— Sermons of Primate Melovar Aspen, 536 Y.E.
MIRO fingered the scar on his cheek. It still hurt. The scar was about a fingers width, running from below his left eye to his jaw line.
He stood, stone-faced, in the circle of the bladesingers’ conference as Blademaster Rogan prepared to speak.
The bladesingers looked on, their matching green silk and raj hada bold and challenging. Something of import was about to be said.
~
MUCH had changed, after the test. Miro had barely come away from it with his life. The wound in his side had been deep; fortunately the surgeon had a steady hand, and some honey and wine had prevented the spread of corruption. The slice across his face was less serious, but it also needed stitching.
Bartolo had almost bled to death from a terrible wound in his upper thigh. A lot of his life’s blood had spilled out onto the sandy floor; almost too much. He had barely had the strength to knock three times on the barred door.
Ronell had taken a different tactic. It was seen as being a reasonable course of action, but there had also been a vague tone of disquiet. Miro hadn’t even considered the option, and later, talking to Bartolo, his friend hadn’t either.
Ronell had toyed with the golem, merely defending, trying to get it far enough away that it couldn’t protect its controller.
Then he’d killed the animator.
The bladesingers now had three new men to their number. Miro’s armoursilk — his own this time — now bore the raj hada of a full bladesinger. It was still nowhere near enough to replace their losses.
The night before they’d left Sark, when their new members had healed sufficiently, they’d been welcomed into the fraternity with a great feast. Many of the lords and marshals had been there.
Still, Miro preferred the entertainments of a simple tavern.
Conversation had naturally revolved around the war. The Halrana were completely focussed around taking back Ralanast and sealing their border with Loua Louna in the north. Miro didn’t hear the undeclared houses discussed once. Prince Leopold was proving to be an indecisive commander, more willing to follow the lead of others than lead himself. The result was that their entire combined force was devoted to the re-conquest of Ralanast.
Miro could understand their motivation. Ralanast was a wealthy city of great population, a centre of culture and learning. Her people would be crying for freedom from the tyranny of the Black Army.
But it had little strategic importance. They were taking men out of the Ring Forts, weakening their strongest position, and sending them into what would inevitably be a gruelling battle. A battle that could very likely see much of Ralanast destroyed.
~
THAT had been two weeks ago. Sark was now a memory.
Their great army had pushed forward. The Alturans with their bladesingers, enchanters, and well-equipped heavy infantry; the Halrana with their smaller numbers of regular infantry, but cart upon cart of constructs. The huge carts were pulled along by drudges — menial constructs made of wood, strong and simple. Interspersed down the long train, and guiding the drudges were the animators themselves.
Dirigibles floated overhead, providing warning about lurking enemy forces. Scouts ran in all directions, seeking news of enemy movements and testing the lay of the land. At night the enchanters set up wards and alarms; the animators put out iron golem sentries.
The enemy had backed away, leaving barren ground and little else. They’d pulled back north, past the upper limit of the Ring Forts. Leaving the fortresses’ protection completely, the army had followed them north.
Blademaster Rogan now openly derided their strategy. He knew what was about to happen, with a dangerous foe still lurking to the north and the occupied city of Ralanast to the west.
Prince Leopold gave the order to split the army. Half would stay to face the enemy to the north. The other half would try to take back Ralanast.
No one said it, but everyone knew. Neither of the new armies would be sufficiently close for the Ring Forts to provide reinforcement in the event of a defeat.
It was now the last night before the split.
"Bladesingers, this is the farthest north we have come in our travels," Rogan said. "As you know, we lie between the borders of two houses — Raj Halaran, and Raj Loua Louna." He paused for effect. "But to our north lies the border of another house." He gazed around, meeting the eyes of each in turn. "Raj Vezna, the cultivators. They stay silent while around us men die. We cannot miss this opportunity. I have no permission from high command, I have sought none. But I propose we find out where the cultivators stand, rather than sitting idly by and waiting for them to throw their lot in with the Black Army. Can I hear support for my proposal?"
