Meuric

by Meuric- Beginnings (epub)

  Jemima took the Captain’s arm. “Please, Wacław, he has proved himself to us on several occasions now.”

  The Captain looked to Jemima then nodded. Immediately he began issuing orders. The gangplank was taken on board and the oarsmen took their positions. The anchor was raised and the rowers began their back-breaking work of taking the Widan out to sea. Wails from the Ah’mos populace followed them. Some attempted to jump for the boat but it was impossible. In the distance the sounds of fighting with Roz’eli soldiers now grew louder. The Widan began to drift further away. The crowds on the jetty began to roar in anger. They cried and screamed as they pleaded for their lives and those of their loved ones.

  “Just one more,” they would shout.

  “My child,” others would wail. “Please take my child.”

  But it all fell on deaf ears. The Widan was already at its maximum load if they wanted to make any haste to escape. A drum beat could now be heard, pulsating rhythmically as the sailors began to pick up their speed. Meuric looked to the deck. Men and women, those who were not part of the crew, cried for those that they left behind. Others kept to the bow, not wanting to see anyone for fear that their emotions might overtake them.

  Abram, Jemima, Anan and the female servant stood at the rear of the ship. Jemima looked at Meuric and waved, at the same time offering him a weak smile. Anan, his face emotionless and stern, nodded to him. The servant stood close behind Abram, wide-eyed and scared. Abram on the other hand struck the former Knight Protector as the most curious. He was looking up into the sky with a broad smile on his face and waving vigorously. Meuric looked up into the air but saw nothing. He shook his head. A special child he may be but it would seem that he could suffer the effects of the sun of this desert country like any other normal person.

  Meuric looked about. “Ladra,” he said. “If you are going to make an appearance now it would be most welcome.”

  But there was no sign of the mage. Those closest to him looked to Meuric as if he too had been touched by the sun. He knew then that he was stuck in Ah’mos. He turned away and that was when he saw the first of the Roz’eli State Guards fighting their way along the inner wall.

  “Wis’s tits!”

  XVII

  Meuric moved slowly through the crowds away from the piers. Like most there, he witnessed the Guardsmen pushing back those Roz’eli soldiers he saw. Thankfully there were only a few. Many around him had fallen to their knees crying, begging for the Ah’mos flotilla not to leave them behind. A few of the townspeople stared at him fearfully, a man uniformed similarly to a Roz’eli Man-of-the-Legion. A few looked at him in anger. Was he part of a new Roz’eli legion that was dressed only in black? He could almost hear their silent questions.

  Meuric could see the populace all around him beginning to become deflated. A number of them had sat down. It was hard for him not to be touched by the scene but he reasoned that there was nothing that he could do for them. Better that they realise the danger they were in and not be wasting any more precious time feeling sorry. It would have been smarter to make plans for escape than to wallow in self-pity. People always did somehow find ways to get away.

  He thought back to the man called Bradán. There was no denying the skill he possessed and on a one-toone he was certainly as good as any member of the Protectorate, bar David, he considered wryly. His mind flitted back to when he first saw the Kel’akh warrior, frozen in a vision and leading the fight against Petros, the Protectorate’s Knight Captain. He thought again of his resolute face, the warrior’s hazel eyes fixed upon his friend, the red and white tattoo upon his cheek, marking him as someone who followed the traditional ways of Kel’akh. It was not uncommon for an outsider to fight in the ranks of a Roz’eli elite fighting unit but not one from the unconquered lands of Kel’akh. A sudden thought occurred to him then.

  Meuric made his way to the other bodies of the State Guard still lying face down on a bloodied pier. There were four bodies in total. Blood still leaked from the wounds he had bestowed upon them. Roughly he tore the helmets off the corpses one by one and stared at their faces with curiosity.

  Not one of these men was Roz’eli-born. Their facial structures proved that if nothing else. One even seemed to be a native of the Eastern Confederation. He stood and looked to the wall where he had spotted the State Guards, now disappeared. Were they too fighters from foreign lands?

