The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (55 page)

Ella was determined to construct the runes without reference to the Lexicon. She hoped she wouldn’t regret the decision.

In many ways this new lore was quite different from enchantment. It was both simpler and more complex.

The runes had fewer whorls and bridges, but a great degree of skill was required to minimise the amount of essence that was used. With enchantment, one could use a small amount of the shiny liquid to write on almost any surface. With illusion, the surface was first prepared by moistening with essence, and then the runes were written on top. It made illusion most suitable to cloth, or sand — a surface that to some extent could absorb the moisture.

Some experiments with sand had taught Ella that it was actually easier than it seemed. Several large drops of essence could be carefully spaced, each drop leaving a patch of moist sand ready for a rune to be drawn.

Ella opened the flask of essence and dipped the scrill in the bottle. Without waiting further, she allowed a drop of the oily liquid to fall onto the sand. She placed another drop above it, and then another. When she had a row of the wet patches she started on the next row. Soon, row upon row of dark patches covered the sand.

Ella began to draw. The scrill made small sweeping strokes on the sand, smoke rising as she moved her hand. The men behind her began muttering.

She pictured Master Goss watching her draw on such a poor surface — he would have had a fit. This was where the lore of illusion was different. The strokes of these symbols were broader. Less precise.

She covered a huge amount of ground, using up perhaps a tenth of the bottle. She realised she would never have been able to make the matrix without such a large supply of essence. Her little crystal vial would have been exhausted long ago.

Finally she was done. She walked back to the line of men and regarded her work. She had no idea whether it would work or not. The muttering increased in volume.

"Well?" the Prince said.

"
Shu-tala-nara
!
Tuhr-alhambra
!" Ella called.

The runes came to life.

The patch of desert sand instantly disappeared in a cloud of yellow dust. It spread faster than the eye could follow, left, right, and high above.

"Khamsin!" one of Ilathor’s men cried, turning and running. "Sandstorm!" He was soon followed by the rest of the warriors as they fled in panic. Only Jehral and the Prince remained.

Ella smiled, walking forward. Ilathor and Jehral watched as she vanished into the storm. She was lost for a long moment, before she materialised again, walking out of the dust.

Prince Ilathor took a deep breath, looking sideways at Jehral. He walked forward and entered the illusion. Several heartbeats later he emerged, a broad smile on his face.

"There is nothing there. I can even see you, Jehral. It is incredible! Come, enter!"

Jehral entered the seemingly impenetrable barrier, followed closely by Ella and the Prince.

Jehral walked about in amazement. "You could hide five hundred horses in here!"

Prince Ilathor laughed — a bright sound of joy. "You could indeed. Come, I want to see it from the outside again."

They exited and watched the storm with awe. Some of the men had trickled back, bashful expressions on their faces.

Ella watched as two of Ilathor’s men walked up to the illusion, followed by a third man. Rashine. That was when she decided to activate the last sequence.

"
Assan-shulanti
!" she called.

An outline appeared in the storm - a huge face bearing a formidable scowl.

"Ahhh!" the two warriors jumped and ran away, their eyes wide with terror. Rashine was close on their heels.

The Prince and Jehral laughed uproariously. After a moment, Ella joined in too.

~

"T
ARN
Fasala did this," Jehral said, looking down at the body.

There were six other bodies on the ground. All Prince Ilathor’s men.

The Prince swore. "The enemies of my father. We cannot let this stand."

"Do you plan on excluding them from the gathering of the tribes?" Ella said.

He frowned. "Excluding them? I plan on murdering them. Every last man, woman and child."

"How will you ever unite the tribes if these things continue?"

Jehral touched Ella on the arm. "High Enchantress Evora, you do not understand."

"What’s not to understand? You kill them. They kill you."

"This was a message, High Enchantress," Jehral said. "They are saying that Prince Ilathor does not have the power to call the tribes together. It is an insult. The other tribes will be waiting to see how we respond."

