The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (37 page)

"
Tish-tassine
," the warm glow of the runes lit up the raft.

It was fortunate she had done so, for shortly after a broad shape could be outlined against the clouded night sky. A bridge.

"The road!" Ella exclaimed.

"Yes, the road," Layla echoed.

"Quick, we need to stop."

Ella began to paddle towards the narrow bank. The raft moved ponderously; they were in the middle of a wide part in the river here but the flow was still fast. Surprisingly fast. A sound could be heard carried on the breeze.

"What’s that sound?" Ella stopped paddling.

It grew louder, until it became a gentle roar. It sounded like heavy rain, or a furious wind.

Layla stopped also. They were still far from the bank. The current grew rapid, swifter than ever before. The raft bobbed along, caught in the inevitable surge.

"Paddle!" cried Ella. "It’s a waterfall!"

She paddled to the utmost of her strength. The raft slowly pulled across as the bank sped by.

Ella heard a shriek. She turned. It was Layla, staring, transfixed, her hand across her mouth. Then Ella saw it too.

Just ahead river fell away into nothingness. There was no chance. They would never make it.

Ella’s mind went blank. She thought of nothing, just gazed at her impending doom.

The raft flew on the swift water.

They went over.

Ella screamed as she fell. She lost contact with the raft immediately. The nightlamp was lost. Everything was in darkness. She could see nothing, hear nothing, except for the great roar of the cascading water. Her body twisted one way, then another, as she plummeted through the air.

Then she hit. The water churned itself into froth. For a heartbeat she was floating on the foam before being slammed deep underwater, pummelled mercilessly with the strength of a thousand hammers into the cavity created by the action of thousands of years.

Her vision turned black, then white. Her ears hummed and shrieked, her head felt like it would explode. Her lungs were groaning with the lack of air, desperately trying to convince her she should open her mouth and suck in whatever she might find. Some sensible part of Ella held fast.

She was rolled over again and again, losing all sense of up and down. Suddenly the pressure eased, and she knew she was away from the base of the waterfall.

Still underwater, Ella opened her eyes but could see only shadows. Her lungs screaming, she picked a direction and swam. Her head smashed into a rock. She almost blacked out, taking in a big mouthful of water. With her arms in front of her head she tried again. Her head broke free from the surface and she gasped in the sweet air.

Coughing and choking, she gathered herself and looked around. Where was Layla? Where was the raft?

There were shapes pointing their heads out of the water, many of them. Ella peered into the dark, then realised what they were. Rocks. She had to get out of the water.

She tried to swim and her arm tangled in something. Her satchel. She’d somehow kept it. She untangled herself, her dress dragging her down, her satchel making it difficult to move her arms for fear of losing it. With a great effort she made the distance to the rocky bank without cutting herself on the sharp stones.

Where was Layla?

She fell into darkness.

32

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

— Sermons of Primate Melovar Aspen, 536 Y.E.

M
IRO
fingered the scar on his cheek. It still hurt. The scar was about a fingers width, running from below his left eye to his jaw line.

He stood, stone-faced, in the circle of the bladesingers’ conference as Blademaster Rogan prepared to speak.

The bladesingers looked on, their matching green silk and
raj hada
bold and challenging. Something of import was about to be said.

~

M
UCH
had changed, after the test. Miro had barely come away from it with his life. The wound in his side had been deep; fortunately the surgeon had a steady hand, and some honey and wine had prevented the spread of corruption. The slice across his face was less serious, but it also needed stitching.

Bartolo had almost bled to death from a terrible wound in his upper thigh. A lot of his life’s blood had spilled out onto the sandy floor; almost too much. He had barely had the strength to knock three times on the barred door.

Ronell had taken a different tactic. It was seen as being a reasonable course of action, but there had also been a vague tone of disquiet. Miro hadn’t even considered the option, and later, talking to Bartolo, his friend hadn’t either.

