The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (2 page)

Sentar had asked Gorain a question, and even as he tried not to speak, Gorain answered. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I want my
son fr
ee.”

“Necromancer Renrik, a demonstration, please. Take off Arsan’s hand,” Sentar instructed the man in gray robes.

The necromancer took out a long dagger and lifted one of Arsan’s arms. Without hesitation Renrik hacked at the flesh, grimacing as blood splashed out and he was forced to push through the thin bones of the boy’s wrist. Gorain’s son didn’t make a sound, but Gorain wanted to scream. The necromancer removed the hand and held it up, the stump of the limb dripping red blood to the stone in a steady patter.

Even as he raged at what was being done to his child, Gorain felt a greater horror at the fate of their souls. His eyes roved from Sedah’s beautiful face to Arsan’s sightless eyes. Trapped in some horrific semblance of life, Gorain’s wife and son would never
be free
.

“Speak, Gorain,” Sentar Scythran said.

“Destroy them. I beg you,” Gorain said. “End it for them. I will do anything.”

“I promise you I will do so, if you agree to serve.” Sentar gazed directly into Gorain’s eyes. “Although my necromancers and I can control you, we must give you some free will in order to make use of your skills as a commander. If you agree to serve, and serve well, I swear to you that I will set your wife and son free, even if you fall in the battlefield. I have extended this same offer to Farix of Torian and Diemos of Rendar, and both have accepted. You are special, Gorain, and I have done this to you at great cost. Will you join the two kings who were once your rivals and enter my service? What do you say?”

Gorain bowed his head. He felt his eyes burn, but he couldn’t weep. “I will serve,” Gorain said.

“Excellent. Renrik, take charge of our new commander and begin his instruction immediately.”

Renrik bowed. “Master.”

“Gorain, we will bring back many of your men to serve you, and you can be in charge of your own ships. Do you plan to honor our agreement?”

Gorain’s lips moved. “I do.”

“Then we will leave this rock as soon as possible. We have an unbeatable host of warriors and the commanders to lead them. We have the essence we need to bring my brothers home.”

The Lord of the Night smiled. Somehow, it made his visage even more sinister.

“The gods will soon resume their rightful place.”

1

Miro Torresante, high lord of Altura, strode with purpose through the streets of Seranthia. The district of market houses passed him in a blur.

Four bladesingers scanned the crowd for threats while another twenty of the elite palace guard struggled to keep up with their young high lord.

Miro was thankful for the cold of Seranthia’s winter. The high lord’s robe he wore was silk, but the glistening folds and stiff
collar
gave the material weight. It was covered with protective runes, and as part of his ascension Miro had learned the language of single-
activation
sequences, but he longed for the armorsilk of a bladesinger. A bladesinger had never been high lord before, and even with all the robe’s power, it was no match for armorsilk. Single activations could only do so much; the most powerful lore always required continuous chanting.

Yet the robe was a sign of his office, and Miro was on official business.

Miro scowled as he walked, and barely registered the merchants and couriers who drew away from his glare. It wasn’t just the sword and flower
raj hada
on his striking robe, nor the deadly warriors who surrounded him. They’d all heard of the tall man with the long black hair, currently tied back with a clasp of gold and
emerald
. They saw the thin scar running from under one eye to his jaw line, and whispered his name, bowing down before him like water
cresting
at the front of a ship. Even with so many influential rulers in Seranthia for the Chorum, the power of this man was palpable.

Unaware of his effect on the passersby and consumed with his purpose, Miro muttered to the man walking beside him. He looked at Beorn as he spoke and wondered if he looked as uncomfortable in his regalia as Beorn did in his.

Beorn, a veteran of the Rebellion, was nearly twice Miro’s age. In comparison to Miro’s lithe grace, Beorn’s boots stomped heavily as he shifted in his formal attire, his
raj hada
proclaiming him the lord marshal of Altura. Beorn had resisted the promotion, but Miro wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Two days to get an audience,” Miro said. “Two days!”

“The Louans are busy,” Beorn said, scratching at his salt-
and-pep
per beard. “Everyone wants what they have.”

