Elfsorrow

by James Barclay

  ‘Come and sit,’ said Erskan, moving slowly to the chairs. ‘I can offer you a glass of wine. That is something in which we are rich.’ A dry chuckle escaped his lips. ‘And do take that damn silly hood off. I am aware of the deformities it hides.’

  Selik swept the hood back, glad for the play of air across his head. He sat down opposite Erskan, who didn’t flinch as he took in Selik’s smeared left cheek, dead white eye and slack left jaw. He was a middle-aged man grown very old in just two seasons. Terribly thin and frail-looking, his wisps of grey hair were oiled down on a scalp that topped a narrow, long-nosed face with a sharp chin and dull blue eyes. His hands, liver-spotted and with nails bitten down to the quick, shook as he poured the wine and handed Selik a glass.

  ‘So, Captain, or is it Commander, Selik. What great statement do you have to cheer the people of Erskan?’ The Lord spoke as he put his glass to his lips.

  ‘Captain, please.’ Selik smiled. ‘I understand your scepticism, my Lord. And I would concede that certain actions of the Black Wings have been, shall we say, overzealous?’

  ‘A vast understatement,’ said Erskan.

  ‘Be that as it may, we have all seen these past two seasons and more that our fears were entirely justified. More than that, the reality has far outweighed even my most fervent nightmares.’

  Erskan’s nod was cautious. ‘But surely you are not attempting to justify murder or any of your lesser crimes.’

  ‘Murder is an emotive word.’ Selik bristled despite his determination to remain under control. ‘I’m only asking you to agree that magic must, as we have always said in the Black Wings, be monitored and regulated independently of the colleges.’

  Erskan rested back in his chair. A cloud came across the sun, dimming the tinted light in the sparse room.

  ‘Well, I think that might be going a little far. Though a code of conduct might be a good compromise,’ said Erskan. ‘After all, one rogue child does not make every mage in every college irresponsible.’

  ‘But look at what she spawned, devastation and now war,’ said Selik. ‘And can any of us forget what has been caused in Arlen, or indeed in Julatsa, by the indiscriminate use of magic?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Have you been to Arlen, my Lord? Have you visited Korina or Gyernath, Denebre or Greythorne?’ Selik’s tone hardened. He could see he wasn’t getting through.

  ‘I must confess, no.’ At least Erskan had the grace to be embarrassed. ‘We have had problems of our own here.’

  ‘Arlen has all but been destroyed by the new conflict. But your buildings still stand and your farmers are planting new crops. For you, there is an end in sight.’

  Erskan’s smile was thin. ‘And our families bury their dead daily, they report their sick in ever-increasing numbers but the healers are dead too and the mages have fled. By the time the harvest comes, I will have less than a third of my people alive. And I wonder if there will be anyone fit enough to tend the crops, let alone gather them in.’

  Selik took a long sip of his wine. It was a Denebre red, a wine that would soon command a very high price. Denebre and its vineyards had been swallowed by the earth. Erskan’s eyes held depths of sorrow and desperation that should have melted the most frozen heart. But the Black Wings couldn’t afford such sentimentality.

  ‘Then now is the time to strike,’ Selik said. ‘To make the mages pay for the blight they’ve cast on our land. Where are they now, eh? In your hours of greatest need they are all at each other’s throats.

  ‘I need men, Lord Erskan. And I need them now. Do you think you’ll somehow escape the war here? We have to make a stand. All the innocent people who have died because of the mages must be avenged.’

  Erskan frowned. ‘I sympathise with you in this, I really do. But all you have to do is look about you to know why I can’t help you.’

  ‘Without popular support, where are we?’ asked Selik, failing to conceal his disappointment. ‘Balaians have to stand up now. They weaken each other every day they fight. We can break their domination, but only if we do it now.’

  Lord Erskan drained his glass and refilled it. The clouds moved on and the light sharpened.

  ‘You’ll find men out there with the will, I have no doubt,’ he said, gesturing at the windows with his free hand. ‘Men who have learned to hate mages, magic and everything they stand for.

