Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One)

by James Maxwell

  68

  One person, can make a difference.

  — The Evermen Cycles, 5-25

  ELLA leapt down from Sundhip’s back and slapped the horse on the rump to send it away. People everywhere milled about in confusion. She could see a crossing raft swamp at the far side of the river as too many of the refugees jumped on at once. A baby screamed as a woman tried to hand it to the enchanter guiding the raft. He shook his head in despair, barely able to keep control as it was.

  "Stop it!" Ella called, to no effect.

  She rummaged through her bag, quickly finding what she was looking for. Holding the scrill in one hand and the flask of essence in the other, she called again.

  "Stop it! Get back!" Once again there was no response.

  She looked down at the High Enchantress’s robe, realising what she needed to do. She chanted the runes in quick succession, her voice coming strong as the sequences built one on the other. The robe began to glow silver, growing brighter as she continued. She added further complexity, projecting the light like a beacon. People around her quailed in confusion. The enchanter held his raft at the bank, his eyes tightly closed.

  The robe began to hum as Ella continued to name the runes. It quivered like a drum, the hum growing louder, becoming a single pure note that grew in intensity. All activity on both sides of the river stopped.

  Ella had their attention.

  She let the runes subside and the sound died away.

  "Stand back!" she shouted at the waiting refugees. "Everyone stand back and form a line. You," she pointed at the enchanter. "Get back onto the bank and line everybody up."

  To Ella’s sudden surprise they started to move. As the vista opened up, she quickly assessed the situation.

  The huge blocks that had formed the wide span of the Sutanesta Bridge lay in the chaotic current of the river, with only a few tops poking above the surface. They were scattered about, impossibly heavy. One of the blocks was within reach, barely a pace from the bank.

  Across the river the battle raged. The defenders were being overrun, and soon the massacre would begin.

  Ella stepped out onto the block, so that she was part-way into the river. She felt the power and the knowledge swell within her.

  Her trials flashed before her eyes. She remembered her pride at the Academy. The day she had shown Master Goss she understood the runes better than he did. The night she had broken into Master Samson’s laboratory, her pride so strong that nothing could defeat her. Talwin’s death, his body ruined by the essence. The wracking. Being awarded the Academy’s highest honours. Her part in the theft of her people’s Lexicon. Climbing, falling, and nearly drowning in pursuit of Killian. Layla. Learning from Evrin. The eldritch. The bandits in Wondhip Pass. The beast, chasing them in Petrya. The knowledge from the Alturan Lexicon. The lore of illusion.

  It was all in preparation for this moment.

  Ella looked down at the block she was standing on. She knew what she needed to do.

  She cleared her mind and let her intuition guide her.

  Putting on her gloves, Ella let her mind free to find the runes that she needed. Animator’s runes. Enchanter’s runes. Illusionist’s runes. She looked at the Halrana bank. The refugees were watching her, an expression of awe on their faces.

  The river surged through the wide channel.

  Ella started to draw on the block’s surface. Her hand worked deftly, the matrices soon covering a great portion of its surface.

  She could see the opposite bank, where the fighting was raging on. In the distance, a man tried to protect his family from the rampaging legionnaires. He was butchered mercilessly.

  Her hand moving almost of its own accord, she inscribed rune after rune in quick succession. This was nothing like she had ever seen before. She was combining the symbols into completely new arrangements.

  As she worked she activated the runes, but she never stopped working. Her lips moved constantly — this made a bladesingers song look simple in comparison. She didn’t look up to see the effect her activations were having — if she stopped she would falter.

  Ella was enchanting the very air.

  Her mind cast back to a simpler time, when she had been walking with Killian, showing him the nine bridges of Sarostar. She remembered when she had shown him the bridge that led to the Crystal Palace. He’d trusted her that day, taking his hesitant steps into nothingness. Ella felt her spirit soar as she drew on the memory.

  Ella was building a runebridge.

