The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (14 page)

16

Jehral rode through the desert as only a horseman born and bred could do, lunging up the soft sand of the dunes and scrabbling down the reverse sides as he spurred his horses to ever greater efforts.
Carrying
only enough water for a few days, he strictly rationed
himself
to tiny sips, hoping the speed of his journey would get him through.

Taking advantage of the glittering starlight shining through the clear night skies, he rode through the days and into the nights,
rotating
mounts as he went, speeding past the strange rock
formations
and finally seeing red boulders replace the yellow sands as he entered Petrya.

As he left the desert behind, he was able to make better headway, spurring his horse into a gallop, with his two remounts trailing behind. The sound of hooves clattering on rock filled his consciousness, providing an unceasing rhythm to his journey so that even in the small snatches of sleep, he dreamt of the patter of horse feet.

Winding through Petrya’s northwest, skirting the forests of rust-colored trees, he found the thin trail leading up to the
mountains
, and called forth ever greater efforts from his mounts as the slope steepened and the trail carved a zigzag path up the face of the mighty Elmas.

Jehral cursed when the treacherous Wondhip Pass again forced him to dismount. Leading all three of his horses, he walked as fast as he was able over the loose scree and treacherous gravel, navigating his way around fallen boulders and into the gully that was the pass’s highest point.

As Jehral was about to pass under Ella’s tower, he looked up at the prism, seeing it was still dark and unlit. The enemy fleet must still be missing. Only Jehral knew it was close. Miro needed to send every man to Castlemere and prepare for the worst.

He thought about what he’d seen. The wrecked revenant ship told a story better than any written account. He remembered the way the single animated corpse had destroyed his men. The urgency of his mission spurred him on. Altura must know.

One of Jehral’s horses, a young and inexperienced mare,
stumbled
and whinnied in pain as Jehral heard a terrible crack that sent a shiver crawling up his back. The horse drew to a halt, and
Jehral
saw her lift her leg, eyes wide and body trembling. Splinters of bone protruded from the broken leg; the horse would never make it down from the mountain.

Jehral cursed and felt the animal’s pain and terror as if it were his own. He led his other two mounts forward through the gully and to the other side. They wouldn’t want to see this.

He hobbled the two horses and turned back into the gully. The wounded mare was in terrible agony, and Jehral’s heart reached out to her.

“You have done well,” he whispered in soothing tones. The mare looked at him and rolled her eyes while she shivered. Jehral drew his sword and rested his hand on the horse’s neck as he found the right place to make his strike, behind her foreleg. He continued to speak in a soft voice, and then with one swift move he plu
nged the
blade into the horse’s side, driving hard to reach the heart. She died instantly as Jehral stood back and hung his head.

The blood dripped off the enchanted blade. In a matter of
heartbeats
, the steel shone bright and silver once more. Jehral sheathed the sword and again walked through the gully to reach his other two mounts.

Sighing, he took the reins and again led them forward over the treacherous down slope, exhausted but determined as he headed for his final destination.

Jehral had promised Ella to do anything he could to help, and he was a man who lived by his word.

Sarostar beckoned.

Jehral’s journey took him along a winding road past fallow fields and through lush forests. He changed horses regularly but could see they were blown, both of his mounts foaming white at the mouth.

As he rode, he pictured the bloated bodies of the revenants and again saw the single revenant kill four of his men, all armed, with nothing but its hands. He remembered the last war, when a small army of Akari revenants had crushed the Hazarans at the Gap of Garl. He needed to hurry.

He looked up at the sun. It was perhaps midday. He was close to Sarostar now and could see a bridge spanning one of the
Sarsen’s
many tributaries. Jehral kicked into a gallop. Below the bridge he saw a mighty waterfall, and in awe of the great drop, he was
distracted
by the plummeting cascade.

As he reached the far side of the bridge, Jehral was attacked.

