Meuric Read online

  Troop Lieutenant – Second-in-command of all the Conclave Squadrons, identified by a single silver star over the heart

  Troop Captain – Overall commander of the Conclave Squadrons, identified by two silver stars

  Vambrace – Armour made of metal or toughened leather that protects the forearms

  Veil Narration – A spell that hides a person in a specific area

  War Band – Men and women of fighting age in the Kel’akh culture that make up the militia

  War Band Commander – Battle leader of the tribe

  War Band Lieutenant – Second-in-command of a War Band

  Wardens Keep – An immense citadel on a pentagram shape that homes up to 5000 persons. A place of learning and teachings of magick and religion

  Water Bearer – Elemental mage with an empathic link to all things water

  Whoreson – Bastard

  Wicca – Male witch

  Wicce – Female witch

  Wiccan – Those who follow the path of witchery

  Widan – A penteconter-class merchant vessel

  Woman of Companionship – Prostitute

  PROLOGUE

  His nightmare was always the same.

  The sounds of fighting from the town below rang in his ears as he raced away, his horse galloping as hard as it could up the hillside. He knew well that he was probably leaving behind those few friends he still had. Despite a boy in his arms and a woman clinging to his waist from behind him, he managed to glance back once without slowing. In the blink of an eye, he noted the burning buildings of the large hill-fort, the scattered corpses of troops from both sides of the conflict and the dense, ever-enclosing ring of men that formed the bulk of the enemy’s forces. He knew the place well though he had vowed never to go back. The town of Ay’den was a strategically placed settlement at the tip of Tarn Nee’sha in the centre of the Oo’do tribal region.

  It was also where he was destined to die.

  An oval gap in the hill now before him led to a long and wide tunnel. Above them on the hilltop sat the beginnings of a massive forest. He pulled on the reins hard, dropping the child as gently as he could to the ground. He swung his leg over the pommel of the saddle and leapt off. Behind him, the woman slipped off the rump end. Slapping that same rear end, he sent the horse away. Sweat began to run down his face, which he hurriedly wiped away. He stared at his glossy fingertips, unused to such secretion.

  “Do we move into the cave?” asked the boy. The accent was strange. That, and his swarthy skin, marked him as someone from the Roz’eli-occupied province of Jay’keb, east of the Mahr’she Sea.

  Meuric looked to the cave mouth. The channel was murky and black, making it difficult to see after a short distance. Without any hesitation, he raced in with the boy close on his heels.

  “Is this a wise decision?” asked the woman as she ran alongside. She had the same middle-east accent as the child. “We will be trapped.”

  Meuric shook his head as he looked to her. “There is a gap in the ceiling that we can climb through. We will block it behind us and then disappear into the Great Wood. They will never find us then.”

  “The Expelled One will,” whispered the boy.

  The warrior stopped and, taking the child’s hands, knelt before the boy. He looked to him, detecting the fear in his eyes. He was twelve years of age with strange, almost black eyes. His friend and fellow Protectorate member, Knight Captain Petros, had similar coloured eyes. “No he will not, Abram. Once the two of you are safe I will go back and kill him.”

  “He is a god,” stated the boy.

  “No, Abram,” argued Meuric. “He is just a man with the power of a god. That is why I can kill him. You have heard the legend about me. I am the Hand of Death. All who stand against me will die. But we must hurry.” He lifted the child then. His heart, legs and arms strained as he carried the boy in one arm and dragged his mother by the other.

  A dead end loomed before them but Meuric did not panic. He had expected this; counted on it almost. The enemy will follow them here then, finding the way blocked, must retrace their steps out and to the hilltop. All of which will be time consuming, allowing the Royal Family more time to flee.

  He looked up, seeking the climb that would lead them through a crevice in the ceiling. However, there was none. At some time it had collapsed upon itself, closing the large gap above. Several smaller openings were formed that allowed slivers of light to pierce the gloom. He cursed loudly and long. The woman gave him a sour look of admonishment. Strangely, for the briefest of moments, despite the danger and the heartache he felt his spirits lighten.

