Raymond Feist - Magician’s End

One of the elves who was sitting near a fire a dozen yards away turned and looked at the captives. He stood up and slowly walked over to the lean-to and knelt on one knee before Edgar. Pulling out his large belt knife, he cut his bonds and in a slightly accented Common Tongue – the trading language around the Bitter Sea – he said, ‘Go over there.’ He pointed with the dagger and indicated a spot some distance from the camp. ‘We’ve dug a trench.’

Edgar said, ‘Ah … thank you.’ He got up on what were obviously stiff knees after having sat on the ground for hours and hobbled off.

‘Come back when you’re finished, human,’ said the Star Elf. ‘You do not want to be out there in the dark alone and unarmed.’

The elf then looked at Martin. ‘Highness?’

Martin hesitated, then said, ‘I’m Martin conDoin, brother to Duke Henry, cousin to the late King Gregory.’

The elf was silent, then nodded once, stood and walked away. He walked past the spot where he had been sitting, circled around the large campfire and vanished into the gloom in the trees beyond the clearing.

‘What was that?’ asked Bethany.

‘I do not know,’ said Martin.

Edgar returned a little while later and seeing the elves unconcerned with his coming and going, he knelt behind Martin and untied him. Martin’s arms felt as if they were shot through with needles as he moved them slowly, getting his circulation back. Bethany and the others were quickly freed, and when they had all moved enough to regain some sense of comfort, Bethany said, ‘What now?’

Martin said, ‘I don’t know. Look.’ He indicated the large contingent of elves a short way off. ‘No one seems to care we’re unbound.’

Edgar said, ‘I think it’s what that elf said, about being out there unarmed.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Martin.

Edgar said, ‘I’ve been a hunter all my life, Highness. I know when something unseen is nearby; you can hear things, sense things. There are … things out in those woods and I think we don’t want to go there.’

‘So what?’ asked Tom. ‘We wait?’

Martin nodded. ‘We wait. If these elves wanted to harm us, they would have done so by now. I’m getting the distinct impression they see us as something of a nuisance. They’re preoccupied with other matters.’

‘Looks like they’ve come though a pretty nasty fight, Highness,’ said Will.

Occasionally a wounded warrior would appear, either staggering in alone or being helped by another, who would turn and trot back into the forest to the south towards the faint red glow. The elves in the camp attended the wounded, dressing injuries, providing food and water, or simply letting them rest. Once an elf with a bandaged leg rose from his rest, picked up his weapons and hobbled off down the trail leading to the south.

Time passed and suddenly three elves walked purposefully toward them. Martin stood up. The two flanking elves were obviously warriors, bedecked in the white-and-pale-blue uniforms he had seen mixed in with the other warriors, and the one in the centre wore an ornate blue robe, but one now stained with mud and blood. He sported a large bruise on the left cheek as well as a heavily bandaged right arm.

‘You’re a prince of Kesh or the Kingdom?’ he asked Martin.

Fighting back the need to explain, Martin simply said, ‘Kingdom. Yes.’

If the elf had reservations, he kept them to himself. Instead he just said, ‘Come,’ and turned to walk away.

Martin nodded to the others to accompany him and they all followed the elf, who glanced back at them. ‘I am named Tanderae. I am by rank Loremaster of the Clans of the Seven Stars. There is something you must see.’

They followed him into the woods, along a dark path through the boles. There was just enough light from the fires behind and the red glow ahead that they could make their way.

Abruptly the path widened and deepened and they found themselves in a broad down-sloping ramp, hastily cut into the soil to allow quick escape to what Martin decided could only be called a rear-echelon rest area, a place where the wounded could be tended to and exhausted soldiers could eat and sleep as much as circumstances permitted. This route was not hollowed out by tools wielded by hand, driven by muscle and sweat. It was perfectly cut as if by some giant gardener’s trowel, then smoothed by a sculptor. In the alien light it was without seam or flaw, almost as if the rock had been made liquid and fashioned like soft clay, then made hard again.

A soft glow came from a series of stones set upright along the pathway every ten feet or so, a pale-blue light that made travelling up and down the slope easy at night. The distant red light was becoming brighter as they walked down the ramp to a flat terrace, bordering on what had been a ridge line before the magical excavation behind them had moved tons of soil, trees, and boulders.

Suddenly they were out in the open, and they all stopped and gaped.

Miles in the distance, down in the deepest part of the valley stood the city of E’bar, the ancient elven word for ‘home’.

Martin could barely credit his eyes. Even at this distance the city was massive. Rumours had begun to circulate during the war with Kesh that the elven city had been constructed by arts beyond human understanding. Seeing it, Martin counted the rumours as true.

Graceful towers dominated the heart of E’bar, but from what could be seen at this distance, the entire city was a work of art. Looking down at the magically transformed stone beneath their feet, Martin imagined the walls of the city would be smooth and seamless. But it was hard to tell: tantalizing hints of what was awaiting a visitor were masked by a scintillating bubble of energy which surrounded the entire city, starting a few yards beyond the great circular city walls and rising up above the loftiest pinnacle. Intermittently, random glimmers of brilliant white-yellow diamonds seemed to flow across the surface, erupting into lances of blinding light that shot out for dozens of yards before vanishing, leaving the eye blind for a moment from the brilliance. Except for those bursts, the dome was a transparent red shell, pulsing with energy and giving off the ruby light that had illuminated the night sky.

A ring of elves, thousands from what Martin could judge, encircled the massive city. Shafts of light erupted from dozens of points in the line every second and magicians or priests cast magic at that barrier. Where the magic struck, tiny lightning-like bursts rebounded from the surface, then faded.

Tanderae said to Martin, ‘Behold the last home of my people.’

Martin was silent for a moment, then glanced at his companions who looked equally perplexed by the scene before them. At last Martin said, ‘You were driven from your city and now you attack a magic defence?’

Tanderae smiled slightly. ‘We fled from our city, but that energy shell is not that city’s defence. It’s ours. Many of my people are giving their lives to prevent what’s inside from escaping.’

Thinking about the number of exhausted and wounded elves he had seen, Martin began to form a question. But then he saw a tiny breach in the shell surrounding the city. Instantly a score of dark forms exploded from the gap before it closed. Those creatures of inky blackness moved straight for the line of magic-users and silver-and-white-clad soldiers threw themselves before the magicians, slashing frantically.

They were too far from the fight to see details, but eventually the black figures were gone and the elves reformed, a few limping back to their line.

‘What were those?’

‘We call them the Forbidden. They are an ancient species, so hateful they make their demon servants appear benign. They have found a way into our city and if they escape that barrier, life as we know it on this world will rapidly cease.’