The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (32 page)

The steward paled. “She’s . . . unwell.”

“Unwell?” Ella said. “Can I see her?”

The steward hesitated and then nodded. “I will show you. Be warned, it isn’t pleasant.”

He led them past campfires and clusters of tents to a structure larger than the rest, with a wide space left around it, as if the Dain’s warriors were reluctant to make their camp too close. As they passed through the entrance, Ella saw it was an infirmary tent. Her gaze took in dozens of cots, all lined up in rows.

Every bed had an occupant, and the sick people were mostly Akari men. Moans of pain sounded from many as they writhed and gripped their bedding. Others appeared to be comatose.

Ella and Shani followed the steward along a row, past a cot where an older man with a lean frame lay on his back. His head was strangely bald in wide patches, and his eyes were closed. If it weren’t for the rising and falling of his chest, Ella would have thought he was dead. At the next cot a younger man gasped in pain and clutched at his stomach, red blood showing between his teeth. Patches of bare skin also showed on his scalp.

Ada was on the next bed.

The Dain’s daughter was taller than Ella and older, with hair so pale it was close to white, and brilliant blue eyes. Ella looked down at the proud Akari woman in pity. Half her hair had come out,
leaving
ragged clumps, and her eyes were closed, though even in sleep her face was wracked in a grimace of pain.

“Please don’t wake her,” the steward said. “She rarely sleeps. If she does, it is a blessing.”

Ella wanted to squeeze Ada’s hand, but instead she bowed her head. She no longer wondered why the Dain had been so upset. Ella stayed for a while and then nodded that she wished to leave. Passing the rows of wretched Akari once more, Ella waited until they’d left the infirmary before she spoke in hushed tones.

“So many . . . What’s wrong with them?”

“We don’t know. It started just two weeks ago, mainly striking the necromancers. Many are in that tent, but we’ve buried dozens along the way. I’m not sure if you understand our lore . . .”

“I know something about it,” Ella said.

“Well, as you know, our draugar need tending, and they need necromancers to control them. Our necromancers started to get sick, and Ada stepped in to help. As the Dain’s daughter she’s been trained in our arts. Now she is sick too.”

Ella’s brow furrowed. “Is it only necromancers?”

“Only those who’ve spent a lot of time with our draugar, yes.”

Ella thought about the things she’d learned from the alchemist’s book. “Corpses carry many diseases . . .”

The steward shrugged. “It is beyond me. I’ll find you
somewhere
to sleep tonight,” he said. “Enchantress . . . if you can help us get to the bottom of this sickness, we would be grateful.”

Ella nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

She exchanged glances with Shani. The Hazarans needed the Akari’s help.

But it appeared the Dain had problems of his own.

43

The tension in Seranthia was palpable. The terrified citizens
barricaded
their homes, nailing planks across doors and windows so that the tap of hammers formed a pattering background noise to any walk through the city. The markets were all but devoid of food; stockpiling had led to a shortage of everything.

Once again Seranthia’s fate would decide that of the Empire.

Yet this time was different. When the allied force led by Altura had freed Seranthia from the grip of evil, leading to the defeat of High Lord Moragon and Primate Melovar Aspen, the city’s
conquest
had come to be seen as liberation as prosperity and pride
eventually
returned to the city, culminating with the coronation of a new emperor.

This time the enemy was feared by all. The Alturan high lord had warned them, and his words had been proven true.

Refugees from Aynar trickled into the city, each bearing
terrible
tales of death and wanton destruction. They said this enemy was unbeatable. Vats were being erected in Aynar, and the revenants would keep coming until they’d achieved total victory.

The enemy now had a foothold in the lands of the Empire. The Lord of the Night was coming for Seranthia.

Rogan Jarvish sighed and rubbed at his eyes as he sat in his study in the Imperial Palace and made notes on a map of the city and harbor. He had a meeting with the Tingaran marshals later in the day and would present his plan for the city’s defense.

Rogan had faced many enemies, and it took time to take their measure, but he now knew Sentar’s style. Rogan knew that the enemy force—which must even now be somewhere between
Tingara
and Aynar—would attack the city’s landward side.
Meanwhile
, their navy would attack the harbor. Sentar’s strategy was to distract them, to tie up their forces, while he went for his main objective: the Sentinel.

