Helodian was next to him, Teralion on his other side, and their brothers made a lethal web of wood and steel, protecting their master, whose struggle they could feel inside their minds. The Wesmen were relentless and Gilderon could see many more coming, chased by TaiGethen and the painted warriors who fought with them.
To his left Auum was protected by a cell of TaiGethen hard pressed by a group of a dozen or more enemies, but Gilderon could offer them no help. At a call from the rear of the Wesmen, they surged forward, fifty against ten.
‘Brace!’ yelled Gilderon.
They attacked, yelling cries of death. Gilderon held his ikari on the diagonal as four came at him. He snapped his staff out straight-armed, catching one in the face and another across the knees. Weapons came through the defence. Gilderon swayed inside a sword thrust that nicked his left arm and ducked his head as an axe flew past, its haft clattering against his ikari.
He pulled back the staff and jabbed out, taking one in the chest, who fell back, clutching the weapon to him. Gilderon went with it, leaping as he fell and kicking high into the nose of one who thought to strike him while he was exposed.
Gilderon came down on the chest of the fallen warrior, pulled his blade clear and swiped down hard to the right, slicing deep into the arm of his target. He jumped back, an axe whispering past his midriff. The Wesmen fell back as one.
‘Hold,’ said Gilderon.
Behind him Takaar grunted with exertion and said something to Ystormun that made the Wytch Lord squeal. Gilderon glanced left and right. Two Senserii were down, eight were left. He could see the Xeteskian force sweep towards the village, bare moments away from beginning their casting.
TaiGethen were attacking the rear of the Wesman lines, deflecting significant numbers, but at the front the enemy had changed tactics. Through came thirty or more archers while warriors spread wide left and right, waiting to exploit any move to run or to attack the bowmen. They knew nothing of the Senserii.
‘Ready defence!’ called Gilderon. ‘Close the net, defend the master.’
The Senserii closed up, moving forward or back half a pace. The archers stretched their bows.
‘Execute!’ ordered Gilderon.
Eight ikari whirled, their speed making the air hum around them. The arrows flew. Some missed but most were straight enough. Gilderon felt one slap away from his staff, but near him Cordolan grunted and fell forward with a shaft jutting from his chest.
‘Close!’ ordered Gilderon.
It was a matter of time and luck now. Gilderon needed both friends and faithless allies to move faster.
Bynaar rode in behind the cavalry, feeling the slap of every hoofbeat through his ageing back. He hardly cared. The gallop had been an extraordinary thrill across ground made for horses. He had fliers high in the sky, who had reported back that Ystormun was destroying the defence but a few moments later that Takaar had trapped him. It seemed that the mad elf had not been lying after all, and now time was short.
They drove into the village across fields littered with bodies to buildings reduced to rubble where a ferocious fight still continued. Ystormun was battering his hideous magic against some construct or other thrown up by Takaar, a handful of whose guard was trying to shield him from a good number of archers, but their whirling staffs were only having limited effect. The rest of the defence was being held at the rear and on the flanks. This was no time for mages.
His cavalry commander knew exactly what was required. On a command taken up by a hundred voices, he wheeled his riders and drove straight through the archers and those clustered around them, scattering them, breaking their bows and their bodies alike. They circled and came back, driving a deeper wedge, then pulled up, ready to move in again. Bynaar halted them.
‘This is not our fight,’ he said. ‘Cage team, dismount and prepare. And every one of you with a blade defend us with your lives.’
‘And Takaar?’ asked the commander.
‘He has friends. Stay out of his and their way.’
Tilman raced across the field in the wake of the cavalry charge and of Grafyrre and Faleen, both of whom sought Auum. His sword was dripping with blood, he was cut on both legs and his chest was ablaze with agony. He thought the axe had nicked his ribs. He was lucky to be alive and wasn’t about to waste that luck.
He tried to keep up. The battlefield was a total mess now, and he hardly knew who was an enemy and who an ally. Wesmen still fought among themselves, the painted, Sentaya’s people, gaining in strength. Ahead a large group of the enemy was attacking TaiGethen protecting two elves sitting on the ground.
