Marshal Sloan looked at Miro intently. "That’s where you come in."
Miro looked from one man to the other. "I don’t understand."
"Miro, I’ve seen the way you handle yourself. You’re a good leader, the men trust you. I’m offering you a position in the army."
"In the army?"
Blademaster Rogan spoke, "It wouldn’t be the first time a bladesinger has become a leader of men. We are free agents, Miro. Perhaps it is your destiny. It will mean following orders though. Just because you’re a bladesinger doesn’t mean you don’t have to listen to a man who outranks you."
"Your name stands among the men, Miro; you have earned their respect in your own right. When we tell them who your father was they will only love you more."
"My father? I know he fought in the Rebellion, but why would the men remember him?"
"Miro," said Rogan. "It’s not for me to tell you the full story, or to tell you why the truth was hidden from you, but your father wasn’t an anonymous soldier, as I know you believe."
"What are you saying?"
"Do you know the name Serosa the Dark, Miro?"
"Of course I do. He was the Alturan High Lord, during the Rebellion. They say he was a warmonger."
"I know they say that — it’s a distortion of the truth put out by Tessolar, the man who replaced Serosa. I remember him, Miro," said Blademaster Rogan. "He was a good man, a strong leader."
"I remember him too, Miro," said Marshal Sloan. "His full name was Serosa Torresante. He was your father, Miro."
Miro looked from one man to the next, "How is that possible? I was told my father was killed in the Rebellion, and that my mother died of grief. Is it all a lie?"
"It’s not a lie, Miro, but the full story is not mine to tell. The men, they will follow you. They remember the name Torresante. They remember who stood there on the walls of Sark and defied the legion all those years ago."
Miro could still remember the taunts of the Pens; taunts about his heritage. He was pensive for a long moment. The Blademaster’s revelation had opened up more questions than answers.
"I want you to tell me…"
Blademaster Rogan held up his hand, "No, Miro. It isn’t for me to say, nor is it for Marshall Sloan. Listen to the truth behind my words. If you take this path, I promise you that the truth will follow."
Miro’s father had been High Lord of Altura. He had led them against this same foe. Somehow, it fit in with the dreams he’d had since he was a child. "I accept," he said.
He would find out the truth.
"Excellent," said Marshal Sloan. "Understand — this isn’t a reward. We’re giving you perhaps the most difficult task of the coming battle. Your task is to hold our flank. When the attack on Ralanast begins, the Black Army is going to surge through here, aiming to cut off our rear. Miro, you must do everything in your power to hold this position. You must hold."
Miro nodded, "I understand."
Marshal Sloan nodded. "You are to serve under Lord Devon’s son, Lord Rorelan."
"Rorelan, he’s here?"
"He’s a changed man, since his father died, but yes, he’s here."
The Marshal and the Blademaster expanded on their plans. Miro listened in growing horror, hiding his feelings behind a blank façade.
It was a pitched effort — they were throwing their best men, their best weapons, into a doomed arena.
Miro knew. He knew it better than anyone.
He would hold.
He had to.
37
The Buchalanti are my most beloved of the many houses. There are no people more free. Perhaps I was raised by Raj Buchalantas in another life.
— Toro Marossa, ‘Explorations’, Page 202, 423 Y.E.
HIGH Enchantress Evora Guinestor hid her impatience as she waited for the men to deploy. The four bladesingers with her chatted quietly amongst themselves, calm and unperturbed as always. Joram, the captain of her guard, sent scouts in all directions. He checked over each man in turn, frowning at one, before he turned to the High Enchantress.
"Ready to move out, High Enchantress."
"Thank you, Captain," her voice was dry, she didn’t care any more whether he would detect it.
They had made camp at the floor of the valley while the men attempted to turn the remnants of the rope bridge into a working version. Forced to wait, Evora had to admit, it was a beautiful valley.
If only she wasn’t seething inside.
Soon, the magic of the Lexicon would fade, and every object that had been enchanted with its runes would fail. Unless she could renew the Lexicon in time, Altura’s lore would fail, most likely when they needed it the most.
The enemy’s Alturan-made weapons would also fail, but the builders would still build, the artificers’ dirigibles would still fly, and the Emperor’s avengers would still fight on.
It would be a massacre.
Every moment lost was a moment further that the thief had to escape. She understood the men felt the need to protect her, especially given what had happened to the Halrana High Animator, but it was taking too much time.
Evora had almost gone from being furious with the girl to investing in her, hoping that at least someone would catch up with the thief. Ella was an enchantress after all — she stood some chance, didn’t she?
She cleared her throat. Against the man who had stolen their most valuable possession from the heart of the Crystal Palace, killing a bladesinger on the way out? Not much of one.
Still, the girl had proven to be remarkably resourceful. Her trackers had confirmed that Ella was on the correct path. A few days behind the path of the thief were the tracks of a young woman and the much harder to find tracks of a smaller woman. One of the Dunfolk, it must be.
Evora had no idea how Ella had managed to get one of the Dunfolk to help her. However the girl had done it, and here she was, making a mockery of Evora’s own efforts to track down the thief.
