Rise of the TaiGethen

Chapter 26

The appetite for Calaian rainforest wood is insatiable. No one of any means would consider the use of any other timber. The bloody idiots would probably burn their own houses now if they were fashioned of Greythorne oak.

Reminiscences of an Old Soldier, by Garan, sword master of Ysundeneth (retired)

Garan was sitting in his favourite chair in the western panoramic room, giving him views over Ysundeneth. In decades gone by he’d enjoyed watching the city landscape change; become less elven, more human. Beauty was not something Ystormun appreciated; functionality was everything, and Garan defied anyone to find beauty in Ystormun’s version of functionality though the efficiency of his redesigned Ysundeneth was certainly impressive.

The city was dominated by the imposing warehouse buildings which housed the Sharps. Thousands were crammed into inadequate spaces. That, combined with derisory latrine facilities, rations just above starvation levels and elven herbs in quantities sufficient only to cure mortal illnesses, was Ystormun’s morale-sapping master plan.

It was most effective. The Sharps feared the withholding of food as much as they did the draconian crushing punishments for stepping out of line. The whole city was effectively a prison camp and a storage and shipping facility of huge proportions taking resources and wealth north to Balaia.

Sitting here, on a day that had begun with spectacular lightning storms and torrential rain and was now steaming gently under a hot sun, Garan started to wonder when his mind had begun to change. The gods knew he had plenty of years to look across. He took a sip of a honey drink designed to soothe the sores that ran the length of his gullet.

He could dismiss the dimmer memories, like the day he heard he would never be going home or the day he knew he had become little more than an experiment. Not because they didn’t hurt but because they were over a hundred and twenty years old. And he had to admit that watching everything unfold around him for the last century and a half was a significant compensation.

Garan’s gradual grudging friendship with Takaar was certainly a factor. Though he couldn’t recall much of their earlier conversations, Garan recognised that they had sown the seeds of a respect for the elven race. He’d always known they were far more than their portrayal as violent primitives.

What Takaar had taught him, in his often unhinged but always charming way, was that there was a depth of spirituality and, well, humanity, to the elves along with their skills, knowledge and strength, and that should be embraced not exterminated. It hadn’t ever led Garan to believe the occupation of the rainforest by man was wrong, but he had slowly begun to think a feudal partnership might be more productive than occupation and enslavement, in the long term.

Garan sighed and shifted in his chair, trying to alleviate a pressure point in his backside that sent shooting pains into his right leg. What had it been, then, that one tipping point, if indeed there had been just one? Not Ystormun himself. Garan had developed some understanding of him in the last couple of decades, as he had mellowed as much as an ancient and basically evil bastard could.

He did respect Ystormun’s pride in his achievements on Calaius and most recently his ultimately futile resistance to his cadre’s desire to send the army out to exterminate the race of elves.

‘Hmmm.’ Garan took another sip of his drink. ‘Of course it never is the how, it’s the why.’

He had the answer now. Everything else was just skirting the issue. It had been some years ago now, perhaps fifteen, but they all blurred into one amorphous smear of pain and unpleasant smells these days. It had been the moment he learned that the work on Calaius would no longer be to the benefit of Triverne or, by extension, to magic in general.

Worse than that, further investigation had revealed exactly what all Calaius’ wealth was being diverted to support. Garan loved Triverne, and he loved Balaia too, though he would see neither again. And what he knew was dreadful for both of them. The power he had dedicated his life to support would turn his country and his city to ash in its desire for dominion. Yet even though he was in possession of such knowledge, he had not thought he could affect what was to come.

But his mind had turned that day. And so it was that, years later, he was open to options when they were presented to him… and those options had led him inexorably to the action he was to sanction today. Now.

Garan had made sure that his people were at the door to the panoramic room and that his people were attending to his many needs. One slip now and the worst of deaths would be awaiting them all — all but Garan himself. He and his people had planned for this from the moment it had become obvious that Balaia and Triverne were facing war.

