Elfsorrow

by James Barclay

  He could smell the water. It was not altogether unpleasant, and although brown and its flow soporific in its sluggishness, it had none of the fetid stagnancy he associated with city rivers back on Balaia. The elves, it seemed, didn’t use theirs as dumps or sewers.

  The wooden jetty echoed under the tramp of their feet, the odd timber creaking as they passed, water lapping against the piles driven into the river bed. Ilkar strode confidently over the damp and slippery surface, stopping in front of a quartet of identical craft each some thirty feet long with a single mast in the middle, sail furled horizontally against it. An elf was stretched out across a seat at the stern of one of the vessels, smoke curling from a pipe in his mouth. It reminded Hirad that he hadn’t seen Denser smoking his pipe in ages. Perhaps Erienne had cured him of the habit.

  Ilkar hailed the elf and he sat up and waved them all on board, keeping his eyes down, not wishing contact with the Balaians invading his boat. He was old for an elf, his hair long and greying, his face full of sharp lines and heavy wrinkles. He had huge hands and powerful shoulders and possessed little of the natural grace of so many of his kind. He and Ilkar held a brief conversation in a dialect Hirad couldn’t understand before he untied the stern rope and pushed them into the flow with an oar, where there was a breeze getting up, clearing the mist.

  ‘Get the sail up, would you someone?’ asked Ilkar, taking up station at the tiller with their guide, Ren, close to him. ‘Kayloor thinks there’ll be enough wind to take us up against the current but if we could have oars ready, it might help if things get slack.’

  ‘No problem,’ said The Unknown, bending down and untying the oar beneath the bulwark. ‘You relax.’

  ‘Someone’s got to relay what he’s saying,’ said Ilkar, a smile on his face.

  ‘Right.’ The Unknown sat down, Aeb taking up the position beside him. Thraun looked on in some confusion but The Unknown just waved him to a seat and he seemed to understand. Denser and Erienne sat in the prow looking out, still saying nothing. It left Hirad and Darrick to raise the sail, which filled enough to push them gently out into the current.

  ‘Now it starts,’ said Ilkar. ‘Keep your eyes on the banks and don’t trail your hands in the water.’

  ‘Fish got sharp teeth, have they?’ said Hirad.

  ‘Oh it’s not the fish that should be worrying you, Hirad. There’s far worse than mere fish in here,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘You’re so reassuring.’

  ‘Just realistic,’ said Ilkar. ‘This isn’t like anything any of you have ever experienced. Don’t treat it like Balaia or even Herendeneth or you’ll come unstuck.’

  ‘ “Coming unstuck” meaning?’

  ‘Dead, usually,’ said Ren.

  ‘Great place,’ said Hirad. ‘How surprising you left.’

  ‘But it is great, Hirad,’ said Ilkar. ‘Just dangerous for strangers.’

  Hirad shared a glance with Darrick, who raised his eyebrows.

  ‘All right, General?’ asked the barbarian.

  ‘Never better,’ replied Darrick.

  A booming bellow echoed across the river from the opposite bank. Through the clearing mist, a flock of birds scattered into the sky, their calls piercing and shrill. Hirad jumped. The boat rocked. In the stern Ren and Ilkar were laughing.

  ‘Gods, but I’m going to enjoy this,’ said the mage.

  The sail snapped and filled as the breeze stiffened in the centre of the channel. Choosing to keep his thoughts to himself, Hirad looked away into the depths of the rainforest.

  Chapter 14

  Selik, forty Black Wings and their mage prisoner galloped into Understone after a hard three-day ride through yet more devastated countryside, abandoned farms and desolate villages. Their horses were exhausted, riders saddle-sore and Selik himself was experiencing severe pain in his face and across the dead parts of his chest. It was something he’d never understood. The nerves had been frozen by the bitch’s spell so why could it hurt so much? Phantom pain, he’d been told. He preferred to believe it signalled some regeneration of his damaged body but in six years his condition hadn’t improved.

