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
MIRO 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?"