The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  Some of the boys jeered at Tapel. He was a foreigner with a Halrana accent, and they resented his private instruction and life of privilege. He couldn’t see what was so privileged about it; he slept in the same barracks as the other boys, only returning home on Lordsdays for dinner with his mother, Amelia. Tapel could still remember starving in war-torn Ralanast when these boys had been well fed in Sarostar.

  Tapel blinked sweat out of his eyes and looked for an opportunity to strike through his opponent’s defenses. The guard of the merchant’s son was high . . . perhaps he could make a false pass at his head and cut low . . .

  Tapel took a step forward and feinted into the face of the merchant’s son, then dropped to one knee and smashed his wooden sword where the boy’s thigh should have been. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

  His opponent had deftly sidestepped around the clumsy attack, and with Tapel’s footing uncertain, the merchant’s son charged.

  Tapel dropped and rolled to avoid the charge, then returned to his feet, panting and gasping. His opponent skewered the air where he’d been. Tapel shook droplets of sweat from his mousy hair. He hadn’t thought he would regret winter’s passing, but now, on spring’s doorstep, the sweat was becoming a problem.

  “Never give up the advantage of solid footing unless you’re absolutely sure of yourself,” Bladesinger Bartolo said to the ringed boys. “Tapel’s roll was the only move available to him, but a better opponent would have bested him anyway.”

  Tapel’s light wooden sword felt like it was made of solid iron. He waited for the next attack, knowing it was only a matter of time until he was beaten, and knowing it would hurt.

  He looked around at the boys circling the sandy floor of the arena and wished there weren’t so many watching. Distracted, he almost missed his opponent coming forward. Tapel raised his sword with both hands on the hilt to ward off the overhead swing in the nick of time.

  “Concentrate!” Bladesinger Bartolo called.

  Tapel tried, but he couldn’t forget that Bartolo himself, as well as Miro, the high lord, had trained in this very arena and gone on to become the world’s finest swordsmen. And the man who’d trained them was Rogan, Tapel’s stepfather. Tapel didn’t want to let Rogan down.

  Tapel moved to dodge the next attack but instead felt a dulled wooden sword point smash into his left bicep. He fought the urge to cry out, even though the blow was agonizing.

  “Fight on,” Bladesinger Bartolo called out. “Tapel, hold your sword one-handed now. Your left arm is limp.”

  Tapel lifted the sword, now as heavy as a sack of grain, and tried to ward off the next flurry of blows. There was a sound like a cracking whip, and he felt a sharp whack on his temple; suddenly, he was on his back on the ground, staring up at the sky.

  “Tapel, stand,” Bladesinger Bartolo said.

  Lord of the Earth, it was an effort, but Tapel climbed to his feet.

  “Now bow to your opponent. Good, both of you. It’s time for the sixth form now. Steel swords. Tapel, go to the infirmary and get that head seen to.”

  Swaying on his feet as he left the arena, Tapel put his fingers to his temple and looked with surprise as they came away tinged with red. He couldn’t even remember the skin being split. He wondered if that was what it was like in real combat—whether you kept fighting even when you’d been cut deeply, or whether you felt the pain right away and struggled to go on. Perhaps it depended on the wound.

  Some of the youths made way for Tapel to get past, chuckling and shaking their heads, but Tapel turned back to the arena as two sixth-form students with sharp steel swords stepped in. Now fifteen years old, he wanted to watch the older boys fight.

  The best to watch were the young men four and five years older than him. Once, he even saw Bladesinger Bartolo enter the arena with Dorian. Their swords whirled so fast, Tapel couldn’t even follow. Not long after that Dorian went into the Dunwood for secret training. Dorian returned with the zenblade and armorsilk of a bladesinger, and half an ear. He never told anyone what had occurred in the Dunwood, although Tapel heard rumors that the Halrana were somehow involved. Dorian had half an ear, but Tapel could feel the envy washing off every other student.