  Finally she looked up. It soared above her, connecting the solid block of stone to the Halrana side of the riverbank. She took a step into nothingness, and then another. Her heart surged with joy. She took three more steps, and then more, until she was at the apex of the glowing bridge of light. Ella looked back behind her.

  A tiny man stood with complete composure on the shimmering bridge. He had the light hair and ruddy features of one of the Dunfolk.

  "You are Ella," he said.

  Ella felt she was in a dream. "Yes," she said.

  He nodded. "I am the Tartana."

  Behind him, countless Dunfolk were lined up. The Tartana waved his arm forward, and their small forms ran past Ella, down the far side of the bridge. In moments they had reached the scene of the battle. Instantly, their numbers started to tell.

  Ella followed them across the formless bridge to the Halrana side. For a moment there was silence, then a great cheer came from the refugees. Ella caught the eyes of the enchanter. "Cross them over," she said. "It will hold."

  "What about you?"

  "There’s still more to be done."

  She activated the runes on her dress as she walked towards the battle. It shimmered with each stride. Coloured lights flickered from her body. Men fell back around her. The fighting continued, but none were prepared to fight her, it was as if she wasn’t there.

  Ella saw a man with the raj hada of a commander. Several scales of his armour had been torn away. His face was scarred and his hair was grey, with bushy eyebrows and a ragged beard.

  "Marshal," she said.

  He dispatched an enemy and turned. An expression of complete surprise crossed his face. "Who are you? You’re not Evora Guinestor."

  "Marshal, a way has been found across the river. A bridge has been created."

  "How?"

  "It doesn’t matter. The refugees have almost all crossed. I need you to tell your men to fall back."

  He turned — confronting the terrible spectre of the Black Army’s countless numbers. "If we turn now we’ll be slaughtered."

  "Leave that to me, Marshal…" Ella said. "What is your name?"

  "Beorn."

  "Well, Marshal Beorn. We can still save your men."

  He nodded decisively. "I will call the men back."

  69

  You have only one life, therefore it is a perfect life.

  — The Evermen Cycles, 4-14

  MIRO cut down another legionnaire, only to face one more. He could still see no sign of Amber.

  "Fall back!" the order came from behind.

  In complete surprise he turned around. Who had issued the order? To turn back now would invite a slaughter! Where would they go?

  "Fall back!" the order came again. "Fall back!"

  A shape hurled itself into the enemy, a bladesinger, whirling like a fiery demon, cutting down the enemy, doing anything he could to give the retreating men the space they needed.

  The enemy backed away under the bladesingers’ furious charge, but they quickly regained their strength as the great mass pushed forward. Soldiers everywhere were abandoning the defensive embankment.

  Miro could now see the sheer number of enemy corpses. They lined the ground under the earthworks one on top of another.

  Along with some brave soldiers, the bladesinger was almost single-handedly holding back the tide of the enemy. Miro caught the man’s face, realising who it was.

  Bartolo.

  Before he knew it Miro had added to his own son
g. He shouted it with the full strength of his voice. He ran down to help his friend. Bartolo thrust his sword into a legionnaire’s side and turned at the sound of Miro’s voice. He grinned wickedly.

  Miro threw himself into the fray with renewed vigour. His zenblade turned purple, then blue. He tore into the enemy ranks like a storm, cutting down man after man. He could hear Bartolo singing, the two voices joined in an eerie battle cry.

  The enemy ranks in front tried to flee, but the force of the men behind them pushed them forward. Right into the whirling swords.

  They had a moment’s respite. Miro gathered himself. His singing halted. "That’s enough, we need to go now." Bartolo nodded.

  They turned and headed for the river.

  As they left Miro looked over his shoulder. Amber. What had happened to her?

  70

  The greatest harm can come from the will to do the greatest good.

  — The Evermen Cycles, 11-19

  PRIMATE Melovar Aspen smiled as the defenders broke. Two stubborn bladesingers kept fighting, but the rest of them were running. There was nowhere for them to go. Victory was his.

