James Barclay - Beyond the Mists of Katura

‘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.’