Meuric Read online

  That the Oak Seer prēost assigned to their region was well known to favour staying on the island village seemed, to the other tribes, only to be a validation of the truth in this. However, Meuric knew the real reason why he stayed; or at least he hoped so. More than one of the elder men had mentioned how attractive his mother still was. He still had hopes for Oak Seer Paden to begin formally calling on his mother.

  Meuric heard the sound of a weapon being driven through the air at speed, instantly bringing him out of his reverie. He spun but it was already too late, feeling the pain of a wooden sword rebounding off his arm, shortly followed by the giggles of Colton. Meuric replied with several curse words he had picked up from some of the older warriors.

  “I could not resist,” laughed his friend. “You had that stupid look upon your face whenever you think of Paden and your mother.”

  Meuric shook his head. “You know me far too well I think.”

  Colton stepped before his friend, a pensive look upon his face. “He is an Oak Seer. He cannot take a wife for his true love will always be that priesthood. Even if he did, you could not live here. Other tribes would grow jealous. We have already seen it happen and all he does so far is visit. He will be forced to mediate continuously between the tribes to calm them. The Daw’ra Chieftain would have no choice but to send you away. They say that the Roz’eli Empire is expanding its territories further south into the Kel’akh Nation. Paden may even be sent by the Ard-ri to act as a mediator.”

  Meuric looked to the sky and allowed the warm air to fill his lungs. It was hard to believe that on such a beautiful day there was any threat from the distant Roz’eli Empire or possibility of Gla’es suffering an attack from a nearby warring tribe. Yet such truths loomed over all their heads constantly. Daw’ra War Band warriors regularly patrolled their borders for interlopers and guarded the landing sites leading to the island.

  Most other boys his age would be full of bravado but witnessing the death of his father during a cowardly nighttime attack had only shown Meuric how quickly life could be extinguished. It was good to know that help was nearby if need be, and he glanced once again to the lone guard on the ramparts.

  “Do you still get those dreams?” asked Colton. He looked on as Meuric nodded in silence. “Is it still the same one?”

  Again, Meuric nodded. “Yes. I am a man. I am racing up the hillside on horseback. I carry a child and woman with me. I look back and see a Kel’akh town surrounded by hordes of enclosing enemies. There does not look like they have much of a chance of escape. Then I wake.”

  “Did you recognise the town?” asked Colton.

  Meuric shook his head. “I have not been much further past the borders of our Daw’ra lands but I did not recognise it or the grounds around it. There was a great lake behind it. That is all I know.”

  “Have you spoken to the Wise-Woman or even to Paden about it?” queried Colton. He began to rub his sore knuckles once again. “Perhaps they can understand what it means.” He laughed suddenly. “I can barely feel my hand, you bastard.”

  Meuric shook his head ever so slightly, but making a smile at Colton’s soreness. “You are the only one I have ever told of this.” He could feel a sudden weight upon his shoulders and he shivered thinking that maybe it was Fari, the Goddess of Fate, making her presence known to him. “I always feel sad when thinking of it. I do not know why.”

  Colton flexed his fingers and rubbed the back of his injured hand. “Good,” he muttered. He looked up at his friend. There was a wicked smile upon his lips. “Now show me that move again.”

  Meuric shook himself then grinned mischievously and asked, “With which hand?”

  “You decide,” answered Colton. “It is important that I learn.”

  Meuric looked to his friend and saw the serious intent behind his words. For as long as he could remember, Colton had always claimed that one day he would be the Daw’ra Chieftain and had consistently joked that he would make Meuric his War Band Commander; but only if he was kind to him.

  Meuric twirled this wooden sword about deftly, loosening up the muscles in his arm and wrist. “As you wish but I fear that you will be seeking an ointment from one of the Wise Women before this day is out.”

  “Meuric,” yelled a voice from behind, deep and adult sounding. “I challenge you!”

