Elves: Beyond the Mists of Katura (44 page)

‘How many?’ asked Gilderon, slowing them all down.

‘Twenty that I can see backed by eight or nine of their shamen. They’ve built a barricade that may well be hiding many more. Our advantage is that the pass is tight and we can fill
it and wear them down.’

‘No,’ said Takaar. ‘Your advantage is that you have me. You have battles to come; I shall deal with them.’

Gilderon stopped them as soon as he could see the lanterns and the warriors leaning on spears or resting against the walls or the wood of their eight-foot-tall barricade. The shamen were in a
group around a fire, talking and gesticulating. As he watched, an opening in the barricade was unbolted and he caught a glimpse of a great deal more Wesmen behind it.

‘We can deal with this, Takaar,’ he said. ‘Our role is to protect you.’

‘The shamen will kill you before you get within ten yards. Don’t question me.’

That last was said as if from another mouth. Gilderon was about to protest further but Takaar was clearly wrestling with himself and his expression was of ill-controlled impulse.

‘Show them mercy,’ was all he could manage.

Takaar moved off along the dark passage towards the Wesman lantern light. Gilderon pitied them, hearing one side of Takaar’s conversation.

‘Fire can only be drawn from the fuel already there. It is not enough . . . You are showing your ignorance as always. To use the air is terribly draining . . . Now you’re thinking.
The raw material surrounds us and we have only to prod in the right place.’

Unconsciously the Senserii had drawn back from Takaar and had moved together, unsettled by the energies he was beginning to marshal. Inside the tight confines of the pass Ix’s power felt
multiplied, and it roared through their bodies on its way to do whatever Takaar required.

Takaar was walking forward steadily, his head twitching from side to side as if seeking something minute, his hands trembling and his fingers jerking, closing and opening while he teased at his
target. Fifty yards from the barricade and deep in shadow he stopped.

‘It will be loud,’ he said. ‘Cover your ears.’

Takaar moved off quickly, his hands outstretched in front of his face, palms away from him. Gilderon led the Senserii forward at a run. Ahead, the Wesmen began to make out dim shapes in the
gloom beyond the light of their lanterns and fire. Warriors plucked weapons from where they rested and the shamen were ready to cast should they prove to be enemies.

The first effect of Takaar’s spell was a series of dull cracks from up ahead. Takaar’s fingers wiggled in what would have been comic fashion in other circumstances but to Gilderon,
it only made what came next all the more terrifying. The shamen moved to cast. Warriors lined up to give them cover.

They should all have been running.

Takaar, not breaking stride, drew his arms back, jabbed them forward hard and closed his fists. The roof above the Wesmen collapsed, smashing their bodies into the ground and extinguishing the
fire and lanterns. The noise ripped into Gilderon’s head despite the hands clamped over his ears and he roared a curse as much at the sight as the sound.

Down and down came the rock, splintering the barricade. Through the clouds of dust and debris thrown up into the pass Gilderon saw Wesmen turning to run. It was impossible to hear their screams
but they must have been loud until shut off by the torrent of mountain battering their bodies, bursting their skulls and crushing their limbs from their twitching corpses.

Takaar walked on, repeating his gestures. More boulders came thundering down. Smears of black appeared briefly on the walls before being eclipsed by the dust, which billowed down the pass
towards the Senserii. Gilderon held his breath and turned away while the force of it rolled over him impelled by a gust of Ix-inspired wind, buffeting his body and tearing at his clothes.

He could barely see Takaar a few feet ahead of him. The mad elf circled his hands and pushed, adding more power to the wind, which now blew away from them, whipping up the dust into spirals and
driving it away from the scene of his atrocity so all could view what he had wrought.

Immediately the air was clear, Takaar set off again, his hands cocked, ready to cause another rockfall. Gilderon stared for a heartbeat at the awful devastation and ran in front of him, turning
and grabbing his arms.

‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘Enough! Look what you’ve done! Yniss spare us from the wrath of Shorth, look what you’ve
done
.’

Takaar’s gaze, lost in the energies he manipulated, darted around Gilderon before settling on his face. He tried to move his arms but Gilderon held on tight, this time heedless of the risk
he might be running.

‘Enough,’ he repeated. ‘You’ve killed them. You’ve killed them
all
.’

