Amber couldn’t watch. This was the father of her child. Her husband. She couldn’t look away.
He crested the hill. Ignoring the man in white, he went for the Emperor. The sword turned blue with fire. Igor leapt forward.
Countless thousands of people watched Igor Samson, Master of the Academy, plunge his custom-made zenblade into the chest of Xenovere V, Emperor of Tingara. He withdrew the blade. The man in purple crumpled to the ground, and then keeled over.
Amber put her hand to her mouth in horror as Igor was in turn cut down from behind, a sword blade penetrating all the way through his chest.
As he fell to his knees he looked out over the battle below. She could swear he met her eyes. Then the light went out of them.
Igor was dead.
Amber cried out as if in physical pain. Father Morten looked up at her in concern. She started to run. Down the steep hillside she ran, not knowing where she ran, or why, her legs just carrying her forward.
Shrubs tore at her ankles, gravel slipped under her boots, and Amber’s breath came in and out of her chest in sobs and heaves.
She reached the rafts. An enchanter was hard at work, a rope in his hands as he pulled a raft in to shore. One glance told Amber he was holding the bits of wood together by lore alone; hastily scrawled runes glowed on the motley collection of planks.
"Take me across," Amber said.
"Are you crazy?"
"Now!" she screamed.
The enchanter looked at her green dress. "Get on."
The crests and troughs of the river surged in a turbulent fury. The raft threatened to tip with every wave, and that was with just the two of them. Amber could only imagine what it would be like, crowded with a host of refugees.
Igor! She knew he was dead. They were all dead. Ella. Igor. Even if Miro wasn’t dead, he soon would be. She’d tried so hard. She’d done her best. The arrows of the Dunfolk hadn’t been enough.
Now Amber raced to be with the only man who had ever loved her. She could see it now. She had been so blind!
In her crazed state he was out there still, battling through hordes of the enemy to protect her.
The raft smashed into the opposite bank. Amber fell out onto the bank, half in the river. She pulled herself up by her arms.
"Igor!" she cried.
She ran in the direction of the fiercest fighting.
66
Pain is inevitable.
— The Evermen Cycles, 8-11
KILLIAN opened his eyes, and panicked. He was blind!
No, not blind, but there was something obscuring his vision.
He tried to move, and winced in pain. He was pinned down, something heavy holding him in place. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he realised it was a massive piece of rock. Another boulder lay across one of his legs. Behind his head he could feel hard stone. He was covered in rubble.
He coughed; dust filled the air. The last thing he remembered was the beast. He had set the explosion. The beast had nearly killed him. With sudden force the memories returned. The refinery! Evrin had said he needed to destroy the refinery above all else!
With a great surge of strength, he kicked forward with his free leg. Stars sparkled in his vision, and he nearly passed out again from the pain, but something moved. He kicked out again. The rubble shifted. Wriggling his knees he finally managed to free enough space to kick out with the full strength of his legs. He heard the crunching sound of rolling rocks. A spot of light showed near the lower half of his body.
He next tried to move his arms. His left arm screamed in pain. Killian cried out aloud.
Then he stilled, his breath coming ragged. Had he heard something? Then it came again. A shriek, followed by a beastly roar. Somewhere in the distance. The creature. It was still alive.
Killian imagined the creature finding him trapped in this way. He remembered the screams of the man in the woods of Petrya. They had lasted until dawn. There was some twisted streak in the woman — she enjoyed seeing pain. He imagined her looking at him, laughing in her rasping croak as she clicked her fingers together and prepared to watch him squirm.
Panicking in earnest now, Killian ignored the pain in his body and kicked out with his arms and legs. He pushed his head upwards, feeling the weight of the rock above move slightly. He took a deep breath. He pushed again, with every bit of strength he possessed.
His head burst free of the pile of rock. He reached out with his arms and freed his body. Scrabbling over the rubble, an eye out for the creature’s white dress, he crawled and pulled his way out. He stood panting, the massive rocks littering the floor in all directions.
He was at the very base of the shaft. He looked up. He had fallen the entire height of the mountain, and then been crushed by the immense weight of hundreds of boulders.
He looked down at himself. He felt pain all over his entire body. Still, he didn’t even have any broken limbs. Half of the runes on his skin had faded, the rest glowed faintly silver.
The muscles of his bare chest were clearly visible. He could see the cuts and slices on his body. He was no longer cloaked by the runes.
Killian felt in the pocket of his trousers. The last cube was still there. There was work to do.
The scream of the beast sounded again. It seemed closer. Killian looked around. There was only one direction he could go.
A bright light came from a glowing archway, its stones covered in the flowing letters of an ancient script. Evrin had described this chamber. It was the refinery. Where the most precious substance in Merralya came into being.
He limped into the chamber. At one end of the vaulted room was a strange, pointed cylinder. A beam of light shone from the cylinder and onto a great crystal that buzzed and hummed. Light shone from its glittering facets, and focussed to a single point underneath. The light at that point was too bright to look at.
Killian stared in awe at the ancient relic of the Evermen. The energy in the room raised the hair on his arms, the air fairly crackling with power. It seemed a shame to destroy such a wondrous creation.
