The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (50 page)

The grey dress was hideously hot; it seemed to soak up all of the heat and hold onto it. Not for the first time Ella wished she was wearing white.

~

"M
OVE
out!" a voice called. Ella’s eyes jerked open with a start. She’d fallen asleep. How long? It couldn’t have been more than a few moments. The soldiers around her groaned but shot up with alacrity — these were trained veterans after all.

"Here," a soldier said, smiling. He handed her a hardened piece of bread and some kind of dried meat. She smiled her thanks.

Suddenly there was a great noise in the distance — a terrible shrieking, snarling sound.

It was the creature.

"Quickly! Form up!" Captain Joram called.

They moved into formation, the scouts on the fringes, the bladesingers in the centre flanking the High Enchantress and Ella. She felt much safer having them around her, but she’d heard the soldiers’ stories, spoken in hushed tones on the march. Whatever the thing was, it had faced a bladesinger and won.

The pace grew even faster now. Even the High Enchantress began to look weary, unable to hold up her implacable exterior. The bladesingers still seemed calm, but their mouths were set in grim lines. They had a score to settle with the owner of those cries.

Ella concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Rocks were becoming scarcer now, being replaced with dark yellow sand. Rather than remaining flat, the ground began to rise and fall like the waves of the sea, forming dunes that had to be climbed and then descended, uphill and then downhill, over and over. Looking ahead all Ella could see were dunes, one after the other, like a great sandy ocean as far as the eye could see.

The heat finally began to slacken as the sun began to fall towards the horizon.

"We’re on the edge of the Hazara now," Captain Joram said to the High Enchantress.

She nodded, "Take us in. The creature may fear the open ground."

It was nearly sundown when one of the scouts ran up, panting. Everyone heard him report. "Men, armed men."

"Petryans?" Captain Joram frowned.

"No. The creature, I think it’s with them."

"Who are they then?" said the High Enchantress.

"I think they are… Templars."

"Templars? Here? How many?"

"Yes, High Enchantress. Perhaps twice our number. The creature. It seems a part of their group."

Ella’s heart began to palpitate in her chest. The Primate’s men. They were here. She looked around and saw many of the soldiers muttering, prayers on their lips.

She suddenly felt incredibly exposed here in the open desert. She longed for the rivers and forests of Altura like never before. She just wanted to go home.

The High Enchantress seemed to think for a moment.

"At last," one of the bladesingers said. "We can face them on open ground."

"Quiet," said Evora Guinestor.

She turned to Ella. "My child, your work is not yet done. There is one more thing I have to ask of you."

Ella paled. "What is it?"

"Be strong, Ella."

Without another word the High Enchantress removed her shimmering green silk robe, to stand only in a light underdress. Embarrassed, the soldiers turned away. The bladesingers looked on, interested.

"High Enchantress, that’s your…"

"It’s my gift to you, if only for a time. I have enchanted this with the greatest runes of concealment and protection that are within my ability to construct. Now, put it on, and place the hood over your head."

Ella did as she was told.

"You have the Lexicon. That is what is important. Contained within its pages are the instructions for renewal. We face an unknown enemy here, but with three bladesingers and my skill we may yet prevail. One must make plans for undesirable outcomes, however, so you are to stay hidden Ella. I will activate the runes of concealment and you will stay here. Do you understand?"

"I do, High Enchantress."

Evora Guinestor met Ella’s eyes. Ella saw compassion there, and understanding.

"You opened the book, didn’t you?"

Ella nodded.

"Good, I am glad. Remember, all schools of lore are different facets of the same jewel. The one who understands that and applies it is the one who holds the world in her hands. Now kneel. Cover your head with your arms."

Ella sank to the sand, ignoring its blistering heat.

"
Su-nam
!
Al-turak-ackour
!" the High Enchantress chanted activation sequences, one after the other, in short, staccato syllables.

The shimmering robe began to grow translucent. Ella knelt on the ground, completely still, her satchel inside the folds of the robe. Her head was covered, she could see nothing.

