The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (41 page)

55

“This is mad,” Bartolo muttered.

“If it has a chance of success, we have to try. Quickly, they have yet to see us,” Miro said. “I need you.”

“I’m here. Don’t worry. I’ll keep them from you.”

“This is going to draw them like moths to a flame,” Miro
muttered
. “Here goes.”

Miro held his zenblade in two hands and looked at the solid gray stone of the Wall. He’d seen his zenblade cut through men without pausing. The zenblade could cut through steel, even through enchanted blades.

Miro’s zenblade could also cut through stone. And if he drew on all of its power, as he planned to now, it would melt a fissure twelve inches high.

Miro drew in a slow, deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to leap out of his mouth. He spoke an activation sequence and immediately followed with another, and then a third, until he was chanting.

Fire sparked from one rune to the next, traveling along the length of the blade, sending a rainbow of colors along the
glistening
steel. Miro’s voice rose as the light grew in intensity, and now he was singing, his voice rising, drowning out all other sound, until all he could hear was the sound of his own voice. He resisted the urge to focus on the activation sequences; to lose his song would be to fail.

The light grew brighter until the zenblade was a solid bar of fire.

Still Miro called on more power, bringing forth the incredible new abilities his sister had imparted to his zenblade, heedless of how much he drained his weapon’s energy.

Miro now held a rod of intense blue flame. His hands shook; the width of the blue light was wider and longer than the steel, the runes projecting the energy outward but protecting Miro’s hands. He could no longer look at his zenblade. To gaze at the blade would blind him.

Miro’s song came strong and even. He leaned forward and pushed.

Miro thrust his zenblade into the gray stone of the Wall.

Sparks fountained in all directions as the stone melted from the pressure of Miro’s thrust and the incredibly fierce heat. Bits of fiery rock splattered onto Miro’s armorsilk and burned his hands, but he pushed away his fear, ignoring the pain on his skin. He couldn’t call forth his armorsilk to protect him, and he instead concentrated on his weapon. He felt the zenblade push in, meeting resistance, but then molten red poured from the Wall.

Still Miro pushed. He cut a gouge into the Wall, and finally his arms were outstretched and he was reaching into his own newly created hole.

Fighting down the pain of his burns and his own fear, Miro let his song run free. He began to walk along the length of the Wall.

Miro took three steps, and then a dozen more, all the time
cutting
into the stone, nimbly dancing out of the way of the bright yellow molten rock. He was unable to think of anything else, his task completely consuming him, and he continued to walk, faster now.

He had quizzed Killian about the thickness of the Wall. It was a mad plan, but in theory it should work.

Miro’s plan was to bring the Wall down on top of the revenant horde.

He remembered his earlier words: a tree should fall in the
direction
of the cut. Lord of the Sky, if the Wall fell the wrong way, disaster would follow. Miro hoped Killian had cleared the ramparts as agreed.

As he traveled along its length, Miro was distantly aware of Bartolo protecting him from the relentless attack of the
revenants
. Blood and hot sparks splattered onto his back in equal measure. He was now in the midst of the enemy warriors
fighting
each other to climb ladders and throwing themselves against
Bartolo
, the only man standing between Miro and certain death at th
eir han
ds.

He was now at the gates.

Miro continued his song, cutting through the wood and iron, until he reached the other side of the gates.

He pushed on.

Even through the immensity of his task, Miro saw the runes on the zenblade begin to dim. He had no way of knowing if he would make it to the end of the Wall’s great length. He could only pray.

Bartolo screamed in pain, distracting Miro from his own song. Miro choked and began to lose his rhythm.

Miro breathed in gasps. He fixed his memory on the tranquility of the Crystal Palace. He remembered Tomas, and thought of his homeland.

The song returned.

Even as Miro worked, he was aware that they were in the
thickest
of the fighting. Revenants threw themselves at Bartolo again and again, and the whirling bladesinger’s baritone rose in contrast to Miro’s tenor as Bartolo kept them back.

And then they were through the fighting, and past, to the Wall’s far side.

The two men were close to completing their circuit of the Wall when Miro’s zenblade went dark.

Miro lowered his arms, feeling raw pain scream all over his body, from the burns on his hands and the terrible fatigue in his muscles.

Miro’s song faltered, and he took stock of where he was.

He looked up at the Wall.

It hadn’t worked. Miro thought he could hear groaning, but the Wall still stood.

“Where now?” Bartolo gasped. A revenant charged, and
Bartolo
swiftly cut through its body. “We should get away from here.”

“Where else?” Miro panted. “Into the battle.”

56

Killian had recalled the defenders from the Wall, and the
ramparts
would soon be empty. When the enemy realized there was no
resistance
at the top of the Wall, they would begin to climb over, and the city would be overrun.

Killian now stood in the center of a long line of elementalists, close to forty of them. To his left, a hundred paces away, he could see Shani, her eyes on him. Another elementalist stood the same distance away on his right.