He saw a flicker of movement but was too slow to react as a spear point thrust up at his chest from somewhere below. Part of his consciousness told him it was an ambush, even as the spear hit the center of his chest, throwing him out of the saddle and
sending
him catapulting through the air to land heavily on the ground. Only the leather cuirass he wore under his clothing saved him for bein
g impa
led.

Adrenalin surged through Jehral’s body as he shook his head to clear it. Behind him he heard the roar of men rushing to the attack. Jehral leapt to his feet and drew his sword; thankfully the scabbard was still at his side.

His opponents halted their mad charge as Jehral shifted, head scanning to keep them all in his vision.

There were four of them. They wore light armor and no
insignia
, and at first Jehral thought they were bandits, but then he saw their features looked Tingaran. These men had tattoos, but they also didn’t look like military; they had the swagger of men from the street.

“You fool, Pedron,” a lean man, evidently the leader, said to one of his fellows, the warrior holding a spear. “We could have let him ride past.”

The accent was definitely Tingaran. What would Tingarans be doing here, close to Sarostar?

“I don’t care, Dan. I want his horses,” Pedron said.

“You imbecile! You can’t even ride!”

“I’m hungry. I haven’t had meat in weeks.”

Jehral watched the exchange in bemusement. He took the opportunity to activate his scimitar.
“Al-maia,”
Jehral spoke softly. The runes on the shining steel lit up with fiery colors.

The leader, Dan, swore. “He’s got an enchanted blade.”

“It’s worth a lot more than they’re paying us,” Pedron said. “Whoever kills him gets it!”

Pedron rushed Jehral with the spear while the others circled to the left and right. Jehral pretended to look uncertain, taking a few steps backward, but then he dashed forward and knocked aside the thrusting spear to whip his scimitar across Pedron’s throat.

Jehral spun, and before the leader could slash at his back, he took the scimitar through the backswing and into the leader’s attack. His opponent raised his sword to block, but Jehral’s blade cut through the steel, shearing it in two. Dan was suddenly holding half a sword, with a stricken expression on his face.

Jehral waited again, panting as he once more stepped back to keep his three opponents in sight. He feinted at the Tingaran on his left but turned right, and his superior swordsmanship immediately showed as they all took the bait. A slashing blow took a swordsman in the chest, and the man went down.

Jehral blocked a thrust, swiping the blade out of the way, and then shifted to stab at the leader’s abdomen. His opponent
nimbly
drew back, but even so, the blade bit into his side. The leader
went down
.

The last of the ambushers came at Jehral, but defeat was already in his eyes. He looked in surprise at the gash the scimitar left across his chest and then fell to his knees, blood welling around him as
he died
.

Jehral deactivated the sword, and his chest heaved as fatigue set in. He was exhausted from the frantic ride, and the fight had taken still more of his energy. The leader, Dan, looked up at him with wide eyes as Jehral approached.

“What are you doing here?” Jehral demanded, crouching
beside hi
m.

“We . . .” the leader coughed and choked. “We . . .”

The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his chest shuddered as the life went out of him.

The lands around Sarostar were supposed to be safe, yet here these men were, on the outskirts of Altura’s capital itself.

Jehral cursed when he saw his horses had bolted. Still, as tired as they were, they wouldn’t go far.

Jehral decided to leave the bandits—if that was what they were—where they’d fallen. He cast in circles, looking for hoof prints, and finally found a circular imprint in the soft earth.

Jehral began to walk.

17

Tapel darted from street corner to street corner as he watched the one-eyed man buying stores in the Poloplats market. He was sure he’d seen this man dressed as a beggar before, and now here he was in plain but well-cut clothing. Who was he? And why did he keep buying supplies?

Tapel skirted the stalls, hiding among some hanging tapestries, keeping the one-eyed man in sight. A Veldrin walked past, a
swarthy
man with an elegant doublet and tight blue leggings.

“Excuse me,” Tapel whispered.

“Yes?” the Veldrin looked down his nose.

