Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One)

by James Maxwell

  The Tartana stepped forward, his eyes on Amber, an inscrutable look on his face. He waved one of his arms forward.

  Ten young Dunfolk women came out of the crowd, each carrying a small sapling in her arms.

  Amber stepped back, and as she looked on, they planted the saplings around the well. The women then withdrew.

  The Tartana moved closer to Amber. He was so small that he had to look up to meet her eyes. Without knowing why, Amber sank to her knees.

  He placed a wreath of flowers around her neck.

  Then all of the Dunfolk cheered. The Alturans cheered along with them, and smiles were everywhere.

  The Tartana threw the bucket into the well. Still on her knees, Amber could only look up in astonishment as the Tartana withdrew the bucket, and grinning mischievously, upended it over her head.

  52

  The greatest test of courage is to bear defeat without losing heart

  — The Evermen Cycles, 19-9

  MIRO paced the balcony outside the great hall, looking out over the town of Mornhaven. His hands were held in fists at his sides. He fumed.

  "What did you expect?" a voice said.

  He looked up. Bartolo had followed him out, leaving the lords inside to bicker. Behind him Miro could see Captain Beorn, a survivor of the terrible defeat at Ralanast.

  "You should do something, Marshal," Captain Beorn said. He was a scarred soldier with a grey beard, a veteran who had risen his way through the ranks after years of service. Miro still couldn’t believe he had such men serving under him. "Most of the officers will back you."

  After the doomed battle for Ralanast matters had gone from bad to worse. The army was in complete disarray, the men fleeing for their lives, running for the safety of the Ring Forts. With many of their leaders killed or wounded, Miro had been forced to assume command with the aid of the thousand men who had stood with him at Bald Ridge. Those men had passed through fire, and come out tempered like strong steel. They contrasted with the terrified soldiers who had seen such terrible defeat at Ralanast.

  When he’d finally reached Mornhaven the force he’d assembled on the way were more than twenty thousand strong. He’d had no choice but to promote men from the ranks and create a leadership structure. To his complete shock he realised on arrival that his men was the only intact force to make it. The rest of the lords, captains and marshals were either dead, lost, or in despair. It had broken Miro’s heart to see brave soldiers with such weak leadership.

  To his surprise he had been included in the hasty conference that had been called at Mornhaven Town Hall. Great things were expected to come out of it, and even Miro had hoped some cohesion and decisiveness would finally come about. High Lord Tessolar would be coming from Sarostar — perhaps he would give the army the strong leadership that Prince Leopold had so far denied them.

  Miro had been given chambers in the east wing of the majestic town hall. When he had taken his bath he’d found the raj hada of a marshal lying on his bed linen. It was a strange way to give a promotion. Even the captains who had shown up requesting orders seemed confused.

  Bartolo and Beorn stood silently, watching him.

  "What are you suggesting? That I somehow have Prince Leopold removed from command?"

  "Well the High Lord certainly isn’t going to do it, not to his nephew," Bartolo said.

  "The men will support you. They will follow a Torresante. They have had enough of Leopold," Captain Beorn said.

  For a time Miro was silent as thoughts ran through his head.

  "Come on, Marshal. Are you saying you think their plan is a good one?"

  "No," Miro said, shaking his head. "I am not."

  Word had just come that the elementalists had joined the war. The Primate’s taint was spreading. With five houses allied against them and the back of the army broken, they didn’t stand a chance.

  "What about Wondhip Pass? The Petryans could be in Sarostar in a week!"

  "I know. I know," Miro said.

  "Yet they want to hole up in Sark. Marshal, you know it as well as I do, Sark is lost. Halaran is lost. We need to worry about Altura now."

  The Black Army had pushed them constantly. The horde of ravaging legionnaires, macemen, pikemen, axemen, mortar teams and dirigibles was bad enough — but that was before the Veznans joined the effort.

  They had come out of the forest, a wall of wood and thorn. The trees had come alive. It was simply too much for the exhausted soldiers of Altura and Halaran, who still talked about them with wide eyes. Seeing a man cut down with a sword was one thing, but seeing his limbs casually torn off one-by-one was quite another.

