Meuric

by Meuric- Beginnings (epub)

  “You are the most senior-ranking man here, Tacitus,” continued Bradán. “I must insist on it now!” The senator turned, almost reluctant to have the small girl leave his sight. He smiled when he saw Bradán’s hand on his weapon but it did not disguise the fury that burned in his tawny eyes. “This way, please,” continued the warrior. His tone was cold.

  The Druid Captain had indicated the doorway of the Chieftain’s Chamber with his free hand. Tacitus nodded and slowly released the girl who immediately ran into the arms of her mother. Both hugged and kissed each other frantically. Bradán found the Roz’eli soldiers regarding him closely. Eventually one nodded slowly to him and both men moved silently away. Without any haste the senator approached the doorway of the building. Just before entering the building Bradán glanced over to where the mother had stood.

  She was watching him with wide eyes that were so full of emotion that Bradán could not comprehend which one was the strongest. Was it hatred that he saw, relief, or was it gratitude? Maybe all were equal and the woman was having trouble assimilating them. Eventually though the woman reluctantly smiled once in the warrior’s direction before closing the door and disappearing behind it.

  XXX

  Meuric rode through a glade on the edge of the Great Wood, his head bowed and lost in thought, failing to notice the beauty of the day and the stillness of the air. Loath to admit it, his encounter with the female Knight Protector Radha a week earlier had disturbed him greatly, more than he even wished to confess. Since leaving her, things had a habit of going wrong. It was as if the gods were transpiring to keep him in the Oo’do region of Kel’akh. Or was he simply looking for excuses to stay?

  Damn that woman, cursed Meuric. Whenever Radha was about he would lose that usual wealth of stoicism and self-discipline he normally possessed. Only Dervla, his long dead wife, ever had that same effect on him.

  His plan was to leave Kel’akh just as he had told Radha but, realising that he was running short of immediate funds, Meuric was forced to travel to the next town to find work for a few days. He would have needed to travel to one of the larger cities to arrange a transfer of funds from one of his invertors. And so he discovered a merchant by the name of Heber who needed a temporary bodyguard.

  It was a simple mission. The businessman was transferring some of his wealth to a partner two towns further. It was a five-day round trip and the Daw’ra man expected no trouble. The merchant had been clever. He told no one of his travels and though his wife knew of the trip she did not know about the gold. Even his partner did not know the exact time he was to expect Heber. He was an amiable fellow, decided Meuric, except for his incessant talk about money. By the end of the journey the Daw’ra man was hoping that someone, anyone, would attack them. But they never did. With his work completed the morning they returned to Heber’s hometown, Meuric left with the aim of reaching the port city of Bah’hahr on the east coast and sailing from the Kel’akh Nation for at least a dozen years.

  The Knight Protectors, he mouthed silently during one of his contemplative moments, mentally spitting the words with an utter abhorrence. Men and women from around the world, specially chosen for their bravery and skill, empowered with an almost immortal life and Gifts beyond the ken of normal men from the Gradalis, otherwise known as the Cup-of-Plenty itself. He was beginning to see it all as a curse.

  Meuric recalled he had jumped at the chance when the Conclave’s Council had finally sent for him. Much to his chagrin he had seen forty-five summers before he was chosen, though in truth age did not matter. It was made all the worse for him as Paden had told him that someday he would be chosen. He just did not know when and so every day for years he had waited for that summons.

  Of course everyone in Kel’akh knew of the legends concerning the Knight Protectors of the past. Meuric suspected that much of the world did in one form or another, how they acted as protectors for the people of their home nations, unparalleled in their skills with weapons, and their stand against evil and injustice until their power corrupted them, forcing the world to turn against them. Being a country of oral traditions their tales had been sung for aeons by Bards, their lessons taught to the people by the Oak Seer.

  Many years ago, the Bards would say thousands of years though no one knew for sure when it had happened, the Conclave and the Knight Protectors fell from their righteous path. They had been corrupted by the power they had wielded and had been ultimately destroyed by unifying kingdoms, but only after a civil war had first divided and weakened them. No one believed that they still existed today, though fables still persisted as if they did. The Council of Eight was happy to perpetrate those myths so that none knew what was truth and what was not. They were the stories that parents told when scaring their children into being good.

