The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) Page 10

  In return the Tartana would provide two hunters, Prayan and Aglaran, men he assured Miro were the two best bowmakers and archers in their nation.

  The two hunters, father and son, now walked at Miro's side as he headed back to Sarostar. Prayan's ruddy features were wizened with age and he had a tattoo of a sparrow on his cheek. According to the Tartana, Prayan could hit a sparrow on the wing from three hundred paces as a young man. Now, the old hunter was the most skilled maker of bows and teacher of young hunters among their people.

  Prayan was grooming his son to follow in his stead, and Aglaran's muscles bunched even on his small frame. Aglaran carried the largest bow Miro had yet seen, and Prayan said he would be useful at teaching the taller Alturans. Aglaran wore his hair in a topknot and wore the tooth of a wolf on a thong around his neck.

  Prayan was the more talkative of the two, and Miro wasn't sure if the younger man was simply shy or was perhaps deferring to his father.

  Miro suddenly grinned when he pictured High Lord Rorelan's face when Miro told him he'd exchanged two bladesingers for two Dunfolk hunters.

  It was an argument Miro looked forward to having. He'd seen too many of his men die at the eastern border clashes, men who could have been saved with the decisive advantage bows could give them.

  This wasn't a time to be immersed in the past. The Tingaran Empire was no more. The world had changed.

  Miro planned to change with it.

  12

  BLADEMASTER Rogan Jarvish wandered the streets of occupied Ralanast. He supposed he couldn't call himself blademaster anymore. What was he? He supposed he was just Rogan.

  He hobbled as he walked, and his throat felt tight and sore, but thoughts of complaint never crossed his mind; he knew he was lucky to be alive.

  Rogan had always loved Ralanast, with its beautiful grand buildings and warm, generous people. The capital of Halaran was a place of culture, learning, and a renowned centre for trade, where the produce of Halaran's numerous farms, orchards and workshops was bought and sold. Drudges always crammed the city from one end to the other, pulling cart after cart of goods, and the hearty people celebrated life with festivals and dancing, their food and drink shared among neighbours and strangers alike.

  As with the builders of Torakon, the Halrana's favourite deity was the Lord of the Earth, but to them this was no distant being; he was present in the fruits of the trees, beloved in the way the sun shines on a field of wheat. Before the war, the Halrana were a happy, prosperous people, proud of their culture and their great city, Ralanast, where the spires of the famous Terra Cathedral could be seen for miles around.

  But the city Rogan walked now was a different place than the Ralanast he remembered from before the war.

  The cathedral still stood, but many of the grand old buildings were now in ruins, the victims of dirigible bombing in the days before the Black Army's conquest of the city. Ralanast's residents walked with a defeated air, heads down and shoulders hunched. Many were starving; the Halrana were far down the list of those their occupiers wanted fed first. Worst of all, any who resisted, who spoke out against the Black Army or those of their own people who'd gone over to the enemy's side, any who complained about the thieving of his goods, or the rape of his wife, simply disappeared.

  Rogan had heard about the prison camp half a day's journey from Ralanast. It was a crafty insurance policy, for who would organise a resistance when they had loved ones in the camp?

  As he walked the streets, exercising his injured leg and thinking about the future, Rogan looked at the boy Tapel walking by his side, and wondered what he should do.

  A stone turned under Rogan's foot and he tripped, only saved by the walking stick in his hand.

  "Are you all right?" Tapel asked quickly.

  "I'm fine," Rogan said. What use could he be anyway?

  The lad looked at him with worship in his eyes, and Rogan sighed. Tapel was young, perhaps only eleven or twelve, and the brave boy who'd found him alive on the battlefield outside Ralanast several weeks ago obviously looked up to him. He'd questioned Rogan endlessly about the bodies of the enemy Tapel had found littered in a circle around where Rogan had fallen. Had he really defeated that many men?

  He was a bladesinger, Rogan had said. He was the blademaster. He was the man who instructed and led the bladesingers. "I was," he had said. Not: "I am".

  Rogan leaned on his walking stick and looked around him, at the crumbling stone of a once-beautiful fountain. He was as broken as this city here, once strong and proud, now just a relic of the past.

