The bandit veered to the left, but Timo rushed in to meet him. He then tried dashing to the right, but Martin was coming in fast. Turning back to the left, he had his eyes on Timo and not on where his wild run was taking him.
With a cry the one-eyed man plunged over the cliff, falling headlong into the river. His flailing body vanished from sight.
Bartolo groaned; even if the bandit survived, they would never find him. He rushed back to the camp and knelt beside Tapel’s bound form. “Lad, are you hurt?”
Tapel groaned and Bartolo scowled when he saw bruises on the boy’s face. He cut through the bonds and swiftly checked Tapel for wounds.
“The signaling tower,” Tapel gasped. “They switched the prism. They made me help.”
“Slow down,” Bartolo said.
Fergus, Martin, and Timo arrived at the fire. The two recruits began to search the camp.
“There are four pallets. That’s all of them,” Martin said.
Tapel rubbed at his wrists. “They said more would be coming, but none did.”
Bartolo thought about the four men who’d ambushed Jehral. The Hazaran had said he’d killed them all. “Tell me about the prism.”
“The crystal on the tower is made of glass. It’s a fake.”
Bartolo swore. Hearing movement behind him, he turned and saw Dorian approach with his three recruits.
“What happened?” Dorian said.
“We got them.” Bartolo indicated the bodies. “One jumped into the river.”
“Who were they?”
“Tapel?” Bartolo asked.
“They were Tingarans,” Tapel said, “from Seranthia. They didn’t say who they worked for, but they weren’t from the Legion. I think they might have had something to do with the streetclans. They didn’t want Altura getting aid from Tingara. They wanted to prevent a distress call from getting through.”
“But why do it here?” Dorian said. “Why not closer to Tingara?”
“I think I know why,” Bartolo said grimly. “There are two critical stations: this one at Samson’s Bridge and the tower at Wondhip Pass. The one here links Altura to all of the lands in the north and the east: Halaran, Vezna, Torakon, Loua Louna, Tingara, and Aynar—even the Akari via the station at Lake Vor. The station at Wondhip Pass links Altura to Petrya and the Hazara Desert. If a signal reached Torakon or even Halaran, word might still have reached Tingara by courier. That’s why here.”
“What do we do?” Dorian asked.
“They’ve no doubt hidden the real device someplace we’ll never find it. We’ll have to run back to Sarostar as quickly as we can. If Miro activates the device at the Crystal Palace, word needs to get out soon as possible. Scratch it! This is going to add days. We’re going to need an enchanter . . .”
“Actually,” Tapel said, “the real prism wasn’t hidden.”
Bartolo stared at Tapel. “What did you say?”
“It’s in the river, near the bridge.”
“Why there?” Dorian asked.
“They made me climb the tower and help them swap the fake prism for the real one. But I didn’t give them the real one. Instead, I threw it in the river.”
Bartolo looked at Tapel in surprise. “Well done, lad,” he said. “Come on! Leave the bodies for the crows. Quickly, to the bridge!”
The group of two bladesingers, five recruits, a ferryman, and Tapel hurried back they way they’d come, to stand near the support columns at Samson’s Bridge. The three-legged tower loomed over them.
The water surged below the stone arch of the bridge itself, turbulent and frothing.
“It’s hopeless,” Fergus said. “I know water, and you’ll never find it.”
At that moment, a fiery green light shone brightly from somewhere in the water below the bridge.
The chill that ran through Bartolo’s spine was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Miro had activated the reflector at the Crystal Palace. Looking back toward Sarostar in the west, Bartolo could see a distant green light, high in the sky. The device in the water had responded to this reflector.
But looking east, across the bridge to the land of Halaran, there was no onward signal. With the prism in the water, the chain was broken.
The fleet had been sighted. Sentar Scythran was here, and he was coming for Altura.
Bartolo took a deep breath and began to strip off his clothing.
“No,” Tapel said.
“You’ll never make it,” said Dorian.
