The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (12 page)

The monster lay still.

Jehral panted, his chest heaving.
“Khamsin,”
he said, and the scimitar went dark. Jehral examined the steel in surprise. Whatever Ella had done, the blade wasn’t even dirty.

Jehral panted and then looked to his men. Only half a dozen lived. Jehral moved to Rashine’s still body and felt for a pulse at Rashine’s neck; there was none.

“Lord of Fire,” someone said.

One of Jehral’s warriors walked from body to body, checking each for signs of life. He looked at Jehral and shook his head.

Jehral drew in a deep breath. He looked at the hole, but there didn’t appear to be any more of the creatures stirring. His thoughts returned to action as he addressed his men.

“Fire,” Jehral said, “that’s the solution. Marhaba,” he addressed the warrior, “I am going to leave you in charge here. The kalif must know about this, and I am a better rider than any of you. I will make the journey myself. Listen to me well. Keep an eye out for more of them, and quickly burn the whole ship. I don’t care if it takes you days to dry out every last piece of wood and burn every bone to ash. I will send the rest of the men down to you with tinder. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Jehral,” Marhaba said. His face was white. “I understand.”

“Stand guard here. Help will arrive soon, even if the men have to slide down the rope until their hands bleed. If another one comes, use fire, and use your scimitars to remove the head. Does anyone question my decision?”

“No, Jehral.”

“Good. You have your orders. Burn it all.”

Jehral climbed back to the summit of the cliff and sent the rest of the men down to the wrecked ship. He then took two spare horses, and digging his heels into his gelding, he launched the horse into an immediate gallop.

Jehral raced through the desert, lunging over the dunes,
speeding
across the sand and changing horses regularly. He didn’t eat or sleep; every thought was on the urgency of his ride.

He reached Agira Lahsa haggard and worn, covered in dust, and went immediately to the palace.

As he reached the sanded area, grooms rushed forward, and Jehral threw them the reins, ignoring their startled expressions. He bounded up the steps and ran through the palace, leaving brown footsteps in the shining silk carpets.

“Zohra!” Jehral cried out when he saw his sister.

“Jehral,” Zohra said, her eyes registering her surprise. “You are returned.” She looked him up and down. “You cannot see the kalif like that.”

“Where is he?” Jehral said, ignoring her.

“Taking lunch on the terrace, but . . .”

Jehral dashed through the palace, calling out for the kalif, breaking the serenity, leaving stewards staring after him in surprise. He found the kalif with two of his tarn leaders seated on the long table on the terrace.

“Kalif, I have urgent news.”

Ilathor turned and looked up in surprise. He shot to his feet when he took in Jehral’s appearance. “Jehral, what is it?”

Jehral paused to gather his breath. “We found a ship wrecked on our western coast. It was filled with revenants. We thought they were all just corpses, but one was still alive and killed four of my men. I left the men to burn everything and came here as quickly as I could.”

Ilathor swiftly stood, knocking his chair back as Jehral spoke. The two tarn leaders also rose, exchanging fearful glances.

“Ships—Jehral, did you see any more ships?”

“No.” Jehral shook his head. “No more. But where there is one, there will be more.”

Ilathor uncharacteristically swore.

“Kalif, we must warn the Alturans,” Jehral said.

“The signaling system,” one of the tarn leaders said.

The kalif made a cutting motion with his hand. “It won’t serve us. It’s designed only to call for aid.”

“Kalif, I request permission to ride to Altura.”

Ilathor hesitated before finally nodding. “All right, Jehral. I will also send word to the Petyrans.”

“I must get fresh horses,” Jehral said. “By your leave?”

“Be safe, my friend,” Ilathor said. “Stay alive.”

“I will.” Jehral bowed quickly and turned on his heel.

During the frantic ride to Agira Lahsa, Jehral had tried to make sense of it. The ship must have blown off course. Unfortunately, Jehral didn’t know whether the enemy ship had lost its way while sailing to Altura or while heading further south, where a fleet could round the cape and head east to Tingara.

One thing he did know, however, was that where there was one ship, there would be more. And if Miro was correct, Altura would soon be under attack.

13

Miro surveyed the greatest stretch of defenses he’d ever constructed. The low wall stretched in a long line following the ridge where the beaches met the forest. From behind Castlemere, it continued
eastward
as far as the cliffs, where the enemy would never land, and westward halfway to Schalberg, the smaller of the free cities. Most importantly, the walls and towers covered the road to Sarostar.

Miro’s decision to fortify the ridge rather than the cities
themselves
had been unpopular but necessary. He could never cover the entire coastline, nor could he simultaneously defend
Castlemere
and Schalberg in the face of an enemy landing at any place they chose, while also defending the road to Sarostar. Miro, Beorn, Tiesto, and the subcommanders all agreed: it was better to defend the ridge, where they had the cover of thick forest behind them and could fight from a higher position.

