The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  There were just too many of them.

  Scherlic took his eyes away from the seeing device and now he could see the armada with his own unaided vision. It was beyond anything he could have imagined, an uncountable array of ships of all shapes and sizes. As the Infinity grew ever nearer, Scherlic’s experienced gaze saw that these vessels sat low in the water, as if carrying heavy cargo. He tried to count them, but he could only see the length of the line, not the depth; there was no purpose in trying to gauge their numbers from this limited perspective.

  He kept his distance but drew close enough to see their direction of travel. He’d been warned about this enemy’s capabilities, and he and Commodore Deniz had experimented with the range and power of cannon. Scherlic knew his mission: the important thing was to escape the armada unscathed and bring warning.

  He was now close enough to see that the enemy fleet traveled straight, lumbering forward slowly, but inevitably, heading directly for the free cities.

  A puff of smoke came from one of the closest ships, and four or five vessels broke free to give chase. Scherlic’s lips curved in a smile; he’d like to see them try to catch the Infinity.

  Then Scherlic could wait no more.

  “Make all sail!” he roared. “Turn about. We’re getting away from them.”

  Sailmaster Scherlic called power to his vessel, and the Infinity heeled over sharply as she came about. He focused all his energy on getting every bit of speed from the racing ship, and the Infinity shot forward as one of the fastest ships the world had ever seen sped across the waves.

  The armada was coming, and they were coming for Altura.

  Scherlic had to give warning to the high lord.

  Miro had been right all along.

  After a week’s frantic journey, Miro was nearly at Castlemere. He was on the road from Sarostar to the free cities, leading a long column of soldiers, when the courier found him.

  “High Lord,” the man in green panted, “urgent message.”

  Miro realized his hands were shaking as he waited impatiently for the courier to catch his breath. “Tell me,” he demanded, but he knew what was coming.

  “The enemy fleet has been sighted. Here,” he said, handing over the dispatch.

  Miro swiftly broke the seal and scanned the message from Scherlic. The sailmaster described the fleet as huge, an armada, more ships in one place than he’d ever thought possible.

  He said they were undeniably heading for the free cities.

  Miro’s homeland was under attack.

  “What’s your name?” Miro said to the courier.

  “Faron, High Lord.”

  “Faron, I am going to entrust you with a vital mission. Can you handle it?”

  “Yes, High Lord.” The young man trembled.

  “Get to Sarostar as quickly as you can. Do not rest.” Miro bit the words off. “If you see Beorn, tell him the news, but more than anything, get to the Crystal Palace. Find Amelia. Give her the message, and tell her I’m instructing her to light the green signal. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, High Lord.”

  “Here,” Miro said. He tugged the signet ring off the fourth finger of his right hand. “You now have my seal. Let nothing stop you.”

  “You can count on me, High Lord.”

  “Good man. Now go.”

  Miro was about to face the most important battle of his lifetime. He remembered the devastation of Wengwai, the ravaging of Veldria, the swarming might of the revenant horde.

  Miro’s heart pounded in his chest. He began to run.

  The free cities beckoned as Miro raced to defend his homeland against the Lord of the Night.

  19

  Bartolo strode briskly from the Pens to the Crystal Palace, walking along streets of cobblestones and following the river for a time, taking in the scene of organized chaos that was Sarostar entering its final stage of readiness. He knew about Jehral’s discovery of the wrecked ship, but as far as Bartolo was aware, they still knew nothing about their enemy’s present location. Sarostar was busy now, but if and when they sighted the fleet, the city would enter a new state of readiness. At the moment, Bartolo had something else on his mind.

  The guards made way for the tall, dark-haired bladesinger at the main gates and then stood aside at the marble steps to let him inside the palace itself, welcoming him with a nod. Bartolo tried to wipe the scowl from his face, but it kept returning, and he soon gave up.

  Bartolo found Amelia sitting at a table with some of the overseers of the granaries. She glanced up as he approached, and her expression immediately grew worried when she caught sight of his face.

  “What is it?” Amelia said.

