Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One)

by James Maxwell

  Miro was the closer of the two. His body shielded Ronell slightly from the blast, throwing them both forward like dolls.

  For a moment, all was white with pain. Miro’s vision slowly returned. He could hear the cries of the legionnaires behind him, drawing ever closer. Miro’s face was pressed against the dirt. He looked in front of him.

  Ronell had been scorched to the bone. His left arm was just a stump below the elbow and his entire back was raw flesh. His hair had been burnt away, leaving a pink patch of bloody scalp.

  He was still alive.

  Miro could have cried at the pain Ronell must have been in.

  Summoning strength he hadn’t known he had, Miro stood up, and though his song came hoarse and from dry lips, it came strong.

  His armoursilk flared. He stooped, and picked Ronell up like a child in his arms. Miro started to run.

  24

  Never defend a city. Instead, move your army to a more offensive position. Let the angry citizens defend it for you.

  — Memoirs of Emperor Xenovere I, 312-5, 381 Y.E.

  AHEAD, the bladesingers were running in a rough vee pattern — glowing like fire, seemingly invincible. Miro’s strength eventually gave out but another bladesinger turned back, helping him lift Ronell over the last craggy rise out of the canyon. The whole skirmish had lasted perhaps ten minutes.

  Behind the bladesingers, the legionnaires took the bait. They came storming out of the canyon, those in front lusting for blood, those behind pushed relentlessly by the force of Altura’s elite infantry.

  The hills ahead were suddenly teeming with men. They rose over the ridges, poured out of the valleys — too many men to count, the numbers overwhelming. The bladesingers melted away as the great army encircled the legion in its mighty arms.

  "Let go! I said, let go of him, man!"

  Miro realised two men were trying to relieve him of his burden. His arms and legs were so stiff they had to pry the body from him. He fell onto his back as they took Ronell away. He couldn’t move a muscle, could only watch the scene below him, the hills and rocks lit up like daylight in the glow of the runes and the explosions of the orbs.

  The imperial legion was caught between one overwhelming force and another. The Alturan veterans all glowed silver, their enchanted weapons devastating the weaker units they encountered. A mortar team in their midst launched salvo after salvo into the imperials, scattering bodies like dust before a wind.

  The main army surged forward. Soldiers in Alturan green and Halrana brown were mingled together, becoming one living entity joined by rage.

  There were simply too many soldiers for all to have a chance to combat the imperials. The hills were soon heaving as everyone tried to get their part of the action.

  But there was still a part of the legion, a core that held together through the worst of the fighting. As Miro looked on, he saw a dozen Alturan soldiers who got too close to the core tossed into the air by some massive force — thrown hundreds of paces.

  As the fighting surged and ebbed the core came closer. The mortar rounds of the green and brown soldiers started to find their mark, and a bright explosion lit up the scene, so that for the first time Miro had a glimpse of the Emperor’s deadliest. It was for moments only, and soon the scene went dark again.

  There were perhaps half a dozen of them, with the shape of humans but warped by the unique arts of Tingara’s lore.

  The closest had its face to Miro, a face of horror and flame, the eyes like slits, glowing with malice. It was some kind of monster, a creature of metal and cloth, glowing with purple runes. Its right arm had been warped, twisted into a thing part steel and part flesh — a black sword had been grafted to the arm, eight feet long, glowing vermillion. In its left hand it held a flail, the long twists of braided steel ending in spikes the size of a man’s hand.

  It twisted and lurched, each movement sending its body through the army like a scythe through wheat. It impaled a man on its sword and flung his body into a soldier twenty paces away. The flail tore into the men, shredding them into pieces of meat.

  A group of soldiers in the brown of Halaran moved to intercept one of the monsters, flaring brightly as they enhanced already activated armour. Working together as a team, the first soldiers distracted the abomination with prismatic orbs while the others circled round, trying to find an opening.

