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

by James Maxwell

"Don't worry," said Miro. "Something tells me there'll be more of his kind around."

  "Disembark!" the bargeman called.

  Miro and Amber crossed the gangway, and as the only people crossing into Gokan, were quickly surrounded by soldiers.

  The guards shepherded them to a desk. "What's your business in Gokan?" an official asked.

  "I'm bringing gilden for a friend," Miro said.

  The official's eyes lit up. "How much gilden?"

  Miro hesitated. "A silver crown?"

  "That should suffice," said the official. "Here." He handed Miro a small sack. "Place any forbidden items in here, and I'll see they are disposed of. Forbidden items include redberry, heartfire, and black powder."

  Miro looked at the surrounding soldiers. He discreetly dropped a coin into the sack and handed it back to the official. "I have no forbidden items."

  "Very good," the official said. He gestured to the soldiers. "They can pass."

  Miro turned to look back at the barge, but the alchemist had boarded, and the barge was gone.

  "Come on," Miro said to Amber. "Let's find lodgings."

  They'd made it to Gokan.

  ~

  MIRO pressed his back against the wall and counted for three slow breaths, before again looking down the alley.

  The alchemist hadn't spotted him.

  He'd been following the Guildsman for an eternity, looking for an opportunity to question him somewhere quiet. Miro had discerned no obvious pattern to the robed man's wandering. Was he heading home? Perhaps to his place of work? He knew so little about these people.

  The black robed alchemist turned another corner and Miro crept along the wall, popping his head out before bringing it quickly in again.

  This alley was as quiet as he would find in the small town of Maelan. The place was crammed full of refugees, and the alchemist had so far stayed on main streets. This was the time to take him.

  Miro ran forward, but stopped in his tracks as the alchemist turned to face him. "Why are you following me?" the alchemist said, levelling Miro with dark eyes. "Is it gilden you're after?" He shrugged. "Never mind."

  Miro sensed motion to his sides. He ducked as a slashing sword cut the air where his head had been, and turned to face his assailants.

  There were two swordsmen, both wearing black uniforms with the same emblem on the breast — a triangle bound by a circle. One was stocky, while the other was as tall as Miro, with broad shoulders and long arms.

  Miro stepped back to give himself space, cursing when he saw the alchemist had departed the area.

  He watched his opponents' eyes and legs, gauging who would attack first. The stocky swordsman on the left shifted his feet, but Miro didn't accept the feint. The two men watched him warily, circling around him, a mark of experienced fighters.

  Then the tall man came forward and thrust twice in quick succession, aiming to pin Miro against the wall. Realising the trap, Miro dropped to the ground and rolled, coming up between the two men. He faced the stocky man but reversed his thrust behind him, feeling the point of his sword strike home in the tall man's chest. The stocky fighter's sword was extended but he barged Miro with his shoulder, knocking Miro to the ground.

  Miro's sword came up to block, and the clash of steel on steel reverberated through the alley. He heard shouts and cries; someone had heard the commotion. More soldiers would be on their way. He had to end it quickly.

  Miro swung his sword three times in quick succession, attempting to wear his opponent down, but the man was strong, and held the blows back, his face grim. The stocky fighter raised his sword to strike, and Miro saw his opening. He ducked and thrust, the tip of his sword grazing his opponent's sternum and continuing upwards to open his throat.

  The two men were dead, and the alchemist was no where to be seen.

  Miro wiped the blood from his sword on one of the dead men's clothing, quickly sheathing the weapon.

  Miro saw the horrified faces of watching townsfolk. More soldiers would soon be coming.

  Miro raced back to the guesthouse where he'd left Amber; thankfully it was in Maelan's backstreets rather than near the crowded harbour. As he ran he removed his blood-splattered jerkin and threw it to the side of the street. Finally he turned a corner and saw the battered front door.

  "Amber!" Miro called as he yanked open the door and raced up the stairs. "We need to go!"

