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.
Was that the hidden mortal from his vision?
My Lord, I would speak with you.
The storyteller sighed. Would he never know peace? I trust that it is important, Wis?
It is, my Lord King.
The stranger’s shoulders sagged. He so loved these days, partly due to the fact that they were always so short. “Forgive me, my friends,” he roared above the volume of the townspeople. “I have a need to empty my bladder.”
“One more story,” yelled one man.
“One more tale,” shouted young Bairre from the storyteller’s feet.
“Shortly,” answered the man as he shakily stepped down from the table, pretending to be drunk. “I will be back soon.”
He made his way through the horde quickly, all signs of the effects of alcohol immediately leaving him. Men offered him more beer. Others wanted to ply him with stories of their own deeds. Politely but firmly he refused them all. All the while, he could feel the eyes of Meuric boring into him as he moved closer to the doorway. As he opened the door, he paused. He looked at the Kel’akh warrior and saw the uncompromising gaze of a man who had nothing to live for.
“Your journey begins today, Meuric,” said the storyteller in a tone so soft that only the warrior could have heard. He had no idea why he was talking to him. Again, he saw the newcomer charging down the hillside with the armies of the world behind him. He stepped through the door quickly and immediately closed it behind. He could not have the warrior following him to where he was going.
At the moment, the door slid neatly into its frame the storyteller’s world changed.
VI
Meuric swung open the door straight after the storyteller had closed it, realising immediately that he would already be gone. The signature of the power that he emitted had vanished. “He” may be the wrong use of the word, considered the Daw’ra man. The incredible energy that pulsated from the storyteller had hit him like waves lapping against a beach, and when he had tried to discern the force behind it, he had been met with a blinding radiance that was almost too painful to look at.
‘“Your journey begins today, Meuric,”’ the storyteller had said to him.
How had he known who he was? To what journey had he referred? An image of him shot by arrows in a cave burst into his mind and he shivered. He was a fool for coming to Ay’den, he knew. Daring the prophecy to come true was probably one of the wo
rst ideas that he ever had. Yet as the years passed, he found that he needed more and more forms of extreme excitement as boredom sank in more frequently. Besides, he had yet to meet the child and his mother and until that day happened, he told himself that he should not be overly concerned about it.
He began to flit between the buildings of the town, barely making a noise as he moved, as he searched for his objective. Though dark, he knew that a being of such power would not be able to hide from him for long no matter where in the town he went. For those sensitive to the ways of magick it was just a matter of time until he picked up the storyteller’s trail.
Ay’den was just like every other Kel’akh town. There was no discernible structure to the build-up of the settlement. The only regulation was that there had to be a certain sized gap between each structure. Circular homes made of stone and mud with thatched conical roofs littered the area all around him. In a town of this size there were no pens attached to the homesteads for their domestic livestock. The majority of the animals were kept outside the town in a specially built enclosure while a smaller portion were kept inside the town should they be attacked and forced to close the gates.
He spied the well that supplied the towns’ only fresh water that lay in the centre of Ay’den. It was guarded at all times though there was unregulated free access to it. He nodded to the two guards who eyed him cautiously as he suspected they did to all strangers who were dressed as a well-armed warrior.
He continued walking, silently moving through the shadows, offering only a cursory greeting to those few townsfolk who just happened to walk past him. He moved close by the Chieftain’s home, a three-storey high building, that marked not only his status but also allowed everyone to know where to find him. Eachann was his name. He was as canny a man as any, but it was his wife Fedelm who was the real power behind him. It was said that she could outwit a snake that was about to strike and, if that did not work, cut off its head before it had even realised it.
The ground level was named the Great Hall. From here, the Chieftain would entertain dignitaries, hold banquets and discuss affairs connected to his region. The centre section was where the kitchens were, his servants lived and it also retained stores of all kinds. The uppermost level was where he and his family lived. Two sentries guarded the entrance to the Great Hall, which was also the only public passageway into the Chieftain’s home.
On one side of the Great Hall, a short distance away, sat the home of Ay’den’s War Band Commander. A less grand affair than the Chieftain’s, the homestead possessed two levels, but he was still obviously much better off than the townspeople. Only one guard blocked the doorway here.
On the opposite side of the War Band Commander’s home sat a roundhouse that was typical of any in Ay’den. The fact that a single sentry guarded its doorway marked that as the residence of the Oak Seer whenever he or she came to stay.
Meuric kept on moving, finding himself skirting close to the fringes of the town. The protective wall that surrounded Ay’den was also circular in shape and he began to follow the path of it, his eyes scanning the terrain. By now, he knew that it was no longer of any use. The power that he had sensed earlier was now completely gone, leaving him feeling strangely isolated. He alone in Ay’den felt the might of a being that could not possibly have been of this world.
Onwards he moved like a cat on the prowl. Maybe the being had some way of shielding himself from others, he considered. He could see some of the Guardsmen on duty, their red cloaks removed as it was such a mild night. Even those not close to their fired braziers had left their cloaks open. Thinking about it, he realised that not even the Travelers’ Inn had lit its central furnace, the closeness of the patrons making its central hall verge on the oppressive.
