An animator.
The animator spoke, too softly for Miro to hear. The tablet flared to life, the runes glowing silver. The brown-robed man touched the tablet at a particular place. A matrix of runes there changed colour. The animator’s lips moved again.
Miro heard the sound of movement, coming from the shadows. Heavy steps, crunching into the sandy floor. A metallic creaking.
A construct, black as night, stepped out of the darkness to stand in front of its animator, only paces away. It turned to face Miro. Its eyes were red, its mouth a narrow gash. Symbols covered every part of it. Some were activated, giving it a soft silver glow. It carried a long black sword.
It stood there, its chest pulsing, limbs glistening, heaving in a grotesque parody of breathing. A strange sighing sound came from its body as it pulsed. It had been awakened. It was alive.
It was a golem.
Miro had only seen a golem once before, in the Halrana market house in Seranthia. Raj Halaran’s most deadly fighters, used as assassins or bodyguards. They required a fearful amount of essence to construct, were terribly complex to animate. And he was about to fight one.
Miro looked at the robed man. The animator smiled.
Some more gestures at the tablet and more runes were activated, the animator calling them in quick succession.
The iron golem flared and twitched, different colours — greens, blues and reds — glaring from its body. Its eyes grew bright, still a menacing red. It raised its sword - in salute, Miro realised.
Miro took a deep breath. This was going to require every bit of skill he had. He knew there would be no help from the outside, and a single blow of that sword with the unbelievable strength of those metal limbs behind it would sorely test his armoursilk.
Miro reached over his shoulder, feeling the hilt of his zenblade comforting in his hands. He drew the sword.
Steadily, with no room for error, he began his song.
His sword grew bright, brighter with each sequence, white as lightning. The armoursilk stayed dark.
The golem started walking towards Miro, ponderous, inevitable.
Miro controlled his panic. He began his song again, this time with the most basic sequence for armoursilk protection, letting the sword fade altogether.
The armoursilk did nothing. His words were having no effect.
The golem drew closer, moving faster now, starting to run. It would soon pin Miro against the wall. Miro leapt to the side.
The sword whistled through the air, where Miro had stood less than a heartbeat ago.
Miro thought furiously. What was happening? He knew his song. The inflections were correct. The sword was behaving as it should.
Then with a heart-stopping lurch he realised.
A bladesinger’s tools were attuned to that particular warrior. His zenblade and armoursilk were coded for a specific activation sequence, slightly different from that of the man next to him. Otherwise their songs would interfere with each other — their words would clash. Each item had a certain sequence that had to be uttered in the correct part of the song. A bladesinger could easily use another’s sword or armour, provided he knew the code.
Miro wasn’t wearing his own armoursilk. It had been substituted with someone else’s. He didn’t know the sequence for this armoursilk.
He ducked a vicious blow from the golem, and lunged to the side as the construct followed it with another, then two more slashes in quick succession. The second slash missed him by a finger’s width. Miro dove behind a stone block.
Who had done it? The answer came to him with a cold feeling of dread: Ronell. It would have been simple, no problem at all. He could always plead innocence and no one would be able to prove otherwise.
With no other choice ahead of him, Miro concentrated on the zenblade. He ignored the sequences for the armoursilk and chanted the runes for the zenblade in quick succession. The sword turned white. His song came clear from his lips, rising up and echoing from the walls of the cavernous stone chamber.
Miro walked sideways, keeping the golem within his sight at all times. He put a tall column between them. The golem swung its shining metal arms, the sword arcing out faster than the eye could follow, passing through the column like a fish through the water, as if it wasn’t even there.
The creature hissed — a terrible sound — and leapt forward, pushing itself at Miro, maintaining the initiative. Miro fell back. Suddenly he tripped over a low block of stone, falling backward over it. The golem leapt forward. Miro swung with his sword. The zenblade crashed against the black sword with an explosion of sparks. The creature thrust its sword in turn. Miro tried to block it with his own.
Too late! The black sword surged forward with enough momentum to easily push past the zenblade. Miro tried to fall back further, but he was against the ground, with nowhere to go. The black sword hit Miro low in the abdomen, piercing his side.
The gush of blood told Miro the cut was deep. He rolled to the side as the black sword came down again. With a firm grip on his zenblade he blocked the next attack and leapt to his feet.
Chest heaving, Miro sought refuge behind a thicker column, this one as wide as three men. Gasping for breath, he put his hand to his chest and pulled it away, dripping with blood. His song faltered, the sword lost some of its colour, the runes fading to silver.
The golem strode towards him. Its runes flared bright — red, blue, green. Miro had been taught to track an enemy’s actions by his eyes. The emotionless red glare told him nothing.
The black arms rose.
Miro prepared for an overhead cut. The golem suddenly feinted, sending a sweeping cut towards Miro’s chest. Miro blocked it with the zenblade. He felt the weakness in his sword; he had to do better. Miro lunged into the golem’s backswing. The attempt was blocked, almost casually, before the construct sent a steel fist crashing into Miro’s face.
