Meuric

  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.

  “You are Obadiah of Hal’em and your queen is Jemima of Keze’e. You are both the direct descendants of King Aaron and King Zilpah. Your son, Abram, is the true heir to your throne since both of your bloods flow through his veins. Yet Roz’eli will never allow you to take up your kingship and would happily kill you all in fear that a rebellion could be started in your name. Haran wants you all simply dead so that no others could ever oppose his rule.” Obadiah tensed.

  “I have no interest in you, your woman or your child,” the warrior offered a tired smile. He added quickly and calmly, “My orders are simply to take you to safety. It is my hope to take you and your family to Tris’ten in the west of the Kel’akh Nation.” />
  “That is the end of the world,” gasped Obadiah.

  The dark warrior ignored him. “My thinking is that the Ard-ri is the only authority who, so far, has been able to hold off the Roz’eli legions and in theory it is the safest place to bring you.”

  “You do not want to keep us and sell us to the highest bidder?” The man sounded almost incredulous. “Who are you? Judging by your black tattoos I thought you to be a hireling of Kel’akh. Who commands you?”

  “No one commands me, Your Highness,” responded the warrior, a little too sharply. “My name is Meuric and a man of magick sent me on a quest to save you. Somehow he knew of your plight and he sent me here by magickal means. Unfortunately he has no way of retrieving us by that same method. He explained to me that some sort of narration has been placed over the whole of the land preventing that.”

  Obadiah frowned and looked at his family. “Can we not just leave now and keep moving?”

  “Shortly, but I am almost positive that a perimeter of warriors will have been set around this town. We must tread carefully.” The warrior reached out with his mind and felt the insecurity within the man but also the almost overwhelming fear for the safety of his wife and son behind him. Meuric gave him a reassuring touch on his shoulder as he moved past him saying, “Keep an eye on the town. Let me know if anyone moves in our direction.”

  The warrior moved towards Jemima then suddenly paused when only a matter of steps away from her. Something was wrong, very, very wrong. It was not a sense of danger that he felt but it was something much more terrifying. The abilities given to him under the tutelage of the Conclave’s Council were now gone. The Gifts of Distant Movement, Divining and Feather Light had all left him now. His increased strength and swiftness, his augmented five natural senses and his invulnerability to poisons, disease and injuries had also vanished. He could almost feel his body begin to age. The magick that adorned him in the uniform of the Protectorate began to falter. For all intents and purposes, after one hundred years, he was now once again mortal.

  “Is anything wrong?” asked Obadiah.

  The warrior shook his head remaining silent, unsure at how his voice would sound if he had spoken. It had been so many decades since he had last felt this way he had almost forgotten what it meant to be human. Meuric took a small unsteady step back and knelt before Jemima. He could feel his Gifts return in strength.

  He could see that the child was now asleep on his mother’s lap. She had already slipped her arm inside her bland tunic to cover herself up. Jemima then draped a well-worn shawl around her shoulders. He looked to the three he was hired to protect. Still a soldier in his soul, the warrior had a mission to perform. Everything else was secondary to that, even if that meant operating with the possibility of no magick.

  Jemima smiled up at him. “Your Gifts will not be taken from you, warrior. They are simply subdued when in close proximity to Abram.”

  Meuric looked at her. “You know of my Gifts?”

  Jemima nodded. “That is my Gift. Realising and recognising of magick. In truth my Gift has mostly been gone since the conception of my son. At first I did not know what was happening. Obadiah would lose his Gift whenever he came close. We soon suspected what it was when we discovered I was pregnant.” She looked lovingly down at her son. “The first time he was taken away from me my Gift returned. We knew then for sure.”

  Meuric nodded and drew in a deep steady breath, relief sinking in. He then asked, “My Lady, are you ready to move? We will need to make our way down the stairs and away from here out into the darkness at some stage soon.” Jemima nodded. The Daw’ra man looked at the sleeping baby. “We must have the babe kept silent. There will be more troops out there waiting for any trying to escape.”

  Jemima nodded and uttered in a strong voice, “I can move just as fast and as hard as you can, warrior.”

  Meuric smiled. Behind him Obadiah said rather proudly, “It is true. From our earliest age we are taught to fight, ride and study. All in preparation if we ever take back our country.”

  “I am more interested in stealth rather than speed right now,” said Meuric. The warrior stood and stepped away from the child. He approached the would-be king. Removing a knife with a long black blade from the leather belt around his waist he reversed it and handed it to Obadiah, grip first. “You may have need of a second weapon and that blade will never dull.” Meuric now wondered if even that was true. Could the child null and void even the magick from the Conclave’s metalworkers?

