Meuric

  The would-be queen reached out with her hand and tenderly touched the Daw’ra man’s cheek. “When our plight is most dire there you are again. You were sent once more to save us?”

  Meuric nodded. “I was, my Lady.” He looked past the woman suddenly realising that someone was missing. “What of your husband? I do not see him.”

  Sadness touched Jemima’s eyes then. “He has been dead for five years now. He was murdered by assassins in the middle of the night not long after we left Wardens Keep. If it was not for Anan…” she nodded to the large black man, “we too would surely have perished. He has been our protector ever since.”

  Meuric looked towards the black man and offered a respectful bow. With the pleasantries out of the way his tone suddenly became urgent. “Listen to me, all of you. The Dark Druid is here in Ah’mos proper with a unit of soldiers. Free Archers have already infiltrated the town. It is he who is really behind the attack on the town. The Roz’eli troops will sweep through the town like wildfire so we must hurry to your ship. Which one is it?”

  “It is the Widan,” answered Qadir immediately. “It is an E’del trading vessel to the very left of the harbour. The Captain is waiting for us. He has promised that he will take no one else than us save the families of the sailors from here, though I would not want to test that loyalty by wasting too much time.”

  “Very true,” agreed Meuric. He pushed them forward into a walk. “Have you yet decided on your destination?”

  Qadir nodded as the two Knights stepped into line together. “The family wishes to return home. The plan is to land at Tib’ee then onward south to Jay’keb. They say that they have people who will hide them.”

  “Best not,” considered Meuric, shaking his head. “If the Dark Druid is working with Roz’eli forces, having just seen him standing next to a senator with a force of State Guards, this might mean that the Emperor is in league with him. I fear that anywhere occupied by the Empire will not be safe for Jemima and her people.”

  Qadir dragged out his words. “Then where would you suggest?”

  Meuric thought for a moment. “In all honesty I think that Kel’akh would be your best bet. To the east lies the Eastern Confederation who think nothing of holding hostages for ransom, and then only if they are useful. Further east of them are the Nomadic Lands where life on the plains can be harsh.” As he spoke his heart sank. Images from his nightmare flashed in his mind. It was one step closer to becoming a reality.

  “We must hurry then,” said Qadir. “It will be only a matter of time before the Dark Druid finds Abram.”

  At the mention of his name the boy dropped back and moved with Meuric. The former Knight Protector of Kel’akh looked at him closely. There was no mistaking him as the lad from his dreams. His throat all of a sudden became very dry. The boy looked very much like his father except for his eyes and mouth. They belonged to his mother. He was tall for his years, taller than most other children, with brown hair and eyes so dark they seemed almost black. Meuric could feel the enormous power that the boy held even with the lack of his own abilities.

  “I remember you,” said Abram, his tone matching the softness in his eyes. “You were the one in Ber’ek who saved our lives. My parents spoke of you often afterwards. They always said that it was important to remember the heroes that we meet during our lives.”

  “You remember me?” asked Meuric, slightly incredulous. He was obviously stunned and more than a little disturbed. “But you were only a babe at the time!”

  Abram offered a half-smile. “I remember everything from the moment of my birth.”

  New and different types of screaming came from behind the Knight Protectors all of a sudden. Meuric did not need the use of his Gifts to know that the enemy had arrived. He pushed Abram away from him.

  “Get to Anan now,” he commanded.

  Abram immediately began running. Jemima screamed at her son to hurry. Together Qadir and Meuric spun and dropped to one knee. In almost complete unison they drew their crossbows and locked the bow into place. At the same time they drew back on their strings, setting them into place, and loaded their bolts. Calmly they stood and raised their weapons, aiming carefully at the closest enemy combatants. With Abram gone, the magick from the Gradalis rose replacing the garb that they wore with that of the Knight Protectors.

  Two Free Archers came into view. Their bows had been stored across their backs, their gladii and pugiones drawn. They obviously did not want to risk shooting the boy. Meuric instantly fired, shooting the bolt into the face of an enemy soldier. He quickly fired and shot and killed the second soldier. Another two appeared. These Qadir took care of. As they fell dead Meuric turned to the Ar’en man. He did not give the enemy soldiers a second thought.