  Miro was certain the decrepit guesthouse where they'd found lodgings had been a halfway house before the recent flood of refugees gave it a more profitable purpose. Some of the long-term lodgers had a strange look about them, and Miro had felt uneasy leaving Amber on her own.

  He came to the thin door to their room and tried the handle. It was locked.

  "Amber, it's me," Miro said.

  A key rattled in the lock and Amber pulled the door open, her expression fearful.

  "What is it? I heard you calling."

  "We need to go. I'll explain later."

  "I just handed over two silver crowns!"

  "It doesn't matter. Come on!"

  It took little time to gather their few possessions and soon they were running through the streets of Maelan.

  Miro cursed when he saw a group of soldiers in the black uniforms of the Alchemists' Guild. "Back the other way."

  They tried another street, and then slipped between two buildings into an alley. Miro thought if he pointed them away from the river they'd find a road. Behind a farmhouse he saw pasture. "This way!"

  It wasn't until they'd crossed the field and come across a narrow path that Miro slowed. As the day passed into darkness, they left Maelan behind.

  "What happened?" Amber asked.

  "I was asking for directions to Wengwai when I saw another alchemist. I followed him, but — scratch it — he must have realised and led me around by the nose. Two men attacked me in an alley." Miro turned grim. "I fought them and was forced to kill them."

  "Are you hurt?"

  "No, I'm fine. But the alchemist got away, and the struggle raised a cry. I have no doubt they'll be looking for us in Maelan right now."

  "Miro, we've just arrived in this country, Gokan, or whatever it's called. I just spent some of our last coins on lodgings. You went to ask for directions, and next thing you know you got yourself into another fight!"

  "I was trying to find answers!" Miro protested.

  "You need to think more," Amber said. "It'll take both of us, working together, to get this antidote and return home. We need to use our heads, as well as our hearts." Miro heard the fear in her voice. "You'll get yourself killed, one of these days."

  "I understand," Miro said. Looking back, he still didn't know what he could have done differently, but he understood Amber was afraid, not just for herself but for him.

  They walked in silence and soon a crescent moon shone down from the night sky. The narrow trail turned onto a road, and with no better plan they wordlessly followed it away from Maelan.

  The road descended into a low valley with copses of thick trees to either side. Amber stopped. "What's that?"

  "What?"

  "Do you see it?" Amber pointed. "Light, there in the trees."

  Miro saw the flicker of firelight. "I'm not sure if we should make our presence known," he said.

  Amber rounded on her husband. "It's dark, I'm tired, and we need directions. You seemed happy to use that sword earlier in the day." She set off in the direction of the trees. "Follow my lead."

  30

  A GROUP of twelve men sat in a circle around the low embers of a cooking fire. A heavy metal pan rested on the coals, and the scent of mushrooms and toasting nuts wafted through the warm night air.

  One of the men walked forward and squatted near the fire, stirring the pan with a wooden spoon. The sound of sizzling was accompanied by the melodic notes of a plucked instrument, and Miro saw one of the men held a large gourd between his knees, fitted with dozens of thin strings. He plucked at one string and then another in a haphazard fashion, creat
ing a discordant yet not unpleasant tune, seemingly without structure, yet perhaps Miro simply didn't know how to find it.

  All the men wore smocks of sky blue and had beards of varying lengths. One older man's beard reached nearly to his waist.

  As Miro assessed the men, Amber stepped forward from the trees. "Greetings!"

  Miro came forward to stand beside her, keeping his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  None of the men jumped, nor looked at the two newcomers with surprise. Three of the closest turned to regard the couple, while the man stirring the pan brought the spoon to his lips and blew on it, tasting the contents before making a sound of appreciation. The music continued without faltering.

  The man with the long beard was one of those closest. "Welcome, strangers," he finally said, as if not used to speaking.

  "We're travellers, far from home, and we were hoping to share your fire," Amber said. "We can pay…"

  "Sit," the long-bearded man interrupted, indicating a space close to both him and the fire. "Make yourselves warm."

