The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) Read online

  "The fact that I've called this gathering, and no one can see us, should tell you something. I'm in a unique position here, and we should take advantage of that fact."

  "To do what?" Samora demanded.

  "To organise ourselves. I've learned that there is a resistance in Ralanast, and the man leading them is one of my people, an Alturan, one of the best men we have. If we can get word to him I think he'll help us."

  "You're talking about escape? We'll get ourselves killed!" one of the other women said in a shrill voice.

  "No, we won't," Amber stated. "Not if we meet here, where no one can see us, and we continue to be nice to the guards. We can all do that, can't we? There's something you need to know. The people who are vanishing… I don't know where they're going, but the surgeon said they're being taken 'to the vats'. I believe the rumours are true. If we don't escape from here ourselves, we'll all be dead before the year is over."

  The women blanched, exchanging glances.

  "This escape," Lina said. "It won't have a chance though unless we have support from outside. We could take over this camp tomorrow and the Black Army will just send reinforcements. There are just too many of them."

  "You're right," Amber said. "For now we just need to open up communication. Leopold knows about a guard here, a sympathiser. He can get a message to Rogan."

  "Leopold?" Samora raised an eyebrow. "He's mad."

  "He was once a prince of Altura," Amber said. "I believe him."

  "So what do we do then?" Lina said.

  "We think, and we plan. That's enough for now. The main thing is to keep quiet. I'll get a message to Rogan Jarvish, and we'll see what he says. You'd better leave now."

  The five women stood.

  "We can do this," Amber said. "We must do this. There's no other choice."

  The Halrana nodded, and filed out, leaving Amber alone.

  Amber wondered where she would find writing materials.

  27

  SERANTHIA'S huge harbour was home to countless ships, and the port of call for a great many more. People came to Seranthia from far and wide to trade and to treat, to make deals and to build alliances. The harbour was a lively, vibrant place, famed for its workshops and taverns, nearly a city in its own right.

  Yet the harbour gave way to a sight more renowned still, a mighty monument, second only to Stonewater in its fame.

  It was called the Sentinel.

  Barring the harbour, the massive statue rose from a tiny island, barely an outcrop of rock, as if thrusting out of the water. He stood tall and bold on a wide pedestal, legs outspread, with one arm raised, pointing upwards as if at the stars, or the sun. His features were soft, almost feminine, and hair flowed down to his shoulders, while on his head was a strange headpiece, a crown, with a rune decorating its front. Most of the sailors navigating past the Sentinel barely gave it a second look — it had been there for an eternity, and it would be there for an eternity more. Many said it was ancient, old when Seranthia was just a fishing town. If it was old, it was barely worn, and how old would it have to be, to have existed when Seranthia was small? It was yet another of the world's mysteries.

  In The Floating Cork, the harbour tavern with the best view of the Sentinel, Evrin Evenstar sat nursing a tankard of black beer, glaring out at the distant statue. His wounds pained him. The journey from Salvation to Seranthia had truly worn him out.

  Evrin wondered how much longer he should wait for Killian. He didn't even know if the lad had received his message to meet him here. He could use Killian's help, but he couldn't afford to wait much longer.

  Seranthia was always a difficult place, and now Evrin felt for its denizens more than ever before. He still couldn't believe the Akari were here; of all people, the Akari! Provided they kept their lore to themselves, they were no trouble, living in the north as they did, but there was danger here, Evrin knew. If their lore got into the wrong hands — the Primate's hands — the world would become a dark place indeed.

  The streetclans were now basically running the city, extorting the common-folk with impunity, while the increasingly corrupt templars took the bribes and looked the other way.

  Seranthia, a beautiful city, a grand city, with majestic cathedrals, columned arcades, arch-lined streets, and statues and fountains in every square, was becoming a terrible, ugly place.

  Evrin wished he could do something, but he knew his own mission was more important.

  He finished his tankard and sighed. He could wait no longer.

  Evrin quickly scribbled onto a piece of paper, folding it up and then dripping wax from a candle to seal it.

