The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two)

by James Maxwell

  Ella spun around, trying to get her bearings. She turned to the left, and the vision of tree branches shattered.

  A figure in black clothing, his dark hair held back by a circlet, came out of the green.

  Ella opened her mouth to say the words, but before she could, something hit the back of her head, and her vision burst with stars.

  A cloth was held to her mouth, reeking of spices, and involuntarily Ella inhaled.

  All became darkness.

  5

  MIRO'S thoughts were sluggish and beset by doubt. Acting on Marshal Beorn's advice, he turned to sleep after a gruelling session trying to explain his plan to High Lord Rorelan. The High Lord simply refused to take any more strength away from the border with Petrya in the south. All three men realised that an alliance with this new house, Raj Hazara, must be attained at all costs.

  Miro decided to get a few hours rest before treating again with the glib-tongued Jehral of Tarn Teharan.

  His eyes were shut before his head hit the pillow. There was something he needed to do. It came to him as he drifted off. Ella could tell him about these strange desert-folk; she might even know this Jehral personally. He would… He would…

  A heavy knock sounded at Miro's door, and he was instantly awake. He leapt out of bed, his zenblade activated and fiery in his hand, before whoever it was even had a chance to make a second knock.

  As the fog of sleep gave way to awareness, Miro realised that whatever the cause of the commotion was, it didn't herald immediate danger. He looked to the window, where oblique rays of sunshine poured in. Early afternoon, he guessed.

  Miro deactivated the zenblade and returned it to the scabbard by his bedside, then reached forward and opened the door.

  High Lord Rorelan stood outside the door with Bartolo; the High Lord's hand was raised to knock again.

  "What is it? Just come in next time," Miro said.

  Rorelan smiled and looked pointedly at the zenblade. "With a twitchy bladesinger inside? I think I'll knock every time."

  "Miro, I'm sorry," Bartolo said.

  Miro had fought by Bartolo's side countless times; they had suffered through the same pains, and Miro had never seen the man so distraught.

  "What is it?"

  "It's about the Hazarans," Rorelan said, at the same time as Bartolo spoke.

  "It's about Ella."

  Miro looked from one face to the next. "What about her?"

  "She's gone, Miro," Bartolo said. "I'm sorry. It's my fault. I know I was supposed to be looking after her."

  "Jehral and Hermen Tosch are also gone," Rorelan said. "The courier I sent to issue a summons discovered they left their lodgings not long after speaking with us this morning."

  "There are signs of a struggle, near where your sister and the elementalist were working," Bartolo said.

  "Is it just Ella or is the Petryan gone too?"

  "Shani's gone too," said Bartolo. "I'm such a fool!" he suddenly cried and punched the wall. Bartolo winced and looked at his scratched fist.

  ~

  MIRO was furious with himself. He paced the length of the simulator, one hand formed into a fist that he smashed into his palm with every second step, while Bartolo and the High Lord looked on.

  After the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta Ella had attracted a lot of attention, and he should have done more to look out for her safety. The survivors called it the Deliverance, and Miro knew the news had travelled further afield than Altura. Miro's head throbbed and he rubbed at his temples, and then he shook his head, grinning without humour. Protect Ella? Control her? He'd like to meet the man who could do that.

  He cursed himself for not seeing the truth behind Jehral's questions. He hadn't been interested in an alliance at all. Ella was the one the desert warrior was interested in all along; how could he not have seen it?

  What would the men of Raj Hazara want with his sister? Was it something to do with the lore she had helped them to rediscover? Did they simply want someone with her skill to help them further? How worried should he be?

  Miro tried to tell himself the Hazarans just wanted more of Ella's help, but he knew so little about them. Jehral and his friend Hermen Tosch had managed to capture an elementalist and a skilled enchantress. Whatever else, they were dangerous men.

  Miro paced as he wondered what to do. He had vowed to never again let those close to him fall into the hands of his enemies.

