The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  “No, I don’t think so. I think Miro Torresante has bigger things on his mind right now. He’ll find another wife, one who will bear him a child of his own. Oh, that made you flinch, didn’t it? Such a kind man, the Alturan high lord, to take on a son that wasn’t his. I wonder if he’ll be so kind when the mother is dead? What will happen to your precious child then?”

  Sergei walked up and down Amber’s outstretched length as he spoke, fingertips caressing her as he wandered. The guard looked on intently, his eyes flitting between Amber’s face and her body.

  Sergei suddenly vanished, leaving Amber dreading what would happen to her next. He returned a moment later, and now he held a glass jar in his hand. Sergei brought the jar close to Amber’s face, and she saw black spiders, dozens of them, climbing over each other and writhing in agitation.

  “We have many creatures in our forests,” Sergei said. “The nettle spider isn’t deadly, but it is known for the pain it causes, even though it leaves no mark.”

  Amber felt tears run down her cheeks.

  “Scream, my pretty one,” Sergei breathed.

  Amber drew in a breath, and she screamed.

  Katerina was hungry. Sergei only came to feed her once a day, and there was never enough food. She knew he didn’t like her, and each time she ate, she sniffed at the food hesitantly before eating. Katerina knew all about poisons.

  She knew she was in a house, with a dirt floor and a high ceiling formed by the two support trees leaning against each other, but she didn’t know anything else about where she was. She knew it couldn’t be far from her father’s palace, but even so, she’d screamed and screamed until her voice was hoarse, and no one heard her.

  When he’d first brought her here, Sergei had put a seed into the ground and sat Katerina nearby. He’d said it was a test, and Katerina had to be brave. That was before she knew he was a bad man. Crouching on his heels, Sergei leaned forward and dribbled some water from a flask onto the seed.

  Katerina had grown worried when he shuffled away, giving her a wide berth. Then it had all happened very quickly. The seed sprouted a seedling, which became a vine, and the leaves on the vine became more vines.

  Suddenly there was a vine crawling around Katerina, wrapping itself around her arms and legs.

  Katerina had tried to get away; she’d been told to be brave, but there was a strange gleam in her father’s friend’s eyes. The vine pulled her down to the ground, holding Katerina fast.

  Katerina knew that eventually the essence pulsing through the vine would kill it. How long would that take? She tugged and tugged at the tendrils wrapped around her limbs, but still she couldn’t get herself free. Then Sergei left her.

  She now looked down at her hands and flexed her fingers. Katerina had cried, that first day, but now she refused to cry. She was a Veznan princess, and she was determined to be strong.

  Why had Sergei put her here?

  Katerina’s hands were mottled with pink splotches and tingled painfully. Every time she pulled on the vine, it responded by sucking her tighter into its embrace. Her wrists and arms hurt. Dozens of green tendrils wound their way over and around her fingers.

  Something on the middle finger of Katerina’s right hand flashed into her vision. It was the ring the nice lady from Altura had given her.

  Katerina had an idea.

  She wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her earlier, but she’d been so scared, so alone, so trapped in the vine, that she’d forgotten all about it.

  “Tuhl . . .” she said out loud. What was the strange word again? Katerina furrowed her brow and closed her eyes, but she couldn’t remember.

  She began to panic. Sergei would return soon, and he might take the ring from her.

  Katerina took a slow, deep breath, releasing the air as she calmed herself. A princess of Vezna must be strong.

  “Tuhlas,” she said. Nothing. “Tuhlaranas.” Still the ruby was dark.

  Was it a trick? Had the woman deceived her somehow, like the man who once made a silver deen appear behind her ear?

  “Tuhlanas,” Katerina said.

  The symbols etched around the ring’s circumference lit up with fire. The ruby sparkled and grew brighter and brighter as if shining from the inside. Katerina grinned and strained to touch the ruby to the vine. The living tendrils cringed and pulled away from the growing heat, but Katerina kept up her attack. The vine shied away from the bright stone and of its own accord unraveled itself from Katerina’s arm. She kept pressing the ring to the vine again and again, freeing her limbs, wriggling herself out of the clutching strands.

