Loki headed north and struck success when he found a Petryan town called Hatlatu. He used his wretched draugar from across the sea to destroy the town and kill the townsfolk, first questioning some screaming women, checking his location, and finding out about the route to his fellow necromancers in Altura via the mountain pass.
Loki used his essence to make new draugar from the dead of Hatlatu to replace those he’d lost, but making a draug took time, and he only made a dozen.
Now these dozen were all he had left.
Loki’s goal was to find cooler lands and meet up with his fellow necromancers, and so he kept heading north. Finally Loki found the mountain pass.
The pass was guarded by a strange tower.
Loki tried to decipher the lore, but it was foreign to him. He didn’t let any of his draugar pass beneath the three-legged tower, and particularly he stayed clear of the triangular prism.
But there was only the one way through.
Finally Loki decided to take a risk, and sent a draug to pull at one of the tower’s three legs. The whole thing finally came crashing down, and Loki made his draugar send the tower tumbling down the mountainside, back the way he’d come. The strange glossy pyramid was buried in a rockslide, and Loki was pleased when the way through the pass was made clear.
He made camp in the gully. It was a good, defensible position, with a sweeping view of the land on all sides. Looking through the pass to the north, he now saw lush forests and knew this must be the land of Altura.
Loki frowned when he saw movement on the mountain. He quickly set an ambush and waited to see who was coming.
“This is one of the worst approaches I’ve ever seen,” Bartolo muttered. He finally made a decision. “I’m going to scout ahead. Bladesinger Dorian, you’re in charge. Bring them forward, but shadow the rocks, and don’t enter the pass.”
Bartolo scampered ahead, keeping his body close to the ground. He left the path and climbed up the steep mountainside, gripping loose boulders and pulling himself forward and up. He felt sweat dripping down his brow and shook droplets from the dark locks of his hair.
Up ahead, he could see a cleft in the mountain: Wondhip Pass. He veered off, climbing vertically now, taking his weight on his legs and pushing hard, only using his arms to steady himself. He kicked a rock loose and sent it tumbling down the mountain. Soon he was twenty paces high, and he felt his arms and legs burn as he kept going, refusing to look down. He now skirted the rock face, heading toward the pass but maintaining height so he could look down.
Bartolo cursed inwardly when he saw the cleft was too steep for him to look into, the walls too high.
He would have to climb down.
Bartolo’s feet scrabbled at empty air as he descended for a time without being able to see what lay below him. His heart beat loudly in his ears as blood coursed through his limbs. Finally his left foot found a ridge in the rock, and he wedged it in tight. Moving slowly and fighting the fatigue in his limbs, he shifted down inch by inch, and then Bartolo could look down, though he was still a hundred feet away.
His heart hammered as he saw a gray-robed necromancer and a dozen revenants waiting in ambush.
Bartolo closed his eyes. He would be sending recruits—well trained but hardly battle hardened—against revenants. They were outnumbered two to one. The lads didn’t even have armor.
He climbed back up and shifted again along the mountain; it was easier when he could see where he was climbing. His urgency spurred him on, but he was forced to take a different route on his return journey, climbing higher still, ascending the steep face until he was precariously perched hundreds of feet above solid ground.
Bartolo clutched at a rock but felt it fall away from his hands. He winced at the clatter as more stone fell, and then he heard a rumble above his head.
A huge boulder bounced along, gathering speed as it fell. Bartolo looked frantically for somewhere to lunge to, but he couldn’t find any handholds, and in a heartbeat the boulder would smash into his head, crushing his skull and throwing him from the cliff face to plummet to his death.
As Bartolo cringed, awaiting the inevitable, he heard a howling wind.
Without warning a great gust shoved him hard up against the mountain, and he couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to.
The sound of the crashing boulder as it rolled along the stone suddenly stopped. Bartolo looked around him in amazement, wondering where it was; he hadn’t seen or heard the huge stone fall.
Glancing up, he saw one of the strangest sights of his life.