“Is he one of you?” Tapel indicated the one-eyed man.

“One of whom, my boy?”

“One of you. A Veldrin.”

The Veldrin shook his head. “No, I can tell at a glance. He isn’t one of us.”

Tapel thanked the Veldrin and then scurried to keep up with the one-eyed man. Could he be Halrana? Perhaps from the free cities?

The one-eyed man reached forward to hand over some coins to a merchant and Tapel saw a tattoo at his wrist. Alturans and Halrana didn’t commonly have tattoos, but people from the free cities sometimes did, particularly sailors. Tapel decided to get close and hear the one-eyed man’s voice.

Tapel’s darting figure drew some glances, but few people took note of a fifteen-year-old boy, even if he was flitting from one stall to another. A few merchants fixed Tapel with baleful stares.

“Salt beef,” the one-eyed man was saying. “And wine.”

“It’s quite a journey you’re provisioning,” the vendor said.

“Mouths need feeding,” the one-eyed man said with a shrug.

The accent certainly wasn’t from the free cities. Tapel had been to Tingara and he thought perhaps it was Tingaran. What would a Tingaran be doing here in Altura?

Tapel wondered if he should go to Bladesinger Bartolo, or
perhaps
to his mother. But what would he say? And if he lost the one-eyed man now, who could say Tapel would find him again?

Tapel decided to follow him.

The one-eyed man finished his business and hefted a heavy knapsack onto his shoulder. Tapel trailed him out of the market, hiding in the crowd as his quarry traveled over the Long Bridge, heading east.

The crowds thinned as the one-eyed man traveled through the district of workshops and storehouses. Tapel found it difficult to keep up, darting behind walls and breathing heavily whenever he thought he might be spotted.

The one-eyed man’s stride opened up as he reached the road to Samson’s Bridge, and the trees at the city’s outskirts gave Tapel useful cover. Tapel couldn’t lose him now; this road led to only one place: the bridge, and the border with Halaran.

Tapel poked his head from around a tree and saw the man still lumbering along ahead. He felt foolish. Perhaps the man was
camping
with friends; there was certainly little space in the city. Tapel weaved through the trees, deciding to head deeper into the forest as he followed the road, staying in cover, where he could move faster without worrying about being spotted.

There were plenty of campsites around, so why was the man still traveling as if he had a long journey ahead of him?

Tapel followed the one-eyed man for mile after mile, and soon he started to tire, although his quarry showed no sign of halting. Now that he’d come so far, Tapel stubbornly refused to give up. He would find the one-eyed man’s camp, and then he would know. If they were up to no good, Tapel would tell his mother. Amelia would know what to do.

Hours passed, and Tapel knew he was due at the Pens, and he would now be in trouble. Still the one-eyed man kept plodding along. Finally the trees began to thin, and ahead Tapel saw tall
columns
, the supports holding up Samson’s Bridge.

A tall three-legged tower stood beside the bridge, and at the apex Tapel saw the pyramid of quartz. He knew all about the
signaling
system, and he knew that this junction at the bridge was an important place. From here towers in the east would connect Altura to Tingara, and towers in the north would extend the chain all the way to Vezna and beyond.

Tapel’s brow furrowed.

He reached the edge of the trees and peered out. Where had the one-eyed man gone?

Tapel waited and moved silently forward, scanning the bank where the cliffs plunged to the surging river below, checking each tree in turn. His face fell as he realized he’d lost his quarry.

Tapel turned as he heard sudden movement behind him.

He jumped as a hand clapped over his mouth. Suddenly a face pressed close to his, the whiskers rubbing against his cheek, and a voice spoke with stinking breath. “What are you doing, eh, lad? How long’ve you been following me?”

The hand came off his mouth, and Tapel wondered if he should scream. Looking out at the bridge, he saw a drudge-pulled cart crossing the bridge, heading for Altura. Tapel drew in a breath when he felt a sharp point press into his side.