  The woman asked, “Now what?” Her tone so quiet she seemed almost afraid to hear the answer. She must have known what it must be.

  “Now we fight, Jemima,” Meuric said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I know that we were seen escaping from the battle.” Gently he set Abram down behind a boulder he noticed. “Stay low,” he whispered to him. “Stay hidden.” He turned to Jemima and offered her a dagger of Kel’akh design. “Take this and get beside your son.” Obediently she did so, her hands shaking.

  Meuric took several steps towards the mouth of the cave and sank into the shadows. He ducked behind another boulder and drew a small hand-held crossbow from the holster on his thigh. He locked its wings into place, drew back on the string and readied the weapon, nocking two bolts into place. It even had two triggers to allow each arrow to be fired singly. He wrapped his palm around the crossbow’s handgrip. A tiny squeeze of pressure was all it needed to let the bolts fly. His four remaining bolts he set in a line next to hand for easy reach.

  It was a weapon specifically designed for close combat. It was part of the Protectorate’s armament. If you knew what to look for and believed in the myths of the Knight Protectors, such a thing would mark him as he really was.

  Water dripped from large cracks in the cave roof above but he ignored it. He concentrated solely on the sounds that would be foreign in a cave. Focusing his eyes on anything but the streaming light, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the cave. His concern for his friends down in Ay’den made his mind begin to wander but he suppressed the urge, keeping his mind on the task at hand. It was then he first heard the sound of running feet growing swiftly louder. Meuric raised his arm into a position to take aim, and waited.

  Five men raced down the path of the cave. Armed with only swords and daggers they were in too much of a rush to worry about tactics. Bloodlust was upon them. What jarred Meuric the most was that their blades were black, identical to those of the Protectorate. The exact way his weapons should have looked if Abram had not been so close. They slowed slightly when approaching the Knight Protector’s hidden position, as if somehow sensing that their prey crouched just ahead.

  They were dressed very much like the members of the Protectorate, but Meuric felt that their uniforms had been designed to make a mockery of what the Knights stood for. Their iron armour, different from the Protectorate’s own toughened leather, was all in black, as were their leggings. They wore Tab’ee-styled opened-faced helms with cheek-pieces and a nose plate whereas the Knight Protectors wore a full-faced helmet to protect their identities. Only the enemy’s tunics bore colours that symbolised their rank within their military structure. Four were in olive green while the fifth man was in green, identifying him as the Chosen Man and commander of the attacking team.

  Controlling his breathing, Meuric fired off his first two bolts. Two of the enemy fell dead before they realised what had just happened. He loaded another two arrows. The enemy slunk into the shadows but there was no escape for them. His eyes had already adjusted to the dimness. His finger smoothly squeezed the trigger with a practiced ease. Another two enemy combatants fell dead.

  He aimed at the fifth man, the enemy commander. As if sensing what was happening he rolled at the last moment. The two arrows flew over his head. The Chosen Man came up onto his feet fast. Even with the loss of his magickal Gifts, Meuric was faster still. Breaking
cover, he threw his crossbow at the enemy soldier who naturally ducked. He just had time to raise his head as the Knight Protector sank his short sword up under his chin and into his brain.

  The blade slid out easily. Slowly Meuric crouched, making himself a smaller target in case there were more enemies about. He took the sword from the dead man and stepped back into the shadows once again. He waited patiently. A short time passed. Nothing reached his ears. A sense of urgency rose strongly within him. It was the need to break cover and escape, out into the Great Wood. The need to manoeuvre was intense within him and growing ever more powerful. He took a long deep breath and slowly stood, submitting finally to the urge. He knew that they would have to leave the cave at some stage. He prayed to the gods that the dead men before him were all they had to face that day. They seemed to have answered, for no more cries from the enemy could be heard. He looked in the direction of Abram and Jemima.

  “I think that we are safe.”

  He never felt the arrowheads that pierced his body.

