Meuric (11 page)

Onóra returned and set down the clay jug of water before hurriedly setting off again. The two men began to eat.

“Should we surrender before we even fight?” asked Liam defensively.

Meuric shrugged. “I am sorry, my friend. I am just tired. But I will tell you this; those who surrender to Roz'eli are assimilated into their culture. You may even retain your own faiths and customs. Those who stand against are murdered to the last man whether it is a grandfather, woman or babe. I have seen them destroy cities containing thousands and kill everyone inside it.”

“So do we surrender?” asked Liam.

Meuric smiled. “We never surrender. Why is someone as important as you travelling alone? It is a bit of a risk.”

“I am not alone,” grinned Liam. “I have ten men of my Personal Guard with me scattered around. The fact that you trained them and could not see them has just added to their value.” He laughed. “I might even raise their pay.”

“So why has the Custodian of the Northwest and a member of the High King's Council left the safety of his capital Bahr'bre?”

Liam suddenly turned serious. “News has filtered through that a bireme ship has been spotted off our coast. My orders were to scout the coastal areas to see if any intelligence could be gleaned of any mysterious ships in our waters and, on a personal note, I wanted to see firsthand my people and how life is with them. I am to report to the High King down at Ka're as soon as I am done. We were making our way back to Bahr'bre when we decided to stop here for the night. What are the odds of seeing you here after so many years? It must be a sign from the gods.”

“The Ard-ri is in Ka're,” remarked Meuric a little surprised. “Did you find any evidence of scout ships?”

Liam shook his head. “I found stories everywhere but found no actual evidence of anyone even seeing a ship that might have belonged to the Roz'eli. It is almost as if someone went to a great deal of effort to instil false information.”

“Misinformation is one of the fortes of the General Agents,” remarked Meuric.

Liam sighed. “I miss my old life. This new one has just too much bureaucracy.” His eyes took on a faraway look then refocused. “It was strange, Meuric. The Ard-ri tasked me with this mission after I had questioned at length the legitimacy of the intelligence we have been receiving of late. The main report was that an invasion will land south at Ka're. The High King refused to even consider that the reports might be false. There was no changing his mind. Even to question him enraged him so.

“There is something else at work here, my friend. It was almost as if our army was sent to the most southern part of west Kel'akh because something else is about to happen up here. I hope that I am wrong. I fear that there are those in his counsel who are attempting to mislead our King. I could feel it, and for voicing my concerns I was sent away.”

“What will you do?”

“I am tempted to send someone in my stead down to Ka're,” suggested the Custodian. “And remain up here just in case. I have kept over one thousand warriors with me up here in case of any trouble. But to do that could very well be seen as an affront to the Ard-ri and could incur punishment. I could lose my title and lands. Politics, my friend. Never get involved.”

He sighed. “Let us talk of better things. My father still asks after you. We both cannot thank you enough for saving my sister even after all this time.” He smiled. “Shanahan is married now and has two little ones.”

“That is good news indeed,” responded Meuric, genuinely pleased to hear the news. He remembered that they had been too late to save Shanahan from being raped by several of her abductors but at least she was alive. “How long ago was that now? Three years? Four?”

Liam lifted his eyebrows. “Seven. How is it that you cannot remember?”

Meuric gave a thin smile. “To be honest time means very little to me these days.”

Liam turned to the former Knight Protector. His face suddenly became very serious. Meuric could feel the sudden shift in his friend's demeanour. Focusing his mind, he allowed his magick to flow through his body, changing its usage. It was how he had found Liam's sister when tracking her. Now he was using it to enter his friend's mind, to see exactly what he was thinking. Images flashed through the warrior's mind.

Liam's thoughts had slipped back seven years to when he had first met Meuric. Raiders had attacked the caravan Shanahan had been part of while travelling through the Great Wood. Even though he had been War Band Commander of the Kah'al region he was forced to track the kidnappers alone. Without even a mention of a reward, he recalled that Meuric had offered his services as a tracker. Dubious, Liam had accepted his help. After all, two men had better odds than one. Meuric had tracked them for days showing incredible skill, never once slowing down when he himself had struggled to keep up. Liam was forced to grudgingly admit his friend's proficiency at tracking over almost impossible terrain when surely he would have given up. He had stayed with Liam for a few seasons after, creating a well-trained unit of men in return for food and lodgings. They became fast friends.

