The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) (36 page)

"How long until sunset?" Samora asked.

"Less than an hour, I make it," Lina said, the tall Halrana woman frowning and looking up at the sun. "It gets dark late this time of year."

"The guards are going to wonder why some of the bowls are missing. They'll notice some prisoners aren't returning with their bowls," Amber said worriedly.

"No they won't," Lina said. "The guards will just count their blessings that mealtime has finished early today."

"Look." Samora nudged Amber.

Merri was returning to the camp. In her hands the thin girl held a tray, and from where they sat the three women could see steam rising from the tray.

With a shaky smile on her lips, Merri took the tray to a pair of guards, who greedily took a plate each. Merri then moved on to some more guards, a soldier pinching her on the rear as she departed, causing her to squeal.

"Lord of the Earth, bless that girl," Lina said. "She's done more than we ever asked of her. I'm naming my next child after her."

Amber smiled, suddenly feeling a surge of hope to hear Lina, a woman who had been given her fair share of life's painful moments, talk about again having a child.

"It's nearly time," Samora said.

"Give it a big longer," Lina said. "Everyone knows to wait for nightfall."

The prisoners who'd kept their wooden bowls were those who sat closest to the three women. Amber looked down at the sack at her feet, where the glass globe of the nightlamp had been covered from prying eyes, trying to slow the racing of her heart as the sun steadily dropped towards the horizon.

"The man who commands the allied army," Amber said suddenly.

"What about him?" Lina asked.

"He's the man I love."

"You're in love with the Lord Marshal?" Samora said quizzically.

"I suppose I am," Amber said.

"I pray you'll soon be reunited," Lina said, squeezing Amber's knee. "Come on. It's time. They're here." Lina looked up.

Against the afterglow that remained after sunset, six men carrying a makeshift litter were silhouetted against the sky as they wended their way through the camp, carrying a seventh man, immobile and groaning in pain, through the camp to where the three women sat waiting.

This part of the plan was a calculated risk. The guards generally left the prisoners to their own devices, particularly when it came to injuries. When a prisoner was hurt or sick there were no visits from healers; it was left to the prisoners to tend to their own kind. The litter had been made from Amber's wooden sleeping pallet, modified by some of the men who were good with their hands to form a platform of planks. The six men who bore the litter were the strongest of the prisoners, and the prone figure they carried was neither injured nor unwell. All seven men had been soldiers in the allied army, and all had a debt to repay to their enemy.

"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 hoped 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

"
T
HAT'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.