James Barclay - Beyond the Mists of Katura

They drove into the village across fields littered with bodies to buildings reduced to rubble where a ferocious fight still continued. Ystormun was battering his hideous magic against some construct or other thrown up by Takaar, a handful of whose guard was trying to shield him from a good number of archers, but their whirling staffs were only having limited effect. The rest of the defence was being held at the rear and on the flanks. This was no time for mages.

His cavalry commander knew exactly what was required. On a command taken up by a hundred voices, he wheeled his riders and drove straight through the archers and those clustered around them, scattering them, breaking their bows and their bodies alike. They circled and came back, driving a deeper wedge, then pulled up, ready to move in again. Bynaar halted them.

‘This is not our fight,’ he said. ‘Cage team, dismount and prepare. And every one of you with a blade defend us with your lives.’

‘And Takaar?’ asked the commander.

‘He has friends. Stay out of his and their way.’

Tilman raced across the field in the wake of the cavalry charge and of Grafyrre and Faleen, both of whom sought Auum. His sword was dripping with blood, he was cut on both legs and his chest was ablaze with agony. He thought the axe had nicked his ribs. He was lucky to be alive and wasn’t about to waste that luck.

He tried to keep up. The battlefield was a total mess now, and he hardly knew who was an enemy and who an ally. Wesmen still fought among themselves, the painted, Sentaya’s people, gaining in strength. Ahead a large group of the enemy was attacking TaiGethen protecting two elves sitting on the ground.

Tilman followed Grafyrre into their rear, splitting the skull of one before they began to turn. Grafyrre’s strength seemed inexhaustible and his speed undimmed by his exertions. He jumped and smashed both feet into the back of a Wesman’s head, rode the body down, rammed a blade through its back and thrashed the other into the side of the warrior next to him.

Tilman threw himself to the side to dodge a huge axe swing and lost his footing, going sprawling. The Wesman came at him as he scrambled back, trying to make the space to get to his feet. His chest was agony and blood flowed from the cuts on his legs. The Wesman was on him quickly. Tilman held up his blade, which was contemptuously batted away so the warrior could chop down at his chest. The blow was deflected by a blade and thudded into the ground right next to him. The second blade beheaded the enemy.

Grafyrre reached down a hand.

‘Ulysan is dead,’ he said. ‘You must not die too.’

Tilman was hauled to his feet. The fighting still raged across the oval, Wesman on Wesman for the most part. Tilman looked at Auum and his heart was pained. The elf was surrounded by his friends but was so alone, so lost. Ulysan lay next to him, Auum’s hand stroking the top of his head. He barely registered what was going on just a few paces away. Four of the Senserii stood guard around Takaar, who was plainly losing the battle with Ystormun, though the Wytch Lord himself appeared significantly weakened.

Takaar was forced back by another of Ystormun’s attempts to break him. Black fire flooded the inside of the construct the elf held against the awful might of the ancient creature. But it couldn’t go on. Tilman looked further to his right, seeing the Xeteskian mages kneel in a circle and prepare their casting. The moment they did so, Ystormun screamed. It was a sound of bestial fury and ripped at Tilman’s soul, threatening to steal his courage.

Auum’s TaiGethen looked around and began to fan out. Tilman made his way to Auum, wondering how long Takaar could hold the Wytch Lord. He found two elven blades on the ground and picked them up on the way. He knelt by Auum, who did not seem to notice him. Tilman’s heart heaved.

‘Auum, you’re going to have to fight him,’ he said quietly.

Ystormun sent a wave of dark energy smashing against his enemy’s construct. Takaar wailed and berated himself as he began to lose it. Tilman could see it shudder violently, and holes appeared through which the black fire roared. Ystormun laughed and prepared to strike again.

‘I have had my fill of fighting,’ said Auum.

‘I brought your blades. You will need them,’ said Tilman.

‘What for?’ asked Auum, looking down at the blades.

‘Ystormun will break free. You are the only one he fears.’

‘Those are Ulysan’s blades,’ said Auum.

‘The perfect weapons,’ said Tilman.

Auum looked up at Tilman, down at Ulysan, and he took the blades.

Perhaps it was because he was dead inside that he could feel everything. Away to his right the Xeteskian mages created their cage, and the pulses of raw energy were like bars drawn across his soul. It was a construct that sought its victim. It was tuned to him but not strong enough to take him. Not yet.

Auum pushed through the line of TaiGethen, his few precious TaiGethen, and they let him come, no one seeking to stand with him. He watched Ystormun and saw the fatigue in him and the rage keeping him standing. He saw Takaar, and Takaar was spent.

Auum shouted to Takaar, who was talking to his other self, trying to hold his focus while the last of his strength ebbed away, ‘For all that you have done, today is your day, and all who survive do so because of you. I misjudged you.’

Takaar turned his head, and Auum saw the exhaustion in his eyes and the sweat on his face.

‘No, you didn’t,’ he said. ‘I am all that you accused me of being.’

‘I forgive you it all,’ said Auum. ‘I would be proud to walk by you again.’

Takaar relaxed and his face cleared. A smile crossed it and the pain left his eyes just for a moment. Inside the construct Ystormun heaved his black fire at the walls again. It spewed from his mouth and burst from his fingers. The holes in Takaar’s casting widened to yawning rips, and the fire slapped into the elf’s chest, picked him up and threw him into the backs of his Senserii.

Ystormun stood hunched but his face shone with his victory. He was breathing as if each was his last, and each exhalation rattled his chest. He was shivering all over, and here and there his skin was broken, thin blood leaking out. He looked at Auum and smiled.

‘Your best is not good enough. We will meet again.’

Ystormun began to cast and Auum rushed him, lashing a blade into his arm. Ystormun yelled his pain and looked at the cut. He stumbled back, and Auum followed him.

‘That is what elven magic does to evil,’ said Auum. ‘And this is what real pain feels like.’

‘You cannot kill me!’ screamed Ystormun.

‘I do not need to.’

Auum paced in and laced a cut into Ystormun’s cheek.

‘That is for Ulysan.’ Another into his forehead. ‘And that is for Merrat.’ A third into his other cheek. ‘And that is for Takaar and Thrynn and for every elf whose life you blighted.’

Auum dropped his blades and moved around the creature, who was still trying to gather a casting that would let him escape. Auum roundhoused him in the side of the head and followed up with a snap kick to the chin that sent him sprawling.

Auum put a foot on his throat. Ystormun grabbed his boot and tried to twist it away. The elf could feel the Xeteskian casting seeking him.

‘You can feel the magic coming for you too, can’t you?’ Auum said.

Ystormun’s eyes were blank with fear. He shrieked and scrabbled away. Auum let him go. Ystormun stood and began to intone something, his hands moving fast. Auum bounced on one foot, then jumped and drove both feet hard into Ystormun’s mouth, smashing teeth and gagging his words. Ystormun’s hands flew up, his concentration broken. He tripped and fell. A yawning chasm opened up behind him. The Wytch Lord tried to scramble away, but claws of deep blue shot out and clamped on to his skull and shoulders.