Meuric (7 page)

“Go and greet Ladra.”

Wis bowed and, in a blink of an eye, vanished.

VIII

The sounds of battle erupted around Meuric and Genovefa in a tumultuous clash of weapons and screams. Instinctively the warrior went for the daggers at his waist but he did not draw them. He gazed about. The town of Ay'den around them was completely empty. Nothing moved nor stirred. He stood in the centre of the settlement alongside the village woman, both of them next to an unguarded town well. All around them they continued to hear the sounds of clashing swords, the barking of orders and cries of pain, fear and anger.

“This is your vision?” asked Meuric of Genovefa.

The girl said nothing. She nodded dumbly, her eyes wide with terror. He reached for his arm, half expecting it to pass straight through but it felt as solid as a real one. He could clearly smell fires that they could not see, burning all around them. He looked at the girl, concerned about her temperament. The odour of metal and death was also strong around them.

“I just want to remind you of where you are before I allow the vision to unfold.” Honora's voice sounded so far away the two travellers had to listen carefully to hear her. “The vision can be overwhelming for those who have never experienced it before.”

“Then nothing can harm us?” asked Meuric.

“No,” was the whispered reply of the prēost of Fari. “Think of it as like being able to witness a dream; a dream that has yet to happen.”

“Understood,” stated Meuric.

Figures began to appear. They were blurred at first but swiftly took on more solid forms. Genovefa gave a startled cry and stepped closer to Meuric.

“Be still, girl” snapped Honora. “Nothing will harm you.”

The former Knight Protector scanned the area. Several buildings had collapsed into rubble, smoke and fire streaming from them. Small craters pockmarked the ground. Most of the men on the ramparts were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with enemy soldiers. Kel'akh women, trained in the art of war, stood on buildings in the centre of town, raining arrows upon the enemy, making them pay for every inch they took. Enemy troops
climbed out of the watering well. A small number of Kel'akh warriors rushed in to meet them. They were led by a Knight Protector. Meuric could spot another two Knight Protectors fighting along the walls, yelling encouragements to the people of Ay'den.

Meuric was stunned. To have any Knight Protectors fighting together was against one of the founding principles of the Conclave and illegal in the eyes of the Religious Conviction. Such an act could very well bring the wrath of rulers of the world upon them. He heard Genovefa catch her breath.

“My Bairre,” she explained as Meuric looked at her. The girl's face was beaming with pride. “I can see my Bairre.”

Meuric looked beyond the fight at the well and saw a powerfully built warrior rally several Kel'akh warriors. Each had a sword and shield in hand.

“To the front gate,” the man Bairre commanded. “The gate must be defended.”

Meuric shook his head. The gate was the weakest part of any defending wall. If that had been breached then nothing would stop an invading horde of trained warriors. A scene from his recurrent nightmare barged violently into his mind.

He was once again on the slope on horseback with the boy and his mother looking back at Ad'yen. He could recall every detail of the surrounding enemy force but in the one segment, the gate section, the enemy had poured into the town through that opening, supported by those coming over the walls. Instinctively he turned and looked in the direction of the hillside but saw nothing.

The vision abruptly froze. Men and women froze in their positions of either running or fighting. Wisps of smoke that snaked their way up to the heavens abruptly stopped moving. The flames from burning buildings finished soaking up the air around them in the attempt to live and to spread.

“What is happening?” asked Genovefa.

“My home,” whispered Honora. “Make your way to my home.”

As Genovefa moved off Meuric looked more closely at the soldiers climbing out of the shaft of the water well. He knew these warriors well, how they moved and how they fought. He knew every inch of their
uniforms, so close to the Protectorates' own, that the only real difference was in the coloured tunics that marked rank and the partially open-faced helm of the enemy, shaped in the Tab'ee fashion.

These were the men from his nightmare.

Meuric looked hard at the most prominent figure, locked in frozen combat with a Knight Protector. His tunic was brown and though his armour was metal, overlapping strips of leather hung from shoulders and waist. He held a sword with blackened blades in each hand. His hazel eyes were fixed squarely on his opponent. A red and white tattoo on his left cheek marked him as a Kel'akh man. Meuric looked again at the Knight Protector. He did not need to see his face to know that it was Petros, Knight Captain of the Protectorate, and an old friend. He looked again at the enemy soldier, committing his face to memory. Silently he vowed that if he was to ever meet that man he would slay him at his first given opportunity. He moved off then, almost reluctant to do so. This has not happened yet, he admonished himself. It can still be changed. Honora's laughter echoed around him.

