Elfsorrow lotr-1

by James Barclay

  Denser glanced along the line, saw the TaiGethen weaving their swift death, the Al-Arynaar providing mage and blade support. More FlameOrbs soared out, casting their ghastly light. Across the river, he could see more of the enemy, looking on helplessly as their companions were taken apart. And there, splashing through the swamp and caught in the moonlight, were the other runners. Almost straight away, Ben's legs had given way. Erys and Yron scooped him into a chair lift, the lad gasping in agony as rough hands and leather scraped at his raw infected wounds. Yron had his arm high up around Ben's chest, Erys supporting his lower back, as they splashed into the shallows of the swamp.

  Yron tried to hear everything around him above the sound of his own breathing, of his feet hitting the water over and over. He strained for the sounds of pursuit, of the wail of jaqrui and the whistle of arrows. But with every pace he took he heard none of it. He began to dare to believe they might actually make it.

  A hundred and fifty yards to go and he saw men standing up, beckoning them on, urging and encouraging. Others of the reserve ran to join them, some carrying bows. Shouts went up, increasing in their urgency as Yron and Erys pounded across the swamp, dragging their calves through the deepening water.

  'Keep going,' gasped Yron.

  'I hadn't thought of stopping,' replied Erys.

  Ben's breathing was ragged and tortured.

  'Nor had I,' he managed.

  Arrows started to fly. The shouts of encouragement became a clamour for more pace and men ran towards them. Faces looked desperate now, exhorting them to greater effort. FlameOrbs soared high over their heads, heading for the pursuing pack. And now Yron could hear them. A flurry of feet rushing through the swamp. Not far behind. Perhaps not far enough.

  More arrows arced over them. The elves replied in kind, shafts fired on the run hissing past, slapping into the water around them. Jaqrui wailed and whistled. Yron ducked reflexively.

  'Faster,' he said. 'We've got to go faster.'

  Erys responded and the two men upped their pace. Yron felt the water become shallow again and relief flooded through him. He looked forward, seeing naked fear on the faces of those only seventy yards in front of them now and he thanked the Gods he had no time to look round. He didn't need to. He knew how fast an elf could run.

  'Stay with us, Ben, we're so nearly there,' he said.

  Ben's words were little more than grunts of pain. 'If our luck holds.'

  'It's holding,' said Erys. 'Keep going.'

  On they ran. More arrows splashed around them, others flew past seeking elven targets. Jaqrui fizzed and keened. A panther roared.

  'Oh dear Gods,' muttered Yron.

  He could hear his men now. Yelling at him, pleading. The second roar was close, so very close. Some of his men moved further forward and began to form a line. Thirty yards to go. Twenty.

  A huge impact sent them all sprawling. Ben screamed. Yron felt his left arm torn half out of its socket. He rolled over and came to his haunches.

  'No!' he bellowed. 'No!'

  The panther had leapt on Ben's back and taken him down. Yron ran forward, hitching out his axe; the animal looked up, yellow eyes boring into him. It made to spring again.

  Erys was shouting. 'Yron, no!'

  Very deliberately, the panther bit down, snapping the boy's neck. 'Bastard!' Yron made to move but felt arms around his shoulders, forcing him back.

  'We've got to go, now!' Erys's face was right in his.

  Yron could see the elves closing in just a few yards away. He saw his reserve running in to block their path. He saw more arrows and spells, FlameOrbs lighting up the sky giving him a last look at Ben-Foran. His strength abruptly went and his men dragged him away, his gaze locked on the body.

  'I'm sorry, Ben,' he said, the tears misting his vision. 'I'm so sorry.' Rebraal had seen the action on the right bank of the river and came running up from the elven line, which was driving the enemy inexorably back. The Raven were trading blows with more competent soldiers now, progress slow but still sure.

  'Runners are through,' he shouted.

  Denser turned, losing the shape he'd been creating. In front of him, Hirad blocked a strike to his chest, shoved his attacker back with a grunt and rained down blow after overhead blow, swearing as he bludgeoned.

  'We'll push hard,' said Denser.

  'You must get to the estuary. We must catch them.'

  'Hirad!' shouted Denser. 'Runners broken through right.'

