Elfsorrow lotr-1

by James Barclay

  'We have heard the name,' said Kild'aar, unimpressed. 'Our mages who did return as they promised brought word of you. We don't need the help of mercenaries. We need believers. Rebraal is right, you should go.'

  Ilkar felt his cheeks colouring, very aware that his paler skin tone from decades on Balaia now set him apart from his own roots. It was useless talking to Kild'aar. And while to a certain extent he could understand their sense of betrayal, he couldn't fathom their obduracy in the face of a genuine offer of help.

  'Let me tell you exactly how it's going to be,' said Ilkar, his frustration getting the better of him at last. 'We're here to take mages back to Julatsa, because if we don't there will be no college for you to send your precious defenders to train at. Then where will your Al-Arynaar be, eh? And we will find mages with or without your help. Secondly, we are going to help the sick in this village and we are going to help return the temple to the hands of the Al-Arynaar. We are The Raven and this is what we do. Now you can try and stop us, but consider who is betraying the elven race and faith then.

  'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some organisation to attend to.'

  He turned and strode back to his father's house, his desire to prove Kild'aar wrong, to prove that those he loved were not mere strangers to be despised, burning hot within him. Heryst rubbed his hands over his face and leaned back in his chair in the great hall in the tower of Lystern. He seemed to have spent most of his time here in the last few days, meeting senior mages, desperately seeking a solution.

  He felt the weight of responsibility bearing him down. In the many clear and frightening moments he experienced when he was alone, he saw himself as the only man truly capable of halting the appalling spiral of the war. But the chances for peace were slipping through his fingers and there was seemingly nothing he could do. His delegation in Xetesk was making no progress and all he heard from Dordover were demands to ally to save Balaia. And they were demands he was finding it increasingly hard to refuse.

  'You're tired, Heryst,' said Kayvel, who sat next to him, an unfailing support. 'You should rest.'

  'It's not even dark yet,' he replied. 'How can I be tired?'

  'It might be something to do with the fact that, to my certain knowledge, you haven't slept for three days, my Lord,' chided Kayvel gently. 'Take an hour. It won't hurt.'

  'I'm afraid there isn't time,' said Heryst.

  He could feel war advancing like a virus. The hideous events in Arlen were still so fresh. The spell Xetesk had used was a statement, if any such was still needed, of their intention to crush Dordover. And would they stop? Vuldaroq was sure they would not. Heryst was scared he was right.

  The violent clearance of the refugees from the gates of the dark college was another clear message and now there were reports of the fighting moving into college lands. Dordovan and Xeteskian supply hamlets and farmland were being fired, college militias were strung out defending vulnerable lands and the opportunities for conflict were growing by the day. And behind it all was that nagging feeling that Selik and the Black Wings would be the only real beneficiaries if the four colleges were dragged into all-out conflict.

  It was time for big decisions.

  'I'm going back to Dordover,' he said.

  'My Lord?'

  'I want you to contact Rusau in Xetesk, make sure he keeps up the pressure to meet the Lord of the Mount. But mind him to leave the moment he feels he is under threat.'

  'And what will you be saying to Vuldaroq?'

  'That we have to look to protect what is left of the balance of the colleges. That we must despatch forces to the defence of Julatsa and that we must consider a blockade of Xeteskian lands. It may be the only way to force them into negotiation. We all understand what they are trying to do and we cannot let them have free run of everything they need through Arlen. And that includes the return of the mages from Herendeneth. We are not strong enough to take them on alone.'

  'You will ally?'

  'I will take practical steps to ensure Lystern is not destroyed.'

  'Ever the politician.'

  'I have entered alliance with Dordover before. I will not make the mistake of such a formal arrangement again.' Yron didn't know how long they been running when they at last collapsed off the path, legs like jelly and lungs heaving in tortured chests; he thought they had at least bought themselves an hour or two. But he knew they couldn't stop. Heading off at a gentler pace once they'd got their breath back, he led Ben-Foran east, away from the camp and towards a tributary of the River Shorth that would lead them eventually to the main force of the river and then to the estuary itself.

