Meuric (14 page)

He made surprisingly good progress. His advanced strength helped him shove past the hordes. He skirted the left-hand side of the pier while most everyone else seemed to press in tight to the centre or the right, in the direction of where the ships lay. The pier slipped into smaller runners that lay directly for the vessels. Here even more people fell, this time into the water. Those who could not swim were not helped. He stopped and scanned the area.

There were all kinds of ships anchored in the harbour. Every kind of transport floated there, from simple vessels that would only normally run up and down the River Nab'eel to fishing boats, trading crafts, old fighting ships and everything else in between. Small crafts ferried people out to the larger vessels. Many others attempted to swim. More than a few failed.

A good number of galleys had already left the port and had sailed out to sea but it was obvious that there were far too few left to take all of the remaining populace. It was on the pathway furthest left where he spotted the galley
Widan
, named after the God of the Four Winds. True to his word the Captain's men were holding the pier against the people of Ah'mos with spear and shield.

Meuric did notice that a select number of families were being let on board though. The former Knight Protector guessed that these were most likely the sailors' families of those who resided in Ah'mos or those who could afford the extortionate prices. He could hear the people growing angry. Pleas of begging followed by the bellows of threats touched his ears. Meuric felt sorry for these people and the sailors. They failed to realise that there was nothing that could be done by crew, for fear of losing their own spot on board.

The
Widan
was a penteconter, an old-style Roz'eli warship first developed by the Ad'el people. It was perhaps fifty years old judging by the design, but seemed extremely well maintained and seaworthy. It was now used mainly as a trading vessel measuring eighty feet long and was thirteen feet wide. It held maybe up to fifty oars, twenty-five rowers down each side, which was more than enough to hold its own against any mob. It bore no weapons except for what the crew carried but it was more manoeuvrable and faster than any current Roz'eli warships. The mainsails were reefed. Oars and the strength of men would take them out to sea, then with a fair wind the sails would be unfurled allowing them to escape at great speed.

Suddenly Meuric spotted the Jay'keb family. They were walking along the plank to board the ship. The large black man Anan led the way, his axe strapped to his back, followed by Abram, his mother and finally the servant woman. Of Qadir there was no sign.

“Get them aboard quickly, Václac” yelled the Captain to one of his sailors standing close to the ramp.

As soon as Anan's foot touched the ship a fight broke out on the jetty behind them and simultaneously on the deck of the
Widan
. Out of nowhere State Guards appeared throwing civilians and sailors into the sea. Those with weapons were cut down before they could put up any resistance. Abram was grabbed by a State Guard and manhandled down the gangway. All of his retinue had been pushed into the water including his mother and Anan, who floundered badly in their attempts to stay afloat.

The crowds screamed and parted as the State Guards slammed into them. A few even fell into the water to avoid being cut. Shouts broke out and the sounds of blades clashed resonating through the air. People clambered over each other to get away. Suddenly Abram fell only to be lifted by a swarthy-skinned man wearing a linen skirt and kilt, brandishing a sickle sword. It was Qadir and he was surrounded by a ring of Roz'eli soldiers.

Meuric looked at the Captain of the
Widan
. He could hear him ordering his men to hold their positions at the end of the gangway, those who were not assisting people out of the water. He understood why. If they had left the ship unprotected the refugees would run onto the vessel.

Words from his nightmare floated through Meuric's mind. “Get behind me, boy, and get away!” hissed the warrior. “I need the use of my Gifts!”

And now with Abram so close to the Ar'en Knight Protector, Qadir was without his magick.

One of the State Guards launched an attack on the Protectorate man. Meuric did his best to push through the crowd. He managed to catch the flashes of swordplay as he did so. He balked. The Roz'eli soldier that Qadir fought with seemed to be on par with the Knight Protector's skill.

That was what surprised Meuric somewhat. Just how good the man actually was. A Knight Protector's training lasted for three years. In that time, they learned all aspects of combat and various fighting techniques from around the world. And yet this State Guard was able to hold his own against a fully trained Knight Protector. He was good. He was very, very good.

