The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (11 page)

“Don’t be afraid,” Evrin said as they turned away from the
graveyard
and began to walk back up toward the sandstone
buildings
of the Academy of Enchanters. “Face your fears like you always have, and everything will be well.”

Ella nodded and felt Evrin’s words soothe her frayed nerves. They were both silent for a time before Ella voiced something else that was on her mind.

“Evrin, do you know of any specific weaknesses in the
Evermen
? Something that could be exploited in Sentar’s powers?”

“Weaknesses? Eventually loredrain will conquer even Sentar, but he must possess a great deal of essence by now.”

Ella pondered. “The alchemist whose book I have . . . he said something to Amber and Miro. He believed the Evermen have a weakness, but he wasn’t certain. His last words were, ‘
Remember
, everything is toxic, it is the dose that makes a thing a poison.’
Something
like that. Does it mean anything to you?”

Evrin shook his head. “I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

“Could you . . . could you teach me something about the things you taught Killian? I might see something.”

“Of course.” Evrin hesitated as they walked, and then took Ella’s arm. “Now there’s something I must tell you.”

“What is it?”

“For much of my life I’ve kept secrets. I’ve hidden who I was, and I stayed silent as the people of Merralya came to worship those who once enslaved them. I now believe I was wrong. Only when armed with the truth can people make the right decisions. I want to tell you the truth now, Ella. I no longer enjoy keeping secrets.”

Ella looked at Evrin with concern. “What is it?”

“Just before I left Seranthia, a woman came to the palace. She is a former . . . acquaintance . . . of Killian’s.”

“Acquaintance? Who is she?”

“I hear she is his former lover.”

A tight feeling gripped Ella’s chest as she remembered Killian’s story. “Carla?”

“Yes,” Evrin said. He looked quizzically at Ella. “You
know her
?”

“I know of her.”

“He was joyful to see her. I knew you would want to know, and I can’t stand here with you and not say anything.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ella said. She tried to believe what she was saying. “Come on, we’re here at the Green Tower.” Ella tried to smile. “Now let’s find you some lodgings.”

The middle of the night saw the frantic activity in the Great Court calm somewhat, though the occasional enchanter or Veldrin
hurried
from one building to another, perhaps to find a tome in the libraries or to fetch essence from the dwindling reserve.

Evrin stepped out onto his private balcony and sighed. Had he done the right thing in telling Ella about Carla? Was it
better
she didn’t know?

He looked out at the Great Court and wondered if he was even needed.

Evrin was depressed.

Without his powers, what could he do against Sentar? He’d brought this horror on the world by keeping the people ignorant of the truth. He should have known the relic would never stay hidden; the Sentinel was too great a mystery.

The relic was impervious to harm, as was the statue itself, although somehow the essence in the pool had melted the
surrounding
wall like butter. The Sentinel was now walled up, but it was only a bare measure of protection from cannon, orbs, and Sentar’s own power.

And what did it matter if the portal stayed closed, if Sentar conquered the Empire on his own?

Once Sentar had the world under his boot heel, he could take his time about opening up the portal. Only Killian could challenge Sentar.

What use was an old man?

12

The burning sun shone fierce rays on the yellow expanse of the
Hazara
Desert. A growing wind blew sand off the rolling dunes, sending it flying through the air. The sand caught in hair and
clothing
; it entered noses and mouths, ears and throats. Jehral pulled his headscarf up to cover his nose and mouth, leaving his eyes exposed to the coarse grains.

He’d taken to leading some of the regular patrols personally, and without being asked, he concentrated on the rugged coast. Day after day he led his men along the cliffs and coves, camping under the stars at night, watering horses at scarce oases. His men were tough
shalaran
, unmarried warriors. They made no complaint, though some spoiled for a fight and questioned his persistence to his face.

A rider made his way up the column, overtaking the men behind Jehral to draw up alongside his leader.

“Salut, Jehral,” Rashine said.

More big than tall, Rashine rode his horse like an old man on a donkey, legs flapping to the sides. He made a formidable warrior, but his thoughts were slow. He tugged on his earring as he spoke, holding the reins with his other hand.

“Rashine,” Jehral said. “What is it?”

“How long must we continue following this coast? There is nothing here.”

Jehral looked to the left, scanning the deep blue ocean even as he replied. They were following a long escarpment, with the
breakers
below the cliffs barely audible.

“Until I say otherwise, Rashine. That is how long.”

“The men grow impatient.”

“And I grow impatient with the men. We are not rabble. We are Hazarans in the service of our kalif. I do not lead by consent. I lead because I have the trust of the kalif.”

“There is nothing here. The land is empty. Nothing but sand and rock. Little water. No enemies.”

