Meuric (4 page)

The boy considered this information for some moments. Finally, he stated, “I want to be a Knight Protector someday.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “I want to protect the Kel'akh Nation from evil gods.”

The Oak Seer's face turned serious as he looked to Meuric. “It is a very lonely existence being a member of the Protectorate, little one. Yes, you could live forever in theory but you get to watch all those you know grow old and die. You always have to move on before others discover your secret. It can be especially difficult when it comes to your own kin or lineage. Even throughout the Conclave, you will be regarded as different.

“People will work with you, laugh with you, perhaps even become your friend, but they will never be your equal. The Knight Protectors look at others with eyes that are far-seeing. Normal men will look at them and see someone who is more powerful, gifted by the gods and made immortal. Jealously and fear are never too far away. They can still die like any man, but are harder to kill. It has not been unheard of for a member of the Protectorate to lose their way and turn to darkness or be ambushed and murdered after his or her identity has been discovered.

“That is why the Council does not drink from the Cauldron-of-Plenty. They understand the need of Balance and the Knight Protectors in a fashion become the opposite of that also. They are an offence against the natural order of mortality. The need for powerful warriors to fight battles against the Dark Ones has always been a necessary one. Think not that the Knight Protectors are unbeatable. Another way of controlling them is that their Gifts, when used too often, tire them greatly so they must use them sparely.”

“I do not care,” uttered Meuric. “I will be the greatest Knight Protector.”

Sadness touched the Paden's eyes then. “All young boys want to be warriors, little one. How would you feel about becoming an Oak Seer? I would say a Bard but I have heard you sing.” He laughed aloud. “Seriously though, how about following the path of magick in some fashion? I know for a fact that you would be an ideal candidate for some of the more elite research schools within Wardens Keep. How about becoming a historian, maybe?”

Meuric gave him a look that was both a mixture of alarm and confusion. He stood and took a step back, all of a sudden wanting to create distance. “Why would I want to be one of them?” He almost spat the words. “They do not get rich or know glory through battle. Nor do they get to kill men?”

“In their own way they do get to become rich and know glory, Meuric,” replied Paden a little too defensively. “They become rich through knowledge and gain glory through position. As to the killing of many men,” Paden shook his head, “not usually, except in protection of his people and land. Everyone who resides in Wardens Keep has some sort of formal training, much like the people of Kel'akh. The populace there band together in times of war to form a militia. Your upbringing in Kel'akh would stand you in good stead and I know that you are certainly clever enough. I speak though of the Gift that you try to hide from everyone.”

Meuric looked away. “What Gift?”

“You forget the power that I wield and who I am, little one,” he said gently. From his brown robe, Paden produced a small hand carved and plain wooden horse, a common toy amongst Kel'akh children. “Hold this and tell me what you see or feel.”

“No,” exclaimed Meuric, thrusting his hands behind his back.

“I trust you with my secrets, little one, so trust me with yours. Fear nothing here. I will not force you into something that you do not wish to pursue.”

Reluctantly Meuric accepted the toy and focused on it. His figures traced the contours of the toy, noting the specks of faded paint that indicated the colour it once was. He cocked his head suddenly as if listening to something.

“Do you not hear that, Paden?” asked the boy distractedly. “It almost sounds like a woman's voice whispering.”

Movement caught the notice of Meuric's eye at the edge of his peripheral vision. He sensed more than saw the image of a dark-haired woman leaning over the shoulder of the Oak Seer, speaking softly into one of his ears. He turned for a better look but found nothing there.

Paden shook his head. “No, little one, I hear nothing. Now please concentrate on the toy.”

Meuric looked at the wooden toy, turning it over in his hands several times. Pictures suddenly forced themselves into his mind. He flinched under the ferocity and speed with which they appeared. “A father carved it for his son when the boy was very sick. It might have been about twenty years ago. The son was expected to die. He was strong through and lived.”

The Oak Seer smiled and accepted the carved horse back. He ruffled Meuric's black hair as he returned it to the pocket in his robe. “Yes I did, little one.” He let out a yell of delight. “I knew it. You have the Gift of Soul Measure.”

