Meuric Read Free

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.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œIs 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.”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œHe is a god,” stated the boy.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œNow 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