“Enough, Rashine,” Jehral growled. “If you prefer, we can settle the question of leadership the old way.” Jehral rested his hand on the hilt of the sword at his side.

“No, Jehral.” Rashine blanched. “I bow to your wisdom.”

Rashine dropped back and Jehral sighed. He couldn’t keep them much longer on this endless patrol, but the sea frightened him. Jehral once more swept his gaze across the whitecaps scattered throughout the once endless Great Western Ocean. It was as barren as the desert. More so.

Perhaps it was time to go home. Jehral’s wife would have a bath waiting when he returned. Ah, but then he would have to listen to her nagging about how long he’d been away. The longer he patrolled, the worse she would get, but while he was here, he could delay the inevitable just a little bit longer.

One more day, Jehral decided. Lord of Fire, all right—
perhaps two
.

“There is something below the cliff ahead,” the scout reported. He coughed as he wiped sand from his lips and shrugged. “It is
probably
nothing.”

“Show me,” Jehral said.

He kicked his horse into a canter, lunging up a dune and
feeling
the soft sand give way beneath his gelding’s hooves. Cresting the ridge, he shielded his eyes against the glare as he descended the other side.

The cliffs were jagged and broken, and Jehral could make out a thin strip of sand following the coast. He saw nothing.

“Where?” he called out to the scout.

“Up ahead. I was close to the escarpment or I would not have seen it.”

As their path took Jehral and the scout closer to the cliffs, the sound of the horses took on a satisfying rumble as the ground became more solid. Behind them the column made faster headway, catching up as the scout reined in only twenty paces from the sheer cliff edge.

“Look.” The scout pointed. “There, at the base of the cliff. It isn’t a rock.”

Jehral squinted against the sun.

Rashine pulled up beside him. “It is nothing,” he said.

Jehral’s sharp eyes saw a crumbling ruin of some sort, brown in color and half-in, half-out of the breakers washing over it with each surge of the tide.

“We will investigate,” Jehral said.

“How do you plan to get down the cliffs?” Rashine said.

Jehral fixed Rashine with a level stare. “We climb.”

He left half his men to guard the horses and had the remainder strip down to trousers only, removing the loose white over-garments made to ward off the worst of the sun’s rays. Fetching coils of rope from the baggage animals, Jehral then led his designated climbers to a broken low point in the cliff.

“Tie the ropes together,” Jehral instructed as he looked for somewhere to fix the end. By the time the tying was complete, he’d spied a promising promontory of rock.

“We will descend one at a time,” Jehral said as he fastened the rope around the rock. “Rashine and you two, help me pull on the end of the rope to test it.”

Finally satisfied, Jehral tossed the coiled rope over the side of the cliff. It would be long enough.

“I will go first,” Jehral said. “Wait for the count of one hundred, and then the next man will follow.”

“I will be next,” Rashine said. He may have been a grumbling fool, but he was a brave fool.

Jehral took a deep breath and then, without thinking too much about what he was doing, began to descend. At first it was easy, but then his arms began to tire and his sword got in the way. The muscles in his shoulders strained, and his bare chest scraped across the rock. Blinking sweat from his eyes, he tried not to look down and was almost surprised when he reached the bottom and his feet once more touched solid ground.

Eight more men followed while Jehral watched from below. Soon a chorus of advice rolled up from the watchers at the base of the cliff.

And then one of Jehral’s men fell.

With a cry he plummeted from high on the cliff, his body twisting and limbs flailing at the air. He hit the rocky ground with a sickening crunch only half a dozen paces from the
onlookers
.

Jehral cried out in shock, calling a warning far too late. “Keep an eye on the next man! Warn me if he looks like he’s falling.” Jehral hurried forward and crouched at the body. He combed the long dark hair from the swarthy face. “Alhaf,” he murmured, “I am sorry you had to die like this.”

Jehral took Alhaf’s body under the armpits and dragged him away from the base of the cliff, arranging the limbs on the hard sand of the beach. The rest of Jehral’s men made it down unscathed, but each blanched when they saw the body.

“We will take Alhaf’s body home with us,” Jehral called, “and he will be buried with honor. Let us now see what his sacrifice
was for
.”

Jehral drew his sword, and his men followed suit. He once again marveled at the symbols painstakingly drawn along its curved length by Ella’s own hand.

“Come,” he called.

They traveled along the narrow beach while the breakers roared beside them. The cool wind smelled of salt and took the edge off the fierce heat. Jehral rounded a corner of the cliff, and there it was.

He stopped in his tracks as he beheld the remnants of a once mighty ship. Jehral’s heart thudded in his chest. “Please, let it not be,” he whispered.

Jehral reluctantly placed one foot in front of the other and sensed the same trepidation in his men. “A leader leads from the front,” he reminded himself and picked up his pace.