Seranthia’s buildings didn’t press close to the Wall, and there was a cleared swath of ground following the long line of
gray sto
ne.

Killian had no idea if this would work.

He waited: Miro would need time to play his part. How long he needed to wait, though, Killian didn’t know. He only knew he needed to be down here, with the elementalists. After the
second
clarion blast, he counted his breaths, and then he decided it
was tim
e.

Killian’s heart raced, and his breath came in short gasps. He steadied his nerves as he stared up at his city’s main defense.

The defense he was about to try to bring down.

For once freed of his responsibilities with the army, Killian brought himself into the trance-like state he’d sometimes used on the trapeze or the tightrope.

“Walking a tightrope,” he muttered to himself. Much of his life seemed to feel that way.

Killian pointed his hands in the air and spoke a swift activation sequence. A line of fire shot into the sky, where the elementalists would see it.

Glancing to his left, he saw the cuffs at Shani’s wrists flare up in a bright array of colors. On his right, the next elementalist
followed suit
.

Killian didn’t need cuffs. He clapped his hands together and then made a pushing motion at the Wall as he summoned the wind to do his bidding.

He chanted in rapid tones as he pushed, condensing the air in front of him and throwing it against the stone. Along the line the people in red robes would be calling forth their own elemental air. Killian could feel the concussive waves he created stretching and tightening. His hands were pushing at nothing, yet he felt he was heaving the weight of the entire Wall.

Killian started to feel failure: his task was foolish, impossible. But then an eerie wind began to develop. Soon it grew to become a howl. Gusts tore at his clothing. Swirls and flurries of dust and litter spun through the air, dashing against the stone.

Then the Wall started to groan.

Killian pushed harder now. He wasn’t sure if what he was doing was making a difference or whether it was the elementalists. Perhaps the Wall was falling under its own weight.

Either way, it was visibly tilting now.

As the wall began to lean, for a moment Killian thought it was going to fall the wrong way, back toward the city, and he would be responsible for the destruction of much of Seranthia.

But the incline grew steeper, and even over the sound of the howling wind and his own chanting Killian could hear the crunch of stone that had stood in place for centuries, disturbed and angry as the Wall tore itself free.

Killian roared and pushed harder. Looking at his outstretched hands, he saw his runes begin to dim, but he continued relentlessly. He suddenly knew in his heart that he was making a difference, and he chanted, calling on everything Evrin had taught him about the elements.

Killian heard a strident female voice as Shani pushed with him. Killian’s voice rose in a shout, and he felt he could hear every other elementalist working with him in concert, every one of them calling on the wind.

The Wall tipped forward. It moved faster now.

With a sound of terrible thunder, the length of stone crashed. The trembling grew stronger, and the roar of breaking stone became impossibly loud until it stunned the senses. The ground shook in a mighty quake, and a cloud of dust rose to obscure everything as the Wall flattened the ground in front of Seranthia, crushing every plant and animal in its path.

Killian felt triumph course through him. Glancing at his runes, he saw he’d drained much of his power, but they’d done it.

He stretched his arms out at his sides and rose into the air.

Dust covered the ground, and for a moment Killian couldn’t make any sense of the upheaval in front of the city. He rose higher into the sky, and higher still, and then he could see the immense cloud of powdered stone and dirt where the Wall had fallen.

Nothing could have survived that destruction.

Killian only hoped Miro and Bartolo had made it out in time.

Rising higher still, Killian saw the heaving battle underway between the allied houses and the infantry square. If this last force could be defeated, the day would be won.

The fighting surged back and forth, but Killian felt a chill as he saw that Tiesto would be outflanked at any moment. He
prepared
to laun
ch himself at the enemy and do whatever he could to help out, when something, a shiver of awareness that couldn’t be explained, made him look back at the harbor.

What he saw made him gasp.

It was incredible, impossible.

Killian realized he was needed elsewhere even more than he was needed at the battlefield below.

Killian now knew where he could find Sentar Scythran.

57

Removed from command, Rogan Jarvish stood in his armorsilk, waiting inside the city gates.

He felt frustrated. Aside from hearing the order for the
defenders
to leave the Wall, he had no idea what was happening outside the city, nor what the reason for the order was. He assumed they would soon be sallying from the gate to try to link up with the allied army outside.

And Rogan planned to fight.

He walked back and forth, a solitary splash of green among the ranks of purple, as he looked to the gates, wondering when they would open.

Rogan heard men gasp as a line of fire appeared in the gate. It traveled from one end to the other, cutting through the wood and iron, reaching the end and disappearing. Rogan watched in
astonishment
.

He looked to the soldiers, but they were as confused as he was. Still they waited.

Then a wind came up. It was a wind unlike anything Rogan had ever experienced. It buffeted his body, ripping at his clothing, and then it began to push at him from behind.

What was happening?

