Elfsorrow

Chapter 35

Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, was in excellent spirits. He had enjoyed his lunch enormously and took the remains of his wine out of the dining room he had shared with the rest of the Circle Seven into the Corridor of the Ancients. Looking along the impressive line of portraits in the brightly lit corridor, he reminded himself to organise his own. Every other master on the walls was very old. A dash of youth would be just the job.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned. Ranyl was walking slowly towards him, pain obvious on his face but defiantly upright despite the natural desire to stoop to try and relax the pain from the cancer in his stomach. He smiled as he approached.

'My Lord Dystran, I have more news,' he said, 'concerning the search on Calaius.'

'Really?' Dystran's pulse quickened slightly. 'Good I hope?'

'I would welcome a seat and a glass of whatever it is you have.' Ranyl smiled.

Dystran raised a hand. 'I'm sorry, my manners.'

He led the old and dying master back to the dining room, where they sat at the end of the cavernous chamber away from the inquisitive ears of the rest of the Seven. Servants were clearing plates and glasses from the long rectangular table on which seven candelabra supported strong white flames. In the wood-panelled room, voices echoed loud so Dystran lowered his voice as he poured wine and sat down with his adviser.

'You'll be glad to hear, old friend, that our key researchers are even now returning to Balaia from Herendeneth. There was trouble with the Kaan dragons but they escaped intact. They'll land in approximately nine days and be in the college inside twenty. Fifty Protectors are with them. The answers are close, Ranyl. Very, very close. If we can hold our borders for just that little bit longer.'

'Well, Heryst's caution still plays into our hands though Rusau's unfortunate demise was regrettable. Intelligence indicates he is mobilising his forces. His strength could yet be pivotal. We should consider talks of some kind,' said Ranyl. He smiled as he drank from his glass.

'About what?'

'It hardly matters,' said Ranyl. 'As long as it stops any concerted invasion for long enough. Why not discuss the dispersal of the Herendeneth research? It won't stop Vuldaroq but it might give Heryst pause, and that is all we need to see our people home.'

'The timing will be important,' said Dystran, a warm feeling creeping into his bones as he saw the sense of Ranyl's plan.

'Indeed. We should act as soon as possible. You might try personal Communion with Heryst. Soothe his pain, so to speak.'

'My dear Ranyl, I will never find another to replace you,' Dystran said, and squeezed the old man's free hand. 'But this isn't what you wanted to tell me about. Calaius.'

'Ah, my Lord, the Gods are organising everything to speed your ascension,' rumbled Ranyl through a cough. 'I have had Communion from our fleet. They are on their way back from Calaius. They have the writings we need.'

'Are you sure?' said Dystran. He felt elation rush through his body.

'It was a difficult operation. We lost many lives but both Erys and Yron survived. Erys is as sure as he can be that what they have is the text you had in mind.'

'How difficult?'

'We lost almost one hundred and ninety people,' said Ranyl quietly.

'What!' Dystran's voice echoed across the dining room and stilled the hum of conversation from the remainder of the Seven. His next words were an angry whisper. 'What in all the hells happened? Did they run into a storm or something?'

'Elves,' said Ranyl. 'TaiGethen, Al-Arynaar. They are apparently far more deadly than the myths suggested they were.'

Dystran sighed. 'Yes, but even so, we had a complex enough illusion pattern. What happened to that?'

'It was fine until the mages started to get sick or exhausted,' said Ranyl. 'They couldn't keep it up. By the time they reached the forward campsite, it was unsustainable. Yron was surprised at the tenacity of the temple defence and from then on the elves were closing in. We were lucky anyone got away.'

Dystran drained his glass and refilled it, his earlier good humour ebbing away. He was still buoyed by the thought of the elven text he craved – the key to their longevity – but the scale of the disaster that had befallen his raiders would leave a bitter taste.

'What about the elders? When can we expect the demands?'

