Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One)

by James Maxwell

"Altura!" Bartolo cried. He was echoed by the soldiers.

  The men began to surge forward.

  "Hold!" Miro called. "Hold the line!"

  Looking over the heads of the enemy he could see another wave coming behind.

  Most of the men pulled back, those who didn’t soon found themselves alone. They didn’t last long.

  Miro ducked the swing of a legionnaire and thrust his fiery zenblade at the man’s stomach. Blood and gore sprayed out into his face. He quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his left hand then blocked a vicious overhand cut from a half-moon axe blade. He kicked out at the man, lunging into the space he created. His song reached a crescendo. He spun on his heel, the length of the sword arcing through the air. It cut through two spears and a shield. Three men went down.

  Panting, Miro regained the height of the crest and looked along the line. They were holding, just.

  Then the next wave of the enemy hit, and Miro concentrated on staying alive.

  ~

  THE day became a blur of swinging swords and grunting men. The corpses piled high all along the front of the ridge, impairing the efforts of attackers and defenders alike. Sticky red gore formed piles and pools on the ground, combining with the mud. As many men died from the treacherous ground as from being genuinely bested. The rain continued.

  There was a brief respite during the middle of the day. Suddenly all Miro could hear were the wheezing gasps of the men. He looked down onto the plain. Moragon stood alone, in front of the army, his head back, his body rocking with laughter.

  Miro looked back along the line. It was patchy now. He could see where the men had closed up, inadvertently creating weaknesses in the line.

  He looked down at the enemy. Their numbers seemed as vast as ever.

  "Water the men, Captain," the panting voice of Lord Rorelan came from somewhere nearby.

  "Water!" Miro called.

  He walked up the ridge as young boys and girls came up with buckets of water. The men drank thirstily. Miro spoke softly to the men as he walked, patting an arm here, congratulating a soldier there. They stood taller as he approached. Their resolve was as firm as ever.

  He bent down and sat with a young Alturan for a moment. The boy was perhaps five or six years younger than Miro. His face was grey, blood frothed at his lips.

  "You did well, son of Raj Altura," Miro said softly as he knelt.

  "Miro… Torresante… I did well?"

  He took the boy’s hand. "We fight to protect our people, your family. They are safe because we are here."

  "My mother… She is safe?"

  "Yes, she is safe."

  The boy struggled to breathe. Miro hung his head, and then closed his eyes for a moment, praying. He thought about his sister. He prayed for her safety. He prayed he would see her again. He thought of Amber, her warm smile, her infectious laughter, her fascination with everything new.

  It seemed so far away, that world of love and sunlight. He wondered if he would ever see Sarostar again, if he would ever again ride one of the pleasure boats on the Sarsen on a warm summer’s day.

  He opened his eyes. The boy was dead, his eyes glazing over. The rain fell on the boy’s grimy face, forming rivulets like tears.

  Miro stood. He could see the men around him, looking at him, wondering. Without knowing what came over him, he jumped down from the crest and started to pace the front of the line.

  "Soldiers of Altura, fighting men of Halaran. Some of you know me, I am your captain."

  There was a cheer from the men.

  "My name is Miro Torresante. If you know that name, then you know the name of my father. His name was Serosa Torresante, and he was the Lord Marshal of the combined forces of our two houses during the Rebellion, during that great war when we faced the same enemy we face here today."

  Miro’s expression blackened. He spoke with a force that came from somewhere within him. He was fighting with these men — they were putting their lives in his hands. He wanted them to understand. "Some in Altura say my father was a warmonger. That he gave up the lives of our children for some petty political gain. I challenge anyone, anyone, to stand here and say that to me today. Today, when our two houses stand against the same foe. When we give our hearts and minds to this cause, to protect those who cannot protect themselves, to fight tyranny. I am proud to be here. I would be nowhere else."

  Miro paused for emphasis. "When I was just a little child, my father led Alturan and Halrana against this dark enemy because I needed protection. Now I am a man, a warrior, and I am here to give that same protection. To anyone. Anyone! Any man, woman, or child who needs it. And I call on you to join me!"

  The men roared — a mighty sound of defiance.

  Miro rejoined Lord Rorelan, who gave him an enigmatic look, but said nothing.

  Bartolo simply pointed and said, "Here they come."

  ~

  TWO hours into the fighting the enemy broke through the line.

  Miro had never believed such continuous fighting was possible. His face and hands were covered in blood. He had a wound on his left ankle where a lucky spear had found part of his body unprotected. He had to concentrate on his song now, it no longer came unthinkingly. He was no longer able to use shadow — the complexity was just too great for his tired mind.

  He heard a despairing cry followed by a bellowing and, dispatching an opponent, he looked up. The attackers were pouring through a gap in the line, countless numbers of them. At the point of their wedge formation, two imperial avengers lumbered ahead. As men along the line suddenly found they had an enemy at their back, they turned to defend themselves. In turn this put too much pressure on the front of the line. It wavered. They were being overrun. In moments the battle would be lost.

  Miro frantically looked around. He could see green, somewhere in the distance. "Bartolo!" he cried. "Breach! Breach!"

  Without seeing if he’d been heard he looked around him. "To me!" he gathered the men to him and ran to attack the horde of insurgents.

  Sensing their opportunity the enemy threw everything they had at the defenders, the final wave coming surging up the hill. Miro called on reserves of strength he hadn’t known he possessed. He ran, calling the men to him as he approached the break.

  Then suddenly he was in it. The avengers were tossing men around like leaves before a wind. Miro knew he had to stop them before anything could be done about the legionnaires.

  He signalled to a group of Alturan heavy infantry, their armour slick with blood but still glowing silver. "Go for the legs, get it on the upswing."

  The man in front nodded. Miro could see the fear in his eyes.

  "I will lead the way," a voice came from behind Miro. Bartolo swept forward, his armoursilk a bright star amongst the chaos. Heartened, the infantry followed him in.

  This left the other avenger for Miro.

  Miro’s zenblade flared yellow. The avenger turned to watch him, malevolent, its flail twitching one-way, then another. Freed from its rampages the soldiers swarmed into the assaulting legionnaires, leaving Miro alone with the creature.

  Miro entered that state he had only found once before, during his testing. He now tried to go further, to add the same strength of purpose to his armoursilk. Fatigue made the effort more than twice as difficult. The song faltered. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, pushing through the fatigue.

  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 ave
nger’s sword sheared off half-way.

  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.

  ~

  AFTER 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.

  "THIS 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?"