  “Listen to me,” yelled Meuric. “Listen to my words.” People stopped talking and turned at the sound of the Daw’ra man. Others further back stood and craned their necks to hear what was being said. Here was a stranger in their land speaking to them in fluent Ar’en. “See the face of your enemy.” With one hand he lifted the body of the man from the Eastern Confederation. With his other he raised the head of the corpse so that all those closest could see his face. “These men who attack you are not Men-of-the-Legion. They do not operate with the authority of the Emperor. They are interlopers, dressed as members of the State Guard to deceive you. To deceive all of us.”

  “To what end?” asked a man as he held his small son in his arms.

  “There is a boy,” explained Meuric to the man, yet loud enough to be heard by many. “A very special boy. He is born of the line from two Jay’keb kings…”

  An old man began to laugh. “I know this story. I have heard it many times in the ports of Jay’keb. It is a myth. It is nothing more than an old wives’ tale to give people hope.”

  Meuric shook his head. “He is real and these men prove that.” He allowed the corpse to fall and sink into a heap. “I have met him twice now.” He pointed to the Widan now slowly becoming smaller. “He is on board that ship right now with his mother.”

  “I think I saw him,” shouted a woman. “Soldiers fought over him.”

  Meuric nodded. “One of your own, a man named Qadir, gave his life to save him.”

  “Surely they will leave us in peace now,” considered the woman.

  The Daw’ra warrior shook his head. “These impostors raided my village in my homeland. It was an unprovoked attack against my people. There were no survivors bar one; a young boy. Even the babes were murdered. I tell you this because they are not the kind to give mercy. They do not yet know that the Jay’keb boy has escaped. They will come and kill all within Ah’mos except your children. Them they will examine and murder until they find the child they are looking for.”

  A roar of anguish and despair rose up.

  “What would you have us do?” asked the first man.

  “Hide, fight, run,” Meuric said simply.

  “But they are trained soldiers,” said the man again. “I saw them outside the walls. They are perhaps a thousand men strong.”

  The former Knight Protector shook his head. He looked to the throng of people about him. “Trained soldiers they may be but they are nothing more than hired help paid to do a job. You,” his finger swept across the crowd in a circular motion, “are at least twice that number, fighting for your home, your loved ones and your children. I tell you truly, if you do not fight you will witness your babes being murdered in front of you.”

  “We must fight,” shouted another man. A cry of agreement rose up.

  “How?” asked the old man then. “I was a soldier many moons ago before I became a merchant. Campaigns need planning, weapons and training.”

  Meuric looked about. “There are weapons are all around you. Rocks, stones, clubs, and knives… whatever you can get your hands on. Do not fight them one-on-one. Hide on either side of the gateways. Let them come. Allow them to be confident. Distract them. Draw them in and when you are ready strike do so without any warning or mercy. It is the only way but you must hurry. They will be here soon.”

  “You heard him,” shouted the first man. “All those who cannot fight stay here. The remainder should stay on the docks. Let them think that their prize is waiting for them.”

  Meuric reached for the old man. “Grab two dozen strong men with stout hearts. Let them be your last line of d
efence in case the enemy breaks through. Arm half of them with bows if you can and set them on high ground.”

  The old man nodded sombrely. “I had hoped my days of fighting were long over.”

  “We all wish for that, old-timer,” said Meuric wistfully.

  The old man laughed then. “Old-timer is it? I look into your eyes and see someone who is much older than me or has seen too much darkness in the world.”

  “Both,” acknowledged Meuric sadly.

  The Daw’ra man gave the old soldier a gentle pat on the shoulder as he made his way to look for the man he spoke to. He found him ordering barricades to be placed across the entranceway to the harbour. He had given his son to a woman and they had returned to the pier. All around him people were rummaging for anything that could be used as a weapon.

  “Ever been a soldier?” asked Meuric

  The man smiled. “The closest that I have been is seeing a parade of Guardsmen at a distance.”

  The Daw’ra looked at the people building the barriers out of bits of stone and wood. Others were stockpiling weapons. Others still were running towards the inner wall under orders to scout the enemy positions. He nodded approvingly.