The boulder hovered in the air, directly above his head. Wind howled in his ears, an eerie gust unlike any force of nature. The boulder . . . moved. It traveled horizontally along the cliff, though Bartolo knew the movement was impossible, and when it was a safe distance from Bartolo, the stone once more dropped and resumed its crashing charge.
The wind fell away, and Bartolo was once more able to move his limbs.
Knowing the sound of the boulder would disturb the revenants, Bartolo lunged for another outcrop and grabbed hold to pull his body to a safer position. He began to make his way down a cleft, heading back toward the waiting recruits, and he’d soon descended the mountain face, to once more reach the winding trail.
Dorian waited with the recruits, their backs to a large boulder as they drank water and rested in the shade. Bartolo decided against mentioning his experience with the boulder; he could hardly believe it himself.
Dorian rose as Bartolo approached, and as the two men put their heads together, Bartolo thanked the wisdom that had led them to elevate the young man.
“Bad news,” Bartolo said. He shook his head; the term didn’t do their plight justice.
“What is it? Ambush? How many?”
“Revenants,” Bartolo said.
Dorian’s eyes widened and he blanched. “How?”
“I don’t know how, but they’re here. Come on. I need to talk to all the lads.”
Bartolo crouched down on his haunches as he scanned each face in turn. Timo regarded him with intelligent eyes. Martin looked strong and sturdy, ready to face anything.
“Listen,” Bartolo said. “The tower in the pass is gone. Unless we can raise it again, our signal to the lands in the south won’t get through. A force waits in ambush. I must fight, and Dorian will help me, but it’s time for the rest of you to go home.”
“Go home?” Martin said. “No, we’re here to help you.”
“No.” Bartolo shook his head. “You can’t. There are a dozen revenants waiting in ambush. The seven of us . . . well . . . we’re outnumbered. Our force isn’t enough.”
“Then how do you plan to restore the tower?” Timo said.
“I’m going to fight,” Bartolo said.
“But I thought you said there are too many of them?” Timo pressed.
“There are,” Dorian said, looking at Bartolo. “But we’re going to try anyway.”
“Then I’m trying too,” Martin said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Me too.”
“So am I.”
“I’m not going home now.”
“We won’t leave you.”
Bartolo drew in a slow breath and let it out in one strong stream of air. “I appreciate your bravery, and your loyalty. I really do. But lads, to go up there is to die. We’ve got armorsilk and zenblades. They’ll kill you.”
“Bladesinger Bartolo,” Martin said, lifting his chin, “I’m not going home. You say there are too many for two bladesingers. Five more of us could turn the tide. No, listen.” Martin shook his flaxen-haired head when Bartolo opened his mouth. “I haven’t trained at the Pens since I was six years old just to go home when the going gets tough. What have we trained for, all these years, if it isn’t for a day like today? I’ve got a sword, and I have my friends by my side. We need to do this.”
Dorian met Bartolo’s gaze and raised one eyebrow.
Bartolo sighed. “Who among you agrees with Martin?”
>
Every recruit raised his hand. Dorian chuckled.
“Then I thank you, lads. I . . .”
“Enough, Bartolo, just tell us how to kill them,” Dorian said.
“All right,” Bartolo said, his voice firming. “Here’s how we’re going to do it.”
Bartolo and Dorian walked directly into the ambush, both with zenblades held out in front of them, poised to activate their armorsilk the moment they sighted the enemy.
It was close to midday, and the sun shone fierce rays down on the exposed mountain. Bartolo had considered using shadow but had discarded the idea; Dorian was too new, and there was no darkness to hide in.
Ahead, the walls at either side of the cleft loomed in Bartolo’s vision. Looking up at the mountain face, he wondered how he’d ever climbed the sheer wall. He once more pondered the strange experience with the boulder, but whatever it was, it couldn’t help him now. Bartolo and Dorian took three more steps, and still the enemy hadn’t revealed themselves.
