Meuric

  He thought of Bradán and two visions immediately entered his mind. In one he saw the warrior leading his men into battle, unafraid and sure of his faith in the Dark Druid, mercilessly cutting down those who stood before him, whether child, man or woman.

  In the second revelation he saw Bradán sitting upon a warhorse on a hilltop. Next to him sat Meuric upon his own horse. Bradán’s hand held the standard flag of the Conclave. Flanking them stood all of the New Gods considered by mankind to either represent those of good or neutral personas. Behind them, a line of the Knight Protectors, the Conclave and their forces sat waiting in support. Behind them, hiding just below the ridgeline, stood the last known armies of man.

  Filling a valley before them stood the army of the Dark Druid, the gods of darkness and chaos, complete with daemons, men and monsters. Surrounding them all was a blackness so complete that it filled the whole of the sky. That was Junives, watching closely, awaiting the outcome of the coming battle. This battle was to decide the outcome of not just Terit’re but of all the worlds in the universe.

  This was the second time that he had now had that Armageddon vision of the future. Faeder understood now beyond doubt it meant the end of everything. Not just for mortals but for all of them. Like those visions of Meuric in the tavern, instinctively he knew that the first vision was of the near future, the second image was of years ahead.

  And all the while Junives still patiently watched everything that unfolded.

  “We still cannot interfere,” said Faeder finally. He moved away and sat on his ornate throne designed to look like that of the Ard-ri, the High King of Kel’akh. “You think of the coming war but I have to think of our very existence. Bradán’s choices must be his own, no matter the outcome. Even we are bound by the laws of the universe.” He saw how Ladra and Wis looked at each other but said nothing. “For now we look to Meuric. At this moment he is the key to winning this war.”

  XXVII

  Bradán shifted uncomfortably, trying his best to keep himself steady upon the deck of the ship. Being out at sea, even though he could still see the distant shoreline and harbour, made him feel extremely unsettled as his imagination worked in high gear with the stories and fables of sea-lore. He looked at Thales. The hireling was keeping back from the proceedings, his blue eyes full of serious intent. He knew that this was not his game. Bradán’s gaze settled on the port side of the Widan where he looked at each crew member, lined up and on their knees.

  It had taken them seven days to track down the vessel. He could see that each man was silent and that their heads were bowed down in submission, refusing to make eye contact with the armoured soldiers who had just taken over their trading vessel, named after the God of Wind, who could either be as gentle as a breeze or as cruel as the strongest hurricane. They were now all openly wearing the uniform of the Dark Druid.

  Favourable messages had been received from the Emperor along with a seal of his approval. They all brandished a perched eagle engraved into their armour, the symbol of Roz’eli military. It was not yet official but Tacitus had told them that the time had come to stop hiding in the shadows. He would take care of any questions from the legitimate Roz’eli authorities.

  To Bradán the Widan itself was a typical merchant ship of the time with a single huge sail with a tall yardarm that was almost the length of the ship. The hull had a concave prow that ended in a cutwater that jutted forward into a ram-like point. It was small enough to enter an estuary and make its way upriver and yet sturdy enough for open-water sailing. To the rear of the vessel stood a post bearing the mark of a goose-head, the sign of a peacetime carrier.

  Bradán noticed that the arms of the spar reached out far beyond the hull and had rocks attached to each end. These could be used to be dropped on a ship that ran alongside when attempting to board. Wisely the captain had thought better of using it.

  A Roz’eli warship, named Manlius after an ancient Roz’eli king, lay anchored only a short distance away. Its captain was on the payroll of Tacitus. Its catapult weapons, with its large crossbow type bolts, were aimed directly at the belly of the Widan. A troop of fifty Roz’eli marines stood ready at the side of their own ship.

  There had been no fight.

  The crew of the Widan had no weapons to speak of except for what they carried to protect themselves from pirates. They may very well have been tempted to attack Bradán and his men when they had magically appeared on deck but when a liburnia-class warship of the most powerful empire in the modern world with its remiges of eighty oarsmen, its reinforced iron head for ramming and a company strength of troops came alongside there was only one answer.