As Rogan marked dirigibles on his map, he heard heavy
footsteps
. The footsteps grew louder, and then with sudden force the door to his study crashed open. Rogan glanced up in
astonishment
. He saw a Tingaran officer he didn’t recognize.

“Ever heard of knocking?” Rogan growled.

The officer brandished a sealed scroll in expensive purple-edged paper and thrust it into Rogan’s face. “Rogan Jarvish, I bring new orders. I regret to inform you that you are hereby dismissed from the army.”

“What?” Rogan spluttered, rising from his seat.

He took the scroll and broke the seal. The decree was curt,
summary
. It was signed by the Tingaran Council of Lords.

“We’ll see about this,” Rogan muttered.

He pushed past the officer and felt seething rage build up, heat rising to his cheeks. Passing through the marble-floored palace
corridors
, he finally found the Tingaran marshals, meeting in the war rooms. It was a meeting he hadn’t been invited to.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Rogan demanded, holding out the scroll. “Marshal Trask?” he spoke to a Tingaran officer he usually got along with.

“Rogan,” Marshal Priam spoke instead, “your influence affected the emperor’s judgment, making him take most of the Legion from Tingara to go to Altura’s aid.”

“That’s not true!” Rogan spat. “I’ve always acted in your best interests. Taking the Legion was his decision, and I still maintain it was probably the right one. If they gained a foothold in Altura . . .”

“They instead gained a foothold in Aynar, right on our
doorstep
. You saved your homeland, Jarvish, but at our expense. The Council of Lords met this morning and they took our recommendation. You won’t be playing a part in the city’s defense.”

“I’m sorry, Rogan,” Trask said.

“Scratch you!” Rogan said, throwing the scroll down to the table. He loomed over the table as the men drew back, their eyes fearful. “I’m tired of defending sound decisions to bureaucrats. I’m done with all of you.”

“We thank you for your service,” Priam said. He affected a
conciliatory
tone. “Go home, Rogan. You’re old.”

“Old?” Rogan felt heat come to his cheeks as his fury rose. With an effort he tried to calm himself.

“You have a wife and son. Go back to Altura. We will manage without you.”

Rogan Jarvish paced the length of the High Tower, the tallest
structure
in the Imperial Palace, open on all sides. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he walked, turning on his heel at the end of every dozen steps.

His gaze swept over the vista; his vantage was all
encompassing
. In front of him he could see the harbor and the walled tower
enclosing
the Sentinel; and when he next turned, on the landward side the gray Wall loomed over the buildings to guard the city. Even the Wall wasn’t high enough to block the view of hills surrounding the Empire’s capital.

Rogan fumed.

He’d been arguing with the Tingarans for weeks, and it seemed they’d taken matters into their own hands. Rogan wanted to send troops to Tingara’s south, to buy them all time for the emperor to return, and to provide cover for the multitude of fleeing refugees. Instead, the Tingarans wanted to abandon the people of Aynar to their fate. They would now have their way, and the remainder of the Imperial Legion would stay on high alert in Seranthia.

A few days ago, the white light of Stonewater’s distress call had abruptly ceased to shine from the towers. In the end, the
decision
was taken away. The land of Aynar, home of the Assembly of
Templars
, had fallen.

Rogan heard soft footsteps and glanced back at the stairs to see Lady Alise approaching. He stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath, smoothing the wrinkles from his frown and calming himself.

Rogan gave Alise a small bow in the eastern manner and was slightly amused to see her touch her lips and forehead like an Alturan.

“I’m sorry, Rogan. I heard about what happened. There was nothing I could do. How are you?”

“I don’t think it’s that I was dismissed, although telling me to my face would have been more honorable than sending a man with a scroll. It’s that they blame me for everything, from the emperor’s departure to the fact that half the Buchalanti went to Miro’s aid. No one likes being a scapegoat.”

“I understand,” Alise said. “Don’t be bitter; they’re simply scared.”

“I know,” Rogan said. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am old. But I’m not going home. When the time comes, I’ll fight, and this time I won’t have to stay back with the officers.”

“My influence is waning,” Alise said. “It’s hard without Killian. I worry for him.”

“I’m worried too,” Rogan said. “I left my wife and son in Altura.”

“I’m sure they are well,” Alise said.

“That’s what my head tells me,” Rogan said. He barked a laugh. “But a piece of paper in my hands would be better.”

Alise smiled thinly. “Do you think we’re ready?”