  “Have you ever heard the saying ‘cometh the moment, cometh the man’?” The man shook his head and Meuric smiled. “It does not matter. You do not always have to serve in the army to be good at soldiering. Some people are born naturally to it and unfortunately it takes something like this to see it. What is your name?”

  “Yahya.”

  The former Knight Protector held out his arm and they gripped wrist-to-wrist. “Well met, Yahya. I am Meuric of Kel’akh.”

  The townsman smiled nervously. “Well met, Meuric. Any advice about now would be most appreciated.”

  The Daw’ra man looked about and thought for a moment. “Yes but you will not like it. We stand behind the innermost wall of Ah’mos surrounded by an enemy. They will waste time searching the ground for signs for the Jay’keb family. They cannot afford to miss them. That will allow time to better your defences.” He looked along the wall and what he could see of it seemed intact. Out of the three walls it was the tallest and easiest to defend. There were more than enough townspeople to do that. “Close all the inner gates and reinforce them. Send archers to the walls to keep lookout. Send others and build up piles of debris that they can drop down on the enemy.”

  “Should we not be trying to escape?” asked Yahya.

  Meuric shook his head. “I had considered that earlier but then I remembered they have ballista and onagers aimed at the gateways at the outer walls. They also have cavalry. It is my estimation that they will send all the soldiers into Ah’mos while keeping the cavalry on the outside for any that may try and make their escape.”

  “So we are just to wait?” exclaimed Yahya in frustration.

  Meuric looked about and attempted to sound confident. He hoped that it would help relax the townsman. “We have plenty of water and food in the stores on this side of the wall. We can easily survive some time in a siege but I am hoping we would not have to. Our main priority is the security of the wall. Send people to check it and repair it where necessary. Pick five people after that. They need to be all good swimmers and arm them only with knives. A’lee is only three leagues away. Have them swim there or at least part way, but be careful. If someone can reach the Roz’eli Administrator stationed there this may be all over by nightfall. No doubt the enemy will have scouts out looking for people trying to flee, especially if they are attacking under the guise of Roz’eli troops.”

  Yahya reached out and grabbed a random woman. “Take a dozen people with you and check the walls for damages and close the gates. Drop the portcullis at each of them.” The woman ran off shouting for several others. Next he indiscriminately grabbed a man. “Get archers to those parapets. Build piles of stones and rocks at intervals along the wall.” The man almost saluted before he raced off and Meuric almost smiled at that. The townsman reached for a third person, another man. “Fetch five swimmers, the strongest that you can find, and send them to me.”

  “Where?” asked the man.

  “How in the gods should I know,” yelled Yahya. “Ask someone.” The man immediately raced off.

  Meuric laughed. “You would make a fine First Servant.”

  Yahya turned to the former Knight Protector. “Have you been in many sieges?”

  Meuric nodded. “A few.”

  “What if they make it past the wall?” asked the self-appointed leader.

  The former Knight Protector turned serious. “You cannot fight them head on but you can fight smart. They will expect to win. They will be confident, arrogant almost, but with good reason. I have already fought them. I have witnessed one go up against a skilled fighter and win.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Yahya.

  “Hide, attack, melt away,” stated Meuric. “Surprise will be your greatest strength. Use it well.”

  “Will you fight with us?” asked the townsman.

  Something pricked at the Daw’ra man’s senses then. He turned to stare out to sea. He could see the Widan navigate its way out of the mouth of the harbour, its sails unfurling amidst several others. The ship was surprisingly fast for its kind but Meuric suspected that came from a disciplined crew and a good captain. Yet as he viewed the ship one thought repeatedly streamed through his mind.

  Why did the Dark Druid not kill me?

  It was then that Meuric noticed it. A heavy warship was closing in fast on the Widan. It was a Roz’eli liburnia-class ship, a monster compared with the bireme. Typically it came with three decks, one hundred and fifty rowers and a number of maritime soldiers whose specialty was boarding other ships. A small merchant vessel landed in the path of the warship. It had no chance as the liburnia tore through it, its iron reinforced keel beam on the bow making short work of the galley. Families and crew alike were flung overboard. They began to swim for their lives as the warship rode over them. Some disappeared under the water almost immediately. A few of the closer vessels turned and sailed for the stricken victims. Many of the other ships fled in terror.

