It took him a day to search the first twenty cargo-filled wagons from top to bottom — time Bartolo could ill-afford to lose — first emptying out each cargo with the traders' reluctant help, then searching the wagon and moving on to the next.
Bartolo raged as he searched, knowing that every moment he spent with the wagons was taking Ella and Shani further away. He owed a debt to Miro, he knew. Bartolo had been asked to take care of his friend's sister, but the woman — that scratched Petryan! — had gotten to him, and he'd left the two women unprotected.
Only for a moment, but that was all it took.
The following day, when Bartolo had demanded to search the other twenty wagons, the wagon master, a broad-shouldered trader named Ingo Bacher, flatly refused, demanding compensation from Bartolo for the lost time — much of the cargo was perishable, he said. Bartolo had grinned, loosening his zenblade. He would give the man compensation; that was for certain.
At that moment a boy had run up to where the confrontation was about to get heated. He'd found something, he said. The boy led Bartolo deep into the forest that lined both sides of the road, pointing out the remnants of a fire that couldn't have been more than a day old.
Bartolo was no tracker, he was a swordsman, but he recognised the white rope that the Petryan woman, Shani, had used as a belt around her red robe. Bartolo's thoughts darkened. If either of the two captors had harmed Shani, or Ella, he would face the bladesinger's wrath.
The fire proved to Bartolo that his quarry wasn't with the wagons, and anxious to make up for lost time, Bartolo walked back to where Ingo Bacher stood frowning. "Sorry, trader, but you won't get anything from me. Tell your people they shouldn't consort with those barbarians from the Hazara Desert. Seek your compensation from Hermen Tosch."
Ignoring Ingo Bacher's reply, Bartolo passed the wagons that had escaped his search as he walked past.
Then something attracted his attention. Next to a wagon where an elderly woman in a black robe regarded him with cold dark eyes, he saw loose strands of golden hair, blowing gently in the breeze.
Bartolo knelt and picked up the lock of hair. "Ella," he murmured to himself.
Bartolo pocketed the lock of hair and put the white rope in his rucksack. He swiftly out-distanced the wagons, searching, zigzagging between the forest and the road, desperately searching for the women he'd been charged to find.
Now Bartolo sat alone at the dock in Castlemere, breaking his vigil of the ocean and looking on disconsolately as the wagons he'd left behind so long ago arrived to unload their cargo.
Three were unloaded at one ship, four at another. Two more vehicles were unloaded at a third ship, and eight at one huge cargo vessel. Bartolo squinted at one squat ship where only one wagon was unloaded.
The captors had to come this way, he knew. Why else would they go to Castlemere, if it wasn't to take passage on a ship?
He watched the ships as they left with the changing tide, following them with his eyes until they vanished one by one over the horizon. The squat ship was the last to disappear, taking hours to do so, but finally even it was gone too.
Bartolo didn't know how, but he was going to get answers. He had a duty to Miro and he knew Jehral must come this way.
As if answering a prayer, he recognised the man with the round face walking towards him.
Hermen Tosch.
The trader saw Bartolo even as Bartolo saw him. Hermen turned to run, but Bartolo was quick, even for a bladesinger.
Bartolo dragged Hermen through the street until he found a convenient wall. People screamed and ran from the bladesinger with the black expression, his zenblade held in one hand and a local man held captive in the other. Guards were called for, but Bartolo paid the townsfolk no heed.
Bartolo shoved Hermen high up against the wall and pressed the point of his zenblade to the trader's cheek.
"Where are they?" Bartolo said.
Hermen's face turned red from the pressure Bartolo was applying to his throat. Bartolo relaxed slightly to allow the man to speak.
"They've gone," Hermen gasped. "Left in a ship. You missed them."
"Scratch you," Bartolo cursed. "I don't believe you."
Bartolo spoke some words and the runes at the end of his zenblade suddenly lit up with red, like glowing coals. The colour travelled infinitely slowly down the blade, as if each symbol was lending its fire to the next. "Are you ready to die?"
