The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  The man nodded. His eye-socket was wrinkled and wept fluid. “Hunting mushrooms. And where’s your bag? Show me some mushrooms.”

  “I . . . I haven’t found any yet,” Tapel said weakly.

  “Who are you? Who’s going to miss you?”

  “No one,” Tapel whimpered. “I’m nobody.”

  “Good,” said the one-eyed man.

  He clapped his hand back over Tapel’s mouth and dragged him through the forest while Tapel writhed and wriggled. Tapel’s heart threatened to leap out of his chest, it was pounding so strongly. Fear filled his limbs, and he felt weak as he was hauled forcefully through the trees, heading downriver, in a southerly direction following the riverbank. Soon Tapel smelled smoke and saw a campsite in the trees.

  Two rough-looking men sat around a fire while a third man with a tattoo on his neck tended it, adding fuel. One of the seated men had a sword across his knees that he was sharpening with slow circular movements. The other seated figure was a scrawny brigand with a shaved head.

  The tattooed man at the fire looked up. “You bring the wine . . . Whoa! What’ve you got there?”

  “Street kid followed me here,” the one-eyed man said, gripping Tapel tightly.

  “What’s he, dinner?” said the man sharpening his sword.

  The tattooed man at the fire barked a laugh.

  “He’s going to have to stay with us, at least ’til the job’s done,” said the one-eyed man.

  “Just kill him.” The swordsman shrugged.

  “Hold on there,” said the scrawny man. “I’m not in the business of killing children.”

  “It’s not so hard after the first one,” said the swordsman.

  Tapel felt ragged terror course through him, sending shivers down his spine.

  “Benji, throw me some rope,” said the one-eyed man. The man at the fire, Benji, rummaged around the campsite and then tossed over a hemp rope. The one-eyed man deftly caught the length of twine in the air.

  The one-eyed man bound Tapel’s wrists and then threw him to the ground. Pushing down on Tapel’s back, he also tied Tapel’s ankles together. Tapel could scream, but out here no one would hear.

  Tapel wriggled until he could rest his back against a fallen tree trunk. “Who . . . who are you?” he asked.

  “Your worst nightmare,” Benji said, grinning at Tapel as he pulled a dagger from his belt, brandishing his weapon.

  “Seriously, Brin,” said the swordsman to the one-eyed man. “We should kill him. What are you planning on doing, feeding him? Feel like adopting an urchin?”

  “He can earn his keep,” the one-eyed man, Brin, said.

  “How?” asked the seated scrawny man.

  “Our job is to keep an eye on the tower. If it lights up, we knock it down. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well I’ve got a better idea. Check this out. I’ve got a surprise.” Brin rummaged in his knapsack and withdrew a glass pyramid. “I ordered this when I was last in Sarostar and picked it up today. If we swap the real prism for a false one, our job is done.”

  “Our orders are to watch and only knock it down if it lights green,” the scrawny man growled. “Who’s to say they won’t know as soon as we’ve broken the chain? What do we know of lore?”

  “Hang on, Sebastian,” Benji said to the scrawny man. “I want to hear this out.” Benji left the fire and came over to crouch beside Tapel. “How’s your climbing, boy?” he said.

  Tapel realized his life hung in the balance. “Good.”

  “See?” Brin said. “We’ve been sleeping in shifts to keep an eye on the tower. Dan’s bringing three more men, but that won’t help much. If we swap the prisms, no one will be the wiser, and we can get some proper sleep for a change. The boy can help. Tonight.”

  “All right, Brin,” the swordsman said. “We’ll try it your way. Tonight.”

  The swordsman kicked Tapel awake well before dawn. The night was as black as pitch. Tapel groaned. Tied as he was, he’d had the most uncomfortable night of his life. His back ached and now his stomach hurt from the kick. If he’d eaten, he would have been sick.

  “Go easy on the lad,” he heard Brin’s voice say. “He needs to climb. Come on, boy. Don’t try anything foolish, or we’ll carve you up.”

