The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two)

by James Maxwell

  Miro thought about the fierce tribes of the desert lands. What game would they play? How would the Hazarans and this new lore they were said to possess influence the war?

  "Look at you. You haven't shaved in days. Are you even sleeping properly?"

  As Miro looked up, his black hair fell in front of his eyes and he impatiently pushed it away.

  Marshal Beorn stood across from Miro, both palms resting on the simulator's edge. "How long have you been here?" Beorn asked. "Get some rest, Lord Marshal."

  Miro wiped at his eyes; they felt grainy and heavy, and for a moment Beorn's face wavered in his vision. The marshal's face was marked by his age, weathered and worn, but far from old. Beorn's hair and beard were grey, but his eyes were sharp, and he and Miro shared a bond of mutual respect that could only be formed on the battlefield.

  Beorn's steadiness was the counterpoint to Miro's daring, and Miro knew that some of his bolder ideas had gone forward solely due to the veteran officer's support. If Beorn said no, Miro knew an idea had little merit; but if the marshal wavered, then perhaps a plan had potential, with a little more thought.

  "Miro, I told you to call me Miro. What time is it?"

  "It's two hours past daybreak."

  Miro grinned. "Then it's morning. Time to wake up, isn't it?"

  Beorn gave Miro a wry smile, shaking his head. "What have you learned?"

  Miro turned back to the simulator, his expression once again grim. "Halaran is the answer. See," his fingers touched some of the runes, lighting up various elements of his units as he spoke about them, "we're wasting valuable men defending our southern regions from a Petryan attack that may never come."

  "Surely you aren't advocating pulling them out. The Wondhip Pass could be cleared, or the Petryans could find another way in."

  "I'm just hypothesising." Miro activated some more sequences. "Look, here are the constructs we left behind at the ruins of the Bridge of Sutanesta. They aren't far away, just inside Halrana lands."

  "Territory held firmly by the enemy," Beorn said.

  "But if we take it, we not only get a foothold in Halaran, we can add the salvageable constructs to our forces." Miro moved all of the allied units to the proposed area. At first glance, there were enough to win the region, but with a slim margin that could swing either way.

  "And who would defend our north?" Beorn persisted.

  "The Dunfolk," Miro said.

  "I'll leave that argument for another day. And our south?"

  Miro sighed. "That's where the plan falls down. The Petryans are simply too much of an unknown. Yet winter is nearly over, with the spring will come more battles, and the one thing we can't do is sit back and let the enemy devour Altura a bite at a time. In fact, I keep asking myself — why haven't they attacked yet?"

  "We broke their army," said Beorn.

  "Yes, but they've had time to reform. Ella thinks it's something to do with essence, that we aren't the only ones running low."

  "The Primate of the Assembly of Templars, low on essence?"

  Miro shrugged. "I know. Yet that's where all the signs are pointing."

  "Lord Marshal," a voice called, echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

  Miro turned. Many people disliked the Crystal Palace, with its arches instead of doorways, strange echoes, and scattered shadows, but Miro had already become fond of it in the short time he'd lived here. The Crystal Palace said something about the uniqueness of Altura.

  A man in the raj hada of a courier stood at the arched entrance to the room.

  "What is it?" Beorn said.

  "The emissary from Raj Hazara, Jehral of Tarn Teharan, has presented himself. With him is the man from Castlemere, Hermen Tosch. They wish to see you."

  Miro shared a glance with Beorn. He still didn't know what to make of this desert warrior and his new house, Raj Hazara.

  Jehral had arrived in Sarostar the previous day, claiming to represent his leader, a prince whose name Miro couldn't remember. Jehral had said Raj Hazara was not a new house; rather, a fallen house that had been reborn. Miro wasn't sure what to believe.

  Miro cursed himself; he'd meant to speak with Ella about this man, but instead he'd stayed here, forming battle strategies with the simulator. Tiredness leads to regret, Miro reminded himself.

  "Show them in," Miro said, "but first please summon High Lord Rorelan."

  Miro spoke some words to deactivate the simulator and return it to the state where it was no more than a map. He heard footsteps, and looked up as two men entered the room.

