The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (32 page)

"Bladesinger, it worked!" a messenger, running alongside him panted. "Should I tell Lord Marshall Leopold?"

Miro nodded, and then realised the messenger couldn’t see him in the darkness. "Yes, tell him there is a breach in the north-western quarter of the wall. Hopefully he’ll send in the ironmen."

~

I
T
was only recently that a division of Halrana animators had joined them. They made terribly slow progress, weighed down by their equipment and constructs. The train of carts took an age to make the small distance from their fortified camp to the front line. Miro had thought it a terrible disadvantage — their weapons required so much essence that the animators feared activating them until truly necessary.

Then Miro saw them in battle.

It had been a battle of their own choosing, a hard probe at the enemy’s defences, an attack at all sides of the fortified encampment. The army had formed up, a massive force of common Alturan soldiers wielding swords, Alturan veterans with heavy enchanted armour, Halrana pikemen, bladesingers, dirigibles, mortar teams and a motley collection of Halrana partisans armed with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on.

The Halrana animators erected tall steel towers, and then each ascended a tower and took a seat atop its summit. A metal table rested on each animator’s knees, and strange spectacles framed their eyes.

Most of the men had never seen the animators in action before and they stood mesmerised.

Miro carefully watched the animator closest to him. As a bladesinger he was free to move through the lined-up men. From square to square he travelled, weaving through the columns, passing men lined up in perfect symmetry. Finally he stood close, overcome with curiosity.

Behind each tower was one of the great boxed carts. As Miro watched, his head tilted back, the animator spoke an activation sequence. A rune on the animator’s bench flared.

There was a thunderous crash. Many of the men around Miro jumped, exchanging sheepish glances. The doors of the carts had fallen down, exposing the cavernous interiors. Miro looked into the closest cart.

It was filled with row upon row of metal men. The animator spoke again. The ironmen’s eyes lit up — yellow, like the sun. The runes drawn on their bodies glowed. They walked forward, maintaining perfect symmetry.

The closest group passed Miro only paces away. They were as black as night, somehow grotesque, a parody of the human form made of burnished metal. They looked unstoppable. And they nearly were.

Miro still couldn’t believe that day. The animators sat high on their towers, guiding their creations. At a command, the soldiers drew apart, allowing the animators to push hundreds of ironmen forward, leading the army like the crest of a breaking wave.

On that day, hope came back.

~

T
HE
messenger left to pass Miro’s message along. Miro realised he’d lost track of Tuok and the men he’d chosen to fight with.

Tall standards sprouted like trees from the army, identifying units grouped into squares. Between the squares were empty passages to allow the flow of supplies, messengers, reinforcements, and the wounded.

Each standard glowed with runes like a nightlamp; Miro soon identified the unit he was after.

"Tuok!" Miro called when he finally saw the grizzled warrior. Tuok had been promoted to sergeant, something he seemed to hate.

"There you are, young lord." Tuok took a sip from a small flask at his belt and grimaced. "Looks like we broke through the wall. My ears’ll be ringing for months."

"Looks like it." Miro grinned.

An officer rode along the line. "On my command!"

Miro pointed in the distance. "We’ll be following soon. Get ready."

The stilted walk and glowing eyes were unmistakeable. The ironmen marched through the fire of the explosion, impervious to the terrible heat. The enemy’s orbs dropped down like hail; some of the mortars scoring direct hits, the detonations deafening. The blasts heated the air until it wavered like a mirage. Metal melted and twisted. Occasionally the runes darkened and a construct was stilled.

Their numbers were thinned. Still, the ironmen marched on.

"Attack!" the cry came from somewhere in the distance. It was immediately taken up by every animator, bladesinger, officer and soldier.

"Attack!"

Holding back nothing, the Alturans and Halrana poured into the breach. A group of twenty bladesingers led the way, their armoursilk flaring as it warded off the terrible heat. The blasts continued around them. The Alturan veterans followed.

