James Barclay - Rise of the TaiGethen

At last Garan had the truth behind the torture of the last hundred and thirty years. He tried to hold back a laugh.

‘You’re trying to create an elf from my body so you can build an army of me and take on the power of Triverne? You really are a fucking idiot, aren’t you?’

Ystormun’s eyes darkened and his hands crackled with power.

‘You could have stood with me at the head of my dominion,’ said Ystormun. ‘But your every insulting word is logged and noted and you will be cast aside when I am done with you.’

‘My death cannot come too soon.’

‘Death? I don’t think so, Garan. That would be reward, not a punishment.’ Ystormun stalked across to the windows and stared out towards the rainforest. ‘This meeting is over. Your next treatment will be somewhat uncomfortable but might give you more strength in your legs. It will be that or paralysis.’

Garan felt cold. Ystormun was nothing if not a man of his word. Still, there was always a chance he could be provoked enough to lash out.

‘I look forward to pulling myself along by my arms to see you,’ said Garan.

‘Sometimes I think my work to maintain your brain function was wasted,’ said Ystormun. ‘You see so much less than you should.’

‘So sure?’ Garan raised a shaking hand and pointed a crooked arthritic finger at Ystormun. ‘I can see you’re fidgeting. You’re nervous, but not of me. I can hear your finger bones clacking together.’

Ystormun stared at him and Garan saw the exhaustion in his eyes; quite something in orbs always so sunken and black-rimmed.

‘That’ll be down to too much interference from your brethren; too much long-distance debate, right?’ said Garan.

He needed to lie down. Ystormun’s sheer presence was draining enough. But this was one of those rare occasions when the mage lord was clearly uncomfortable about something. Garan was not going to let a mere hundred and seventy years of age get in the way of an attempt to make the skeleton squirm a little.

Ystormun’s stare intensified. Garan felt the temperature on his face rise.

‘Oh dear,’ said Garan. ‘And it didn’t go so well for you, did it? What was it this time?’

‘I am not in the habit of talking to you about such matters.’

‘Well, I might as well go, then.’

Garan began to think about pushing himself out of the chair. It was not a prospect he relished. He feared his legs had seized up and his head felt light. Too much thinking did that to him these days.

‘Did it ever occur to you that, as the only other man who was here from the start, I might have something useful to add?’ asked Garan, hoping to delay the moment a little further.

There was a flicker across Ystormun’s features, gone the next blink.

‘I admit no weakness,’ he said. ‘Only the ignorance of others.’

‘Ah,’ said Garan, satisfied at last. ‘It’s the old “delicate balance” thing again, is it?’

Ystormun appeared to relax, just by a hair. ‘There are those in Triverne who do not accept the threat still posed by the TaiGethen.’

‘Ah. And those sails on the horizon. That’s more muscle, I suppose, to hasten their demise.’

Ystormun shook his head. ‘Workers.’

‘Bullshit.’ Garan found himself experiencing a wholly uncomfortable emotion. Sympathy. ‘This place already works. It is efficient. What’s going on?’

‘Politics,’ said Ystormun.

‘More bullshit,’ said Garan, sensing an opening like never before. ‘I’m proud of what we achieved here. I hate you for keeping me alive, but at least I can see the fruits of my labour. If you must keep my heart beating, use me, confide in me. After all, what can I do?’

‘Other than talk to your pet elf?’

Garan sank back in his chair. Pains thrashed through his body and tortured his mind. One secret, everyone was allowed one secret.

‘You are pouting like a girl,’ said Ystormun. ‘After so long, you surely knew that nothing escapes me here.’

‘He leaves no trace,’ said Garan.

‘As a warrior, no. But as a mage, his imprint is loud and lingering. What did you just say?’

‘You heard.’ Garan pushed himself to his feet, swaying and retching at the pain ricocheting through his body. ‘I’m going. I’m tired.’

Garan’s head was thumping. He felt violated, exposed.

‘Tell your pet to keep his minions in check. They are walking a narrow path and I am all that holds back the tide.’

‘You make it sound like you are doing them a favour,’ said Garan.

‘Just tell him.’

‘No. He has other things he must hear.’

‘Don’t push me, Garan.’

Garan laughed. ‘Or what? Save your threats for someone you can scare.’

You are wrong to think of it as a sudden change. I suspect they had been evolving for hundreds of years. Perhaps from the moment we set foot on Calaius. The arrival of man was a catalyst, there is no doubt about that, but it would be a mistake to think the bonding would not otherwise have occurred. Fascinating, aren’t they? But take care around them. Their minds are no longer elven. I fear they will grow ever more unpredictable.

From ClawBound and Silent, by Lysael, High Priest of Yniss

Serrin, for he still thought of himself as Serrin though it was a name from another life, only remembered in dreams, crouched next to his Claw. He felt the warmth of her body beneath her sleek black coat. He felt the movement of her chest with every breath. He shared everything he saw with her and she shared every scent that entered her nose with him.

Their minds were one and it was a state of joy that should never have been threatened. The fact that his joy had been dimmed by reminders of his past added extra bite to his fury. For his Claw it was something far simpler: an invasion of hunting grounds that had to be challenged.

They had heard the harsh sounds of man and the forced destruction of the rainforest by elves well before they could see or smell anything. Five other ClawBound pairs were with them, each watching from deep enough in the canopy that man’s simple senses could not detect them.

What they could see and smell was a defilement greater than any of them could have foreseen: an organised clearance of the canopy, leaving the rainforest gasping its last over huge areas that would take decades to regrow. The River Ix was clogged with barges, nets and logs ready for transport north to Ysundeneth. Men were driving their slaves to hack the life from the gift Yniss had bestowed upon the elves.

Serrin had counted around a hundred elves, plus twenty men and mages. His Claw growled deep in her throat, her eyes playing over the scene and her nose sampling the air. Serrin caught the foul stench of man and felt the simplicity of her desire. Her head moved to the elven slaves, whose every axe blow was accompanied by prayers for forgiveness. Pack. Protect.

She focused on the humans. Her body tensed and her hackles rose. Prey.

Serrin stroked her flank and rested a hand on the top of her head. Rain began to fall. It was heavy and the darkness of the cloud cover suggested it would be prolonged.

Soon, he pulsed.

‘I hate this.’ Jeral stared up at the sky, revealed now that the trees had been cleared back from the river bank in a growing swathe cut into the forest. He shouldn’t have bothered. Though it was daytime, the mass of black cloud had obscured any hint of sunshine or warmth, leaving the world grey and dismal. ‘I just fucking hate this.’

‘Well, that’s good to hear. Again. Because having counted almost as far as ten since you last opened your fat mouth to moan, I thought you’d changed your mind, I really did.’

Jeral glanced to his left. He couldn’t see Nuin’s face. The mage was staring at the logging operation, his features hidden by the deep hood of his cloak. His hoarse voice was just audible over the sound of rain hammering on the deck of their barge, spattering off Jeral’s bald head and the leather of his high-collared coat.