  As they moved, he urged Ben to be as quiet as he was able, to disturb as little as he could and to keep his eyes peeled for anything that might indicate they were being followed. He knew all were futile gestures but it kept Ben from thinking about what had happened at the temple.

  He wondered if Ben thought they had left the threat behind them, whether the boy considered the possibility of others in their path. This consumed Yron now, as they tramped through dense forest, ducking branches, vines and great dangling leaves and picking a path as best they could, trying to follow the sun through the thick canopy above when the cloud cleared.

  Yron looked at his hands, thankful he'd ordered Ben to don his gloves too. The leather was caught and torn by thorns and bark and the Gods knew what else. His leggings had fared no better and he was pretty sure some snags had penetrated the material to scratch his skin. His light leather coat had kept the worst from his upper body and arms but his face was cut in half a dozen places he could feel and no doubt marked in many others he couldn't. It raised a problem. Two problems, actually.

  At their next rest stop, perched on a hollow log that Yron first checked for anything poisonous, he tackled them.

  'Ben, look at me,' he said. 'Now, describe every cut you see.'

  'Eh?'

  'I'm going to do the same for you. We don't need infection and we don't need blood traces.'

  'Eh?'

  'Are you practising some primate mating call, Ben?' asked Yron. 'And it's "Eh, Captain." '

  'I'm sorry, sir, but don't we just have to rest and go? You've nothing but a couple of thorn scratches. Nothing to waste time over.'

  Yron cleared his throat and stood up, stepping over to a rubiac plant he'd just spied and plucking the fruits from it. 'Ben, take this as more teaching. Teaching which won't be a waste of time because we're both going to survive this. Always, always plan to survive. And in an environment like this planning is everything. Now tell me, what are we going to do when we get to the river?'

  'Jump in, you said,' replied Ben-Foran dubiously. He shivered. 'Something like that. To shake our scent from those panthers.'

  'Correct. And it's a dangerous enough move at the best of times. But these aren't the best of times. I counted eight scratches on your face that have drawn blood. Eight scratches that unless we treat before we jump in the river will attract not only every water-borne disease you can think of and twenty you can't, but the even more unwelcome attention of piranhas. And believe you me, these are not the sort of little fishes you want to go swimming with if you're cut.'

  'Oh, I see.'

  'I'm glad,' said Yron. 'So we take half an hour here. Count our cuts, pick the fruit, make the poultices and apply. All right? Good.'

  'Sir?'

  'Yes, Ben.'

  'Are we going to survive this?'

  'Do you consider yourself lucky, Ben?'

  The younger man shrugged. 'Recently, yes.'

  'Me too. So I think we can. As long as our luck holds. And if you believe that, you'll do something else for me right now.'

  'What's that, sir?'

  'Keep your hands exactly where they are,' said Yron. 'Don't put the left one down because there's what I believe to be a taipan sliding right by your thigh.'

  Chapter 21

  Auum waited all day while they gathered. The TaiGethen, the ClawBound and the first of the Al-Arynaar relief. As e
ach arrived, he ushered them into the temple to show them the desecration of the statue. And the news had continued to get worse. More of the daily and weekly contemplation chambers had opened to reveal their contents plundered. Auum's mood, already dark, plunged into new depths. Every stranger would be made to pay for the crime.

  He did not begin his chase immediately. The ClawBound pair had already departed to follow the two he had spared temporarily. But now the need to find the others was just as important. So he waited all the day, praying with his Tai or alone. Or sitting in quiet contemplation both inside and outside the temple, focussing his energies, honing his mind to peaks of concentration to allow him to connect with Tual's denizens.

  Finally the Al-Arynaar came, those who had first heard the calling from their brothers. Their numbers would grow but their task was here for the time being and would only take them northward should the TaiGethen fail to catch all the strangers.

