The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) (11 page)

"I know that! But like Beorn, they're just going to have to hold."

Miro pictured the small Dunfolk, gentle in nature, hunters who hid in the forest. Nightshades would tear them to pieces.

"I'll go myself."

"Miro, no," High Lord Rorelan said flatly.

"Beorn is an able commander, and he has four bladesingers with him."

"I said no! You're needed here. Your position takes precedence, Miro. People always say bladesingers are accustomed to too much freedom to make good soldiers. Free will is the last trait a commander can have. Do you hear me? You are confusing your responsibilities."

Miro turned his dark eyes on Rorelan. "We owe the Dunfolk a debt. I'm going." He followed Layla from the room, turning and speaking one last time over his shoulder. "But I'll be back."

11

M
IRO
sat still and silent, once more looking over water and waiting for the enemy to arrive. Yet this time was different: where before the river had been wide, with earthen banks to either side, this tributary of the Sarsen was narrower, and on both sides the thick bushes grew all the way to the water's edge. And rather than night, it was early afternoon. This time Miro would see his enemy.

Next to him, Layla sat with her eyes closed, resting in the bushes, her bow across her lap. There was a time when Miro would have wondered at her ability to sleep when in the next hour her life might be taken from her, but that was long past, and Miro knew the value of snatched sleep.

He considered trying to rest himself, but his nerves were taut and his senses heightened by fear. Fighting legionnaires was one thing, but nightshades were altogether different.

Miro had never actually run up against one, but he'd seen two bladesingers take on a single nightshade at the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta. The living tree had easily triumphed, tearing the first bladesinger in half before reaching for the second. Only the intervention of a Halrana colossus had saved the second warrior in green.

And Miro planned to take on two nightshades.

Raj Vezna's masters of lore were called cultivators for a reason. Where Halrana's constructs were animated creatures built of wood, iron or bone, and required an animator to control their movements with skilled activation of the runes, the cultivators applied their lore to the living trees and vines that inhabited their forest home. Of course, the essence inevitably worked its way into the veins of the plant and killed it, but the creations of the cultivators were capable of some truly impressive feats.

An iron golem required a controller, but it would continue the fight until its runes faded and the essence was depleted, and if renewed it could fight again. The creatures brought to life by the cultivators required no controller, they were given a life of their own, but the plant would eventually die, to rot and feed other plants. The Veznans called it the cycle of renewal.

"You smell," Layla said, her eyes now open as she sat up.

"Thanks," Miro said with a wry grin.

"You smell like the town, and the sweat of a man. It is important to adjust your scent to your environment."

Layla came over to Miro. Standing, she was only a little taller than he was seated.

"When stalking a deer, a hunter spreads the dung of deer on the skin of his arms and legs. The deer is then tricked by its senses into thinking the hunter is another deer."

Miro was mildly repulsed, but he could see the logic.

"We're not fighting deer though," Layla said. "We're fighting men."

Layla leaned forward, and Miro wondered what she was doing before he felt something soft and squishy being pushed into the hair on the back of his head. It felt like mud.

"We're fighting men," she repeated.

Miro's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth. Her expression was serious, but there was a twinkle in her eye. Surely it was just mud?

"The enemy approaches," a voice called softly.

Miro looked out over the narrow river, but could see nothing. He turned back to Layla, but she was gone, vanished into the undergrowth. Quickly clawing his fingers through his hair, Miro did his best to imitate the Dunfolk. At least his armoursilk was green.

Miro felt his fear rise as he waited. Just as he was starting to wonder if the enemy were approaching after all, he saw the flicker of black against the trees on the other side of the river. A single man stepped out, a tattooed legionnaire clad in the scaled armour common among his kind.

A second legionnaire emerged from the undergrowth and conferred with the first. The first legionnaire then plunged a long stick into the water and, seeing it wasn't too deep, said something to his fellow.

Miro wondered if this was going to be a repeat of the battle he had fought just the night before — hand-to-hand combat made clumsy and sluggish by the dragging water.

