James Barclay - Beyond the Mists of Katura

‘I bet it has,’ said Auum. ‘Takaar’s understanding of the word discretion is sadly lacking. Who requested the ClawBound to call the muster?’

Onelle swallowed. ‘Takaar did.’

Of all the names Auum had expected to hear, his was not among them.

‘What?’

‘Drech says that Takaar is foretelling an end to the elves.’

Auum sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I don’t believe this. Why did the ClawBound listen to him?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Onelle.

‘Who is this human anyway? Garan come back from the grave to haunt us? Did Drech say?’

‘Drech didn’t know much except his name.’ Onelle searched her mind briefly for the detail. ‘It was. . curse my leaky brain. . Stein , that was it. Stein.’

Auum felt cold and his fury towards Takaar evaporated while a pain grew in the centre of his chest. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain,’ said Onelle. ‘Why?’

‘I have to get to Ysundeneth.’

‘What is it?’ asked Onelle. ‘What’s wrong?’

Memories long buried clawed their way back to the surface. Fears long forgotten started his hands trembling and made his heart quicken.

‘Don’t leave here. Not unless you hear a general call to evacuate everyone south. Takaar may not have been overreacting.’ Auum kissed Onelle’s forehead. ‘Pray, Onelle. Pray this Stein is a fraud and Takaar has been fooled. I’ll send word when I can. Look after Nerille. She’s old and frail and I want to see her again before she dies.’

Onelle had tears on her cheeks.

‘You can save us, can’t you, Auum?’

‘I don’t know.’

The palace and temple of Parve was grand beyond the comprehension of all of those who had been forced to build it, all of those summoned to worship there and all of those who could not avoid seeing it every single day. Those who dwelt within it cared nothing for it, only for the power that smouldered within its walls and seeped through the stone flags on the floor.

Parve, the only great city of the Wesmen, was largely deserted and had fallen into disrepair as the unity of the tribes had crumbled in the wake of the Sundering at Triverne and the destruction of the Wytch Lords’ greatest power base. But now it was complete, an aura of strength was building within the temple. Already the first strikes had been made into the east.

The ill-advised unveiling of the apocalyptic spell Dawnthief by Septern had forced the Wytch Lords’ hands but their agents had failed to capture the mage or his creation. The subsequent assault on Septern’s mansion and workshop had yielded nothing but had cost a large number of Wesman lives. Those were acceptable losses, but the disappearance of two agents was disappointing.

Ystormun had a great deal more to ponder than that and much to answer for on a personal basis. He had never regained his true status since his return, in a decidedly withered form, from Calaius more than seven hundred years ago. His reincarnation had been greeted with disdain by the cadre, and his efforts to retake his power had been thwarted at every turn.

He was the first to arrive at the meeting in the Hexerion chamber, and he could still find the energy to raise a smile at its stunningly naive design. In the mistaken belief that all Wytch Lords considered themselves equal, the room was a perfect hexagon with identical panels each containing a door and a fireplace. The table which dominated the centre of the room was a marble hexagon mounted on a granite plinth.

A six-spoke iron chandelier hung low over the table, its candles spilling yellow light not quite far enough. The six chairs were identical: high-backed, winged and leather-upholstered. The tapestries hung on each wall depicted the imagined glories of the Wytch Lords.

It was a ridiculous room, but strangely conducive to the matters of dominion so beloved by the Wytch Lords. And so they endured the chill of the table, the poor light and the erratic heat of the fires because it was within these walls that they could hate each other with particular acuity.

Ystormun brushed down his thick woollen robes. He pulled his cloak about him and sat in his chair. He closed his eyes and found the trails of the other five as they meandered or strode through the ether to the Hexerion. All of them felt angry, all of them were prepared to blame one another, and all of them would have particular vitriol for Ystormun.

Before long, all of the soulless immortals were present, and the table had been set with spirits, wines and meats. Ystormun rested his head against the back of his chair, finding that the wings obscured him from the glares of the vain black-skinned Belphamun on his left and the venous mottled sack of bones that was Giriamun on his right.

Opposite him, Pamun gazed at him with undisguised loathing. His skin seemed tighter than ever over the angled bones of his skull, and the ever-present skullcap had not been pulled down far enough to hide the pulse in his temple. He was flanked by Weyamun, who boasted downy white hair on his ridged skull, and Arumun, whose eyes were the bleakest of them all and set deep and close above his narrow nose.

‘I presume your early arrival was to give yourself time to properly reflect upon your latest failure,’ said Pamun, his voice quiet malice.

‘It is a setback, nothing more.’

‘Stein escaped,’ rasped Belphamun.

Ystormun did not turn towards his voice. ‘He was badly injured and flying south. Only the most deluded among you could believe he is still alive. Even a fit and fresh mage could not stay on the wing for five days straight.’

‘We felt fingers of energy reaching out from the south, from the heart of elven magical power,’ said Pamun.

‘Which proves nothing,’ said Ystormun.

‘Yet we must now assume the elven race is aware of our plans for them,’ said Giriamun.

‘Perhaps we should also pause to dissect Giriamun’s progress and achievements in capturing Dawnthief?’ said Ystormun. ‘It will not divert us for long, after all.’

Ill feeling flashed around the table, dragging a harsh silence in its wake. Ystormun spoke into the void.

‘It is the single most important task, is it not? Perhaps Giriamun is not up to it. Perhaps another should take the reins.’

‘And who would you suggest? You?’ Giriamun spat the word out as he would rotten meat. ‘You who cannot kill one mage on a defenceless ship?’

‘No, my brother, not I,’ said Ystormun and he smiled and leaned forward. ‘I am sworn to defeat the elves and so I shall. But I am surprised there is no dissent from around the table. No doubt expressed, no blame to be attached for your abject failure? If we believe the elves are alerted to our intentions, should we also assume Xetesk has captured Dawnthief?’

‘ENOUGH!’ Belphamun’s voice shivered the air. Fires guttered and spat. ‘Are we children squabbling over scraps? How long have we lived, how long have we survived, how much power do we wield only to bicker like women over grain?’

Ystormun hunched back into his chair while the echoes of Belphamun’s voice faded against the stone walls of the Hexerion. Across the table from him, Pamun’s fingertips were pressed hard together and sparks of mana played across his nails.

‘Errors have been made,’ continued Belphamun. ‘Our gambit for Dawnthief has failed. The elves might be aware of our plans. Are these mortal blows? Focus, brothers, on our next actions. Actions we must execute without error.’

‘The march towards dominion of this dimension is in hand,’ said Arumun, waving a hand dismissively.

‘Plainly not,’ said Belphamun. ‘Or, if it is, it is a fragile and shaking hand. Here is what must be done-’

‘Have I missed something?’ Weyamun rested his ancient arms on the table. ‘I had not understood you to be the speaker of the cadre.’