Meuric

  “‘Rainier was his name,’ he would say. ‘He was part of a small Free Archer unit attached to a Second Spear. My son had been kidnapped and held to ransom in Gahp’ryel. Their mission was the reconnaissance of a specified area to confirm the town in which he was held. The Gahp’ryel tribes had been waiting for them. Almost to a man they were wiped out. Instead of turning though, Rainier continued on with the mission with only a handful of others and they were successful. That was a great day for me and Roz’eli. I shall be forever in his debt.’”

  “It was largely down to luck,” stated Rainier flatly.

  It was obvious to Bradán that he did not want to talk about the incident, though he himself was interested to hear more.

  “I have no doubt that chance played some part,” offered Tacitus with a smile that reminded the Druid Captain once again of a snake. “All good warriors need a certain amount of luck. Is that not right, Bradán?” The soldier from I’soolt said nothing but simply offered one single nod. He himself did not want to talk to the senator any more than necessary. “I think though that it was a small part.

  “I understand that later your sons, acting as scouts, led a contingent of Men-of-the-Legion to find you held up in a cave when you were a State Guard, fending off rebel attacks practically single-handed, even though you had been wounded several times. I see that your scar on your face never completely healed. I am not surprised,” laughed Tacitus. “They said that your tongue was hanging out of the side of your face through a gape in your cheek.” Rainier’s face darkened.

  “Speaking of sons, where are they now, Rainier?” Tacitus looked around as if making a point. “I haven’t seen Wyeth and Xavier since they met with us just outside Kay’den and escorted us here.”

  Rainier nodded. “Wyeth is out on what we call a roaming patrol. It gives him the freedom to come …”

  Tacitus cut him off mid-sentence. “I know what a roaming patrol is, War Band Commander,” he snapped.

  Rainier nodded. He kept his face impassive though his eyes flared in anger. “He is not likely to be back until nightfall. The Great Wood can become too dangerous even for us then. Xavier’s orders were to return to Kay’den to follow up on the fugitives’ movements.”

  Tacitus’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you do this?”

  “To gather intelligence on the Jay’keb family,” answered Theirn immediately stepping forward. “Such as companions and friends, where they went and what route they took. Maybe even find out what or where they were planning next so that it may help you in some way. Maybe help you to find further accomplices?”

  “I assume that was before you decided to hide the Jay’keb bastards from us,” accused Tacitus. “Such things are punishable by death.”

  Bradán’s heart began to hammer in his chest. It was only a matter of time now before Rainier, Theirn and his people knew of what the senator had ordered in Kay’den. It was Ah’mos all over again, only this time it was true Roz’eli Men-of-the-Legion who committed the atrocities. They will know that such a terrible thing would surely not have been authorised by the Emperor. Quirinus would confirm that for them. Everything in the region of Nan’cho could only happen with his authority. And after the business here is concluded Bradán knew that the same will occur again. His heart felt sick.

  His reverie was interrupted by the sound of a woman screaming. From the main doors of the Travelers’ Inn, several Roz’eli troops were roughly leading a group of several people, nine adults and one child, outside. Gone were the light trappings the Jay’keb family wore at Ah’mos. Now their clothes were replaced by heavier clothing for a cooler climate. Roz’eli swords had been drawn and arrows were set against bowstrings by the accompanying cavalrymen. Roughly they were pushed up against the wall of the building before them.

  There were more warriors now aligned with them, which surprised Bradán. He wondered when they had the time to recruit a further six hirelings. Each was dressed as a Kel’akh warrior, but with hoods attached to their tunics and pulled up over their heads it was hard to tell from where they originated. Just then they were ordered to remove them and they complied without any fuss. The Druid Captain frowned. They obviously ranged from different nationalities and not from these parts. They were attempting to fit in with the populace but they did not look like typical hirelings.