  When the light had begun to fade and the late afternoon rains had cleared for a moment, Auum called all those present to order. Ten TaiGethen cells, eight ClawBound pairs and fifteen Al-Arynaar. The forest was quiet around them, even the wind seemed to have ceased. Everything beneath the gaze of Yniss was listening.

  'We have trained all of our lives for the protection of our forest and the defence of our faith. Yet, as we can all see, our network was pierced by a large force intent on desecration of the temple and destruction of the forest. That we were all guilty of complacency is not contended. That our sleeper cell defence needs to be changed is not in doubt. But these are subjects for another day when, with the blessing of Yniss, we can gather and discuss the protection of the lives of all elves in peace.

  'For now, our response must be swift and without error. We are chasing between fifteen and twenty strangers of apparently varying skills. We have discovered four routes from the temple and the fifth pair we are tracking directly.

  'The ClawBound are abroad in the forest to the north. More TaiGethen cells will be alerted. We can close this net on them. We must close it.'

  Auum paused. Every eye was on him. Every thought was focussing. The gods would soon be busy receiving prayer. Now for the tasks.

  'Two TaiGethen cells will take each group of strangers. The ClawBound I ask to find the tracks that we cannot. To be our messengers in the days ahead. To bring down those that elude us. You will, of course, decide on the course that best serves us all. The Al-Arynaar, be ready to move on signal. Until then stay here, repair what you can, rebuild the defence and pray that we are successful.

  'My brothers, this is the biggest ever threat to the elven races. These strangers have taken sacred writings; you all know the tally. They have stolen the thumb of Yniss and broken the harmony in so doing. We must recover every page, every fragment. We know where they will head. First to the rivers and then to the northern coasts.

  'They must not reach their ships. Now join me in prayer.'

  Auum prayed aloud for them all and all prayed for Auum. They prayed to Yniss to repair the harmony, to Tual for the denizens to help them in their search, and for Shorth to exact revenge through all eternity on the perpetrators of the desecration.

  And when all their prayers were complete, they melted into the forest, leaving no trail and making no sound. In their wake, the forest began to sing again. Justice would be done. Yron and Ben-Foran didn't make the river until late in the afternoon. They were both tired and hungry, having been unable to spare the time to search for food. Ben-Foran hadn't fancied the taipan that Yron had skewered with a dagger through the top of its head, and in truth the gruff captain hadn't felt hungry at the time either. They'd moved quickly enough but the route to the tributary of the River Shorth had been tortuous and beset with swamps and one very steep climb and drop.

  They had heard the fast running water an hour before they reached it and had stood on the bank for a time, just gazing at the beauty unrolled in front of them. They'd slithered down a water run-off and were standing ankle deep in the flow. Across from them, some fifty yards away, a sheer cliff rose what had to be five hundred feet straight up.

  Creviced and cracked, it was home to a mass of clinging vegetation. Birds by the thousand flew its length, gliding and spinning on the eddies in the air it created, and at a dozen places along its length that they could see before it swept away into a fine mist, water cascaded over its edge. The falls tumbled down glittering into the river, plumes of spray leaping at their bases, plunge pools gouged out of the rock by the erosion of ages.

  Before them, the river ran quickly through the narrow strait. Further up, it had been faster, thundering through a defile and bouncing off the rock before settling down into the gentle but pacey flow. Yron couldn't see too far into the mist north and to his left but he was left hoping that the silt-laden water calmed further around the next bend. Either that or they were in for a bumpy ride.

  'Good news or bad news?' he asked Ben-Foran.

  'Bad,' said Ben.

  'It's going to hurt.'

  'And the good?'

  'You won't have to paddle, and until it settles down no crocodiles. '

  'Piranhas?'

  'I'll let you know.' Yron grimaced. 'Now, we need to find something to hang on to. Shouldn't be too difficult.'

  He waded upstream, through the relatively still waters at the edge of the river, looking for a pocket pool. After thirty yards or so, he found one, filled with silt scum and, as he expected, plenty of driftwood. Heaving out his axe, he hacked free the largest log and floated it back down to Ben-Foran, trapping it between his leg and the bank and guiding it with a hand.

