The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) (27 page)

"That, Master Goss, would make me a very happy man."

For a time there was silence except for the twanging of bowstrings and the cursing of the soldiers.

"There is a problem, however," Master Goss said.

"Somehow I knew you were going to say that."

"I will need to convince the High Enchanter that the project is worth undertaking. It will require a certain amount of essence just to test the idea."

"I see." Miro grinned. "You need to convince High Enchanter Merlon, just as I need to convince High Lord Rorelan."

"That is correct."

"I'll get it done," Miro said. "You have my word."

"Don't give me your word," Master Goss said. "Just get me the approval."

~

M
IRO
stood by the simulator, again redistributing his strength, moving his men, changing their equipment, assessing the potential outcomes of his actions.

Several weeks had passed since they'd received word that the desert warriors of Raj Hazara had taken the trade town of Torlac, from where they now controlled most of Petrya. This man, Prince Ilathor, had laid siege to Tlaxor, Petrya's capital, and rumours said he controlled even more fighting men than the Tingarans.

Miro already disliked this Ilathor Shanti. This was the man who had sent his warriors to Miro's city — to his home — and taken his sister from him under the guise of friendship. Those weren't the actions of a friend. This new power in the south did not bode well for the broken lands of the Tingaran Empire.

It was now the end of summer. Miro had spent the season fighting countless battles, holding Altura with nothing but hope and unflagging strength. With Petrya having her own problems, Miro had pulled his men from the south and added them to his forces in the east, but then something must have happened to resolve whatever problems the Black Army were having with their essence.

Rather then breaking out, Miro was bottled up, with nowhere to go.

High Lord Rorelan stormed into the room, his face black with fury. "What's this?" he demanded, waving a piece of paper in Miro's face.

Miro looked up. "What is it?"

"Here," Rorelan thrust the paper at him.

Miro read the hastily scrawled words on the paper. It was a message, addressed to Master Goss at the Academy of Enchanters. It said that Rorelan approved the use of essence for the development of a rail-bow. The signature at the bottom was Miro's.

"Oh," Miro said. "That."

"This is too much," Rorelan said. "I said nothing of the sort."

"I can explain," Miro said.

"No, Miro," Rorelan said, "I don't think you can. I've had enough."

"Let me show…"

"Miro Torresante, I'm promoting Marshal Beorn to your position."

Miro gaped as Rorelan spoke. Surely he didn't mean it?

"Get out of my sight, Miro. You've gone too far. Consider yourself dismissed."

~

I
N A CITY
with nine bridges and a river that flowed through its centre, it was inevitable that Miro would eventually be able to corner High Lord Rorelan on one of the arched pathways that spanned the waters of the Sarsen.

Rorelan reached the foot of the Lord's Bridge, the wide, wooden span constructed long ago by one of the first High Lords of Altura, and stopped in his tracks when he saw the sword lying naked and shining on the bridge's bottom step. For once his guards weren't with him — just as Miro had planned.

Rorelan looked at the sword with obvious surprise and consternation, finally bending down and picking it up. Its blade was covered with symbols, and the grip felt familiar in his hand. It was Rorelan's own sword.

He took a few steps forward, his boots thudding hollowly against the long, wide span rising up in front of him, but it was four more steps before he saw Miro, waiting expectantly for him on the bridge.

Tall and lean, Miro stood in the leather armour and green tabard of Altura's light infantry, having forgone the shiny suppleness of his armoursilk. Rather than a zenblade, he carried a bow in his hands, and on his back was a quiver of arrows. On his tabard was a new
raj hada
— the sword and flower of Altura decorated with a golden feather on either side.

Miro watched as Rorelan halted.

"You've picked up the sword, High Lord, which means you've accepted my challenge," Miro called across the gulf that separated them.

"Are you mad?" Rorelan demanded.

"Yours is the best single-activation sword our enchanters know how to make, would you agree?"

"I suppose so. What is the meaning of this?"

"I'm holding a bow, as you can see. Watching us are some people I've invited to observe this demonstration."

