Marik

A group of men stalking through the forest carrying weapons of all shapes, sizes, and kinds was not an uncommon sight around the Forest of Thieves. In fact the men and women of the small villages scattered throughout it were used to the sight of mercenaries, but the group that now passed was different. It was different for many reasons, but mostly because it was headed by a small scrawny boy of possibly fourteen. The youth had a hard angular face and coppery, miskempt red hair that covered his head like a forest fire. He was unusually pale, some might even say sickly. However, the most memorable feature of this boy was his piercing sky blue eyes, eyes that showed of a painful life struggling to survive in a harsh world. Despite his sickly features, he carried himself as a leader instead of one who relies on others for help. His youth and appearance hindered him when he would like to overtake his prey. It was a different type of beast he was hunting today, not the usual boar but a motley crew ranging from “fisherman,” who liked to bring illegal goods into the kingdom, to paid killers like himself, to thieves. But even as he hurried from town to town, he was stopped by a constable he met asking for an “official ‘hunting’ license” which translated into at least three pieces of gold, but the youth showed him something that made his jaw drop and extinguished the greed in his eyes. The youth was wearing a rather large silver ring with a small red pendragon on it.
He remembered the first time he met the pendragon. He was four living on the streets, no parents, no home, trying to keep his stomach from eating his ribs by picking pockets. One day he saw a richly dressed man in a white silk tunic and a dark, deep green velvet cloak. The cloak was died with a color made only on the holy isle. This kind of man was sure to have a rather deep, heavy pocketbook so he snuck up and made a grab. Right before he disappeared into the crowd a hand grabbed his wrist; he turned and faced the man. “That is not for you boy." the man said in a deep resonant voice.
“Please don’t turn me in, I only did it because I’m starving,” he said, knowing the pity card usually worked.
"Do you know who I am?” He asked
"No, should I" The youth replied
“I am Uthor Pendragon the king and you have skills. What is your name?”
Although it went against everything he had learned he answered the king, “I-I don’t know for sure but people around here call me C-C-Ceilteach, sir.”
“Why is that?” the man asked
“Because it means ‘Celt’ which is what I am,” Ceilteach replied.
“Well, Ceilteach, let’s see if we can put those skills to use, come with me if you wish to eat something other than rats and garbage.” Something inside him, some inner gut feeling told him to follow the man. It was to be the beginning of a very interesting and educational relationship.
Uthor put Ceilteach up in a hidden chamber beneath his castle, for as he explained he could not be seen with common street rats as it would hurt his reputation. Only three people knew that Ceilteach was there: Uthor, Gryxph, (Ceilteach’s trainer), and Ceilteach himself. Each waking hour, which was between dawn and well beyond true night, Ceilteach spent drilling. He was learning how to move without sound, with no shadow, and learning to track not only animals but also people. Though all these things were important, the most important thing
Ceilteach learned was weaponry. In six short years he was proficient in the arts of knots, forestry, healing, and seven types of armed and unarmed combat. Then Uthor put these skills to use, and Ceilteach was hired as a mercenary and bounty hunter.
“So, Celt, you’re the king’s…?” The Constable’s voice broke through Ceilteach’s memories. Ceilteach eyed the man he was short and fat. The constable reminded him of a slug. As for the constable’s quarters, they were richly decorated.
“Advisor, friend, and the prince’s godfather,” Ceilteach replied. “In fact, that is why I am chasing these men. Just last week those Saxon dogs snuck into the castle and attempted to kill Prince Artio.”
Ceilteach had named him that; Artio means ‘bear.’ Years before Artio’s birth an old, blind Druid beggar foretold of “a bear from the north who will lead the armies of Britain to victory against the invading Saxon dogs.” Ceilteach then suggested to Uthor to name his first son Artio in memory of his old friend.
“Well, I have bad news,” the constable said, breaking into Ceilteach’s thoughts once again.
“Out with it. I don’t have all day, right now my men are probably down at the tavern drinking past their limit,” replied Ceilteach.
“These Saxons joined up with another group of bandits. Also, one of the members is a Celt,” said the constable, trying to insult him.
“What difference does it make?” replied Ceilteach, moving toward the door.
“It’s just you were hired by Uthor to go after Saxons. How do I know that you won’t let this Celt go?” said the Constable.
“Listen, when the Saxons broke in, Uthor and I were in a council with the Celtic
leaders trying to form a union so we could get rid of these Saxon scum. We heard screams and ran toward them. The only person who was around to fight was my teacher, and they killed him. When they saw us they fled but the damage was done. I was so angry that I stayed only long enough to witness the burial of my friend and gather the first bunch of men I could find, a group of soldiers. So if you are suggesting that I will just let someone go because they are a Celt like me you are wrong.” Ceilteach snapped before storming out the door.
Between the constable’s ignorance and that of his men, Ceilteach was not able to catch up to his prey until around dusk and by the time they set up camp for the night a rain had begun to fall. Ceilteach had decided to go ahead and scout out the bandit’s camp. He found just what he had been told: the Saxons had joined a larger group of bandits. Just as he was turning to leave he heard the sounds of someone approaching. Not wanting to risk a conflict he sunk down to the ground just in time to see one of his men stagger by. The man was drunk and was walking straight towards the enemy’s camp. Suddenly he tripped. The sound he made was similar to a wounded banshee and just as loud. Ceilteach knew that this was his last chance so he drew his sword and leaped into the middle of the camp. He was calling his troops even as he crossed steel with his first foe. He knocked the man’s sword aside and placed his own in the man’s stomach. Before that man even hit the ground Ceilteach had jerked his sword free and went after another. This man was twice Ceilteach’s height but fell just as easily. None of the other men had showed up yet and it was apparent that none would. The drunken man that had alerted the camp was already dead, killed by a Saxon blade. All these thoughts crossed Ceilteach’s mind as he
took down a third foe and flipped over the body to meet a fourth. The person who confronted him was a Celt woman stained blue in order to frighten whoever opposed her. Throughout the years Ceilteach had killed many men but never a Celt and certainly not a woman. Then he recognized her as someone who had come from his own village.
Then she spoke, “Marik? Is that you Marik?” Marik, his name was Marik he remembered everything so clearly now. This woman had been captured when the Saxons had invaded his village. He had tried to fight them off but was hit in the head with a sword. When he awoke he was in an alley in London with no memory of who he was or how he got there. Marik realized that there was no way he could kill this woman so he lowered his weapon. As soon as he did this she shoved her sword through his stomach. He felt and odd mixture of hot and cold as the cold steel passed through his body. Marik looked down and saw just the hilt of the weapon sticking out of him. Slowly he began to lose feeling in his legs and he dropped to his knees. With his eyes glazing over he muttered, “How could you?”
“I had to,” was all the Celt could reply.
"B-But why" Marik stammered.
"Duty." the celt said as she pulled loose the weapon and ran off. Marik felt relieved as the uncomfortable steel left his body. He lay back and let the cooling rain drench him. In the sky above him he saw a bright white light. It started out in the distance but grew closer and closer until he was forced to close his eyes against it. The youth was dead as the bandits packed up to leave. This youth had known many names, son, brother, warrior, Celt, and even Marik by the one who had killed him. As Uthor could not find him he was not even given a proper burial but left where he had fallen on the mud soaked ground.