"Altura!" the bladesingers shouted.
Rogan smiled. "Good. I will hear plans for an information gathering mission. Remember, stealth and secrecy is the priority here."
He withdrew into the perimeter of the circle. Bladesinger Huron Gower walked into the middle.
"Once in Veznan lands the trees will provide plenty of cover. It’s getting through enemy lines that will be the problem. Our best bet is to use the cover of Tovitch Forest, then the Sarsen itself — it’s shallow and wide in these parts."
He received a rumble of assent from the circle.
Huron continued. "One man. One man only, in the new black armoursilk. He can be shadowed by the rest of us for part of the way, protected for a time. But it is my opinion that he stands the best chance alone."
"But who?" called one of the bladesingers from the circle.
Some names were bandied about. Then, to Miro’s complete surprise, he heard his own name.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Something of a legend had grown up around him since the test. He probably had the animator to thank for that. The Halrana simply couldn’t believe that an un-armoured man had defeated an iron golem, even with a zenblade. Miro had been quizzed at length, but he’d said nothing about turning the zenblade blue, and with nothing to prove he’d just said he’d picked up the wrong set of armoursilk. The bladesingers thought it was hilarious. But they’d also looked at him with a new respect.
"Miro," someone else said his name again.
Huron nodded. "It was Miro who asked the enchanters for the black armoursilk. He can obviously fight without the full armour — something some of us may depend too much on — and he is not one I would wish to face in battle." He grinned, "Plus, he had a problem with his last testing, so this would be a good clincher."
Blademaster Rogan called out, "Can I hear an assent?"
"Aye!"
"Miro, do you accept the request?"
Miro felt he was being swept up in the tide of events. "I do."
"Good. Prepare yourself. You leave tonight."
They swept through their own army, a single man in black followed by a phalanx in green silk. Not one soldier queried them on the way. None were prepared to challenge the bladesingers.
The moon cast a silver glow on the hills that separated the two armies. The enemy were encamped in a wide crescent, the western edge of which touched on Tovitch Forest. There was no chance of going unseen — the Black Army had erected huge towers on all fronts, dirigibles floated above, sentries patrolled ceaselessly.
At some unspoken command first one, then another of the bladesingers began his song. The runes flared as they were activated, the armoursilk took on the strength of mountains, the lightness of air.
They ran like the wind over and down the hills, a speeding triangle of elemental figures. As they ran they drew their swords, and added the zenblades’ song.
The enemy responded with deadly speed. Soldiers poured down to support the western point of the encampment. Mortars sparked, orbs began to rain down in the midst of the bladesingers. Six dirigibles covered the approach before the bladesingers had even reached the defences, ready to pour fire on those below.
Slightly to the side, unseen and unnoticed in the commotion, Miro ran
with them. He sang only for lightness, speed and shadow. He was a black void amongst bright stars. Their song stirred his blood, and he wanted nothing more than to draw his zenblade and join them in the attack.
Miro suddenly saw a wide ditch yawning ahead of him, the bottom lined with steel spikes. It was thirty paces wide, as long as five men were tall. He saw the men about him leaping like birds. He took a breath, timing it to his chant, and jumped. The air whistled past his ears, he landed with a thud and kept running.
Runebombs were being dropped from dirigibles — the bladesingers made for easy targets. Gouts of flame and smoke tore up the ground. Explosions sounded again and again. Not far from Miro, dirt spewed out of the ground, tossing a bladesinger into the air. He kept singing though, and landed deftly on his feet.
Miro heard the clash of arms as battle was joined, and veered off.
He tested his chant for every activation sequence, checking every inflection. His breath coming strong and even, his legs pacing out, he decided he was satisfied. He put his song to the corner of his mind and entered Tovitch Forest.