  ‘But where will you find the strength, Captain? You want an army but those you see around you are struggling just to keep themselves and their families alive. I will ask no more of them and nor shall you.’

  ‘And your own guard?’

  ‘I won’t spare you even one. There are those within and without who would plunder what little we have. If I let that happen, I will have striven my whole life for nothing.’

  Selik finished his wine and stood up, feeling his frustration grow. It was a litany he had heard in half a dozen places but he had true support from many more.

  ‘But unless we curb the colleges’ power now, while we have the opportunity, you are lost anyway.’

  Erskan gave the slightest of shrugs but said nothing. Selik nodded and pulled his hood back over his head.

  ‘We have all made sacrifices and we have all seen friends and loved ones die. But to make our futures worth living, magic must be tamed. And I will do it with you or without you. But be prepared for change, my Lord. And soon.’

  Erskan stood too, and began moving towards the door. ‘You will do what you will do. I cannot give you my blessing or my men but I can wish a brighter future for us all. If you are instrumental in bringing that to Balaia, then I will have nothing but respect for you. But be sure you are just, because Balaia’s people have had enough of the unjust and power brokers treating them like pawns and play-things to be used and discarded on a whim.’

  ‘And that is why I will fight. The righteous are always just, my Lord, though those who do not see the path are often shocked at its turns.’ A thought struck him. ‘When did your mages leave?’

  Erskan shook his head. ‘A day ago, perhaps two. Heading for Julatsa. They are long gone from you. I don’t really remember.’

  ‘Thank you for your audience.’ Selik bowed his head.

  ‘It wasn’t just to hear you, Selik, it was to thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ Selik couldn’t disguise his surprise.

  ‘What you did for the street children. Every little helps.’

  Selik smiled beneath his hood. ‘Well, well, the sign of a Lord in control. Eyes everywhere.’ He bowed his head again. ‘Good day, Lord Erskan, and if you have a change of heart, you will find me. I already have support from Corin, Rache, Pontois - such as it is - Orytte and too many villages to mention.’

  Erskan seemed unimpressed. ‘They are free to make their choices, as am I. Take care on your path, Selik. The emotion of the people might be with you now but it is fickle. And no matter how much magic is feared and despised now, most of us count mages among our friends.’

  ‘But while they conduct a war, you are nothing to them, believe me. You only have to see Arlen to understand that.’

  Selik turned and followed the squire back to the courtyard and his horse. He was irritated but not surprised at Erskan’s reaction. But he couldn’t let it bother him. He had to focus on what he could rely on right now. The speed of his horses on the open road.

  After all, a day wasn’t so much to make up. Not if you knew how.

  Yron looked out over the fires into the impenetrable shadows of the rainforest and felt at ease for the first time since he had set foot on Calaius. His men had returned from the base camp reporting some improvement in the condition of the fever and snake bite cases and they’d all enjoyed a relaxed meal an hour or so after midnight.

  Guards stood at the edge of the ring of fires in front of the temple, but with the stores tent built and everything edible off the ground and sealed, he didn’t feel the need to post a permanent guard there. With wood enough to keep the fires going for two nights stacked in
the stores tent and in the temple he even felt sanguine towards the rain, which fell periodically and with enough force to douse flames and send his men scurrying for cover.

  He turned and wandered back inside the lantern-lit cool of the temple, allowing the canvas flap to fall back and hide the night. After failing to attach it to the stone, they’d hung it over a log balanced on the wide stone lintel.

  There was a healthy buzz of conversation as his men unwound and began to believe they might make it back to Balaia alive. The hardest part was done now. All they had to do was wait for the various stone doors to open. Irritating but bearable.

  Smiling, Yron walked up to the pool and trailed his hand through its cold pure surface. He’d stared at it a great deal during the day, imagining himself jumping into its cleansing embrace. He reckoned it was somewhere around eight to ten feet deep, and wide enough to accommodate a quarter of the men at a time. It was a gift and they’d earned the right to use it.

  Standing up, he began to unbuckle his belt.

  ‘Ben, the time has come,’ he announced.

  From his right, a man cheered and a ripple of laughter ran around the circular room, echoing faintly.

  ‘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?’