The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress

by James Maxwell

  "Surely he didn’t come this way?" Ella said.

  She drew away at the glare Layla gave her.

  "Look," Layla said, pointing.

  It was a braided rope, tied to the base of a sturdy tree. From the marks in the tree, it looked like it had been there for a long time. The rope was yellowed with age, thinning out in places.

  Ella knelt down and began to pull up the rope. A small pile of rope built up on the ground in front of her. Then she pulled up the frayed end.

  It had been cut. It would never reach down to the bottom of the cliff. It wouldn’t even reach half way.

  Layla looked at Ella. "I think we will not be going this way. By the time we get down from here he will be long gone, your book with him." She shrugged. "We tried. I am sorry."

  Ella sat down hard. She looked at the rope in frustration. Suddenly she picked up the pile of rope. Her fingers worked quickly as she began to unbraid it.

  "What are you doing?" Layla said. "That rope will never be strong enough. Even I would not trust it. You are much bigger than me, much heavier than me. Your body is large."

  "Thanks," Ella said wryly. Her fingers continued working.

  "We should be going now. I should be going now." Layla said.

  "Just wait."

  Ella finally completed breaking the rope into three thin lengths. The rope was so old that in some places it had almost broken through.

  She rummaged inside her satchel, pulling out the fine scrill and the vial of essence.

  "What are you doing?" Layla said.

  "Shh," said Ella.

  The separate strands of rope were perhaps half the width of Ella’s small finger. First she tied the strands together, to make one long piece. Then, sitting down in a place where the light of the sun was the best, Ella began the delicate process of enchantment.

  Rope was difficult, but not impossible — the trick was to tie knots into simple rune structures and then trace the essence along those knots. When she was done she looked up triumphantly. Layla was sitting on a tree stump nearby, munching on some forest food she had foraged. Ella picked up the rope in her hands. It was just as light, but she could feel the new strength she had imbued it with. She’d had to keep the runes very, very simple, but she was proud of what she had done.

  "Here!" Ella said. She threw the rope at Layla, who deftly caught it. "Try to break it, test its strength."

  Layla was red in the face before she would acknowledge that the rope was strong enough.

  Ella tied the rope back onto the tree and cast it out over the cliff. She looked at Layla. Layla looked away. Sighing, Ella began to lower herself down the rope.

  She soon developed a rhythm, finding holds for her feet first, before gently lowering herself, holding onto the rope with her arms, her feet searching the cliff for new footholds.

  Halfway down, Ella began to hear a huge roaring sound. It grew louder the more distance she made down the face. Then she passed a knob of rock, and the source of the sound was revealed.

  A second mighty waterfall, sparkling in the sun. Water sprayed out in a cloud around it, rainbows sprayed their colour across the air. Butterflies buzzed about flying up then down, to where the waterfall was lost in the foam churned up by its power. It was an amazing sight. The most beautiful she had ever seen. Ella watched it as she descended confidently down the rocky face.

  Then her feet felt out into emptiness.

  Her scream brought Layla to the top of the cliff, peering down at her. "What is it? I can’t help you from up here."

  Ella would have laughed if she hadn’t been terrified. "I need your help! I need you to look down and tell me where I can put my feet."

  Layla frowned down at Ella. "Why don’t you just look down yourself?"

  The muscles in Ella’s arms were growing weak. She tried to grab hold of the rope with her feet to take some of the strain, but couldn’t get a purchase. She slipped.

  "Layla! Just help me!"

  "I don’t understand why you don’t just look down?"

  Ella took a deep breath. "Because I know if I look down I won’t be able to continue! I don’t want to know how far I have to go! Does that answer your question?"

  "No need to be angry. The cliff falls away below you, for about ten paces. You need to either slide down or swing to the side to get hold of the cliff with your feet."

  "I can’t slide! I’m not strong enough! I’ll fall!"

  "Then swing to the side."

