The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (34 page)

"I know what you mean," Bartolo said. He looked out over the disquieting vista below. "I know what you mean."

They said the army encamped on the Azure Plains was the biggest that had ever been assembled. It stretched across the entire field below, the individual figures as small and numerous as ants. The might of three houses had combined to an extent never seen before.

The builders never stopped construction, never halted in their efforts to weaken the Ring Forts. The war machines now numbered in the thousands, the towers in the hundreds. The catapults and trebuchet never stopped their bombardment of the walls, it had become commonplace now, put to the back of the mind. Ballistae were lined up one after the other, behind the great defensive wall, in a row that just kept going and going.

The tools of the artificers were everywhere, it was clear to all now that they had thrown their full support behind the Emperor. The dirigibles covered the Black Army like a cloud of death. Already the number of wounded who had been sent home with missing limbs had tripled. Soldiers complained of hearing the blast of mortars and prismatic orbs in their sleep. Many who had survived close encounters had been driven deaf, no longer able to communicate, their hands put to their ears in constant pain.

Binding it all together was the black flag bearing the white sun. Still no one knew why the Emperor’s colours had been struck for this symbol, what it really meant. No longer could imperial purple be seen on the tabards of the Tingaran soldiers, no longer the sun and star
raj hada
of the imperial house. All was black.

After the great encounter — they were calling it the Battle for Mornhaven — the bladesingers had been quartered in Sark. It was some kind of honour, Miro supposed.

Miro hadn’t seen much of Tuok or the other soldiers. The bladesingers had been acting strangely aloof, as if intentionally distancing themselves from the recruits.

Miro had seen Ronell only once. The look he’d received was pure venom. He’d heard Ronell had distinguished himself quite well in the battle, but there were troubled opinions also. Rumour had it there was deadliness to him now, the look of someone who didn’t care if they lived or died.

Miro had inquired about Bartolo. Someone said he had been with the forces that were seeing off the last of the enemy. Typical of Bartolo, fighting to the last.

"I can leave you, if you’d prefer privacy?" said Bartolo.

"No, no. I was just thinking."

"Always a thinker," said Bartolo. "What do you think will happen next?"

"What will happen next, or what do I think should happen next?"

Bartolo grinned. "That’s the Miro I know. What would you do?"

"I would assemble a strike force, the very best."

"And where would you send them?"

"I’d strike through the Elmas, hit the elementalists. Drive straight through to Petrya."

Bartolo’s wide eyes said he hadn’t been expecting it. "You would do what? Raj Petrya hasn’t declared yet."

"It’s a matter of time. They fought with the Emperor in the last war, in the Rebellion."

"Yes, but..."

"You think this one will be any different? First Torakon and then Loua Louna. They’ve both joined with the Emperor, given him everything, held back nothing. Why should Petrya be any different?"

"But surely we should give them the benefit of the doubt. To attack, while they are still undeclared…"

"The way the Emperor attacked Loua Louna? Look where we are now. We’re barely holding them off. We’ve got everything Altura has here, everything. Half of Halaran is lost. Ralanast is lost. We don’t have much room for error. No, we need to take the initiative, seize it. Otherwise we’re lost too."

They stood in silence for a moment. The Black Army below lent its grim weight to Miro’s words.

"So what do you think our commanders will do then?"

"They’ll regroup here, join the two armies. Practice some manoeuvres. Look down on the enemy below and ignore them. Then, very slowly, they’ll send us north and west."

"Ralanast?"

"Ralanast," Miro echoed.

The sound of a man clearing his throat came from behind them. They turned.

Ten bladesingers stood behind them, expressions grim. "Get your armoursilk, get your zenblades. You have been summoned. You’re coming with us."

Miro and Bartolo exchanged glances. Something was definitely afoot.

~

T
HEY
were led into the bowels of the fortress, deep underground. It was damp here. Damp and dark. The passages were more roughly hewn, the stairs uneven. Miro itched in his armoursilk. Something didn’t feel right. He put it down to nerves. His zenblade was strapped to his back. He felt ready for whatever they were going to do. Bartolo walked beside him, his face pale. Neither spoke.