Tilman followed Grafyrre into their rear, splitting the skull of one before they began to turn. Grafyrre’s strength seemed inexhaustible and his speed undimmed by his exertions. He jumped and smashed both feet into the back of a Wesman’s head, rode the body down, rammed a blade through its back and thrashed the other into the side of the warrior next to him.
Tilman threw himself to the side to dodge a huge axe swing and lost his footing, going sprawling. The Wesman came at him as he scrambled back, trying to make the space to get to his feet. His chest was agony and blood flowed from the cuts on his legs. The Wesman was on him quickly. Tilman held up his blade, which was contemptuously batted away so the warrior could chop down at his chest. The blow was deflected by a blade and thudded into the ground right next to him. The second blade beheaded the enemy.
Grafyrre reached down a hand.
‘Ulysan is dead,’ he said. ‘You must not die too.’
Tilman was hauled to his feet. The fighting still raged across the oval, Wesman on Wesman for the most part. Tilman looked at Auum and his heart was pained. The elf was surrounded by his friends but was so alone, so lost. Ulysan lay next to him, Auum’s hand stroking the top of his head. He barely registered what was going on just a few paces away. Four of the Senserii stood guard around Takaar, who was plainly losing the battle with Ystormun, though the Wytch Lord himself appeared significantly weakened.
Takaar was forced back by another of Ystormun’s attempts to break him. Black fire flooded the inside of the construct the elf held against the awful might of the ancient creature. But it couldn’t go on. Tilman looked further to his right, seeing the Xeteskian mages kneel in a circle and prepare their casting. The moment they did so, Ystormun screamed. It was a sound of bestial fury and ripped at Tilman’s soul, threatening to steal his courage.
Auum’s TaiGethen looked around and began to fan out. Tilman made his way to Auum, wondering how long Takaar could hold the Wytch Lord. He found two elven blades on the ground and picked them up on the way. He knelt by Auum, who did not seem to notice him. Tilman’s heart heaved.
‘Auum, you’re going to have to fight him,’ he said quietly.
Ystormun sent a wave of dark energy smashing against his enemy’s construct. Takaar wailed and berated himself as he began to lose it. Tilman could see it shudder violently, and holes appeared through which the black fire roared. Ystormun laughed and prepared to strike again.
‘I have had my fill of fighting,’ said Auum.
‘I brought your blades. You will need them,’ said Tilman.
‘What for?’ asked Auum, looking down at the blades.
‘Ystormun will break free. You are the only one he fears.’
‘Those are Ulysan’s blades,’ said Auum.
‘The perfect weapons,’ said Tilman.
Auum looked up at Tilman, down at Ulysan, and he took the blades.
Perhaps it was because he was dead inside that he could feel everything. Away to his right the Xeteskian mages created their cage, and the pulses of raw energy were like bars drawn across his soul. It was a construct that sought its victim. It was tuned to him but not strong enough to take him. Not yet.
Auum pushed through the line of TaiGethen, his few precious TaiGethen, and they let him come, no one seeking to stand with him. He watched Ystormun and saw the fatigue in him and the rage keeping him standing. He saw Takaar, and Takaar was sp
ent.
Auum shouted to Takaar, who was talking to his other self, trying to hold his focus while the last of his strength ebbed away, ‘For all that you have done, today is your day, and all who survive do so because of you. I misjudged you.’
Takaar turned his head, and Auum saw the exhaustion in his eyes and the sweat on his face.
‘No, you didn’t,’ he said. ‘I am all that you accused me of being.’
‘I forgive you it all,’ said Auum. ‘I would be proud to walk by you again.’
Takaar relaxed and his face cleared. A smile crossed it and the pain left his eyes just for a moment. Inside the construct Ystormun heaved his black fire at the walls again. It spewed from his mouth and burst from his fingers. The holes in Takaar’s casting widened to yawning rips, and the fire slapped into the elf’s chest, picked him up and threw him into the backs of his Senserii.
Ystormun stood hunched but his face shone with his victory. He was breathing as if each was his last, and each exhalation rattled his chest. He was shivering all over, and here and there his skin was broken, thin blood leaking out. He looked at Auum and smiled.
