The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress

by James Maxwell

  He felt the pattern of the streets come back to him, and quickly lost the templar. He dashed through an alley and entered an area of taverns and eating houses. Picking one at random, he walked in, casting a final look over his shoulder.

  Some things never change, he thought to himself. Still being chased by templars around the streets of Salvation.

  People threw stern glances at the commotion when Killian burst into the open tavern room. Wooden benches and tables were filled with townsfolk, all intently looking at the raised dais.

  A man sat on a high-backed wooden chair, his arms gesturing wildly. He looked at Killian but continued to speak. Killian found himself a seat — he would blend in here — and ordered a tankard of beer.

  He was an interesting looking man. He wore a faded white priest’s cassock, the sun of the Assembly barely visible. His hair was white, but it must once have had colour as there were flecks of ginger in his scraggly beard. His eyes were his most noticeable feature, piercing blue, like Killian’s own.

  The voice was rich and deep. "Lorelei had killed his enemy, but Suhlan had been grievously wounded. Her body lay crumpled on the stair. Lorelei ran to her, screaming her name.

  "He threw away the accursed sword that had caused him so much trouble," the man made a throwing motion. Some children giggled, and then were hushed by their parents.

  "Lorelei fell down beside Suhlan’s body, watching the lifeblood flow from her veins. Her eyes fluttered, she opened them, to say her last words." The man paused, looking out over the crowd. They hung on his every word, entranced. "She touched her finger to the blood on the ground. There was so much of it.

  "The tears flowed down Lorelei’s face. Suhlan whispered something, but he could not hear. The breath was leaving her body." Killian found himself becoming caught up in the story. He wished he had been here for the beginning.

  "‘Please, Suhlan, don’t die!’ Lorelei screamed. Her finger moved, to the wound on her neck. She drew a symbol there, in her own blood. Lorelei’s fists clenched with frustration, he could not understand what she was trying to say."

  "What was it?" one of the women said. She was hushed by the other patrons.

  "Then he looked at the symbol. It was a rune, a simple rune of mending. Suddenly Lorelei understood.

  "He knew she was different. There was only one thing for him to do. He took the crystal bottle and ivory scrill from his pouch and he traced over the rune she had drawn in blood, this time with essence."

  "But it would have killed her!" the woman called. She was instantly hushed.

  "That’s what Lorelei thought. But as he watched, she spoke the rune with the last of her breath. It lit up with silver, and in front of Lorelei’s eyes the terrible wound sealed itself. Colour returned to her cheeks. Lorelei had saved his love."

  "That’s magic," one of the children said.

  The old storyteller smiled, "It is indeed. I will continue the story after a short break."

  He rose and bowed. The audience clapped, and he left the stage.

  Killian couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He looked around him. The people chatted, some hefting large jugs of wine to refill empty glasses. No one seemed to be giving him any special attention. The old man was nowhere to be seen.

  Killian stood abruptly, attracting some sideways glances from the other patrons. He left the table and walked to the bar.

  "The storyteller, where is he?"

  The barman jerked his head towards the back of the room. Killian pushed open a heavy door and entered the kitchen. He was greeted by warm smells of roasting meat, but there was no sign of the old man. There was a second door at the back. He opened it and blinked in the glare of the sun. He was back onto the street, in a dusty alley.

  Suddenly he saw the white uniforms of a group of templars on the street, at least three of them. "Woah there," a deep voice said. Killian flattened himself against the wall.

  "What is it?" it was the voice of the storyteller.

  "We hear you have been peddling blasphemous stories in the taverns."

  "Peddling stories? Well, I haven’t asked anyone to pay for them yet. More’s the pity."

  "You’d better come with us."

  Killian crept forward and poked his head around the corner of the street. He could see four templars. They had started to encircle the storyteller. Killian couldn’t let them catch the old man, he knew what would happen. He knelt down for a moment.

