The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  Ella looked for more bodies and then she stopped, fists clenching at her sides.

  “What is it?” Shani said, coming over.

  Ella stood over an older man with a round face and balding head. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping, but his hands clutched a terrible wound in his belly.

  “Fergus,” Ella whispered.

  Shani gripped Ella’s shoulder. “You knew him?”

  “A little,” Ella said. She wiped water from her cheeks, tears mingling with the rain.

  “Go,” Shani said. “Let me do this.”

  “No,” Ella said. “I’ll do it.”

  Ella crouched and hooked her arms under Fergus’s armpits. She heard a groan, and she nearly dropped him in surprise.

  “Shani!” Ella cried.

  Shani ran forward.

  “He’s alive!” Ella said. She set her mouth with determination. “Help me with him.”

  Together they dragged the weakly moaning man back through the defenders. Shani disappeared while Ella examined the gash in Fergus’s stomach. Blood slowly seeped out between Fergus’s fingers. The wound looked mortal.

  Shani appeared a moment later with two men in white robes and a stretcher. Ella recognized the garb. Even the priests were doing their part.

  “Here . . . that’s right; we’ve got him, Enchantress. We’ll take him from here.”

  Ella followed Fergus the ferryman with her eyes as they carried him away. She returned to her work, searching for more bodies, but at last there were no more. All were in the hole, burning to ash.

  “I don’t think we can last much longer,” Shani said.

  “I know,” said Ella.

  They both looked at the huddled defenders, not even trying to fight the rain, some sleeping even as droplets stung their cheeks. There were so few of them now. Miro had called up all the men from the defenses at Sarostar, and these were all that were left. How many revenants had they destroyed? Surely the attack couldn’t keep going?

  The scouts said they’d started discovering piles of revenants left back along the road. The defenders sometimes fought an enemy who simply dropped, becoming still as the light left the runes, sometimes crumpling as rot sunk in too much for the lore to function. It was their only sign of hope, yet they all held onto it.

  “Where is Sentar, do you think?” Shani asked.

  “It would be too much to hope he’s dead. I don’t know whether to be thankful or afraid that we haven’t seen him.”

  “Their tactics have lost their edge since the death of the warrior your brother and Bartolo killed. Have you noticed?”

  There were supposed to be three kings from across the sea, and they’d only defeated two, but nonetheless, Ella thought the necromancers must be in control now. Their strategy seemed to consist of hurtling forward, then regrouping, then throwing their revenants forward again.

  “They’ll wear us down anyway,” Ella said.

  “Ella, have heart,” Shani said. “We’ll get through. All it takes is one heroic act and we may still be saved.”

  “They’re all heroes already,” Ella said, casting her eyes over the defenders.

  “Every last one of them,” Shani murmured.

  Ella suddenly looked up. “I have an idea.”

  Shani broke out in a smile, the first Ella had seen in weeks. “Good. That’s the Ella I know.”

  “Keep Miro safe,” Ella said. “I have to go. I might not be back for a while. Be safe!”

  “I’ll do my best,” Shani said wryly.

  Ella grinned and felt her friend’s eyes on her back as she broke into a run.

  Back toward Sarostar.

  Miro waited with Beorn, who flicked water from his beard. Nearby Jehral’s eyes were closed; he was either resting or praying, perhaps both. Tiesto’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion. A few paces away Bartolo stood with a bladesinger, Dorian, the youngest of their number.

  Together they formed a core at the very front of the blockade. Behind them the men’s eyes were lined with desolation and weariness, but Miro fought to stand tall and be a rock his men could count on.

  They stood firm as once more the enemy charged.

  “For freedom!” Miro cried as he held his zenblade over his head. His men gave a ragged cheer, and then the enemy poured into the ditch.

  Once more scores of revenants fell willingly onto the spikes lining the base of the ditch, and their fellows climbed over their fallen. Once more Miro held the line as he sang with a voice hoarse from shouting, seeing fire light up his zenblade as he threw himself into the fray.