The vessel must have been huge when intact. The curved beams of dark wood could only have come from mighty trees. Splashes of color here and there showed where the exterior had been painted in garish hues.

The part of the ship in the water was crumbled and in
disrepair
, though the sides were still high. Knowing nothing about ships,
Jehral
could only guess how long it had been here.

The front was still mostly whole.

“Be on your guard,” Jehral called.

He reached the ship and walked to a gaping hole in its side. Rashine elbowed him aside and peered in.

“Ahh!” Rashine cried, drawing back.

Immediately the desert warriors tensed, bared swords at the ready.

“What is it?” Jehral said. He stepped forward, summoning his courage as he poked his head into the hole.

The ship was crammed full of bodies.

Hundreds of them lay bloated and waterlogged, with a putrid stench clogging the air so strongly that only the stiff ocean breeze had prevented Jehrel’s men from smelling the bodies before.

Jehral took a deep breath and pushed his head in again. The corpses were all shapes and sizes, some pale skinned and
others
dark as night. Women were among their number, and some were dressed in the fitted clothing of city folk, whereas
others
wore furs and barbaric horned helmets. There were as many
weapons
as there were bodies, with axes and daggers, two-handed swords, and strange barreled sticks tossed to and fro with the
surging water
.

The bodies were all covered in arcane symbols, macabre blue tattoos covering their skin.

Jehral removed his head from the hole. He inhaled slowly to steady himself.

Revenants.

Jehral’s men looked to him for orders.

Urgency coursed through Jehral’s blood with sudden force. Fighting the revulsion, he became cold and efficient as he stepped away from the vessel and addressed his men. “Men of House
Hazara
, you are looking at a ship of our enemy from across the sea. You fought revenants in the war, and we are fortunate this ship foundered, or right now we would be facing several hundred of them. Their bodies are in there,” he said, pointing to the ship, “and we can only hope that this is all of them; that right now survivors of this wreck are not loose in our lands.”

“What orders?” Rashine asked.

As Jehral opened his mouth, another of the desert warriors walked over to the hole and stuck his head inside.

Taking them all by surprise, something grabbed hold of the swarthy warrior, pulling him by the neck and dragging him into the hole.

The Hazaran warriors cried out and froze with terror. A moment later, a wrinkled hand took hold of the hole’s rim. A face came up, a decayed grimace with green splotches around an open mouth. Momentarily stunned, the Hazarans watched in horror as a bare-chested man with long, scraggly hair climbed out of the hole. He tumbled out onto the beach and then rose to stand.

“Revenant!” one of Jehral’s men cried.

“Attack!” Jehral roared.

The closest to the ship, Rashine swung his heavy scimitar at the revenant. The curved blade bit deep into the creature’s shoulder, and it snarled, making a jerky movement as it looked at the wound.

Then the creature moved. And it was fast.

Its arm whipped up as it struck Rashine across the face with
terrible
force. A solid crunch accompanied the blow. The big
warrior
crumpled to the ground and lay still.

Jehral lunged forward and hacked at the exposed neck, but the revenant moved quickly and dodged, twisting out of the way. It came at him with gaping teeth and clutching fingers, hitting the center of Jehral’s chest and knocking him onto his back. The stench washed over him as the creature’s face loomed over his, the teeth mere inches from his neck. Jehral’s sword fell out of
his hand
s.

As one of Jehral’s men leapt forward to heave the creature away, the revenant casually struck back with the same terrifying speed, lunging forward to grab the warrior by the throat and squeeze.
Jehral
heard a crack, and the Hazaran crumpled.

Jehral took advantage of the distraction to return to his feet and pick up his sword. As another of his men fell, Jehral swung at the revenant’s exposed back, cutting into it with all the force he could muster. The scimitar almost came out of his hands as the blade cut deeply between the shoulder blades and stubbornly refused to come out. The revenant turned and growled as Jehral finally pulled his scimitar free, dark liquid spilling from the wound to the sand.

The living corpse’s eyes were entirely white.

As three of the warriors rushed it together, Jehral suddenly remembered.

“Al-maia
,
”
he cried, the name of the desert rose, hoping he had it right.

The runes on Jehral’s shining blade lit up with fierce shades of crimson, and the heavy scimitar suddenly felt lighter as it came alive in Jehral’s hands. He felt heat washing off the blade, and set his brow in determination.

Another of Jehral’s men died at the revenant’s hands as it tore out his throat, and with a cry Jehral swung blindly at the macabre creature.

He put all his strength into the blow, and the glowing blade passed through the solid body without slowing.

The revenant fell down in two halves as Jehral’s blow separated the torso from the waist, but it was still twitching, and its arms spasmed as it tried to pull itself along the ground. Jehral cut down again, a precise blow at the neck, and removed the head from its shoulders.