"Put him down here," Amber said. From now on, they would give up any pretence; the most casual glance would reveal the revolt. "Now, quick, before the guards notice, everyone stand back and get ready."
The man on the litter rolled off to join his fellows, while Amber heaved and turned the door-sized piece of wood over.
Spidery symbols covered it, drawn with as much skill as Amber possessed. "Sahl-an-tour," she said.
The runes blazed to life, and immediately a wave of warmth washed over her from the makeshift heatplate. The growing temperature forced Amber to step back, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead.
Shouts and cries were heard from the guards. In their section of the camp, near the gate, the most able-bodied prisoners all stood in accord, wooden food bowls in their hands.
"Now!" Amber cried.
Some of the men had fashioned sacks, which they carried over their shoulders, and the women hefted the pouches they'd brought with them. They'd been scrabbling at the dirt for days, gathering up the small pebbles and specks of gravel. They now poured their sacks out on top of the heatplate.
Amber spoke some more words, invoking the power she'd built into her device. She was forced to step back further, and the gravel began to glow a fearsome red.
As she knew would happen, Amber's plan now dissolved into chaos, and all she could do was pray and do her part.
Prisoners ran forward with their wooden food bowls and dug at the gravel on top of the heatplate, heedless of the burns on their hands as they made a weapon from the most mundane of substances. Guards moved against the rising prisoners and began to tear and slice, cutting down men and women alike, blood splashing over them.
Amber saw a prisoner run forward and fling out his arm, tossing the contents of his bowl at a soldier in a spray of red-hot stones. The soldier screamed in agony as the fiery substance hit the metal of his armour, burning his eyes and getting into his hair. The prisoner ran forward and after a brief tussle stood holding the guard's sharp steel sword. The prisoner then ran the guard through, blood gushing from the black-clad soldier's mouth.
Men and women everywhere were emptying the contents of their bowls at the guards, and Amber realised the power of a weapon any fool could use. She knew though that the heatplate wouldn't last long. What they were doing was a great distraction, but without Rogan's men the revolt would be ruthlessly crushed; the prisoners were simply too weak for a sustained fight.
Amber hurriedly took the glass bowl she'd enchanted. She looked out at the closest of the sentry towers. Rogan didn't know Amber, and was unwilling to risk his men in an attack without timing it to her signal. Amber needed to raise the green light now.
"Fight!" Lina cried. "It's now or never!"
All around them prisoners were grappling with guards, the soldiers taken aback at the ferocity of their captives.
Darting between them, Amber ran towards the guard tower, the glass bowl clutched to her chest. A ladder ran up the side of the tower to a small platform, where two guards were throwing orbs down at the prisoners.
An explosion tore the earth apart just ten paces in front of her, knocking Amber to the ground and she realised the glass bowl was no longer in her hands. Where was it? There! She ran at it when a man in black stepped in front of her; a mailed fist smashed into her stomach. Amber crumpled to the ground.
Hugo, the particularly cruel Tingaran who had once threatened Amber with the vats, loomed over her, a blood-drenched sword in his hand. "I always thought you were too clever for your own good," he said.
Lying on her back, Amber grabbed the glass bowl and clutched it to her chest, eyes transfixed by the droplets of blood that fell from the end of Hugo's blade.
Out of the corner of her eye, Amber saw Samora running towards her, a wooden bowl in her hand.
"You piece of filth!" Samora cried as she flung out her arm.
Nothing happened. Samora's bowl was empty. The woman looked at it dumbly, and then threw the bowl itself at Hugo. The warrior laughed and took a step forward, swinging his sword like a woodcutter attacking a tree. As Amber watched in horror, Hugo sliced through Samora's skull, sending bone and matter flying through the air. The Halrana woman's body crumpled to the ground.
Hugo turned back to Amber, raising his sword over his head with two hands. In desperation Amber held the glass bowl out to block the blow; she knew it was the thing that must be protected above all, but she couldn't control her limbs, her body simply wanted her to survive.
