The Path of the Storm (The Evermen Saga, Book Three)

by James Maxwell

  THE PATH OF

  THE STORM

  By James Maxwell

  Copyright James Maxwell 2013.

  All rights to this novel are reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the copyright holder. The characters and situations are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Marc Forbes.

  www.JamesMaxwell.com

  Map

  Prologue

  IT WAS the first time in Sentar Scythran's memory that he had needed to survive on his wits alone. Essence had always filled his body with vigour, given him powers the pitiful humans could only dream of, and now he had none of the black liquid. Yet his brother Evermen had chosen him for a reason. They knew Sentar was single-minded, ruthless, and intelligent. The Evermen knew that, of all of them, he had cunning.

  He had come far, since his return, travelling through lands now foreign to him where once he had ruled as a god. Without allies and with no gilden he'd managed to feed and clothe himself, no mean feat, finding his way alone through forests and over hills, surviving heartless cities and wary villages, heading ever north.

  Now he stood in front of a hunter's log cabin, the first sign of habitation he'd seen in days. Two hunters stood in front of him, crude men in crude clothing. Sentar himself wore a fur-lined grey cloak over his black velvet shirt and trousers, the hood pulled forward over his head to cover his blood-red hair. Snow covered the earth and blanketed the trees white, while mist swirled and eddied through the frosted evergreens. It was unbearably cold.

  Sentar had come far, but cunning couldn't combat the weather.

  "Snow's closin' in," the old hunter said, leaning on his spear. "You can't go north in this weather. You'll have to wait."

  "How long?" Sentar said, his words spoken through crusted lips, mouth turned down in displeasure.

  "A month. Might be longer," said the hunter's broad-shouldered son.

  Sentar cursed.

  He had to go north. His quest consumed him. His brothers were still in that world of horror, and it was his duty to bring them home. He alone had been entrusted to watch over the portal in case the way to Merralya was ever opened. When the beacon woke him from his slumber there was no time to wake his brothers; he had travelled to the portal only to see it would be open for the briefest moment. He would bring them home. He must not fail in his duty.

  "No," Sentar said. "I must go north, to the ice city, now."

  "You're welcome to try," the old hunter said. "But you won't make it through."

  Sentar's mind turned to essence. With essence the cold could never touch him. Yet it wasn't just he who was forced to survive without essence; it seemed no one had any. Not those people who called themselves Tingarans, or the Louans, or those men in white from the land of Aynar. Sentar had seen it for himself; it was the first place he had gone to — the great machines at Stonewater had been destroyed.

  It was grim news, but Sentar always found a way where others failed, and hope was not lost. Some enquiries led him to discover where he could find those who once held the Lord of the Night close to their hearts, and who were likely the only people to have their own supply of essence: the Akari.

  To fulfil his quest, and bring his brothers home, he would need essence — essence to open the portal, and essence to crush the humans. He had no wish for his brothers to return to a land filled with human soldiers, innumerable as insects. He would need to conquer the people of this Tingaran Empire, and to harvest the energy of their souls. Only then would he have the essence he required. Only then would this land be ready for his brothers' return.

  Looking at the hunter and his son, Sentar set his mouth with determination, ignoring the bite of the cold.

  "How do you and your family survive in this weather?" Sentar asked.

  The old hunter shrugged. "Cunning," he said.

  The son smiled. "We trade furs with the Akari, and in return they give us spears. We use the spears to hunt."

  "I must go to the Akari." Sentar stepped forward, his ice-blue eyes intent.

  "Who says they'll have you?" the old hunter said, his wrinkled face curling into a scowl. "They don't take kindly to strangers."

  "They'll receive me," Sentar said. "I'm important to the Akari, and they're expecting me."

  Sentar held the cudgel buried inside his cloak. As close as he now was, the old hunter would not be able to wield his spear effectively.

  As father and son exchanged glances, Sentar took his hand out and swung

  He didn't want them dead; he needed their help too badly for that. He went for the father first; the old man was wary. The cudgel hit the old man's temple with a crack like an axe on a tree. Sentar then turned to the son and punched the tip of his club into the younger man's throat.

  Both hunters crumpled to the ground, the old man bleeding from the head, instantly unconscious, while his son gasped and choked, holding his hands to his throat, the youth's face turning red with effort.

  Sentar immediately turned to their spears, now fallen from the two hunters' hands. He broke first one, and then the other, over his knee.

  "Come with me," he said to the young hunter, grunting as he crouched and hooked an arm around the youth's neck. Sentar rose to his feet, pulling the youth along behind him, dragging the young hunter over to the entrance of the log hut.

  Sentar still clutched the broken spears in his other hand. Lifting up a leg, he sent his black boot into the door, kicking it open with a crash.

  Without waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness within, he tossed in the young hunter. The young hunter wheezed on the floor, coughing; Sentar would find no trouble from that quarter.

  Sentar looked around, seeing the red embers of a fire and a grubby house. He wrinkled his nose; the hut reeked of smoke and animal sweat. A woman sat on a chair, a threaded needle in her hand and a furred skin across her lap. Her face registered shock.

