Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One)

by James Maxwell

  Miro caught the ashen faces of the commanders around him. His face stayed impassive.

  The Black Army reached the third of the white markers. The Alturan and Halrana mortar teams began their bombardment. Orbs fell down from the sky. Miro watched an avenger go down in a haze of blue fire. He saw the bodies of legionnaires scorched black, and then trodden into ash by the surging men behind them.

  The men in green and brown roared their defiance.

  Still, the Black Army came on.

  An imperial avenger ran ahead with its strange gait, the point of a wedge of countless soldiers. It passed the fourth white marker. A dozen bladesingers materialised, high on a hill, their armoursilk flaring like the sun. Miro could hear their great song from where he stood. Part of him longed to be with them in that fierce charge. They smashed into the side of the attackers, blood spurting like an irregular fountain. Miro could see Bartolo rampaging through the enemy, his zenblade like a purple flame. An avenger went down, followed by a second.

  Their advance momentarily halted, the enemy began to pile up against the extreme force of the world’s finest swordsmen. But from his vantage point, Miro could see the enemy’s momentum building, unstoppable as the tide.

  He watched as one bladesinger went down, followed by a second. Then Miro saw Bladesinger Huron go down as another avenger was destroyed.

  "Pull out," Miro muttered. "Pull out!"

  As though they heard his command, eight bladesingers left the fray to regroup behind friendly lines.

  The Black Army continued their assault, an avalanche of men. The fifth white stone was reached.

  The bottoms dropped out of a camouflaged series of ditches, as deep as the height of two men, lined with sharpened wooden spikes. As Lord Rorelan had said, "Forget about essence for a moment; the old tricks are often the best."

  An avenger fell and was impaled, roaring like thunder. Miro saw hundreds, thousands of men fall to their deaths, unable to stop because of the weight of the men pushing them from behind. It was sickening, a massacre. Legionnaires ran over the bodies of their comrades. The corpses became bridges over the trenches.

  Miro watched as a group of soldiers in the orange of Vezna threw something into a ditch. Suddenly a great vine bloomed out, forming a platform over which the men advanced. Behind them, Miro could see the tops of the Veznan nightshades, scores of them preparing to wreak havoc on the defenders.

  And then the Black Army reached the embankment.

  The avalanche rolled over the wall, men clambering on top of each other to spill over the raised earthworks. Steel points and flailing limbs were everywhere in a massed confusion as the defenders fought to hold back the tide.

  "Send in the reinforcements," Miro said.

  "But, sir..."

  "Now!"

  Miro watched the Alturan heavy infantry pour into several gaps that were opening up in the line. They were holding the Black Army back. Just.

  He looked behind them, past the panicking refugees and at the Sarsen. The makeshift rafts crossed the turbulent water at a snail’s pace. The refugees crowded next to the abandoned bridge, wailing and screaming, terrorised beyond belief. Barely a tenth had crossed. Miro had given orders that, in the event of their being overrun, the rafts were to be destroyed, along with all of the construction work on the bridge. Pamella, the refugees’ leader, had sworn an oath that she would see to it.

  The bladesingers had re-entered the battle. There were only half a dozen of them now. Miro saw Ronell leap impossibly high, landing next to two avengers. His zenblade flashed upward in a spray of sparks to tear the closest monster open at the waist. The second avenger’s flail curled around Ronell’s torso and tore him into two pieces.

  Miro thought of the boy who had faced his fears. He hoped Ronell was now at peace. He forced himself to avoid looking for Bartolo among the remaining warriors.

  One of the soldiers, an Alturan by the green of his raj hada, ran flying ahead into the massed enemy forces. Carrying a great glowing sword, he fought like a man possessed. The enemy fell back from his furious assault, giving the line a chance to reform. The gaps were stopped. They were safe for the moment.

  "Who is that?" Miro said.

  "I don’t know," Beorn replied.

  62

  It pays to be brave.

  — Memoirs of Emperor Xenovere I, 181-5, 381 Y.E.

  IGOR Samson, Master of the Academy, threw himself into the battle. He snarled and thrust at a legionnaire. The man raised his glowing sword to block, a shocked expression on his face as the enchanter’s enhanced blade cut through it as if it wasn’t there. The legionnaire went down.

  Igor turned and whirled, wielding the huge, fiery weapon with two hands. Even the Alturan heavy infantry around him gave him room.

  Igor was fighting for Amber.

  He muttered the runes like curse words, biting them off with each blow. He activated the sequence for the prismatic spray. A dozen of the enemy went down as the rainbow of sparks flew from his sword, burning out their eyes.

  The lessons learned from his brief spell of training at the Pens as a younger man were coming back to him. He cut a legionnaire in half, and then turned on his heel to reverse his blade into a man holding a long spear. A space opened up in front of him and he ran into it, screaming his rage.

  A monster of flesh and grafted weaponry stood in front of him, its flail twisting and lashing against the ground like the tail of an agitated beast. Its other arm had been grafted into an immense black sword. The head was nothing but a steel mask, showing a menacing red slit.

