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

  Then Miro concentrated on the task at hand as he plunged into the river, his momentum slowed as the waist-deep water took hold. He heard the splashing sounds of his men behind him, and looking ahead he saw that he would be the first to meet the enemy — with his lighter armour and long legs he was more agile in the water than the other soldiers, an advantage he hoped to press against his opponents.

  Miro added more of his song to his zenblade, and the blade lit up with blue fire. The chanting formed a regular rhythm, the rising and falling of his voice a soft melody as he activated more of the sequences that his weapon and armour had been enchanted with. He was the leader of his men, and the more heart he showed, the more courage they would have. Rather than using any of the cloaking effects, Miro made his armoursilk bright, as bright as the sun. The Black Army would know he was here. Lord of the Sky, they would know.

  The first legionnaire thrust a spear at Miro's unprotected face. Miro swerved and feinted at the warrior's armoured chest, before smashing into him with his shoulder. With the spear overextended and the legionnaire off-balance, Miro swung from overhead, hitting his enemy's neck and continuing through his body as the sizzling zenblade felt little resistance.

  Another Tingaran, a huge growling man with a two-handed sword, chopped down at Miro as he turned from the dead legionnaire. Miro blocked the sword with the zenblade, shearing it through, then thrust into the Tingaran's chest. Blood gushed out in a fountain as Miro withdrew his zenblade.

  Three of them hit Miro at once, and all he could do was concentrate on his song, keeping his motions economical to conserve his strength. He despatched the middle warrior with a thrust to the neck, then the swordsman to the right with a feint and a slice that opened up the surprised man's chest, and then the legionnaire to the left with three quick cuts.

  They kept coming. It was going to be a long night.

  The waist-deep river made the enemy sluggish, and it was simple for Miro to read their actions and dance around them, darting to the left and the right, his zenblade rising and falling as the blood mingled with the water. But Miro was beginning to tire. He was accustomed to covering a lot of ground when he fought — often when a battle ended he was surprised to discover he had travelled several hundred paces from where he started — but here, fighting in the river, the water dragged at his legs.

  Bodies floated past, both in black and in green, some mangled by the explosions of the orbs, others showing the deep gashes of swords.

  Miro tripped on a log buried beneath the water and fell. A black figure above thrust down at him, and as the water filled Miro's mouth, he knew he was dead. Then an orb flashed in the distance, and in the snapshot of light Miro saw the figure above him wore Alturan green. The warrior was holding out a hand to help him up.

  As Miro regained his footing he heard shouts. "Altura! Regroup!"

  Miro looked around, given a moment's respite by the late arrival of a fresh band of his men. The battle was raging but the sheer numbers of the enemy were taking their toll. The Alturans and Halrana had been pushed closer to the Alturan bank, and Miro could see the situation was dire.

  Then he saw a shadow flicker and a line of light slice through the air. A legionnaire went down, swiftly followed by another. A second shadow took down three soldiers in quick succession. Water dripped down the lines of the silhouetted form, and for an instant Miro saw the shape of a zenblade and the flickering symbols that covered the man's armoursilk before in a flurry he became a shadow again. Miro's brothers were out there.

  Miro raised his zenblade above his head. "Altura!" he shouted.

  The roar of his men echoed his cry.

  Miro reactivated his zenblade and armoursilk, chanting the runes in quick succession. He blazed like a vengeful spirit, as with his men rallied behind him he took the fight to the enemy.

  ~

  MIRO returned alone from the border perhaps three hours before dawn. He'd left Marshal Beorn in charge; the situation there was growing desperate. Miro knew he needed to return to Sarostar where he could press the case for diverting some of the men from the Petryan border to where they were needed most.

  The fighting had continued for most of the night — vicious hand-to-hand combat in the river, on the banks, and finally on the enemy side before Miro called back his men to avoid the trenches and towers on the Halrana side. The only blessing, if it could be termed that, was that the once-common use of dirigibles, mortars, and prismatic orbs was now a rare occurrence. Either the enemy commander was a fool, or like the Alturans, they were pitifully short of essence.

  As he crossed the Runebridge, heading for the Crystal Palace, Miro felt fatigue set in. He could still remember the moment when tiredness led him to trip on the log and fall in the river. What if he fell, just when he was needed the most? A bladesinger had never been Lord Marshal — was it too much for him?

  The doubts were just a result of the fatigue, he assured himself. After some rest he would feel more like his usual self.

  Miro's eyelids dragged down. Must talk to Rorelan in the morning. Must hold in the east.

  When he reached his soft bed in his suite, Miro fell instantly asleep, fully-clothed and with his boots still on. Bloody footprints showed where he had made his way through the palace and straight for his bed.

  ~

  HIS respite was short-lived.

  A hand was shaking him, first gently, then with greater insistence.

  Miro opened his eyes one at a time. It was light, so it must be morning. Had someone been shaking him? He must have been dreaming.

  Miro rolled over, and shouted with surprise. "Ah!"

  A small woman stood beside his bed. She was young, and pretty in a manner, with ruddy features and eyes green as grass. Perhaps she wasn't young; perhaps it was just her size; Miro could never decide.