"The Dunfolk woman is very good, High Enchantress," Joram said. "We almost lost him on the cliff. If it wasn’t for the rope hanging down..."
Evora bridled. Was she that obvious? Had this become some kind of pathetic contest? Then she relaxed her shoulders. The result was the only thing that mattered. The rope had shown just how resourceful Ella could be. If only they’d figured out how she’d crossed the river. The trackers had said it looked like Ella had entered the water, and looking for a hundred paces down the river they hadn’t found an exit point. The Dunfolk woman’s tracks were near-invisible at the best of times.
Enough thinking about them. "The rope bridge, is it done?"
"Yes, High Enchantress."
"Then let us cross in haste."
"Yes, High Enchantress."
Evora sighed. She hoped that whatever happened, Ella would slow the thief down. Even if it meant the girl’s death at his hands. The return of the Lexicon was worth it.
Evora felt guilty at the thought.
The bladesingers moved out, looking deadly as always. The High Enchantress strode forward, her head high. Her green silk dress drew glances from the men. She knew they wondered what she was capable of; the soldiers stayed carefully out of her way.
Suddenly, before crossing the precarious-looking rope bridge, Evora stopped, looking at the soldiers around her — nearly forty fighting men. "From the other side of this bridge we increase our speed," she said. "We march from two hours before dawn to two hours after sunset. Nightlamps will guide our way. Soldiers, you are on the most important mission of your lives. I want speed." She locked eyes with Captain Joram. "Give me speed."
"You heard the High Enchantress; move out! Double time!"
Her mouth set in a grim line, Evora set the pace.
38
And the Lord of the Sky said, ‘Look up, but not to look at me. For I shall be there with you, and we will be looking up together.’
— The Evermen Cycles, 15-38
ELLA waved until the wagon was out of sight. She sighed — she had real
ly enjoyed the old man’s company — but with determination she hoisted her satchel to her shoulder and began to walk.
Evrin had taken her a great deal of the way she needed to go. They’d travelled together for nearly a week, sharing their food and chatting amicably. During their journey, Ella had learned more about the animator’s arts than she ever would have thought possible, Evrin was a patient teacher, and with such a quick pupil — too quick, he observed on numerous occasions — she was soon taking her turn controlling the drudges. He even showed her more of their defence mechanisms — kicks and lunges, ducks and rolls.
Behind it all were the runes themselves. An animator’s real skill was in creating the constructs, and Ella put a great deal of effort into learning the structures and discovering how life was breathed into a collection of carved pieces. She learned much more than she let on, and vowed to try her hand at creating a simple construct when the next opportunity presented itself.
Evrin had also had a wealth of beautifully woven stories that he’d told her. Stories of people with fantastic powers, who could stave off death itself. Tales of evil lords and proud slaves who challenged their masters. His first tale had been about a man whose wife was torn open by his enemy’s sword, and how her husband, in his grief, tried to use runes of strength on her body. Miraculously, the lore had saved the woman’s life. Ella had liked the story, such a change from what she knew essence was capable of.
With the slight increase in journey speed, she felt confident she had gained at least a day on Killian. She was now forced to think about what she would do when she caught him.
He possessed some dangerous abilities — he was able to walk past a score of palace guards without being seen; he could pass whatever nightmare traps the best enchanters and animators could prepare without qualm; he could pretend death with blue lips and freezing skin without a twitch; he could touch essence without the slightest hint of damage or poisoning.
Ella’s greatest advantage lay in the fact that Killian wouldn’t be expecting her. He would be on the lookout for the High Enchantress, or perhaps a bladesinger — anyone but the young girl he had taken advantage of so callously.
She needed to use that advantage somehow. Perhaps she could get a disguise when she arrived in Petrya, appear to be one of the locals. Then when she accosted Killian she could use the shock when he saw who it really was to her advantage. She had her green silk dress with her and she could also enchant more weapons. She was hardly defenceless.
Perhaps she could pretend she was lovesick, a girl who had followed him across this great distance for love. Yes, that was it.
Smiling to herself, Ella decided it would be an enjoyable role to play. Some part of her mind rebelled when she remembered the warmth of his kiss, the strength in his arms. This time she would be pretending.
She kept repeating this to herself as she walked.
~
THE temperature was drier, and a little warmer, here in the south. The road was far less travelled and much of the land was unoccupied, little more than rocky desert. A thin trail left the road, barely a walking track, winding its way around huge boulders towards the Elmas. Evrin had said she wanted to take this road. He’d also reminded her that bandits lived in these parts, and admonished Ella to be careful.
She did feel terribly exposed here. The great peaks loomed over her, blotting out the light of the sun so that she was in perpetual shade. They were black mountains, made of sheer cliffs and narrow canyons. The Elmas had formed the natural border between Alturan lands and Petryan lands for thousands of years. Except for the treacherous Wondhip Pass, there was no way across.
The trail inclined sharply, and Ella bent down, walking with her hands on her knees as her strength flagged. Loose stones and dust-covered rubble littered the ground in abundance. It was already proving to be hard going.