  “We must hurry even more now,” he commanded. “They might have got a message to the Dark Druid.”

  Meuric loaded his last bolt and locked it into place. He saw that Qadir was continuing to stare behind him, unmoving. Slowly he turned and, after so many years, came face-to-face with the murderer of his family. Meuric was about to launch at the mage, then stopped. The mage had come alone.

  “Get to Abram now,” commanded Meuric. “He has men with him.”

  Qadir hesitated but realised that the Daw’ra man was right. The mission was the protection of the boy. “Good luck,” he whispered as he sped off.

  The Dark Druid stood only a short distance away, weapons in hand. Meuric could not help but notice that their swords were identical to those issued to the Knight Protectors and the Conclave’s warriors. In fact they were more like his, with a Kel’akh design. Meuric allowed himself one backward glance. He could see the family making good their escape, Anan leading the way as Qadir followed in the rear. He looked back to the mage. Without any warning he lifted his crossbow and fired at his heart. With only the flick of his sword, the Dark Druid batted it away. Looking dejected, the Daw’ra man threw away his crossbow and drew his two swords.

  “You are Meuric of Kel’akh,” stated the Dark Druid. “You are the former Knight Protector and the so-called Hand of Deo.”

  “And you are the killer of babes and women,” cried Meuric.

  He leapt forward, launching a blistering two-handed attack which would have easily felled several men. But not the Dark Druid. With ease the mage parried each blow and finished with a front kick to Meuric’s midsection pushing him back several feet. The former Knight Protector landed hard on his back, instantly rolled backwards and sprang onto his feet. He cursed himself for using so much of his magick. His body was beginning to grow weary.

  He looked to the mage’s robe and thought of a new tactic. He yelled as he charged, striking high and low at the mage with precise strokes. Each time the man of magick blocked or parried but Meuric could feel the turn in battle, an inkling when you could feel a fight going your way. With a robe such as his, it was just too heavy for hand-to-hand combat and would cause a loss of manoeuvrability. He stabbed forward with his swords. Instantly the Dark Druid blocked inwardly and pushed out. Meuric stepped in with a vicious head-butt. As the mage staggered back the Daw’ra man hit him with a front kick. The mage fell back but was quickly on his feet.

  “A nice move,” he admitted.

  Meuric did not feel the arrow as it penetrated the back of his left thigh. His leg sagged and was about to give way when he felt a punch to the side of his head. He staggered back but refused to fall until he received a further kick on his injured leg. He cried out and collapsed onto the ground. Two Roz’eli State Guards ran from cover pinning Meuric’s arms to the ground. A third removed his helm and tossed it away, but not before landing two more blows to the head. Meuric’s vision swam. Crouched over him, with one foot on his chest, was the Dark Druid. One of his blades was poised for a killing thrust to Meuric’s throat.

  But the strike did not come.

  Meuric looked up fearlessly into the deep cowl unable to see the face beyond the shadows.

  “Do it,” cried Meuric furiously.


  For a few moments the dark mage stood motionless. His sword wavered. Slowly he lowered his weapon and took several steps back. “Leave this place, Knight Protector,” said the Dark Druid. “Do not face me again. The next time I will not be so generous.” He looked to the Roz’eli soldiers. “Release him.”

  Straightaway Meuric reached for his swords and rolled up onto one leg. But the Dark Druid and the soldiers were gone. He spun thinking they were behind him but of the enemy he saw no sign, only plenty of people racing for the ships. He hobbled to one side to get out of the path of the refugees. Seeing that the fight had ended they saw no more reason to give him a wide berth.

  Meuric sat heavily in the shadow of a partly collapsed building. Breaking the flight of the arrow that protruded from his leg he pushed the shaft forward. With a moan he dragged it free. He collected himself for a few heartbeats before examining the arrowhead. He could not be sure but it looked to be exactly the same material that his own weapons and armour were made from.

