Elves: Rise of the TaiGethen

by James Barclay

  ‘You’re too late, Takaar. Whatever you really want, you won’t find it here. I won’t help you. Not without more nectar.’

  ‘I will not support your habit to get what I came for. I won’t be complicit in your death.’

  Pelyn leaned towards him and the breath that came from her was as rotten as the remaining teeth in her mouth. ‘You already are.’

  Oh dear. You really have nothing she wants, do you?

  ‘Wrong,’ said Takaar. He rose to his feet. Pelyn watched him, a half-smile on her face. ‘How soon before the craving becomes unbearable, I wonder? How long will it take before you are begging me to give you what you need? Will you attack me again or just quiver away in a corner, waiting to prostitute yourself to whoever will supply you?’

  Pelyn’s head had dropped to her chest. Her hands were wringing together and she couldn’t keep her legs still against the floor timbers.

  ‘It’ll be full dawn in an hour,’ said Takaar. ‘That’s your first goal because no one is coming up here until then. They think they have me trapped, you see, and so they won’t risk coming in when I specifically told them not to. And you think you have power over me too. If you say go, then I’ll go, right?’

  Pelyn raised her head. ‘Go.’

  ‘Yet here I remain. Think on this. I will find what I have come for, with or without you. My guess is that I have ten days or so to find it and remove it from the city. That means I have nine and a half days I can spend here with you, keeping you away from that nectar you so want and killing every elf that comes through your doors.’

  Pelyn was staring at him again, this time like a cornered animal seeking escape. ‘Why would you do that to me? I thought you loved me.’

  ‘I do,’ said Takaar and he chuckled at his tormentor’s silence. ‘So I will do whatever I must to free you of this curse. Not just for you, though. Perhaps in ten days you might be recovered enough to hold a blade and lead a defence. You’ll need to be. All those people who rely on you, or thought they could, will need you. And you will be desperate to succeed.’

  ‘Why?’

  Takaar could see Pelyn gradually pushing herself upright against the dividing door.

  ‘Because I’m being followed. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but it’s become obvious recently. Movements in the trails of magical force, that sort of thing.’ Takaar waved a hand. ‘Nothing I can do about it except take what I came for and try to leave you with some hope. So I need your help.’

  Pelyn turned and grabbed the connecting door. She’d pulled it half open before Takaar kicked it shut again and grabbed both her arms at the shoulders, forcing her to face him.

  ‘And I need that help now.’

  ‘What? What!’

  ‘This place is made up of ghettos now, right? You get to take me to the Ixii and Gyalan ghettos, the Orrans and Cefans too. After that I might just let the elf who supplies you live to see the destruction of everything he thought he was building here. Because when they get here, unless you stand against them, it really will be the end. No more Katura. No more edulis. Poor little Pelyn, what will she do then?’

  ‘Who’s coming? Who’s following you here?’

  ‘Thousands and thousands of men.’

  Chapter 26

  The appetite for Calaian rainforest wood is insatiable. No one of any means would consider the use of any other timber. The bloody idiots would probably burn their own houses now if they were fashioned of Greythorne oak.

  Reminiscences of an Old Soldier, by Garan, sword master of Ysundeneth (retired)

  Garan was sitting in his favourite chair in the western panoramic room, giving him views over Ysundeneth. In decades gone by he’d enjoyed watching the city landscape change; become less elven, more human. Beauty was not something Ystormun appreciated; functionality was everything, and Garan defied anyone to find beauty in Ystormun’s version of functionality though the efficiency of his redesigned Ysundeneth was certainly impressive.

  The city was dominated by the imposing warehouse buildings which housed the Sharps. Thousands were crammed into inadequate spaces. That, combined with derisory latrine facilities, rations just above starvation levels and elven herbs in quantities sufficient only to cure mortal illnesses, was Ystormun’s morale-sapping master plan.

