Elves: Beyond the Mists of Katura

by James Barclay

  Gilderon felt a measure of relief. ‘There’s something else?’

  ‘Yes, there are cart and horse tracks heading away from here back towards Julatsa. Four horses, two pulling the cart, which was well laden, hopefully with survivors. The age of the tracks means we only just missed them. I put us less than a day behind any survivors.’

  Gilderon saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and stood, gazing towards nearby woodlands. A shape shot out of them, soaring high into the sky. Another followed. More figures moved out on foot.

  ‘We’ve been seen,’ he said. ‘Senserii, at the ready.’

  ‘Humans,’ said Helodian. ‘Murderers. Tracks lead to and from the wood and into the foothills. They did this.’

  ‘They are fighting a war much like those at the Manse, assuming they are of the same college. What was its name?’

  ‘Xetesk,’ said Helodian.

  The mages on wings came closer, hovering about twenty feet in the air and the same distance away. One said something Gilderon couldn’t understand though its tone suggested it was a question. Gilderon was silent and the mage repeated the question, this time in a more strident tone.

  Gilderon pointed at him. ‘Xetesk?’ he asked.

  The mage nodded. Gilderon hefted his staff and threw it in one smooth motion. The weapon flew straight, its blade catching a glint of sunlight before it struck the mage’s chest and he fell to the ground with a gasp. The other mage shot skywards and backwards shouting, presumably, for help.

  Gilderon ran to the fallen mage, who was lying on his back. The ikari had fallen from his body. Gilderon picked it up. He spoke knowing the human couldn’t understand him.

  ‘You are guilty before the eyes of Shorth for the elves you killed here. Shorth is a god of great mercy, but not for you. I send you to him and your pleadings will not avail you.’

  Gilderon jabbed his ikari blade into the mage’s eye, piercing his brain and killing him instantly. He pulled it clear and wiped the gore on the mage’s clothing. Looking up, he saw the humans massing and coming at them hard.

  ‘We can’t take them all,’ he said. ‘Where is Cordolan?’

  Helodian pointed at a figure sprinting down the side of a low hill, heading towards them on a wide angle to avoid the human advance. Gilderon nodded.

  ‘Good. Let’s lose them. Senserii, we will run till dusk.’

  And at dusk, hidden in a small copse, they chose their path and reaffirmed their faith and loyalty. Cordolan spoke first.

  ‘The survivors went up the walls. Some didn’t make it. There are bodies, burned and broken, abandoned to rot at the base of the mountain. But some must have escaped or why are the humans here still?’

  Gilderon nodded. ‘Helodian, you are ill at ease. Speak.’

  ‘What we saw today . . . the ash and the strength of the human forces still at the site . . . we can’t defeat that sort of force alone. We don’t know how many of Auum’s people have survived and we can’t follow them over the mountain. We are many things but we are not climbers.’

  Gilderon nodded. ‘I understand. And are we all feeling the same unease, as if our path has been muddied and we must seek a new one if we are to help in this fight?’

  Every mouth issued words of assent.

  ‘Then I can offer you comfort,’ said Gilderon. ‘We need answers, so it is the cart and horses we have to find. We’ll pick up their tracks in the morning, though I assume they are returning to Julatsa. Then we’ll know how many are still travelling in the mountains, and finally we must make obeisance to our master and seek forgiveness for our lack of loyalty and attention. We deserted him and we must make recompense for our error.’

  Their faces brightened and he smiled, pleased they all wanted what he had desired ever since they had left Takaar.

  The Senserii slept and Gilderon kept watch. The words were easy but the task was not. Easy to say they would seek Takaar’s forgiveness. But he was not as he had once been, and his reaction, when they returned, might not be one they would survive. Still, they had to try. They needed him and he needed them. Gilderon prayed he did, anyway.

  They made it to the overhang with night almost full, and it was clear the weather would kill some during the night. It had closed in yet further and the snow fell in a thick mass of flakes that clung to the clothes and skin, blown on a mourning, howling wind that carried the voice of their deaths.

