The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two)

by James Maxwell

  But there were only dead legionnaires. And these bodies weren't burnt; there hadn't been an explosion; these were sword wounds. An epic battle had been fought here; a battle that had taken the lives of at least a hundred, no, perhaps two-hundred legionnaires.

  Tapel moved between the bodies, trying to keep his distance, anxiously looking back at the setting sun. He no longer looked for jewellery; he just wanted to get out of this terrible place and go home to his mother.

  Then Tapel's heart stopped and his blood ran cold. Something had grabbed hold of his ankle; a hand was wrapped around his foot and, try as he might, Tapel couldn't move. Despite himself, a whimper came from his throat and he nearly voided his bowels.

  He looked down.

  A soldier lay by Tapel's feet, an Alturan by the colour of his clothing and the sword and flower of his raj hada, but this man wore no armour, instead his body was covered in light, reflective green fabric. Silk? A sword lay by the Alturan soldier's side, a long, slightly curved blade, free from dent or scratch, and inscribed with arcane symbols. Symbols also covered the Alturan's clothing.

  Tapel realised that this was the man who had left behind so many of the enemy dead, at the same time also realising what he was. A bladesinger.

  But he was old, with dark hair turning grey and faded scars on his face mingling with new wounds. He had his hand wrapped around his throat, where fresh red blood welled out from between his fingers.

  "Agh…" the Alturan looked up at Tapel, and tried to speak.

  Tapel realised he was going to have to answer his mother's questions about where he had been, whether he liked it or not.

  ~

  THAT had been many weeks ago, and as they nursed him back to health Tapel and his mother still wondered who the stranger was. The jewellery Tapel had found paid for food — the Alturan was a ravenous eater — and day by day the Alturan's colour slowly returned.

  He could not speak, although both Tapel and Amelia knew he was desperate to. They had never seen him try as hard as he had when word arrived about the great battle that was fought at the Bridge of Sutanesta, and the miraculous events that led to the rescue of the Halrana refugees and the salvation of what was left of the allied army.

  It was a victory, clawed back from the jaws of defeat. The Alturan tried time and again to express himself, gripping Tapel's hand inside his huge one, squeezing until it hurt. Finally the Alturan gave up, and tears came out of his eyes, spilling down his cheeks.

  Not knowing what to do, Tapel had looked away.

  Now, for the hundredth time, Tapel wondered who he was.

  "Try again," Tapel said to him. "No, don't try to rise. Just try to speak."

  The Alturan opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a ragged croak.

  "I know you can do it," Tapel said. "Your name. Start with your name."

  "Stop it, Tapel," his mother's voice sounded from behind him. "I've told you. He'll speak when he's ready."

  "What if he never talks?"

  Amelia came and sat by her son on the bed, where the Alturan lay watching them soberly. "Perhaps he won't. But he fought to free us and our people, and we'll help him nonetheless."

  "Can he write?" Tapel asked.

  Amelia sighed. "I've tried, but his fingers shake too much. He can grip my hand, but he can't hold the chalk."

  The Alturan's face contorted as he tried to speak. Amelia made soothing motions, but he kept trying, his forehead creasing into lines and the breath popping from his mouth in little gasps.

  "You can do it," Tapel said. "I know you can!"

  "Shhh, Tapel," Amelia said. "Leave the poor man be."

  "Your name, what's your name?" Tapel went over and knelt beside the bed, his ear close to the Alturan's lips.

  "Tapel, stop it!"

  "He's speaking!"

  "He can't speak!"

  Tapel moved his head closer to the Alturan's mouth.

  "Rogan," the Alturan whispered. "My… name… is Rogan." He gulped and spoke again. "Rogan… Jarvish."

  Tapel looked at his mother, and wondered if she knew who Rogan Jarvish was.

  3

  PRIMATE Melovar Aspen's home was in ruins. While far from his homeland, fighting those who would do anything to prevent peace, his home had been attacked in a cowardly, cruel manner.