  Hirad nodded. He crashed his blade down a final time, smashing the weakened defence aside and crushing his opponent's skull, blood and brain spraying into the air.

  'Raven! Pushing right. Go!'

  Darrick and Aeb responded immediately, arcing in, driving the defenders back towards the river. Aeb upped the rate of his strikes, delivering overhead with his axe and sweeping horizontally with his sword. Around the back of them TaiGethen came running, forcing themselves into the gap, sprinting away behind the strangers' lines, dealing mayhem and death.

  'Let's give them space!' shouted Hirad. 'Denser, the archers!'

  'Got you. Erienne, ForceCone. I'll carry you.'

  Denser uttered a short incantation. ShadowWings appeared at his back. Erienne nodded and he swept her into his arms and straight up into the night sky. He could see a group of half a dozen archers kneeling in a circle, loosing off shots at the TaiGethen elves.

  'Ready,' said Erienne.

  Denser angled his body horizontal to the ground and tightened his grip on Erienne, who hung below him, his arms clasped under her breasts, her legs locked around his. He heard her mutter and drag at the air with her fingers as she finished the preparation. He flew over the archers, just thirty feet above their heads. One looked up instinctively, shouted and angled his bow. Too late.

  Erienne jerked her arms downwards. The ForceCone flared out, battering the archers to the earth. Bows and limbs snapped as the pressure of the spell beat relentlessly down, compressing everything beneath it into a six-inch-deep indentation in the soft ground, perfectly circular and ten yards across.

  Denser circled while Erienne maintained the Cone until the pleading and crying out had stopped. She thrust her arms again, hard. Denser imagined, only too easily, the ribcages crumpling. He wheeled back towards The Raven before any fire could be brought to bear on them, magical or otherwise.

  'Angry about something?' he asked.

  'You could say,' she said. 'My head is killing me.'

  Denser cruised in low over the left flank. Below them The Raven and Al-Arynaar were breaking the last of the resistance. With TaiGethen in behind them, the enemy were cut off and frightened. And while the Al-Arynaar, unused to in-line battle, were able to make little headway, The Raven had no such trouble and corpses littered the ground in their wake. One massive strike from Aeb finished it. His axe smashed through an unprotected skull, top to bottom, the force of the strike taking the weapon through the man's shoulder and shearing off his right arm. The survivors turned and ran.

  'Go, go!' shouted Hirad, and The Raven charged after the fleeing enemy as they sought to dodge the TaiGethen, pursuing them through the gap in the cliffs, along a sandy beach and out into the flat, silt-filled estuary.

  'Stay up,' said Erienne. 'Assuming your arms are up to it. I'll prepare again.'

  'Anything in particular?'

  'I thought HotRain.'

  'It'll do the job.'

  Denser swooped low. 'Hirad, we're going forward, see if we can't disrupt the runners or the defence.'

  'Be careful.'

  The mage pair headed up once more. Denser could see panthers in among the elves, joining the push forward, their enigmatic partners sprinting close behind, unarmed and unconcerned. The defenders on the other bank were falling back, trying to maintain an orderly retreat with the Al-Arynaar and the awesome TaiGethen pressing forward with increasing ferocity, though they were outnumbered almost three to one.

  Denser flew on over the heads of the defenders and out into the estuary. A sma
ll knot of men was running towards one of ten or more rowing boats. Out in the bay, three ships were moored, flags fluttering atop mainmasts. One unfurled lazily as he watched, caught in a wash of pallid moonlight. It was unmistakable.

  'I don't fucking believe it.' He dived for the knot of men. 'Let's get those runners.'

  'Suits me.'

  Denser flew in fast and low, keeping tight control of his concentration as his fury threatened to boil over. Erienne released the spell, sending a focussed cloud of HotRain spearing down, flaring in the sky as it fell, each drop of magical fire the size of her thumb.

  Sudden blue light mixed with the orange of the spell as the HotRain crackled uselessly over the shield covering the runners.

  'Dammit,' snapped Erienne.

  Denser growled his frustration and wheeled once more, looking down on the faces that craned to see who it was that attacked them. Arrows came from the night, flicking close but harmlessly by. And from somewhere DeathHail sheeted up at them, forcing him into a desperate climb and turn. Too close. Gripping Erienne tighter still, he took a last look down, meeting the eyes of a man he recognised.