  The flail shot forward and took one of the soldiers in a single sweep, turning his body into a spray of red. Seeing an opportunity, one of the Halrana ran and hacked futilely at the creature’s neck. He was thrown to the ground and immediately impaled with the huge black sword. A third soldier thrust his spear at the monster’s face. The whip of metal spikes caught him on the back swing, taking off his head. There was only one Halrana left. He screamed something and leapt on top of the creature. In each hand he held a glowing orb. He clapped each orb to the sides of the creature’s head. The resulting explosion boomed across the battlefield, and both the monster and the Halrana were no more.

  The army exerted itself to greater efforts. There were so many of them, yet this fighting core of the legion would not back down, could not be defeated by numbers alone.

  Then the army cleared way as a glowing dagger of light threaded its way through the ranks — a bright column of warriors that pushed forward, deep into the core of the fighting.

  The bladesingers had regrouped.

  Men in green and brown stopped and cheered. Those on the outskirts of the battle, and those on the edge of the fighting, who had seen their kin destroyed beyond recognition.

  "Bladesingers! Altura, Altura!" they cried.

  Miro watched it all, transfixed. He could not look away.

  The soldiers cleared, drawing slowly back, opening up the terrain. The evil creatures, perhaps sensing their match, formed a ragged line. There were five of them still standing.

  The bladesingers, voices raised as if singing an ode to war, lined up against them, some sixty or seventy strong. They glowed so brightly Miro almost had to look away. Their zenblades were like ribbons of fire; there was no way to tell where the man ended and the sword began, each was like a being of light.

  One of the bladesingers, Miro couldn’t tell who, raised his arm. He lowered it.

  They ran in, perhaps a dozen men to each creature.

  Instantly two bladesingers were swept away like flies. Their armoursilk protected them, but it didn’t stop them from flying hundreds of paces away. A zenblade crashed into a horrible arm; sparks fountained off and a sound like the crack of a whip echoed off the hills. It was like a dance of energy, the moves too quick to follow.

  Suddenly a flail went shooting into the crowd of soldiers, still attached to the arm that held it. A green warrior jumped, high, impossibly high, his sword raised above his head. His face set in determination, the zenblade shot out, taking a creature’s head and shoulders off in a single blow.

  As two of the creatures were dispatched, so the number of bladesingers attacking each grew. The great flails sent four more men flying, but the rest slowed, awaiting their opportunity.

  In an instant two more creatures were dispatched. All Miro could see were stabbing swords and the twitching and writhing of the creatures in their death throes.

  The breath knocked out of him, a bladesinger’s voice stopped and he went down to his knees, Miro watched in dread. The last creature’s great sword-arm probed, finding a gap in the bladesinger’s defences, then thrust forward. Blood gushed from the bladesinger’s mouth.

  Screaming with rage, the remaining bladesingers leapt forward. In a flash of light and twisting figures, bits of metal flew, flesh parted. The final monster was no more.

  As if waiting for the last act in some macabre stage show, the army swamped the legion’s remaining pockets of resistance.

  The battle was over. They had survived their first real encounter with the enemy. Miro fell back against the hill. The grass felt like the softest linen.

  ~

  MIRO paced around th
e camp, unwilling to sit still.

  "Stop that, there’s nothing you can do, you need to rest. Lord of the Sky, look at you. You look terrible."

  Miro turned to face Bartolo. "Did you see him?"

  Bartolo sighed. "No, I didn’t. I hear he was bad though."

  Miro nodded. "Really bad. I… I tried… I couldn’t help him."

  "You probably saved his life, Miro. Isn’t that enough?"

  "Lord of the Sky! What if that had been me?" Miro trailed off. Bartolo sighed.

  Prince Leopold was calling it a great victory. Blademaster Rogan thought it was a disaster. They’d lost eight irreplaceable bladesingers, while total casualties were eight hundred dead, with four hundred wounded. They had defeated an army of four thousand.

  "I can’t believe you were with them, fighting those things," Miro said, shaking his head.

