The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (43 page)

"Kill her!" Blackall lunged at Ella’s head, but as his sword made contact with the dress a fountain of sparks sprayed out and the steel shattered into metal filings.

Ella increased her chant still further.

She vanished.

One moment she was there, the next moment she was gone. Suddenly there was a flash of green silk and a bandit went down. Then a pale face hovered next to a hulking man, and he collapsed. One by one the bandits howled in pain and crumpled. Blackall just stood there, gaping.

Then Ella was past. She chanted as she ran, until she had left the bandits far behind. She doubted they would have the will to chase her at any rate.

The pass opened up again. It became a gorge. The walls of the gorge spread themselves apart to show what they truly were — the sides of mountains.

Ella slowed, constantly looking behind her, only deactivating the runes when she was sure she wasn’t being followed.

Ella was now the same as she had always been — a young woman wearing a green silk dress.

~

I
T
was hard going, but somehow the knowledge that she was now beginning the descent into Petrya spurred Ella on. There was just as much rubble and loose gravel as there had been on her ascent, but her steps were now more nimble, lighter. Perhaps it had something to do with her supply of food and water, which was running dangerously low, the benefit being that her satchel was the lightest it had ever been. Perhaps it was her sense of satisfaction at besting the brigands who had waylaid her.

One thing was for sure, Ella felt warmer than she had in a long time. While the Alturan side of the range had been cast in perpetual shade by the sun, on the Petryan side, the late morning rays were warming the dry air.

The land below was revealed in the bright light of day, a panoramic vista. Looking to the north, her eyes followed the Elmas behind her as they curved all the way to where the mountains turned into hills in the Gap of Garl. The foothills then became the Emdas, a range that was to the Elmas what a giant was to a tall man. The land of Petrya was a great plain surrounded by mountains on all sides but one; to the south was the great Hazara Desert.

Ella’s main view point though was ahead of her, at the path Killian was taking into the great bowl that was Petrya. It was a harsh land, barren and littered with stones and boulders of all sizes and hues.

Suddenly she stopped. There, at the base of the mountain, still a great distance in front of her, was a man. He was clothed in white. His hair was a fiery dark red.

Then, as quickly as she had seen him, he vanished into a copse of trees.

He was perhaps half a day’s march in front of her.

Killian.

Ella ran through the possibilities one more time. He couldn’t know she was there.

Her steps were more careful now. Ella prepared to hunt down her quarry.

39

The Lexicons may not even be the greatest works of the Evermen. Who knows what other wonders lay deep in the bowels of Stonewater?

— Diary of High Enchantress Maya Pallandor, Page 680, 411 Y.E.

P
RIMATE
Melovar Aspen could remember the time before the elixir. It was hazy, like a remembrance of childhood.

He could recall feeling tired. Sitting at his desk in Stonewater, high up in the hollowed-out shell of the mountain. The aching cold, deep in his bones. His pen scratching endlessly. The feeling of impotence, of being trapped by his position.

Why had he felt impotent? A memory came to him of a conversation he’d had with an imperial ambassador. A money-grubbing peddler, with jewels on his fingers and rich dark clothes of velvet.

The meeting followed the usual pattern, and then Melovar remembered standing up at his desk, his joints cracking. He had walked to the large window. Without a word he opened it, his thin arms encountering resistance, grunting with effort.

Instantly a stiff breeze gusted into the room. It was always windy at Stonewater, something to do with the mountain’s height.

The Primate leaned against the window frame, gazing out at the city of Salvation below. He beckoned the ambassador forward. After a moment, the man hesitantly joined him.

"Do you see?" the Primate pointed.

The ambassador seemed giddy for a moment, made breathless by the height and the sheer drop below the window. The stone face fell for thousands of paces.

"What is it, Your Grace?"

"On the edge of Salvation, outside the city walls."

The ambassador’s brow furrowed. "Some kind of camp."

