Elfsorrow lotr-1

by James Barclay

  'Divide up the group into four, first group to join me about as fast as you can strip!'

  Another cheer, taken up by more of the men and accompanied by desultory handclaps, lightened the mood further. Yron pulled his shirt over his head, unbuttoned his trousers, dragged them and his loincloth off and, leaving them in a heap, jumped into the pool.

  It was icy, invigorating and beautiful. He broke the surface and whooped, running his hands across his face and through his hair. He ducked under again, feeling the water edging grime from every inch of his body. Opening his eyes, he swam down a little, seeing the intricate mosaic of fish, plants and a single swimming figure at the bottom come alive in his shifting vision. He wondered briefly where the pool drained back into the earth but a slapping sound above him told of others joining his bath.

  'Gods falling, but this is wonderful!' he exclaimed, joining the excited clamour.

  And it was true, he'd never felt so good so quickly. As if the waters had cleansed not just his body but his spirit, his whole being. He felt lifted. Alive. He lay on his back and floated towards the statue and the water outflow under its outstretched hand. Drifting beneath it, he could see a main pipe made of stone and fired clay, which split into two, directing the flow to where it emerged from under thumb and forefinger.

  There was a third branch too, a little further back, which led away towards the base of the statue. Strange that they should bother to limit the flow into the pool, he thought, but then he was sure they had their reasons. But lying where he was, he saw an easy enough way to get more of this beautiful water into the pool.

  Yron swam to the side and dragged himself out, beginning to dry immediately in the relative cool of the temple. He fetched his loincloth and put it on but ignored the rest of his clothes. Looking down into the pool, he could see the waters already muddied by the filth he and his men had accumulated. Yet another reason to increase the flow.

  'Ben, where are you?' he asked.

  'Here, Captain.' Ben-Foran appeared from the opposite side of the statue.

  'Fetch me a pickaxe would you, I'm going to make the odd adjustment here.'

  Knowing enough not to question him, Ben trotted outside to the stores tent, reappearing a short while later, pickaxe in hand.

  'Not thinking of dressing, sir?' he observed.

  Yron looked at his pile of clothes and shook his head. 'Once you've been in there, you'll know why.'

  'What is it you're going to do?' asked Ben-Foran, handing over the tool.

  'Well, they've diverted half the water away back into the ground, as far as I can tell. And looking at the mess we're making in there, I think we could do with all of it.' He walked round behind the pool and edged his way around the statue until he stood as close as he could get to the outstretched hand that fed in the water. 'If we get rid of the hand, it'll take the pipes with it and give us what we want. What do you think?'

  Ben-Foran frowned. 'Honestly?'

  'Of course.' Yron frowned.

  'I think it's a shame to damage the statue. It's a beautiful piece of sculpture.'

  'But needs must,' said Yron. 'And I don't think it'll be getting too many more visitors after we've left, do you?'

  'Have you asked Erys? It might be trapped in some way and I've had enough wards to last a lifetime,' said Ben-Foran.

  'Fair point. Erys?' Yron looked about and quickly saw the mage in the pool, his red hair darkened by the water. 'Any reason why I shouldn't lop the hand off this thing?'

  Erys shook his head. 'It's aesthetically harsh but there's no magical reason, no. Seems a pity to spoil it.'

  'Sod the pair of you,' said Yron. 'Right, clear away from here. Don't want any injuries from flying marble.'

  He took aim, raised the pickaxe and brought it down on the wrist of the statue. Shards of stone flew in all directions, spattering into the pool and across the floor. Some of the men moved further away. Yron could see a few cracks emanating from the point of impact. He struck again and the cracks widened. All eyes were on him, all conversation had ceased, the sound of the pick striking the marble slapping off the walls of the temple. A third blow and he was sure he felt it give. A fourth and the marble sheared, the hand, some four feet long, toppling into the pool.

  It had the desired effect. With the pipes broken beneath, water poured with much greater intensity into the pool, the noise of the trickle gone, to be replaced by one akin to a jug being emptied into a bowl.

  'Gentlemen,' said Yron from his vantage point, 'I give you the waters of life!'