Miro’s skin split, and red filled his vision as blood filled his right eye. The pain was indescribable, excruciating. He felt like he had just fallen from the highest cliff onto the hardest stone. The golem followed up with the hilt of its sword, smashing it against Miro’s chin.
Miro’s lip broke open, he tasted his own blood. The force of the two successive blows sent him reeling, he fell backward, barely staying standing. He almost dropped his sword.
The golem came on.
Miro knew he was going to die.
His voice was hoarse, the runes coming in staggered syllables through thick lips. The zenblade was faintly silver now. Miro closed his eyes for a moment. He wiped the blood from his right eye. He straightened his back.
The tip of the golem’s sword waved back and forth, like a snake preparing to strike.
Miro began his song anew. It was all about the zenblade. He realised, with a start, that since he didn’t have to maintain the armoursilk, he had the ability to truly use the zenblade, to add as much as possible to its song.
He first added strength and lightness. The sword grew bright, the runes shining white. As the sword grew lighter, so Miro’s arms felt stronger, he grew more confident. He added sharpness, and a searing heat, hot enough to melt iron. The blade’s colour moved from white to yellow.
The song was coming strong from his lips now, his breathing continuous.
Miro could feel the runes, the chanting pouring forth as if it were a natural thing. He reached the state he had achieved in the great Battle for Mornhaven, then passed it, the song coming easier. More inflections. More runes. More power. He didn’t know what he was singing now — it was visceral, something from within him.
The zenblade turned from yellow to red. A bright and fiery red, as red as fresh arterial blood.
Miro flew at the golem, his blows coming one after the other, again and again. The golem blocked each in turn, but its movements weren’t fast enough; there was a small delay, growing with each blow. Miro kept up the continuous barrage until he saw his opening. He would need to be fast, faster than he had ever been before.
The zenblade lunged out.
It hit the metal of the construct squarely in the shoulder, almost shearing off its arm. The clashing of the runes sounded like an explosion of lightning, and for a moment the entire cavernous room lit up brighter than day. Several of the runes around the golem’s upper chest went dim.
The iron creature faltered. Miro saw an opportunity, he lunged in again.
It had been a trick, the black sword lashed out, straight at Miro’s head. Miro tried to turn but he felt the searing heat as it sliced across his face.
In rage and frustration, Miro’s song entered a new depth. He simply knew where to add the inflections. He didn’t think about them; he simply felt them. The song was part of him; he was the song.
The zenblade shifted from red, through violet. It turned blue.
In the final ecstasy of his song, Miro added the sequence to dim the runes. The blue grew softer, ghostly and ethereal.
Then Miro added shadow.
The zenblade all but disappeared, becoming a thin beam of light, rising and falling. The golem’s head turned from side to side as it ducked and weaved, as fast as anything Miro had ever seen.
In one great swing, the zenblade came searing through the air at the golem’s head. Faster than Miro would have thought possible, the black sword came up. In a great clash the vaporous blade hit the black sword.
The black sword sheared into two pieces.
The zenblade kept going, hitting the golem squarely on the neck. Sparks sprayed out, the din deafening. Metal twisted. The head lifted from the shoulders and fell with a clang to the ground. A moment later the heavy body followed.
There was silence, but for the sound of Miro’s heaving breath.
Then there came a clapping sound, from the end of the chamber. The animator stood.
"Well done, Bladesinger" the animator said.
31
I asked the High Animator if I could see the Halrana Lexicon. Of course, he refused. What chance have we to discover more about magic if even close allies cannot share?
— Diary of High Enchantress Maya Pallandor, Page 488, 411 Y.E.
ELLA woke to the depressing sound of the river. The impassable barrier between her and her goal. With each passing day the Lexicon grew further away. It would soon need to be renewed, something only the High Enchantress could do. And when it wasn’t, all enchantments would fade.
Ella sat up and rubbed at her eyes, frowning at the river in consternation.
They’d made camp on its banks while they decided what to do. It had been a pleasant evening, the warmth of the valley after the cold of their other camps an unexpected treat. Ella had found a flat rock and enchanted it into a heatplate. Layla trapped a small rabbit, and soon the smell of grilling meat wafted through the trees.
Ella felt vaguely guilty for using essence for such a mundane task. It was so expensive that when a heatplate was made the stone carvers chose a beautiful piece of marble and enhanced it with intricate designs. And here she was, picking any flat rock that served the purpose.
Still, she reminded herself. It was her essence, she’d been given it, and she was free to do what she wanted with it.
With a hot meal, and the best night’s sleep she’d had in a week behind her, Ella was free to examine their problem.
The river.
She looked over at Layla. The small woman slept with her head piled on her satchel — a tiny bag that carried little else besides a hunting knife, some twine, and the dark brown dress Ella had given her.
Ella smiled. So grumbling and defensive when she was awake, here and now she looked like nothing but a sweet and innocent child.
"What are you looking at?" Layla opened her eyes.
"Nothing," Ella grinned.
"Hmpf," said Layla, closing her eyes again.
Ella decided first to have a look at the broken rope and wood bridge. If it had been cut at the end, maybe someone could swim a line across and they could tie it back up. Not that swimming was an easy option, Ella thought, looking at the turbulent water.