  Like a dog scratching at a wound, Miro's mind returned to the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta, and the last time he had seen Amber. He had nightmares about it, dreams where he was cutting through the press of the enemy, slashing through warrior after warrior, seeing her auburn hair and green dress vanishing into the endless ranks of the Black Army. No matter what he did, he couldn't get closer to her. He screamed her name, but she never turned around. And she was always going in the wrong direction, away from safety.

  Away from him.

  He had lost so many friends in the war. Blademaster Rogan, the man who taught Miro to fight. Tuok, the soldier who taught Miro the ways of the world. Ronell Kendra, the bladesinger who finally conquered his fears, fighting to his last breath. Varana, the gentle Halrana woman who only wanted to be loved, and who Miro had left behind in the doomed town of Sallat.

  Miro had promised himself that the next time he saw Primate Melovar Aspen, it would be at his enemy's demise. He had promised himself that never again would he leave someone he loved to face his enemies without his protection.

  He stopped his pacing. "I'm going after them."

  "Miro, let me go," Bartolo said.

  "You are not going," Rorelan said. "Miro, you know you have responsibilities here, and," he continued, "we have, what, four bladesingers left besides the two of you? Bladesinger Bartolo, I forbid you to go also. You will be needed for the war effort."

  "High Lord, it was my fault!" Bartolo bristled. Bladesingers were considered free agents, generally able to make their own decisions about how best to serve Altura.

  Marshal Beorn rushed into the room, stopping when he saw Miro. "Lord Marshal, we're under attack. A force is testing our defences in the woodland to the east, near the Halrana border. We need you."

  Miro turned to High Lord Rorelan, and then to Bartolo. He threw up his hands. "Bartolo, go after them. Look after my sister."

  "Lord Marshal, I forbid…" Rorelan began.

  Miro fixed Rorelan with a stare. The Alturan High Lord met his gaze, and then faltered. "He's going," Miro said.

  Bartolo put out his hand, and Miro gripped it in return. "I will find her," Bartolo said. "I won't let you down."

  Miro nodded, at a loss for words. He watched his friend dash out of the room, and then grimly followed Beorn, to discover what the enemy were up to this time.

  6

  NO man or woman without desperate business wandered the corridors of Stonewater during solace. In these two darkest hours of the night, farthest from both dusk and dawn, the priests were silent, noise was forbidden, and even the patrolling templar guards halted their pacing, standing still and meditative during this time of contemplation and prayer.

  The stationary nature of the guards made Sabithe's task that much easier. He crept along the gallery, moving from column to column, using them to hide his form, and fought to keep his breath even and quell the raucous beating of his heart.

  Sabithe was a priest, and had little experience of danger. He'd grown up in a sleepy village in the south of Aynar, sheltered by the loving care of his parents, both tailors and regular attendees at the temple. When Sabithe had reached the age where he started to attend, and saw the way the priest earned the respect of the townsfolk — no matter their age or station — he had instantly known what he wanted to be.

  He had scored high marks in all of the temple's examinations, from arithmetic to grammar, but where he had most excelled was in theology. Sabithe didn't exactly understand how all the events in the Evermen Cycles could be related to the simple life of the townsfolk, but he had a
strong sense of morals, of right and wrong, and a deft mind that could turn an argument, and change a man's mind without him realising he had ever thought differently.

  The priest of Sabithe's village had sent him to Salvation, in Stonewater's shadow, to study under the wisest men and women of the Assembly, drawn from all over the Tingaran Empire. The young priest thrived in the competitive environment — the late-night discussions of free will versus destiny, or when it's right to lay down the sword and when it's right to fight. He was destined for great things, they said; for the senior echelons of the templars; but then the philosophy of the Assembly changed, and Sabithe refused to change along with it.

  Sabithe believed there were times when it was right to pick up a sword, and he knew in his heart when those times were: in the defence of one's self, or one who could not defend themselves; to protect the flow of goods from marauders, so that there was more wealth in the land and fewer went hungry; to keep more swords out of the hands of those who would put them to evil ends; and to put the sword back down, just to show it could be done.