  Taking a deep breath, Ella kicked out to the side. She just managed to touch the side of the fissure. She began to swing. Her arms were on fire. She kicked out again. She began to swing more. The pressure it was putting on her arms was too much.

  She fell. Her hands slid down the rope, scorching her palms, but she couldn’t let go, she had to hold on, had to…

  Her feet touched the ground. The fissure panned out, slowly sloping to become the valley floor.

  Something scampered down the rope. Layla landed next to Ella only a moment later.

  Ella just stared at her, too angry to speak. Her eyes were wide, her fists clenched at her sides.

  "What?" said Layla. "You told me you didn’t want to know how far you had to go."

  ~

  ELLA didn’t say a word as they continued along the lush ground of the valley. After a while though she relented; the beauty was just too great to maintain a foul mood, and Layla didn’t seem affected anyway.

  The valley had a microclimate — its own cycle of seasons and warmth, its own species of birds and insects. The warmth rising from the valley finally took the chill from Ella’s bones, chill she hadn’t known had been there. Butterflies the size of a man’s hand and coloured like brilliant jewels fluttered about lush green trees. Ella could now see three other waterfalls. The water spilled far out into empty space before disappearing into mist.

  "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" Ella said softly, almost whispering. "Look at that bird, there on that branch, its just sitting there looking at us. Why doesn’t it fly away?"

  She cooed to the rainbow-coloured bird, as big as a medium sized cat, with a large hooked beak. It eyed her curiously, tilting its head first one way then another. Ella reached in to touch it. Only at the last moment did it hop a little bit away.

  They followed some kind of game trail, either a path made by animals or a track long-neglected by humans. The roaring of the waterfalls grew more distant. Ella didn’t ask if they were still on Killian’s trail, she was learning to pick up the subtle signs as Layla checked small changes in the plants or the earth.

  Ella followed Layla into a wooded glen. A soft gurgling sound came from somewhere ahead, a pleasant tinkling — the sound of running water. Birds fluttered from tree to tree, singing to each other in their high voices. Ella hardly had an eye for the path, mesmerised.

  "Few people come here," said Layla. "The animals have not learned fear."

  They emerged from the trees. In front of them was a wide, turbulent river, its water a deep green, splashing against the banks.

  "Someone must have come here," said Ella, pointing at something on the bank.

  It was a roped bridge, evidently the only way to cross the river.

  It was in tatters, deliberately cut after being crossed.

  "He covers his tracks well," said Layla.

  Ella sighed.

  30

  I had finally reached the summit of the mightiest mountain in the Emdas. The victory was short-lived. Some regular arrangements of stones told me an ancient people had been there long before me.

  — Toro Marossa, ‘Explorations’, Page 189, 423 Y.E.

  "SARK. The guest house with the best view in the whole of Halaran," a voice came from Miro’s shoulder.

  Miro started.

  "Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you."

  It was Bartolo. Miro had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard him approach.

  He put on a smile. "No, no, it’s good to see you. It’s been so frantic lately;
this is the first opportunity I’ve had to just stop and think."

  "I know what you mean," Bartolo said. He looked out over the disquieting vista below. "I know what you mean."

  They said the army encamped on the Azure Plains was the biggest that had ever been assembled. It stretched across the entire field below, the individual figures as small and numerous as ants. The might of three houses had combined to an extent never seen before.

  The builders never stopped construction, never halted in their efforts to weaken the Ring Forts. The war machines now numbered in the thousands, the towers in the hundreds. The catapults and trebuchet never stopped their bombardment of the walls, it had become commonplace now, put to the back of the mind. Ballistae were lined up one after the other, behind the great defensive wall, in a row that just kept going and going.

  The tools of the artificers were everywhere, it was clear to all now that they had thrown their full support behind the Emperor. The dirigibles covered the Black Army like a cloud of death. Already the number of wounded who had been sent home with missing limbs had tripled. Soldiers complained of hearing the blast of mortars and prismatic orbs in their sleep. Many who had survived close encounters had been driven deaf, no longer able to communicate, their hands put to their ears in constant pain.