Footsteps approached his chair. A figure stepped in front of him. Garan smiled. It was exactly who he had hoped to see when the ship had docked late the preceding night. Still he was impressed that the man had arranged to be re-summoned by Ystormun eight years after his first visit.

Stein was a squat man, barrel-chested and broad of gut. His skull was covered in a thick mat of tight blond curls and his features were all slightly larger than seemed quite comfortable, especially when crammed together in an oval face topped by wild eyebrows and tailed by an impeccably trimmed beard.

‘You got my message, then?’ asked Garan.

‘All of them,’ said Stein. ‘We don’t have long. Ystormun wants to outline my duties.’

Garan gestured to a chair.

‘You remain fantastically ugly,’ he said.

Stein laughed and sat. ‘Your saying that, when no mirror can survive your reflection, is a testament to your powers of self-delusion.’

Garan cleared his throat. ‘I need to know that you understand the gravity of the proposition. Let’s face it: I want to die. I’m equally sure that you don’t.’

‘Correct, and yet here I am. That should tell you all you need to know about the fear gripping any of us with half a brain in Balaia right now. It’s much worse than you think.’

‘How close?’

‘Any day, literally. And the cadre really can win, despite the force that will be ranged against them when the day comes.’

‘I’m not asking you to destroy your own,’ said Garan. ‘You know that. A show of force is all it should take.’

‘How comforting.’

‘But we’re relying on the Sharps — the elves — to prevail out there in the forest. If they don’t then we’re already too late and this place will become a power base like no other.’

Stein nodded. ‘And will they win?’

‘The odds against them are ridiculous, but they are capable and the trio of generals in the field can’t even spell the word ‘‘tactic’’ between them. It’s all down to the mages.’

‘It was ever so,’ said Stein.

‘Smug bastard. Look, assuming they do win, we won’t have much time. I’ve got an ally in their midst but the others… they’re dangerous. Really dangerous. Deliver what you say you can and they will eventually respect you.’

‘I should think so,’ said Stein. ‘After all, we’re here to help them. Sort of.’

‘But don’t step out of line.’

‘Or what?’

Garan shrugged. ‘They’ll kill you.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Let me do the talking.’

‘Or what?’

‘Guess.’

With a lack of subtlety that was typical of the Tuali, Takaar heard them massing in the rooms below to attack. Pelyn had been very quiet for the last hour. She had taken occasional sips of water but refused any of the stale food that lay on the plate from the night before. She would not respond to his questions, choosing to sit in a threadbare chair and stare at a bookshelf from which no book had been removed for a very long time.

Stitched yourself into a nice little trap here, haven’t you?

‘Even for you, that was pathetic,’ muttered Takaar.

He put his ear to the floor and heard orders being given. He was amazed it had taken them so long, and could only think his name still carried enough fear to encourage caution. The day was moving towards its zenith; rain had given way to blazing sunshine, and the hubbub from Katura’s people outside offered a veneer of normality.

‘The ideal time to get out and about,’ said Takaar.

I’m sure they’ll all stand aside and open the door for you too.

He whistled tunelessly while he cleaned his blades, checked the contents of his backpack and refilled his skin from the washing-water jug.

‘Do you have to whistle?’ snapped Pelyn.

‘Ah, you can still speak.’

Pelyn’s smile was nasty and triumphant. ‘They’re coming to get you. And the best thing about it is that then I’ll get more nectar and I can forget you ever came back into my life.’

‘What do they want with you?’

It was a question Takaar had asked her time and again.

‘Stupid, aren’t you? They want me because I am Tuali. Because I am the governor of this city and because I pass all the laws. Easy.’

But her laugh had a bitter edge to it and her eyes were brimful of sorrow — just for a moment, before the craving dominated her once again. Takaar nodded. He heard elves gathering at the bottom of the stairs. It wouldn’t be long now.

