The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (33 page)

45

Summer in the Azure Plains meant flies. They swarmed over the camp, harassing the men, getting into mouths and noses, sucking at the moisture at the corner of their eyes. Maggots writhed in the meat, and weevils poked up through apparently sealed barrels of grain.

Miro’s hand moved constantly in front of his face as he sat in his command tent, poring over the endless rows of figures. It was hot in the tent, and the trickles of sweat running down his face seemed to attract more of the infuriating creatures.

At least the heat would take its toll on the enemy.

Miro turned his attention back to the numbers in front of him. They told him how much flour was spoiled and how much he still had available to make bread for his men. Another sheet described the state of weapons and armor. He read over the number of miles they’d traveled each day and the projections for their arrival in Seranthia. He had the reports of the scouts in one pile and the reports of the injuries his men had sustained in the frantic descent down to the Azure Plains in another.

The figures wavered and blurred in his vision.

They’d set a frantic pace, collecting more men as they led the allied army through Halaran and Loua Louna, and now they were finally in Torakon. The men were exhausted, and the foraging
parties
needed to hunt. Though it was only afternoon, they’d made camp early and given the soldiers of the Empire an
opportunity
to rest one final time before the final push to Seranthia.

“Can I help?” Miro heard a voice, and glancing up, he was
surprised
to see Killian enter the tent.

Miro smiled wryly. “Do you know how often I hear those words?”

“Not often, I’m guessing,” Killian said.

Killian walked over to Miro’s desk and glanced down at the papers. “Let me assume something—and no insult intended: you’re swamped with detail.”

“How do you manage?” Miro asked. He felt the loss of Beorn with a fierce hollow sensation in his chest. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Your problem is that you need to learn to delegate,” Killian said. “Once again”—he grinned—“no insult intended.”

Killian came around to scan the contents of Miro’s desk. “I can see reports mixed up with logistics. Provisions mixed up with arms. Take the load off, Miro. You need assistance.”

Miro waved a fly from his face. “But who? Beorn used to take care of all these things.”

Killian took the sheaf of reports from the scouts. “Have you named a new lord marshal?”

“No . . . not yet.”

“Then do it. Which of your commanders spent a lot of time with Beorn?”

“Marshal Scola, Marshal Corlin . . .”

Even saying the names made Miro feel better.

“Who should be lord marshal?”

“Marshal Scola,” Miro said without hesitation.

“Good. Give him the military briefs. Have him bring the important items to you. Now, who among your commanders is good with logistics?”

“That’s where I struggle,” Miro said. Then an idea came to him. “Amelia was excellent at provisioning Sarostar during the city’s defense. Would that . . .?”

Killian smiled. “Good choice. Have duplicates of the scouting reports sent to Amelia. She can also concern herself with foraging and the like. Who can help you with lore?”

“Amber,” Miro said.

“See?” Killian grinned. “Sometimes the people you need to help you are closer than you think. Have your new lord marshal delegate the rest of the responsibilities.”

“Poor Beorn,” Miro said, running his eyes over the reports. “He carried so much of the weight, and I never even thanked him for it.”

“He knows,” Killian said. He patted Miro’s shoulder. “
Wherever
he is. But Beorn delegated, just like you’re doing now.”

Killian turned back to the tent’s opening and poked his head out of the entrance. He spoke to someone outside. “Please fetch Marshal Scola, Marshal Corlin, Lady Amelia, and Lady Amber to the high lord’s tent.”

“How did you become such an expert?” Miro said when Killian returned.

“I had help,” Killian said. “Rogan Jarvish. A big bureaucracy in Seranthia. Perhaps my mother, most of all.”

“Killian?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“None of us are perfect, Miro. It pays to remember that.”

An hour later Miro left his tent, feeling something close to peace for the first time since Beorn’s death. He wondered if holding onto the workload was his way of memorializing his former commander and friend. Even so, it felt good to let go.

The blue haze on the endless horizon made the plains appear to go on forever. There was perhaps an hour left of daylight, and Miro intended to return a favor with one in kind.

It couldn’t hurt to have some fun along the way.

He weaved through the tents, and his men nodded to him as he greeted them by name. Leaving behind the green uniforms of the Alturans and the brown tabards of the Halrana, he finally found the significantly larger encampment of the Tingarans.