“Ready? No. Miro had the better fleet, but we know they were defeated, easily if the reports are true. First Altura called for help, and then Stonewater. We know Sentar Scythran is attacking on multiple fronts. All we can do is try to hold Seranthia and hold the harbor against a naval attack on the Sentinel.”

“Is there anything more we can do?”

Rogan fixed his gaze on Seranthia’s harbor. He could see the ships of the Imperial Navy as well as several Buchalanti vessels, keeping guard around the walled tower enclosing the statue.

“There’s something you can do, yes.”

“What is it?”

“You will need to convince the others, but I don’t think it will be difficult. There’s no use waiting for the end. Seranthia was his goal all along, and the fall of Stonewater only proves it. I think we should send out the call. Let’s light the purple signal.”

“I’ll see it done,” Alise said. “What will you do?”

“I’m going to dig out my armorsilk,” Rogan said. He grinned. “It’s time for an old man to get back into shape.”

44

“Slow the enemy,” Ilathor muttered to Jehral. “Slow the enemy,” he repeated. “More easily said than done, my friend.”

Reined in on a broad ridge, the two men watched the
revenant
horde covering the plain in front of them, coating the land like an insect swarm. A month of hard riding and here they were; they’d found the enemy somewhere in Tingara’s south. If
this arm
y reached Seranthia before the emperor, the city wou
ld fal
l.

“We need to bite at their flanks and flee before they can give chase,” Jehral said. “Forming up to resist our charges will slow them. We can also put barriers in their way: trenches and rock falls, perhaps get some logs . . .”

“What do Hazarans know of digging trenches?” Ilathor said.

“We can learn, Kalif.”

“It is our skill on horseback that is our greatest strength, not scrabbling at the earth like Toraks.”

“Still, Kalif, I think . . .”

Ilathor stood up in his stirrups and called out. “Form up in a line! We will charge their western flank.”

“Kalif, the men are exhausted. Perhaps one night’s rest . . .”

“Jehral, I have given the order. Come, fight by my side, my friend.”

“Yes, Kalif,” Jehral said.

Thousands of horsemen rode up to line the ridge, riders formed up side by side in one long line.

“They know we’re here,” said Jehral.

“Then let them tremble.”

Ilathor held his sword aloft and his men followed suit, until every desert warrior clutched a curved scimitar above his head.

Jehral prepared himself, rehearsing the activation sequence for his weapon, practicing techniques in his mind that would
decapitate
enemy warriors with heavy slashing blows.

“Charge!”

Ilathor waved his scimitar over his head and kicked his
stallion
into a gallop. Jehral spurred his gelding to keep up, and soon the thrill of the charge filled his spirit. Hooves thundered across the hard ground. Riders in black and yellow roared as they sped
forward
, their steeds eating up the earth as they rushed in a line that rapidly became a wedge, with the kalif leading from the point of the spear.

Jehral saw the kalif deftly nudge his stallion in a slight
direction
change and realized Ilathor was heading for the cluster of black flags. Jehral saw their leader—a man in black-and-white
checkers
,
wearing
a three-cornered hat—call out a series of orders as he turned his men to face them. Jehral’s eyes widened. The man in black was a revenant, but he behaved like a man.

With a heavy sense of dread, Jehral remembered Miro’s story of fighting Diemos, the king of Rendar. They’d never faced the last of the three kings. This must be Gorain, the king of Nexos. The revenants in black and white uniforms around him were his men.

The Hazarans struck the enemy with their relentless charge, screams of men and horses filling the air and the ring of steel on steel clanging like temple bells. The enemy fell under the scimitars, and the horsemen surged ahead to fill the widening gap.

Then Jehral saw Ilathor ahead, embroiled in the fighting,
dispatching
his enemies with strong blows of his muscled arm, but caught in the thick of the fray.

“Kalif,” Jehral called, “pull back!”

Jehral wasn’t sure whether Ilathor heard him or not, but the kalif continued pressing through the uniformed revenants, his knees on his stallion’s flanks taking him ever closer. Ilathor charged in a direct line for the black pirate king.

The battle slowed to a vicious series of images, snarling
revenants
lunging up at the riders and Hazarans slashing with curved blades as Jehral fought with all his energy to reach the kalif. He felt revenants pressing him on all sides, grotesque visages tilted to look up at him to be met with crushing blows of his enchanted blade. He slashed down at a revenant, cleaving through its head, and then dispatched a tall warrior on his other side with a deep cut into the neck and chest. Jehral spurred his gelding forward, but the revenants were everywhere.