  Binding it all together was the black flag bearing the white sun. Still no one knew why the Emperor’s colours had been struck for this symbol, what it really meant. No longer could imperial purple be seen on the tabards of the Tingaran soldiers, no longer the sun and star raj hada of the imperial house. All was black.

  After the great encounter — they were calling it the Battle for Mornhaven — the bladesingers had been quartered in Sark. It was some kind of honour, Miro supposed.

  Miro hadn’t seen much of Tuok or the other soldiers. The bladesingers had been acting strangely aloof, as if intentionally distancing themselves from the recruits.

  Miro had seen Ronell only once. The look he’d received was pure venom. He’d heard Ronell had distinguished himself quite well in the battle, but there were troubled opinions also. Rumour had it there was deadliness to him now, the look of someone who didn’t care if they lived or died.

  Miro had inquired about Bartolo. Someone said he had been with the forces that were seeing off the last of the enemy. Typical of Bartolo, fighting to the last.

  "I can leave you, if you’d prefer privacy?" said Bartolo.

  "No, no. I was just thinking."

  "Always a thinker," said Bartolo. "What do you think will happen next?"

  "What will happen next, or what do I think should happen next?"

  Bartolo grinned. "That’s the Miro I know. What would you do?"

  "I would assemble a strike force, the very best."

  "And where would you send them?"

  "I’d strike through the Elmas, hit the elementalists. Drive straight through to Petrya."

  Bartolo’s wide eyes said he hadn’t been expecting it. "You would do what? Raj Petrya hasn’t declared yet."

  "It’s a matter of time. They fought with the Emperor in the last war, in the Rebellion."

  "Yes, but..."

  "You think this one will be any different? First Torakon and then Loua Louna. They’ve both joined with the Emperor, given him everything, held back nothing. Why should Petrya be any different?"

  "But surely we should give them the benefit of the doubt. To attack, while they are still undeclared…"

  "The way the Emperor attacked Loua Louna? Look where we are now. We’re barely holding them off. We’ve got everything Altura has here, everything. Half of Halaran is lost. Ralanast is lost. We don’t have much room for error. No, we need to take the initiative, seize it. Otherwise we’re lost too."

  They stood in silence for a moment. The Black Army below lent its grim weight to Miro’s words.

  "So what do you think our commanders will do then?"

  "They’ll regroup here, join the two armies. Practice some manoeuvres. Look down on the enemy below and ignore them. Then, very slowly, they’ll send us north and west."

  "Ralanast?"

  "Ralanast," Miro echoed.

  The sound of a man clearing his throat came from behind them. They turned.

  Ten bladesingers stood behind them, expressions grim. "Get your armoursilk, get your zenblades. You have been summoned. You’re coming with us."

  Miro and Bartolo exchanged glances. Something was definitely afoot.

  ~

  THEY were led into the bowels of the fortress, deep underground. It was damp here. Damp and dark. The passages were more roughly hewn, the stairs uneven. Miro itched in his armoursilk. Something didn’t feel right. He put it down to nerves. His zenblade was strapped to his back. He felt ready for whatever they were going to do. Bartolo walked beside him, his face pale. Neither spoke.

  The foremost bladesinger opened a heavy iron door. It creaked and clanged. The man held it open, frowning at the two recruits. There was a sound behind Miro. He turned and saw Ronell, flanked by five more bladesingers. Ronell didn’t meet his eyes. They entered the room together.

  Blademaster Rogan stood as they entered, flanked by Bladesinger Huron and Bladesinger Porlen. Their expressions were stern. If Miro hadn’t known better, he would have said they were about to be punished. Disciplined.

  "Normally we would be at the Sanctuary, deep in the Dunwood," Blademaster Rogan said. "However we are not there. High Lord Legasa of Halaran has graciously lent us these chambers, and the assistance of the men we need." He met the eyes of first Ronell, then Bartolo, and finally Miro.

