The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  Hundreds of them lay bloated and waterlogged, with a putrid stench clogging the air so strongly that only the stiff ocean breeze had prevented Jehrel’s men from smelling the bodies before.

  Jehral took a deep breath and pushed his head in again. The corpses were all shapes and sizes, some pale skinned and others dark as night. Women were among their number, and some were dressed in the fitted clothing of city folk, whereas others wore furs and barbaric horned helmets. There were as many weapons as there were bodies, with axes and daggers, two-handed swords, and strange barreled sticks tossed to and fro with the surging water.

  The bodies were all covered in arcane symbols, macabre blue tattoos covering their skin.

  Jehral removed his head from the hole. He inhaled slowly to steady himself.

  Revenants.

  Jehral’s men looked to him for orders.

  Urgency coursed through Jehral’s blood with sudden force. Fighting the revulsion, he became cold and efficient as he stepped away from the vessel and addressed his men. “Men of House Hazara, you are looking at a ship of our enemy from across the sea. You fought revenants in the war, and we are fortunate this ship foundered, or right now we would be facing several hundred of them. Their bodies are in there,” he said, pointing to the ship, “and we can only hope that this is all of them; that right now survivors of this wreck are not loose in our lands.”

  “What orders?” Rashine asked.

  As Jehral opened his mouth, another of the desert warriors walked over to the hole and stuck his head inside.

  Taking them all by surprise, something grabbed hold of the swarthy warrior, pulling him by the neck and dragging him into the hole.

  The Hazaran warriors cried out and froze with terror. A moment later, a wrinkled hand took hold of the hole’s rim. A face came up, a decayed grimace with green splotches around an open mouth. Momentarily stunned, the Hazarans watched in horror as a bare-chested man with long, scraggly hair climbed out of the hole. He tumbled out onto the beach and then rose to stand.

  “Revenant!” one of Jehral’s men cried.

  “Attack!” Jehral roared.

  The closest to the ship, Rashine swung his heavy scimitar at the revenant. The curved blade bit deep into the creature’s shoulder, and it snarled, making a jerky movement as it looked at the wound.

  Then the creature moved. And it was fast.

  Its arm whipped up as it struck Rashine across the face with terrible force. A solid crunch accompanied the blow. The big warrior crumpled to the ground and lay still.

  Jehral lunged forward and hacked at the exposed neck, but the revenant moved quickly and dodged, twisting out of the way. It came at him with gaping teeth and clutching fingers, hitting the center of Jehral’s chest and knocking him onto his back. The stench washed over him as the creature’s face loomed over his, the teeth mere inches from his neck. Jehral’s sword fell out of his hands.

  As one of Jehral’s men leapt forward to heave the creature away, the revenant casually struck back with the same terrifying speed, lunging forward to grab the warrior by the throat and squeeze. Jehral heard a crack, and the Hazaran crumpled.

  Jehral took advantage of the distraction to return to his feet and pick up his sword. As another of his men fell, Jehral swung at the revenant’s exposed back, cutting into it with all the force he could muster. The scimitar almost came out of his hands as the blade cut deeply between the shoulder blades and stubbornly refused to come out. The revenant turned and growled as Jehral finally pulled his scimitar free, dark liquid spilling from the wound to the sand.

  The living corpse’s eyes were entirely white.

  As three of the warriors rushed it together, Jehral suddenly remembered.

  “Al-maia,” he cried, the name of the desert rose, hoping he had it right.

  The runes on Jehral’s shining blade lit up with fierce shades of crimson, and the heavy scimitar suddenly felt lighter as it came alive in Jehral’s hands. He felt heat washing off the blade, and set his brow in determination.

  Another of Jehral’s men died at the revenant’s hands as it tore out his throat, and with a cry Jehral swung blindly at the macabre creature.

  He put all his strength into the blow, and the glowing blade passed through the solid body without slowing.

  The revenant fell down in two halves as Jehral’s blow separated the torso from the waist, but it was still twitching, and its arms spasmed as it tried to pull itself along the ground. Jehral cut down again, a precise blow at the neck, and removed the head from its shoulders.