  It was most effective. The Sharps feared the withholding of food as much as they did the draconian crushing punishments for stepping out of line. The whole city was effectively a prison camp and a storage and shipping facility of huge proportions taking resources and wealth north to Balaia.

  Sitting here, on a day that had begun with spectacular lightning storms and torrential rain and was now steaming gently under a hot sun, Garan started to wonder when his mind had begun to change. The gods knew he had plenty of years to look across. He took a sip of a honey drink designed to soothe the sores that ran the length of his gullet.

  He could dismiss the dimmer memories, like the day he heard he would never be going home or the day he knew he had become little more than an experiment. Not because they didn’t hurt but because they were over a hundred and twenty years old. And he had to admit that watching everything unfold around him for the last century and a half was a significant compensation.

  Garan’s gradual grudging friendship with Takaar was certainly a factor. Though he couldn’t recall much of their earlier conversations, Garan recognised that they had sown the seeds of a respect for the elven race. He’d always known they were far more than their portrayal as violent primitives.

  What Takaar had taught him, in his often unhinged but always charming way, was that there was a depth of spirituality and, well, humanity, to the elves along with their skills, knowledge and strength, and that should be embraced not exterminated. It hadn’t ever led Garan to believe the occupation of the rainforest by man was wrong, but he had slowly begun to think a feudal partnership might be more productive than occupation and enslavement, in the long term.

  Garan sighed and shifted in his chair, trying to alleviate a pressure point in his backside that sent shooting pains into his right leg. What had it been, then, that one tipping point, if indeed there had been just one? Not Ystormun himself. Garan had developed some understanding of him in the last couple of decades, as he had mellowed as much as an ancient and basically evil bastard could.

  He did respect Ystormun’s pride in his achievements on Calaius and most recently his ultimately futile resistance to his cadre’s desire to send the army out to exterminate the race of elves.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Garan took another sip of his drink. ‘Of course it never is the how, it’s the why.’

  He had the answer now. Everything else was just skirting the issue. It had been some years ago now, perhaps fifteen, but they all blurred into one amorphous smear of pain and unpleasant smells these days. It had been the moment he learned that the work on Calaius would no longer be to the benefit of Triverne or, by extension, to magic in general.

  Worse than that, further investigation had revealed exactly what all Calaius’ wealth was being diverted to support. Garan loved Triverne, and he loved Balaia too, though he would see neither again. And what he knew was dreadful for both of them. The power he had dedicated his life to support would turn his country and his city to ash in its desire for dominion. Yet even though he was in possession of such knowledge, he had not thought he could affect what was to come.

  But his mind had turned that day. And so it was that, years later, he was open to options when they were presented to him . . . and those options had led him inexorably to the action he was to sanction today. Now.

  Garan had made sure that his people were at the door to the panoramic room and that his people were attending to his many needs. One slip now and the worst of deaths would be awaiting them all – all but Garan himself. He and his people had planned for this from the moment it had become obvious that Balaia and Triverne were facing war.

  Footsteps approached his chair. A figure stepped in front of him. Garan smiled. It was exactly w
ho he had hoped to see when the ship had docked late the preceding night. Still he was impressed that the man had arranged to be re-summoned by Ystormun eight years after his first visit.

  Stein was a squat man, barrel-chested and broad of gut. His skull was covered in a thick mat of tight blond curls and his features were all slightly larger than seemed quite comfortable, especially when crammed together in an oval face topped by wild eyebrows and tailed by an impeccably trimmed beard.

  ‘You got my message, then?’ asked Garan.

  ‘All of them,’ said Stein. ‘We don’t have long. Ystormun wants to outline my duties.’

  Garan gestured to a chair.

  ‘You remain fantastically ugly,’ he said.

  Stein laughed and sat. ‘Your saying that, when no mirror can survive your reflection, is a testament to your powers of self-delusion.’