  The crumpled body of the Emperor lay next to him. The Primate let it stay there. It gave him pleasure to see the proud ruler brought to nothing but a pile of bones and flesh.

  He took a sip of black liquid from a crystal glass. His face twisted and grimaced. It tasted awful. He kicked the Emperor’s body, and to his left, Moragon grinned. Melovar briefly wondered if there was something in the elixir that was taking away his humanity. Hadn’t he once wondered this before? The thought quickly fled.

  He looked at the second body — the enchanter with the special sword. Now that had been a scare. He had almost laughed out loud when the fanatic had breasted the top of the hill, splattered with blood and gore, and then ignored him and killed the Emperor.

  The sword was interesting. He would have to have it studied. He had never seen or heard of such a powerful zenblade. Even now it still quivered and sparked.

  The Alturan’s body was headless now. He had asked for the man’s head to be mounted on a pike. It took the place of the Emperor, looking out over the battlefield at the Primate’s right hand. An expression of triumph was on the man’s face. A surprisingly old face. Who was this man? He supposed he would never know.

  The two bladesingers had finally given up, like the others, they were running also. The defenders were in full rout.

  The Primate could see the seething mass of refugees pinned against the river bank. There was something strange about them, but he quickly discounted it.

  A commander ran up, "We have them on the run. The refugees are trapped along the bank."

  "Full attack," said the Primate. "Push them into the river or kill them outright."

  He looked on as the great mass of his Black Army flowed over the pitiful defences like the dam of a river being broken. Each man pushed against the man in front of him. With no resistance now, there was nothing stopping them. They would smash into the milling refugees like a breaking wave. The Primate wondered how many bodies would show up bloated on the shores of the Sarsen. It was a pleasant image.

  Suddenly the image of the refugees wavered, like a mirage in the desert. The air shimmered, and then solidified. Melovar rubbed at his eyes. There was something wrong. The image flickered again. Then the scene abruptly shifted.

  Changed.

  The refugees were gone. His great army was racing headlong towards an empty ridge, with nothing but a sheer drop between them and the raging Sarsen.

  Melovar looked on in horror as the soldiers pressed on, meeting no resistance. The refugees simply weren’t there anymore. Where they had been, the earth terminated abruptly in a jagged cliff. The men in front tried to stop, but their momentum was too great.

  "Stop it! Stop them!" the Primate cried.

  Man after man of the Black Army plummeted into the icy waters of the Sarsen.

  They died in their thousands, trapped by the weight of their own numbers.

  A great cheer sounded. Looking up, the Primate saw an impossible sight. The defenders had somehow crossed the river. A bridge of rainbow light crossed the Sarsen.

  As Melovar watched, the bridge faded. Soon, it was as if it had never been there.

  71

  Never fight to the bitter end. Either fight to win, or live to fight another day.

  — Memoirs of Emperor Xenovere I, 121-1, 381 Y.E.

  MIRO was the last to cross the bridge. He leapt lightly to the Alturan side and gazed upwards at the forests of Altura. He had never seen such a beautiful sight.

  He wondered again at the ability of whoever had assembled the bridge. It must have been the High Enchantress. He didn’t see how it could have been anyone else.

  He heard the screams and cries of terrified men. Looking behind him, he saw a great commotion as the horde of enemy soldiers plunged over a cliff. Their bodies tumbled into the water, sinking instantly as their heavy armour weighed them down. It was another event that left Miro breathless. What had really happened here this day?

  A hooded woman in a green robe strode to the bank. She raised her arms, chanting runes in a powerful voice. At her command the magical bridge faded away.

  The woman turned and her arms dropped to her sides. Suddenly Miro couldn’t breathe. He simply stopped and stared. The pale blonde hair, the bright green eyes.

  It was Ella.

  She looked exhausted. He could see dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. A small woman walked up to her, one of the Dunfolk. Miro recognised the healer who had saved Ella’s life, so long ago. Layla.