  The monster lay still.

  Jehral panted, his chest heaving. “Khamsin,” he said, and the scimitar went dark. Jehral examined the steel in surprise. Whatever Ella had done, the blade wasn’t even dirty.

  Jehral panted and then looked to his men. Only half a dozen lived. Jehral moved to Rashine’s still body and felt for a pulse at Rashine’s neck; there was none.

  “Lord of Fire,” someone said.

  One of Jehral’s warriors walked from body to body, checking each for signs of life. He looked at Jehral and shook his head.

  Jehral drew in a deep breath. He looked at the hole, but there didn’t appear to be any more of the creatures stirring. His thoughts returned to action as he addressed his men.

  “Fire,” Jehral said, “that’s the solution. Marhaba,” he addressed the warrior, “I am going to leave you in charge here. The kalif must know about this, and I am a better rider than any of you. I will make the journey myself. Listen to me well. Keep an eye out for more of them, and quickly burn the whole ship. I don’t care if it takes you days to dry out every last piece of wood and burn every bone to ash. I will send the rest of the men down to you with tinder. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Jehral,” Marhaba said. His face was white. “I understand.”

  “Stand guard here. Help will arrive soon, even if the men have to slide down the rope until their hands bleed. If another one comes, use fire, and use your scimitars to remove the head. Does anyone question my decision?”

  “No, Jehral.”

  “Good. You have your orders. Burn it all.”

  Jehral climbed back to the summit of the cliff and sent the rest of the men down to the wrecked ship. He then took two spare horses, and digging his heels into his gelding, he launched the horse into an immediate gallop.

  Jehral raced through the desert, lunging over the dunes, speeding across the sand and changing horses regularly. He didn’t eat or sleep; every thought was on the urgency of his ride.

  He reached Agira Lahsa haggard and worn, covered in dust, and went immediately to the palace.

  As he reached the sanded area, grooms rushed forward, and Jehral threw them the reins, ignoring their startled expressions. He bounded up the steps and ran through the palace, leaving brown footsteps in the shining silk carpets.

  “Zohra!” Jehral cried out when he saw his sister.

  “Jehral,” Zohra said, her eyes registering her surprise. “You are returned.” She looked him up and down. “You cannot see the kalif like that.”

  “Where is he?” Jehral said, ignoring her.

  “Taking lunch on the terrace, but . . .”

  Jehral dashed through the palace, calling out for the kalif, breaking the serenity, leaving stewards staring after him in surprise. He found the kalif with two of his tarn leaders seated on the long table on the terrace.

  “Kalif, I have urgent news.”

  Ilathor turned and looked up in surprise. He shot to his feet when he took in Jehral’s appearance. “Jehral, what is it?”

  Jehral paused to gather his breath. “We found a ship wrecked on our western coast. It was filled with revenants. We thought they were all just corpses, but one was still alive and killed four of my men. I left the men to burn everything and came here as quickly as I could.”

  Ilathor swiftly stood, knocking his chair back as Jehral spoke. The two tarn leaders also rose, exchanging fearful glances.

  “Ships—Jehral, did you s
ee any more ships?”

  “No.” Jehral shook his head. “No more. But where there is one, there will be more.”

  Ilathor uncharacteristically swore.

  “Kalif, we must warn the Alturans,” Jehral said.

  “The signaling system,” one of the tarn leaders said.

  The kalif made a cutting motion with his hand. “It won’t serve us. It’s designed only to call for aid.”

  “Kalif, I request permission to ride to Altura.”

  Ilathor hesitated before finally nodding. “All right, Jehral. I will also send word to the Petyrans.”

  “I must get fresh horses,” Jehral said. “By your leave?”

  “Be safe, my friend,” Ilathor said. “Stay alive.”

  “I will.” Jehral bowed quickly and turned on his heel.

  During the frantic ride to Agira Lahsa, Jehral had tried to make sense of it. The ship must have blown off course. Unfortunately, Jehral didn’t know whether the enemy ship had lost its way while sailing to Altura or while heading further south, where a fleet could round the cape and head east to Tingara.

