The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  “Hold the line!” Miro cried.

  “Wait, look,” Bartolo said, gasping as he regained his breath, pointing ahead at the forest. “The trees. Why fell them now?”

  The tops of the foremost trees swayed, though there was no breeze. Miro heard the sound of breaking branches and then his eyes narrowed.

  “Those aren’t trees,” Miro said.

  Behind the revenant army, the forest came to life.

  37

  Amber immediately took in the battlefield. She saw the broken wall, now reduced to rubble, and the small knot of soldiers in the center of the field, the last of the army in green and brown. She watched the Hazaran riders charge the flanks and become embroiled with the revenants, unable to pull away. The battle was about to be lost.

  She couldn’t see Miro, or Ella. The field was littered with bodies; even those standing were covered in mud and blood. Amber’s homeland needed her.

  Amber clutched onto High Lord Grigori’s shoulder and cried out. “We need to help them!”

  Grigori nodded grimly and issued a series of swift commands.

  The Veznans left the protection of the forest and charged.

  Twenty Veznan nightshades and a thousand infantry pushed through the trees to smash into the army from behind.

  Unarmed, Amber stuck close to the nightshades, weaving in between their legs as they plucked warriors up off the ground and tore the bodies into pieces like a child tearing petals from a flower. The Veznans carved a direct path for the defenders but soon even the warriors in orange became embroiled as the revenants’ numbers told.

  Amber could see horsemen to her left and right and infantry ahead of her. She saw a small group of bladesingers, whirling and dashing forward to push back the fiercest attacks and hold the line. The Veznans made it through to the Alturans, and the defenders gave a ragged cheer.

  The battlefield cleared as the enemy pulled away and once more regrouped, while the defenders formed into a new line.

  Amber’s arrival had saved the moment, but it wasn’t enough to save the day.

  “Amber!” Miro cried, pushing through to her.

  “I’m sorry,” Amber said, “We came as quickly as we could.”

  “You did well,” said Miro. “Lord of the Sky, I’m happy to see you.” He pulled her close, ignoring the men around them. “I need you to go to the palace now. There are horses there. Take one and ride for Mornhaven.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Amber said. “Don’t even suggest it.”

  “Amber, go. You need to take care of Tomas.”

  “Tomas is with Amelia. She knows what to do. She’ll take him somewhere safe, and we can join him later.”

  Miro kissed her lips. “No. I need you to take care of Tomas, not Amelia.”

  “Here they come!” someone yelled.

  “Go, please,” Miro said.

  “Come with me!” Amber said, tears running down her face.

  “My place is here. I can’t leave.” Miro gave her a gentle push. Amber looked back at him one last time and then ran in the direction of the city.

  Bartolo rejoined Miro’s side. As the two men awaited the enemy’s charge, hearts pounding and swords readied, time stretched out, and Miro saw that for the first time there weren’t more warriors pouring out of the forest. They were facing the last of the force from the ships.

  Scanning the line of defenders, Miro saw that even with the nightshades and fresh Veznan infantry, their numbers were still not enough.

  They’d come so close.

  “I wish my wife would leave too,” Bartolo said.

  “If I left, who would save your life?” Shani said beside him.

  Bartolo rolled his eyes. “She rescued me at the pass. I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

  Miro smiled as he looked from one face to the other, remembering them. This was it: the end. They all knew it.

  Scanning the battlefield, Miro saw the Hazarans now grouped together on the left. In that direction was the closest route out of the city. The kalif was being true to his word, and would fight this last battle, but he was preparing the way out. Miro hoped the rest of the Empire would succeed where he had failed.

  Half the Veznan nightshades had fallen as they charged the enemy rear; even now Miro could see gnarled trunks twitching on the mud. The Veznan infantry stood side by side with Miro’s soldiers.

  Five houses had worked together to defend Miro’s homeland. When had such a combined effort last taken place? More than likely when the humans first fought to depose the Evermen. Miro was glad he’d seen it in his lifetime.