“Soul Measure?” asked Meuric, sitting once again on the grass.

Paden nodded. “You have a Gift that allows you to see images of the past whenever you touch an object.”

“It changes nothing, Paden,” stated the boy defiantly. “Someday I will be a Knight Protector.” He stood suddenly, attempting to make his announcement sound more dramatic. “I will be the bravest and the strongest.”

Paden looked at the Daw'ra lad as if noting something for the first time. When he spoke, there was sadness in his voice. “I know, little one. I have foreseen it in a vision. That is why I have stayed here and vowed to return to you as often as I can. I want to both teach and train you.”

IV

Meuric almost fell to the ground stunned by Paden's revelation. He felt as if all of his energy had suddenly drained from his body. He steadied himself as he stared at his friend and, someday hopefully, father. His thoughts whirled about his mind as he wondered whether he would lose that person with the truth.

“I do not remember anything when the blackness takes over,” said Meuric suddenly. His voice was quiet as he spoke. He looked to the Oak Seer and saw the concern in his mentor's face. It compelled him to speak further. “It feels like it is not me that is in control. It is almost like a dream in which I am floating while blissfully unaware of what is occurring around me. It is someone else that is in control of my body. Whenever I awake, whatever has happened has occurred beyond my knowledge.”

“Do you never have flashes of memories of what you do in that state even later?” asked Paden. The boy shook his head in response. “Does it only happen when angry or when any strong emotion takes hold?”

“It has only ever happened twice, Paden,” explained Meuric, his voice full of shame. “Both times it has been when very angry. What do you think it is?”

The Oak Seer was quiet for a short time before he said, “I have heard of such cases though they are very few in number. I understand that some soothsayers say that it is considered to be the gods talking through them, taking over their bodies in times of need. It is thought that they have been specially chosen by a particular god and so they protect them. I sensed that Deo was close at hand during your episode.”

Meuric was appalled. Deo was the God of Death, the taker of souls. Though the Kel'akh people, as a warrior race, had a sense of veneration for him, he was not someone they actively worshipped. That was left to a sect called Death Eaters. They were a cult group that sought the death of others as a means of reaching their god in the Otherworld, even if it meant the taking of their own lives to do so. The more they killed, the higher their status, and they completely believed that they would be rewarded for such actions in the Otherworld.

Paden continued. “I have even heard of tribes across Sea Nad'ye who take opiates to induce such states. However, I have never heard or seen anyone fight with such precision. Considering that both times you have
needed to fight, perhaps I was wrong and it was the god Wyrre who has been acting through you, even though he is not noted for such exactitude.”

“Personally I would prefer that it was the goddess Wis,” remarked Meuric. He made a sign over his heart to protect him from such a blasphemous comment. Most warriors within the Kel'akh Nation prayed to Wyrre, the god of war.

Paden smiled thinly and set a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. “A smart man would hope that it was Wis.”

“You said that you have seen visions of me,” said Meuric. The Oak Seer nodded hesitantly. “Can you not search for the answer?”

Paden's eyes flickered to the river. “I can ask the water to divine for me but I cannot control what the land and the gods show me. Perhaps they will show me nothing or perhaps they might show me something with which there is no connection at all.”

“Or maybe they will give you all the answers that we need. Please, Paden,” pleaded the boy. “Try.”

The man agreed and looked down into the shallow river. He cautiously allowed his fingers to dip into the water. “The Oak Seers use the water of the land to see visions of the future, the past and the present,” he explained. “I connect with the water and, through that, the whole of the world. It is a very strange connection, maybe not unlike what you experience, though I am still able to retain my individuality. At the same time I realise how minute I am in the grand scheme of what makes the world work.” His voice abruptly trailed off at the end as Paden's eyes glazed over, turning white. There was no sign of his blue irises.

“Paden,” said Meuric, more than a little panicked. He reached out and touched his arm. “Paden, are you well?”

“Much blood shall awash his hands,” began Paden, in a voice that sounded both metallic and hollow. “So much so that he will forevermore become known as the Hand of Death and when that moment comes to pass even the gods will fear Meuric of Daw'ra, Knight Protector of Kel'akh.”

