Meuric

  After that another question was constantly posed in his mind. How was he able to defeat the Knight Protector in a one-on-one scenario? By all the accounts and myths concerning the Conclave and the Protectorate, they possessed Gifts that no normal men could hope to match. Though it was said that to use their powers too often would weaken them considerably. Even his master, the Dark Druid, had warned him of the power they wielded and had even told him of the individual Gifts held by certain Knights. How he had gained that intelligence he had never explained, nor did he ever feel the need to do so. His ways were far beyond his own knowledge, Bradán knew.

  The puzzling thing for him was that he knew the Knight Protector he had faced went by the name of Qadir. He knew that he owned the Gifts of hearing the shades from the Otherworld, the power to make others do whatever he commanded through the sound of his voice whenever he touched you and the ability to manipulate all forms of energy that, his master had informed him, surrounded all things. Not only that but he possessed superior agility, speed and strength. Not once did the Knight Protector display any of his abilities though. Again, the question was why?

  “What are you doing?” asked a male voice.

  Reluctantly Bradán opened his eyes and gazed at a man of medium build and average height with black hair. He wore the usual trappings of a Roz’eli nobleman, though he was very much an E’del native. He wore a simple pale blue chilton with sandals and carried a gladius and pugio on his waist. “What, Gavriil?”

  The man was obviously perplexed. “Why are you closing your eyes?”

  “This place reminds me of home,” explained the Dark Druid’s newly appointed Captain. He adjusted his brand new brown tunic. “I was just remembering it.”

  Gavriil frowned. “Why?”

  Bradán sighed. They had only met the day before but already he realised that there was no talking to the E’del man sometimes. For an empire that ruled most of the known lands and boasted of its unrivalled quantity of culture and knowledge Gavriil seemed to possess none of their qualities. But then in reality Roz’eli stole much of what they had gained from the kingdoms they conquered, including parts of his own homeland. Assimilation through domination was, in his personal view, all that they could truly have laid claim to.

  “What do you want, Gavriil?” asked Bradán, annoyed slightly that the man had interrupted him.

  “The hireling Thales and Senator Tacitus are approaching,” he answered.

  Reactively Bradán turned to look for the remaining ten men, armed and in the uniform of the Dark Druid’s Legion. Only one wore a green tunic marking him as a Chosen Man while the remainder wore olive green tunics. They stood only a short distance away, far enough not to easily overhear any conversations but close at hand if they were needed. Half of them faced inwards, the remainder were left to scan the horizon. Each wore their open-faced helms but Bradán knew from experience that they were most likely already sweating heavily under the mid-morning sun. He was pleased to note that each of the men though was not lax and remained very much alert. In many ways they were more professional than most standing armies.

  He turned now to regard the hireling. He moved well for an old man, he considered. His pace was quick even though he moved uphill from his large villa. He must have been in his mid-fifties though his chest and shoulders were still broad and his waist was narrow with practically no sign of fat. The chiton he wore was pale white and reached to his ankles in the style of most of the nobles in the country. His thinning white hair was trimmed short as was his beard. Only a plain dagger adorned his waist and was angled for an easy right-handed draw.

  Quite brave of the old-timer, Bradán also thought. He was away from the protection of his home and without any of his guards. Bradán could not help offering a sheepish grin as the man drew closer. He reminded him so much of his own grandfather that it almost seemed unreal.

  Thales stopped only a few feet away. His eyes blazed. “Something funny, boy?” he demanded to know.

  Only then did Bradán realise that he was smiling at the hireling. “I apologise,” he stammered. He tried to sound sincere but held his gaze without flinching. “It is just that you remind me of someone.”

  “Your grandfather perhaps?” asked Thales sternly then suddenly burst into laughter. All the anger vanished from his eyes only to be replaced by mischief. “I seem to be hearing that more and more these days, especially from my daughter.”

  “Margarita,” commented Bradán without thinking. He caught a glare from Tacitus.