“His name is Bradán of the I'soolt tribe. There are some things even beyond the reach of those favoured by Deo,” she mocked.

Meuric ignored her. With a swift step he took after the village girl, catching up with her at the home of the Fari prēost. He was amused to find an unmoving Honora dressed in her Kel'akh armour. She was stuck ushering a heavily pregnant and older Genovefa into her home. Another man was accompanying them.

“I am amazed to find you still alive, wicce,” quipped the Daw'ra warrior dryly.

Honora said nothing for some moments then asked, “Who is this man?” There was an edge of fear to her voice.

“Explain,” asked Meuric of the prēost.

“Even in this state,” began Honora with a quiver in her voice. “I can see the strands of fate that link all men. Yet with this man, I feel nothing. It is almost as if he is outside the laws of our world.”

Meuric looked at the man. Dressed as he was, in the fashion of a Kel'akh warrior, he was in no way a Kel'akh native. He seemed to be young, maybe thirty-five summers, was lean and clean-shaven, with short brown hair. He bore no marking upon his face or neck pertaining to any particular tribe. His strange violet eyes
were bright and intelligent and yet seemed to be too old for such a young face. Much like what he had heard about himself and other Knight Protectors during his long years of existence. Though broad, he was also taller than most Kel'akh men were. Even the sword on his back was different from any he had ever seen.

The blade was curved and slender with a single edge, if Meuric had to guess, topped by a square guard and long grip to accommodate the weapon with two hands if need be. The daggers at his waist were similar but smaller.

“Is he a danger?” asked Meuric.

Honora's reply was sharp. “I have no way of telling.”

Meuric looked to Genovefa. “Do you know him?” She shook her head unable to take her eyes off the stranger. Her eyes were wide with fear. “Play out the scene, prēost,” ordered the Daw'ra man. “Let us see what is taking place.”

“Get inside,” commanded the stranger suddenly pushing open wide the door to Honora's home. “Quickly now, Genovefa.”

“Who are you, my Lord?” asked the girl of the vision.

“I am Ladra,” said the man. “You can trust me.” He stopped momentarily and turned. He looked directly at the watching Genovefa and Meuric. “You both can.” The village girl caught her breath.

The Genovefa from the vision nodded as she allowed herself to be escorted into Honora's home. “I have heard of that name though I cannot place exactly where.”

Meuric looked at the girl next to him. Still she refused to remove her eyes from the scene. “How can he see us?” She was obviously terrified.

The sounds of battle were all around them again and growing ever louder. In the doorway of the vision, Honora had drawn her sword and dagger. Meuric was about to speak when he froze, the picture before him making his heart thump in his chest. With the door opened wide Meuric was able to see directly into the centre of Honora's circular home.

Standing there already were the boy and his mother from his nightmares, accompanied by one other woman, who shared the same ethnicity. Another man, a warrior, stood with them. He was as broad as he was
tall with ebony skin, a shaved head and carried a two-headed battle-axe. The boy looked directly at Meuric and nodded once.

The vision ended. The three took some moments to realise that they were back in the room of the Fari prēost. It was Genovefa who was the first to stand. She looked at Honora and Meuric, bowed respectively, and hurriedly left the room without saying a word. She slammed the door behind her hard as she ran off.

“Will she be okay?” asked Meuric.

Honora nodded. “I believe she will. She hopefully has the sense to keep her mouth shut but I will speak with her later.”

Moments passed and the two sat in silence gathering their thoughts. Finally, it was Meuric who spoke first.

“The boy and the man Ladra could see us.” It was a statement and Honora nodded in silence. “But you could not?”

The prēost shook her head. “No,” she admitted. “I should have been able to but it felt like I had no power when in the presence of the boy.”

Meuric could see that she was visibly disturbed by this. He sought to change the subject.

“Is that the only path set out for Ay'den?”

Honora shook her head. “No. There is a darker one but it is certainly not one for the eyes of Genovefa.”

“Show me then,” snapped Meuric.

Honora nodded and reached out her gnarled hand. Meuric accepted it without question. The room vanished and once again Meuric was standing outside the home of Honora at the battle of Ay'den. Wait, he corrected himself, it was its aftermath.

A light drizzle fell from the grey clouds above. Buildings smouldered and fizzled under the rain all around him. Survivors of the battle searched those few buildings that were still left standing and the many bodies that lay on the ground unmoving. Great gaps in the defensive walls showed everywhere. It was Honora's home that had gained his undivided attention.