  Bladesinger Bartolo took his eyes momentarily off the ring to frown at Tapel and incline his head sharply in the direction of the infirmary. Tapel sighed and walked away from the arena, wishing he’d been able to start his training as early as all the Alturan boys. He wondered if he’d ever get rid of his Halrana accent. At least he was staying in the barracks, where his mother couldn’t keep an eye on him.

  Unfortunately, today was Lordsday, and after practice he had to make his way to the Crystal Palace, so his mother could fuss over him.

  Anything was better than that.

  Fergus the ferryman gazed out at his city as he navigated the Sarsen.

  White snow turned translucent as it warmed in the afternoon sun and dripped from the trees with a steady patter. The ice in the Sarsen was gone; fish were spawning in pools far from the city; and singing birds flashed into the green water, emerging with little wriggling prey downed with gusto.

  Flowers dotted the riverside gardens in the Woltenplats and on the banks below the Crystal Palace: yellow daisies and shimmering summerglens, dainty white dewdrops and scarlet passionflowers. Bees buzzed as they flitted from one petal to another, and the hum of insects in the nearby Dunwood formed a melodious backdrop to any conversation away from the city center.

  Mornings were misty and evenings cool, but at this time of year, at this time of day, there was no place better to be than Sarostar.

  Fergus knew Sarostar like the back of his hand. He knew the histories of all the nine bridges and the stories of intrigue and politicking from the many years of the Crystal Palace’s turbulent history. He knew the names of each of the buried souls who occupied the Heroes’ Cemetery near the Academy of Enchanters, and he knew the best place to have a mug of cherl or buy a length of Alturan silk.

  But most of all, Fergus enjoyed knowing the people. He loved Sarostar, and he made it his business to get to know as many of her residents as he could, something his job as ferryman facilitated. He knew when to talk and when to listen. He knew the right questions to ask, and how to nod and keep his mouth shut. His wife said he was too curious, but Fergus thought there was nothing wrong with being interested in people.

  A city’s heart wasn’t just in her beautiful buildings and the tales that made up her history. It was in her people: the humdrum details of their daily lives; how they interacted with the city, buying and working and eating and loving. If Fergus the ferryman could live forever, he would never tire of his favorite people in all the world, the people of Sarostar, capital of Altura.

  Yet Sarostar had changed.

  Though ferryboats were again traveling the river after a cold winter, for once, Fergus the ferryman wasn’t enjoying the spring. He pulled on his oars, hauling against the Sarsen’s strong current, and scowled.

  Fergus had never in all his life seen so many strangers in Sarostar. Over the last months the city had become a scene of intense activity; Sarostar’s nine bridges thronged with travelers from sunup to sundown. The demand for the services of the ferryboats was endless. Not only was half of Halaran traveling back and forth between the free cities and Ralanast, but there were also these people from across the sea, the Veldrins. Even Dunfolk now scurried through the city so frequently that people barely registered their presence anymore.

  It was all so different.

  There were so many newcomers, and so many of them looked suspicious! He looked at his current passenger, a prime example. Fergus had tried engaging the man in conversation, but his passenger stayed silent as a clam. The man’s manners were strange and his skin swarthy. He looked around the boat as if it were dirty, and sniffed disdainfully, looking pointedly at the pipe stuffed into Fergus’s belt. He was definitely a Veldrin.

  Some of them settled in well, but many still pined for their home. Lady Amber, the high lor
d’s wife, had performed miracles, and a new district appeared in Sarostar’s north: the Veldonplats it was coming to be called. The people there had beds to sleep in and nightlamps to fill their houses with light, but it was a running joke in the city that there was an excess of nightlamps in the Poloplats market and a shortage of plain candles and oil lanterns. The Veldrins hadn’t taken well to enchantment.

  One thing was for certain: they worked hard to perform to the high lord’s demanding schedule for fortifications. They knew what was coming, and their feverish stories had the whole city on edge. Just two days past, a Veldrin named Deniz had told Fergus about the fleet that would come from the west. When the time came, Fergus would fight.

  Yes, some had settled in well, but not this one.

  Fergus rowed hard against the current, the muscles in his shoulders and back straining with effort. As the afternoon began to fade to evening, Fergus’s passenger stared in dread at the Crystal Palace’s cycling colors. When the high lord opened the way home, this one would be happy to go.

