The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4)

by James Maxwell

  A few days ago, the white light of Stonewater’s distress call had abruptly ceased to shine from the towers. In the end, the decision was taken away. The land of Aynar, home of the Assembly of Templars, had fallen.

  Rogan heard soft footsteps and glanced back at the stairs to see Lady Alise approaching. He stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath, smoothing the wrinkles from his frown and calming himself.

  Rogan gave Alise a small bow in the eastern manner and was slightly amused to see her touch her lips and forehead like an Alturan.

  “I’m sorry, Rogan. I heard about what happened. There was nothing I could do. How are you?”

  “I don’t think it’s that I was dismissed, although telling me to my face would have been more honorable than sending a man with a scroll. It’s that they blame me for everything, from the emperor’s departure to the fact that half the Buchalanti went to Miro’s aid. No one likes being a scapegoat.”

  “I understand,” Alise said. “Don’t be bitter; they’re simply scared.”

  “I know,” Rogan said. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am old. But I’m not going home. When the time comes, I’ll fight, and this time I won’t have to stay back with the officers.”

  “My influence is waning,” Alise said. “It’s hard without Killian. I worry for him.”

  “I’m worried too,” Rogan said. “I left my wife and son in Altura.”

  “I’m sure they are well,” Alise said.

  “That’s what my head tells me,” Rogan said. He barked a laugh. “But a piece of paper in my hands would be better.”

  Alise smiled thinly. “Do you think we’re ready?”

  “Ready? No. Miro had the better fleet, but we know they were defeated, easily if the reports are true. First Altura called for help, and then Stonewater. We know Sentar Scythran is attacking on multiple fronts. All we can do is try to hold Seranthia and hold the harbor against a naval attack on the Sentinel.”

  “Is there anything more we can do?”

  Rogan fixed his gaze on Seranthia’s harbor. He could see the ships of the Imperial Navy as well as several Buchalanti vessels, keeping guard around the walled tower enclosing the statue.

  “There’s something you can do, yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “You will need to convince the others, but I don’t think it will be difficult. There’s no use waiting for the end. Seranthia was his goal all along, and the fall of Stonewater only proves it. I think we should send out the call. Let’s light the purple signal.”

  “I’ll see it done,” Alise said. “What will you do?”

  “I’m going to dig out my armorsilk,” Rogan said. He grinned. “It’s time for an old man to get back into shape.”

  44

  “Slow the enemy,” Ilathor muttered to Jehral. “Slow the enemy,” he repeated. “More easily said than done, my friend.”

  Reined in on a broad ridge, the two men watched the revenant horde covering the plain in front of them, coating the land like an insect swarm. A month of hard riding and here they were; they’d found the enemy somewhere in Tingara’s south. If this army reached Seranthia before the emperor, the city would fall.

  “We need to bite at their flanks and flee before they can give chase,” Jehral said. “Forming up to resist our charges will slow them. We can also put barriers in their way: trenches and rock falls, perhaps get some logs . . .”

  “What do Hazarans know of digging trenches?” Ilathor said.

  “We can learn, Kalif.”

  “It is our skill on horseback that is our greatest strength, not scrabbling at the earth like Toraks.”

  “Still, Kalif, I think . . .”

  Ilathor stood up in his stirrups and called out. “Form up in a line! We will charge their western flank.”

  “Kalif, the men are exhausted. Perhaps one night’s rest . . .”

  “Jehral, I have given the order. Come, fight by my side, my friend.”

  “Yes, Kalif,” Jehral said.

  Thousands of horsemen rode up to line the ridge, riders formed up side by side in one long line.

  “They know we’re here,” said Jehral.

  “Then let them tremble.”

  Ilathor held his sword aloft and his men followed suit, until every desert warrior clutched a curved scimitar above his head.

  Jehral prepared himself, rehearsing the activation sequence for his weapon, practicing techniques in his mind that would decapitate enemy warriors with heavy slashing blows.

  “Charge!”