'I've no idea,' said Ranyl. 'But we can replicate the text quickly enough. We'll have the time. I'll word a particularly compelling apology.'

'Do that.' The Lord of the Mount stared at Ranyl, whose eyes were sagging, drawn with fatigue and pain. He'd be taking the loss of life personally. 'I'm sorry. You'll have lost friends.'

Ranyl shrugged. 'It's not so much that. There's something else you should know.'

'Someone drop the writings in the sea, did they?'

'The Raven were there. Fighting with the elves.'

Dystran was about to dismiss this final item of information with a wave of his hand but stopped in mid gesture, cold trickling across his mind. He almost shouted again but checked himself.

'How the hell did they get involved? Why?' He was blustering and he knew it, but their presence raised so many questions. 'How did they know what we were trying to do? And why, Gods burning, was I not told they'd left Herendeneth?'

Ranyl waited until he was sure Dystran had stopped asking questions.

'It's impossible for them to have known our mission to Calaius. I feel it was a coincidence, though admittedly a very unfortunate one.'

'I'll say it is.'

'Please, my Lord. Yes, it is unfortunate, but I think we should turn our minds to why they were in the middle of the rainforest at all. They're up to something. As to why you weren't told they'd left Herendeneth, it's because it wasn't a question that was ordered asked of the Protectors.'

The smile reappeared on Dystran's face. 'Well, we can soon put that right, can't we? Denser's still Aeb's Given mage, I take it?'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'Well, get to finding out exactly what The Raven were doing there. Find out what they know. Aeb can't refuse to answer a direct question.'

'Should we not rescind the Act of Giving for this Protector?'

'What? And give up our spy in the camp? I think not, Ranyl. He may be powerful muscle but he's only one man.'

'You should know that Denser swore to hunt Yron down,' said Ranyl.

'Did he? Well, that may answer some of our questions about what they know now, if not why they were there in the first place.' Dystran thought a moment. This was an unexpected and potentially serious irritation. 'They mustn't be allowed to get their information, whatever it is, into the hands of anyone friendly towards the elves. And that means Heryst and Lystern. Presumably they're after Yron.

'Come up with a plan. We need safe passage for Yron, Erys and the research team from Herendeneth. It may be necessary to clear a path. But that's not all. The Raven are a risk I'm not prepared to take. I want them caught or killed.'

A black cat trotted smoothly into the dining room and leapt onto Ranyl's shoulder, where it turned to face Dystran before morphing into the demon form of the old man's Familiar. Dystran screwed up his face.

'I can't understand why you are determined to keep that thing,' he said. 'How long have you had it now? Must be decades.'

'Friend,' corrected the Familiar, stroking Ranyl's face.

The old man smiled. 'He's right. And, more than ever, I need companionship. Dying is a lonely business.'

Dystran shuddered. 'Not me. Think I'll stick to women. Gods, why do they have to be so ugly?'

He took in the monkey-sized winged and hairless body, the pulsating veined head and the tongue which hung from its fanged mouth, dribbling spit onto Ranyl's collar.

'It can prove useful for the uninitiated victim,' said Ranyl.

'I'd keep it as a cat if I were you,' said the Lord of the Mount.

'But the cat can't talk. And the cat can't fly.'

'They are of little real use though, talking pet apart.'

'Not so, my Lord,' protested Ranyl. 'Indeed, I am encouraging more of our mages to adopt them now we have some limited linkage back with the demon dimension. They are useful as spies, and unless you know how are particularly difficult to kill.'

'Perhaps you should send them after The Raven then, prove to me they are worth the revolting body and endless drool.'

'Perhaps I will.' It was early evening seven days after Selik's brief and predictable meeting with Blackthorne and Gresse. He had brought his men to a stop half an hour's walk from the garrison at Understone. He wanted them to rest because in the early hours of the morning they had to be at their ruthless best.