  "Layla," Miro said her name.

  The Dunfolk healer usually wore a mantle of fur on her shoulders, but since her people joined the war effort she now carried a short hunter's bow and wore a curved knife at her hip instead.

  Miro cursed himself inwardly. The Dunfolk were one of the main reasons for the change of fortune at the Bridge of Sutanesta. He had meant to travel to Dunholme, and see how they were faring, but in the time since the battle the opportunity had never come.

  "How did you get in here?" Miro asked. Layla simply regarded him inscrutably. He realised he'd never get an answer; when it came to tracking, and stealth, none were as gifted as the ancient people who lived in the forests of Altura. "It doesn't matter. Are you well?"

  "My people are dying," Layla said. "The Tartana did not send me, he is too proud to ask your help. Yet it is your help that we need."

  Miro sat up, looking for clothing, and then realised he still wore his armoursilk. The blood from the previous night had stained his sheets.

  He went to the basin near the bed and washed his face and neck, finally pausing and looking at Layla. "Of course I'll help. Come with me."

  Miro found High Lord Rorelan discussing food stores with three solemn men from the granaries.

  Rorelan exclaimed in surprise when he saw Miro. "Lord of the Sky! Is everything all right, Lord Marshal?"

  "We held," Miro said, realising how he must look. "I left Marshal Beorn at the border." He glanced at the High Lord's attendees. "May I speak with you, High Lord?"

  "Of course. Please, wait here," Rorelan said to the three men.

  Rorelan led Miro into the next room, a grand hall of high ceilings where the crystal was a beautiful rose colour, and paintings of historic events lined the walls. Layla followed. "The situation at the Halrana border is growing desperate, High Lord," Miro said. "We must divert some of the men from the Petryan border to the east."

  "Yet you held," Rorelan said, "and I'm assuming it's safe to discuss this in front of your guest?"

  Miro reddened. "Yes, yes of course. High Lord, this is Layla of the Dunfolk."

  "The Loralayalanasa," Layla said primly.

  "It is a pleasure, L
ayla of the Loralayalanasa," Rorelan smiled down at her.

  "Yes, High Lord, we held. However the enemy's numbers are growing greater, just as ours are falling. We've questioned the prisoners we've taken. They're sending more men here, in a constant stream. When that stream becomes a river, they will push straight through to Sarostar."

  High Lord Rorelan sighed. "I hear you, Miro, but it is a matter of balancing risks. When that stream becomes a river, let me know, and I will listen."

  "By then it will be too late!"

  "Marshal Scola has two divisions in the south, you have ten divisions in the east, and that's how it will stay until something drastically changes…"

  "What about the north?" Layla asked.

  High Lord Rorelan turned to Layla. "I'm sorry?"

  "These men in black, we can hold them back," Layla said, "and those in orange also. But there are two demons that fight with them, like living trees. Our arrows do nothing against trees. We have lost many of my people to these demons."

  "The Veznans are moving south," Miro said. "Orange is their colour."

  "Which makes the demons nightshades," Rorelan said. "Scratch it, yet another thing for us to worry about. The cultivators have been quiet since the Sutanesta. I was beginning to hope that Raj Vezna's part in this war was done, and perhaps Dimitri Corizon had learnt some restraint. They've always kept to themselves in the past."

  "Their High Lord has the taint," Miro said. "I saw Dimitri Corizon turned with my own eyes."

  "Will you help us?" Layla asked.

  "Of course," Miro said.

  "And how do you intend to do that?" Rorelan demanded. "You'll never get men from the south here in time, and you told me yourself that the east is barely holding."

  "High Lord, Layla's people saved us. Now they need our help."

  "I know that! But like Beorn, they're just going to have to hold."

  Miro pictured the small Dunfolk, gentle in nature, hunters who hid in the forest. Nightshades would tear them to pieces.

  "I'll go myself."

  "Miro, no," High Lord Rorelan said flatly.

  "Beorn is an able commander, and he has four bladesingers with him."

  "I said no! You're needed here. Your position takes precedence, Miro. People always say bladesingers are accustomed to too much freedom to make good soldiers. Free will is the last trait a commander can have. Do you hear me? You are confusing your responsibilities."

  Miro turned his dark eyes on Rorelan. "We owe the Dunfolk a debt. I'm going." He followed Layla from the room, turning and speaking one last time over his shoulder. "But I'll be back."

  11

  MIRO sat still and silent, once more looking over water and waiting for the enemy to arrive. Yet this time was different: where before the river had been wide, with earthen banks to either side, this tributary of the Sarsen was narrower, and on both sides the thick bushes grew all the way to the water's edge. And rather than night, it was early afternoon. This time Miro would see his enemy.

  Next to him, Layla sat with her eyes closed, resting in the bushes, her bow across her lap. There was a time when Miro would have wondered at her ability to sleep when in the next hour her life might be taken from her, but that was long past, and Miro knew the value of snatched sleep.

  He considered trying to rest himself, but his nerves were taut and his senses heightened by fear. Fighting legionnaires was one thing, but nightshades were altogether different.