The first legionnaire jumped into the water, and was soon followed by the second. A third soldier in black came out of the undergrowth, and then more were appearing from all directions, taking quick stock before jumping down into the shallow river.

Miro heard a creaking sound, and caught movement to his right. Turning, he saw Layla standing with her bow held in front of her, the string pulled to her ear, her arm trembling with effort. Wondering how many of the Dunfolk were here, Miro rested his right hand on his zenblade and waited for Layla to release.

More of the enemy plunged into the water, and those in front were now well past half-way across the river. They walked forward in a broad line, with more and more of their number joining them with every moment that passed.

When was Layla going to let go?

A muscled Tingaran with an arm made of metal — a melding — stepped forward, his eyes scanning ahead as he reached the bank where Miro sat waiting. The Tingaran's eyes met Miro's and suddenly widened with surprise, and Miro's heart skipped a beat when he realised he'd been seen. The Tingaran opened his mouth to shout, but before any sound could escape his mouth Layla released.

The arrow sped through the air with no more sound than the flight of a bird. In an instant it jutted from the Tingaran's throat, red feathers bristling. As blood gushed from the warrior's mouth he placed his hands at his neck and then toppled over, into the water.

Barely a breath later the air was filled with arrows. Miro had never seen them used like this; it was like a flashing horizontal rain. One after another, the soldiers of the enemy were peppered with the razor sharp steel of the arrowheads, the shafts jutting out at all angles. In just a few moments, hundreds, perhaps thousands of the enemy were killed. Miro had only seen greater destruction from runebombs and prismatic orbs.

There was no lore involved at all.

As they became aware of the danger, those of the enemy wearing enchanted armour hurriedly activated, and the glow of the runes separated them from their fellows so that Miro could pick them out like sunflowers in a bed of nightblooms. The arrows bounced off their armour, but even so the Dunfolk persisted, and their marksmen found the small unprotected places: the lower arms, neck, and eyes.

Before Miro could enter the fray, they were all gone.

Then the next wave came, a thousand more men plunged into the river, and the slaughter commenced again.

Just as Miro began to wonder whether he was needed at all, the enemy's numbers started to tell. As the soldiers reached the bank where the Dunfolk lay in hiding and the bowmen became embroiled in close combat, Miro saw that hand-to-hand fighting was the archers' weakness. The rate of fire dropped significantly and more of the Black Army's soldiers gained the bank.

Miro's moment had come. The arcane symbols that covered Miro's armoursilk blazed with sudden power as he called on one sequence after another. His zenblade came alive in his hands and lit up with red fire.

Layla stood at his side, arrow after arrow flying from her bow. A legionnaire crested the bank, coming at the Dunfolk healer with his sword raised, but Miro ran the warrior through, spinning on his heel and then blocking the cut of a second warrior attacking Layla from behind. As the enemy turned their attention to this new danger Miro scanned the bank, and seeing it was clear, leapt into the river.

He slashed in a sweeping arc at another melding, a black-clad Tingaran with a rune-covered arm of metal. Miro's stroke was blocked by the warrior's enchanted sword. As the melding countered, Miro raised his zenblade and blocked his opponent's sword. He realised too late that the melding held his sword one-handed, before his vision went black as the melding's metal fist smashed into his chin.

As Miro fell back the melding spoke some words and the runes on his arm blazed with colours of red and purple. Miro knew the next blow would kill him. He now had to watch both the man's arm and his sword.

Miro recoiled from the pain and his song fell short. His enemy chose that instant to launch a series of blows at Miro's head and body, alternating sword strokes with punches. A thrust caught Miro's chest, turned by his armoursilk, and was swiftly followed by a straight punch at Miro's head with all the melding's formidable strength behind it. Miro ducked and weaved, the water dragging at his movements, giving himself time to let his breathing return to normal.

Finally Miro blocked an overhead swing with his zenblade and then crouched and hacked at the melding's legs. The flashing enchanted blade encountered no resistance, slicing through one leg and continuing through the next.

The melding screamed and fell. Instantly Miro was fighting yet another warrior, this time a flaxen-haired swordsman in the orange tabard of Vezna, his house confirmed by the sprouting seed
raj hada
. Veznans were not known for their swordsmanship, and Miro took him with a classic feint and thrust.