  “It’s Tapel,” Bartolo said. “Your son needs training. I thought we’d all agreed to it.” He tried to keep the anger from his voice. “I know the training’s hard, but I want to talk to him. Tell him to come out.”

  “He’s not at the barracks?” Amelia said.

  Bartolo snorted. “He certainly isn’t. You know he hasn’t shown up in days. This isn’t the first time he’s disappeared, and this time we’re going to talk.”

  “Please leave us,” Amelia said to the men at the table. They swiftly touched fingers to lips and foreheads and departed. “Now, just wait a moment, Bartolo. Start at the beginning. I thought he was with you.”

  “He’s not here? You’re sure?” Bartolo said. His anger swiftly became replaced with concern. “I assumed he’s been here all this time. I haven’t seen him in three days. Where’s he been sleeping?”

  Amelia sighed in exasperation. “It’s probably nothing. This is Tapel we’re talking about.”

  “Yes, but three days? Is that like him?”

  “I’m starting to worry . . .” Amelia said, turning suddenly frantic eyes on Bartolo.

  “It’s probably nothing.” Bartolo exhaled. “Scratch that boy. I don’t have time to organize a search.”

  As Amelia rose from the table, Bartolo heard the sound of a throat clearing, and he and Amelia both turned to see a steward standing just inside the doorway. By the steward’s side was a sturdy, round-faced man with a bald pate.

  “My apologies,” the steward said, “but this man has been asking to see either you, Bladesinger Bartolo, or you, Lady Amelia. Knowing you were both here . . .”

  “We’re busy,” Bartolo said, scowling.

  “It’s . . . it’s about Tapel,” the bald man said.

  Amelia and Bartolo exchanged glances.

  “Who are you? How do you know my son?” Amelia demanded.

  The bald man looked nervous. His clothing was plain and faded, but well mended, and his features were Alturan.

  “I’m Fergus, a ferryman,” he said, twirling a woolen cap in his hands.

  “Do you know where my son is?” Amelia said.

  “I’m not sure,” he said.

  “Well, do you know where he is, or don’t you?” Bartolo asked.

  “Well . . . no, I don’t . . . but, you see, I’ve gotten to know the boy. He often takes a boat from the Pens to the Crystal Palace on Lordsdays. He didn’t come by last Lordsday . . .”

  “Let me ask you one more time,” Bartolo interrupted. “Do you know where Tapel is?”

  “I think I might have an idea where he’s gotten to,” Fergus said. “That’s why I came, actually. You see, he told me about a one-eyed man . . .”

  “What one-eyed man?” Amelia demanded.

  “Let him finish!” Bartolo glared.

  Amelia’s eyebrows went up and she opened her mouth. “Why, you hypocritical . . .”

  “If you keep interrupting, we’ll never hear what he has to say,” Bartolo said. He frowned at Amelia one last time before turning back to Fergus.

  “Tapel saw a one-eyed man in the market,” Fergus said. “He said he saw something suspicious about him. I told him to say something to one of you, but he didn’t want to. Then, well, I waited for him on Lordsday—I’ve been keeping an eye on him, you see—and when I didn’t see him .
. .”

  “So you think his disappearance is something to do with this one-eyed man?” Bartolo said.

  “I think it might, yes.”

  “How can we find this man?” Amelia said.

  “Well, you see, that’s the thing . . .”

  “Out with it, man,” Bartolo growled.

  “Well, I saw him, today—the one-eyed man, that is. He was buying resin in the Poloplats market. So I followed him all the way to Samson’s Bridge, but then I lost him. I can tell you he didn’t cross the bridge, though.”

  “What does he look like?” Bartolo asked.

  “Well, he’s got one eye . . .”

  Bartolo’s hands moved as though to strangle someone, and he fought to control himself. “Where does it look like he’s from?”

  “I wouldn’t say he’s from ’round here, that’s for sure. Even with all the newcomers, I know my Sarostar. I’d say, at a guess, Tingara?”

  “And you lost him near Samson’s Bridge?”

  “That’s right. Near the big three-legged tower.”

  “The signal tower,” Bartolo said, his eyes meeting Amelia’s. “Jehral said he was ambushed by Tingarans near the river.”