Meuric fell to the ground weeping from fear as a woman's mocking laugh, shrill and faint, filled the air around him.

One Hundred and Fifty-five Years Later

V

He stood in the centre of the Travelers' Inn, on top of one of the dining tables, situated off-centre in a large circular room. With colourful words and a swinging arm that wielded a mug of beer, the storyteller regaled the tavern's boisterous, and mostly male, patrons with deeds of his own heroism in the defence of his hometown against a border incursion set up by the conniving and treacherous Roz'eli Empire. His deep booming voice resonated across the massed throng of patrons, enthralling them all equally.

They laughed at his jokes, nodded in agreement with his tactics, and he even received a slap on his legs from some of the men who sat at his feet, when he bragged of how the women of those skirmishes thanked him for his courage in their own very special and intimate way. It amused him to see some of the women laugh at that also but then, in this realm, the females were considered to be a man's equal. It was not unheard of for women in the Kel'akh Nation not to just lead men into battle but to hold also great responsibilities and positions of worth.

Of course, it was all lies but he doubted that any of these townsfolk would know that.

To look at him he seemed to be the patriarch of the Kel'akh warrior culture. His brown hair hung loose about his broad shoulders. His neatly trimmed moustache, which signified nobility, drooped down just beneath his square chin. His green eyes sparkled with intelligence and insight. The clothes he wore were of good quality, as were the gold bracelets that decorated his muscular forearms.

He loved these times, the storyteller decided. Brutal as they may be by mortal standards, there were certain simplicities to be found in them also. The people of Kel'akh fought when angry, displayed love unashamedly when the notion took them and sang and rejoiced openly when happy. Food on the table and
security for their people were their primary concerns. How that would all change over the next few centuries, considered the storyteller sadly, and not always for the better.

In truth, he was not even too sure of where he was. All he knew for a fact was that he was standing in a typical town somewhere within the west of the Kel'akh Nation, for only those people bore those stunning emerald green eyes. Eyes that he copied to fit in with the locals. He looked to the swirl-shaped tattoos painted onto the left-hand side of some of the patrons' faces. Some had them on their hands. Others, on their necks. However, there were a few of different colours, his own being red and white: a single blood-red was the prominent shade here. Oo'do was the name of the tribe and region who sported that particular colour. He was in the northeast region of western Kel'akh. He knelt and looked to the closest man. He had straw-coloured hair, was loud and brash, with maybe nineteen summers behind him.

“Friend,” he said in a hushed tone. “What is your name?”

“Bairre,” was the slurred response.

The storyteller nodded. In a low tone he asked, “Bairre, where in Kel'akh am I?”

The man's laugh was loud and rich. “Ay'den,” he chortled as he elbowed his compatriots while making a cupping motion.

“The northeast tip of Tarn Nee'sha?” asked the storyteller, and Bairre nodded.

If he had at least got his timeline right, the southeast and most of the tribes in that area had already fallen to the ever-growing Roz'eli Empire. By now, they were looking towards the remainder of the Kel'akh Nation. It would not be easy for them, he knew, but through all the years he had already lived, the storyteller acknowledged that the modern Roz'eli Men-of-the-Legion were the most accomplished professional fighting force to date. There were not too many realms left in western Terit're who could resist them.

The storyteller stood and gazed about the room. It was circular and easily wide enough to sit at least one hundred people. Circular tables and stools littered the floor that was all filled with patrons. Serving girls expertly slipped through the mass of customers spilling neither drink nor food. The central furnace, lit to keep the cold at bay, was not fired this night. The mildness of the spring night and the press of patrons made it more
than warm within the Travelers' Inn. He glanced up to the three levels above, noting the faces of those staying, peering curiously over the balcony.

He looked to the faces of the men and women that surrounded him in a sympathetic manner. As he listened to their laughing, he could see the bonds that united them in love and friendship. He basked in the warmth that originated from the pleasure the townspeople got from each other's company. In human form, he had long ago discovered that he was susceptible to such mortal emotions.