  He dropped the pickaxe and jumped back into the pool, the cheers muted as the water closed over his head. Rebraal groped his way towards agonising consciousness. He was being dragged over the forest floor. It was full dark and the nocturnal denizens of the rainforest were all around him. He could sense their scuttling, their movement through the canopy and myriad wings of every size beating. Almost more alive than during daylight hours, the forest buzzed with activity.

  He shook his head to clear the confusion encasing his brain. At the same time, his back connected with something sharp on the ground and he yelped. The dragging ceased immediately and he was laid gently flat. He heard footsteps and opened his eyes to see Mercuun leaning over him.

  'Dear Yniss, you're really alive!' said the elf, a grin splitting his face.

  'Just about,' said Rebraal. Memories crashed through his mind and he struggled to sit up but Mercuun restrained him.

  'Don't. I'm only moving you because we needed to get somewhere safer.'

  'But Aryndeneth? And what about the others? Meru, tell me.' Mercuun's grin vanished to be replaced by an expression close to despair.

  'The strangers have the temple,' he said. 'All the others are dead and they have almost fifty guarding it now. They have fires and tents and they are resting inside.'

  Rebraal felt sick. Strangers defiling Aryndeneth by their touch and their very breath on its sacred walls. And to use the great temple as a dormitory. Not even the Al-Arynaar would presume such, choosing to sleep in netted hammocks under thatched shelters in a clearing behind the temple.

  'We have to stop them,' said Rebraal.

  'We are but two,' said Mercuun. 'Alone, there is nothing we can do.'

  Rebraal pushed Mercuun's hand aside and forced himself into a sitting position. His left shoulder was aflame with pain and he gasped, moving his right hand there to investigate.

  'I removed the crossbow bolt but it was deep,' explained Mercuun. 'They must have thought you dead, as did I when I found you. Shorth have mercy on the others. Those bastards just left you all in a pile on the forest floor. No ceremony, no respect, no honour.'

  'Then I was lucky. Tual has saved me for the task of retaking the temple.'

  As if quoting the name of Tual, God of the forest denizens, had sent a ripple through the canopy, a jaguar growled nearby and above them the shriek of a monkey was taken up by an entire troop.

  'See?' Rebraal's smile was grim. 'Tual hears me.'

  'And retake the temple we will, but I have to get you to the village or you will die,' said Mercuun. 'The bolt wound is already reddening under infection and you're cut all over. I've treated your skin with legumia but you need a mage to knit the muscle of your shoulder, and you've lost too much blood. You know the signs as well as I do.'

  'I don't want to go back there,' said Rebraal.

  'Please, Rebraal, this isn't the time to dredge up old animosities. You must be well.'

  Rebraal shook his head. 'Just don't make me talk to them. They have no faith.' He offered Mercuun his right hand. 'Help me up, will you? I'm not too sick to walk.'

  But as soon as they started, he wasn't so sure. The pain in his shoulder built steadily as Mercuun's soothing poultice wore off, and his legs were cramped. He felt weak and light-headed and leant on his friend for support but refused to rest again until they'd put real distance between them and the strangers who had taken his temple, his life. Taking it back would be sweet. Every Al-Arynaar that had fallen
would be avenged ten times over.

  'Tell me how you fared, Meru,' he said, when he found the energy to speak and the pain had dropped temporarily to a numbing thump.

  'I have announced the alarm. The Al-Arynaar are alerted and the word is spreading. I have stressed the need for our people to be aware north and I have asked for information from anyone who saw these people land. There is confusion about how the strangers found the temple and remained undetected for their whole journey. We fear the worst for the watchers in the northern canopy and uplands. But the ClawBound are walking and the TaiGethen are closing. These strangers will never leave Calaius.'

  'How long before we are assembled to retake Aryndeneth?'

  Mercuun sucked in his cheeks. 'Remember, Rebraal, we weren't due to be relieved for another seventy days. The gathering has to take place and the prayers must be spoken or we will anger Yniss. There are gaps in the net; people are on hunting expeditions and it is the season of contemplation. So many of those closest by are at hermitage.'

