The Path of the Storm (37 page)

He found a place to hide, high on the wall in a mountain of rubble, where he could watch the happenings in the city as well as below on the plain. He saw men in silver robes enter the city, coordinating the revenants as they rounded up the living and the dead alike. He frowned as he saw the symbol of the withered tree on their robes; these were Akari necromancers. Miro now knew how Sentar had built his army so quickly.

The pile of corpses where Miro had been thrown was taken away, and soon every dead body was on its way out of the city.

"Let the living walk," a necromancer called. "It saves us carrying them down to the plain."

Miro watched as a long train of terrified Gokani was marched in single file out the open gates. He felt tears in his eyes, but couldn't tell if they were from rage or frustration. There were many who'd hidden in their homes until the very end: old men and their weeping wives, white-faced young women with babes, and small children carrying toddlers smaller still. Any one of those children could have been Tomas.

Outside the city Miro saw an auburn-haired woman, her face scratched and bleeding, help an elderly man stand back up after a stumble.

Amber!

Miro wanted to scream, and his fists clenched and unclenched. He thought about the Emir's beliefs, and discussions he'd had with Ella and High Lord Rorelan. He thought about the gentle words of the long-bearded healer.

Miro now knew the value of lore, and he knew the power of violence. He would have given anything for a zenblade and armoursilk, anything in the world, and he would have fought like a demon to free his wife and these other people from the terrible fate that awaited them.

As it was, he could only watch and wait.

The prisoners formed an interminably long line, and Miro turned his gaze to the plains below the city so he could see where Amber was being taken.

The sun would set in an hour, and as the clear day ended in a radiant sunset more beautiful than any painting, Miro reflected on the last time he'd seen the sun set, casting its rays on this wall. He couldn't believe so much had happened in such a short space of time.

The army still occupied the area below the city, spotted with siege towers that hadn't even been used, but there was also a new encampment in the hills. A dozen strange cylinders stood beside a series of tents.

"He's taking the vats with him as he goes," Miro muttered as he saw them. "He's going to start the killing tonight."

The long file of prisoners led to the cluster of tents. Miro assumed that even with so many vats it would take time to process so many. They would probably deal with the corpses first, simply because the living didn't have rot to contend with.

Miro thought with a sickening feeling that extracting the essence he needed and raising more revenants to add to his army would delay Sentar's march more than taking a strong city like Wengwai.

Miro took a bearing on the prisoners' location as the sun went down. He then went back into the deserted city to find the items he needed.

He would try to free Amber this very night.

~

M
IRO
crept towards the vats. His only blessing was that with so many men at his disposal, Sentar was confident, and his necromancers were more concerned with the grisly tasks he set them than with placing sentries and devising watch rotations.

It was a dark night, and though the moon was up black clouds passed across it so that the night alternated between darkness and light. Miro was forced to time his movements to the periods when the moon's glowing circle was obscured.

Screams and moans filled the air, covering the sounds he made. Scurrying behind a hill he saw it on the other side: a tall cylinder, high as a tree; a vat.

Miro checked the items he had with him. At his waist he carried the fine but plain sword the Emir had given him, and over his shoulder was a small satchel. It had taken time, but he'd eventually found a thin quill, an empty glass jar, and a set of gloves.

Lord of the Sky, he hoped this would work.

He popped his head over the hill and quickly ducked back. If he sped over the hill he would be covered by the vat itself on the downward slope.

His heart hammering, Miro launched himself forward, slipping and sliding on the far side of the hill as it fell away more than he'd expected. He rolled to the earth with a thump, his scabbard hitting the bottle in his satchel and shattering the night air with a loud clunk. Miro held his breath as he used the vat to hide himself, waiting to see if anyone had heard.

He waited several long seconds before he was satisfied no alarm had been raised.

Miro examined the vat. He wasn't interested in the lore that enabled it to extract essence from corpses, nor was he looking for the door in which they were thrown. He finally found what he was after: a thin tube that led to a small steel barrel.

The barrel was the size of a man's head. Miro wondered how many innocent people the self-styled Lord of the Night murdered to fill the vessel with essence. It must number in the thousands.

Miro took the gloves out of the satchel and put them on. They were made of cloth, which meant they would only prevent the slightest of spills from reaching Miro's skin, but they were all he could find.

He unscrewed the cap from the barrel, which allowed him to remove the glass tube.

Miro's hurt left shoulder gave a sudden spasm of pain. An infinitesimal droplet of black liquid fell from the end of the glass tube onto Miro's left hand.

Miro hurriedly pushed the tube away, letting it fall to the ground, before looking at his hand in horror. What should he do? Should he take the glove off? What if he took the glove off and made a second spill? What if he didn't take it off and the essence worked its way through the fabric, worming its way to his skin…

Miro hastily tugged the glove off his left hand, throwing it into a clump of grass.

He put his left hand behind his back to remove the temptation to use it. With his shoulder hurt, the risk was too great.

Miro turned to the barrel. He picked it up and felt its weight; perhaps half full. He took the wide-mouthed jar from his satchel and held it between his knees.

This was another dangerous moment. Miro tilted the barrel until its opening was over the mouthpiece of the jar. He tipped oily black liquid, the deadliest substance in existence, into the vessel he'd brought. He almost tipped too much, and brought the barrel back down with a quick moan of fear.

He'd filled the jar, and he was still alive.

Miro spent the next moments replacing the glass tube in the mouth of the barrel and sealing the cap. No one would know he'd come this way.

Screwing a lid on the jar, now filled with essence, Miro held it carefully as he once again crossed back over the hill, taking his belongings with him.

He continued to run, back bent to hide his form, until he found a quiet place far from the vats. A fallen log made a platform, and Miro drew his sword, placing it horizontally on the log in front of him. He placed the jar beside the sword where it wouldn't slip, and took out the quill.