  Garan cleared his throat. ‘I need to know that you understand the gravity of the proposition. Let’s face it: I want to die. I’m equally sure that you don’t.’

  ‘Correct, and yet here I am. That should tell you all you need to know about the fear gripping any of us with half a brain in Balaia right now. It’s much worse than you think.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Any day, literally. And the cadre really can win, despite the force that will be ranged against them when the day comes.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to destroy your own,’ said Garan. ‘You know that. A show of force is all it should take.’

  ‘How comforting.’

  ‘But we’re relying on the Sharps – the elves – to prevail out there in the forest. If they don’t then we’re already too late and this place will become a power base like no other.’

  Stein nodded. ‘And will they win?’

  ‘The odds against them are ridiculous, but they are capable and the trio of generals in the field can’t even spell the word ‘‘tactic’’ between them. It’s all down to the mages.’

  ‘It was ever so,’ said Stein.

  ‘Smug bastard. Look, assuming they do win, we won’t have much time. I’ve got an ally in their midst but the others . . . they’re dangerous. Really dangerous. Deliver what you say you can and they will eventually respect you.’

  ‘I should think so,’ said Stein. ‘After all, we’re here to help them. Sort of.’

  ‘But don’t step out of line.’

  ‘Or what?’

  Garan shrugged. ‘They’ll kill you.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Let me do the talking.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Guess.’

  With a lack of subtlety that was typical of the Tuali, Takaar heard them massing in the rooms below to attack. Pelyn had been very quiet for the last hour. She had taken occasional sips of water but refused any of the stale food that lay on the plate from the night before. She would not respond to his questions, choosing to sit in a threadbare chair and stare at a bookshelf from which no book had been removed for a very long time.

  Stitched yourself into a nice little trap here, haven’t you?

  ‘Even for you, that was pathetic,’ muttered Takaar.

  He put his ear to the floor and heard orders being given. He was amazed it had taken them so long, and could only think his name still carried enough fear to encourage caution. The day was moving towards its zenith; rain had given way to blazing sunshine, and the hubbub from Katura’s people outside offered a veneer of normality.

  ‘The ideal time to get out and about,’ said Takaar.

  I’m sure they’ll all stand aside and open the door for you too.

  He whistled tunelessly while he cleaned his blades, checked the contents of his backpack and refilled his skin from the washing-water jug.

  ‘Do you have to whistle?’ snapped Pelyn.

  ‘Ah, you can still speak.’

  Pelyn’s smile was nasty and triumphant. ‘They’re coming to get you. And the best thing about it is that then I’ll get more nectar and I can forget you ever came back into my life.’

  ‘What do they want with you?’

  It was a question Takaar had asked her time and again.

  ‘Stupid, aren’t you? They want me because I am Tuali. Because I am the governor of this city and because I pass all the laws. Easy.’

  But her laugh had a bitter edge to it and her eyes were brimful of sorrow – just for a moment, before the craving dominated her once again. Takaar nodded. He heard elves gathering at the bottom of the stairs. It wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘It’s hard to believe the good people of this city, and I’m sure some still remain, would accept that shadow of control. You have no power here, but I can give it back to you.’

  ‘There’s only one thing I want.’

  She’s consistent, at least.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Takaar and his grin made her flinch.

  ‘You’re really going to try to take them all on?’

  ‘Now that would be stupid, wouldn’t it?’ Takaar moved towards her. ‘I didn’t use the door on my way in and I will not be using it on my way out. So: conscious or unconscious?’

  ‘What?’

  The Tuali were coming up the stairs, making a poor effort at stealth.

  ‘Never mind.’

  Takaar’s punch struck her on the temple, knocking her senseless. He caught her as she crumpled and threw her featherweight over his left shoulder. He ran to the connecting door to her office, across the dusty floor and out onto the open balcony. He leapt lightly onto the rail, dropped to hang briefly from his right hand and then fell the rest of the way to the ground.

