Elves: Once Walked With Gods

by James Barclay

  The door to the warehouse exploded. Grafyrre was picked up by the force of the blast and hurled out and right. He saw Pakiir engulfed by flames. Someone else lying on the ground was immolated in a heartbeat. He prayed it was a man and not Marack.

  Flames, ash and wood scoured across the dockside and high into the night sky. Fire rolled out like a wave across the sand, licking down into the sea over the harbour’s edge and setting it to steam. Grafyrre landed and rolled, barely under control. The noise of the detonation had deafened him. He drove to his feet. He was fifty yards from where the doors had once been.

  And they were gone. Nothing was left of them or the entire front of the warehouse. Flames ate up the frame and were licking back thirty feet along the roof and sides already. The stone flags in front of the warehouse were a carpet of fire, white, orange and brown. Great clouds of smoke billowed out from the doors. An orange and brown glow covered the entrance.

  ‘Katyett,’ breathed Grafyrre.

  Ignoring the pains in his shoulders, hips, elbows and knees from his landing, Grafyrre sprinted back towards the warehouse. The group of men trying to catch Faleen had been cast all over the stone of the docks. Of Faleen herself there was no sign.

  On the other side of the warehouse the men had not been hit by the blast. They were grouped just away from the magical fires etching away at the dock and backing away from Merrat, who had a murderous set to her body and was advancing, her eyes only for the mage.

  In front of the warehouse, Grafyrre had to stop. The heat was extraordinary. With every moment, the unquenchable fires consumed more of the building. Flames and smoke were burrowing in under the roof timbers. He could barely see the ruined ground right in front, the place where he wanted Katyett to be able to run to freedom. All she had in there were two short swords and a few jaqrui. Nothing that would trouble the walls enough to make them an emergency exit before the whole place came crashing down. She was trapped.

  Grafyrre was short on options. He stood, staring at the inferno covering warehouse, stone and sky. It was two things. A clarion call to every enemy warrior and mage in the city. And it was death to all who were within it, praying to Yniss for a miracle. Grafyrre wondered if they were shouting, whether any of them could hear him. But his ears were ringing and useless and his vision was nothing but glare when he tried to see in.

  Grafyrre took a deep breath, trying to calm a sudden racing in his body. The fires were not dying down on the apron, they were gathering force. It had begun to rain again but the only result was the hissing of steam as water collided with fire.

  He stepped back, the sheer heat a barrier shoving at him. Part of the side of the warehouse gave way, falling in a shower of burning timbers but revealing nothing more than the gathering firestorm within. Grafyrre looked left. Nothing moved but one shape, hopping from body to body. Faleen.

  Grafyrre looked right. Merrat had drawn both blades and was advancing. The enemy wouldn’t have seen it but she was favouring her right foot. There was a dark stain on her left thigh. There were four warriors in front of a mage. The latter was doing something. It was he she would target and they knew it.

  And the answer, the faintest hope anyway, was right before him. Grafyrre began running and shouting, yelling for Merrat’s attention. The roar of the conflagration made a mockery of his efforts. He tore across the space, the fire licking at his feet, his pace keeping him from the worst of the pain. He didn’t bother with blades. One way or another, he wouldn’t need them.

  Merrat attacked and Grafyrre knew the course it would take. The men, of course, did not. She ran for the centre of the quartet, letting them assume she intended to take them head on. Dutifully, they prepared and shifted their positions to strike. A pace before they could land a blow, she fell to the left, rolling around her lower back and hips.

  In the same movement she rose to the left of the rightmost soldier, taking the other three out of the game. Merrat backhanded her right-hand blade into the neck of her target. She was already spinning right and her left blade slammed round and down into the shoulder of the next man. Two down.

  The others had barely registered her change of angle. The first blocked her straight kick with an arm but it sent him wildly off balance. Her left blade pierced his heart. The fourth and last faced her full on. She dropped to the ground, swept his feet from under him, crabbed forward and buried her right blade in his gut, her left in his chest.

  Merrat rose and turned to the mage, who had ceased creating whatever casting had been in his mind. He backed off.