  "Another blackstorm?" the tavern-keeper asked when Evrin approached the bar.

  "Need to be on my way. I was wondering if I could leave a note with you," Evrin said, holding out his sealed message.

  The tavern-keeper hesitated, licking his lips. They were all like this, Evrin had noticed; every honest shopkeeper and craftsman in Seranthia was terrified. The poor fellows were only trying to make a living; they deserved better.

  "Can I read the note?" the tavern-keeper asked.

  Evrin thought about what he had written. "I'm sorry, but no."

  The tavern-keeper shook his head, nervously wringing his hands. "You understand, don't you? What if someone leaves a note with me hatching plans, or saying something against our new High Lord? I'm going to have to say no."

  "Really?" Evrin said, feeling nothing but sympathy for the man. "Is it that bad?"

  The tavern-keeper looked to the left and the right, dropping his voice. "People are being rounded up, young and old, and being taken to prison camps. If you cross the templars, you…"

  The tavern-keeper's voice trailed off, and his face went as white as the piece of paper in Evrin's hand. Evrin turned, knowing what he would see.

  Two templars stood behind him, their hands on their swords. Both had the yellow sheen of the taint in their eyes.

  "Want to tell us what you're whispering about?" one of the templars said.

  "Hand over that paper," said the other.

  Evrin sighed. Two of them would be hard to handle.

  "Hold on a moment," Evrin said.

  Before they could react, he put the piece of paper into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Evrin looked from one templar to the other. He would make a dash for —

  Something smashed into the back of his head with the force of a horse's kick.

  Evrin's eyes slowly rolled back in his head as he sank to the floor.

  The last thing he saw was the tavern-keeper standing over him with a cudgel in his hand, an apologetic look on his face.

  28

  KILLIAN arrived in Seranthia, weary to his core. It had been a long walk.

  His journey had been slowed by the vast number of soldiers on the road. His survival instincts told him to stay out of their way, hidden behind a hedge or waiting in a copse of trees. These were strange men, a race he had never seen before, tall, with ice-blue eyes and near-universal blonde hair. They walked with others who were perhaps of a different race, or were under the effect of some strange spell, for their eyes were entirely white and they walked with listless movements.

  Killian wasn't sure if he wanted to know more. He didn't want anything to distract him from his purpose: find the Primate, and he would find the book; find the book, and he would find Evrin.

  As he reached the hilly farmland and pasture surrounding the city, Killian saw the Wall ahead. Monstrous and indomitable, it stood impossibly tall as only the lore of the builders could make things. Grey and forbidding, the Wall grew with each step that Killian took forward.

  Killian thought about Seranthia. He wasn't from Tingara, he was from Aynar, and his earliest memories were of life on the streets of Salvation, but he still knew the city well.

  In another life, Killian had been part of a troupe, a travelling show that wandered from city to city, town to town. Seranthia, with its wealthy merchants, bored administrators and skilled craftsmen, was a frequen
t destination for the troupe.

  Killian had always had mixed feelings about Seranthia; it was such an incredible city, but its problems were as great as its virtues. Such riches flowed through it, yet there were so many poor, sleeping on the streets, fighting each other for scraps, living in conditions akin to most dungeons.

  Killian would know; he was no stranger to dungeons.

  Yet the Grand Boulevard was awe-inspiring — a broad avenue stretching out as straight as a rule, so wide a stone could not be thrown across it, and so long that one end could not be seen from the other. Arguably the world's best-known street, it was lined on both sides with manicured parks, and the statues of former administrators were noble and severe as they watched the passers-by.

  Even more impressive, the Grand Boulevard led to the Imperial Palace, a great edifice of crenulated walls and towers, with peaked white roofs poking from behind the battlements. In the centre of the Imperial Palace a broad tower rose tallest of all, with a high balcony visible to all below, from which over the years Tingara's emperors had made speeches to their people.

  The markets of Seranthia were legendary, the eating houses beyond compare, and the libraries second to none. Killian wondered if one day the man would come who could take Seranthia to greatness.