  The side street was quiet. Takaar headed away from the centre of Katura and ducked into an alley three turns from the hall of the Al-Arynaar, hidden from the Tuali but still close enough to hear their rage when his escape was discovered.

  Takaar cradled Pelyn’s head and poured a little water over her face and into her mouth. She coughed and opened her eyes. For one glorious moment her smile lit her face up and the old Pelyn shone through, but it was gone the next instant and she pushed away from him and scrambled to her feet.

  Still groggy, Pelyn had to steady herself against the side of a building. Takaar rose fluidly and pulled her round to face him, his hands clamped around her upper arms.

  ‘The Ixii and Gyalans. Where are they?’

  ‘Get me my nectar and perhaps I’ll tell you,’ said Pelyn.

  ‘No time.’ Takaar shook her. ‘Tell me which way. Now.’

  ‘Or what? You’ll leave me for another hundred and fifty years?’

  Oh she knows how to hurt you, doesn’t she?

  Takaar drove her back and up against the wall, holding her feet from the ground. She kicked at his chest but they were feeble blows.

  ‘Don’t become part of the problem.’ Takaar stared into her eyes, holding her gaze until fear eclipsed craving like storm clouds moving across the sun. ‘Dying alone in this place would be such a waste.’

  Takaar dropped her and she crumpled into a hunched position on the ground, hugging herself, caught between her longing for edulis and her fear of him. His heart screamed at him to embrace her, but his mind, this time, was stronger.

  ‘I have this one chance to save the elves from man; to build a new strength in our people. Help me begin to return what I took from us all.’ Takaar shrugged. ‘Or you’ll have to die. I can’t let anyone stand in my way. Not even you.’

  She lifted her face to his. The sounds of the Tuali mob on the streets were echoing down the alley. They were closing quickly. If Takaar had expected the light of comprehension in her eyes, he was disappointed. There was nothing there but a base cunning.

  ‘Swear to me you’ll get me more nectar and I’ll help you.’

  It is the only thing you can offer her that she will take. Do it, Takaar.

  Takaar opened his mouth and betrayed her again.

  ‘Done,’ he said, the lie slipping easily from his mouth. ‘Now let’s move.’

  The centre of Katura was built in
a series of concentric rings, in keeping with the aspect of the palm of Yniss. Industry was based there. The city administration rubbed shoulders with forges, bakeries, butchers, potters and all manner of other goods and services. Temples to every god had been built and, for a time, harmony had reigned.

  Every elf was granted land to farm, or hunt or log or even to mine if that was their desire. The population began to grow and the city threw out shoots into the forest where those who preferred the old ways could live, bringing their goods to trade in the market which blossomed in the heart of the city.

  It was impossible to pinpoint when the mood had begun to change, but the silence from the old cities and from those who had sworn to fight on and liberate the enslaved had began to gnaw at Katura’s heart. Isolation grew and, alongside it, a sense of hopelessness, a knowledge that what they were building might be all they had left.

  Their spirit began to fail. And where the spirit faltered, there were those willing to profit from weakness. Edulis was their weapon, and it was as powerful as it was destructive. Land changed hands and threads began to gather together. The descent had been terrifyingly quick, and while there were significant numbers who remained dedicated to their tasks, determined not to fail, the pressure of the thread gangs grew day by day.

  Pelyn led Takaar out into the uneven sprawl of what had begun as attempts to build strong neighbourhoods but had become ghettos where a single wrong turn could be a fatal mistake. Takaar had seen enough to know that the Tualis were the dominant thread, but they did not desire to drive the others out, preferring to profit from their misery instead.

  The streets beyond the central rings were tight and maze-like, as if mimicking the Warren district of old Ysundeneth. Most buildings were single-storey and all were of wood construction. Most were ill maintained but here and there pockets of smart houses rested within the dilapidated mass. Takaar shook his head. It was like walking back onto Hausolis before the Garonin came, before the War of Bloods took hold.