“You know, Meuric,” said Liam. “I have always wanted to ask you a few things. At the time I was just so grateful to you for finding Shanahan but some things occurred to me later on. Why is it that after running for almost half a day you were never short of breath or had a bead of sweat upon your head? And where in the world did you learn to fight the way you do? When we had eventually found the raiders, you rushed in and almost took them on single-handed. I have never before seen anyone move so fluidly, with such speed and precision.”

He suddenly studied Meuric's face as if looking at it for the first time. “You know, my friend, you have not changed a bit. I am now in my late thirties but even now I can find the odd grey strand of hair, the deepening creases around my eyes. But you… you look the exact same.”

“I come from a young looking family,” Meuric chuckled, yet there was no humour in his eyes. “But I will be honest with you about one thing, my friend. A long time ago I lost family and a portion of my tribe to raiders. I swore to myself I would never allow anyone to go through that again if it was in my power.”

Meuric did not know if his friend sensed it but he had decided there and then he would never again see Liam. It was ironic, but the curse of immortality was to be always alone. There could only be so much time spent in one area before questions were asked of why he did not age, why he never got hurt or why did he never become sick.

Voices grabbed their attention then, fortuitously distracting Liam. They watched as Onóra took centre stage at the behest of her father and several other villagers. Lost in conversation they had failed to notice further patrons and families entering the building. With a few helping hands, Onóra stood on top of a cleared table.

Meuric listened as she sang several songs, amazed that her voice sounded so enchanting. She could easily have sang for the gods and held them all in her thrall, he decided. A man with the swarthy bearing of someone from further east brought out a lyre and began to strum the instrument. Onóra sang of both war and love, completely mesmerising all the patrons that evening. Meuric reached out with his magick, seeing the sliver of light that surrounded her pulsate as she sang and the warrior now understood the nature of her Gift.

Her power was the music or rather the voice that she sang with. Through it she could reach out with her soul feeding joy into the hearts of her people, or sadness or hope or whatever else she decided to share. And through it she could also sense what others were feeling.

Meuric could feel the vibrations of peace and contentment that she was sending out and visibly saw how the people reacted to it. Couples hugged. Men sat taller. The serving staff's smiles grew just that little bit wider. Even Liam seemed to relax and all questions about Meuric seemed to slip from his mind.

Onóra stepped off the table and meandered her way around the room, touching people as she sang, feeding off the emotions she sensed in them. Only at Meuric did her voice stumble. Quickly she corrected
herself and moved on, a little bit of fear in her eyes. Meuric understood what it meant though. From him she had sensed nothing, unable to pierce the magick barriers that were placed around him.

Onóra's father looked on at his daughter full of pride, happily ignoring the fact that she was drinking a small flagon of mead between each melody. Meuric felt a touch of jealousy towards him. He remembered well that same proud look on his face when his children had first begun to walk, to talk and to ride. A familiar rage began to grow within him and he quelled it swiftly.

The more alcohol that Onóra consumed, the harder it was for her to take her eyes off Meuric. He laughed to himself. It was only a matter of time now. Time passed and night came. After her father had forced out the last of the customers, naturally allowing some of his favourites to pass out and sleep at their table, he had turned in for bed. Onóra had lingered on and had forced herself to stay awake throughout the night although she was obviously exhausted. Liam had earlier made his apologies but he had an early start and a long ride ahead so he had turned in some time earlier. Meuric was the last of the patrons to remain in the hall fully awake. Boldly, Onóra staggered up to him.

“I have been waiting to be alone with you all night,” she said.

Meuric gave a slight grin. “I know.”

He stood then and took her hand, allowing Onóra to lead him to his room. She kept glancing back at him and staring at his fine clothing. Meuric sensed that she had drunkenly thought about stealing some of his money as he slept. The notion quickly vanished from her though as he began to kiss her at the door to his room. Her heart thundered in her chest as she surrendered herself to his powerful arms.