  With a sigh, Meuric lowered his weapon and turned. He already knew whom the voice belonged to. Before him stood Fabien accompanied by his usual retinue of lapdog followers. A derisive smirk lay upon his lips. In one hand, he held his own wooden training sword.

  “At least he had the sense not to bring a real blade,” remarked Meuric quietly to his friend.

  Fabien was about to be marked for this was his fifteenth summer and by all accounts he was already a man. In just one more week, he would receive either his Daw’ra forest-green tattoos or the bronze and blood-red tattoos of Bren’es, as that was his original home. Afterwards he would be assigned to a village and join their War Band, a warrior to defend the people, their homes and, when necessary, the nation.

  “I take it there is a reason why you sneaked up on us like a milksop?” asked Colton scathingly.

  Meuric took a step closer and looked into the older boy’s eyes unafraid.

  “I was fearful that Meuric might have fled had he known of my approach,” scoffed Fabien. He glared haughtily at the two boys. Obediently, as if on cue, his followers chuckled unconvincingly.

  Fabien was new to Gla’es, hence the reason for not having a run-in before now, but already he had made himself a reputation as a bit of a tyrant. He had previously drawn himself up against several of the younger boys and girls, including Colton, and had beaten them all. Today, it seemed, was Meuric’s turn to endure the most of Fabien’s bullying.

  He and his mother had been refugees from his home after Roz’eli troops had razed it to the ground. His father had died bravely, holding the enemy off while they escaped. The Daw’ra Chieftain had given them a home on Isle Gla’es until they had adjusted to their new life but now it was almost time for them to choose one of the neighbouring villages to live in.

  “Do you plan to attack all of the children on Gla’es?” asked Colton, stepping in between them.

  “I have heard that Meuric was talented,” answered Fabien with a sneer. “I just wanted to get more practice in before I had to face him.”

  “More like imitate him,” said Colton, offering up a condescending smile. “Why do you feel the need to face him?”

  Fabien’s derision vanished from his lips as he looked directly at Meuric. His eyes burned with a desire to prove himself. “I have heard the elders talk of him with pride and awe. They even say that one day he will be a champion for Daw’ra, possibly even for all the Kel’akh Nation. If not that, then he would certainly be a War Band Commander for the Ard-ri. I am here to prove that I am the better man.”

  “Perhaps you should have asked why the elders speak of Meuric in such a fashion,” warned Colton, “before you decide to take him on.” He offered up another one of his large mocking grins. Meuric knew full well that he was only doing it to antagonise Fabien. “I think that in truth you do it because you are new to Gla’es and you are looking to fit in. You should know though that there is a difference between true strength and hounding. Do not think that torturing those who cannot defend themselves against you will make you a man. Had your father lived or your village survived the raid by Roz’eli Men-of-the-Legion you would not be here doing this.”

  Only two days earlier Colton had spoken to Meuric of Fabien after his own run-in with the Bren’es boy. He was angry that his father had died and that his home village had been razed to the ground, soon to be forgotten. It was reported that the Roz’eli Men-of-the-Legion led by Free Archers had attacked during the night when only those on guard duty would have been awake. The survivors, though there were not many, had fled to different regions of Kel’akh.

  What had happened to Bren’es should have been anticipated when living so
close to the border with Roz’eli, considered Colton and Meuric shortly after originally hearing the story. Fabien’s village had been near the coast in the southeast of Kel’akh. To the far south, the lands had already been conquered by the Roz’eli Empire and, to the east, those same people were invading further into other territories; tribal realms that were considered cousins of the Kel’akh people. If they succeeded then the Kel’akh Nation, the most westerly kingdom, would be cut off from the remainder of Terit’re. It would only be a matter of time after that before Roz’eli would start probing the defences of the remainder of the Kel’akh Nation.

