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

by James Maxwell

  He'd filled the jar, and he was still alive.

  Miro spent the next moments replacing the glass tube in the mouth of the barrel and sealing the cap. No one would know he'd come this way.

  Screwing a lid on the jar, now filled with essence, Miro held it carefully as he once again crossed back over the hill, taking his belongings with him.

  He continued to run, back bent to hide his form, until he found a quiet place far from the vats. A fallen log made a platform, and Miro drew his sword, placing it horizontally on the log in front of him. He placed the jar beside the sword where it wouldn't slip, and took out the quill.

  Miro waited until the moon came out, and then, taking a deep breath, he unscrewed the lid of the jar. He picked up the quill in his gloved right hand and thought about what he was doing.

  Miro had been a bladesinger for years. He'd studied hard and trained endlessly. He had carried his zenblade into countless battles, from one end of the Empire to the other.

  His sister was an enchantress. She'd left the temple school at a young age; it was the only way she could save the gilden she needed for the fees at the Academy of Enchanters. But she'd continued learning, bringing home books about topics ranging from mathematics to the study of the weather. Most of all, she'd brought home books about enchantment.

  Ella had made Miro his zenblade and armoursilk, both now resting at the bottom of the Great Western Ocean. Miro could never create a zenblade himself, but he knew the activation sequences she'd taught him, and with all his experience he knew some runes for lightness and hardness, heat and light.

  Miro's hand trembled as he dipped the quill in the jar. Could he really do this?

  He removed the quill from the jar and looked at the bared steel of the sword, glinting in the direct moonlight. He began to draw a rune, fighting the urge to tremble as a hissing sound came from the steel where the essence touched it. Acrid smoke rose into the air, stinging his eyes and throat, forcing him to keep his head tilted to the side. He curled the symbol at the end in the flourish he'd seen so many times. Was it correct? There was no way of knowing; he had only his memory to go on.

  He moved onto the second rune: the matrix he was drawing contained six symbols. Somehow Miro was able to recall every single one.

  The first matrix completed, Miro's hand moved along the blade as he started the second group of symbols. This next matrix bound twelve runes together, and was the most complex he would try. Miro wanted to give the sword the power to burn, and the power to blind. He would make it stronger and harder, sharper and lighter. He would activate it with a single spoken word.

  Compared to a zenblade it would be pitiful, but these people had no lore, and an enchanted sword in the hands of a skilled swordsman would be a deadly weapon indeed. A weapon he would need, if he planned to face revenants.

  The hours passed as Miro worked, and as he drew symbol after symbol he tried not to think about what might be happening to Amber at that very moment. The moon went behind a long black cloud and he cursed, forced to stop until it came back out.

  His strategy would be simple; this was no time for subterfuge. He would fight his way into the camp, take Amber, and they would flee.

  Miro frowned at the sword as he drew the last rune. What was missing? The activation sequence! Miro drew a final matrix close to the hilt, linking it to the other runes with a bridge. There, it was done.

  His hand felt cramped and his arm ached as he put the quill down on the log he was using as a table and removed the glove. He had a thought, and looking into the end of the log, he saw it was hollow. Miro decided to leave the items here. He would need to be unencumbered for fighting, and they may come in use again.

  Miro screwed the cap back onto the jar and filled the satchel, placing it inside the log.

  He picked up the long, straight sword with both hands, looking up and down its length. The steel shone, and even in the moonlight Miro could see the silver symbols along its length.

  Should he activate it now, to see if it worked?

  As far as he was from the enemy encampment, Miro was hesitant to light up the hills around him in the event his enchantment had been a success. He would have to wait to activate the sword until he was ready to use it.

  Ella had impressed on Miro the dangers of an incomplete enchantment. When they were learning, the students had to have every rune checked before they were allowed to move onto the next. Even accomplished enchanters worked with books and other enchanters.

  If he'd made a mistake, the sword could fizzle like a candle burned to a stub. Or it could explode in his hands; there was no way to tell.

