“Once on board the ship you will stop at the first available port and make your way across land to Kel'akh Nation where Radha will meet you. When you have reached Ee'ay you will then return here immediately. Even in situations such as this we are subject to the Religious Conviction. Your men can stay with Radha if she wants them or even use a full Squadron if she deems it necessary.”
“How many men will I take?” asked Petros. “Black Tower Squadron is currently on their operational phase.”
“Take whoever you want but there will be one five-man team only initially,” said the Bridge Maker. “Invisibility is of the highest importance here. We feel that small numbers will be less easy to track. We will send the local Knight Protector to join you wherever you land. He or she will guide you through the province until you reach the next one. At that point another one will greet you.”
The Knight Captain looked to Ladra. “Is that why you sent Meuric to Ah'mos and I assume Ber'ek as well? Technically he is no longer a Knight Protector.”
“You are correct of course,” responded the Oak Seer evenly. “We could have sent you but only on a strictly temporary measure. A man like Meuric could stay there indefinitely if need be and is worth more than any Troopers you may have.”
“But he still was not enough to save Qadir,” snapped Petros defensively.
“That is enough,” roared the Bridge Maker. “Know your place, Knight Captain. You do not know who you speak to.”
Petros made no attempt to hide the derision. “Why? This man is nothing to me. Yes he is powerful, wielding magick where no others could, but if his decisions mean that Knight Protectors will die then why should I follow his rule?”
Laban set a gentle hand on the Knight Captain's arm.
“Steady, son,” he said quietly.
The Bridge Maker kept his voice steady. “We all feel Qadir's loss but he died doing his duty. Something I fully expect you to do some day if we so command it. In the meantime it will be my orders that you follow.”
Petros stared at the Bridge Maker unflinching, his eyes aflame with anger. Subtly Laban cleared his throat. Petros took a deep calming breath then turned to the Squadron Troop Captain. “I want Gabija, Iacchus, Jabez, Kaan and Nathan. We are to look like hirelings from our respective homelands. We will keep our armour and weapons though. Get them ready and brief them. We leave within the hour.”
Laban executed a perfect, crisp salute, a closed fist over his heart, spun and left the room.
Ladra said, “Your weapons and armour may well identify you to those who know what to look for.”
“That cannot be helped,” responded Petros. “Our stuff is of the highest quality. I would not trust anything else.” He turned to the Bridge Maker. “How do you plan to get us onto the ship? You obviously cannot open a portal next to the boy since he is virtually anti-magick except for his own I assume.”
“Did I not tell you?” said the Bridge Maker with a weak laugh, attempting to sound flippant. “We are going to open a doorway a short distance above the ship and drop you through it.”
XXV
Bradán opened the shutters to the window, looked out and breathed in deeply. The azure sky above was stunning as were the sloping green fields that surrounded Thales' villa for leagues in all directions. Everything here just seemed to be perfect and the newly made Captain felt a tranquillity that he had not experienced since leaving his homeland and, more importantly, Corliss.
Five of the soldiers he had travelled with were lounging in the open courtyard below. They appeared to be more relaxed than he had seen them in a long time also. Of Tacitus and Gavriil there was no sign and he thanked the gods for that. They were the only mark on an otherwise perfect morning. But best of all, for Bradán, was the lack of indulgence in material things that just seemed to enhance the beauty of the hireling's home.
It was the opposite of what the Roz'eli Empire stood for. Bradán's face darkened. Their obscene obsession with grand possessions seemed to be the norm for those who could afford it. Paintings, statues and mosaics seemed to cover most the walls and flooring of the rich until all the art became melded together, becoming gaudy and ugly, one big mess that blended clumsily into one another. The diametric opposite of what the original artists had intended.
Even his own people in the Kel'akh Nation would be considered poor and crude by the standards of the Roz'eli, simply because they still lived in mostly wooden homesteads, not ones built of stone. But the exact opposite was true. Their own political and religious system had been in place two thousand years before Roz'eli had even begun to form a dominion. They had learned a long time ago to only take from the land what they needed to survive. A total respect for the soil, trees and waters was the first and foremost lesson when being raised as a child. You take care of the land and the land will take care of you.
Their own artistic quality was also beyond question. For hundreds of years they had exported gold and other metal objects uniquely patterned with Kel'akh designs in return for things that their lands did not naturally produce. Many of these items could now be found in rich Roz'eli homesteads. And then finally there was their military expertise. They were renowned for their cavalry and infantry skills. Few could match them on a one-toone level.
