Elves: Beyond the Mists of Katura (24 page)

Dark blue shapes revolved and modulated in the hands or over the heads of the Xeteskian mages. Bold spheres, rotating helixes, spiked geometric shapes . . . all beautiful in their way but shot
through with vicious power. But it was the human warriors who really caught his eye. They were sheathed in mana, tendrils of the energy binding one to another. A thick cord of it sprang from the
back of each man’s neck too, joined in the sky above them and twisted into a great pulsing rope that trailed away out of sight to the west.

‘Amazing,’ said Takaar. ‘An element of such glorious strength and versatility.’

It was quite at odds with the core energies of the Il-Aryn but it was an element nonetheless. On Calaius it had always seemed a random, fleeting force. Here, moulded by humans, it was a thing of
enormous power. Takaar smiled; so much the better because elements could be isolated and therefore they could also be excluded.

‘What an opportunity for experimentation,’ said Takaar.

Dimly, he heard a cry of pain and another shout from Gilderon. The clashing of weapons closed on him further and he felt uncomfortable. He needed them all to go away. He should probably help
make that happen.

Do it.

Takaar did it.

Gilderon was breathing hard. His balance was still forward but he was being driven back by the relentless heavy strikes from the Protectors. They were an extraordinary force.
One on one, elves would prevail, but here, with their superior numbers, they were more or less unstoppable.

‘Keep yourselves tight,’ called Gilderon. ‘Silasin, speak. Are you secure?’

Sword strokes battered against his staff. Gilderon blocked and turned them away as well as he could. The weight of each blow sapped his strength and he could no longer get close enough to strike
back. Not without leaving Silasin exposed. He knew other Protectors had been downed, and while no other Senserii was wounded yet, they were losing this fight. Mistakes would happen as fatigue set
in.

‘My leg is heavy, ‘said Silasin. ‘I’m weakening.’

‘Teralion, defend Silasin’s left. I have his right,’ said Gilderon. ‘Takaar, please, help us.’

The Protectors stepped up as one man, crowding the space. A rain of blows fell. Gilderon swayed left, deflecting an axe down into the mud as swords came at Silasin. Gilderon punched one aside
with the tip of his staff before catching an axe full on the shaft.

Teralion swept his staff over Silasin’s head, just catching the top of a sword, which glanced off a bladed tip. Meanwhile Silasin was driven to his knees by a trio of blows aimed at his
head. Teralion moved his staff in front of him to block axe and sword sweeps and Silasin tried to stand and force himself some space.

Gilderon moved half a pace towards him, seeing his injured leg trembling and ready to give. As one, the Protectors pressed their advantage. Both Gilderon and Teralion were forced to defend
themselves, and while they could not aid Silasin two Protectors attacked him in concert, one slicing down and forcing him to block high, the other swinging an axe at his midriff. Silasin’s
bad leg conspired against him. He couldn’t rock back in time and the axe sliced cleanly through his gut, spilling his entrails across the ground. Silasin screamed and fell.

‘Close up!’ ordered Gilderon. ‘
Takaar!
’

The suddenness with which the situation transformed took Gilderon’s breath away. He felt a change in the air, a cessation of movement and a fall in temperature, or that was how it seemed
to him. There was a brief silence before the mages beyond the ring of Protectors shouted. He couldn’t understand the language but their emotions transcended words, and they were panic and
alarm.

In front of him the Protectors had stopped. Confusion was evident in the stances they took. One or two seemed unbalanced, taking paces back or to the side. Weapons dropped, and the eyes that
stared at him through narrow slits held loss. This chance could be gone in a heartbeat.

‘Attack!’ called Gilderon.

He surged forward, slashing the end of his ikari across the throat of the Protector in front of him. The man’s weapons dropped from his hands and he clutched at his neck, sagging to the
ground, his shouts drowned in his blood. The Senserii had followed his lead and thirteen more Protectors were dead. The rest broke from their confusion, raised their weapons and moved back to
ready.

