The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress

by James Maxwell

  There was a thunderous crash. Many of the men around Miro jumped, exchanging sheepish glances. The doors of the carts had fallen down, exposing the cavernous interiors. Miro looked into the closest cart.

  It was filled with row upon row of metal men. The animator spoke again. The ironmen’s eyes lit up — yellow, like the sun. The runes drawn on their bodies glowed. They walked forward, maintaining perfect symmetry.

  The closest group passed Miro only paces away. They were as black as night, somehow grotesque, a parody of the human form made of burnished metal. They looked unstoppable. And they nearly were.

  Miro still couldn’t believe that day. The animators sat high on their towers, guiding their creations. At a command, the soldiers drew apart, allowing the animators to push hundreds of ironmen forward, leading the army like the crest of a breaking wave.

  On that day, hope came back.

  ~

  THE messenger left to pass Miro’s message along. Miro realised he’d lost track of Tuok and the men he’d chosen to fight with.

  Tall standards sprouted like trees from the army, identifying units grouped into squares. Between the squares were empty passages to allow the flow of supplies, messengers, reinforcements, and the wounded.

  Each standard glowed with runes like a nightlamp; Miro soon identified the unit he was after.

  "Tuok!" Miro called when he finally saw the grizzled warrior. Tuok had been promoted to sergeant, something he seemed to hate.

  "There you are, young lord." Tuok took a sip from a small flask at his belt and grimaced. "Looks like we broke through the wall. My ears’ll be ringing for months."

  "Looks like it." Miro grinned.

  An officer rode along the line. "On my command!"

  Miro pointed in the distance. "We’ll be following soon. Get ready."

  The stilted walk and glowing eyes were unmistakeable. The ironmen marched through the fire of the explosion, impervious to the terrible heat. The enemy’s orbs dropped down like hail; some of the mortars scoring direct hits, the detonations deafening. The blasts heated the air until it wavered like a mirage. Metal melted and twisted. Occasionally the runes darkened and a construct was stilled.

  Their numbers were thinned. Still, the ironmen marched on.

  "Attack!" the cry came from somewhere in the distance. It was immediately taken up by every animator, bladesinger, officer and soldier.

  "Attack!"

  Holding back nothing, the Alturans and Halrana poured into the breach. A group of twenty bladesingers led the way, their armoursilk flaring as it warded off the terrible heat. The blasts continued around them. The Alturan veterans followed.

  Bridges had been placed all along the ditches, reinforced with enchantment. Miro leapt over a bridge, hardly seeming to touch it. His song was searing through his veins, heating his blood, he felt it more than he ever had before. Faster than the encumbered soldiers, Miro outdistanced Tuok and his men. His voice grew louder, the runes melding to form one song.

  The breach was in front of him. Miro could now see the devastating force of the explosion; the stone was twisted, the steel girders melted beyond recognition, and a huge crater had been gouged from the earth.

  The heat took the breath out of Miro’s lungs, seared his throat. His song rose in tandem, the black armoursilk a comforting presence. Then he was through.

  They were inside!

  Miro could see enemy soldiers leaping down to close the breach — Tingaran legionnaires, Torak spearmen and Louan grenadiers. Reaching over his shoulder, Miro felt the comforting presence of his zenblade.

  He drew it, adding more and more to his song. He didn’t know how much of the potential of a zenblade he had drawn on in the past, or how much he was drawing on now. All he knew was that the runes had formed a melody of such complexity that he knew if he stopped to examine it he would lose it.

  The searing light of his zenblade drew the enemy like moths to a flame. Prismatic orbs exploded everywhere around him, killing many of the enemy’s own soldiers. If they could take Miro out, they stood a far greater chance of closing the breach. It was worth a few of their own men’s lives.

  A spear thrust at Miro’s side. He deflected it with his zenblade, shearing the long jagged point off halfway. Sparks flew out in a spray and the spearman quailed, looking down at his broken weapon. Miro’s sword took him through the chest. Before his position could be fixed, Miro whirled and thrust into the side of an axe-wielding legionnaire — a huge man, his face scarred. Blood burst out of the man’s body but his cry was lost in the chaos.