She heard the sound of the men grouping into a battle formation. They moved away from her, still audible through the crisp desert air.

A great roar sounded, as close as she had ever heard it. The creature was near.

A tiny glimmer of light shone through a tiny gap in the robe. She looked out.

Ella could see a crest of the desert, a long line of the sand outlined against the setting sun. Figures suddenly rose from the summit, like spikes from a barricade. Men. Many men. They were all dressed in white robes, a black sun on their breasts. They drew swords.

"Men, draw swords!" it was the voice of Captain Joram.

The templars ran down the hill, gaining momentum as their numbers pushed forward. More than five times the number of Alturans.

One other figure ran at the forefront of the templars, a long dagger brandished in either fist. It was a woman, dressed in a billowing white dress. Her hair was a wild mess. She ran with a disconcerting gate that reminded Ella of nothing more than a bounding wolf.

The woman opened her lips and screamed. It was the cry of the beast, the shriek of the night creature. Ella quailed and pulled the robe closer about her body. She trembled. All she could see now was darkness.

She could hear the High Enchantress chanting. The Alturans cried together as they ran to meet their foe. There was a horrible crunching, rending sound as sword chewed into bone. Men screamed. A liquid squelching told of a man’s disembowelment. Explosions boomed. Ella felt the searing heat of flashbombs and prismatic orbs. Above it all the sound of the bladesingers voices rose as they called forth the power in their armour, as their swords became blades of flame.

There was a hideous grunting sound, and then she could only make out two of the bladesingers voices.

Then, moments later, just one.

Remembering the High Enchantress’s activation sequence for the cloaking effect, Ella chanted under her breath, frightened and alone in the darkness.

She listened for Evora’s voice. It was gone. She listened for the last bladesinger. Gone. She stopped her chant, lest someone hear her.

There was one final clash of swords.

Then there was nothing.

She heard a soft crunching sound. A sniffing came from right beside her. Tears ran down Ella’s face as she trembled. Ella smelled a terrible smell, a fetid odour of corruption.

Suddenly there was a mighty roar, a terrible scream of incredible power, a cry of triumph. Ella nearly screamed in fright.

"I smell something…" a sibilant voice hissed.

"Saryah, some Alturans ran over that hill, hunt them down," a deep voice said.

"Yes…" the voice responded.

The presence was gone.

Ella stayed perfectly motionless, her breath still, listening to them as they searched the dead and dispatched the wounded. A man sobbed softly for help. Ella recognised the voice of the soldier who had handed her the water bottle. His voice was quickly cut off. The tears dried on her cheeks. She simply wanted the earth to swallow her, to take her out of this terrible place.

"The Petryans wanted the body of the High Enchantress."

"I’ll see to it."

"Did you save one?" the deep voice said.

"Yes, Templar. Here, their captain."

There was a sound as of a body being dropped. Captain Joram! Ella held her breath. Was he alive?

"Please," his voice was almost indistinguishable. He spoke with a strange gurgling sound.

"Listen, man. You’ve got no legs. They’ve cut your arms off too. Next we’ll take your eyes. Why not tell me, where is the Lexicon?"

"No," Joram said in a voice of indescribable pain.

"Take his eyes!"

Ella was forced to listen as they tortured poor, rigorous Captain Joram. He knew exactly where she was.

He lasted through to the very end.

For her.

47

The Emperor’s menagerie held all manner of creature. The lengths that had been gone to and the expense that had been incurred, well, it astonished me. I saw birds with plumes of feathers ten times as long as their bodies. Large furred creatures with tails and pitiful expressions on their round faces. Mighty lizards with mottled hides, and translucent fish that were born, lived and died in the span of a day. What insane system meant the Emperor could possess animals from further than I had ever travelled, yet none of these places were rendered on our maps?

— Toro Marossa, ‘Explorations’, Page 38, 423 Y.E.

T
HE
bulk of their forces had left a week ago. The soldiers’ faces had been grim. They knew the coming battle for Ralanast would decide the fate of Halaran once and for all. The great horde of men and constructs had departed, leaving behind perhaps a tenth of their number.