XIV

The sounds of fighting from the town rang in his ears as he raced away, his horse galloping as hard as it could up the hillside. He knew full well that he was probably leaving those few friends he still had behind to die. Despite a boy in his arms and a woman sitting behind him clinging to his waist, he managed to glance back once without stopping, noting the burning buildings of the large hill-fort, the scattered corpses, and the ever-enclosing dense black ring that formed the bulk of the enemy's forces. He knew the place though it had been some years since he was last there.

It was Ay'den. It always was.

A gap in the hill led to a long and wide tunnel, roughly the length of five men in width. He pulled hard on the reins of his horse, dropping the child as gently as he could to the ground and leapt off the animal. Behind him, the woman slipped off its rump. Slapping that same rear end he sent the horse away. Sweat began to run down his face and he wiped it away, staring at his glossy fingertips like he had never seen that secretion before.

“Do we move into the cave?” asked the boy. His accent was strange. That, and his swarthy skin, marked him as someone from across the Mahr'she Sea.

Meuric looked at it. The channel was murky and black making it difficult for him to see after a short distance in. Without any hesitation he took it, the boy close on his heels.

“Is this a wise decision?” asked the woman in the same middle-east accent as the child. “We will be trapped.”

Meuric shook his head and looked at her. He had yet to meet her and yet, somehow, he knew that she was a friend. “There is a gap in the ceiling that we can climb through. We will block it behind us and disappear into the Great Wood. They will never find us then.”

“The Expelled One will,” whispered the boy.

The warrior stopped and, taking his hands, knelt before the boy. He looked at the child, detecting the fear in his eyes. He was around eleven years of age with strange, almost black eyes, nearly like his friend, Knight Captain Petros'. “No he will not, Abram. Once the two of you are safe I will go back and kill him.”

“He is a god,” stated the boy.

“No, Abram,” argued Meuric. “He is a man with the power of a god. That is why I can kill him. You have heard the legend about me. I am the Hand of Death. All who stand against me will die. But we must hurry.” He began to run then, his heart, legs and arms all straining as he carried the child in one arm and dragged the woman with his other.

Eventually a dead end loomed before them but Meuric did not panic. He had expected this. He looked up seeking the path through the crevice that would lead them through the ceiling of the hill and on to freedom. But there was none. At some time it had collapsed upon itself, closing the large gap but creating several smaller ones that allowed only light to pierce the gloom. He cursed loudly and long and the woman gave him a sour look of admonishment. Strangely, for the briefest of moments, despite the danger and heartache, he felt his spirits lighten.

The woman asked, “Now what?” her tone so quiet she seemed almost afraid to hear the answer, even though she knew what it must be.

“Now we fight, Jemima,” Meuric tried to say as calmly as possible. “I am sure that we were seen escaping from the battle.”

Gently he set Abram down behind a boulder he had noticed. “Stay low,” he said to him. “Stay hidden.” He turned to Jemima and offered her a dagger. “Take this and get beside your son.” Obediently she did so, her hands shaking.

Meuric stepped off several steps and sank into the shadows to duck behind a boulder and, drawing a crossbow from the holster on his thigh, he readied the weapon. He prepared himself mentally for the coming fight, thankful in a situation such as this that it was the ideal weapon. It was specially designed for all those in the Protectorate. It was small, approximately the length of a man's thigh. It was fitted with a collapsible prod and a grip that fitted comfortably in the hand. It even had a trigger which the index finger rested over. A tiny squeeze was all that was needed to let the bolt fly.

Water dripped from large cracks in the cave roof above but he ignored it, concentrating on sounds that would be foreign to a cave. His four remaining bolts he set in a line next to hand for easy reach. Focusing his
eyes on anything but the creeping light he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the cave. His concern for his friends down in Ay'den made his mind begin to wander but he suppressed the urge and concentrated resolutely on the task at hand. It was then that they first heard the sound of running feet, growing swiftly louder. Years of training and warfare instantly took over and Meuric dropped to one knee, raised his arm in an aimed position, and waited.