The fearful Tingaran legionnaires muttered and exchanged wide-eyed glances. Soon the muttering ceased as they were forced to concentrate on standing upright. Rogan crouched and felt the wind push at him. His feet slipped forward of their own accord. Some incredible lore was at play. Rogan only hoped it came from his side and not the enemy.

Then Rogan’s eyes widened and blood drained from his face as he saw the unthinkable happen.

The Wall, that great gray presence never absent from view at any quarter of Seranthia, began to wobble.

Slowly, inexorably, the indomitable height of stone began to fall forward. Soldiers cried out as they saw the unfolding
destruction
. Time slowed and Rogan’s awareness became heightened as the
Wall tumb
led forward, and now its own weight pulled it down, speeding toward the ground, and with a mighty roar of crashing stone and tumbling earth, it fell.

The soldiers pressed their hands to their ears as the fall of stone covered all other sound. The ground heaved beneath Rogan’s feet and dust rose in an all-encompassing cloud, covering the entire city.

In front of Rogan and the men who stood with him, the gates simply fell away, vanishing into the swells of dust and vaporized stone.

Rogan saw the kalif of the Hazarans struggle to control his stallion as it reared again and again. Finally, Ilathor got his mount under control.

As Rogan tried to make sense of it, he realized what they’d done. It was a terrible risk—and a great victory. Even as the fall crushed the swarming horde, the city’s primary defense was gone.

The thunder gradually subsided, leaving an eerie silence in its place, and then one man’s voice rose to break the sudden stillness.

“The city’s defenseless!” Rogan called to the men around him. He didn’t want to think about the fate of anyone who’d been below the Wall when it fell. “I’m not waiting anymore.”

Rogan gazed around and met the eyes of Marshal Trask,
standing
hesitantly in his armor with bands of purple. “Are you with me?” Rogan said.

Trask nodded. “We will follow, Blademaster.”

“Kalif?” Rogan called to Ilathor.

Ilathor nodded and drew his scimitar, speaking an activation sequence, sending fire along the length of the curved steel.

“Follow me!” Rogan cried as he ran forward, the men around him taking up the cry.
“Attack!”

Rogan began to sing in a low chant, leaping over the fallen rubble and heading straight into the cloud of dust. He easily
outdistanced
the slower Tingarans and saw horses on all sides as the desert warriors deftly jumped the rubble and led their mounts into the heart of the opaque storm of dirt and powdered stone.

Then there was yellow dust on all sides, and Rogan coughed and choked, struggling to breathe. He was forced to cease his chanting and instead concentrate on dodging around the blocks and darting between horses as he ran forward.

It was unlike any battle he’d ever been in.

It was impossible to see. The dust was so thick, it filled his nose and mouth. Rogan gasped for fresh air but kept running,
pushing
his aging body through the mass of horses and littered stone. Beside him a horse tripped on a block, and its leg shattered with a
sickening
crack, propelling the rider out of the saddle. Rogan helped the
Hazaran
stand and saw with relief that he was unharmed, but Rogan kept running, knowing that if the revenants made it through the dust cloud, the city would be theirs for the taking.

It would be a massacre.

A man rushed out of the cloud, heading directly for Rogan, and he held a huge two-handed sword above his head. Taking in the glow of runes and the white-eyed stare, Rogan choked a series of runes and sent fire into his zenblade, though his armorsilk stayed dark. He ducked under the overhead blow and thrust into the neck, flicking his wrist to sever the spinal column. The revenant warrior fell, and then Rogan was in the heart of it.

Revenants and horses were everywhere in a chaotic confusion of spraying blood and rolling dust, figures appearing and disappearing in the haze. Rogan cut down enemy after enemy, gasping the sequences for his zenblade and armorsilk, seeing his blade light up with fire and then dim again as he coughed. He saw enemy warriors swarm forward to leap on top of the horsemen and drag the desert men from their saddles, hacking and slashing at the bodies before turning to the next.

He continued to move forward as he fought, lunging ahead after he dispatched each foe, leaping on top of the stones to gain height and thrust down at the revenants as they threw themselves at him and he cut them down.

Then Rogan was clear of the dust.

Suddenly, he burst free into fresh air. He could see the hills surrounding Seranthia, and below the hills the plain was filled with soldiers of the Empire, clashing with a heaving mass of formed-up revenants.

The soldiers of the Empire were outnumbered.

Rogan sucked in a lungful of air as he fought to regain his breath. He saw a glowing spear at the front of the allied army; they could only be Alturan infantry and bladesingers. The point of the wedge struck deep into the heart of the enemy, but even they couldn’t break through, and like the horns of a bull, the flanks of the horde came out to envelop them.

Rogan scanned to the left and right. He was alone. The defenders of Seranthia were fighting in the dust cloud.

He fixed his gaze on a cluster of uniformed revenants and saw the warrior who led them, clad in black-and-white checkers. Rogan regained his breath and once more commenced his song.

He ran forward, and fighting alone, Rogan Jarvish threw himself at the enemy’s rear.