  Hands were frozen, cut and blistered, boots were torn, and inside feet were ice and ankles swollen. Their faces, despite the coverings, were raw with the constant attrition of ice and wind, and their eyes were pained by the bright white, the only part of them wanting the blessed dark of night.

  Auum tried as best he could to get the weakest of them into the centre of the group and pack others in around them to give them some warmth, but the cold seeped up through the stone on which they sat and the wind blew more snow around the sides of the wall at their backs.

  They had eaten a joyless meal, a rough stew of horsemeat and some roots gathered on the way past the lake a couple of days before. For some eating was an ordeal in itself, and they had to be spoon-fed so they wouldn’t spill it on their already sodden, freezing clothes.

  Auum tried to ignore the fact that he was shivering so hard he couldn’t sit down. He could barely open his mouth to talk and had taken only a few swallows of the stew, seeing others needing more sustenance than he did. It was probably an error with the cold penetrating through to his bones and on into his heart and soul. Stein had told them it would be cold, but this was a level of pain beyond anything he could have conceived.

  ‘Something to tell your children about,’ said Ulysan.

  He was still managing to smile despite the obvious discomfort of carrying Tilman for the day. He looked utterly spent but still refused to sit down and had checked on everyone else, all one hundred and twenty of them, exactly as both Auum and Stein had.

  ‘I’ll have to write it down before I freeze to death,’ said Auum, a new shiver racking his body so hard it made him grunt. ‘Trouble is, my fingers are frozen and I couldn’t hold a quill.’

  ‘Nor do we have bark or parchment, but it was a sound plan other than that.’

  Auum cast his eyes over his people. Julatsan elves were moving among the tight-packed bodies, doing what they could with warmth and healing, but it was like using a fruit knife to fell a banyan. He and Ulysan were standing at the outer edge, a few yards from a sheer drop into a chasm. Auum wondered how many bodies they might be rolling into it come morning. Perhaps there would be none left to chant the lamentations.

  Auum felt a keen anger bite and it warmed his soul a little. He let it grow, take form and substance in his mind, and he realised where his anger stemmed from. He turned to the quiet huddled group, most of whom had their faces buried in their arms and their knees dragged right up, trying to eke out a modicum of comfort.

  ‘This cannot be it,’ he said loudly enough to cut across the whine of the wind. ‘This cannot be all we can do. It is going to get colder and colder as the night deepens, and how many of you, with your nerveless hands and your soaking clothes, think you are going to survive? I’m not certain I will.

  ‘The TaiGethen cannot fight this. We cannot make fires from nothing. So what has your wonderful magic got to offer, my Il-Aryn and Julatsan friends? Conjure me a log and some kindling. Conjure me a timber shelter. Do something.’

  Stein stood. His lips were swollen and his face was raw and red.

  ‘I understand your frustration, but we are few and we cannot expend all of our strength. I could have my mages warm the stone, but the cold runs deep and the warmth will be stolen before it can be of use because we are so exposed here. We have to conserve our energy.’

  ‘For what? If we don’t do something, most of us will not be alive to benefit from your precious stamina come dawn.’ Auum stared at the faces of TaiGethen and Il-Aryn around him and saw either determination or surrender. He picked out Rith. ‘And you, what can you do? Takaar’s tea
ching of seven hundred years cannot be so feeble that you cannot warm yourselves, surely?’

  ‘We can’t make heat out of ice,’ said Rith. ‘It doesn’t work that way. We don’t channel mana like a Julatsan, we use the energies around us to forge what we can. We adapt what we have; we cannot create something from nothing. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Auum spat out the word. ‘Is that it? Just as on the walls of Julatsa when the pressure was on and you found you could do nothing? Takaar’s precious Il-Aryn, the new power among the elves . . . Yniss save us and Ix abandon you, but on this evidence I never had anything to worry about, did I?’

  Rith could not hold his stare. He saw her shudder violently as she dropped her head, and he wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the onset of tears. Auum spread his arms.

  ‘We have suffered to bring you here. TaiGethen saved you by the lake, we saved you on the wall and we kept you alive to get here. Now it is your turn. Don’t you dare look away from me, Rith.’