And then there was the manner in the way they fought. Many believed, including the Roz'eli, that the Kel'akh people were mad and would rush to their deaths, taking as many of the enemy as they could with them. That was in part correct. They did not openly seek death but in Kel'akh society they believed that mortality, whether accident, natural or violent, was the natural conclusion to life and there was nothing to fear in that. Life in the Otherworld would be so much richer.
Movement caught his eye bringing Bradán out of his deliberations. Over the fields, disappearing into the distance, ran Thales with two of his bodyguards. He could just about make out a sword strapped onto each of their backs. Their speed was not very fast, considering the hireling was an old man, but he did not doubt that they would be out there for some time.
Bradán shook his head, a grin upon his lips. He is a tough old bird! The two of them had been up so late drinking that Muin, the moon goddess, was beginning her slow descent and still there was no sign of him slowing. But rather than being ashamed by a man who was older than his father he grew more in awe of him.
The stories the old man had related to him the night before had made him laugh so much that Bradán had believed that his ribs were about to burst; tales that only one soldier to another could understand. They spoke of many things, or at least Bradán did, his dreams, his woman, and his time within the Dark Druid's army. Yet, all the while, Thales revealed very little about himself except that his wife had been dead for some years now and that he still loved her deeply.
Bradán turned into his small room. Like so much of the house it was sparsely furnished yet so very comfortable. A wooden decorative bed topped by a mattress filled with wool lay in one corner with a woollen blanket he used to keep warm during the night. A small table with a jug of fresh water and an empty bowl lay close to it and a folded small towel. On one of the walls was a masterful painting of a Mah's hero fighting in one of his many battles three hundred years earlier.
He thought momentarily of using the water in the jug to freshen up but recalled the heated swimming pool he had discovered last night. And the way his stomach was reacting at the moment even with limited movement, perhaps a swim would suit him better than a run.
Raised voices touched his ears. He turned. Below, his five men were on their feet and had surrounded Iason, the hireling's future son-in-law. Bradán shook his head and stepped back slightly into the shadows. He could not believe that this man was a Knight Protector, knowledge that only he and Tacitus were privy to. His head was down and he was visibly shaking. Perhaps their intelligence was wrong? Perhaps that mage who had appeared to them had lied about the list? There were no weapons drawn and he knew instantly what was going on. His men were relaxed but bored, probably still drunk from the night before, and after the battle at Ah'mos they needed to vent some of that aggression. The people in Ah'mos had fought back in a concerted effort at the end. They had all lost friends there.
“Please,” said Iason in a quiet voice. “I do not want any trouble.”
Bradán went to call out but stopped, not sure why he did so. His thoughts turned to Margarita and the female servants of the homestead but remembered that in the E'del culture the female's private rooms were to the rear of the home. There would be no distraction from them at this early hour. He looked again down into the court below. He could hear one of his men taunting Iason now.
“You almost look too pretty to be called a man.”
As usual it was Haakon, a Na'amah man who would annoy him almost as much as Gavriil. He was standing before Iason, blocking his path, and though his back was to Bradán the Kel'akh man could imagine him there with that same stupid sloppy grin on his face he would always have when trying to bait someone into a fight. The E'del trader tried to sidestep but Haakon blocked him and ran his fingers through his braided blond hair.
He looked more closely at Iason. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders and, in his opinion, handsome. His blue eyes were piercing and his hair was kept short in E'del fashion and was auburn in colour. He wore a simple pale green chiton with a thin leather belt, sandals and a light blue hooded cloak that reached his waist to keep the early morning chill at bay. Iason was now totally surrounded. There was no walking away from this.
Bradán understood now why he had not called out. He was jealous. He was a warrior, a survivor of many battles, who had managed to accumulate a certain amount of wealth. He had proven himself time and time
again, living through hardships that most people thankfully would never have to experience. Yet here was a man who possessed everything that Bradán truly wanted. The realisation hit him like a blow.
Iason stood stock still and folded his arms slowly. His pale blue eyes regarded the two men on either side, flanking him. Finally he looked at Haakon, his eyes scanning him from head to toe. At length the E'del man spoke. His words unhurried.
“I can see that is something you will never be accused of.”
There was a smug smile on Iason's lips. Haakon was stunned and Bradán was forced to choke on his laughter to keep it silent. The Na'amah warrior's ego was colossal and here he was being derided by a man whose country had been conquered by the Roz'eli some one hundred and fifty years earlier. Not only that, but Haakon believed that he had just been insulted by a simple merchant.