  They were as alike as night and day. Jehral was beardless, with long dark hair held back by a circlet of silver. His loose clothing of black silk was bound by a sash of yellow, and combined with his sharp features and olive skin the garments made him look unmistakeably foreign.

  Hermen Tosch had the broad build of the Buchalanti, or someone of Buchalanti stock, which meant a denizen of the free cities, Castlemere and Schalberg. His hair was cut short and he appeared to be a man who rarely smiled. He spoke seldom, but when he did it was with a thick, guttural accent.

  Surprisingly, it was Hermen who spoke first. "We were told to wait, but Jehral is not used to waiting. Apologies, Lord Marshal."

  Miro smiled tightly. "The High Lord is on his way. He wishes to meet with you both."

  "This High Lord," Jehral said, his voice smooth and flowing. "He is your prince?"

  Miro paused for a moment. "Yes, he is," he finally said. "High Lord Rorelan rules Altura, and I follow where he leads."

  After the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta, Rorelan had been made High Lord, although he had made it clear to his supporters among the nobility that his acceptance was conditional on Miro's confirmation as Lord Marshal. Both Miro and the new High Lord were happy — Rorelan was pleased to have a more experienced soldier lead the war effort, and Miro was content to leave the leadership of his homeland to a capable administrator.

  "You'll remember Marshal Beorn?" Miro said.

  Jehral executed a brief bow, culminating in a flourish, and Miro recognised that the desert warrior possessed grace. Beorn simply nodded.

  "Can I offer you refreshment?" Miro asked. "The High Lord will be along shortly."

  "Actually, it's you I wish to speak with, Lord Marshal Miro Torresante," Jehral said.

  "Apologies, Jehral of Tarn Teharan, and I realise it may work differently in your land, but we should wait for the High Lord before discussing matters of… political importance," Miro said. Lord of the Sky, he was tired. Where was High Lord Rorelan?

  "It's about your sister," Jehral said.

  "My sister?" Miro started. "What about her?"

  "My prince, he is very interested by her. She is a mighty enchantress, is she not?"

  "Yes, I suppose she is."

  "And it is true that she built a bridge, crossing a great chasm, with nothing but lore?"

  Miro tried to make sense of the Hazaran emissary's words. There was a subtext here that he didn't understand. He could tell when a topic was being spoken around, rather than about. But in the Skylord's name he couldn't figure out what Jehral was getting at.

  Beorn grinned at Miro's discomfort. "Yes, it's true," he answered for him.

  "And she created an illusion that sent many of this Black Army to their maker?"

  "Yes, she did." Miro rubbed at his eyes again. Where was the High Lord?

  "Incredible," Jehral said. "Tell me, Lord Marshal Miro, what was her name again?"

  "Ella," Miro said. "Her name is Ella."

  "Ella," Jehral repeated.

  As Jehral finished speaking, High Lord Rorelan entered the room. The recent battle had aged the late Lord Devon's son; his complexion was pallid at the best of times, and lately his skin was grey and drawn. But today his patrician features were curled into a scowl, and he stormed into the room without even noticing the two visitors.

  "Miro, I need to speak with you," Rorelan said. "It's about your sister."

  Miro and Beorn bowed their heads, placi
ng their fingers over their lips and then touching their foreheads, while Jehral and Hermen hesitantly followed suit.

  "High Lord," Miro said, "this is Jehral of Tarn Teharan, emissary of Raj Hazara, and Hermen Tosch of Castlemere. There is a great deal for us all to speak about. The Hazarans share a border with Petrya," he glanced significantly at Rorelan, "and much of our trade is dependent on the free cities."

  "Please, High Lord, we can see that we are interrupting," Jehral said. "We are presently lodging in your beautiful city, and we can discuss these matters at a time more convenient."

  Jehral and Hermen Tosch bowed and withdrew, leaving the three Alturans watching them depart.

  "What was that about?" Beorn said. "First they storm in here without so much as a by-your-leave, and then when we make time for them they go."