  Soon Katerina was free.

  The girl stood and stretched, hearing her back crack as she felt blood return to her tingling limbs. She looked at the door, where a living lock held the wood fast.

  Katerina stumbled to the door and set to work.

  High Lord Grigori Orlov stood on the balcony outside his bedchamber and sighed. He gazed out at the moat surrounding the Borlag and then at the Juno Bridge, the living walkway connecting the Borlag to the rest of Rosarva.

  The Juno Bridge reminded Grigori of plants, which made him think of seedlings, which then led him to think about Katerina. Grigori’s wife had died giving birth to Katerina, and his daughter was everything to him; he feared for her constantly. Veznan history was filled with intrigue and betrayal. When a high lord’s son or daughter was kidnapped, it never ended well.

  Everything living made him think of Katerina. A small sprout made him think about her fascination with seeds and seedlings. A dwarf tree made him think of how small she was, yet how quickly she’d grown. A crystal tree made him think about how fragile she was.

  Grigori had to admit to himself: he was terrified. His only hope was that when Sergei finished with the Alturan woman, he would finally have the answers he demanded. Just a moment ago Grigori had walked down to the dungeons, close enough to hear her screams. He’d smiled in satisfaction before returning to his chambers. Amber Torresante would talk.

  Grigori absently noted someone crossing the Juno Bridge, but whoever it was knew the password, and the bridge let him pass. He turned around and went back inside, once more looking into Katerina’s bedchamber before heading back to his own. He fell down to his bed, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

  “Papa, what are you doing?”

  The voice sent a tremor running through Grigori’s body, stabbing into his heart with a sensation like being woken with a red-hot poker.

  Grigori sat up. Katerina stood inside the doorway, looking at him with her head tilted. Tears had carved streaking passages through the dirt on her face, and he saw bits of leaf and dirt entwined through her clothing.

  “Katerina. Katerina!” Grigori cried. He rushed over and pulled her close, holding her to his chest as tightly as he could. He held her at arm’s length and scanned her body, grabbing hold of her limbs one by one and checking her for injuries, before hugging her again and again. Aside from some circular bruising on her arms and legs, she was unharmed.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “It was him,” Katerina said.

  “Who, Katerina? Who?”

  “Him! Please, Papa, keep me safe!”

  Grigori pushed his daughter back by her shoulders. Terror filled Katerina’s face as she pointed toward a figure in the doorway.

  Sergei stood open mouthed, staring at them both with a face drained of all color.

  Then Sergei reached for his belt, but he wasn’t wearing his sword. Sergei’s hand clasped on empty air, and he looked up at Grigori with shock.

  “You!” Grigori roared. “It was you!”

  Grigori swept his daughter out of the way and charged Sergei, knocking him to the ground. Katerina screamed as the two men rolled, first Grigori on top, then Sergei, then Grigori again. Each man fought to gain a stranglehold on the other, and it was an even match: Grigori was the bigger man, but he could sense that Sergei was fitter, better trained.

&nb
sp; Suddenly Grigori was face down on the ground, with Sergei twisting his arms painfully behind his back. Grigori felt a heavy weight as Sergei pinned him to the floor, and then Sergei’s hands were on his throat.

  “I . . . will . . . be high lord,” Sergei grunted as he squeezed.

  Grigori gasped for breath, but all that came out of his mouth was a series of pops. Sergei’s weight crushed Grigori’s chest, and the squeezing on his throat increased intensity. Grigori needed air desperately; he felt darkness beckon.

  Sergei cried out in pain.

  As the hands came away from Grigori’s throat and Sergei’s weight fell away, Grigori drew in a deep breath of life-giving air. He saw Katerina with a ruby-set ring on her finger. Sergei held his hand to his eye. The ruby glowed with inner fire.

  Grigori heard running feet, and four armed palace guards appeared, immediately taking in the scene.

  Grigori pointed a wavering finger at Sergei. “Seize him!” the high lord cried.

