James Barclay - Rise of the TaiGethen

Two old elves, one Gyalan, one Apposan, gazed across the miles of unbroken forest canopy and down on the city that nestled in the palm of Yniss. Smoke smudged the sky, and even this far distant the echoes of elven prayers were carried on the prevailing wind, along with the clang of hammer on metal and the rasp of saw against wood.

Boltha spat on the ground.

‘We are a stain on perfection,’ he said. ‘A slime that is oozing its way into the bedrock and corrupting the very place that should have inspired us back to greatness. We do not deserve saving.’

Methian tore his eyes from the ungainly sprawl of the city. Katura had become the elves’ greatest shame. Work which had begun with such energy had become lack-lustre and lazy. There was not a single building they could be proud of. And within the city limits, enmity grew by the day.

‘How long since you set foot in there?’

Boltha’s watery eyes squinted back at Methian. His close sight was poor, indeed he feared it was fading altogether.

‘More than fifteen years. Ever since we took the Apposans to the Haliath Vale. We couldn’t bear to stay another moment. No wonder you retired.’

‘I didn’t retire,’ said Methian, and he could not keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘It is an enduring sadness that I was made unwelcome by the very people I was sworn to help.’

‘You can’t blame yourself. Edulis is a drug that removes reason, sense and any familial feeling. She dismissed you because she no longer knew you.’

Methian sighed. ‘I could have stopped her becoming an addict. I should have seen her falling.’

‘Addicts are clever right up until the moment they lose their minds. She’s still alive, is she?’

‘Dead addicts don’t make any money. Dead governors don’t pass handy new laws. The suppliers are careful. After all, the birth rates are so low now that they have a practically stagnant population. They can’t afford to start killing them.’

Boltha barked out a laugh. ‘We should torch the place.’

‘I hear you, old friend, but not everyone there has sunk so low. Some still work and there are many people still praying for redemption in Katura.’

‘Which god will hear them?’ Boltha’s tone was harsh. ‘It’s a cesspit, nothing more.’

‘And you did nothing to help when you took your thread away.’

Methian hadn’t meant it quite the way it came out and he saw Boltha’s face pinch in sudden anger.

‘We did nothing that Auum didn’t do when he took the Ynissul from Katura almost before a tree was felled to build the damn place.’

‘He had to,’ snapped Methian. ‘He had to develop the new TaiGethen and provide adepts for the Il-Aryn, and the Ynissul birth rate is so low that every new Ynissul child is cause for a celebration as if the gods were walking the forest once more. What excuse did you have? You whose hands helped to build what you now despise.’

‘We relied on the Al-Arynaar. Your leader’s spectacular failure is the seed of all that Katura has become. I only removed my thread when the reports began to say innocent elves were being forced into addiction. And what riches are the harvesters and dealers making for themselves, I wonder?’

‘Land,’ said Methian. ‘What else? Pelyn was given the power to grant each elf land in the forest and on the plain. Much of it is in the hands of the Tuali and Beethan drug gangs now. They are strong. They own Katura.’

Boltha raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Has anyone told Auum?’

‘Auum hasn’t been here in over fifty years. No TaiGethen come here.’ Methian sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I do not mean to bait you.’

Boltha smiled. ‘You and I will always clash, as our threads dictate. So why did you invite me on this hike with you? Not to recreate our journeys of past years, I’m sure.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Methian. ‘Come, let’s sit. I’ve got some rather good spirit and some bread, tapir and dried fruit too.’

‘I knew I could rely on you,’ said Boltha.

The old Apposan, still strong of arm, chopped some scrub and vines away from a fallen log and the two old friends sat. Methian reached into his backpack and passed Boltha a clay jug stoppered with a wood plug.

‘Sip it,’ he said. ‘Strong stuff.’

Boltha took a swallow. He breathed in slowly and Methian smiled as he imagined the liquid burning its way down his throat.

‘Where does that come from?’ said Boltha. ‘Tastes a bit like yams.’

‘Yes, but we’ve distilled it with guarana. Makes you drunk but you don’t want to sleep. Helps with the headache next day, too.’

Boltha took another sip and passed the jug back to Methian.

‘At least you haven’t wasted your whole life.’

Methian sniffed the jug before wetting his lips with the spirit and then letting a long trickle run down his throat.

‘I’m old, Boltha,’ he said once he’d stoppered the jug and fished in his pack for the bread and meat. ‘But I’ve only just begun feeling it. I was a warrior of the Al-Arynaar for over three hundred years and I am as proud of that as I am of being Gyalan.

‘I’ve seen the very best of the elven spirit and believed that we were genuinely entering a golden age of harmony and progress. But the last years have been relentless decline and conflict and I find I cannot accept that as the epitaph of my life in service.’

‘Why do you think I took my leave? Katura is a cancer.’

‘Yes!’ said Methian, and he felt the spirit coursing round his blood energising him. ‘And it must be excised.’

‘So talk to your erstwhile leader, if she ever returns to lucidity. How many Al-Arynaar still wear the cloak?’

‘Who knows? We probably have fewer warriors than the TaiGethen for the first time in elven history. Not even enough to police a city of twenty thousand.’

‘And growing fewer every day…’ said Boltha.

‘It has to stop, and though there is desire in the city to see it cleaned up, there is no strength.’

Boltha held up his hands. ‘I know where this is going.’

‘You are strong,’ said Methian, leaning forward and offering him dried mango which Boltha took and ate. ‘Your thread is pure. You are the thread of the axe. Others fear you, even the Tuali. Come back. Help me cleanse the city. Help me return Katura to purity. To harmony.’

‘The only way to do that is to burn the place to the ground.’

Methian shrugged. ‘If that’s what it takes.’

‘Why should I risk my people for those who cared so little for us?’

‘Because if you do not it will render everything we did when Ysundeneth fell a waste. It will render your faith a sham. And I know you, Boltha. You believe in the harmony. Help me and we can start again, to make Katura great before we die.’ Methian smiled as rain began to fall. ‘And Gyal knows neither of us has terribly long left.’

A primeval, guttural sound grew from the north. It echoed among the trees and fed up the valleys. Even beyond Katura, panthers took up the cry. Methian shuddered.

‘What is that?’

‘It’s the ClawBound. They’re calling the TaiGethen to muster.’

‘Are you sure?’

Boltha nodded and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I need to get back to Haliath.’

‘I understand,’ said Methian. ‘Think on what I’ve said. Help me. Help us all.’

The calls faded away.

‘Do you have a plan for this rebellion of yours, or whatever you call it?’

‘I know where we have to strike, if that’s what you mean.’

‘And do your enemies know you’re plotting against them?’

Methian chuckled. ‘I’m an old Gyalan. I don’t even carry a weapon any more. No one suspects me of anything barring being a grumpy old loudmouth.’

‘Well we can all agree on that.’ Boltha took Methian’s shoulders. ‘These are dangerous people you’re facing. Don’t assume you are not seen as a threat. Will the Al-Arynaar back you?’