The trees here were different from the trees he was used to in the Dunwood. The Dunwood was wild and untamed, this was more planned. The evergreens were evenly spaced a few paces apart and he had no trouble weaving through them.
He slowed his run to a ground-eating lope, but thoughts were rushing through his mind. Miro knew the importance of what he was doing. Prince Leopold only saw the immediate, only thought one step ahead. But there were many who knew there was some strange force at play, questions that needed answering.
The moon passed across the sky. Miro ran through the night. As the trees of Tovitch Forest thinned, he saw the glint of water ahead and gave up his chanting. Plunging into the icy water of the Sarsen, he waded to the other side, then stood on the bank for a moment, panting, his breath coming in steam. The water ran down his black silk; at least he had that comfort.
Miro regarded Veznan lands for a moment, and then entered.
It was a new forest — that much was clear. The trees were even more planned than those before, grove upon grove of every species carefully given its own space and separated from the others.
As he penetrated deeper into the forest, the species grew more and more strange. Soon he saw trees with two trunks, each at an angle to the other like legs. The big gnarled branches looked like arms, each the size of a man. They were still trees though, sleeping, unmoving.
The questions came clearer now.
Who was leading the Black Army? What motive brought their enemy together in war, a war that meant only death and disaster? What strange force was taking away the houses’ independence?
He was about to find out.
33
We need to always ensure there are safeguards against the Tingaran Emperor seizing control of Stonewater. Reader, you may think this a strange note of caution, coming from me, but this new balance is an effective one. We are like a three-legged table. Each leg is balanced by the other two — the Houses balance the Assembly of Templars, the Assembly balances the Imperial House, the Imperial House balances the Houses. If the Imperial House were to control the source of essence the Houses would become powerless. The Emperor would be a leader no more. He would be a tyrant.
— Memoirs of Emperor Xenovere I, 205-3, 381 Y.E.
VEZNA’S capital of Rosarva could not really be termed a city. It was more like an organism, but an organism that, like many things Veznan, was planned in detail.
Inhabitants were allowed to apply for a permit to move their dwelling, perhaps to be closer to work or family. If the permit was granted, the four trees that made up the dwelling’s supports, walls and ceiling walked to a different part of Rosarva and re-planted their roots.
Rosarva’s avenues were broad and lined with carefully pruned hedges to separate one flow of traffic from another; walking on the wrong side was a punishable crime. Still, the many rules that governed a Veznan’s life were necessary— in a place that changed with the seasons, where services changed location from month to month, the regulations provided a much-needed sense of order.
There was an area though that hadn’t changed in centuries.
The Borlag.
It was an island, separated from the rest of Rosarva by a wide moat. People didn’t loiter near the Borlag. They entered, conducted their business, and quickly left with their eyes downcast. Intruders weren’t tolerated — the seemingly innocuous lily pads floating in the water needed regular feeding.
The Borlag was only accessible via the Juno Bridge — a narrow, living bridge that needed to be replanted at regular intervals after the essence worked its way through the bridge’s system and killed it. An activation sequence, known only to a select few, had to be spoken to be allowed on the Juno Bridge. If any other tried to cross the bridge, giant thorns came out of the wood, bristling and impaling the man instantly.
Uninvited guests were not tolerated in the Borlag.
On the island itself, soldiers patrolled a wide park surrounding a great palace made of stone and wood. This was the residence of the Veznan High Lord.
High Lord Vladimir Corizon and his son Prince Dimitri sat in an audience chamber, high in the upper levels of the immense palace. They were dressed in Veznan formal wear, plaited orange garments of bows and stripes. A thin man in white — so thin as to be emaciated — conversed with them. Next to him sat a tall man with a shaved head. Where the tall man’s right arm should have been was an arm of metal.
"I noticed your gaze, young lord. Please, do not mind Moragon here," the thin man said, his tone friendly. "He lost his arm in an accident. It was a miracle of the Emperor’s arts that they were able to graft an arm of lore onto his living flesh."