  As he approached the city he again considered the Wall. It was the perfect symbol for Seranthia — tremendously huge, something that could never have been built without great wealth, yet used to impress and intimidate, to lock out and discard.

  Some soldiers walked away from the city, their path taking them past Killian, but he felt safer here in the hilly land close to the city. The road was highly trafficked and these soldiers, while they were Tingaran legionnaires, were commonplace compared to the strange warriors Killian had seen earlier. These men also looked busy. They were escorting several carts filled with prisoners.

  Killian felt the anger rise to his cheeks as he watched the pitiful wretches go past. They were mainly old, he noticed, but there were also some who looked starved, and even a few who might have been simpletons, unaware of what was happening around them.

  And then Killian saw an old man with white hair and a beard flecked with ginger who wasn't moving at all.

  Killian's mouth opened in shock.

  "Evrin," he cried. "Evrin!"

  Killian ran towards the drudge-pulled wagon, desperately trying to get the old man's attention. He waved his arms and called out, running up and smacking his hand against the wood of the cart.

  Evrin's eyes stayed shut, and then a legionnaire came forward. He glared at Killian, but rather than the sharp words Killian expected, the legionnaire smashed the hilt of his sword into Killian's cheek.

  Killian went down, crying out with pain, but rose back up and again stood. The legionnaire's eyes were still on him. Suppressing his anger, Killian watched as the soldiers drew away.

  All thoughts of finding the Primate and his book were forgotten. He had found Evrin!

  Killian waited until the last cart had passed, and the soldier watching him had long gone, then he started to follow.

  There was no way Evrin Evenstar was getting away from him this time.

  29

  MIRO held his breath, barely able to watch as the warrior drew on his bow, aimed, and released.

  The arrow went wide, missing the straw man altogether and sinking into a nearby tree with a thunk.

  "I told you this wouldn't work," High Lord Rorelan said, shaking his head. "I want those bladesingers back."

  "It will work," Miro said.

  Prayan, the wizened Dunfolk hunter who was making the Alturans' bows, jumped up to smack the Alturan warrior on the back of the head. "No, no, no!" Prayan cried. "Your stance is all wrong. You need to hold your breath before you shoot, and then release it after. It's affecting your aim. Where do I start?"

  Aglaran, Prayan's son, tilted his head as if hearing something. In one swift motion he fitted an arrow to the string of his bow, drew it to his ear, and released. Deep in the forest, Miro heard something fall to the ground.

  "Woodhen," Aglaran said. "Dinner."

  "Were you watching, stupid Alturan?" Prayan harassed the weary soldier. "Any child could hit the centre of that target. A trained hunter like my son here can shoot a bird on the wing."

  Prayan poked the soldier to emphasise his point, before moving to the next, his haranguing voice coming in fits and starts as he moved down the line.

  "This is hopeless," Rorelan said.

  "I know it seems that way, but the men can learn, High Lord," Miro said. "You were at the Sutanesta, you saw what happened. Used in a group these weapons are deadly."

  "If the men don't have the training…"

  "They will," Miro said with determination.

  "Lord Marshal, you have, what, three hundred of these so-called archers? That's three hundred fewer men facing the legion. Give them swords."

  "How do swords beat prismatic orbs? The enemy has essence again. We won't last!"

  "Give me the two bladesingers back, the ones who fight with the Dunfolk in the north."

  "No. This isn't something a couple of bladesingers can solve. The enemy's strength is increasing while we grow weaker and weaker. I'm the Lord Marshal."

  "And I'm your High Lord!"

  Miro lifted his chin. "I am telling you, Rorelan. This will work."

  High Lord Rorelan turned and walked away, his stamping strides showing his fury.

  Next to Miro, Layla shook her head. "He is correct, Miro. Your men have the strength, but becoming a hunter takes a lifetime of training."

  "He's under a lot of stress," a voice said from behind Miro.