A desperate family made a move for the
Widan
, attempting to dodge the fighters. Meuric could see the Ar'en Knight Protector holding back his blade mid-stroke in fear of hitting one of the children. It was a testament to the Knight Protector's strength and skill even without the use of his Gifts. The blade had been swung in a sharp arc at the State Guard and he had leaned back. Qadir had held the blade back mere inches from a boy's face. Meuric was now only several paces away but he might as well have been on the other side of the world. The scene slowed for him. He instantly saw the opening that the Knight had left. So too did the State Guard.

The soldier stepped in. Blocking Qadir's return stroke with his gladius the guard stabbed forward with his opio. With no armour to protect him the wide blade slid deep into the Knight Protector's ribcage. He viciously withdrew it. Qadir dropped immediately under the blow, the thrust to his lungs instantly ending his life. As soon as Qadir's body hit the platform, the soldier pushed the body into the water with his foot. There was a splash and Qadir was no more, another body lost amid hundreds in the carnage of Ah'mos.

Meuric froze. Never before had he seen a Knight Protector fall in battle. Of course he had heard of it. How else could he have become a Knight Protector? Meuric gritted his teeth and pressed on.

“Grab the boy,” ordered the guard. His men immediately obeyed.

A yell made him turn to see Meuric charging into them. Two guards fell instantly, their throats slashed. A battle cry sounded from the opposite side. It was Anan, his mighty axe smashing into soldiers, knocking them off their feet. Supporting him were some of the sailors from the
Widan
with shield and spear. An instant later
the black man had grabbed Abram and was dragging him behind the shield wall and to safety. With the guards distracted, Meuric managed to dispatch another two enemy soldiers.

He looked for the guard who had killed Qadir. Their eyes met and immediately Meuric recognised him. Here he was the Chief of Ten, commander of ten Roz'eli soldiers, distinguished by ten plate circles on his body armour. In Honora's vision he was Bradán, the man who led the warriors out of Ay'den's water well and fought Petros.

But the State Guard was not waiting. Seeing his men being killed on both sides of him and the reinforcements of armed sailors he turned and dived into the sea, swiftly followed by three more of his men. Spears were tossed after them but the soldiers had disappeared below the waterline.

Meuric turned to the stern of the ship. He found the Captain, a large black man who looked very much like Anan, watching him impassively. The Daw'ra man looked up into his eyes and saw the fire that burned in them. Next to the Captain stood more of his sailors, their spears ready to be thrown. Meuric lowered his swords.

“No,” implored Jemima. She ran up to the Captain. She was dripping wet but someone had given her a blanket to put around her. “Please stop. He is one of us.”

But the Captain ignored her. He just continued to stare. Meuric decided he had little to fear from them though. The leather armour that he wore was strong enough to deflect any spear strike. With overlapping leather strips guarding his upper legs and shoulders in support of his armour, there was only a small chance of getting hurt. He looked directly at the skipper, his cold grey eyes holding his gaze.

Jemima took the Captain's arm. “Please, Wacław, he has proved himself to us on several occasions now.”

The Captain looked to Jemima then nodded. Immediately he began issuing orders. The gangplank was taken on board and the oarsmen took their positions. The anchor was raised and the rowers began their back-breaking work of taking the
Widan
out to sea. Wails from the Ah'mos populace followed them. Some attempted to jump for the boat but it was impossible. In the distance the sounds of fighting with Roz'eli soldiers now grew louder. The
Widan
began to drift further away. The crowds on the jetty began to roar in anger. They cried and screamed as they pleaded for their lives and those of their loved ones.

“Just one more,” they would shout.

“My child,” others would wail. “Please take my child.”

But it all fell on deaf ears. The
Widan
was already at its maximum load if they wanted to make any haste to escape. A drum beat could now be heard, pulsating rhythmically as the sailors began to pick up their speed. Meuric looked to the deck. Men and women, those who were not part of the crew, cried for those that they left behind. Others kept to the bow, not wanting to see anyone for fear that their emotions might overtake them.

Abram, Jemima, Anan and the female servant stood at the rear of the ship. Jemima looked at Meuric and waved, at the same time offering him a weak smile. Anan, his face emotionless and stern, nodded to him. The servant stood close behind Abram, wide-eyed and scared. Abram on the other hand struck the former Knight Protector as the most curious. He was looking up into the sky with a broad smile on his face and waving vigorously. Meuric looked up into the air but saw nothing. He shook his head. A special child he may be but it would seem that he could suffer the effects of the sun of this desert country like any other normal person.