  Miro decided he was as ready as he would ever be.

  He took the sword and walked back towards the place marked by the monolithic vats, the place where he'd last seen them take the woman he loved.

  35

  FINALLY, Miro allowed the rage to come to the surface. Blood throbbed in his ears and his breath came from his throat in a hoarse wheeze. He held the hilt of the sword in a grip of iron, and no longer tried to hide his presence as he walked towards the encampment with long, bold strides.

  He saw the vats to his left, which meant the encampment would be somewhere ahead. There were so many of the tents it would be impossible to know which held Amber. Some were large and some were small. The necromancers more than likely slept in rich surrounds. One of the tents more than likely held the Lord of the Night.

  Miro passed the first tent. He flicked his wrists and the sword sliced through the canvas wall, tearing a hole. Miro stepped through.

  "What…?"

  He was obviously a necromancer, and had been sleeping. Miro recognised the light hair and grey eyes of one of the Akari. The necromancer blinked at Miro in confusion.

  Miro opened the necromancer's throat with a quick thrust of his right arm. Blood fountained from the necromancer's neck and his eyes went impossibly wide. He clutched at his throat with both hands, gurgling and writhing, and then he was still.

  Miro walked back out the way he had come in. He listened, cocking his head. No alarm had been raised.

  All of a sudden, it started to rain.

  The sky opened and water came down in thick, heavy droplets. The darkness closed in, and the tents became dim shapes, confused and ethereal. Thunder rumbled overhead, and Miro was instantly soaked to the skin.

  Miro peered through the vertical lines of water. For the time being, he kept his sword inactive.

  He strode forward until he came to another tent, larger this time. He cut through the side with three successive slashes and stepped in.

  Torches rested against the supporting poles, lighting the space up and allowing Miro to see the horror within.

  Two necromancers in silver robes hovered over a wooden table. A pile of corpses lay in one corner of the room, while two revenant guards stood just inside the door.

  On the table was the body of a Gokani soldier. His chest had been laid bare and silver symbols covered one side of his chest.

  The necromancers turned in surprise.

  Miro's arms came up, and holding the sword in both hands, he cut down at the neck of the closest robed figure. Even as the man fell Miro spun on his heel and thrust into the second necromancers' chest, feeling the sword bite through bone.

  Miro withdrew the sword as the revenants came at him.

  They were barbarian warriors, huge armoured men, taller even than Miro, with broad shoulders and heavy broadswords.

  Miro had waited until now to activate his sword, but he could wait no longer. "Shekular," he named the rune.

  Light sped from one end of the blade to the other, searing white light that grew brighter as it approached the tip. Miro felt the sword come alive in his hands, growing lighter and throbbing with energy. He lifted his arms as his enemies came forward, snarling and letting his rage take full hold.

  The closest barbarian swung first, but Miro blocked, feeling his arms take the blow and pushing back with all his strength. He saw his opponent'
s broadsword twist and melt where the enchanted sword clashed against it, and Miro pulled back and swung at the barbarian's face, opening up the skin under his eye to the bone. His opponent made no sound but fell back, and the second revenant came forward. Miro attacked in a flurry of blows, eager to finish the two warriors quickly. His sword sheared through this revenant's broadsword and cut deep into the creature's chest.

  Yet both warriors kept going. Miro leapt forward and swung again at the first white-eyed barbarian, once more aiming for the head. The glowing blade bit deep into the revenant's neck and continued, removing his head clean from his shoulders. Miro turned to the last warrior and ducked, slashing through both of his thick legs. The revenant fell to the ground, and Miro hacked downwards to take his head off.

  Miro looked around the tent. Everyone in it was dead; there was nothing for him here.

  He ran back out and peered through the pouring rain. Nothing. He ran forwards until he saw the dark shapes of more tents. One was much larger than the rest. Miro's feet dug into the sodden earth as he ran towards it.