"The dispossessed," Melovar said, looking at the ambassador to make his point. "Vagrants. They come from all over, but most of all, they come from Seranthia."

"Really? From the imperial capital? But these are just rabble — what trouble can they cause? They probably aren’t even Tingaran citizens."

"Most are not."

"Then what is the problem? Your templars can’t control them?"

The Primate shook his head. "They are too weak to fight. The system is corrupt, Ambassador, that is the problem. The non-citizens are multiplying faster than the Tingarans. The citizens force them out of work and the Emperor leaves them to starve. The Wall shuts them out of Seranthia, so they come here, to Aynar, to Salvation, because as templars we can at least give them order. We can feed them, and give them work hauling the raw materials for essence manufacture."

"Scum," the ambassador spat the word. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but in Seranthia we give short thrift to non-citizens."

"But don't you see, Ambassador?" Melovar was desperate for him to understand. "Isn’t that going against the very tenets of what the Empire stands for? What we here at the Assembly stand for? The Evermen gave us the relics for a reason. They gave us the Lexicons and the ability to create works of lore, but for what? I'm beginning to believe that perhaps magic is more of a cause than a solution to our problems. Magic is driving our greed — our constant striving for more wealth, more power. We aren't helping people, we're using them. And when they're all used up, we discard them."

"Without lore there would be no Assembly," said the ambassador. "No templars."

"Ah, but you are forgetting our original purpose," said Melovar. "To guide the people, and teach them of the Evermen. To help them lead lives free from sin. I am the spiritual head of the empire. My job is to help. Somehow, with the constant demand for essence, that has become lost."

Melovar waited for a reply. The Tingaran ambassador opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, frowning.

Melovar spontaneously gripped the man’s shoulders. "Look, Ambassador, look when you are there. Look deep within. Then, let us talk again."

The ambassador shook his head. "Your Grace, what can I do? There will always be those who help themselves, and those who don’t. I bid you leave."

The ambassador left Melovar standing at the window, staring out at Salvation and the masses of the poor.

The ground suddenly heaved and the boom of an explosion made the earth tremble. The Primate put his hand to his head, shaking off the fugue, bringing himself back to the present. The conversation took place some time ago; it was just a memory. How long had it been? He’d been several minutes without the elixir, and he quickly sipped from a golden goblet.

Instantly he felt rejuvenated. Where was he? He looked around him, at the fitted stones that made up the walls. The parade-ground voices of soldiers called, somewhere outside.

Ah, yes. He was far from Stonewater, in Torakon. He was encamped with his army, in the middle of the Azure Plains, standing in the command centre the builders had constructed at his request.

The last vestiges of the remembered conversation left him. The elixir had been having a strange effect on him of late.

Primate Melovar banished such thoughts and looked at the great map spread on the wall. Half of the Tingaran Empire was now under his direct control. Soon the black sun would fly from every building in every city of the world.

Moragon entered the room. "Your Grace, the Halrana attempted a sneak attack. We’ve repelled them, but some men were killed."

"Ah, Moragon. I was just about to summon you."

The Emperor’s executioner had required little persuasion to join the Primate’s cause. Not an intimidating man by nature, the Primate had enjoyed the fear that Moragon inspired in others. Primate Melovar now took great pleasure in seeing people react the same way to himself.

"Your idea was an interesting one, Moragon, but the eldritch didn’t return. Is there someone who knows more of these matters? Raj Tingara’s lore is not a strong suit of mine."

"The Tingaran loremaster…"

"Bah, the loremaster can hardly keep his wits about him. The addiction is killing him."

"And you?"

"Don’t presume to worry about me. I have the Evermen on my side."

"Yes, Your Grace. But still, the Alturan Lexicon…"

"I know," Primate Melovar snapped. "Yes, we need it, and I don’t know how far the thief can be trusted. There must be something in its pages to explain this addiction. Send Saryah."

Moragon’s face turned grim. "Saryah? Are you sure?"

"Yes, Moragon. I am sure."

