Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One)

by James Maxwell

  Killian took a moment to gather his breath. He thought about what Evrin had told him, "This substance the Primate has made from essence. This… technique he uses to turn people to his will. I don’t see how you are to blame."

  Evrin’s blue eyes studied Killian. "It is a long tale, too long for today. But it was I who left the lore where it could be found. There are some pieces of knowledge that are better left untaught. This is one of them."

  "What do you need me for? Why don’t you do this yourself?"

  The old man ignored him. He was busy rummaging through his bag. He turned to Killian, a small brown bottle and a scrill in his hands. "Take off your shirt. This won’t take long."

  Killian noticed Evrin didn’t bother with gloves. "Aren’t you worried about the poison?"

  "No, I am not. Off. Take your shirt off completely."

  Killian removed his shirt.

  Evrin deftly dipped the scrill and began to draw runes with a quick, sure hand. The smoke rose from the bare skin of Killian’s chest. He felt nothing but a slight tingling.

  Killian had seen Ella draw the symbols, but this was something else. Evrin drew rune after rune without pausing, without thinking. Killian’s chest was soon covered in the matrices, followed by his neck. His arms followed. Finally Evrin drew the runes on Killian’s back.

  "There," he said. Evrin drew away to regard his work.

  It had taken only minutes. Killian hadn’t seen many runes, but he had the feeling that this was lore of a level beyond anything, beyond even the loremasters of the houses.

  "Shak-lan," said Evrin.

  Some of the matrices came alive, glowing with silver light.

  "What have you done to me?" Killian said.

  "It is a rushed effort, but I have enhanced your body."

  "Enhanced? What do you mean? Why don’t you enhance yourself?"

  Evrin sighed. He seemed to lose some of his strength. "I cannot. It was my final punishment. They took it away from me. Now, I am just like the common people. I can create lore on items, such as my clothing here. Essence does not harm me. But the abilities you have, I no longer possess." He activated some more sequences, naming the runes one after another.

  Killian felt his body… change. His skin firmed, his weight grew lighter. He bunched his fists. His arms felt like steel.

  "If you only had the knowledge, we could do more. Much more. Your dreams could only half describe the things that could be done." He regarded Killian’s glowing body. "I have kept it simple. You will not need to name any runes yourself. Wait a moment." He drew a quick succession of symbols on Killian’s trousers.

  "Sur-an-ahman," Evrin said.

  Killian felt nothing. Then he looked at his hand. There was nothing there. He looked down at his body. Nothing could be seen of him. He was invisible.

  "Are you ready?" Evrin said.

  Killian nodded. Evrin just looked at him, his eyes slightly unfocused. Then Killian realised. He couldn’t be seen. "I am ready," he said.

  Evrin pointed up the hill of the mountain. "There is a special entrance, guarded by templars. It leads to the first in a series of chambers. They store the lignite ore here — raj ichor in its raw, unrefined form. Each small block of lignite contains the life-force of a thousand trees, or a million blades of grass. Are you listening?"

  "Yes, I understand," Killian said. "The first chambers contain the ore. Is this really the right thing to do? What of the Halrana Lexicon? That’s what I came here for."

  "Listen to me, Killian. Imagine every person you have ever cared about being held above a flame. You have a choice. To free them, or to taste a single drop of the tainted essence, and watch them burn in front of you, their screams haunting your nightmares for the rest of your days. Killian, if you were in its thrall, you would choose to watch them burn."

  "But to destroy the relics…"

  "We’re destroying the Primate’s methods of production. The Primate uses essence to produce raj nilas. If he can no longer produce essence, his supplies of raj nilas will soon run dry."

  "But the houses…"

  "The houses have their essence stockpiles. And Killian?"

  "What?"

  "The knowledge, how to produce essence," Evrin tapped the side of his head. "Right here."

  "What about the Halrana Lexicon?"

