The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (52 page)

The zenblade turned an ethereal blue. The armoursilk took on the lustre of crystal.

He rolled in under the flail. The avenger’s arm punched down where he had been a heartbeat before, the sword impaling the empty ground. Miro stabbed at the creature’s leg but the avenger was quicker, it twisted and the flail came back around, hitting Miro squarely in the chest. His body flew up in the air.

The point of the avenger’s great sword waited for Miro’s body to fall, to impale itself on the blade. Instead, Miro twisted in the air, his zenblade crashing into the sword. Sparks sprayed out, accompanied by a noise like lightning.

The avenger’s sword sheared off halfway.

Far from dead, the avenger’s flail caught Miro again, the spiked ball throwing Miro’s body to the ground, slamming the breath out of him.

His song was lost as he choked, gasping in vain for air to fill his lungs. The broken sword thrust at the ground, Miro rolled to one side, then to the other as it thrust again.

Finally, he gathered enough air to shout.

"
Hul-ta-unmar-al-ran
!" with the single activation sequence, the zenblade flared red. He leapt up into the avenger’s backswing, his sword held in two hands.

The blade pierced the creature’s skull with a terrible crunching sound. Miro fell back to the ground, coughing and wheezing. With a mighty crash, the imperial avenger fell to the earth beside him.

"Here, Captain" a voice said.

Miro turned; a soldier was offering him his hand. He lurched to his feet, his breath finally returning.

"Thank you, soldier," he said.

He looked around. Bartolo was struggling. Half of the heavy infantry had been mauled by the second avenger.

Miro chanted as he ran, his armoursilk becoming comfortably bright. "Hold for me!" he cried.

Without waiting to see if Bartolo heard him, he leapt atop Batrolo’s back and jumped. His leap was impossibly high, taking him over the avenger’s head, past its field of vision. He thrust his zenblade down at its neck as he flew past, landing heavily on the avenger’s other side. He turned just as the avenger fell to the ground. Bartolo followed with a sweeping cut, taking the creature’s head off.

Bartolo grinned at Miro, rubbing his back theatrically. "I didn’t hear you. You’re not that light you know."

Miro smiled back.

~

A
FTER
a massive counterattack, the enemy finally withdrew, leaving the defenders to lick their wounds.

Miro had traversed the full length of the line several times during the fighting. Sweat and blood covered him from head to toe. He’d picked up a small, but deep, cut on his neck when a prismatic orb had exploded near him, sending splinters of blood and bone in all directions.

He looked about him. There were perhaps a thousand men left. Corpses littered the battlefield in all directions, friend and foe alike. The men had given everything they had on this day. Everything and more.

Miro found Tuok standing on the ridge. The man grinned up at him, as indestructible as ever. Remembering when Tuok had taught him about Seranthia, and the way of the world, Miro grinned in return.

It was then that he noticed a spreading red stain above Tuok’s waist. Seeing his gaze, Tuok nodded, before lifting his sword up in the air.

"Come on, you imperial scum!" Tuok shouted down from the ridge. Miro clapped the man on the shoulder. The wound was a death sentence. They both knew it.

"Captain?" a soldier said, standing at Miro’s elbow.

"Yes?"

"Lord Rorelan, he is asking for you."

"Of course," Miro said. He felt dazed. He had no idea what time it was. He looked up. The sun was starting to lower in the sky. Some time in the afternoon. Had it really been only one day?

The men nodded their heads as he walked past. There wasn’t a man who didn’t have some kind of wound. Most had seen their comrades die on this day. Yet they stood here proudly. They had held against the storm.

Lord Rorelan was lying on his back, a strange expression of contentment on his face.

"My Lord, what is it?"

"I wanted to talk to you, Captain Torresante."

Then Miro looked down, realising why the man was so awkwardly prone. A spear was embedded in his thigh. As he watched, Miro could see the blood pooling under the Lord’s body.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"I have a request, Miro. I would ask something of you."

"Of course, My Lord."

"Miro. Seeing you today. It showed me what being a lord was about."

"You fought valiantly, Lord Rorelan. I mean that."

