Beyond the Mists of Katura

Chapter 17

Gorsu could scarcely believe it. They were going to win, against all the odds, and not even the elves or the bastard eastern magic could stop them. From the ground the warriors swarming the ladders were roared on by their comrades who crowded at the bases for their turn. Many had died, many would still die, but Gorsu could see the gaps appearing in the defensive lines and the spaces his tribesmen were creating.

The shamen among the reserve line had done terrible damage but, more importantly, they had forced archer and mage alike from the walls to cower elsewhere, leaving the way clear for the assault. The early morning sun was shining on the Wesmen and although he hated Ystormun and his filthy cadre, Gorsu couldn’t deny he was looking forward to the glory they would bestow upon him when the day was done.

Julatsa had nothing left. A few arrows flew over the walls from the ground behind but they fell short. Spells still hit the ground in front of the gate, but the Wesmen had long since cleared the strike zone so now their only effect was to deplete the casters’ stamina. It was no surprise when the spells stopped falling.

Gorsu ordered more warriors to the foot of the ladders, ready to ascend. He wanted more pressure on the Julatsans, more space — enough to get the shamen up there to fire down into the streets. Then it would only be a matter of time. He turned to Lorok.

‘Your shamen have proved themselves this morning.’

‘I’m astonished you ever doubted they would.’

‘I doubt the courage of all but my own warriors.’

A sound from his left caught Gorsu’s attention. Julatsa’s gates were opening, cogs grinding and hinges shrieking in protest. Simultaneously, a brief commotion stirred through the struggle up on the walls ahead of him. It travelled left to right. He saw warriors fall.

New human castings fired out from behind the gatehouse, angling left and right, slamming into the ground just before his reserve lines, sending up walls of fire and spattering flame across as yet unscorched ground. An opaque barrier snapped into place in front of the gates as they rattled open. It was a fresh if utterly unsubtle tactic. Gorsu added his voice to the stream of orders turning shaman fire on the barrier. Hafeez was bellowing for his tribesmen to form up ready to take on whatever came through.

The weight of black fire directed at the ramparts was diminished but that shouldn’t matter. This was a desperate counter-attack, and once beaten back it would leave them even closer to victory. Gorsu waited for a heartbeat and felt a moment of calm, like the fading of a breeze, before cavalrymen galloped through the barrier, backed by casting after casting crashing down on their flanks.

‘Get men behind them; attack the gates!’ roared Gorsu. ‘Hafeez, get men-’

Gorsu caught a change in the movement on the walls in the corner of his eye. He swung round and his breath caught in his throat. They were jumping off. Forty feet, surely a death fall. He stood and stared. It was. . it was beautiful. They soared out, arms spread to balance themselves. Thirty of them at least, diving headlong, tucking their bodies into tight forward rolls and landing on the ground as if they’d stepped from the bottom tread of a flight of stairs.

And then they ran. Dear spirits, they ran, and he could barely see them any more.

‘Incoming!’ Gorsu screamed, drawing his long sword and racing into the middle of his reserve lines. ‘Protect the shamen. Turn your fire, damn you all, turn your fire!’

Gorsu heard an eerie keening sound and dozens of his warriors and shamen fell, ugly blades stuck in their faces, chests, stomachs and limbs. Blood fountained in the air and a head bounced and rolled on the packed ground. The elves were among them, just like before, only this time the shamen could not get clear sight.

They were like blurs across the ground, impossible to track. He saw the glint of blades, saw elven bodies fly through the air and saw his people being slaughtered.

‘There are only thirty of them,’ he muttered. But his warriors were packed too close together, desperate for defensive compactness when they needed exactly the opposite. ‘Space! Give yourself room to swing! Keep them back; hack at the air, or anywhere!’

Gorsu pushed into the lines, his blade in two hands. He swung it in front of him as an elf surged at him. The edge carved into empty air and Gorsu felt his hair move and a breath of wind over his head. He swung round. The elf landed, struck one blade into the throat of a shaman and carved his other into a tribesman’s shoulder.

Black fire traced across the ground and played into the air, as much a risk to his people as it was to the elves.

‘Find your targets!’ he roared, spinning round in a tight circle. ‘We can take them!’

Cavalry ploughed into the Wesman lines to his left and thundered on towards the warriors turning from the ladders to join the fight. Wytch fire took three riders from their saddles before elves killed the shamen. It was chaos. Up on the walls his warriors were being beaten back now that there were no more climbing to join them.