The door had been torn off its hinges. Bodies lay scattered everywhere including that of Genovefa, with many wounds to her stomach. Meuric solemnly entered the one-roomed building. Everyone was dead. The black man he had spotted earlier had died near the door with a small selection of enemy bodies around him. Honora had died not far from him. Too old to fight, she still had died with a sword in her hand. The Daw'ra man nodded to her body in respect.

He looked around the room. Furniture, what there was of it, was overturned everywhere. The mother of the boy lay dead, as did the other woman of similar features. Of the boy and Ladra there was no sign. With a heavy heart Meuric left the building. Outside a small crowd had begun to gather. To the front of the assemblage stood Bairre, his face blackened from fire. There was a nasty gash across his chest. Tears ran unashamedly down his face. A figure all in black walked up to him and removed his full-faced helm.

“You must go now, Bairre. Your people have need of a leader. Take them to safety.”

The Ay'den warrior shook his head. “Not until I bury her, Petros.”

The vision vanished. Without a word, Honora stood and moved away to another section of the room, where an effigy of an old woman sat with a spinning wheel. It was a representation of the goddess Fari. Before it the prēost knelt and bowed her head in silent meditation. Meuric said nothing. He understood that Honora was seeking answers from her goddess to what she had just witnessed. As quietly as possible he made his way to the front door. Silently he lifted the latch and opened it. Before him stood a figure from his vision, now dressed in the plain and grey hooded robe of an Oak Seer.

“My name is Ladra,” said the newcomer, his violet eyes unnerving even the Daw'ra warrior. “I have need of you, Meuric.”

Two Weeks Later

IX

The three brightly coloured soldiers in gold and red stepped forward cautiously, their scimitars held before them two-handed in an extended fashion. They looked like they were directly off the parade ground with their horsehair plumes dyed red and their embossed armour. The dark figure facing them knew exactly what they were thinking and smiled inwardly at their nervousness. Never before had they came across a warrior such as him. His Roz'eli-styled armour was made from toughened leather, shaped like a male torso, and was as dark as the night sky above. The full-face helm that protected his head hid his identity very well except for the narrow slit around his cold grey eyes that allowed him to see out. It was that alone that marked him as a foreigner, that and his height.

In an unhurried manner, the dark figure before drew his two swords from the x-shaped scabbard on his back and stretched out his arms, as if almost inviting his enemies to attack. He could see their eyes widen in confusion at never having seen such weapons either. Shaped as they were, long and straight, their blades were also pitch-dark in colour. In a matter of heartbeats their faces hardened as greed settled into their minds, as it always did.

“You do not have to die tonight, soldiers of Jay'keb,” said the warrior in a quiet and confident tone. The leather helm gave his voice a slightly deep and muffled tone.

Soldiers. He almost laughed aloud at the mention of the word. Most of that true and noble professional fighting force had been butchered by the Roz'eli legions when they had invaded and conquered their land. The men today were nothing more than thugs that wore the gold-gilded armour of Haran, milksop and puppet king of Jay'keb, who did little but lick the boots of the Roz'eli Provincial Governor and carry out his dirty work.

It was the intermediary that spoke out, acting as leader of the small band. “Give us your weapons and the child and we will allow you to go.”

The dark warrior spread his arms out a little wider, making it clear that they would have to go through him if they wanted the young family. In truth he had almost forgotten that they were there, so intent was he upon his opponents. They had almost made it out of the town unnoticed, he recalled with some bitterness. They had dodged many of the soldiers' patrols as they ransacked homes and randomly murdered its occupants if the household displayed any sign of non-cooperation. In the end, the child had finally given away their position. He had cried out at a most inopportune moment when hunger had laid siege suddenly to his two-week-old belly.

“Get up the stairs to the roof,” ordered the dark figure to the cowering family behind him.

He seemed unnaturally calm. The couple instantly obeyed without any hesitation, the young father following last behind mother and babe. With sweaty palms he fidgeted with his long-bladed dagger as he moved. The warrior focused, allowing his magick to surge through his body, and he reached out with his mind. He could feel the torrent of emotions flood from the soldiers before him.

It was the man on his left who he sensed was most full of greed and bloodlust. Both he and the middleman were middle-aged with silver in their beards. The man on his right, who seemed to be just a boy wearing a man's armour, had been sickened by all the killings he had witnessed this day. The warrior felt that he had yet to kill anyone but was too scared to move away in fear of the other two.