“Do you know what our strategy is?” Bartolo asked as he disrobed. “All the high lord’s planning and effort has one objective, and one objective only. It’s to delay the enemy. Not to win; Miro doesn’t think we can. It’s to hold them until help arrives. Every moment counts, and even if I die here, I’m going to try.”
Soon Bartolo stood in just undershorts, the muscles in his abdomen rippling as he drew deep breaths to flood his lungs with air.
Without thinking too hard about what he was about to do, Bartolo fixed his gaze on the shining green light welling from the deep water below. He ran to the edge of the bridge and stared down into the depths.
Bartolo drew in a breath as he climbed up onto the rail.
He dived, head first, into the surging water.
It was the middle of spring, but the water from the north was cold, so cold it sent icy needles stabbing into Bartolo’s flesh. The current immediately fought to drag him downriver as his arms and legs clawed against it, his vision firmly set on the green light. He fought the water like an enemy, feeling the muscles he’d hardened over years of training and countless battles come to his aid.
He knew he had to keep his eyes open, but the force of the river made it nearly impossible. He concentrated on the color green, focusing on the glimmers that came through his eyelids. The current tried to pry open his mouth, and with each stroke of his arms and kick of his legs he felt the breath in his lungs grow short.
Bartolo was running out of air.
Summoning reserves of strength, he opened his eyes wide, and there it was in front of him, a shining green prism, too bright to look at.
A dozen more strokes should take him close enough to touch it.
Bartolo screamed underwater and kicked harder, fighting his own buoyancy as his body desperately tried to return him to the surface where he could breathe again, and live. Instead, he pulled hard, clawing at the water as if gouging out the eyes of a vicious enemy.
Bartolo reached out with his hands, and he touched the prism.
The surge of victory was short lived as the river pushed him half a dozen paces again.
He couldn’t breathe anymore; his brain was starved for air, and he felt his vision closing in.
Bartolo knew that if he couldn’t succeed, he wouldn’t be able to try again. Dorian was young, and he would try, but he would drown. This was his one chance. Only he could do this.
Bartolo channeled the last of his energy into one final surge. His body dipped deeper into the water as an unpredictable current twisted him over. Turning back around, he felt a rock under his arms and hooked a wrist underneath. Bartolo used the leverage to gain the last distance, and he took hold of the shining prism.
The rock moved, rolling, and suddenly Bartolo’s arm was stuck under the boulder.
Bartolo clutched the prism to his chest with one arm and tried to move the rock, to free his trapped arm and return to the surface. His chest heaved and his mouth opened. Water flooded into his chest as his body fought his mind and won, gasping in whatever substance it could find in the space around it.
There was movement. Someone was in the water with him.
Strong arms moved the rock and freed Bartolo’s arm. He felt himself taken under the armpits and heaved forcefully upward. Bartolo felt himself pop to the surface, but he was dazed, his vision dark, his lungs filled with water. Drifting down the river now, the newcomer rolled Bartolo onto his side and heaved at his stomach. Water gushed out of Bartolo’s mouth and he felt his body squeezed again.
Bartolo twisted and rolled his way down the river until the current slowed near a bend. Bartolo heard voices and felt many hands on him, hauling him out of the river to land, his body flopping onto the bank like a hard-won fish.
Bartolo opened his eyes and felt hands prying at his own, struggling to release his grip.
“Let go,” he heard Dorian’s voice. “I’ve got it.”
Bartolo felt a surge of relief when he realized he still held the prism.
Another figure leaned over him. Scraggly wet hair revealed a bald pate and a round, sturdy face. “You’re lucky I’m a good swimmer, bladesinger,” Fergus said.
Bartolo grinned, and then coughed again, ejecting another stream of water.
Bartolo lay on his back, recovering from his swim as Tapel disappeared with the prism. He sat up as Tapel returned.
“It’s done. I returned the prism to the top of the tower,” Tapel said.
“Well done, lad,” Bartolo said, coughing and shaking water from his dark locks.