Compared to Miro’s men, the legionnaires sparkled as fresh as warriors could be. They glanced up at Miro but took no special note of his appearance; he’d changed to simple clothing. Most of them hadn’t yet fought, and though they were as tired as the rest, these men looked ready to do battle at a moment’s notice. To a man they would be anxious to return to Tingara and defend their homeland against the horde. Miro empathized with them, and he would do his part. The Legion had come to support Altura, and Miro always repaid his debts.

As he approached the Imperial compound, guards stepped forward, but Miro held his ground, meeting their eyes until they finally realized who he was and drew back. He spotted a grander tent than the rest and found Killian sitting on a log with a nearly empty plate on his lap.

“Eating alone?” Miro said.

Killian chuckled as he looked up. “It’s a nice change from the Imperial Palace.”

“Finish up,” said Miro. “Come with me.”

Killian raised an eyebrow, but he set the plate down and
followed
Miro out of the camp. It took a long time before they exited the perimeter, curious glances following in their wake, but Miro didn’t stop until he’d found a wide clearing beside a stream, a reasonable distance from the encampment.

Miro then turned to Killian and showed the emperor what he held in his hands: two wooden practice swords.

“You have the strength and the agility,” Miro said. “You just need to know the movements.”

“Sword practice?” Killian said. “I don’t need . . .”

“Every man should know how to use a sword,” Miro said. “You never know when lore will desert you. Trust me, I was in the lands across the sea with no zenblade or armorsilk, and without my training I would have died.”

“Why so far from the men?”

“You don’t want them to see you beaten, do you?” Miro grinned.

“So sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“You haven’t seen me fight,” Miro said.

He tossed one of the swords to Killian, who deftly snatched it out of the air.

“Let’s start with a classic move: the feint and thrust. Let me see your stance.”

Shaking his head, Killian formed an awkward fighting stance.

“Turn your body to the side; that way you present a smaller target,” Miro said. “Good. Now keep your elbow bent and your arms limber. Watch my eyes and my feet above all; don’t focus on my hands. With training, you’ll block without thinking.”

Miro leapt forward and smashed his wooden sword into Killian’s exposed side. The almost indiscernible symbols on Killian’s body lit up with fire in response to the blow. Killian made a clumsy attack, and Miro ducked under the outstretched arm to thrust again at Killian’s chest, striking harder this time. Still, Killian didn’t even grunt in pain.

“A challenge?” Miro said, lightly panting.

“I can’t help it.” Killian smiled and shrugged.

“Never fear. I always like a challenge.”

Miro sped forward to launch a flurry of blows, finally angling his leg behind Killian’s ankle and pushing Killian to fall flat on
his ba
ck.

“You need to move faster,” Miro said. “But to know how to move, you need to read your opponent. Let’s go again.”

Killian climbed back to his feet, his brow now wrinkled in
frustration
.

“Look how I’m holding my sword,” Miro said. “Copy me. Yes, that’s it. Now copy my posture. Stand more relaxed. Now, you try an attack.”

Killian shuffled forward and made a cut at Miro’s eyes. He
suddenly
stopped the blow and changed his attack, instead
thrusting
at Miro’s chest.

“Good. Feint and thrust. Now let’s try a riposte. Block my blow, and then thrust under my attack.”

Miro cut overhead, and the two wooden swords clattered together. Killian nimbly cut underneath Miro’s extended arm,
sending
a blow at Miro’s abdomen.

Miro sucked in his stomach, drawing back before the blow could strike home.

“When the time comes to strike, don’t hesitate. It’s the most common mistake I see. You have the advantage, so seize it!” Miro tossed away his sword. “Let’s see if you can strike me.”

Killian grinned, his eyes glinting, and the emperor’s training began.

46

As Ilathor recovered from his wounds, Jehral continued to deploy his own tactics against the enemy. He led sortie after sortie, and worried that when Ilathor’s health returned, the kalif would once more lead wild charges. If Jehral’s command would soon be taken away, he wanted this time to count.

He built deep traps and long ditches in the enemy’s path and closed canyons with boulders. He diverted rivers to block their
passage
and built fires so they couldn’t see in the smoke. For every real diversion, Jehral ensured there was a false one. Interspersed with every labor of effort, Jehral had the Hazaran elders create confusing illusions of cloud and fire.

Attacking the flanks, harassing the horde, Jehral slowed the
enemy’s
progress to a crawl. Yet the distance to Seranthia shrank each day. The scouts said they were now just a week’s travel from the city.

Giving half of his men some much-needed rest, Jehral now led a smaller group after discovering an opportunity to hunt down some stragglers. The scouts reported that a splintered force of revenants had vanished between two jagged hills.

