The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (26 page)

Everything living made him think of Katerina. A small sprout made him think about her fascination with seeds and seedlings. A dwarf tree made him think of how small she was, yet how quickly she’d grown. A crystal tree made him think about how fragile
she was
.

Grigori had to admit to himself: he was terrified. His only hope was that when Sergei finished with the Alturan woman, he would finally have the answers he demanded. Just a moment ago Grigori had walked down to the dungeons, close enough to hear her screams. He’d smiled in satisfaction before returning to his
chambers
. Amber Torresante would talk.

Grigori absently noted someone crossing the Juno Bridge, but whoever it was knew the password, and the bridge let him pass. He turned around and went back inside, once more looking into
Katerina’s
bedchamber before heading back to his own. He fell down to his bed, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

“Papa, what are you doing?”

The voice sent a tremor running through Grigori’s body,
stabbing
into his heart with a sensation like being woken with a red-hot poker.

Grigori sat up. Katerina stood inside the doorway, looking at him with her head tilted. Tears had carved streaking
passages
through the dirt on her face, and he saw bits of leaf and dirt entwined through her clothing.

“Katerina. Katerina!” Grigori cried. He rushed over and pulled her close, holding her to his chest as tightly as he could. He held her at arm’s length and scanned her body, grabbing hold of her limbs one by one and checking her for injuries, before hugging her again and again. Aside from some circular bruising on her arms and legs, she was unharmed.

“Where have you been? I’ve been so worried about you.”

“It was him,” Katerina said.

“Who, Katerina? Who?”

“Him! Please, Papa, keep me safe!”

Grigori pushed his daughter back by her shoulders. Terror filled Katerina’s face as she pointed toward a figure in the doorway.

Sergei stood open mouthed, staring at them both with a face drained of all color.

Then Sergei reached for his belt, but he wasn’t wearing his sword. Sergei’s hand clasped on empty air, and he looked up at Grigori with shock.

“You!” Grigori roared. “It was you!”

Grigori swept his daughter out of the way and charged Sergei, knocking him to the ground. Katerina screamed as the two men rolled, first Grigori on top, then Sergei, then Grigori again. Each man fought to gain a stranglehold on the other, and it was an even match: Grigori was the bigger man, but he could sense that Sergei was fitter, better trained.

Suddenly Grigori was face down on the ground, with Sergei twisting his arms painfully behind his back. Grigori felt a heavy weight as Sergei pinned him to the floor, and then Sergei’s hands were on his throat.

“I . . . will . . . be high lord,” Sergei grunted as he squeezed.

Grigori gasped for breath, but all that came out of his mouth was a series of pops. Sergei’s weight crushed Grigori’s chest, and the squeezing on his throat increased intensity. Grigori needed air desperately; he felt darkness beckon.

Sergei cried out in pain.

As the hands came away from Grigori’s throat and Sergei’s weight fell away, Grigori drew in a deep breath of life-giving air. He saw Katerina with a ruby-set ring on her finger. Sergei held his hand to his eye. The ruby glowed with inner fire.

Grigori heard running feet, and four armed palace guards appeared, immediately taking in the scene.

Grigori pointed a wavering finger at Sergei. “Seize him!” the high lord cried.

The guards took hold of the former lord marshal. Grigori climbed to his feet. Katerina clutched her father’s legs and began to sob.

Grigori recalled Amber’s words—she’d tried to tell him the truth. As he realized she’d been right all along, Grigori thought about what he’d told Sergei to do.

“You.” He pointed at one of the guards. “Come with me. The rest of you, hold him here. I will deal with this traitor myself.”

Grigori ran through the palace, collecting soldiers as he went. He dashed down the steps to the dungeons and shouted for the gates to be opened. Keys chimed in shaking hands, and iron crashed as he passed through the sets of barred gates.

Green light bathed him in its glow. Amber lay on her back on a bench, and a dungeon guard glanced up in surprise.

“Get away from her!” Grigori shouted at the dungeon guard.

He rushed to Amber’s side and brushed away a dozen
scrabbling
spiders. He ran his eyes over her, scanning the Alturan high lord’s wife with concern.

She was blessedly unharmed.

“Release her. Now! Hurry up!”

Grigori held Amber’s hand as she sat up, and he helped her off the bench. Her face was white, and Grigori remembered her screams.

“My Lady, I’m . . . I’m so sorry. How can you ever forgive me?”

Amber drew a shaky breath, and Grigori saw her gaze take in the red marks on his throat.

She was a long time in speaking.

“I’ve been through worse,” she finally said, though her voice trembled.

“Tell me what I can do to make this right.”

Amber fixed her gaze on the green light. She then turned back to Grigori, and the high lord of Vezna saw fierce determination in her eyes.

She told him.

33

Birds flitted from tree to tree, singing sweet songs to one another,
filling
the lingering silence. Insects hummed in the forest,
buzzing
and warbling as spring filled the brush with new growth and
animal lif
e.

The sounds of the forest were broken by the crash of metal
on woo
d.