Arrows started falling again, picking off shaman and warrior alike. Gorsu looked for Hafeez in time to see him fence away a jab to his midriff but miss the second strike to his face. The lord crumpled, his nose and right eye split open, his lower jaw smashed.

‘Form a circle,’ howled Gorsu into the tumult engulfing him, hoping some would hear. ‘I want order!’

But he wasn’t going to get it. They were attacked by so few but the enemy seemed to be everywhere and his forces were too close to the walls. Arrows were raining down more steadily now. Gorsu sought a target, anything to give him and his people hope. There was one elven body on the ground but surely a hundred of his warriors.

There: running into a knot of warriors and shamen but slow compared to the rest. He was close enough and he was clearly wounded. Gorsu could see an arm hanging limp, blood staining a bandage near his shoulder. Other elves flowed around him, carving destruction, but he was weak.

Gorsu howled a battle cry and raced in. One blow could turn the tide, especially if he struck it. One blow and they could rally. Gorsu heard the thundering of hooves again and dived to the right, rolling away from the charge that battered into his forces, scattering his warriors in all directions.

He rose and ran on. The damaged elf struck a killing blow and turned half away from Gorsu, who raised his sword and swung it hard. Only at the last did the elf sense him and turn, catching the blow on his blade and deflecting it, but at the cost of his balance. He fell.

Gorsu drew back for the killing blow. He felt something to his right. He faltered and turned his head. Another elf stood there where a pulse ago there had been empty space.

‘How can you be there?’ whispered Gorsu. ‘How can you be so fast?’

Gorsu saw the blade chop into his neck. He felt it slice all the way through. He stood just for a moment then his head rolled back and he felt himself falling.

Dimly, he heard elven voices issuing orders.

Ulysan pulled Auum to his feet.

‘Yniss spared you, then,’ said Auum.

‘That he did.’

Auum glanced up at the walls. They were filling with mages and archers once more. Harild’s cavalry had driven great holes in the enemy lines and the Wesmen were in tatters.

‘Time to finish it. Break back to the walls!’

Elves sprinted from the enemy. Up on the walls it was the signal they were waiting for. As the Wesmen tried to gather themselves, a devastating volley of spells and arrows engulfed them, scattering them across the field, driving them back. Beyond the reach of the castings, cavalry drove in, wheeled and returned, reinforcing the rout.

Inside, Auum sat with his back to the wall, feeling the pounding of hooves and spells vibrate through his body. He felt exhausted.

‘I wonder how many we lost,’ he said.

Ulysan squatted beside him. He was cut on both arms; there was a slash in his jacket and a livid bruise developing on his forehead.

‘Pray to Shorth it is not too many, but we have to expect losses. Even under the shetharyn, we are still vulnerable to a lucky blow and to their black fire. We’re both evidence of that.’

‘So little time to rest,’ said Auum. ‘We’ve got to move on in a couple of days, join the main fight as, apparently, we must. I have no desire to stay in this stinking country one moment longer than I have to.’

Ulysan smiled. ‘But you were never here, right?’

‘And don’t you forget it. Come on, time to grieve for the fallen. Help me up, would you?’

Takaar could sense the extraordinary density of magic long before they came to the shattered remains of the Septern Manse. At first they’d tracked a group of Wesman warriors and shamen but they’d overtaken them when it was clear they were heading for the same destination.

They’d increased their speed, making light work of the easy terrain and sleeping for only a few hours a night. The Senserii were still with him, despite his determination to visit the Manse, because they were his people. They were the only ones who still believed in him and trusted him.

And it confuses me every day that they do so.

‘You know nothing of loyalty,’ muttered Takaar as he followed Gilderon through some dense scrub, hoping to get a view of the Manse from a rise.

Your version of it, involving running out on your people and killing your most devoted student? No.

‘I will not return to ancient history and I will not explain myself again. Not to you.’

Two of the Senserii had scouted the ground around the Manse earlier that morning, and Gilderon had recommended they lie low until nightfall, given the human presence in and around the ruins. But now night was full and the cloud cover darkened the sky to a pitch that humans would find very difficult.

Takaar could see the glow of campfires long before they had crawled to the edge of the brush to look down on the Septern Manse. His eyes adjusted quickly to the scene of light and deep dark and he took in the blasted buildings and chattering humans while he breathed the strong scent of magic, past and present.

There was precious little of the Manse left. One or two of the outbuildings appeared largely intact but they were of no consequence — stores and stables, nothing more. The surviving footprint of the Manse gave a good impression of its scale. It must have been an impressive structure. At its centre a quartet of chimney stacks still stood proud, supported by the remains of dividing walls and a single door frame. Elsewhere, scarred brick and stone occasionally rose up a storey and in a couple of areas even supported a broken roof timber, but mostly the Manse had been blasted to its foundations.