Rorelan looked out from the height of the Lord's Bridge, and saw hundreds of men in Alturan green step forward. There were even many wearing the brown of Halaran in their number.

"Don't worry, High Lord," Miro said. "They have orders that at the first sign of blood, they'll halt the duel. Battlefield surgeons are standing by, and Layla is a skilled Dunfolk healer."

"Duel?" Rorelan's eyes boggled. "I am no bladesinger, and I've accepted no duel."

"And I have none of the advantages of a bladesinger," Miro said. "I'm using a bow only for the second time in my life, and the first time was days ago, for minutes only. I'm lightly armoured, which is an advantage, but a sword like yours can cut through stone, so it isn't much of one. The arrows I carry use no lore; they are as they appear."

"I'm telling you. I have accepted no duel," Rorelan said.

"True, High Lord," Miro said. "Let us think of it then as a contest. Your weapon," he gestured to Rorelan's enchanted sword, "against mine. I've seen you in battle, High Lord, and I know you can fight. In fact, with your training you're more skilled than the legionnaires we're fighting. It's a fair contest, is it not?"

Miro withdrew an arrow from the quiver at his back and nocked it to the string.

Rorelan's eyes blazed, and without warning he spoke some words.

Miro pulled the arrow to his ear and hoped what he was doing would work. He'd intentionally provoked the High Lord to fight him — nothing else would convince the stubborn noble — and now he could well be in danger of his life.

Miro had been telling the truth when he'd said this was only the second time he'd used a bow. As he watched the sword light up in Rorelan's hands, he tried to ignore the distraction of the flaring blade and recall the instruction he'd been given.

"Sight along the arrow," Master Goss had said. "But remember it's the bow, not the arrow, we have enchanted, so keep your arms strong but limber. You naturally hold the bow with your left arm and the arrow with your right, so now look at this spot here, just above where your left hand holds the grip. Keep holding the string at full extension — I know it's difficult, but this bow has been made for a man of your strength. See the ringed hole in the wood of the bow, at the nock, where the point of the arrow rests against the wood? Look along the arrow and through that hole. Speak the words to activate the bow. Call the target to you."

As he remembered Master Goss's instructions, Miro's arms burned with the effort of holding the strung arrow at full extension. He sighted along the arrow; it was long and thin, made of dark polished wood, with a razor-sharp steel tip at one end and a flight of emerald-green feathers at the other. The bow itself was fashioned in layers of a lighter-coloured wood with the timeless knowledge of the Dunfolk, strong, yet flexible, creaking with pent-up power. Runes ran up and down the length of the bow, silver symbols that would light up at Miro's command. Next to the nock was a tiny hole, so small Miro could barely see through it.

Standing on the Lord's Bridge, Miro opened his mouth and spoke the words.

The symbols at the centre of the bow's length lit up first, glowing with gold and silver, before the fire travelled up and down the bow, spreading away from the centre. The hole was suddenly a white ring, and as Miro looked down the length of the arrow, his gaze running to the point, he looked through the hole, almost stunned by what he could see.

Somehow, the rail-bow was asking him for a target. Miro's vision swam as his attention was drawn to the window of a building, far across the river, and then a bird in a tree, farther still. Miro called his sight forward, closer, until he was looking at the wooden surface of the Lord's Bridge. High Lord Rorelan's form came to him in stark detail; Miro could see the flaring of his nostrils, the frown-lines in his forehead, even though he was fifty paces away.

"Come no closer, High Lord," Miro said.

Miro called the target to him, and he released.

The arrow sped away, shooting out of the bow and flying through the air faster than the eye could see, with nothing but a whistling sound to mark its passage.

The arrow buried itself deep into the Lord's Bridge, only half its length still visible. Rorelan looked down at his foot. The arrow's point had sliced a small nick from his boot, and its shaft was touching his foot.

"Lord of the Sky, you're mad," Rorelan said.

Another arrow landed next to his other foot, and the High Lord cried out.

Miro was now growing more confident. He knew he should end this now; the demonstration was almost complete.

"Enchanted swords have been known to knock prismatic orbs out of the air, High Lord," Miro said. "Perhaps a sword can also take out an arrow?"