Hundreds of men worked together, and Miro worked with them. Each soldier held an axe in his hands, and they struggled in pairs to fell trees, one after the other, each coming down with a mighty crash of breaking branches and thudding trunks.

Every man worked in his armor, and although Miro felt
sympathy
for the infantry in their confinement of thick steel, armor took time to don, and Miro had to prepare for the unexpected. None complained, and Miro rotated the men to give them regular breaks. Not every soldier could work on the growing barrier at the same time; it would be too dangerous.

Miro leaned back and then smashed his axe into a sturdy tree close to the road while Beorn cut into his backswing. The triangular wedge gouged in the side of the tree grew larger with each cut, and then Miro could see the tree was about to fall.

“Stand back!” Miro cried.

With a cacophony of snapping wood, the tree fell down in the direction of the cut, adding its tangle of branches and foliage to the barrier.

“Come on,” Beorn said. He panted and groaned. “I need a break.”

The beaches were lost, and Miro and Beorn were at the first of seventeen defensive blockades spaced along the long road from Castlemere to Sarostar.

In front of them the massive barrier of fallen trees barred the way from the abandoned defenses. Back behind the blockade some men slept while others ate. Still others nervously rubbed at the hilts of their swords. Strange smells took turns wafting past: the scent of fragrant flowers, the tang of burned flesh, sea salt, melted metal, and above all, smoke.

Since the great explosion that had turned the walls and towers of Miro’s once mighty defenses outside Castlemere to fissures and rubble, they’d retreated back to this blockade and worked at the obstruction. The last colossus still in operation hauled night and day, carrying fallen trees to add to the tangle, until the energy left its manufactured limbs. The last of Halaran’s mighty colossi had now itself been added to the barrier.

As he and Beorn reached the wall of dirt, Miro’s stomach
rumbled
. How could he eat at a time like this? Even so, the demands of his body grew in intensity. As if on cue, an outthrust hand shoved a bowl of something hot in front of his face.

Miro looked for a spoon, and with a grin and a shake of his head, Beorn handed him one.

“Thanks,” Miro said.

“They’ll clear it, slowly but steadily,” Beorn said.

“How long, do you think?” Miro asked, talking through a mouthful of hot stewed meat.

“It’s hard to say. Our scouts report they’re building platforms to cross the fissure we left behind. Our archers harass them while they clear the trees.”

The road was narrower than usual here—the reason they’d picked the place—which meant it was a small enough front for a third of Miro’s army to wait here while another third under Tiesto waited at the blockade behind. The final third, along with the wounded, had been sent back to Sarostar.

“How are the golems and bladesingers?” Miro asked.

“They’re keeping the forest clear. We were right—they’ll come this way. The plan was a success. You did well.”

“We all did well,” Miro said. “We’ve bought time, with little loss of life. Time is what we need.”

“Do you think help will come?”

“I have to believe it will. How goes the renewal?”

“Your sister and the other enchanters are back with Tiesto. We’ve already renewed the swords, and now they’re working on the armor.”

“But we’ve no more orbs. And few constructs—only the iron golems are left. No more tricks, eh, Beorn?”

“We’ll hold them. We also have another helping hand.”

Miro burned his mouth on the stew and waved his hand in front of his face. “What’s that?”

“Winter is their element, but they came in spring. It’s growing warmer every day. The necromancers will have their work cut out for them keeping the revenants going.”

“Sentar is in a hurry. Wherever he is, he won’t be happy at these delays.”

Beorn swallowed a mouthful and then met Miro’s eyes. “The Lord of the Sky came through. We owe Evrin Evenstar a lot.”

“We do,” Miro said. There was silence for a time, both of them remembering the old man, before Miro spoke again.

“Keep the scouts busy; we need to know when they’re going to break through. Come on, let’s get back to work.”

Three days passed and still the enemy worked at clearing the road. Miro lined the pikemen four deep along the blockade—little more than a dirt wall with a trench in front—while his best swordsman waited behind. The scouts now reported movement in between the fallen trees ahead. It wouldn’t be long now.

Even so, every fallen tree would add to the delay. Miro and Beorn continued working side by side with the men, working so furiously now that mistakes were inevitable. They’d sent one man back to Sarostar with a crushed foot. Another soldier narrowly escaped being crushed, dashing to the side when the barrier
resettled
.

As Miro pulled back to allow Beorn to make a stroke at the
biggest
tree they’d worked on yet, he saw a familiar figure wave an arm to get his attention.

Miro withdrew to let another man take his place. He panted and walked back to meet the lean Hazaran warrior.

“Jehral.” Miro nodded.

“High Lord,” Jehral said. It was strange seeing the Hazaran on foot, without a horse. “I have an idea.”

“Let’s hear it,” Miro said. “I’m all out.”

“Do you still have black powder?”

“Yes, some.”

“Do you have many of the iron balls?”

“Yes, but we destroyed the cannon.”

“What about the cannon we had at the beaches when the
landing
first began?”