  The avenger waited. Igor activated the full strength of his enchanted armour. It would drain terribly at this rate, but he knew he would need its protection. He strode forward, his great sword throbbing in his hands. He activated another sequence. A high-pitched buzzing came from the blade. He could feel the heat washing off it, even from within the protection of his armour. All of the men around him fell back from the phenomenal temperature, leaving just Igor and the avenger.

  The flail flickered forward. Igor ducked and then leapt forward, sweeping his sword high above his head. He caught two of the steel chains, shearing them off. He ran forward and thrust at the creature’s rune-covered chest. His sword scored along it in a line. Sparks fountained off.

  Then the avenger’s black sword hit his armour, cutting through his back and into his flesh. Igor cried out.

  He swung his sword against the creature again and again, each time blocked by the black sword. A dark shadow passed overhead. The whip of the flail.

  Igor activated the final sequence in his specially crafted sword. The buzzing whine grew louder, until it was all that could be heard, the crash of steel inaudible. A bolt of pure energy left the sword. The runes dimmed by half as the power of the blade was projected forward.

  The bolt struck the avenger, leaving a hole where the monster’s chest had been. The avenger pitched forward and fell, dead.

  The cataclysmic confrontation left a gap in the enemy’s ranks. Igor surged into the empty space, his mind filled with determination. He cut down three legionnaires one after the other. The rest fell back from his fury.

  He reached a small rise, from which he could see above the heads of the sea of the enemy. There, ahead of him, was a tall prominence, a broken outcrop. He saw a man in a full-length coat of imperial purple. The immense collar framing the man’s head identified him as one man, and one man only: the Emperor. Next to him was a man in the white robes of the Primate.

  Igor caught movement from the corner of his eye, a blinding light coming from another hill, directed right at him. He ducked and rolled just as the ball of flame smashed into where he had stood a moment before. He looked up. A man in the red robe of an elementalist threw a second fireball at him.

  Igor ignored the danger. He began to run. He would end this, once and for all.

  For Amber.

  63

  We will find only what we look for, nothing more and nothing less.

&n
bsp; — The Evermen Cycles, 26-12

  THE great shriek came again. It sounded like a terrible beast was lost in the hollows of Stonewater, restless and searching for food. Killian put it to the back of his mind and pondered the extraction system.

  He paced the length of the endless tubes and bubbling vats. Runes glowed with eerie power. Hoses connected transparent flasks to great drums. At the heart of it all was a pumping machine the size of a house. It rumbled and throbbed, symbols changing colours constantly. Killian decided this was where to place the cube.

  A mighty roar echoed through the huge chamber. There was something he recognised in its sound.

  Then he remembered.

  The trail from Sarostar to Torlac in Petrya. Ella huddled in fear. The dark forest. The screams of a man in extreme agony.

  The beast. It was here.

  He quickly removed the cube and spoke the runes. It came alive in his hands. He placed it on the ground next to the pulsing machine. He began to count.

  One.

  There was a sound from behind him, almost lost in the thumping of the machine. A heaving, as of a panting creature.

  The blow snapped his head back. His vision went dark. He held up his arms in front of his face. A second blow smashed into his forearm, tearing his skin to the bone. Some of the runes on his arm went dark.

  Two.

  He opened his eyes and ducked. The creature was faster. It caught him under the chin. He flew through the air, smashing into one of the vats. It burst open, scalding liquid covering his torso. He screamed.

  Three.

  The beast came towards him. With a shock he realised it was a woman. She may have once been beautiful, but any beauty she once possessed was lost in the twisted snarl, the wild hair. She wore a billowing white dress, torn and bedraggled. The symbol of the priesthood could still be discerned on her breast. Her eyes were completely yellow.

  Four.

  Killian came to his feet. He felt the strength of the runes flowing through him. His arms had the strength of steel, the lightness of air. He crouched and then jumped. His arms caught the thin steel of some tubing overhead. In a single movement he flicked his body into a spin. He dropped to land behind the woman and spun his elbow into her head, following it with two hard blows in quick succession.

  Five.

  She fell back before the assault. His elbow had sunken into her temple, crushing her head; his fists had stove in her ribs. She fell.

  As Killian watched, her body started to writhe, somehow reforming itself in front of his eyes. A rasping, wheezing sound came from the creature. He realised she was laughing.

  Six.

  She stood, holding her distorted arms out at her sides. She was unarmed, but her hands were like claws, curled and tipped with black fingernails.

  Seven.

  One moment she was in front of him, the next she was behind him. She moved so fast he couldn’t follow her. She went for his throat, scratching and gouging at any piece of flesh she could find. Killian’s body became visible as the runes sparked again and again. She shrieked in triumph as she found a weakness in his left arm. He felt her clutch it in a grip of unbelievable strength, her fingers cutting into his skin as she began to tear his arm from its socket.

  Eight.

  Killian screamed. He writhed and swung his head from side to side. He looked down and saw a rune, one amongst so many drawn all over his body. He remembered Evrin’s story: a rune for mending. It was the same rune. He knew it.

  He named it. The skin on his arm began to reform, and he felt the strength flow back into him with the lessening of the pain.

  Nine.

  He smashed his head backward and simultaneously lashed out behind him with his elbow, throwing the woman off him. She fell to the ground.

