Meuric (15 page)

Meuric turned his body and dived down towards the enemy vessel. He could see now that it was called the
Malitia
. Meuric only had a moment to consider it strange that a ship should be named after the Goddess of Malice. A warning cry sounded from the ship's crow's nest. Marines turned and looked towards where the sailor was pointing. More than one made a sign warding off evil before they took up their bows and fired. Catapult machines were readjusted at an upward angle. Arrows shot up past him and Meuric banked right and aimed directly for the sailor in the crow's nest. The sailor saw his danger and drew a dagger. But it was too late.

Meuric came in hard and fast, his fist landing squarely against the sailor's left cheek. The force knocked him out of the nest and onto the deck below. Immediately the former Knight Protector turned and came in at a steep angle. He landed quickly, kicking the
Malitia
's helmsman overboard as he did so. He turned to face the crew and drew his two swords.

He could just about glimpse the
Widan
skipping across the water out onto the open sea in a northwestern direction. He scanned the area swiftly for the Dark Druid. Only he would have the power to stop him now. Of him he found no sign. Neither did he feel his presence.

Sailors on deck gathered their weapons, simple swords and daggers, and ran to the foredeck of the ship, the opposite end to Meuric. Marines, heavily armed with gladii, pila and shields, stood ready on the mainmast. Meuric looked to the enemy and readied himself. With a battle cry bellowing from his lungs he charged.

He crashed hard into the maritime soldiers, spinning and twisting his way, cutting a bloody swathe. An arrow from a sailor shot towards him. With his magick, he deflected it straight into the throat of a marine. A thrown spear sliced his thigh. A sword swing cut his bicep. But still he moved on, never slowing, never tiring. He had lost count of the number he had killed now. Each enemy swing against him seemed to be travelling in slow motion, so fast were his own reflexes. He sought out the captain of the ship and found him hiding behind the foremast surrounded by those sailors that were armed.

Suddenly the world froze. The ship hung in an upward position, caught on the mounting rise of a wave, as if clutched by the mighty hand of Eufen, God of the Seas. The soldiers' and sailors' faces were still, locked in a perpetual grimace of anger and fear. Arrows and pila hung in mid-air, unmoving.

Meuric calmed and released the marine whose throat he was about to slit. He took a step back. Reluctantly he lowered his swords, both of which were still razor sharp and looked about searching for someone.

“Ladra,” he yelled. “Where in the Otherworld are you?”

“Behind you,” whispered a soft voice that held no particular intonation. Slowly Meuric turned feeling the now familiar surge of Ladra's power. “You have done well, Knight Protector. It is time to return you home. But we must hurry. It took a lot of energy to pierce the Dark Druid's narration. I cannot maintain this Doorway for long. I need the strength of your magick to send us back.”

Meuric raised his eyebrows. “Then the boy will be safe?” He looked to the distant image of the
Widan
.

Ladra nodded. “Yes, thanks to you. But please before the Dark Druid realises that I am here. Take my hand.” Ladra held out his arm.

Meuric looked to the town of Ah'mos. “What of the people there? We cannot leave them. They are no match for the soldiers that they face.”

Ladra looked sadly to the Ar'en coastal town. “We can't help them. All we can do is pray that the gods will keep them safe.”

“Answer me this, mage,” said Meuric angrily. “If you are so powerful why is it that you could not save the boy or the townspeople?”

Ladra sighed. “I can't directly involve myself. Faeder forbids it, at least for the moment. We are gleaning intelligence on the forces that fight against us. There are other things going on that you have yet to perceive. You are our agent on the ground, a man of magick with no allegiances. All I can do is nudge you in the right direction.” He smiled in a condescending manner.

“Your gentle nudges could send me to my death,” snapped Meuric. “Are the Knight Protectors no longer your men?”

“They are,” admitted Ladra. “But the Religious Conviction watches them closer than ever. We must ensure they are free to help when the time of action comes and so back to you.”

Meuric shook his head. “I do not understand. You are powerful. Stop the Dark Druid yourself.”