Takaar’s body relaxed, and the weight of energies dissipated, leaving a quiet broken by the rumbling of echoes. Gilderon looked to his Senserii.

‘Go among them. If any live, speed their passing and pray for their souls.’ His voice cracked and he stared back at Takaar. ‘No one should die like that.’

Gilderon walked with Takaar, who seemed in a daze. Whether he had any notion of what he had just done was questionable. They picked their way through the rubble and debris, which reached halfway
up to the roof in places. Gilderon looked up at it, fearful of another fall.

‘Did you know that even the most solid of rock has tiny fractures? All I had to do was make them bigger.’ Takaar’s smile was ephemeral. ‘Simple, really.’

‘You can never do this again,’ whispered Gilderon. ‘It is not right. Yniss cannot countenance this.’

‘Where the rock is hard for a horse to pass I will make it dust. We must leave a path,’ said Takaar.

The Senserii knelt and rose as they searched. Nowhere did they find a living Wesman. Gilderon swallowed. They walked past a bloodied hand on the ground, fingers open. The arm disappeared beneath
a fall of rock which must have crushed the body flat. Something was caught in the dead fingers.

Takaar knelt down and picked it up. In his hands lay a child’s doll in the likeness of a warrior. He held it up to Gilderon before his face crumpled, and he wailed for the lost, for what
he had done and for who he had become.

Dawn on the day that would decide the fate of Balaia, Calaius and the Wesmen was chill and grey and entirely fitting. The feast of the night before had often been tense and the
atmosphere occasionally aggressive, but Auum had enjoyed it nonetheless. He’d spent most of the evening with Sentaya and Tilman, putting together a series of commands they could all
understand.

Stein had suffered almost constant abuse and sported a livid bruise on one cheek as testament to the only punch thrown. Sentaya had reacted furiously to it, halting the feast to reaffirm the
nature of the alliance that would last until the battle was done. The offender had almost managed to pass Stein a cup of broth as a gesture of reconciliation but somehow it had fallen on his feet
instead.

Stein might have taken renewed offence at the second affront but instead had chosen to tip back his head and laugh. Auum smiled at the memory. Stein was a fine diplomat, and there were probably
a few Wesman warriors lined up behind the stockade this morning wondering quite why they hated all man’s magic so much.

Close to midnight the sound of many hundreds of voices singing had broken the mood in the village, and Stein, of course, had suggested a final event to boost the confidence of the Wesmen doomed
to face their Wytch Lord-backed rivals at sunrise. A series of races and tasks of agility had been organised along with sparring and wrestling.

Grudgingly Auum had agreed to the notion, but the TaiGethen had won every challenge, their use of shetharyn drawing gasps and the laughter of the disbelieving in equal measure.

‘I ask you, do you wish to face any TaiGethen seeking your throat?’ Sentaya had roared, and following the cacophonous negative, he had jabbed a finger in the direction of the
approaching enemy. ‘Neither do they!’

And so it came to this: Wesman Lord, TaiGethen warrior and eastern mage standing side by side. Auum stood between the other two, just in case. They had not exactly clasped hands on the alliance,
but Auum had caught them speaking to each other as the feast broke up. Sentaya might have been smiling. Then again it might have been a panther’s grin; he had a very fierce face.

The three stood at the head of their forces outside the stockade which they hoped would provide brief but vital shelter when the time came. The ranks were lined up as bait for the enemy massing
about three hundred yards distant. Ystormun’s men had already encountered the first of Stein’s wards, which had slowed their advance dramatically. Neither Ystormun nor his shamen were
divining them, just as Stein had predicted.

‘They might as well run headlong for all the good it’ll do them,’ muttered Stein. ‘Going tiptoe across them makes you just as dead.’

‘I’ll be right behind you when you trot out and let them know,’ said Ulysan.

‘Are all your Communion minds open?’ asked Auum.

‘Yes.’ Stein indicated Sentaya’s outbuildings. ‘He wouldn’t let us in the house but the cattle don’t mind us. A quick shout and you can have your cells on
their way in.’

Auum nodded and sent a prayer to Tual to bless his hidden teams with sure feet and swift strikes. The indefatigable Faleen was heading three cells positioned in the deep reeds bordering the lake
about a mile north of the enemy. Merrat and Merke’s cells were waiting in a belt of woodland less than two miles to the east.