  Ilathor waved his scimitar over his head and kicked his stallion into a gallop. Jehral spurred his gelding to keep up, and soon the thrill of the charge filled his spirit. Hooves thundered across the hard ground. Riders in black and yellow roared as they sped forward, their steeds eating up the earth as they rushed in a line that rapidly became a wedge, with the kalif leading from the point of the spear.

  Jehral saw the kalif deftly nudge his stallion in a slight direction change and realized Ilathor was heading for the cluster of black flags. Jehral saw their leader—a man in black-and-white checkers, wearing a three-cornered hat—call out a series of orders as he turned his men to face them. Jehral’s eyes widened. The man in black was a revenant, but he behaved like a man.

  With a heavy sense of dread, Jehral remembered Miro’s story of fighting Diemos, the king of Rendar. They’d never faced the last of the three kings. This must be Gorain, the king of Nexos. The revenants in black and white uniforms around him were his men.

  The Hazarans struck the enemy with their relentless charge, screams of men and horses filling the air and the ring of steel on steel clanging like temple bells. The enemy fell under the scimitars, and the horsemen surged ahead to fill the widening gap.

  Then Jehral saw Ilathor ahead, embroiled in the fighting, dispatching his enemies with strong blows of his muscled arm, but caught in the thick of the fray.

  “Kalif,” Jehral called, “pull back!”

  Jehral wasn’t sure whether Ilathor heard him or not, but the kalif continued pressing through the uniformed revenants, his knees on his stallion’s flanks taking him ever closer. Ilathor charged in a direct line for the black pirate king.

  The battle slowed to a vicious series of images, snarling revenants lunging up at the riders and Hazarans slashing with curved blades as Jehral fought with all his energy to reach the kalif. He felt revenants pressing him on all sides, grotesque visages tilted to look up at him to be met with crushing blows of his enchanted blade. He slashed down at a revenant, cleaving through its head, and then dispatched a tall warrior on his other side with a deep cut into the neck and chest. Jehral spurred his gelding forward, but the revenants were everywhere.

  Jehral saw the pirate king counter a blow from the kalif. Gorain’s moves were smooth and graceful as Ilathor then narrowly blocked his riposte. Jehral’s heart pounded as he saw the kalif was outclassed. This warrior moved as quickly as a bladesinger.

  The man in black and white grabbed the stallion’s bridle and pulled down, hard. Ilathor jerked back on the reins to bring his steed back up, but Gorain grimaced and thrust up at the kalif with a glowing sword of thin steel.

  Ilathor screamed as the blow struck the center of his chest, and then he slumped in the saddle.

  “The kalif!” Jehral cried.

  Jehral felt the revenants give ground as the Hazarans pushed forward to reach their leader. A brave horseman smashed his mount into the pirate king, but the rider was met with flashing steel that took the head off his mount. The man fell and Gorain’s followers hacked at the Hazaran’s body. Jehral finally reached the kalif and cut away the clawing revenants as he took hold of Ilathor’s reins in his hand. He wheeled and with a sense of relief felt the stallion come with him.

  “Fall back!” Jehral said. The men took up the cry around him, and with a valiant effort the Hazarans pulled free of the enemy’s grip and wheeled back out of the fray. They rode at full gallop, and their slower enemy didn’t give chase.

>   The horses fled with frantic terror, but Jehral didn’t halt the mad flight until they’d reached the safety of the temporary camp in the hills. He swiftly issued orders from the saddle, relieved when the men didn’t question his command.

  As Jehral reined in at the camp, he saw Zohra rush forward. He slipped off his horse and took Ilathor in his arms. Together with another warrior, they carried the stricken kalif back to his tent as Zohra hovered around them.

  Lying Ilathor on his back in the center of his tent, Zohra tore Ilathor’s clothing back to reveal an ugly wound in his chest. Blood spurted out of a gash the length of a man’s hand.

  “Bring me clean cloth and boiling water, and fetch my bag from my tent,” Zohra instructed. “Quickly!”

  Jehral leapt to do her bidding.

