Miro dived out of the way, but he was too late. Branches came down on top of him, smashing onto his back, pinning him face down to the ground. Miro took a knock on the back of his head, sending stars sparkling in his vision. But he could breathe, and as he shook his head to clear it, he realized he was unharmed.
Soldiers called out and rushed to help. Many hands reached forward to pull the branches away from Miro, and a Halrana held out a hand to pull him free from the tangle.
“High Lord!” the Halrana cried.
Miro ignored him and rushed back to the place he’d last seen Beorn, climbing over the entanglement. Thick tree trunks lay piled one on top of the other, a mess of green foliage and branches as thick as a big man’s leg.
“Can you hear me? Beorn! Anyone!” Miro yelled. “Quick—bring axes!” he turned and shouted.
Miro saw the body of a man in a green uniform, crushed beneath the debris, white bone poking out of his legs and his torso squashed into a nearly unrecognizable shape.
“Beorn!” Miro called again.
“Down here,” a hoarse voice came from below the tangle. Miro recognized Beorn’s voice, which meant the dead man was the soldier who’d been assisting.
Soldiers arrived with axes. “High Lord, how do we cut him out?”
The pile shifted. A cry of pain came from below.
“We need to do something,” Miro said. He turned and ran back to the blockade, dashing past wide-eyed soldiers who took in Miro’s scratched and bleeding face.
Miro finally found what he was looking for. His zenblade lay in its scabbard, and he pulled the hilt in one swift motion, throwing the scabbard to the side.
He ran back to the site of the fall and called out again. “Beorn!”
“Still here,” the weak voice came back.
Miro ran his eyes along the runes of the blade his sister had made for him. It had taken Ella a month to make this new zenblade since his return from across the sea. Controlling the activations was more complex than ever before, but this zenblade could cut through anything. Ella had demonstrated it to Miro herself. She wasn’t a physically strong woman, but she’d shown it could cut through solid stone. At its limits, the blade’s heat even melted the stone, leaving a wide triangular gouge when withdrawn.
Miro started his chant, his voice rising as fire traveled along the sword’s length. He moved directly to the most powerful lore Ella had built into it, and suddenly the zenblade lit up with blue fire.
Miro didn’t swing at the trees; he simply pressed down at the debris.
He grimaced and hoped Beorn would yell out if he came too close.
The zenblade burned so brightly that Miro struggled to look at it, squinting against the glare. It would drain at a prodigious rate, but Beorn was under there. His friend needed him.
Even without heavy pushing from Miro’s sword arm, the blue fire cut through the green wood like butter. Taking their cue, the soldiers pulled the branches away as Miro cut through them. When he reached the trunks, Miro finally saw him. Beorn stared up at him with eyes filled with fear, his face white.
Miro couldn’t say anything. He could barely hold his song together.
He pushed harder, and the zenblade cut into the topmost trunk with barely a sound. Beorn was pinned under both of the trunks—it was a wonder he was still alive—and Miro cut through the first and waited for a dozen soldiers to haul the log away before moving to the next.
Beorn had his eyes shut to the glare. Miro couldn’t turn away from the blinding fire; he had to watch carefully, or he would strike his friend with the fierce heat.
Then he was through. Miro let his song fall from his lips, but he waited for the arcane symbols on the zenblade to completely fade before he cast the sword aside. Together with the men, Miro hauled the log away. Two more soldiers pulled the man out from under the tangled mass, and then Beorn was free.
Miro looked at Beorn in astonishment as his lord marshal climbed to his feet.
There was barely a cut on him.
“Lord of the Sky, you’re a lucky man,” Miro said.
“I thought it was my time for sure,” Beorn said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen power like that, not even from a zenblade.”
“You can thank my sister yourself,” Miro said. He clapped Beorn on the back. “It isn’t your time, my friend. Not yet.”
34
“Here they come!” Beorn roared. “Hold fast!”
The enemy finished clearing the road and immediately attacked. Miro felt his whole body tense as they rushed forward, filling the road, the attackers packed so densely that they were like a torrent pouring down a canyon.
