Meuric (17 page)

Meuric crouched down next to his crumpled clothes and from his hidden purse withdrew three gold coins. They had the Emperor of Roz'eli's head engraved on them much like the one he had handed to Onóra the night before. Carelessly he dropped the money onto her crumbled clothes that lay next to his.

“I am not a wanton Woman of Companionship,” she stormed, her voice somewhere between outrage and excitement.

“I know,” answered Meuric.

He moved forward and leaned over Onóra. His eyes were now the colour of polished iron with as much warmth as the metal. All of a sudden she looked very afraid and vulnerable. She seemed awfully aware that she was naked with nothing but a blanket protecting her. She pulled it up high over her breasts.

“If you were to steal any of my money I would have had to hunt you down,” said Meuric, his voice severe. “And kill you.” There was no remorse in his voice.

Abruptly the cold gleam vanished from his eyes and once again that mischievous glint was there. He smiled and all tension left his body. He leaned forward and kissed Onóra, gently at first and then more passionately. She hesitantly responded, fear still in her veins, and Meuric could feel that her body was still tense. He moved leisurely downward kissing her neck, her breasts and finally her firm stomach. His arm reached up, gently pushing her back. Onóra obliged and lay back. He moved lower still and paused for a
moment, his lips and nose brushing her pubic mound and she caught her breath. Lower again he moved. His tongue tenderly probed inside of her. She couldn't help herself any longer and moaned.

In that moment Meuric felt the last of Onóra's apprehension leave her.

XXI

Meuric lay on his back as he stared up into the ceiling, one arm folded behind his head. His other arm was lazily draped over the sleeping form of Onóra. The scenes of Ah'mos echoed once again through his mind.

Again he could see families being crushed beneath flying boulders while others were stomped to death as they fled for their lives at the harbour. He thought about the killing of Qadir and his mystifying encounter with the Dark Druid. He even considered briefly the man he had grabbed roughly, Rabi, and his pretty young daughter. He hoped they had both survived the sacking of the town. He sighed deeply even though he was already, physically at least, deeply relaxed. Being with Onóra had seen to that. Meuric closed his eyes and slept.

He stood in the centre of a room that he did not recognise. There was no mistaking the style of furniture or décor of western Kel'akh. From outside he could hear the sounds of a battle raging.

Only a few paces ahead of him stood a female figure in a tattered grey and hooded cloak, pulled tightly over an even more frayed green dress. She stood in silence but from beneath the shadow of her cowl Meuric could see her red eyes gleaming ominously. He knew instantly what she was of course. She was a ben-sidhe, a Woman of the Mounds, whose very presence portends danger and whose voice means death.

Meuric folded his arms defensively and he could hear the creak of toughened leather and the sway of weapons arranged across his body. A smell of decomposition seeped from the figure and touched his nostrils but he refused to be moved by it. He had been a warrior for too many years now and had long ago ceased to be affected by such sights. Looking to her feet he noticed an inky dark mist in the shape of tentacles seep out, before it dissolved away only after a short distance. He glanced down to his own feet and noted that he once again was wearing the dark uniform of a Knight Protector.

“Why did you not warn me?” accused the woman angrily.

Meuric frowned. He knew that voice. It sounded so familiar and yet seemed to contain a gravelly tone that was foreign to it. Meuric said nothing. He simply waited for the mysterious woman to identify herself. As if reading his mind, bony and festered hands reached up and pulled back the hood.

Onóra's face was now as rotted as her hands. Her beautiful green eyes, once so bright and lively, were now red, dull and dead with no hint of the love of life she had once possessed. Her hair had fallen out in clumps reminding Meuric of those he had known to die of cancers. Her face was thin, stretched obscenely over the muscle and bone below. There were holes in the lower half of her face revealing the grey and blackened teeth.

“Why did you not warn me?” she repeated. “Why did you not tell me of the vision you had that night?”

Meuric now understood that he was trapped within a vision. It was a picture of the future; his future. He felt himself shrug. His lips moved but he had no control over his words.

“To what end? I knew not the time of Kar'el's destruction or your death. If I truly had known I would have warned you, Onóra.”

She lifted an arm and pointed an accusing bony finger at the Knight Protector. Meuric could not help but notice that the nail was elongated to resemble that of a talon.

“Know this, Knight Protector. Know that even the Hand of Deo cannot stand against me. Now tell me truly why you did not warn me. I had my whole life ahead of me, a future. Now all that is gone.”

For Meuric, there was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice. Sadness touched his heart. Thoughts of those fighting outside the room filled his mind though he did not understand why. Energy filled the room emanating behind and to the right of the ben-sidhe. Before him now materialised a younger version of Onóra very much like the one who now lay in bed next to him in the real world.