  He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the kalif died. The tribes were fractious, and there were no other candidates for the leadership of House Hazara.

  Jehral didn’t want to think about the fate of Ilathor, his friend.

  He exited the tent, and the tarn leaders came rushing forward.

  “What news?”

  “Is he dead?”

  Jehral held up a hand. “He has been wounded. My sister is treating him. He will live.” He hoped the words were true.

  “What do we do?”

  “I am taking command,” Jehral said. He directed his gaze at the first of the tarn leaders. After a long pause the man slowly nodded. Jehral looked at each in turn until all had nodded.

  “We will follow you while the kalif recovers,” Saran of Tarn Salima said.

  Jehral nodded. “Our strategy is to harass the enemy to slow them. There will be no more wild charges. We must fight this foe with cunning and guile. We must conserve our men and bring them out of each battle ready to face the enemy again at a moment’s notice. Do you all understand?”

  “Yes, Jehral of Tarn Teharan.”

  “Good. Then let’s get to it.”

  Two days later, Jehral returned to the camp with blood on his hands and an arm heavy from wielding a sword. With the kalif wounded, the desert warriors had consented to his leadership, though he knew it would be a different case if Ilathor died. Without the kalif’s strong rule to be counted on in the future, the tribes would once more fragment.

  Jehral was succeeding at his task. He was managing to slow the enemy, but if Ilathor died, he knew nothing would stop these men going home to the desert.

  A Hazaran’s first concern was always for his horse, and Jehral’s gelding looked as fatigued as he felt himself. He removed the saddle and under blanket while the horse slurped at a bucket of water. Jehral ran a short-toothed comb over his horse’s coat, removing dust, blood, and bits of flesh and bone.

  Hobbling the gelding, Jehral took the bucket away, lest he drink too much, and washed the blood from his own face and neck, finally scrubbing his hands to remove the last vestiges of red, before hurrying to the kalif’s tent.

  Jehral stopped in the entrance as he looked in.

  Ilathor was awake.

  Zohra had a cloth pressed to the kalif’s brow, and they were talking softly. The kalif’s color had returned, and though he moved with care, it seemed he would live.

  Jehral watched for a moment as his sister said something and Ilathor’s lips curled in a smile. She tilted her head back and laughed, and then she leaned forward and kissed the kalif’s brow.

  Jehral smiled. He left Ilathor in his sister’s care and went to tell the tarn leaders the good news.

  45

  Summer in the Azure Plains meant flies. They swarmed over the camp, harassing the men, getting into mouths and noses, sucking at the moisture at the corner of their eyes. Maggots writhed in the meat, and weevils poked up through apparently sealed barrels of grain.

  Miro’s hand moved constantly in front of his face as he sat in his command tent, poring over the endless rows of figures. It was hot in the tent, and the trickles of sweat running down his face seemed to attract more of the infuriating creatures.

  At least the heat would take its toll on the enemy.

  Miro turned his attention back to the numbers in front of him. They told him how much flour was spoiled and how much he still had available to make bread for his men. Another sheet described the state of weapons and armor. He read over the number of miles they’d traveled each day and the projections for their arrival in Seranthia. He had the reports of the scouts in one pile and the reports of the injuries his men had sustained in the frantic descent down to the Azure Plains in another.

  The figures wavered and blurred in his vision.

  They’d set a frantic pace, collecting more men as they led the allied army through Halaran and Loua Louna, and now they were finally in Torakon. The men were exhausted, and the foraging parties needed to hunt. Though it was only afternoon, they’d made camp early and given the soldiers of the Empire an opportunity to rest one final time before the final push to Seranthia.

  “Can I help?” Miro heard a voice, and glancing up, he was surprised to see Killian enter the tent.

  Miro smiled wryly. “Do you know how often I hear those words?”

  “Not often, I’m guessing,” Killian said.

  Killian walked over to Miro’s desk and glanced down at the papers. “Let me assume something—and no insult intended: you’re swamped with detail.”

