Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One)

by James Maxwell

  Ella found she had a much greater knowledge than the Elder, but that the Elder knew some useful tricks for short-cutting the runes, something Ella had never thought of doing before. By connecting simple structures the end result was less detailed but also easier to create and required less essence. She filed it away in her memory.

  The work temporarily took her away from thinking about Altura, but whenever she paused she again pictured Miro or Amber. She tried to remember them smiling, but their faces kept becoming washed with blood.

  Ella felt a touch on her shoulder and jerked, startled. It was Prince Ilathor. She must have fallen asleep. He put his fingers to his lips and gestured with his head. Elder Shal was lying back on the cushions, snoring softly. He smiled and took Ella’s hand, helping her up.

  He led her outside the tent. As she walked, Ella looked up at the night sky, once again amazed at the number of stars, a shimmering curtain that spread its way over the darkness.

  She had come to get a feeling for the desert. It seemed so empty at first, barren and desolate, but it had more character and expression than was first apparent.

  There were many different winds — they blew soft and gentle, or strong and fierce. The sand had different textures as well — from fine, like dust, to coarse, like grain. The dunes changed constantly, moving and reforming day after day. The moon shone a gentle glow, the traveller’s blessing to journeying by night. The rocks with their different formations became beloved — she had learned many of their names.

  Prince Ilathor led her away from the camp to stand on the crest of a dune, overlooking the motionless waves of the desert. He took her by the hand.

  "It is beautiful, is it not?" he said.

  "It is," Ella said. "I can see why you live here."

  "That you say that gladdens my heart," he said. He turned to her with a smile. "The desert is more beautiful for the single rose that stands within it. You are that rose, Evora, and a more beautiful woman I have never seen."

  He reached up and took her head in his hands, cupping her chin. Before Ella knew what was happening, he kissed her.

  She broke away. "Your Highness..."

  "Call me Ilathor."

  "Ilathor… I barely know you."

  "I feel as if I have known you my whole life," he said.

  "I’m just not sure we..."

  "I am certain."

  He moved to kiss her again, his arm going around the back of her green dress. She pushed him away.

  "Well I am not!"

  He frowned, "Have you not felt something, these past few days?"

  She thought. He was handsome, and gentle. She thought about Miro and Amber, needing her help.

  His eyes sparkled. "Think of what we could accomplish together, Evora. You and I. We could change the face of the world. Bring peace to all nations. Restore my people to their former glory."

  For a moment Ella was lost in his vision.

  "No," she said. "Prince Ilathor, we don’t belong together. I… I don’t know what you speak of." She spoke in the harshest tone she could. "I feel nothing for you. Nothing at all."

  She could see the pain in the widening of his eyes. Please forgive me, she thought. My friend needs me. My brother needs me.

  He whirled and walked out into the night, leaving the encampment behind. He fled into the darkness of the desert.

  Ella knew she had little time. She ran back to the Prince’s tent. The guards frowned at her. "The Prince, he wants me to bring him something," she said.

  They let her in.

  Ella’s satchel was in the corner. She put her scrills into the bag, along with the Alturan Lexicon, but left the yellow-covered Lexicon of the desert people. Seeing the rune on its cover glowing brightly, Ella felt glad she had renewed its magic. She owed him that much.

  Ella looked at the large flask of essence, and with a feeling of guilt, she took it also.

  She ran out of the tent. The guards didn’t say a word. She looked for Jehral’s tent, and walked over to it, purposefully, as if she knew what she was doing.

  A man grabbed her tightly by the arm of her green silk robe. "Where are you going?" a harsh voice said. She looked up. It was Rashine.

  "Ala-tut-ha," she muttered.

  The robe flared as the runes came alive in searing blue. Rashine screamed as he pulled away, his hand blackened, the flesh sizzling. Ella was glad she had taken the time to decipher some of the capabilities of the High Enchantress’s robe.