  'How long?' Rebraal knew what Mercuun said was true, and knew the rituals must be observed. He felt a chill enter his body and a vision played across his mind of the desecration that could be visited on Aryndeneth in a few short days.

  'Eighty will be ready to attack in twenty days' time.'

  'Twenty days!' Rebraal's shout put birds to flight, and in the undergrowth animals scampered from the supposed threat. 'Gyal's tears, that is too long.'

  He stopped walking and leaned against the rough bole of a fig tree under attack from strangler vines that were slowly enmeshing it. Eventually, they would kill it. He would have understood ten days, maybe even accepted the delay as inevitable, but this…

  'Please, Rebraal, the Al-Arynaar are moving as fast as they can. But we are not the reactive force of our fathers' days. Our mage numbers are small and we cannot afford to go in without their support.'

  'But in twenty days, all could have been lost. The cell of Yniss opens in fourteen. What if they are after his writings? Think of the cost. These aren't treasure seekers. There are too many of them. They want something they believe is inside the temple.'

  Rebraal began walking again, quickly, his eyes piercing the night as surely as any panther's. He denied the pain that thundered through him at every footfall, praying to Beeth, God of root and branch, to keep him from falling.

  'We can't wait, Meru. We'll have to get people from the village. I know they aren't true believers but we have already been betrayed or how could the strangers have found us?'

  He had expected Mercuun to be happy at his sudden insistence on enlisting help from their birthplace, the place where his family were treated almost as outcasts because they would not relinquish what were now popularly considered to be old ways. Although every elf on Calaius believed in the harmony, and in Yniss its highest deity, they did not believe in the sanctity of Aryndeneth enough to honour the village quota and send every fifth child to the calling of the Al-Arynaar.

  They did not see the honour it bestowed on their families, nor did they appreciate the importance of keeping the calling strong. Rebraal shuddered at the thought that the strangers might actually damage the stones of the temple. If they were powerful enough, it was possible. Theft of the writings of any god was hideous enough, but the balance of Aryndeneth had to be maintained.

  Mercuun, though, said nothing. Rebraal slowed and turned to see his friend twenty yards behind him, crouching on the ground.

  'Meru?' Rebraal's head was thudding. He was hungry and thirsty and his blood loss sapped his strength.

  Mercuun looked up, his face drawn and anguished. He tried to speak but coughed instead, a sick sound from deep in his chest. Rebraal hurried over to him.

  'Meru, what is it? Snake? Yellowback frog?'

  But it wasn't animal poison. Mercuun shook his head and raised a hand, asking for a moment. He caught his breath and coughed again, a great racking that shook his body. He raised his sweat-slick face to speak.

  'I don't feel good,' he managed, Rebraal refraining from telling him he was speaking the obvious. 'Like a wave of something unclean washed through me. It clogged my lungs but they're clearing now. I thought I would fall; my balance went for a moment. I'll be all right. Don't worry about me.'

  'We should rest here. Neither of us is fit to go on. I'll bring you liana to lace for hammocks, then I'll fetch food and water. Give me your skins and jaqrui.'

  Mercuun made to protest but the relief on his face was all too evident. Instead he nodded. 'But we must push on before dawn. I agree with you. I don't think we've very much time.'

  Chapter 10

  The morning cacophony of monkeys, birds, insects, frogs and anything else that had a voice was in full cry when Ben-Foran decided to wash in the temple pool. Yron's rather clumsy work on the statue's hand might have eroded the majesty of the sculpture but it had had the desired effect. The much increased water flow into the pool had quickly cleared the grime from four dozen sweaty filthy bodies, and now, in the diffused light of dawn, it was crystal clear once again.

  Yron was keen for his men not to get lazy and so, barring the sick and the mages, who were tending the ill and examining scrolls and parchments in a room that had opened up with the first touch of light, everyone was outside. Everyone, that is, except Ben, who was duty temple officer. While he swam, Yron and all the rest of the relatively fit were either on hunting parties, investigating the rear of the temple and the area surrounding it, collecting more firewood or preparing breakfast and making a stores inventory.