  One day, Sabithe woke up and realised there were more templars wearing swords. It was a right that templars — not priests — had, but with the exception of templar guards and soldiers, few rarely exercised. Sabithe looked on as the people of Salvation's respect for the Assembly turned from awe to fear. The sermons of Melovar Aspen, Primate of the Assembly of Templars, changed.

  Before, the Primate had preached the maintenance of peace, even at the detriment of those such as the people of Petrya, who lived under oppressive leaders, or Tingara, who valued wealth too much, and life too little.

  At the time, Sabithe had understood the Primate's argument. Change came about with time, and in this troubled age the inhabitants of the Tingaran Empire were still living better than their fathers. It might take time, but the world would get there. Picking up a sword could be justified, but only the most extreme of circumstances called for war. An uneasy peace was better than no peace at all. This was logic Sabithe could agree with.

  Then the Primate's words changed.

  Melovar Aspen began to speak out more against the great wealth divide in Tingara, particularly in Seranthia, where the poor were rounded up and cast out of the city, sometimes from the towering heights of the Wall, the bodies forming little holes in the dust when they hit the ground.

  He raved at the terrible weapons the Alturan enchanters made, fit only for war, and the exploding devices of the Louan artificers. He spoke of an eventual end to the houses, of a new world of unity, without lore, without borders, without tyrannical High Lords and an economy based on essence. At first, Sabithe agreed, such problems needed to be spoken out against, but then he saw the meaning inside the Primate's words.

  The Primate wanted to change the world, and he didn't mean to wait. He wanted to change it now.

  Sabithe knew what the words meant. There was only one way to bring about such wholesale change.

  War.

  When he heard about the absorption of Raj Torakon into Raj Tingara, Sabithe knew it had begun. The lightning fast attack through Loua Louna only confirmed it. He heard about the depredations of the Black Army in Halaran, and the butchery at the Battle for Ralanast that the templars were calling a great victory.

  All in the name of the Evermen.

  When he heard about the intentional destruction of the Bridge of Sutanesta, the only escape route to Altura, and the Black Army's pinning of the refugees against the Sarsen, Sabithe wept.

  Many escaped that day, thank the Evermen, but there were many who didn't: helpless people, ordinary people, not only from Halaran but from Torakon and from Loua Louna. Children with their mothers, husbands with their wives, the elderly and the infantile; they all died together.

  Sabithe decided it was time to pick up a sword.

  He was forced to wait, but when the attacks on Stonewater came, when some desperate warrior sought his revenge on the Assembly, Sabithe knew it was just a matter of time before the Primate returned.

  Now the Primate was back, and Sabithe was ready.

  He listened intently, waiting in the shadows of a stairway, but could hear nothing. Sabithe tried to slow his breathing and still his racing heart. He closed his eyes, and swiftly prayed to the Evermen for success this night. Sabithe opened his eyes again, looking up. Solace would finish soon, and the guards would once again be pacing the corridors of Stonewater. He had best be quick.

  As Sabithe crept up the stairway, keeping a constant lookout for the guards he knew would be hard to hear in their stillness, he could feel the weight in his cassock. The prismatic orb was heavy, much heavier than he had expected it to be, but he knew how to activate it — such things were never complicated; the army was rarely the first option for the educated — and he had been told the orb would be more than sufficient for what he intended.

  "Who's there?" a voice sounded.

  Sabithe hadn't seen the guard, motionless as the man was, far from the soft light of the corridor's nightlamps. Earlier, he had made it past a guard simply by nodding, but he knew that as close as he was to the Primate's chambers, this time it wouldn't suffice.

  "I was told you'd know I was coming," Sabithe said, stepping close to the guard. Against the wall as he was, the man had nowhere to draw back to.

  "By who?" the guard challenged.

  "It doesn't matter," Sabithe said. Stepping forward, he thrust the stiletto deep into the guard's heart. He withdrew the knife and stabbed again, this time through to the lungs.