‘It’s hard to believe the good people of this city, and I’m sure some still remain, would accept that shadow of control. You have no power here, but I can give it back to you.’

‘There’s only one thing I want.’

She’s consistent, at least.

‘Time to go,’ said Takaar and his grin made her flinch.

‘You’re really going to try to take them all on?’

‘Now that would be stupid, wouldn’t it?’ Takaar moved towards her. ‘I didn’t use the door on my way in and I will not be using it on my way out. So: conscious or unconscious?’

‘What?’

The Tuali were coming up the stairs, making a poor effort at stealth.

‘Never mind.’

Takaar’s punch struck her on the temple, knocking her senseless. He caught her as she crumpled and threw her featherweight over his left shoulder. He ran to the connecting door to her office, across the dusty floor and out onto the open balcony. He leapt lightly onto the rail, dropped to hang briefly from his right hand and then fell the rest of the way to the ground.

The side street was quiet. Takaar headed away from the centre of Katura and ducked into an alley three turns from the hall of the Al-Arynaar, hidden from the Tuali but still close enough to hear their rage when his escape was discovered.

Takaar cradled Pelyn’s head and poured a little water over her face and into her mouth. She coughed and opened her eyes. For one glorious moment her smile lit her face up and the old Pelyn shone through, but it was gone the next instant and she pushed away from him and scrambled to her feet.

Still groggy, Pelyn had to steady herself against the side of a building. Takaar rose fluidly and pulled her round to face him, his hands clamped around her upper arms.

‘The Ixii and Gyalans. Where are they?’

‘Get me my nectar and perhaps I’ll tell you,’ said Pelyn.

‘No time.’ Takaar shook her. ‘Tell me which way. Now.’

‘Or what? You’ll leave me for another hundred and fifty years?’

Oh she knows how to hurt you, doesn’t she?

Takaar drove her back and up against the wall, holding her feet from the ground. She kicked at his chest but they were feeble blows.

‘Don’t become part of the problem.’ Takaar stared into her eyes, holding her gaze until fear eclipsed craving like storm clouds moving across the sun. ‘Dying alone in this place would be such a waste.’

Takaar dropped her and she crumpled into a hunched position on the ground, hugging herself, caught between her longing for edulis and her fear of him. His heart screamed at him to embrace her, but his mind, this time, was stronger.

‘I have this one chance to save the elves from man; to build a new strength in our people. Help me begin to return what I took from us all.’ Takaar shrugged. ‘Or you’ll have to die. I can’t let anyone stand in my way. Not even you.’

She lifted her face to his. The sounds of the Tuali mob on the streets were echoing down the alley. They were closing quickly. If Takaar had expected the light of comprehension in her eyes, he was disappointed. There was nothing there but a base cunning.

‘Swear to me you’ll get me more nectar and I’ll help you.’

It is the only thing you can offer her that she will take. Do it, Takaar.

Takaar opened his mouth and betrayed her again.

‘Done,’ he said, the lie slipping easily from his mouth. ‘Now let’s move.’

The centre of Katura was built in a series of concentric rings, in keeping with the aspect of the palm of Yniss. Industry was based there. The city administration rubbed shoulders with forges, bakeries, butchers, potters and all manner of other goods and services. Temples to every god had been built and, for a time, harmony had reigned.

Every elf was granted land to farm, or hunt or log or even to mine if that was their desire. The population began to grow and the city threw out shoots into the forest where those who preferred the old ways could live, bringing their goods to trade in the market which blossomed in the heart of the city.

It was impossible to pinpoint when the mood had begun to change, but the silence from the old cities and from those who had sworn to fight on and liberate the enslaved had began to gnaw at Katura’s heart. Isolation grew and, alongside it, a sense of hopelessness, a knowledge that what they were building might be all they had left.

Their spirit began to fail. And where the spirit faltered, there were those willing to profit from weakness. Edulis was their weapon, and it was as powerful as it was destructive. Land changed hands and threads began to gather together. The descent had been terrifyingly quick, and while there were significant numbers who remained dedicated to their tasks, determined not to fail, the pressure of the thread gangs grew day by day.