  Miro added shadow, then for good measure he interspersed his song with the inflections that quieted the glare of the runes. His enemies drew back, frantic at the ghostly apparition he had now become as he tore into a group of grenadiers. Through the all-over covering of the black armoursilk, Miro knew they could see the surge of the battle behind him, the light coming straight through his near-indiscernible form.

  The zenblade thrust and slashed. Gore splashed around Miro as his sword rose and fell, like a branch tossed in crimson rapids. He realised now the importance of the once novel sequence to keep off the rain. Without the matrices that allowed the blood to slide right off, he would have long ago been soaked, rendering the shadow ability useless.

  Through it all, Miro maintained a steady image in his mind’s eye: the sweet, tender smile of Varana.

  Miro dispatched his enemies with cold rage. They roared and threw everything they had at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Miro saw the body of a bladesinger, torn to pieces, only recognisable by the green silk.

  Miro’s song sounded strong. The enemy knew he was there, but he did everything he could to ensure they could not know where he would be next.

  The vision of Varana faltered, replaced by the sight he was trying to forget, a sight that they were all trying to forget.

  The huge plume of smoke rising from the town of Sallat had spread to cover the sky in soot and ash. The sunset that night was a terrible red, as red as the blood they all knew had been spilled that day.

  Varana’s eyes grew sad, and she stared at Miro, accusing. Tears were running from her eyes, tears that turned into blood.

  Then her face changed, and it was Amber’s face that Miro saw.

  Miro’s blade swept through the enemy, furious and unforgiving.

  The Alturan army poured into the enemy encampment. Support came down from the Ring Forts, massive creatures of wood and bone crashing through the ditches, bursting through the walls. Soon the enemy was in rout, fleeing for the security of their strength in the north.

  Miro tried to focus on nothing. Nothing at all.

  It didn’t work.

  29

  The first step towards developing an improved future is developing the ability to envision it.

  — Sermons of Primate Melovar Aspen, 541 Y.E.

  LAYLA stopped, looking at the earth. She crouched down, staring intently at a patch of grass. She picked a blade and put it between her teeth, chewing on it thoughtfully.

  "What? What is it?" Ella said.

  Layla frowned at her. Ella sighed.

  The small woman — Ella had decided woman was more appropriate than girl — pointed at a patch of ground.

  Ella couldn’t see anything, anything at all.

  "He came this way. He is feeling better now, moving faster, his wound pains him less. He found some herbs to help him." Layla looked at Ella in reproach. "It seems your people are alone in their ignorance about healing."

  "Yes, yes. Which direction?"

  Layla pointed. "Also, he still wears the white clothing."

  "Good," Ella nodded.

  Picking up her satchel and throwing it over her shoulder, Ella followed Layla deeper into the trees.

  Ella knew she never would have made it this far without the healer. Killian had left the road, taking a shortcut through the forest. This new route would make the going more difficult, but the same could be said for any pursuers.

  She wo
ndered how far behind her the High Enchantress was. She had experienced a pang of conscience and asked a guard to give her a message. She’d told Evora Guinestor she was heading south, that she knew Killian would be heading this way. She’d said not to worry, that she would set matters right.

  The dry twigs and leaves cracked beneath her feet. Layla somehow stepped so lightly she didn’t make a sound. Ella felt like a lumbering beast in comparison.

  Ella removed her shawl, growing warm from the exertions of the walk. Her dreams of altering Layla’s dress on the journey had so far come to nothing. Each night she collapsed exhausted, too tired to eat let alone sew.

  She’d eventually had to give up on protecting her own beautiful yellow dress from the ravages of the forest. She looked down at it sadly, the bits of plant entangled in the hem, the threads torn by sharp branches or thorns. Her arms bore the same scratches, but she was somehow sorrier for the dress.

