The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  “We must leave immediately.”

  “I know.”

  Killian stared up at the white light. “The Lord of the Night is at Stonewater.”

  Early the next morning, the Crystal Palace thronged with activity as plans were made for the journey east. The open ground outside the palace became trodden with hooves and soldier’s boots; the officers and quartermasters huddled together making plans for food, shelter, and travel routes.

  Miro watched as two groups began to form. They’d decided to split their forces. The Hazarans were by far the fastest and would ride for the Gap of Garl and Aynar. If Stonewater was fallen by the time they arrived—and that was likely, for the journey was long—then the Hazarans would harass and slow the enemy, delaying them until the second, slower force could make it across Halaran and through the Azure Plains to Seranthia. This second force, comprised of Tingarans, Louans, Halrana, Alturans, and Veznans, would hopefully reach Seranthia in time to boost the city’s weakened defenses. Wherever he was, Sentar Scythran would be eager to reach the Sentinel.

  “You know what you must do?” Killian appeared uncomfortable addressing the kalif of the Hazarans.

  “Yes, Emperor. We will do our utmost to delay them until your arrival in Seranthia.”

  “I thank you, Kalif. The whole of the Empire is counting on you.”

  Ilathor nodded to Killian before walking over to speak with Jehral and a young Hazaran woman, finally mounting up on their waiting horses without another word.

  Killian’s face was white, and Miro could only imagine what he must be thinking. It wasn’t a long journey from Stonewater to Seranthia, and they’d all seen how difficult it was to slow this particular enemy. Killian had traveled through the portal to the wasted land of Shar. He knew what would happen to Merralya if Sentar claimed victory against the Empire and brought his brother Evermen home.

  Miro heard the rising clatter of approaching hooves, and men drew out of the way as a figure on horseback rode up. Miro was relieved when he saw Ella, her face set in a familiar mask of determination, but he could see that underneath she was having difficulty holding the mask in place.

  Ella wore her green silk dress and held the reins of a second horse in her left hand. She looked ready to travel, with packed saddlebags and a knapsack on her shoulder.

  “Ella,” Miro said, walking up to stand beside her horse. “What are you doing?”

  “The Hazarans will need help if they’re going to delay Sentar’s army for as long as we need them to. I’m lighter than any of the desert men, and I can ride faster, particularly if I change horses. The Akari will have seen Altura’s signal, and Ada, Dain Barden’s daughter, promised me she would convince her father to come. Their army should now be somewhere between Rosarva and Ralanast. I’m going to find the Akari, wherever they are, and divert them to Aynar so they can help the kalif and his men.”

  As Ella spoke, Miro saw Killian looking up at her with incredible intensity. By contrast, Ella avoided meeting Killian’s gaze altogether, keeping her green eyes firmly on Miro.

  Miro hesitated. “It’s a good idea. But not on your own, Ella. Please—take someone with you.”

  “No one can ride as fast as I can,” Ella said stubbornly.

  “That’s not true,” a female voice said.

  Turning to see who it was, Miro grinned as Shani stepped forward. “I can ride just as well as you can, and Bartolo’s healing fine. I’m coming with you.”

  Ella opened her mouth and then closed it again, before smiling. “All right. You can come. Provided you can keep up.”

  “I’ll have you know . . .” Shani began.

  “All right,” Miro forestalled her. “Three groups. Ella and Shani will try to find the Dain’s forces and divert the Akari. The Hazarans will do what they can to slow the revenants. The rest of us will make all speed to Tingara. We know Sentar’s eventual goal is Seranthia. We can’t afford long good-byes, but our hopes go with all of you.”

  41

  Time passed, days turning to weeks and the warmth of spring shifting to the long days and hot nights of summer. Across the Empire, fields ripened and careworn farmers prepared for the harvest; young birds grew to take their first flight; and men marched day and night, everyone heading east, always east.

  With summer came scents, some sweet and filling the senses with delight, others rancid and repellent.