  His blazing sword would draw the enemy to him, and he knew he had little time. He cut a hole in the wall of the long structure and stepped inside.

  Moans and screams greeted his entrance. Several hundred prisoners had been corralled inside a pen, fenced with spiked wire on all sides and guarded by revenants. Without time to look for a gate, Miro swung down at the fence with his sword, furiously striking again and again. A revenant came at him and Miro twisted his body, taking the creature's head off with a single blow, before once again returning to the fence.

  "Amber!" Miro cried. Where was she?

  He finally cut the metal into molten fragments, clearing enough space for the prisoners to exit.

  "Get out of here!" he shouted. "All of you, now!"

  First one shot out, and then they were moving in a flood. Miro searched every face as he admonished them to run as fast and far away as they could. He couldn't see her.

  When he'd scanned every face Miro turned around.

  Six revenants charged him. With a roar, Miro came in to meet them.

  He despatched the first with a feint and thrust to the throat, following it with a disembowelling blow to the stomach. The second exploded as Miro cut into him with three blows in quick succession. Blood and gore flew into the air, covering Miro with red. The rain made the sword slippery in his hands but he held on tightly, aware that without it he was dead.

  Dancing between the snarling barbarians, he concentrated on the neck and head, slicing through a man's skull and taking another revenant's head from his shoulders. Miro's training at Blademaster Rogan's hands and the experience gained from the war gave him lightning reflexes, and his rage gave him strength.

  There were only two facing him now, and he charged them both, smashing into one with his shoulder and lashing out with his sword at the second. He rolled on the ground and spun on his heel as he stood up, cutting a revenant in two. Another blow saw the final warrior go down.

  Breathing heavily, Miro let his arm fall down by his side. He suddenly felt exhausted, but he couldn't stop now, not when he was so close.

  "Amber!" Miro cried again, heedless now of the noise he caused.

  He shielded his eyes from the rain. There, ahead — it was another of the long structures. There would be more prisoners there.

  Miro ran, feeling splashes and puddles now beneath his boots. He reached his destination in moments and this time the entrance was ahead of him, two revenants standing side by side at the door.

  He tore through them without thinking, letting his muscles control the sword of their own accord. Panting, he looked down, seeing two headless bodies at his feet.

  "Amber!" he cried.

  Miro saw another pen filled with wailing prisoners. His arms felt like lead but he smashed at the fence time and again, the enchanted blade making swift work of the steel. The prisoners ran out and Miro slumped as weariness took him, his chest heaving as he desperately tried to search the crowd, calling out her name.

  He sensed motion behind him and spun, the sword coming forward.

  "Miro, it's me!"

  Amber looked fragile and weak, but she was alive, and she was unharmed. She held Miro's wrist, and he realised he still had the sword raised. He lowered his arm.

  "I'm taking you out of here," he said.

  "Look," Amber said. She held up her hand.

  Miro stared at the flask she held in confusion.

  "It's the cure. I have it. We can go!"

  Miro grabbed Amber's hand in his left, his right hand holding the blazing sword. He took her out into the empty space between the tents, wondering which way to go.

  A bright light erupted from above, blinding them.

  In an instant Miro could see as clearly as daylight.

  A man in black clothing stood before them. He held his hand upturned in front of him, runes glowing on his palm, and high above, an orb of pure light rose higher into the air. When he closed his palm, the ball of light stopped moving, and now was still.

  Sentar Scythran regarded Miro with amusement.

  He looked at the glowing sword in Miro's hand. "You're not from around here, are you?"

  Amber shrunk behind Miro as he moved to stand in front of her.

  "I'd like to find out what you're doing here, so far from home," Sentar Scythran said.

  A necromancer in a silver robe walked up to stand beside his master.

  "Renrik," Sentar said. "Instruct our minions to round up those who've fled."

  "Yes, Master," said Renrik, bowing and moving away.

  "Drop your weapon and come forward," Sentar said to Miro.

  "No," said Miro.