  In truth, those from around the world who knew of their existence still feared the rise of the Conclave to power in case one day they should have to stand up against them. And so the Religious Conviction was born, made up of leading clergy from varying faiths whose jobs were the accountability of the Council and their use of the Protectorate. But their rise in political power also made them more powerful than kings. As he rode, his mind began to wander still further back.

  It was almost like another life when Meuric had been a warrior for the Daw’ra tribe. His deftness with a sword, his extraordinarily quick reflexes and sharp mind were quickly recognised and it was not long before Meuric had become War Band Commander and the survivor of many battles with other villages, wars and duels.

  Years passed and Meuric’s reputation grew, not only for the sword he wielded, but also in the justice he had carried out in the name of his Chieftain, Colton. He smiled at the thought of his friend. In truth, it was only partly thanks to him that the Daw’ra tribe grew and prospered. His old childhood friend had proved himself to be just, intelligent and brave, equally fair to both his enemies and his people. Yet he was never weak. The Oak Seer, Paden, had grown in status and was now an administrator for the Council of Eight. As such it became part of his duty to inform Meuric of the Council’s calling.

  The War Band Commander had entered the Oak Seer’s Hall, a residence that every major settlement in Kel’akh contained. He bowed respectfully. Paden was more than a mentor to him. The old prēost had been a father to him. It was here that all visiting Oak Seers would stay though Paden had almost made it his permanent residence in Gla’es. He never did manage to marry Meuric’s mother. She had died of sickness five years after his encounter with Fabien.

  “You sent for me, Paden?” Meuric had asked. He remembered being excited, almost giddy. He knew that it was not a normal summons. They had known each other long enough that formalities no longer meant anything.

  They stood in the domed building, the floor of which was circular in shape, roughly fourteen cubits in diameter, and devoid of any furniture. The walls were made of straw and mud and the roof was thatched. Thick sweet-smelling incense filled the room and it took Meuric some moments for his watering eyes to adjust. Arcane symbols covered the floor. Before him stood the elderly Oak Seer, dressed in a brown robe with a loosely tied dark red cord hanging down from his waist. He seemed unfazed by the overwhelming fragrance.

  “The Council has finally sent for you, warrior,” he had stated matter-of-factly, almost stern. Meuric smiled at the memory. “Here is how you will reach them.” He handed the War Band Commander a parchment of animal skin with a map drawn upon it. “The way is secret and you must tell no one even to the cost of your life. You leave immediately. I will tell the people that I have sent you on a sacred mission. Colton will support me in this.”

  His voice softened. “As we have discussed before, Meuric, you cannot stay if you truly desire to be a Knight Protector. You will return younger, fitter and stronger than you ever thought possible. Questions will be asked. You will be expected to take up many identities. Anonymity will be your greatest weapon. I will leave it three seasons before I inform everyone that I have received word of your death.�
�� He approached Meuric then and flung his arms tight around him. “You are the son that I wish I had. I am so proud of you this day, as much as your mother would be had she lived. I love you, son. Go now before I really get sentimental.”

  Meuric looked into the face of Paden and saw the tears welling in his eyes. He ran his fingers through his greying hair, not knowing what else to say, before bowing and leaving without another word. He wished now he had told the old man how he felt about him. It was the last time that he saw him alive, another victim in the violent annihilation of Gla’es.

  As an Oak Seer, Paden’s commands were to be obeyed immediately. However, being the person that he was, Meuric went straight to Colton and then to his wife at home, telling both everything of what just happened. He smiled at the memory though he could feel the familiar touch of sadness stroke his heart.

  “I love you,” Dervla had said, hugging her husband hard.

  “And you still have no idea how much I love you,” responded Meuric, holding her tighter still. “Remember, I will be away for three years for training though I am sure I will get time off at times. I will contact you secretly and when my training ends and I will be sent back to Kel’akh. I will send for you when I am settled. I have already spoken to Colton on this. He will ensure that you reach me. I will be faithful to you. No amount of time will change how I feel about you.”