  His mouth set in a thin line, the Primate kept his face impassive as Moragon made the report. He hardly needed his second-in-command to summarise what had been lost, he could see for himself, but he let the man continue; somehow reducing the damage to words had a soothing effect, implying there was something he could do about it.

  "You saw the blast area at the foot of the mountain," Moragon said in his deep voice. "That was the largest of the explosions, where he destroyed the refinery."

  They were walking through the corridors inside Stonewater. Primate Melovar looked at Moragon to gauge his reaction; did this attack affect the melding as much as it did himself? No, Moragon was a Tingaran; he wouldn't feel the same violation that the Primate himself felt.

  Moragon betrayed no emotion. Tall and commanding, the man who had once been the Emperor's executioner had proven himself to be a capable leader, but more importantly, he shared the Primate's vision of a world united under a single rule.

  After the death of the Emperor, Primate Melovar Aspen had made Moragon the High Lord of Raj Tingara, and by agreement, in the event of his death, Moragon would lead the army that carried the banner of the black sun, and the unified nation the fragmented Tingaran Empire would become. Moragon's avengers and legionnaires were utterly loyal to him — he was a melding himself, with a right-arm of grafted metal, the first to ever become High Lord of Tingara — and, like the Primate, Moragon had the taint.

  Primate Melovar could feel it now, the hunger, never far from his mind. It took less than an hour now before the pain was so great he could stand it no longer. At the end of this tour he would give himself surcease — a sip of black elixir from a golden goblet — but for now, the pain kept him sharp.

  With no more essence to come out of Stonewater, the Primate knew he would soon run out of the elixir. For the first time, he felt a sensation he hadn't felt at any of the battles: not at Ralanast, and not even at the Bridge of Sutanesta.

  For the first time, the Primate felt fear.

  Ahead the stone was blackened and the roof of the cavern had partly caved-in.

  "This was the harvesting plant," Moragon said. He pointed to the swathes of dried blood on the floor. "The templars tell me they left these here in case you wished to investigate further, but the bodies have been removed. When the explosion came, it caught a dozen templars."

  "And no one caught sight of him?" the Primate asked again.

  "He was wearing some kind of cloak, and couldn't be seen. The Alturan bladesingers do this, they call it shadow. But this sounds to me to be a degree of lore beyond even the Alturans."

  "Alturans," Primate Melovar spat. "It still may have been them."

  "Do you wish to see the remains of the extraction system?" Moragon asked.

  "Is it in the same state as this?"

  "Worse. There must have been a series of explosions. Each part of the extraction system detonated with greater force, causing a major cave-in."

  "Saryah was here," the Primate said.

  "She was," Moragon looked at him, "and I have no doubt they fought. Yet the intruder was the victor."

  Melovar Aspen shook his head. "I thought she was unbeatable. Did you know she killed several bladesingers, as well as the Alturan High Enchantress? Not a mark on her."

  "What about Templar Zavros? Have you spoken with him?"

  "Not yet," the Primate said. "I wanted to see this for myself before hearing his account. Clever as he is, he sometimes misses the bigger picture."

  "I'll take you to the extraction system then." Moragon turned when he noticed the Primate had stopped in his tracks. "What is it?"

  The Primate put his fingers to his temples. "I will see the extracti
on system, or what's left of it, later. Take me instead to the Pinnacle."

  ~

  MELOVAR Aspen climbed the stairs with complete disregard for the height and the gusting wind that pushed relentlessly against his thin frame. He was barely out of breath; he had tasted the bitter sweetness of the elixir on his way, and could feel the strength it gave him. He may still look an old man, but he felt as good as he had when he was a young priest.

  Ahead of him Moragon turned, no longer surprised at the Primate's progression from frailty to vitality.

  "Here, Primate. This is where the fourth and final explosion occurred."

  The summit of the mountain was once a pure place. The gentle glow of the Pinnacle was all that decorated the level area, and even the Primate himself came here when the trials of the world imposed some much-needed time to think.

