Elves: Beyond the Mists of Katura (40 page)

‘At your pace, less than two days. But Tilman can’t fly so we should make whatever progress we can this afternoon and expect to get there late the day after tomorrow. Some of yours
might need a good rest now too.’

Auum glared at the trio of Il-Aryn who had so nearly cost Merrat his life. Overconfident, they had been messing about, sliding and braking until one of them had done it once too often. Rith had
dismissed it as simple over-exuberance and the row that had ensued had set birds to flight.

‘They’ll move when I say. Apparently they have no shortage of energy to burn.’

‘They almost died,’ said Stein. ‘I know it was their fault but—’

‘So did Merrat. I will not mother them, Stein. Do you see him whining?’

Merrat was sitting with Ulysan, explaining the finer points of ice skating, or so it appeared. Ulysan was smiling again, though his eyes were still haunted. Perhaps he had something to thank
those idiots for after all.

‘The TaiGethen are a different breed,’ said Stein.

‘Yes, we are cursed with honour.’

‘I . . . oh.’ Stein blew out his cheeks and put a hand out to steady himself. ‘It’s—’

Auum grabbed him and helped him sit. ‘Are you all right?’

Stein nodded. ‘Communion. Wait.’

Auum watched, moving away a couple of paces, uncomfortable with the weight of magic he could feel emanating from his friend. Stein’s eyes closed but beneath his lids moved as if searching
for something. His mouth moved too but no sound came. He frowned, the colour leaving his face, and he bit at his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. He swallowed and his face hardened. His body
relaxed and he opened his eyes, the contact broken.

‘So?’

Stein looked up at him, taking a moment to focus his eyes and his thoughts.

‘It’s bleak news,’ he said and Auum’s heart fell. ‘The Wesmen have landed in large numbers north of Julatsa and are marching to lay siege to the city. It’s a
similar picture in the south though we assume Xetesk won’t be beset – mind you, this might be the Wytch Lord’s gambit.’

‘Not yet,’ said Auum. ‘They still need Xetesk to prevent the other colleges from uniting.’

‘There’s something else, and I’m not sure if this is good news or bad. Apparently, Takaar reappeared in Julatsa. He knows our intentions and is planning on joining
us.’

Auum stared up at the mountains. ‘Not if he comes that way.’

‘You really want him back?’

‘Not him but his power. Think what it will add to ours.’

‘So long as he directs it as he needs to.’

‘Put it this way: he’s always managed to save himself when the need arises,’ said Auum. He smiled and felt guilty for it. ‘He’s not going to go quietly, is
he?’

‘No. But there is some good news – for you anyway. Kerela reported that Takaar was at Septern Manse. The Julatsan team are dead as we feared but Takaar and the Senserii took out the
Xeteskians and the place is now empty. He says Dawnthief isn’t there and can’t be found; it’s hidden in another dimension. He says we’re all wasting our time.’

‘So why are we still fighting?’

‘Because no one in Xetesk or Parve will believe him.’

Lord Sentaya of the Paleon tribes was sparring with his youngest son when he was called. He beckoned the eight-year-old to him, knelt and embraced him.

‘You’re progressing well. Remember to keep your guard up and watch your opponent’s body as well as his eyes.’

‘I don’t have that many eyes,’ said Arayan.

Sentaya laughed.

‘But you will, and then you will be unbeatable like me.’ He took his son’s weapon with his and laid both wooden blades against the frame of his door. ‘Now go and tell
your mother you’ve earned a grain cake. And take a drink.’

‘Wine?’

‘Water . . . with maybe a splash of red. I’ll check so don’t say I said otherwise.’

The boy ran off and Sentaya felt a burst of pride. Blessed with three sons, all fit and healthy: two working the fields and commanding warriors and one who would be the best of them, even
Sentaya himself. He stretched and looked to the sun, seeing it fading towards evening. He should be relaxing with his family; this was no time for business.

Sentaya growled and walked round the side of his house. The central oval around which the village was built was still busy with life. The smells of cooking and smoke drifted across him, setting
his stomach to rumble in appreciation. There in front of his house stood a shepherd boy with his elder shaman, Gyarth.

‘You know I hate to be disturbed when I am training my son, Gyarth.’

‘My apologies, Lord Sentaya,’ said Gyarth, bowing and helping the shepherd do the same. ‘But this youth has news.’

‘Does he have a name?’