Ladra paused for a moment then sighed. “It is not only the Dark Druid that you have to contend with. A goddess walks with him and we think that with her success comes the end to all things.”

“Malitia?” asked Meuric

Ladra looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“The ship that we stand upon is named after her.” Meuric frowned. “Now I really do not understand. Why do the gods not simply contain her? She is not even one of the major goddesses like Wis.”

Now it was Ladra who shook his head. “They cannot. The Dark Druid is now even more powerful than the gods of the Otherworld. To face him now may very well destroy the universe.”

XVIII

Bradán limped wearily as he climbed a stairwell on the outside of a building. As he rose, hobbling as he went, he could see the defenders of Ah'mos stretch themselves out along the innermost defensive wall, gathering their resources. He was glad that he was well out of arrows' range. He did not think that he had the strength to fight any more never mind dodge any oncoming arrows.

He was now without his helmet and a bandage from a torn piece of clothing was tied over a wound in his leg. The warrior was dripping wet, his shoulder ached abominably and his injured leg was on the verge of going numb, yet he felt elated. He had fought a Knight Protector, a person whom he had trained most of the last decade to battle, and he had won on equal terms.

It was a six-storeyed apartment block that he had just painfully ascended, the roof of which had been converted into a flourishing and colourful garden. It was quite a feat for such a barren country, he considered, and more amazing still that it had not been touched once by their attackers. The building had obviously belonged to the lowest workers and their families who had banded together to create a place of splendour. He looked towards the innermost wall once again. Perhaps some of those people now stood on their last defensive partition, weapons in hand, ready to defend their home.

He finally cleared the top of the stairs only to find his way blocked. Before him stood one of the Dark Druid'
s
newly formed Personal Guards, a man who seemed to be as broad as he was tall. There was no conversation from the bodyguard and simply no way of getting around him any further without his master's permission. So he waited.

And quickly grew bored.

He began to scan the area and his mind began to drift. He looked at the ruined town of Ah'mos and he quietly resented the destruction of the town. He understood the mission and the cost but surely there were other avenues to explore.

The Roz'eli built their towns in the same layout throughout the Empire, differing only in size. It was only the harbour towns such as Ah'mos that were built in a slightly different manner. In settlements such as these the
harbour took the place of one of the outer defensive walls and it was near the water, not the centre, where the most affluent lived. The further out from the port you lived the more lowborn you were considered. That was why the innermost wall was the highest and strongest of the three defensive walls and multi-storeyed apartment blocks were found in great frequency on the outskirts.

Peering past the bodyguard Bradán could see the Dark Druid at the opposite side of the rooftop, staring out in the direction of the inner wall and past that to the harbour. As usual, next to him stood his lover and witch Mailís, dressed in her usual trappings of a Gahp'ryel warrior woman. Paramour or no to his master, there was something extremely unsettling about that woman. As if on cue, she momentarily turned in the direction of Bradán and gave him a half-smile.

Always when around her, he felt the stirrings of lust, yet it did not feel like a natural sensation in her presence. It always seemed abnormal in some way, though he was not educated enough to fully explain why. As beautiful as she was he simply knew that his heart would be sickened by her if too long in her presence and that was enough for him.

They said that she had always been with the Dark Druid in his mission but it was down to her who was in his master's army. She had even recruited Bradán personally. As he had fled his homeland she had appeared out of nowhere on the roadside and had offered money and security in return for his fight in a just cause. It had not taken much for him to agree. He was being hunted, on the verge of starving and with no money. The only reason that he was still alive was his skill with the sword and his quick wits. He had little chance of surviving much longer though without her.

And yet Bradán had learned something extremely puzzling about wicce over the many years as he served the Dark Druid. Mailís feared the boy that they searched for. He was not even too sure whether or not his master had ever noticed that fact about her. Neither was he ever likely to bring it up. It was knowledge that may come in useful someday.