Five men raced down the path of the cave. Armed with only swords and daggers they were in too much of a rush to worry about tactics. Bloodlust was upon them. What jarred Meuric most of all was that he noticed that their blades were the identical colour to those used in the Protectorate. They slowed slightly when approaching the Knight Protector's hidden position, as if sensing their prey was just ahead.

They were dressed very much like the warriors of the Protectorate. Their leggings, boots and gloves were all black. Their body armour, greaves, Tab'ee-styled helmet and vambrace were all black and made of metal whereas the Protectorate armour was shaped from toughened leather. The real difference was the colour of their tunics. Four were in blue while the fifth was in navy. Meuric assumed that was to identify him as the commander of the team. They almost seemed to be designed to make a mockery of what the Protectorate stood for.

Controlling his breathing, Meuric fired swiftly reloading a second bolt. Two of the enemy had fallen dead before they had realised what was happening. Even as they slunk into the shadows there was no escape for them. Meuric's finger smoothly squeezed the trigger with practiced ease after each bolt was loaded.

He aimed at the fifth man, the enemy commander. As if sensing what was happening he rolled over at the last moment, coming up onto his feet fast. Even without his Gifts, Meuric was faster still. Breaking cover, he threw his crossbow at the enemy soldier who naturally ducked. He just had time to raise his head as the Knight Protector sank his short sword up under his chin and into his brain. The blade slid out easily and slowly he crouched, taking the sword from the dead man, and stepped back into the shadows once again. He waited again.

A short time passed. Nothing reached his ears. He could feel a sense of urgency; the need to escape out into the countryside where they would have room to manoeuvre was strong within him and growing ever more powerful. He took a long deep breath and stood. He prayed to the gods that was all they would have to face that
day. They seemed to have answered, for no more cries from the enemy could be heard. He looked in the direction of Abram and Jemima.

“I think that we are safe.”

He never actually felt the arrowheads as they pierced his body.

Meuric stumbled backwards as if a powerful man had just kicked him twice. He did not fall. He looked at his body. One arrow protruded from his right bicep, the second from his left thigh. Shakily he steadied himself and snapped the shafts of the arrows. He was surprised at how little pain he felt. He was just, suddenly, extremely weary. Meuric held his two swords up defensively waiting for the attack that must surely come.

He watched a second group of men armed with swords and shields carefully navigate the passageway of the cave as they approached him. Two archers led their way.

“Get behind me, boy, and get away!” hissed the warrior. “I need the use of my Gifts!” Meuric watched the second group of men carefully as they approached him. The way they moved he knew that their eyes had not adjusted to the gloom of the cave. It was the only advantage that he had. He allowed himself a momentary look at the boy and his mother before he charged into them and towards his death.

On hearing racing feet, two archers loaded their bows and fired wildly, not having enough time to aim. But Meuric was ready. He rolled forward. The arrows wailed harmlessly above him. He heard them clatter against rock. He cried out with the pain of the arrowheads jagging into his muscles but already he could feel his power returning. Up on his feet, relief flooded him as he launched forward with his blades.

The first man had no time to move even as Meuric plunged his sword into his throat. The Daw'ra man immediately withdrew his blade and spun. As the enemy combatant swung his bow high, Meuric came in low slashing a blade across the man's thigh. He screamed and fell hard, not even having the time to raise his hands before he was stabbed in the throat. Meuric stood tall feeling his strength and magick returning fully. He smiled grimly.

He now had another three men to kill.

Meuric woke with a start, breathing heavily, aware that the air chilled his sweat-drenched body. He looked to the window and, judging by the light, estimated that it was still the early hours of the morning. He
breathed a deep sigh of relief. For the briefest of moments he feared that he was still in the cave that he had just dreamt about. It was worse than that now though. Or was it? He was beginning to see more.

To his left lay Onóra, her soft snoring indicating that she was still fully asleep. The warrior swung his legs over to the side and sat there for a short time, controlling his breathing and holding his face in his hands. The nightmares were coming more frequently now and becoming more vivid.

