The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  Ella hauled open yet another hatchway, and then she was in the great hold. The entire length of the ship was filled with barrels, piled high, one on top of the other.

  “Lot-har,” Ella said, activating the cube and throwing it down in the vessel’s lowest point.

  Ella began to count to ten.

  One.

  She climbed back up to the next deck above, tripping over the edge of the hatch in her haste. Ella sped along the corridors looking for the way up.

  Two.

  Ella wondered if she was lost; she’d been so consumed with finding the hold that she hadn’t been paying attention.

  Three.

  She finally found the next ladder and began to climb up, but fell away as a snarling face and white eyes peered down. A series of bolts from her wand flew into the creature’s head and torso, and it fell down the ladder to crumple at its base.

  Four.

  Ella’s heart raced and her blood roared in her ears as she ignored the fallen revenant and climbed the rungs, muscles burning as she raced up to the next deck. She smelled sea air and the burned tang of black powder. The last exit to the open deck wasn’t far.

  Five.

  Pain clutched at her stomach, overriding all thoughts of counting, consuming her consciousness as a thousand needles pierced every part of her body. She screamed against the agony and fought it down, running for the ladder to the open deck and climbing, feeling cool air against her skin.

  Ella sent a series of bolts from her wand through the hatch, heedless of how much she drained the wand. She rolled out onto the open deck and crouched as she took stock, knowing she had to get far from the cargo ship as quickly as possible. How much time had passed? The danger wasn’t the detonation of the cube, as powerful as it was. The danger was in the essence itself. It would spill into the water, and though it would merge with the sea, anyone caught in the thick black liquid would die.

  As Ella scanned the ship, looking for the fastest route to the side, her gaze flickered to the Sentinel. The wall was gone. The statue was exposed.

  A black figure landed on the deck beside her.

  Light suddenly bathed the ship, revealing the scene, and Ella saw a bright sphere rise from an outstretched hand.

  For the first time, Ella met the ice-blue stare of the Lord of the Night. She couldn’t look away from his eyes; he didn’t scowl or glower, but simply looked at her with a dead gaze that made her feel insignificant. His blood-red hair was slicked back to his head, and faint silver swirls of runes decorated his hands, face, and neck. He was as tall as Killian, which meant he looked down his nose at Ella, and though his shoulders were broad, he was slim rather than muscular.

  “I know you. Ella, you must be,” he murmured. “Ella of Altura, sister of Miro. Tell me, Ella, what are you doing on my ship?” Sentar’s eyes narrowed. “What have you done?”

  Ella opened her mouth to speak her defiance or to activate the blinding power of her dress.

  Ten.

  The ship blew apart underneath their feet. Decks heaved upward with titanic force as the cube fed on the essence around it, adding to its destructive power. The explosion wracked the vessel, shattering the timbers, launching Ella and Sentar upward.

  But the Lord of the Night wasn’t finished with her.

  Even as the deck heaved, Ella felt a hand go around her neck, taking hold of her throat, robbing her of breath. The detonation of the cargo ship filled the sky with a cloud of smoke and flame, but Ella felt herself lifted higher still, and she realized her eyes were closed and opened them.

  If Sentar Scythran’s face had been expressionless, it was now twisted with rage. He clutched Ella’s neck and rose high into the sky, above the circle of destruction, as high as the clouds and still ascending.

  Ella saw him look down at what had once been his cargo ship, filled with the essence he needed to bring his brothers home. The power of the explosion surprised even Ella. Only beams of blackened timber would be left, for now it was all flame and destruction. Sentar screamed in rage and glared at Ella as he took them up while she gasped and choked, her lungs starved for air.

  The city of Seranthia became a small circle of glowing lights, and still Sentar climbed higher, dangling Ella in his grip while her legs twitched and her feet scrabbled at nothing. Finally, just above the shifting clouds, he stopped. Even the harbor was now an expanse of black, ships indistinguishable, only the occasional tiny flash indicating the cannon blasts.

  They were so high that wind tore at Ella’s hair.