  Grafyrre upped his pace. He was screaming Merrat’s name but she wasn’t hearing him. The word sounded loud inside his own deafened skull, booming and reverberating.

  Merrat advanced. She took two quick steps. Grafyrre knew what was coming. Merrat cocked her left-hand blade at her waist and her right-hand blade at her neck. She took the final pace. Grafyrre took off. He stretched out his arms, his right fingers snagging Merrat’s jerkin. His left hand caught her waist and spun her. One of her blades still struck out and he heard the mage yelp and grab at his head.

  The two TaiGethen tumbled away right in a heap. Merrat was the quicker to react. She balanced on one knee and had a sword ready to strike through his throat until she saw who it was.

  ‘Graf!’ she shouted, the word indistinct. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trust me,’ shouted Grafyrre. ‘We need him.’

  Merrat scowled. The mage had realised he had been reprieved. He was staring at them, one hand clamped to the side of his face. It looked as if his ear was gone. He was backing away. Merrat pounced on him, bearing him to the ground. Behind them, the roar of the flames intensified. Another part of the warehouse collapsed. Grafyrre could hear screams behind him now. He got to his feet and scrambled over to the mage. The heat was stifling, sucking the air from the sky.

  ‘Put it out,’ he shouted into the mage’s face. ‘Put the fire out.’

  The mage stared at him, his face blank and terrified. Grafyrre and Merrat hauled the mage to his feet.

  ‘I know you can understand me. Put this fire out. And I promise I will spare your life.’

  ‘Graf . . .’

  ‘Not now, Merrat. Too much to lose.’

  ‘You will slaughter me like a pig,’ said the mage.

  ‘I promise that I will if you don’t put this fire out now.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘You use fire,’ said Grafyrre. ‘Use ice. Try.’

  The mage looked past him to the inferno. ‘It will not work.’

  ‘Try and I will spare you,’ said Grafyrre. ‘Don’t try and you will burn in your own fire.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘No time. My friends are dying within. Is this why you are here? To supervise the murder of thousands of helpless elves? Are their crimes worthy of this death? You have a soul as do they. Study it. But do it quickly.’ Grafyrre held the mage’s gaze. ‘I am TaiGethen. You can trust my word. I will spare your life.’

  The mage was alone. He might have more help coming but it would not arrive in time. He shook off the elves’ hands and stepped forward.

  ‘I will do my best.’

  Grafyrre and Merrat stood very close behind him while he prepared. Merrat made a small hand gesture. Grafyrre nodded and Merrat drew a knife and kept it a hair’s breadth from the mage’s back. The man breathed deeply and held his palms together in front of his face. He whispered a word and opened his palms, fingers pointing down towards the fire.

  Just like on the bridge, the air froze. Grafyrre felt the air rushing by him. The mage channelled it out over the fire in front of the warehouse. Ice met fire. A dense fog erupted into the air. Within it, brown and orange sputtered and died. But the warehouse still burned, its timbers still fell and its slates cracked and tumbled.

  The mage held his arms out, pushing the freezing wind over the stone apron. Grafyrre twitched his hand. Merrat put her knife away. The fog tattered and dispersed on the breeze and under the pressure of the rainfa
ll. In places, the fire roared back to life but at least there was a path. Grafyrre touched the mage on the shoulder, breaking his concentration.

  ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Others will not share my mercy.’

  The mage took off. Grafyrre ran towards the warehouse.

  ‘Katyett! Come on. Bring them out now. The warehouse won’t last!’ He ran into the mouth of the ruin. ‘Katyett!’

  The warehouse was a pit of night choked with smoke. He could make out shapes all over the floor. Roof supports had come down over the first forty feet. Many still burned. The fires along the walls had reached to the last twenty feet or so. Bodies were strewn by the entrance, buried under collapsed wood or burned in the first explosion.

  ‘Katyett!’ screamed Grafyrre.

  Movement. He could see movement. People approaching at a run. There was a thundering crash from deep within. Fire fell from the roof. Tons of slates slumped down. Elves screamed. Some were engulfed. Those still standing ran. Beethans, Cefans, Orrans and Gyalans ran past him and out into the open air. Some drew up the moment they felt safe. Others just carried on running away from their prison and back into the city.