"You didn't search all the wagons," Hermen said, "did you? My men left something for you in the forest. A fire. The Petryan's belt. Those you are looking for were with the wagons you never searched."
Bartolo swore. "Are they both unhurt?"
"Yes, they're unharmed. Jehral is a good man."
"Put him down, bladesinger," Bartolo heard a voice speak with quavering authority behind him.
Bartolo turned. Perhaps fifty soldiers of the city watch circled him with swords drawn. Their officer was brave, Bartolo had to give him that; the officer's sword wasn't the only one shaking in the bunch but he stood firm.
Bartolo spoke some more words and the runes on the zenblade sparked with colours of topaz and emerald. Several of the watchmen walked slowly backwards. "I'm not done here," Bartolo said.
He once again regarded Hermen Tosch; the trader stared back at him defiantly. "Where was the ship headed?"
"The Hazara Desert. To the hidden city."
"Where?" Bartolo demanded.
"They don't call it the hidden city for no reason." Hermen smiled.
Bartolo moved the tip of the zenblade until it hovered in front of Hermen's eye. "Why are they being taken there?"
"To meet with Jehral's leader, the prince."
"You're going to help me find this hidden city, trader," Bartolo said.
"Bladesinger, I might as well tell you," Hermen said in his thick, guttural voice.
"Tell me what?"
"The prince… I've only just found out," Hermen took a strained breath. "Jehral doesn't know, but the prince is no longer at the hidden city. Jehral is going to have to travel further and take the women to where the prince is now. You don't need to go into the desert; you'll be able to catch up with them there."
"Where?"
"Prince Ilathor is with his men in Petrya, at the town of Torlac. The Hazarans have invaded Petrya."
Bartolo let the trader go and Hermen crumpled, putting both hands to his neck as he recovered. The bladesinger turned and levelled his eyes at the men of the city watch, their swords still held in front of them. "You," he said to their leader, "has Petrya been invaded?"
The officer glanced at Hermen before looking back at the bladesinger. "Yes. The news is fresh, and not many know, but yes."
Bartolo turned back to Hermen. "If anything happens to them, I'm coming back for you."
Bartolo turned and walked away, ignoring the watchmen. He needed to get a message to Miro, to tell him what he knew, before he prepared for the coming journey.
Bartolo was going to Petrya.
20
PRIMATE Melovar smiled to himself, gazing out from the tallest balcony of the Imperial Palace as the Akari were paraded through the streets of Seranthia.
Dain Barden Mensk walked at the head of the vast host, his gaze stern and unyielding. Behind him were a dozen necromancers and a single company of living Akari warriors, tall and beautiful, their blue eyes exotic and fearsome against their pale skin.
Behind the living came rank after rank of the dead. Eerily silent, the revenants walked like normal men, but there was something about their stilted gait that wasn't quite right. There were so many of them that even the Grand Boulevard, the great avenue that led to the Imperial Palace, was filled from side to side and the column of grey-clad warriors stretched to the end of the longest street in Seranthia and around the corner.
Few of Seranthia's residents had turned out to welcome their new allies to their city. Melovar had even seen some of his priests and templars make the sign of protection when they'd seen the white eyes of
the draugar. No matter. They would be thankful enough when the lands from the Great Western Ocean to the Tingaran Sea were pacified, and there was peace throughout the realm. Never fear, Melovar wanted to tell them, he would cleanse the world of lore while using lore to do so.
The previous day, the Primate had held a Chorum, the first since the war started. He had changed the format somewhat, and unlike before, he controlled events and decided who would speak. It had been a strange affair, and one that had left him dispirited. High Lord Dimitri Corizon of Vezna was proving difficult to handle — the elixir was taking its toll — and High Lord Koraku Rolan of Torakon could barely hold himself together. Melovar's main concern was that Dain Barden would discover something about the elixir; however the ruler of the Akari made a surprisingly warm speech of thanks at his welcome back to the Empire. Altura and Halaran were conspicuously absent, and Melovar knew he needed to subdue them quickly or lose credibility for his new order. All in good time; the Akari were here now. Zavros had returned from the north; soon the Primate would have his own supplies of essence, and a renewed source of elixir.