  In Altura, with the last of the revenants incinerated, the scent of smoke and burning flesh finally came to be replaced with the fresh fragrance of summer flowers. A new odor wafted throughout Sarostar’s western quarter: the smell of wood shavings and fresh mortar. Soon, with time, the free cities Castlemere and Schalberg would see the same transformation.

  As always, in the icy north there was no smell at all. But with the army of Akari warriors heading south, the summer heat would begin to take its toll. The Dain’s necromancers were busy.

  In Petrya’s north the Hazaran riders’ noses were filled with dust and dung; with their horses traveling night and day there was little else to fill the senses.

  In Seranthia the scent was fear. Stonewater must have fallen by now, and Aynar, the land of the templars, with it. Those who’d disbelieved the Alturan high lord’s words now said they’d believed him all along. The shadow of night hung over the Imperial capital.

  Fearful eyes looked out at the walled tower standing on the tiny island barring Seranthia’s harbor. The Sentinel waited.

  At Stonewater, the spiritual heart of the Empire, a man in elegant black clothing clutched the stone wall at his side as he fought the buffeting winds to climb the last few steps to the summit of the mountain.

  He scowled as he took in the worn decorations where once intricate designs displayed scenes of beauty. The steps themselves were rounded and broken; in his day the marble had been crisp and lustrous. Soon, he vowed, he would restore Stonewater to its former glory.

  Finally, Sentar Scythran reached the summit, seeing the circular flat space crowning the mountain. He walked forward to stand in the middle of the plateau, high above it all. His crimson hair shone in the light, but the sun touched neither his ice-blue eyes, nor the streaks of black hair at his temples. He inhaled deeply and felt his spirits soar for the first time since he’d returned to Merralya.

  The memories came flooding back. He remembered standing with his brothers, formed in a circle in this very place as they discussed the war with the humans. Pyrax Pohlen had suggested guarding the knowledge kept here with a barrier. Sentar spoke out against the idea, to suggest that the humans could win the war filled him with disgust at his brothers’ cowardice. Yet Varian Vitrix agreed with Pyrax’s suggestion: the vault, the temple-like chamber at the top of the mountain, kept many of their secrets. They took a vote, and the Pinnacle came into being.

  The Lord of the Night now glared at the ruins of the vault, just a pile of fallen stones. Now the greatest works of lore would never be remembered.

  But when Sentar Scythran brought his brothers back, things would be as they once were. They would restore Stonewater: the slaves would work night and day until it was more glorious than ever before. Together they would build new wonders, and with breeding humans kept captive, supplies of essence would be guaranteed. Once more they would open the way to new worlds, but this time it wouldn’t be to go into forced exile. The next time they entered another world, they would be ready. Merralya would fall, and then world after world would follow. Perhaps another, more compliant race would come to provide fuel for the war machine. Nothing would stand in their way.

  Sentar felt determination settle over him as he stood high on the summit of the solitary mountain that was Stonewater. He gazed out at the town of Salvation, a place he’d decided to leave standing. Most of Aynar’s population had fled north, but many stayed to bask in his glory. Sentar now had priests and templars at his beck and call, and a few demonstrations of his power ensured everyone knew who their god was. He had taken back his rightful place.

  In time
, he would work to ensure only the dead were allowed to serve. But for now, it felt good to be loved.

  His eyes again flickered to the ruined structure that had once stood at the summit of the mountain. Sentar’s scowl slowly faded, for when his brothers returned, they would build as well as destroy. They would erect vats in every city of the Empire; they would breed the humans in numbers, and they would have a constant supply of essence and an endless source of revenant slaves.

  He’d learned from Shar. Never again would he be in a position where there were no more bodies for the vats.

  As he slowly turned and drank in the view, Sentar caught sight of approaching figures, climbing up the last few steps to meet him. An older necromancer in gray robes led four templars, with two tall revenants bringing up the rear.

  Sentar smiled and walked over to the templars.

  “Kneel,” Sentar commanded.

  Three of the templars, all in white robes decorated with a black sun, fell to their knees. An older templar whose robe was lined with gold trim remained standing.