“I will say it only one more time,” stated the dark warrior. “Leave or be killed.”

The soldier on the left launched immediately, swinging his scimitar down as hard as he could at the warrior's neck. Easily the warrior leapt to the side, ducking just below the wielded blade. The warrior's own black sword snaked out, catching the soldier at the rear to his knee, severing his hamstring. The man screamed and fell back. Instantly the warrior stabbed forward with his second blade, piercing his enemy's unprotected neck easily during mid-fall. His cries ended instantly and he was dead before he hit the ground.

With a roar the middle soldier instantly attacked. He brought his sword down in an overhead slashing motion. The warrior sprang up, thwarting the blow with an x-shaped block using both his swords. Almost at the same time he brought his leg up swiftly. His greave, also of toughened leather, connected squarely against the
soldier's groin. Immediately the warrior brought back his leg and followed it up with a strong kick to his opponent's knee as soon as his foot had touched the ground. As his shattered knee gave out, the warrior allowed the soldier to fall face-forward and finished him off with a quick precise stab to the rear of his neck as he hit the ground.

The third soldier dropped his sword. “I don't want to die.”

The foreign warrior nodded. Slowly he lowered his swords. “Leave then.”

The soldier took a few reluctant steps back, glanced at his dead comrades, then turned. Immediately the dark warrior was upon him, driving both his blades deep into the young man's body until they burst from his torso. With a savage twist he pulled them clear and the boy crumpled into a heap.

An open window sat in the wall of the building behind where the three soldiers had died. The warrior pushed his head through it and gave it a cursory scan.

The open-planned room was in darkness and appeared empty. He focused and reached out with his mind. He sensed nothing there. The family who had owned it were probably either all dead or had fled when the Jay'keb soldiers had begun searching the area. The warrior deftly swung each of his blades in a sharp arc before giving them a quick flick in the air, ridding them of any blood before sheathing them. He bent down and lifted each of the dead men easily, tossing them through the open window as if they were nothing more than sacks of feathers.

Silently, he made his way up the steps to the rooftop of the three-storey building that was typical of most towns in the country and joined the family. The young father was waiting there for him, his face contorted with disgust. His wife and child were sitting on the floor near the edge to the east.

“He was leaving,” said the man in an accusatory tone. “He was no longer a threat.”

The warrior paused momentarily and allowed his cold grey eyes to bore into the father. “He was the enemy.”

He moved on knowing that the flat tone he used did not allow for any more conversation on the matter. The fact that the man questioned him, judged him, irked the warrior somewhat. Safety of the family was the most important factor of his mission. In all probability, the soldier would have reported what had happened
either to his commanding officer or to another patrol, naturally after heroically defending himself against the mysterious warrior who wore dark cladding. He could not have allowed that to happen.

He understood the young father's tone. Death was not something that the warrior relished dealing even though he was very, very good at it. The young soldier had put on the uniform whether it was for money, or glory, or perhaps simply for a sense of belonging. Whatever the reason, somewhere in his mind, he had understood that perhaps the ultimate price might have to be paid for wearing it. Unfortunately for that young soldier today was that day.

A memory leapt unbidden into his mind. Paden, his long-time dead Oak Seer friend, had entered into a trance and had called him “the Hand of Deo”. Those words still rattled around within his thoughts that both sickened him and strangely comforted him.

Without a word Meuric followed the perimeter of the rooftop and evaluated their security. He found no one nearby and was confident he could hear anyone making their way towards them if they were found. The staircase was the only way up and down meaning that it would be easy to defend but that would also mean they were trapped. The homestead was close to the edge of the settlement and so the Daw'ra man settled by the roof's edge that allowed him to see over most of the town of Ber'ek. He crouched low.

In the distance he could hear the faint screams of terror that had echoed long through the night, growing ever more remote. They had belonged to all manners of man, women, child and beast. Anger touched him then. Was this how it sounded when the people of Isle Gla'es were murdered? Did his wife and son make those same screams? He gripped the edge of the rooftop as rage threatened to overwhelm him. Viciously he quelled the emotion.

In the distance he could see dozens of brightly coloured soldiers in their gold-plated link-armour and red plumes, armed with both spear and sword, the light reflected off the lit torches that some of them carried. Frustrated by their failure to find the family, they were now bursting into every home they could find, brutally dragging the occupants out onto the streets. Any that failed to cooperate were immediately stabbed and left where they lay.

