James Barclay - Beyond the Mists of Katura

But they were just men alone now. Whatever Takaar had taken from them made them vulnerable and they knew it. Gilderon moved left, smashed his staff into a Protector’s chin and sliced a blade into his chest, cutting through his leather armour and deep into flesh and muscle.

The Protector grunted. His weapons moved fast in his defence. Gilderon ducked a flailing axe blade and swayed inside the follow-up sword thrust. The Protector pulled back. Gilderon feinted to smack the body of his staff into the enemy’s chin again but instead swung his weapon about and jabbed a blade up under his chin to skewer his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

No longer did Gilderon have to worry about the attacks of men seemingly able to strike without looking. Takaar’s casting had been devastating, and after their initial attack the Senserii now fought one on one. Confidence energised them. Their enemies retained all of their power and speed but not their ungodly reaction time.

Gilderon switched his grip and reversed a blade into the cheek of a Protector, ripping his mask. The man fell back, the rawness of his face revealed, and the Senserii’s curiosity overcame him. He moved up fast, cracking his staff into the back of the Protector’s legs, dropping him to his knees.

Gilderon moved in close, hands at the top of his staff and sliced through the straps securing the mask. It fell to the ground. The Protector turned a momentary hate-filled glare on him, showing him the sores and weals on his face, before his eyes bulged in terror and he roared his fear, snatched up the mask and ran. The fight was won.

The mages and researchers had gathered in three loose groups, the former trying desperately to cast. The fleeing Protector, yelling something unintelligible at the sky, burst through one group, scattering men in all directions, and carried on running until, quite suddenly, he fell to the ground screaming, his hands clutching at his chest until his body slowly ceased to thrash.

Undefended, transfixed by the scene and unable to believe what they had witnessed, the mages and researchers stood mute. Some were clearly contemplating running, but, at a nod from Gilderon, the Senserii surrounded them. It was a loose corral, fourteen elves hemming in forty humans, but the blood and bodies of the Protectors were ample deterrent against any escape attempt.

‘Takaar,’ said Gilderon, trotting over to where the mad master sat cross-legged, deep in his casting. ‘We have them.’

Takaar raised his head. The beauty of the dome he’d created rested in its absence of chaos. Even the air was still as if the breeze could not penetrate, or more likely the mana was a catalyst for the other elements.

Fascinating.

Gilderon’s interruption was unwelcome.

Quite the opposite. It means that you have been saved and, happily, so have I.

‘What would you have me do with them?’ asked Gilderon.

Takaar curled his lip and bit back a comment.

That was an uncharitable thought, even for you.

‘But I must release the casting. I can’t move it with me; it’s simply too complex.’

‘Any who attempt to cast will be killed. We’ll stand close,’ said Gilderon.

A sound solution.

‘Demonstrate your intent and ability to them. Pick anyone. None of them is pure, none deserves life.’

‘Your wish,’ said Gilderon. Takaar saw him making hand gestures to one of the others. ‘We’re ready.’

Takaar stood. He felt oddly powerful, a little giddy with it. He stared at the humans, who were being herded into a single tighter group. He saw one of the Senserii, Teralion, standing two paces to the left of a powerfully built mage whose face radiated fury and humiliation.

‘I am about to release the casting that has so easily defeated you. Perhaps you shouldn’t have scoffed at my offers of help.’ Takaar found his heart beating very hard and his breathing became shallow and gasping. ‘We should have been allies and now we are enemies. Some of you will think to cast. Gilderon will demonstrate why that is unwise.’

Your grip is slipping. Can you hold on any longer? The tension is unbearable.

Gilderon nodded once. Teralion’s staff jabbed up into his target’s skull at the occipital bone. The mage collapsed, his spasmodic twitching mercifully brief. A chorus of muttered swearing ran around the corralled humans.

‘The Senserii are among the finest fighters the elves possess. I leave your casting decisions to you.’

Takaar dismissed the spell. Every human eye was on the body of the unfortunate mage. Takaar walked towards them as steadily as he could though he was feeling a pain in his head and a stabbing behind his eyes that distracted him.

Going. . going. .

‘Be quiet!’ hissed Takaar.

Takaar searched the faces, seeing fear, anger and belligerence in equal measure. He pointed at the mage who had so belittled him without even knowing him.

‘I will talk to you. Leave the group,’ he said in elvish, knowing the mage understood him. ‘Gilderon, watch the rest.’

The mage, despite protests from his friends, walked through the circle of Senserii.

‘You have no idea of the mistake you have just made, do you?’ he said in Balaian loud enough for his people to hear.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Takaar.

‘Pryfors. A name that resonates in Xetesk and beyond. I am one of this country’s premier research masters.’

Takaar shrugged. ‘You haven’t found anything here though, have you?’

Good question.

‘Thank you.’

Credit where it is due.

‘Please, I am trying to talk to Pryfors.’

I’ll do my best to remain silent but you know how tricky that can be.

Takaar chuckled and felt the tension ease in his head and chest. Pryfors was staring at him.

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘No one,’ said Takaar.

I beg your pardon?

‘Well, you know what I mean.’

No, I don’t.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Pryfors.

Takaar blinked. ‘Why am I talking to you? Do you know anything?’

Pryfors glanced round at his colleagues, and when he turned back there was a new lightness in his expression.

‘Look, it’s been a long day and an even longer night. People have died, and none of us wants more killing, right?’

‘In a war people have to die,’ said Takaar, unsure where Pryfors was going.

The mage breathed in deeply and deliberately.

‘They do, but, as you said, we need not be enemies. We have to defeat the Wytch Lords because they threaten both man and elf.’

‘I know this already,’ said Takaar, he clutched for the giddy power he had experienced so recently but found tiredness and confusion instead. ‘They occupied my country, you know. The memories are so fresh.’

Pryfors stared at him. ‘That was seven hundred years ago.’

‘I am immortal,’ said Takaar, then he smiled. ‘But not invulnerable.’

Brilliant.

‘What do you want to know?’ asked Pryfors. ‘My people are scared, they are tired and they have seen one of their friends murdered in front of them.’

‘It was you who chose this fight,’ spat Takaar.

Pryfors recoiled and put up his hands. ‘And it was a mistake. I acknowledge that.’

‘People never listen to me, not to what I really say. They make assumptions and they judge me. Always wrongly. Only Garan understood me.’