The two cannon Jehral had brought back from the beaches boomed, and as tightly crowded as the revenants were, the blasts tore scores of warriors to pieces with every shot. The enemy ranks closed as swiftly as gaps opened, and now the gunners fired at will. Every shot told, but still they came on.
Miro had far fewer men manning a much weaker defense. He wondered how they could ever hold.
The attackers reached the deep ditch in front of the blockade, each warrior pushing those in front, sending their fellows to certain impalement. As they fell into the ditch, blood gushed from their mouths as the revenant warriors from across the sea fell onto the spikes. Bodies piled one on top of the other, and then they were over the ditch and climbing up the embankment. The first wave threw themselves against the sharp points of Miro’s steadfast pikemen, and the second wave followed suit.
The rest kept coming, and then they were over. It couldn’t be called a breach: the enemy broke the defenders in the first charge.
Suddenly revenants were everywhere, and Miro was in the thick of the fighting. Beside him Jehral swung a glowing scimitar, lopping off heads and limbs, while closer to the forest iron golems tore through revenant flesh. The pikemen dropped their weapons and drew swords. Miro’s reserve smashed into the revenants, but even they struggled to hold the line.
There was chaotic fighting everywhere.
Miro called on the protective strength of his armorsilk, stiffening the shimmering material, and he sent power to his zenblade, turning it blue with fire. He danced among the attackers, slashing through bodies and sending splashes of crimson blood through the air in his wake. He fought with tired muscles and constant concentration as he chanted, feeling his breath come short, but pushing down the fatigue.
Miro saw a rotting head explode in front of him, and Ella was there, her dress as bright as his armorsilk as it turned enemy steel. She gasped activation sequences in her own deadly song, sending beams of yellow light through one revenant after another.
He sensed the Alturan palace guard—the best of his soldiers—fighting beside him, and knew the battle hung in the balance. One of the soldiers in green fell, and then another. Finally, Miro’s fierce swordsmen slowly began to push back the revenants, but one of the enemy warriors held firm. Single-handedly, this warrior was turning back every attempt to reform the line.
An enchanter with a wand fell down, his hands clutched to his gushing chest. Another Alturan swordsman fell down with a cry of pain. Miro knew he needed to destroy this warrior.
Miro cut through a tall barbarian and in a single flashing image, his gaze took in the threat.
The warrior wore a blue shirt with a white trident sewn into the material. Holding a falchion in each hand—heavy single-edged swords with wide, powerful blades—he killed yet another swordsman with a crushing blow to the skull and then turned to face Miro.
Miro saw the three-cornered hat and the white eyes filled with blood. As Diemos, the pirate king of Rendar, fixed his stare on the high lord of Altura, he whirled, the twin blades casually cutting an Alturan in two, opening a space between Miro and himself. Miro felt chills along his spine as he knew he’d met his match.
Miro’s song called more searing fire into his zenblade as he leapt forward. The twin blades flashed, slicing the air, and Miro ducked and then dodged to the side. The pirate king came to mee
t him, and their weapons clashed, sending blinding sparks into Miro’s eyes, making him blink.
A falchion smashed into Miro’s chest, and he grunted in pain. He met the next strike with the zenblade, forced to move quicker than he ever had before, and still the pirate king was faster.
Miro managed to get a thrust into the pirate king’s chest, and his opponent roared as the sizzling steel penetrated his torso. Miro smelled burning flesh, but the blow that should have torn his opponent in half had little effect: the runes on this warrior glittered like stars in the night sky, beyond anything he’d seen on any revenant before. Sentar himself had made this one.
The two warriors ducked and sidestepped, blades cutting the air where heads had been moments before. Miro’s song came strong, but he simply couldn’t find a gap in his enemy’s defenses. The falchions met the zenblade time and again, and Miro felt fire in his side as a falchion struck his armorsilk and tore the material. Heat washed from both the zenblade and the falchions. One solid strike, and Miro would be dead.