  "It may have already been destroyed. If it has, there’s nothing we can do. First destroy the relics, and then you can worry about the Halrana Lexicon. As you know, Stonewater has a wide shaft running vertically through the mountain’s core. The most secure place is at the foot of the shaft. This is where the refinery is housed, and where essence comes into being. It would stand to reason that the essence is further refined into raj nilas here. When your mission is complete, look for the animators’ Lexicon somewhere near the refinery.’

  Killian closed his eyes, breathing in, and then slowly opened them. He was filled with a new determination. If the Primate didn’t have any more of the tainted essence, he could no longer bend the houses to his will. This was his chance to save lives, the lives of people like Ella. "So what’s after the ore chambers?"

  The old man gave Killian a further set of instructions, and then handed him three small cubes. Each was covered in tiny runes. Killian could see each of the cubes was numbered from one to three. "These will destroy the relics. To activate them, say, ‘Lot-har,’ followed by the number. They will explode ten seconds after you activate them."

  Killian put them into the pocket of his trousers.

  "Each has great destructive power. Make sure you are far away when they go."

  The old man suddenly looked his age. He held out his palm. Killian gripped it. It looked like Evrin’s hand gripped nothing. "Be careful. When you return, we will talk. And Killian?"

  "Yes?"

  "The yellow eyes. Be careful of the yellow eyes."

  58

  We need to understand more about the elixir. Use the homeless of Salvation as test subjects — preferably those without families. When the world is united under one banner, they stand the most to benefit. Their sacrifice will be remembered.

  — Primate Melovar Aspen to Templar Zavros, 539 Y.E.

  MIRO had pushed the men hard, and himself harder. They had accomplished miracles in the two days they had been in the borderlands. Somehow though, it hadn’t been enough.

  From his command at the summit of the tallest hill, he gazed out over the incessant activity below. He studied the wide loop in the river. They had cut the loop, forming a half circle. Their defences now formed a ragged line from one point in the river above the bridge, to another point lower down. The treacherous ground rose and fell, making a straight line impossible. Miro had taken advantage of the terrain wherever possible, deploying his strongest units on the crested hills and natural rises.

  The earthworks now stood high above the spiked trenches below. The men permanently lined the long embankment, waiting for the inevitable. Inside the defences stood the refugees.

  Their needs for food and attention grew daily. Miro had asked them to form some kind of council to oversee their needs. Some people had soon come forward, priests and administrators mostly. Even then their numbers had been too great to deal with. They bickered amongst themselves and came to Miro to resolve the most mundane details. Finally, in a fit of rage, he had asked for just one leader to be nominated to look after the refugees’ needs. That was when Pamella had come forward. The widowed wife of a Halrana commander who had died in the battle for Ralanast, she had formed a bridge between the nobility and the common people. Her grey hair reminded Miro of steel, as did her personality.

  Under her command the refugees soon ordered themselves. She had even sent Miro hundreds of stonemasons and other workers from within their numbers, freeing up the valuable soldiers for the important role of protection. Work on the bridge had started to see some progression.

  But not enough. The blocks were simply too big.

  With the aid of the army’s engineers, the wor
kers had started to unravel some of the techniques of the ancients. They said it required an elaborate system of levers and pulleys. A rough model had been put together with some success, but had been crushed while moving the fifth block.

  There were over five hundred of the great blocks. At this rate, they would be here for months. Time they simply didn’t have.

  Miro looked over his forces. At least they were ready, as ready as they could be. He stroked the whiskers of his beard. He hadn’t shaved in days. He couldn’t even remember when he had last slept.

  Never far from his mind, he remembered the words of Tessolar. Ella was dead. The Alturan Lexicon had been stolen.

  Miro almost prayed for the enemy to come soon, while their enchantments still held. It would be bitter irony if they were given more time to complete their fortifications, but in that time the runes on Miro’s armoursilk faded altogether.

  A man ran forward, seeking the lord marshal. He wore the raj hada of a dirigible pilot. Miro waved him forward. The man looked from side to side, a harried expression on his face.

  "Speak, man," Miro said.