Miro despatched his enemies one by one, taking the battle to where he was needed, fighting from one bank to the other until the river was a sea of bodies. He was distantly aware of arrows flying through the air, sinking into tree trunks with thunks or plunging into bodies with the screams of men signalling a strike.

The river was once again cleared of the enemy, and Miro returned to Layla, his chest heaving, feeling as if he'd run from one end of Altura to the other.

As Layla regarded Miro he prepared to brush away her thanks. "Don't waste your energy," she said instead. "Trust me, you will need it."

Miro opened his mouth to respond, but stilled as Layla pinched his arm. "Here they come," she said, pointing.

At first all Miro noticed was the sound, like the breaking of tree trunks as they were snapped off at the stem — which was probably exactly what it was. He exchanged glances with Layla as she pinched him harder, and for the first time he saw fear cross her inscrutable exterior.

Miro turned back to the trees on the opposite bank, his jaw clenched and body taut like a bowstring. Across the river tree after tree began to topple, falling into the river along with the vines and bushes tangled up with them. Soon the river was a jumbled mess of tree trunks and branches. Fighting here would be treacherous.

Then one of the creatures that had knocked the trees over appeared, and Miro looked up at the nightshade in awe. Gnarled and knotted, vines covered its limbs so that it was hard to see the nightshade's body through the rope-like entanglement. Its torso stood tall and thick, as round as a large table and covered in grey-brown bark. High on the trunk two sunken pits enclosed malevolent brown orbs, the nightshade's equivalent to eyes. It moved across the ground with a sliding motion as the roots in front took hold of new earth and those in back withdrew. Across the nightshade's trunk and on the limbs Miro could see runes that had been carved into the bark with essence. They glowed with colours of orange and soft green, barely visible against the creature's skin.

The nightshade paused as it reached the river bank. Miro felt his heart race, and for the first time in an age he rehearsed the song in his mind before commencing his chant, suddenly fearful and unsure of himself. The second nightshade appeared, and if anything this one was larger than the first, a different breed of tree, an oak beside a cedar.

Miro wondered how he had ever thought he could defeat them.

"How did you defeat them the last time?" Miro asked Layla. He was shocked to hear his voice was shaking.

"We didn't," Layla said. "The land across there," she pointed, "used to be part of Loralayalana."

"Oh."

Miro took a deep breath as the two nightshades paused, just fifty paces away, directly across the river. He rehearsed his strategy. He only hoped it would work.

"Go, Layla," Miro said. "Tell your people to concentrate on the smaller nightshade. Keep it engaged, but draw away from it; make it chase you. If you can, your best plan is to tangle it with ropes and vines. Try bringing down bigger trees in front of it. Who knows, you might even pin it down with a heavier tree. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Layla said. "What about you?"

Miro took a second deep breath, slowly releasing it. "I'll take the big one."

Layla nodded and vanished. Miro stood, looking at the zenblade in his hands, realising that only if he gave it as much power as possible could he hope to damage the nightshade.

The smaller nightshade lumbered forward, making slow progress as it hit the tangle of logs and branches strewn across the river. Arrows began to fly through the air, sinking into the grey-brown skin of the creature's torso. A limb appeared out of the vines and creepers to the left of the nightshade's body, a bushy branch that swiped across its trunk, and the arrows were all knocked away as if they'd never been there. The glaring eyes shifted, and the nightshade turned, moving across the river in the direction from whence the arrows had come.

"No!" Miro shook his head as one of the Dunfolk ran out of the trees, a wicked hunting knife in his hand. The small man reached the nightshade and started to hack at the creepers at its base. Faster than it had moved thus far, the arm-like branch at the nightshade's side shot out as it picked the hunter up around the waist with hooked wooden fingers. A second arm appeared and grabbed hold of the hunter's lower half, the two limbs pulling until Miro heard a great tearing sound and the screaming warrior was torn in two. The nightshade threw the two pieces into the river and continued forward, arrows hitting it in a continuous hail.