  "To be honest? I can’t believe I was either. I was sick when I came back, really sick. I still can’t hold food down." Bartolo’s face was ashen. "I almost died out there, you know that?"

  "What were they? I never knew such things existed."

  "Neither did I, not until today. Imperial avengers, the bladesingers called them. Like bladesingers, but rather than chanting runes and wearing armour and weapons, with avengers, it’s a part of them. The power is sculpted into their bodies."

  "How can such a thing exist? Lore on living flesh… It should kill them. As soon as the essence touches the skin…"

  "That’s the thing. I don’t understand it really, but they say the runes never touch their flesh, just the bits of metal and cloth melded to their bodies."

  Miro shuddered. "I can’t believe anyone would make such a thing, do such a thing to a person."

  "Believe it," said Bartolo. "There’s worse to come."

  ~

  RONELL lingered on the cusp of death for days. Miro constantly hovered outside the makeshift infirmary, where the battle surgeon practised his grisly art, hacking at torn flesh and hoping for the best.

  The cold and wet continued with water getting into everything. The essence cost to use heatplates was considered too high, so they supped on cold rations, anything to fill stomachs and keep their strength up.

  Prince Leopold made a speech, saying they’d won a great victory, evidently expecting an improvement to morale, but the horrors of the battle were too fresh. The Alturans screamed in their sleep and spoke of grotesque monsters running through the streets of Sarostar, plunging their blades into woman and children. The Halrana were the worst of all, many had already lost their families to the Black Army. And so the army stayed in their forest camp, constantly on edge, waiting for news from outside.

  Miro and Bartolo noticed a definite change in the bladesingers’ attitude towards them. Perhaps the bladesingers felt the recruits had been tested in fire. Both of the young warriors made firm resolutions to improve on their skills, and spent much of their time using each other for practise, sharing their strengths and learning from weaknesses. It brought Miro and Bartolo closer together, but Miro couldn’t shake a feeling of guilt when he thought about Ronell.

  Then, one cold morning, Miro woke to find Bartolo looking down at him, a strange expression on his face.

  "I thought you should know," Bartolo said. "Ronell… He’s awake."

  Miro leapt up.

  "Miro," said Bartolo. "I don’t think you should..."

  Miro ran through the camp and over to the infirmary. Recognising Miro, the surgeon tried to restrain him. "You shouldn’t…"

  Miro pushed past the surgeon and opened the canvas with a sweep of his arm. He pulled back in shock.

  It was Ronell, but like no Ronell that Miro could remember. The height was the same, and the clothing. But where Ronell’s left arm had been there was nothing but a stump, covered in bandages and weeping red. Only his eyes were recognisable; the rest of his face was a mass of lines, the torn bloody skin wrinkled and monstrous.

  "You," the apparition said.

  Miro stopped, unable to speak.

  "You. You did this to me! You!"

  "Ronell, I..."

  "I needed to get my breath, to say the runes. But you made me run! You could have left me but you made me run."

  "Ronell, it didn’t happen like that at all. I was trying to save you."

  "Save me? Save me?" a strange whine came from the man’s throat, a hoarse wheezing. "You didn’t save me. You’ve killed me! Everything that I was! Get out! Get out!"

  Another surgeon arrived, trying to remove Miro from the room. Miro was shocked, unable to speak.

  He turned and fled.

  25

  We had been out of port for eleven weeks, we were running out of food and water, and in the end the captain would go no farther. Against my arguments, we turned back for Castlemere. I still maintain that the Great Western Ocean is not endless, merely very large. Perhaps the barren islands we discovered could be used as a staging point for another mission. Perhaps the Buchalanti will answer my questions, if I ask them in the right way. I would give anything to see what is on the other side of the world.

  — Toro Marossa, ‘Explorations’, Page 122, 423 Y.E.

  KILLIAN opened his eyes and shivered. It was cold down here, beneath the Crystal Palace, and it didn’t help that most of his clothes had been removed.