  The pilgrims came from far and wide to see the Pinnacle, and many of Aynar saw the light from Stonewater's summit and felt in awe of the templars and priests who lived here. Much of the Tingaran Empire's reverence for the Assembly of Templars stemmed from the wonders of Stonewater.

  And now the Pinnacle was gone, the mystery of the light solved once and for all.

  The light had guarded a building. Whatever it had been, it was now in rubble, the broken blocks covered in dust.

  "You say this was where the fourth explosion occurred. How much time passed between this and the explosion at the refinery?" Melovar asked.

  "The templars thought it as strange as you do, Primate. Apparently there was not long between them."

  "How do you think he made his way from the foot of the mountain, the very base of the vault, to the summit of Stonewater in such a short span of time?"

  "I don't know," Moragon said.

  "Speculate," said the Primate, raising an eyebrow at the melding.

  "My thinking, Your Grace, is that this is completely different. The first three acts shared a combined purpose. The desired outcome was to prevent our production of more essence, and more elixir, and the perpetrator was successful. I am no loremaster, but it seems to me that one machine might be replaced, but three, including the refinery, would be difficult, if not impossible."

  Primate Melovar's expression blackened at the mention of the intruder's success. "Go on."

  "What happened here was a separate event, executed by someone else. He may have been allied to the first intruder, but he came here with his own purpose, and what was destroyed here was not related to our production of either essence or elixir."

  ~

  MORAGON'S words stayed with the Primate as he went back into the mountain and surveyed the destruction at the extraction system. He pondered as he frowned at the scorch marks and debris, seething with anger. It was impossible for him to reach the refinery; the broken stone would need clearing, a process that would take months.

  The world's supply of essence was gone.

  Primate Melovar Aspen's role was to know about essence, but no templar had ever understood the relics, not even Templar Zavros, the man most knowledgeable about the world's most valuable substance. It was Zavros who had perfected the elixir, a process still within the Primate's grasp. Yet essence was needed to create elixir; only a small amount of raj nilas could be extracted and processed from a larger amount of essence.

  It always came back to essence.

  As leader of the Assembly of Templars, Melovar knew the age-old process as well as any. The energy of the sun, the water, the earth, and the air was absorbed by plants. Grasses, bushes, trees, mosses: they all held this energy, and it was only when they died that it could be regained. As the vegetation rotted, it condensed, and over millions of years it formed lignite. Any decomposed plant material could be used at the harvesting plant, but lignite offered the best reclamation potential and led to the largest extraction of essence.

  With the relics now destroyed beyond repair and even the wonder that had been the Pinnacle gone as if it had never been, Melovar had nothing left but to look forward to the pain of withdrawal from the elixir, leading to inevitable death.

  Nothing left but anger.

  As the Primate walked back to his chambers, up endless stairways and through dimly lit corridors; he levelled his gaze at one of the templars guarding his work room.

  "Fetch me someone who was here during the attack. Now."

  The Primate entered the room and gazed around him, finally looking out of the large window, where at Melovar's request the panes could be opened. Living in a mountain as he did, the Primate had always had a head for heights, and he took pleasure in the small amount of discomfort it brought visitors when he opened the glass wide, exposing the void. He walked over now and opened the latch, pinning the window open. Instantly the howling wind hit his face with a blast. Down below, he could see the town of Salvation, and imagined the little people, squabbling and scraping together whatever existence they could.

  This view always made him think about the people below. Melovar knew within his soul that the system of houses was wrong. What real advances had been made in the centuries of the Tingaran Empire's existence? Was lore a tool, or a crutch?

  The Assembly had no lore, no Lexicon, no market house in Seranthia. The templars were the best placed to lead the world in this brave, new direction, and with no more essence, change would be inevitable. But would it be a uniting of peoples, or would it be the change that came through squabbling, fighting and rebellion? The Tingaran Empire was dead, the Emperor was gone, and what came next could either be a hundred years of chaos, or an eternity of unity.

  The Primate turned away from the window. A templar and a priest stood silently just inside the entrance to his work room. The anger returned.

  "Why are there two of you?"