  Despite his confidence that there would be no crocodiles in such a fast-flowing stream, he kept an eye out ahead and behind, looking for telltale ripples and those bug eyes creeping above the surface. He shivered and blew out his cheeks at the thought of being stalked by something so merciless and efficient but forgot his fears when he saw Ben. The boy was white as a sheet, hugging his body and staring out into the river as if hypnotised.

  'Ben?' The boy turned and tried to smile. It was a feeble effort. 'Are you all right?'

  'Is it really necessary?' he asked. 'Can't we lose our scent just wading down the side?'

  Yron laughed. 'Depends if you think you can outrun a panther or an arrow.'

  'Surely they're well behind.'

  'You have no idea, do you?' said Yron. 'In some quiet moment out there in the middle, I'll explain who these people are and why we should be as far from them as is humanly possible.'

  Ben cast a frightened glance over his shoulder back up into the deep green mass of the rainforest.

  'What are you worried about, Ben? Can't you swim or something? ' Yron's encouraging smile died on his lips as Ben raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. 'Oh, no. Out of all the people I could have escaped with, I've chosen the sinker.'

  But to his own and Ben's surprise, he didn't lay into his second in command for his lack of training, he just laughed, the sound booming off the rock opposite and then lost in the roar of water.

  'It isn't funny,' said Ben. 'I just don't like open water. Not to swim in.'

  Yron crooked a finger and reluctantly Ben waded out the yard or so to him and the log.

  'I'll let you into a secret,' said Yron. 'You won't need to swim.'

  'No?' Ben's face brightened.

  'No. When the croc grabs you, you don't get the chance.'

  'It's not funny, Captain,' repeated Ben. He was breathing hard and chewing his top lip. Yron saw him shiver.

  'Sorry, Ben, bad joke,' said Yron. 'But I was right about you not having to swim. All you've got to do is hang on for your very life. Reckon you can do that?'

  'Do I get a choice?' Ben managed a weak smile.

  Yron shook his head.

  'Then I'll try,' he said.

  'Good lad,' said Yron. 'You'll be fine. Now let's get out into the stream. Snap the lock over your scabbard. Don't want you losing your sword.'

  With that, he pushed the log away
and plunged after it, Ben scrambling after him. The boy grabbed on tight, changing his grip again and again. Yron felt the tug of the current as they edged out into the flow. Gods knew if they'd survive but one thing was sure. If they didn't put some distance between them and those chasing, they'd be dead in a day. Yron just prayed they didn't escape one lot just to fall into the hands of those spread through the rest of the forest.

  'Oh well, only one way to find out.'

  'Sir?'

  'Nothing, lad. Just hang on, and keep your legs up as much as you can. This is going to be interesting.'

  The main force of the current took them, the log gathered speed and they were dragged along in its wake, out of control and into the hands of the Gods. Yron wasn't a religious man by nature; to him religion was a matter of convenience and a support for the weak. But there are some times when you are so small and helpless that you need something to hang your life on, however briefly.

  So while he watched the cliffs rush by, the water crash down from high above, and the bank they'd left begin to rise sheer as the river narrowed again and angled down, he began to pray.

  He hoped the Gods, whoever they were, were listening. It was not the sort of news Blackthorne wanted. He was walking through the marketplace with Baron Gresse, talking to the fresh produce stallholders, who were seeing their profits shrink and their livelihoods threatened. He'd worked out a compensation scheme based on the prices he'd previously paid all suppliers for foodstuffs and was trying to ensure that those who sold what was grown or bred were not left high and dry. It was difficult to be fair and some felt aggrieved.

  Still, it had been good having Gresse here to discuss the problems facing the country. He was into his late sixties now but had the vitality of a man two decades his junior. And with that mischievous twinkle in his eye and his disdain for the trappings of wealth, Gresse was a popular figure. He had stepped in to help his people much as Blackthorne had done.