  Was this how the High Enchantress thought to help someone who had fallen into a frozen river? No roaring fires, no blankets, nothing of the sort. Instead he’d been laid out on a marble slab like some strange experiment, his lips blue and skin white.

  Well, he couldn’t blame her really. She probably thought it was the cold that had stopped the essence from turning him into a disgusting mess, like that boy Ella described. It showed that these people knew nothing about essence. They didn’t know a talent such as his existed.

  Killian sat up and regarded himself, rubbing his arms to bring back some warmth back to his chill flesh. At least they’d left the pendant, hanging in its place about his neck. His task would be much more difficult with it.

  He felt a twinge when he thought of the girl, but had to thank the Lord of the Sun for such a fortuitous passage of events. He had to congratulate himself, too; one makes one’s own luck, after all, and the entire deception had been masterfully planned. The hardest part had been summoning the nerve to get into that scratched water. He shivered again at the thought of the plunge into its icy depths.

  Still, it had given him a nicely dead look. Holding his hand in front of his face even Killian thought the blue-tinged fingernails were nothing that could be faked. It had been a feat of the utmost self-control not to shiver when they’d laid him out on that stretcher while the High Enchantress had her tirade at the girl. A job well done.

  Killian could feel the tingle of the essence working through his veins; he’d managed to get a good splash out of the bottle, enough to terrify the girl. And, just as he’d expected — and hoped — she’d run straight to the High Enchantress.

  And now here he was, in this, the most difficult of places to get into.

  Killian looked around him. So this was the High Enchantress’s sanctum, her place of power. He was sure she’d have plenty of traps laid about, especially the closer he came to his target. Killian nervously fingered the thin scar on his left bicep. Hopefully she’d kept her traps to the typical; the hidden golem in Ralanast had proven to be particularly troublesome. Very skilful of their High Animator, automating a creature like that.

  Looking around, Killian could see a series of rooms connected by wide corridors. Chamber after chamber ran before, beside, and behind him. Where to begin?

  Killian stood and, picking a direction at random, he began to explore.

  ~

  DOWN in the huge spaces set aside for the High Enchantress’s use beneath the Crystal Palace, there was no sense of time, no sense of the moon’s rise and passage across the night sky.

  It was cold. Cold and empty. While the rooms were filled with all manner of tools, weapons, armour, books, bu
bbling pots, strange odours, and works in progress; they were still empty, lacking in life. It was clear to Killian that Evora Guinestor hoarded her work, sharing the load with no one. For her the joys of knowledge and discovery were a private thing.

  The chambers were covered with thick silk carpets and Killian tossed a vial of essence in his hand as he walked, enjoying the soft feel of the silk on his bare feet and the weight of the bottle in his hand. It hadn’t taken him long to find the bottle, even if it was small; the High Lord must keep the main stockpiles somewhere else. It was good to have a supply again. He now had options.

  Suddenly, pausing, Killian heard a voice. There was someone in the next chamber, walking about. Killian drew behind a cupboard door that was hanging ajar, peering around its edge.

  It was the High Enchantress, a frown on her face. She was alone, muttering under her breath — probably a habit she’d picked up from spending so much time by herself.

  Killian hadn’t managed to look at High Enchantress Evora Guinestor, playing dead as he’d been at the time. She was actually quite beautiful, in an imposing, regal way. She was tall, taller than him, and slim. Her silk hooded dress hung about her, decorated and etched with silver runes in intricate patterns. Killian had no intention of finding out what they meant.

  He guessed she was looking for a book of some kind; he’d heard her mention to Ella something about books. Was she going to go to the cold slab where he’d been laid out? Perhaps to look at the half-dead, half-frozen stranger? Killian certainly hoped not.

  Evora turned towards the room containing the slab and Killian’s breath caught, but then was released as she turned away. Evora instead walked into a chamber that was the first in a series of libraries. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, an orderly collection of lifetimes of knowledge. From heavy volumes half the size of a man to tiny notebooks the size of a palm, there were books of every type and description.