  Meuric stumbled backwards as if hit by a powerful man. He did not fall. He looked down at his body. One arrow protruded from his right bicep, the second from his left thigh. He steadied himself and snapped the shafts of the arrows. He was surprised at how little pain he felt. All of a sudden he was just extremely weary. Meuric held his two swords up defensively. He waited for the attack that must surely come.

  A second group of men, armed with sword and shield, approached. Carefully they navigated the passageway of the cave. Meuric allowed himself a momentary look at the boy and his mother before he charged into the enemy and towards his death.

  He woke.

  Meuric glared about the scene forcing his heart to calm. No longer was he in the cave but by a campfire in a wood. He took some deep breaths. The dream/vision was becoming more and more vivid now. It was getting harder to recognise that it was still only the imaginings of the night and not yet true.

  So far.

  His arms lay across the sleeping form of a woman. Gently he slid his arm out from under her. It was hard to see under such a canopy of thick leaves but he guessed that it was still some hours until morning. The campfire was nearly out.

  It was a good spot they had chosen to camp in. The foliage overhead offered good protection from the rain and the natural dip in the ground not only allowed the heat of the fire to be reflected off the walls, but delivered good protection against being spotted. Around their campsite, they had laid several traps as an added bonus. He stood, about to collect some branches, when he froze. He had sensed the presence of someone new.

  On the opposite side of the dying fire sat a woman. The clothes she wore were of Kel’akh design though somewhat dated. She made no move but simply continued to sit, watching. Shadows from the trees hid her face.

  “You are only a shade and have no power here,” stated Meuric. Such things may have scared an ordinary man but the warrior was far from normal. He was well used to such apparitions. “Why are you here?”

  “You have need of me still,” responded the woman. “So I came.” Meuric looked to the woman sleeping in his bed, suddenly feeling extremely guilty. The newcomer laughed, a sweet musical sound that cut into his heart like no blade ever could. “Do not feel uncomfortable, husband,” she said. “I have been dead one hundred years now.”

  “And yet I still love you, Dervla,” was Meuric’s response. As it always was.

  “You loved me,” stated the women. “You love her.” She indicated in the direction of the sleeping figure. “Radha is a good woman and loves you. Allow yourself to realise the truth of that. Otherwise you will never be happy.”

  “I could not save you,” he stated as his head dipped.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she sighed. “Abram showed you the truth of that night.” She held out her hands as if to touch her husband only to hesitate and pull back. “I torture myself by being here but you have need of me.”

  Meuric raised his head. He looked to her body seeking an indication of the way she had died. He found none and a deep sigh of relief escaped from his lips. He had begged Abram to end the vision he had created before he had seen how his wife had died.

  “Abram’s revelation of the attack against Gla’es,” his voice faltered. “I never got the chance to say but I was so proud of you.” He tried to smile but could not manage it. “Both you and Judoc were so brave.”

  Tears slipped from his eyes. Meuric’s mind reverted to a time just after the attack, when he had arrived at the scene. Singlehandedly, he had gathered all the bodies from the town on Isle Gla’es and had burned them all upon a mass funeral pyre. There had been no death rites given for their journey to the Otherworld.

  “Does our line still exist?” asked Dervla.

  “It does,” Meuric answered vehemently. This time he managed a real smile. “I still check on them whenever I am in the vicinity. I am not too sure of Colton’s line.”

  “That also survives to this day,” confirmed the ghost. “She is a woman by the name of Genovefa. When you return to Ay’den, you must protect her if you can. Her twin sons may very well be the saviours that protect the Kel’akh Nation against the Roz’eli Empire.”

  “I do not believe it.” Meuric shook his head in disbelief. “I met her only recently when last in Ay’den. Surely, the gods are toying with me. Faeder especially likes to challenge me. I tell you truly, Dervla, I have no intention of returning to that town.”

  He looked up into her face and he caught his breath. She was exactly how he had remembered her. Strands of silver flecked her brown hair. Her deep blue eyes twinkled with a playfulness that was mirrored equally by her mischievous grin. To him she was the most beautiful woman in the world and his heart still ached for his dead wife.