  And now the elementalists would come, their balls of fire would fly through the sky, and they would use the waters of the Sarsen to sweep Sarostar off the face of Merralya.

  "Miro," Bartolo said. "Altura needs you. You’ve seen the looks on the lords’ faces. They’ve already given up. I’ve even heard them talk about surrender. We don’t want a repeat of the Rebellion. What would your father have done?"

  "I don’t know!" Miro said. "What would you have me do?"

  "You know what to do."

  Miro saw a commotion coming from inside the hall as the conference drew to a close. Looking out from the wide terrace, he could see the lords talking together, dressed in their finery. Catching movement from the corner of his eye he looked up.

  High Lord Tessolar stood high above on a small balcony. He looked out over the town of Mornhaven, looking older and weaker than ever. He was alone.

  Taking a deep breath, Miro knew what he had to do.

  ~

  "YOU are throwing away the lives of our people."

  The High Lord turned. "Ah, the son of the late Lord Serosa Torresante. Somehow, I knew you would seek me out."

  "Don’t you realise that the Petryans are on their way to Sarostar even as we speak? We still have a great force here. We need to pull back!"

  "It’s too late for that, Bladesinger, or Marshal, whatever it is you prefer. We’ve sent a missive to the Emperor. We’ll discuss terms."

  "You did what!"

  "We’ll surrender, salvage whatever we can from the situation, and then…"

  "You do realise who we’re dealing with don’t you, High Lord?"

  "Face it, Miro, we’ve lost. We fought well. You fought well, your father would have been proud. But you’re young, Miro. You haven’t seen the things I’ve seen."

  "How can you say that? Don’t you even realise what we’re up against? You think it’s the Emperor? It’s Primate Melovar — he’s the one behind it all. He has twisted the minds of the high lords, probably many of the lords too. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. If we can save Altura, we can try to find the allies we need. There will be dissenters within the houses, lords or commanders who have seen the change in their high lords, who can feel the weight of the Primate’s yoke. There is hope, High Lord. There is hope!"

  High Lord Tessolar laughed — a dry chuckle. It was one of the worst sounds Miro had ever heard, symbolising everything that was futile and without optimism. "There is no hope, young warrior. They want our Lexicon." He laughed again. "We couldn’t give up our Lexicon even if we wanted to. It was stolen, weeks ago. We’ve kept it as secret as we can, but at any moment the runes on your armoursilk are going to fade and then you’ll know. You’ll be sending ordinary soldiers against imperial avengers, Miro. There is no hope."

  "Listen, High Lord," Miro said, unwilling to give up, even as fear clutched at his chest at the thought of the runes fading. "You are wrong. I am sorry to speak so plainly but it is the truth. Wondhip Pass can be blocked, preventing the elementalists an easy route into Altura, but it must be done quickly. We need to pull the army back to the Sarsen, to the edge of Halaran, where the river is wide and there is no ford to be had. The Black Army will follow us, they will have to if they want the decisive battle they are looking for — they cannot leave an army of this size at their back. We can cross our men over to Altura, and we can save the soldi
ers and refugees of Halaran. We can then destroy the Bridge of Sutanesta behind us."

  "You would destroy the Sutanesta? It is an insane plan."

  "It is our only chance."

  "You would isolate Altura. We would be completely cut off."

  "We would be protected. It would give us the time we need."

  "Time for what?"

  "To regain the initiative. To eradicate this plague of the Primate’s creation."

  "Bah. Our men would be pinned between the Sarsen and the Black Army like ants beneath a boot."

  "Yes, there is that chance. But it would be better than surrendering here! They surrendered at Ralanast and the Black Army put the soldiers’ heads on pikes! Do you expect any better? The Emperor’s executioner killed my father, what do you think they would do to you?"

  High Lord Tessolar looked away. "I have been given assurances."

  Miro’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "Then you are a traitor."

  Tessolar spoke with spite. "You dare question my right, Miro Torresante? Who do you think gave your father to the Emperor, all those years ago? He was destroying our house; I did what I had to do."

