A knot of revenants countercharged, blocking the way forward, but then two tall black figures charged into their midst. Monsters of metal and cloth, with a thin red slit for eyes, for once they were fighting on the same side as Miro. A flail curled around a revenant, tearing it to pieces as a sword as dark as night stabbed through another. Lurching and twisting, the two Imperial avengers smashed through the cluster of enemy resistance.
Suddenly there were Tingarans in purple fighting side by side with men in green.
Pushing forward as the hail of orbs broke the horde into smaller groups, more avengers came to take the battle directly to the enemy’s heart. Miro searched for opponents, but the attack was too much for the enemy; the last knot broke in a burst of red liquid, and then there were no more revenants to be seen.
Miro jumped up on top of a wall and climbed to a storehouse roof. Gazing out, he saw the dirigibles and Altura’s heroes head farther out until they were past the city, and then past the rubble of the fallen wall. The wedge of glowing swords moved farther out, heading toward the forest, and then they were gone from sight altogether.
Miro felt tears running down his cheeks as he saw the dirigibles circle back toward Sarostar.
Sarostar, the city of the nine bridges, had made it through.
The Louans had come. The Tingarans had come.
As high lord, Miro’s duty was to protect his people, to keep them safe from enemies. He’d known the enemy was coming, and he’d fought beyond all endurance.
Miro slumped down, falling to his knees on the storehouse roof, and his zenblade fell out of his hands; his armorsilk went dark.
Altura had survived.
39
With renewed vigor the allies scoured the land. And this time, no one died. Altura’s fallen heroes hunted down the last of the necromancers and revenants until there were no more to be found. At the end, with Ella’s help, the energy left the warriors’ bodies, the runes faded, and then they were at peace again.
Ella ensured every last man was buried once more with honor. Word spread, and soon everyone knew it was Ella who, with High Enchanter Merlon’s help, had brought back the bladesingers to fight again.
Ignoring their stares and murmurs, Ella searched for Miro. She went to the palace first and found Amber. After a brief embrace, Amber directed her to the city gardens, near the river.
Ella finally found her brother talking with a Louan artificer at the place where many of the pilots had chosen to set their dirigibles down.
Miro had his mouth open, an expression of consternation on his face, but whatever he’d been about to say, he stopped when he saw his sister.
“Ella,” he said.
Ella pulled him close and held him hard. “You did it,” she whispered into his ear. She felt wetness on her cheeks and, holding him back, she saw the glint of moisture in his eyes.
“You did it too,” Miro said.
“No, Miro,” Ella said, “it was you.”
“We lost so many,” Miro whispered.
“I heard about Beorn,” Ella said. “I’m sorry. He was a good man.”
“The very best,” said Miro. He coughed and turned away, gathering himself before returning to his sister.
“So much destruction,” said Ella, looking over the city.
“But we’ll rebuild. We evacuated the free cities, and we’ll rebuild Castlemere and Schalberg. It’ll take a long time, but we’ll get there.”
“You’ll do it.” Ella nodded.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand, though,” Miro said, “and I’m still waiting to find out.” He turned to the short middle-aged Louan woman standing nearby, and his puzzled expression returned. “Artificer Touana, why did you come?”
“Why did we come?” Touana looked confused, glancing at each of them in turn. “I don’t understand. We received your gilden, and we rushed your order through.”
“Gilden?” Miro said. “What gilden?”
“Your agent brought it to us. What was his name . . . ? He was from the free cities. A strange name. Hermen, yes that’s it. Hermen Tosch.”
Ella stared at the Louan artificer. “What did you just say?”
“Hermen Tosch brought your gilden. Quite a lot of it.”
Ella thought about her last words with the trader. Hermen had come through for them. He’d given up the wealth he’d taken a lifetime to accumulate, and he wasn’t even here for her to thank him.
Miro smiled as he glanced at Ella. “You have some good friends.”
“Bartolo,” Ella suddenly said. “How is he?”
“Grumbling,” said Miro. “Angry that he missed the last of the fighting.”
“Sounds like Bartolo.”
“I’m going to head back to the palace. Are you coming?”
“No,” Ella said. “I think I need some time to myself.”
“I understand. Don’t be too long. The emperor’s going to be here soon, and I’m sure he’s anxious to see you.”
Ella nodded and kissed Miro’s cheek before leaving him behind. She walked through the city and crossed Singer’s Bridge, her path taking her to the partly destroyed western quarter.
The inhabitants of Sarostar were returning in a steady stream, soldiers and civilians alike working together to pick through the bodies, some searching for loved ones and others piling revenants onto burning pyres. The battlefield was the worst, littered with bodies, but at least there were more enemy dead than allied soldiers: most of the fallen defenders had already been taken away.
Ella moved through the fallen, wishing she’d done more, sooner. Soldiers and citizens bowed their heads to her as she walked, but she wished they wouldn’t. All of the fallen had parents and children, brothers and sisters. They would remember this day forever.
Then Ella saw a small body, incongruous among so many bigger corpses. Her heart skipped a beat as she rushed forward.
Ella knelt by the little woman, heedless of the mud and blood, and for a moment she could only put her hand to her mouth and stare.
