James Barclay - Beyond the Mists of Katura

‘How many?’ asked Gilderon, slowing them all down.

‘Twenty that I can see backed by eight or nine of their shamen. They’ve built a barricade that may well be hiding many more. Our advantage is that the pass is tight and we can fill it and wear them down.’

‘No,’ said Takaar. ‘Your advantage is that you have me. You have battles to come; I shall deal with them.’

Gilderon stopped them as soon as he could see the lanterns and the warriors leaning on spears or resting against the walls or the wood of their eight-foot-tall barricade. The shamen were in a group around a fire, talking and gesticulating. As he watched, an opening in the barricade was unbolted and he caught a glimpse of a great deal more Wesmen behind it.

‘We can deal with this, Takaar,’ he said. ‘Our role is to protect you.’

‘The shamen will kill you before you get within ten yards. Don’t question me.’

That last was said as if from another mouth. Gilderon was about to protest further but Takaar was clearly wrestling with himself and his expression was of ill-controlled impulse.

‘Show them mercy,’ was all he could manage.

Takaar moved off along the dark passage towards the Wesman lantern light. Gilderon pitied them, hearing one side of Takaar’s conversation.

‘Fire can only be drawn from the fuel already there. It is not enough. . You are showing your ignorance as always. To use the air is terribly draining. . Now you’re thinking. The raw material surrounds us and we have only to prod in the right place.’

Unconsciously the Senserii had drawn back from Takaar and had moved together, unsettled by the energies he was beginning to marshal. Inside the tight confines of the pass Ix’s power felt multiplied, and it roared through their bodies on its way to do whatever Takaar required.

Takaar was walking forward steadily, his head twitching from side to side as if seeking something minute, his hands trembling and his fingers jerking, closing and opening while he teased at his target. Fifty yards from the barricade and deep in shadow he stopped.

‘It will be loud,’ he said. ‘Cover your ears.’

Takaar moved off quickly, his hands outstretched in front of his face, palms away from him. Gilderon led the Senserii forward at a run. Ahead, the Wesmen began to make out dim shapes in the gloom beyond the light of their lanterns and fire. Warriors plucked weapons from where they rested and the shamen were ready to cast should they prove to be enemies.

The first effect of Takaar’s spell was a series of dull cracks from up ahead. Takaar’s fingers wiggled in what would have been comic fashion in other circumstances but to Gilderon, it only made what came next all the more terrifying. The shamen moved to cast. Warriors lined up to give them cover.

They should all have been running.

Takaar, not breaking stride, drew his arms back, jabbed them forward hard and closed his fists. The roof above the Wesmen collapsed, smashing their bodies into the ground and extinguishing the fire and lanterns. The noise ripped into Gilderon’s head despite the hands clamped over his ears and he roared a curse as much at the sight as the sound.

Down and down came the rock, splintering the barricade. Through the clouds of dust and debris thrown up into the pass Gilderon saw Wesmen turning to run. It was impossible to hear their screams but they must have been loud until shut off by the torrent of mountain battering their bodies, bursting their skulls and crushing their limbs from their twitching corpses.

Takaar walked on, repeating his gestures. More boulders came thundering down. Smears of black appeared briefly on the walls before being eclipsed by the dust, which billowed down the pass towards the Senserii. Gilderon held his breath and turned away while the force of it rolled over him impelled by a gust of Ix-inspired wind, buffeting his body and tearing at his clothes.

He could barely see Takaar a few feet ahead of him. The mad elf circled his hands and pushed, adding more power to the wind, which now blew away from them, whipping up the dust into spirals and driving it away from the scene of his atrocity so all could view what he had wrought.

Immediately the air was clear, Takaar set off again, his hands cocked, ready to cause another rockfall. Gilderon stared for a heartbeat at the awful devastation and ran in front of him, turning and grabbing his arms.

‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘Enough! Look what you’ve done! Yniss spare us from the wrath of Shorth, look what you’ve done .’

Takaar’s gaze, lost in the energies he manipulated, darted around Gilderon before settling on his face. He tried to move his arms but Gilderon held on tight, this time heedless of the risk he might be running.

‘Enough,’ he repeated. ‘You’ve killed them. You’ve killed them all .’

Takaar’s body relaxed, and the weight of energies dissipated, leaving a quiet broken by the rumbling of echoes. Gilderon looked to his Senserii.

‘Go among them. If any live, speed their passing and pray for their souls.’ His voice cracked and he stared back at Takaar. ‘No one should die like that.’

Gilderon walked with Takaar, who seemed in a daze. Whether he had any notion of what he had just done was questionable. They picked their way through the rubble and debris, which reached halfway up to the roof in places. Gilderon looked up at it, fearful of another fall.

‘Did you know that even the most solid of rock has tiny fractures? All I had to do was make them bigger.’ Takaar’s smile was ephemeral. ‘Simple, really.’

‘You can never do this again,’ whispered Gilderon. ‘It is not right. Yniss cannot countenance this.’

‘Where the rock is hard for a horse to pass I will make it dust. We must leave a path,’ said Takaar.

The Senserii knelt and rose as they searched. Nowhere did they find a living Wesman. Gilderon swallowed. They walked past a bloodied hand on the ground, fingers open. The arm disappeared beneath a fall of rock which must have crushed the body flat. Something was caught in the dead fingers.

Takaar knelt down and picked it up. In his hands lay a child’s doll in the likeness of a warrior. He held it up to Gilderon before his face crumpled, and he wailed for the lost, for what he had done and for who he had become.

Dawn on the day that would decide the fate of Balaia, Calaius and the Wesmen was chill and grey and entirely fitting. The feast of the night before had often been tense and the atmosphere occasionally aggressive, but Auum had enjoyed it nonetheless. He’d spent most of the evening with Sentaya and Tilman, putting together a series of commands they could all understand.

Stein had suffered almost constant abuse and sported a livid bruise on one cheek as testament to the only punch thrown. Sentaya had reacted furiously to it, halting the feast to reaffirm the nature of the alliance that would last until the battle was done. The offender had almost managed to pass Stein a cup of broth as a gesture of reconciliation but somehow it had fallen on his feet instead.

Stein might have taken renewed offence at the second affront but instead had chosen to tip back his head and laugh. Auum smiled at the memory. Stein was a fine diplomat, and there were probably a few Wesman warriors lined up behind the stockade this morning wondering quite why they hated all man’s magic so much.

Close to midnight the sound of many hundreds of voices singing had broken the mood in the village, and Stein, of course, had suggested a final event to boost the confidence of the Wesmen doomed to face their Wytch Lord-backed rivals at sunrise. A series of races and tasks of agility had been organised along with sparring and wrestling.

Grudgingly Auum had agreed to the notion, but the TaiGethen had won every challenge, their use of shetharyn drawing gasps and the laughter of the disbelieving in equal measure.