Moragon nodded. "I’ll see to it."

"Oh, and Moragon?"

"Yes, Primate?"

"These ironmen are proving troublesome. I’m growing weary of the animators. Send word to Stonewater. I think it’s time to put the elixir to its greatest test. Let us destroy the Halrana Lexicon."

Moragon bowed and left. His eyes closed as he sipped from the goblet, the Primate barely noticed.

40

Have you no wish for others to be saved? Then you are not saved yourself, be sure of that.

— Sermons of Primate Melovar Aspen, 537 Y.E.

E
LLA
entered the town of Hatlatu with a terrible feeling of foreboding sending a chill through every bone in her body.

She’d changed into her most neutral garment, a grey dress with white and blue stripes on the hem. It was still perhaps too revealing, if she compared herself to the Petryans she was seeing, but it would have to do.

She was feeling completely out of her depth. When she’d finally made it to the base of the mountain she’d thought it would be easy to follow Killian’s path, but there was no path to follow. It was as if he’d vanished into the dark forest of brown and red trees.

Not for the first time, she wished Layla was with her.

Fortunately, she’d eventually found some kind of game path that led through the forest. She’d spent that night huddled under a tree, not daring to use a heatplate or a nightlamp for fear it would bring unwanted attention. The sounds of this forest were completely new to her, eerie shrieks and sighing sounds coming from all directions.

She’d woken sore and weary, fatigued from short snatches of fitful sleep. Half a day had seen the game trail turn into a fully-fledged path. The trees had grown thinner, and she had emerged into a dusty field, spotted with outbuildings. She’d circled back around through the forest, following the edge of the field, until she’d come upon the small town.

The land was sparsely populated, Ella knew that much. There was a good chance Killian had passed through here. It was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss.

Now, she was having second thoughts. The sun was harsh here, and the people had sun-darkened skin and swarthy features. Women frowned at her, she was obviously different. They wore scarves tied over their hair, whereas Ella’s long pale hair fell loose and straight. Some of the men frowned too, while others just stared. Many of the men had curled moustaches, others sported neatly trimmed beards. Ella was surprised to see that both men and women wore some kind of charcoal paste around their eyes. It gave them a strange, exotic look.

Ella walked along what she thought must be the town’s main street. The buildings were constructed of a dark slate with beams of red wood. Some of them appeared to be taverns, and it must be meal time. Ella could smell spicy aromas and see many of the men and women drinking something from bowls with two hands while they conversed.

Ella decided she needed to ask her questions and quickly leave, before she got herself into trouble.

She walked up to a moustached Petryan who looked like his face was less severe than the others. He backed away slightly when she approached, keeping a few paces between them.

"I am terribly sorry to bother you," Ella said. "Have you seen a young man, a priest, pass through here? He would have had red hair."

"Where are you from?" the Petryan frowned.

"I… I was raised in Altura, but my father..."

"Altura?" The Petryan half-turned, and called out a name, "Putahnmet!"

Another man popped his head out of some kind of an official house with painted gold trim on its wooden beams. He wore a flat red hat on his head, the
raj hada
of Petrya — a teardrop and flame — presented on the breast of his red coat. "What is it?"

"Look at this girl. She asks about the priest, the one who sleeps at your house. She says she is from Altura."

The official looked hard at Ella for a moment. "Altura? Wait there, I will come over."

There was something menacing in his tone. Ella didn’t understand what was happening. "I need to be going."

The moustached man grabbed her by the arm. Ella began to panic.

"Nothing to fear," the moustached man said in soothing tones. "We just want to ask a few questions."

She reached into a pocket of her dress with her other arm and withdrew a small stone, the size of her palm, inscribed with runes.

"
Tuk-talour
," she whispered. She threw the stone into the middle of the street, then put her hand over her eyes and looked away.

There was a sudden flash of white light. People screamed. The moustached man and the official both clutched at their eyes.

"I’m blind, I can’t see!" she heard someone shriek.