  Miro met Amber's eyes and she shrugged imperceptibly. They both walked to where indicated and seated themselves. Miro sighed, pleased to be off his feet.

  The twelve men looked at them curiously, but none of them spoke.

  "Thank you for letting us join your fire," Miro said.

  "Hmm," the long-bearded man said.

  The strange melody danced in the air, and the man with the spoon again squatted near the fire and tasted the food, frowning and then sprinkling some seasoning from a pouch into the pan.

  The long-bearded man suddenly spoke. "Don't mind my brothers. They've never spoken, and don't know how. I joined the Order late, so I still remember."

  "You don't speak?" Amber said.

  "Why would we need to?"

  Amber looked at a loss for words. "To communicate…"

  "There are many ways to communicate. Speech is imperfect, and my brothers and I prefer to speak with our souls. My soul is still impure, I must confess, for I still crave and enjoy speaking with ones such as yourselves."

  Miro realised they'd come across members of a priesthood.

  "You said you were travellers," the long-bearded man said. "Where is your destination?"

  Miro opened his mouth, wondering what to say, when Amber spoke for him.

  "We're going to Wengwai," she said. "We need to find the Alchemists' Guild. There's a poison we need to find a cure for."

  "Not for someone close to you, I hope?"

  Amber's throat caught. "My son."

  The long-bearded man turned sorrowful eyes on Amber. "I am sorry. I hope you find what you are looking for."

  "Where are you bound?" Miro asked.

  "Wengwai, of course," the long-bearded man said, as if it was obvious.

  "Why… why are you going to Wengwai?" Amber asked.

  "You don't know who we are, do you?"

  "We come from lands far from here," Miro said hurriedly.

  "We are members of the Order of Flowing Water. We are healers and helpers, musicians and madmen, or so the common people say. We do not take vows of silence, but we prefer not to speak. We do not eat meat, but we are lovers of food. We do not dance, but we are lovers of music. More than anything, we treat wounds and heal sickness. They say a great darkness is on its way to Wengwai, and many will die. We go wherever we are needed, and perhaps we are needed there."

  The long-bearded man seemed to run out of breath after his long speech. His brothers accompanied his words with nods and smiles, but none said a word.

  Miro saw the healer with the large spoon filling wooden bowls. Another brother handed out the bowls, and gave one to Miro with a smile. The scent made his mouth water, redolent with herbs and onion, mushroom and nuts. Amber also held a bowl and two spoons, giving one to Miro with a smile.

  Miro began to eat, unable to stop himself. He looked up at the healers, hoping he hadn't caused offence, but even the man with the gourd had stopped playing his instrument, and all twelve men were eating with gusto.

  Amber swallowed, and then turned to the long bearded healer. "Can we travel with you to Wengwai?"

  "That depends," he said. "Can you cook?"

  Miro saw Amber's eyes light up.

  ~

  IT WAS pleasant to have company, and the journey north was made lighter by the kind-hearted healers' wild food and strange music, their warm fires and the knowledge they were headed in the right direction.

  The first time Amber cooked, the healers cleaned every plate, and the next night they silently begged her with their eyes to cook again. From then on she was the nominated cook for the group, while the bearded brothers returned from their evening foraging with armfuls of wild onions and herbs, berries and roots.

  Miro couldn't believe these gentle men went wherever battles raged, where violent men fought each other with weapons of death. Their courage was of a kind he'd never encountered before, and his respect for them grew.

  "Do you ever fight?" Miro asked the long-bearded man one night. He'd asked the man his name but been given only silence.

  "No. Never. It is against our nature."

  "What do you do if you're attacked?"

  "Why would people attack us? We have no wealth, and we exist only to help."

  "People aren't always good."

  "Even violent people have good in them. They have simply allowed the darkness to dominate, if only for a time. Who are we to judge which side of a man's nature is stronger, whether on the scales of life he will have given the world more violence than love?"