  "Perhaps, away from the..."

  Miro took the man by the arm and led him away from the command post. "What is it?"

  "The Black Army, we’ve sighted them."

  Miro sighed, "How far?"

  "Perhaps two days."

  "Can you take me up?"

  "Sir?"

  "Your dirigible. Can you take me up?"

  The man stared at the ground, and then looked up. "Now?"

  "Yes."

  The man’s eyes met Miro’s. "Yes, sir. Sorry sir, no one has ever asked me that."

  "Lord of the Sky, why not?"

  "The height, sir."

  Miro frowned but didn’t reply. He followed the man down the hill and to the dirigible post.

  He hadn’t thought about the height.

  The soldiers looked surprised to see Miro’s arrival. They quickly drew back as the airship pilot gestured. One man held a ladder. The dirigible stood floating, high above. Miro gulped. He took hold of the ladder and began to climb. He felt his weight cause the airship above him to dip slightly.

  "One foot after the other," he muttered to himself.

  "Sir!" the pilot called from below him.

  "What is it?" Miro called, turning to look down at the pilot.

  "Don’t look down!"

  Miro’s vision swam. He breathed in and then out, slowly releasing the air. "Thank you, pilot," he called.

  He finally reached the top of the ladder. Miro tumbled over the side of the wooden tub. "Not too graceful," he muttered.

  The pilot soon followed him over. "I meant for you to not look down, sir," the man said.

  Miro grinned wryly, "I know you did, pilot. What’s your name?"

  "Pilot Varoun, sir."

  "Varoun. That’s a Louna name isn’t it?"

  "Yes, sir. My father, he was an artificer, sir. I was born in Altura."

  Miro smiled. "Good to have you with us, Pilot Varoun. Now, how about you show me the whereabouts of our enemy."

  "Yes, sir," said the pilot.

  He called a series of runes. The men below released the rope. The dirigible began to rise into the air. Varoun went to the side and brought up the ladder. "Wouldn’t do for the enemy to climb up, sir."

  "I’m sure, Pilot Varoun."

  There was barely room in the dirigible for the two of them. Miro looked over the land below. He couldn’t believe how high he was. "Lord of the Sky, it’s amazing," he said. "Every commander should spend time up here."

  The pilot nodded. "I have often thought so myself, sir."

  Looking ahead, Miro could see far into the rugged land of Halaran. He turned around. Behind him the Sarsen wound through deep canyons. Far in the distance it plunged inland, to be lost in the beloved forests of Altura.

  The dirigible moved slowly, the runes lighting up as the pilot activated them. Miro felt the freshening wind on his face.

  "There, sir," Pilot Varoun pointed. "We probably shouldn’t go any closer."

  At first Miro couldn’t see what the man was referring to. Then he realised. That long line on the horizon, stretching across the entire land. That wasn’t a forest. It was the Black Army.

  Miro peered forward. He could make out the haze of dirigibles in the air. There must have been a quarter of a million men, maybe more. "Are you sure? A better knowledge of their numbers would be invaluable."

  The pilot simply tilted his neck, revealing a deep scorch mark. "The elementalists. They’re with them now."

  Miro held the man’s gaze. "I understand."

  He took as best a gauge of the distance as he could. Their numbers would slow them down, but he knew this enemy well. They had pushed him across half of Halaran, from east of Ralanast all the way to Mornhaven, and now they had pushed him here.

  Two days was the upper limit.

  "We can return now, Pilot Varoun. Thank you."

  "My pleasure, sir."

  Miro fought to keep his face impassive. They were out of time.

  59

  And the Lord of the Sky said, ‘Anyone who thinks the sky is the limit, has limited imagination.’

  — The Evermen Cycles, 14-14

  KILLIAN slipped past the templar. He was so close that he held his breath, afraid the sense of it would reach the man.

  "What is that?" the templar suddenly said. Killian didn’t slow. He dropped and rolled, straightening behind a column.

  "Did you feel it too?" another warrior said.