The foremost bladesinger opened a heavy iron door. It creaked and clanged. The man held it open, frowning at the two recruits. There was a sound behind Miro. He turned and saw Ronell, flanked by five more bladesingers. Ronell didn’t meet his eyes. They entered the room together.

Blademaster Rogan stood as they entered, flanked by Bladesinger Huron and Bladesinger Porlen. Their expressions were stern. If Miro hadn’t known better, he would have said they were about to be punished. Disciplined.

"Normally we would be at the Sanctuary, deep in the Dunwood," Blademaster Rogan said. "However we are not there. High Lord Legasa of Halaran has graciously lent us these chambers, and the assistance of the men we need." He met the eyes of first Ronell, then Bartolo, and finally Miro.

"Recruits, you are about to be tested. You have been hardened in battle. You have developed your skills. You are lacking in training, but perhaps you make up for it in experience. We will soon know.

"If you pass this test, you can call yourselves bladesingers, and we will welcome you into our number. If you fail, there is a makeshift infirmary in the next chamber. If you fail, you might not even need it." His look was significant. Miro thought of the dull knives and bloody aprons of the field surgeons.

"Do not doubt me in this," Rogan Jarvish continued, his voice hard. He bit off his next words, "I will see you dead, before I accept a liability. We have all passed this test. I have seen recruits with great potential fail. I am glad they were tested, because in battle their failure might have led to more deaths. At least here, there can be only one death. Yours."

Miro shifted in his armoursilk. It felt uncomfortable, ill-fitting. It was all that stood between him and whatever it was that was about to unfold.

"Now, about the test. The animators have been helping us with it for many years. It’s something of a contest between us, a chance for us to test the skills of our best against the skills of theirs. It forces our enchanters to constantly innovate, to create better weapons, Enchant better armour. It forces our bladesingers to fight better, learn faster, to adapt their song to new conditions, a new foe.

"I can tell you now, not one of us here has ever fought the foe you are about to fight. We have fought our own enemies, passed our own tests. As we hope our methods of training have improved, our matrices become more developed, so have those of your opponents."

Rogan nodded to someone behind the recruits. Miro felt a pressure on either side of him. A bladesinger stood on either side of him, their faces impassive. Their grip was almost too firm. Miro realised with a pounding heart that there wasn’t a choice here. This test wasn’t optional. He would face his foe, or he would die.

A sheen of sweat began to cover his brow, even though it was cold and dry, here under the mighty fortress of Sark. He shared a glance with Bartolo. Ronell looked at nothing but the walls, his face impassive but betrayed by the ashen colour of his disfigured skin.

The recruits were led down a long corridor, each flanked by their handlers. Miro lost sight of Bartolo and Ronell. He was brought to a halt outside a door.

"Enter here," said one of the bladesingers, his face cold.

Miro opened the door. He was pushed roughly from behind. The door was closed behind him.

Two figures strode up to Miro, meeting him eye to eye, their faces hard as stone. They were dressed in brown robes, the Halrana
raj hada
— a hand with an eye in the centre — a bold emblem on their breasts. They were large, burly men, used to physical work. Without a word each took Miro by the arm and led him down another corridor.

At the end of the passage was an open door, about a foot thick, made of heavy iron, studded and bolted. Somehow Miro knew that whatever was waiting for him would be waiting behind this door. A series of runes had been drawn on the door. Once sealed, even a zenblade wouldn’t easily get through it.

One of the Halrana spoke. "This door will be locked behind you. It will be opened after one hour, or three knocks."

One hour! In an hour a wounded man could be dead. Miro could see how few who were injured survived to tell the tale.

He was thrust into the room, the slamming of the heavy door echoing in his ears as the bolt was thrown quickly behind him.

It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light provided by some weak nightlamps. The room was massive, the ceiling high, the floor sanded. Littered about the room were stone blocks of uneven sizes, some small enough to throw, others twice a man’s breadth and height.