  Her gaze returned and there was fire in it at least.

  ‘We did not ask for this! We did not want war and we did not want to freeze to death on a mountainside, but you forced us here, gave us no choice but to go with you. You brought us here and now we are spent and we have no hope.’

  ‘None of us wanted war,’ snapped Auum. ‘But it is what we have. Either here and now, or in our lands in the days to come. I choose to fight here and I will die here if I must, but it will be by sword thrust or black fire, not because of a lack of elven spirit.’

  Rith shrugged her shoulders, the shudders in her body so violent they made the gesture painful. ‘We cannot draw heat from ice. I am sorry.’

  ‘I do not believe you. I refuse to believe you! I have seen Takaar sink a ship. I have seen you create barriers that beat off Wytch Lord magic, and only yesterday you made the air sharp enough to behead our enemies travelling at a gallop. And you are telling me you cannot create something to keep the damn snow off my back?’

  Rith’s mouth fell open and she looked at him as if he were a fresh warm morning.

  ‘We’ve been thinking about this all wrong,’ she said. ‘Give me a moment. Il-Aryn, gather round, I have an idea.’

  Rith began to speak and Auum turned away, uninterested in the mechanics of whatever she thought she might do as long as she did it quickly. He felt a nudge at his elbow and Stein was standing there. He had a bowl in one hand and, as Auum watched, he played a flame from his palm beneath it until its contents steamed. He handed it over and produced a spoon from his cloak.

  ‘Here. You didn’t eat enough. Admirable but stupid. If you die all hope will be lost.’

  ‘You don’t feel pressure, do you, Auum?’ said Ulysan.

  Auum thought to refuse, but his stomach saw sense and he began to scoop the warm stew into his mouth, having trouble holding the spoon in his unresponsive fingers.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘the quality of Ulysan’s jokes has reached a point where all hope is already lost.’

  ‘I wonder what they’re doing,’ said Ulysan.

  ‘Saving all our lives, I trust,’ said Auum.

  ‘Is it that bad?’ asked Ulysan.

  ‘I know how I feel and I know how much I can take. It’s night, and the temperature is falling like a stone down that chasm. If we cannot get warm, we’re all going to die right here.’ Auum stabbed a finger at Stein. ‘And if that happens, don’t you dare let anyone who can escape die too or I’ll haunt you from Shorth’s embrace.’

  ‘To leave you would be to betray you.’

  Auum gave Ulysan his empty bowl and pulled Stein into an embrace which the human found uncomfortable but which Auum would not let him break. Eventually, he released him, kissing his forehead.

  Ulysan raised his eyebrows. ‘Some honour,’ he said.

  ‘If all humans were like you, our races would have been friends for a thousand years. What a waste.’ Auum stepped away and looked back to Rith. ‘Now then, how are they getting on? I wonder. Even though I’m freezing and I consider you my brother, Stein, I won’t embrace you again. Your clothes absolutely stink.’

  Chapter 27

  You never know what is lurking in the dark recesses of the flesh.

  Sipharec, High Mage of Julatsa

  Kerela was scared and she was tired but she knew there would be precious little sleep for her. Sipharec was dying and his passing would make her high mage, a position for which she suddenly felt herself entirely inadequate. She knew she would have the support of Harild and that meant a great deal, but her first task, should Sipharec pass during the night, would be to preside over a war with Xetesk and the Wytch Lords.

  She shuddered as she entered her rooms. The great balcony doors had been left open and the curtains were blowing in the chill night air. It was somehow fitting, the cold matching her mood. Sipharec . . . who would have thought it?

  Not a cancer, which is what he had assumed, but a failure of his heart and liver. As if they’d had enough and were shutting down. There was nothing magic could do but ease the pain. The poor man was so angry and bitter he would not see his job through that he had not left his rooms since he had fallen ill just a few days ago.

  Kerela’s mind was tumbling with anxiety so much that she failed to notice the figure sitting on the end of her bed until she had closed the doors and turned back into the room. She stifled a cry and placed a hand on her thudding heart, relaxing when she saw who it was.