The Onóra of the real world looked totally bewildered. Her jaded eyes hurriedly searched the room in an attempt to discover where she was and what was going on. It was the back of the ben-sidhe she noticed first. She frowned not understanding what she was looking at. Meuric could see her trying to make sense of what had just happened to her. It was only a few heartbeats later when she first saw Meuric.

She looked him up and down noting the dark armour and weapons and the battle-weary lines etched onto his eternally young face. There was obvious confusion on her face. Before her stood the Meuric she knew, but somehow different. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped, hearing that Meuric had already begun.

“You would not have believed me had I told you,” he explained to the daemon. “In truth I had no idea when the attack was to have taken place and I had hoped that you would have been away with your father by the
time it had happened. I am sorry, so very sorry. I was wrong.” He looked into the corner of the room where the young Onóra stood open-mouthed and stared directly at her. “I am also sorry for what has happened to you and what you have been turned into.”

“My life has been wasted because of you,” hissed the dead Onóra. “Know that I will be paying you in kind.”

The ben-sidhe opened her mouth and screamed. The wail echoed across the room like a wave splicing every nerve in Meuric's body. He cowered slightly under the force, placing his hands over his ears. He knew that it did not stop with him though. Already he could hear the cries of the people beyond the room as the daemon's cry filled the outside world. Even Onóra of the real world trembled under the scream.

When the shriek eventually ended Meuric stood upright only to find the ben-sidhe smiling at him. Her rotted teeth set in stark contrast against the deathly pallor of her lips.

“So dies here the Hand of Deo,” she quipped. “May you never know peace!”

As if sensing something for the first time the ben-sidhe slowly turned towards the corner where the still living Onóra stood. Meuric wanted to speak out, to shout at the daemon Onóra, but trapped as he was in the vision he was unable to do so.

Meuric opened his eyes.

He was no longer in the dream but was once again back in the boarding room of the Travelers' Inn. It was then that he saw Onóra sitting upright next to him. He could feel her body trembling, her breathing ragged. Tenderly he set a hand on her back. Reactively, she flinched then calmed. She drew in a deep shuddering breath.

“I am sorry that I woke you but I just had the most extraordinary dream,” she murmured. “You were there dressed in this black armour and you were talking to a daemon I think. She may have been a ben-sidhe.” She laughed nervously. “You must be thinking that I am half crazed but it just seemed so real.” She turned to the former Knight Protector. “It was just a dream. Was it not?”

Meuric hesitated. What should he say? Would she believe him? She probably would not. Perhaps he could encourage her to leave for her testing at Ee'ay sooner. He offered a thin smile. “It was only a dream.”

She nodded at his answer and lay back. He knew that she was only half convinced. “Perhaps I should talk to my father this morning about leaving for Ee'ay earlier than planned.”

Meuric's strained smile became a real one.

XXII

Bradán stood patiently in the centre of a field surrounded by leagues of gentle sloping hills and lush open fields. It was beautiful here, he decided, with its green countryside and clear blue skies above. It reminded him very much of his own home in Kel'akh except for the obvious lack of woodland. There the Great Wood practically covered the whole of the realm. It was hard to believe that, only two day ago, he was in Ber'ek, having been transported to E'del through a magickal entryway the magi call a Doorway Narration.

He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes revelling in the fact that he was alive. Somehow the air seemed a touch fresher, the grass just that little bit greener and the sky a more clear cerulean. He had fought a Knight Protector and lived. Something he had trained for a long time to do and the euphoria of the act still surged in his veins. But at the same time it saddened it. Another mindless death and for what, he began to ask himself more and more. Was he a family man? Was he a good man?

No, he decided. The massacre that took place at Ber'ek would forever leave a black mark upon his soul, no matter what the Dark Druid had said to him. When his time came to enter the Otherworld Bradán knew that he would have to answer for it.

After that another question was constantly posed in his mind. How was he able to defeat the Knight Protector in a one-on-one scenario? By all the accounts and myths concerning the Conclave and the Protectorate, they possessed Gifts that no normal men could hope to match. Though it was said that to use their powers too often would weaken them considerably. Even his master, the Dark Druid, had warned him of the power they wielded and had even told him of the individual Gifts held by certain Knights. How he had gained that intelligence he had never explained, nor did he ever feel the need to do so. His ways were far beyond his own knowledge, Bradán knew.

The puzzling thing for him was that he knew the Knight Protector he had faced went by the name of Qadir. He knew that he owned the Gifts of hearing the shades from the Otherworld, the power to make others do whatever he commanded through the sound of his voice whenever he touched you and the ability to
manipulate all forms of energy that, his master had informed him, surrounded all things. Not only that but he possessed superior agility, speed and strength. Not once did the Knight Protector display any of his abilities though. Again, the question was why?