Ronell had toyed with the golem, merely defending, trying to get it far enough away that it couldn’t protect its controller.

Then he’d killed the animator.

The bladesingers now had three new men to their number. Miro’s armoursilk — his own this time — now bore the
raj hada
of a full bladesinger. It was still nowhere near enough to replace their losses.

The night before they’d left Sark, when their new members had healed sufficiently, they’d been welcomed into the fraternity with a great feast. Many of the lords and marshals had been there.

Still, Miro preferred the entertainments of a simple tavern.

Conversation had naturally revolved around the war. The Halrana were completely focussed around taking back Ralanast and sealing their border with Loua Louna in the north. Miro didn’t hear the undeclared houses discussed once. Prince Leopold was proving to be an indecisive commander, more willing to follow the lead of others than lead himself. The result was that their entire combined force was devoted to the re-conquest of Ralanast.

Miro could understand their motivation. Ralanast was a wealthy city of great population, a centre of culture and learning. Her people would be crying for freedom from the tyranny of the Black Army.

But it had little strategic importance. They were taking men out of the Ring Forts, weakening their strongest position, and sending them into what would inevitably be a gruelling battle. A battle that could very likely see much of Ralanast destroyed.

~

T
HAT
had been two weeks ago. Sark was now a memory.

Their great army had pushed forward. The Alturans with their bladesingers, enchanters, and well-equipped heavy infantry; the Halrana with their smaller numbers of regular infantry, but cart upon cart of constructs. The huge carts were pulled along by drudges — menial constructs made of wood, strong and simple. Interspersed down the long train, and guiding the drudges were the animators themselves.

Dirigibles floated overhead, providing warning about lurking enemy forces. Scouts ran in all directions, seeking news of enemy movements and testing the lay of the land. At night the enchanters set up wards and alarms; the animators put out iron golem sentries.

The enemy had backed away, leaving barren ground and little else. They’d pulled back north, past the upper limit of the Ring Forts. Leaving the fortresses’ protection completely, the army had followed them north.

Blademaster Rogan now openly derided their strategy. He knew what was about to happen, with a dangerous foe still lurking to the north and the occupied city of Ralanast to the west.

Prince Leopold gave the order to split the army. Half would stay to face the enemy to the north. The other half would try to take back Ralanast.

No one said it, but everyone knew. Neither of the new armies would be sufficiently close for the Ring Forts to provide reinforcement in the event of a defeat.

It was now the last night before the split.

"Bladesingers, this is the farthest north we have come in our travels," Rogan said. "As you know, we lie between the borders of two houses — Raj Halaran, and Raj Loua Louna." He paused for effect. "But to our north lies the border of another house." He gazed around, meeting the eyes of each in turn. "Raj Vezna, the cultivators. They stay silent while around us men die. We cannot miss this opportunity. I have no permission from high command, I have sought none. But I propose we find out where the cultivators stand, rather than sitting idly by and waiting for them to throw their lot in with the Black Army. Can I hear support for my proposal?"

"Altura!" the bladesingers shouted.

Rogan smiled. "Good. I will hear plans for an information gathering mission. Remember, stealth and secrecy is the priority here."

He withdrew into the perimeter of the circle. Bladesinger Huron Gower walked into the middle.

"Once in Veznan lands the trees will provide plenty of cover. It’s getting through enemy lines that will be the problem. Our best bet is to use the cover of Tovitch Forest, then the Sarsen itself — it’s shallow and wide in these parts."

He received a rumble of assent from the circle.

Huron continued. "One man. One man only, in the new black armoursilk. He can be shadowed by the rest of us for part of the way, protected for a time. But it is my opinion that he stands the best chance alone."

"But who?" called one of the bladesingers from the circle.