  'We'll hunt you!' he called, as he rushed skywards beyond sight and arrow range. 'Don't you realise what you've done?'

  'Calm down, Denser,' said Erienne. 'What's got into you all of a sudden?'

  'Tell you when we land.'

  The Raven were being left behind, refusing to sacrifice their discipline for a headlong charge. Not that it mattered. The TaiGethen and Al-Arynaar were outpacing everyone else.

  Denser saw a TaiGethen come alongside a fleeing warrior, snap out an elbow and send him crashing to the ground, hands over his nose and mouth. The elf stopped and spun gracefully like a dancer, then stepped in to finish the man off, skewering his brain through an eye.

  But they weren't quite fast enough. Boats were already being pushed out into the bay, desperate oarsmen pulling hard, arrows fired at them sending the blue of HardShields flaring into the night. The Raven could see it all and slowed as one. Denser landed behind them and let Erienne out of his arms. Hirad, feet ankle-deep in estuary water, threw his sword down into the silt.

  'What did they think we were doing, fighting for the good of our health?' he said, and directed a contemptuous gesture at the elves on the right bank.

  All the boats were away now and the fugitives who hadn't made it into one were plunging into the water and swimming out after them. Only a couple of bodies could be seen floating with arrows protruding from back or neck.

  'They aren't used to fighting like this,' said Ilkar. 'It isn't their way. SpellShield down.'

  'No? Well they'd better learn fast if they want their precious thumb and writings back,' said Hirad.

  'Assuming those who escaped had anything.'

  'I don't care about bits of parchment,' said Ilkar. 'I just want one of those we've killed to have the thumb in some inside pocket.'

  Hirad nodded. 'Me too, Ilks, me too.'

  'What now?' asked Darrick.

  The Raven began to walk back towards the Al-Arynaar, searching for Rebraal. Behind them, they could hear the cheers of the enemy as their boats neared their ships and safety.

  'Let's see what my brother has to say,' said Ilkar.

  Denser felt weary. He followed behind his friends in silence, hand in hand with Erienne. She wanted to know the cause of his anger but he ignored the questioning look on her face. All of them had to hear it together.

  They found Rebraal in conversation with Auum, his fierce expression telling them all they needed to know about the results of the fight. They were standing by the bodies of the four strangers who had been running cloaked. Hooked from the swamp before the piranhas could do much damage, they'd been stripped and every stitch of clothing searched and torn to shreds before being scattered on the ground around them. Ilkar asked the question before reporting back to The Raven.

  'Parchment and texts only, I'm afraid,' he said. 'The thumb is on one of those ships.'

  'How can we be sure?' asked Erienne. 'Any of them could have dropped it anywhere between here and the temple.'

  'Pray that's not so,' said Ilkar.

  'Put it this way,' said The Unknown. 'The men that escaped are the only clues we've got. Whether they have the thumb or not, we have to catch them.'

  'So we need our ship very fast,' said Darrick.

  Ilkar nodded. 'And the elves are coming with us. The message will be sent. Every elf with a sword or bow is going to be heading north to Balaia.'

  'They're going to invade?' asked Hirad.

  'What choice do they have?' Ilkar shrugged. 'They don't want to die. We don't want to die.'

  'Right,' said Denser, coming to a decision. 'I'm flying back to Ysundeneth. Starting tonight. Jevin can sail round here, it'll be quicker that way.'

  'Done,' said Ilkar. 'But I'm coming with you. You might just need a friendly elf.'

  Denser smiled rather sadly and felt the blood pounding in his throat. 'Friendly, eh? Well here's a new test of our friendship, Ilkar. You want to know who it was attacked the temple?

  'It was Xetesk.'

  Chapter 33

  Jevin had confined his crew to the ship for the last three days and had paid two mages very well to travel with the Calaian Sun back to Balaia, whenever that day came. Like all elves Jevin wasn't given to rushed action but the situation overtaking Ysundeneth was quite without precedent. For eight days he'd watched as first unease, then anxiety and finally panic had engulfed the city.