  Thales nodded but did not seem surprised. His eyes narrowed shrewdly. It was obvious to him then that they had researched all they could about him.

  “Thales has agreed to carry out his task,” said Tacitus to Bradán in an almost bored tone. “I trust you can run through the details with the hireling here.” He did not even try to disguise the derogatory tone. The Kel’akh warrior offered the senator a stiff slight bow. Tacitus abruptly turned on his heel and took several steps to one side. “Gavriil, a word,” he muttered. The E’del warrior jogged over to the politician like a dog summoned to his master.

  For a short time Bradán watched them walk a short distance away and talk in low tones before he finally spoke.

  “I apologise on behalf of the senator. Did Tacitus explain that Gavriil and I will be going with you?”

  Thales nodded but he was only half listening. “And for that I have demanded twice my usual fee. This man, Meuric of Kel’akh, that you want me to kill, I have heard of him.”

  “You are friends then?” asked Bradán.

  “No,” responded Thales quickly. “We simply travel in the same circles. Apparently he is a man of deep morals. Very choosy about the missions he takes on. A very hard man to kill if half the stories I have heard are true.” His voice was almost nonchalant. Bradán saw his eyes suddenly narrow. “The senator is planning your death you know,” he said in all seriousness. “Both of them there,” he indicated Gavriil and Tacitus with a slight nod, “fear you. You grow steadily within the ranks of your master, are respected by your men and you have the Dark Druid’s ear.” He chuckled at the stunned face of Bradán. “That man Gavriil not only gathers intelligence for your master but also acts as an assassin for him.”

  “And how would you know all this, old-timer?” asked Bradán. “Do you have some sort of magickal ability that I have not been made privy to?”

  “Just my instincts, child,” smiled Thales. “That and having men in my pay that are skilled in gathering knowledge. But both are pretty good.”

  Bradán looked at the men he was talking about. He was not in any way surprised by what Thales had just told him. He had suspected the same for a short time now; that Tacitus wanted him removed for his own agenda. Without meaning to, he found himself warming to the ageing hireling. He sighed.

  “In all honesty I think that they are planning both our deaths.”

  Thales smiled coldly and his eyes glinted with a malice that hinted to the Kel’akh man why the hireling had survived for so long.

  “Then they had both best be careful.”

  A woman’s playful laugh distracted the two men. In the space of a heartbeat Bradán watched the hireling’s face soften and his eyes become moist. He looked down towards the villa and watched a woman race out while casting fleeting glances back. Moments later a man chased her, his arms groping out to grab her. Laughing hysterically the woman allowed herself to be caught. Together they fell and rolled about. It only lasted a short time before the two followed it with a slow and lingering kiss. Bradán looked at the old man and saw him grinning openly.

  “Your daughter?” asked the Kel’akh man.

  Thales nodded. “That is Margarita and her betrothed Iason. She is my life and he is a good man though he is loath to admit it.”

  “A warrior?” asked Bradán feigning ignorance, though he knew the truth of the man.

  Thales roared with laughter. “Wyrre protect us if they were all like him. The first and last time I tried to train
him he nearly stabbed himself. No, he is a trader in silks and cotton.”

  But Bradán did not smile. He knew full well that Iason was a Knight Protector assigned to this region of E’del. He was yet another target to be taken out in the name of his master. He watched the two of them for a few more moments as they frolicked on the grass before turning away, his heart in conflict.

  Part of him yearned for the woman he left behind; part of him felt jealous of the couple who had just cavorted before him. What is wrong with me? Lately he had become more questioning, more sensitive. He had seen thirty-five summers in his lifetime, had been a warrior for the last twenty. Why now, all of a sudden, was he wondering what it was all about?

  He should have been happy with his life. He had risen through the ranks of the Dark Druid. He had become a person of some standing within that organisation. He also had enough money kept away so that he and Corliss could live a modest life for the remainder of their days. He had even killed a Knight Protector, a feat he was told that they truly could only hope to accomplish with the strength of numbers. Yet watching two strangers’ love each other openly had only made him discover another longing.