Layla’s small features made her look more childlike than ever before, yet her ruddy skin was now a sickly shade of yellow-white. Red liquid pooled beneath her body, mingling with the mud. Ella wanted her to look peaceful, but she didn’t. She looked as if she’d died in pain.
Ella looked down at Layla’s eyes, open and sightless, and as she closed the lids, she fought back a sob. She smoothed the hair back from Layla’s brow.
Ella picked Layla up in her arms and stood. The Dunfolk healer’s body was so light, it was as if the shell she was now had lost weight when life left her.
As Ella headed back to Sarostar with Layla clutched to her breast, she avoided looking at the deep wound across Layla’s abdomen. Her friend deserved better than to die on the battlefield, on the very doorstep to the forest home she loved.
Ella was dimly aware of night closing in as she climbed a bridge and walked through the city. Lights came on at some of the windows, but still Ella walked, the load nearly weightless in her arms, her footsteps carrying her toward the Crystal Palace.
A tall bearded man in loose black clothing met her outside the gates.
Ilathor looked at the small body in Ella’s arms before meeting Ella’s eyes. “Ella,” he said gently, “she’s dead.”
“No,” Ella said, “she can’t be.”
“Let me take her from you . . .”
“No!”
Ilathor’s arms dropped at his sides. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Please go,” Ella said.
Ilathor sighed. “Just remember,” he said, “I came.”
Ella nodded blankly, and Ilathor walked away, leaving her holding Layla’s body in her arms.
Ella had no plan, and she wondered what to do. The palace wasn’t Layla’s home. She should be with her people.
Ella left the Crystal Palace behind and walked through the city’s northern quarter, finally seeing trees up ahead. She picked a path into the forest, moving deeper into the tre
es.
Suddenly, there was a little man standing in front of her. His features were wizened with age, and his limbs were scrawny.
The Tartana of the Dunfolk regarded Ella with sorrow.
“Leave her with us,” he said.
Ella saw more Dunfolk emerge from the trees. The small figures came forward and took Layla from Ella’s reluctant arms. As they vanished back into the forest, Ella realized she would never see her friend again. The Tartana came forward to take Ella’s hand.
“Why did she have to die?” Ella said. She struggled to hold back the tears.
“She made a choice to stand with you. Many of my people did not. You must honor her choice. She is now with the Eternal.”
“With the Eternal?” Ella cried. “What does that even mean? Show me the Eternal. Where is he—or she or it? Show me!”
“Layla touched the world with her spirit, and now her spirit will rejoin the earth. Miss her, yes. But please do not cry for her. Remember her with a smile.” The Tartana grinned. “I knew Layla. She would like that.”
“Must it be so hard?” Ella didn’t know exactly what she was referring to.
“I know you, Ella, and I know the Eternal works within you, whether you realize it or not. You will continue your struggle because the world is out of balance. You can draw on that force whenever you feel lost or without courage. Trust in the Eternal, and you will have the strength to go on. Now, it is time for you to return to your people. We will bury her under a tree, and whenever you want, you can come to Loralayalana to speak with her.”
Emotion threatened to overwhelm Ella again, but she pushed it down. “I want to speak with her now,” she whispered.
“Before you can, the balance in the world must be restored. I see something in you telling me it will be you who plays a defining role in the new order to come. Go, Ella. Remember Layla with a smile. Fight for the life she died to protect.”
Miro sat on the bed beside Tomas, watching the child sleep. He found he kept touching his son to see if he was real. Perhaps he was also reminding himself he was still alive. He looked up and saw Amber close the door behind her.
“How are you?” Amber murmured.
“Shh,” Miro said, looking down at the child. “He’s sleeping.”
“Miro, listen to me. You have to grieve. Beorn was by your side since the beginning. He was the first officer to follow you after the defeat at Ralanast. He stood by your side as you took command at Mornhaven. He helped you liberate Halaran, and he was the first man to call you high lord.”
Miro turned red eyes on Amber. “I am grieving. Can’t you tell?”
“Please, husband, don’t let this struggle change you. I’m your wife. I see all sides of you. I know you better than anyone, particularly those men who worship you, seeing you at the front of every battle.”
Miro opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He tried to cry but couldn’t. Amber held him close as he thought about all the men he’d lost—so many it made the war against the primate pale in comparison. He thought about the fear that had been so constant he couldn’t, even now, let it go. At the very end, he knew he’d given up. If Bartolo hadn’t fallen and Shani hadn’t needed his help, he knew he would have killed revenants until he fell under the weight of their numbers.
Miro tried, but he couldn’t let the tears come. Instead, he drew in a long, shaking breath.
“Come on,” Amber said, pulling him up. “Tomorrow we’ll give Beorn the service he deserves. The emperor is here and he wants to see you.”
As Amber led Miro away from Tomas’s room Miro tried to ignore her eyes. “The Veznans,” he said, “how did you get them to come?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Amber said. “I’ll tell you about it some other time.”
Miro nodded, but his mind was already whirling once more. He pulled away from Amber when he saw an enchantress, a woman in a green silk dress.
“High Lord?” she said when he touched her shoulder.