“What are you doing?” asked a male voice.

Reluctantly Bradán opened his eyes and gazed at a man of medium build and average height with black hair. He wore the usual trappings of a Roz'eli nobleman, though he was very much an E'del native. He wore a simple pale blue chilton with sandals and carried a gladius and pugio on his waist. “What, Gavriil?”

The man was obviously perplexed. “Why are you closing your eyes?”

“This place reminds me of home,” explained the Dark Druid's newly appointed Captain. He adjusted his brand new brown tunic. “I was just remembering it.”

Gavriil frowned. “Why?”

Bradán sighed. They had only met the day before but already he realised that there was no talking to the E'del man sometimes. For an empire that ruled most of the known lands and boasted of its unrivalled quantity of culture and knowledge Gavriil seemed to possess none of their qualities. But then in reality Roz'eli stole much of what they had gained from the kingdoms they conquered, including parts of his own homeland. Assimilation through domination was, in his personal view, all that they could truly have laid claim to.

“What do you want, Gavriil?” asked Bradán, annoyed slightly that the man had interrupted him.

“The hireling Thales and Senator Tacitus are approaching,” he answered.

Reactively Bradán turned to look for the remaining ten men, armed and in the uniform of the Dark Druid's Legion. Only one wore a green tunic marking him as a Chosen Man while the remainder wore olive green tunics. They stood only a short distance away, far enough not to easily overhear any conversations but close at hand if they were needed. Half of them faced inwards, the remainder were left to scan the horizon. Each wore their open-faced helms but Bradán knew from experience that they were most likely already sweating heavily under the mid-morning sun. He was pleased to note that each of the men though was not lax and remained very much alert. In many ways they were more professional than most standing armies.

He turned now to regard the hireling. He moved well for an old man, he considered. His pace was quick even though he moved uphill from his large villa. He must have been in his mid-fifties though his chest and shoulders were still broad and his waist was narrow with practically no sign of fat. The chiton he wore was pale white and reached to his ankles in the style of most of the nobles in the country. His thinning white hair was trimmed short as was his beard. Only a plain dagger adorned his waist and was angled for an easy right-handed draw.

Quite brave of the old-timer, Bradán also thought. He was away from the protection of his home and without any of his guards. Bradán could not help offering a sheepish grin as the man drew closer. He reminded him so much of his own grandfather that it almost seemed unreal.

Thales stopped only a few feet away. His eyes blazed. “Something funny, boy?” he demanded to know.

Only then did Bradán realise that he was smiling at the hireling. “I apologise,” he stammered. He tried to sound sincere but held his gaze without flinching. “It is just that you remind me of someone.”

“Your grandfather perhaps?” asked Thales sternly then suddenly burst into laughter. All the anger vanished from his eyes only to be replaced by mischief. “I seem to be hearing that more and more these days, especially from my daughter.”

“Margarita,” commented Bradán without thinking. He caught a glare from Tacitus.

Thales nodded but did not seem surprised. His eyes narrowed shrewdly. It was obvious to him then that they had researched all they could about him.

“Thales has agreed to carry out his task,” said Tacitus to Bradán in an almost bored tone. “I trust you can run through the details with the hireling here.” He did not even try to disguise the derogatory tone. The Kel'akh warrior offered the senator a stiff slight bow. Tacitus abruptly turned on his heel and took several steps to one side. “Gavriil, a word,” he muttered. The E'del warrior jogged over to the politician like a dog summoned to his master.

For a short time Bradán watched them walk a short distance away and talk in low tones before he finally spoke.

“I apologise on behalf of the senator. Did Tacitus explain that Gavriil and I will be going with you?”

Thales nodded but he was only half listening. “And for that I have demanded twice my usual fee. This man, Meuric of Kel'akh, that you want me to kill, I have heard of him.”

“You are friends then?” asked Bradán.

“No,” responded Thales quickly. “We simply travel in the same circles. Apparently he is a man of deep morals. Very choosy about the missions he takes on. A very hard man to kill if half the stories I have heard are true.” His voice was almost nonchalant. Bradán saw his eyes suddenly narrow. “The senator is planning your death you know,” he said in all seriousness. “Both of them there,” he indicated Gavriil and Tacitus with a slight nod, “fear you. You grow steadily within the ranks of your master, are respected by your men and you have the Dark Druid's ear.” He chuckled at the stunned face of Bradán. “That man Gavriil not only gathers intelligence for your master but also acts as an assassin for him.”

“And how would you know all this, old-timer?” asked Bradán. “Do you have some sort of magickal ability that I have not been made privy to?”

“Just my instincts, child,” smiled Thales. “That and having men in my pay that are skilled in gathering knowledge. But both are pretty good.”