  "Yes, you killed him. And you might as well have killed my mother. Seeing my father executed killed her!"

  "That’s what you believe?" Tessolar laughed. "Listen to me, Miro. Serosa persisted in his belief we could win the war, the Rebellion. I believed him at first, but there was no sign of imminent victory. All I could see was our reserve of essence drying up. We had answered Halaran’s call but it was time to end it. Altura could not be seen to break the treaty, but your father gave me the perfect opportunity. He gave me a chance to end the war and finally win your mother for my own."

  Miro was stunned. "Win my mother? What are you saying?"

  "Your father and I, we were very close once. She was a great beauty. We both courted her, and we became rivals. But because he was High Lord she chose him."

  "So what happened then? Did she die? Did you have my mother killed, just like you had my father killed?"

  "Don’t you realise, you fool? Your father was the only one who died in the Rebellion. As soon as he was dead, Katherine was mine. She never died of grief. You’ve seen your mother by my side. Miro, your mother was my wife, Katherine."

  Miro felt his world crashing down around him.

  "All that stood in the way was two children, you and your sister. A permanent reminder of Serosa. I forbade Katherine to see you or even speak of you, and gave you into the care of a soldier."

  "Brandon," Miro mouthed. He put his hand to his head. He was finally learning the truth.

  "I don’t think Katherine even cared that she couldn’t see you."

  "Did you kill her?" Miro’s tone was like ice. "My mother… Katherine… when she died… did you drown her?"

  "No, Miro. She did that to herself. And with your sister dead, you are the only legacy of that family left."

  The words hit Miro like a punch in the gut.

  "What did you say about my sister?"

  "Your sister, Ella. She was killed in Petrya, on the edge of the Hazara Desert. The High Enchantress was killed too. Only one soldier survived."

  The blood drained from Miro’s face, "Why are you telling me all this?"

  High Lord Tessolar shrugged. The pain was openly displayed on his ravaged face. "Why not? There is no hope now. You seem to think everything will be fine. I am simply telling you that it won’t. Wherever the Alturan Lexicon is, its magic is fading. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen what it did to the Halrana, seeing their lore weaken and fade. Our enchantments won’t last another week."

  "You are not fit to be High Lord of Raj Altura, you are not fit to call yourself a man, let alone a lord," Miro said with venom.

  "We’ll see what the Black Army’s leaders have to say about that. I meet with them tonight."

  Miro reached for his zenblade, but someone grabbed him from behind. His hand was caught in an iron grip. Turning, he saw two bladesingers standing behind him. The one holding his hand — Torathon, Tessolar’s personal guard — shook his head. The other was Ronell Kendra, eyes glaring out of his disfigured face.

  "Take him to the dungeons under Sark," High Lord Tessolar said. "Be careful with him, I hear he can fight."

  Miro was led away.

  53

  I sometimes wonder if we’re too dependent on magic. Look at the Dunfolk. We may think them primitive, but they have learned more about the use of medicinal herbs and plants than any of our battlefield surgeons. The bows and arrows they carry can be as lethal as an elementalist’s fireball, yet we disdain them as barbaric. Strangest of all, I have even heard of some distant tribes putting animals to use in the fields. Yes, the use of drudges and constructs is a higher form of civilisation than chaining poor beasts. Yes, a heatplate is a highly advanced technology compared with rubbing sticks together. But if there was ever a dearth of essence, how soon would it be before we were reaching back to these methods of the past?

  — Diary of High Enchantress Maya Pallandor, Page 219, 411 Y.E.

  SOME of the warriors snickered as Ella walked towards Prince Ilathor’s tent. She had heard whisperings amongst them — she knew they thought there was more to her relationship with Prince Ilathor than was proper. He was certainly handsome, but he had never acted more than a perfect gentleman to her.

  "Ah, High Enchantress, I want you to meet someone," he said as she entered. "This is Hermen Tosch, from Castlemere, in the west. Hermen, this is High Enchantress Evora Guinestor," Ella touched her lips and her forehead in greeting. "High Enchantress, you wondered where we obtained that essence. Well, here he is."