A sword came out, blocking Hugo's stroke a hair's breadth from the glass. Amber's eyes were closed, and as she realised she was alive and heard yet another clash of swords, she opened them.
Leopold stood grimly facing Hugo as both men faced circled each other, swords extended in front of them. Amber saw the former prince of Altura wobble and place a hand at his chest, grimacing. Flecks of red appeared at Leopold's lips and he coughed. Amber didn't know if he'd been hurt earlier, or if Hugo was responsible, but she knew Leopold was deathly wounded.
"Go," Leopold choked. "Get out of here."
Amber stood, the glass bowl in her arms, and looked at Leopold one last time before running in the direction of the tower.
She couldn't tell if the revolt was being crushed or the prisoners were holding their own against their tormenters. Explosions came from all directions, and screams of agony could be heard along with cheers of victory. There were simply too many figures running about; she could see guards fighting, but prisoners also ran in all directions as they finally expressed their rage and frustration in one vengeful moment.
The two guards on the platform at the top of the tower continued to throw prismatic orbs, adding to the chaos. Amber awkwardly held the glass bowl at her side, climbing the ladder one-handed, leaning into it to steady herself, wondering how she was going to defeat two healthy, trained, and armed warriors.
Her only advantage lay in the fact she hadn't been seen. Amber's chest heaved and her breath came in gasps as she put all her strength into climbing. She ignored the precariousness of her position and pulled herself up one rung at a time, panting and puffing with exertion.
The two guards drew back in shock and surprise when they saw Amber pull herself up to the platform, and then realising it was a woman — and a young and pretty one at that — they laughed.
Amber hefted the glass bowl, covered in symbols drawn by her own hand. She planted it down on the platform, and looked away.
Amber said the words that were said the world over every time a nightlamp was activated. "Tish-tassine."
This nightlamp was different.
The device lit up with a green of such intense brightness that, looking out over the camp, her gaze directed away from the glare, Amber could see the entire scene laid out before her in detail, revealed in the light of a false day.
The prisoners were creating havoc throughout the camp, but a core of soldiers had formed up near the main gate. Any who came towards them died in a flurry of flashing swords and blood. Amber knew the heatplate would have exhausted itself long ago. The black-clad soldiers moved forward as cohesion returned to their number.
Behind her on the platform of the tower, Amber heard the two guards scream as they were blinded. As the light began to ebb, Amber turned back to the platform, one of her hands held in front of her eyes, the other holding on to the low rail.
Against the brightness she could see the two guards, struggling to stand, clutching on to the rail for support. These two men had thrown orbs into the middle of Amber's fellow prisoners; she couldn't begin to estimate how many had been killed.
Amber moved forward, her eyes mere slits against the glare, and kicked with her leg. She pushed first one guard, then the other from the top of the tower, hearing satisfying screams and crumpling thuds when they hit the ground.
Her work with the nightlamp done, Amber again took stock of the revolt as she descended the tower. The flash of light hadn't been as much of a distraction to the soldiers below as she had hop
ed it would be, and she realised that in moments the prisoners would give up hope as they realised they couldn't escape through any of the gates, and with few weapons they couldn't hope to defeat the guards.
Amber still had her flashbombs. She ran back to where the guards stood blocking the gate and joined the prisoners.
As she rallied the prisoners in a final surge at the guards, and sparks of light burst in the soldier's ranks, breaking them apart, Amber saw movement on the other side.
39
"THAT'S the signal," Rogan said.
"Are you sure?" Amelia whispered.
"Lord of the Sky, woman, what else is it?"
Rogan and his hundred men were crouched in a clearing, hidden from the road by a screen of trees. He had taken his men as close as he was able, but the frequent patrols of the enemy meant he couldn't be as close as he would have liked.
Rogan stood, all efforts at silence forgotten. "Men," he cried. "Do you see that light? That's the light of a brave woman and her fellow prisoners who are at this very moment rising up to give us this one chance, and to give us this beacon to tell us they are ready, and lead us to them. Are you with me?"
