The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (23 page)

A group of five musicians played together on a raised stage. Three played the traditional Alturan metal-keyed instruments, the largest as tall as the man who played it, the smallest barely two feet high, while the other two tapped chimes and drums. Ella had never seen so many musicians play in unison — it made the sound much fuller, more raucous. She found herself tapping along without even meaning to.

Some young women were dancing, their skirts swirling around their legs. There were a far greater number of women than men on the dance floor. Not that the hall was empty of men — far from it. They sat against the walls, smiling and nodding along to the chiming music, barely taking their eyes of the girls.

It was a casual place, where drinks were ordered at the bar. Ella thought it was her favourite yet.

"What will it be this time?" Killian said.

"I don’t know. I don’t know any of these drinks, really. You choose."

"How about… have you tried coulna?"

"I’ve got no idea what that is." She smiled up at him.

"Two coulnas it is then." He smiled back.

Ella stood close by Killian as he ordered the drink. A warm feeling was coming over her. She still held his hand, and, leaning, she snuggled into his body. He looked over at her and smiled.

"Lord of the Sun, you have an eye for a good tavern."

Killian placed his arm around her. Ella tensed a little, and then relaxed. There was no one to go home to, no one to worry about her — why shouldn’t she enjoy herself?

Killian paid the barman and turned to face her. The drinks were left on the bar, untouched. Ella tilted her head back, her lips parted.

He took the offer, leaned in, and kissed her.

Ella felt languid in his arms, her weight supported. He held her close as he kissed her, not insistently, but gently.

She broke off the kiss. "I love this tune! Do you know it?"

"No." He smiled.

"Come and dance. Come on!"

Ella dragged him onto the dance floor and soon he held her in his arms, twirling her. Killian’s steps were foreign, but he was sure on his feet. She was deft enough to move with him.

Ella caught the eyes of some faces from her classes. The girls looked on in envy at the charming man who danced with such grace. The young men frowned.

Ella didn’t care. She was lost in the moment.

~

E
LLA
and Killian stayed at The Prey Turned Hunter until well after midnight, dancing and laughing. They didn’t kiss again. Ella was content to merely be close to someone, to be young and happy, just like the others. She frequently ran her fingers over the nape of Killian’s neck, feeling his red locks in her fingers. He often kept an arm around her waist, gently feeling the pressure of her body against him, the curve of her hip.

Finally they tumbled out onto the street, leaving the warm glow of the music hall behind them. Looking around, Ella realised they were among the last people out in the Woltenplats. Many of the public houses had closed, their doors shut and nightlamps deactivated. Only a few hangers-on stayed in The Prey Turned Hunter, eking the last few moments’ pleasure out of the night.

Ella was unprepared for the late night chill. It was freezing, and her breath came out in a cloud of vapour. She shivered.

Suddenly she realised how little she knew about this man. He knew so much about her.

"I should be going now," she said.

Apparently sensing the change in mood, Killian made no protest. Ella turned away and took a step, before turning back to face him.

"I had… I had a wonderful time."

"I am glad. I did too." His smile was broad.

On impulse Ella dashed up to him and brushed her lips against his, before walking into the night.

20

While I looked on, the Petryan High Lord had his elementalists create a wall of fire. It was like nothing so much as a waterfall, but constructed of bright red flame. He then proceeded to entertain himself by forcing villagers to run through the searing barrier, so hot that I felt it from a great distance away. I can still hear their screams now.

— Toro Marossa, ‘Explorations’, Page 106, 423 Y.E.

M
IRO
pulled his green cloak around him. It was unbearably cold, getting worse as they entered Halrana lands and drew closer to their destination.

It had been a week since they’d crossed the great Bridge of Sutanesta, leaving Altura behind them and entering Halrana lands. Miro had heard descriptions of the bridge but had never seen it. They said it was as ancient as the Sentinel in the great harbour at Seranthia. They said there was no force that could lift such massive stones.