  “You’ve just delayed the inevitable,” Sentar spat. “Nothing will stop me from crushing your race, and everyone you hold dear will feed my vats. I will once again get the essence I need, and it will be bought with the blood of all those humans seething in the city below. You think you’ve dealt me a blow? Then think again. Before I release you, I want to hear you beg for your life.”

  The grip on Ella’s throat relaxed slightly. Ella gasped in a breath of air, filling her lungs as her chest heaved.

  Ella met Sentar’s dead eyes with her own stare. “We’ll stop you,” she said. She looked down from the height. She was dead anyway. “Let me go.”

  “With pleasure,” Sentar Scythran said.

  He released his hand from Ella’s neck, and she fell.

  Ella’s limbs twisted, clawing at the air as she rolled over and over, plummeting through the sky.

  The great fall happened in heartbeats. Ella’s life flashed in front of her eyes. She saw the face of Brandon Goodwin, then Lady Katherine, and then her brother’s awkward movements from the bruises he’d taken at the Pens. Ilathor’s face swam in front of her, and Shani’s, and she remembered the mad charge into Tlaxor, capital of Petrya. The devastated world of Shar was more of a blur than a memory, but one face came to dominate her vision, clear above all. Ella saw Killian.

  As the water came up to meet her Ella gasped a series of activation sequences. Her dress hardened around her, and rather than fiery heat, she projected a cushion of air.

  Ella smashed into the water, directly in the midst of the cargo ship’s remains.

  She immediately sank, her speed so great that even the pocket of air couldn’t prevent her plunging deep into the sea. Something inside her body broke with a crack.

  Ella’s eyes shot open with the pain. Her vision became a series of flickering images. The light cast by the shining runes of her dress revealed the murky sea. Wooden beams and bits of metal and rope drifted downward. Sinking barrels were everywhere, many of them intact.

  Many weren’t.

  Black liquid clouded the depths, the essence meeting the salted seawater and rushing past in the swirls and currents.

  In the midst of it all, Ella felt her vision close in, and she fell into darkness.

  51

  The army rushing through Tingara’s west passed tall, three-legged towers glowing with purple light, and though the single color didn’t offer any information, it told every soldier that Seranthia was under attack. It gave them hope that the city still held.

  Then, still a week from Seranthia, the allied army came across a battlefield. This was a place where the dead had fought the dead, and with only broken revenants filling the landscape, even Miro had never seen anything like it. As the creatures hacked at each other, trying to destroy their foes by decapitation or loss of limb, the result was a horror Miro hoped never to see again.

  No one wanted to linger, and Miro and Killian kept the slower men moving as they looked for survivors and put down any still twitching.

  Miro scanned the endless field of corpses and tried to make sense of what had happened.

  “The Akari made a stand here,” he said to Killian. “You can see over there where they fought in a circle that grew ever tighter as their numbers were thinned. They fought to the end. Needless to say, the Akari did not emerge victorious.”

  “So the revenants of the Akari are gone, all of them.” Killian said as he scanned the battlefield. “Come on—there’s nothi
ng to see here. We should catch up to the men.”

  Miro nodded and opened his mouth to call his personal guard away from the bodies, when he saw a commotion in the distance. A couple of Tingaran legionnaires crouched at the center of a circle of dead Akari warriors, waving their arms to attract attention.

  Miro and Killian exchanged glances.

  As the two men stepped around the mangled bodies, the corpses became so thick Miro was forced to step on the occasional arm or torso. Finally, the legionnaires made way, and Miro saw a warrior in armor of bleached leather being helped to his feet.

  Miro eyes widened as he recognized the huge man, close to seven feet tall, with long white hair and silver thread woven through his forked beard. His eyes were closed, but he stood, and his breathing was strong and even. Blood welled from several places on his chest.

  “It’s the Dain,” Miro said.

  “Quick, fetch a stretcher!” Killian called.

  “I don’t need a stretcher,” the Dain growled, opening his eyes.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Miro said.