  “Why do you not kneel?” Sentar inquired.

  “I am the primate. And you are no god,” the plump old man said.

  “Then why are you primate?” Sentar sneered. “I am the Lord of the Night! Who do you worship now?”

  “We don’t worship; we ponder. We teach. The force that makes us know right from wrong doesn’t come from outside—it comes from within. It is something we humans have developed, and continually strive to understand.” The primate’s eyes saddened. “It took us too long to learn this.”

  Sentar lunged forward and gripped the primate around the neck. The three templars whimpered and cowered, but even with Sentar’s hand on his throat, the primate simply rested his weary gaze on Sentar.

  “You had your chance,” Sentar said to the primate. “Renrik,” he spoke to the necromancer. “Toss your knife at the feet of our three friends here.”

  A short dagger clattered to the stone. The three kneeling templars looked down at the knife with fear before returning their wide-eyed gaze to Sentar.

  “Now, there’s just one knife, and there are three of you,” said Sentar, glancing down at them with his hand still clutching the old primate’s throat. “Whoever ends this one’s life first can live and serve me. The rest of you . . . well, you’ll see.”

  The three kneeling men exchanged glances, and then there was a mad scramble as they fought each other for the knife. The youngest of the three elbowed one of his fellows in the face and then punched the other in the gut. He grabbed the knife and from a kneeling position, he thrust into the belly of the struggling old man in Sentar’s grip.

  Blood spurted out from the wound, staining the young templar’s white robe. The red liquid slid off Sentar’s own clothing, unable to cling to the fabric.

  “Now, use the knife on your fellows,” Sentar said as the primate writhed and moaned. “Be still!” he said to the dying old man, whose twitching was making it difficult for Sentar to maintain his hold.

  After another scrabble filled with grunts and moans, the other two templars were dead. With a heave of his lore-enhanced muscles, Sentar lifted the wriggling primate higher and then tossed him into the air.

  Renrik had seen this all before, but the young templar was awestruck as Sentar chanted and called forth elemental air from his hands, whirling the primate above all of their heads. Finally Sentar threw him sailing over the edge of Stonewater’s summit, tossing the old man from the mountain without bothering to watch him fall.

  “Who am I?” Sentar demanded as he dusted his hands.

  The young man in white robes bowed down to the ground in a satisfying way as the dripping knife fell out of his hands. “You . . . you are the Lord of the Night.”

  “That is correct. What am I?”

  “A god.”

  “Excellent. You can live. Your first order is to clean up this mess.”

  “At once, Nightlord.”

  “Renrik, come with me.”

  The exercising of his power gave Sentar a sense of satisfaction, banishing his disgust at the sight of what the humans had done to Stonewater with their misuse and neglect. Sentar walked to the border of the plateau and felt the wind tear at his shirt as Renrik joined him at the edge.

  “Do you think they fell for it, Renrik?” Sentar asked the leader of his necromancers. Sentar smiled; he was in a good mood. “Are they leaping around this Empire with no plan of where to go next?”

  Renrik played with the circle of bones around his neck as he spoke. “Who can say, Nightlord?” Renrik said. “We’ll only know when we reach Seranthia.”

  “Divide and conquer,” Sentar said. “Divide, and divide again. Splitting our fleet was as a stroke of genius, was it not?”

  “It was, Nightlord.”

  Rejoining the second naval force had also given Sentar a chance to recover from his battle with Evrin Evenstar, though he didn’t say it. The voyage had been long, but it had been time used well. He was ready.

  Sentar had built lore into his ships that kept them cool and prevented the revenants from rotting away, even as they sailed past the Hazara Desert and into the Gulf of Aynar. Unchallenged, he’d disembarked the revenants close to Stonewater while the fleet, now much swifter with loads emptied, set sail again for Seranthia.

  There hadn’t been much of a defense mounted at Salvation or Stonewater. The templars and Tingaran legionnaires had fought with desperation, but in the end Sentar was victorious, as he knew he would be.