  He now knew all about the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta. When he'd heard it was Miro, the son of the old High Lord, Serosa, who had led the Alturans to victory, he'd wept. Actually wept! He was so proud of the lad he'd once taught swordsmanship at the Pens, and who now commanded the allied forces, the last bastion against the evil of the Primate and his Black Army. Could the lad, now a grown man, have use for him now?

  Rogan saw Tapel's mother, Amelia, up ahead, and for a time his thoughts shifted away from blood and warfare. Now there was a beautiful woman, still handsome in spite of the hardships of war, still determined despite the occupation of her city. The late afternoon sun shone on her golden hair, and she pushed the fringe away from her eyes in a girlish gesture, squinting as she looked to the right and the left. The years had given Amelia a face of strength and wisdom, with more smile lines than wrinkles and deep brown eyes.

  Rogan had to be honest with himself — he knew what he had stayed here for. He tousled Tapel's hair. "There's your mother, lad. Let's say hello."

  Before he could get Amelia's attention, she darted into the door of a terraced house, quickly entering the building and shutting the door after her. She was only gone a moment, and when she emerged Rogan was surprised to see a basket in her hands, covered in a cloth of patterned red and white squares.

  Amelia looked around her again, but she didn't look behind her and so didn't notice Rogan and her son. She walked a dozen paces and then took a hard right turn into an alley.

  Rogan's heart sank when he saw two Tingaran legionnaires in black tabards follow her in. He didn't know what she was up to but he knew it was something dangerous.

  "Stay here, Tapel. And, lad, this time I mean it," Rogan said.

  Rogan started to walk as fast as he could with his gammy leg, hobbling along with his stick out and sandals slapping against the cobbled stones. "Scratch you, boy," Rogan cursed when he saw Tapel following behind him. "Just stay back and stay out of sight, all right?"

  Tapel nodded, his eyes wide with fear.

  Rogan reached the alley and turned in. Amelia stood terrified, her face white, and the two legionnaires were talking to her.

  "What's in the basket?" a thin Tingaran with a sibilant voice said.

  "Medicines," Amelia said, her voice shaking. "Woman's things. You don't need to see them."

  "Actually we do," the thin man said. "C'mon, let's see 'em."

  His companion, a shorter man with a hooked nose, said. "Heard of the prison camp? You want to go there?"

  The thin man spoke again, his voice wheedling. "You can keep your basket secret, and we'll take you to the camp so they can question you there. Or you can show us, and we'll decide how bad it is. Maybe it's just some liquor you're trying to keep from us, eh? That what it is? Maybe some valuables you're trying to smuggle out? Maybe —"

  The thin man's voice was suddenly cut off as something hit his head with a great crack, splitting the skull with a precision blow. The legionnaire crumpled to the ground without a sound.

  The warrior with the hooked nose turned in surprise. "Wha—?"

  Rogan's eyes blazed as he stood with his stick held out like a sword. Amelia stood on the other side of the legionnaire, one hand at her mouth and her eyes staring with shock.

  "Defend yourself," Rogan said.

  The legionnaire drew his sword in one swift move. It gleamed wicked and sharp. The hook-nosed legionnaire came forward, but rather tha
n drawing back, Rogan came in to meet him, knowing that his leg gave him a disadvantage in a moving dance of weapons.

  They collided in a crash, but Rogan had shifted, turning his body side-on to present a smaller target, and the legionnaire's sword thrust at empty space. With Rogan in a different place than his opponent expected him to be and the legionnaire off balance, Rogan easily smashed his forehead into the legionnaire's nose, before moving himself behind his opponent's back. The legionnaire fell away, staggering. Rogan swung his walking stick at the legionnaire's kidney, gut and knee. Rogan then thrust as if it was a sword he carried, rather than a stick, punching into his opponent's throat.

  The legionnaire fell to the ground, instantly still, the breath gurgling in his chest and his sword discarded at his side.

  Shouts sounded in the square outside the alley.

  "Leave him," Amelia said. "We need to get out of here."

  "We can't leave him," Rogan said, panting. "He's seen us."