  Men called out to each other as they wondered what was happening. She reached Jehral’s tent. The horse was a black shape against the night sky. Sundhep — dark storm. She was glad for his dark colour on this night.

  The saddlebags were filled. There was water in them. The desert warriors were always ready to ride at a moments notice.

  Ella removed the hobble from the horse. It whinnied as she jumped up and onto its back. Hoping that her lesser weight would give her enough speed to get away from the Prince’s men, Ella took a deep breath.

  She dug in her heels and galloped away, into the night.

  54

  One two trees

  Arms like sticks

  Seven eight vines

  Coming to get you!

  — Veznan children’s game

  MIRO woke to the sensation of having a bucket of cold water thrown squarely in his face. He blinked in confusion, and then moaned in extreme pain, unable to hold it in. The agony was terrible.

  His body was paces above the ground, arms manacled to the wall, well above his head, his ankles likewise immobilised with bright metal loops. All his weight rested on his wrists.

  He could feel a trickle of blood running down his left side. The scar running from under his eye had opened when they had thrown him face down to the hard stone floor.

  He opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was. Somewhere deep in the bowels of Sark. The roughly cut walls dripped with moisture. Fissures showed in the rock.

  Standing in front of him was Torathon, High Lord Tessolar’s personal bladesinger guard. He had stayed in Sarostar while the rest of them fought and died.

  Bladesinger Torathon smiled when he saw Miro’s eyes open. Miro couldn’t stop another moan from escaping his lips.

  Next to Torathon was Ronell. The former recruit had given up trying to hide the disfigurement of his face. His eyes glared from a scarred and deformed face. Ronell’s one arm rested on the hilt of his zenblade, the other ended in a stump.

  "New orders from the High Lord," said Torathon. "You’re to be killed."

  "Torathon… Don’t… do it. The High Lord is insane. Save Altura."

  Torathon simply grinned and looked up. For the first time Miro noticed his eyes. The irises were yellow. He was already under the Primate’s spell.

  There was a hiss as Torathon drew his zenblade. He activated it. Miro watched the glowing steel with horror. It grew brighter as Torathon started to sing. Miro felt more blood running down his arms as the manacles cut further into his wrists. He prayed for it to be over quickly.

  The zenblade turned hot, a searing, scorching heat. Torathon was paces away, but Miro already felt his skin begin to burn. The grinning bladesinger began to slowly approach, the heat growing ever greater. He paused in his song.

  "I’m going to slice you open from your nose to your navel," he said. "I’ll open your ribs like wings and see if you can fly off the walls of Sark. Serosa the Dark died near here, didn’t he? How fitting."

  Torathon added more to his song and the zenblade flared. Miro was forced to close his eyes. He could feel the heat on his face as if his head was in a fire.

  Suddenly there was a second hiss. Miro heard Ronell’s voice, activating rune after rune in quick succession. There was a sickening crunching sound. Miro flinched. Torathon’s song was cut off.

  Then there was silence.

  Miro felt the heat slowly fade away.

  He opened his eyes. Ronell stood silently, his zenblade in his hands, its runes already fading. There was an
unreadable look on his face.

  Torathon’s body lay on the ground, his eyes staring into nothing. Blood formed a pool around his body.

  Ronell looked at Miro, the zenblade still wavering. Then he sheathed it.

  "It wasn’t your fault I was injured." He paused. "Let’s get you down."

  ~

  THEY ran through the endless corridors and chambers beneath the fortress. Miro knew they had limited time to act. It was now, or never.

  Suddenly the two bladesingers stumbled into an infirmary. Miro recognised many of the men. They had fought with him from one end of Halaran to another.

  A Halrana in an officer’s uniform stood in front of them, his hand on his sword. There were two other guards with him. Every eye was suddenly on them. Miro held his breath.

  Suddenly, every man in the infirmary who was able to stand did so. Hundreds of men, young and old, rose to their feet. They said nothing, they simply stood.

  The Halrana officer looked behind him, and then looked at Miro.

  "What orders, Marshal?" the officer said.