  The guards took hold of the former lord marshal. Grigori climbed to his feet. Katerina clutched her father’s legs and began to sob.

  Grigori recalled Amber’s words—she’d tried to tell him the truth. As he realized she’d been right all along, Grigori thought about what he’d told Sergei to do.

  “You.” He pointed at one of the guards. “Come with me. The rest of you, hold him here. I will deal with this traitor myself.”

  Grigori ran through the palace, collecting soldiers as he went. He dashed down the steps to the dungeons and shouted for the gates to be opened. Keys chimed in shaking hands, and iron crashed as he passed through the sets of barred gates.

  Green light bathed him in its glow. Amber lay on her back on a bench, and a dungeon guard glanced up in surprise.

  “Get away from her!” Grigori shouted at the dungeon guard.

  He rushed to Amber’s side and brushed away a dozen scrabbling spiders. He ran his eyes over her, scanning the Alturan high lord’s wife with concern.

  She was blessedly unharmed.

  “Release her. Now! Hurry up!”

  Grigori held Amber’s hand as she sat up, and he helped her off the bench. Her face was white, and Grigori remembered her screams.

  “My Lady, I’m . . . I’m so sorry. How can you ever forgive me?”

  Amber drew a shaky breath, and Grigori saw her gaze take in the red marks on his throat.

  She was a long time in speaking.

  “I’ve been through worse,” she finally said, though her voice trembled.

  “Tell me what I can do to make this right.”

  Amber fixed her gaze on the green light. She then turned back to Grigori, and the high lord of Vezna saw fierce determination in her eyes.

  She told him.

  33

  Birds flitted from tree to tree, singing sweet songs to one another, filling the lingering silence. Insects hummed in the forest, buzzing and warbling as spring filled the brush with new growth and animal life.

  The sounds of the forest were broken by the crash of metal on wood.

  Hundreds of men worked together, and Miro worked with them. Each soldier held an axe in his hands, and they struggled in pairs to fell trees, one after the other, each coming down with a mighty crash of breaking branches and thudding trunks.

  Every man worked in his armor, and although Miro felt sympathy for the infantry in their confinement of thick steel, armor took time to don, and Miro had to prepare for the unexpected. None complained, and Miro rotated the men to give them regular breaks. Not every soldier could work on the growing barrier at the same time; it would be too dangerous.

  Miro leaned back and then smashed his axe into a sturdy tree close to the road while Beorn cut into his backswing. The triangular wedge gouged in the side of the tree grew larger with each cut, and then Miro could see the tree was about to fall.

  “Stand back!” Miro cried.

  With a cacophony of snapping wood, the tree fell down in the direction of the cut, adding its tangle of branches and foliage to the barrier.

  “Come on,” Beorn said. He panted and groaned. “I need a break.”

  The beaches were lost, and Miro and Beorn were at the first of seventeen defensive blockades spaced along the long road from Castlemere to Sarostar.

  In front of them the massive barrier of fallen trees barred the way from the abandoned defenses. Back behind the blockade some men slept while others ate. Still others nervously rubbed at the hilts of their swords. Strange smells took turns wafting past: the scent of fragrant flowers, the tang of burned flesh, sea salt, melted metal, and above all, smoke.

  Since the great explosion that had turned the walls and towers of Miro’s once mighty defenses outside Castlemere to fissures and rubble, they’d retreated back to this blockade and worked at the obstruction. The last colossus still in operation hauled night and day, carrying fallen trees to add to the tangle, until the energy left its manufactured limbs. The last of Halaran’s mighty colossi had now itself been added to the barrier.

  As he and Beorn reached the wall of dirt, Miro’s stomach rumbled. How could he eat at a time like this? Even so, the demands of his body grew in intensity. As if on cue, an outthrust hand shoved a bowl of something hot in front of his face.

  Miro looked for a spoon, and with a grin and a shake of his head, Beorn handed him one.

  “Thanks,” Miro said.

  “They’ll clear it, slowly but steadily,” Beorn said.

  “How long, do you think?” Miro asked, talking through a mouthful of hot stewed meat.