  Sentar walked over to the fire and threw the broken spears into the hearth.

  "Where are your other spears?" Sentar asked.

  The woman didn't open her mouth, but her eyes moved, and Sentar saw a place on the wall where two spears were fixed to the wood.

  He took the first spear down and held it poised over his knee.

  "Please," she begged, "we'll starve."

  Sentar broke the spear, quickly following it with the second until both spears were also splinters thrown into the growing fire.

  He went back outside and took the old hunter under his arms. The old man was heavy, and Sentar grunted as he pulled his unconscious body into the hut and threw him beside his son, now nearly recovered.

  "Tend to your husband," Sentar said to the woman.

  She ran over to the old man and brushed the hair away from the wound on his temple. Blood welled from her hands, and tears ran down her face as she sat his head in her lap.

  The hunter's son sat up and looked at Sentar with murder in his eyes. "We'll die without our spears."

  Sentar crouched close to the youth and tapped his cudgel into the palm of his hand. The young hunter looked on, fear in his eyes.

  "So you need new spears, I should think," Sentar said, "from the Akari."

  "We don't have furs to trade for them. The weather's closing in. You've killed us."

  "No, that's not correct. You have a problem. You don't have any spears, nor will you have furs to trade for them, not for many months. I also have a prob
lem. I must travel to the ice city, but I will need help finding it, and help to survive in this cold. I think we should make a bargain."

  "He is an evil man," the woman said from where she tended her husband, directing the words at her son.

  "I make opportunities. That is all," said Sentar.

  "Druin, please, do not help this man," the woman said to her son.

  "Mother, without spears we'll all die."

  "A bargain means nothing to one such as him. He'll kill you without a thought."

  "If I don't go, we're doomed anyway."

  "All I need is for you to guide me to the ice city," Sentar said. "It's in your interests that I arrive there safely. I'll instruct the Akari to give you new spears, and soon you will be back in your hovel."

  The light in the room grew as the broken spears blazed.

  Sentar smiled as the young hunter slowly nodded. Cunning had won again.

  ~

  AS HE travelled ever onwards into the cold, Sentar realised that for all his abilities he was dying. In the twilight world of Shar he had fought creatures from nightmare, endured horrors beyond imagining, and seen the shadows in his brothers' eyes when all hope was lost. Yet now he was here, returned to Merralya, a world warm and golden in comparison, and he was going to die.

  The snow now came up to the top of Sentar's high boots, making each step an agony of effort, dragging at his legs. The wind grew in strength, driving the crystalline snowflakes hard against his face, stinging his cheeks and crusting around his lips. The dim light reminded Sentar unpleasantly of Shar, and shielding his eyes against the wind he could see even the hardy pines were scarce.

  The days had become gruelling marches, as Sentar's thoughts became consumed with the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. The nights were the worst, spent huddled under pine trees if he could find them, where the snow at least didn't fall from overhead. If there were no trees he found icy overhangs and stuffed his hands under his armpits, shivering his way to a twitching sleep.

  He had long ago killed Druin, the young hunter who was supposed to ensure his survival. The youth had insisted on turning back, and Sentar knew he needed extra sustenance as well as the young hunter's blankets. Sentar had forced Druin to give him directions before he'd ended the young man's life.

  Sentar had now covered such distance that if he tried to return south to warmer lands he knew he wouldn't make it. So he continued onwards, and finally he realised he was going to die.

  The blizzard came down from overhead, plunging from the perfectly white sky with the force of an ocean wave. It knocked Sentar to his knees, and he felt a sudden calm descend on him. It would end here, he knew.

  Even so, the thought of the weight on his shoulders spurred him on.

  "My brothers!" Sentar screamed.

  He tried to rise, but the wind pushed him down. He knew from bitter experience that the blizzards could last for days. The shortest would persist for hours.

  Sentar lifted his chin and looked into the white, determined to face his death with eyes open.

  And then, moments after it arrived, the blizzard was gone.

  The sky was still white, but a small patch of blue appeared. The patch grew, and with it Sentar's vision became clear. It was late in the day, he now realised, rapidly descending to night. He could see his hands, and then the clumps of snow in front of him, and then could see further, to a pathway — no, a road — lined with markers of grey stone. As more of the landscape was revealed, Sentar looked farther still.

  He suddenly knew he'd made it.

  Two tall towers thrust out of the ground ahead, so pure of colour they were almost blue. Each tower was topped with a ring of spikes, wider than the tower's base, like the crown of a monarch. The towers were made of ice, and the road passed between them.

  Sentar took a deep breath and with an effort of will brought himself back to his feet. The first step he took was more of a stagger, and the second little better. Walking was agony until he reached the marked road, and then the packed snow under his feet was a blessed relief. As he finally passed through the towers Sentar saw the name of the city announced, with one word on each tower: Ku Kara.

  It wasn't a walled city; the cold was protection enough for the Akari. Nor were the streets narrow and winding; there was space enough to build big. As Sentar walked he saw broad avenues, uniformly marked by short pillars of grey stone. The single-storied buildings were all made of ice, with heavy doors of dark wood and windows the size of a man's hand.