  Brin cut the twine around Tapel’s wrists and ankles and then grabbed Tapel’s wrist in a grip of iron, twisting the boy’s arm behind his back and marching him forward. The four men took him out of the trees and down to the water’s edge. As they took Tapel back upriver, he heard the Sarsen slosh and gurgle and saw the nearby supports of Samson’s Bridge silhouetted against the night sky.

  No one was crossing the bridge at this hour, and they had the area to themselves. Brin marched Tapel to the three-legged tower, where the thin supports held the prism higher than any of them could reach.

  “Boy. Look.” Tapel heard a creaking sound, and turning in alarm, he saw the scrawny man, Benji, holding a drawn bow, the pointed arrow glinting, aimed right at him. “Just so you don’t try to run.”

  “You understand your task?” Brin asked, crouching down so he was at eye level with Tapel. “You’re to shinny up this pole here ’til you’re at the top. Remove the glass thing up there. Then call down. Got it?”

  Tapel gulped. He knew the towers were important, and he didn’t know who these men were, but he’d gathered their purpose. They wanted to break the chain of reflectors heading east. If Altura called, these men didn’t want the lands of Loua Louna, Torakon, or Tingara sending help.

  “Climb!” Brin said, emphasizing his point by shoving Tapel in the back, so he fell down.

  Tapel slowly climbed back to his feet and wondered if he could run to summon help. He met the eyes of the man with the bow. He’d heard the swordsman’s words; he’d killed children before, and these men wouldn’t stop at killing him. If Tapel died, they’d just find another way.

  Tapel grabbed hold of the thin pole and pulled himself up. Fighting at the Pens had made him strong, and though the metal was glossy, it wasn’t slippery. Soon he had both hands on the tower’s leg and his ankles twisted around the base. His arms on fire, he pulled himself up and managed to climb until he was at the apex, gazing down at the men standing below, heads tilted back as they looked up.

  “He’s up,” Brin said. “Boy! Take off the prism, then toss it down.” In a whisper to his friends he said, “We’ll take it far from here and bury it.”

  Hanging by one hand and ignoring the drop below, gripping the tower’s support with his wrapped legs, Tapel yanked and pushed at the prism. It took several tries, but he finally heard a click and felt it come away in his hands.

  “Throw it down!” Brin called.

  Tapel instead leaned back, the muscles in his arm burning to hold him in place, and threw with all his strength.

  The prism curved through the air, looking like it would hit the bridge, but it missed. Instead it sailed past the steep riverbank and landed in the turbulent river with a splash.

  “What did you do that for, insolent pup?” one of the watchers growled.

  “What does it mean, Brin?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Brin said. “Think about it. Why mount the thing on a tower if you don’t need to? It must need to be placed high.”

  “Sorry—I thought that was what you wanted me to do,” Tapel called down.

  Brin growled up to Tapel. “Keep your voice down. Just don’t mess this part up, or I’ll kill you myself. I’m going to throw you the replacement. Reckon you can catch it?”

  “Not really.” Tapel was holding on to his place at the apex of the tower with both arms and legs, but he didn’t think he could hold much longer.

  “Out of the way,” one of the others said. He carried a long tree branch from the forest, forked at the end. He took the false prism from Brin and settled it in the fork before carefully lifting the prism up to Tapel’s height.

  “Place it at the top,” Brin called.

  Tapel released one of his ar
ms and reached for the prism. His limbs were growing weak, and he was worried he’d fall at any instant, knowing these men wouldn’t shed any tears. He placed the glass pyramid on the flat triangle of metal where the last had been. It wasn’t quite the same size as the real one had been, but it settled comfortably, if a little loosely.

  “Try to move it,” someone said.

  Tapel nudged the prism and it rocked side to side.

  “Don’t worry,” Brin said. “I’ll head back to the market and get some resin. That’ll hold it fast. You can come down now, boy.”

  Tapel slid back down the metal leg of the tower and came to rest on his feet before sagging down to the ground.

  “Well done,” Brin said, clapping him on the back. The man with the bow relaxed the string.

  Tapel sighed. He felt dirty, cowardly. But what value would there be in sacrificing his life? The thought didn’t provide any comfort.

  Tapel knew that he’d done it because he was scared. Despite himself, he felt tears well in his eyes.