Energy suddenly filled the room, causing Meuric's whole body to begin to tingle. He knew well the feel of powerful magick. Onóra's heavy breathing abruptly ended. The former Knight Protector turned thinking that she was suddenly awake, that the sudden surge of enchantment in the room had set off her own Gift. Instead he found her completely still during mid-breath. He stood, completely naked, and peered cautiously around. He reached for a dagger and sword.

“Cambire,” said Meuric. Instantly gone were the Kel'akh-style weapons made of iron and wood, only to evolve into ones that were pitch-black.

The Daw'ra warrior continued to search the room. Suspended in mid-flight he found a fly, wholly stationary. Meuric reached out with his mind but sensed nothing. Using his Gift of Divining he tuned his magick to search for a trail of some kind but again found nothing.

“Well met, Meuric.”

The former Knight Protector spun at the sound of his name. It was from one of the darkened corners of the room that he found the newcomer. Glaring hard, Meuric looked him up and down.

The figure seemed to be in his mid-forties, with broad shoulders and chest. He wore the simple brown robes of an Oak Seer but he was no Kel'akh prēost. Meuric could not help but notice the strange violet eyes that seemed to stare into his soul. His face was long, with a long narrow nose and his white hair was tied back.

Meuric sighed and, setting his weapons on the bed, slid on his leggings and boots. “It has been twelve years, Ladra. What is it that you want?”

“He has found him again, Meuric,” explained Ladra. “You must go to him in Ah'mos in Ar'en.”

“Who?” asked Meuric, but he already suspected the answer. He folded his muscular arms.

“Abram,” was the reply. “The Dark Druid has found him again.”

“The Dark Druid!” exclaimed Meuric. Realising that he had spoken a little too loudly he turned, but Onóra continued to lie unmoving, seemingly frozen in the moment.

Ladra said calmly, “And he is hunting you as well as the boy now. Do not ask me why. We think that may be because you were one of the rescuers of Abram as a babe but we cannot be sure.”

“We?” asked Meuric. “Who is ‘we'? Are you working with the Council of Eight?”

Ladra shook his head and continued. “Right now he, his mother and his retinue are being accompanied by Qadir, the Knight Protector of Ar'en.” Meuric shook his head thinking. He had never heard of him nor met him. “All we could glimpse is that Ah'mos is currently under siege by Roz'eli troops in support of the Dark Druid. The family is making their way through the chaos to the docks to find a ship they had procured earlier.”

“I need answers first,” demanded Meuric. “So before I go rushing into anything…” He looked at Onóra. “Have you frozen time?”

“Yes,” replied Ladra. “But I can't do it for long.”

“So we have a little time then,” remarked Meuric. “But you are not a god.”

Ladra shook his head. “Not a god. I'm just a man like you.”

Meuric smiled without warmth. “Not like me.”

“No, not like you,” confirmed the mage. “But still a man nonetheless.”

“Why is the boy no longer at Wardens Keep?”

“Apparently they wanted to return to their homeland,” answered Ladra. “Obadiah felt that it was time to return home and gather what troops they could and spread the word that they were still alive.”

Meuric shrugged. “That is what kings do; even the exiled ones. Why is the Council not helping? Surely Zuleika could arrive with another team. Or could you not pull the child out through magickal means?”

“No,” confirmed the mage. “A more powerful shroud of darkness than the one that covered Jay'keb has been dropped over the whole of Ar'en so he can't be seen through magick. It also blocks all magickal forms of communication. It took me a considerable amount of effort to make it through the shield and transport myself here. The Council will have no idea of where they are. That is why I came to you direct.

“I have not even seen the child myself. I managed to track them to Ah'mos after speaking to an agent of theirs who had arranged for their passage aboard a ship. When I got there the Roz'eli had already surrounded the town and had begun attacking it with their artillery. Before I left I saw Free Archers crawling through breaches in the wall. They are taking no chances on losing the boy again. The Dark Druid was standing with their commanders.”