  Sentar staggered through Ku Kara in a daze. This city hadn't existed when he and his brothers had ruled Merralya. The Akari had been his people, and now they had built a home of their own. He had thought Seranthia to be an aberration. How could mere humans build such a city? But with all he'd seen he now knew. The humans had grown from childhood to adolescence.

  With a shake of his head, he stopped. He was Sentar Scythran, the Lord of the Night. He had ruled this world, and he had survived Shar. The lines of resolve in his mouth and forehead returned. He would rule again.

  Sentar scanned the street and scratched his chin in thought. A few houses along, at a dwelling larger than the others, a withered tree made of silver wire decorated a front door. Some things may have changed, but Sentar knew that symbol.

  Reaching the house, he stood in front of the door. Sentar pounded at the wood. Moments later he nodded with satisfaction when a man in a grey robe opened the door.

  "Who are you?" the robed man asked, his brow furrowed with suspicion. "You are not one of us. What are you doing here?"

  The robed man wore his black hair close-cropped, like an animal's pelt. His face and hands were fine-boned and delicate, and his high forehead suggested intelligence. He wore a necklace of bones around his neck, and his robe bore a matching symbol to that on the door.

  "Surely you know me," Sentar said. He raised a wrist and brushed the snow off a device of worked silver he wore at his cuff. The withered tree was a match to the symbol on the door. "You wear my symbol on your robe. You bear my mark on your dwelling. Let me in from this cold, and I will show you who I am."

  Sentar pushed past the nonplussed man in grey robes. The warmth from the interior hit him with such force that he could have wept, and the contents of the man's house were suddenly irrelevant as Sentar was drawn to the red embers of the hearth. It wasn't until he had removed his gloves and felt the blood return tingling to his limbs that Sentar turned back to the robed man and took note of his surroundings.

  The house was larger than it had appeared from the outside. The floor was made of wide planks of the same dark wood as the door, with soft animal furs covering its surface. A human skeleton stood in the corner, teeth bared in a permanent smile, and from the workbench and bookshelves Sentar could see this place was dedicated to work rather than leisure. The robed man had closed the door and was frowning at his unwelcome guest.

  Walking around slowly, Sentar passed a bronze mirror, and seeing himself he grimaced. "I will admit I have recently been a victim of circumstances and do not look my best. You can be forgiven for not knowing me. This time."

  Sentar pulled his hood back and unclasped the cloak, letting it fall to the floor. He brushed his elegant clothing of black velvet, ignoring the scattering of snow and ice that fell to the ground. He straightened his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair.

  Finally, Sentar rested his eyes on the other man. "What is your name?"

  "I am Renrik. And you are?"

  "From your garb you are one of the chosen, are you not?"

  "Chosen?"

  "One of those chosen to receive the knowledge… I taught your kind to give life to the dead. You are a necromancer."

  "I… I am," Renrik said.

  "Are you in possession of essence, Necromancer Renrik?"

  Renrik's eyes narrowed. "I am… A small amount."

  Still wandering around the room, Sentar found a basin and ewer. He washed his face and slicked back his hair. "Bring it to
me," he said.

  "Stranger, I do not know who you are, but…"

  "Has it been so long? Are your memories so quick to fade?"

  Sentar turned and levelled the full force of his gaze on the necromancer. He could see Renrik noticing the blood-red hair with black streaks at the temples, the blue eyes, like ice. "The essence," Sentar said. "Give it to me."

  Renrik disappeared into a second room. Sentar heard the necromancer mutter and then a click as a locked cupboard opened. Something clinked, and Renrik came back into the room, holding a tiny vial. Sentar opened his hand, and in that moment Renrik stumbled. Sentar knew it was pretence when he felt a prick on the skin of his right hand.

  Sentar smiled without humour. Along with the vial, Renrik held a scrill. A blue mark appeared on the back of Sentar's hand where the scrill had touched essence to his skin.

  Such a touch would kill any man. He would fall to the floor and scream as he died the most agonising death imaginable.

  Sentar merely felt a tingling sensation in the region of the blue mark.

  Renrik stared at the mark, his eyes wide with shock. He slowly looked up to meet Sentar's cold eyes.

  Sentar watched and waited, as the thoughts crossed Renrik's face. Sentar's own eyes flickered to a stylised portrait on the wall. The man in the portrait had hair the colour of blood, with streaks of black at the temples.

  The necromancer fell to his knees.

  "Master!" Renrik cried.

  Sentar crouched and put his fingers under the necromancer's chin, tilting the man's head and looking into his eyes. The devotion was genuine.

  "Let that be the last time you distrust me, Necromancer Renrik," Sentar said. "I am Sentar Scythran, the Lord of the Night, and I have returned."

  "Forgive me, Master."

  "As one of the chosen, you may serve me, and you may live," said Sentar. "Those of your order will be the only kind to survive when my brothers return. Serve me well, and you may have a special place in the new Merralya, and be raised above, to rule the others of your kind."