Kerela had given him the impression that Wytch Lord magic had caused the destruction, but that was inaccurate. A Wesman attack may have triggered the devastation, but the remnants of the energy lines suggested that every single casting that had detonated was from the inside out.

‘He made this all happen,’ breathed Takaar.

And wouldn’t it be wonderful to know exactly how.

‘It would but I think it rather unlikely we’ll learn it here.’

‘Takaar?’

Gilderon was staring at him. Takaar held up a hand.

‘Just thinking aloud,’ he said.

Gilderon nodded, as he always did. Takaar always wanted to say he was talking to his tormentor, as Gilderon knew he was. But he never did.

It’s because you’re ashamed of me. That hurts.

‘What is our next move?’ asked Gilderon. ‘We can’t stay here. Auum will expect news of our arrival in Korina soon enough.’

‘Auum be damned,’ hissed Takaar. He looked down at the five campfires and counted around forty people gathered about them, pottering among the ruins with lanterns or buzzing around the extensive stores stacked near four rows of tents which could easily contain other humans. ‘When will the Wesman force reach here?’

‘Two days at the speed we witnessed. They are fit and strong,’ said Gilderon.

‘You like them, don’t you?’

Gilderon frowned and shook his head. ‘I respect them as fighters and in one respect I agree with Auum. We have more in common with them than with our chosen allies.’

‘Magic has changed all that,’ said Takaar shortly.

‘Magic is changing everything.’

Do I detect dissension?

‘You detect nothing,’ said Takaar and he searched Gilderon’s face for betrayal.

‘Takaar? We can’t stay here,’ repeated Gilderon.

‘How many Wesmen were in that raiding party, do you think?’

‘Fifty warriors and nine shamen,’ said Gilderon. ‘A significant number. But that’s not why we can’t stay here.’

Gilderon gestured at the humans in front of the Manse.

‘These are our allies,’ said Takaar.

‘Are you so sure of that?’

‘Why are you questioning me so much all of a sudden?’ asked Takaar. He looked into Gilderon’s eyes again but saw only loyalty there. ‘Seems like Auum has turned your head too.’

Gilderon tensed. ‘Auum has no influence over me. But he has raised proper suspicions concerning those who seek the spell.’

‘Gilderon,’ said Takaar gently. ‘Auum’s views on magic are based entirely on ignorance. Surely you believe that magic is the greatest force for good in this world or you wouldn’t be with me. Finding and understanding Dawnthief can only enhance that force, don’t you see?’

Your patronising tone is coming along very well. Have you noticed just what a skilled fighter Gilderon is?

Takaar saw the doubt in Gilderon’s eyes and felt those of all the Senserii on him.

‘It bothers you all, does it?’ he asked.

‘We are not schooled in magic. We respect its power for good, but we also fear its destructive potential. We believe there are some things better left hidden.’

Takaar nodded, feeling sympathy for the lesser intellect. ‘I understand. And yet you still agreed to come to this place.’

Gilderon shrugged. ‘We can report the current situation to Auum and Julatsa when we reach Korina.’

‘We’re going to do much better than that,’ said Takaar. ‘Those men down there are our allies against the Wytch Lords. It is our duty to warn them that the Wesmen are coming and in what strength.’

‘I must caution against that. If Auum is right and Xetesk does not believe itself an ally of Julatsa-’

‘He is not right,’ snapped Takaar. ‘And we will warn these people before they are attacked.’

Takaar stood and walked through the remaining brush, striding down the slope towards the campfires. He marched into the midst of the camp, causing consternation. Men scrambled to their feet, orders and warnings were shouted.

Beyond the tents Takaar saw around thirty men stand as one. Each was huge, hefting an axe in one hand and a long sword in the other. Like the Senserii they wore masks on their faces, though these were full face and looked like leather rather than cloth, with holes cut for mouth, eyes and nostrils.

Gilderon hissed for Takaar to stop. He took heed, finding himself in a wide circle of nervous humans with the Senserii forming up beside him. They watched the masked men approach. There was something inhuman about them: the energies that surrounded them appeared to link them together, almost as if they were tethered. He frowned.

‘Please,’ said Takaar in the human language taught him by Garan all those years ago. ‘We are allies here and we want the same thing. I can help you. I am Takaar.’