Some of the Guardsmen paced the ramparts as they sought to scan the terrain on the outside, ready to defend the town against any attacking force. Others stood perfectly still, staring out into the evening sky, boredom forcing them to seek solace in their thoughts. There was little chance of Roz’eli forces finding themselves this far from the border, even on a raiding mission, but it was not unheard of for rival tribes to launch a sneak attack. Meuric knew that strategically Ay’den was well placed to control movement across the northern tip of the lake named Tarn Nee’sha and all its interlinking tributaries.
Meuric shook his head, finally admitting to himself that it was foolish to waste any more time searching for the mysterious being. Deciding to return to the Travelers’ Inn to have a drink he suddenly felt another presence of magick. It was nowhere near as powerful as he had encountered earlier but it was something nonetheless. Focusing on the homestead from which the magick originated, he circled the wall searching for the front door only to almost walk straight into a young woman as she stamped impatiently before the doorway, waiting for a response from within.
“I apologise, young Miss,” said Meuric. He tried to smile politely on finding her so startled. She was pretty enough, he decided, though fragile looking with blonde hair and blue eyes flecked with green. She had only one red tattoo and that was on her neck. “I am sorry if I scared you.”
The girl looked at him noting his finely made clothes and weapons. He could see her look curiously at his face and wonder why there was no beard, why his hair was cut short and how someone so young could have eyes that looked so old. “It was my mistake, my Lord. I was so intent on what I was doing I had not the mind to be careful.”
“Genovefa,” called a woman from the inside of the house. “Is that you?”
“Genovefa?” repeated Meuric in a quiet voice. He had no intention of letting the person from inside the house know that he was there. “That is not a name from these parts.”
“No, my Lord,” was the girl’s reply. She was slightly suspicious and seemed reluctant to answer. “My family comes from eastern Kel’akh. We fled here when Roz’eli started to invade our lands.”
Meuric nodded solemnly. “That was a wise decision by your parents.”
A latch lifted and a woman appeared at the doorway. She was old and bent-over, her red tattoos so faded that they seemed to be little more than a pale pink. He could not but help notice, though, the triple-spiral tattoo over her left eye, the symbol of the goddess Fari. Her iron-grey hair was tied back and held in place by a gold torc. She gripped her fur cloak tight around her when the evening air touched her skin despite its warmth. She stared hard at Meuric without a word as if gauging his thoughts.
“You are a long way from home, Meuric of the Daw’ra tribe,” she said with a half-smile. “So is the Hand of Death here to take me to the Otherworld?”
Meuric gave her a scathing look. “That is not who I am, woman.”
“Careful how you speak to me, Meuric,” snapped the woman. “The goddess Fari herself protects me.” Genovefa started to take some backward steps. She glanced nervously at both man and woman, sensing the invisible power struggle going on between the two. The woman turned to her. “Be still, girl. You are in no danger here. I am simply letting him know that I recognise who he is.” She looked once again to the warrior. “Do you believe in fate, Meuric?”
“No,” he answered a little too quickly and she laughed.
“What a fool you are,” she spat at him. “How do you dream these days?”
“I sleep just fine, wicce!”
She laughed again and turned to the girl. “Come, Genovefa. It is time to answer your questions.” She stepped to one side and held the door wide enough to allow the young woman to walk through. She was only too keen to get inside the house. The witch looked to Meuric. “Will you come in also? You too may find some of the answers to the questions that you seek.” He hesitated to respond and the crone disappeared into her home. She left the door open. “Your journey begins today, Meuric.”
‘“Your journey begins today, Meuric,”’ he repeated. That was what the being had said to him in the Travelers’ Inn. He entered through the doorway, feeling the tingle of magick ripple against his skin. Once in
side he stood to one side, his back against a wall in the dimly lit room. He waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the poor lighting.
“Wards protect my home, Knight Protector,” sounded the witch’s voice. “Those who follow the Dark Ones, whether man or daemon, cannot enter my home.”
Meuric looked about. The one-roomed dwelling was spacious for a Kel’akh roundhouse. Large enough to house a family, the old woman sat to one side on a fur rug at the end of a low table while the young woman Genovefa sat at the opposite end. She glanced nervously at the dark-clad warrior who stood silently by the doorway, his grey eyes scrutinising everything closely. In the centre of the room lay a small fire, sitting neatly within a small stone circle, the smoke from which meandered lazily through the small hole in the roof directly above.
As was characteristic of a Kel’akh homestead, there was little decoration; a pile of furs lay for a bed, small low tables sat in various spaces that were used for greeting guests and for eating off, but it was her weapons that made Meuric take stock. They had been cleaned immaculately and mounted, displayed almost with a certain amount of veneration. It was these that the warrior approached.
A wooden stand, representative of a man, stood against one section of the wall. On its head sat a helmet, on its body rested a breastplate and, judging by the contours, it could only be worn by a woman. Across its arms lay a sword, resting neatly within a fur-trimmed scabbard and at its feet lay a circular wooden shield reinforced with straps of bronze. Though each piece was plain Meuric could make out the small runic writing that could only be made from a metalworker within Ee’ay. He reached out to them but did not touch, feeling the vibration of magick tingle his fingertips.
“Such things are not cheap, wicce,” noted Meuric. He turned. His eyes fell upon the table that the witch and Genovefa sat at, noting the quality of the wood and the runes etched into it. “I think that you are far richer than you let on.”
Meuric Page 6