"Yes!" shouted Rogan's hand-picked Halrana.
Rogan drew his zenblade and pointed it ahead. He started to sing, his voice a deep baritone, and first his zenblade and then his armoursilk lit up with fiery colours of emerald and gold and starbursts of purple. He began to run, heedless of how much noise he made, throwing off the shackles of the hushed resistance, finally able to take the battle to his enemy's heart.
Rogan's men rushed past him like a wave of the ocean splitting around a tall rock. He ignored the pain in his leg and the stitch in his side, the occasional faltering of his voice and the way he had to lean on Amelia to keep up with the slowest of his men. He was running, and once again his weapon was in his hands.
Rogan settled into a wincing, lumbering gait, but eventually he was able to wave Amelia away, and was pleased to see he could stay with his men. He allowed his bladesinger's song to fade; it was simply too difficult. Soon all Rogan could hear was the puffing and panting of the men as they ran. He concentrated on putting one leg in front of the other, listening intently. Finally he could hear it.
"Do you hear?" Rogan asked Amelia, who was handling the mad dash surprisingly well. "Sounds of fighting."
"It mustn't be far now," she panted.
Ahead the dirt road passed a guard station, the black-clad warrior who manned it looking in the direction from which the sounds were coming, scratching his shaved head as if wondering what to do.
Rogan's lead man cut him down with a single slice at his legs, the next brown-clad warrior then opening up the guard's throat, barely pausing as they ran past.
Rogan felt proud then. He knew these men, all of them, and a few months ago most of them had never held a sword. They would remember this moment until the end of their days.
The shouting and clashes of metal grew louder, and Rogan could now distinguish screams of agony from roars of triumph, the shrill cries of women from the calls of people holding on to their courage with every bit of strength they possessed.
A steel wall suddenly barred their way; they had arrived! Rogan prayed it wasn't too late. Through the bars Rogan could see people fighting, falling, fleeing, and dying.
Rogan's men threw themselves at the gate, but it held fast. Through the narrowly-spaced lines of steel, some of the Black Army's soldiers could be seen turning to take stock and prepare themselves for this new threat.
"Make way!" Rogan roared, even as he brandished the zenblade over his head.
In that moment the difficulty of his song, the searing pain in his chest, and the aching of his leg were as nothing. Rogan was the blademaster. The activations poured from his throat, strong and clear, and Rogan planted his legs on the ground, took his zenblade in both hands, and swung once, twice, and a third time. It was a move Rogan had devised to fight Veznan nightshades and Tingaran avengers.
With a sound like a tree being struck by lightning, the zenblade cut through the steel as if it was nothing. Sparks flew in a fountain, raining down on the black-clad soldiers on the other side of the gate, and Rogan completed his arc, kicking fragments of molten steel out of the way and then leaping through to the other side.
Against the blademaster, the stunned prison guards didn't stand a chance.
Rogan's men poured through the opening he'd created, taking the enemy warriors down one-by-one. The superior numbers of the Halrana and Rogan's training instantly began to tell, and with renewed vigour those of the prisoners who held swords continued the fight. Rogan despatched one man with a thrust to the upper chest, and then turned on his heel, making a complicated twist of his wrist and taking a second Black Army soldier's head clean off. A Tingaran with a blood-drenched sword and the sun-and-star tattooed across his shaved head came at him with his sword raised; Rogan opened him up with a sweeping blow.
They kept coming at him, and Rogan kept taking them down. The corpses piled at his feet, and as again Rogan thought about what he'd heard went on in this camp, he snarled and launched himself at another soldier, taking the battle to them.
Rogan's song came strong and fierce, and the blood slid away from his armoursilk as the magic prevented it from sticking, so that he looked new and green as a blade of grass, lit up by the morning sun.
