Beyond the Mists of Katura

Chapter 37

Ystormun gave an ululating cry and every head turned towards him.

Bring blades. Bring the fire. Break him.

Wesman warriors, weak of mind but strong of body, turned and ran from their petty squabbles. But the fire was gone. No shaman touched his mind. Ystormun pushed back against the wall Takaar had erected about him and experienced what he had to assume was fear.

The words of his cadre echoed in his memory. How he longed for their chiding now, their thundering voices in his head, because they would be able to lend him the strength to unpick the casting that threatened to bind him. But inside the spell they were lost to him.

Ystormun opened his eyes. His arms were outstretched and the fire roared from them only to be swallowed by the shimmering sphere that dipped below the earth as if Takaar knew he could attack through the rock itself. But Takaar was not a Wytch Lord and had neither their strength nor their stamina. Again he battered his fire at the construct and Takaar winced, standing holding his palms open and his wrists side by side.

Ystormun looked at the burn on the arm that had held Auum. Another moment and he would have seen the warrior’s light go out. The pain had been a shock. It had blistered his skin and he had thought only his brothers could channel such energy. He flared again, and this time Takaar moved back across the ground.

There. A pin hole. A place to work myself free.

‘You are weak, Takaar. You cannot destroy me and you cannot hold me. You will fail and then I will tear out your heart with my bare hands.’

Takaar opened his eyes, stared at Ystormun, and Ystormun flinched. There was no sanity within, just a strength born of madness and of a desire he could only guess at. The hatred matched his. Ystormun’s heart, for he still thought of it as such, trilled with anxiety.

‘I don’t have to hold much longer. I know you will kill me, but here I stand. Look and see what is coming for you. Pound with all your might and know it won’t be enough. We have you.’

Ystormun looked and this time his shriek was of desperation and panic.

Gilderon whirled his staff in front of his face too fast for any foe to track, too strong a defence for their swords and axes to pierce. He stilled the motion and snapped out left and right, striking his blades into his foes, seeing great cuts open up in their faces, across their chests or across their necks.

Helodian was next to him, Teralion on his other side, and their brothers made a lethal web of wood and steel, protecting their master, whose struggle they could feel inside their minds. The Wesmen were relentless and Gilderon could see many more coming, chased by TaiGethen and the painted warriors who fought with them.

To his left Auum was protected by a cell of TaiGethen hard pressed by a group of a dozen or more enemies, but Gilderon could offer them no help. At a call from the rear of the Wesmen, they surged forward, fifty against ten.

‘Brace!’ yelled Gilderon.

They attacked, yelling cries of death. Gilderon held his ikari on the diagonal as four came at him. He snapped his staff out straight-armed, catching one in the face and another across the knees. Weapons came through the defence. Gilderon swayed inside a sword thrust that nicked his left arm and ducked his head as an axe flew past, its haft clattering against his ikari.

He pulled back the staff and jabbed out, taking one in the chest, who fell back, clutching the weapon to him. Gilderon went with it, leaping as he fell and kicking high into the nose of one who thought to strike him while he was exposed.

Gilderon came down on the chest of the fallen warrior, pulled his blade clear and swiped down hard to the right, slicing deep into the arm of his target. He jumped back, an axe whispering past his midriff. The Wesmen fell back as one.

‘Hold,’ said Gilderon.

Behind him Takaar grunted with exertion and said something to Ystormun that made the Wytch Lord squeal. Gilderon glanced left and right. Two Senserii were down, eight were left. He could see the Xeteskian force sweep towards the village, bare moments away from beginning their casting.

TaiGethen were attacking the rear of the Wesman lines, deflecting significant numbers, but at the front the enemy had changed tactics. Through came thirty or more archers while warriors spread wide left and right, waiting to exploit any move to run or to attack the bowmen. They knew nothing of the Senserii.

‘Ready defence!’ called Gilderon. ‘Close the net, defend the master.’

The Senserii closed up, moving forward or back half a pace. The archers stretched their bows.

‘Execute!’ ordered Gilderon.