Bridges had been placed all along the ditches, reinforced with enchantment. Miro leapt over a bridge, hardly seeming to touch it. His song was searing through his veins, heating his blood, he felt it more than he ever had before. Faster than the encumbered soldiers, Miro outdistanced Tuok and his men. His voice grew louder, the runes melding to form one song.

The breach was in front of him. Miro could now see the devastating force of the explosion; the stone was twisted, the steel girders melted beyond recognition, and a huge crater had been gouged from the earth.

The heat took the breath out of Miro’s lungs, seared his throat. His song rose in tandem, the black armoursilk a comforting presence. Then he was through.

They were inside!

Miro could see enemy soldiers leaping down to close the breach — Tingaran legionnaires, Torak spearmen and Louan grenadiers. Reaching over his shoulder, Miro felt the comforting presence of his zenblade.

He drew it, adding more and more to his song. He didn’t know how much of the potential of a zenblade he had drawn on in the past, or how much he was drawing on now. All he knew was that the runes had formed a melody of such complexity that he knew if he stopped to examine it he would lose it.

The searing light of his zenblade drew the enemy like moths to a flame. Prismatic orbs exploded everywhere around him, killing many of the enemy’s own soldiers. If they could take Miro out, they stood a far greater chance of closing the breach. It was worth a few of their own men’s lives.

A spear thrust at Miro’s side. He deflected it with his zenblade, shearing the long jagged point off halfway. Sparks flew out in a spray and the spearman quailed, looking down at his broken weapon. Miro’s sword took him through the chest. Before his position could be fixed, Miro whirled and thrust into the side of an axe-wielding legionnaire — a huge man, his face scarred. Blood burst out of the man’s body but his cry was lost in the chaos.

Miro added shadow, then for good measure he interspersed his song with the inflections that quieted the glare of the runes. His enemies drew back, frantic at the ghostly apparition he had now become as he tore into a group of grenadiers. Through the all-over covering of the black armoursilk, Miro knew they could see the surge of the battle behind him, the light coming straight through his near-indiscernible form.

The zenblade thrust and slashed. Gore splashed around Miro as his sword rose and fell, like a branch tossed in crimson rapids. He realised now the importance of the once novel sequence to keep off the rain. Without the matrices that allowed the blood to slide right off, he would have long ago been soaked, rendering the shadow ability useless.

Through it all, Miro maintained a steady image in his mind’s eye: the sweet, tender smile of Varana.

Miro dispatched his enemies with cold rage. They roared and threw everything they had at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Miro saw the body of a bladesinger, torn to pieces, only recognisable by the green silk.

Miro’s song sounded strong. The enemy knew he was there, but he did everything he could to ensure they could not know where he would be next.

The vision of Varana faltered, replaced by the sight he was trying to forget, a sight that they were all trying to forget.

The huge plume of smoke rising from the town of Sallat had spread to cover the sky in soot and ash. The sunset that night was a terrible red, as red as the blood they all knew had been spilled that day.

Varana’s eyes grew sad, and she stared at Miro, accusing. Tears were running from her eyes, tears that turned into blood.

Then her face changed, and it was Amber’s face that Miro saw.

Miro’s blade swept through the enemy, furious and unforgiving.

The Alturan army poured into the enemy encampment. Support came down from the Ring Forts, massive creatures of wood and bone crashing through the ditches, bursting through the walls. Soon the enemy was in rout, fleeing for the security of their strength in the north.

Miro tried to focus on nothing. Nothing at all.

It didn’t work.

29

The first step towards developing an improved future is developing the ability to envision it.

— Sermons of Primate Melovar Aspen, 541 Y.E.

L
AYLA
stopped, looking at the earth. She crouched down, staring intently at a patch of grass. She picked a blade and put it between her teeth, chewing on it thoughtfully.

"What? What is it?" Ella said.

Layla frowned at her. Ella sighed.

The small woman — Ella had decided woman was more appropriate than girl — pointed at a patch of ground.

Ella couldn’t see anything, anything at all.