“To be concerned about gilden at a time like this. Sentar
Scythran
is coming to destroy us all, and all the Louans care for is money.”

“It’s their way.”

“It’s greed. Pure and simple.”

“Here we are,” Beorn said as they came to a halt outside the Louan market house, a huge, cube-shaped structure. Blue trim
decorated
the building’s paintwork, and the Louan device, a
spinning
wheel, hung prominently above the door. Miro glanced up and saw the device move; the silver wheel was actually turning.

The double doors stood wide open and guarded by a handful of Louan grenadiers. Miro had an appointment, and it was clear who he was; yet even so, he was forced to wait impatiently as one of his men stepped forward and announced his arrival.

“High Lord Miro Torresante of Altura to see High Lord Ramon Stouk of Loua Louna.”

“Please wait here,” one of the Louan guards said.

Miro fumed as he was made to wait outside the Louan market house. He remembered when he’d come to Seranthia as a younger man, and the elaborate courtesy the Halrana displayed to Tessolar. Now he was required to wait outside the Louan market house like a common supplicant.

“Calm,” Beorn said under his breath. “We need what they have.”

Finally a woman emerged from the entrance and stood at the top of the steps, bowing from the waist in the eastern manner. She was short and middle-aged, with close-cropped sandy hair and an intelligent cast to her eyes. Her tailored blue clothing was well made and expensive, and her
raj hada
proclaimed her an artificer as well as a senior merchant of House Loua Louna.

“High Lord,” she said, “my apologies for keeping you waiting. I am Touana Mosas. Please follow me. Your bladesingers may come, but I’m afraid the rest of your retinue will have to wait outside.”

Miro waited as Beorn spoke to the men, issuing instructions. Beorn then nodded and fell in behind Miro as Touana led the group through the market house. Passing several closed doors, Miro heard strange buzzing sounds and a scraping similar to the effect a saw makes on wood. Miro wondered what was happening inside, but returned his thoughts to the task ahead.

Touana gestured for them to follow her into a large wood-paneled chamber. The bladesingers ranged the walls, radiating
comforting
strength, as Miro and Beorn took a seat at a long table. Miro wondered when the Louan high lord would be joining them as Touana seated herself, clasping her hands on the table in front
of he
r.

“Now, High Lord, what can I help you with?”

Miro struggled to stay calm. “Where is High Lord Ramon?”

Touana gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid he’s busy.”

“Busy?” Miro growled. “With what?”

“Not with
what
, High Lord—with
whom
. He is with the emperor and was unable to make this meeting. My apologies, but—well . . . he is the emperor, and with the Chorum in five days there is much to discuss. I am sorry for any offense, and please trust I am fully authorized to negotiate on behalf of my house. Now, what can I do for you?”

“You know what we need,” Miro said. “Prismatic orbs. Mortars. Dirigibles. The tools of war. The enemy is coming.”

“Yes, I do understand, High Lord. As I’m sure you can imagine, this new threat from the west has sown the seeds of fear among the houses. We can only produce so much, and prices have come up accordingly. How much are you looking to spend?”

“Spend?” Miro said. He caught a warning look from Beorn. “We’re asking for your help, and you’re worried about gilden?”

“High Lord, I don’t mean to patronize, but let me give you a lesson in basic economics,” Touana said. “Even in times of war—in fact, especially in times of war—the rules of finance must hold sway. Every high lord believes his land is at risk. The only fair way to
allocate
our resources is by the market forces of supply and demand, and their effect on prices. Tell me what you can spend, and I will do my best to ensure your order is fulfilled.”

Beorn laid a cautioning hand on Miro’s shoulder. “We’ve been busy fighting a war, a war that freed your house, among others, from the primate’s evil. Since discovering this new threat, we’ve been pouring gilden into bolstering Altura’s defenses, which
unfortunately
aren’t as strong as the other houses’, and Altura lies directly in our enemy’s path.”

“You say,” Touana said, shocking Miro with her bluntness as she met his gaze. “Yet by your own admission, High Lord, this enemy’s eventual goal is the relic housed inside the Sentinel, and they come by ship. Who is to say they won’t bypass Altura altogether and make landfall at some other part of the Empire?”