  ‘Most people make an appointment,’ she said. ‘How did you get in here? You’re exiled.’

  ‘No ward or wall can keep me from where I must be,’ said Takaar. ‘And I must be here.’

  He was filthy from the trail, his hair unkempt and with dirt staining his clothes and face. He had a hollow look in his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days and a pinch to his cheeks told of a lack of food. But those eyes were alive with his madness barely in check, and Kerela was acutely aware of how dangerous he could be.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

  He smiled, and his voice dropped to a whisper so quiet she had to lean in to hear him.

  ‘I have been to the Septern Manse.’

  The smile on his face was childlike. Kerela gasped and sat down on the bed next to him.

  ‘What did you see? Tell me, were our team there?’

  Takaar shook his head and Kerela sagged, though she had known in her heart that they’d been killed. Friends of hers, people beloved by the college, had been in that party – peaceful people, talented people.

  ‘Only Xeteskians were there. And fighters with masks, strong and quick but dark of soul.’

  ‘Protectors,’ breathed Kerela. ‘They sent Protectors. We never stood a chance.’

  ‘There is no one there now.’ Takaar smiled but there was no glory in his tone when he spoke his next words. ‘Because I am a better mage than they and the Senserii are better fighters.’

  Kerela knew she shouldn’t but she hugged Takaar. He tensed and she let him go at once but couldn’t keep the smile from her face.

  ‘I shouldn’t feel good that they are dead but I can’t help it,’ she said.

  Takaar shrugged. ‘They killed your people and you are an elf. Never be ashamed of your heritage.’

  ‘Harild will be delighted. He’s sent a force down there to take the Manse and make it ours.’

  Takaar hadn’t appeared to be listening but he frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘So that when this is done, Julatsa can own Dawnthief.’

  Takaar was distracted, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them as wide as he could and staring around the room.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Takaar. ‘You should call them back. No one will ever secure Dawnthief.’

  ‘That’s some statement,’ said Kerela, suppressing a laugh. ‘How do you know?’

  Takaar stared at her as if she was stupid.

  ‘Because I am a better mage.’

  ‘You’re going to have to offer more than that if I’m to change our agre
ed defence tactics.’

  ‘I know what you told me,’ said Takaar after a pause. He looked to his right. ‘She’ll understand. Eventually, they all understand.’

  Kerela felt a frisson of nerves. This was the first time she’d seen him engage with his other self, and it was deeply unsettling. She waited, not knowing what else to do and being reluctant to interrupt. She became acutely aware of her vulnerability. No one knew he was here and she was alone with him, the elf who had turned Drech’s head to ash.

  ‘Don’t press me!’ Takaar snapped. Kerela jumped and moved a little further away along the edge of the bed. Takaar turned a terribly fragile smile on her. ‘I’m sorry, I startled you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, her heart thundering in her chest.

  ‘See what you’ve done,’ hissed Takaar.

  Kerela took in a long trembling breath. ‘I don’t think—’

  Takaar’s hand shot out and took hers. His grip was gentle though his fingers and palms were rough with dirt and scratches.

  ‘You must hear this,’ said Takaar. ‘Before I . . . Anyway you must hear this. Dawnthief isn’t at Septern Manse. It isn’t anywhere in the Balaian dimension.’

  ‘Dimension?’ Kerela knew the history of the elves and Takaar’s discovery on Hausolis, but the theory had always confused her and she had left its study to others in the college. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Takaar dismissively. ‘I can sense the place where it must be held, where the secrets are kept. I can even draw the doorway in the mud of the manse ruins, but I cannot open it.’

  ‘How can you be sure that no one can just because you can’t?’

  It was a dangerous question, and Kerela regretted it the moment she asked, but Takaar merely favoured her with a patronising smile. He patted her hand and withdrew his to itch at his right forearm, which was already red and scraped from his scratching.

  ‘It is closed against all those without his talents. I can read the energies even though I can’t unpick them to work the lock. He understood all four of your magics, didn’t he?’