  Without dwelling on what he was about to do, he darted forward and grabbed the storyteller by the hand. He thrust out his other hand and threw a handful of dust at the templars, aiming for the eyes.

  "Wha—?" the old man said.

  Killian pulled him along. "Come with me, old man. You don’t want to know what they have in store for you."

  "Argh!" one of the templars cried. "The Evermen curse you, stop right there!"

  Killian didn’t turn around.

  He led the storyteller back through the door and into the kitchen. He heard the door thud a second time behind him as the chase began. The old man seemed surprisingly spry. Killian pulled down the shelves of pots and pans behind him, ignoring the shrieks and calls that followed him. He grabbed the handle of a huge bubbling pot and pulled it onto the ground behind him, barely avoiding being scalded himself.

  He had to find out about the old man’s story — and no one was going to get in his way.

  He pushed open the door leading into the dining hall. The patrons were looking at the kitchen with wide eyes. Killian pushed away the clutching hands as he ran, whisking the storyteller through the crowd.

  "Stop him!" he heard from behind him.

  He pushed open the tavern’s front door. He was back onto the street. The door swung closed behind him. Killian looked left, and then right.

  "What are you doing?" the old man panted.

  "Saving your hide!"

  He looked Killian up and down. "Head left, I know a safe place."

  Without pausing to question the old man, Killian started to run, the storyteller beside him. A large crash from inside the tavern spurred his steps.

  "Turn left here!" said the storyteller.

  They dashed into a side street. It was a plush quarter, where visiting nobles lodged and spent their leisure.

  Killian felt resistance and turned to see the old man had stopped outside an ornate wooden door, unmarked and unsigned.

  "What is this place?"

  "The finest guesthouse in Salvation."

  "We can’t go in there! Look at you..."

  Then Killian looked at the old man. Gone was the faded white priest’s cassock, it had been replaced with a flowing red coat. He wore a ruby earring with a matching ring. Below the waist he wore leggings of a rich brown material. His boots were high, with a steel buckle. He looked every inch the wealthy merchant.

  "How did you do that?"

  "Illusion," the man grinned.

  "Illusion?"

  "It’s a long story. Wait a moment." He took out a white kerchief and dusted off Killian’s coat. "That will have to do. They will think you’re my servant. My badly treated servant," he chuckled. "Come."

  He pushed open the door.

  Killian’s jaw dropped at the opulence of the entry hall. A thin man in black silk strode up to them, bowing low. "Welcome. Welcome to the Wrenly."

  "Thank you," said the storyteller in a pompous voice.

  "Do you require lodging, or will you be enjoying your lunch with us today?"

  "Lunch for a start, and as for enjoying it, my stomach will be the judge of that," the old man chuckled.

  The thin man smiled politely. He looked at Killian, but quickly disregarded him. "Please, come this way." He cleared his throat. "How many should I set the table for?"

  "For two, I am in a generous mood. My servant will be joining me."

  "Very good."

  Killian stayed silent. There were too many mysteries here. He had thought only to prevent the templars from taking the old man away before h
e could find out about the story. Now the initiative seemed to have been taken from him. He had lost his control of events.

  The thin man handed them to a stately woman. They were seated at a glass table and given two elegant cards to read. Killian couldn’t understand the strange descriptions of food.

  "Would you like me to order for you?" the old man said.

  Killian nodded.

  The old man waved and the woman came to their table. "My servant will have the braised wood hen. I will have the rare fillet. Please choose a suitable wine, I trust your judgement."

  The woman left. "I always find it best to let them choose the wine," the man whispered.

  "What is happening?" Killian said. "What are we doing here?"

  The old man gestured around the empty room. "Isn’t it obvious? Privacy and security. The templars would never look in here."

  "That’s not what I..."

  "I know what you meant," he said. He was silent as two glasses were placed beside them and filled with a rose coloured wine. Killian could smell the rich aroma from where he was sitting. The woman withdrew.

  "Try it," the old man said.

  Killian took a sip. "It’s delicious. Your story..."