Meuric looked about. “Ladra,” he said. “If you are going to make an appearance now it would be most welcome.”

But there was no sign of the mage. Those closest to him looked to Meuric as if he too had been touched by the sun. He knew then that he was stuck in Ah'mos. He turned away and that was when he saw the first of the Roz'eli State Guards fighting their way along the inner wall.

“Wis's tits!”

XVII

Meuric moved slowly through the crowds away from the piers. Like most there, he witnessed the Guardsmen pushing back those Roz'eli soldiers he saw. Thankfully there were only a few. Many around him had fallen to their knees crying, begging for the Ah'mos flotilla not to leave them behind. A few of the townspeople stared at him fearfully, a man uniformed similarly to a Roz'eli Man-of-the-Legion. A few looked at him in anger. Was he part of a new Roz'eli legion that was dressed only in black? He could almost hear their silent questions.

Meuric could see the populace all around him beginning to become deflated. A number of them had sat down. It was hard for him not to be touched by the scene but he reasoned that there was nothing that he could do for them. Better that they realise the danger they were in and not be wasting any more precious time feeling sorry. It would have been smarter to make plans for escape than to wallow in self-pity. People always did somehow find ways to get away.

He thought back to the man called Bradán. There was no denying the skill he possessed and on a one-toone he was certainly as good as any member of the Protectorate, bar David, he considered wryly. His mind flitted back to when he first saw the Kel'akh warrior, frozen in a vision and leading the fight against Petros, the Protectorate's Knight Captain. He thought again of his resolute face, the warrior's hazel eyes fixed upon his friend, the red and white tattoo upon his cheek, marking him as someone who followed the traditional ways of Kel'akh. It was not uncommon for an outsider to fight in the ranks of a Roz'eli elite fighting unit but not one from the unconquered lands of Kel'akh. A sudden thought occurred to him then.

Meuric made his way to the other bodies of the State Guard still lying face down on a bloodied pier. There were four bodies in total. Blood still leaked from the wounds he had bestowed upon them. Roughly he tore the helmets off the corpses one by one and stared at their faces with curiosity.

Not one of these men was Roz'eli-born. Their facial structures proved that if nothing else. One even seemed to be a native of the Eastern Confederation. He stood and looked to the wall where he had spotted the State Guards, now disappeared. Were they too fighters from foreign lands?

“Listen to me,” yelled Meuric. “Listen to my words.” People stopped talking and turned at the sound of the Daw'ra man. Others further back stood and craned their necks to hear what was being said. Here was a stranger in their land speaking to them in fluent Ar'en. “See the face of your enemy.” With one hand he lifted the body of the man from the Eastern Confederation. With his other he raised the head of the corpse so that all those closest could see his face. “These men who attack you are not Men-of-the-Legion. They do not operate with the authority of the Emperor. They are interlopers, dressed as members of the State Guard to deceive you. To deceive all of us.”

“To what end?” asked a man as he held his small son in his arms.

“There is a boy,” explained Meuric to the man, yet loud enough to be heard by many. “A very special boy. He is born of the line from two Jay'keb kings…”

An old man began to laugh. “I know this story. I have heard it many times in the ports of Jay'keb. It is a myth. It is nothing more than an old wives' tale to give people hope.”

Meuric shook his head. “He is real and these men prove that.” He allowed the corpse to fall and sink into a heap. “I have met him twice now.” He pointed to the
Widan
now slowly becoming smaller. “He is on board that ship right now with his mother.”

“I think I saw him,” shouted a woman. “Soldiers fought over him.”

Meuric nodded. “One of your own, a man named Qadir, gave his life to save him.”

“Surely they will leave us in peace now,” considered the woman.

The Daw'ra warrior shook his head. “These impostors raided my village in my homeland. It was an unprovoked attack against my people. There were no survivors bar one; a young boy. Even the babes were murdered. I tell you this because they are not the kind to give mercy. They do not yet know that the Jay'keb boy has escaped. They will come and kill all within Ah'mos except your children. Them they will examine and murder until they find the child they are looking for.”

A roar of anguish and despair rose up.

“What would you have us do?” asked the first man.

