The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) (2 page)

The low structure had four arched entrances, one at each of the cardinal points. A myriad of symbols decorated each arch, appearing untouched by the centuries. Evrin limped forward, for the first time seeing it as a temple, with its dramatic entrances and intricate stonework. This was where the Evermen came to acknowledge their own magnificence.

The mountain rumbled again. The explosion must have been immense. How could Killian survive such a thing? With an effort, Evrin pushed thoughts of the boy out of his mind. Killian had achieved his objectives. Now Evrin needed to complete his.

He stepped into the structure. It was laid out as two concentric squares: an outer chamber where glorious artwork described the wondrous feats performed here, and an inner chamber where the actual work was done. Mosaics decorated the floor of the outer room, scenes of the Evermen working in concert, creating works of lore that none of them could ever have made on their own. The walls burst with colour: golden suns shining on green fields, silver stars sparkling from a midnight-blue sky, a tall mountain that could only be Stonewater looming over a crowd of men and women.

Evrin gripped the destructive cube tightly in his fist, surprised at his reaction after so long. Emotion gripped him, and he suddenly felt alone, more alone than he'd felt in a long time. He'd thought himself accustomed to his place in the world, but it seemed his heart knew better.

Evrin reached the inner chamber and stepped forward, his heart hammering and the pain in his ankle momentarily forgotten. Diagrams and symbols were everywhere, etched into the marble with veins of gold. Runes covered the floor and the ceiling, matrices and patterns too complex even for Evrin to grasp alone.

In the middle of the room was a raised series of steps. On the highest tier stood a pedestal, and on the pedestal lay a closed book.

Made of the same metallic fabric the Evermen used in all their works, the book was as thick as the span of a man's hand. On the cover was an androgynous figure wearing a crown, head tilted, looking up at the sky.

The skin rose on the back of Evrin's neck; the room fairly reeked with power, and even through the urgency of his task, Evrin couldn't help himself.

"
Tuh-ruk. Suh-ran. Tuk-ruk Evrin Evenstar
," he spoke without thinking.

The room came to life. Soft music sounded, fluting and triumphant. The runes on the walls, floor and ceiling shone in a multitude of colours. The Evermen's final plan was revealed in all its glory, and with a word or a gesture Evrin could call forth any detail, examine any aspect of the project. For a moment he was filled with awe at the magnificence of it; this was the greatest work of lore the world had ever seen.

With a sigh, Evrin spoke the words, and the room was empty once more. He reminded himself; the location of the relic must be kept from the templars at all costs. Destroying the chamber filled him with sadness, but the risk was too great not to.

Evrin climbed the steps up to the pedestal, placing the destructive cube on top of the book. "
Lot-har
," he said, activating the device and turning away. There, it was done. He had several seconds to depart.

The ground trembled again. Evrin stumbled as he stepped off the last step, and his ankle turned, pain shooting up his foot and through his leg in waves. He fell to the floor.

Evrin looked back at the pedestal, and the book that sat atop it. The cube fell from the book and landed on the topmost step. The mountain shuddered again, and the cube fell down to the next step with a tinkle.

The device had been activated. It would explode at any instant. More than anything, the book must not escape.

Evrin launched himself at the cube, but it was just out of reach. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he reached for it but it moved away from him, tinkling as it rolled along the floor, gathering momentum as it left the inner chamber completely.

Evrin realised he wouldn't make it.

He rolled onto his stomach and covered his head with his arms.

The cube exploded.

Far below, in the town of Salvation, people looked up in awe as smoke billowed from Stonewater like a volcano.

1

M
IRO
deployed more troops to the northern regions of Halaran. Immediately the weakness in his eastern defences became apparent: the Black Army would push through all the way to Sarostar. He rubbed at his eyes and reset the simulator.

The simulator was the size of a large table and occupied a special room inside the Crystal Palace. Miro ran his dark eyes over the lands of the former Tingaran Empire, represented in incredible detail, suffused with the colour that millions of tiny runes projected onto its surface.