  "Yes, my story," he put the glass to his lips. "Ah, Louan wine." He looked up at Killian’s frown. "Do you have any idea how many times I have told that story?"

  "No."

  "Think of how many times you have blinked. In your entire life. That’s how many times I have told that story. With absolutely no sign of success."

  "I don’t understand."

  "First, I need to know. Why did you come to me?"

  "The story."

  "What about the story?"

  Killian took a deep breath. He had to know. "The part about the essence, drawn on the woman’s skin."

  A glow came to the old man’s face. He took a long, drawn out breath. A smile rose, to become a broad grin. "You? It’s you?"

  "I don’t understand."

  "What is your name?"

  "Killian."

  "Killian. I am Evrin Alistair. Once I was called Evrin Evenstar. This meeting hasn’t come a moment too soon. I need your help."

  56

  Essence is the embodiment of life. A mighty tree grows from a seed. The tree gives shelter to birds and shade to animals. It grows old, withers and dies. As it decays, the life force of the tree sinks into the earth. The life force of a thousand trees comes together to form lignite. The relics of the Evermen process the lignite, forming essence. Understanding of the holy relics is beyond us, but one thing is clear — the power of magic is the power of life itself.

  — Sermons of Primate Melovar Aspen, 535 Y.E.

  "SIR, I think you had better see this for yourself," the scout said.

  Miro raised an eyebrow at Bladesinger Huron, who shrugged. He glanced at Marshal Beorn and Lord Rorelan. "Come with me," he said to the two men, newly made marshals.

  It had been hard going, since Mornhaven, but it was with a new sense of purpose that the army had abandoned the Ring Forts for the promised safety of Altura. They had poured down from Sark first, and then the other four fortresses had emptied themselves. Miro had formed them up quickly. There was no use delaying.

  The pride of Halaran’s defences would soon be occupied by the enemy.

  There had been the inevitable departure of some Halrana who had refused to leave their homeland. Miro had let them go. He could understand what they were feeling. It was still an immense army he led, perhaps four fifths Alturan and one fifth Halrana.

  All of the constructs had long faded completely, there were no drudges to pull the great carts, yet the Halrana valiantly struggled to pull the wagons by hand. One day, if the Halrana Lexicon could be found and renewed, the ironmen, woodmen, bonemen, colossi, drudges and golems would fight again.

  Miro didn’t have the heart to tell the Halrana about the Primate’s new method of destroying the Lexicons permanently.

  For the enchanted swords and armour, the nightlamps and heatplates, it was impossible to hide the fading of the runes now. When he was alone, Miro had activated his armoursilk and zenblade. The light was still fierce, the armour supple yet strong — but for how long?

  Miro kept telling himself. If he could get them to Alturan lands, they would live to fight another day.

  The scout led the commanders up a hillside and over some rubble. They climbed an abutment and stood on a high crest.

  "Lord of the Sky," Marshal Beorn breathed.

  The Sarsen curled in a ribbon below them, wide and turbulent in these parts. It formed the borderland between Altura and Halaran, a wild place of cliffs and canyons. There was one place only where the land lay low enough on either side to allow passage. This was the site of the Bridge of Sutanesta, a great stone arch supported by immense columns.

  It was a relic of the elder days, the Sutanesta. There was no lore holding it together, it was an example of ancient ingenuity. Each grey block was the size of a house. How they had been put together and assembled was still a mystery.

  In the lowland on their side was a sea of people. More people than Miro had ever seen in one place, and he had seen mighty battles. They weren’t numbered in their thousands. They were numbered in their tens of thousands. The refugees of a defeated nation. The men, women and children of Halaran.

  Their numbers were so great that they were packed together side-by-side. Children screamed, babies bawled. Fathers jostled for room with their arms in a circle around their families. The crowd surged and fell back, then surged again.

  "Skylord save us," said Lord Rorelan.

  The Bridge of Sutanesta had been destroyed.