She wondered where the High Enchantress was, whether Evora Guinestor was behind her or ahead of her. Part of her hoped Evora wasn’t far away; thinking about Evrin’s reaction when he’d talked about Petrya, she felt a strong sense of foreboding.
The elementalists were always discussed in hushed tones in Altura, as if discussing a dark spirit would bring it out of the shadows. They were considered strange, even sinister. They kept largely to themselves, and rarely travelled except for physical and lore-based contests, which they participated in whole-heartedly. It seemed their whole society was built around competition. They fiercely asserted their independence, both individual and that of their house. If they fought with someone as an ally, it was the way they wanted to fight, on their own terms.
They’d fought with the Emperor against Altura and Halaran in the Rebellion, and High Lord Tessolar still refused to communicate with the Petryan High Lord, Haptut Alwar. Terrible atrocities had been committed in the last war of the houses, especially by the Petryans. It seemed they had no respect for weakness, no sympathy for the sick, the old or the infirm.
The majority of elementalists lived in their great tiered city Tlaxor. It was perhaps the most well-known and least-travelled city in the world. For — as if to defy their chosen deity, the Lord of Fire — the Petryans had built it on an island in the middle of a lake. This lake, Lake Halapusa, was in the caldera of an active volcano.
The water of Lake Halapusa was constantly at near-boiling temperature. It was said that one of the Petryan High Lord’s favourite methods of execution was to throw criminals or dissidents into the lake and watch their skin turn bright red as their bones were boiled from them. If he was particularly angry with someone, he would dangle them from a rope, lowering the rope by a hand’s breadth every day.
First their feet would enter the water. The next day, when the feet were no more than stumps of bone, the rope would be lowered a little more. It was said a man might survive for up to five agonising days in this way.
Ella felt these might just be stories. At any rate she didn’t plan on spending time in Petrya; she just wanted to catch up with Killian and get back to Altura with the Lexicon.
She stopped and caught her breath, looking back the way she had come at the road down below, a ribbon of dusty brown. The barren ground stretched on and on, until some poor farmland could be seen at the limits of vision.
Ella now looked ahead, upward. The rough path twisted and turned as it wound its way up the mountainside. It was steep enough here that she would be forced to follow the path as it doubled back on itself, intentionally curving first one way, then another. It was either that or climb up the nearly vertical face.
She tilted her head back and looked further up. Above her the imposing mountain range frowned down, dark and forbidding. She still could not see how a crossing could be possible; the jagged crags and sheer walls seemed completely impassable.
She scanned the series of peaks to either side, following them with her eyes, looking for an indication of where she might cross. Then she stopped. There was something there, some kind of bird, flying along the range. Then, realising the scale, she squinted harder. At that distance, it must be huge.
She could almost make out the sailed wings as they swept up and down, the feathers brown and white. It coasted in an updraft of wind, soaring majestically. She realised what it must be then — an eldritch, the world’s largest bird. They were so rare that it was said there were fewer than one hundred of them left. Capture for lords’ private collections had taken its toll.
Realising how lucky she was to be seeing it, Ella stopped for a moment to watch it fly, so swift it took barely moments to cross from peak to peak. She knew there was no danger — the large birds were supposed to feed on rabbits and other large birds.
As the eldritch came steadily closer, though, Ella realised something was wrong. Every now and then it twitched as if in pain, the curved sword of its beak snapping at its side. It was now close enough for Ella to see that there was something strange about it, an eerie presence. She realised what it was at the same time that the eldritch saw her. It was glowing silver. Someone ha
d drawn runes on the bird.
It shrieked — a piercing sound, as it tucked its wings tucked to its side and plummeted towards Ella.
She was completely exposed here on the mountain. Looking around frantically, she saw a few rocks but little else. There was a mid-sized boulder further up the mountain. With nowhere else to hide, she sprinted for it.
Another shriek, this time from straight behind her, made Ella cringe. Her back felt like a target. As she ran she braced herself for the tearing and rending of the bird’s beak and claws. Reaching the boulder, she threw herself to the ground.
The scratching sound of the birds claws striking stone sounded immediately after.
She saw it rise up again, looking for her. The runes were clear now, she had never heard of such a thing, to torture an animal in this way. The eldritch’s eyes were red with madness. It cried again and convulsed, scratching with its beak at the symbols on its body.
Ella knew that even a great creature like that must be poisoned eventually by the essence. Whoever did this couldn’t have done it more than a short time ago, which left only one explanation — the bird had been sent to kill her. Or to kill the High Enchantress, Ella realised, which was no consolation.
While the creature was writhing in pain, thrashing even as it flew, Ella cursed when she thought of her powerful enchantress’s green silk dress, neatly folded in her satchel. Layla’s hunting knife was gone, and with no time to enchant herself something useful, Ella realised there she had only one option — to hide.
She began to dig at the stones under the boulder, scratching at them with her bare hands. Her fingernails broke and tore and began to bleed. She heard another piercing cry overhead, but ignored it. The rocks she removed began to form a mound and the space created under the boulder began to get bigger. She found a scoop shaped rock and began to use that instead of her hands, making much greater progress. Placing the larger rocks up onto the mound, Ella tried to worm her way into the space.
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