  It wasn’t the first time. Somehow the templars were able to sense him. He knew he had to keep absolutely silent.

  The harvesting plant was just ahead. Killian’s eyes followed the height of the great machine. Evrin had said this was where they brought the lignite ore. The priests said the harvesting plant was a relic of the Evermen, a sanctified gift to the people of Merralya.

  Killian saw an awesome construction, made of the same strange metal as the Lexicons. It was covered with runes, and glowed with an array of colours. Pipes and vats whistled and bubbled. Steam suddenly shot out in a great hissing cloud. As Killian drew closer he could see the intake, a massive doorway the size of a house.

  The instinct that had seen Killian survive the streets of Salvation on his wits alone, suddenly told him to drop. As he hit the floor, a sword whistled over his head. The templar swung overhead at Killian’s body; Killian rolled. The man swung again; this time Killian wasn’t quick enough. He vainly raised his arm in front of his face in protection. The sword crashed into his arm, bouncing off it like stone. The templar howled.

  "What is it?" a voice called.

  "It’s here, there’s something here!"

  Killian leapt to his feet, and saw the feverish yellow eyes of the templar look first one way, then another. There was something in the essence taint that enabled them to sense him. It seemed he still couldn’t be seen though.

  He threw a fist at the templar. The man ducked to the side, his movement a blur. The sword came at Killian’s chest. Killian punched into the man’s sword arm. Time slowed. He watched, sickened, as his fist went straight through the templar’s skin, like a burning rod. Blood spurted out. The sword fell out of useless fingers.

  The man screamed with the pain of it. Killian looked at his fist. He heard the sound of running footsteps. He turned. The room was filling with warriors in white uniform.

  Killian took out the first cube. He activated it, and then took a slow breath. The templars crowded in, heading straight for him. He counted to five. He threw the glowing cube into the intake of the harvesting plant, then leapt between the swords of two of the running soldiers. The whistling of their swords followed him. Running at full speed now, he leapt again.

  His body flew through the air. The vaulted airway that ran the height of the mountain sucked him in.

  The harvester blew. The air was forced out of the chamber, and then blew back with the force of a hurricane, heat like a furnace. Kill
ian’s body was tossed around like a feather in a storm. He grabbed hold of a bar, his eyes shut tight. His body was slammed again and again into the wall of the vertical chamber. He didn’t know where the strength to hold on came from — it must have been the protection of the runes. He opened his eyes.

  High above him, easily hundreds of paces, smoke poured out in a billowing cloud. He was hanging from a rail. Below him was nothing but the depth of the mountain. He held up a hand, looking through it to make sure he was still invisible. Then he took a deep breath.

  It was time to find the extraction system.

  Killian pulled himself up onto the ledge, and rolled onto the cold stone floor. He stood up and tried to get his bearings. He was somewhere in the living quarters of the upper echelon of priests — which meant that the extraction system was on a level below him. He could hear shouts and cries. A priest suddenly ran past him, his cassock billowing around his bare ankles.

  One direction was as good as another. Killian turned and began to run.

  He passed innumerable priests. It was strange to see them away from their temples and sermons. Finding a staircase cut into the mountain, he began to descend, but stopped. A templar was ahead of him, frowning, his hand on his sword.

  Killian charged into the man, knocking him from his feet. Behind him, he heard the whisper of steel being drawn, and turned and hit out with the flat of his hand, catching the man on the temple. The templar grunted in pain, a red mark appearing on his skin. He turned yellowed eyes in all directions, searching for his adversary. As Killian watched, the red mark began to dissipate.

  To his shock, the mark subsided. The man’s skin healed in front of his eyes.

  The templar suddenly thrust out with his sword, faster than Killian could react. The sword sparked against Killian’s side, but the pain was minimal, like a pinprick. Killian swung again into the templar’s backswing and caught the man’s head on the side with the full force of his fist. The templar’s head exploded in a wave of bone and gore. The body crumpled to the ground.