  The templar, a tall man with a sword at his side, spoke first. "Your Grace, we weren't sure what you would ask. Father Pristin here was closer to the refinery. I'm in charge of the Pinnacle and I was one of the first on the scene there."

  "You," the Primate said, looking at the templar. "What did you see when you arrived at the Pinnacle?"

  "It was as you see it now, Your Grace," the templar said evenly.

  "No different? So you saw nothing."

  "The pilgrims who were there had fled, most likely when they heard the first explosions. One old pilgrim was crushed beneath some stones."

  "If only he had survived to talk," Melovar muttered.

  The templar opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Your… Your Grace. The pilgrim. He did survive."

  Primate Melovar's eyebrows shot up. "Why am I only hearing this now?"

  "He's old, and he was injured, but he survived." The templar began to sweat. Even the priest looked fearful. "But… Your Grace. He's mad. You know how they can be. He speaks no sense. At any rate, I can take you to him. I didn't let him go, I sent him to one of the dungeons in Salvation."

  Melovar felt the elixir flowing through his veins, and the blood throbbing in his head. He reached out and took the templar by the neck in his right hand.

  As the rage took hold, Melovar began to squeeze. "If you'd let him go, I would have made your death slow. As it is, I'm merely disappointed." The templar made a choking sound. "Very disappointed." Melovar increased the pressure, and felt the windpipe under his thumb give under the pressure. A gurgle sounded from the templar's chest, and a faint crack could be heard, before the Primate removed his grip and let the templar's body fall to the floor.

  "Fetch me a guard detachment," Melovar said to the priest. "I'm going to Salvation."

  Father Pristin nodded dumbly.

  "Quickly!" the Primate said, and the priest fled from the room.

  ~

  THE dungeons at Salvation were more for drunks and petty thieves than for serious miscreants. The blood-streaked cells in Stonewater were much more suited to murderers, rapists, and subversives.

  The last thing the lazing guards in white tabards were expecting was a visit from the Primate.

  "Your Grace, I didn't know you were vi
siting. Today is… today is… one of the guards is getting married, and so he brought the wine in. It's not usual, Your Grace, not at all."

  "Be still, and be quiet," Melovar said. Instantly the guard's mouth shut with a snap.

  "The Primate is here to see a prisoner," one of the templars flanking the Primate spoke. "The old pilgrim who was brought in the day after the attacks. Is he well? Are we able to speak with him?"

  The guard tugged at his collar. "Well, it's been a few weeks. We send in a bucket of water every now and then, but food's hard to come by, what with the war." He inadvertently looked at the Primate. "I imply no criticism, Your Grace." He cringed.

  "Take me to him," Melovar said.

  Doors clanged, keys jangled, and guards returned to life, tabards straightened and hair hurriedly combed.

  Primate Melovar was led into darkness. It took some time for his eyes to adjust, but eventually he saw he was being taken down a long corridor, flanked on both sides with barred cells. The smell of stale urine was overpowering, and the slumped occupants of the cells were strangely still, as if to move or make a sound would sap what little energy they possessed.

  The guard stopped outside a cell no different from the others. His hand shook as he fumbled with the keys, but finally he turned the correct key in the lock and the barred door opened inwards.

  Melovar stepped forwards.

  "Please, Your Grace," another of the templars flanking him said. "Let us check first." He held out a nightlamp. "Tish-tassine," the templar spoke. A soft white glow came from the device.

  The Primate waited patiently until they had finished. With the powers of regeneration the elixir had given him, there was little in this world that could harm him, but he had lost the patience for argument.

  Finally the templars withdrew and the Primate entered the cell.

  It seemed the templar from the Pinnacle had been accurate in his judgement of the old man's mental state. He was hunched in a corner of the cell, cowering awkwardly. Drool ran down the pilgrim's chin, and a feeble grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He had intense blue eyes, eyes that now squinted against the shine of the nightlamp. Ragged white hair tufted from the top of his head, and a scraggly grey beard flecked with ginger covered his chin.