fingers—“and glowing red eyes”—he used his hands to form two circles around his own sockets—“and a hideously crook'd nose, but he shuns the True Cross and can be seared with holy water. He fears the bright light of day.

“Do not scoff at his existence, my boys, for I have seen this foul fiend with mine own eyes, having narrowly escaped his clutches in my youth. Yea, I could even smell his rotten breath scorching my face. Thank the Holy God that I wore about my neck an icon of Mary the Mother of Jesus, or I would be dead,
dead
, I say, or even worse, made one of his slobbering slaves! 'Ware The Dark-Haired Man!”

The monk drew his six-foot frame up to its fullest extent, raised his arms over his head, and yodled the low, moaning cry of the damned. His fingers cast a long, wa­vering shadow that ran up the cots to the far wall.

“Now go to prayers, the lot of ye!” Brother Nathanaêl shouted, and they all ran off squealing, like mice scurrying for their hidey-holes.

All, that is, save the acolyte Afanásy, still sitting on his dry bed, who quite pa­tiently asked: “And what happened then, sir?”

CHAPTER THREE

“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”

The next morning, the Feast of Saint Pêrêgrinos the Beknighted, dawned fair and warm, with a light breeze blowing from the south. After morning prayers the visiting hieromonk tested the acolyte Bayánik and found him want­ing. He then broke bread with the abbot, and talked to him again for an­other hour, before the latter left to attend to the monastery defenses. As soon as he was alone, Arik sum­moned Afanásy to Jován's chambers.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked the boy.

Afanásy paused a moment before responding.

“You're the one who brought me here, aren't you, sir?”

Arik started.

“Who told you that, son?” the priest asked.

“No one, father,” came the response.

The hieromonk ran his hand over the stubble of his bare head.

“Let's start over again, shall we, lad? I'm Father Arik Rufímovich, and I'm here to test you for possible training at the
Megalê tou Genous Scholê
, the Great School of the People, in Paltyrrha. Would you like that, friend Athanasios?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said.

“Good,” Arik said. “I'm told that you know the Neustrian game,
les échecs
. Since you must relax be­fore I can test your abilities properly, I propose that we play a match first. The abbot's pieces have been laid out for us before you. All you need to do is to pull up a stool. Which color would you like?”

“Black, sir,” Afanásy said.

“Why black?” Arik said.

“It's easier to defend than attack,” the boy said, “and I like black.”

“Very well, then, since I'm white, I'll begin by moving my pawn two spaces forward, thus. Now, it's your turn,” the hieromonk said.

But when Afanásy touched his black pawn to make the counter­move, suddenly his left hand was riveted to the board, and his eyes rolled upward into their sockets as a surge of energy swept up his arm into his body, momentar­ily driving out his consciousness. When he could see again, he had been transited to another reality.

He was standing on a flat plain hatched with strange cross­marks. Surrounding him on either side were his com­rades-in-arms, all dressed alike and ranged in two lines. His body was covered in black armor and his left hand gripped an upright sword. On the opposite side of the field was another group of warriors clothed from head to toe in white armor, also in two lines. Two of the soldiers, one of each color, had already faced off in the center of the plain.

Afanásy instinctively tensed, looking right and left for any danger to his king, then almost fled the field when he saw the long black hair writhing and moving as it hung behind his monarch's helmet. The king's head turned down and looked right at him, and Afanásy noticed two red spots where the eyes should have been.

“What's the matter, little boy?” the monarch hissed, a forked tongue flickering out from the opening in his ar­mor. “S-snake got your tongue?”

And then Afanásy would have run, run as fast as his short legs could carry him, run anywhere but this awful place of death, except that he couldn't. He was nailed to his square, unable to leave it, because it wasn't his time. He was still looking at his terrible king when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. A white knight had moved in front of the white pawns onto the field opposite him.

“Your turn, little boy,” the black monarch said.

Afanásy found himself leaping over the soldier in front of him, moving sideways to offset the move of the white knight opposite. He could only move when it was his turn, and then only in ways prescribed by the rules; otherwise, he was stuck within the confines of his square. Pieces began to fall as the game progressed, but here, in­stead of cleanly being removed from the board, they were struck down by the awful weapons of war, with limbs and heads being hacked off and blood spurting everywhere, with men and horses groaning their death rattles and crying piteously for a succor which never came. But still the game remorselessly moved toward its end, as the number of players steadily diminished through deliberate murder and assassination.