Auum watched Sentaya’s face as the tribal banners became clearer and the shamen’s garb stood out among the furs and leather of their warrior flock. Sentaya had about a hundred and
fifty blades at his disposal, drawn from his village and from a cluster of small settlements around the southern end of the lake. His two elder sons commanded a third each as did he. All wore
tribal marks on their faces, blue lines on their cheeks and white diagonals on their foreheads.

‘It’ll make us easy for your TaiGethen to spot when the lines are broken,’ Sentaya had said.

Sentaya was uncomfortable standing and waiting, and even more so at the notion of hiding inside his stockade when the spells started to fall. He knew it made sense, but it went against every
instinct and felt like cowardice. Worse, he would be inside his stockade as the battle was joined because magic was being employed on his behalf. Auum understood his turmoil.

‘What do you know of them?’ asked Auum, nodding his head at the enemy.

Stein, as always, translated. Sentaya spat between his feet before he spoke.

‘I see banners from the Heconn, the Kistoi, the Rekine and the Calamet. Worthy fighters but they darkened the soul of all Wesmen when they bent the knee to grasp power they thought they
could own. There is plenty of reason to hate them.’

Sentaya paused and scanned the undulating rock-strewn ground across which they were coming. A ward detonated to the left. Fire roared into the air, carrying two bodies with it. The screams were
brief. Warriors paused but were ordered on, and the dead were left where they fell. Sentaya closed his eyes briefly and muttered what Auum understood to be a prayer of forgiveness.

‘Is what we are doing any different to the black fire the shamen will use to try and kill you?’ asked Auum.

Sentaya stared at him but did not reply. Instead he focused back on the enemy.

‘We must be wary of the shamen. These are not village holy men. So many of those claiming the robes are little more than vessels for Wytch Lord magic. They are not steeped in the spirits
and have never studied or lived as they are required to. They are deep in the ways of the spirits and the Wytch Lords, though, shamen schooled inside Parve’s temples. Dangerous and powerful,
able to channel far more effectively.’

Auum felt a moment of anxiety though he had to expect Ystormun would have brought the best that he could, the most loyal.

‘Have we had word of Takaar’s progress yet?’ he asked Stein.

‘Nothing. We know he’s trying to get here but no more.’ Stein turned a slightly nervous smile on Auum. ‘Don’t worry. We can send his spirit to cower in his temple
and give Sentaya all he needs to ally the mass of Wesmen against the Wytch Lords. We’ll win this.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘You’re my brother, Auum, but if I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be standing here with a sworn enemy while facing one of Balaia’s most powerful
creatures.’

‘You’re scared?’ asked Auum.

‘Terrified,’ said Stein. ‘This is a Wytch Lord in his own lands. He will draw directly on the power residing in his temple. The Ystormun you saw in Calaius was a child by
comparison.’

In front of them the Wesman army stopped on a single command. They were in loose formation, wary of traps. They spread further to the left towards the lake and to the right, meaning to attack
the village on three sides. Ystormun also knew they would clear the wards for his shamen in the process. Archers were among the axe and sword carriers. The shamen were clustered in groups of eight
and positioned some thirty yards behind the warriors.

They were silent. A carriage rolled up onto a rise more than a hundred yards behind the broad single line. It was guarded by shamen and warriors.

‘Ready?’ asked Auum.

‘Always,’ said Sentaya, using an elven word he’d been taught the night before.

‘Die old, not today,’ said Auum. ‘Stein, get the strike teams running.’

A call began at the far right of the Wesman line and rippled all the way along it, setting birds to flight and the hairs standing on Auum’s arms. It was a call for strength and
courage.

‘It’s the coronyl,’ said Sentaya.

The call died away. Horns sounded and the Wesmen charged

The ground was firm, clear and easy beneath Faleen’s feet, allowing her to reach a prodigious speed. The temptation to drop into the shetharyn was great, but they would
need that in due course if they were to escape with their lives. Her Tai of Haloor and Jyrrian struggled to keep pace and she looked across to the Tais of Oryaal and Dodann, seeing their strides
lengthen as they coursed across the ground.