  Meuric looked to the floor. A dead body lay in arms’ reach. It was that of a young man crushed beneath the trampling of a thousand feet. Dragging the body closer, Meuric tore a good size of material from the man’s tunic and wrapped it securely around his wound. He sat there for a little bit watching as people ran all around him, fleeing for their lives. More than a few almost fell before him and were lost in the mob with no hope of rising again.

  What had just happened? He could not believe what the Dark Druid had done. How could he have let him live? Why would he have let him live? These were questions he doubted that he would ever find any answers for. Ultimately it made no difference. When he was fully recovered he would search for the dark mage and kill him.

  Shakily Meuric stood. He looked briefly for his helmet but realised that it was a useless exercise. No matter. His plan now was to find Abram and assist Qadir. Perhaps the Dark Druid was there already. He would demand to get a second chance. Meuric started hobbling as quickly as he could muster. He considered using his Gift of Feather Light to fly but understood now that he would need all the strength to hasten his healing process in case he had to fight later. For now, he would just have to do it the old fashioned way and push his way through the mob.

  He made surprisingly good progress. His advanced strength helped him shove past the hordes. He skirted the left-hand side of the pier while most everyone else seemed to press in tight to the centre or the right, in the direction of where the ships lay. The pier slipped into smaller runners that lay directly for the vessels. Here even more people fell, this time into the water. Those who could not swim were not helped. He stopped and scanned the area.

  There were all kinds of ships anchored in the harbour. Every kind of transport floated there, from simple vessels that would only normally run up and down the River Nab’eel to fishing boats, trading crafts, old fighting ships and everything else in between. Small crafts ferried people out to the larger vessels. Many others attempted to swim. More than a few failed.

  A good number of galleys had already left the port and had sailed out to sea but it was obvious that there were far too few left to take all of the remaining populace. It was on the pathway furthest left where he spotted the galley Widan, named after the God of the Four Winds. True to his word the Captain’s men were holding the pier against the people of Ah’mos with spear and shield.

  Meuric did notice that a select number of families were being let on board though. The former Knight Protector guessed that these were most likely the sailors’ families of those who resided in Ah’mos or those who could afford the extortionate prices. He could hear the people growing angry. Pleas of begging followed by the bellows of threats touched his ears. Meuric felt sorry for these people and the sailors. They failed to realise that there was nothing that could be done by crew, for fear of losing their own spot on board.

  The Widan was a penteconter, an old-style Roz’eli warship first developed by the Ad’el people. It was perhaps fifty years old judging by the design, but seemed extremely well maintained and seaworthy. It was now used mainly as a trading vessel measuring eighty feet long and was thirteen feet wide. It held maybe up to fifty oars, twenty-five rowers down each side, which was more than enough to hold its own against any mob. It bore no weapons except for what the crew carried but it was more manoeuvrable and faster than any current Roz’eli warships. The mainsails were reefed. Oars and the strength of men would take them out to sea, then with a fair wind the sails would be unfurled allowing them to escape at great speed.

  Suddenly Meuric spotted the Jay’keb family. They were walking along the plank to board the ship. The large black man Anan led the way, his axe strapped to his back, followed by Abram, his mother and finally the servant woman. Of Qadir there was no sign.

  “Get them aboard quickly, Václac” yelled the Captain to one of his sailors standing close to the ramp.

  As soon as Anan’s foot touched the ship a fight broke out on the jetty behind them and simultaneously on the deck of the Widan. Out of nowhere State Guards appeared throwing civilians and sailors into the sea. Those with weapons were cut down before they could put up any resistance. Abram was grabbed by a State Guard and manhandled down the gangway. All of his retinue had been pushed into the water including his mother and Anan, who floundered badly in their attempts to stay afloat.

  The crowds screamed and parted as the State Guards slammed into them. A few even fell into the water to avoid being cut. Shouts broke out and the sounds of blades clashed resonating through the air. People clambered over each other to get away. Suddenly Abram fell only to be lifted by a swarthy-skinned man wearing a linen skirt and kilt, brandishing a sickle sword. It was Qadir and he was surrounded by a ring of Roz’eli soldiers.