Bradán looked at the men he was talking about. He was not in any way surprised by what Thales had just told him. He had suspected the same for a short time now; that Tacitus wanted him removed for his own agenda. Without meaning to, he found himself warming to the ageing hireling. He sighed.

“In all honesty I think that they are planning both our deaths.”

Thales smiled coldly and his eyes glinted with a malice that hinted to the Kel'akh man why the hireling had survived for so long.

“Then they had both best be careful.”

A woman's playful laugh distracted the two men. In the space of a heartbeat Bradán watched the hireling's face soften and his eyes become moist. He looked down towards the villa and watched a woman race out while casting fleeting glances back. Moments later a man chased her, his arms groping out to grab her. Laughing hysterically the woman allowed herself to be caught. Together they fell and rolled about. It only
lasted a short time before the two followed it with a slow and lingering kiss. Bradán looked at the old man and saw him grinning openly.

“Your daughter?” asked the Kel'akh man.

Thales nodded. “That is Margarita and her betrothed Iason. She is my life and he is a good man though he is loath to admit it.”

“A warrior?” asked Bradán feigning ignorance, though he knew the truth of the man.

Thales roared with laughter. “Wyrre protect us if they were all like him. The first and last time I tried to train him he nearly stabbed himself. No, he is a trader in silks and cotton.”

But Bradán did not smile. He knew full well that Iason was a Knight Protector assigned to this region of E'del. He was yet another target to be taken out in the name of his master. He watched the two of them for a few more moments as they frolicked on the grass before turning away, his heart in conflict.

Part of him yearned for the woman he left behind; part of him felt jealous of the couple who had just cavorted before him. What is wrong with me? Lately he had become more questioning, more sensitive. He had seen thirty-five summers in his lifetime, had been a warrior for the last twenty. Why now, all of a sudden, was he wondering what it was all about?

He should have been happy with his life. He had risen through the ranks of the Dark Druid. He had become a person of some standing within that organisation. He also had enough money kept away so that he and Corliss could live a modest life for the remainder of their days. He had even killed a Knight Protector, a feat he was told that they truly could only hope to accomplish with the strength of numbers. Yet watching two strangers' love each other openly had only made him discover another longing.

“Something on your mind, boy?” asked Thales.

Bradán turned to the hireling who seemed to be watching him thoughtfully. “I was wondering how we will travel to Kel'akh?” he lied smoothly.

Thales nodded. “A Jay'keb hireling and magus by the name of Simeon will help us. He specialises in creating magickal doorways that can instantly transport us anywhere in the world. So now tell me what was really on your mind.”

The Kel'akh man sighed and hung his head. “Looking at your daughter and her lover makes me think of someone. I just wonder if all I have done is worth it.”

Thales nodded. “I knew it!” He slapped the warrior on the shoulder. “It was about a woman? I have seen that look too many times. I think that you find yourself at a crossroads, child.” He paused for a moment then said, “Come with me to my home for a short time. Let us share a meal and talk like old friends and perhaps your soul might know peace after. Life is fleeting and far too short in my opinion and one should do what one can to enjoy those few days we have here.”

Bradán looked at the hireling. He sensed no malice in him, no ridicule. Without knowing why Bradán found himself dumbly nodding to the E'del man. Thales offered a quick sympathetic smile then led the way to his villa.

“One question though,” asked Bradán as he trundled after him. “Why did you come out here alone without at least one armed guard?”

“Why do you think that I came alone?”

Bradán listened as the hireling raised his fingers to his lips and whistled once. The noise was loud and piercing. Immediately ten armed men seemed to rise out of the ground as one and surrounded the party of the Dark Druid's men, taking them all by surprise, including Gavriil and Tacitus. Bradán smiled at their shock and displeasure at being caught unawares.

Bradán studied the newly-appeared warriors. Each bore only a sword and long dagger which were strapped to their waists. They wore linothorax, body armour made of layers of linen. It was said that it was light enough to run in but strong enough to stop an arrow. In their hands they held a small hand-held crossbow with one arrow nocked and ready. Each man was garbed in a short green chiton that matched the shade of grass that they lay hidden under. Green paint smeared the bare parts of their bodies.

Looking closer to the dips in the ground Bradán saw that they were rectangular shaped and were roughly the breadth, depth and length of a man who would neatly fit into it. He watched closely as each of the newcomers carefully set back the roofs of their hide-places making them once again invisible. As one the ten
men then stepped into two columns of five and flanked both sides of Bradán and Thales. The Kel'akh soldier turned to the hireling and saw that he was already being closely regarded by him.

“I am rarely ever alone, man-of-Kel'akh,” stated Thales coldly. “Be sure that your friends know that.”