He sensed the battle around him even as he fought. The revenants began to surge forward, but with Miro occupying the indomitable pirate king’s attention, the defenders took heart and rallied, pushing the enemy back once more. Bodies formed obstacles on the ground, making it difficult for Miro to dance out of the way of the pirate king’s twin blades.
Blood turned the dirt to mud, and as Miro blocked an overhead cut from the red-eyed pirate king, he slipped.
Time slowed as Miro fell down to his knees, his zenblade falling from his grip. He raised an arm and blocked a glowing falchion with his naked armorsilk, grunting as the falchion struck with nearly enough force to break his arm, knowing that to cease his chant would be to die. The second falchion sizzled as it carved the air, in a direct line for Miro’s neck. There was nothing he could do about it.
A newcomer in blazing armorsilk entered the fray and charged into the pirate king of Rendar. Taking the warrior by surprise the newcomer launched a flurry of blows at Diemos’s head and chest. Miro picked up his zenblade and cut at the pirate king’s legs, but his opponent deftly jumped out of the way.
Miro could see the fighter was a bladesinger, but he couldn’t see his face, and even for a bladesinger this man was fast. Each blow of the whirling falchions was met with a blocking zenblade, and Miro looked for an opening in the flickering steel and sparks but couldn’t risk harming the bladesinger.
Miro heard the man’s baritone and knew who he was.
Bartolo.
Miro cut overhead at the pirate king from behind, yet still a falchion met his zenblade. Miro pushed down, and it was now a match of strength on strength. The pirate king held off Bartolo with a single falchion. With a crash like lightning, Bartolo struck home, directly into the revenant’s heart. Miro continued to push, and the pirate king’s arm relaxed for the barest instant. In a flash Miro brought his zenblade back and forward once more, swinging in a direct line for the neck. The pirate king moved out of the way, but Bartolo met the movement with his own blade.
Bartolo’s zenblade smashed into the pirate king’s skull, shearing it in half. The revenant slumped down to his knees and fell face first into the mud.
“We need to pull back!” Bartolo cried.
Miro saw that the attackers were gaining the upper hand.
“Retreat!” Miro shouted.
He and Bartolo fought to give the fleeing defenders space. Iron golems were suddenly by their side, and as the golems held the line, Miro and Bartolo turned and ran.
Risking a glance over his shoulder, Miro saw the golems fall one by one, swamped by the attackers. Then the river of warriors surged ahead. Miro put every thought to running, leaping over bodies as his breath ran ragged. He scanned the road ahead, looking for the next blockade where Tiesto waited, but the blockade was a distance away.
The enemy would reach them first.
Miro glanced at Bartolo and saw the fear on his friend’s face. Bartolo pointed ahead and shouted something, but his words were lost in the din.
The two running bladesingers rounded a corner.
Miro saw figures in red robes. As he ran through the line of elementalists, feeling the breath of his enemies hot on his heels, a wall of fire rose up behind them.
Miro stopped when he reached safety behind the elementalists and turned, gasping and wheezing. He watched as fire took the revenants, hearing the terrible sound of sizzling flesh. It took time for the attackers to pull back from the flames, and in that time hundreds burnt to ash.
Miro grabbed Bartolo’s arm and pulled him forward, clasping his arms around his friend’s shoulders. “Where have you been?”
“Busy.” Bartolo grinned. “Shani wanted a holiday at the beach, but instead I found you.”
Miro scanned the red-robed elementalists.
“Behind you,” Bartolo said.
Miro whirled and saw Shani, her hands in the air and an expression of concentration on her face as she guided the flames. He waited until her arms slumped at her sides and she deactivated the cuffs at her wrists, before pulling her into a rough embrace. “Petrya! You came!”
“No, Miro,” Shani said, shaking her head. “There’s only a few of us. I left the high lord in Tlaxor.”
Miro felt disappointment like a blow, but his gaze took in forty elementalists, and he knew they’d lasted another day.
One more day, bought in blood.
Ella had a bowl on her knees as she washed blood from her hands and neck. She heard a throat clear and glanced up.