The column moved ponderously along the road, a long unbroken line of officers, nobles, soldiers, administrators, porters, hunters, cooks, tinkers, smiths, carpenters, masons and assorted camp followers. Stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction, like a rope lined along a curving line to determine its length, it wended its way through villages, over hills and around forests. But their path was climbing, always climbing, as they headed for the high ground of the Ring Forts.

A group of enchanters mingled with the lords, ready to counter the tricks of the enemy’s lore and come up with some tricks of their own. Miro wondered how hard it would be to keep them safe, and if Ella would be sent to the front as their numbers dwindled.

Miro had been grouped with the bladesingers, but at the back, with the other untried and untested recruits. He occasionally noticed the awed glances of the regular soldiers; they didn’t realise the distinction between his
raj hada
lined with blue, and the blood-red-against-green of a true bladesinger.

There was little talk around him. Rather than marching like the soldiers, the bladesingers walked casually, gracefully. They murmured to one another in soft tones, long association and familiarity obvious with every contact. Miro was definitely on the outside of that circle.

There were two other recruits with him: a young man named Bartolo Thorn and another named Ronell Kendra. Both were deadly with a sword — they had to be to make it this far — but in looks and attitude they were completely different. Bartolo had a certain panache, a way of walking and talking that was vigorous and expressive. He was a little darker than Miro, with a tiny moustache in the Halrana style and curly black locks. Ronell was more steady, and he often wore a sombre expression, as if the bearer of bad news. He had close-cropped brown hair and sad brown eyes, but when he laughed, his whole body laughed with him.

Unlike soldiers, bladesingers, even recruits, were allowed to wear their hair any way they chose. Miro’s black hair had grown long, and he now wore it tied back behind his head. He was the tallest of the recruits — even his scabbard was longer than the others’ and he wore it strapped to his back.

Miro still couldn’t believe they had been given zenblades. Apparently it was the first time in living memory. The argument between Blademaster Rogan and the newly-promoted Prince Leopold had been long and bitter, and, it seemed, heard by everyone.

Blademaster Rogan had said there was no purpose in calling half-trained bladesingers to the front without giving them zenblades. Prince Leopold had said there was no way he was going to have boys with zenblades in the thick of battle. The men were just too packed together — it would be a disaster waiting to happen. Blademaster Rogan had taken a breath and said simply:

"Either you take them out of armoursilk and put them with the soldiers, or you give them zenblades and treat them like men. Because when they go into battle in the uniform of a bladesinger, they are going to be a target for every weapon the Emperor can throw at them. At least give them a fighting chance, for otherwise you are surely sending them to their deaths."

It was settled. It hadn’t done much for the relationship between the Blademaster and his new Lord Marshal though. Prince Leopold cut a dashing figure in his green uniform, with his light hair and regular features, but Miro knew that most of the officers would be looking to others for leadership.

Captain Sloan had also been promoted to marshal. It was hoped that his experience would temper the young prince.

Lord Marshal Devon was sorely missed.

Miro was determined to live up to the bladesinger reputation. He was sure he knew what to do, the complex activation sequences for both his armoursilk and his zenblade had been taught. They had been drilled into him, the song like a chant in his mind, ready to be called on. He just hoped it would still be with him when the time came.

Something crested the hill in front. Strange birds, like dark specks, growing larger.

As he watched, they took form. His heart lurched, like a stone punching him in the chest. Miro realised what they must be, at the same time as he heard the cry.

"Air attack!"

They had been drilled, but there was a difference between a drill and the real thing. Miro’s pulse raced as he looked up and down the column. They were completely defenceless.

"Everyone get down!" one of the officers shouted, running along the line.

Miro couldn’t believe this was the best defence they could come up with — to get down. The leading dirigible reached those at the front of the column. It was the first time Miro had seen one with his own eyes.