  “How do you manage?” Miro asked. He felt the loss of Beorn with a fierce hollow sensation in his chest. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Your problem is that you need to learn to delegate,” Killian said. “Once again”—he grinned—“no insult intended.”

  Killian came around to scan the contents of Miro’s desk. “I can see reports mixed up with logistics. Provisions mixed up with arms. Take the load off, Miro. You need assistance.”

  Miro waved a fly from his face. “But who? Beorn used to take care of all these things.”

  Killian took the sheaf of reports from the scouts. “Have you named a new lord marshal?”

  “No . . . not yet.”

  “Then do it. Which of your commanders spent a lot of time with Beorn?”

  “Marshal Scola, Marshal Corlin . . .”

  Even saying the names made Miro feel better.

  “Who should be lord marshal?”

  “Marshal Scola,” Miro said without hesitation.

  “Good. Give him the military briefs. Have him bring the important items to you. Now, who among your commanders is good with logistics?”

  “That’s where I struggle,” Miro said. Then an idea came to him. “Amelia was excellent at provisioning Sarostar during the city’s defense. Would that . . .?”

  Killian smiled. “Good choice. Have duplicates of the scouting reports sent to Amelia. She can also concern herself with foraging and the like. Who can help you with lore?”

  “Amber,” Miro said.

  “See?” Killian grinned. “Sometimes the people you need to help you are closer than you think. Have your new lord marshal delegate the rest of the responsibilities.”

  “Poor Beorn,” Miro said, running his eyes over the reports. “He carried so much of the weight, and I never even thanked him for it.”

  “He knows,” Killian said. He patted Miro’s shoulder. “Wherever he is. But Beorn delegated, just like you’re doing now.”

  Killian turned back to the tent’s opening and poked his head out of the entrance. He spoke to someone outside. “Please fetch Marshal Scola, Marshal Corlin, Lady Amelia, and Lady Amber to the high lord’s tent.”

  “How did you become such an expert?” Miro said when Killian returned.

  “I had help,” Killian said. “Rogan Jarvish. A big bureaucracy in Seranthia. Perhaps my mother, most of all.”

  “Killian?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  “None of us are perfect, Miro. It pays to remember that.”

  An hour later Miro left his tent, feeling something close to peace for the first time since Beorn’s
death. He wondered if holding onto the workload was his way of memorializing his former commander and friend. Even so, it felt good to let go.

  The blue haze on the endless horizon made the plains appear to go on forever. There was perhaps an hour left of daylight, and Miro intended to return a favor with one in kind.

  It couldn’t hurt to have some fun along the way.

  He weaved through the tents, and his men nodded to him as he greeted them by name. Leaving behind the green uniforms of the Alturans and the brown tabards of the Halrana, he finally found the significantly larger encampment of the Tingarans.

  Compared to Miro’s men, the legionnaires sparkled as fresh as warriors could be. They glanced up at Miro but took no special note of his appearance; he’d changed to simple clothing. Most of them hadn’t yet fought, and though they were as tired as the rest, these men looked ready to do battle at a moment’s notice. To a man they would be anxious to return to Tingara and defend their homeland against the horde. Miro empathized with them, and he would do his part. The Legion had come to support Altura, and Miro always repaid his debts.

  As he approached the Imperial compound, guards stepped forward, but Miro held his ground, meeting their eyes until they finally realized who he was and drew back. He spotted a grander tent than the rest and found Killian sitting on a log with a nearly empty plate on his lap.

  “Eating alone?” Miro said.

  Killian chuckled as he looked up. “It’s a nice change from the Imperial Palace.”

  “Finish up,” said Miro. “Come with me.”

  Killian raised an eyebrow, but he set the plate down and followed Miro out of the camp. It took a long time before they exited the perimeter, curious glances following in their wake, but Miro didn’t stop until he’d found a wide clearing beside a stream, a reasonable distance from the encampment.

  Miro then turned to Killian and showed the emperor what he held in his hands: two wooden practice swords.

  “You have the strength and the agility,” Miro said. “You just need to know the movements.”