As he passed under the heights, Jehral scanned the tops of the cliffs even as he kept his men in a careful skirmishing line. The crowded hills became a canyon, and Jehral cursed that he hadn’t scouted more carefully. The past few victories had been easy.

He saw the trap too late.

Revenants sprang from the sides of the canyon and in a mass at the front, closing in on all sides. To continue forward would be to die.

The enemy commander was learning.

“Turn back!” Jehral cried. “Retreat!”

Wheeling his mount, Jehral turned his men back the way they’d come. Even as the horsemen spun around, revenants leapt forward to pull men from their horses, tearing into them with weapons and bare hands. Jehral charged into the encirclement, cutting into the enemy as he tried to break free of the ambush.

“To me!” he called.

Finally, Jehral broke free, but risking a glance over his
shoulder
he saw he’d left men behind, entangled with the enemy. Jehral cursed; there was nothing he could do to help them. He spurred his horse forward, hearing the thunder of hooves behind him as the survivors flocked to his call.

Then Jehral saw more of the enemy ahead, closing the
canyon
completely. A new force of revenants formed a solid wall, pikes
bristling
in front of them. Jehral tried to charge, but his horse shied away from the barrier.

The bristling wall of pikes moved forward inexorably.

Jehral’s horse wheeled, spinning as the gelding tried to find a way out. Jehral struggled to take control of his mount as his desert warriors formed a cluster around him, all looking for escape. But there was none.

Behind Jehral, the enemy continued relentlessly down the
canyon
. In front of him the pikemen gathered momentum, trotting now in disciplined ranks. Jehral raised the glowing sword Ella had gifted him high above his head.

The pikemen broke around the cluster of Hazaran horsemen like water parting around a rock. As Jehral watched in stunned
surprise
, they continued their charge.

Jehral saw tall warriors with braids and gray tabards. Soft light glowed through their armor as they ran past, leaving Jehral and his men behind, smashing into the force charging down the canyon.

Jehral turned in wonder and watched as revenant fought
revenant
. Finally, there was a foe equal to the task, and the warriors in gray pushed relentlessly forward.

The enemy broke.

They turned and ran to draw away from the fight: the
hunters
had become the prey. The narrow canyon gave the pikes an
unquestionable
advantage, and the enemy retreated to save their force to fight another day.

“Jehral!”

A slim woman in green ran forward, and Jehral’s eyes went wide with astonishment as he recognized Ella’s pale blonde hair and green eyes. Only then did the pieces fit together as Jehral realized the Akari had come to his aid.

“Where is the kalif? Are you all right?” Ella asked.

Akari necromancers ran past and called their units back. The pikemen maintained their formation, but the enemy didn’t charge again.

Jehral saw a huge man leading the Akari and recognized Dain Barden Mensk. He saw Shani standing nearby.

Jehral deactivated his scimitar, and his arms slumped at his sides.

As the Akari bolstered the thinned numbers of the
Hazarans
, they all made camp in a naturally fortified position while their scouts kept a wary eye on the enemy.

Jehral told Ella about Ilathor’s wounding, and Ella went to visit the kalif of House Hazara.

During the defense of Altura, Ella hadn’t spoken with
Ilathor
, but she was now filled with fear. He was her friend, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him being hurt. The guards
stood asid
e to let her past, and Ella stepped tentatively into th
e tent.

Immediately, she felt relief when she saw that Ilathor was sitting up and his color was strong. Zohra, Jehral’s sister, sat at the side of his pallet, a bowl of dried fruit in her hands.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Ella said. “What happened?”

Ilathor smiled ruefully. “I got ahead of myself. I should listen to Jehral more.”

“That’s a good idea.” Ella returned his smile.

“Zohra,” Ilathor said, “could you please leave us?”

Scowling at Ella, the young Hazaran woman nodded and rose. She bent down and kissed Ilathor’s forehead before leaving the tent.

“What was that about?” Ella said.

“Ella, please come and sit by my side.”

Ella knelt in the place Zohra had vacated and took Ilathor’s hand. “What is it?”

“There is something I need to speak with you about. It . . . it is hard for me to say.”

Ella began to grow worried. “Your wound . . .”

Ilathor barked a laugh. “No, it is not about my wound, although nearly losing my life has brought some truths home to me. Truths I think I was reluctant to see.”

“What are you saying?”

“I do not wish to bring you pain, but I am a plainly spoken man. Ella, I want to release you.”