  Bradán had heard once that some of the larger Roz’eli fighting ships, such as the one that faced him now, had weapons that shot a fire from inside clay balls that could never be put out. It was also said that the knowledge and technology had been stolen when they had conquered the lands of Mah’s, though not once had he seen such a thing.

  The Widan crew had been swiftly disarmed without any resistance and were placed against the side of their vessel in a single line after the anchor had been dropped. Some of the Dark Druid’s men had been assigned to aim their bows at the helpless sailors, their strings drawn back and aimed. Tacitus surveyed the scene around him then smiled suddenly. He reminded Bradán of a lizard. The senator casually approached the Captain of the Widan.

  “I know who you are, Wacław,” said Tacitus. “I tell you this to let you know that I am a knowledgeable man so do not lie to me. I am looking for a boy, his mother and their retinue. Where are they?”

  “My Lord Tacitus,” responded the Captain of the Widan as he stood. He looked fearfully at the archers but held himself well. Bradán recognised him from Ah’mos, the man who had sent his sailors to defend Abram. Sweat appeared in beaded rings on his shaved head. “We brought only cotton and spices to Mahr’yah on this trip.”

  There was a ring of truth to that, considered Bradán. They were at the fringes of Sea Lay’ben where it met with the western side of Sea Mahr’she. The coastline in the distance was the Roz’eli province of Nah’cho. The port city of Mahr’yah rested to the east of that shoreline.

  Bradán watched as Tacitus seemed to consider what Wacław had said to him. Even though the commander of the Widan towered over the senator he seemed somehow to be overwhelmed by the Roz’eli man. Without any warning, the senator suddenly launched an uppercut that struck the captain squarely under his jaw, lifting him up high and over the side of his ship. Shock and outrage swept through the crew. Cries of anger filled the air. Immediately the Dark Druid’s men drew back their bows just that little extra bit, silencing them all.

  “Swords,” yelled Bradán on reflex. Immediately those men standing in the background drew their blades.

  Without any haste, Tacitus took one of the bows and an arrow from the swordsman closest to him. Carefully, taking his time, he aimed the weapon at the captain as he floundered about in the sea below and released the arrow. Bradán, feigning indifference, walked to the edge and peered over. He just had time to see the quarrel protrude from the top of the captain’s head just before he sank beneath the water. He gazed round to Thales to find the hireling watching him.

  Though he appeared emotionless Bradán could see the fury that burned in his eyes. The Druid Legion Captain shook his head almost imperceptibly, answering that unspoken question. He looked then to Tacitus only to find the senator already regarding him intently.

  “Is there a problem?” asked the Roz’eli man.

  Bradán stared at him squarely in the eyes refusing to show any apprehension or any leverage that he could use against him. “There is none whatsoever, my Lord. It is my duty to serve my master.”

  Tacitus smiled and walked up to him. Although just slightly shorter he glared at the Kel’akh man with disgust.

  “It should be your honour to serve, Bradán. By the gods,” he spat, “you stink of weakness. I see it more and more. I do not know how our master tolerates you so
.”

  Bradán’s hand inched towards the dagger at his waist as if something was compelling him to do it. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice told him what it was; hatred. Hatred of the senator, hatred of Roz’eli and hatred of what he had become. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand took hold of the dagger’s grip. Neither men spoke yet the silence between them seemed to convey all manner of emotion. Bradán jumped when a strong hand suddenly and firmly grasped his shoulder.

  “This way, my boy,” uttered the soft tones of Thales.

  Bradán turned to the E’del hireling and saw his eyes dart behind him. The Kel’akh man turned to see two marines from the Manlius aiming their bows at him. He smiled but there was no humour in it and he allowed Thales to lead him a short distance away.