  She’d rotated her clothing in the time that they’d been on the trail, so that it was all in the same sorry state. It was fortunate that she’d brought so much though — the cold at night was formidable. The only dress she’d kept unworn was her green enchantress’s dress. She knew she might need it later.

  Frost covered the evergreens every morning. Mist sometimes flowed through the trees, so that it was hard to see a few paces ahead.

  Growing up on the edge of the Dunwood, Ella was used to the sounds of the forest. But here, in the south, in a different forest with a different name, the sounds were much more ominous. Strange shrieks and terribly human-like voices cried out in the night. The disdain Layla showed for her fear was comforting, the little woman seemed to fear nothing.

  "Tell me something of the Dunfolk," Ella said.

  Layla grunted. "For one thing, we are not ‘Dunfolk’. That’s a word created by you of the houses, it means ‘moss people’. A stupid name. Loralayalanasa we are, and we have been in these parts far longer than you. Long enough to see the great trees grow from a tiny seed. Long enough to become a part of this land."

  "Oh," said Ella, taken aback. "I didn’t mean to offend you."

  "It is not you we are angry with. Some of your people are good, some of them are evil. For us though it is your power that is the problem. You have so much power, the power to burn, to destroy, to kill."

  Now it was Ella who took offence. "But also the power to create, to warm, to protect."

  "Our people create nothing; we grow. We plant a seed and give it our attention, and it grows. We don’t need heat — we have each other for warmth. We give our brothers and sisters love, and they give us their warmth in return. And what do you protect from? From each other. You protect yourselves from the evil ones. And something dies inside of you every time you fight, every time you take on their methods in the name of security."

  Ella was surprised at the depth of Layla’s understanding. She realised she may have underestimated the small header. They all might have underestimated the Dunfolk.

  "And your leaders. You raise them up, you give them power over you. Then when that thing inside of them dies, when it burns out completely. What then? You tell me this Emperor threatens my people. I blame you! Who made him Emperor? Who gave him this power to threaten the Loralayalanasa? You did!"

  Ella didn’t respond, lost in thought. She could see how Layla’s reasoning made sense to her, the arguments seemed logical, but she felt Layla was missing something. Something about the will to challenge an oppressor, the nobility of freedom, and how people needed a voice to speak up in freedom’s name.

  They trudged on in silence. Ella followed Layla into a deep valley. Mist welled out of its depths, to spread slowly up the opposite side of the long dale, as if the rising of a white tide.

  Layla said they were cutting a big loop in the road. It seemed Killian knew something of the area. Perhaps he’d come this way before.

  The two pursuers reached the floor of the valley after an easy downhill stretch. Discovering an ancient riverbed, they followed it as it twisted and turned.

  Ella couldn’t see how Layla kept to the trail — how she knew they were still tracking Killian. Occasionally Layla touched her fingers to a patch of dirt, or examined some moss on a tree. It made no sense to Ella.

  The riverbed led them to a cleft under a huge rock that once must have been the spring’s source. From the boulder they were forced to climb.

  The ground grew steep, gravelled and littered with rubble. Trees were sparser here. Ella’s breath grew ragged and she tried to use the trees for support. Sweat began to pour down her forehead, even in this freezing air. The mist thickened.

  "Are you sure he came this way?" Ella panted.

  "Yes, I am sure. Would you like to lead instead?" Layla said. She seemed to be finding the going much easier than Ella.

  Ella only grunted in reply.

  The climb grew even more difficult. They had no chance to talk, only to take one step after another. Even Layla began to pant. The air became thick, the moisture in it a tangible thing. Soon Ella could barely see Layla ahead of her, the small woman’s figure almost lost in white.

  Then she lost her altogether.

  Ella stopped in her tracks. Then, scrambling, she started climbing the steep slope as fast as her legs could take her. Bits of stone and dirt were kicked up by her feet. She clawed at the earth with her hands.

  "What are you doing?" Layla asked.

  Ella looked up. The slope had ended. Layla was on the top of the crest, resting with one arm against a tree.

  "Umm… Climbing," Ella panted.