  “Come, boy,” Brin said. “You’ve earned some food.”

  As they walked away from the tower, now rendered useless, Tapel knew he’d let everyone down. If these men killed him, Tapel hoped Rogan would never find out about the part he’d played.

  His only hope was to bide his time and try to escape.

  If Altura called, none of the eastern lands would come.

  18

  Beorn handed Miro a rectangular stone and Miro heaved, his honed muscles straining as he set the block on top of the fresh mortar, fixing it firmly in place before reaching to take the next.

  Miro was bare chested in the sun, sweating in the ever warmer weather, but he found he was glad to be doing something physical. He was a man of action—planning gave him headaches and kept him awake at night. At Ella’s suggestion he’d started helping out with the building, digging, clearing, and carrying. At Amelia’s insistence he began to take a half hour out of each day—sometimes more—to play with Tomas, digging up the gardens outside the Crystal Palace and making a general mess. Physical fatigue helped him sleep, whereas mental fatigue never could.

  Miro and Beorn were working at the defenses just outside Sarostar, where the arc of wall guarding the road from Castlemere now stood one foot taller. Unlike the wall outside Castlemere itself, this wall had ramparts, places where the defenders could stand high above a foe and rain down destruction. The wall was complete, but it could always be higher, stouter, and stronger. Miro paused to wipe sweat from his eyes while Beorn leaned back with a hand on his hip, his spine making a sound like a whip.

  “I’m too old for this,” Beorn grumbled, wiping dust from his beard.

  “It’s good for a man your age to get out and about,” Miro said, grinning.

  “Age means experience. Before I arrived, your brickwork was all over the place,” Beorn said.

  “What’s that sound?” one of the soldiers said to a fellow.

  Miro raised his head when he heard the last sound he’d been expecting to hear: the pounding of hooves signaling a horse at full gallop.

  The rider came into view an instant later, skirting the wall until he reached Miro and then pulling his horse to a stop with a savage tug on the reins. The face of Jehral of House Hazara was flushed, and his chest heaved as he looked down at Miro.

  The men around stopped work, and suddenly all eyes were on the desert warrior, his exotic garb of flowing black and yellow incongruous among all the shirtless workers. Miro’s eyes took in Jehral’s haggard face and the frothing mouths of the horses. There was blood on Jehral’s chest, and though Miro didn’t know horses, he could see that Jehral’s mount was done in. The second horse, evidently a remount, was even worse, staggering with exhaustion.

  Jehral held himself awkwardly, and Miro saw bruises on his chin and a torn sleeve on his left arm. He looked like he’d taken a bad fall.

  As his eyes met Jehral’s, Miro went rigid. Jehral must have ridden through the city to come here, galloping directly to the defenses. He would have had ample opportunity to stop at the Crystal Palace and refresh himself, yet here he was.

  “Jehral,” Miro said. “Lord of the Sky, did you just ride all the way from the desert? What happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing,” Jehral said. He took several breaths to calm himself. “High Lord, I bring news. We discovered a wrecked ship off the coast of our lands. It must have blown off course and gone astray. The enemy can’t be far.”

  “Describe the ship,” Beorn demanded.

  “It was filled with revenants,” Jehral said.

  The men around gasped in chorus. Miro’s stomach clenched.

  “It was huge, bigger than any vessel I’ve seen. The ship’s foundering had taken a toll, but it was once painted with bright colors.”

  Miro closed his eyes. A ship full of revenants, wrecked on the coastline off the Hazara desert. It could only mean one thing. They were here.

  “What happened to you?” Beorn asked.

  “I was ambushed by four men on the way. I think they were Tingaran.”

  “Tingaran?” Miro lifted his gaze. “Where?”

  “Not far from Sarostar, near the river.”

  “The signals,” Beorn said. “We need to make the call.”

  “Scratch it!” Miro said. “We can’t.”

  “Every hour that goes by . . .”

  “Beorn, the ship was wrecked in Hazaran lands. It doesn’t tell us anything other than that they’re close.”

  “We fought one of the revenants,” Jehral said. “They were still and unmoving, bodies decayed, but one was . . . alive. It killed four of my men.”