  One thing he did know, however, was that where there was one ship, there would be more. And if Miro was correct, Altura would soon be under attack.

  13

  Miro surveyed the greatest stretch of defenses he’d ever constructed. The low wall stretched in a long line following the ridge where the beaches met the forest. From behind Castlemere, it continued eastward as far as the cliffs, where the enemy would never land, and westward halfway to Schalberg, the smaller of the free cities. Most importantly, the walls and towers covered the road to Sarostar.

  Miro’s decision to fortify the ridge rather than the cities themselves had been unpopular but necessary. He could never cover the entire coastline, nor could he simultaneously defend Castlemere and Schalberg in the face of an enemy landing at any place they chose, while also defending the road to Sarostar. Miro, Beorn, Tiesto, and the subcommanders all agreed: it was better to defend the ridge, where they had the cover of thick forest behind them and could fight from a higher position.

  Miro was thankful there was only the one road from the free cities to Sarostar. Of course, the enemy could land anywhere, but the forests were too thick for them to penetrate through easily, and Sentar would never attempt a time-consuming push through the tangled trees. No, Sentar’s way was to take his opponents head-on, overwhelm any defenses, add the dead to his army, and push on. If Miro were attacking the Empire, he would land at these beaches, push through the defenses on the road to Sarostar, and the way to the Empire’s heart would be open.

  Miro had cleared the land in front of the wall, creating a huge killing ground. Below him, past the killing ground, the city of Castlemere looked weak and defenseless. Built to encircle a natural harbor, Castlemere barely had a wall; it was more of a wooden fence. The forest had stretched nearly all the way to that wall, but now it was gone. In its place were hidden ditches marked with cautioning red flags: the flags would be removed when the enemy came. Red and black markers indicated buried runebombs and big barrels of black powder. Rounded, heavy boulders painted white allowed Miro to gauge distances for his cannon, mortars, and archers.

  The defensive wall was high and broad, but unlike the wall outside Sarostar, there were no ramparts; the men would fight from behind the wall rather than on top. It now took Miro over an hour to walk from one end to the other, and he’d piled tree trunks at each end all the way to the forest and even continued the barrier of logs inside. Only a colossus could lift those trunks.

  He wanted the enemy to hit him from the front.

  Castlemere was usually a bustling place, the larger of the two trader cities, but aside from the dock, filled with ships and sailors, the small city below was eerily quiet. The populations of the two cities had been evacuating ever since Miro’s story became common knowledge, straining Sarostar’s already stretched resources even further. Of course, even in Castlemere and Schalberg, stubborn citizens always remained.

  In the distance, Miro watched as a huge Veldrin warship tacked back and forth to enter Castlemere’s harbor. The fourteen Veldrin ships were all here, as were several Buchalanti vessels. Only the Buchalanti storm riders were scouting—they were faster than any other vessel—while the Veldrin ships stayed in harbor, crews at the ready.

  Miro thought about his naval strategy. He was aware that he knew little about fighting on the sea, and so he would leave it to those he trusted with his homeland’s fate. As if on cue, Miro saw Commodore Deniz and Sailmaster Scherlic weaving through the deadly defenses of the killing ground as they approached.

  “Sailmaster,” Miro said, clasping Scherlic’s hand and then turning to Deniz. “Commodore. It’s good to see you both.”

  Deniz and Scherlic had as many similarities as they had differences. Both had the weather-beaten skin of men who had spent most of their lives at sea, with leathery faces and rugged features. Both were tall, but Deniz wore an elegant uniform of blue and brown, whereas Scherlic wore a belted coral-pink robe. Of the two, only Deniz was armed, wearing a fine sword at his belt, with a gem-crusted hilt. As always, Deniz had a three-cornered hat with a blue feather on his head. Deniz was friendly, but his eyes were penetrating. Scherlic was dour and intimidating, one of the few men who made Miro uncomfortable.

  “What news?” Miro asked.