“I saw an answering light in the east,” said the boy.
“Here, help me up,” Bartolo said. Tapel took hold of his wrist and hauled the bigger man to his feet. “Listen, Tapel. You did well. If you hadn’t found these men, we wouldn’t have known about the deception. Your mother would be proud, as would Rogan Jarvish.”
Tapel’s eyes misted. “I thought I’d betrayed us all.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth. Now where’s my armorsilk?” Bartolo glanced about. One of the recruits came forward, and Bartolo stood, weaving slightly, but eventually gathering himself and taking several deep breaths.
Bartolo smiled at Fergus. “I owe you my life,” the bladesinger said simply. “It’s a debt I won’t take lightly.”
Fergus grinned and shrugged.
“Gather round!” Bartolo called. Soon the group stood ringed around him. Gazing back at Samson’s Bridge, Bartolo saw the reflector at the apex of the tower, shining bright green, lending urgency to every action.
“As you can see, Altura is in need. Our task at this point should be to head to the defenses at the free cities, where our high lord has built a series of fortifications on the ridge behind Castlemere.”
The recruits nodded.
“However, we now have a more important task. Our high lord needs these signals to get through. We can see the light from the next link in the chain in the east, but Derrick and Roscoe, I need you to head over the bridge and confirm that the chain is whole. You’ll be working on your own initiative, and you know what your mission is. We’ve planned for many things, but treachery wasn’t one of them.”
“We understand,” Derrick said. The two recruits nodded to each other.
“The rest of you will be coming with me to Wondhip Pass. I know it’s a long journey, but we know how critical the station there is. We don’t need to travel all the way to the pass, just close enough to see the light, which should be visible from below. We simply need to confirm that the station in the pass is functioning. We’ll be traveling fast, and we’ll be traveling with little food, just whatever we can take from the bandits’ camp. Everything depends on us.”
“What about me?” Fergus said.
“I need you to go to Castlemere. Find the high lord and tell him what happened here. Tell him we’ll make sure the chain is complete, and then we’ll find him, wherever he is.”
“And me?” Tapel said.
Bartolo knelt. “Tapel, you’ve been brave beyond any imagining. You saw something suspicious and acted on it. If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have known the chain was broken. I need you to go to your mother at the palace. She’s worried sick about you and needs to know you’re not hurt.”
“I want to come with you.”
Bartolo shook his head. “We’ll be setting a grueling pace. Those at the palace need to know, just like the high lord at the free cities. Now that we know about the danger, we can make sure the chain is functioning. Can you help me, lad?”
“I will.” Tapel nodded.
“You have your tasks. See to it!”
Bartolo had to use his head. He wished he were with Miro, who would soon be facing the enemy.
But Miro’s plan depended on support from the other houses.
Bartolo had his own part to play.
21
Green lights traveled through the lands of the Empire. Each tower sparked the next, from Samson’s Bridge through Carnathion to Ralanast, then from Ralanast through thick forest to Rosarva. The reflectors in Halaran sparked the tower at the Louan border town of Mourie before traveling on into Mara Maya itself. Green flared up at Sakurai, capital of Torakon, and then the fire passed along the chain to the Imperial capital of Seranthia.
Killian was alone in his private study when he heard a knock on the door. He looked up from the report in front of him, one of many in a thick pile, and called out, “Enter.”
A melder in a purple robe—one of those who replaced lost limbs with rune-enhanced metal and transformed the direst cases into avengers—walked hesitantly in. The robed man’s face was downcast, as if he were the bearer of bad news.
Killian’s eyebrows went up. He seldom spoke to the melders, other than to ensure they had what they needed for their arts.
“What is it?”
“Emperor, we’ve been keeping a watch on the device the Alturans placed in the High Tower.”
Killian’s heart missed a beat as he recalled that he’d entrusted the Alturan devices to his own masters of lore. “What of it? Come on, out with it!”
“The reflector . . . it’s shining. It’s very bright.”