  “It’s hard to say. Our scouts report they’re building platforms to cross the fissure we left behind. Our archers harass them while they clear the trees.”

  The road was narrower than usual here—the reason they’d picked the place—which meant it was a small enough front for a third of Miro’s army to wait here while another third under Tiesto waited at the blockade behind. The final third, along with the wounded, had been sent back to Sarostar.

  “How are the golems and bladesingers?” Miro asked.

  “They’re keeping the forest clear. We were right—they’ll come this way. The plan was a success. You did well.”

  “We all did well,” Miro said. “We’ve bought time, with little loss of life. Time is what we need.”

  “Do you think help will come?”

  “I have to believe it will. How goes the renewal?”

  “Your sister and the other enchanters are back with Tiesto. We’ve already renewed the swords, and now they’re working on the armor.”

  “But we’ve no more orbs. And few constructs—only the iron golems are left. No more tricks, eh, Beorn?”

  “We’ll hold them. We also have another helping hand.”

  Miro burned his mouth on the stew and waved his hand in front of his face. “What’s that?”

  “Winter is their element, but they came in spring. It’s growing warmer every day. The necromancers will have their work cut out for them keeping the revenants going.”

  “Sentar is in a hurry. Wherever he is, he won’t be happy at these delays.”

  Beorn swallowed a mouthful and then met Miro’s eyes. “The Lord of the Sky came through. We owe Evrin Evenstar a lot.”

  “We do,” Miro said. There was silence for a time, both of them remembering the old man, before Miro spoke again.

  “Keep the scouts busy; we need to know when they’re going to break through. Come on, let’s get back to work.”

  Three days passed and still the enemy worked at clearing the road. Miro lined the pikemen four deep along the blockade—little more than a dirt wall with a trench in front—while his best swordsman waited behind. The scouts now reported movement in between the fallen trees ahead. It wouldn’t be long now.

  Even so, every fallen tree would add to the delay. Miro and Beorn continued working side by side with the men, working so furiously now that mistakes were inevitable. They’d sent one man back to Sarostar with a crushed foot. Another soldier narrowly escape
d being crushed, dashing to the side when the barrier resettled.

  As Miro pulled back to allow Beorn to make a stroke at the biggest tree they’d worked on yet, he saw a familiar figure wave an arm to get his attention.

  Miro withdrew to let another man take his place. He panted and walked back to meet the lean Hazaran warrior.

  “Jehral.” Miro nodded.

  “High Lord,” Jehral said. It was strange seeing the Hazaran on foot, without a horse. “I have an idea.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Miro said. “I’m all out.”

  “Do you still have black powder?”

  “Yes, some.”

  “Do you have many of the iron balls?”

  “Yes, but we destroyed the cannon.”

  “What about the cannon we had at the beaches when the landing first began?”

  Miro met Jehral’s gaze and then smiled. “Don’t be coy, Jehral. You’ve scouted them?”

  Jehral nodded. “It is difficult and the trees are extremely thick, but I forged a path through the forest to reach the beaches between Castlemere and Schalberg. I counted five brass tubes before I turned back. They are about half a day’s journey.”

  Miro was pensive for a moment. The enemy would break through soon, but it would be worth the risk.

  “You’ll need four men to carry each cannon. Another twenty skirmishers.”

  “No, High Lord. Too much noise. No more than ten men.”

  Miro knew Jehral was right. With ten men Jehral would only be able to bring back two cannon, but even two would make a difference. “All right, Jehral of House Hazara, ten men. Leave right away.”

  Jehral sped away and Miro turned back to the huge tree. “Beorn!” Miro called. “Jehral’s going to—look out!”

  As Beorn turned at Miro’s call, a falling tree nearby twisted and plummeted the wrong way, its tumbling path taking it into the mighty tree Beorn stood at the base of. Beorn’s work was nearly done, and as one tree crashed into the other, the huge tree also fell.

  Two trees came down, directly on top of Beorn, the second axeman, and Miro.

  The trees fell slowly, but they were big.