  “Still nothing,” Scherlic said. “Our three storm riders scour the seas. Well, two storm riders at the moment. The Infinity is at harbor.” He made the final statement sound like an accusation. “As soon as I finish here, we’ll leave once more.”

  “Is it worth sending out Veldrin ships as well?” Miro asked.

  “No,” Deniz said. “The Buchalanti ships are much faster than ours. Our warships are powerful, but we can’t risk a single vessel. Better that we leave the scouting to the Buchalanti.”

  Miro nodded. “When the time comes, I’d like to send a bladesinger with each of you.”

  “To what end?” said Scherlic.

  “Essence,” Miro said. “If I know our enemy, he’s impatient. He’ll have gathered the essence he needs to open the portal before leaving. If there’s a ship we can identify as holding a great deal of essence, my bladesingers have orders to do anything they can to see it sunk . . . even if it means their lives. Defeating one of the Evermen will be hard enough without facing more. We can’t allow the portal to be opened.”

  “As long as your bladesingers don’t get in the way,” Scherlic said.

  “They know their business,” Miro responded.

  He wished he had more bladesingers, and he hated to risk two in this way, but success would be worth the risk. Bartolo was busy training the recruits at the Pens, but only one of Bartolo’s recruits had been deemed good enough to be elevated, and even then he’d lost half an ear in testing. Miro touched the scar on his face. He supposed half an ear wasn’t a bad outcome.

  “Commodore, tell me again about how many ships they might have.”

  “Impossible to say,” Deniz said, “but I can name four cities south of Emirald, each with a small navy the enemy could have captured. Then there are the pirate kings.”

  “Pirate kings?” Scherlic raised an eyebrow.

  “Renegade nobles.” Deniz shrugged. “Self-proclaimed kings who built their own navy and declared their borders separate to Veldria. All educated men, trained from birth in combat, and ruling by force as much as right of blood. I was always hunting them down; they captured our merchant shipping and plundered our coastal towns. Added together, their navies could have rivaled the Emir’s. Fortunately, they fought each other as much as us. They may have suffered the same fate as Veldria.”

  “Let’s just worry about what we know,” Miro said. “How are your men, Commodore?”

  “Anxious, but disciplined,” Deniz said. “Ready as they’ll ever be.”

  “Sailmaster?”

  “We don’t work in formation like the Veldrins,” Scherlic said. “But here in Castlemere we hav
e the three storm riders and two blue cruisers. In Schalberg we have another blue cruiser and two dreadnoughts—eight Buchalanti vessels in total. If the enemy fleet is in these seas, we’ll find them.”

  “We’ve performed some tests,” Deniz said. Scherlic scowled. “The Buchalanti ships are fast and well armed, particularly the dreadnoughts. But their armor won’t stop cannon.” Deniz looked at Scherlic somewhat apologetically.

  Miro gazed along the fortifications. “If we can stop them in the sea, I won’t consider all this to be wasted time. I’ll consider your people the greatest heroes of our age. Thank you, both of you. I’ll leave you to the business you know best.”

  The men of Halaran and Altura cheered as Miro walked in his armorsilk, his new zenblade on his back, following the outside of the defensive wall. He nodded at soldiers as he passed, greeting many by name and thanking them for their efforts. Miro checked the cannon emplacements at the forts and inspected the gaps he’d left to allow men and constructs to make sorties. Upon exiting these gaps, Miro’s men all knew they had to immediately turn to the left. Every other direction, including the place in front of each gap, was marked by red warning flags.

  He walked through one of the openings to the inside of the wall and checked the racks of spare weapons, the covered shelves where prismatic orbs and barrels of black powder waited, ready to be used.

  Looking up, Miro could see the great carts in the forest where the constructs were housed. The heads of colossi poked above the treetops.

  More than anything, Miro wished he had more orbs and dirigibles.

  When he’d finished inspecting the defenses, he was halfway to Schalberg as the setting sun melted into the horizon. At mealtime he decided to go through the battle plan once more with his commanders.

  Still no word from Amber.

  That night Miro organized a feast. The quartermasters from the army and remaining tavern keepers from the free cities joined forces to give the men a better meal than the usual monotonous fare.