Miro had to acknowledge she had a point, even as seething rage burned within him. “Yes, I’ll admit there is no way of
knowing
where they’ll make landfall, but it’s logical that it will either be the free cities, Castlemere and Schalberg, or Seranthia. Last year we found a new continent across the Great Western Ocean, only to see it fall. Trust me, our enemy won’t stop there. The entire reason for the assault on the new lands to the west was to form an army and to gather the ships to carry it here. The closest ports are the two free cities, and Castlemere borders Altura itself. I can understand the desire to strengthen Seranthia, and I applaud it, but if they gain a foothold in Altura, their forces will grow in power to the point where the rest of the Empire will never be able to hold them off.”

“It’s a matter of fairness, High Lord. If Grigori Orlov of Vezna wants to defend his house, and can pay, it is not for us to turn him down. The gilden he provides goes to our merchants, who efficiently allocate orders to our workshops, who pay their workers, who turn up to work to earn their pay. Without gilden, the whole system falls apart, and I’m sorry, but I cannot give you what you want without payment.”

Miro clenched his fists, and Beorn shot him a cautioning look.

Touana fixed Miro with a penetrating stare, interrupting him before he could speak. “Tell me, High Lord, how many enchanted swords are you exporting from Altura, for free? How many sets of armor?”

Miro sighed in exasperation. He had a sudden thought, and reaching into the bag lying at his feet that he’d brought with him, he pulled out a pyramid-shaped prism of quartz. He set it down on the table in front of Touana with a heavy clunk and then crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“What’s this?” Touana frowned as she looked at the device. She picked it up in her hands and inspected the matrices of runes. “Whatever it is, I can see it is not a complex device.”

“No,” Miro said. “It’s not as complex as the things your artificers make. It’s not a timepiece, or a seeker, or a child’s toy. It does require a fearful amount of essence to construct, however.”

“Go on.”

“It’s a single link in a chain. Our enchanters are making these devices—we call them reflectors—in numbers. Artificer Touana, what we have devised is a signaling system. We’re mounting the reflectors on top of towers, spaced at regular intervals, to connect every capital. That includes Stonewater, and we’re even linking up with the icy north. Each device does one thing, and it does it well. When a source reflector in a capital is activated, the prism lights up with that house’s color. It then sparks the next reflector, and so on in a chain, until everyone in the Empire knows that nation is under threat. The devices are made to be indestructible. You ask me if we’re giving up our resources for the greater good of the Empire and I say, yes, and here is the proof. When we’re finished, we’ll have a system that will enable reinforcements to go and help those in danger. The essence we’re using could be used to buy the orbs we need or build more enchanted weapons, but I believe this is more important.”

“It’s an intriguing idea, High Lord,” Touana said, “and I applaud your dedication. However I cannot change my position. We cannot give you what you need without payment.”

“Can you offer terms of credit?” Beorn asked.

“Coin only, I’m afraid.” Touana smiled and spread her hands.

Miro stood up out of his chair, knocking it back behind him. Touana didn’t even flinch when he leaned forward. “They’re coming for Altura. And if we fall, so will you. Be it on your head.”

“I can only advise you to state your case at the Chorum, High Lord. The emperor’s new agreement allocates essence evenly among the nine houses. Perhaps you can have the agreement changed in your favor.”

Miro shook his head, at a loss for words. Beorn scooped up the reflector and waved to the bladesingers, hurrying to follow the high lord as he stormed out of the Louan market house.

Miro soon stood back in the open air, but his shadowed eyes
saw som
ething altogether different from the busy streets of
Seranthia
.

“That went well,” Beorn said.

Miro turned and looked at Beorn. “I was there,” he whispered. “I saw what will happen to Altura.”

“I don’t think we can count on getting any more Louan
weapons anyt
ime soon.”

Miro growled, “She talks about fairness. Why should Petrya get the same essence as Altura when it’s we who will bear the brunt of Sentar’s invasion? What’s fair about that?”

“We have five days until the Chorum,” Beorn said.

Miro nodded. “We need to prepare.”