“Hide, fight, run,” Meuric said simply.

“But they are trained soldiers,” said the man again. “I saw them outside the walls. They are perhaps a thousand men strong.”

The former Knight Protector shook his head. He looked to the throng of people about him. “Trained soldiers they may be but they are nothing more than hired help paid to do a job. You,” his finger swept across the crowd in a circular motion, “are at least twice that number, fighting for your home, your loved ones and your children. I tell you truly, if you do not fight you will witness your babes being murdered in front of you.”

“We must fight,” shouted another man. A cry of agreement rose up.

“How?” asked the old man then. “I was a soldier many moons ago before I became a merchant. Campaigns need planning, weapons and training.”

Meuric looked about. “There are weapons are all around you. Rocks, stones, clubs, and knives… whatever you can get your hands on. Do not fight them one-on-one. Hide on either side of the gateways. Let them come. Allow them to be confident. Distract them. Draw them in and when you are ready strike do so without any warning or mercy. It is the only way but you must hurry. They will be here soon.”

“You heard him,” shouted the first man. “All those who cannot fight stay here. The remainder should stay on the docks. Let them think that their prize is waiting for them.”

Meuric reached for the old man. “Grab two dozen strong men with stout hearts. Let them be your last line of defence in case the enemy breaks through. Arm half of them with bows if you can and set them on high ground.”

The old man nodded sombrely. “I had hoped my days of fighting were long over.”

“We all wish for that, old-timer,” said Meuric wistfully.

The old man laughed then. “Old-timer is it? I look into your eyes and see someone who is much older than me or has seen too much darkness in the world.”

“Both,” acknowledged Meuric sadly.

The Daw'ra man gave the old soldier a gentle pat on the shoulder as he made his way to look for the man he spoke to. He found him ordering barricades to be placed across the entranceway to the harbour. He had given
his son to a woman and they had returned to the pier. All around him people were rummaging for anything that could be used as a weapon.

“Ever been a soldier?” asked Meuric

The man smiled. “The closest that I have been is seeing a parade of Guardsmen at a distance.”

The Daw'ra looked at the people building the barriers out of bits of stone and wood. Others were stockpiling weapons. Others still were running towards the inner wall under orders to scout the enemy positions. He nodded approvingly.

“Have you ever heard the saying ‘cometh the moment, cometh the man'?” The man shook his head and Meuric smiled. “It does not matter. You do not always have to serve in the army to be good at soldiering. Some people are born naturally to it and unfortunately it takes something like this to see it. What is your name?”

“Yahya.”

The former Knight Protector held out his arm and they gripped wrist-to-wrist. “Well met, Yahya. I am Meuric of Kel'akh.”

The townsman smiled nervously. “Well met, Meuric. Any advice about now would be most appreciated.”

The Daw'ra man looked about and thought for a moment. “Yes but you will not like it. We stand behind the innermost wall of Ah'mos surrounded by an enemy. They will waste time searching the ground for signs for the Jay'keb family. They cannot afford to miss them. That will allow time to better your defences.” He looked along the wall and what he could see of it seemed intact. Out of the three walls it was the tallest and easiest to defend. There were more than enough townspeople to do that. “Close all the inner gates and reinforce them. Send archers to the walls to keep lookout. Send others and build up piles of debris that they can drop down on the enemy.”

“Should we not be trying to escape?” asked Yahya.

Meuric shook his head. “I had considered that earlier but then I remembered they have ballista and onagers aimed at the gateways at the outer walls. They also have cavalry. It is my estimation that they will send all the soldiers into Ah'mos while keeping the cavalry on the outside for any that may try and make their escape.”

“So we are just to wait?” exclaimed Yahya in frustration.

Meuric looked about and attempted to sound confident. He hoped that it would help relax the townsman. “We have plenty of water and food in the stores on this side of the wall. We can easily survive some time in a siege but I am hoping we would not have to. Our main priority is the security of the wall. Send people to check it and repair it where necessary. Pick five people after that. They need to be all good swimmers and arm them only with knives. A'lee is only three leagues away. Have them swim there or at least part way, but be careful. If someone can reach the Roz'eli Administrator stationed there this may be all over by nightfall. No doubt the enemy will have scouts out looking for people trying to flee, especially if they are attacking under the guise of Roz'eli troops.”