  Sentar raised an eyebrow. He pointed his finger and words came from his lips.

  Miro pushed Amber away, diving to the side as lightning filled the space where they'd stood. He rolled on the ground and a blast hit the earth behind him, tearing a steaming chunk out of the sodden dirt. He twisted and weaved, rolling and ducking, each movement bringing him closer to the Lord of the Night.

  Miro screamed as his sword came up and he prepared to lunge, his every being burning with the desire to end this man's life.

  Sentar leaped away and pointed again with both hands, this time away from Miro.

  Bolts of twisting lightning poured from his fingertips.

  Miro's eyes followed the stream of blue energy as it bathed Amber in its destructive power.

  She screamed, the most terrible sound Miro had ever heard. Writhing in pain, still on her feet, she twitched and shook and her clothes began to smoke. As Amber's hair caught fire Miro cried out and held his arms out, lowering his sword.

  Sentar dropped his hands. The lightning vanished.

  "Enough?" he said, looking at Miro.

  Miro watched as Amber crumpled to the ground. Her legs trembled, quivering, the only sign she was still alive, and the blessed rain soon ended the flames in her hair.

  Miro threw down his sword and fell to his knees. He looked again at Amber. "No more," he said, though his mind was filled with hate. "Don't hurt her."

  The Lord of the Night walked towards him. Miro looked up into the ice-blue eyes, and then without warning the man's clenched fist came forward, snapping Miro's head back. Indescribable pain rocked him to his core; the blow was inhuman in its strength. Blood poured from Miro's nose and mouth as he spat out a tooth.

  "Yes," said Sentar Scythran. "I thought so. You're as weak as all your kind."

  Miro fell down to the ground, his face landing in a pool of water and the blood from his face mingling with the mud. Looking up, he saw men in grey robes come forward.

  "Take him, bind him. Destroy the sword. And also… ensure the woman is the next one raised. Choose one of the more painful ways for her to die, and when she is brought back, send her to me. I'd like to see the expression on this man's face when his mate is made to kill him."

  "Please…" Miro gasped.

  Sentar bent down unt
il his face was close to Miro's. "What are you doing so far from home, little human? We'll soon find out, won't we?"

  36

  THE ISLE of Ana was a long strip of rock in the Tingaran Sea, five days sailing from the coast. It lacked a deep harbour, and the only means of approach was a tiny cove with a crumbling jetty, providing meagre protection from the buffeting waves. With few resources and little importance the island was rarely visited.

  The late Emperor Xenovere found a purpose for the Isle of Ana, deciding to send convicts from Tingara. The men and women who were taken to the island never saw home again.

  A deep chasm divided the Isle of Ana roughly into northern and southern halves. The southern half was the larger section and possessed the pier, as well as several clusters of rude huts. The convicts lived here, entirely unsupervised, making the best of their situation. Vegetable gardens scattered the landscape and a few goats rollicked on the craggy hills, seemingly unaware of the precipitous drop to the ocean below. Most of the convicts were old men, their crimes long forgotten by the society they'd left behind. Escape was impossible.

  Once, a bridge had crossed the chasm, connecting the northern and southern halves of the island, but it had been intentionally destroyed, more than twenty years ago. Before the Emperor's men had done so, they'd built a house of wood and stone on the northern tip, resting against the side of a hill on a small plateau with an unparalleled view of the sea. They then carried tools, building materials, some animals, seeds, and provisions to the newly built house. Their prisoner and those of her retinue who had volunteered to join her crossed the bridge. Only then was it destroyed, leaving the northern section of the Isle of Ana completely isolated, from land as well as sea.

  Lady Alise was now over fifty years old. She had lived on the northern end of the Isle of Ana for nearly half of her life. Two gravestones marked where her gardener and his wife were buried, and only Marlow, her manservant, and Tara, her maid, remained. There were two other smaller houses a few minutes walk from Alise's own house, but only one was occupied. Tara and Marlow weren't married, but they had lived together for the last three years.