"My son may be curious, Primate, but he is not fearful. Just tell us what we need to know," said High Lord Vladimir.
The thin man continued. "Of course, High Lord," he gave a small bow. "Please, indulge me for a moment though. You see, it’s important that we are on an equal footing, that we know all of the facts before negotiations can begin. My role has changed slightly. Knowledge is a powerful thing."
"Changed? In what way?"
The Primate didn’t answer immediately. He swirled a glass in his hand, gazing into its depths. The light glistened off the oily surface of the black liquid inside. He took a small sip, grimacing at the taste. He looked up. His eyes had a strange yellow sheen, yet he seemed perfectly healthy.
"There are many things one learns, being the custodian of a substance as powerful as raj ichor. Essence, you may prefer to call it. I came upon this secret many years ago, quite by accident. It was in an ancient book, a relic of the Evermen. I could scarcely believe it at first — after all, what do I know about lore? I do know something about essence, however. And what I discovered promised to change the world forever."
"I thought we were here to discuss treaties," said High Lord Vladimir. "You’ve changed, Melovar Aspen, I can tell that. I don’t really care though. All I care about is the safety of my people."
"Hush, High Lord," said the thin man. "My meaning will become clear soon enough."
"Be careful of how you speak to my father," said Dimitri Corizon. "He deserves respect."
"Yes, Prince. Of course. Now, if I may continue?" The Primate took another sip of the drink. "Where was I? Ah, that’s right. My discovery. I found it in a book, yes, however the book was not in my possession, and I was not able to take the book by force. I really wanted this information, you see.
"I knew someone who was close to this book, so I had sections of the book copied by one I converted to my cause, however reluctant she was at the start. It was difficult, but it was important, perhaps the most important discovery of all time."
"What are you talking about?" the Veznan High Lord said.
"You see in this book, I discovered that essence has an opposite. I was upset to discover this, because it is my duty to know all there is to know about raj ichor. But, yes, essence has an opposite. It
’s called raj nilas." The thin man paused. "What does that mean? Well, where essence creates the rune structures, raj nilas destroys them. Permanently. Do you understand, High Lord, Prince? I had found a way to destroy the runes. But there was also a second discovery, perhaps just as important. For where raj ichor is a poison — perhaps the deadliest poison in existence — raj nilas is an elixir. In fact, that’s what I have named it. Elixir."
The Primate took another sip from his glass.
"It took me many years. I can’t tell you how many men I killed until I had the formula right, it must number in the thousands." He frowned. "I suspect my contact was withholding information; there were some early… mistakes. My will endured, however, and I eventually had something I could work with."
The thin man in white continued to swirl the liquid, as if finding some secret in the crystal glass. "It has unbelievable properties, you know. It stops the aging process completely." He chuckled, a dry rasping sound. "It’s a shame I was already so old." He took another tiny sip, his face contorting in distaste as he swallowed. "It also increases the regenerative powers of the body, to a fantastic extent. Watch this."
He drew a rune-covered knife from his belt, and without warning slashed it across Moragon’s living hand. The man with the grafted arm simply smiled, not even flinching. As the Veznans watched in awe, the wound resealed itself, leaving only the faintest hint of a scar.
"Such a tedious task, managing the essence quotas, keeping the houses balanced. Even the Emperor needed his share. It was easy though — if the Emperor wants too much, tell the houses, and he’ll back down. If the houses want too much, tell the Emperor, and they’ll back down. The houses watch each other. A delicate balance but one that has worked for many years, to a greater or lesser extent. However, there is one group for whom the balance has not worked out so well. The poor. Those who have no house. We get thousands of them coming to us templars every year. But what can we do to help? We have no lore, and so we have no gilden. In fact, what does lore really do for the world? All it seems to do is provide us with more efficient ways of killing each other. Perhaps we might all be better off without it."
Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One) Page 29