  She smiled then and kissed him fiercely. “I know and I feel the same, my love.”

  Dervla looked up into her husband’s face and gazed deeply into his grey eyes, seeing the love she felt reflected there. She reached up and began to trace his faded forest-green tattoo with her fingertips. She watched in satisfaction as Meuric closed his eyes for a few moments at her soft touch, even after all their years together.

  He still cherished the memory of that last touch.

  Dervla said, “As long as we are together, my love. That is all that matters to me.” A large grin had suddenly spread across her face and her eyes twinkled playfully. “So I will have a young man again in my bed after all this.” She laughed. “You had better not disappoint me!” Her hand moved towards his stiffening groin.

  ‘Woman,’ cried Meuric laughing. ‘You are incorrigible!’

  He playfully slapped Dervla on her rear-end and left, but not before pausing by the door to gather his weapons and supplies. He took one last look at the woman he loved more than life itself then stepped out into the daylight. He had not seen the middle-aged woman he had aged with but the smooth-skinned beauty he had known when younger. It was as if he was only seeing her through the eyes of his soul.

  Once through and clear of the doorway he closed it without looking back. He had dared not. It was only then that he had heard his wife begin to sob. Each cry tore into him like a spear but she was as strong as he was. It was one of the reasons why he had fallen so deeply in love with her.

  The journey was both long and arduous, having to travel by horse through desert lands and by ship on seas where huge blocks of ice floated to a small village named Jef’ri. It was there that he had met with his contact and been taken onwards to Wardens Keep, along one of the secret pathways through Beorg Ay’klis, otherwise known as the Black Mountains.

  Not for the first time had Meuric worried about the Daw’ra people and Gla’es on his travels to Wardens Keep. He was no longer there to lead his troops into battle, to protect the borders of his region, his people, his friends nor his wife. He was arrogant enough to think that the reports of him leaving might encourage neighbouring tribes to attack. His War Band Lieutenant and old childhood nemesis, Fabien, would most certainly be promoted in his stead and where he might fail to prevent war he was confident that Colton and Paden could keep the peace.

  Nevertheless, by the time Meuric had returned to Kel’akh, some three years later, Gla’es had been razed to the ground and everyone he had ever known had been murdered.

  XXXI

  Bradán stood on one side of the room his hand resting on the grip of his short sword. He watched closely how Rainier, War Band Commander of Rabi’a, folded his thick arms across his powerful chest. His mouth was contorted in both anger and resentment.

  He wore a sleeveless soft leather jerkin, typical Kel’akh brown trousers and leather sandals. Though he bore no tribal tattoos, as was forbidden by Roz’eli law, he was no less a true Kel’akh warrior. Criss-crossed scars marked his forearms. A neatly trimmed beard that covered the lower part of his face failed to cover a few scars on his face that he had earned in battle. His greying hair hung loose though there were a few braids tied amidst it. At first Bradán wondered why the War Band Commander had not tied back his hair, but then he spotted it.

  His left ear was missing, most likely as some form of punishment favoured by some Roz’eli commanders. It was then that Bradán spotted how the War Band Commander also held his head slightly to his left in an attempt to hide it. His blue-grey eyes blazed angrily.

  He had yet to utter a word but Bradán did not need to look into his eyes to feel the fury that radiated off him like heat. Rainier glanced once at his Chieftain, Theirn, who silently stood next to him, almost pleading with him to do or say something. But of course he would not. They had no say in these matters. They were second-class citizens in their own country even if they were free men.

  Sitting behind a large and sturdy oak table, a tree considered sacred in the Kel’akh lands, was the local Roz’eli Administrator Quirinus. Behind him stood Tacitus and the Centurion Urbanus whom he had first met outside Ah’mos. He wore the traditional toga of Roz’eli hierarchy that was supposed to represent his authority there. Beads of sweat had broken out along his forehead. He was young and thin, almost sickly looking, and possessed a premature receding hairline. His eyes were open wide in almost permanent terror.