  Fabien’s face flushed and contorted in anger as he stepped in towards Colton, his own wooden training sword raised high. In an instant, it came down hard and fast, aimed directly at Colton’s neck. Before the younger boy even had time to move, Meuric moved between them, with his own sword raised, blocking the blow.

  “I will fight you,” stated the young warrior as he stared directly at Fabien. Meuric could see the malice behind his opponent’s eyes but he was determined to show that he was not going to be afraid.

  “Good,” smiled Fabien, with genuine delight. He turned and took a few steps away stripping off léine, a simple woollen tunic of brown and red chequers. It was the same colour as his disbanded tribe. Carefully he handed it to Siorus, one of his minions.

  Colton turned to his friend. “I fear that he will kill you if you do not let him beat you,” he whispered.

  Meuric’s heart hammered in his chest but he managed to quell the growing panic. Though still young, in his heart he was a Daw’ra warrior and a soldier of Kel’akh Nation. Fear was just another enemy to be conquered.

  “If he does, he and his mother will be banished from all tribes within our nation,” the boy reflected. “They would be forced to live in the Great Wood like any other bandit. That is if the Oak Seers do not ask for their deaths. No… he will seek to humiliate me and to give me a sound thrashing.” He smiled at Colton, trying to appear more confident than he actually felt. “I will not make it easy for him.”

  Meuric looked to Fabien, nervous but resolute. The boy opposite stood near four cubits in height, broad and muscled, and every bit a man in the eyes of the twelve-year-olds. Fabien’s eyes were bright blue; his golden hair was shoulder-length and tied back. Already his body had a few scars on it from training he had taken part in over his growing years. The two combatants stood a short distance away from each other and held their swords up in the traditional manner.

  “Begin,” ordered Meuric, as the challenged always did. He was glad that his voice did not shake.

  With a cry, Fabien charged. His strength was superior to him, Meuric knew, though his speed and reflexes were on an equal par. The young villager had already expected that. The young boy’s plan was simple. Try not to defeat Fabien but to block him at every opportunity, frustrate him, and strike only whenever the advantage was his. Their blades hacked at each other almost constantly.

  After a short time, Meuric was forced to admit that Fabien was good. His balance was excellent and he never overextended his reach. At all times, he was able to maintain a defence. Nevertheless, he was angry, Meuric noted, and getting angrier the whole time out of frustration. No matter how hard he tried, he could not land a blow on the young boy. As they fought Meuric’s mind began to clear, almost in a detached fashion.

  “You are good,” whispered Fabien reluctantly. His breathing was laboured.

  “Then let us walk away as equals,” responded Meuric, also breathing hard. “There is nothing to be gained here.”

  However, Fabien did not answer. He began to circle the younger boy much like a predator stalking its prey, seeking a weakness. Meuric rotated with him, never once allowing his back to be exposed to his opponent. It was then that the villager spotted the nod, not directed at him but at one of Fabien’s friends’ to his rear. Instantly he recognised the danger that he was in.

  “Siorus, now!” yelled Fabien.

  Meuric spun but it was already too late. At the command of Fabien, Siorus lashed out with a vicious kick aimed at Meuric’s back. The blow caught him as he swivelled, but had lost much of its power due to the young warrior’s angle. Meuric’s wooden sword came down with as much power as he could muster on Siorus’s leg, spinning the kicker to the ground. The lapdog cried out loud and hard as he fell.

  Immediately Meuric turned to face Fabien as he brought up his weapon. He managed to block the swing from his opponent’s sword but moved too slow to dodge an elbow from his opposite arm. The strike caught him on the temple. He stumbled back several paces and fell, the world whirling away from him.

  “Is this how warriors from your village fight, Fabien?” cried out Colton running forward. Two of the boy’s accomplices caught him and held his arms tightly. “Perhaps it was best then that the Roz’eli had wiped Bren’es from the land.” He spat his last words with venom. “You who are native to Gla’es disgust me!”