“Don’t even think about it,” the one-eyed man said, his empty eye socket so close that Tapel couldn’t look away from the puckered skin. “Well? What’s your story?”

“I was just hunting in the forest. For mushrooms,” Tapel said. “That’s all.”

The man nodded. His eye-socket was wrinkled and wept fluid. “Hunting mushrooms. And where’s your bag? Show me some mushrooms.”

“I . . . I haven’t found any yet,” Tapel said weakly.

“Who are you? Who’s going to miss you?”

“No one,” Tapel whimpered. “I’m nobody.”

“Good,” said the one-eyed man.

He clapped his hand back over Tapel’s mouth and dragged him through the forest while Tapel writhed and wriggled. Tapel’s heart threatened to leap out of his chest, it was pounding so strongly.
Fear fille
d his limbs, and he felt weak as he was hauled forcefully through the trees, heading downriver, in a southerly direction
following
the riverba
nk. Soon Tapel smelled smoke and saw a campsite in
the tr
ees.

Two rough-looking men sat around a fire while a third man with a tattoo on his neck tended it, adding fuel. One of the seated men had a sword across his knees that he was sharpening with slow circular movements. The other seated figure was a scrawny brigand with a shaved head.

The tattooed man at the fire looked up. “You bring the wine . . . Whoa! What’ve you got there?”

“Street kid followed me here,” the one-eyed man said, gripping Tapel tightly.

“What’s he, dinner?” said the man sharpening his sword.

The tattooed man at the fire barked a laugh.

“He’s going to have to stay with us, at least ’til the job’s done,” said the one-eyed man.

“Just kill him.” The swordsman shrugged.

“Hold on there,” said the scrawny man. “I’m not in the business of killing children.”

“It’s not so hard after the first one,” said the swordsman.

Tapel felt ragged terror course through him, sending shivers down his spine.

“Benji, throw me some rope,” said the one-eyed man. The man at the fire, Benji, rummaged around the campsite and then tossed over a hemp rope. The one-eyed man deftly caught the length of twine in the air.

The one-eyed man bound Tapel’s wrists and then threw him to the ground. Pushing down on Tapel’s back, he also tied Tapel’s ankles together. Tapel could scream, but out here no one
would he
ar.

Tapel wriggled until he could rest his back against a fallen tree trunk. “Who . . . who are you?” he asked.

“Your worst nightmare,” Benji said, grinning at Tapel as he pulled a dagger from his belt, brandishing his weapon.

“Seriously, Brin,” said the swordsman to the one-eyed man. “We should kill him. What are you planning on doing, feeding him? Feel like adopting an urchin?”

“He can earn his keep,” the one-eyed man, Brin, said.

“How?” asked the seated scrawny man.

“Our job is to keep an eye on the tower. If it lights up, we knock it down. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well I’ve got a better idea. Check this out. I’ve got a surprise.” Brin rummaged in his knapsack and withdrew a glass pyramid. “I ordered this when I was last in Sarostar and picked it up today. If we swap the real prism for a false one, our job is done.”

“Our orders are to watch and only knock it down if it lights green,” the scrawny man growled. “Who’s to say they won’t know as soon as we’ve broken the chain? What do we know of lore?”

“Hang on, Sebastian,” Benji said to the scrawny man. “I want to hear this out.” Benji left the fire and came over to crouch beside Tapel. “How’s your climbing, boy?” he said.

Tapel realized his life hung in the balance. “Good.”

“See?” Brin said. “We’ve been sleeping in shifts to keep an eye on the tower. Dan’s bringing three more men, but that won’t help much. If we swap the prisms, no one will be the wiser, and we can get some proper sleep for a change. The boy can help. Tonight.”

“All right, Brin,” the swordsman said. “We’ll try it your way. Tonight.”