To the extreme west was Altura, bordered by the Dunwood in the north and the land of Vezna further still to the north and east. In Altura's west, the Great Western Sea stretched endlessly. Some said the world of Merralya ended here, while a minority said no sea was endless. Only the Buchalanti could know, but the sailmasters of Raj Buchalantas weren't known for being informative.

Bordering Altura on the east was the land of Halaran, now occupied by the enemy. Miro could only wonder at the horrors the Alturans' traditional allies must be enduring.

South of Altura, across the blocked Wondhip Pass, was the homeland of Raj Petrya. Miro never stopped fearing an attack from that direction, although he knew of only the one route, and passage that way had been barred by massive blocks of stone.

Further south, past Petrya, was the great Hazara Desert. Never part of the Tingaran Empire, the tribes had hitherto kept to themselves. In this war, that was no longer an option.

To the east of Halaran was the heartland of the enemy: Torakon, the homeland of the builders; Loua Louna, where the Black Army had driven through in a surprise attack; Aynar, where Stonewater formed the spiritual heart of the empire; and Tingara itself, where the Emperor had ruled his dominion from the city of Seranthia.

Each land's borders were shown, but all lands except Altura were darkened, now under the dominion of the enemy. Two dots still glowed on Altura's southern coast: the free cities of Castlemere and Schalberg. Another region, the Hazara Desert, was also free from the enemy's grip, but who could say what occurred in the yellow sands of the far south?

Miro thought about the fierce tribes of the desert lands. What game would they play? How would the Hazarans and this new lore they were said to possess influence the war?

"Look at you. You haven't shaved in days. Are you even sleeping properly?"

As Miro looked up, his black hair fell in front of his eyes and he impatiently pushed it away.

Marshal Beorn stood across from Miro, both palms resting on the simulator's edge. "How long have you been here?" Beorn asked. "Get some rest, Lord Marshal."

Miro wiped at his eyes; they felt grainy and heavy, and for a moment Beorn's face wavered in his vision. The marshal's face was marked by his age, weathered and worn, but far from old. Beorn's hair and beard were grey, but his eyes were sharp, and he and Miro shared a bond of mutual respect that could only be formed on the battlefield.

Beorn's steadiness was the counterpoint to Miro's daring, and Miro knew that some of his bolder ideas had gone forward solely due to the veteran officer's support. If Beorn said no, Miro knew an idea had little merit; but if the marshal wavered, then perhaps a plan had potential, with a little more thought.

"Miro, I told you to call me Miro. What time is it?"

"It's two hours past daybreak."

Miro grinned. "Then it's morning. Time to wake up, isn't it?"

Beorn gave Miro a wry smile, shaking his head. "What have you learned?"

Miro turned back to the simulator, his expression once again grim. "Halaran is the answer. See," his fingers touched some of the runes, lighting up various elements of his units as he spoke about them, "we're wasting valuable men defending our southern regions from a Petryan attack that may never come."

"Surely you aren't advocating pulling them out. The Wondhip Pass could be cleared, or the Petryans could find another way in."

"I'm just hypothesising." Miro activated some more sequences. "Look, here are the constructs we left behind at the ruins of the Bridge of Sutanesta. They aren't far away, just inside Halrana lands."

"Territory held firmly by the enemy," Beorn said.

"But if we take it, we not only get a foothold in Halaran, we can add the salvageable constructs to our forces." Miro moved all of the allied units to the proposed area. At first glance, there were enough to win the region, but with a slim margin that could swing either way.

"And who would defend our north?" Beorn persisted.

"The Dunfolk," Miro said.

"I'll leave that argument for another day. And our south?"

Miro sighed. "That's where the plan falls down. The Petryans are simply too much of an unknown. Yet winter is nearly over, with the spring will come more battles, and the one thing we can't do is sit back and let the enemy devour Altura a bite at a time. In fact, I keep asking myself — why haven't they attacked yet?"

"We broke their army," said Beorn.

"Yes, but they've had time to reform. Ella thinks it's something to do with essence, that we aren't the only ones running low."

"The Primate of the Assembly of Templars, low on essence?"

Miro shrugged. "I know. Yet that's where all the signs are pointing."

"Lord Marshal," a voice called, echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

Miro turned. Many people disliked the Crystal Palace, with its arches instead of doorways, strange echoes, and scattered shadows, but Miro had already become fond of it in the short time he'd lived here. The Crystal Palace said something about the uniqueness of Altura.