Some names were bandied about. Then, to Miro’s complete surprise, he heard his own name.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Something of a legend had grown up around him since the test. He probably had the animator to thank for that. The Halrana simply couldn’t believe that an un-armoured man had defeated an iron golem, even with a zenblade. Miro had been quizzed at length, but he’d said nothing about turning the zenblade blue, and with nothing to prove he’d just said he’d picked up the wrong set of armoursilk. The bladesingers thought it was hilarious. But they’d also looked at him with a new respect.

"Miro," someone else said his name again.

Huron nodded. "It was Miro who asked the enchanters for the black armoursilk. He can obviously fight without the full armour — something some of us may depend too much on — and he is not one I would wish to face in battle." He grinned, "Plus, he had a problem with his last testing, so this would be a good clincher."

Blademaster Rogan called out, "Can I hear an assent?"

"Aye!"

"Miro, do you accept the request?"

Miro felt he was being swept up in the tide of events. "I do."

"Good. Prepare yourself. You leave tonight."

They swept through their own army, a single man in black followed by a phalanx in green silk. Not one soldier queried them on the way. None were prepared to challenge the bladesingers.

The moon cast a silver glow on the hills that separated the two armies. The enemy were encamped in a wide crescent, the western edge of which touched on Tovitch Forest. There was no chance of going unseen — the Black Army had erected huge towers on all fronts, dirigibles floated above, sentries patrolled ceaselessly.

At some unspoken command first one, then another of the bladesingers began his song. The runes flared as they were activated, the armoursilk took on the strength of mountains, the lightness of air.

They ran like the wind over and down the hills, a speeding triangle of elemental figures. As they ran they drew their swords, and added the zenblades’ song.

The enemy responded with deadly speed. Soldiers poured down to support the western point of the encampment. Mortars sparked, orbs began to rain down in the midst of the bladesingers. Six dirigibles covered the approach before the bladesingers had even reached the defences, ready to pour fire on those below.

Slightly to the side, unseen and unnoticed in the commotion, Miro ran with them. He sang only for lightness, speed and shadow. He was a black void amongst bright stars. Their song stirred his blood, and he wanted nothing more than to draw his zenblade and join them in the attack.

Miro suddenly saw a wide ditch yawning ahead of him, the bottom lined with steel spikes. It was thirty paces wide, as long as five men were tall. He saw the men about him leaping like birds. He took a breath, timing it to his chant, and jumped. The air whistled past his ears, he landed with a thud and kept running.

Runebombs were being dropped from dirigibles — the bladesingers made for easy targets. Gouts of flame and smoke tore up the ground. Explosions sounded again and again. Not far from Miro, dirt spewed out of the ground, tossing a bladesinger into the air. He kept singing though, and landed deftly on his feet.

Miro heard the clash of arms as battle was joined, and veered off.

He tested his chant for every activation sequence, checking every inflection. His breath coming strong and even, his legs pacing out, he decided he was satisfied. He put his song to the corner of his mind and entered Tovitch Forest.

The trees here were different from the trees he was used to in the Dunwood. The Dunwood was wild and untamed, this was more planned. The evergreens were evenly spaced a few paces apart and he had no trouble weaving through them.

He slowed his run to a ground-eating lope, but thoughts were rushing through his mind. Miro knew the importance of what he was doing. Prince Leopold only saw the immediate, only thought one step ahead. But there were many who knew there was some strange force at play, questions that needed answering.

The moon passed across the sky. Miro ran through the night. As the trees of Tovitch Forest thinned, he saw the glint of water ahead and gave up his chanting. Plunging into the icy water of the Sarsen, he waded to the other side, then stood on the bank for a moment, panting, his breath coming in steam. The water ran down his black silk; at least he had that comfort.

Miro regarded Veznan lands for a moment, and then entered.

It was a new forest — that much was clear. The trees were even more planned than those before, grove upon grove of every species carefully given its own space and separated from the others.

As he penetrated deeper into the forest, the species grew more and more strange. Soon he saw trees with two trunks, each at an angle to the other like legs. The big gnarled branches looked like arms, each the size of a man. They were still trees though, sleeping, unmoving.