  Understone had never recovered from its central role in the last Wesmen wars. A small garrison town, it had been run-down when the war began and the battles it saw had left it burned and battered. It was now barely a shell. And to think what it had been when first built: the great defence against Wesmen invasion through Understone Pass.

  The Black Wings rode down its rebuilt but again abandoned main street, past boarded-up houses down to the small stockaded garrison itself, reining in by the open front gates. Less than four hundred yards away, the black mouth that was the pass yawned large. Under the control of the Wesmen once again, the pass was the only passable land route east to west across the Blackthorne Mountains.

  Selik turned his attention to the guard who hurried out to meet them. He was a raw recruit wearing old shabby leather and chain armour and carrying a rusting pike. His helmet wobbled on his head and his white, pinched and hungry face held frightened eyes.

  ‘State your business,’ he said, his voice wavering.

  Selik dismounted and walked over to the guard, his arms spread to indicate peaceful intent.

  ‘Please don’t be nervous. We mean our defenders no harm,’ he drawled through the ache in his face and mouth. ‘We merely seek a place to billet for the night before riding on south tomorrow morning.’

  The guard’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘Why south?’

  ‘We’re on a humanitarian mission,’ said Selik. ‘Perhaps I should speak to your commanding officer.’

  ‘I will see if he’s available,’ said the guard, the tremor diminishing in his voice. ‘May I take your name?’

  ‘Of course. I am Captain Selik and these are the Black Wings.’

  The guard took a step backwards. ‘I’ll go and get the Commander. ’

  Selik shook his head and turned to his men.

  ‘Dismount. Go and find yourselves places to sleep. I’ll organise feed for the horses and make sure the garrison have nothing to fear from us, if you know what I mean. We’ll talk later. Be ready for my orders.’

  He watched them disperse, one of his lieutenants taking his horse for him. His gaze fell on the Julatsan mage, his puffed face and bound hands, as he was pulled from his mount. The elf leant against his horse while the strength returned to his legs. Selik was forming a grudging respect for him. Despite threats, frequent beatings, smashed fingers and toes, the mage hadn’t even told them his name.

  Selik would normally have broken a mage by now, frightened him or her into doing his bidding. But this elf had enormous mental strength. It couldn’t go on, of course. Selik had a message he wanted delivered. He didn’t want to wait until he returned from Blackthorne to despatch it and, right now, one thing he was certain of was that this mage would not obey him. Turning to watch the garrison commander walk towards him, the scared guard at his shoulder, he pondered what he might do.

  ‘Captain Selik,’ said the Commander gruffly, not offering a hand. He was a lean man, more from hunger than fitness, Selik suspected, with very short grey hair and a well trimmed beard of the same colour. His armour was obviously looked after if a little old and he carried himself with pride. ‘I am Anders, commander of this garrison. My private tells me you’re looking to travel south.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, Commander Anders. I was hoping you’d allow my men to rest until then in the town.’

  Anders raised his eyebrows. ‘Help yourself. I can offer you nothing in the way of food or bedding though we have a well in the compound here that you’re welcome to use.’

  Selik smiled. ‘Many thanks. I appreciate the gesture.’

  Anders’ face was stone. ‘It was not offered in fellowship. I care more for your horses than I do for you or your band of murderers.’

  Used to the polarised reactions he inspired, Selik kept himself deliberately calm.

  ‘We are all entitled to our beliefs, Commander. Much of Balaia�
��s population would not agree with you, I fear.’

  ‘I have heard the reports, Selik. You are attempting to deny Balaia the very people it needs to drag itself out of this mess.’

  ‘A mess created by magic,’ snapped Selik.

  ‘I won’t debate this with you,’ said Anders, holding up a hand. ‘You are wrong and unwelcome, and were it not for your horses, you would not be staying here.’

  ‘Exactly what I would expect from a college lackey.’

  Anders laughed. ‘Don’t try to rile me, Selik. I am proud of my college. And I am proud of the force I command here, small though it is. There may be conflict between the colleges at the moment but not here. We are, and ever will be, mindful of the Wesmen threat and we also police the trails north and south of here.’