  “We now enter the next phase of the plan,” Sentar said. “I want you to lead the army—all of the warriors we have here at Stonewater—north. Take the king of Nexos, Gorain, with you. He is a capable general and a strong fighter; few can stand in his way. Your goal is to draw them to you. Lay siege to Seranthia. Tie them up. While we’ve been fighting here, the fleet will have rounded the cape and will now be awaiting my arrival on the eastern coast. I will defeat their navy, open the portal, and bring my brothers home. This emperor will have to choose between defending his capital and trying to prevent me reaching the Sentinel. The humans are nearly done as a force. Only we will prevail.”

  “As you will it, Nightlord.” Renrik bowed.

  Sentar Scythran once more gazed out at his new lands. He would wipe the human-built city of Seranthia from the face of the world, but Stonewater would form the heart of the new order.

  The thought of standing in this very place once more with his brother Evermen filled him with excitement. They would acknowledge that Sentar had been right all along. They would know they had been correct to put their trust in him to guard the portal. Sentar would be supreme, even among his kind.

  “One force for the west,” Sentar said. “By now, Altura is conquered. One force for the east, led by you, my trusted Renrik. A third and final force for Tingara’s harbor and the portal, led by me. Divide, and divide again.”

  “Yes, Nightlord.”

  “Renrik, I must ask you: Will the Akari, who were once my people, join in the fight against me? Or will they serve again?”

  “They will side with the Empire, Nightlord.”

  Sentar frowned. “Against me? Even in the face of inevitable defeat?”

  “Those necromancers who would follow are already with us. But I have a plan, Nightlord. There is one in their number I have turned to our cause. The Akari will be neutralized.”

  “Excellent, Renrik. You are ahead of me for a change.”

  “It is my will to serve.” Renrik bowed.

  “And Renrik?” Sentar frowned down at the plain. “Those shining lights offend my senses. Send some men to those towers; knock them all down.”

  “I will see it done.”

  42

  Ella and Shani rode into the border town of Mourie, located between Halaran and Loua Louna, the hooves of their horses clattering on the cobbled stones, fatigue pulling at their shoulders.

  It was market day in Mourie, a scene of strange normality as men and women in a variety of
costumes hurried to and fro with goods in their hands and pouches of gilden at their belts. The scurrying townsfolk turned and stared in astonishment as Ella pushed her mount in between the drudge-pulled carts and picked her way around the stalls. Most had never seen a horse before, and the two women gathered attention as they rode to the market’s heart.

  The town square was framed by a tower and a cluster of buildings. Ella rode directly for the center and pulled up, her horse whinnying as she pulled on the reins to draw it to a halt.

  “Oh no,” Shani muttered under her breath. “Here we go again.”

  Ella pointed her hand in the air, and a beam of bright golden light shot out of her wand. The townsfolk screamed and gasped; she had their attention.

  “People of Loua Louna and lands far from here, I have news,” Ella called.

  Soon there were hundreds of people around them as the crowd gathered to see what this strange young woman had to say.

  “You may have heard about the enemy from across the sea. If you have not, then be warned, for this enemy is unlike anything our Empire has faced before. I come directly from Altura, my homeland, which has only survived a great onslaught by the barest margin, thanks to the combined efforts of the houses. The free cities are gone. Sarostar is partly destroyed. I am Ella Torresante, and Miro, high lord of Altura, is my brother.”

  The people gasped as they heard the news, exchanging glances as women pulled children close, and all wondered how this affected them.

  “We fight a force of ultimate evil, bent on destroying every house, not just Altura, but Loua Louna as well. This enemy will not rest until the Empire is gone.”

  Ella paused to take a breath and frowned as she caught Shani rolling her eyes.

  “We now know that the battle for Altura was just part of the struggle. We believe we only faced a part of their forces in the west. A second force traveled by ship to the lands in the east. Their next target became clear when Aynar sent a call for help, but it was a call we were unable to answer. By now the enemy has undoubtedly conquered Stonewater.”