They lit a fire in a shaded copse, knowing the light would not be seen in Understone, and ate very well from a deer one of his archers brought down with an astonishing shot as they rode into their temporary campsite. As he watched them eat and talk, even share the odd snatch of song, Selik knew they felt it. This was the march of the righteous. No one could stand before the Gods and stand in their way.

'Rest!' ordered Selik, once the carcass was stripped. 'Sleep if you can; we have justice to serve.'

There was no complaint. They knew he was right. Come the end of the night some of them would be dead but a blow would have been struck. The first of many. While they slept, Selik watched and reflected. He had little need for rest these days, his mind churning endlessly with thoughts of duty and destiny.

When it was time to wake his men, Selik did so feeling like a father waking reluctant children. He served them hot tea himself, feeling closer to them than at any time and starkly responsible for what he was about to begin. For a moment these twenty men with dreams of their own – who wanted life, had wives and children – were more than just pawns to him. They were people he should nurture and protect. Just for a moment.

The walk was made in total silence. All the talking had been done. In the blank dark of early morning, deepened further by the looming shapes of the Blackthorne Mountains at their backs, the Black Wings took up their positions. It had been relatively simple. Anders, the garrison commander, posted no guards outside the compound, having long since abandoned the ghost town to its ethereal residents. This mistake allowed the Black Wings to lay their trap and, when they were ready, to spring it.

Across the quiet of the night came the sound of a lone horse, galloping hard. Its rider could be heard urging it on, begging it for more speed. The animal tore up the last twists and turns of the southern path before bursting into view in the dark cloudy early morning, sprinting for the only puddle of light it could see. Understone barracks.

Voices were raised inside. Feet could be heard running on earth and wood and the odd lantern was hung outside the walls, augmenting the firelight within and the braziers ranged along the top of the stockade.

The rider swung into the street and slewed to a halt in front of the gates in a cloud of dust, horse steaming and sweating, froth oozing from under the saddle and dripping from its bit. The rider all but fell from his mount, staggering to the gates and hammering on them, pleading with those watching from above to let him in, fear threatening to overwhelm him.

'Please! Please let me in. Dear Gods, they're right behind me. Please!'

'Who are?' demanded a voice. 'Calm down, man.'

'Black Wings,' gasped the rider. 'Can you not hear them?'

And there it was. The unmistakable sound of multiple hoof beats echoing across the town.

'You're a mage?'

'What else?' shouted the man, desperation edging his voice. 'Don't leave me out here to die, I beg you. Please.'

A brief conversation was ended by an order barked down from the parapet. A heavy plank slid back from its mountings and one of the braced stockade gates began to creak open.

'Now!' shouted a voice slurred by paralysis.

A dozen pairs of hands shoved at the gates as men ran from the shadows either side. Simultaneously, a quartet of arrows whipped up to the parapet, punching two men from their feet to thump lifeless onto the earth below. More followed, volley after volley, while the Black Wings drove the doors back.

Shouts ricocheted across the compound as the Black Wings pushed through. Selik headed them, moving left to slash his sword into the back of one of the men trying to keep the gates shut. His men piled in behind him, laughing as they came, slapping the gates back the last few feet and trapping one hapless college soldier against the stockade wall.

'Split!' yelled Selik. 'Gain the ramparts. Loose groups. Watch for spells. Go!'

He sped on, breath wheezing into his part-paralysed chest. He ran straight across the compound, stables to his left, barrack buildings ahead. Devun was at his shoulder, others either side, and he felt energy flood through him.

The door to the wide low barracks building opened and men spilled out, half dressed, half asleep, still buckling leather as they came. Anders led them. It was too perfect. Selik swept back his hood and struck hard, right to left. Anders, distracted, missed the blow, which sheared into his left arm and on into his unarmoured ribs. The garrison commander went down in a welter of blood, not even having the breath to scream as the blade sliced through his lung and heart.

The fight against magic had truly begun, and as Selik blocked a disheartened sword thrust and the first spell bloomed behind him, he still had time to remind himself to praise Devun for his superb acting performance before the compound gates.