  The defenders held, but the enemy kept piling up behind their own number, pushing those in front forward into the whirling blades. The rain fell in a continuous stream, mingling with the blood that cascaded down Miro’s armorsilk.

  The defenders held while the enemy charged, and charged again.

  Miro saw Dorian go down as a revenant thrust a wicked spiked club into the young man’s face. An enchanter in a green robe took his place, but then he went down too.

  Men were falling everywhere.

  “We must fall back,” Beorn gasped.

  “Guard my back,” Miro said. He swiftly turned and waved an arm at the Petryan elementalists.

  A wall of fire sprang up, but this was weaker than ever before. Miro looked on in horror as the revenants continued to run forward, even through the flames.

  Their skin blackened and sizzled, but still the attackers pushed on. Miro knew the final blockade was lost.

  “Back!” Miro cried. “Back to Sarostar!”

  Unable to launch a coordinated retreat, the defenders simply turned and ran. This time there were no powder kegs or runebombs to slow the enemy. Men were cut down as they ran, and slowness meant death.

  The running defenders cleared the forest, and now Miro saw the broad wall ahead. Behind it the tops of the highest buildings poked up.

  This was Miro’s city, his home.

  There was no killing ground of hidden devices in front of the curved wall, simply a wide open space. It was strange to be running in the open. It felt like an eternity since Miro had last been able to see for a distance ahead of him without his vision being blocked by trees.

  The iron gate stood wide open while the fleeing defenders poured through to find safety behind the walls, each man climbing up to fill the ramparts. But as he shot a glance over his shoulder at the pursuers, Miro saw that those bringing up the rear wouldn’t make it.

  “I’m going to make a stand here,” Miro panted. “Get to the defenses.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Beorn said.

  “Someone has to lead them!” Miro shot back.

  Miro stopped and turned to face his enemies. Soldiers around him followed suit, and now the horde poured out of the opening road, forming a wide line. Miro caught Jehral’s eye and nodded in the direction of the wall, but the Hazaran shook his head and also turned to face the enemy. Bartolo waited in fighting stance with Shani by his side. Tiesto roared with battle rage. As the mass of glowing revenant warriors filled the open space, no more than fifty men waited to hold them back.

  Miro heard the thunder of hooves behind him, in the direction of the gate.

  A trumpet blasted, and as he spun around, the first thing Miro saw was a big yellow banner with a desert rose. Flames filled the air, surrounding Miro and those with him with flickering fire, but he felt no heat, and the inferno caused no harm. The enemy warriors began to slow their mad charge and Miro saw necromancers in their midst, calling the attackers to order, fearful of the raging flame, though Miro knew it was illusory.

  A tall bearded man on a great black stallion led a wedge of countless men on horseback, riders pouring one after the other through the gate. This was a battle on open ground, the kind the desert warriors of House Hazara liked best.

  With relentless speed, thousands of horses galloped forward, and the black-garbed men on their backs waved their scimitars above their heads and whooped.

  They struck th
e horde with a sickening crunch. Immediately, the necromancers saw the danger and tried to turn their revenants back into the more defensible ground between the trees. As the Hazarans struck hard and wheeled around to strike again, the revenants rushed back to the road in a flood. The leader of the desert warriors expertly turned his men after the second charge. The flames around the fifty defenders vanished as quickly as they’d appeared.

  Kalif Ilathor Shanti pulled hard on the reins, and his stallion reared back, hooves clawing at the air. He formed his men in a long line between the fifty defenders and the trees, but for now the ground was clear, and the revenants didn’t charge again.

  “Back to the gate!” Miro cried.

  With the Hazarans guarding their backs, Miro led his men through the open gate, the riders following them through. Finally, as the heavy iron gate closed shut, and three strong bars of iron were put in place in the slots, Miro lowered his sword and took a slow, shaky breath. He couldn’t believe he was alive.

  The kalif of House Hazara had answered his call.

  Ilathor leapt off his horse and ran forward to embrace Jehral. “Lord of Fire, man, every time I see you, you look worse than the last.”