Dorian began to chant under his breath, and his armorsilk came steadily to life, runes lighting up on his hood, his chest, his arms and legs. Bartolo couldn’t blame him, but he saved his breath, feeling the tension grow as he entered the gully.
With a series of grunts and roars, the enemy attacked.
Bartolo took only enough time to register their numbers: they were all here, and there was the necromancer sending them forward. These warriors had once been Petryans, he saw now, with swarthy skins and some wearing red, flat-topped hats. The symbols on their skins glowed softly, their white eyes showing eerie stares.
“Run!” Bartolo grabbed Dorian, and they sped back down the mountain away from the warriors.
The revenants were fast, and Bartolo opened his stride, pumping his arms as he sped across the loose gravel and dodged around bigger rocks, hoping he wouldn’t stumble. Bartolo felt grasping hands on his back and whirled, cutting into a creature’s side before resuming his run. He risked a glance at Dorian and saw the younger man’s armorsilk once more dark as Dorian put everything into running.
Bartolo had laid his own ambush carefully. He sped between two huge boulders and ducked behind the rock on the left while Dorian whirled to the right.
The five recruits held their ground and took the first two revenants down with savage blows, sending blood and bits of skull flying in all directions. Bartolo activated his armorsilk and zenblade and charged back into the fray.
The gap between the boulders channeled the enemy, but those at the back circled around, and soon the seven Alturans would be pressed on all sides. Bartolo’s voice came strong, rising in a deep baritone as he activated the fierce heat pent up in his zenblade and fended off a frenzied series of blows from two revenants. He cut off one opponent’s limbs and tore a second revenant in two, leaping forward and taking off a head, rescuing Martin who was hard pressed. Dorian had his back to a rock and fought three at the same time, his wide eyes betraying his fear.
Bartolo saw Timo thrust deeply into a revenant’s chest, but it simply snarled and lashed a fist into his face, moving faster than any human. The reedy recruit fell onto his back, and the creature leapt atop Timo’s chest, grinning as it scrabbled at Timo’s body, both hands squeezing the recruit’s neck until Bartolo heard a resounding crack.
There was fighting on all sides now. With Timo down and Dorian pressed, Bartolo and the four other recruits fought in a circle, guarding each other’s backs as they fended off lore-enhanced limbs with steel swords and courage.
Bartolo watched in desperation as Dorian’s song faltered and his armorsilk dimmed. Bartolo couldn’t leave the recruits; they were only still alive because of his whirling blade. Whenever a revenant came at them, Bartolo moved to meet it, protecting the recruits even as they protected his back.
As he fought, Bartolo looked up past the boulders and saw the necromancer, watching and guiding his minions. There were too many revenants for the Alturans to hold. Soon they would be overwhelmed.
Then in a flash of bright fire, the necromancer burst into flame.
Dorian spun on his heel in a move Bartolo had seen him practice a thousand times, throwing the revenants away as his fiery blade whirled in a flash of blue and purple.
Bartolo thrust into a burly warrior, but it only had the effect of enraging his opponent. Past the creature’s shoulder Bartolo saw red robes, and a coiled ball of crimson flame smashed into the revenant. Sizzling flesh blackened in a heartbeat, and Bartolo’s opponent fell.
A second ball tore through the air, sizzling with a sound like paper being torn as it bathed another revenant in liquid fire. The fireballs came fast now, and as the revenants turned to meet this new threat Bartolo leapt forward and took two heads in succession.
The last revenant moaned as two balls of flame struck it from different directions. Its skin crackled as the flame continued its grisly work, scorching the clothing to cinders and burning the flesh until runes could no longer be discerned, and then the revenant fell, just a dark lump on the rocky ground.
Bartolo lowered his sword, panting.
Petryan elementalists in red robes stood circled around the site of the battle, the cuffs at their wrists glowing.
A dark-haired woman stepped out of their midst, a red-robed elementalist with a white rope belted around her waist. She spoke a sequence to deactivate the devices at her wrists and then smiled wearily at Bartolo.
“Shani?” Bartolo said as he gasped.
“You’re far from home,” Shani said.