  Where it had been was an immense empty space. The beginning and ending of the bridge were still intact. The great blocks that had formed the arch could be seen here and there in the current of the river.

  "It’s the work of the enemy," the scout said. "You can see where they laid the runebombs. Massive, they must have been."

  Miro took a deep, shaky breath. What to do? He had to be strong. He was the leader. He had brought them to this place. Now only a river stood between his army and the security of Altura. A wide, surging river — and an innumerable mass of refugees.

  "What do we do?" said Marshal Beorn.

  A cry came from behind them. Miro turned. Prince Leopold stood transfixed, his face drained of colour.

  "We should never have come to this place. We had safety in Sark. My father..."

  "Your uncle deserted us, all of us, and that includes you," said Miro.

  "He will be back," said the prince.

  "Not as long as I’m here," said Miro. He waved to one of his captains. "Take him back to the army and keep him away from the men."

  "At once, sir."

  "You can’t do this!" Prince Leopold said.

  "It is done," Miro turned back to the refugees as the man was led away.

  "He will hate you for that," said Marshal Beorn, scratching at his beard.

  "Let him," said Miro. "We need to plan."

  "You know what this means," said Lord Rorelan. His smooth face was creased with worry. "We need to get this army across that river. The soldiers have to take priority."

  "I know, I know," said Miro. "There has to be a way!"

  "We need to begin clearing the refugees so that our men can start rebuilding the bridge," said Marshal Beorn. "I have to warn you, it will take days."

  Miro cursed. "We don’t have days."

  Lord Rorelan laid a hand on his shoulder. "We also need to think about our defences."

  Sighing, Miro nodded. "Get the men to start digging trenches. I want them spiked and ready before sunset. Detail some of the Halrana soldiers to take care of those refugees. We need them to allow some space for our engineers to get through to the remains of the bridge. Send some enchanters with them. In two hours I want a report on what we can do to cross that river. We’ll put the bladesingers and two colossi on that ridge there. The colossi may not be functional
but the enemy may not know that. The mortar teams and dirigibles can go up on the hill to the side there. We want the heavy units up the front. When the Black Army comes, it will be with everything they’ve got."

  Men ran in all directions. Miro looked down at the refugees again. They were so helpless, milling around in confusion. The task of getting so many people across the Sarsen seemed insurmountable.

  Miro closed his eyes. He remembered Layla’s talk about the Eternal. It was time to pray.

  57

  The constructs of Raj Halaran disgust me. Gross, mechanical creatures — who could love such things?

  — High Lord Vladimir Corizon to High Cultivator Draco Brasov, 538 Y.E.

  KILLIAN trudged up the hill, his back bowed under the weight of his pack. He glanced at Evrin beside him. The old man had changed his clothing back to the faded priestly garb. From all outward appearances they were pilgrims on their way to Stonewater.

  He sighed. He was still ignorant as to his past. What he really was. Why he was different. Evrin seemed content to have found him. The old man had explained his plan, now here Killian was.

  Not for the first time, he wondered if he was yet again the pawn of someone’s grand scheme. It was the thought of Ella that kept him going. She knew who she was — she didn’t need to be told. She had made it clear to Killian whose side she thought he should be on. He wondered where she was. He hoped she had found her way safely back to Altura.

  Evrin gave Killian a significant look. They were getting close to the peak of the mountain now. They rounded a bend in the rock. Evrin drew to the side, pretending to be out of breath. Killian stepped forward as if offering his aid. There was a break in the line of pilgrims. They ducked around the rock and scuttled over the scree to a protected cleft in the side of the mountain.

  Killian took a moment to gather his breath. He thought about what Evrin had told him, "This substance the Primate has made from essence. This… technique he uses to turn people to his will. I don’t see how you are to blame."

  Evrin’s blue eyes studied Killian. "It is a long tale, too long for today. But it was I who left the lore where it could be found. There are some pieces of knowledge that are better left untaught. This is one of them."