  “Something on your mind, boy?” asked Thales.

  Bradán turned to the hireling who seemed to be watching him thoughtfully. “I was wondering how we will travel to Kel’akh?” he lied smoothly.

  Thales nodded. “A Jay’keb hireling and magus by the name of Simeon will help us. He specialises in creating magickal doorways that can instantly transport us anywhere in the world. So now tell me what was really on your mind.”

  The Kel’akh man sighed and hung his head. “Looking at your daughter and her lover makes me think of someone. I just wonder if all I have done is worth it.”

  Thales nodded. “I knew it!” He slapped the warrior on the shoulder. “It was about a woman? I have seen that look too many times. I think that you find yourself at a crossroads, child.” He paused for a moment then said, “Come with me to my home for a short time. Let us share a meal and talk like old friends and perhaps your soul might know peace after. Life is fleeting and far too short in my opinion and one should do what one can to enjoy those few days we have here.”

  Bradán looked at the hireling. He sensed no malice in him, no ridicule. Without knowing why Bradán found himself dumbly nodding to the E’del man. Thales offered a quick sympathetic smile then led the way to his villa.

  “One question though,” asked Bradán as he trundled after him. “Why did you come out here alone without at least one armed guard?”

  “Why do you think that I came alone?”

  Bradán listened as the hireling raised his fingers to his lips and whistled once. The noise was loud and piercing. Immediately ten armed men seemed to rise out of the ground as one and surrounded the party of the Dark Druid’s men, taking them all by surprise, including Gavriil and Tacitus. Bradán smiled at their shock and displeasure at being caught unawares.

  Bradán studied the newly-appeared warriors. Each bore only a sword and long dagger which were strapped to their waists. They wore linothorax, body armour made of layers of linen. It was said that it was light enough to run in but strong enough to stop an arrow. In their hands they held a small hand-held crossbow with one arrow nocked and ready. Each man was garbed in a short green chiton that matched the shade of grass that they lay hidden under. Green paint smeared the bare parts of their bodies.

  Looking closer to the dips in the ground Bradán saw that they were rectangular shaped and were roughly the breadth, depth and length of a man who would neatly fit into it. He watched closely as each of the newcomers carefully set back the roofs of their hide-places making them once again invisible. As one the ten men then stepped into two columns of five and flanked both sides of Bradán and Thales. The Kel’akh soldier turned to the hireling and saw that he was already being closely regarded by him.

  “I am rarely ever alone, man-of-Kel’akh,” stated Thales coldly. “Be sure that your friends know that.”

  XXIII

  It was early in the morning when the lone rider galloped hard across the flat drawbridge and under the portcullis as he left the huge castle without even a backward glance. He wore a blood-red chiton of E’del design and a simple clasped cloak, with shoes made of animal skin. He waited until he had crossed and cleared the moat for a short distance before he looked back and aimed his gaze at the lower ramparts that only reached midway on the huge walls of the pentangle-shaped citadel. At each point of the outer wall stood a tall stone bulbous turret that removed the sharp angle of the pentangle. It was to each of these towers that a Squadron was assigned and was expected to live when on residence at Wardens Keep. He tore his eyes from the towers and was just able to make out the curvaceous shape of a woman waving down to him. His heart leapt at the thought of Zuleika.

  She was dressed in the uniform of a Knight Protector and, being without a helm, he could make out her long dark flowing hair had been tied back sharply. As Knight Lieutenant she was adjutant to the Captain of the Knight Protectors. Her duty that morning was the security of Wardens Keep and the checking of the guard force. Though Wardens Keep and the lands surrounding it were protected by powerful magick, nothing was ever left to chance.

  Harder the rider pushed his horse on until he was roughly two leagues from the citadel when he finally slowed. He made his way across the open training field, staring with a critical eye at everything that went on around him.