  “What do we do?” Beorn asked.

  Miro made a decision and snapped into action, almost with a sense of relief to finally be doing something.

  “It’s time to mobilize. The only part of the plan that must wait is the lighting of the signals, and we won’t evacuate Sarostar until we have final confirmation. Beorn, I want you to leave a skeleton force here and take the rest of the men from Altura to the defenses at the free cities. Send word to Scherlic. He must find the enemy fleet.”

  “What about the men who ambushed Jehral?” Beorn said.

  Miro turned to Jehral. “Did you leave any alive?”

  “No, High Lord. I was unable to question them.”

  “Then we have to trust they were just brigands; there’s always some around. Beorn, tell our scouts in the vicinity of Sarostar to be vigilant. Jehral, I need you to . . .” Miro halted. “My apologies, Jehral, I realize you’re not Alturan . . .”

  “Do not apologize, High Lord. Just tell me what I can do.”

  “Are you well? Do you need attention?”

  “Scrapes only.” Jehral grinned.

  “Good man. Go to the Academy of Enchanters and find my sister. Tell her we’re putting the plan into action. She needs to stop work and move everything to our defenses at the free cities. I need every enchanter, every blade, and every trick she’s devised sent west.”

  Jehral wheeled and rode away.

  “Where will you be?” Beorn asked.

  “I’ll head directly for Castlemere while you round up the last of our men here and see to Sarostar. Come quickly, Lord Marshal, I will need you.”

  Beorn nodded. “I’ll see you there.”

  A brisk wind blew from the west, carrying the scent of salt. A fine mist of spray filled the air as the bow of the graceful vessel smashed through one cresting wave after another. High in the crow’s nest, in the rigging, and on the decks, rugged sailors scanned the horizon, always searching, each man privately fearing what the crew of the scouting vessel would uncover in the void of ocean west of Altura.

  Sailmaster Scherlic called out orders and chanted activation sequences, lighting up the shimmering sails and feeling the deck heel beneath his feet. The Infinity was far from shore, and the horizon clear in all directions. With the blazing sun at a perfect midpoint high in the sky, it was noon, and only the seekers at the h
elm and mainmast told him which way was east and which west. Scherlic kept the symbols lined up in one clear direction as he traveled east, his path taking him further and further into the deep blue waters of the Great Western Ocean.

  The slim ship rode the peaks of the waves, carving the water as she rose up and down, hitting the troughs with a regular series of resounding booms. With the wind gusting strong behind him, Scherlic turned the Infinity across the wind to head in a more northerly direction. He chanted in a deep voice, calling on the lore of the Buchalanti to pocket the main sail and catch more wind, tightening other sails, feeling his beloved vessel pick up speed until she flew like a bird.

  “Ship, ho!” the man in the crow’s nest called down. Without waiting for a response he called again. “Sails.” After the space of ten heartbeats he cried out again. “Sails! Many of them!”

  Scherlic frowned as the sailor’s voice fell away in what could only be astonishment; he’d never heard one of the disciplined men and women that made up his crew react in such a way.

  “Where away?” Scherlic called up.

  “Dead ahead!” the sailor cried.

  Scherlic was unable to leave his place at the ship’s helm; he was the sailmaster, and every turn was a chanted rune, every close-hauling of the sails required his attention. There were fail-safes, of course, but to Scherlic the spokes of the huge wheel at the helm were decorative only.

  He wished he could rush to the front of the ship and peer ahead, but made do with the Louan seeing device he carried at his belt. Scherlic activated the lens and turned it in his hands, bringing the distant horizon into focus.

  He couldn’t see anything.

  The sailors in the rigging ceased moving as every man and woman stared ahead, usually a terrible breach in discipline, but even Scherlic had ceased chanting and let the symbols on the sails begin to grow dim.

  He scanned the horizon to the left and right, waiting with pent breath, willing the Infinity forward, but dreading what would be revealed.

  Then he saw them.

  At first he thought it was a dark cloud, or perhaps he’d come across a new land, with a series of buildings rising from the ocean from one end of the horizon to the other. Surely these could not be ships?