  Dervla sighed. “You know that you will, no matter how much you fight against it. You dream of Ay’den night after night, and of your death.” She sighed once again, this time as if exasperated. “Tell me your story, my husband,” she whispered as she leaned into him. “Share the burden that is on your soul. Allow yourself to be finally free.”

  I

  Meuric laughed aloud as he twisted about and spun quickly, avoiding the wooden sword that lunged at him. He brought down his arm fast and hard, rapping his wooden training weapon across Colton’s now painful knuckles. At only twelve years of age, he already recognised that he had a natural-born talent with weapons. Regularly he would take on the older, more skilful boys and girls on Isle Gla’es, the Lake Village. More often than not, he beat them.

  Colton rubbed his bruised knuckles and, tentatively, opened and closed his hand confirming that it still worked. He bent down and lifted his own wooden sword. He winced briefly as he did so but as he stood, as always, a large contagious smile played upon his lips. Others would think that he was of simple mind but Meuric knew better. It was how his friend disarmed people without them even realising it. More than once, he had even seen them return a smile of their own before they had understood what was happening. Colton was smart, astute, funny and, most of all, he never gave up no matter how much he had his knuckles slapped. That was why Meuric liked him so much. The fact that they were of the same age was just a bonus for the villager.

  Meuric laughed hard. “You will never learn. That is the third time I have caught you with that same move.”

  “And you will keep on doing it,” said Colton angrily, annoyed at failing to protect himself adequately, “until I learn to defend myself against it. We must be ready. Someday we will be called to attend our duty.”

  Meuric nodded, his face serious. He turned to look upon the nearby fort where he resided. Their high wooden walls seemed impregnable to most young lads in the Daw’ra tribe. From bitter experience, however, Meuric knew better.

  He missed his father still.

  Even though he was too far away to see anyone on top of the barricades, the sunlight managed to catch the iron point of a spear from one of the Guardsmen. The sight gave him some comfort. Meuric could
almost imagine the sentry standing at his post, watching over him and his best friend. In his mind, the guard stood tall, strong, and bare-chested on such a warm day. He carried a spear and shield, ready for use. Strapped to his waist would have been a sword and dagger. Stamped on various parts of the guard’s body, solely on his left-hand side, were several forest-green swirling tattoos, to distinguish the Daw’ra tribe from others. Apart from helping to differentiate fighters in tribal skirmishes and in larger wars, the tattoos were also a signal of adulthood within their culture. Meuric would have similar markings stamped upon him when he eventually saw his Name Day after fifteen summers.

  The fort beyond was where the Chieftain, the War Band Commander, War Band Lieutenant and any who were of the Daw’ra tribe’s ruling class lived. Alongside them resided their immediate families. That was how Meuric ended up living there. His father had been the War Band Lieutenant and as such was second-in-command of the tribe’s War Band force. It was a great honour, to be sure. After his father’s death, the Chieftain’s wife had taken on Meuric’s mother as one of her handmaidens, allowing them to remain on Isle Gla’es.

  It was the middle of a summer’s day, so the two boys had decided to train under the cool shade of a copse. Unlike the remainder of the Kel’akh Nation where the Great Wood covered much of the land, the island barely had any trees left upon it. Most had been used to build either the fort or the crannógs that lay just off the island and on the water. The island itself stretched for two leagues in all directions in an almost perfect circle. That, in turn, was surrounded by a body of water, another league across, after which the mainland of the Kel’akh Nation lay inhabited by a scattering of Daw’ra tribal villages in all directions.

  That the island had no trees and yet was still invisible even on a clear day added not only to the defence of the islet but also furthered the mystique of its people’s ethereal qualities. The body of water that surrounded the island, Tarn Ah’rt, had a perpetual mist which hovered over it, which furthered the rumours that the island half belonged to the Otherworld. It was said that the waters of Tarn Ah’rt were magickal and full of treasure and were protected by creatures who resided in the depths of the lake. Meuric had yet to see any such beings but the stories had made other tribes jealous of what they supposedly had, which had led to several clashes in the past. In reality, they were no better or worse off than most of their other kinfolks dotted around the Kel’akh Nation.