Eight ikari whirled, their speed making the air hum around them. The arrows flew. Some missed but most were straight enough. Gilderon felt one slap away from his staff, but near him Cordolan grunted and fell forward with a shaft jutting from his chest.

‘Close!’ ordered Gilderon.

It was a matter of time and luck now. Gilderon needed both friends and faithless allies to move faster.

Bynaar rode in behind the cavalry, feeling the slap of every hoofbeat through his ageing back. He hardly cared. The gallop had been an extraordinary thrill across ground made for horses. He had fliers high in the sky, who had reported back that Ystormun was destroying the defence but a few moments later that Takaar had trapped him. It seemed that the mad elf had not been lying after all, and now time was short.

They drove into the village across fields littered with bodies to buildings reduced to rubble where a ferocious fight still continued. Ystormun was battering his hideous magic against some construct or other thrown up by Takaar, a handful of whose guard was trying to shield him from a good number of archers, but their whirling staffs were only having limited effect. The rest of the defence was being held at the rear and on the flanks. This was no time for mages.

His cavalry commander knew exactly what was required. On a command taken up by a hundred voices, he wheeled his riders and drove straight through the archers and those clustered around them, scattering them, breaking their bows and their bodies alike. They circled and came back, driving a deeper wedge, then pulled up, ready to move in again. Bynaar halted them.

‘This is not our fight,’ he said. ‘Cage team, dismount and prepare. And every one of you with a blade defend us with your lives.’

‘And Takaar?’ asked the commander.

‘He has friends. Stay out of his and their way.’

Tilman raced across the field in the wake of the cavalry charge and of Grafyrre and Faleen, both of whom sought Auum. His sword was dripping with blood, he was cut on both legs and his chest was ablaze with agony. He thought the axe had nicked his ribs. He was lucky to be alive and wasn’t about to waste that luck.

He tried to keep up. The battlefield was a total mess now, and he hardly knew who was an enemy and who an ally. Wesmen still fought among themselves, the painted, Sentaya’s people, gaining in strength. Ahead a large group of the enemy was attacking TaiGethen protecting two elves sitting on the ground.

Tilman followed Grafyrre into their rear, splitting the skull of one before they began to turn. Grafyrre’s strength seemed inexhaustible and his speed undimmed by his exertions. He jumped and smashed both feet into the back of a Wesman’s head, rode the body down, rammed a blade through its back and thrashed the other into the side of the warrior next to him.

Tilman threw himself to the side to dodge a huge axe swing and lost his footing, going sprawling. The Wesman came at him as he scrambled back, trying to make the space to get to his feet. His chest was agony and blood flowed from the cuts on his legs. The Wesman was on him quickly. Tilman held up his blade, which was contemptuously batted away so the warrior could chop down at his chest. The blow was deflected by a blade and thudded into the ground right next to him. The second blade beheaded the enemy.

Grafyrre reached down a hand.

‘Ulysan is dead,’ he said. ‘You must not die too.’

Tilman was hauled to his feet. The fighting still raged across the oval, Wesman on Wesman for the most part. Tilman looked at Auum and his heart was pained. The elf was surrounded by his friends but was so alone, so lost. Ulysan lay next to him, Auum’s hand stroking the top of his head. He barely registered what was going on just a few paces away. Four of the Senserii stood guard around Takaar, who was plainly losing the battle with Ystormun, though the Wytch Lord himself appeared significantly weakened.

Takaar was forced back by another of Ystormun’s attempts to break him. Black fire flooded the inside of the construct the elf held against the awful might of the ancient creature. But it couldn’t go on. Tilman looked further to his right, seeing the Xeteskian mages kneel in a circle and prepare their casting. The moment they did so, Ystormun screamed. It was a sound of bestial fury and ripped at Tilman’s soul, threatening to steal his courage.

Auum’s TaiGethen looked around and began to fan out. Tilman made his way to Auum, wondering how long Takaar could hold the Wytch Lord. He found two elven blades on the ground and picked them up on the way. He knelt by Auum, who did not seem to notice him. Tilman’s heart heaved.

‘Auum, you’re going to have to fight him,’ he said quietly.

