Meuric

by Meuric- Beginnings (epub)

  Ah’mos was large enough to comfortably house three thousand of its inhabitants and was divided up into three sections, a difference that was not typically seen. A wall, as high as the town’s outer wall, was stationed between each division. At least the Roz’eli will not get it all their way, smirked Meuric. From his position he could see a few hundred people, not all of them soldiers, armed on each of the walls, ducking down low behind the parapets, firing off arrows or dropping rocks directly below them.

  Rows and rows of identical terrace houses and close-grouped apartments filled the southern end of the town. These were the homes for the labourers and the lowborn or low ranked. The middle section had slightly larger homes that were semi-detached and these were set aside for those with the skills of artistry and craftsmanship. The north end of Ah’mos had detached houses and these were set for those of education, business and government. The residences for the Roz’eli Administrator and the First and Second Citizens were the closest to the harbour, having the best view of the Mahr’she Sea beyond.

  Arrows shot up past Meuric. He looked down and spotted further teams of Free Archers aiming for him. Several of the Guardsmen had also begun shooting at him, fearing what they did not understand. Meuric flew up higher and now he looked beyond the perimeter walls of Ah’mos.

  To the north end Roz’eli ships of war were beginning to come into view. They had either been slow in taking up their positions or the land attack had occurred too early. Whatever the reason for their tardiness several fishing ships and galleys of varying descriptions had already made their way out into the open waters.

  To the east beyond the floodplains Meuric could see the River Nab’eel that ran from the north of the country to the south, dividing it. Between the floodplains and the town’s walls sat three onager machines, continually being loaded and fired fluidly by its well-practiced artillerymen. Three catapult machines, in essence giant crossbows, were aimed at each of the gateways to the town, no doubt to stop anyone from escaping.

  Behind them stood a phalanx of Men-of-the-Legion in crimson tunics and muted grey armour, sixty men across and five rows deep. No ordinary soldiers, these were the elite State Guard tasked with protecting Roz’eli officials but could be used as a military force like any other legion. Behind them stood the archers, bow in one hand and an arrow in his other. On the wings of the phalanxes waited their cavalry. None of the men moved, or shifted anxiously in anticipation of a coming fight, such was their discipline.

  It was then that Meuric spotted him. To the south positioned on a dune a short distance behind the phalanx sat the Dark Druid upon a horse. The former Knight Protector’s stomach lurched. He wanted so much to attack him, to kill the man who had destroyed his life so many years before. He envisioned flying down to him, ramming his blade through the heart of the man who had destroyed his family. His vision clouded in at the sides. It was the beginning of the madness that would overcome him. The only thing that he could see was the Dark Druid. Slowly, for what seemed to be an eternity, Meuric calmed himself. He was at his most dangerous when he was still and devoid of any emotion.

  He knew his strengths well.

  The mist at the edges of his eyes dissipated. He could now see that the man he hated more than life was not alone. To the mage’s right and slightly behind him seemed to be a woman with short dark hair, dressed in the clothing of a Bat’eest warrior. To the Dark Druid’s left sat a man, his white tunic bearing two thick crimson stripes down its front. Though the mark of a senator, the man sat like a soldier upon his horse. Next to him were the commanders of the Roz’eli force, the First and Second Spear, uniformed similarly to their men. A body of men, commanded by a Chief of Ten, surrounded them acting as a bodyguard unit.

  A giant bolt from a catapult suddenly shot past Meuric. He spun just at the last moment, feeling a gust of air created by the giant bolt as it hurtled past him. He looked down just beyond the southern gate. Already the crossbow crew was preparing a second arrow. Several other crews were adjusting their elevation to fire at him.

  Meuric changed the angle of his body and flew to the south wall, landing gently on his feet. He needed to take a closer look at his enemy. He cursed the fact that he could only use one Gift at a time. The former Knight Protector ducked behind the parapet just as arrows shot through the air where his head would have been. He nodded once to a lone Ah’mos Guardsman, who seemed incapable of movement. His mouth hung open as Meuric landed next to him. The Daw’ra man sniggered as he looked to his left and right.