  All the warriors were dressed the same, in the standard uniform of the Conclave Troopers. Dark green leggings with a dark brown tunic. Black armour protected their arms, bodies, heads and legs. Their black cloaks were only to be worn when cold or wet. On one part of the grassland he noted Troopers marching in perfect formation. There were approximately one hundred and twenty-five men being put through their paces by their bawling Troop Servant.

  This was Green Tower Squadron, so distinguished by the image of a green tower over their heart on their body armour. Not that he needed to see that to know. As Knight Captain he had to know which phase each troop cohort were at. Green Tower Squadron were on their training segment, a programme of three weeks in which they would refamiliarise themselves with everything they had learnt during basic training.

  The rider smiled as he pulled sharply on his horse bringing it to a halt, remembering his own drill days. With an expert eye he scrutinised the marching men, pleased with what he saw. Arms straight and fully extended. Their heads held up proudly as they marched. Everyone’s foot touched the ground at exactly the same moment. For a while he watched them march up and down, then left-wheel, then right-wheel followed by a few “about turns”. Soldiers were judged by drill discipline as it reflected their obedience and pride in their Squadron, two qualities that would help make the men fight harder.

  Nodding his head in satisfaction, Petros turned and looked to another part of the field where packs filled with the Troopers’ kit lay in single file. Even though they were essentially a cavalry unit, the men and women also needed to be able to march and run over long distances so it was with these packs on their back they would have ran out to their training area. But this was only the start. For ten hours a day for five weeks they would improve their fitness and revise their techniques in drill, field craft, hand-to-hand combat, intelligence gathering, patrolling, and study the more academic side of things such as languages and world history. It was always the same whenever a squadron came back after leave. Three times a year, during a training phase, they would be sent on a three-week exercise. Once to barren desert, once to a frozen wasteland and lastly to a forest block somewhere within Terit’re.

  After that they would have several days on a “stand-down” period before being sent out on two seven-day patrols to the surrounding Black Mountains that successfully hid Wardens Keep from the outside world. This was to ensure that the mountain passes were secure and to bring fresh supplies to the Guardians that were stationed there. It also allowed the troopers to put into practice some of
the elements that were covered in their training phase.

  The rider could not help but offer a secret smile. For every time he looked in the direction of the marching men the Troop Servant seemed to work his men just that little bit harder.

  This was just the start for them, considered Petros. In rotations of three weeks after training and patrolling phases came the operational side of things followed by being held in reserve for any emergency or extra duties that may arise. When all was completed they were allowed home on leave for three weeks only to start the whole process again when they returned. His warriors were constantly asked to perform hard, dangerous and thankless tasks but how many other professional soldiers got to return home for three weeks after every twelve weeks worked? Petros’s mind now flitted further afield.

  So far the Roz’eli Empire had conquered the lands south and west of Wardens Keep, having had trouble venturing further north towards the citadel and the mountains that protected them. Mainly that was down to the guerrilla tactics used by Adela, a resistance leader, and the fact that the supply line of Roz’eli troops had been stretched to breaking point. It was only a matter of time though before their scouts started probing the mountain range, which brought the risk of them finding one of the few secret entrances. They would be a great prize indeed for the Emperor if he could subjugate them, though Petros expected the Religious Conviction would protect them politically as much as they oversaw the actions of the Protectorate and the Council of Eight in the world. What will happen if the Roz’eli find a way through will be very interesting indeed, considered the Knight Captain.

  At the sound of further horsemen Petros withdrew from his thoughts and turned. Two men, armoured similarly to the rest, galloped from the gargantuan black castle that seemed to loom over them all even from some distance away. At first he thought that it was desperation that forced the riders to drive towards him at breakneck speed, before he quickly realised that the two men were actually racing. It was the older horseman that won the race, though the Petros suspected that the younger man, the Troop Lieutenant, diplomatically allowed his superior to win.