  To begin with there was no pleading for their services. All hirelings only worked for the highest bidder, and owed loyalty to no one. Thales seemed to be the only exception to that rule. He also noticed how they subtly looked about, acquiring their targets. Their bodies were tense as if readying themselves for that moment. They were going to attack, realised Bradán, even though they were weaponless and outnumbered. Incredible! His respect for these new warriors rose. What are you doing, he chastised himself. You should be warning Tacitus. They are the enemy.

  Are they?

  Bradán looked about. It was definitely the same woman he had heard back in Ah’mos. She sounded so close that she seemed to be whispering directly into his ear. He knew now that he was the only one who had heard it.

  “Yes,” he answered but there was no response.

  “Problems?” asked Tacitus, staring hard at the Druid Captain.

  Bradán looked at him, then at the Roz’eli firing squad just beyond preparing their bows. He stared squarely into the senator’s tawny eyes. Even if he wanted to there was nothing he could do for these people. They had no chance.

  “No problems, my Lord.”

  One of the women, a plump middle-aged woman, fell to the ground crying and pleading for her life, her courage having all but left her. Immediately one of the soldiers viciously kicked her in her ribs, lifted her roughly by her long dark hair and squarely punched her hard in her face. Blood sprayed from her nose. Bradán took a step forward to intervene but held himself back.

  “Hold, legionnaire,” commanded Tacitus.

  That surprised Bradán until he looked at the senator. He was smiling at the woman’s pain. The Jay’keb lady fell to the floor again. The Druid Captain found the Rabi’a people gathering around them. They, along with Quirinus, were looking on in disgust. The War Band, under the command of Ysolt, began to order the crowd back. Several persons in the mob began to shout at Rainier and Theirn asking them to stop the killings from happening. But there was nothing they could do. He glanced at Tacitus who seemed to be smiling at the unfolding events. Bradán looked on as a broad black man, belonging to the retinue, knelt by the fallen woman and gently helped her to her feet. Bradán recognised him from Ah’mos.

  “Be strong, Zahara,” he said in a deep soothing voice as he placed his large arms around her. “It will be over soon.”

  “Thank you, Anan,” responded the woman through her painful, racking sobs. She buried her face into his chest.

  The boy Abram stepped over to the woman. He whispered into the ear of Zahara and then touched her face and ribs where she had been kicked. Bradán looked on in amazement as the blood and bruising vanished. She seemed to stand taller as if she no longer suffered with any pain. Gasps of amazement rose from the Rabi’a people.

  “He is a child of the gods,” the Druid Captain heard someone exclaim.

  Tacitus spun. There was fear in his eyes. Bradán also saw desperation and fury there. He was at a loss to explain why. He noted that the Rabi’a people were now looking at the Roz’eli and those associated with them in anger. The Druid Captain continued to look on in silence.

  Zahara was now standing unaided. Her eyes scanned the waiting archers before her, staring at each of them in turn, not missing any of them. She is probably memorising each of their faces so she can meet them in the Otherworld, with blade and fire at the ready, decided Bradán with a grim smile. Her eyes drifted to Tacitus and the woman openly shuddered. Finally her eyes rested upon Bradán and there they stayed. The Druid Captain was curious. She seemed to be waiting, wondering, imploring that he do something. But what could he do?

  Rainier whispered into his ear, “Do you know he
r?”

  Bradán shook his head. “I do not.”

  He could not even recall her from Ah’mos.

  It was then that he noticed that she was looking over his shoulder. He turned but found no one there. Tacitus called out to the soldiers who had brought the prisoners. As they approached him, Bradán watched how the senator tucked his arms into the sleeves of his toga. His eyes narrowed. The soldiers stood to attention in a line before him and saluted.

  “Did any of you speak to the boy?” he asked.

  One man in the centre nodded. “I only told him that he must come with me. He did not reply or offer resistance. None of them did.”

  Tacitus looked at him intently. “Is that all?”

  The soldier nodded. “Yes, my Lord,” he said quietly. Tacitus was about to turn away when the soldier asked, “Excuse me, my Lord, but is it necessary to kill them?”