Bartolo looked around him. Aside from Timo, the recruits had escaped with cuts and bruises, but his men were alive. Bartolo knelt and put his fingers to Timo’s neck, but the sightless gaze said enough.
“Men,” Bartolo started, but he had to stop, coughing. “Men,” he tried again, “some of you know my wife, Shani, an elementalist of Petrya.”
The recruits exchanged glances. Dorian dropped his zenblade and looked at his shaking hands.
“They’re pleased to meet you,” Bartolo spoke for them. “On the mountain . . . That was you?”
Shani grinned. “We’re not just wielders of fire. They call us elementalists for a reason. We saw a man in green armorsilk up on the cliff. He looked like he could use a hand.”
As Bartolo panted, Shani’s smile suddenly shifted to a frown. She came forward until she was directly in front of her husband and glared up at Bartolo’s eyes. “You were out of your depth, bladesinger, and you know it.”
“I had to . . .”
“Shut up,” Shani said. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Shani put her arms around him, and as Bartolo felt her warmth close to him, he knew she was right. The arrival of the Petryans had saved all of their lives.
But even so, Bartolo had been right to try. He decided to save that discussion for another day.
“How?” Bartolo said.
“Our patrols found the ruins of Hatlatu. We tracked them here.”
“Are there more Petryans . . .?”
“No,” Shani said, “it’s just us.”
“The tower!” Bartolo suddenly pushed his wife away. “We need to raise the tower!”
“We saw it,” Shani said. “It’s on the other side of the pass. We were about to bring it back up when we saw you and came to help.”
Bartolo instructed the recruits to stay with Timo’s body and followed Shani and her fellow elementalists back up to the pass.
They swiftly found the three-legged tower, and after casting in wide circles, they finally found the prism, buried in a pile of rock, with green light seeping through.
Bartolo was exhausted, but he didn’t rest until the tower was back up, with the signal shining fiercely. He felt relief flood through him as, looking into the southern lands from the mountain, he saw a satisfying wink of green light answer.
“They’ve called?” Shani said.
“Yes,” Bartolo said. He took a deep breath. “We have to hurry. They need us, Shani. They need all of us. Will your elemen
talists come to Altura?”
Shani hesitated. “Yes. I don’t care what the high lord says. I’ll force them to come if I have to.”
Bartolo gazed from the pass at the green forests of Altura.
He was exhausted.
But rest would have to wait.
28
Black smoke poured in two great spires from the coastline. The last refugees had left long ago, and now the free cities, built mostly of wood from the nearby forests, burned with a raging fire that wouldn’t cease until every building was ash.
In the aftermath of the naval battle, a single ship limped to shore. The Infinity had lost a mast and was holed in three places, but it seemed Scherlic had kept his ship together long enough to break free from the clutches of the enemy fleet. He’d somehow managed to raise enough sail to outdistance the armada and make it to shore.
As Castlemere burned, Miro raised a reddened gaze to watch the ship. He stood on the beach, listening to the breaking waves contrast with the breaking timbers of Castlemere’s falling buildings. The smell of burning wood filled the air; even the sea breeze couldn’t banish it.
The Infinity came steadily closer as Scherlic brought his crippled ship to where clear water met the line of deep blue. Miro’s eyes took in the broken timbers and fallen sails, holes in the sides and shattered prow. Scherlic’s proud ship was a shade of her former self, yet even so, the shadow of night had sought to claim her, and she’d survived—the only vessel to do so.
A figure in green leapt off the side of the ship, and the man began to swim with strong strokes to shore. As soon as the bladesinger left the ship, Scherlic turned the vessel, and the Infinity limped farther down the coast. Miro waved, but his arm finally dropped to his side; he wasn’t sure if the sailmaster waved back.
Miro watched as the bladesinger swam for shore. The man in green shook his head and stood when he reached the shallows, staggering forward before making better headway. Miro walked into the water to help him out, clasping his hand and putting his arm around the man’s shoulders.
The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) Page 20