A slight noise touched his ear. He looked down and could see a man carrying a young girl in her arms. He watched them noting that the man wore the simple tunic of a worker. The man stopped suddenly as if sensing being watched. He looked up and his eyes connected with Bradán's own. The man looked to his daughter, his
eyes wide with fear. Bradán did not move knowing that any sudden movement might draw attention to the family.

Bradán looked at the girl then back to the father. Realisation slowly dawned on the father that this enemy soldier was not going to turn him in and he took a step to the west. Bradán offered an almost imperceptible shake of his head and immediately the man froze. The Kel'akh man knew that there was a patrol in that direction. The warrior subtly jutted his finger south. The father hesitated, not sure if he could trust one of the attackers, but at the same time he knew that he had little choice. Bradán was almost relieved when the man slowly nodded. He raced off south as quietly as he could. Bradán wished them well.

Raised voices touched his ears now. It was the
wicce
who was shouting.

“You let him escape,” spoke Mailís accusingly. “Why?”

“You would not understand, my Lady,” responded the Dark Druid with contempt. He did not even turn to look at her.

“Apparently,” she snapped. She shook her head with incredulity. “I will never understand your kind.” She almost spat the words. “What say you, Tacitus?”

“If my Lord and my Lady would not mind,” said the senator lazily from a couch to the right on the rooftop, “I would rather not take sides in this argument.” Bradán had failed to notice him until he had spoken. He seemed to be enjoying what was going on between the two.

The Dark Druid stood stock still and silent. Gradually he turned his head to stare at the woman. Even from his distance away Bradán could feel his master's scorn upon the witch. The warrior shifted nervously sensing a battle of wills going on between them. He looked to each of the Dark Druid's five bodyguards hoping for a distraction.

Excluding the one before him, each stood at the corners of the rooftop, dressed all in black and identical to the Knight Protector he had fought. Of course he had heard the recent stories about them but had refused to believe any of the tales; the dark rites, the slaughtering of babes in a mother's womb, the sexual orgies with Mailís. He could not believe that his master would allow such persons to be in his army. For Bradán, until there
was evidence to back up such claims, they were the elite of the Dark Druid's military force, something that he strived to become one day.

They are an abomination of what the Knight Protectors represent.

Bradán turned at the sound of the woman's voice. So clear had it been that he was sure that a woman had somehow stood next to him without his being able to sense her presence. He found no one and frowned. Were his injuries worse than he had realised? Had he lost too much blood? He looked to the rooftop again to find the Dark Druid and Mailís suddenly staring at him. Slowly they turned away and began to talk in lower tones.

Bradán shook off the experience. He was simply exhausted, he decided. A jug of beer and a good long sleep was all he needed. He looked more closely at the symbol on the bodyguard's chest. He never had the chance to examine it properly before. It looked like a painting of a blood-red crane, its wings swept up so that the image almost became a circle. He wondered at what it meant.

It is the symbol of the goddess Malitia,
said the woman's voice again.

Bradán froze, barely breathing. He wanted to peer about but knew that again he would find no one. He looked to the bodyguard before him. He seemed totally oblivious to the voice. “Malitia,” the mystery woman had said. He had never heard of that particular goddess before. Again he found his master and Mailís staring at him.

It was both puzzling and worrying that a disembodied voice was able to answer the questions he had no recourse to. Was this more than a lack of sleep? He had heard of soldiers who had gone mad through the things they had seen and done. Was this how it started? The Dark Druid and Mailís were talking in hushed tones again. Both submitted fleeting looks in his direction.

“Bradán,” called the
wicce
as she offered a half-hearted wave. “Approach us.”

He looked at the bodyguard who immediately stepped to one side. He was suddenly feeling very hesitant about joining them. His body felt like he was about to go to battle and his heart began to quicken in anticipation. He scanned the area before actually moving forward. It was a habit he had grown to appreciate after watching several of his comrades die without first checking the immediate space about them. The five bodyguards looked
at him only briefly as if sizing up what sort of threat level he may be before they continued to look out across the town to further examine the surrounding area and any real danger lurking.