“Where is the boy?” they would yell, their words of terror being carried along by the night breeze. “Speak or die!”

Naturally, no one knew of what they spoke. How could they? The fact that the family existed at all was a closely guarded secret. Any rumours that did survive were treated as nothing more than folklore. Something he had himself previously thought until recruited for this mission.

It had taken him only two weeks to find the family. A powerful narration had been placed over the whole of the Roz'eli province, hiding all from perceiving what lay beneath through magickal means. However, once through that shield of magick, narrations could be used once again to locate specific people or objects. Soon after the family's trail had been found Meuric had used his Gift of Soul Measure to follow their path to Ber'ek, to discover them hiding in a donkey pen.

More than half the families of that Jay'keb town had suffered some sort of loss that night, whether it was in the form of a friend, a loved one or a sibling. Among some kinfolk it was more than one. Occasionally whole households were murdered. It would eventually become known as the Massacre of the Innocents and all in the name of Jay'keb's puppet king, Haran, and his obsession with finding one very special child.

The warrior listened without comment to the wails of the dying and the barking orders from the soldiers that were growing yet ever more distant. In the streets below Meuric could make out several people fearfully crawling out from hiding. Some of them ran in other directions wishing to create even greater distance between them and the murderous soldiers. Others helped those who had not died from their wounds and were painfully attempting to crawl to safety. A few more of those injured were ignored or bypassed. He was not angry towards them. Fear and a willingness to live would always make people create selfish choices. It was simply human nature. He plainly wished them all well equally for he could not help them. He knew that further Jay'keb soldiers would be lying in wait some distance away, anticipating the actions of those attempting to flee.

King Haran must have paid the Roz'eli Administrator who was in charge of this region extremely well indeed, considered the warrior, for something as barbaric as this to happen. However, Roz'eli was an occupying force; once they had conquered and assimilated the country into their way of life they left it mostly alone as
long as everything ran smoothly and the Emperor received his taxes regularly. They were an empire of routine and liked no upsets. That is not to say that they were not merciless if angered.

Seeking a distraction from what was happening all around him he drew his swords and through the narrow eye-slit in his full-face plain helm he expertly examined the black blades of his double-edged swords. They were still razor sharp even though he had already killed half a dozen men that night in total, the metal edges splicing their armour as easily as the flesh and bone below. None of their blood had clung to the blades and there was no sign of any dullness.

“I understand why you did it,” spoke a man's voice softly from behind. “It does not mean I have to like it.”

“For the safety and security of those we are charged with, Your Highness, we have to be prepared to carry out certain measures,” responded the warrior without turning. “You should well remember that lesson if you are ever to be King.”

“You know who we are?” The man could not keep the astonishment from his voice. “How is it that you know us?”

Of course the warrior had heard of them before if only in myth, much like that of gods walking the lands. Now he knew for a fact how true that was. He smiled dryly at the thought. During his travels across Jay'keb he had heard how children of two certain royalty lines had been in hiding since they were of no age at all, dodging assassins and rulers alike. Now a town had been ransacked on the rumour that they were there and those two said lineages had produced a child.

He also began to understand the nightmare that had plagued him his whole life and the vision shown to him by the Fari prēost Honora. The mother clutching the babe was Jemima, the mother of the boy he had yet to save from Ay'den in the future.

The warrior sighed then and sheathed the weapons. Slowly he removed his black helm of toughened leather and set it under his arm. He took in a deep breath, relishing the cool night air as it filled his lungs and stung his face. Sweat and grime lined his young features. He ran his fingers over his short black hair and turned to face the man who had just spoken.

Meuric looked into the deep brown eyes of a father and husband, who stood proudly before him. He must have seen no more than twenty Name Days. The Daw'ra man saw the fear there but also an iron core behind it. For the briefest of moments he witnessed the man's eyes widen as he gazed into his own cold grey eyes and knew exactly what he was thinking. He had heard it a thousand times before through the decades.

How can someone so young have eyes that seem so old?

If only he knew, thought the warrior. The dark-clad man's eyes shifted to the woman breastfeeding her baby at the far side of the roof only to have his view blocked suddenly by the man who had just spoken. She must have been no more than eighteen summers. He could not help but feel the magick power that radiated from the child. Father and mother also held magick within their being but it was much less than their son. It was then that he realised for the first time that all three wore the simple clothing of commoners.