James Barclay - Beyond the Mists of Katura

Auum felt the tears rush and fall down his cheeks. He didn’t care that the fight for Balaia, for Calaius, the whole dimension was going on right behind him. This was his fight right here, to save his greatest friend, his conscience, his rock. . his life beyond the haunting pain of the loss of Elyss.

‘Stein!’ he roared. ‘Where are you?’

Auum heard footsteps run towards him and stop. He looked up, but it was not Stein; it was Marack, Nokhe and Hohan.

‘The right is holding,’ said Marack. ‘I. . Oh, Auum, no. We’ll. . we’ll stand over you. See to him. Tai, with me.’

‘I need Stein,’ said Auum, weeping and hoarse. ‘Please bring me Stein.’

Auum looked down on Ulysan and the pain that crossed his face every time he breathed.

‘It’s all right, old friend,’ he said. ‘Help is coming.’

‘Liar,’ said Ulysan, his eyes flickering open.

Auum gasped. Elyss had said the same thing, and she had died.

‘He’ll be here,’ said Auum. ‘Just don’t die, Ulysan, please don’t die.’

Auum gulped, and the tears fell on Ulysan’s face. The big TaiGethen focused on him anew and frowned, clutching his hand tight.

‘It was you who saved me, wasn’t it? Back in Hausolis? It was you.’

Auum nodded. ‘And you’ve been saving me ever since.’

‘Are we even?’ asked Ulysan.

‘Yes, old friend, we’re more than even.’

Ulysan smiled. ‘That’s good. Can’t go dying if I still need to save your sorry hide.’

‘You’re not dying,’ said Auum.

Ulysan’s hand slipped from his and his eyes closed. His body, so tortured by pain, relaxed. He was at peace.

Auum bent forward and kissed his eyes, his forehead and his mouth.

‘Shorth’s embrace will be eternal for you, my brother.’

Here on the battlefield, surrounded by his friends and beset by his enemies, Auum sat down next to Ulysan’s mercifully undamaged face and stroked the top of his head while the tears rolled unchecked down his face. There was nothing left. Marack was fighting right in front of him. The Senserii were fighting behind him. The elves he’d brought here were struggling to save the lives of countless thousands, and he had nothing left.

Auum wept.

Ystormun gave an ululating cry and every head turned towards him.

Bring blades. Bring the fire. Break him.

Wesman warriors, weak of mind but strong of body, turned and ran from their petty squabbles. But the fire was gone. No shaman touched his mind. Ystormun pushed back against the wall Takaar had erected about him and experienced what he had to assume was fear.

The words of his cadre echoed in his memory. How he longed for their chiding now, their thundering voices in his head, because they would be able to lend him the strength to unpick the casting that threatened to bind him. But inside the spell they were lost to him.

Ystormun opened his eyes. His arms were outstretched and the fire roared from them only to be swallowed by the shimmering sphere that dipped below the earth as if Takaar knew he could attack through the rock itself. But Takaar was not a Wytch Lord and had neither their strength nor their stamina. Again he battered his fire at the construct and Takaar winced, standing holding his palms open and his wrists side by side.

Ystormun looked at the burn on the arm that had held Auum. Another moment and he would have seen the warrior’s light go out. The pain had been a shock. It had blistered his skin and he had thought only his brothers could channel such energy. He flared again, and this time Takaar moved back across the ground.

There. A pin hole. A place to work myself free.

‘You are weak, Takaar. You cannot destroy me and you cannot hold me. You will fail and then I will tear out your heart with my bare hands.’

Takaar opened his eyes, stared at Ystormun, and Ystormun flinched. There was no sanity within, just a strength born of madness and of a desire he could only guess at. The hatred matched his. Ystormun’s heart, for he still thought of it as such, trilled with anxiety.

‘I don’t have to hold much longer. I know you will kill me, but here I stand. Look and see what is coming for you. Pound with all your might and know it won’t be enough. We have you.’

Ystormun looked and this time his shriek was of desperation and panic.

Gilderon whirled his staff in front of his face too fast for any foe to track, too strong a defence for their swords and axes to pierce. He stilled the motion and snapped out left and right, striking his blades into his foes, seeing great cuts open up in their faces, across their chests or across their necks.

Helodian was next to him, Teralion on his other side, and their brothers made a lethal web of wood and steel, protecting their master, whose struggle they could feel inside their minds. The Wesmen were relentless and Gilderon could see many more coming, chased by TaiGethen and the painted warriors who fought with them.

To his left Auum was protected by a cell of TaiGethen hard pressed by a group of a dozen or more enemies, but Gilderon could offer them no help. At a call from the rear of the Wesmen, they surged forward, fifty against ten.

‘Brace!’ yelled Gilderon.

They attacked, yelling cries of death. Gilderon held his ikari on the diagonal as four came at him. He snapped his staff out straight-armed, catching one in the face and another across the knees. Weapons came through the defence. Gilderon swayed inside a sword thrust that nicked his left arm and ducked his head as an axe flew past, its haft clattering against his ikari.

He pulled back the staff and jabbed out, taking one in the chest, who fell back, clutching the weapon to him. Gilderon went with it, leaping as he fell and kicking high into the nose of one who thought to strike him while he was exposed.

Gilderon came down on the chest of the fallen warrior, pulled his blade clear and swiped down hard to the right, slicing deep into the arm of his target. He jumped back, an axe whispering past his midriff. The Wesmen fell back as one.

‘Hold,’ said Gilderon.

Behind him Takaar grunted with exertion and said something to Ystormun that made the Wytch Lord squeal. Gilderon glanced left and right. Two Senserii were down, eight were left. He could see the Xeteskian force sweep towards the village, bare moments away from beginning their casting.

TaiGethen were attacking the rear of the Wesman lines, deflecting significant numbers, but at the front the enemy had changed tactics. Through came thirty or more archers while warriors spread wide left and right, waiting to exploit any move to run or to attack the bowmen. They knew nothing of the Senserii.

‘Ready defence!’ called Gilderon. ‘Close the net, defend the master.’

The Senserii closed up, moving forward or back half a pace. The archers stretched their bows.

‘Execute!’ ordered Gilderon.

Eight ikari whirled, their speed making the air hum around them. The arrows flew. Some missed but most were straight enough. Gilderon felt one slap away from his staff, but near him Cordolan grunted and fell forward with a shaft jutting from his chest.

‘Close!’ ordered Gilderon.

It was a matter of time and luck now. Gilderon needed both friends and faithless allies to move faster.

Bynaar rode in behind the cavalry, feeling the slap of every hoofbeat through his ageing back. He hardly cared. The gallop had been an extraordinary thrill across ground made for horses. He had fliers high in the sky, who had reported back that Ystormun was destroying the defence but a few moments later that Takaar had trapped him. It seemed that the mad elf had not been lying after all, and now time was short.