Miro stood at his end of the chamber, uncomfortably conscious of the sealed door behind him. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t be able to leave that way. He shifted in the uncomfortable armoursilk. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Miro had a direct line of sight to the other end of the chamber. There was a man seated there, wearing a brown robe and a torque around his neck. The torque glowed with strange colours. At his wrist was another glittering circlet. The man regarded Miro for a moment then looked down at a rectangular tablet on his knees.

An animator.

The animator spoke, too softly for Miro to hear. The tablet flared to life, the runes glowing silver. The brown-robed man touched the tablet at a particular place. A matrix of runes there changed colour. The animator’s lips moved again.

Miro heard the sound of movement, coming from the shadows. Heavy steps, crunching into the sandy floor. A metallic creaking.

A construct, black as night, stepped out of the darkness to stand in front of its animator, only paces away. It turned to face Miro. Its eyes were red, its mouth a narrow gash. Symbols covered every part of it. Some were activated, giving it a soft silver glow. It carried a long black sword.

It stood there, its chest pulsing, limbs glistening, heaving in a grotesque parody of breathing. A strange sighing sound came from its body as it pulsed. It had been awakened. It was alive.

It was a golem.

Miro had only seen a golem once before, in the Halrana market house in Seranthia. Raj Halaran’s most deadly fighters, used as assassins or bodyguards. They required a fearful amount of essence to construct, were terribly complex to animate. And he was about to fight one.

Miro looked at the robed man. The animator smiled.

Some more gestures at the tablet and more runes were activated, the animator calling them in quick succession.

The iron golem flared and twitched, different colours — greens, blues and reds — glaring from its body. Its eyes grew bright, still a menacing red. It raised its sword - in salute, Miro realised.

Miro took a deep breath. This was going to require every bit of skill he had. He knew there would be no help from the outside, and a single blow of that sword with the unbelievable strength of those metal limbs behind it would sorely test his armoursilk.

Miro reached over his shoulder, feeling the hilt of his zenblade comforting in his hands. He drew the sword.

Steadily, with no room for error, he began his song.

His sword grew bright, brighter with each sequence, white as lightning. The armoursilk stayed dark.

The golem started walking towards Miro, ponderous, inevitable.

Miro controlled his panic. He began his song again, this time with the most basic sequence for armoursilk protection, letting the sword fade altogether.

The armoursilk did nothing. His words were having no effect.

The golem drew closer, moving faster now, starting to run. It would soon pin Miro against the wall. Miro leapt to the side.

The sword whistled through the air, where Miro had stood less than a heartbeat ago.

Miro thought furiously. What was happening? He knew his song. The inflections were correct. The sword was behaving as it should.

Then with a heart-stopping lurch he realised.

A bladesinger’s tools were attuned to that particular warrior. His zenblade and armoursilk were coded for a specific activation sequence, slightly different from that of the man next to him. Otherwise their songs would interfere with each other — their words would clash. Each item had a certain sequence that had to be uttered in the correct part of the song. A bladesinger could easily use another’s sword or armour, provided he knew the code.

Miro wasn’t wearing his own armoursilk. It had been substituted with someone else’s. He didn’t know the sequence for this armoursilk.

He ducked a vicious blow from the golem, and lunged to the side as the construct followed it with another, then two more slashes in quick succession. The second slash missed him by a finger’s width. Miro dove behind a stone block.

Who had done it? The answer came to him with a cold feeling of dread: Ronell. It would have been simple, no problem at all. He could always plead innocence and no one would be able to prove otherwise.

With no other choice ahead of him, Miro concentrated on the zenblade. He ignored the sequences for the armoursilk and chanted the runes for the zenblade in quick succession. The sword turned white. His song came clear from his lips, rising up and echoing from the walls of the cavernous stone chamber.

Miro walked sideways, keeping the golem within his sight at all times. He put a tall column between them. The golem swung its shining metal arms, the sword arcing out faster than the eye could follow, passing through the column like a fish through the water, as if it wasn’t even there.