  Miro nodded, releasing his breath.

  "Find Captain Beorn. Tell him to gather the men outside Mornhaven Town Hall."

  "At once, Marshal," he detailed one of the men with the task.

  "What about us?" Ronell asked.

  "We need to get to Mornhaven before Tessolar surrenders to the Primate."

  "It’s this way, Marshal," the Halrana said.

  "Thank you," Miro said.

  ~

  MIRO gathered men with him on the way. At one stage Ronell disappeared without a word, returning with Miro’s armoursilk and zenblade.

  The men followed Miro’s orders without question. Their silent approval gave him a great sense of certainty. He finally knew that what he was doing was the right thing.

  They formed a great column, with Miro at the head. The march down the long winding road from Sark to Mornhaven began as the moon rose above the town below.

  Miro’s heart was filled with pride when they reached the marble façade of the Town Hall. Behind him stood an army of two nations. These weren’t men for whom hope was lost. These men were willing to stand up and be counted.

  "Marshal, Bladesingers — look," said Captain Beorn, pointing.

  Bartolo was lounging against a pillar outside the entrance to the hall. With him were the rest of the bladesingers. Miro felt a moment’s concern, and then saw the smile on Bartolo’s face.

  "Saw you coming down from Sark," said Bartolo. "You should get that face looked at. We’re all behind you. The lords — they’re in there," he gestured inside the hall. "They’re waiting for you."

  Miro entered the hall, flanked by the bladesingers.

  Prince Leopold and the lords of Altura and Halaran were sitting down at a glass-topped table. In front of them were the trappings of a feast — stuffed game birds, crystal decanters, and artfully constructed nightlamps.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Prince Leopold said.

  "Where is he?"

  "Where is who?"

  "High Lord Tessolar. Where is he?"

  "He… he isn’t here."

  "Where is he?"

  "I don’t know!" the Prince cried.

  Miro drew his zenblade. Behind him, the bladesingers followed suit. Prince Leopold blanched.

  "Where is he? Say it, loud and clear, so that we all might here."

  "He’s meeting with the Primate and the Emperor," he whispered. The lords all stared at each other, expressions of shock on their faces.

  "Say it louder!"

  "He’s discussing surrender!"

  Miro pointed his sword at the lords. "Did you know about this?"

  "No, we didn’t!" a man said. "It’s treason!"

  "Did you hear that, Prince Leopold?" said Miro. "Treason."

  "Marshal, I…"

  The sight of the bladesingers with swords drawn was too much for Prince Leopold. "What do you want from me?"

  "Address the men," said Miro. "Tell them what you’ve told me now."

  "No, I…"

  "Do it!"

  They escorted Prince Leopold from the room and onto the terrace. Leopold gasped when he saw the number of soldiers waiting below. When they saw Miro, the men cheered, a mighty roar of approval.

  "Loyal fighting men of Altura and Halaran!" Miro cried. "We have been betrayed." A great cry came from the men. "High Lord Tessolar is at this very moment meeting with the enemy. He wants to surrender. He’s looking to save his own skin. Isn’t that true?"

  Bartolo shoved Prince Leopold forward. "It’s true," the Prince gasped.

  The soldiers roared in anger.

  "Where was High Lord Tessolar at the Battle for Ralanast?" Miro gestured to the north. "Where was High Lord Tessolar at the Battle of Bald Ridge? You’ve seen what the Black Army does to those who surrender. Tell me — has he?"

  "No!" the men cried as one.

  "I tell you now, as long as we are one, we can win this war! We are strong. Our enemy uses tricks and treachery to win battles. We use our hearts and our minds."

  The lords filed out of the Town Hall. They stood uncertainly behind Miro. One of them stepped forward, saying something to Bartolo.

  The bladesinger gestured. "Don’t say it to me, say it to them."

  The lord walked to stand beside Miro. His face was grey and he walked with a limp. With a shock, Miro recognised him.

  It was Lord Rorelan.