  “No!” the Dain said. “I can walk on my own two feet.” The Dain wobbled, but he drew in a deep breath and straightened. “I’m fine.”

  “Dain,” Killian said. “We’re marching hard, and you need attention. I’m ordering you to get seen to.”

  “No one gives me orders, lad,” the Dain said. “My apologies,” he corrected, putting a hand to his temple, “Emperor.”

  Even among all the carnage, Miro smiled and shook his head. “He’s a tough one,” he said.

  Killian’s lips twitched. “Dain, we’re marching for Seranthia at best speed. If you can keep up, you’re welcome to join us. First, however, you’re going to get those wounds looked at. Then you can tell us what happened here.”

  “All right, lad,” Dain Barden said.

  “Emperor.” Miro coughed.

  “All right, Emperor,” the Dain of the Akari muttered.

  The ground-eating pace continued as the army of soldiers from across the Empire put their heads down and marched. The long column wound over the dusty plain, flies buzzing at the corners of eyes and vermin-ridden food eaten while walking. Those in front were lucky, but the men behind choked on the dust raised by the boot heels of their fellows. Soldiers remarked that they’d never seen so much dust in Tingara. It was proving to be one of the hottest summers in memory.

  Against all admonishment, Dain Barden Mensk marched with them, grumbling and fending off men with bandages and needles even as Killian instructed the best of their healers to give him care. Miro didn’t know whether to be surprised to see the Dain actually manage to keep up.

  True to Killian’s words, they didn’t sacrifice the speed of their march. The men were down to four hours’ sleep, walking in a long column from before dawn until the middle of the night.

  It was morning, and Miro was at the head of the column, walking by the emperor’s side, when the first scouts returned from Seranthia.

  “What news?” Killian demanded.

  “Emperor, the city is surrounded and under siege.”

  “The enemy—how many are there?” Miro asked.

  Dain Barden had said their numbers were almost beyond counting, but Miro prayed some might have fallen to the heat.

  “It’s hard to say,” the scout reported. “There are two forces: one larger force assaulting the Wall with ladders, and a second infantry square formed up in ranks outside the gates. Those assaulting the Wall are impossible to count. We’ve estimated the numbers of the infantry square at the gates . . . perhaps ten thousand.”

  Miro muttered to Killian. “Even that’s too many.”

  “We’ve sent men to check on the harbor, but we can assume the fleet is defeated, with Seranthia under attack on all sides. They’re smashing the gates with battering rams, and they’re scaling the Wall. The defenders are barely holding on.”

  “Will we make it in time?” a new voice spoke. Turning, Miro saw Dain Barden come up to meet them, a two-headed war hammer at his belt. The huge leader of the Akari’s face was pale, but he stood tall.

  Killian nodded to the scout.

  The scout hesitated. “There’s no way to tell. If it weren’t for the mortars and dirigibles, the city would have already fallen. I saw several breaches along the Wall only barely reformed. There are Petryan elementalists on the ramparts supporting the Legion, but the defenders won’t hold out long.”

  “We need to push on,” Killian said. He looked back at the long column of soldiers, stretching behind to the distant hills. “Double time!” he called.

  A horn blared, two sharp successive notes, and the army picked up pace, the sound of clomping boots filling the air.

  “Dain,” Miro said, “are you sure you can still keep up with us?”

  “I’ll crawl if I have to,” Barden said. “There’s one among the enemy. I saw him across the battlefield, and I mean to see him dead. Renrik, his name is, and he was once one of my inner council, the most senior of my necromancers. He’s to blame for the death of my eldest daughter.”

  Killian fixed his gaze firmly ahead, and even he began to pant at the wearying pace. He spoke to the Dain without turning. “You didn’t mention this before. What happened?”

  Dain Barden wiped sweat from his forehead. “Not much to tell. There was a betrayal, and I lost my daughter as well as nearly all my necromancers. Your sister uncovered it, High Lord. The enchantress said our essence was tainted.”

  “Ella?” Killian’s eyebrows went up.