  Meuric looked at the Captain of the Widan. He could hear him ordering his men to hold their positions at the end of the gangway, those who were not assisting people out of the water. He understood why. If they had left the ship unprotected the refugees would run onto the vessel.

  Words from his nightmare floated through Meuric’s mind. “Get behind me, boy, and get away!” hissed the warrior. “I need the use of my Gifts!”

  And now with Abram so close to the Ar’en Knight Protector, Qadir was without his magick.

  One of the State Guards launched an attack on the Protectorate man. Meuric did his best to push through the crowd. He managed to catch the flashes of swordplay as he did so. He balked. The Roz’eli soldier that Qadir fought with seemed to be on par with the Knight Protector’s skill.

  That was what surprised Meuric somewhat. Just how good the man actually was. A Knight Protector’s training lasted for three years. In that time, they learned all aspects of combat and various fighting techniques from around the world. And yet this State Guard was able to hold his own against a fully trained Knight Protector. He was good. He was very, very good.

  A desperate family made a move for the Widan, attempting to dodge the fighters. Meuric could see the Ar’en Knight Protector holding back his blade mid-stroke in fear of hitting one of the children. It was a testament to the Knight Protector’s strength and skill even without the use of his Gifts. The blade had been swung in a sharp arc at the State Guard and he had leaned back. Qadir had held the blade back mere inches from a boy’s face. Meuric was now only several paces away but he might as well have been on the other side of the world. The scene slowed for him. He instantly saw the opening that the Knight had left. So too did the State Guard.

  The soldier stepped in. Blocking Qadir’s return stroke with his gladius the guard stabbed forward with his opio. With no armour to protect him the wide blade slid deep into the Knight Protector’s ribcage. He viciously withdrew it. Qadir dropped immediately under the blow, the thrust to his lungs instantly ending his life. As soon as Qadir’s body hit the platform, the soldier pushed the body into the water with his foot. There was a splash and Qadir was no more, another body lost amid hundreds in the carnage of Ah’mos.

  Meuric froze. Never before had
he seen a Knight Protector fall in battle. Of course he had heard of it. How else could he have become a Knight Protector? Meuric gritted his teeth and pressed on.

  “Grab the boy,” ordered the guard. His men immediately obeyed.

  A yell made him turn to see Meuric charging into them. Two guards fell instantly, their throats slashed. A battle cry sounded from the opposite side. It was Anan, his mighty axe smashing into soldiers, knocking them off their feet. Supporting him were some of the sailors from the Widan with shield and spear. An instant later the black man had grabbed Abram and was dragging him behind the shield wall and to safety. With the guards distracted, Meuric managed to dispatch another two enemy soldiers.

  He looked for the guard who had killed Qadir. Their eyes met and immediately Meuric recognised him. Here he was the Chief of Ten, commander of ten Roz’eli soldiers, distinguished by ten plate circles on his body armour. In Honora’s vision he was Bradán, the man who led the warriors out of Ay’den’s water well and fought Petros.

  But the State Guard was not waiting. Seeing his men being killed on both sides of him and the reinforcements of armed sailors he turned and dived into the sea, swiftly followed by three more of his men. Spears were tossed after them but the soldiers had disappeared below the waterline.

  Meuric turned to the stern of the ship. He found the Captain, a large black man who looked very much like Anan, watching him impassively. The Daw’ra man looked up into his eyes and saw the fire that burned in them. Next to the Captain stood more of his sailors, their spears ready to be thrown. Meuric lowered his swords.

  “No,” implored Jemima. She ran up to the Captain. She was dripping wet but someone had given her a blanket to put around her. “Please stop. He is one of us.”

  But the Captain ignored her. He just continued to stare. Meuric decided he had little to fear from them though. The leather armour that he wore was strong enough to deflect any spear strike. With overlapping leather strips guarding his upper legs and shoulders in support of his armour, there was only a small chance of getting hurt. He looked directly at the skipper, his cold grey eyes holding his gaze.