  Miro saw Beorn hold a sword in the air and fix him with a rare grin. In another direction Master Goss had one arm limp at his side, his green sleeve dripping blood to the ground, while his other hand clutched a silver wand. High Lord Tiesto Telmarran stood with the last of his soldiers. The Halrana were steadfast to the end.

  Miro met Bartolo’s eyes and nodded. He looked along the shining length of his zenblade. Ella had made it for him. He only regretted that he couldn’t see her now.

  Miro commenced his song.

  The activation rune sparked first, the glow traveling to the next symbol along the blade, colors lighting each rune in turn until the zenblade shone with a brilliant gleam. Interspersed in the song were sequences to bring Miro’s armorsilk to life, to cloak Miro’s body and make him as ethereal as a shadow. Beside him he saw Bartolo’s blade turn blue, and Bartolo’s form also shimmered as his voice rose in a sturdy baritone.

  The strange distortion of time ended. Everything became fast again.

  The enemy charged.

  Miro roared and threw himself at his foes. He ducked an axe and cleaved a tall barbarian in two. Weaving to the side, he shot up and tore a revenant woman in half. Fireballs smashed into enemies before Miro could reach them, and he saw Shani send sizzling balls of flame to strike into faces and torsos. Bartolo leapt and danced among the revenants as he cut through them. In all directions there was fighting, with Veznan soldiers in orange fighting beside Alturans in green, Halrana in brown, and Hazaran horsemen smashing in from the side.

  Beorn led a charge to close a gap in the line, and then a huge revenant standing taller than the rest rammed his shoulder into the grizzled veteran and knocked him back. Beorn countered with his blade, but the revenant was faster, dodging and then thrusting a broadsword into Beorn’s chest. The blade emerged from Beorn’s back, and when it was withdrawn, blood gushed from Beorn’s mouth.

  Beorn’s eyes widened with agony, but his scream was lost in the gurgle of blood as he crumpled to the ground.

  Miro cried out and tried to fight his way to Beorn, but the press of the enemy kept him back. Master Goss of the Academy sent beams of golden light from his wand, but a rush of revenants swamped the enchanter, knocking him down to the ground, their axes and spiked maces breaking the enchanter’s body into a red and green mess.

  Miro fought like a man possessed, sending limbs and heads flying into the air with every stroke of his zenblade, but still they kept coming. Two nightshades smashed into the enemy in front of him, creating a momentary lull, and then Miro saw Shani.

  She stood over the fallen form of a man in green and across the battlefield she met Miro’s eyes.

  The pain in her gaze told Miro enough.

  Miro fought his way over, seeing Bartolo on his back with a shallow wound spurting blood through a tear in his darkened armorsilk. Seeing the fading runes, Miro realized Bartolo’s armorsilk must have needed renewal, and he hadn’t said a thing.

  “Please,” Shani begged, her eyes speaking volumes. “Please, Miro. Not like this.”

  Miro looked out at the battle and saw the attackers push forward relentlessly as the infantry fell back. Men fell, one after the other, and as Miro watched, the last of the nightshades crashed to the ground.

  Thoughts whirled through his mind. The battle was lost. Bartolo was down. Shani needed him.

  Miro made a decision, and he gave the order he nev
er wanted to give.

  “Back!” he cried. “Back to the bridges!”

  As the defenders took up the cry, Miro picked up Bartolo’s arms. “Take his legs,” he gasped.

  He sensed some of the infantry forming a defensive ring around him as they fled back to the city. The defenders fell as they ran; it was just too easy to cut a man down from behind. It wasn’t a retreat; it was a rout.

  They poured over the fallen rubble that had once been a defensive wall. Running and stumbling, Miro and Shani carried Bartolo through the buildings of Sarostar’s workshops and warehouses. Miro saw two elementalists in red robes running with them.

  Flames shot from the Petryans’ hands back in the direction of the chasing enemy. The death cries of soldiers sounded in all directions, and the revenants surged through the western quarter of the city, butchering any of the living they found.

