James Barclay - Beyond the Mists of Katura

‘I ask you, do you wish to face any TaiGethen seeking your throat?’ Sentaya had roared, and following the cacophonous negative, he had jabbed a finger in the direction of the approaching enemy. ‘Neither do they!’

And so it came to this: Wesman Lord, TaiGethen warrior and eastern mage standing side by side. Auum stood between the other two, just in case. They had not exactly clasped hands on the alliance, but Auum had caught them speaking to each other as the feast broke up. Sentaya might have been smiling. Then again it might have been a panther’s grin; he had a very fierce face.

The three stood at the head of their forces outside the stockade which they hoped would provide brief but vital shelter when the time came. The ranks were lined up as bait for the enemy massing about three hundred yards distant. Ystormun’s men had already encountered the first of Stein’s wards, which had slowed their advance dramatically. Neither Ystormun nor his shamen were divining them, just as Stein had predicted.

‘They might as well run headlong for all the good it’ll do them,’ muttered Stein. ‘Going tiptoe across them makes you just as dead.’

‘I’ll be right behind you when you trot out and let them know,’ said Ulysan.

‘Are all your Communion minds open?’ asked Auum.

‘Yes.’ Stein indicated Sentaya’s outbuildings. ‘He wouldn’t let us in the house but the cattle don’t mind us. A quick shout and you can have your cells on their way in.’

Auum nodded and sent a prayer to Tual to bless his hidden teams with sure feet and swift strikes. The indefatigable Faleen was heading three cells positioned in the deep reeds bordering the lake about a mile north of the enemy. Merrat and Merke’s cells were waiting in a belt of woodland less than two miles to the east.

Auum watched Sentaya’s face as the tribal banners became clearer and the shamen’s garb stood out among the furs and leather of their warrior flock. Sentaya had about a hundred and fifty blades at his disposal, drawn from his village and from a cluster of small settlements around the southern end of the lake. His two elder sons commanded a third each as did he. All wore tribal marks on their faces, blue lines on their cheeks and white diagonals on their foreheads.

‘It’ll make us easy for your TaiGethen to spot when the lines are broken,’ Sentaya had said.

Sentaya was uncomfortable standing and waiting, and even more so at the notion of hiding inside his stockade when the spells started to fall. He knew it made sense, but it went against every instinct and felt like cowardice. Worse, he would be inside his stockade as the battle was joined because magic was being employed on his behalf. Auum understood his turmoil.

‘What do you know of them?’ asked Auum, nodding his head at the enemy.

Stein, as always, translated. Sentaya spat between his feet before he spoke.

‘I see banners from the Heconn, the Kistoi, the Rekine and the Calamet. Worthy fighters but they darkened the soul of all Wesmen when they bent the knee to grasp power they thought they could own. There is plenty of reason to hate them.’

Sentaya paused and scanned the undulating rock-strewn ground across which they were coming. A ward detonated to the left. Fire roared into the air, carrying two bodies with it. The screams were brief. Warriors paused but were ordered on, and the dead were left where they fell. Sentaya closed his eyes briefly and muttered what Auum understood to be a prayer of forgiveness.

‘Is what we are doing any different to the black fire the shamen will use to try and kill you?’ asked Auum.

Sentaya stared at him but did not reply. Instead he focused back on the enemy.

‘We must be wary of the shamen. These are not village holy men. So many of those claiming the robes are little more than vessels for Wytch Lord magic. They are not steeped in the spirits and have never studied or lived as they are required to. They are deep in the ways of the spirits and the Wytch Lords, though, shamen schooled inside Parve’s temples. Dangerous and powerful, able to channel far more effectively.’

Auum felt a moment of anxiety though he had to expect Ystormun would have brought the best that he could, the most loyal.

‘Have we had word of Takaar’s progress yet?’ he asked Stein.

‘Nothing. We know he’s trying to get here but no more.’ Stein turned a slightly nervous smile on Auum. ‘Don’t worry. We can send his spirit to cower in his temple and give Sentaya all he needs to ally the mass of Wesmen against the Wytch Lords. We’ll win this.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘You’re my brother, Auum, but if I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be standing here with a sworn enemy while facing one of Balaia’s most powerful creatures.’

‘You’re scared?’ asked Auum.

‘Terrified,’ said Stein. ‘This is a Wytch Lord in his own lands. He will draw directly on the power residing in his temple. The Ystormun you saw in Calaius was a child by comparison.’

In front of them the Wesman army stopped on a single command. They were in loose formation, wary of traps. They spread further to the left towards the lake and to the right, meaning to attack the village on three sides. Ystormun also knew they would clear the wards for his shamen in the process. Archers were among the axe and sword carriers. The shamen were clustered in groups of eight and positioned some thirty yards behind the warriors.

They were silent. A carriage rolled up onto a rise more than a hundred yards behind the broad single line. It was guarded by shamen and warriors.

‘Ready?’ asked Auum.

‘Always,’ said Sentaya, using an elven word he’d been taught the night before.

‘Die old, not today,’ said Auum. ‘Stein, get the strike teams running.’

A call began at the far right of the Wesman line and rippled all the way along it, setting birds to flight and the hairs standing on Auum’s arms. It was a call for strength and courage.

‘It’s the coronyl,’ said Sentaya.

The call died away. Horns sounded and the Wesmen charged

The ground was firm, clear and easy beneath Faleen’s feet, allowing her to reach a prodigious speed. The temptation to drop into the shetharyn was great, but they would need that in due course if they were to escape with their lives. Her Tai of Haloor and Jyrrian struggled to keep pace and she looked across to the Tais of Oryaal and Dodann, seeing their strides lengthen as they coursed across the ground.

It was a thrilling run. Ahead she could see the tail of the Wesman force. The supply wagons were drawn up in a line, their backs to her approach. A few guards were scattered about them, but her prize was the Wesman reserve and Ystormun’s carriage, which lay beyond them.

Away to the east she saw swift movement over the grass. Merrat and Merke’s cells cruised towards the enemy. The picture was complete. All they needed from the village was. .

A rippling series of detonations eclipsed the war cries of the Wesman attackers. Smoke billowed into the air and flames grasped at the sky. There were screams of pain and roared orders. Bodies were flung high to land broken and burned on the ground. As one, the Wesman reserve force, over a hundred warriors, turned to stare at the carnage meted out to their brethren.

The three cells formed a fighting line on the sprint, racing around the right-hand side of the wagon line. Faleen drew her twin blades and attacked. She chopped a blade into the lower back of a guard, pacing on to smash her other blade into the buttocks of another.

She was past them both before they had a chance to cry out. Haloor spear-kicked another in the back of the neck, landed and swept a blade into the skull of a second, clearing his path to the reserve. Jyrrian hurled a jaqrui at his target, missing him by a breath. The blade mourned away, thudding into the shoulder of a reserve warrior.