Right now, he was feeling a certain degree of pride in these people. Through the smiling faces, he could discern the vigour of the nation, a fire that burned in their souls that would never allow them to surrender totally to someone who attempted to enslave their lands. In one section of the room, he watched a group of men that laughed and joked with one another. In another, he noted some of the women, though typically fiercely independent, cling onto their menfolk. There was an honesty to these people, unlike those of the Roz'eli Empire where guile and deceit seemed to be a way of life.

He caught a few of the single women casting him adoring glances. He smiled to himself. Maybe later, he thought.

A presence touched him then. It was one of power and strength. It was nowhere near the kind of power that he wielded yet for a mortal he possessed some Gifts that only the gods should have. He saw him then standing next to the doorway, staring at him with cold grey and unafraid eyes. The stranger's eyes narrowed as he attempted to perceive the truth. In a room full of people, he seemed to stand alone, his back tight against the rear wall. Those around him instinctively allowed him space.

He was a tall for a Kel'akh man and, unlike most of them, his dark hair was kept short and his face was clean-shaven. Where the people of Kel'akh bore coloured tattoos, the stranger's markings were of a faded black, denoting a great loss. His mind reached out and he could hear the name “Meuric” whisper out to him. He touched the newcomer's mind with that of his own. Fresh visions littered his thoughts.

He saw this Meuric walking amongst the ruins of a large castle that had long since been forgotten. The locals of that area had named it Burg Ay'deen because no other name was known, but the storyteller knew the truth. One time, aeons ago, it was known as the Keep of the Western Warden, the most westerly of the
Conclave's citadels. In his mind's eye, he watched as Meuric knelt and touched the ground. He could feel the powerful magick that still coursed through the land. It was this energy that gave the people of western Kel'akh their green eyes.

He stood then to stare at the surrounding majestic ring of mountains known as Beorg Moi'ra. Of course, he had known instantly where exactly Meuric had been without the need to divine it. He had helped with the creation of that particular castle some five thousand years earlier.

As always, more out of habit than anything else, he gazed out into the mortal's future. He was always strangely fascinated by the course that some of their lives would take. Attributes of every god and goddess he may have, but even the storyteller had restrictions. In the case of seeing the destiny of men, he could merely see two paths of life before him. Only the goddess Fari, daughter of the entity Taim, could see all of the possible directions in a person's life. It boggled the storyteller's mind to conceive of it.

In one possible future, he saw Meuric leading a charge of a small band of warriors against an overwhelming enemy with only thoughts of revenge and death filling his mind. In the background, he could see the town of Ay'den, the settlement where he now stood, burning. It was the second vision, though, that made the storyteller take pause.

In it, he saw Meuric sitting upon a warhorse on an unknown hilltop wearing the uniform of the Protectorate. On his left sat a second Knight Protector. He too was a warrior from Kel'akh with red and white coloured tattoos upon his face. Meuric turned to him.

“Be strong, Bradán. Today we save our world.”

The man nodded and set his full-face helm over his head. Meuric did likewise. In Bradán's hand was the standard of the Conclave. When broken down it was a white sword that denoted the Conclave's Guardians, a black gauntlet clenched into a fist around its blade conveying the power of the Council and all within a grey shield signifying the Protectorate. Finally, five coloured towers surrounding the picture represented the Troopers of the Conclave.

Flanking the two men on both sides sat the New Gods upon their mighty steeds, emblazoned in their gold and silver armour, almost shining like small suns even in the daylight. He saw himself sitting next to Meuric. He shifted in his seat and looked skyward.

“If you are seeing this, know that this is the wrong path and we have failed,” said the storyteller from the future. “We are all that is left on this world.” Meuric turned to him. “It is a message to me in the hope of stopping this devastation before it ever began.” The Knight Protector nodded. The storyteller could feel a mighty burden upon him. He looked behind the front row.

Behind the two warriors lined up the remainder of the Protectorate, the Conclave, its Troopers and the Guardians. Behind them, hiding just below the ridgeline, stood tens of thousands of warriors. They were all the known armies of man, ready and eager for battle. The storyteller looked more closely at that army.