  Miro sighed. "I fear there's a lot about these people we don't understand." He turned to Rorelan. "My apologies, High Lord, they were supposed to wait while I sent a courier for you. It's probably for the best that we speak with them another time. I need to ask my sister about this Jehral and his people. She said she spent some time with them, and we should properly formulate a response before treating with them. I take it something else brought you here?" Miro stifled a yawn, and his jaw cracked. "You mentioned my sister?"

  Rorelan's scowl returned. "I've just come from a meeting with High Enchanter Merlon. Miro, do you have any idea how low our supplies of essence are? We can't afford these experiments of hers. The High Enchanter says she won't listen to reason. And this new companion of hers… let's just say the Lord Marshal's sister needs to consider the company she keeps."

  "I'll speak with her," Miro said. "Where can I find her?"

  A great boom sounded from somewhere, followed by a whoosh that made the ground rumble. If they had been anywhere except the Crystal Palace, dust would have fallen from the ceiling.

  High Lord Rorelan levelled Miro with a steady gaze. "I don't think you'll have any trouble."

  2

  TAPEL was always finding strange things, but this was certainly the strangest. He regarded the man, as always trying not to stare too hard at the bandages around the man's throat, while the man regarded him back with coal-dark eyes. The man tried to sit up, and when Tapel pushed him back down as his mother had instructed, the stranger was too weak to protest.

  Tapel's mother was always telling Tapel what to do and what not to do, when it came to the stranger. She was out a lot of the time, so it was often Tapel who took care of him.

  It was only fair, Tapel supposed. It was he who had found the stranger, after all.

  ~

  THE armies of Altura and Halaran had met the Black Army just outside Ranalast, in a great collision of men and steel in the now-ravaged land that had once been low farmland, gentle hillocks and forested copses.

  Like so many others, Tapel and his mother, Amelia, had prayed for their countrymen and their Alturan allies. Ralanast had been occupied for weeks, and all knew the attempt to liberate the Halrana capital from the ruthless soldiers of the imperial legion was a desperate gamble.

  The explosions and screams could be heard throughout the day, from all quarters of Ralanast, from the dusty masons' quarter to the deserted market district. The Halrana who had stayed in their capital and not attempted the frantic flight to Altura gathered in front of the Terra Cathedral, old men and women with small children peacefully demonstrating their wish for their occupiers to leave. The legionnaires dispersed the crowd with pikes and blood-drenched swords.

  Legasa Telmarran, High Lord of Halaran, and Prince Leopold of Altura fought bravely. Then, in the afternoon word arrived that the army of Alturans and Halrana was surrounded. High Lord Legasa asked for quarter, but none was given. The encirclement grew tighter, and the butchery began.

  Tapel's mother had cried, and Tapel had held her hand, not sure what else to do. By nightfall, the battle was over. Some soldiers had escaped, bursting out of the enemy's net in leaderless groups, but Ralanast's last chance at freedom was over. High Lord Legasa was dead, killed in battle. Prince Leopold had fled the field.

  The Black Army were here to stay.

  Tapel's mother was starving, her arms growing thin and the skin of her cheeks tight like a drum. Tapel could now encircle her waist with one arm when he hugged her, and her golden hair, usually the colour of wheat in the summer, was showing more than a third grey. Tapel hadn't eaten a proper meal in as long as he could remember, and the gnawing in his stomach had become truly painful. He and his mother had long ago sold every item of jewellery, traded every last winter coat and pair of boots. Tapel knew Amelia was feeding him more than she took herself, but he couldn't help eating the food she put in front of him, and he felt guilt every time his stomach rumbled.

  So,the day after the battle, Tapel did what all the other boys were doing: he went to the battlefield to search the corpses of the dead.

  It was worse than he could ever have imagined. Much, much worse.

  Corpses littered the field, interspersed with the familiar shapes of constructs, from charred woodmen to a shattered colossus, dwarfing the hill it had made its final resting place.

  Tingaran legionnaires in black lay entangled with brown-clad Halrana pikemen. The green of the Alturan dead spotted the landscape like withered plants. The colour red was shared by all, although exposure to the air had oxidised the blood to a dark, evil shade.