When the time came, Dain Barden would fall under the Primate's power just as had Tessolar of Altura, Raoul Maul of Loua Louna, Koraku of Torakon, Dimitri of Vezna, and Xenovere of Tingara. In the end, none of them could resist the elixir.
The parade was over, and Melovar withdrew from the balcony. The Imperial Palace, huge as it was, was too small, he found, and not high enough for his liking. He missed Stonewater, but sometimes this was where he needed to be.
Melovar walked over to where Zavros was seated on a plush velvet chair, thoroughly engrossed by the book of the Evermen in his hands. "I can almost see what it is," Zavros said. "Such a strange shape. It looks like the chamber is inside something, like a mountain."
"I would say it was inside Stonewater, if I didn't know for myself that it isn't there," Melovar said.
"The Akari expect you to tell them where it is, Your Grace," Zavros said, placing the book to the side. "You've promised them a great deal of essence and the most powerful relic the Evermen ever created. Dain Barden Mensk isn't a man to take promises lightly."
"Which is why you've been learning their secrets, Zavros," Melovar said. "We just need to develop our own source of essence before the Akari find out how we've seized power. We must also be the first to find the relic and use its power for ourselves. So tell me, what have you learned?"
Zavros nodded. "I can do it, Primate. I can build the vats. I know how to extract essence from the dead."
"Excellent," Melovar smiled.
"But, Primate, the amount of life energy in a human is still not that great. For what you're asking for the war effort you will need mountains of the dead. The Akari themselves cannot field the draugar in battle for long, not with the amount of essence they possess, and not in this climate, which is warm by their standards. Where do you expect to find so many of the dead?"
Melovar's smile broadened. "Why, where else do the dead come from? From the living. Zavros, I've already begun. The prison camp in Halaran was the first, but we can set up more, here in Tingara."
"Prisoners? Primate, they aren't dead," Zavros said flatly.
"Easily remedied. Oh, surely you aren't having a crisis of conscience now, Zavros? The things I've seen you do. And think, you will have free run of the camps. You can perform any experiments you want on them. Think of all you will learn."
"There is one experiment." Zavros looked up. "You wouldn't let me do it before."
"That? Zavros, you can have an entire camp to yourself, where you can do whatever you want. I will give you books, apparatus, assistants, anything gilden can buy. You can build your quarters and laboratory right next to the camp."
"The apparatus do not come cheap."
"Anything, Zavros, provided the essence takes precedence. Go and build the vats. Moragon knows nothing takes greater precedence — you can look to him for whatever you need. Bring me essence and bring me elixir. We are in a race against the Akari. Dain Barden cannot see any weakness."
Zavros stood and bowed. "It will be done."
21
AMBER lived in constant fear for her life, and that of her unborn child. Life in the prison camp in Halaran was hard, but since Moragon had taken over the running of the camp it had grown worse. Much worse.
She'd almost died, after her failed escape attempt. The guards had beaten her remorselessly, the hilts of their swords knocking her to the ground and their heavy boots kicking again and again at her head and back as she curled up and waited for the end.
Somehow, though, she'd found reserves of strength from deep within, and under the tending of her people Amber had survived. She had been terrified she would lose her baby, but one of the prisoners had been a midwife, and assured Amber that the baby was unharmed.
When the woman told her, Amber had cried, for the first time in weeks. She'd cried for Beatta, the Halrana who had died so close to freedom, and for Ness, the old woman who had sacrificed herself just to give them their chance. Most of all, she cried for her child. Amber had tried, but she had failed. Her child deserved its chance at life.
In the time since her try for freedom Amber had healed, but she now worried for the health of her child even more. She shivered at night and the pangs of hunger were like red hot pokers in her chest.
Now the time had come, and Amber had a different plan.
It was a plan that caused her heart to quail with fear.