Miro gave her an instruction. “The green light,” he said. “It’s time to stop the signal.”
“At once.” The enchantress nodded and sped away.
Miro put on his high lord’s face, and he went out to greet the emperor.
40
As the first evening stars sparkled high above Sarostar, the citizens turned out to give homage to the fallen. Carrying candles, the city folk walked in groups to stand together on the nine bridges, now scrubbed clean, the smears of red gone. Parents clutched children close, and husbands and wives held hands. The lights of the Crystal Palace began their evening display of colors, and the fountains shot high into the air, water reflecting the shimmering colors as it tumbled back to the ground.
Where riverboats once filled the green waters of the Sarsen, the river that wound through Sarostar’s heart now became filled with rafts. The wooden platforms drifted ponderously through the city before the current took them south, where the river would eventually empty into the Great Western Ocean. A fallen defender lay on his back on each raft, a wreath of flowers clutched to his—or her—bosom, and all were sent on their final journey in this way, whether Alturan, Halrana, Hazaran, or Veznan.
Miro spoke, and afterward he never remembered the words he said. He only remembered his people shedding tears for the fallen, their eyes raised heavenward in gratitude to know they were alive.
As Amber took Miro’s hand and led her husband back to the Crystal Palace, a man called out from the crowd.
“Thank you, High Lord.”
Miro nodded to the man as words failed him. More calls came down from the bridges, and then a sigh rose from the common people, who wept even as they celebrated the survival of their home.
“Remember this moment,” Amber said.
That night, Miro and Killian assembled a hasty war conference at the Crystal Palace. With the rulers of four houses present, as well as the emperor, it was time to seek answers to grave questions and make important decisions about the future.
The biggest questions of all remained unanswered. Where was Sentar Scythran? Was the war over?
Ilathor and Jehral debated with Miro and Tiesto. Touana looked on with calculating eyes but said little. Grigori of Vezna looked repentant. Killian tried to keep the dialogue productive. Ella was conspicuously absent.
As the arguments became heated, Miro finally went out to the fountains to think. Looking east, in the direction of Halaran and Tingara, he felt the loss of Beorn more fiercely than ever. Drawing his gaze, the three-legged tower nearby loomed over the Crystal Palace. The pyramid of quartz at the apex was now dark.
Miro saw Killian, dressed in tailored clothing of black and gray, leave the palace and come to join him outside.
“Emperor, I must thank you again for coming,” Miro said.
“We came as quickly as we could.”
“The men took heart from your arrival. I don’t think we would have won the day without the news.”
“Hearts win battles, as well as minds,” Killian said.
Miro turned to regard the new emperor. He didn’t know Killian well, but there was something likeable about him. He appeared to possess a store of wisdom despite his youth. Miro then realized the two of them were probably close to the same age. With all he’d seen, Miro felt like an old man.
Thinking about old men made Miro think about Evrin.
“I’m sorry about Evrin,” Miro said.
“He gave himself that we all might live. I now believe it was his plan all along . . . to sacrifice himself to kill Sentar. I also believe he only showed a part of himself to the world, to us, and I think he never lost the guilt he felt. How is Ella?”
“Bad,” Miro said. “We both lost loved ones. Have you spoken with her?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
Miro and Killian looked to the east, in the direction of Tingara together. “We should expect the worst,” Miro said. “There were supposed to be three of these pirate kings, and we only fought two. There was no great sto
re of essence. Sentar himself was absent. We haven’t seen the end of it.”
“I agree,” Killian said. “With most of the Legion absent from Seranthia . . .”
Killian suddenly stopped speaking, and both men went rigid. The signal tower in front of them began to glow, the prism sparking from within until light radiated outward, shining with a bright, unquestionably fierce light.
Miro drew in a sharp breath. How could it be?
Someone was requesting help.
“Lord of the Sky,” Miro whispered.
“The color . . . is it . . . ?”
“Yes. They’re under attack.”
The prism was white, the color of the Assembly of Templars. The color could only mean one thing: Aynar was under attack. Stonewater would be the next to fall.
“Could it be a ruse?” Killian asked.
“Only someone at Stonewater can put out the signal from the key reflector, and only the primate knows the activation sequence. For it to be false, either the primate would have to be turned, or someone with my sister’s knowledge of lore would have to break the coded sequence.”
“What do you think?” Killian said.
Miro let out a breath. “It’s real. Evrin always told us to be wary of Sentar’s cunning. And you, Emperor?”
“It can only mean one thing: he split his forces,” Killian said. “This whole time we’ve been wondering whether it will be the east or the west, and in the end . . . it’s both.”
“Scratch it, we’ve only faced part of his army.” Miro cursed. “Can Stonewater hold for long?”
“There’s a division of the Legion there, as well as a few thousand templars.”
“You know that won’t hold them.”
“No,” Killian said. “It won’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Miro said. “You’ve come here to help, and now it’s the east that needs us.”
“I have no regrets. I believe that anywhere the Empire is breached, we must go to help. When we leave, will you come?”
“Our forces aren’t what they once were,” Miro said, “but of course we’ll come. No one should face this enemy alone.”
The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) Page 28