  Bradán watched on as Tacitus returned the bow to the soldier he had borrowed it from. He then turned to address the crew. In a tone colder that any northern wind he said, “If none of you have already realised, we too were at Ah’mos. We know that it was your ship that the Jay’keb family escaped on. I will ask only one more time. A boy named Abram, his mother called Jemima and some others. I want to know where they are. Help us and the rest of you will be spared.”

  “My Lord,” a voice spoke out.

  It took a moment for Bradán to realise who had spoken. From the centre of the kneeling crew stood a tall and slim man of perhaps fifty summers. He looked more like a pirate or cutthroat than a sailor. Again Bradán recognised him as the man who led the sailors down the gangplank at Ah’mos.

  “Who speaks?” asked Tacitus.

  “I do, my Lord,” answered the young sailor. “My name is Václac of Gahp’ryel. First Mate of the Widan. I do this to save the lives of my fellow shipmates.”

  “No, do not, Václac,” spoke another sailor. “He is no ordinary child.”

  At a nod from the senator an arrow to his chest immediately felled the man. The archer nocked another arrow.

  “You are a long way from home,” commented Tacitus. “Tell me what you know.”

  “We took them up an estuary on the west side of Nah’cho only three days ago,” revealed Václac with a heavy heart. “They immediately made their way further west. I heard the name Rabi’a being mentioned. I do not know what sort of place that may be.”

  Tacitus stared at the man. Václav knew the truth of his words was being judged sceptically. The First Mate of the Widan held his gaze well, unflinching beneath the power of the man. Tacitus turned then and moved away, hands clasped behind his back. Bradán looked out to the distant coastline.

  The sea between the Widan and the shoreline was calm and almost seemed green in colour. The sky above was a wonderful blue and the mercenary could feel the lightest of breezes touch the sweat on his skin. He could just about make out distant fishing vessels and the flocks of seagulls that would hover over them, in preparation for a feast.

  “Tell me of the child, Václac,” enjoined Tacitus suddenly.

  The First Mate was surprised at first then took a moment to gather his thoughts. Finally he said, “In truth part of me was sad to see him go. I had never been so at peace with the world as when Abram was with us.” Bradán noticed that some of the other sailors nodded in agreement.

  “Kill them all and burn the ship,” commanded Tacitus suddenly. “None that have met the boy can live!”

  “No!” cried Václac. He was the first to fall with an arrow to the chest.

  The crew wailed and begged for their lives. Arrows peppered some of the crew. Those who did not get shot were stabbed to death by sword and dagger. A few of the sailors attempted to fight back. They were no match for the men of the Druid Legion. Bradán started forward to stop the slaughter. The thin but strong arms of Thales held him back.

  “Stop,” hissed the E’del man into his ear. “They will kill you also.”

  Bradán sagged unwilling to fight the hireling. I will kill you some day, promised the Kel’akh man staring at Tacitus. As if hearing his silent vow, the senator turned and laughed aloud at him. His tawny eyes were bright with genuine amusement.

  XXVIII

  Casually, yet ever wary, Meuric led his horse for some time, warming up his muscles for the exercise routine that began regimentally every morning, as long as circumstance permitted. He skirted the huge lake, Tarn Nee’sha, that lay on his right, occasionally guarding his eyes from the early morning glare of sunlight as it reflected off its gentle waves. A half-league on his left stood the border of the majestic Great Wood, filled with vast trees of ash, oak and willow to name but a few. Crusted white slopes took up the skyline. Having found a quiet place along the western coastline of the lake, he tied his seventeen-hands stallion Paden securely to a tree, then stripped down to his dark leggings.

  Never to be weaponless and to add resistance to his forthcoming run, he strapped his two short swords in their x-shaped scabbards firmly onto his back. He knew that some professional soldiers, such as those in the Roz’eli army, carried heavy stones on their back for extra weight, but as his old training instructor at Wardens Keep had once muttered in his usual gruff voice, “‘What was the point in that? You don’t carry rocks into battle. At least when you carry your swords, shield, spear and a pack full of necessary supplies you get used to them being part of you.’”