  Despite the hardships of the rainforest, the loss of so many of those he'd travelled with and the feeling he couldn't shift that, despite his loyalty, this was a raid too far, Ben-Foran had to admit to himself that he was rather enjoying it. Partly it was because he had survived with barely a scratch and without catching the fever to which so many had succumbed. Mostly it was because he was with Captain Yron, a real leader and universally loved by the men in his charge. He commanded total respect because he treated all in his command as equals, whatever their rank; a very difficult balance to strike given his position of superiority. And he was a great teacher, constantly springing surprises and doing things by a book all of his own devising. His unorthodoxy didn't endear him to his masters and was, no doubt, why he had gained plenty of experience in places like the Calaian rainforests, but for his men, it was something they could always talk about. If they survived.

  Ben-Foran was scared of swimming in rivers, indeed any open area of water where creatures might lurk, but this pool was relaxation itself. On a whim, he duck-dived and swam down, drifting slowly over the statue's hand that lay at rest at the bottom of the pool, the living forest sounds muted as the water closed over his head.

  He could see that part of the thumb had broken off where it had hit the bottom of the pool and was trapped underneath the rest. Bracing himself against the back wall, he half rolled, half pushed the hand aside to release the thumb, snatching it up and surging back to the surface with it held aloft like a trophy.

  'Morning, Ben.' The captain's voice rang out around the temple.

  'Good morning, sir,' replied Ben, turning in the water to see Yron silhouetted in the doorway, the canvas covering tied back.

  'Glad to see you're putting your duty to good use. I can't imagine anything we'll need more in the days to come than an expert diver.'

  Ben-Foran blushed, splashed hurriedly to the side of the pool and hauled himself out to sit dripping at its edge, heart suddenly beating hard.

  'Sorry, sir.'

  To his surprise and relief, Yron laughed. 'Don't worry, boy,' he said, slapping him hard on the shoulder, the wet crack echoing off the temple walls. 'It's exactly what I would have done.'

  Ben got up and pulled on his loincloth, the thumb tight in his hand.

  'Still, I see your exploration wasn't entirely wasted,' said Yron, indicating his prize.

  'No, sir. I saw it had broken off, you know, and-'

  '-thought you'd have y
ourself a souvenir.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Yron tutted and shook his head. He snapped his fingers then held out his hand. 'Well, with one small amendment, it was a sound plan.'

  A little reluctantly, Ben handed over the thumb. Yron examined it closely. It was a finely detailed piece, a little over five inches long.

  'Now this is a lesson it is my pleasure to teach you,' said Yron, smiling broadly.

  'What's that, Captain?' Ben felt the question was expected though he had no desire to ask it.

  Yron leaned in a little closer. 'It's something you'll no doubt be able to practise in the future when you have your own command. It's called pulling rank.' He chuckled and slipped the piece into his pocket before spreading his arms wide. 'There you are. Simple, isn't it? Now, get yourself dressed, there's something I want you to see.'

  Ben nodded, aware suddenly that he was already dry. He frowned and paused for a moment. It was definitely hotter in here than it had been yesterday afternoon. Odd. He shrugged and pulled on his trousers. As leader of the task force, he knew it had to be him. Sytkan took the longest walk of his life up the gentle slopes of Herendeneth towards the needle. He walked alone as a show of peaceful intent but the only solace he could really take as he walked was that he could hope they thought he was here to help.

  They watched him as he picked his way up around the graves of the ancients, their heads unmoving, eyes not blinking. Sytkan was acutely aware of his frailty, of the ease with which either of these incredible creatures could snuff out his life.

  He'd had no real idea of their size, their sheer domination of the space around them, until he got closer. And there they lay, like two huge golden sculptures. They were each a hundred feet and more long from nose to tail, the mounds of their bodies higher than his house and their stupendous wings folded back along their glittering scaled flanks.

  Sytkan was less than thirty feet from them, his steps tentative and nervous, his nose full of their sharp wood and oil odour, when they moved. Heads as tall as he was swept out on long graceful necks and arrowed down on his insignificance. It was all he could do to stay standing.