Gyarth prodded him in the back. ‘Speak.’

‘I am Tiral, my lord.’

Sentaya smiled. ‘Atalun’s boy, good. Raise your head, lad, you need not fear me.’

Tiral looked up. ‘Thank you, my lord. There are people approaching the village.’

Sentaya tensed. ‘People? How many?’

‘I counted more than a hundred. They were a way away from me so I could be wrong.’

‘Are they Wes?’

Tiral shook his head. ‘No. I thought they must be eastern men but they don’t move like them.’

‘Make yourself clear,’ said Sentaya sharply, making the boy jump.

‘They . . . they have more . . . um, grace. Like their feet kiss the ground rather than stamp it ugly like the easterners do. They’ll be here before nightfall.’

Sentaya didn’t understand what the boy meant but it hardly mattered. He turned to Gyarth.

‘Is the fleet in?’

‘Most are beached; some are still out.’

‘Get them in and get everyone armed. We’ll meet these . . . people outside the village. Get word to my sons. Have them stand defence. Thank you, boy, you have done me great service.
Now go home and stay there. Send your father to me.’

The boy ran off.

‘Are you sure he knows what he saw?’ asked Sentaya.

‘His story is unchanged though it makes no sense. Easterners who don’t walk like easterners?’ said Gyarth. ‘Shall I gather my shamen?’

‘How many are here?’

‘Three. Most are spreading the word of our impending entry into the great battle.’

Sentaya sniffed. ‘Should it ever come to pass.’

‘One should not question the Wytch Lords.’

‘I am Sentaya. I will never bend the knee. Leave your shamen to their tasks. Should we be attacked, you know what to do.’

When Sentaya saw the small force approaching he understood exactly what Tiral had meant. They moved as if they were part of the land on which they walked. It was hypnotic and, yes,
graceful
. He was backed by sixty of his warriors, all fresh off the boats from Sky Lake and angry that their bellies would not be filled for the time being. Gyarth was with him and Sentaya
wished he wasn’t. He was too quick of tongue, too far under the Wytch Lords’ influence. Sentaya feared being undermined and he had warned Gyarth to keep his mouth shut.

Sentaya stood front and centre of his warriors, his arms across his chest, his cloak about his shoulders and his decorated leather breastplate secured over his clothes and furs. His shaven head
was uncovered because he would not hide his face from anyone.

The strangers slowed as they approached, the failing light obscuring their features until they had come close, though they made it obvious they had no weapons in hand. Most were dressed in
leather and cloth; some, the most graceful, were plainly warriors but he could not be sure about the others.

Sentaya stiffened as they resolved fully out of the gathering gloom. Walking in the centre was a man, without question a mage and therefore an enemy. But those around him gave him pause and he
would not signal an attack yet. They had strange-shaped ears and eyes. Their faces were hard and cruel and their presence reeked of danger. Word had spread about these people. They had broken the
siege at Julatsa. They were elves from a land far to the south, warriors to be respected and feared.

‘Draw no blade,’ ordered Sentaya. ‘I do not believe they are here to fight us.’

Wesman hands moved from weapon hafts and an elf walking next to the mage nodded.

‘An unwise strategy,’ said Gyarth. ‘These creatures are responsible for the deaths of Gorsu, Hafeez and many shamen and warriors.’

‘You are not giving me reason to hate them. This is a war. I have lost rivals; you have lost dark strength, and I remain free. Perhaps I should be embracing them.’

‘You cannot refuse the Wytch Lords for ever.’

‘That is yet to be proven. I will speak with their leaders.’ He regarded Gyarth, puffed up as he was with his own self-importance and borrowed power. ‘Alone.’

Sentaya carried the satisfying image of Gyarth’s rage with him when he walked forward. The mage and the elf detached themselves from the group and came to meet him. The elves fascinated
him, at once so alien in appearance but so at home with the land, as if they were bonded to it. He chose not to begin in aggressive tones. A formal approach to the strangers was appropriate.

‘I am Sentaya, lord of the Paleon tribes. These are my lands.’

‘The men of Balaia know you and respect your strength in battle and your right to live free on your lands.’

It was the mage who spoke, and his dialect, if heavily accented, was accurate enough.

‘Then you may speak. Those who come to challenge me die here. Those who seek trade leave satisfied. Which are you?’

The mage spoke to the elf in a curious language Sentaya could not follow at all. It was a brief exchange and the mage turned back.