"Marshal, there are a bunch of them in their own camp nearby," a male voice called, cutting through Rogan's battle haze. "They're fleeing into the forest."
"We have to let them go," Rogan said, panting. He lowered his zenblade, realising there weren't any more of the enemy to kill. The pain came to him then, and he grimaced as he felt the soreness in his leg come back a hundredfold, his throat hoarse and his chest wheezing.
"Rogan?" a soft voice said behind him.
Whirling on his feet, Rogan saw a young woman gazing at him intently, a stout piece of wood in her hands that she'd evidently been using as a club. She was a pretty thing, and he instantly felt his heart go out to her when he saw the bruises on her arms and the splashes of blood on her dress.
"What?" he panted.
"I'm Amber."
"You're too young," Rogan blurted. When she'd said she was an enchantress he'd pictured a matronly woman with steel-grey hair and a parade-ground voice. He looked then at the young woman's eyes, and with the wisdom of his years he could see that she had seen much, too much perhaps. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Thank you," she said, "I know it can't have been easy for you. We couldn't have held much longer."
He still couldn't believe this was the woman who had organised the revolt. Rogan, a man uncomfortable with women at the best of times, suddenly knew then what he needed to do.
"Can't have been easy for me?" he said, shaking his head.
Amber's eyes began to well.
Rogan took Amber by the shoulders, looking down at her from his height. "I am so, so sorry, for what you've been through here. It's over now." He repeated the words twice more before she seemed to realise. "It's over," he whispered, opening his arms.
Amber fell forward, as the girl let go of the iron restraint she'd held over herself, realising her ordeal was over, and fell into the fold of the grizzled warrior's arms.
"They took him from me," Amber said as she sobbed.
"Shhh," Rogan said as he hugged her. "I know they did."
Rogan felt a squeeze on his shoulder, and, opening his eyes, saw Amelia give him that special look she gave him alone. He let Amber cry herself out, and rather than feeling proud of what he'd done here, he cursed himself that he had taken so long, that any of the prisoners had spent one second longer here than they needed to.
Finally Amber let go of him, and he saw the strength once again go into her brown eyes, the full lips become set with determination.
As Rogan felt the rage build within him, he let it feed him, and give him energy. He gathered himself for the long night ahead, and, looking around him, he saw his men do the s
ame.
"Men and women," he said, "people of Altura and Halaran, I'm afraid the night is far from over. This area crawls with the enemy, and your friends and families are anxious to have you safely home. At the speed we will travel, Ralanast is a half day's journey from here, which means walking through the night. I know it will be difficult, and I'm sorry to ask more of you when you have already been through so much, but there will be light at the end, for with the dawn, the people of Ralanast will show those who would believe otherwise, that they are free. Your people will welcome you with open arms, and even the Alturans among you will soon be among more of your countrymen, just as I will, for a great army lies outside the walls of Ralanast, an army of Alturans and Halrana, and we intend to welcome this army with the new day. Now, please, gather yourselves. We have water and we have some food. It will be a long night."
As Rogan's men gathered the prisoners, Amelia came forward. "Rogan?" she said.
"What is it?"
"We always knew this might be the case. Many of the prisoners are unfit for travel. I need twenty of your men."
Rogan closed his eyes. He could hear the steel in Amelia's voice, and knew it wasn't worth the attempt to argue. He sighed, opening his eyes again. "You'll have twenty-five men," he said, "but it's all I can spare. Lord of the Sky, I wish I could give you more."
"It'll be fine," she soothed. "They just need to help us hold here until tomorrow. I'll do what I can for these people's injuries and illnesses. Some of them have been very poorly treated."
"If anything happens to you…"
"It won't," Amelia said.
"I'll come back for you," Rogan said. "As soon as I can, I promise."
"And I would say that I will fear for you…" Amelia shook her head. "But after seeing you fight tonight…"
Rogan saw Amber come forward, a tall Halrana woman at her side. "This is Lina. She'd also like to stay to take care of the others."
The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) Page 28