  Rogan handed Tapel his walking stick, and then bent down and picked up the discarded sword, testing its weight in his hand. It was a fine sword, he decided, able to be used with one hand or two. "This is war," Rogan said.

  He sliced at the legionnaire's exposed neck, and as the blood rushed out it was over. Rogan glanced at Amelia, who looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "This is war," he repeated.

  Amelia nodded. "This way," she said.

  Amelia led Rogan and her son down a series of alleys, quickly leaving the commotion behind, not stopping until they reached a fountain in a quiet part of town.

  Rogan washed the blood from the blade. "I need to hide this somewhere," he said. "Good swords are hard to come by."

  "I'll take it!" Tapel said.

  "No, you won't," Amelia said. "Here, put it in here, there should be room."

  Amelia pulled the cloth away from the basket, revealing what lay inside. Rogan whistled.

  The basket was filled with prismatic orbs, the symbols decorating them still fresh and new. Rogan put his sword in the basket and Amelia covered it again. More slowly this time, they left the fountain, to all outward appearances just a small family on their way home from the market.

  "Now," Rogan said. "How about you tell me what you're up to?"

  "You can trust him, mama," Tapel said.

  Amelia looked into Rogan's eyes; he met her gaze, unflinching. "I suppose I can," she said.

  ~

  ROGAN entered the designated storehouse, Tapel at his side. Immediately the heavy doors swung shut behind him and he heard the sound of bolts being thrown. The darkness was complete and absolute, and all he could hear was the sound of his and Tapel's breathing. Rogan caught the smell of sawdust and old foodstuffs. He hadn't wanted to bring Amelia's son but it was one of the conditions of this meeting.

  "Quit the theatrics," Rogan said. "How about some light over here?"

  A light came on, and he was suddenly blinded.

  Rogan felt Tapel grasp his hand. "Don't worry, lad," Rogan said. "If they wanted to harm us they would have done so."

  After a moment, Rogan's eyes adjusted and he could see the area lit up by the glow of the nightlamp. A long table of polished wood stood on carved legs in the empty space, four chairs around it. The nightlamp rested in the centre of the table, but outside the circle of light Rogan could see nothing.

  "Come out," Rogan growled. "You're fools, do you know that? If you don't trust someone, then don't invite them to your lair."

  "Why would this be our lair?" a voice came out of the darkness.

  "The storehouse is in a disused part of town, yet the hinges on the door are well-oiled. The table is heavy and expensive, as are the chairs, and there'd be marks in the dust if they'd been brought here recently."

  "Anything else to add?" the voice asked.

  "Finally, you're fools because you're wasting your time when your people need you," Rogan said.

  A figure stepped out of the shadows. He was a young man, well-dressed in clothing the son of a prosperous merchant might wear, but his boots were those of a soldier, Rogan noticed, and at his side he carried a worn scabbard that had seen some use, the hilt of his sword polished from handling.

  "Who are you, to dictate to us, Alturan?" the young man said.

  "He's —"

  Rogan silenced Tapel with a squeeze of his hand. "Surely there are more of you? I expected to find some resistance, not a couple of bravos hiding out in a barn."

  A second man walked forward, older than the first, with a receding hairline and neatly trimmed moustache. "The two of us are all there are, Alturan."

  "That's not true!" the younger Halrana said.

  "Hush, Marcus," the older man said. "Yes, there are farmers and wives, craftsmen and priests, all working for our cause."

  "But no soldiers?" Rogan said. "No warriors?"

  "We are still in the process of… recruitment," the older man said. "Now, I think we are long overdue for some introductions."

  "I think I know who you are," Rogan said. "You have the look of a Telmarran about you."

  "He is High Lord Tiesto Telmarran, Alturan," the younger man said, "Legasa Telmarran's nephew and heir to Halaran. My name is Marcus. Marcus Toscan." He raised his chin with pride. "I'm the one who got him out of Rialan Palace before the Black Army arrived. And you are?"

  "For now he's the heir," Rogan said. "When Ralanast is back in Halrana hands, then he can call himself High Lord. But to do that, you're going to need my help."