  ‘Conflict? What are they telling you, Anders? Let me guess. The Xeteskian and Dordovan contingents had to be recalled but they have failed to explain why, am I right? I’d hate you to have to test their commitment right now.’

  Anders stepped forward and ushered Selik away from the gates to the compound.

  ‘Let me advise you of a couple of things, Selik. First, the four colleges all hold to the pledge to supply a considerable force should there be any attempted incursion. I and my fifty charges are here to maintain defences, wards and to keep up trails, food and water supplies.

  ‘Second, I have mages inside that compound who I rate as friends. They will be very unhappy you are here even for a night but very happy that you are travelling south in the morning. I have no idea why you’re going and I don’t care as long as you leave at first light,’ he said, coming to a halt. ‘But if Blackthorne is your intended destination, I have no doubt he will be even less accommodating. He, like me, believes in both mages and magic.’

  ‘I’ll bear your warning in mind,’ said Selik.

  ‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Anders. ‘Now, I don’t expect to see you at my gates ever again. Only two of your men will collect water at a time, and they will ask permission at the gates before entering. And should any of my men or mages be abused verbally or physically by any of your men, I will seek you out and kill you myself. How do those rules sound to you?’

  ‘Whatever makes you happy, Commander. Good day. We will not speak again.’

  Selik walked on, not sparing Anders another glance. He picked up his pace as he strode down into the town, noting the temporary picketing of horses and the boards levered off wrecked buildings to fuel fires. He snapped his fingers at a nearby Black Wing whose name escaped him. No more than a thug, the man, with thick neck and bald head covered in tattoos, ambled across, a stalk of grass hanging from his mouth.

  ‘Where is Devun?’

  The man shrugged and pointed. ‘In the old inn, I think.’

  ‘See that Edman and Callom join us there immediately. And then start ferrying water, two men at a time, from the compound. And keep your mouth shut. They may be college scum but we need them until we get back, understand?’

  The man looked at him with sullen eyes but nodded. ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘Then get on with it.’

  Selik marched to the inn, identifiable only because of the brace on which the sign had once hung. Inside, he found Devun and Edman talking with another two. They were among a litter of splintered timbers but had found a serviceable table and bench.

  ‘You two, get out of here. See to your horses and wait for orders,’ said Selik, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘And if you see Callom, get him in here quickly.’

  He watched them until they disappeared through the door out to the street.

  ‘Right. Where’s the mage?’

  ‘Callom’s got him. We’re still working on him,’ said Devun. ‘Gods, but he’s a tough bastard.’

  ‘Keep going. I want him cracked by the morning or his corpse in the ground.’

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ said Edman, a Black Wing veteran; tall, well built with dark brown hair and a bushy beard flecked with grey.

  ‘Right, I’ve learned two things. First, the garrison here is small but has reasonable mage strength. However, it is isolated. Second, Blackthorne is definitely harbouring mages.

  ‘Things need to move fast now. It’s eight days’ ride to Blackthorne and I’ll be leaving before dawn tomorrow. Give it half a day to talk to the Baron and scout the area and another eight days back and you have your timescale.’

  ‘Is it worth visiting Blackthorne, sir? After all, he won’t join us,’ said Edman.

  ‘I have to know the threat he poses to us, and I have to canvass opinion of our crusade in the outlying villages. Yes, it’s worth it. And I have to try to convert him before declaring him an enemy. Think if I could persuade him against his beliefs.’

  ‘And the rest of the plan still holds?’ asked Edman.

  ‘Yes. You and Callom each pick five good men. Mobilise support. Bring supply. Bring it here. I want the first true Balaians here by the time the garrison is cleared. I can give you a maximum of twenty days. Think you can do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Edman nodded. ‘And what about the garrison?’

  ‘Leave it to me. Don’t worry. By the time you get back, we’ll be in charge of Understone. Now pick your men, brief Callom when you see him, since he’s obviously otherwise engaged now, and get some rest. You’re leaving before me.’