"He came this way. He is feeling better now, moving faster, his wound pains him less. He found some herbs to help him." Layla looked at Ella in reproach. "It seems your people are alone in their ignorance about healing."

"Yes, yes. Which direction?"

Layla pointed. "Also, he still wears the white clothing."

"Good," Ella nodded.

Picking up her satchel and throwing it over her shoulder, Ella followed Layla deeper into the trees.

Ella knew she never would have made it this far without the healer. Killian had left the road, taking a shortcut through the forest. This new route would make the going more difficult, but the same could be said for any pursuers.

She wondered how far behind her the High Enchantress was. She had experienced a pang of conscience and asked a guard to give her a message. She’d told Evora Guinestor she was heading south, that she knew Killian would be heading this way. She’d said not to worry, that she would set matters right.

The dry twigs and leaves cracked beneath her feet. Layla somehow stepped so lightly she didn’t make a sound. Ella felt like a lumbering beast in comparison.

Ella removed her shawl, growing warm from the exertions of the walk. Her dreams of altering Layla’s dress on the journey had so far come to nothing. Each night she collapsed exhausted, too tired to eat let alone sew.

She’d eventually had to give up on protecting her own beautiful yellow dress from the ravages of the forest. She looked down at it sadly, the bits of plant entangled in the hem, the threads torn by sharp branches or thorns. Her arms bore the same scratches, but she was somehow sorrier for the dress.

She’d rotated her clothing in the time that they’d been on the trail, so that it was all in the same sorry state. It was fortunate that she’d brought so much though — the cold at night was formidable. The only dress she’d kept unworn was her green enchantress’s dress. She knew she might need it later.

Frost covered the evergreens every morning. Mist sometimes flowed through the trees, so that it was hard to see a few paces ahead.

Growing up on the edge of the Dunwood, Ella was used to the sounds of the forest. But here, in the south, in a different forest with a different name, the sounds were much more ominous. Strange shrieks and terribly human-like voices cried out in the night. The disdain Layla showed for her fear was comforting, the little woman seemed to fear nothing.

"Tell me something of the Dunfolk," Ella said.

Layla grunted. "For one thing, we are not ‘Dunfolk’. That’s a word created by you of the houses, it means ‘moss people’. A stupid name.
Loralayalanasa
we are, and we have been in these parts far longer than you. Long enough to see the great trees grow from a tiny seed. Long enough to become a part of this land."

"Oh," said Ella, taken aback. "I didn’t mean to offend you."

"It is not you we are angry with. Some of your people are good, some of them are evil. For us though it is your power that is the problem. You have so much power, the power to burn, to destroy, to kill."

Now it was Ella who took offence. "But also the power to create, to warm, to protect."

"Our people create nothing; we grow. We plant a seed and give it our attention, and it grows. We don’t need heat — we have each other for warmth. We give our brothers and sisters love, and they give us their warmth in return. And what do you protect from? From each other. You protect yourselves from the evil ones. And something dies inside of you every time you fight, every time you take on their methods in the name of security."

Ella was surprised at the depth of Layla’s understanding. She realised she may have underestimated the small header. They all might have underestimated the Dunfolk.

"And your leaders. You raise them up, you give them power over you. Then when that thing inside of them dies, when it burns out completely. What then? You tell me this Emperor threatens my people. I blame you! Who made him Emperor? Who gave him this power to threaten the Loralayalanasa? You did!"

Ella didn’t respond, lost in thought. She could see how Layla’s reasoning made sense to her, the arguments seemed logical, but she felt Layla was missing something. Something about the will to challenge an oppressor, the nobility of freedom, and how people needed a voice to speak up in freedom’s name.

They trudged on in silence. Ella followed Layla into a deep valley. Mist welled out of its depths, to spread slowly up the opposite side of the long dale, as if the rising of a white tide.

Layla said they were cutting a big loop in the road. It seemed Killian knew something of the area. Perhaps he’d come this way before.

The two pursuers reached the floor of the valley after an easy downhill stretch. Discovering an ancient riverbed, they followed it as it twisted and turned.