  Miro had never actually run up against one, but he'd seen two bladesingers take on a single nightshade at the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta. The living tree had easily triumphed, tearing the first bladesinger in half before reaching for the second. Only the intervention of a Halrana colossus had saved the second warrior in green.

  And Miro planned to take on two nightshades.

  Raj Vezna's masters of lore were called cultivators for a reason. Where Halrana's constructs were animated creatures built of wood, iron or bone, and required an animator to control their movements with skilled activation of the runes, the cultivators applied their lore to the living trees and vines that inhabited their forest home. Of course, the essence inevitably worked its way into the veins of the plant and killed it, but the creations of the cultivators were capable of some truly impressive feats.

  An iron golem required a controller, but it would continue the fight until its runes faded and the essence was depleted, and if renewed it could fight again. The creatures brought to life by the cultivators required no controller, they were given a life of their own, but the plant would eventually die, to rot and feed other plants. The Veznans called it the cycle of renewal.

  "You smell," Layla said, her eyes now open as she sat up.

  "Thanks," Miro said with a wry grin.

  "You smell like the town, and the sweat of a man. It is important to adjust your scent to your environment."

  Layla came over to Miro. Standing, she was only a little taller than he was seated.

  "When stalking a deer, a hunter spreads the dung of deer on the skin of his arms and legs. The deer is then tricked by its senses into thinking the hunter is another deer."

  Miro was mildly repulsed, but he could see the logic.

  "We're not fighting deer though," Layla said. "We're fighting men."

  Layla leaned forward, and Miro wondered what she was doing before he felt something soft and squishy being pushed into the hair on the back of his head. It felt like mud.

  "We're fighting men," she repeated.

  Miro's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth. Her expression was serious, but there was a twinkle in her eye. Surely it was just mud?

  "The enemy approaches," a voice called softly.

  Miro looked out over the narrow river, but could see nothing. He turned back to Layla, but she was gone, vanished into the undergrowth. Quickly clawing his fingers through his hair, Miro did his best to imitate the Dunfolk. At least his armoursilk was green.

  Miro felt his fear rise as he waited. Just as he was starting to wonder if the enemy were approaching after all, he saw the flicker of black against the trees on the other side of the river. A single man stepped out, a tattooed legionnaire clad in the scaled armour common among his kind.

  A second legionnaire emerged from the undergrowth and conferred with the first. The first legionnaire then plunged a long stick into the water and, seeing it wasn't too deep, said something to his fellow.

  Miro wondered if this was going to be a repeat of the battle he had fought just the night before — hand-to-hand combat made clumsy and sluggish by the dragging water.

  The first legionnaire jumped into the water, and was soon followed by the second. A third soldier in black came out of the undergrowth, and then more were appearing from all directions, taking quick stock before jumping down into the shallow river.

  Miro heard a creaking sound, and caught movement to his right. Turning, he saw Layla standing with her bow held in front of her, the string pulled to her ear, her arm trembling with effort. Wondering how many of the Dunfolk were here, Miro rested his right hand on his zenblade and waited for Layla to release.

  More of the enemy plunged into the water, and those in front were now well past half-way across the river. They walked forward in a broad line, with more and more of their number joining them with every moment that passed.

  When was Layla going to let go?

  A muscled Tingaran with an arm made of metal — a melding — stepped forward, his eyes scanning ahead as he reached the bank where Miro sat waiting. The Tingaran's eyes met Miro's and suddenly widened with surprise, and Miro's heart skipped a beat when he realised he'd been seen. The Tingaran opened his mouth to shout, but before any sound could escape his mouth Layla released.

  The arrow sped through the air with no more sound than the flight of a bird. In an instant it jutted from the Tingaran's throat, red feathers bristling. As blood gushed from the warrior's mouth he placed his hands at his neck and then toppled over, into the water.

  Barely a bre
ath later the air was filled with arrows. Miro had never seen them used like this; it was like a flashing horizontal rain. One after another, the soldiers of the enemy were peppered with the razor sharp steel of the arrowheads, the shafts jutting out at all angles. In just a few moments, hundreds, perhaps thousands of the enemy were killed. Miro had only seen greater destruction from runebombs and prismatic orbs.

  There was no lore involved at all.

  As they became aware of the danger, those of the enemy wearing enchanted armour hurriedly activated, and the glow of the runes separated them from their fellows so that Miro could pick them out like sunflowers in a bed of nightblooms. The arrows bounced off their armour, but even so the Dunfolk persisted, and their marksmen found the small unprotected places: the lower arms, neck, and eyes.

  Before Miro could enter the fray, they were all gone.

  Then the next wave came, a thousand more men plunged into the river, and the slaughter commenced again.

  Just as Miro began to wonder whether he was needed at all, the enemy's numbers started to tell. As the soldiers reached the bank where the Dunfolk lay in hiding and the bowmen became embroiled in close combat, Miro saw that hand-to-hand fighting was the archers' weakness. The rate of fire dropped significantly and more of the Black Army's soldiers gained the bank.

  Miro's moment had come. The arcane symbols that covered Miro's armoursilk blazed with sudden power as he called on one sequence after another. His zenblade came alive in his hands and lit up with red fire.