  “There we go,” Fergus said as the flat-bottomed boat gently nudged the dock near the Pens. “Two copper cendeens that’ll be.”

  With a grunt the Veldrin handed Fergus a couple of coins and disembarked.

  Fergus knew the high lord was doing the right thing, but that didn’t mean he didn’t long for the old days, when he knew every face in Sarostar.

  “Ho, Fergus.”

  Fergus looked up when he heard a boy’s voice, and broke out in a smile when he saw who it was. “Tapel! Lord of the Sky, lad, another beating, eh?”

  “I gave a bit back,” Tapel said.

  “I’m sure you did. Here, get in. Next stop, the Crystal Palace.”

  “Was that last man a Veldrin?” Tapel asked as he hopped into the boat.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He sniffed when he passed me. I hate it when they do that.”

  “Some of them think we’re barbarians,” Fergus said, pushing off. “Don’t mind them, lad. A lot of strangers in Sarostar, though.”

  “You’ve noticed too?”

  “Eh?” Fergus grunted as he put his back into the oars. “Noticed what?”

  “Oh, nothing. Well, tell me, do you think this is strange? I saw a one-eyed man a few weeks ago. He was walking through the Poloplats market, dressed as a wealthy merchant. He was buying goods in the section where they sell stores. You know, salted meat, biscuits, that sort of thing.”

  “What of it?”

  “I swear I saw the same man again, just yesterday,” Tapel said. “This time he was dressed as a beggar.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not really.”

  “You should say something to someone at the palace. Or perhaps your instructor.”

  Tapel shuddered. “Bladesinger Bartolo? I couldn’t.”

  “Well, sometimes people like you and me notice things that others don’t. We’ll keep an eye out, eh?”

  Tapel gave a weak smile as he touched a red mark on his head, and Fergus saw a boy struggling with the expectations that had been placed on him. “All right. Thanks, Fergus.”

  “Your mother’s well?”

  “Yes, she’s fine. I miss Ralanast, though.”

  “I used to visit family there, did I tell you?” Fergus said.

  “What district do they live in?”

  “They’re dead. Killed in the war.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, lad. I lost my cousins, but you lost your pa. Do you miss him?”

  “He used to yell at my mother,” Tapel said. “Rogan’s good to her.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Used to scare the daylights out of me, Rogan did. I like hearing about him from you, though. We all have our softer side, and it’s nice to know he’s no exception.”

  “He’s not that soft,” Tapel said wryly.

  “I’m sure he’s not.” Fergus chuckled. “But don’t you worry, Tapel.”

  Fergus pulled up at the dock near the Crystal Palace.

  “You’ll make him proud.”

  8

  Miro rubbed sleep from his eyes as he examined the new wall outside Sarostar. In the long series of defenses between Castlemere and Sarostar, this was the final bulwark. If he didn’t hold them here, Altura’s capital was doomed.

  It was early dawn, and the distant treetops in the direction of the coast were tinged with golden light. Behind Miro the city was waking, merchants taking goods to the Poloplats markets and officials hurrying to appointments that simply couldn’t wait. Already the sound of chisels and hammers filled the air, soldiers-turned-workmen muttering as they fitted blocks and dug trenches, lifted cannon and felled trees. The fresh scent of the forest wafted in on a cool breeze, banishing the smell of stone and upturned earth.

  Miro kicked the tall wall with a booted foot as he looked up at its summit. The thick barrier was made of solid stone, the blocks tightly fitted together and bound by strong mortar. The wall curved slightly, its arc covering the final approach from Castlemere. At regular intervals Miro’s men had built round towers, and on each tower a brass cannon pointed at the sole road from the free cities.

  Commodore Deniz, the Veldrin naval commander who had led his people to safety in Altura, had helped Miro place and sight these cannon. Miro was reluctant to take too many cannon from Deniz’s fourteen Veldrin warships—all needed for the naval struggle—and he and Deniz had settled with Miro taking a third of their original complement. Miro and Beorn then distributed their cannon evenly between these defenses at Sarostar and those at Castlemere. Miro had a few mortars, but too few, and just one solitary dirigible.