  Grafyrre searched the crowd for Katyett. His heart tolled in anguish, his breathing was too rapid. He fought to calm himself. The mass was thinning. Those still inside were the wounded, some being helped, most just left to help themselves.

  ‘Come on, come on.’

  Right at the back, he saw her. An elf had his arm slung around her shoulder and was leaning hard into her. He was struggling to walk at all. There were burns on his face. Other elves were with them, lending support. Grafyrre ran inside.

  ‘Yniss bless you. Come on. This building is coming down.’

  Katyett managed a smile. ‘You noticed? What kept you, by the way?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Pakiir is gone. Eaten by the fire. Faleen is here but I can’t see Marack.’

  Grafyrre choked.

  Katyett released her charge to another and came to his side. She spoke to the thread elves first.

  ‘You know what to do. Hide, run, anything. Don’t get in the way of the humans. We will deal with them.’

  ‘Thank you, Katyett,’ said one. ‘I—’

  ‘No matter. Thank Yniss. And thank the harmony that means I remain in your service.’ She turned to Grafyrre and the two of them trotted away from the warehouse entrance to where they met Merrat and Faleen. ‘Graf?’

  Grafyrre squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remain calm. ‘The flame was so hot. Pakiir, he . . . It just consumed him. How can a soul survive such a scourge? We will find nothing of him. He is ash on the wind. Gone.’

  ‘The soul cannot suffer such harm,’ said Katyett. ‘Shorth will embrace him. The halls of the ancients will welcome him. He will be waiting for us.’

  ‘And Marack?’

  Merrat shook her head. The three walked to the harbourside and looked back at the warehouse, seeing its final demise. Thread elves made their way to wherever they wanted to go. Grafyrre could see the lights of torches all over the city.

  ‘We need to go,’ said Katyett.

  ‘Before you do, can you help me up?’ Grafyrre spun round trying to pick up the direction of the voice. ‘Down here.’

  ‘Marack.’ Grafyrre dropped to his knees and reached down into the harbour. The relief he felt sent a thrill of cold through his body. ‘Odd time for a swim.’

  ‘It wasn’t by choice. I was blown so far I thought I’d land on Balaia. Just get me out. It’s cold in here and I don’t have the energy to float any more.’

  ‘We lost Pakiir and Ekuurt,’ said Grafyrre, hauling her up, Faleen and Katyett reaching down to help.

  ‘We’ll pray and grieve later,’ said Katyett. ‘The humans will want revenge. Let’s be sure we are ready.’

  Chapter 33

  If you do one thing for yourself, let it be this. Never let your blade’s edge dull.

  Garan and Keller watched the boats come in. After last night it had been decided to anchor the fleet offshore. Even the most prodigious leap of the TaiGethen would get only one per cent of the way. Even so, every crewman had been given a bow for his watch.

  Behind them, Garan’s men picked at the ruins of the warehouse. Most of the bodies were charred beyond recognition. Elves and men were no different when reduced to blackened bone and ash. It was impossible to say how many elves had died around or inside the collapsed building, which was still too hot to check. Garan had lost forty men and his one eyewitness claimed to have seen only five elves fighting.

  ‘How many are coming ashore, did you say?’ he asked.

  ‘Two thousand, two hundred and seventeen,’ said Keller. ‘Think it’ll be enough?’

  ‘I was going to ask you the same question.’

  ‘Ystormun is with them.’

  ‘Oh, great. Come to give us the blessing of the One College or just the usual advice on how to conduct an offensive.’

  ‘You’re talking about a lord of Triverne,’ said Keller sharply.

  ‘Don’t get all loyal-to-the-lords with me, Keller. Gods burning, you weren’t sent here with me because you’re in favour, were you? All the favourites are either disembarking now or safely at home drinking in the beauty of the Blackthorne Mountains and the Triverne Valley.’

  ‘And you knew it was likely one of them would come. This is a significant investment.’

  ‘They’re dangerous. Him and his cadre have way too much power and are way too careless with how they go about securing more.’

  ‘There will always be conflict in the ring of towers,’ said Keller.