  Sabithe could see from the guard's yellowed eyes, now wide and filled with fear, that he had the taint. Sabithe didn't know what the taint was exactly, but he had overheard it being discussed. Apparently it was a reward, a potion that was given to the warriors most dedicated to the Primate's cause. Some magic that gave a man powers of regeneration and vitality.

  Sabithe stabbed one last time; he wasn't sure how powerful the regeneration was. A gurgling sound came from the guard's throat, and he slumped against the wall. As the body slid down, it left a smear of red where he'd been.

  Sabithe was shocked as the guard struggled to stand back up again. As he watched, the templar's strength appeared to return to him.

  "In the name of the Evermen," Sabithe whispered to himself. "This is not natural."

  He grabbed at the base of the guard's throat and pushed until the man's head was back against the wall. Sabithe took a deep breath, and then plunged the stiletto into the guard's eye with as much strength as he possessed.

  The guard kicked once, twice, and then was still.

  Sabithe dropped the knife, barely cognizant of the clatter it made against the floor. He felt like weeping, but he knew this was a time when he needed to be strong. If anyone else was out at this hour — a likely event, given the war going on — they would immediately sound the alarm, and it would all be for nothing.

  Summoning his strength, Sabithe straightened, looking up and down the corridor. Ahead there was an archway leading to one final set of steps, curving as they ascended. At the summit of the steps two guards would be waiting in an antechamber, behind them would be a heavy door of oak, and behind the door would be the Primate's living chamber.

  For good or ill, it would end here and now.

  Sabithe took a deep breath, and then began to run.

  "We're being attacked. There are dead guards everywhere!" he cried as he ran through the archway and dashed up the steps. With his white priest's cassock covered in blood, he knew he would make a believable impression.

  Both guards instantly drew their swords and faced up to the priest.

  "Get back, priest," one of them said.

  "They could be right behind me!" Sabithe said.

  Sabithe moved to where he was motioned and waited for what he knew would come next. The moments dragged by — the absolute silence of solace — and the two templar guards, standing with swords drawn, began to get nervous. Sabithe stayed silent, knowing one of them needed to be the first to speak. The a
ir was filled with the hoarse sound of breathing.

  Finally, one of the guards, a burly man with a high-forehead, cracked. "What did you see?" he addressed Sabithe.

  "Dead, they're all dead. I came from three floors down, and every guard I passed was dead. We need to wake the Primate."

  "Shut up," said the other guard, a slim templar, lithe as a cat, with close-cropped black hair. "I need to think."

  "I'll go down," said the burly guard. "If you get my confirmation, wake the Primate."

  "All right," the slim guard nodded.

  Sabithe knew he needed one of the guards to open the Primate's locked door, or he would never succeed in his mission.

  The burly guard disappeared down the steps.

  "He's right," called up the burly guard a moment later. "There's a dead man here. Wake the Primate. I'll stay here and call out if I see anything."

  The slim guard looked nervous, evidently torn between facing whatever may come and waking the Primate.

  "I can do it," Sabithe said. "Give me the keys."

  The slim guard looked relieved. "Come here," he said.

  Sabithe could see the brass keys at the guard's belt, and wondered whether he could take him, if it came to that. But this man was trained, and alert, with his sword drawn. Sabithe was no warrior; he would never succeed.

  Sabithe came closer and the guard handed him the keys, keeping one eye on the stairs and the other on the priest.

  Sabithe turned to open the door.

  "Wait," said the slim guard. "Let me quickly search you first."

  The guard began to hastily pat him down. "Stop moving," the slim guard said as Sabithe tried to draw away.

  The priest desperately thought of an argument he could provide, a way to get into the Primate's chamber. There was nothing.

  As soon as the guard found the prismatic orb, Sabithe knew he was a dead man. The greater tragedy was that he could have ended the war, here and now.

  Then a clanging sound came from the heavy door, following by a creaking. The door opened, and a thin figure emerged, clad in a simple white robe, a feverish yellow glow in his eyes, and the look of the fanatic in his sunken face.