Yahya reached out and grabbed a random woman. “Take a dozen people with you and check the walls for damages and close the gates. Drop the portcullis at each of them.” The woman ran off shouting for several others. Next he indiscriminately grabbed a man. “Get archers to those parapets. Build piles of stones and rocks at intervals along the wall.” The man almost saluted before he raced off and Meuric almost smiled at that. The townsman reached for a third person, another man. “Fetch five swimmers, the strongest that you can find, and send them to me.”

“Where?” asked the man.

“How in the gods should I know,” yelled Yahya. “Ask someone.” The man immediately raced off.

Meuric laughed. “You would make a fine First Servant.”

Yahya turned to the former Knight Protector. “Have you been in many sieges?”

Meuric nodded. “A few.”

“What if they make it past the wall?” asked the self-appointed leader.

The former Knight Protector turned serious. “You cannot fight them head on but you can fight smart. They will expect to win. They will be confident, arrogant almost, but with good reason. I have already fought them. I have witnessed one go up against a skilled fighter and win.”

“So what do we do?” asked Yahya.

“Hide, attack, melt away,” stated Meuric. “Surprise will be your greatest strength. Use it well.”

“Will you fight with us?” asked the townsman.

Something pricked at the Daw'ra man's senses then. He turned to stare out to sea. He could see the
Widan
navigate its way out of the mouth of the harbour, its sails unfurling amidst several others. The ship was surprisingly fast for its kind but Meuric suspected that came from a disciplined crew and a good captain. Yet as he viewed the ship one thought repeatedly streamed through his mind.

Why did the Dark Druid not kill me?

It was then that Meuric noticed it. A heavy warship was closing in fast on the
Widan
. It was a Roz'eli liburnia-class ship, a monster compared with the bireme. Typically it came with three decks, one hundred and fifty rowers and a number of maritime soldiers whose specialty was boarding other ships. A small merchant vessel landed in the path of the warship. It had no chance as the liburnia tore through it, its iron reinforced keel beam on the bow making short work of the galley. Families and crew alike were flung overboard. They began to swim for their lives as the warship rode over them. Some disappeared under the water almost immediately. A few of the closer vessels turned and sailed for the stricken victims. Many of the other ships fled in terror.

Meuric gathered his magick and cursed aloud as he leapt up into the air. He flew high and fast, well out of the range of any arrows that may be fired from watching enemy soldiers. For the most part he ignored the open-mouthed people of Ah'mos, who for a few moments forgot that they were fighting for their lives so transfixed were they by the sight of what they thought was a god in their midst. The Daw'ra man locked his eyes on the
Widan
the whole time he flew, searching for the pavilion that stood in the centre of the deck. Next to it stood the ship's captain.

Meuric watched how he stood with his arms folded, watching his crew expertly perform all around him. He was middle-aged, slimly built and wore his leather armour dyed blue over a white tunic. Metal armour worn on a sailor at sea would almost certainly raise the casualty rate if they fell overboard. A blue helm of standard design was perched on his head making it impossible for Meuric to see his features. The former Knight Protector hovered and looked towards the ship that sailed at full speed towards the
Widan
.

It was a beast of a ship, approximately one hundred and nine feet in length and sixteen feet in width with three feet of draft. Seven small catapult machines lay armed and ready on the deck. Two were side-by-side on
the bow, two on both port and starboard sides equally spaced apart and the last remaining one to the stern. There were approximately one hundred and eighty oarsmen, ninety on each side, broken down into two rows of forty-five men. It was these men who filled the space below decks. There stood a chief oarsman also, beating a steady rhythmic pattern against a drum. Thirty marines stood ready at the port side with grappling hooks in hand, committed to closing the gap when boarding the ship. The last twenty remaining marines stood on the bow, flanking both catapults, their bows nocked and ready.

Meuric watched closely. He could see the captain issuing orders to the helmsman, a man dressed in the uniform of a Roz'eli officer. Meuric wondered if any of them were true Roz'eli naval troops or whether they were more outsiders. The tiller dutifully turned and the ship listed left. The Daw'ra man could see the danger immediately. The captain was attempting to pull up alongside the
Widan
and board her.