Shani stood with her arms crossed in front of her breasts, frowning down at her. Ella set the bowl down and leapt up to hug her friend.
“All that blood. How are you holding up?” Shani questioned her, holding Ella at arm’s length.
“As well as any of us,” Ella said.
“I found Bartolo at the pass. The signal’s gone through, and I brought some friends, but I’m sorry there aren’t more of us. I sent another message to the high lord but there’s nothing more I can do.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Ella said. “You came. That’s enough.”
“Lord of Fire,” Shani said as she let out a breath, “how do you fight the dead?”
Ella sighed. “With hope and fear. With courage and death.”
“Bartolo says your brother was almost killed.”
Ella sucked in a breath, biting her lips, but tears welled at the corners of her eyes.
“Oh, Ella, I’m sorry. Miro’s fine. I don’t know when to shut up sometimes.”
“There must be something more I can do,” Ella said. “I feel so . . . powerless.”
“What was that thing they fought? Bartolo said it wasn’t like any revenant he’d seen before.” Shani shook her head. “Two bladesingers, Bartolo and your brother . . . Ella, I’ve never seen better swordsmen. Yet that thing . . .”
“Sentar was the first to ever animate a corpse. He knows the lore better than anyone.”
“Don’t worry. The Hazarans will come.”
“Even if Ilathor comes, do you really think they’ll be enough?”
“Killian will come too. He won’t leave us to hold alone.”
“I’m not so sure. We didn’t leave things on the best terms. Shani . . . Evrin told me Killian now has a woman in the palace.”
“A woman?” Shani raised an eyebrow. She shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. I know who she is. Her name is Carla, and Killian loved her long before we met.”
“You don’t know the truth of it . . .”
“I know,” Ella interrupted. “Evrin’s dead, by the way.”
Ella heard her own desultory tone as Shani’s eyes showed her concern.
“I’m sorry about Evrin. Let’s just focus on survival, shall we? Don’t worry, Ella,” Shani said. “I know you. You’ll think of something.”
35
The days grew longer and the air became warm and humid, night and day. Spring growth pushed through the forest flo
or, wildflowers filling the empty spaces and littering the landscape with color. The wind picked up, sending clouds in from the ocean.
Thunder rumbled overhead as the heavens turned gray.
It was the time of the rains.
Water poured from the sky in a flood, filling the air so it was hard to breathe. The winding road thickened with mud, making the going tough for defenders and attackers alike. It clamped down on the fires of the elementalists and wet the black powder. More than once a planned detonation became a fizzled failure.
Miro’s defenders had performed miracles over the last weeks. His men fought and died, holding from one blockade to the next, felling trees, digging ditches, destroying each defensive wall in detonations of earth and flame as they retreated to the next. Each rearward action took place in the last breath, with the blockades blown in mighty explosions just as they were overrun. The valiant struggle left bodies piled high.
At each stage, wherever possible, the corpses of the Alturan and Halrana dead were destroyed rather than letting them fall into the enemy’s hands. Often those wounded who couldn’t run clutched runebombs with dying hands and lit fuses of powder kegs held between their knees, sacrificing their lives rather than allowing their dead selves to fight their comrades. The winding road from the free cities to Sarostar was a river of ash and blood, steel and mud.
Now they were at the seventeenth blockade, the last before the open ground and the final defenses at Sarostar.
Ella felt she was permanently wet. Her hair was tangled with filth and dirt, and she knew every defender felt as fatigued as she did. She now walked with heavy steps as she collected the dead defenders from the last bitter engagement. Shani worked beside her as they gathered the fallen and piled them in a ditch. Already the logs underneath were burning fiercely, despite the dripping rain. This was the worst part of Ella’s job. She understood the need, but she hated it nonetheless. She and Shani, as well as the other enchanters and elementalists, were charged with burning the dead defenders.
At all costs Miro wanted to avoid adding to the enemy’s strength. More than anything, he wanted to prevent his men having to fight their compatriots.
The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) Page 25