A man in the
raj hada
of a courier stood at the arched entrance to the room.

"What is it?" Beorn said.

"The emissary from Raj Hazara, Jehral of Tarn Teharan, has presented himself. With him is the man from Castlemere, Hermen Tosch. They wish to see you."

Miro shared a glance with Beorn. He still didn't know what to make of this desert warrior and his new house, Raj Hazara.

Jehral had arrived in Sarostar the previous day, claiming to represent his leader, a prince whose name Miro couldn't remember. Jehral had said Raj Hazara was not a new house; rather, a fallen house that had been reborn. Miro wasn't sure what to believe.

Miro cursed himself; he'd meant to speak with Ella about this man, but instead he'd stayed here, forming battle strategies with the simulator.
Tiredness leads to regret,
Miro reminded himself.

"Show them in," Miro said, "but first please summon High Lord Rorelan."

Miro spoke some words to deactivate the simulator and return it to the state where it was no more than a map. He heard footsteps, and looked up as two men entered the room.

They were as alike as night and day. Jehral was beardless, with long dark hair held back by a circlet of silver. His loose clothing of black silk was bound by a sash of yellow, and combined with his sharp features and olive skin the garments made him look unmistakeably foreign.

Hermen Tosch had the broad build of the Buchalanti, or someone of Buchalanti stock, which meant a denizen of the free cities, Castlemere and Schalberg. His hair was cut short and he appeared to be a man who rarely smiled. He spoke seldom, but when he did it was with a thick, guttural accent.

Surprisingly, it was Hermen who spoke first. "We were told to wait, but Jehral is not used to waiting. Apologies, Lord Marshal."

Miro smiled tightly. "The High Lord is on his way. He wishes to meet with you both."

"This High Lord," Jehral said, his voice smooth and flowing. "He is your prince?"

Miro paused for a moment. "Yes, he is," he finally said. "High Lord Rorelan rules Altura, and I follow where he leads."

After the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta, Rorelan had been made High Lord, although he had made it clear to his supporters among the nobility that his acceptance was conditional on Miro's confirmation as Lord Marshal. Both Miro and the new High Lord were happy — Rorelan was pleased to have a more experienced soldier lead the war effort, and Miro was content to leave the leadership of his homeland to a capable administrator.

"You'll remember Marshal Beorn?" Miro said.

Jehral executed a brief bow, culminating in a flourish, and Miro recognised that the desert warrior possessed grace. Beorn simply nodded.

"Can I offer you refreshment?" Miro asked. "The High Lord will be along shortly."

"Actually, it's you I wish to speak with, Lord Marshal Miro Torresante," Jehral said.

"Apologies, Jehral of Tarn Teharan, and I realise it may work differently in your land, but we should wait for the High Lord before discussing matters of… political importance," Miro said. Lord of the Sky, he was tired. Where was High Lord Rorelan?

"It's about your sister," Jehral said.

"My sister?" Miro started. "What about her?"

"My prince, he is very interested by her. She is a mighty enchantress, is she not?"

"Yes, I suppose she is."

"And it is true that she built a bridge, crossing a great chasm, with nothing but lore?"

Miro tried to make sense of the Hazaran emissary's words. There was a subtext here that he didn't understand. He could tell when a topic was being spoken around, rather than about. But in the Skylord's name he couldn't figure out what Jehral was getting at.

Beorn grinned at Miro's discomfort. "Yes, it's true," he answered for him.

"And she created an illusion that sent many of this Black Army to their maker?"

"Yes, she did." Miro rubbed at his eyes again. Where was the High Lord?

"Incredible," Jehral said. "Tell me, Lord Marshal Miro, what was her name again?"

"Ella," Miro said. "Her name is Ella."

"Ella," Jehral repeated.

As Jehral finished speaking, High Lord Rorelan entered the room. The recent battle had aged the late Lord Devon's son; his complexion was pallid at the best of times, and lately his skin was grey and drawn. But today his patrician features were curled into a scowl, and he stormed into the room without even noticing the two visitors.