A white metropolitan moved within range, and sud­denly Afanásy attacked, wielding his sword with deadly ac­curacy, striking him down mercilessly. He stood there ap­palled while the churchman bled all over the square, crying out: “My brother, my brother, why hast thou forsaken me?”

He would have stopped and begged for forgiveness or at least tried to aid the archbishop, but there was nothing he could do: he could not cross the boundaries surrounding him on all sides. He seemed doomed to repeat what he now knew was an old, old game.

The white king was soon besieged within a protect­ing ring of his few remaining warriors. The boy could hear the black king gloating as he drew ever closer behind him.

“I have you this time, old friend, I have you now!” the fiend chortled.

But as the black monarch passed the boy on the square next to his, suddenly Afanásy swiveled with all of his strength, and somehow struck right through the wall of his square, cutting into the legs of the dark king, ham­stringing him.

The face of the creature turned toward him, hissing, “S-strike the traitor down.”

The remaining dark warriors began closing in on all sides, and the boy knew that he was doomed.

Then the hand of the white king elongated across the board and touched him lightly on the head.

“You'll do,” he said, and the boy passed out.

* * * * * * *

When Afanásy awoke, he was still sitting on his stool in the abbot's antechamber, his left hand gripping the original pawn so tightly that he could feel the cold ridges of the piece digging into the cuts on his palm. He released it, and looked down at the brown, dried blood staining the in­sides of his rings. He then caught the hard eyes of the hi­eromonk staring directly into his soul.

“Never forget, son,” Arik Rufímovich said, “that I know who you are. I am not the fool that you think I am. Neither are most people. Now let's go find the abbot.”

Outside on the terrace, Jován was staring northward at a large, dark cloud that was billowing up on the distant horizon.

“When did that storm arise?” Arik asked.

“Sevyerovínsk is burning,” the older man replied. “The Nörrlanders have come.”

The hieromonk could see the tears staining the older man's cheeks.

“Time for you to go, friend Arik,” the abbot said. “Use the
viridaurum
in my study to transit directly to Myláßgorod, and report to the king immediately. We need reinforcements and supplies as quickly as possible. Ah, I see that you will be traveling with a boon companion. Very well, I give you my blessing, but remember what I told you earlier.

“Come, there's no time to delay. The barbarians will be here within a few days, and I have much to do to prepare their especial welcome.”

Half an hour later the two men embraced and gave each other the kiss of peace.

“Keep well, my brother in Christ,” the hieromonk said. “Don't take any unnecessary chances, Jován.”

“Nor you, my old friend,” the abbot said. “You were always my best pupil, Arik, and watching you progress has been one of the great joys of my life. Never forget this place whence you sprang, when you walk amongst the tiled halls and titled nobles of Paltyrrha. I see great things yet to come for you, great sorrows and great joys. Keep true to Our Lord, and keep true to yourself, always.”

Then he turned to the boy.

“As for you, Athanasios Hokhanêmsos, the Unvraveler of Fate, I know how much you like that name. You shall walk the path of the righteous man, and then you shall have nothing to fear when you come before the throne of God for His final judgment. I specifically charge you to serve, protect, and obey the hieromonk Arik Rufímovich as if he were your own father, for all of your days, for as long as you both shall live. Now, give me your pledge on this, and be gone, the lot of you.”

“I do so swear, Father Abbot,” said the boy, kneeling, crossing himself, and kissing his paired thumbs as they were both blessed by the primate. Then Afanásy en­tered the alcove with Arik, hand laced in hand.

As the travelers stepped through the
viridaurum
with a slight whoosh of air, Jován made the sign of the cross and whispered a quick prayer to the Holy Abbot Éz­zard, asking him to watch over his two friends throughout their many journeys to come.

The cleric said out loud: “I shall not see you again in this world, my dear ones. May Almighty God bless you and care for you, forever and ever. Amen.”

He turned his back on the great glowing greengold mirror and attended once more to his duties, but his last words echoed within the chamber for long after he was gone from this earth, until they too finally faded away with time.

For it is time, as Agnós Zélénÿ relates, it is Father Time who grinds down all men's thoughts into sand, sifting through the leftovers for a mere morsel of worth—but leav­ing unto history the human accounting of the whole, and to God the Adjudicator the final judgment of the soul.