‘Your best is not good enough. We will meet again.’
Ystormun began to cast and Auum rushed him, lashing a blade into his arm. Ystormun yelled his pain and looked at the cut. He stumbled back, and Auum followed him.
‘That is what elven magic does to evil,’ said Auum. ‘And this is what real pain feels like.’
‘You cannot kill me!’ screamed Ystormun.
‘I do not need to.’
Auum paced in and laced a cut into Ystormun’s cheek.
‘That is for Ulysan.’ Another into his forehead. ‘And that is for Merrat.’ A third into his other cheek. ‘And that is for Takaar and Thrynn and for every elf whose life you blighted.’
Auum dropped his blades and moved around the creature, who was still trying to gather a casting that would let him escape. Auum roundhoused him in the side of the head and followed up with a snap kick to the chin that sent him sprawling.
Auum put a foot on his throat. Ystormun grabbed his boot and tried to twist it away. The elf could feel the Xeteskian casting seeking him.
‘You can feel the magic coming for you too, can’t you?’ Auum said.
Ystormun’s eyes were blank with fear. He shrieked and scrabbled away. Auum let him go. Ystormun stood and began to intone something, his hands moving fast. Auum bounced on one foot, then jumped and drove both feet hard into Ystormun’s mouth, smashing teeth and gagging his words. Ystormun’s hands flew up, his concentration broken. He tripped and fell. A yawning chasm opened up behind him. The Wytch Lord tried to scramble away, but claws of deep blue shot out and clamped on to his skull and shoulders.
Black fire exploded around Ystormun. More bindings surged from the chasm, wrapping his arms and legs. He screamed and convulsed, his cries resonating through the ground and sending hands to ears. He bellowed and roared his defiance, and his fire lashed at his bindings.
A final claw snaked from the chasm and clamped his mouth shut. He stared one last time at Auum, his hate as abiding as ever. Auum stared back, his heart cold, the ashes of victory in his mouth. And as the bindings retracted, dragging Ystormun to his cage, Auum turned away.
He reached Ulysan and sat by him again as the door slammed shut on the Wytch Lord for good.
Chapter 38
Ulysan’s death would bring the ClawBound to a halt to sing a lamentation in his honour, such was his standing. His life was given to save the elven race from its enemies, and in his death he goes to Shorth knowing he has achieved exactly that. His was a great heart, and the halls of the ancients will for ever reverberate to the sound of his name.
Auum, Arch of the TaiGethen.
Takaar lay on his back. The Senserii had made him comfortable, but in truth he could feel very little. He thought his back was broken. Either that or the shock of the impact had entirely numbed his body. He smiled up at the sky, and Auum’s words played over in his mind. He heard a chuckle.
You’re dying.
‘Yes,’ said Takaar.
Then I got what I always wanted.
‘So did I. And at last we can be one again. Let us walk with gods together.’
‘Graf?’
‘Yes, Auum.’
‘How many are we?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Tell me.’
Grafyrre sighed. ‘Marack, Nokhe, Hohan, Merke, Faleen, Evunn, Duele, Siraaj. You and me, of course. And Tilman.’
Auum didn’t look up from Ulysan.
‘You’re in good company, old friend,’ he whispered.
The capture of Ystormun had seen the surviving enemy Wesmen break and run, and Sentaya had let them go. Peace had descended on the village only to be broken by angry shouts from the direction of the Xeteskian cavalry and mage force, which was resting far too close to the village oval and its dead. Auum heard swords drawn from scabbards and the sounds of men running and he felt a growing tension.
‘But they won’t let you rest.’
Auum stood and looked at the scene of the trouble, almost instantly breaking into a dead run. There was a knot of men pushing and shoving: Xeteskians, Wesmen including Sentaya and a man he had thought dead. With his anger burning bright again, Auum, followed by his surviving TaiGethen, turned a high somersault in the air and landed right in the midst of the argument. Battle-weary angry TaiGethen with painted faces made a very efficient barrier. Both sides moved back a few paces.