  Miro thought about all the men he'd killed. He had difficulty sleeping that night.

  ~

  THE FIRST week saw the group of fourteen make their way through a land of rolling hills and green pastures. Villages and hamlets dotted the landscape, and the road was paved with smooth stones. Gokan was evidently a wealthy nation, with a large farming industry and a mill in every village.

  The refugees told another story.

  Frequently the party moved to the side of the road to let them pass. They travelled in groups large and small, with wagons pulled by lumbering beasts loaded to tilting point. These weren't just merchants and nobles — those who could take their wealth with them — their numbers now consisted of poor townsfolk and peasant farmers, who'd left everything they had by fleeing from their houses and farms, shops and mills.

  On the eighth night, they were attacked.

  It was a small group of men, barely Miro's age, come to see whether the travellers had anything worth taking. Miro was familiar with war-torn nations; he knew the sense of chaos provoked young men into thinking their deeds could go unpunished.

  As they challenged the group, voices coming out of the darkness, Miro came forward. He knew their type. If the camp had consisted of rich merchants, they would have been robbed, and if they were women, they would have been raped.

  He felt his blood rise, but remembered Amber's admonishments, and recalled the words of the long-bearded healer. These were young toughs, with a long life ahead of them. Yes, they were here to do harm to the defenceless, but Miro was a capable warrior. He could send them running, but let them live.

  Miro returned to the camp after ten minutes, out of breath, but with a clean sword.

  "I'm proud of you," Amber said later as they lay together beside the fire.

  "I hope I did the right thing," Miro said. "What if they go on to harm someone else?"

  "They won't. You scared the wits out of them."

  "I hope you're right."

  Amber reached out and squeezed his hand.

  ~

  "WENGWAI lies ahead," said the long-bearded healer.

  Miro squinted, but he couldn't see anything.

  "When we turn here, we'll be on the main road."

  "I thought we were on the main road?" Amber said.

  "No, this was just the road connecting Maelan and Wengwai. The main road travels from Wengwai north to Monapea, capital of Narea, and south to Re
nton, the main border crossing into Veldria."

  "How far?" Miro asked.

  "To Wengwai? We'll be there tomorrow. Get some good rest tonight, tomorrow will be a difficult day. Have you ever been close to a battle?"

  Amber looked at Miro. "Yes," she said. "We have."

  ~

  WARY of the refugees, they moved deeper into the forest, but there were cliffs barring further ingress, and they were forced to make camp only an hour's walk from the crossroads.

  Miro knew it was their last night with the bearded healers in the blue smocks, and silent as they were, he felt he'd come to know them. Each had a face that was as expressive as a child's; they could raise their eyebrows high, or curl their faces into fierce scowls. They may not have spoken, but they laughed, in great big guffaws and girlish giggles.

  That night, Amber made a special meal. She had three pans in the fire simultaneously, working and tasting in a finely orchestrated dance, sprinkling spices here, adding herbs there. She caramelised wild onions and sat the mixture on a flat circle of sliced root she'd baked earlier. After the savoury morsels she served a stew of mushroom and wild rice, seasoned with herbs and spices, rich and fragrant. To conclude the meal she ground nuts to make a coarse flour and added water, frying circles of the mixture to make pancakes. Amber topped the cakes with berries, handing them out to each of the healers in turn before giving one to Miro with a smile.

  "That was the finest meal I've ever had," said the healer with the long beard, leaning back against a fallen log and rubbing his belly with a sigh. "I could die tomorrow and know I'd lived well and eaten the best."

  Amber blushed, and Miro grinned. He stood and walked around the circle, taking each man's bowl and walking down to a nearby stream to wash.

  When he returned, the musician with the gourd was plucking at his strings, filling the air with soothing music. The rest of the healers had fallen asleep around the fire.

  Miro chuckled and saw Amber smile up at him.

  They would part ways the next day. Miro decided that this was how he would always remember them.