  From his position he could only see a few of the town’s guards who had remained on the outer wall. Bolstering their numbers were several of the town’s menfolk wearing the simple one-coloured tunics of the poorest people. Workers, thought Meuric, and underneath his helm he smiled grimly. Out of all the civilians in Ah’mos it was the lowliest who stood by the Guardsmen hoping to gain some time for their people or families with their lives. In their hands they carried their everyday tools as weapons. It was then he noticed that some of the workers were women carrying bows with arrows nocked and ready. Again they appeared lowly in status. So much for the nobility of the rich, he remarked silently.

  “Are you here to help us?” asked the young Guardsman next to him, his deep brown eyes wide.

  He seemed to be no more than twenty Name Days and, judging by his narrow waist and the well-developed arms and shoulders visible past his short-sleeved tunic, had kept himself in good shape. His uniform comprised a white tunic with salmon-coloured linen armour and an open-faced helm. His forearms and lower leg were protected with vambraces and greaves of toughened leather. His circular shield and javelin showed no sign of rust or misuse. He handled them effortlessly as if they were part of him.

  The Guardsman looked Meuric up and down. “Are you Wyrre?” he asked him hesitantly. “Can you save us?”

  The former Knight looked at him. Part of him wanted to tell the young soldier that everything would be all right, that he had the power to make it so. Instead his barriers went up, making him appear cold and aloof. In an emotionless voice he said, “No. You should leave now or die.”

  A boulder exploded through the wall next to Meuric. He pushed his head down deeper behind the parapet as bits of stone and dust swirled all around him. He coughed involuntarily, though his helm managed to keep most of it out, and waited for a few moments until the air cleared. When he looked up he immediately saw a hole in the wall where the young town guard had been kneeling. He peeked over the edge of the parapet walk. On the ground he espied the shattered body of the Guardsman crushed beneath a rock.

  Shaking his head Meuric cautiously peered through a crenel. With his magick growing he reached out, seeking anything he could from the people next to the Dark Druid. All of them were touched by a palpable murkiness much like the one that had surrounded the dark mage back in Ber’ek, but far less so. Again the Dark Druid possessed the most. To the Daw’ra man it looked like an etheric cloud with living tentacles that stretched out as if seeking to envelop others. But it was the woman that caused Meuric to catch his breath.

  He could no longer even see her physical body. In her place was a void like that of a dark light. Where the Father of the Gods, Faeder, and the mage Ladra had showed only brilliance it was almost as she was the complete opposite, a being of subdued energy.

  Meuric relaxed. His Gift of Divining was what he wanted now. As he had manipulated it to listen in on the voice of David in Ber’ek and the thoughts of Liam back in Kar’el, he decided that it was time to use it again. Intelligence could be key to his mission but he was growing ever more aware that time to rescue Abram was running out. He could only trust in the skills of Qadir to keep him safe until he arrived.

  Meuric closed his eyes and concentrated. Noises from all over seemed to close in on him at once and he crumpled under the sheer volume. Shrieks from the dying and the mourning. Boulders and giant crossbow bolts screamed through the air and impacted against the walls with sickening thuds. The bellowing of ship comm
anders, both Roz’eli and Ar’en, as they shouted at their crew raged all around him, as if they were standing right next to him. Through it all, bit by bit, he was able to discern the discreet whispers of the Roz’eli ground troops.

  Meuric’s concentration deepened. He began to feel slow and sluggish. Already the constant use of his Gifts was beginning to take its toll. Even with his extraordinary strength, fatigue was finally starting to set in. It was the price a Knight Protector paid to have such power. It was an allowed weakness so that if a member of the Protectorate ever became corrupted by the magick they wielded there would still be a way to defeat them. The words that he was searching for began to drift into his mind.

  “Which one was he?” The voice was deep and full of authority. It had a Roz’eli accent.

  There were a few moments of silence, then, “I do not know. His identity is being protected somehow.” It was a woman who spoke. It surprised Meuric to hear a Kel’akh tinge.