  The field stank, the worst smell Tapel had ever encountered. Men had voided their bowels, and had their guts ripped open by swords, their heads smashed and bodies broken. The carrion birds had started to feast, and as Tapel picked his way through the carnage, he disturbed a crow as it feasted on the matter in a Halrana soldier's skull.

  Tapel wondered if the young man had left a family behind, and suddenly he was sick, falling to the earth and heaving up the contents of his stomach violently and painfully. He closed his eyes as his throat constricted, trying to use the darkness to blot out the visions of death and macabre destruction.

  When the retching ceased and his body again came under his control, Tapel climbed back to his feet. He put his hand to his forehead, momentarily light-headed. He breathed slowly in, then out. He fixed his mind on his mother, and, his face set with determination, deliberately walked towards the next dead soldier he saw.

  The dead legionnaire stared at Tapel with glazed eyes. The soldier's head was shaved and his face was flat and round. A tattoo decorated his cheek: the sun and star raj hada of Tingara.

  Tapel squatted by the soldier's side and examined him in more detail. He had been killed by a pike; it wasn't a question, the long haft still jutted from the centre of the legionnaire's chest. The body of the Halrana pikeman who had killed him was nearby, still clutching the weapon with both hands, a red slash across his throat and an expression of surprise on his face.

  Tapel tried not to think of the priests at the earth temple and their sermons about respect for the dead. This man was the enemy, he reminded himself. Somehow it felt better to search the enemy dead.

  The legionnaire was a big man in life, and wore a padded vest of scaled armour. The battle had taken its toll, and several of the scales were missing. If they hadn't been, he probably would have survived the thrust that ended his life.

  Breathing slowly and evenly to suppress his revulsion, Tapel began to feel inside the armour where two of the metal scales had opened up a hole. The legionnaire wore a simple jerkin underneath the armour; Tapel felt up and down, using his thin arms and small hands to advantage. Finally he gave up; there was nothing there. Where would he keep his gilden, were he to head into battle? He probably wouldn't take it with him in the first place.

  Jewellery. He should look for jewellery. He decided to quickly and speedily search for rings, necklaces, earrings, fancy scabbards, anything that looked valuable. This strategy had the added benefit that Tapel wouldn't have to spend too much time touching the dead.

  Scanning swiftly, Tapel immediately found a bronze ring on the lon
gest finger of the legionnaire's left hand, and a small gold hoop around the lobe of his left ear.

  The sooner he could work, the faster he would be finished. Tapel took the jewellery, then left the body and continued his search.

  Some kind of explosion had left a huge gouge in the earth up ahead. With horror, Tapel realised that the lumps he had taken for clods of dirt scattered about were the pieces of bodies. He promptly left the scene behind and came to a group of Black Army regulars, motley soldiers whose luck had run out when they encountered a group of ironmen. The constructs had run through them like a scythe through wheat. Some twisted pieces of metal could be seen here and there, but scores of bodies in black tabards proved who had been the victor in that particular encounter. The Black Army regulars were laid out in an almost orderly fashion, limbs akimbo and flesh torn.

  Tapel moved quickly from corpse to corpse, keeping his mind carefully blank. He picked up mostly cheap metal jewellery, but also found a gilt scabbard and a gold ring set with a purple stone.

  Tapel crested a hill, and jumped when he startled a flock of crows gorging on the dead. They settled again, further ahead, their beady eyes regarding him as they tilted their heads, hopping from one place to another and cawing to each other. A nearby sound caught his attention, and he looked down; at his feet a crow glared up at him, blood dripping from its beak. Tapel kicked at it with his foot.

  It was growing dark. Looking around the battlefield Tapel realised he was the last of the youths still out. If he came home too late, his mother would ask questions, questions he knew he wouldn't want to answer.

  The shortest path back to the city was through yet another group of the dead, where it appeared a tremendous swordfight had taken place. As Tapel came closer he realised that there were only black-clad legionnaires here; where were the Halrana dead, or the Alturans? Perhaps some constructs had been the cause of this destruction?