  “It is good to see you too, Kalif.” Jehral grinned.

  “Kalif,” Miro said.

  Ilathor walked forward, meeting Miro’s gaze. “High Lord?”

  Miro pulled Ilathor into a rough embrace and leaned forward, speaking close into the man’s ear. He whispered hoarsely, and felt wetness on his cheeks as he looked past Ilathor’s shoulder at the multitude of proud horsemen who’d come to his aid.

  “Thank you.”

  36

  “Why have you brought me here?” High Enchanter Merlon asked.

  Ella took a deep breath. “High Enchanter, I know we haven’t always been the best of friends, but I need you.”

  “You’ve never needed me before. In fact, you’ve always ignored my advice, rejected my opinions, scorned my strictures . . .”

  “High Enchanter, please.” Ella tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. “This time we need to work together. I have an idea . . .”

  “Enchantress,” the high enchanter interrupted, “just tell me what you intend to do here.”

  He indicated the expanse of the Great Court. The Green Tower loomed overhead, the buildings that formed the Academy of Enchanters framing a strange scene of serenity compared with the carnage Ella had left behind.

  “That’s what I’m trying to do!” Ella glared at him, meeting his eyes. It was the high enchanter who broke contact. “I need . . .” Ella took a deep breath. “Please, High Enchanter, we need to make use of the purity sample.”

  High Enchanter Merlon’s shaggy eyebrows shot up. His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of the purity sample?”

  “I know that one of your duties is to test the essence that comes from Mornhaven. I know that you test the new essence against a supply you know is pure.” Ella smiled. “I have friends among the faculty.”

  “We need it . . .”

  “High Enchanter, it doesn’t matter anymore. It is the only essence in quantity we have left. There isn’t another drop, not anywhere in Altura. I’ve seen your work, and I know you deserve your position. For my idea to work, I need help, but I believe you have the skill to help me. Altura needs us.”

  “I will only fetch the essence if you tell me what you intend to do with it.”

  “Fine,” Ella said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

  When she finished telling him, High Enchanter Merlon looked at Ella as if he thought she were mad. But he agreed to make the attempt.

  And Ella went to find some spades.

  Jehral nimbly picked his way among the bodies to climb up to the ramparts in the southernmost section of the wall—one of the few places where the structure still stood. He found Ilathor staring out at the broken bodies below.

  “The city is lost,” the kalif said without turning around. “Sarostar will fall.”

  Jehral opened his mouth to disagree, but then closed it. The fighting over the last days had been bitter, with the last attack a furious assault that had culminated with the collapse of the majority of the wall. The revenants had felled trees and used the logs as rams, pounding at the stone rather than fighting the defenders.

  The tactic had been successful.

  The iron gate fell, flattened into the dirt, and the attackers had poured through the gap. Ilathor lost half his men in the countercharge, the riders swallowed by the enemy’s greater numbers. The Hazarans fought side by side with boys and old men. Most other Alturan and Halrana soldiers had fallen in the field.

  Rain continued to fall in a relentless stream, but neither man acknowledged it. Thunder rumbled overhead.

  “Where is Ella?” Ilathor asked.

  “No one knows,” Jehral said. “She hasn’t been seen in days. I still can’t believe you brought Zohra to this place.”

  Ilathor grimaced. “She wouldn’t stay at home. An obstinate woman, your sister. She’ll be safe at the palace. When the city falls, a fast horse will take her to safety.”

  “You think there is no chance of success?”

  “None,” Ilathor said. “Miro is a determined one, but Sarostar will fall. We must plan what our next step will be.”

  “You may go, Kalif, but I will not abandon them,” Jehral said. “I have fought with these men for weeks. I will not say it was all for nothing.”

  The kalif turned to Jehral, and his lips curved in a smile. “I was worried you would say that. Never fear, Jehral. My honor will not let our allies be abandoned in their time of need. Only when the city is truly fallen will I take our warriors—those of us who survive—to safety. We must find the emperor and prepare a plan for throwing these creatures back into the sea.”