“Release me?”

“I wish to release you from any obligation you have to me. Zohra and I . . . love has blossomed between us. She is right for me—I know it in my heart. I am sorry. I will always care for you, and I will always be your friend. Even now, looking at you brings fire to my blood, but I now believe love between the two of us was never meant to be, much as it pains me to say it.”

Ella looked down at the ground, breathing in and out as Ilathor anxiously waited to see her reaction, and then a slow smile spread across her face. Ella felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She squeezed the kalif’s hand.

“Ilathor,” she whispered, “I’m so happy for you.”

“You are?” he said.

“I will always be your friend, and I’ll never forget that you came to help my homeland in our time of need. There is no obligation between us, and I can see Zohra is right for you.”

“I cannot tell you how much joy it brings me to hear you say that. You are not upset?”

“I’m happy,” Ella said. She grinned. “Just tell her that she doesn’t need to hate me.”

Ilathor laughed, and then winced and clutched his chest. “I will tell her.”

“Ella?” Shani poked her head into the tent. “The Dain wants to see you.”

Ella stood and her hand fell out of Ilathor’s.

She looked down at him fondly, and then she realized she and Ilathor were friends, and that was enough.

“Ella,” Dain Barden said without preamble, meeting her eyes, his expression grim. “Once, I gave you my help. Now I am asking for your help in return.”

“I’ve tried,” Ella said, guilt wracking her. “I’m no healer, nor am I an expert with revenants. I can’t find out what ails your daughter and your necromancers.”

“Then help us in another way. Many of our draugar are wounded and need tending. You know our lore, and we are now down to just a few necromancers: Aldrik, whom you know, and three others. Six more have died. I need you to go to Aldrik and offer your services.”

Ella knew she was in Dain Barden’s debt. He had allowed her to learn his people’s lore, and now he needed her help. “Of course,” she said.

“Good. I thank you. We need to regain our full strength if we’re to help out here and hold for the emperor’s arrival.” The Dain summoned a guard. “Take the enchantress here to Aldrik. He knows her and is expecting her arrival. And Enchantress?”

“Yes?”

“Use that mind of yours. See if you can find the source of this illness, and stop it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ella promised.

The Akari guard led Ella to a large square tent, set aside from the rest. Entering, Ella walked past scores of slumped revenants, most standing, some prone on the ground. At the center of the tent, four gray-robed necromancers each hovered over an iron table. A fifth table was empty.

A revenant lay on its back on each of the tables. Each necromancer had a scrill in his hands and worked with concentration as he renewed the runes around the wounds, closing the deepest gashes, mending the broken bodies. Smoke sizzled up in thin plumes as they worked, and each necromancer kept his head tilted to the side. Their eyes were shadowed with exhaustion.

Aldrik, a plump necromancer and Ella’s former teacher, looked up as Ella entered. “The Dain told me to expect you,” he said. “Can you help?”

“What do you need me to do?”

He ceased working and carefully placed his scrill in a holder. “It’s a simple task, but it is time-consuming, and there aren’t enough of us to tend them all. Take a draug and lie it down on your bench. The deepest wounds break the matrices and prevent the lore from functioning, so the runes must be drawn over again. When you are finished with one, move onto the next. Any questions?”

“No,” Ella said. “I understand.”

She walked over to the clustered warriors—many of the revenants staggered as the lore struggled to keep them animated—and took a tall man by the hand, resisting the urge to cringe at the cold touch of his fingers. The huge warrior regarded her with a white-eyed stare but allowed her to guide him to the workbench.

“Lie on your back,” Ella said.

The revenant complied, and Ella breathed a sigh of relief. She found a set of tools on a stand nearby, but she looked about for essence.

“Here,” Aldrik said, coming forward to hand her a vial.

Ella ran her eyes over the warrior’s body. His bleached leather armor was torn wide open, revealing a broad chest with a palm-sized hole at his heart. She could see where the matrices were
broken
, and without thinking too much about what she was doing, she took a scalpel and cut away the torn flesh before using needle and thread to sew the gash closed.

Ella then fitted gloves over her hands and dipped a scrill into the vial of essence. She held it in the bottle for a single breath and then withdrew the scrill and touched it to the flesh. Ella began to draw over the rune structures, fixing the lines, reconnecting the whorls and bridges. A hissing sound came from the tip of the scrill, and a thin stream of blue smoke rose into the air. Ella tilted her head as she worked, wrinkling her nose at the scent.