"Thank you, Miro, thank you for indulging my vanity," he chuckled. "However my request is to do with your family."

"I don’t understand."

"Your father was High Lord of Altura. Whatever reasons Tessolar has, you have the right to call yourself a Lord of Altura. I want you to talk to him, Miro."

Miro’s face grew bitter. "No…"

"Miro! That is my request. Now promise me," Lord Rorelan sank down onto the ground. The blood continued to gush from the wound.

"I… I promise, Lord Rorelan." Miro kissed the man’s bloody brow. "I will talk to High Lord Tessolar."

Lord Rorelan didn’t hear him. The man had passed into unconsciousness.

"Who is in command here?" a voice shouted.

Miro stood. "I suppose I am."

An Alturan messenger came up, his green and yellow uniform so clean that it seemed absurd in the surroundings. "I have a message for the commander."

"What is it?"

The man handed Miro a scroll. Miro unfurled it; his brow furrowed.

A moment later he looked up.

"Soldiers, our work here is done. We have accomplished our mission, against all odds. Remember this day. And if anyone asks you what happened this day, simply tell them. I held. We held!"

The men cheered, shouting their approval.

Miro concealed his expression. They had a difficult journey ahead of them. He thought again about the message he held in his hands.

"Army in rout. Ralanast remains in enemy hands. High Lord Legasa killed in action. Marshal Sloan killed in action. Blademaster Rogan killed in action. Request immediate support defensive action to Mornhaven. Signed, Prince Leopold Mandragore, Lord Marshal of the Armies of Altura and Halaran."

48

Artists make for terrible enchanters. They seek to imbue the symbols with personality, to describe some state of being with the whorls and bridges. However the converse can be infinitely true. The best enchanters are artists.

— Diary of High Enchantress Maya Pallandor, Page 224, 411 Y.E.

"T
HIS
one, she is alive," a voice said.

Ella woke to intense heat. She opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was two sets of legs, both wearing high dark boots. Dark cloth was wound around the legs in a criss-cross pattern.

The enchantress’s robe must have finally exhausted itself. It had so far filtered out the worst of the sun’s rays. Filled with despair and exhausted beyond belief, Ella had slipped into unconsciousness

She realised she could be seen. It was her these men were looking at.

"It is strange, that garment," said a second voice. "We should take it to the Prince."

"She bears the same features as the ones we killed earlier. See? That hair, the light skin."

"From the north, I think she is."

"Kill her then, and let us get away from this place before the carrion birds arrive. I have rarely seen so much blood in one place; it will draw them like flies."

Ella looked up. The two men wore dark trousers of silk, with a length of soft black cloth wound around their body, billowing in the light wind. Their skin was dark, their mouths cruel. At their hips they carried curved daggers. Each casually leaned on a wicked scimitar. The man on the left had long black hair and eyes like coal. His companion had a larger build and wore a jewel in one ear.

"Please, don’t kill me," she said.

Then she looked about her. The first thing she saw was the mutilated corpse of Captain Joram. His screams had continued for an impossibly long time. Now she could see what they had done to the poor man.

She was suddenly sick, falling to the ground and heaving up the contents of her stomach. The bile fell to the sand, sliding away in a sluggish rivulet.

"Whatever she is, she’s disgusting," the slim man said.

"Watch me take her head from her shoulders with one blow," said the man with the earring.

"You said that last time. ‘Half-off’ isn’t the same as ‘off’. I told you, your sabre is too blunt."

"It is not, I had it sharpened by Alhaf last week."

"Alhaf does a terrible job, you should sharpen it yourself. I do."

Ella lay still, incapable of movement. She could still hear Captain Joram’s tortured cries. The sun was merciless. She felt sick to her core.

"Ready?"

"Yes, yes. I’m ready. Hurry up."

The big man stood beside Ella. He marked his sword and then lifted his arms above her head.

"If you swing like that, you’ll more likely hit her shoulder."

"I will not!"

"You will."

"Watch!"

The big man took a deep breath and with a shout he hacked down at Ella’s body. Ella didn’t want to die. She tried to move.