  In the last war, archers had provided Miro with a decisive advantage, but he knew the coming fight would depend on weaponry with much greater destructive power. Miro’s men would be battling revenants, and the only way to defeat those already dead was to crush the brain, remove the head, or literally tear the bodies to pieces. In order to survive, Miro needed bladesingers and elite swordsman, prismatic orbs, black powder, runebombs, and dirigibles. He had too little of everything.

  Miro and Beorn walked from one end of the curving wall to the other, examining the ditches at the ends, the towers and cannon, and the strong iron gate in the center. Miro had liberated cities in Halaran, and he himself had been under siege at Wengwai. He knew the weakest points would be the gate and the extremities. He kept the workers building, but he would never have time to encircle Sarostar. High Enchanter Merlon had reinforced the central gate with the little he knew of the lore of the builders. Miro had done all he could, but would it be enough?

  Miro praised his men as he passed; they were hard at work digging and lifting, and when a group of bare-chested soldiers saw their high lord and paused to touch their fingers to their foreheads, Miro shook his head.

  “Please, don’t stop, keep going. I’m proud of all of you. Many lives will depend on the work you do today.”

  Finally, Miro and Beorn stood outside the iron gate and looked at the approach. The road stretching from Sarostar to Castlemere was broad enough for three wagons to pass side by side, and the surrounding forest was thick, close to impenetrable. The vast majority of Altura’s trade passed along either this route or back via Samson’s Bridge to Halaran, in the east.

  “We’re lucky,” Beorn said.

  Miro smiled without humor. “How so?”

  “The forest is our ally. We know they’re going to travel along this road. If the free cities fall, we know this is where we’ll stop them.”

  Miro turned back and looked at the city he’d called home his entire life. “I agree with you on one point. This is where we’ll make our final stand.”

  “How does this compare with the defenses at Wengwai?”

  “In a word? It’s a good effort, but Wengwai’s defenses were well beyond anything we’ve done.”

  “That’s more than a word.”

  Miro barked a laugh. “So it is.”

  “But we’ve got something
the Gokani didn’t have,” Beorn said. He peered at the road to Castlemere as if trying to divine the future. “Lore.”

  Miro and Beorn were both pensive for a time as they wondered what effect their weapons and defenses would have on the enemy.

  Miro spoke into the silence. “And yet Sentar Scythran has lore of his own, and his power is the one thing we don’t have a counter for.”

  “Overwhelm him with numbers? Perhaps bladesingers?”

  “We can try.” Miro shrugged. “But it isn’t going to work.”

  Miro heard someone call out his name and, turning, saw an older woman with flaxen hair approaching. Never one to use his title, Amelia strode forward briskly as Miro briefly raised his eyes to the heavens.

  “Miro,” Amelia said again. “You need to rest. I can’t believe you’ve just arrived from Ralanast and didn’t even stop by the palace. You’re no good to anyone exhausted.” She caught Beorn grinning at Miro’s discomfort. “The same applies to you, Beorn.”

  Miro and Beorn exchanged rueful glances.

  “How is my husband?” Amelia said.

  “Rogan is well,” Miro said. “He misses you and Tapel both. Here,”—he handed Amelia a letter—“this is for you.”

  Amelia snatched the letter, clutching it to her chest. “He’s getting too old for this. And the Halrana? What did Tiesto say?”

  “High Lord Tiesto is three days behind us. He’s brought everything he could: colossi, ironmen, woodmen and golems . . . as well as regular infantry, pikemen, and their animators of course. Amelia, could you . . . ?”

  Amelia let out a breath. “Quarter-master to the army . . .” She shook her head. “Who would’ve thought?” Her expression softened. “Of course, Miro. Beorn can help me. We’ll see they’re fed and housed.”

  “Thank you,” Miro said.

  “Speaking of being fed . . .” Amelia said.

  “We’ll finish up here in a few hours, and then I promise you, we’ll go back to the Crystal Palace for a meal.”