  He took a deep breath, "We wish to appoint a new Lord Marshal of the combined forces of Altura and Halaran. Miro Torresante, will you take up this duty, and bring safety to our people?"

  Miro suddenly realised the awesome responsibility that was being placed on his shoulders. He looked steadily at Lord Rorelan. "I will."

  The shout of approval rolled like thunder. "Torresante! Torresante!"

  But Miro was already looking into the distance. There was much to do.

  55

  Your first responsibility is to the path that lies before you. The Evermen will give you a duty, and this is what you must do. Be content that if you Follow the way, and Serve with all your heart, then Salvation will follow.

  — The Evermen Cycles, 19-15

  KILLIAN stumbled into Salvation shortly before midday. He’d walked throughout the night.

  The journey was a barely-remembered blur. He’d pushed himself harder than he ever had before, even when he’d fled Altura with their Lexicon in his arms. One night ran into another in his memory — nights sleeping under hedges, nights in barns, and nights in the freezing open with a rock for a pillow. He’d used every trick at his disposal — stealing, lying and conning his way into rides with Petryan merchants or food from humble villagers.

  Now he was finally here, in Salvation, with the mountain of Stonewater looking down. His objective never far from view, yet all he wanted to do was collapse.

  Killian looked about him, at the ordered streets and the hordes of the poor queuing outside the bread shops. He’d been gone for what seemed like an age, and now he couldn’t believe he’d once called Salvation home.

  His first mission for the Primate had been to Halaran, when he’d stolen the animators’ Lexicon. He’d journeyed through Torakon and Loua Louna before reaching Halaran, and he’d seen sights that had opened his eyes to how huge the world really was. Famed throughout the world, Stonewater was still an incredible place — a great temple, carved into a mountain! But cities like Seranthia and Ralanast were also incredible in their own way.

  Killian tried to define it in his mind. Stonewater was a place of worship of the Evermen. Essence was created here. But somehow it didn’t feel as real as cities like Sarostar.

  The Evermen lived in Stonewater. Whereas in Sarostar — well, people lived there.

  Killian had been lifted up by the Primate, higher than he’d ever thought possible, but he now knew that it wasn’t hard when you had such simple goals — a soft bed. A full stomach. Wealth. Safety.

  People like Ella had value
s that seemed strange to Killian, but were just as heartfelt to them, just as great a driving force as hunger, or pain.

  It didn’t require much of a debate to know when you’re hungry. When you had people you cared about, the caring came just as naturally.

  Killian looked around him. The streets of Salvation seemed so much smaller now.

  The buildings were all of the same uniform grey stone — squat, ugly structures of one or two levels. He had forgotten how many people there were in Salvation, hordes of them, all fighting for space.

  There were no soldiers in Aynar. No lords or loremasters. In Aynar everything was run by the Assembly of Templars. The priests took care of the souls of the people. The templars took care of the more secular aspects of life.

  There seemed to be more templars than ever before. The white uniforms with black trim were everywhere. Killian caught the eyes of a solidly built templar, his hand on his sword, and quickly looked away. Those yellow eyes looked menacing.

  He stopped in the street and looked up at the solitary mountain that was the destination of so many pilgrims. Stonewater. The resting place of the Evermen’s greatest relics. Home of the Assembly. Residence of Primate Melovar Aspen.

  He’d only ever entered Stonewater at a summons from the Primate. Now, with the Primate leading the Black Army, he had to find another way to get inside.

  Killian only hoped he wasn’t too late.

  He’d returned the Alturan Lexicon to Ella. Moments later the High Enchantress would have held it in her hands.

  But the Halrana Lexicon had been in the Primate’s possession for many weeks. If the Primate destroyed it, the Halrana animators would be no more. They would cease to exist as people, and would be absorbed by the Primate’s motley forces.

  And it would be Killian’s fault.

  He cursed his strange ability. He felt dirty, used, lied to. What did the Primate really know about his abilities? Who was he? Where were his parents? Were they even still alive?