James Barclay - Rise of the TaiGethen

Garan gasped and Takaar tensed, but he knew better than to mop his brow or clutch a hand.

‘I thought you said you were improving?’

‘They haven’t quite sorted out my gut yet. Still dissolving in its own acid, or so it feels. So. Why are you here?’

‘I’m sure your mages have been able to detect the Il-Aryn and its principal location for decades. So this attack is… a change in strategy, isn’t it? It’s provocative. I expect humans across the rainforest are already dead as a result. And none of your temple attackers survived.’

‘Oh? I thought you always let one go to spread the fear.’

‘I changed my mind.’ Takaar shrugged. ‘I was going to, but I didn’t hear what I needed to.’

‘Which was?’

‘An answer to the question I just asked you. And I’m happy to kill you too, whether you answer it or not. Just say the word.’

‘I see I’m not the only one who’s not a comedian.’ Garan was wheezing. ‘Damn. Need to turn over. No muscle to speak of in the chest you see, so eventually my lungs slide together. Or that’s how it feels. Quite painful.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Takaar.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. And don’t even think about helping me or I’ll call the guards.’

Ah, another test for your oh so fragile emotions.

‘Leave me,’ hissed Takaar.

I don’t think so. This promises to be such fun.

Garan began to move and Takaar’s eyes brimmed on the instant. He couldn’t take his eyes from Garan’s face, twisted in agony. His features, so aged and wrinkled, his flesh so thin and loose that he was utterly unrecognisable as the man who had escorted Takaar, bearing the body of his beloved Katyett, from the city a hundred and fifty years ago. Only his eyes, which retained their cynicism and surprising intelligence, gave the man within away.

Garan grunted and began to roll, having worked one arm beneath his body. He was a featherweight but his muscle was so withered that moving himself when he was prone was a true physical trial. His features contorted, hiding his already screwed shut eyes completely. Small whimpers escaped his lips and his body moved with agonising slowness. His right arm juddered and shook as he forced it straight. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth and Takaar heard tendons crack.

No, no. Don’t close your eyes. You swore you wouldn’t do that.

‘I have to help him.’

You could end his pain but he won’t let you, and you are so crucified by your respect for a human that you acquiesce to that. Or is it that your hatred for him is so intense that you drink the pain of your enemy like the sweetest of honeys?

Garan fell onto his back, an exhalation of relief ending in a violent coughing fit that sprayed a fine mist of blood into the air and left him clutching at his stomach. There was a thud on the door. Takaar froze. He saw the handle move ever so slightly downwards.

‘Garan, do you need assistance?’

Garan’s response was another fusillade of coughs.

‘Garan!’

The handle moved further and the door opened a crack. Takaar readied to flee.

‘I’m fine,’ croaked Garan. ‘Never felt better. Now bugger off and let me sleep in peace.’

The door closed on a muttered insult. Takaar smiled.

‘So what happens now? Will your lungs sink through your back and into the mattress?’

Garan choked back a laugh. His voice dropped back to a whisper.

‘Listen to me, Takaar. We don’t have long before someone comes in to check I haven’t suffocated myself with my blanket.’ Garan’s eyes bored into Takaar’s face, searching for his features in the darkness. ‘Change at home will bring changes here. Unless we are fortunate indeed, there is going to be a hideous struggle for magical dominance, so bad that those stationed here will be glad they are.

‘There are more styles of magic than you have seen. Four schools dominate and the ethics controlling them mix poorly. Ystormun and his ilk represent a school of magic that deals in things best left untouched. You and your kind deal in a far purer magic which Ystormun has been under pressure to repress ever since it flared all those years ago. Now he is tasked with destroying it.

‘And you’re playing into his hands.’

Takaar felt slapped. ‘How?’

‘Because those you assume are the natural practitioners of elvish magic are not.’

‘The Ynissul are the natural masters of the elves and the only thread to demonstrate any feeling for the Il-Aryn.’

Garan closed his eyes and brought trembling hands to his face.

‘And you call yourself the father of the harmony? Your prejudice is entrenched as firmly as Sildaan’s. Did it never occur to you to wonder why Ystormun wanted to exterminate the Ixii and the Gyalans? The Ixii? Didn’t that give you the smallest clue?’

Takaar opened his mouth to reply but closed it sharply against a rising nausea.

Oh for shame. A hundred and fifty years passed and so much of it wasted on the wrong elves. How does it feel to know you have failed again, through your own blindness? I’d be running for the forest to hide again if I were you.

‘You’ve known this all the time?’

‘Of course.’

‘But-’

‘Don’t be naive, Takaar. We’re friends. Friends of the most curious kind, to be sure, but friends nonetheless. But when have you or I ever passed each other useful information, eh? Never forget that I believe in our occupation. Or I did.’

The last was almost inaudible.

‘And now?’

‘This occupation is no longer to the benefit of Triverne. It is merely a resource base that will tip the balance in the magical struggle to come. Ystormun and his dark magic must be driven out before he becomes unstoppable. The future of both Calaius and Balaia depend on it. You understand what I’m saying?’

Takaar nodded, mumbled his assent.

‘There’s something else,’ said Garan.

The bedroom door slapped open, lantern light flooded in. Takaar leapt straight upwards, his fingers snagging on the timber roof supports high above the bed. He swung his legs up and his body swivelled, planting him astride a central beam. He flattened his body along it, one eye peering down through the dust he had dislodged, which spiralled towards the ground.

Ystormun swept into the room flanked by four of his cabal of mages and two guards. Garan watched him come and, though any other man might quail, he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

‘He’s been here. I can smell the mana on him. Give him to me.’

‘Naturally,’ said Garan. ‘He’s hiding under my blanket.’

One of the mages moved to pull the blanket back. Ystormun stopped him with a hiss.

‘Idiot,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t waste my time, Garan. Where is he?’

Garan, lying prone, shrugged extravagantly. ‘There are so many places to hide in this room.’

Ystormun glared at Garan. He snapped his fingers and gestured towards the door to the washroom. A mage scurried off to check.

‘You are testing my patience,’ said the mage lord.

‘It is the only pleasure remaining to me,’ said Garan.

Takaar was calm. Seven enemies in all. He could kill six before they touched him, three of those before they even knew he was there. But Ystormun was an unknown factor. There was an aura of invulnerability about him mixed up with the reek of magical power that enveloped him. And something else too: something seething and malevolent that ran through his veins and every cell of his being.

Takaar waited and watched. He needed Ystormun to move directly beneath him. Dropping on him like a constrictor from a tree was his best and only chance. But as if he could sense Takaar’s intent, Garan stared upwards for a heartbeat and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.