"Salute!" there was a shout in the distance.

The curved sword stopped mid-swing. The big man looked up.

Her eyes closed, Ella uncertainly opened them when she heard a strange noise, a rolling sound of thunder, like many men running on the sand.

Four men were coming towards them. They were dressed in the same dark billowing clothing and high boots as the first two. Three of the newcomers had beards and unruly hair. One was beardless and wore a circlet that held back his shoulder length black hair. He appeared to be the leader.

Ella’s eyes opened wide. The men were astride strange animals — four legged creatures with wide nostrils and elegantly arched necks. The steeds were a range of colours, from mottled white to an almost complete black. The sun shone from their coats, they snorted as they pounded through the sand. They were graced with a sense of nobility. Man belonged with this creature.

They were the most beautiful animals Ella had ever seen.

The slim man put his hand on the big man’s arm and called out to one of the newcomers. "Salute, Jehral! What news?"

The four men reined in their mounts. "We rode down some of the armoured men in green. It was like they almost wanted to be killed. Not much sport."

"What of the men in white?"

"Long gone. The same goes for that strange monster. Whatever it was, we heard no more of its cries. Where are your horses? What do you here?"

Ella prayed, perhaps this leader would save her.

"We hobbled them a short way away, the blood was making them restless. Rashine here was just showing me his swordsmanship."

Jehral laughed, "This should be good. Continue."

The big man harrumphed and lifted his arms above his head again. Ella closed her eyes, willing it to be over quickly. She thought it was sad to be ending it here, like this, in the middle of the desert. No one would ever know what had come of her.

Rashine grunted as the sword swung down. It hit the green silk robe of the High Enchantress’s dress and bounced off like it had smashed into stone. Sparks sprayed in all directions. A noise like the crack of a whip resounded through the hills. Rashine howled in pain, nursing his wrist.

"Interesting," said Jehral. "It is a strange garment she wears. Who are you, woman?" he addressed Ella.

"I… I am…" Ella thought furiously. How could she convince them to spare her life?

"No matter, Rashine remove the garment and we will give it to the Prince as a gift. I will wager your sword will be sharp enough then."

Ella slowly rose to a standing position. It took all her courage. She looked Jehral in the eye, and summoned her most commanding voice, "I am High Enchantress Evora Guinestor, Loremistress of Altura. I demand you release me, lest the might of Altura fall against you and your people."

Jehral simply looked at her in interest. "High Enchantress? Interesting. The Prince may have use for you."

Rashine growled, "But..."

Jehral held up his hand, "No, Rashine. We will see what the Prince has to say about this one."

He reached out a hand. Not knowing what to do, Ella took it. With an iron grip he swung her up behind him onto the back of the horse. The animal snorted and stirred, but Jehral patted the horse’s neck, calming it.

From her new height, Ella could see the gruesome scene that had once been the soldiers of Altura. She saw a bladesinger, his neck sliced open and a horrified expression on his face. The body of Evora Guinestor couldn’t be seen; the templars had lived up to their promise of giving her body to the Petryans.

Ella apologised silently for using the woman’s name. She vowed to get revenge on those who had wreaked such terrible carnage on her people.

As the strange men rode away from Petrya and into the emptiness of the desert, Ella took stock of herself. She carried her shoulder bag still, she had the Lexicon. She had her scrill, and her vial of essence.

But for how long?

~

A
S
they rode, Ella realised how the High Enchantress had managed to keep much of her composure in the stifling desert heat — there was some property of the runes on her robe that greatly tempered the scorching sun. Even so, it was with pain and thirst that she bumped along on the horse behind the silent desert warrior.

A few hours into their journey, he handed her a water bottle. She drank greedily, then handed the bottle back to him. He shook the bottle and chuckled, shaking his head. Taking a tiny sip, he returned it to his saddlebags.

Ella decided she needed to act with strength and determination to pass herself off as the High Enchantress. She straightened her back and finally found the rhythm of the horse’s motion, raising and lowering her hips with its body. Jehral grunted an acknowledgement; she thought it might have been approval.