  He ran.

  Ten.

  The extraction plant blew in a series of explosions, each greater than the last. Killian’s body was thrown across the chamber to smash against a wall. He picked himself up and ran for the vertical shaft. The mountain thundered as flame and superheated air tore Killian from his feet.

  And then he fell.

  64

  A real leader faces the music, even when he doesn't like the tune.

  — Memoirs of Emperor Xenovere I, 150-3, 381 Y.E.

  MIRO’S gaze left the lone warrior as he watched his weakening line begin to crumble. There were simply too many of the enemy. They pushed against each other with endless momentum, pressing forward.

  The defenders were about to be crushed against the Sarsen.

  He saw an overcrowded raft topple, sending dozens of women and children plunging into the icy water. They were swept away, never to be seen again.

  He cast his mind over what he had done to bring them here. He knew events could not have turned out better if they had surrendered. The Black Army’s past actions proved that.

  Two more rafts safely landed their precious cargos on the shore of the opposite bank. Miro sighed. At least some had made it. Even if they landed all of the refugees now, he still had the army to pull back. There was no hope.

  "Hold that line!" Marshal Beorn called, as a group of legionnaires burst through the defences, opening the floodgate holding back the tide of bloodthirsty warriors. The gap opened to become a surging tide of men.

  Miro watched, sickened, as they went straight for the refugees. He saw children trampled beneath heavy boots, women vainly trying to run, cut down from behind. The panic began. The refugees began to surge. There was nowhere for them to go. The rampaging attackers surged through the gap, the slaughter began in earnest.

  "You cowards!" Lord Rorelan screamed. There were tears streaming from his face.

  Suddenly there was a commotion on the opposite bank. The trees began to move, and a group of men emerged from the forest. They were small men, with light-coloured hair and ruddy complexions. More men came out. They were followed by a multitude of others. They continued to advance all the way to the riverbank. More men kept coming all the time. They held strange weapons in their hands, curved pieces of wood with feathered spears fitted to a string.

  "It’s the Dunfolk," Marshal Beorn whispered. "As I live and breathe, I cannot believe it."

  There was a woman at their head. She wore an enchantress’s green silk dress, auburn hair flowing down her shoulders. At her side were a tiny man and a white-robed priest.

  "Amber," Miro said. He knew it was her.

  The Dunfolk formed a line along the bank. As one, they leaned back, pulling on the strings of their bows until their arms must have been bursting with the pain of it. They released.

  The sky darkened with the flight of the arrows speeding over the Sarsen. Miro held his breath as he watched the arc of their flight. It was as if time stopped. Their sharpened heads of the shafts weighed down their flight as they reached their apex. Then they fell.

  The wave of arrows decimated the rampaging legionnaires. A second flight was already on its way. The attack faltered.

  "Plug that gap! Every third man to the top of the line!" Miro cried. "Hold them back!"

  The leading wave of attackers was cut down to a man. The Dunfolk released another flight of arrows, this time into the rear of the enemies’ lines.

  Miro prayed. They had gained some time. But for how long?

  "Sir, look!" Marshal Beorn pointed.

  Miro gasped as he saw the lone warrior. He had crested the peak of the enemy command point, his sword blazing like the sun.

  He was still unopposed.

  65

  Love starts with a smile, grows with a kiss and ends with a tear.

  — Torak proverb

  AMBER immediately grasped the situation as the Dunfolk released yet another flight of arrows. She had never realised the devastating potential of the weapons. Used in a group they were deadly.

  Father Morten was helping some of the refugees. He looked exhausted. They had marched for two days without stopping. She only prayed that they were in time.

  "I’m
going to get to a higher vantage to see what’s happening on the other side," she called. The priest nodded without looking up.

  She ran to the crest of a hill, breathing heavily by the time she arrived. The sight that greeted her was like nothing she could have imagined.

  There were hordes of refugees on the opposite bank, their numbers uncountable. Protecting them from the mass of attacking forces was an incredibly long line of Alturan and Halrana soldiers.

  They were only barely holding. In moments they would be overrun.

  The refugees were coming across in rafts. Where the great span of the Sutanesta Bridge had once stood was an empty space. The massive blocks were scattered across the river, their tops poking above the water. There was no way the refugees would make it across before the defenders were overrun.

  Like a surging ocean the enemy threw themselves against the defenders again and again. The Alturan commander was skilled indeed to have made it this long, surviving by the barest margin. Amber could see him outlined against the sky, gesturing as he handed out orders.

  The enemy had chosen a similar vantage for their command of the battlefield. Amber could just make out an imposing man in imperial purple, another man in white at his side. She frowned.

  A lone warrior, an Alturan by his colours, was flying up the side of the hill, throwing enemy warriors to the left and right with sheer determination. He carried an immense two-handed sword, shimmering with a rainbow of colours. Amber knew that sword. She knew that figure.

  Her eyes opened wide. Her breath caught in her throat. It was Igor.

  As she looked on, he cut into a legionnaire, tearing the man open in a burst of blood. He caught a blow in return on his neck but ignored it. He threw another warrior from the summit of the hill.