But they were just men alone now. Whatever Takaar had taken from them made them vulnerable and they knew it. Gilderon moved left, smashed his staff into a Protector’s chin and sliced a
blade into his chest, cutting through his leather armour and deep into flesh and muscle.

The Protector grunted. His weapons moved fast in his defence. Gilderon ducked a flailing axe blade and swayed inside the follow-up sword thrust. The Protector pulled back. Gilderon feinted to
smack the body of his staff into the enemy’s chin again but instead swung his weapon about and jabbed a blade up under his chin to skewer his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

No longer did Gilderon have to worry about the attacks of men seemingly able to strike without looking. Takaar’s casting had been devastating, and after their initial attack the Senserii
now fought one on one. Confidence energised them. Their enemies retained all of their power and speed but not their ungodly reaction time.

Gilderon switched his grip and reversed a blade into the cheek of a Protector, ripping his mask. The man fell back, the rawness of his face revealed, and the Senserii’s curiosity overcame
him. He moved up fast, cracking his staff into the back of the Protector’s legs, dropping him to his knees.

Gilderon moved in close, hands at the top of his staff and sliced through the straps securing the mask. It fell to the ground. The Protector turned a momentary hate-filled glare on him, showing
him the sores and weals on his face, before his eyes bulged in terror and he roared his fear, snatched up the mask and ran. The fight was won.

The mages and researchers had gathered in three loose groups, the former trying desperately to cast. The fleeing Protector, yelling something unintelligible at the sky, burst through one group,
scattering men in all directions, and carried on running until, quite suddenly, he fell to the ground screaming, his hands clutching at his chest until his body slowly ceased to thrash.

Undefended, transfixed by the scene and unable to believe what they had witnessed, the mages and researchers stood mute. Some were clearly contemplating running, but, at a nod from Gilderon, the
Senserii surrounded them. It was a loose corral, fourteen elves hemming in forty humans, but the blood and bodies of the Protectors were ample deterrent against any escape attempt.

‘Takaar,’ said Gilderon, trotting over to where the mad master sat cross-legged, deep in his casting. ‘We have them.’

Takaar raised his head. The beauty of the dome he’d created rested in its absence of chaos. Even the air was still as if the breeze could not penetrate, or more likely
the mana was a catalyst for the other elements.

Fascinating.

Gilderon’s interruption was unwelcome.

Quite the opposite. It means that you have been saved and, happily, so have I.

‘What would you have me do with them?’ asked Gilderon.

Takaar curled his lip and bit back a comment.

That was an uncharitable thought, even for you.

‘But I must release the casting. I can’t move it with me; it’s simply too complex.’

‘Any who attempt to cast will be killed. We’ll stand close,’ said Gilderon.

A sound solution.

‘Demonstrate your intent and ability to them. Pick anyone. None of them is pure, none deserves life.’

‘Your wish,’ said Gilderon. Takaar saw him making hand gestures to one of the others. ‘We’re ready.’

Takaar stood. He felt oddly powerful, a little giddy with it. He stared at the humans, who were being herded into a single tighter group. He saw one of the Senserii, Teralion, standing two paces
to the left of a powerfully built mage whose face radiated fury and humiliation.

‘I am about to release the casting that has so easily defeated you. Perhaps you shouldn’t have scoffed at my offers of help.’ Takaar found his heart beating very hard and his
breathing became shallow and gasping. ‘We should have been allies and now we are enemies. Some of you will think to cast. Gilderon will demonstrate why that is unwise.’

Your grip is slipping. Can you hold on any longer? The tension is unbearable.

Gilderon nodded once. Teralion’s staff jabbed up into his target’s skull at the occipital bone. The mage collapsed, his spasmodic twitching mercifully brief. A chorus of muttered
swearing ran around the corralled humans.

‘The Senserii are among the finest fighters the elves possess. I leave your casting decisions to you.’

Takaar dismissed the spell. Every human eye was on the body of the unfortunate mage. Takaar walked towards them as steadily as he could though he was feeling a pain in his head and a stabbing
behind his eyes that distracted him.