Miro had watched them pass. Dirigibles without number. All of the bladesingers but Miro. The still-functioning ironmen, woodmen, and bonemen. Alturan heavy infantry. Mortar teams. Halrana pikemen. Three of the massive colossi stormed off. The animator cages atop their great heads looked tiny by comparison.

It was like some great exodus.

Miro wore a different
raj hada
now over his green armoursilk. It proclaimed him a captain of the Alturan army.

They had decided to make their stand at a place called Bald Ridge. The morning sky was dark — the colour of smoke. The colour of the great plume rising from the Halrana town of Sallat as it burned. It started to rain, a cold drizzle that pooled in the freshly dug earthworks to form puddles of mud. Miro looked back and forth along the line of men.

"Would fighting two deep be more suitable, Captain?" Lord Rorelan said.

It still felt strange hearing his rank on the man’s lips. Rorelan was a young man, perhaps three years older than Miro. He had a beaked nose and small eyes, but he seemed much more reasonable than many of the other lords Miro had met. Rorelan had looked the battle-hardened bladesinger up and down and then deferred instantly to Miro. He thought carefully through decisions they had made about their deployment and even made some useful suggestions of his own.

"No, My Lord," Miro said. "We occupy a long ridge, which gives us the advantage of high ground. We want to hold the entire face, so it is better for us to have a long thin line than a short deep one. The enemy will be seeking to overrun one of our positions and then come at us from behind. Men who will face an enemy down from a hill balk at being attacked from behind. If we allow the enemy to outflank us, we are dead in moments. Moments."

"Ahem," Lord Rorelan said. "Hence the flying brigade then?"

"Yes, My Lord. If there is a breach we need to stop it up immediately."

Miro and Rorelan looked down at the plain below. The Black Army scurried about like ants. Miro could see mortar teams forming up under the cover of dirigibles. That was his greatest concern. If the enemy commander was clever he would concentrate his bombardment in one area then hit the same area with his troops.

It was what Miro would do.

There were five imperial avengers at the forefront of the mass of enemy soldiers. They were obvious by the way the soldiers in black stood apart from them, fearful of the monster in their midst. Miro could just make out their barbed flails. There was a great danger here, he knew.

A man ran up to Miro, "Everything is ready, Captain."

Miro nodded, "Well done."

He looked again along the line of men. It was a motley collection of Alturans and Halrana. He could see heavy Alturan infantry, their scaled metal armour glowing silver, drawn swords ready to be activated. They would stop all but the strongest of the enemy. He could see Halrana pikemen, their mouths set in a thin line, their eyes steely with determination. But the line was mostly made up of regulars, soldiers with ordinary swords and spears, some with armour of metal, some with armour of leather, and some with no armour at all.

Miro stood with Lord Rorelan at the centre of the line. Behind him was his carefully assembled flying brigade, men he had worked with, men he knew. When the time came, he would fight with them. And most likely, he would die with them.

He met eyes with Rorelan, finding a surprisingly determined gaze looking back at him. The young lord wore his
raj hada
on his cloak. Underneath he wore heavy enchanted armour. The sword at his side was bright — it had probably never been used. Miro hoped he would stand. Nothing took away men’s courage like seeing one of their leaders run.

There was a man in a grey cloak working his way through the line towards him. Miro frowned. Then the man reached Miro.

"Excuse me, Captain," the man in grey grinned, looking up. "I thought perhaps I might join you here."

Miro laughed and reached out his hand. The man threw off his cloak, revealing bright green armoursilk below. It was Bartolo. He laughed as well, clasping Miro’s hand in a firm grip.

"Happy to have you. Very happy indeed. Lord Rorelan, this is Bladesinger Bartolo."

"Always a pleasure to fight beside a bladesinger."

"My Lord," Bartolo acknowledged.

Bartolo stood beside Miro and watched the Black Army’s preparations below. He looked along the line and whispered to Miro. "What have we got, five thousand?"

"Something like that," Miro murmured.

"Against, what, fifty? Lord of the Sky, help us."