  “Do you not have the power to penetrate that shield, my Lady?” asked a second Roz’eli voice, a younger one. If Meuric had to guess he would say that it belonged to the Second Spear. There was a hint of mockery in his tone. “Whoever it is must be very powerful indeed.”

  “Perhaps the Council is changing the rules and has sent in a second Knight Protector to support Qadir,” suggested another Roz’eli man, much like the first. “We know that Qadir does not possess such a Gift of Feather Light.”

  “I do not think so, Senator Tacitus,” observed a final voice, a Kel’akh voice. If Meuric was surprised to hear the woman’s voice earlier, he was astounded now. “The Council would dare not break their covenant with the Religious Conviction. And besides, I see no Trooper cohort. No… this Knight Protector makes up his own rules. My guess is that it is Meuric of Kel’akh, a former Knight Protector. The same that saved the boy back in Ber’ek.”

  “I did not know that such a thing was possible,” remarked one of the Roz’eli men.

  Meuric could hear a sharp intake of breath. “We must kill him now,” demanded the woman.

  “Patience,” whispered the Dark Druid. “Perhaps there is a way of using him.” Anger suddenly clawed up through Meuric, empowering his magick as he gripped his crossbow tighter. His body tensed to attack. He could hear the dark mage chuckling. “That will teach you to eavesdrop, boy.”

  A voice whispered out to Meuric. Be still, my love. Think of the child. For without him Terit’re might have no future.

  “Dervla…?”

  Meuric froze for the distance of a heartbeat before spinning. The woman’s voice had seemed so close, so real, that he was convinced that she stood directly behind him. But that was impossible for she had been dead, murdered, almost one hundred years earlier. And he loved her still. He changed his magick and sent it out, searching for a form to that voice.

  He found nothing.

  Nearby a house collapsed upon itself, demolished by a secondary hit by a boulder. Meuric coughed away the dust and turned again, searching out the voices of the Dark Druid and his retinue. He found it much easier this time to focus in on them.

  “What are your orders, Senator?” asked a Roz’eli voice. “Shall we attack?”

  There was a pause then, “Send in your troops, First Spear. Take into custody any children you find but kill the rest. I will join you after you have secured Ah’mos.”

  “Second Spear,” said that same officer. “See to the Commanders and pass the word.”

  “Man-of-the-Legion,” yelled Second Spear.

  Meuric could hear a man running uphill through sand. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have all the Commanders report to me immediately,” he demanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will not be going with you on this occasion, my Lords,” said the woman suddenly. Meuric could hear her voice tremble.

  “May I ask why?” queried one of the Roz’eli men. “You might miss some good sport.”

  “Whatever my Lady wishes,” said the Dark Druid in an even measured tone. Meuric knew that he attempted to sound unperturbed but with his Gift he could feel the subjection of his will.

  Then there was silence. For a moment Meuric thought he had gone deaf. He clicked his fingers, feeling foolish, but he could hear clearly the noise from his finger sliding against his thumb. Around him, the sounds of buildings crashing and screams of the injured echoed everywhere. Carefully he peered through the crenel once again. He could see clearly the people upon the sand dune but when he put forward his Gift in that direction it was almost as if any sounds were muted for him. He could feel the magick of a narration placed around them, preventing his ability to hear their words. So concerned with his inability to listen in on the enemy he missed the obvious. He leapt high up into the air and flew, cursing himself for being a fool. He must have been more tired than he realised.

  The Dark Druid and the ten warriors that had surrounded him had vanished.

  He reset his mind and focused again, this time at the docks. He was looking for an aura of utter brilliance. In a town full of fear and terror he reasoned that Abram would be the one who rose above it all. On the walls that divided the sections inside the town, Meuric could see fighting between the people of Ah’mos and Free Archers. Though the town guards were putting up a little bit of resistance the townsfolk for the most part were losing.