  At the first signs of the plague being anything more than a localised infection, he had sent his crew out to hire the mages and to provision the ship. Water, cured meat, rice, grain, biscuit and root crops were the order, as well as apples and unripe grapefruit and lemons; anything that would keep longer than a few days.

  Below deck, his cargo holds had already been converted to accommodate passengers. Conditions were cramped and public but neither Protectors nor Xeteskian mages had made any complaint. He wasn't sure exactly how many mages Ilkar expected to make the trip. Over a hundred if he could get them, and Jevin had provisioned for that number.

  But as he watched the disaster unfold in Ysundeneth and heard rumours of similar events in other cities, he wondered if Ilkar and The Raven would be back at all. It was unutterably depressing having to watch helplessly as the elves of Calaius's largest port turned from calm private individuals into an angry mob in so short a time. Not altogether surprising, though.

  The plague, and such it had to be, had gorged itself on the population, but at random. There were no patterns of contagion, just as there was no cure. It struck at eight members of a family and left a sole survivor with nothing but grief as a companion. No areas were immune, but in the middle of a street one house would be free, while in the next street it would be the opposite: one household annihilated, the rest untouched. The randomness inspired hope and hatred in equal measure but far more destructive to Ysundeneth society was the latter. Survivors in devastated areas had been persecuted as carriers of the plague, some beaten, some even killed for the crime of living.

  But elsewhere those free of the disease pooled their eroding strength and demanded help from city authorities quite unable to provide it. Food had been looted and hoarded, rubbish had started to pile up in the streets. And so, latterly, had corpses. Businesses, inns and shops were closed and boarded up. Markets were empty.

  Jevin, like all the skippers at the dockside, had moved to anchor offshore. It wasn't just disease that concerned him; it was the mobs roaming the docks wanting out of the city by the quickest means possible. Already Ysundeneth was empty of every non-elf. They had been the first targets of suspicion but, being primarily merchants and seamen, they had simply hauled anchor and sailed back to Balaia, not that the Northern Continent was exactly stable. But a dozen ships had no cargo and therefore no financial means to sail.

  And for elves to leave would be desperate, even futile. The plague was not contagious; it did not spread through the air or in food
or water. It was something far deeper than that and it attacked elves at their core. There was no escape.

  At a meeting on board the Calaian Sun, the remaining twelve skippers had agreed to monitor the situation and play the waiting game for as long as they could. Eventually, someone would have to sail north and beg for help. Jevin had said that he would go, but only when The Raven reappeared. Until then, the dozen ships would remain anchored in a defensive formation, protect themselves from attack by boat and magic and wait for the inevitable. For if one thing was certain, it was that one day, probably very soon, they themselves would begin to die. Jevin stood with one of the mages at the port rail, gazing out at Ysundeneth on a perfect sunlit morning with the mist dispersing and the first clouds rolling across the mountains far to the south. From where he stood, the city was a tiny interloper in the mass of lush verdancy that was the rainforest. But his keen eyes could penetrate the quiet streets and see the catastrophe that had overcome it.

  'How many do you think have it now?' he asked the mage.

  Vituul was a young elf of average height, his dark blue eyes set in a classically angular face. His long black ponytail fell down the back of his light brown leather cloak. He had no family in the plague city and to be offered – with his equally poor friend, Eilaan – a good wage and a way out was a prayer answered. People were increasingly demanding that elven mages produce a miracle cure. The miracle wasn't going to happen.

  'It's almost impossible to say,' he said. 'The total is probably in the region of a third of the population, but as people start to die in large numbers so the actual number of live cases, if you'll excuse the term, will decrease also.'

  'But there are a hundred thousand people there,' breathed Jevin.

  'Not any more,' said Vituul. 'Thirty thousand are already dying.'

  'And no word on a cure,' said Jevin.

  It hit him then like it hadn't before. He'd managed to ignore the ramifications of what was going on in front of his eyes but Vituul's numbers scared him to the bone. If those numbers were right, in fifty days there'd be less than twelve thousand people left alive in Ysundeneth, and four thousand of them would be dying. And with that level of mortality possibly affecting the whole continent, Jevin wasn't just witnessing a devastating plague, he was witnessing the death of the elven race. He shivered.