Miro was thankful there was only the one road from the free cities to Sarostar. Of course, the enemy could land anywhere, but the forests were too thick for them to penetrate through easily, and Sentar would never attempt a time-consuming push through the tangled trees. No, Sentar’s way was to take his opponents head-on, overwhelm any defenses, add the dead to his army, and push on.
If Mi
ro were attacking the Empire, he would land at these beaches, push through the defenses on the road to Sarostar, and the way to the Empire’s heart would be open.

Miro had cleared the land in front of the wall, creating a huge killing ground. Below him, past the killing ground, the city of
Castlemere
looked weak and defenseless. Built to encircle a
natural
harbor, Castlemere barely had a wall; it was more of a wooden fence. The forest had stretched nearly all the way to that wall, but now it was gone. In its place were hidden ditches marked with
cautioning
red flags: the flags would be removed when the enemy came. Red and black markers indicated buried runebombs and big barrels of black powder. Rounded, heavy boulders painted white allowed Miro to gauge distances for his cannon, mortars, and archers.

The defensive wall was high and broad, but unlike the wall
outside
Sarostar, there were no ramparts; the men would fight from behind the wall rather than on top. It now took Miro over an hour to walk from one end to the other, and he’d piled tree trunks at each end all the way to the forest and even continued the barrier of logs inside. Only a colossus could lift those trunks.

He wanted the enemy to hit him from the front.

Castlemere was usually a bustling place, the larger of the two trader cities, but aside from the dock, filled with ships and sailors, the small city below was eerily quiet. The populations of the two cities had been evacuating ever since Miro’s story became common knowledge, straining Sarostar’s already stretched resources even
further
. Of course, even in Castlemere and Schalberg, stubborn citizens always remained.

In the distance, Miro watched as a huge Veldrin warship tacked back and forth to enter Castlemere’s harbor. The fourteen Veldrin ships were all here, as were several Buchalanti vessels. Only the
Buchalanti
storm riders were scouting—they were faster than any other
vessel
—while the Veldrin ships stayed in harbor, crews at the ready.

Miro thought about his naval strategy. He was aware that he knew little about fighting on the sea, and so he would leave it to those he trusted with his homeland’s fate. As if on cue, Miro saw Commodore Deniz and Sailmaster Scherlic weaving through the deadly defenses of the killing ground as they approached.

“Sailmaster,” Miro said, clasping Scherlic’s hand and then
turning
to Deniz. “Commodore. It’s good to see you both.”

Deniz and Scherlic had as many similarities as they had
differences
. Both had the weather-beaten skin of men who had spent most of their lives at sea, with leathery faces and rugged
features
. Both were tall, but Deniz wore an elegant uniform of blue and brown, whereas Scherlic wore a belted coral-pink robe. Of the two, only Deniz was armed, wearing a fine sword at his belt, with a gem-crusted hilt. As always, Deniz had a three-cornered hat with a blue feather on his head. Deniz was friendly, but his eyes were
penetrating
. Scherlic was dour and intimidating, one of the few men who made Miro uncomfortable.

“What news?” Miro asked.

“Still nothing,” Scherlic said. “Our three storm riders scour the seas. Well, two storm riders at the moment. The
Infinity
is at
harbor
.” He made the final statement sound like an accusation. “As soon as I finish here, we’ll leave once more.”

“Is it worth sending out Veldrin ships as well?” Miro asked.

“No,” Deniz said. “The Buchalanti ships are much faster than ours. Our warships are powerful, but we can’t risk a single vessel. Better that we leave the scouting to the Buchalanti.”

Miro nodded. “When the time comes, I’d like to send a
bladesinger
with each of you.”

“To what end?” said Scherlic.

“Essence,” Miro said. “If I know our enemy, he’s impatient. He’ll have gathered the essence he needs to open the portal before leaving. If there’s a ship we can identify as holding a great deal of essence, my bladesingers have orders to do anything they can to see it sunk . . . even if it means their lives. Defeating one of the Evermen will be hard enough without facing more. We can’t allow the portal to be opened.”

“As long as your bladesingers don’t get in the way,” Scherlic said.

“They know their business,” Miro responded.

He wished he had more bladesingers, and he hated to risk two in this way, but success would be worth the risk. Bartolo was busy training the recruits at the Pens, but only one of Bartolo’s recruits had been deemed good enough to be elevated, and even then he’d lost half an ear in testing. Miro touched the scar on his face. He supposed half an ear wasn’t a bad outcome.