‘My apologies, Lord Sentaya. My brother, Auum of the TaiGethen, cannot speak your language and I must relate to him what is being said. I am Stein, mage of Julatsa. I know I am your enemy
but I ask that you hear us. Auum has a proposal. It is for your ears only.’

Stein’s eyes flicked briefly to Gyarth standing behind him. He nodded and turned to his warriors.

‘Bring fire and food . . . bread and fresh meat too. Slaughter a cow. Our guests may not enter the village but that is no reason for them to starve. I will hear what they have to say
before deciding their fate. No respected warrior should face death on an empty stomach, should I decide they die. You will guard me. Gyarth, with respect, you must return to the village. Your
duties await you.’

‘And should the creatures rise up and strike you while your warriors stand guard, unable to assist you, who will save you?’

Sentaya faced down Gyarth’s humiliation and fury. ‘They have not come here to kill me.’

‘You are staking your life on that assumption.’

‘I am staking all our lives on it.’

Sentaya turned away from his shaman, a smile on his face. He was aware Gyarth could kill him instantly but knew that he would not because his masters needed Sentaya and all the warriors at his
command when the invasion through the pass was ordered.

‘Sit,’ said Sentaya. ‘Fire and food will be brought. The rest of you must retreat to a distance equal to my own warriors. That is the condition of my parley.’

‘Most acceptable,’ said Stein.

He spoke briefly to Auum, who issued a simple command. His elves trotted away without a backward glance. Auum was a true leader, commanding trust and respect. He stood until Sentaya sat, then
did so himself. He was deferential too. Sentaya inclined his head in welcome and the gesture was returned.

‘Tell me,’ said Sentaya, studying Stein and seeing in him an honesty he had not expected of any mage, although his magic remained repulsive. ‘How did you get here? By boat, I
presume, since the pass is closed.’

‘We came across the mountains,’ said Stein and, reacting to Sentaya’s expression of surprise, added, ‘The elves are particularly determined as well as keen climbers. Even
so, we lost friends on the crossing.’

Auum placed his hand on Stein’s arm and Stein related his words.

‘Auum says this: it was not our choice. We were betrayed by those we sought to join in a war against you. Now we seek to join you in a war against our shared enemy.’

‘Really?’ said Sentaya, steepling his hands beneath his chin. ‘And who is this shared enemy?’

‘The Wytch Lords.’

Sentaya glanced over his shoulder to check Gyarth was gone. He saw some of his warriors approaching, carrying torches and pulling two handcarts. One was piled with wood, the other carried food
and wine. Another warrior was leading a cow.

‘You’re so sure they are my enemy?’

Stein spoke at length then, pausing whenever a warrior laying fire or food could hear him. Mostly he related Auum’s words but added his own colour. Sentaya found himself amused at some of
the things Stein was compelled to say on behalf of his elven brother.

Sentaya heard about Dawnthief, the alliance and the treachery of Xetesk and the Wytch Lords. He heard of the elven warrior’s personal distrust of magic, and in that they were truly kindred
spirits. Auum spoke of the future, should human magic be destroyed and the Wytch Lords have no rivals in power. He painted a picture of desolation and slavery, such as the elves had already
suffered at their hands. Auum’s was a compelling story and his desires matched Sentaya’s own for the most part even though his vision of the world beyond this war left Sentaya
dissatisfied. But still the Wesman lord smiled when he spoke to Stein and he was becoming used to the pauses in conversation while Stein translated for Auum.

‘He is your brother yet he despises your magic almost as much as I do. It must have taken some effort to speak his words.’

Stein’s eyes sparkled with humour, and Sentaya surprised himself by feeling a vestige of warmth towards the mage.

‘Auum wishes there was no magic, and I can understand his point of view though naturally I disagree with it. But he can see certain of its benefits and would admit it has saved his life on
more than one occasion. That is his dilemma.’

‘One I don’t suffer. Auum’s solution destroys the Wytch Lords and their magic but it leaves yours to blossom. That does not serve me. Make me see otherwise.’

Stein shrugged.

‘There is no perfect solution. You desire our destruction and, as a result, we desire yours. The truth is that neither state will ever be achieved and we will eventually battle ourselves
to a standstill. Our problem is here and now. Should the Wytch Lords win, they will dominate all who survive, and none of us wants that. Can we agree on that point?’