Jehral saw the pirate king counter a blow from the kalif. Gorain’s moves were smooth and graceful as Ilathor then narrowly blocked his riposte. Jehral’s heart pounded as he saw the kalif was outclassed. This warrior moved as quickly as a bladesinger.

The man in black and white grabbed the stallion’s bridle and pulled down, hard. Ilathor jerked back on the reins to bring his steed back up, but Gorain grimaced and thrust up at the kalif with a glowing sword of thin steel.

Ilathor screamed as the blow struck the center of his chest, and then he slumped in the saddle.

“The kalif!” Jehral cried.

Jehral felt the revenants give ground as the Hazarans pushed
forward
to reach their leader. A brave horseman smashed his mount into the pirate king, but the rider was met with flashing steel that took the head off his mount. The man fell and Gorain’s followers hacked at the Hazaran’s body. Jehral finally reached the kalif and cut away the clawing revenants as he took hold of Ilathor’s reins in his hand. He wheeled and with a sense of relief felt the stallion come with him.

“Fall back!” Jehral said. The men took up the cry around him, and with a valiant effort the Hazarans pulled free of the enemy’s grip and wheeled back out of the fray. They rode at full gallop, and their slower enemy didn’t give chase.

The horses fled with frantic terror, but Jehral didn’t halt the mad flight until they’d reached the safety of the temporary camp in the hills. He swiftly issued orders from the saddle, relieved when the men didn’t question his command.

As Jehral reined in at the camp, he saw Zohra rush forward. He slipped off his horse and took Ilathor in his arms. Together with another warrior, they carried the stricken kalif back to his tent as Zohra hovered around them.

Lying Ilathor on his back in the center of his tent, Zohra tore Ilathor’s clothing back to reveal an ugly wound in his chest. Blood spurted out of a gash the length of a man’s hand.

“Bring me clean cloth and boiling water, and fetch my bag from my tent,” Zohra instructed. “Quickly!”

Jehral leapt to do her bidding.

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the kalif died. The tribes were fractious, and there were no other candidates for the leadership of House Hazara.

Jehral didn’t want to think about the fate of Ilathor, his friend.

He exited the tent, and the tarn leaders came rushing forward.

“What news?”

“Is he dead?”

Jehral held up a hand. “He has been wounded. My sister is treating him. He will live.” He hoped the words were true.

“What do we do?”

“I am taking command,” Jehral said. He directed his gaze at the first of the tarn leaders. After a long pause the man slowly nodded. Jehral looked at each in turn until all had nodded.

“We will follow you while the kalif recovers,” Saran of Tarn Salima said.

Jehral nodded. “Our strategy is to harass the enemy to slow them. There will be no more wild charges. We must fight this foe with cunning and guile. We must conserve our men and bring them out of each battle ready to face the enemy again at a moment’s notice. Do you all understand?”

“Yes, Jehral of Tarn Teharan.”

“Good. Then let’s get to it.”

Two days later, Jehral returned to the camp with blood on his hands and an arm heavy from wielding a sword. With the kalif wounded, the desert warriors had consented to his leadership, though he knew it would be a different case if Ilathor died. Without the kalif’s strong rule to be counted on in the future, the tribes would once more fragment.

Jehral was succeeding at his task. He was managing to slow the enemy, but if Ilathor died, he knew nothing would stop these men going home to the desert.

A Hazaran’s first concern was always for his horse, and Jehral’s gelding looked as fatigued as he felt himself. He removed the saddle and under blanket while the horse slurped at a bucket of water.
Jehral
ran a short-toothed comb over his horse’s coat, removing dust, blood, and bits of flesh and bone.

Hobbling the gelding, Jehral took the bucket away, lest he drink too much, and washed the blood from his own face and neck, finally scrubbing his hands to remove the last vestiges of red, before hurrying to the kalif’s tent.

Jehral stopped in the entrance as he looked in.

Ilathor was awake.

Zohra had a cloth pressed to the kalif’s brow, and they were talking softly. The kalif’s color had returned, and though he moved with care, it seemed he would live.

Jehral watched for a moment as his sister said something and Ilathor’s lips curled in a smile. She tilted her head back and laughed, and then she leaned forward and kissed the kalif’s brow.

Jehral smiled. He left Ilathor in his sister’s care and went to tell the tarn leaders the good news.