  ‘I was glad to get away from there,’ said Garan. ‘Couldn’t you feel it? Like a poorly shielded fire ward waiting to explode. I worry about what might happen, I really do.’

  ‘Well, you can ask him all about it yourself,’ said Keller. ‘He’s in the first boat.’

  And so he was. A tall thin figure in a deep-blue cloak with hood thrown back to reveal a bald pate and hawkish features. His nose was so thin it looked likely to break if he sneezed too hard. His eyes were tiny and set close. His cheekbones were high and prominent like an Ynissul’s and his mouth had almost bloodless thin lips set in a perpetual line of contempt.

  Garan considered that, in all honesty, he was the best of them. The most liberal. It really could have been much worse. Pamun, for instance. Now there was a real bastard.

  ‘You should remain a few paces back,’ said Keller. ‘I’ll welcome him.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  Garan watched the boat approach. Keller walked to the relevant jetty and waited with his arms held across his waist, his fingers linked together. Ystormun stood as the boat approached, his guards and attendants with him. The three pairs of oarsmen slowed their pace and kept the boat level on the placid water. Keller was standing by the steps. Ystormun took one look at him and lifted gently off the deck, his mistwings moving him serenely to the jetty.

  ‘Bloody show-off,’ muttered Garan.

  The wings were dispelled when his feet touched the ground and he marched past Keller without a second glance. Keller hurried after his master. Garan took a deep breath and felt a shiver pass through him.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said.

  Ystormun strode up to him, his thin lips pursed so hard they were practically invisible. The frown above his eyes almost closed them.

  ‘My Lord Ystormun,’ Garan said. ‘Welcome to Calaius.’

  ‘They have put a soldier in charge of our conquest,’ said Ystormun, gaze arrowing down past his nose. ‘And hence, when the benefactor arrives, he is greeted not by bunting but by smoke, ash and flame and the quite extraordinary odour of burning human flesh. I had heard this city was firmly under your control.’

  ‘We suffered a small attack last night. It has been repelled.’

  ‘An interesting choice of adjective.’ Ystormun’s voice, at odds with the depth of his chest, was sonorous and powerful, carrying to echo from building and ruin alike. ‘I could see the flames fr
om my ship. My Communions suggest a significant problem with a group called the TaiGethen. Is this true?’

  Garan stared at Keller, whose eyes were elsewhere.

  ‘I’m not in the business of fabrication. In the context of the city and our control of it, this was a small attack. Successful in that prisoners were released. But these are all ordinary elves broken by internal conflict. They are no danger to our venture. Your informant is right. The TaiGethen are a significant problem.’

  Ystormun glanced up at the sky, which was filling with dense, dark cloud.

  ‘It rains a lot here,’ said Garan.

  ‘Then we shall seek cover. Where’s my carriage?’

  ‘Keller, can you help with that one?’ asked Garan. ‘Carriages?’

  Keller shot Garan a venomous look. Ystormun swung around, his eyebrows already on the rise.

  ‘This is a hot, uncomfortable country,’ he said. ‘I do not expect to walk or fly when I can sit in comfort. I presume these savages do have carriages, do they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keller. ‘Ornate state carriages in some cases. We had a second attack in the main compound at the temple of Shorth last night. There was significant damage to carriages, oxen and stabling.’

  Soldiers and mages were beginning to mass on the docks as boat after boat landed at the many jetties that ran their length. Ystormun watched them for a moment before gesturing Keller and Garan together so that he could address them both.

  ‘How many TaiGethen attacks were there last night?’

  ‘Eight.’

  Ystormun paused, the answer clearly not anticipated. ‘Eight.’

  ‘They are a persistent thorn,’ said Garan.

  ‘And where do they hide?’

  ‘The rainforest is vast.’

  ‘But they cannot fly unless I am mistaken. So they are not deep within it if they can strike here seemingly at will.’

  Ystormun looked meaningfully at Garan.

  ‘We are looking for them and we will find them,’ said Garan.

  ‘That should reassure me, should it?’ snapped Ystormun. ‘Which way must I walk through this ludicrous architecture? While I am listening to your incompetence, I feel I should do something useful.’