The Path of the Storm (Evermen Saga, #3)
James Maxwell
Prologue
IT WAS the first time in Sentar Scythran's memory that he had needed to survive on his wits alone. Essence had always filled his body with vigour, given him powers the pitiful humans could only dream of, and now he had none of the black liquid. Yet his brother Evermen had chosen him for a reason. They knew Sentar was single-minded, ruthless, and intelligent. The Evermen knew that, of all of them, he had cunning.
He had come far, since his return, travelling through lands now foreign to him where once he had ruled as a god. Without allies and with no gilden he'd managed to feed and clothe himself, no mean feat, finding his way alone through forests and over hills, surviving heartless cities and wary villages, heading ever north.
Now he stood in front of a hunter's log cabin, the first sign of habitation he'd seen in days. Two hunters stood in front of him, crude men in crude clothing. Sentar himself wore a fur-lined grey cloak over his black velvet shirt and trousers, the hood pulled forward over his head to cover his blood-red hair. Snow covered the earth and blanketed the trees white, while mist swirled and eddied through the frosted evergreens. It was unbearably cold.
Sentar had come far, but cunning couldn't combat the weather.
"Snow's closin' in," the old hunter said, leaning on his spear. "You can't go north in this weather. You'll have to wait."
"How long?" Sentar said, his words spoken through crusted lips, mouth turned down in displeasure.
"A month. Might be longer," said the hunter's broad-shouldered son.
Sentar cursed.
He had to go north. His quest consumed him. His brothers were still in that world of horror, and it was his duty to bring them home. He alone had been entrusted to watch over the portal in case the way to Merralya was ever opened. When the beacon woke him from his slumber there was no time to wake his brothers; he had travelled to the portal only to see it would be open for the briefest moment. He would bring them home. He must not fail in his duty.
"No," Sentar said. "I must go north, to the ice city, now."
"You're welcome to try," the old hunter said. "But you won't make it through."
Sentar's mind turned to essence. With essence the cold could never touch him. Yet it wasn't just he who was forced to survive without essence; it seemed no one had any. Not those people who called themselves Tingarans, or the Louans, or those men in white from the land of Aynar. Sentar had seen it for himself; it was the first place he had gone to — the great machines at Stonewater had been destroyed.
It was grim news, but Sentar always found a way where others failed, and hope was not lost. Some enquiries led him to discover where he could find those who once held the Lord of the Night close to their hearts, and who were likely the only people to have their own supply of essence: the Akari.
To fulfil his quest, and bring his brothers home, he would need essence — essence to open the portal, and essence to crush the humans. He had no wish for his brothers to return to a land filled with human soldiers, innumerable as insects. He would need to conquer the people of this Tingaran Empire, and to harvest the energy of their souls. Only then would he have the essence he required. Only then would this land be ready for his brothers' return.
Looking at the hunter and his son, Sentar set his mouth with determination, ignoring the bite of the cold.
"How do you and your family survive in this weather?" Sentar asked.
The old hunter shrugged. "Cunning," he said.
The son smiled. "We trade furs with the Akari, and in return they give us spears. We use the spears to hunt."
"I must go to the Akari." Sentar stepped forward, his ice-blue eyes intent.
"Who says they'll have you?" the old hunter said, his wrinkled face curling into a scowl. "They don't take kindly to strangers."
"They'll receive me," Sentar said. "I'm important to the Akari, and they're expecting me."
Sentar held the cudgel buried inside his cloak. As close as he now was, the old hunter would not be able to wield his spear effectively.
As father and son exchanged glances, Sentar took his hand out and swung
He didn't want them dead; he needed their help too badly for that. He went for the father first; the old man was wary. The cudgel hit the old man's temple with a crack like an axe on a tree. Sentar then turned to the son and punched the tip of his club into the younger man's throat.
Both hunters crumpled to the ground, the old man bleeding from the head, instantly unconscious, while his son gasped and choked, holding his hands to his throat, the youth's face turning red with effort.