  Hermen frowned at the Prince. Ilathor simply laughed. "Do not worry, Hermen. She can be trusted."

  There was one other person in the room, an ancient crone in a black silk shawl, her skin wrinkled and limbs like sticks.

  "And this is Elder Shal Hamsa. She still remembers the old ways. She is here to learn from you, and perhaps to teach you as well."

  "It is a pleasure, Elder," Ella said.

  The woman looked up. Her eyes were a piercing blue. "You are young, to be loremistress to an entire house."

  Ella swallowed. "Yes, I am."

  She felt the woman’s piercing eyes on her for a moment. Ilathor simply watched in interest, sipping some kind of hot drink.

  "You are from the north?"

  "From Altura."

  "Ah. The enchanters.’

  "Yes."

  The woman grunted and turned back to the Prince.

  He spoke, "Hermen was just catching us up with the latest events around the world. Merralya is much in turmoil of late. You were saying, Hermen?"

  The man spoke with a guttural voice. "The Petryans have assembled a great army of soldiers and elementalists. They have started marching for Wondhip Pass. They aim to attack Altura from the south."

  The Prince watched Ella. She struggled to remain impassive. She thought of the High Enchantress and her perfect composure. It settled her.

  Hermen continued, "The Alturans and Halrana were crushed at Ralanast. Most of their leaders are dead. I have heard the Alturans have only a score of bladesingers left."

  Miro! Ella breathed in and out, slowly and evenly.

  "What comes next?" asked Ilathor.

  "Well, if the enchanters don’t surrender, my guess is they will pull back to Altura. Halaran is lost, that much is clear. Refugees are pouring out, crossing the Sarsen into Altura, countless numbers of them. They will be lucky to make it out before the Black Army catches up with them."

  Ella listened in horror. She fought to keep her face carefully smooth. The Prince looked at her again, and then looked back to Hermen.

  "What do you make of this Black Army?" Ilathor probed.

  "I have heard it is the biggest army the world has ever seen. Four houses, united. Who would have ever thought to see it?"

  "Five, with the elementalists — R
aj Tingara, Raj Torakon, Raj Loua Louna, Raj Vezna and Raj Petrya. I cannot believe it myself. Nothing good can come of it."

  "I agree," said Hermen. "Nothing stops this army. Independent cities like Castlemere, we will be next."

  "I will think on it," the Prince frowned.

  "This gathering of the tribes, when is it?"

  "In six days, on the full moon."

  "You will never unite them," Hermen said. "Too many long hatreds. Old habits are hard to break."

  Ella thought the Prince might react badly, but he merely smiled. "We shall see, my friend. We shall see."

  ~

  PRINCE Ilathor watched as Ella worked with Elder Shal Hamsa throughout the day, and long into the night.

  The trader had long gone. Before he left, the Prince had asked Ella and the Elder for a quick demonstration for the trader.

  Ella thought long and hard, before creating the illusion of a pile of gold coins sprawling on the low table. Hermen had laughed with pleasure, attempting to scoop them up but finding his fingers touching only air.

  With interest Ella had watched as the Elder removed the small statue of a horse from a pocket.

  "I know only a few tricks, taught to me by my mother. There are few of us left now who know the old ways. This is one of my tricks."

  She spoke the activation sequence, and the horse began to glow with spidery silver lines. Instantly a full-sized horse appeared in the open space of the tent, its chest heaving, nostrils widening with each breath.

  Ella could see how it was constructed. It was a simple but effective creation — she could already see how it could be improved. For one thing the eyes were merely pin-pricks of light, and the coat was a dull grey.

  "Excellent," Prince Ilathor had said.

  Ella now rubbed at her eyes. She had been working for hours. The old woman was surprisingly quick and determined. Ella had always had an excellent memory for the runes, and she could now work without referencing the Lexicon for all but the most complex creations. Most of her time was actually spent in showing the Elder how to use the Lexicon — it required a framework of lore to even begin.