  Miro turned, and saw a man in a green silk robe standing nearby, watching the Alturan archers at practice. His raj hada proclaimed him an enchanter. Not just an enchanter, Miro realised, but a master. He was slim, with dark eyes looking down a sharp hawkish nose.

  "I know you." Miro frowned. "You taught my sister."

  "I am Elwin Goss," the enchanter said, "Master of the Academy. Yes, I remember your sister, Lord Marshal. How could I forget?"

  "It's a pleasure to see you again, Master Goss," Miro said. He wondered what the man's purpose here was.

  "You are in a difficult position, Lord Marshal," Master Goss said. "You've been charged with the leadership of our forces, yet High Lord Rorelan manages your supply of essence."

  "Do you have a reserve we don't know about?" Miro said, smiling without humour.

  "No, but I do have an idea."

  "I'll hear it."

  "Yes, I have heard you are like your sister... Willing to listen to new ideas."

  Miro fought to control his impatience. "Please, Master Goss, I have little time."

  "I want to borrow one of these bows, along with someone who knows how to use it."

  Miro thought of Aglaran, Prayan's son. "Would one of the Dunfolk suit?"

  "To start with, yes. You see, Lord Marshal, my idea is based around the fact that the device already does what you want it to do, but your men are having difficulty controlling their aim. What if I and my fellow enchanters could come up with a matrix, a way to help the arrow hit its target every time?"

  Miro shook his head. "I've already thought of that, Master Goss. It all comes back to essence. We've barely enough to keep five sets of armoursilk and five zenblades functioning. If every arrow was enchanted, even conservatively, it would take much more essence than we currently have."

  "What if we could enchant the bows?"

  Miro looked up, tilting his head. "What do you mean?"

  "We don't need to work on the strength of the weapons; they already provide the force you need; your archers simply lack the skill to aim them," Master Goss said. "What if we could find a way, with the absolute minimum amount of essence, to enchant the bows, so that the archers could hit their target every time?"

  "That, Master Goss, would make me a very happy man."

  For a time there was silence except for the twanging of bowstrings
and the cursing of the soldiers.

  "There is a problem, however," Master Goss said.

  "Somehow I knew you were going to say that."

  "I will need to convince the High Enchanter that the project is worth undertaking. It will require a certain amount of essence just to test the idea."

  "I see." Miro grinned. "You need to convince High Enchanter Merlon, just as I need to convince High Lord Rorelan."

  "That is correct."

  "I'll get it done," Miro said. "You have my word."

  "Don't give me your word," Master Goss said. "Just get me the approval."

  ~

  MIRO stood by the simulator, again redistributing his strength, moving his men, changing their equipment, assessing the potential outcomes of his actions.

  Several weeks had passed since they'd received word that the desert warriors of Raj Hazara had taken the trade town of Torlac, from where they now controlled most of Petrya. This man, Prince Ilathor, had laid siege to Tlaxor, Petrya's capital, and rumours said he controlled even more fighting men than the Tingarans.

  Miro already disliked this Ilathor Shanti. This was the man who had sent his warriors to Miro's city — to his home — and taken his sister from him under the guise of friendship. Those weren't the actions of a friend. This new power in the south did not bode well for the broken lands of the Tingaran Empire.

  It was now the end of summer. Miro had spent the season fighting countless battles, holding Altura with nothing but hope and unflagging strength. With Petrya having her own problems, Miro had pulled his men from the south and added them to his forces in the east, but then something must have happened to resolve whatever problems the Black Army were having with their essence.

  Rather then breaking out, Miro was bottled up, with nowhere to go.

  High Lord Rorelan stormed into the room, his face black with fury. "What's this?" he demanded, waving a piece of paper in Miro's face.

  Miro looked up. "What is it?"

  "Here," Rorelan thrust the paper at him.

  Miro read the hastily scrawled words on the paper. It was a message, addressed to Master Goss at the Academy of Enchanters. It said that Rorelan approved the use of essence for the development of a rail-bow. The signature at the bottom was Miro's.