  Meuric gathered his magick and cursed aloud as he leapt up into the air. He flew high and fast, well out of the range of any arrows that may be fired from watching enemy soldiers. For the most part he ignored the open-mouthed people of Ah’mos, who for a few moments forgot that they were fighting for their lives so transfixed were they by the sight of what they thought was a god in their midst. The Daw’ra man locked his eyes on the Widan the whole time he flew, searching for the pavilion that stood in the centre of the deck. Next to it stood the ship’s captain.

  Meuric watched how he stood with his arms folded, watching his crew expertly perform all around him. He was middle-aged, slimly built and wore his leather armour dyed blue over a white tunic. Metal armour worn on a sailor at sea would almost certainly raise the casualty rate if they fell overboard. A blue helm of standard design was perched on his head making it impossible for Meuric to see his features. The former Knight Protector hovered and looked towards the ship that sailed at full speed towards the Widan.

  It was a beast of a ship, approximately one hundred and nine feet in length and sixteen feet in width with three feet of draft. Seven small catapult machines lay armed and ready on the deck. Two were side-by-side on the bow, two on both port and starboard sides equally spaced apart and the last remaining one to the stern. There were approximately one hundred and eighty oarsmen, ninety on each side, broken down into two rows of forty-five men. It was these men who filled the space below decks. There stood a chief oarsman also, beating a steady rhythmic pattern against a drum. Thirty marines stood ready at the port side with grappling hooks in hand, committed to closing the gap when boarding the ship. The last twenty remaining marines stood on the bow, flanking both catapults, their bows nocked and ready.

  Meuric watched closely. He could see the captain issuing orders to the helmsman, a man dressed in the uniform of a Roz’eli officer. Meuric
wondered if any of them were true Roz’eli naval troops or whether they were more outsiders. The tiller dutifully turned and the ship listed left. The Daw’ra man could see the danger immediately. The captain was attempting to pull up alongside the Widan and board her.

  Meuric turned his body and dived down towards the enemy vessel. He could see now that it was called the Malitia. Meuric only had a moment to consider it strange that a ship should be named after the Goddess of Malice. A warning cry sounded from the ship’s crow’s nest. Marines turned and looked towards where the sailor was pointing. More than one made a sign warding off evil before they took up their bows and fired. Catapult machines were readjusted at an upward angle. Arrows shot up past him and Meuric banked right and aimed directly for the sailor in the crow’s nest. The sailor saw his danger and drew a dagger. But it was too late.

  Meuric came in hard and fast, his fist landing squarely against the sailor’s left cheek. The force knocked him out of the nest and onto the deck below. Immediately the former Knight Protector turned and came in at a steep angle. He landed quickly, kicking the Malitia’s helmsman overboard as he did so. He turned to face the crew and drew his two swords.

  He could just about glimpse the Widan skipping across the water out onto the open sea in a northwestern direction. He scanned the area swiftly for the Dark Druid. Only he would have the power to stop him now. Of him he found no sign. Neither did he feel his presence.

  Sailors on deck gathered their weapons, simple swords and daggers, and ran to the foredeck of the ship, the opposite end to Meuric. Marines, heavily armed with gladii, pila and shields, stood ready on the mainmast. Meuric looked to the enemy and readied himself. With a battle cry bellowing from his lungs he charged.

  He crashed hard into the maritime soldiers, spinning and twisting his way, cutting a bloody swathe. An arrow from a sailor shot towards him. With his magick, he deflected it straight into the throat of a marine. A thrown spear sliced his thigh. A sword swing cut his bicep. But still he moved on, never slowing, never tiring. He had lost count of the number he had killed now. Each enemy swing against him seemed to be travelling in slow motion, so fast were his own reflexes. He sought out the captain of the ship and found him hiding behind the foremast surrounded by those sailors that were armed.