  Suddenly he spotted them just a short distance from the harbour. Next to it was another intense light that almost seemed minuscule in comparison, that flickered on and off like when a torch was being lit then suddenly blown out. It was either Jemima or Qadir, he assumed, knowing that it was probably his proximity to the boy that caused the coming and going of magick.

  Angling his body, Meuric turned and dived towards them the whole time scanning for a large dark aura. Thankfully he could not find one. Remembering what had happened twelve years before, Meuric landed some distance away. He did not want to be falling out of the sky just above the child.

  People were running in a near total panic now streaming for any available ships that were left, trampling each other just to be first in line. In the background the constant poundings of the Roz’eli artillery had now ceased. That could only have meant one thing.

  Their State Guard was moving in to finish off the town.

  XVI

  Meuric pressed his way through the mob, pushing any who stood in his way to one side. All around him most of those who fell to the ground were trampled underneath, irrespective of age, class or sex. As he ran he looked to the rooftops. There was sporadic fighting between the Free Archers and the general populace; those who had decided to fight for the lives of their families and friends. He began to run even faster.

  It did not take him long to find them. There were five of them in total, including a tall boy. All were almost crushed by the far left of the compressing hordes as they made their way along a wide pier. The child was in the middle of them, surrounded and protected by the others on all sides as best they could. Knight Protector Qadir took up the rear wearing a white linen shirt and kilt.

  He was now so close to Abram the Daw’ra warrior knew that his Gifts would be of no more use to him. The fact that he wore his own clothing with native weapons was an indication of that. Jemima was on her son’s right and kept a comforting and steadying arm around him. A large black man, from the lands to the far south of Ar’en, carried a large double-headed axe. On their left ran a small portly woman, doing her best to keep up.

  With the exception of Qadir, these were all the people from Honora’s vision.

  It was the Ar’en Knight Protector who saw Meuric first. He stopped dead, readied his sword and took up a defensive fighting stance. A khopesh, or sickle sword, a two-handed sword with a thick crescent-shaped blade that was solely used for slashing was a nasty weapon in the hands of an expert, and Qadir would most indisputably be an expert. The townsfolk nearby immediately began to make a space around him as if sensing that a fight was about to take place. Many craned their necks to see if it w
as the Roz’eli forces that had now entered the harbour area.

  “Run,” commanded Qadir. “I will see to this.”

  But instead of running as commanded, the entourage stopped and turned.

  The former Knight watched how Qadir’s deep brown eyes examined him. He could obviously see that he was dressed in an identical manner to the Knight Protectors, complete with weapons. Meuric slowed as he approached the Ar’en man, coming to a walk. He spread out his arms hoping to show that he posed no threat. He unhooked the arms of his crossbow and slid the weapon into its holster.

  He spied Abram a short distance behind the defender of Ar’en. As he stood before Qadir, the Daw’ra warrior’s magick finally left him, including all the trappings of a Knight Protector.. He stood in the same leggings and boots he had worn when he spoke to Ladra.

  “I am Meuric, former Knight Protector of Kel’akh.”

  Qadir lowered his swords slightly. Meuric could see his mind working, wondering at such a thing. “I have heard of you. You are the Knight Protector that turned his back on the Conclave.” He laughed suddenly. “I had half thought you a myth. I am Qadir of A’ren. Why have you come?”

  “To help,” stated Meuric. “Nothing else.”

  “They,” Qadir indicated to the family behind him, “told me of your rescue when Abram was just a babe.”

  Abram stepped forward. He set a hand on Qadir’s sword arm compelling the Knight Protector to lower his weapon. “You can trust him.”

  Qadir reluctantly nodded and held out his arm. “Well met, Meuric.”

  “Well met, Qadir.” They gripped wrist-to-wrist.

  Jemima ran over to them. “Meuric,” she said. Her eyes were wide with fear and excitement. “Is that really you?” She stared up at his handsome face though she hesitated when she looked into his cold grey eyes.

  Meuric gave a slight dutiful bow. “It is, your Highness. Though it has been many years they have been kind to you.” Jemima blushed with the compliment. “Your son has grown tall I see.”