The swordsman kicked Tapel awake well before dawn. The night was as black as pitch. Tapel groaned. Tied as he was, he’d had the most uncomfortable night of his life. His back ached and now his stomach hurt from the kick. If he’d eaten, he would have
been sick.

“Go easy on the lad,” he heard Brin’s voice say. “He needs to climb. Come on, boy. Don’t try anything foolish, or we’ll carve
you up.
”

Brin cut the twine around Tapel’s wrists and ankles and then grabbed Tapel’s wrist in a grip of iron, twisting the boy’s arm behind his back and marching him forward. The four men took him out of the trees and down to the water’s edge. As they took Tapel back upriver, he heard the Sarsen slosh and gurgle and saw the nearby supports of Samson’s Bridge silhouetted against the night sky.

No one was crossing the bridge at this hour, and they had the area to themselves. Brin marched Tapel to the three-legged tower, where the thin supports held the prism higher than any of them could reach.

“Boy. Look.” Tapel heard a creaking sound, and turning in alarm, he saw the scrawny man, Benji, holding a drawn bow, the pointed arrow glinting, aimed right at him. “Just so you don’t try to run.”

“You understand your task?” Brin asked, crouching down so he was at eye level with Tapel. “You’re to shinny up this pole here ’til you’re at the top. Remove the glass thing up there. Then call down. Got it?”

Tapel gulped. He knew the towers were important, and he didn’t know who these men were, but he’d gathered their purpose. They wanted to break the chain of reflectors heading east. If Altura called, these men didn’t want the lands of Loua Louna, Torakon, or Tingara sending help.

“Climb!” Brin said, emphasizing his point by shoving Tapel in the back, so he fell down.

Tapel slowly climbed back to his feet and wondered if he could run to summon help. He met the eyes of the man with the bow. He’d heard the swordsman’s words; he’d killed children before, and these men wouldn’t stop at killing him. If Tapel died, they’d just find another way.

Tapel grabbed hold of the thin pole and pulled himself up. Fighting at the Pens had made him strong, and though the metal was glossy, it wasn’t slippery. Soon he had both hands on the tower’s leg and his ankles twisted around the base. His arms on fire, he pulled himself up and managed to climb until he was at the apex, gazing down at the men standing below, heads tilted back as they looked up.

“He’s up,” Brin said. “Boy! Take off the prism, then toss it down.” In a whisper to his friends he said, “We’ll take it far from here and bury it.”

Hanging by one hand and ignoring the drop below, gripping the tower’s support with his wrapped legs, Tapel yanked and pushed at the prism. It took several tries, but he finally heard a click and felt it come away in his hands.

“Throw it down!” Brin called.

Tapel instead leaned back, the muscles in his arm burning to hold him in place, and threw with all his strength.

The prism curved through the air, looking like it would hit the bridge, but it missed. Instead it sailed past the steep riverbank and landed in the turbulent river with a splash.

“What did you do that for, insolent pup?” one of the watchers growled.

“What does it mean, Brin?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Brin said. “Think about it. Why mount
the th
ing on a tower if you don’t need to? It must need to be p
laced high
.”

“Sorry—I thought that was what you wanted me to do,” Tapel called down.

Brin growled up to Tapel. “Keep your voice down. Just don’t mess this part up, or I’ll kill you myself. I’m going to throw you the replacement. Reckon you can catch it?”

“Not really.” Tapel was holding on to his place at the apex of the tower with both arms and legs, but he didn’t think he could hold much longer.

“Out of the way,” one of the others said. He carried a long tree branch from the forest, forked at the end. He took the false prism from Brin and settled it in the fork before carefully lifting the prism up to Tapel’s height.

“Place it at the top,” Brin called.

Tapel released one of his arms and reached for the prism. His limbs were growing weak, and he was worried he’d fall at any instant, knowing these men wouldn’t shed any tears. He placed the glass pyramid on the flat triangle of metal where the last had been. It wasn’t quite the same size as the real one had been, but it settled comfortably, if a little loosely.