Going . . . going . . .

‘Be quiet!’ hissed Takaar.

Takaar searched the faces, seeing fear, anger and belligerence in equal measure. He pointed at the mage who had so belittled him without even knowing him.

‘I will talk to you. Leave the group,’ he said in elvish, knowing the mage understood him. ‘Gilderon, watch the rest.’

The mage, despite protests from his friends, walked through the circle of Senserii.

‘You have no idea of the mistake you have just made, do you?’ he said in Balaian loud enough for his people to hear.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Takaar.

‘Pryfors. A name that resonates in Xetesk and beyond. I am one of this country’s premier research masters.’

Takaar shrugged. ‘You haven’t found anything here though, have you?’

Good question.

‘Thank you.’

Credit where it is due.

‘Please, I am trying to talk to Pryfors.’

I’ll do my best to remain silent but you know how tricky that can be.

Takaar chuckled and felt the tension ease in his head and chest. Pryfors was staring at him.

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘No one,’ said Takaar.

I beg your pardon?

‘Well, you know what I mean.’

No, I don’t.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Pryfors.

Takaar blinked. ‘Why am I talking to you? Do you know anything?’

Pryfors glanced round at his colleagues, and when he turned back there was a new lightness in his expression.

‘Look, it’s been a long day and an even longer night. People have died, and none of us wants more killing, right?’

‘In a war people have to die,’ said Takaar, unsure where Pryfors was going.

The mage breathed in deeply and deliberately.

‘They do, but, as you said, we need not be enemies. We have to defeat the Wytch Lords because they threaten both man and elf.’

‘I know this already,’ said Takaar, he clutched for the giddy power he had experienced so recently but found tiredness and confusion instead. ‘They occupied my country, you
know. The memories are so fresh.’

Pryfors stared at him. ‘That was seven
hundred
years ago.’

‘I am immortal,’ said Takaar, then he smiled. ‘But not invulnerable.’

Brilliant.

‘What do you want to know?’ asked Pryfors. ‘My people are scared, they are tired and they have seen one of their friends murdered in front of them.’

‘It was you who chose this fight,’ spat Takaar.

Pryfors recoiled and put up his hands. ‘And it was a mistake. I acknowledge that.’

‘People never listen to me, not to what I really say. They make assumptions and they judge me. Always wrongly. Only Garan understood me.’

They were still standing only a few paces from the prisoners and their Senserii guard. Takaar thought to move away but Gilderon’s slight gesture bade him stay put.

He just wants to hear what the mage says.

‘He has earned that right,’ said Takaar.

‘Who, Garan?’

‘No, Gilderon. Garan died hundreds of years ago, didn’t he?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Pryfors. He shifted on his feet and bit his lip. ‘Just ask your questions.’

Takaar regarded Pryfors and frowned. He had so many questions but could not recall a single one. No, wait. Something Kerela had alluded to . . .

‘Where are the researchers from the other colleges?’

Pryfors smiled indulgently, or perhaps it was in relief.

‘Only Xetesk possesses the ability to uncover the whereabouts of Dawnthief. Representatives of other colleges were here of course but all have . . . withdrawn.’

Takaar raised his eyebrows. ‘How odd. I spoke at length to the council in Julatsa and they were sure they had a team here. Elves and men alike. Talented mages.’

Pryfors’ smile faltered slightly. ‘There has been a recent change in circumstances.’

Takaar shook his head, trying to release the pressure suddenly present in his skull. His tormentor’s voice was drowned out by a clamour in his mind. He tried to focus on Pryfors’
face if only to dull the noise inside him.

‘A change,’ he managed.

Pryfors nodded. ‘Let me explain. Dawnthief is a spell that requires the most extreme care. We are all aware of its devastating potential and this ruin is ample example of the lengths our
enemies will go to gain it for themselves. Xetesk is the only college strong enough to properly protect the spell, research it and ensure it remains inert.’

‘The Wesmen did not do this,’ muttered Takaar.

‘I beg your pardon?’