  The small woman opened her arms. Ella bent down and hugged Layla. Tears started flowing down her face. Layla whispered something, but Miro couldn’t hear what it was.

  72

  Would you really give anything for your children? Even your ability to watch them grow?

  — Primate Melovar Aspen to Lady Katherine Torresante, 524 Y.E.

  "THE Lord Marshal wishes to see you," Layla whispered.

  Ella composed herself. "Where is he?"

  "Right behind you."

  Ella whirled, and there he was.

  He looked awful. He was covered in blood. A deep scar ran from below his left eye to his jaw line. His armoursilk was torn. He looked like a man twice his age.

  "Miro!" Ella cried. She ran to him. He enfolded her in his arms. Ella felt wetness against her cheek. Was he crying? She pulled back from him. He was!

  Miro wiped at his eyes, "Ella. It was you?"

  Colour came to her cheeks; she nodded.

  "But how?"

  "It’s a long story. And you? You’re the Lord Marshal?"

  "I suppose I am." He grinned ruefully. "We have a lot to talk about."

  They both looked around at the smiling onlookers.

  Miro’s face suddenly clouded. He gripped his sister by the arms. "Amber! Have you seen her?"

  "She’s here? No, I haven’t seen her. Where is she?"

  A man walked up to them. A priest. It was Father Morten from Sarostar. "Amber crossed the river," he said. "She didn’t come back."

  Miro looked back across the river, his fists clenched at his sides.

  Ella took her brother by the arm, and together they followed the Dunfolk into the forests of Altura.

  73

  And so I bid you farewell. My second expedition to the Great Western Ocean is finally ready to depart — we leave with the tide. This time I feel that we are prepared. The Buchalanti have stayed silent, but I have seen too much on my travels to believe that the world of the Tingaran Empire is all there is. Wish me fortune. I hope to see you all soon.

  — Toro Marossa, ‘Explorations’, Page 589, 423 Y.E.

  THE people of Salvation thought it must be a miracle. Perhaps it was an omen? The promised return of the Evermen had come at last.

  The mountain of Stonewater billowed smoke like a volcano.

  A lone man came shuffling and stumbli
ng down from above. He was bare-chested, covered in blood and grime, his flesh scratched and torn. Perhaps once his trousers had been brown. He had unruly red hair that hung to his collar. When he looked up people remarked on his steady gaze, the piercing blue eyes.

  Killian limped along. The glowing Halrana Lexicon was in his arms. He felt pain all over his body. He ignored the ordinary citizens of Salvation. Their gazes followed him as he headed for the Temple of the Sky, and his rendezvous with Evrin Evenstar.

  He coughed and lurched, holding onto a wall for support. He turned into a side street and hobbled past a group of staring girls. Turning another corner he saw the crystal dome ahead.

  He had done it. He had accomplished the impossible. The Primate’s perversion of essence would be no more.

  Killian wiped his mouth and looked at his red hand. He felt the moisture at his lip and wriggled a loose tooth.

  Reaching the temple, he had to summon all of his strength to even push the doors apart. He entered to soothing music. Row upon row of marble benches confronted him. A man sat with head bowed. A young woman’s lips moved in prayer.

  Evrin Evenstar was nowhere to be seen.

  Killian sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.

  Epilogue

  PRINCE Ilathor Shanti rose as Jehral entered the huge tent. The man’s body was covered in dust, his face weather-beaten and eyes tired. "Come, come," Ilathor said. "I am anxious to hear your news."

  Jehral nodded his thanks as the Prince gestured to a space on the floor. He sank down gratefully. Ilathor offered him a goblet of water, and the desert warrior drank in huge gulps.

  "Well?" Prince Ilathor uncharacteristically hurried the man along. Jehral’s eyes opened in surprise.

  "We lost her some time before the Wondhip Pass. We tried to cross, but discovered it had been blocked. We do not understand how. Blocks of stone had been moved to form an impassable wall. Symbols covered them..."