These were not the professional men and women trained to fight, but were of all shapes and sizes, ethnicities and ages. It seemed to the storyteller that any who could carry a weapon did so and joined, united against a common foe. He understood now that these were the last mortals left on the planet and they fought for their very existence.

Filling a valley before them stood the army of their enemies. The storyteller caught his breath. In human form, like the New Gods, waited the Old Gods and the Dark Ones, reinforced by daemons, men with dark hearts and beasts of sheer brutality. Leading them sat a mortal man upon a horse, dressed in a hooded black robe, his identity obscured even to him. The storyteller looked skyward.

Beyond the blue sky above, through the atmosphere of the world, he espied the twin moons. Both were named Muin after the moon goddess. Past the natural satellites of Terit're resided a darkness so complete that it filled the whole cosmos, swallowing even the stars.

The storyteller wondered what the blackness meant. He looked hard at it, analysing it, finally labelling it as an abyss of nothingness. Not even his mind could begin to comprehend what it was. Neither could he fathom what it meant. He looked again to the blackness, straining his senses to their limits, and began to hear a rhythmic pulse like that of a heartbeat. This was not a simple darkness but a living creature whose intelligence was as far above him as he was to mortal men.

He travelled back along the course of the blackness, watching it shrink as he went, and sighted the total darkness from its origin. It had started as a pinprick far into the cosmos, a tiny swirling dot of nothingness. He watched it grow then, viewing its expanse at such an alarming rate that encompassed everything so swiftly that for a few heartbeats the storyteller thought he had become blind. He stood in the void analysing what he saw or, in this case, could not see. No light shone, swallowed by the complete darkness. He reached out with his mind, seeking any form of intelligence inside the darkness or beyond it of any other life form than that of the void. He reached out to the entities that made up the universe. There was none. Realisation at last began to sink in; his mortal body began to tremble with trepidation.

Not since the war against his father and his uncles, aeons before, had the storyteller known fear like he now experienced. A prophecy that even the gods feared was finally coming true.

It was Junives. The god that the gods prayed to had returned and with it marked the end of everything.

The storyteller retreated from the vision and looked to the young man Bairre. He reached out to look at his two futures. In one, he saw him older as Ay'den burned around him. He was racing to the front gate at the head of several warriors to repel invaders dressed in Roz'eli-styled uniforms. They were of the same cut as the men that Meuric and Bradán had charged into earlier in his other vision, as they stood on the side of evil. The dead people of Ay'den littered the ground around Bairre. The sounds of battle filled the air.

In the second vision, he saw Bairre as a man displaced leading a column of refugees out into the hills in the Great Wood. What he did notice this time was that in the background was a pinprick of oblivion. Already Junives seemed to be watching.

Waiting.

He looked to the figure by the door.

The man Meuric had felt power swell from the storyteller as he had searched for the visions of the future. He watched now how the warrior's eyes narrowed into a squint as he was forced to hold up a hand as if to shade himself from a great light. The storyteller cocked his head to one side, amused. He can see the truth of me, he realised. In a sense, he felt peculiarly relieved by that.

The storyteller focused, searching for something within his mind. Where was the newcomer from, he wondered. Abruptly it came to him. Isle Gla'es. It was an island village many leagues to the southeast of where he was now. He repeated the name of the village over and over in his mind. Gla'es. Isle Gla'es. There was something familiar about it. He cursed his slow mortal mind. All of a sudden, he remembered what it was.

Gla'es was an island settlement that was totally wiped out to the man almost one hundred years earlier. He remembered that day. The whole of the Kel'akh Nation had been blocked from the view of the gods. It was only when they were able to see their people again that they had discovered the atrocity that had occurred. It was said that that the attack was led by one man accompanied by a large band of warriors. His identity was obscured by a dark cowl from any who might have observed him. Moreover, he had never been seen since though there had been rumours. The Dark Druid, the people of Daw'ra had called him. Search parties had been sent out, some even led by the storyteller's son Mittere, but the man of magick and his army had vanished.