  “Back to the bridges!” Miro heard the cry again and again. Across the bridges, on the other side of the river, lay the Crystal Palace and the Academy of Enchanters. Miro’s only hope was that Amber and Tomas had already fled. At the nine bridges of Sarostar they might buy some time, but the city was lost.

  “This way,” Miro grunted, indicating with his head as he and Shani carried the heavy bladesinger. They turned a corner, and ahead Miro spied Victory Bridge, a wide span of stone crossing the bubbling green water below. Miro heard clashes of steel behind him and eerie singing as a bladesinger defended him and Shani. Then they were on the bridge, climbing the endless steps, stumbling along the broad path between two stone rails.

  A soldier in green—Miro didn’t even know his name—pushed past Miro at the apex of the bridge. “High Lord, give him to me. I’ll take him.”

  Exhausted, Miro gave Bartolo’s arms to the Alturan soldier. Only then did he turn and watch the destruction of his city.

  The western quarter was overrun. Casting his gaze along the river, Miro saw defenders on all of the bridges he could see. Sarostar had no walls, but the nine bridges provided a defense of last resort. From the height of Victory Bridge, Miro saw thousands of fleeing defenders cross the bridges to the perceived safety across the river. Many turned back to stand with their fellows until they thronged the bridges like Sarostar on a feast day.

  Miro stood side by side with his fellow bladesinger and waited for the enemy to come.

  As he panted, knowing his city was lost, Miro saw a flash of light, but it came from the wrong direction. It wasn’t from a last prismatic orb, conserved until the end. It wasn’t the fire of an enchanted sword.

  It made no sense.

  A bright light sparked, coming from the direction of the Academy of Enchanters. Suddenly, an arc of radiance reached into the air to climb the sky, crossing the river, a bridge of light and glowing runes.

  Miro had seen this before: when Evrin Evenstar fought Sentar Scythran. He’d seen it at the ruins of the Bridge of Sutanesta.

  Miro was forced to turn his attention back to the fighting as the horde rushed Victory Bridge.

  38

  Ella glanced at High Enchanter Merlon, seeing he was also at a loss for words as they took in the destruction they’d wreaked at the site of the Heroes’ Cemetery. Upturned earth lay in piles beside each grave, the headstones strewn like victims of a fierce wind. In front of each marker a deep hole indicated where each man’s burial site had once been. These final resting places were final no more.

  A clutch of old men and women stood nearby with spades. Ella’s desperation had called them out of their homes. The stubborn Alturans who refused to leave their city glanced at Ella with mixed apprehension and awe.

  Shani’s mention of heroes had sparked the idea.

  Fifty of Altura’s finest swordsmen stood upright beside their graves. Some were recently dead—the fallen bladesingers from the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta—whereas others bore the marks of advanced decay. These warriors stood as they’d once stood in life: proud and tall, and they were undaunted by the wounds that had killed them. Each held a sword in his hand.

  Ella had used the forbidden lore of the Akari to bring them all back. Every warrior’s skin glowed with activated runes, and they stared at Ella with white eyes, already filling with blood. With High Enchanter Merlon’s help, she’d raised them to once more fight for Altura in death as they had in life.

  It was time to use the lore of the revenants against them.

  “Why are we here?” one of the men who’d been buried in his armorsilk spoke. His voice was soft, more of a whisper. The others fixed him with their eerie stares and then looked back at Ella.

  “Altura needs you,” Ella said. “The high enchanter and I have brought you back to help in our greatest hour of need. You, who fell in battle to defend us, we are asking you to fight again. We need your help . . .” Ella choked.

  High Enchanter Merlon called out a single activation rune: every sword in every hand was a replica of the others, even down to the inflection of the activation sequence.

  “Alitas!” the high enchanter cried.

  As the warriors’ swords lit up with fire, Ella heard shouts and crashes. She rushed to the riverbank and looked across the water to the city’s western quarter. She’d intended to run for the battlefield, but she saw she was too late. Making a swift decision, Ella dashed back to the high enchanter and snatched the flask out of his hands.