After a few more steps Bradán stopped, keeping a respectful distance away. A roar of voices touched his ears immediately, followed by the clash of weapons and the cries of men being killed and dying. Instinctively he reached for the sword at his waist and looked about. None of the bodyguards made any sudden movements except to look at where the voices had come from. Before him, his master and Mailís continued to watch the ground below as if observing the outcome of something. He relaxed, but only slightly. The voices and the sound of battle died away but he had to wait several moments before the Dark Druid spoke.

“Approach, Bradán.” The warrior did so. “You did well today. This is your reward.”

The Dark Druid opened his youthful palm towards him and Bradán could not help but notice, and not for the first time, how faded his master's yellow and green tattoos were on his right hand; especially when he appeared so young. As always the other hand was covered by a golden metallic glove with a different coloured gem over each knuckle.

The hand was placed on his shoulder and Bradán could feel heat radiate from it. The man from Kel'akh went down on one knee and bowed to his master. As he did so the numbness left his leg and his shoulder stopped hurting. He could feel his strength and vitality return to his battered body.

“My thanks, my Lord Druid,” he said. As always he was in awe of his master's power. “Can I ask about the noise?”

The Dark Druid nodded. “A few dozen men had joined up together to counter-attack. Fabinus should have considered that. There were bound to be natural brawlers and ex-military people living here who would fight.”

“Surely they could not hope to win against us?” asked Bradán, more than a little amazed.

“Their aim was not to win but to give their families time to escape to the boats,” stated the Dark Druid. Bradán could hear the respect in his master's voice. He was about to speak when the mage suddenly raised his hand to indicate silence. “Someone comes,” he stated. “Enter.”

A man appeared immediately in the centre of the rooftop and fell on one knee with his head down. “My Lord Druid,” he said before he stood. “I bring you the information that you requested.”

Bradán looked at him closely. He seemed to be wearing a one-piece tunic of the finest linen that stretched from mid-thigh and ended in a hood up over his head. There was no form of decoration except for a circle within a triangle over his heart, the symbol of magick in the Conclave. So this man was from Wardens Keep, home of the Protectorate and the Council of Eight! The norm here was to wear white clothing, due to the constant sun and heat, but the newcomer's was shaded and sand-coloured. Tied at his waist was a leather belt with two long curved daggers attached.

“Will you not remove your hood, mage?” asked Bradán.

The stranger looked in the direction of the warrior but kept his head tilted. Successfully he was keeping his identity hidden as much as possible. “I think not, Lieutenant. One never knows when one might be observed or when one may become a hand-over.”

Bradán nodded but smiled at the extra intelligence that he had gleaned. The swarthy skin of the mage's arms and legs and his accent showed that this man of magick was from Pan'iz. Still, he felt irked by the insult against the men of the Dark Druid. “That may be very true in some armies but I assure you that there are no traitors here. Can you say the same, mage?”

“We join you not just for the protection of our way of life but for the continuance of all magick within Terit're,” responded the mage. “History will judge us as heroes.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” said the Dark Druid. Bradán sensed rather than saw his master smile from beneath his cowl. “You spoke of information?”

The mage nodded. He held out an empty hand and out of nowhere appeared a rolled parchment of paper. Bradán could see that it was fastened by a seal of wax, a picture of a circle within a triangle imprinted upon it.

“I believe that you will find that every Knight Protector is on that list including the former Knight Protector Meuric,” said the mage. “It should also please my Lord Druid that their current identities, locations and any ongoing missions are also reported.”

With considerable restraint, the Dark Druid calmly broke the seal and began to read. After a few moments he lifted his head. “Senator, do you know of a man by the name of Paulus of Petrish'e?”

Tacitus was on his feet in an instant and was walking towards him. “Yes, my Lord. For roughly a half-dozen years now.”

The Dark Druid nodded. “It is seven to be precise. His assignment was to get close to and investigate you in relation to me. You must now consider that friendship terminated.”

The senator froze, stunned. His mouth gaped open but no words came out. Bradán had some sympathy for him. Betrayed by someone you considered to be a close friend was, by his standards, one of the worse things that could happen.