“What did you just say to me?” Haakon blurted out. Bradán could tell that he was seething.
“You only get one chance,” was Iason's reply, his tone now like ice. “Move now.”
Haakon lashed out with a right hook. Bradán looked on, bewildered at what happened next. Iason stepped into the blow, bringing up a bent left arm to protect himself from the blow. At the same time he lunged forward with a vicious head-butt taking Haakon squarely in the face. Haakon stumbled back clutching his face. Iason immediately spun on one leg, bringing up his other, catching the Roz'eli warrior in the midsection and pushing him up into the air and several feet away. Bradán winced on hearing the noise that Haakon made when he landed. In an instant the remaining four soldiers of the Dark Druid were launching their attacks.
Deftly Iason caught the wrist of one and swung him into the path of the opposite two, all three painfully cannoning into a marble seat. The last reached out for the E'del man. Immediately he dropped and spun, his outstretched leg completely sweeping the last soldier off his feet. He landed hard on the side of his head and lay still.
Iason leisurely stood and corrected his chiton. Bradán was amazed to discover that the E'del man was not out of breath nor showed any other sign of physical exertion. After patting himself down he watched how Iason unhurriedly looked up and stared directly at him; his pale blue eyes bored deep into him. Bradán started. He felt a chill touch his heart. Suddenly Iason smiled and his eyes softened.
“It is always important to know your enemy first,” he said in perfect Kel'akh, before striding forward shouting for Margarita.
Bradán was dumbstruck. His legs were rooted to the spot. He could not move as his mind attempted to absorb what he had just seen. The speed and precision that Iason had demonstrated, the strength that he possessed had left the warrior in no doubt. Also the martial techniques he had just used were extremely similar to the ones that he had been trained in. There was simply no getting away from the fact. Iason was a Knight Protector. Watching him, Bradán doubted that he could have taken him. So how then did he defeat Qadir?
“It is always important to know your enemy first”, he had said to him. But what did that mean? Was he warning Bradán not to attempt that again or was Iason in fact testing his men, to discover how well trained and disciplined they were?
His master would continually say how the Conclave was originally blessed by the gods, but they were now corrupt. The Dark Druid would speak of how the Council of Eight manipulate the world around them, shaping it to their fashion. Perhaps it was all true. Perhaps not. So lost in his thoughts was he that Bradán failed to hear Tacitus enter the room behind him. The Kel'akh warrior missed the flash of anger that crossed the politician's face, standing there for some moments not being acknowledged. It was not until he spoke that the Kel'akh man turned.
“There has been a change of plans.”
Bradán nodded. “Which is?”
“The
Widan
briefly disappeared once it cleared Ee'en. It would seem that perhaps Abram and those with him have already been put to shore. We are to transport directly to the ship in the hope of finding the child or at least information leading to him. Even now teams are being assembled and sent out. Some are being sent to assassinate Knight Protectors and others are being sent to the main coastal ports along with my General Agents. Our main force is being set up to go against Wardens Keep.”
“But we do not know where that is,” stated Bradán. His attention now had been fully seized.
“Our Lord and Master does,” retorted Tacitus. “He just has never told us about it because he felt that we were not ready to take that path. But now that has changed and he feels that he has little choice but to take on the Council directly. Even now he is preparing a narration to block the Link that all the Knights possess.”
“The Link?” asked Bradán.
“It is an invisible bond that connects all the Knight Protectors and their Council members,” explained the senator rather impatiently. “It allows them to transfer orders and intelligence almost instantaneously. As you know we have already set in motion ways of isolating the Knight Protectors for this moment. We are to take out those of the Protectorate we have not already killed, segregate Wardens Keep from any allies it may have and then attack it.
“Thales will accompany us to the ship. He may be useful to have there before we send him on to Kel'akh.” Bradán nodded. “After we leave another team will move in to take care of our Knight Protector problem here and any connected with him. I do not imagine that Thales will be too happy so when Meuric and Radha have been taken care of so too will Thales.” Bradán looked despondent, though he tried hard not to show it. “Do you have a problem with that?”
The Kel'akh man looked out into the distance to where their host was still out jogging. He liked the man. More than that, he respected him.
“No,” said Bradán, his voice husky. “No problem at all. I will do whatever must be done.”
“Are you sure?”
His cold eyes lit up. Bradán offered only one short nod. Tacitus's face displayed his obvious joy.