Almost reluctantly, he began to reach into his pocket for the cube.
Then he noticed it, a small pedestal in the corner of the room, a brown-covered book resting on it.
The Halrana Lexicon.
A figure in white stepped into view.
"It was no difficulty to determine where your next target would be," she said in a sibilant voice.
This time, she carried a silver dagger in each fist.
Killian looked about for some kind of weapon. The floor was white marble. The walls were bare.
He felt real fear.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Saryah. I am the High Templar. You are standing on hallowed ground. Your presence here disturbs the Evermen."
Killian fingered the cube in his pocket. It would kill both of them. If it came to it, could he do it?
Killian sighed.
Saryah raised her arms. Her eyes glinted with a dangerous yellow.
Killian’s skin tingled, but with nothing like the power of before. So many of the runes were dark. He had lost the advantage of invisibility. "Would you face an unarmed man?" he asked.
"A blasphemer like you? I would remove your head from your shoulders with pleasure." Saryah crept slowly forward, her daggers held in front of her. "And you somehow survived a fight with me. I think you are the first. I would hardly call you defenceless."
Saryah charged. Killian turned on his feet, attempted to move outside the whirling blades. His adversary responded too quickly, twirling and thrusting at Killian’s chest. A dagger stabbed a short way into his body before Killian managed to twist away. His skin sizzled. The pain was agonizing.
Killian tried to lash out with his elbow. Saryah ducked and swung at Killian’s legs. Killian jumped the stroke, but fell heavily as one of his ankles gave out. He rolled out of the way just as a blow came crashing into the ground.
Killian stood. He gingerly put weight on his ankle. His features
contorted with pain. He was forced to put most of his weight on the other foot.
Saryah wasn’t even out of breath. Her gaze was venomous
Saryah charged again. She feinted at Killian’s head. As Killian tried to duck she changed her stroke to stab at his stomach. Bright sparks sprayed off as she was turned by the runes.
Killian took the opportunity to back away. He needed time. Time he didn’t have.
There was no other choice. He had to activate the cube, while he still could.
He withdrew the cube and spoke the runes. The cube came alive in his hand.
Saryah frowned.
"We will both die here together," Killian said. "The Primate will no longer be able to control the thousands of people he has turned to his will. It will all come down. One day we will reconstruct the machines. But never again will we give them to the control of a madman."
Saryah threw herself at Killian. A blade bit into his thigh and another into his shoulder. The room crackled and roared with the blows. Blood started running down from Killian’s body. Saryah was in a frenzy to retrieve the cube.
In the throes of pain Killian was pushed backwards, away from the jewel. He needed to get closer. If he didn’t destroy it he would be throwing his life away for nothing.
He was almost to the wall at the back of the chamber when he sensed something behind him. Risking a look, he realised it was the pointed cylinder, its beam of light continuously energising the crystal.
He suddenly had an idea.
He ducked Saryah’s next blow and kicked out, ignoring the pain in his ankle. Then, running to the cylinder, he grasped it in both hands.
The pain was excruciating. He could feel his hands melting away. He gritted his teeth and tensed his arms, attempting to move it. Little by little, the beam of light moved away from the jewel. Killian summoned all of the power in his limbs. He pointed the intense ray of light at the creature in white.
The beam was wide. Saryah had no way of blocking. She looked frantically around her, and then raised something in her arms, between her face and the light.
It was the Halrana Lexicon.
The brown-covered book has a rune on the cover — the number six.
As Killian looked on, the rune lit up with power. The Lexicon began to glow, brighter and brighter, until it was too bright to look on.
Saryah screamed, dropping the book.
The beam hit her in the face. For an instant, her twisted, contorted face turned white. In a sudden flash, her head exploded in a burst of energy.
Killian didn’t wait. He released the cylinder and ducked under its beam. Scooping up the Halrana Lexicon, he tucked it under his arm, threw the cube at the jewel, and ran.
The archway beckoned. Killian fled the chamber, ducking into a narrow stairway, cut into the wall. He began to climb.
The refinery exploded.
Killian fell into darkness, terrible and absolute.
67
I sometimes wonder why the High Lord requires access to the Lexicon. The fewer people who know of its location, the safer we will be.
— Diary of High Enchantress Maya Pallandor, Page 868, 411 Y.E.
THE death of the Emperor gave the defenders new hope. The ragged line reformed, and a defiant group of Alturan infantry, supported by Halrana pikemen, even began to push back. Miro wondered who the heroic soldier had been. His sacrifice had given them the respite they needed. He was directly responsible for saving the lives of thousands of refugees.
Yet the respite was short-lived.
After an entire day’s fighting the defenders’ strength was beginning to give out. Miro could see their weariness in every aspect. Swords became impossibly heavy. Rather than protecting them, armour trapped the men in its heavy grip.
The soldiers of Altura and Halaran had fought beyond every call of duty. Nearly half of the refugees had been taken across the river. The defenders had lasted hour after hour, holding back the implacable tide.
"Sir," a man pointed.
Miro saw it then. The Veznan nightshades were coming. His heart lurched in his chest.