  “Lord of the Earth,” Amelia gasped, clasping her hands together. “What should we do?”

  Bartolo felt his heart race. “Amelia, I need you to go to the Pens. Tell every boy and recruit you can find to head to Samson’s Bridge. Get them to bring my zenblade and armorsilk. Fergus, come with me.”

  Bartolo and Fergus crept along the road. Bartolo was uncertain how many enemies he might face, and he knew that above all else, with Tapel potentially in enemy hands, he and Fergus couldn’t be seen.

  Samson’s Bridge lay ahead, and just in front of the supports, on the Alturan side, Bartolo saw the tall tower with its shining prism mounted at the apex. He breathed a sigh of relief to see the tower still standing; whatever had befallen Tapel, it wasn’t related to the signaling system.

  “Here’s where I lost ’em,” Fergus whispered.

  The two men stood side by side among the trees, peering ahead. Fergus had said Tapel’s one-eyed man didn’t cross the bridge, which meant he would be either downriver or upriver. For some reason these men were in hiding; there was a surfeit of campsites closer to the city. Where would this man go if he didn’t want to be seen? A camp used a lot of water, and occasionally left flotsam to float downstream. If this man—or men, more likely—were clever, they would have made their camp down from the bridge, where any leavings would float away from the people crossing.

  Hearing the sound of voices behind him, Bartolo whirled and saw a group of seven youths heading up the road. Their ages ranged from seventeen to nineteen, and all carried steel swords and wore determined expressions. Leading them was Dorian, the recently elevated bladesinger. Bartolo waved his arms to get their attention and made a cutting motion with his hand across his throat. Immediately, they were silent. Bartolo could only pray they hadn’t been heard.

  Seeing how Bartolo was pressed in among the trees, the recruits, led by the yellow-haired Dorian, followed suit. The young bladesinger approached, and Bartolo leaned forward to whisper into Dorian’s good ear.

  “I figure they’ll be camped downriver,” Bartolo murmured, “but it’s prudent to check in both directions. I’ll take Fergus and two of the recruits—say, Martin and Timo—and start searching downriver. You take the others upriver. They’ll be in the trees, so keep a sharp eye out. The lads are under your protection; use them for scouting, but do the fighting yourself.”

  “Understood,” Dorian said. “Also, this is for you.”

  Dorian handed Bartolo a bag and a scabbarded sword. Reaching into the bag Bartolo pulled out garments of shining green silk. Bartolo gripped Dorian’s shoulder in thanks, and swiftly donned his armorsilk before fixing his scabbarded zenblade at his waist.

  “From now on we stay silent,” Bartolo said. “Keep your ears open. If either of us hears sounds of a fight, come to the other’s aid.”

  Bartolo motioned Fergus and two of the youths to follow. He led his small group through the trees that followed the riverbank south, walking with Fergus on his right and the two boys on his left, closer to the water. Martin was a sturdy lad of seventeen, with broad shoulders and flaxen hair. Timo was a year older, and though he looked reedy, he’d been training with a sword for well over a decade.

  Bartolo sniffed the air as he walked. If they were clever, he wouldn’t be able to smell their smoke, but not everyone was skilled with woodcraft, and Tingarans least of all.

  He tried to keep his movements steady and graceful, making no sound through the forest mat, but Bartolo kept tensing as his thoughts turned to Tapel.

  What had they done with the boy? What would he say to Amelia if Tapel were dead? What would he say to Rogan?

  The lad deserved a better fate than to die at the hands of some brigands. Tapel had been brave, but foolish, to follow this one-eyed man. Even if there were brigands camped here, it wasn’t so important that it was worth Tapel’s life. Any day now they were expecting the Buchalanti scouts to announce they’d sighted enemy ships. With Altura clear in the enemy’s path, it would be a cruel joke indeed to lose Tapel to bandits before the battle even started. Even if Tapel were unharmed, it was a distraction Bartolo could do without.

  “Foolish boy,” Bartolo whispered under his breath.

  Bartolo stopped. He smelled smoke.