It was a strange contraption, a boat-like wooden tub attached by wires to some kind of elongated air balloon above. The balloon and cabin both glowed with the complex matrices of the artificers’ runes. Why didn’t they have their own dirigibles? Was this some oversight of the Alturan command?

Something small dropped down from the air. It missed the column, landing about a hundred paces away.

The ground erupted in gouts of flame and earth. Miro blanched. He hurriedly activated the basic protection sequence for his armoursilk. Looking around him, he realised the other bladesingers had already done so.

Miro chose maximum strength — there was little use in flexibility in this kind of situation. His voice murmured the runes, the words coming out one after another, so quickly that it blurred into a strange kind of song. The songs of the individual bladesingers merged, rising and falling but maintaining a steady low volume.

The second dirigible reached the front of the column. It dropped down low, the pilot choosing his target carefully. The runebomb fell through the air. Miro could feel the tension around him.

It exploded thunderously, the booming sound like the loudest thunder, so close it hurt Miro’s ears. Men were thrown in all directions, flying through the air, their bodies torn into pieces by the force of the explosion.

It was Miro’s first experience of war. It was slaughter.

The bombs began to rain down, heavier now, like a deadly storm. Blood sprayed, limbs were ripped free of their owners’ bodies.

The soldiers began to break ranks; Miro didn’t blame them. It was murder, pure and simple. He was infinitely glad for his armoursilk. The murmuring of the bladesingers continued steadily.

"Hold, Skylord scratch you! Hold, I said!" the officers yelled.

A small group of soldiers buckled, and left the column, running like the wind. Miro knew one moment more and it would be a rout.

"Someone run this over to the mortar team!" an officer yelled nearby. He held a basket of small, rune-covered orbs.

Miro knew he probably stood a much greater chance than an ordinary soldier of making it. He also knew he was probably the fastest runner. The soldiers were all weighed down with their clumsy armour.

Without giving it further thought, Miro changed his song. The runes on his armoursilk changed colour; the way they pulsed became more of a shimmer. He had kept some of the protective strength but added a large degree of agility.

He met the officer’s gaze and took the basket. "Where?" he said.

"Near the enchanters. Behind us."

Miro didn’t look for approval. Bladesingers weren’t soldiers, they were weapons.

He leapt up and began to run alongside the column, the large basket held awkwardly at his side, clutched in one arm, impeding his progress. His heart pumped, his breath deepened.

Miro saw sights along the way that he knew would stay with him forever. A cook’s assistant, her face torn away. A group of legless soldiers all writhing together, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood. The youth of his homeland, dying.

Miro ran like he had never run before.

The enchanters were recognisable by their flowing green silk, standing out amongst the soldiers like flowers in mud.

Miro saw them well before he reached them. He looked for the mortar teams but couldn’t see them.

Miro ducked when a dirigible buzzed low above his head. He saw a bomb drop, scoring a direct hit on the soldiers below. In the same instant, an enterprising soldier with a strong arm threw up a prismatic orb. Miro braced himself. He was too close!

The twin explosions threw Miro to the ground. Both the dirigible and the soldier were destroyed by the blast. There was nothing left but soot and charred earth.

Miro picked himself up and looked around. His basket was upturned, the orbs scattered about.

He began to gather them, ignoring the chaos around him.

A soldier joined him in gathering the orbs, then another, wordlessly handed him the heavy objects. Soon the bucket was full.

"Thank you," Miro said.

"Go with speed, bladesinger," one of the soldiers said, nodding.

Miro touched his fingers to his lips and, balancing the basket on his side, he ran on, feeling a pain in his side but ignoring it.

Miro finally reached the enchanters. They were standing in a terrified bunch; there was nothing they could do here, enchantment took time and care. "Where are the mortar teams?" he panted.

An officer grabbed him from behind. "Lord of the Sky, the orbs, here they are! Where are the rest of them?"

"The rest?"

"We need more! Many more!"

Miro’s breathing was laboured. He yelled above the din. "I don’t know why, they’re closer to the front. An officer there gave these to me."