Miro waited until the moon came out, and then, taking a deep breath, he unscrewed the lid of the jar. He picked up the quill in his gloved right hand and thought about what he was doing.

Miro had been a bladesinger for years. He'd studied hard and trained endlessly. He had carried his zenblade into countless battles, from one end of the Empire to the other.

His sister was an enchantress. She'd left the temple school at a young age; it was the only way she could save the gilden she needed for the fees at the Academy of Enchanters. But she'd continued learning, bringing home books about topics ranging from mathematics to the study of the weather. Most of all, she'd brought home books about enchantment.

Ella had made Miro his zenblade and armoursilk, both now resting at the bottom of the Great Western Ocean. Miro could never create a zenblade himself, but he knew the activation sequences she'd taught him, and with all his experience he knew some runes for lightness and hardness, heat and light.

Miro's hand trembled as he dipped the quill in the jar. Could he really do this?

He removed the quill from the jar and looked at the bared steel of the sword, glinting in the direct moonlight. He began to draw a rune, fighting the urge to tremble as a hissing sound came from the steel where the essence touched it. Acrid smoke rose into the air, stinging his eyes and throat, forcing him to keep his head tilted to the side. He curled the symbol at the end in the flourish he'd seen so many times. Was it correct? There was no way of knowing; he had only his memory to go on.

He moved onto the second rune: the matrix he was drawing contained six symbols. Somehow Miro was able to recall every single one.

The first matrix completed, Miro's hand moved along the blade as he started the second group of symbols. This next matrix bound twelve runes together, and was the most complex he would try. Miro wanted to give the sword the power to burn, and the power to blind. He would make it stronger and harder, sharper and lighter. He would activate it with a single spoken word.

Compared to a zenblade it would be pitiful, but these people had no lore, and an enchanted sword in the hands of a skilled swordsman would be a deadly weapon indeed. A weapon he would need, if he planned to face revenants.

The hours passed as Miro worked, and as he drew symbol after symbol he tried not to think about what might be happening to Amber at that very moment. The moon went behind a long black cloud and he cursed, forced to stop until it came back out.

His strategy would be simple; this was no time for subterfuge. He would fight his way into the camp, take Amber, and they would flee.

Miro frowned at the sword as he drew the last rune. What was missing? The activation sequence! Miro drew a final matrix close to the hilt, linking it to the other runes with a bridge. There, it was done.

His hand felt cramped and his arm ached as he put the quill down on the log he was using as a table and removed the glove. He had a thought, and looking into the end of the log, he saw it was hollow. Miro decided to leave the items here. He would need to be unencumbered for fighting, and they may come in use again.

Miro screwed the cap back onto the jar and filled the satchel, placing it inside the log.

He picked up the long, straight sword with both hands, looking up and down its length. The steel shone, and even in the moonlight Miro could see the silver symbols along its length.

Should he activate it now, to see if it worked?

As far as he was from the enemy encampment, Miro was hesitant to light up the hills around him in the event his enchantment had been a success. He would have to wait to activate the sword until he was ready to use it.

Ella had impressed on Miro the dangers of an incomplete enchantment. When they were learning, the students had to have every rune checked before they were allowed to move onto the next. Even accomplished enchanters worked with books and other enchanters.

If he'd made a mistake, the sword could fizzle like a candle burned to a stub. Or it could explode in his hands; there was no way to tell.

Miro decided he was as ready as he would ever be.

He took the sword and walked back towards the place marked by the monolithic vats, the place where he'd last seen them take the woman he loved.

35

F
INALLY
, Miro allowed the rage to come to the surface. Blood throbbed in his ears and his breath came from his throat in a hoarse wheeze. He held the hilt of the sword in a grip of iron, and no longer tried to hide his presence as he walked towards the encampment with long, bold strides.

He saw the vats to his left, which meant the encampment would be somewhere ahead. There were so many of the tents it would be impossible to know which held Amber. Some were large and some were small. The necromancers more than likely slept in rich surrounds. One of the tents more than likely held the Lord of the Night.

Miro passed the first tent. He flicked his wrists and the sword sliced through the canvas wall, tearing a hole. Miro stepped through.

"What…?"

He was obviously a necromancer, and had been sleeping. Miro recognised the light hair and grey eyes of one of the Akari. The necromancer blinked at Miro in confusion.

Miro opened the necromancer's throat with a quick thrust of his right arm. Blood fountained from the necromancer's neck and his eyes went impossibly wide. He clutched at his throat with both hands, gurgling and writhing, and then he was still.

Miro walked back out the way he had come in. He listened, cocking his head. No alarm had been raised.

All of a sudden, it started to rain.

The sky opened and water came down in thick, heavy droplets. The darkness closed in, and the tents became dim shapes, confused and ethereal. Thunder rumbled overhead, and Miro was instantly soaked to the skin.

Miro peered through the vertical lines of water. For the time being, he kept his sword inactive.

He strode forward until he came to another tent, larger this time. He cut through the side with three successive slashes and stepped in.

Torches rested against the supporting poles, lighting the space up and allowing Miro to see the horror within.

Two necromancers in silver robes hovered over a wooden table. A pile of corpses lay in one corner of the room, while two revenant guards stood just inside the door.

On the table was the body of a Gokani soldier. His chest had been laid bare and silver symbols covered one side of his chest.

The necromancers turned in surprise.

Miro's arms came up, and holding the sword in both hands, he cut down at the neck of the closest robed figure. Even as the man fell Miro spun on his heel and thrust into the second necromancers' chest, feeling the sword bite through bone.

Miro withdrew the sword as the revenants came at him.

They were barbarian warriors, huge armoured men, taller even than Miro, with broad shoulders and heavy broadswords.