  Fabien yelled out in rage and, with the grip of his sword still in his fist, punched Colton squarely in the face several times. The boy collapsed, blood spewing from his mouth and nose, his lips split and teeth broken.

  “Face me, poltroon,” spoke Meuric. His voice was strangely calm as he stood.

  Fabien turned. A smile of superiority that had been etched onto his face quickly vanished to become one of curiosity and then fear. He could see that there was something different about Meuric now, something cold and deadly, visible only through his grey eyes. His face paled.

  Meuric had heard about the blood-rush of battle, where men and women run berserk and fight in a frenzy at the sight of a fallen friend. Now he had become the opposite. It had happened only once before when he had seen his father fall, a sword plunged deep into his chest. It felt like all emotion had left him, sucked away at racehorse speed, leaving only a cold emotionless shell in its place, consigning only one thought to his mind.

  The need to kill.

  At pace, Meuric bounded forward raising his weapon before him. As he did so, black clouds closed in from either side of his eyes, obscuring his vision. It felt like he was no longer in control of his body. Yet at the same time he was filled with more strength than he knew possible. He welcomed the coming darkness, understanding what was about to happen.

  At the sight of his father falling, the darkness had overtaken him for the first time. When it had dissipated, two grown men lay dead at his feet. A bloodstained dagger rested comfortably in his palm. The third man had vanished, presumed fled in terror. That was why the elders of the village spoke of him in both respect and in fear, and all during his tenth summer.

  Just before their wooden swords clashed, the blackness enveloped him.

  He was aware of nothing but sweet oblivious peace.

  II

  “Meuric… stop! Please!”

  The words buzzed about him as if he was in a dream. He felt lost, floating in a dark sky with no sense of identity. On some level, Meuric was aware that it was Colton who had spoken. He shook his head as if trying to revive himself, to wake from the dream, to remember who he was. If that was Colton then that must mean that he is Meuric. He was confused. He did not feel like himself. It was almost as if he were a thousand leagues away, adrift at sea, and people were shouting out at him, attempting to locate him. It could not have been his friend that was speaking. He felt the anger begin to grip him once again. Colton was bloodied and unconscious. He lay on the ground after being viciously attacked by that milksop Fabien!

  “Stop, Meuric, please. You are killing him.”

  He had no idea why Colton was in his dream, nor why he would be saying such things. Did Fabien not deserve to die? Meuric felt that he was floating further away, the darkness comforting and supporting him like a living and loving thing. He had no idea of where he was or how long he had been there. He barely understood who he was now. He thought he could hear the tears of others quietly weeping in the background.

  “Meuric,” commanded a new voice. This
one was a male’s voice, an adult’s voice. It was a voice of power. “Leave him be, Deo! Attend me, Meuric.”

  As if on command, the darkness receded and Meuric was left blinking in confusion. He found himself on his two knees, astride the bloodied body of Fabien. He held the grip of his wooden sword in a two-handed manner. The weapon was reversed and directed downwards, the blunt point of which was pressed against the softness at the base of Fabien’s throat. Meuric opened and closed his eyes again rapidly and looked about. He still was not sure of where he was or what was happening.

  Colton abruptly knelt before him, his bloodied face helpless and pleading at the same time. He looked to his best friend, barely recognising him. Unhurriedly, almost as if he were afraid to, Colton reached out and touched Meuric on the shoulder. The young warrior looked past him, his eyes blank.

  The party that had travelled with Fabien stood around in silent shock. Some of them had tears on their muddy cheeks. Below Meuric lay the still form of Fabien, blood spattered across his face. Nevertheless, he was alive. Meuric fell back then. Somehow, he managed to stumble onto his feet. He allowed his training sword to fall from his hand.

  “Meuric,” spoke the man’s voice once again. “Turn around and face me.”

  Meuric looked about, not really sure what was going on. He looked to the adult in a gormless fashion. He continued to blink furiously.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked the man. There was a hint of concern in his voice.