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

It was only the second night attack they'd faced. The enemy commanders were trying new tricks, some that worked and some that didn't. Miro wondered if night attacks would now be the norm.

For the hundredth time, Miro wished he could use the shadow effect of his armoursilk, but he knew it was more important to his men that they see their leader, fighting wherever the battle was thickest. At least he would be able to call forth the armoursilk's full strength.

He did have one surprise of his own in store for the warriors of the Black Army. Hidden in the forest were the four other bladesingers who had survived the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta. The world's finest swordsmen had activated the cloaking effect, the low tones of their sonorous chanting unheard against the gurgling of the river.

Miro scanned the black dots in the river; there were too many to count, but he needed to get an overall feel for their numbers in order to determine how many precious prismatic orbs he should expend. So much of the fighting was like this now, assessing the enemy's strength before expending irreplaceable orbs and draining enchanted armour and swords to repel them.

"Every fourth man to throw a prismatic orb," Miro whispered to Marshal Beorn.

"Every fourth? It's a full attack, Miro, I would have at least said every third."

"Every fourth," Miro said firmly. He agreed with Beorn, but there were no more orbs in their stockpiles. Each man here carried three, and that was it — for the duration of the war.

Beorn passed down the news while Miro watched more and more of the enemy enter the water, each Black Army soldier's sword held above his head with the water reaching to his waist. Miro reached over his shoulder and drew his zenblade; it was almost time.

As much as Miro would have liked to wait until the enemy reached the bank, and fight them from the height of land as they emerged tired and wet from the river, he knew he couldn't afford the risk. This was where the darkness gave the enemy extra protection, for there was too great a chance that some would slip through Miro's terribly thin defences and regroup on the Alturan side. Miro knew his men wouldn't survive an attack from the front and the rear, and these men were the only protection Sarostar had.

Marshal Beorn was good, and Miro didn't even hear the command for the men to throw their orbs. He saw the tiny specks fly through the air, and caught the shouts of the enemy as their fear and surprise was carried across the water. They now knew their crossing had been detected, and the black specks could only be one thing.

The explosion of the prismatic orbs was devastating.

Miro almost felt sorry for them. An underwater explosion sent bigger shockwaves over a longer distance than one in the air, and the pandemonium was instant as men screamed in pain; water fountained into the air and body parts flew in all directions.

But any sympathy Miro felt was short-lived. This was his homeland they were attacking, and these men were either mindlessly following the orders of their leaders or were attracted to the carnage by nature.

"Attack!" Miro cried, the shout instantly echoed by his men.

Even as the Alturans and Halrana-in-exile who made up Miro's army surged up and out of the protective forest, the enemy launched their own volley of prismatic orbs.

Miro had already started his song, feeling the armoursilk come alive around his body, hardening and settling tightly around his skin. A detached part of his mind noted that the enemy's volley was no greater than his own; Ella's theory was holding up; the Alturans weren't the only ones running short of essence. The rest of his mind recoiled in horror as the land erupted around him, gouts of flame and earth rising high above their heads, tearing men limb from limb. The scene was lit up, the darkness banished in lightning-like flashes. An Alturan soldier to Miro's right was flying down the bank to the river, screaming and snarling, when a small sphere hit the ground at his feet. The man wore enchanted armour, but it still wasn't enough, and the explosion tore him into two parts. The snarl was still on his face as he died.

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.

~

M
IRO
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.

~

H
IS
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, Layla 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."