  It is beautiful here, thought Meuric, taking in a sweeping view of the area, but it was still not without its dangers. Tarn Nee’sha, though calm and tranquil, had rough undercurrents and could only be sailed on by particular routes. Many a boat had been caught out and sank, torn apart by reefs and rocks. It was not unheard off for lives to be lost.

  The Great Wood that covered the whole Kel’akh Nation, or what was now left of it, concealed bandits and others cast out from Kel’akh society. He had no doubt that he could very well be under observation even now but he doubted very much they would leave the safety of the tree-line, even with most of the fighting men far to the south, and certainly not this close to the village of Kar’el. If it was heard that they had been raiding travellers when leaving the village, there would be no real security for them. They would be hunted. Liam, Custodian of the Northwest, and the Oak Seers would see to that.

  Gently, Meuric began to stroke the flanks of his horse. “I want you to be a good boy now, Paden,” whispered the warrior into the black stallion’s ear. “I don’t want to hear that you tried to bite anyone…” he smiled fondly and scratched the horse behind his ear, “again.”

  The animal shook his head before lowering it and began to nibble mindlessly at the new grass that had just begun to sprout. Paden was a trained warhorse and its rider had little fear of anyone stealing him. In fact, he would be more worried for the person trying to take the beast.

  There was not a cloud in the sky and the heat from the morning sun was beginning to warm up the land. He had to admit though the main reason he loved travelling through Kel’akh was the fact you could ride for leagues, sometimes even for days, and not see another single living soul. It was a place where he could be away from the masses of civilisation, where he could forget his own painful past, stopping only at towns and villages whenever he needed supplies or work. Even a former Knight Protector needed to eat, he considered ruefully.

  Strange how I would be like this in private? He almost laughed at himself, that even after one hundred years he was still analysing his own nature. He was smiling now, almost rejoicing in the beauty of the world and relishing the magick of the land in this part of Kel’akh that would very nearly make him feel giddy at times. Yet in front of others he would act cold, aloof, and even arrogant. Was that the real me, he would often wonder. Perhaps both sides were?

  Meuric grinned as he set off at an easy lope, following a well-used track around the edge of the lake he had made use of many times over several generations. The former Knight Protector began to speed up as the leagues started to race past him, running as hard as he could until he thought that his heart must burst. He stopped periodically whenever he noticed a strong straight
branch on a nearby tree to undertake a series of exercises such as chin-ups, pull-ups and hanging leg raises.

  The sun had moved a short distance through the sky before he finally returned to Paden. From all appearances he had simply continued to chew innocently at the sparse vegetation on the ground, with no obvious sign of interference.

  Stretching off, Meuric removed a wooden cup from one of the saddlebags and ambled over to the lake from which he drank deeply. Tarn Nee’sha was one of the largest freshwater lakes in the whole of Kel’akh. Possibly even in other kingdoms further afield. He gazed at his reflection in the water; the black hair cut short, the regular features, the high cheekbones and the ancient grey eyes that stood out the most in the face of a man who was meant to be no more than in his mid-twenties.

  Meuric sighed and set the cup down. He stepped away from the water and stood motionless. His breathing deepened and slowed, his heartbeats becoming more and more distant but at regular intervals apart. Unhurriedly he began his forms; fighting moves executed against imaginary opponents. First came the basic punches, kicks and blocks, building up into more intricate patterns involving twirls and leaps. His focus became total as his mind opened to all things around him. It was not long before he began to sweat profusely, so complete was his absorption in his task.

  Weapons training came next. Every day he practiced with a different weapon from the arsenal he carried in the packs on Paden. This morning came the turn of double-stick, two single straight rods, each one roughly a third of his height in length. Again he started with the basic blocks, strikes and parries again building up into a more complex kata. Breathing hard now and sweating freely, Meuric now slipped off his swords. Setting the two sticks and his gladii down to one side, the former Knight stripped off his leggings and shoes and dived deep into the lake.