Rorelan looked up at him, grim-faced, the pulsing sword gripped tightly in his hands.

In one smooth motion Miro fitted another arrow and pulled on the string. He spoke the activation sequence that would allow him to call forth his target. "
Reilan-sula. Tuva-uran-surnam
."

The arrow smashed into the cross guard of Rorelan's sword, hitting it with all the strength Miro could give it, having drawn the string as far as he possibly could.

Rorelan yelped and dropped his sword, falling backwards onto his hands. He looked up to see Miro advancing towards him, another arrow fitted to the bow, his arms tensed and muscles rippling.

"You're dead, High Lord," Miro said.

Miro lowered the bow and allowed the string to slacken, replacing the arrow in the quiver at his back. He reached out his hand and grinned.

Rorelan waited a moment, his chest rising and falling.

Finally, the High Lord gripped Miro's hand, and Miro pulled his friend up.

"That's an interesting way to prove a point," Rorelan said, his face still red. "You're insane, Lord Marshal, do you know that?"

"At least I'm on the right side. The enemy will fear me, High Lord; you have my word on that."

"What if I'd been killed?"

Miro shrugged. "Then I'd be tried for treason, and in a month Altura would fall. Without the rail-bows, Altura will fall inside a month anyway."

"Lord Marshal, never, ever, do anything like that again."

"Let's get a drink." Miro grinned. "You look like you could use one."

30

M
IRO
looked down at the tree-lined field, drinking in the sight. Only here, from the height of his last remaining dirigible, could his vision encompass them all: eight hundred archers armed with the new rail-bows; four bladesingers, not including Miro; ten thousand Alturan infantry; four thousand Halrana pikemen; a contingent of Dunfolk, perhaps a thousand strong; and a single Halrana colossus, the animator sitting patiently inside the controller cage atop the construct's monstrous head.

Miro had gambled all of their manpower, the last of their essence, and the hopes of two nations on what would happen this day. Three nations, he corrected himself, for the Dunfolk had proven themselves to be staunch allies in Altura's hour of need.

The time for the simulator was past. There would never be another opportunity like this. Adding the Dunfolk to Miro's own men, he had nearly two thousand archers. It was time to show the enemy what they could do.

Miro now looked out from the height of the dirigible at the ruins of the Bridge of Sutanesta.

It had changed, in the time since he had last been here. The river was still turbulent, the wide, deep, waters of the Sarsen raging like an ocean in a gale. Scattered here and there in the river, the tops of the mighty blocks of stone poked above the water. But across the waters, on the Halrana side, much had changed. The Black Army had built walls of black stone, interspersed with low forts. Behind the walls jutted the occasional tall lookout tower, silhouetted menacingly against the golden sky of early dawn.

It was a terrible place to attack, fraught with peril, but the risk was worth it. Behind the formidable defences were the Halrana constructs they had been forced to leave behind when they last fought the Black Army at the site of this ruined bridge. At the very rear of Miro's army were the Halrana animators, skilled masters of lore, equipped with the last essence the allies would see until the war was over. If Miro could break through the defences and reanimate the ironmen, bonemen and woodmen on the Halrana side, it could tip the scales, and give his small army the upper hand in the struggle to free Halaran.

He knew it was a desperate gamble, but this was war, and Miro was fighting for his homeland, and for the very cause of freedom itself. It was a risk he had to take.

"Take me down," Miro told the dirigible pilot.

Soon the dirigible was again hovering above the floor of the field where Miro had assembled his men. He placed a hand on the rail of the dirigible's basket and leapt down to the ground, spurning the ladder.

Marshal Beorn waited for him, wincing when Miro landed lightly on the ground beside him. "Well?" Beorn asked.

"It's as we feared. The walls are perhaps taller than we thought; they must have strengthened them since we last scouted. It's a bad day to cross the river, but then every day is a bad day for these parts. How are the landing craft?"

"They are ready," Beorn said, scratching at his beard, "as ready as they'll ever be. We won't know if they can hold up against the river until we go across. I'm still not sure about the colossus. It's a lot to pin our hopes on."