  Obadiah’s eyes examined it closely. “You do not operate with the Protectorate. Who are you exactly?”

  Meuric looked at the would-be future king of Jay’keb. “You know of the Protectorate?”

  Obadiah nodded. “We were taught all aspects of the Conclave. As royalty and potential rulers we are entitled to all forms of information.”

  “Then think of me as a freelance Knight Protector,” replied Meuric rather sharply.

  The man of Kel’akh knew that really did not help as he saw the young father drop his eyes, downcast. After a short moment Obadiah swallowed hard and looked up. There was a look of defiance in his eyes.

  “I may not trust you nor know you,” he began. “But it is obvious that you are here to save us, Meuric. I know when people are lying or speaking the truth. We will do what is asked of us.” The would-be king held out his arm. The two men gripped each other’s wrist. Obadiah asked, “Of where in Kel’akh?”

  “My tribe and kin is mostly gone, Your Highness,” explained the warrior. He was unable to keep an edge of sadness from his tone. “So now I am simply a son of Kel’akh.”

  Obadiah nodded and rammed home the dagger into the rope belt at his waist. “You are much like us then.”

  Meuric walked to the roof’s edge and donned his leather helm once again. Taking his son, Obadiah helped his wife to her feet and together they made their way to the far side of the roof and carefully navigated the stairway leading to the ground. Movement suddenly caught Meuric’s eye and he froze. He slowly lowered himself down onto one knee. Seeing what he was doing, the royal couple followed suit.

  He turned to Jemima. “Take the child away from me. I may have need of my Gifts.”

  He did not mean to sound severe. He would apologise later if he could but for the moment he had to focus on the threat at hand. Whatever it was it was moving very fast and on foot, coming from the direction he was planning to take them out of Ber’ek. As it neared the warrior could see that there were two of them. Whoever they were they were dressed all in black and moved faster than a horse could gallop.

  “Stand ready, your Highness,” said Meuric, his tone bleak. “People of power are coming for us.”

  X

  On one knee, Meuric watched the approaching shadows with expert scrutiny. The figures moved from cover to cover, using the contours of the land well, hiding in dips, crouching behind boulders and fallen trees, never moving for more than a few seconds at a time. His eyes flicked to the Royal Family crouching at the opposite side of the roof to him.

  Obadiah knelt in front of his wife and child protectively, his two daggers drawn and ready to be used. The Kel’akh warrior did not need the use of his Gifts to feel the fear and tension rise from the two adults. His plan was simple. To stay low, to wait and to watch. If they proved to belong to the enemy, and if there was no way of bypassing them, he would attack from above. With speed and surprise on his side he hoped that there would be not much of a fight. Meuric slowly drew his two swords from his back and prepared for battle.

  The figures, sprinting at an inhuman speed, abruptly slowed as they neared the building that Meuric and the family hid upon, as if they knew exactly where to go. It was obvious now that they were both Protectors, true Knights of the Protectorate, but only one could be of Jay’keb he knew, unless their charter had changed in recent years. He surmised that the second Knight Protector must belong to Wardens Keep. Only when leading a troop of soldiers from the Conclave’s home, in support of
a resident Knight Protector, were these elite warriors ever allowed to band together. In addition, it had to be strictly temporary. He could see now that one was male and one was female judging by their builds and the contours of their body armour. The question that was raised for Meuric now was whether they had come to assist him or to stop him.

  Meuric stood and the figures looked up, noting the two unsheathed swords of the Kel’akh warrior. Instead of drawing their own swords though, the figures instead opened wide their arms. Meuric indicated that they should join them and as one the two Knight Protectors raced up the sand and mud cut steps. At the top of the steps they found Meuric standing between them and the young family.

  “I was not aware that the Council had sent another Knight,” said the male figure looking from Meuric then to his female counterpart.

  “They could not,” said the woman flatly, her voice on edge. “If the Council wanted to it would still not be permissible.”

  “The Council did not send me,” confirmed Meuric coldly.

  He studied the figures, noting how they instantly tensed at the sound of his voice. They must have known his accent belonged to someone who resided in the Kel’akh Nation. They would also know that it was Radha who was the current Knight Protector of the Kel’akh. Meuric thought though that he recognised the man’s voice as that belonging to an old friend but he could not be sure. The helm disguised his voice as much as his own and it had been some years since he had last seen him.

  “You are the hand-over Meuric of Kel’akh,” stated the woman, her tone scathing.