After Ella’s demonstration the Prince had sent messengers to all of the tribes, calling them to a great gathering in the deep desert. He had hinted to Ella that only a powerful leader could call the tribes together; Ella hadn’t realised it would elicit this type of response.

Prince Ilathor was kneeling down, stroking the cheek of one of the men. "Setara, the son of my mother’s cousin."

"Should I call the men together, My Prince?"

The regal figure raised himself up, an expression of determination on his face. "Call the men. We ride to battle."

~

T
ARN
Fasala could muster twice as many warriors as Tarn Teharan. With half of Ilathor’s men hidden by an illusion, the remaining warriors of Tarn Teharan would provide a tempting target.

Rather than a sandstorm, Ella had created the illusion of a great mound of rock. The hidden warriors waited impatiently within its confines as their brothers departed to draw the enemy to their position, while Ella climbed to the top of a far-off formation where she could watch the battle unfold.

The riders of Tarn Teharan came into view at the crest of a mighty dune, Prince Ilathor leading them, clearly recognisable in his gold trim. Their enemy followed closely, and as one the warriors of Tarn Fasala lifted their sabres into the air and spurred their horses forward.

The Prince rode swiftly away from the charging riders, his men forming a ragged formation of fleeing warriors. Seeing their prey trying to escape, the enemy surged ahead, their leader losing control as bloodlust took over his men.

As the Prince passed the illusion, he turned in a tight circle to face the charging riders. He raised his sabre into the air and charged directly at them, the horses quickly gathering momentum.

They met in a mighty clash of beasts and men. Ella saw blood spurt into the air as the sabres cut into flesh. Horses fell to the ground, crushing their riders beneath them.

Once the two groups had passed each other, they both wheeled again in preparation for another charge. Tarn Fasala had lost scores of men. Prince Ilathor had lost even more. They built their speed up again, like two fighting bucks about to meet head on.

Jehral timed it perfectly. One moment there was nothing. The next his riders came flying out of the illusion to crash into the side of the enemy. Instantly it was chaos. Their leader was unable to regroup his men for another charge. Bodies were entangled in a fighting mess.

Ella could see Prince Ilathor quickly gain the advantage. Some of the enemy tried to run but were cut down from behind. She waited for the Prince to offer quarter to the men of Tarn Fasala.

The offer never came. She watched in horror as the enemy were slaughtered to a man.

The sand was drenched with blood.

She thought about her brother, involved in battles of this kind, fighting an unyielding foe.

She had to get away.

51

The world is a truly marvellous place. But the most wondrous thing of all is the human spirit.

— Toro Marossa, ‘Explorations’, Page 18, 423 Y.E.

A
MBER
looked over the empty shelves at the food market. No apples today, not even an onion. She sighed and looked around. There must be something.

She saw Lorna Donwright. The woman’s eyes were red, she’d obviously been weeping. Her husband had also been called away to war. It seemed there was nobody left in Altura but women, children, and the elderly. The vitality had gone from Sarostar.

A woman suddenly came up to Lorna, a shocked expression on her face. It was Hollie Ronson. When she spoke Lorna’s face drained of all colour. Another woman joined them.

Amber walked over.

"What is it?" Amber said.

"Did you hear? A soldier arrived during the night, terribly wounded. He’d been in the south — he was with the High Enchantress’s party. They’re dead, Amber. The High Enchantress has been killed."

"No," Amber couldn’t believe it. "Lord of the Sky, save us."

"I can’t believe it," Lorna was saying over and over, shaking her head.

Hollie continued. "I hear the army is being pushed back all the way through Halaran. They don’t even expect to hold Mornhaven much longer. They’ll be on our doorstep soon."

Amber suddenly spoke, "Ella. Did they say anything about Ella?"

"Yes. I… I’m sorry Amber. She was with them when they were attacked. She didn’t make it."

Amber didn’t move. Time stood still. Ella was dead.

"I’m sorry, Amber," Lorna said.

"You were her friend, weren’t you?" said Hollie.

"Thank you, Lorna, Hollie" Amber said.