  The fog was like a white version of darkness, so thick it felt impenetrable. Ella stretched as she panted, her muscles ached.

  "When I catch him, I’m going to do something terrible to him for putting me through this," she muttered.

  She walked around the flat area. Only now could she appreciate how high they’d come, how steep the slope they had been climbing had been.

  "Stop!" Layla suddenly shrieked. She ran at Ella, and grabbed hold of Ella’s arm, dragging her to a halt. "Stop!"

  "What…?" Ella began.

  Then she realised where her feet were taking her. Where they were.

  She was standing on the edge of a terrible precipice, an abrupt cliff that fell down, down, until it was lost in the mist.

  The edge of Ella’s foot was just over the cliff. Another step, and…

  "Lord of the Sky…" Ella breathed.

  Layla tugged on her hand. Ella let herself be led away. She couldn’t believe how close she’d come. If Layla hadn’t been there…

  "Thank you," Ella said. "Thank you, Layla."

  She received only a grunt in reply.

  ~

  LAYLA insisted they wait until the mist cleared. They settled down to a cold camp of stale bread with some mouldy cheese. Layla supplemented it with some wild mushrooms with pink stalks she insisted were edible. Ella found to her surprise that they were actually quite tasty.

  "If only we had a bow," Layla grumbled. "I need meat."

  It was the first time they’d actually had a chance for a proper rest without being exhausted from a full days march. Ella tried in vain to think of a way she could use her talent to feed them. No ideas were forthcoming.

  With a sigh, she activated a nightlamp, its light stretching just far enough to create a haven within the fog. Eventually, Ella felt refreshed. She began to get restless. The fog was going nowhere. Having an idea, she rummaged around in her satchel.

  "Stand up," Ella said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "It’s a simple request, stand up."

  Layla stood.

  Ella slipped the brown silk dress over Layla’s head. "Stop struggling!" she said.

  "I can’t breathe!"

  "Yes you can. Don’t be a baby."

  The dress slid down Layla’s small body. Her head popped out. She looked around in confusion.

  "Here, hold the hem or it’s going to get dirty," Ella said. "Now stay still."


  "Ouch!"

  "Sorry," Ella laughed. "I’m just tailoring the dress to fit you. You’re very pretty, did you know that?"

  "No I’m not," Layla said in flat voice.

  "You are! And you’re going to look beautiful in this dress."

  Ella could see that Layla was fingering the supple material as she held the hem, casting her eye over the gold trim. Ella quickly pinned the sides of the dress, tucking it in a little at the waist, letting it out at the hips. She then pinned the hem.

  "There we go, done! Hold up your arms. There!"

  Layla turned to Ella and grinned. It was so rare that she smiled that Ella found herself smiling along.

  As Ella worked on the dress, a gentle breeze began to blow against the hill, and the mist began to clear. Ella added some finishing touches and smiled to herself, putting the scrill and essence away. She wondered how long it would take Layla to discover the runes she’d enchanted into the fabric of the dress — whether she’d recognise them for what they were or think they were merely decorative.

  "What are you smiling about?" Layla said.

  "Nothing," Ella said. "I’m just happy that the dress has turned out well. Here," she handed it to Layla, "you can try it on another time."

  Layla took the dress, handling it with suspicion. But her sparkling eyes showed her interest.

  Ella gathered herself and stood. "Look!" she said.

  The haze below the cliff had cleared to reveal a breathtaking panorama. A turbulent river twisted and turned its way through a green valley. Tracing it with her eyes, Ella could see at its source was a majestic waterfall, spouting from the cliff face directly below them. In the far distance she could make out the dusty road, turning ever south and east to the glass-bottle mountains of the Elmas at the extreme limits of her vision.

  "It’s beautiful," Ella said.

  "If we cross that river, it will be the farthest I’ve ever been from Loralayalana," Layla said.

  Ella followed the healer to the cliff edge. It was sheer, dropping down for hundreds of feet before it began to develop any kind of level with the ground.