Ystormun sent a wave of dark energy smashing against his enemy’s construct. Takaar wailed and berated himself as he began to lose it. Tilman could see it shudder violently, and holes appeared through which the black fire roared. Ystormun laughed and prepared to strike again.

‘I have had my fill of fighting,’ said Auum.

‘I brought your blades. You will need them,’ said Tilman.

‘What for?’ asked Auum, looking down at the blades.

‘Ystormun will break free. You are the only one he fears.’

‘Those are Ulysan’s blades,’ said Auum.

‘The perfect weapons,’ said Tilman.

Auum looked up at Tilman, down at Ulysan, and he took the blades.

Perhaps it was because he was dead inside that he could feel everything. Away to his right the Xeteskian mages created their cage, and the pulses of raw energy were like bars drawn across his soul. It was a construct that sought its victim. It was tuned to him but not strong enough to take him. Not yet.

Auum pushed through the line of TaiGethen, his few precious TaiGethen, and they let him come, no one seeking to stand with him. He watched Ystormun and saw the fatigue in him and the rage keeping him standing. He saw Takaar, and Takaar was spent.

Auum shouted to Takaar, who was talking to his other self, trying to hold his focus while the last of his strength ebbed away, ‘For all that you have done, today is your day, and all who survive do so because of you. I misjudged you.’

Takaar turned his head, and Auum saw the exhaustion in his eyes and the sweat on his face.

‘No, you didn’t,’ he said. ‘I am all that you accused me of being.’

‘I forgive you it all,’ said Auum. ‘I would be proud to walk by you again.’

Takaar relaxed and his face cleared. A smile crossed it and the pain left his eyes just for a moment. Inside the construct Ystormun heaved his black fire at the walls again. It spewed from his mouth and burst from his fingers. The holes in Takaar’s casting widened to yawning rips, and the fire slapped into the elf’s chest, picked him up and threw him into the backs of his Senserii.

Ystormun stood hunched but his face shone with his victory. He was breathing as if each was his last, and each exhalation rattled his chest. He was shivering all over, and here and there his skin was broken, thin blood leaking out. He looked at Auum and smiled.

‘Your best is not good enough. We will meet again.’

Ystormun began to cast and Auum rushed him, lashing a blade into his arm. Ystormun yelled his pain and looked at the cut. He stumbled back, and Auum followed him.

‘That is what elven magic does to evil,’ said Auum. ‘And this is what real pain feels like.’

‘You cannot kill me!’ screamed Ystormun.

‘I do not need to.’

Auum paced in and laced a cut into Ystormun’s cheek.

‘That is for Ulysan.’ Another into his forehead. ‘And that is for Merrat.’ A third into his other cheek. ‘And that is for Takaar and Thrynn and for every elf whose life you blighted.’

Auum dropped his blades and moved around the creature, who was still trying to gather a casting that would let him escape. Auum roundhoused him in the side of the head and followed up with a snap kick to the chin that sent him sprawling.

Auum put a foot on his throat. Ystormun grabbed his boot and tried to twist it away. The elf could feel the Xeteskian casting seeking him.

‘You can feel the magic coming for you too, can’t you?’ Auum said.

Ystormun’s eyes were blank with fear. He shrieked and scrabbled away. Auum let him go. Ystormun stood and began to intone something, his hands moving fast. Auum bounced on one foot, then jumped and drove both feet hard into Ystormun’s mouth, smashing teeth and gagging his words. Ystormun’s hands flew up, his concentration broken. He tripped and fell. A yawning chasm opened up behind him. The Wytch Lord tried to scramble away, but claws of deep blue shot out and clamped on to his skull and shoulders.

Black fire exploded around Ystormun. More bindings surged from the chasm, wrapping his arms and legs. He screamed and convulsed, his cries resonating through the ground and sending hands to ears. He bellowed and roared his defiance, and his fire lashed at his bindings.

A final claw snaked from the chasm and clamped his mouth shut. He stared one last time at Auum, his hate as abiding as ever. Auum stared back, his heart cold, the ashes of victory in his mouth. And as the bindings retracted, dragging Ystormun to his cage, Auum turned away.

He reached Ulysan and sat by him again as the door slammed shut on the Wytch Lord for good.