His announcement was greeted with total silence. The masked men were standing just behind a group of mages, whose energies gave them away. There was no immediate threat of violence but equally there was no doubting the threat of the tethered warriors.

One of the mages walked towards Takaar. He was a tall man, imposing with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He was dressed in a heavy cloak over a leather jacket and trousers. His black boots crunched across fire ash.

‘I am sure your name resonates powerfully where you come from — Julatsa, I presume — but it means nothing to me.’

Hard to believe isn’t it? Someone, here in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t know who you are.

Takaar smiled in what he hoped was a benign fashion.

‘I am the father of the Il-Aryn,’ he said. ‘The father of elven magic.’

That’s it, play the modesty card.

‘Ah yes. Your magic is so fragile most elven adepts come to Julatsa to learn.’

Takaar’s smile became brittle like his temper. ‘Don’t insult what you don’t understand.’

The mage held up his hands.

‘I suppose it was powerful enough to evade our patrols,’ he conceded.

‘That has more to do with being quiet than being powerful,’ said Takaar. ‘Your guards spend too much time looking in and not out. Please, let’s not start with suspicion. I am here to help.’

The mage’s smile was thin. Takaar had hoped to be offered a place at the campfire but no move was made.

He doesn’t like you. He doesn’t believe you.

‘He doesn’t know me,’ muttered Takaar.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear that,’ said the mage.

Not knowing you is normally when they like you best, isn’t it?

‘Nothing,’ said Takaar, once again talking in Balaian. ‘Thinking out loud.’

Another mage wandered from the group a few yards back. Takaar noticed the masked men begin to fan out, Gilderon noted it too and his Senserii responded.

‘I presume you left Julatsa before the siege was laid,’ said the newcomer in decent elvish.

‘No,’ said Takaar.

‘Yes,’ said Gilderon simultaneously.

‘Well it can hardly be both,’ said the newcomer.

Takaar glared at Gilderon, who met his gaze squarely.

‘Your naivety will get you killed one day,’ said the Senserii.

‘Your role is to fight not to speak,’ said Takaar.

‘It is to defend you,’ corrected Gilderon. ‘Which is what I do with my every breath.’

The mage had rocked back on his heels and folded his arms.

‘Whenever you’re ready, perhaps you could answer my question,’ he said. ‘I’ll be blunt. This is a difficult situation. This site is barred to any but Xeteskian researchers and security. We need to know more about you so we can decide what to do with you.’

Oops.

Takaar gestured Gilderon back with a wave of his hand.

His tormentor noted the tightening of the skin around the Senserii’s eyes.

Such conflict in such a faithful servant. Drech was faithful too, wasn’t he?

Takaar spread his hands. ‘I apologise for our interruption. We are not Julatsan though we have come from the college. Our TaiGethen forged us a path through the siege and no doubt by now have broken it completely, allowing Julatsan forces to join those of Xetesk and the other colleges in the fight to defeat the Wytch Lords.’

The mage swore and clicked his fingers. Another, clearly junior, mage ran up.

‘Get word to Bynaar. Julatsan forces will be heading south along the Blackthornes towards Understone Pass. And tell him we need greater strength here as a matter of extreme urgency.’ He turned to Takaar. ‘Just when exactly do you think the siege would have been broken?’

‘Well now, let me see,’ said Takaar, scratching his head and ignoring the hissed warning from Gilderon. ‘We travelled here in five days, running up to fifty miles a day. Auum would be leading more raids on the enemy the day after we left so let’s say it’s three days since the siege was broken. You probably had a few spies in place.’

The pair of mages in front of Takaar stared at him with poorly disguised dislike.

‘I thought we had,’ one of them muttered.

‘Enough, Koryl.’ He turned a cynical sneer on Takaar. ‘You expect us to believe you ran fifty miles a day? Or indeed anything you have told me so far?’

Takaar shrugged. He was starting to feel uncomfortable and the itch was growing in his forearms again. The mage’s words were making echoing sounds in his head and he could hear them all laughing. He wasn’t sure what to say in response.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

‘It doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that you are allied with Julatsa.’

‘We are all allies here,’ said Takaar.

Not even you can still believe that.

‘In the search for Dawnthief there can be no alliances. But I thank you for your information. You really should have listened to your masked friend.’

‘You’re dismissing us?’ Takaar was getting confused. ‘I’m Takaar. We have to work together.’

The mage shook his head and began to back away with Koryl. ‘I know who you are. No, we don’t have to work together and no, I am not dismissing you. I’m killing you. Protectors, now!’