  Edman nodded and trotted out of the inn. Selik turned to Devun and breathed out long.

  ‘Any alcohol in here?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Devun smiled. ‘We’ve looked.’

  ‘Cellars?’

  ‘Empty.’

  ‘Dammit.’ Selik sat down heavily on the bench, which creaked alarmingly.

  ‘Are you worried, Captain?’

  Selik looked up into Devun’s eyes and shook his head. ‘Not really. But this is our best chance to bring down the colleges and I can’t afford it to go wrong. We’ve got to crack that mage, make sure he takes our message. Their divisions need deepening.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Captain.’ Devun cracked his knuckles for effect.

  ‘You’re a good man, Devun,’ said Selik. ‘I’m glad you’re with me. The sacrifices are many on the path to righteousness. Get to it.’

  Devun beamed, saluted and left.

  Selik smiled at his retreating back.

  Heryst, Lord Elder Mage of Lystern, slapped his riding gloves down on the table in the great hall of the college’s vast tower complex and poured himself a large goblet of wine. He stared around at the tapestries of his forerunners while he calmed himself and waited for the council.

  Galloping through the quiet streets of Lystern in the early hours of the morning on the last day of his ride from Dordover, Heryst had felt the anger redouble in him. This city was dragging itself back from the brink of famine. Its people had worked hard and believed in the rationing that had kept them alive. They had taken in refugees by the thousand, gone without to do so, and still there had been little disorder.

  The streets were clean, the markets still bought and sold, trade was just beginning to show some recovery and he had seen real optimism in the faces of those he had passed.

  And now it was being threatened. Pointlessly threatened.

  Draining his goblet, he poured more, enjoying the taste of the wine so early in the day, feeling it warming his mind and easing his frayed temper. He walked to one of the great arched windows and looked down over his college.

  The great hall sat at the top of the wide low tower that was the centre of Lysternan magic. Only forty feet high, with a plain tiled conical roof, it had a diameter three times its height and an intricate beam system bound by magic that kept the roof from collapsing. Beneath the great hall, ceremonial chambers, lecture theatres and laboratories were dug deep into the earth surrounding the Heart of the college.

  Like the spokes of a wheel, seven stone corridors spread from the tower to an outer circle of offices and classrooms, and between the corridors were seven stunning gardens, places of contemplation reserved for the se
nior mages of the college. Orchards, shrubberies, rock gardens, pools and fantastic arrays of flowers; the mood of the mage and the season dictated where one might be found walking or sitting.

  Linked to the outer circle, arcs of buildings spread hundreds of yards in all directions: the library, refectories, cold room, mana bowl, long rooms and chambers of those resident. Only Heryst himself had his rooms and offices in the tower. All built to a focused design, Lysternan magic found power in the geometry of its buildings, their precise architecture and the angles of walls and roofs. Heryst didn’t claim to know a great deal about the origins of the knowledge, he only knew he was not going to let it be torn apart.

  He sat in his luxuriously upholstered and very high-backed chair, all deep greens and blood reds, and looked around the circular table, with its diamond-patterned marquetry and its hollows where the elbows of ages had worn its scratched but polished surface. What decisions had been taken here over the centuries, what great projects had been discussed. History hung in the air; you could all but smell it. But no subject could have been more important than the one about to be aired now.

  Doors opened all along the semicircular corridor that bordered the great hall on one side and in came the council. Thirty men and women, expectant but a little anxious at being called from their beds so early. Each took his or her allotted place at the table. Not a one spoke aloud though Heryst could feel the odd surge of Communion as some tried to get a hint of what was to come from friends they thought in higher places than themselves.

  ‘My friends, I apologise for the intrusion on your rest this morning and for my appearance,’ said Heryst, when all were seated. He had no doubt the fact he was still dusty and sweaty from the road had raised a few eyebrows. ‘But there are things I need to know and you need to hear.’