Miro met Jehral’s gaze and then smiled. “Don’t be coy, Jehral. You’ve scouted them?”

Jehral nodded. “It is difficult and the trees are extremely thick, but I forged a path through the forest to reach the beaches between Castlemere and Schalberg. I counted five brass tubes before I turned back. They are about half a day’s journey.”

Miro was pensive for a moment. The enemy would break through soon, but it would be worth the risk.

“You’ll need four men to carry each cannon. Another twenty skirmishers.”

“No, High Lord. Too much noise. No more than ten men.”

Miro knew Jehral was right. With ten men Jehral would only be able to bring back two cannon, but even two would make a
difference
. “All right, Jehral of House Hazara, ten men. Leave r
ight a
way.”

Jehral sped away and Miro turned back to the huge tree. “Beorn!” Miro called. “Jehral’s going to—look out!”

As Beorn turned at Miro’s call, a falling tree nearby twisted and plummeted the wrong way, its tumbling path taking it into the mighty tree Beorn stood at the base of. Beorn’s work was nearly done, and as one tree crashed into the other, the huge tree also fell.

Two trees came down, directly on top of Beorn, the second axeman, and Miro.

The trees fell slowly, but they were big.

Miro dived out of the way, but he was too late. Branches came down on top of him, smashing onto his back, pinning him face down to the ground. Miro took a knock on the back of his head, sending stars sparkling in his vision. But he could breathe, and as he shook his head to clear it, he realized he was unharmed.

Soldiers called out and rushed to help. Many hands reached forward to pull the branches away from Miro, and a Halrana held out a hand to pull him free from the tangle.

“High Lord!” the Halrana cried.

Miro ignored him and rushed back to the place he’d last seen Beorn, climbing over the entanglement. Thick tree trunks lay piled one on top of the other, a mess of green foliage and branches as thick as a big man’s leg.

“Can you hear me? Beorn! Anyone!” Miro yelled. “Quick—bring axes!” he turned and shouted.

Miro saw the body of a man in a green uniform, crushed beneath the debris, white bone poking out of his legs and his torso squashed into a nearly unrecognizable shape.

“Beorn!” Miro called again.

“Down here,” a hoarse voice came from below the tangle. Miro recognized Beorn’s voice, which meant the dead man was the soldier who’d been assisting.

Soldiers arrived with axes. “High Lord, how do we cut
him out
?”

The pile shifted. A cry of pain came from below.

“We need to do something,” Miro said. He turned and ran back to the blockade, dashing past wide-eyed soldiers who took in Miro’s scratched and bleeding face.

Miro finally found what he was looking for. His zenblade lay in its scabbard, and he pulled the hilt in one swift motion, throwing the scabbard to the side.

He ran back to the site of the fall and called out again. “Beorn!”

“Still here,” the weak voice came back.

Miro ran his eyes along the runes of the blade his sister had made for him. It had taken Ella a month to make this new zenblade since his return from across the sea. Controlling the activations was more complex than ever before, but this zenblade could cut through anything. Ella had demonstrated it to Miro herself. She wasn’t a physically strong woman, but she’d shown it could cut through solid stone. At its limits, the blade’s heat even melted the stone, leaving a wide triangular gouge when withdrawn.

Miro started his chant, his voice rising as fire traveled along the sword’s length. He moved directly to the most powerful lore Ella had built into it, and suddenly the zenblade lit up with blue fire.

Miro didn’t swing at the trees; he simply pressed down at the debris.

He grimaced and hoped Beorn would yell out if he came
too clo
se.

The zenblade burned so brightly that Miro struggled to look at it, squinting against the glare. It would drain at a prodigious rate, but Beorn was under there. His friend needed him.

Even without heavy pushing from Miro’s sword arm, the blue fire cut through the green wood like butter. Taking their cue, the soldiers pulled the branches away as Miro cut through them. When he reached the trunks, Miro finally saw him. Beorn stared up at him with eyes filled with fear, his face white.

Miro couldn’t say anything. He could barely hold his song together.

He pushed harder, and the zenblade cut into the topmost trunk with barely a sound. Beorn was pinned under both of the trunks—it was a wonder he was still alive—and Miro cut through the first and waited for a dozen soldiers to haul the log away before moving to the next.

Beorn had his eyes shut to the glare. Miro couldn’t turn away from the blinding fire; he had to watch carefully, or he would strike his friend with the fierce heat.

Then he was through. Miro let his song fall from his lips, but he waited for the arcane symbols on the zenblade to completely fade before he cast the sword aside. Together with the men, Miro hauled the log away. Two more soldiers pulled the man out from under the tangled mass, and then Beorn was free.

Miro looked at Beorn in astonishment as his lord marshal climbed to his feet.

There was barely a cut on him.

“Lord of the Sky, you’re a lucky man,” Miro said.

“I thought it was my time for sure,” Beorn said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen power like that, not even from a zenblade.”

“You can thank my sister yourself,” Miro said. He clapped Beorn on the back. “It isn’t your time, my friend. Not yet.”