She had no such luck. The bridge had been deliberately broken, rendered unusable, the rope frayed into thin strands. Reaching the bridge would be as difficult as reaching the far bank.
Sighing, she decided to walk along the riverbank.
It was pleasant to be alone in this beautiful valley. If her quest hadn’t been so urgent, she would have been enjoying herself. No books, no rules, no frowning townsfolk. Just her and nature.
A thought came to her mind of Miro, fighting in some great battle, hurt and afraid. Ella had heard about the battlefield surgeons, her greatest fear was Miro being tended by one. At least in Sarostar they used fresh water and sharp knives.
She felt the determination return to her. The Lexicon was the backbone of her house, without it they would be crippled. With the Lexicon of Halaran missing also, the allies had little chance of winning this war. Ella was certain Killian had been involved with that theft as well. Finding him was her chance to do something more useful for her people than drawing runes on sword after sword.
This was her chance to take the kind of risk Miro was taking.
"If you don’t want this, I’m going to have it," the voice came from beside Ella. She looked down to see Layla carrying Ella’s satchel as well as her own.
Ella laughed, "Thanks."
They followed the riverbank together in silence. Clouds of butterflies rose in the air, drifting on the currents of a gentle breeze. Birdsong lilted and chimed, coming from a small copse of swaying green trees.
"Maybe I should just try swimming," Ella murmured to herself.
"What did you say?"
"I said I’m going to try swimming," Ella said with determination.
"Swimming? You can swim through this?"
"I don’t know. That’s what I’m going to try. If I get across I’ll rest and then come back. If I can do it once I can do it again."
"I don’t know if this is a good idea."
"We won’t know if we don’t try, will we?"
"I suppose so. Are you going to swim in your dress?"
Ella looked down at herself. "I’d rather not," she smiled.
She put her satchel down on the soft grass and without ceremony lifted her dress above her head. She carefully folded the dress and placed it on the grass. She then removed her underclothes; she would dry faster without them. Layla was looking studiously in the opposite direction.
It felt strange to be naked in the open like this. She knew there was no one there to see her — no one except Layla that was — but she still felt a blush rise to her cheeks.
It was almost spring weather, but there was still enough chill on the air to raise goose bumps on her white skin. Her pale blonde hair fell over her small breasts, reaching almost to her midriff.
"Do your people always inspect themselves like this?" Layla said.
Ella turned a deeper shade of red.
"Just watch out for me. See that branch there, the long one? Keep that ready in case I have to come back."
"Yes, yes."
Ella looked meaningfully at Layla, hoping she’d made her point. Then, before she could think too much about it, she turned, diving head first into the water.
It was icy cold, straight from its source below the hills. Ella popped to the surface of the river, gasping with the sharpness of it. The current was already pushing her downstream, away from the waterfalls above. She’d neglected to mention to Layla to keep up with her as she was pushed down the river. She hoped the healer was quick.
With heavy labouring strokes she pushed herself through the river, thankful for all of the time spent swimming in the Sarsen. This was nothing like the Sarsen though; this was like a wild young buck compared to the sedate old man that was the great river of her homeland. She was pushed one way and then the other, tossed around like a piece of wood. She tried to keep an eye on the bank ahead of her, it seemed terribly far away. She couldn’t help but glance back to see how far she’d com
e.
Ella realised she would never make it.
She heard a voice yelling, it must have been Layla. Her hair floating in a cloud around her head, Ella tried to turn in the river. It was like trying to push against a stone wall. The current was speeding up, taking her with it. She gave up on her overhead stroke, instead trying for a simple paddle. Her body slowly swung around, she could now come to terms with her position.
The water was beginning to get rough, peaks and troughs forming in permanent waves. Ella suddenly realised there must be rocks under the surface. In panic, she looked further downstream, cursing herself for not scouting downriver before diving in.
The tips of jagged rocks protruded above the surface of the water, sharp enough to slice her open from head to toe.
Layla was running down the bank, shouting and pointing at the rocks. The healer held grimly onto the stick, desperately looking for an opportunity to hand it out. Ella realised she needed to slow down to give Layla an opportunity to get ahead of her, further down the bank, and hold out the piece of wood.
Summoning strength she didn’t know she possessed, she fought against the current in an attempt to bring herself closer to the bank and give Layla the chance she needed.
Then she saw it.
The bank ended in a wall of stone, the river flowing past it into a canyon, sheer cliffs above and rapids below. Layla stood at the very limit, pressed against the rock wall, holding the branch out as far as she could.
Ella felt a rock under her foot, sharp and painful as she kicked it. Her body was thrown down into a trough and then up again, water splashing into her mouth. She spluttered and coughed as the water entered her lungs. She could hear Layla shouting.
With a final effort, she kicked out at the ground, her feet finding the riverbed for a heartbeat. She threw her arm out.
And caught hold of the branch, holding it in a grip of death. Layla struggled on the bank, her face bright red with exertion as she tried to hold Ella’s weight against the current. Ella kicked out again, lunging towards the shore. With one hand clutching the branch and the other reaching out, she finally caught hold of the bank, dragging her naked body out of the raging river.
Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One) Page 27