  Tacitus had told him that Quirinus was the son of a certain politician, whose name had escaped him almost as soon as the senator had mentioned it. The Druid Legion Captain simply did not care. He was finding that the more time he spent with the senator, on this particular mission, the more he wished to flee the scene.

  Though obviously a powerful man himself, Theirn simply shook his head before lowering it in resignation. Rainier turned and, unafraid, glared malevolently at the three Roz’eli men before him. He dared not say anything though. Excusing the two Roz’eli soldiers standing outside the house, an attack on any Roz’eli nationals would surely spell the destruction of his village. The War Band Commander and Chieftain all but ignored Bradán.

  “My Lords,” spoke Quirinus hesitantly. “This is not proper. You cannot simply interrogate the whole of Rabi’a. Where are your written orders?”

  Tacitus produced a parchment and a small brooch. Bradán had seen it before. It was circular in shape, like a wreath, perhaps the size of a man’s palm, and within it was a clenched fist with a crushed scroll bursting from either side. It symbolised that the holder was answerable only to the Emperor.

  “There are no written orders for this,” hissed Tacitus. “But I am sure that none will be needed.”

  Quirinus paled further still, which Bradán did not think was possible. “Of course not, my Lord,” he stammered. “Whatever I can do to help please do not hesitate to tell me.”

  “Such a lickspittle,” sneered Urbanus.

  In an instant Quirinus had reached for the dagger on the table, almost faster than Bradán had thought possible. Faster still though was Tacitus. Just as the Administrator had gripped the weapon, the senator set his hand on top of his arm. Much as Quirinus struggled under the grip of Tacitus he found his arm totally immobilised.

  “Release me,” commanded the Administrator.

  The senator smiled slyly with no hint of any effort that he was applying. “I am sure that Centurion Urbanus meant no harm by his bad choice of jest.” Without taking his hand away Tacitus turned to the soldier. “Apologise, soldier!”

  Urbanus bowed stiffly. “I apologise, Administrator.”

  Quirinus released the blade and in turn the sen
ator relaxed his inhuman grip.

  “I am sure that his fishmonger grandfather would be most disappointed in him,” murmured the Administrator. He smiled as he saw Urbanus’s face redden. “It would seem I know more about you than you know about me.”

  Bradán looked on at the scene with interest. He was forced to admit that he was now starting to like the Administrator of Nah’cho. How an empire continued to function and conquer with such in-fighting was beyond him. He understood though what was going on. Quirinus, like Tacitus, had an old Roz’eli name that belonged to one of the more elite families with generations of political backing. Urbanus, on the other hand, had a more modern name, indicating “new money”, which was disdained by the older Roz’eli families. Bradán looked again at Quirinus, this time with new eyes. No longer did he see a sickly looking man but the steel in the Administrator’s grey eyes.

  “Do not be fooled by the appearance of the man,” Tacitus had said to him earlier just before they entered the room. “Quirinus was an accomplished soldier with generations of the same in his lineage. Twice he won commendations from his commanders for bravery. More than that, his family are said to be one of the founders of Roz’eli. It is even said that no Emperor ever reaches the pinnacle of their power without the help of Quirinus’s family.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room and the Kel’akh warrior moved away from the wall to stand next to an open window in a deliberate act to break the tension. Though the space inside the room was large, he found himself craving to be outside once again. A sudden and oppressive closeness threatened to take hold of him. He had had enough of Roz’eli design and objects and the people that sought to copy them.

  Through the window he saw thirty-six mounted soldiers outside. All wore the deep brown tunic of Roz’eli cavalry underneath their dark grey armour. Each man held an upright lance in one hand and a buckler in his other. They carried the longer spatha sword, the pommel of which was only visible jutting out from their darkened capes. It was a more practical weapon when fighting on horseback and was heavier that a gladius. They stood complete in their silence and in their stillness, three rows deep and twelve across, with an almost ethereal quality about them. They were completely professional. To be unaccustomed to such a sight would put the fear of the gods in your spine, decided Bradán. Cold eyes glared out from beneath helms that were rubbed until they shone. They stared at the villagers of the town as if they were some sort of Otherworld creatures.