She turned and started walking. She thought of Ella’s vitality and her smile. She cast her mind back to the day of their graduation, when she had sat in the sunshine with Ella and Miro, the joy of each other’s company warming their hearts. Ella, dead. She couldn’t believe it.

She only realised where she was going when she arrived. The Temple of the Sky in the city’s heart. She pushed open the heavy doors and instantly felt the calm of the place. Soothing, tinkling music came from somewhere. A great circle shone in the ceiling, entirely of crystal, artfully made to scatter sunlight throughout the temple in a gentle glow.

Rows of marble benches were tiered back from the podium. Amber could see quite a few other people scattered about the room, their heads bowed in prayer. Knowing that it was a difficult time for many people still didn’t help her much.

She picked a place at random and sat down. She felt tired, so tired. The words of prayer didn’t cross her lips. Her thoughts weren’t on the Skylord. She just took the time to remember Ella. With the loss of her friend, Amber had lost the last hold on her youth. All she had now were her memories.

"May the Lord of the Sky bless you, my child," a voice came from beside her. It was the priest, Father Morten. Amber hadn’t much liked his sermons about wickedness and morality when she had been a child. Now, with his kind face looking down at her, she suddenly felt the warmth of his kindness like a fire in her heart.

"Would you like to talk?" Father Morten said.

She nodded. He took a seat beside her.

"I learned today that I have lost a friend," she said. Her voice cracked slightly as she said it.

"I offer you my sympathy. Wherever she is now, she has gone to a better place."

"My husband has gone to war."

"I will pray for him. It is hard — to fear for one you love."

"But I don’t love him. I should never have married him." Amber found herself opening up to the priest. Before she knew it, she had told him everything. About Miro and Ella. About Igor and her pregnancy.

The priest said little, he simply listened and offered words of encouragement.

"It’s the nature of war, I suppose," Amber said finally. She felt tired now. "I’m so tired, but I wish I could do more. Thank you for talking to me, Father. I am sorry I didn’t come before."

"We all have our own way of expressing faith. It doesn’t have to be within these walls. Even the Dunfolk have their Eternal."

Amber looked up, "Father, could you tell me something?"

"What is it, my child?"

"The Dunfolk — why are they so angry with us?"

Father Morten sighed, "It is a sad story. I fear not all men of the cloth have hearts as pure as the Evermen."

"Would you tell me?"

"It was long ago, but the Dunfolk have long memories. There used to be a shrine, on the edge of Dunholme, what they call Loralayalana. They built it to their god, the Eternal. It was a deep well, lined with stones, a simple structure, but quite beautiful, they say. A circle of trees had been planted around the well. It symbolised what the Eternal meant to them."

"What happened?"

"Some priests and townsfolk decided that the Dunfolk were wrong to worship the Eternal. They tried to convert them to worship of the Evermen. A large group of them entered the forest with picks and shovels, and destroyed the shrine."

"Did the Dunfolk ever rebuild it?"

He shook his head, "They never did. Not one of our finest moments, I must say."

There was silence for a moment. Amber sighed.

"Are you eating well?"

"Yes, Father."

"How about sleep?"

"I don’t know. I’m exhausted, but I can’t seem to sleep."

He stood, and put his fingers to Amber’s forehead. She closed her eyes.

"Rest will come. Your future will be bright. Go with my blessings, my child."

Father Morten left her.

~

A
MBER
walked through the doorway of her home. Home. How many times had she called it that? It was more Igor’s house than her own. His signs were everywhere.

Her mind was too busy for sleep. She decided to tidy. She put away all of Igor’s tools. Clothes lay scattered about the floor. She couldn’t even tell which were clean and which were dirty.

There was a tear in one of her dresses. She opened her desk drawer, looking for a needle. When she didn’t find it, she tried Igor’s desk. Odds and ends were piled in the drawers. She wondered how he could ever find anything.

She saw a piece of paper underneath a set of scrills, at the very bottom of the last drawer. It had her name on it.

She removed the paper. It was a letter, folded in half.