  "Who are you?" Marcus demanded.

  "My name is Rogan. Rogan Jarvish. Nearly twenty years ago I fought in the Western Rebellion at my High Lord Serosa's side, fighting with your people against the Emperor." Rogan's voice was grim. "Prince Tiesto, I fought with your uncle, Legasa, in the great battle where we tried to free this city." He took a deep breath. "I was a bladesinger of Altura, and then I was the leader of all the bladesingers. I've led the world's finest swordsmen in too many battles to count, and I've trained more soldiers than there are stars in the sky."

  Prince Tiesto and Marcus exchanged glances.

  "It's true!" Tapel piped. "I found him on the battlefield. He has a zenblade. I can show you!"

  "I can help you liberate this city," Rogan said. "There will be those among the townsfolk who know how to fight. Some will be old men, veterans of the Rebellion like me, but they will be dependable, and they can help the younger men. And," Rogan paused, "the one who commands the forces in Altura was one of my students. Let me help your resistance. When I tell him we're ready, he will come."

  Prince Tiesto looked at Rogan's scars and then at Marcus, evidently contrasting the two men. "How will you know?" Tiesto asked.

  Rogan grinned. "Trust me. When we're ready, you'll know it, too."

  13

  THE Primate studied the book the old pilgrim had rescued from the destruction at the Pinnacle. He'd locked himself in his study, examining the damaged pages, desperate to unlock the secrets within. The only people he allowed to see him were Moragon and Zavros, the former to discuss the war, the latter to discuss the mystery of the book.

  Primate Melovar knew, deep inside, that the book offered him the potential to turn his fortunes and salvage his dream to unite the peoples of the world, if he could only discover its secrets.

  His withered and emaciated frame was thinner than ever from lack of food and drink. The thirst for the knowledge burned within him, and he translated day and night, working with the unstoppable energy of the fanatic. He'd learned to live with the pain of his wounds now; if anything the remorseless agony of his burned flesh drove him on, the fire in his blood reminding him he might not have much time left.

  Now Melovar Aspen was coming close to the truth.

  "Primate," a deep voice spoke, "you asked to see me?"

  Primate Melovar tore his gaze away from the silvery writing of the Evermen and the strange drawings and diagrams. Their rune-based writing was so fresh in his mind that he was having difficulty reading the dispatche
s his second-in-command brought him.

  "Moragon, please, come in," the Primate said. He noticed Moragon's gaze flicker to the book. "Let me share some of what I've learned with you."

  Moragon came to stand beside the Primate's desk, and looked askance at the book of the Evermen. The Primate could almost see the thoughts crossing the melding's face. They had replaced many of the templar leaders with those more malleable, and now those who depended on the elixir were fewer in number. The raj nilas, that incredible substance that extended the lifespan and bestowed powers of regeneration, would last a small time longer, but it would still run out. The Primate had promised Moragon a plan, yet here he was instead, obsessed with this book. What of the plan Moragon had been promised?

  The Primate opened the burned and withered pages of the ancient book and pointed to a diagram, the lines shining silver. "See, it's some kind of structure, built to a strange shape. There's a pool in it. And that symbol on the pool? That's the symbol of essence. The Evermen used essence just like we do."

  "A pool of essence?" Moragon raised an eyebrow. "I've never heard of so much in one place. It would take centuries to accumulate."

  Primate Melovar smiled with thin, broken lips, and as he did they cracked and bled over his teeth, the acid sizzling on his tongue. "Nor have I. The dimensions… This isn't a small pool, Moragon. It's dozens of paces wide. This is more essence in one place than anyone living has ever seen."

  "But why?"

  "To provide energy for the magic, of course." Melovar's eyes gleamed. He turned past four pages too damaged to read, stopping where there were some lines of legible symbols. "See this text here? It describes 'the most powerful lore ever devised'. Moragon, think about it, and all we could do if that power was ours."

  "So what is it then? Some great plan of the Evermen that was never fulfilled?" Moragon asked.

  "I need to learn more to be sure, but it looks like it wasn't just a plan, it was actually built. It's a relic, Moragon, hidden somewhere in Merralya. If we could find it…"