  “Yet Ella’s homeland will be gone,” Jehral said sadly, turning and gazing back at the pale stone of the city.

  “Yes,” Ilathor nodded, “I am afraid it will be.”

  “There you are.”

  Jehral heard a new voice and saw Miro climb up to the wall to join them. He seemed unaware of the blood splattered on his face, hands, and neck.

  “Well? Tell it to me plain,” Miro said as he surveyed the battlefield with them.

  “One more charge,” said the kalif, “and these defenses will be overrun.”

  “I know,” Miro said.

  Jehral’s heart went out to the proud warrior. He’d planned and prepared, tried to gather support at the Chorum, and in the end it all came to nothing. They’d destroyed untold numbers of the enemy, no mean feat given the unholy strength of those they faced, but it hadn’t been enough.

  “So what do you intend, then, High Lord?” Ilathor asked.

  “Your men don’t like fighting on walls, do they?” Miro said.

  “It is not our way.”

  “Then let’s face them on the battlefield. One final charge. Kalif, if they make it past these walls and into the city, I release you from any obligation. You will need to tend to your own people and help fight to save the rest of the Empire.”

  Ilathor reached out and he and Miro clasped hands. Miro then turned to Jehral. “It’s been an honor fighting by your side, Jehral of Tarn Teharan. I thank you for what you’ve done for my people.”

  “Miro,” Jehral said, shaking his head, “even here, at the end, you face defeat with more honor than any warrior among my people. We pride ourselves on honor, yet no Hazaran faces his fate with more courage. You have my eternal respect.”

  A haunted look came to Miro’s eyes, but vanished as quickly as it came. The wry smile returned. “We tried,” Miro said. “They’ll never say we didn’t.”

  The kalif looked out at the forest. “They are readying for another assault. Let us form up in the open field, High Lord.”

  “The open field.” Miro nodded. “I will gather the last of my men.”

  The Hazaran cavalry formed up on both flanks while the Alturans, Halrana, and Dunfolk formed a solid mas
s in the center. The defenders arrayed themselves in front of the rubble of the wall. They were the final barrier before Sarostar.

  Ilathor led the horsemen on the left, and Jehral led the right. In the center, Miro stood with Bartolo and another bladesinger as Beorn grimly waited nearby with the infantry. Glancing over his shoulder, Miro saw Layla with the rest of the Dunfolk archers, an expression of fierce determination on the small woman’s face.

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. The ground squelched with every footstep as the men moved into position.

  Miro opened his mouth to speak, but he wasn’t sure what he would say. The decision was taken away from him.

  “Brace yourselves! Hold fast!” Miro heard Beorn roar.

  The enemy charged.

  Both groups of Hazaran cavalry rode out at the same time, peeling to the sides as Miro’s men spread to hold the ground they’d left behind. The revenants hit the infantry with solid force, and every man fought to keep his slipping feet on the ground and hold firm.

  “Forward!” Beorn cried.

  Miro and Bartolo led the counterattack. The defenders followed the figures in blazing armorsilk as they drove a wedge into the heart of the attackers. Revenants screamed as they were torn apart by whirling zenblades and dismembered by flashing steel. Even with so few of their weapons now lit with the fire of essence, the infantry drove hard into their enemy.

  Then the Hazarans struck from the sides, crushing attackers who’d been facing forward before they could turn to acknowledge the flashing scimitars of the horsemen. The Hazarans penetrated deep into the enemy ranks before wheeling back out to make another charge.

  Ever more revenants poured from the road between the trees into the open ground. The attackers struck back, and the force of their momentum was too great to hold.

  Suddenly soldiers in green and brown started falling on all sides. Revenants broke through the line to rampage among the Dunfolk.

  Miro led his men to push the enemy back, and with a mighty effort Beorn managed to reform the line of infantry. Once more the cavalry charged, and this time it looked like the Hazarans couldn’t get away.