Auum took in the Xeteskians — the pompous-looking old mage, his powerful cavalry captain and the melee of other soldiers and mages wanting in on the argument — and turned, his grief lifting a degree for a moment. There stood Sentaya, bloodied, bruised and exhausted. He was supporting Stein, who had an arm around the tribal lord’s shoulders and Sentaya’s about his waist. Stein looked in a bad way. Burned and spent, with what was clearly a broken arm and a foot he could barely place on the ground.
‘You’re supposed to hate each other,’ said Auum.
‘We’ll do it again tomorrow,’ said Stein. ‘What do you say?’
Auum dragged himself over and embraced Stein. ‘It’s good to see you, brother.’
‘You too.’
‘Whatever’s going on here, it can wait.’
Stein’s face coloured. ‘This sweaty supercilious bastard and his murdering filth have to answer for their crimes.’
‘It can wait.’
The pompous mage said something Auum didn’t understand, but the tone was contemptuous. Auum’s scalp prickled and he spun round, his weary TaiGethen following his lead. The mage shrank back a pace, his gaze flicking to his cavalry captain.
‘The dead lie unattended. Those we love are alone under the sky while you posture and strut like ageing stags chasing powers long faded. Brave men, brave elves, have died today. You will show them proper respect.’
Auum didn’t take his eyes from the mage, who looked to Stein for the translation he needed. His understanding did nothing to soften his face. He opened his mouth to speak but Stein got there first.
‘They betrayed us, Auum. Think of how many you lost because they allied with the bastard they have belatedly caught.’
The Xeteskian responded with a furious outburst of his own and had to be pushed back again by Marack and Grafyrre.
Auum rounded on Stein. ‘Yes, look how many have died!’ He gestured back towards Sentaya’s ruined village. Sentaya himself looked bemused, the grief for his loss beginning to shroud his mind. ‘Wesmen, elves and Julatsans, and yet here we stand and they are lost without us beside them. We must attend to our dead now, so your reckoning will wait.’
Auum waited until Stein nodded before turning to the Xeteskian once more. Stein translated for him.
‘And you will accord us the proper respect. You will allow us the space and the peace to prepare our dead and see them to their eternal rest. And we will accord you and your dead the same respect. And when dawn breaks tomorr
ow, you and I and Stein will speak.’
The mage wafted a hand. ‘Do as you will. Your primitive rituals hold no interest for me.’
It was Stein’s hand on Auum’s shoulder that stopped the TaiGethen killing the mage then and there. He shook the hand off and nodded to Marack and Grafyrre that he intended only to speak.
‘The blood of every elf and every one of Sentaya’s dead is on your hands. You are guilty in the eyes of Shorth, and if you utter one more ignorant word I will send you to stand before him. Knowledge has been lost today that we could not afford to lose.’ Auum’s anger left him and he squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that threatened. ‘Ulysan is dead.’
‘Oh, Auum, I am so sorry,’ said Stein. ‘I grieve for you.’
‘Grieve for them all,’ said Auum. ‘I can’t stand here any longer.’
Auum walked away, his TaiGethen with him. He heard the mage speak and Stein reply.
‘Graf, Marack, we have to scour the field from the enemy camp to the borders of the village. We have to bring all our dead together. Some of them we will never find. You know what to do. I’m going to sit with Ulysan.’
Grafyrre and Marack melted away, taking the TaiGethen with them. Auum walked alone.
Ulysan was not alone, and Auum felt a rush of relief. But it was not one of the TaiGethen with him, nor was it one of the Il-Aryn, who were utterly spent and sitting in a single group for comfort. It was Tilman who stood as he approached, looking anxious as if caught stealing.
‘I thought he. . needed. . company. I’m sor-’
Auum embraced him hard while the tears fell down his face and the sobs racked his body. After a nervous pause, Tilman gripped back.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Auum. ‘Thank you.’
He broke the embrace and, holding Tilman’s shoulders, looked deep into his eyes.
‘There is soul in you,’ he said and kissed Tilman’s forehead. ‘And now. .’
‘I know. You need solitude. I’ll make myself useful elsewhere.’
Beyond the Mists of Katura e-3 Page 39