  In an instant Tacitus spun and drew a dagger from beneath the sleeve of his toga. Bradán was stunned. The speed at which the senator had moved was unprecedented. In less than a heartbeat he had thrust the blade up and under the man’s chin and through the soldier’s chinstrap. The knife’s black blade was quite long and it easily penetrated the young soldier’s brain and up through his helm.

  The victim’s face froze in a state of shock as his lower jaw dropped down revealing the blade beyond. Tacitus stared at the knife blade in mild fascination, turning the soldier’s head a little to the left and to the right before, with a sudden twist, withdrawing the weapon. The soldier immediately crumpled to the floor. Casually Tacitus knelt down and wiped the dagger clean on the dead man’s brown tunic. He stood slowly and turned to face both Theirn and Rainier.

  “He was corrupted by the boy’s evil,” he muttered. His eyes were like ice. “See that it does not happen to you.”

  The crowd immediately went silent. Bradán could not help but notice that the Chieftain looked decidedly nervous but Rainier just stared unflinching at the Roz’eli senator. The speed, precision and strength to hold up a dead man with one arm and for some moments made them all take stock. A statesman and commander of the General Agents Tacitus may be but he finally had shown himself to be something else. As the senator moved to take his position next to the archers, Bradán stood closer to his own men.

  Directly in the centre of the row stood the boy Abram. His face was a picture of tranquillity and innocence. Bradán looked hard at him, wondering why he posed such a danger to the wicce, and lover to his master, Mailís. He had no doubt that it was she who had ordered the death of Abram behind the back of the Dark Druid. He had known for some time that she feared the Jay’keb boy. His Lord and Master had wanted the boy captured first for his own agenda. Yes the boy was someone of magick but the power that the Dark Druid embodied was so much more. Next to Abram stood his mother. Their resemblance was remarkable.

  He found Rainier staring at the woman with open amazement, his very breath held in anticipation. It was the same when he had first set eyes on Corliss. Thinking of her made his heart sink even lower. Perhaps Rainier was luckier this way? He could never miss what he had never had.

  Bradán’s eyes were drawn to Anan. His skin was the colour of ebony. He seemed middle-aged and totally bald but for a grey beard. His arms and chest were powerful still and Bradán spotted the criss-crossed scars that ran across the exposed parts of his body. The Druid Captain guessed that the man was a warrior of some bearing in his younger days; maybe he was even something more. Standing in serene silence, knowing that he was about to die, there seemed to be some sort of regal quality that lingered over him like a cloak.

  “Make sure that no one approaches them before they are all dead,” commanded Tacitus, “for fear that they too may become corrupted.” Urbanus, repeated the order to his men.

  “You will not get the chance to hurt us,” whispered Abram suddenly.

  The words were said so softly they were barely audible, yet they carried to the ears of every person watching. Bradán shivered feeling the power of his declaration. This was no ordinary boy indeed.

  “We shall see,” responded Tacitus in defiance. “Ready your bows!” The senator looked towards the child. “With your death nothing can stop my mistress.”

  The Roz’eli cohort drew back their bows.

  XXXVI

  But still Thales did not make a move.

  Meuric could see the E’del hireling looking hard at him. It was the thought of Iason that held him back.

  There is something about you now that reminds him of Iason, explained the voice of Radha.

  The former Knight Protector reached out with his magick. Like Radha, Meuric possessed the Gift of Distant Perception. It was the ability to enter a person’s mind. Whereas she could perceive someone from a distance the Daw’ra man had to be in a direct line of sight and even then he could only fathom what was on the surface. He could hear the question swirling repeatedly around Thales’s mind. He had started with the obvious.

  Iason was taller, though not as broad, the E’del hireling decided. Though swarthy of skin his hair was the colour of dark copper that marked his mixed heritage, whereas Meuric’s hair was black and his skin not as dark as the E’del’s own. It was the eyes that Thales finally decided on, as so many before him would notice if they took the time. Even though Iason’s eyes were a piercing sapphire blue and Meuric’s were a cold grey, it was the way they seemed to look at you—unflinching, all-seeing, judging and, above all else, seemingly far too old for such a young face.