  "Recruits, you are about to be tested. You have been hardened in battle. You have developed your skills. You are lacking in training, but perhaps you make up for it in experience. We will soon know.

  "If you pass this test, you can call yourselves bladesingers, and we will welcome you into our number. If you fail, there is a makeshift infirmary in the next chamber. If you fail, you might not even need it." His look was significant. Miro thought of the dull knives and bloody aprons of the field surgeons.

  "Do not doubt me in this," Rogan Jarvish continued, his voice hard. He bit off his next words, "I will see you dead, before I accept a liability. We have all passed this test. I have seen recruits with great potential fail. I am glad they were tested, because in battle their failure might have led to more deaths. At least here, there can be only one death. Yours."

  Miro shifted in his armoursilk. It felt uncomfortable, ill-fitting. It was all that stood between him and whatever it was that was about to unfold.

  "Now, about the test. The animators have been helping us with it for many years. It’s something of a contest between us, a chance for us to test the skills of our best against the skills of theirs. It forces our enchanters to constantly innovate, to create better weapons, Enchant better armour. It forces our bladesingers to fight better, learn faster, to adapt their song to new conditions, a new foe.

  "I can tell you now, not one of us here has ever fought the foe you are about to fight. We have fought our own enemies, passed our own tests. As we hope our methods of training have improved, our matrices become more developed, so have those of your opponents."

  Rogan nodded to someone behind the recruits. Miro felt a pressure on either side of him. A bladesinger stood on either side of him, their faces impassive. Their grip was almost too firm. Miro realised with a pounding heart that there wasn’t a choice here. This test wasn’t optional. He would face his foe, or he would die.

  A sheen of sweat began to cover his brow, even though it was cold and dry, here under the mighty fortress of Sark. He shared a glance with Bartolo. Ronell looked at nothing but the walls, his face impassive but betrayed by the ashen colour of his disfigured skin.

  The recruits were led down a long corridor, each flanked by their handlers. Miro lost sight of Bartolo and Ronell. He was brought to a halt outside a door.

  "Enter here," said one of the bladesingers, his face cold.

  Miro opened the door. H
e was pushed roughly from behind. The door was closed behind him.

  Two figures strode up to Miro, meeting him eye to eye, their faces hard as stone. They were dressed in brown robes, the Halrana raj hada — a hand with an eye in the centre — a bold emblem on their breasts. They were large, burly men, used to physical work. Without a word each took Miro by the arm and led him down another corridor.

  At the end of the passage was an open door, about a foot thick, made of heavy iron, studded and bolted. Somehow Miro knew that whatever was waiting for him would be waiting behind this door. A series of runes had been drawn on the door. Once sealed, even a zenblade wouldn’t easily get through it.

  One of the Halrana spoke. "This door will be locked behind you. It will be opened after one hour, or three knocks."

  One hour! In an hour a wounded man could be dead. Miro could see how few who were injured survived to tell the tale.

  He was thrust into the room, the slamming of the heavy door echoing in his ears as the bolt was thrown quickly behind him.

  It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light provided by some weak nightlamps. The room was massive, the ceiling high, the floor sanded. Littered about the room were stone blocks of uneven sizes, some small enough to throw, others twice a man’s breadth and height.

  Miro stood at his end of the chamber, uncomfortably conscious of the sealed door behind him. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t be able to leave that way. He shifted in the uncomfortable armoursilk. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Miro had a direct line of sight to the other end of the chamber. There was a man seated there, wearing a brown robe and a torque around his neck. The torque glowed with strange colours. At his wrist was another glittering circlet. The man regarded Miro for a moment then looked down at a rectangular tablet on his knees.

  An animator.

  The animator spoke, too softly for Miro to hear. The tablet flared to life, the runes glowing silver. The brown-robed man touched the tablet at a particular place. A matrix of runes there changed colour. The animator’s lips moved again.