"It may have already been destroyed. If it has, there’s nothing we can do. First destroy the relics, and then you can worry about the Halrana Lexicon. As you know, Stonewater has a wide shaft running vertically through the mountain’s core. The most secure place is at the foot of the shaft. This is where the refinery is housed, and where essence comes into being. It would stand to reason that the essence is further refined into raj nilas here. When your mission is complete, look for the animators’ Lexicon somewhere near the refinery.’
Killian closed his eyes, breathing in, and then slowly opened them. He was filled with a new determination. If the Primate didn’t have any more of the tainted essence, he could no longer bend the houses to his will. This was his chance to save lives, the lives of people like Ella. "So what’s after the ore chambers?"
The old man gave Killian a further set of instructions, and then handed him three small cubes. Each was covered in tiny runes. Killian could see each of the cubes was numbered from one to three. "These will destroy the relics. To activate them, say, ‘Lot-har,’ followed by the number. They will explode ten seconds after you activate them."
Killian put them into the pocket of his trousers.
"Each has great destructive power. Make sure you are far away when they go."
The old man suddenly looked his age. He held out his palm. Killian gripped it. It looked like Evrin’s hand gripped nothing. "Be careful. When you return, we will talk. And Killian?"
"Yes?"
"The yellow eyes. Be careful of the yellow eyes."
58
We need to understand more about the elixir. Use the homeless of Salvation as test subjects — preferably those without families. When the world is united under one banner, they stand the most to benefit. Their sacrifice will be remembered.
— Primate Melovar Aspen to Templar Zavros, 539 Y.E.
MIRO had pushed the men hard, and himself harder. They had accomplished miracles in the two days they had been in the borderlands. Somehow though, it hadn’t been enough.
From his command at the summit of the tallest hill, he gazed out over the incessant activity below. He studied the wide loop in the river. They had cut the loop, forming a half circle. Their defences now formed a ragged line from one point in the river above the bridge, to another point lower down. The treacherous ground rose and fell, making a straight line impossible. Miro had taken advantage of the terrain wherever possible, deploying his strongest units on the crested hills and natural rises.
The earthworks now stood high above the spiked trenches below. The men permanently lined the long embankment, waiting for the inevitable. Inside the defences stood the refugees.
Their needs for food and attention grew daily. Miro had asked them to form some kind of council to oversee their needs. Some people had soon come forward, priests and administrators mostly. Even then their numbers had been too great to deal with. They bickered amongst themselves and came to Miro to resolve the most mundane details. Finally, in a fit of rage, he had asked for just one leader to be nominated to look after the refugees’ needs. That was when Pamella had come forward. The widowed wife of a Halrana commander who had died in the battle for Ralanast, she had formed a bridge between the nobility and the common people. Her grey hair reminded Miro of steel, as did her personality.
Under her command the refugees soon ordered themselves. She had even sent Miro hundreds of stonemasons and other workers from within their numbers, freeing up the valuable soldiers for the important role of protection. Work on the bridge had started to see some progression.
But not enough. The blocks were simply too big.
With the aid of the army’s engineers, the workers had started to unravel some of the techniques of the ancients. They said it required an elaborate system of levers and pulleys. A rough model had been put together with some success, but had been crushed while moving the fifth block.
There were over five hundred of the great blocks. At this rate, they would be here for months. Time they simply didn’t have.
Miro looked over his forces. At least they were ready, as ready as they could be. He stroked the whiskers of his beard. He hadn’t shaved in days. He couldn’t even remember when he had last slept.
Never far from his mind, he remembered the words of Tessolar. Ella was dead. The Alturan Lexicon had been stolen.
Miro almost prayed for the enemy to come soon, while their enchantments still held. It would be bitter irony if they were given more time to complete their fortifications, but in that time the runes on Miro’s armoursilk faded altogether.
A man ran forward, seeking the lord marshal. He wore the raj hada of a dirigible pilot. Miro waved him forward. The man looked from side to side, a harried expression on his face.
"Speak, man," Miro said.
"Perhaps, away from the..."
Miro took the man by the arm and led him away from the command post. "What is it?"
"The Black Army, we’ve sighted them."
Miro sighed, "How far?"
"Perhaps two days."
"Can you take me up?"
"Sir?"
"Your dirigible. Can you take me up?"
The man stared at the ground, and then looked up. "Now?"
"Yes."
The man’s eyes met Miro’s. "Yes, sir. Sorry sir, no one has ever asked me that."
"Lord of the Sky, why not?"
"The height, sir."
Miro frowned but didn’t reply. He followed the man down the hill and to the dirigible post.