  “Yes. At any rate, short of necromancers, we were forced to make our stand. I sent the Hazarans ahead, and Ella went with them.”

  Miro glanced at Killian and could almost see the thoughts crossing his face. Ella’s path had once more crossed Ilathor’s.

  “Did any of your people make it out?” Miro asked.

  “I sent our living home, but I stayed. A few of my necromancers stayed with me. They’re all dead.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” Killian said.

  “I fought one of them, a strange one. This warrior was unlike any draug I’ve seen. He had his own set of followers, all wearing checkered black and white, and on his head was a bizarre hat with three corners and a black feather. I’ve never faced an opponent of his caliber, and I never wish to again.”

  “Miro?” Killian said.

  Miro was pensive for a moment before answering. “He is the last of three kings, renegade rulers from across the sea. Sentar himself brought them back to the world of the living.”

  Killian’s eyebrows went up. “How do you know this?”

  “We captured one of the enemy necromancers off Castlemere. I lost a friend, Deniz, as well as one of my best bladesingers to the first of them, but they killed him. The second bested me on the retreat to Sarostar.”

  “He bested . . . you?”

  “Only the fact that Bartolo came to my rescue enabled us to defeat him. This last revenant, this . . . king . . . his eyes will be filled with blood.”

  “That’s right,” the Dain said, nodding.

  “He behaves like a man—plans strategies and gives orders. He remembers all the swordsmanship he learned in life, but his abilities are now supplemented by incredible speed and the ability to go on when a living man would fall.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Deniz said his name is Gorain.”

  They marched in silence, each man thinking his own thoughts, concentrating on the sapping energy of the frantic pace. The army now wound along a well-maintained paved road, and Miro began to see familiar features. The soldiers kept up the burning intensity of the march, hour after hour.

  And then a scout came running. “The city lies ahead!”

  The column stopped.

  Immediately, they heard cries and screams, thudding booms, and crashing stone.

  “Call up the command!” Killian directed.

  Soon a circle of nobles and officers stood around Miro, Killian, and the Dain. Miro nodd
ed to the Alturan commanders, Lord Marshal Scola and Marshal Corlin. Tiesto was there, along with two Halrana commanders. High Lord Grigori stood with a Veznan marshal in an orange uniform. Touana of Loua Louna looked from one face to the next. Miro saw Bartolo standing with Amber a short distance away.

  “I brought you all here to make our final plan,” Killian said. “Right now, as we speak, Seranthia is under siege. We must make all haste to break the siege. If we can combine our attack with a sortie from the city, we stand a much greater chance of success.”

  Miro looked on in wonder as Killian spoke. He’d come to know the young emperor on the long journey from Altura, and a friendship had developed between them, but he’d never seen the emperor—only the man. Killian had almost seemed too . . . gregarious . . . to lead the harsh land of Tingara and the fractious new Empire.

  Miro realized he’d been wrong in his estimation. Where this man led, people would follow.

  “We know that inside the city are the Hazarans and our legionnaires. We have avengers and meldings and Louan dirigibles, both here and in Seranthia. If we time it right, we can still scourge this darkness from the Empire. Our swords must be sharp, but our wits must be sharper, for the enemy is at the gates, and they’re climbing the Wall . . .”

  Sharp swords. The Wall.

  Miro had an idea.

  “Emperor,” Miro said. All eyes were suddenly on him. Miro gulped. Part of him thought it was a mad plan, but even as he ran it through in his mind one more time, he decided to get Killian’s opinion. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

  Killian frowned, but he nodded, and Miro peeled away from the group to walk to a cleared patch of dirt where they wouldn’t be heard. Miro crouched on the ground and waited.

  “Well?” Killian said, squatting beside him. “What is it?”

  Miro reached over his shoulder and drew his zenblade. The steel made a whispering sound as it came out, and Miro laid its length on the ground in front of him. He was a tall man and wore the zenblade on his back. It was long, and its entire surface was inscribed with arcane symbols. The zenblade was a work of beauty, a thing of terrible power.