“Commodore, tell me again about how many ships they mi
ght h
ave.”

“Impossible to say,” Deniz said, “but I can name four cities south of Emirald, each with a small navy the enemy could have captured. Then there are the pirate kings.”

“Pirate kings?” Scherlic raised an eyebrow.

“Renegade nobles.” Deniz shrugged. “Self-proclaimed kings who built their own navy and declared their borders separate to
Veldria
. All educated men, trained from birth in combat, and
ruling
by force as much as right of blood. I was always hunting them down; they captured our merchant shipping and plundered our coastal towns. Added together, their navies could have rivaled the Emir’s. Fortunately, they fought each other as much as us. They may have suffered the same fate as Veldria.”

“Let’s just worry about what we know,” Miro said. “How are your men, Commodore?”

“Anxious, but disciplined,” Deniz said. “Ready as they’ll ever be.”

“Sailmaster?”

“We don’t work in formation like the Veldrins,” Scherlic said. “But here in Castlemere we have the three storm riders and two blue cruisers. In Schalberg we have another blue cruiser and two dreadnoughts—eight Buchalanti vessels in total. If the enemy fleet is in these seas, we’ll find them.”

“We’ve performed some tests,” Deniz said. Scherlic scowled. “The Buchalanti ships are fast and well armed, particularly the dreadnoughts. But their armor won’t stop cannon.” Deniz looked at Scherlic somewhat apologetically.

Miro gazed along the fortifications. “If we can stop them in the sea, I won’t consider all this to be wasted time. I’ll consider your people the greatest heroes of our age. Thank you, both of you. I’ll leave you to the business you know best.”

The men of Halaran and Altura cheered as Miro walked in his armorsilk, his new zenblade on his back, following the outside of the defensive wall. He nodded at soldiers as he passed, greeting many by name and thanking them for their efforts. Miro checked the cannon emplacements at the forts and inspected the gaps he’d left to allow men and constructs to make sorties. Upon exiting these gaps, Miro’s men all knew they had to immediately turn to the left. Every other direction, including the place in front of each gap, was marked by red warning flags.

He walked through one of the openings to the inside of the wall and checked the racks of spare weapons, the covered shelves where prismatic orbs and barrels of black powder waited, ready to be used.

Looking up, Miro could see the great carts in the forest where the constructs were housed. The heads of colossi poked above the treetops.

More than anything, Miro wished he had more orbs and
dirigibles
.

When he’d finished inspecting the defenses, he was halfway to Schalberg as the setting sun melted into the horizon. At
mealtime
he decided to go through the battle plan once more with his
commanders
.

Still no word from Amber.

That night Miro organized a feast. The quartermasters from the army and remaining tavern keepers from the free cities joined forces to give the men a better meal than the usual monotonous fare.

Miro knew he would have at least two days’ notice from the Buchalanti scouts, and morale was important. He spent the last of his gilden on the feast. It was probably one of the best meals many of these people had ever had.

Bonfires dotted the pale white sands to the east of Schalberg, far from the defenses, the fires banishing the darkness and continuing into the night. The men drank weak beer, but it didn’t stop them from singing. They toasted Miro and hid their fear behind jokes and tall stories about the women in Tingara.

Miro didn’t join in.

He stood alone near the water’s edge, looking up at the sky. A comet passed overhead, leaving a sparkling tail in the afterimage.

“An omen,” a voice came from behind him.

Miro glanced at Commodore Deniz. “Do you believe in such things?”

“No,” Deniz said, and both men chuckled.

“I feel it, though,” Miro said. “Something tells me it won’t be long now.”

Deniz nodded, his face clearly visible in the starlight. “I feel it too.”

“Tell me, Deniz. With all this talk of omens and Evermen, what do you believe?” Miro asked.

Deniz shrugged. “My people believe in gods who live under the sea and in the sky. They shoot lightning bolts at each other when they fight, like a bickering husband and wife.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know what I believe. I know, though, that I will fight this darkness with every ounce of strength I possess, even to my own death. Though the navy has always been my family, my homeland was ruined, and even if my people return and rebuild, Veldria will never be the same again.”

“Don’t lose hope,” Miro said.

“I have found something else to hold on to,” Deniz said. “
Vengeance
.”

For a time there was silence between them before Deniz spoke again. “And you, Miro of Altura, the man from across the sea, whom I once took captive, what do you fight for?”

“I fight for my homeland and for the lives of those I love. I fight so that my son, Tomas, can grow up in a free world.”

“A worthy cause,” Deniz said, “perhaps much more so than revenge. Tell me, are you ready to die?”

Miro paused. “I am,” he finally said.

Deniz nodded as he gazed at the dark seas.

“But I’ll try not to.”