As tall as two men, with green limbs like clubs and skin of the toughest bark, the nightshades hardly paused as they smashed into the line. The soldiers — mostly Halrana — fled in terror. The nightshades were as opposite to Halrana constructs as night and day. A colossus or iron golem glowed fiercely and announced its presence with every footstep. Tangled vines covered the nightshades so that it seemed like nature itself had come to destroy all in its path.
Behind the Halrana were the wooden carts containing row after row of idle constructs. If only…
Two bladesingers fought a nightshade, vainly looking for an opening in the moss and vines. The creature picked one of the bladesingers up and, almost casually, tore the man into two pieces. The living tree then reached for the second bladesinger.
Suddenly a glowing colossus smashed into its side. Dwarfing the nightshade by an order of magnitude, the gigantic construct plucked it out of the ground and stamped down on its torso.
The animator in his controller cage then moved the colossus further into the battle. With great strides the colossus took the battle to the enemy, tossing the nightshades through the air.
Simultaneously the doors of a wooden cart crashed open, and row after row of woodmen poured out. Another wagon trembled under the weight of the bonemen marching out of its belly. Six iron golems hurled into four imperial avengers.
Somehow, unbelievably, the Halrana were back in the battle.
Miro looked back at the river. Over half of the refugees had crossed now.
The ground suddenly shook, a thunderous crash coming from the front. A colossus was down, the animator trapped in his controller cage. As Miro watched a tree warrior smashed down on the cage, and the man was no more.
With the added support of the constructs, the defenders reformed the line. But the endless horizon was filled with the enemy. Their numbers were simply too great. Even as the front line of the enemy died, those next in line were pushed ahead by the weight of their numbers.
The enemy’s relentless momentum was impossible to stop.
~
MIRO watched as another bladesinger went down, swamped by scores of legionnaires. He looked at Marshal Beorn. The scarred veteran nodded. He then looked at Lord Rorelan, who put his hand on Miro’s shoulder.
"You did well, Lord Marshal Torresante," said Lord Rorelan.
Miro shook his head. "Please, don’t call me that."
"Miro," said Rorelan. He drew his sword, the afternoon sunlight glinting from the sharpened steel.
Miro heard the whisper of metal as Beorn in turn stood with weapon in hand, a grim expression of determination on his face.
Miro reached over his shoulder and drew his zenblade. The rune inscribed surface shone like a mirror. The two other commanders activated their armour. Miro began to sing, the sequences coming smooth and unhurried.
In a dreamlike state he began to walk down, into the battle. The zenblade grew brighter and brighter. It moved through yellow, to orange. The blade flared in a burst of red fire.
A flicker of motion caught his eye, and he saw a shape in green running through the ranks of the defenders. Miro knew that face. It was Amber.
What in the Skylord’s name was she doing here? She was heading directly into the battle!
Miro began to run. He swiftly outdistanced the two commanders in their heavy armour. He could see Amber, a flash of green through the intermingled bodies of friend and foe. He cut down a legionnaire in black, and then thrust his blade through the neck of another. The soldier put his hand to the gushing wound and fell down.
Miro cut left and right, following Amber, but always she was too far away. The intense light of a bladesinger drew the enemy from all quarters. He fought like a demon, but they kept coming. His hands became covered in gore. The zenblade turned blue with the force of Miro’s song. Each thrust, each swing, was death to one of the enemy.
It w
as never enough. Amber could no longer be seen.
The enemy pushed at him, their numbers too great to withstand. He looked to the left and saw the line beginning to crumble. This time there was nothing to stop the enemy’s advance. The Alturan soldiers to Miro’s right were simply swallowed by the Black Army, their bodies trampled into the dust.
It was over.
Miro’s arms raised and fell. He was going to take as many of the enemy with him as possible.
There was a buzzing in his ears, but he ignored it in his bloodlust. He let the enemy come at him, one after another in an unending wave. The sound grew louder.
Suddenly Miro could no longer ignore the tone, the single crystal note at the edge of his hearing. It grew louder, until it was clearly audible. It was a note of the sweetest silver, a clarion of hope. The sound increased in volume. It became so loud that soldiers stopped fighting, putting their hands to their ears. Still it grew.
Miro turned, looking frantically from side to side. Where was Amber? The defenders around him were, to a man, looking behind them, towards the Sarsen. The hordes of the Black Army all looked above Miro’s head in the same direction. An intense light shone from somewhere near the river.
There was a tall pointed rock nearby, barely wide enough for a man to stand on. Miro pushed aside the men in his way and leapt atop the rock with the agility that only a bladesinger possessed. Balancing on his toes, he looked into the distance.
He gasped. The men began to whisper. It came from the Alturans first. Their eyes were wide with the first signs of hope that Miro had seen all day.
Miro had to believe the whispers. He could see it with his own eyes. There was no mistaking the shimmering green and silver hooded robe. It shone like the sun, the runes colouring and rippling as it put forth the call. She was at the river crossing. Something was happening.
"It’s the High Enchantress," the voices said. "She’s opening the way home."
Then the note stopped. Men shook their heads. With renewed vigour, the battle resumed.
Enchantress (The Evermen Saga, Book One) Page 50