With her auburn hair brushed and glowing, lips ruby red, and brown eyes lowered, she walked towards the guard post and tried to ignore the tightness in her chest.
She was hardly showing her pregnancy, and while the rations of the prison camp meant her waist was the slimmest it had ever been, Amber still filled out the silk dress she'd pillaged from a dead woman's belongings. She had modified the dark blue dress so that the neckline was low, scandalously low, and the material was sheer, so that Amber felt near-naked.
As she picked her way through the groups of huddled prisoners, heading for the check point, Amber caught the disapproving stares of both the Halrana and her Alturan countrymen. The Alturans here were mostly soldiers who had been captured at the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta, and they'd seen their friends killed by the Black Army, by the very men that Amber was evidently giving herself to. Amber lifted her chin and ignored them. In her position they would do the same thing.
She hadn't made the decision lightly. People were disappearing from the camp. They certainly weren't being released, for the ones disappearing were the old and the infirm, the weak and the dying, but if they weren't being released then where were they going? Then others started vanishing — those who argued with the guards, or even looked at them the wrong way.
Amber's trouble started in the food line when, two days before, Hugo, a vicious Tingaran, had tried to kiss her. When she'd turned her head, he'd angrily pulled her ragged dress from her shoulders, displaying her breasts for all to see. Without thinking, Amber had responded by slapping him across the face.
Hugo, a big man with the typical shaved head of a Tingaran, had looked surprised for a moment, and then glared at Amber as his fellow guards hooted and jeered. "You're going next." He had prodded Amber's bare chest with his finger. "I'll make sure of it," he said with venom. Amber had hung her head and pulled her dress back up, before realising what it was he meant. Wherever they were taking the vanishing prisoners, she was going, too.
Amber could see only one way out, a way she could save her life, and provide security for her unborn child. She had spent two days getting ready for this moment. She was beautiful, she reminded herself.
Amber reached the guard post. She saw the guard in front of her breathe in as he caught the scent of lavender and rose from the fragrance Amber had placed at her neck and wrists. The other guard looked her slowly up and then down, his gaze finally setting on her chest.
"Hello, beauty," the first guard said. "Where did you turn up from? How come we 'aven't
noticed you before?"
"I'm new," Amber said.
The second guard came forward, his mouth open and eyes still fixated on Amber's body. He leered, his hand running over the soft material on Amber's waist. "Good news for us," the guard said.
Amber smiled up at him, letting his hand run over the material and up, feeling the outside of her hip, moving further still to the underside of her breast. She finally stepped back and pushed his hand away. "I'm not here for you two, I'm afraid. I'm here for someone else."
"Who?" asked the first guard.
"High Lord Moragon," Amber said. "His command tent is out there, isn't it?" She smiled up at the guard sweetly.
Both men stood back and exchanged worried glances. The leering guard's expression was fearful.
"Could you let me through?" Amber asked.
The guards lived in a separate compound to the main prison camp, Moragon with them. Amber prayed to the Lord of the Sky. If they let her out unescorted she could potentially escape, and she wouldn't have to do what she came here to do.
Amber remembered Hugo's words: he'd said she would be next. She owed it to her unborn child to stay alive.
The first guard whistled, and a uniformed man came over. "Take her to High Lord Moragon's tent."
Amber's escort quickly looked her over, but said nothing about Amber's obvious purpose. "Come with me," he said.
Amber's heart raced as her escort led her away from the fenced prison and between two pine trees. The air was sweeter, out here in the open, away from the stench of the prisoners, and the two dozen or so tents of the guards' compound were laid out in neat rows, interspersed with the occasional tree.
Some guards sat about, finishing their evening meal, drinking hot drinks from steaming metal mugs. Amber saw them nudge one another and felt their eyes on her body as she walked past. Good — the more who saw her the better.
Six guards stood in a circle around Moragon's command tent. A tall flagpole was planted to the left of the tent, the raj hada of Tingara double-circled to indicate the High Lord was in residence.
The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) Page 15