  He waved his arms until he had the attention of his whole group. Bartolo pointed at himself and then made an inverted vee with his index fingers. The others fell back while Bartolo moved ahead so that he was the point of their wedge.

  Bartolo activated his armorsilk.

  Chanting under his breath, he started to name activation sequences and felt the armorsilk tighten around his shoulders, the material shifting to the texture that could turn away steel. Bartolo was practiced at this, and to a man standing a few paces away, he would make no sound. He was in tune with his armorsilk and knew how to call forth its power in a way no one would hear.

  He gave the armorsilk strength and shadow, and glancing at his forearm, he could soon see the leaves of the forest floor through the material.

  Bartolo drew his zenblade, slowly, until he held it out in front of him in a scarred hand.

  Continuing the near silent chant, Bartolo again crept forward.

  The smell of smoke grew stronger, and Bartolo thought he saw an encampment ahead, but the trees weren’t as thick as he might have liked this close to the river, and his vision was impaired as he was forced to flit from one tree to the next like a bird. If it was a camp, without the shadow effect of the armorsilk, he would have already been seen.

  He hoped the others had the good sense to stay back.

  Bartolo heard voices; it was definitely a camp, and he was now perhaps twenty paces from the fire. He had his back to a tree, but he now poked his head around. Two tents surrounded a low circle of embers, and Bartolo smelled grilling meat.

  Bartolo flitted to one more tree, and then he could make out their words.

  “We’re low on food again,” a gruff voice said.

  “The city’s in chaos. It’s not a good time to go in,” an assertive voice spoke.

  “How long have we got, eh, Brin? How much food?” a higher pitched speaker asked.

  The second, assertive voice spoke again—Brin, the other man had called him. “If we’re careful . . . two weeks at the current rate.”

  “Two weeks,” the gruff voice said. “That’s not long.”

  “Think about it like this,” Brin said. “If the city calms down, we can get more food. If it doesn’t, and they’re attacked, they’ll light the signal, and we can watch to see they don’t catch onto the ruse. Then we can go.”

  Ruse? Bartolo felt a shiver course through his body.

  “Either way, Brin, our supply of food is limited,” the gruff voice said. “We should kill the boy.”

  Bartolo’s blood ran cold.

&
nbsp; “He’s just a boy,” Brin said.

  “We can’t let him go,” the high-pitched voice said. “Kill him.”

  “Fine,” Brin said. “But I’m not going to watch. Throw the body in the river.”

  Bartolo heard the sound of scraping steel.

  20

  Bartolo took a deep breath, and forgetting about silence, he whirled around the tree and shot forward. He immediately took in the scene. Four men sat around a fire. Tapel lay trussed on the ground, bound and gagged. Bartolo called on the power of his zenblade, seeing the symbols inscribed in the metal spark along its length.

  The bandits shot to their feet.

  “Bladesinger!” a man with a sword cried.

  Bartolo dashed in and easily dodged a clumsy blow from the swordsman to strike at the man’s chest. The zenblade barely paused as it carved through from the man’s armpit to the other side of his body. Bartolo then ducked a blow from an axe to thrust into a second, scrawny man’s throat. He saw a one-eyed man look at Tapel and then turn and run.

  “Stop him!” Bartolo called.

  The fourth bandit knelt at the fire and picked up a burning brand. He came at Bartolo with wild eyes, swinging as he sent sparks flying through the air. Bartolo tried to counter without killing his opponent, but the man’s clumsy attack brought him too close, and he went down with a cry as Bartolo’s blade sliced his side.

  The one-eyed man ran with arms pumping, darting through the trees, and then Bartolo saw the ferryman, Fergus, rush to intercept him. Both went down in a tangle of limbs.

  “Keep him alive!” Bartolo cried.

  Fergus struggled with the bandit but was knocked back. The one-eyed man’s fist smashed into Fergus’s cheek, and Fergus lost him as he sped away once more.

  Bartolo dashed after him and saw his two recruits ahead as they sped after the bandit, following the river. The boys were young, and at the peak of fitness. The one-eyed man looked over his shoulder and saw them gaining on him.