  His eyes widened in surprise. It was the last essence in Altura.

  Ella returned to the riverbank and cast her mind back to another river, at another time. She’d drawn from knowledge buried deep within her consciousness to build the runebridge. Her mind whirled as she thought about her falling city. Ella summoned power from deep within to calm her thoughts, and once more the lore came to her.

  Ella dipped her scrill into the essence and began to draw. She drew the first rune on a flat stone, activating it to give the symbol form, and the second so swiftly the liquid hung in the air. She created the third rune, connecting it before the whole thing could fall. With each stroke Ella chanted, each symbol activated and floating in the air as she built the next. She worked in a flurry, furiously, and then she took a step forward onto the growing bridge.

  Working faster now, Ella built step after step, ignoring the tumbling river splashing below. She climbed higher and could now see the enemy crowding the bank of the western quarter, barely held back by the defenders at the nine bridges.

  Then Ella was descending back down to the opposite bank. As she stepped off her creation she looked back and waved her arm into the air.

  With the swiftness of an arrow the dead heroes sped across the runebridge without pausing, glowing swords held in front of them. Fifty swordsmen—men who’d fought against the primate and served their house in the Rebellion—sped through Sarostar’s western quarter with weapons held high.

  As the last warrior stepped off the glowing bridge, it faded, as if it had never been.

  Miro cut down two more enemies, and then suddenly he had no more to face. Down on the wide banks of the western quarter, a new force smashed into the enemy, a wedge of glowing light fighting with savage intensity. The revenants . . . dissolved . . . as the blur of whirling blades tore flesh into bloody components. There was no stopping this new arrival. Miro had been in many battles, and he knew it when he saw it. Nothing could impede a force like this.

  As he watched from high on Victory Bridge, the wedge of warriors barely lost momentum as they sped through the revenants, leaving carnage behind them, tearing through enemy after enemy, leaving nothing but smears of red. Miro almost wiped his eyes as their efficient killing brought them closer. He had never seen anything like it, not even when his brother bladesingers had been at the height of their power.

  Miro and the bladesinger with him exchanged glances. Miro raised his sword above his head. This was the moment that came once in every battle; the time to throw the dice and fight on even in the face of terror.

  “Attack!” Miro cried.

  He ran back the way he’d com
e, down Victory Bridge, and leapt into the fray. He fought to emulate the surging warriors, and poured his heart and soul into his song, feeling the zenblade come alive in his hands and seeing the armorsilk on his forearms shine with brilliance.

  He tore through his opponents, and he heard another song join his own. Then he was fighting among them, and for the first time he realized who they were.

  With wonder Miro recognized Bladesinger Porlen and Bladesinger Huron Gower, men he’d seen fall in the war against the primate. Runes glowed on their skin as their fiery blades tore through the revenants. They were indomitable, agile, as fast as a bird in flight; Miro’s movements were slow and clumsy in comparison. The skills of these warriors, their lifetime of training and fighting, had combined with the lore of the Akari to create warriors beyond compare.

  The revenants still fought on; this enemy wouldn’t break—they would only stop when every last one was fallen. Yet Altura’s dead heroes broke them the way a scythe cuts through wheat, dispatching them in numbers; even the horde couldn’t touch this foe.

  Then Miro heard a strange whirring sound overhead.

  Looking up, he saw an incredible sight. The sky was full of dirigibles, hundreds of them clouding the sun as they shot overhead. Orbs rained down from their high sides, detonating one after the other, sending bursts of flame rolling through the alleys of Sarostar’s western quarter, wiping out the surging horde, destroying revenants in numbers.

  The Louan dirigible pilots, clean and sparkling in their blue uniforms, leaned out to call out to the defenders as they sped past. “The Legion is behind us! The Legion is coming!”

  Taking heart, all of the defenders on the bridges surged forward to leap back into the fray. Miro roared with triumph as he cut down his enemies, and then, with a surge of joy, he realized something.

  For the first time since the landing on the beaches, Miro had to search for enemies.