  The hireling cursed silently to himself as he was forced to admire Meuric’s continued easy composure. Thales was no different. His body language indicated that he seemed relaxed, almost bored, making neither aggressive nor anxious moves, purposely setting himself up that way. His eyes dropped to Meuric’s hands and immediately he saw the danger hidden there. He had guessed correctly that the man opposite him hid a couple of reversed knives.

  He was good, judged Meuric. His instincts were very, very good. Perhaps he would even be good enough to take Iason’s place should he ever fall. It was then that Thales found the former Knight Protector’s eyes. Meuric could see that he was visibly moved. He did not need his Gift to know what he was experiencing. Meuric had heard the same comment over many years, from different people, throughout differing nations. They were so cold that for the first time in his life the mercenary understood what it must be like to have Deo, the God of Death, stare back at him.

  Memories started to stir within Thales’s mind. There was something suddenly very familiar about the warrior before him. There was something about the weapons he carried, the way the rider carried himself and with such old eyes in such a young face. But for the life of him the hireling could not remember what. Thales began to rub his temples as his head began to pound. Meuric knew that this was the side-effect of having someone probe your mind.

  Recollections rose up. These were memories that had been blocked by Iason, Meuric could see. Again a picture of Iason leapt into his mind. This time the nervous and timid man was gone. He was replaced by a man of the same relaxed and confident manner that the rider before him bore, yet many times he had claimed to be no warrior. A memory from a few years ago burst forth.

  Margarita losing control of her horses and chariot. A cliff edge before her. Iason reaching her first. He leapt from his horse upon the chariot easily, bringing the panicked beasts under control. There was no sweat from Iason, no fear, no sense of tension. Thales remembered commenting on this to him. In response the E’del merchant simply smiled and moved away without an explanation. Movement caught the ageing hireling’s eye. The man Graviil shifted nervously in his saddle. His shield hand slowly made for the dagger in his belt.

  “Stay calm, idiot, or we will all be dead,” hissed Thales.

  “You are a coward, old man,” cried Gavriil.

  Thales’s shield shot up slamming the E’del discerner squarely in the face. The soldier fell hard off his horse. The elderly warrior attempted to turn to face the men to
his rear but suddenly slumped forward. A crossbow bolt jutted from his back, fired from the man directly to his rear. A dagger from the fourth man was thrown directly at Meuric. Thales could only gape with astonishment at the Daw’ra warrior.

  Almost faster than the human eye could follow, Meuric brought his arms up and down in a sweeping motion launching his two dirks. For an instant only Thales watched the knife thrown by the Druid man whistle past his head, only to see it deftly caught by Meuric by the hilt. At the same time he heard the bodies of the men behind him fall to the ground. The E’del man slid off the horse, all his strength beginning to leave him. He twisted as he went down, landing hard on his back. The air exploded from his lungs as the bolt was pushed in deeper into his lungs. Blood burst from his mouth.

  Almost casually Meuric dismounted and drew one sword from its sheaths on his back. His other hand held a small crossbow. Giving a cursory glance about and beyond his attackers, the Kel’akh warrior made his way towards the still bodies. Meuric paused momentarily to look at the hireling, who lay on his back staring skyward. He looked at Gavriil who continued to lie face down on the ground.

  “You should not have taken this job, Thales,” said Meuric in fluent E’del.

  The mercenary gave a gruff laugh. Blood spluttered onto his lips.

  “This is what I do.” He gathered his strength then added, “I had no idea that you were a friend of Iason. If I had known…” He did not have the strength to finish the sentence.

  “Listen to me, Thales,” said Meuric as he knelt. “I have a friend not far from here. She is a gifted healer. If you have the strength to hang on I could call for her.”

  “And why would you do this?” asked the mercenary, failing to keep the disbelief and hope away from his voice.