“What color?” Killian said, though he knew the answer before it came.
“Green.” The melder licked his lips.
Killian’s hands clenched in frustration; he was barely conscious of his sudden tight grip on the paper in his hands. “Tell Lord Osker no one is to see me. No one! I need some time to think.”
The melder closed the door behind him, and Killian put his head in his hands. He finally stood and looked down at the reports and then swung his arm, sending the papers scattering over the floor.
Altura had called, and they wouldn’t have called without need. Miro had been right all along: Sentar had targeted Ella’s homeland. Now Killian had to decide what to do.
Killian left the study and strode briskly to his personal quarters, sending clerks, stewards, couriers, and soldiers scurrying out of the way. They might interrupt him at his study, but they would leave him alone in his chambers. He entered his bedchamber, closing the door behind him and slumping heavily onto the first seat he found, a long bench with curved legs.
Even if he left immediately, the Legion would take several weeks to reach Sarostar. Could Miro hold that long? Could Killian leave Seranthia’s defenses weakened?
Killian spent long moments running through the options in his mind. Looking down at the symbols on his palms, he saw that his hands were shaking.
The door opened and Killian glanced up in surprise. “I told Lord Osker . . .”
Carla entered the room, a bottle of amber liquid and two heavy-bottomed glasses in her hand. She smiled at Killian, but her eyes were creased with concern.
“I heard the news,” she said. “You have a difficult decision to make.”
“That’s an understatement,” Killian said.
Carla sat close to Killian on the bench and placed the glasses on a nearby side table. She pulled the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses of brown spirit while Killian stared at the floor.
“I think you need this,” Carla said, holding out a glass.
Killian shook his head. “What I need is to think clearly.”
“Killian, take it. I know you. I can tell the pressure is killing you.”
Killian took the proffered glass and swirled the liquid in the bottom, hesitating, and then finally he took a long sip, feeling the alcohol slide down his throat.
Not a regular drinker of spirits, he coughed and f
rowned when he tasted a strange note—mint?—but he assumed it must be a flavor of the drink. The warmth of the spirit spread throughout his chest, warming him, but it didn’t help him decide.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Petryan firebrand,” said Carla, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to pressure you; I’m just here to help. We all need a shoulder to lean on sometimes.”
“Altura . . . they need help. I know Miro; he wouldn’t request it without reason,” Killian said.
“What will you do?” Carla asked.
Killian suddenly felt tired. His eyelids drooped, and he felt sluggish, unable to think. He set his glass back onto the side table and regretted drinking the spirit.
Responsibility weighed on his shoulders. If he answered Altura’s call and left with the full strength of the Legion, he would leave Seranthia defenseless. If he took only part of the Legion, it might not be enough. If Killian stayed in Seranthia, there would be no one to challenge the powers of Sentar Scythran.
If he didn’t go, not only would he be dooming Ella and everything she loved, he would be giving his enemy a chance to gain a foothold that the Empire might never push him back from.
Killian made his decision. “I’m going to go,” he said. “My responsibility isn’t just to Tingara, it’s to the Empire as a whole. I need to show the houses I will defend their borders as staunchly as my own. For good or ill, this is what I’m going to do.” His voice strengthened as he spoke. “I’ll leave a force here, but I’m going to take the Legion to Altura.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Carla murmured.
Everything happened very quickly.
Carla had a knife in her hand, and all thoughts of tiredness vanished as Killian felt adrenalin surge through his limbs. The knife was short, but silver symbols decorated the blade, and as Carla spoke an activation sequence, Killian knew it must be enchanted.
His mind whirled as he also saw a black paste smeared along the blade. Carla was taking no chances.
Carla lunged at him and Killian tried to dodge the blow, but she was fast and the knife scraped his arm, leaving a trail of dark poison. The runes on Killian’s skin flared brightly but the knife didn’t break the skin. Killian was surprised to see the blade still dark, as if Carla’s spoken rune had no effect at all.
The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) Page 16