Pelyn led Takaar out into the uneven sprawl of what had begun as attempts to build strong neighbourhoods but had become ghettos where a single wrong turn could be a fatal mistake. Takaar had seen enough to know that the Tualis were the dominant thread, but they did not desire to drive the others out, preferring to profit from their misery instead.

The streets beyond the central rings were tight and maze-like, as if mimicking the Warren district of old Ysundeneth. Most buildings were single-storey and all were of wood construction. Most were ill maintained but here and there pockets of smart houses rested within the dilapidated mass. Takaar shook his head. It was like walking back onto Hausolis before the Garonin came, before the War of Bloods took hold.

Pelyn stopped in the centre of a muddy street that twisted away ahead of them. Beyond the houses, the beauty of the falls, heights and forests that bordered Katura was undimmed. Down here, though, smoke mixed with foul odours; children grubbed about in the dirt, and the Ixii on the street bunched together, staring at the intruders.

‘I thought you said you were still governor,’ hissed Takaar.

‘They haven’t seen me in a while,’ confessed Pelyn. ‘I doubt they trust me these days anyway.’

Pelyn was shuddering from the exertion of the run. Her face was pale and covered in sweat and she was breathing hard. She looked at Takaar and spread her hands.

‘Well, here we are, the Ixii ghetto,’ she said. ‘What now?’

A good question.

‘Simply answered. Do they have a meeting place?’

‘What for?’ asked Pelyn. ‘Katura wasn’t built for segregation. That’s just the way it’s turned out.’

‘This’ll have to do then,’ said Takaar. He began to walk towards the eight or so Ixii gathered in a doorway a few paces ahead of him. ‘Please, I would speak with you. All of you. Every decent Ixii, and your Gyalan and Orran and Cefan friends too, in time. Will you listen?’

Parents beckoned their children towards them. The atmosphere cooled and suspicion reigned. No one moved to speak to Takaar. He raised his voice, using the Il-Aryn to aid him.

‘I am Takaar and I bring you new hope,’ he said, his voice echoing from the sides of buildings and running away into the side streets. ‘Come outside. Hear me. Hear about the gift I can bestow upon you. The power to fight back against those who seek to control you. You, the Ixii, have it within you to become a new power among the elves.

‘Please, hear me. I mean you no harm.’

A child began to cry. Voices were raised behind Takaar — Tualis who could not have helped but hear him. Doors opened along the street and curious elves looked out. Seeing others already gathered, they moved to join them, the pack mentality of the threatened thread strong within them.

Takaar had been counting on that. His ears twitched. The Tuali were close. He wondered if that would work to his advantage. He waited a little longer as the Ixii continued to gather. A hundred or more were moving in his direction or standing with their thread.

‘Pelyn is here. Your governor endorses me. All I ask is that you listen.’

Takaar began to move towards them, Pelyn came with him, unwilling but compliant, her craving and his promise dominating her mind. The Ixii bunched together and moved back, but not through fear of him; Tualis were spilling into the street behind him. They were well armed and drilled. Swords and bows were evident. Presumably, many of them had once been Al-Arynaar.

‘Go back inside. This criminal is ours.’

Takaar’s eyes fell on the ula who had spoken.

‘What is his name?’ he whispered to Pelyn.

‘Calen,’ said Pelyn, and there was admiration in her voice. ‘Looks like I won’t need you for my nectar after all.’

Takaar took Pelyn’s hand. ‘Stay a while.’

Well. If you wanted an audience, you’ve certainly found it. All this time I’ve been urging you to kill yourself. Silly me. All I needed to do was wait until your ego did the job for me.

Takaar smiled. He was so close to the Ixii that he guessed the Tuali would not use their bows. They were forty strong at least, but there were a couple of hundred Ixii behind him and more were hurrying to join them.

‘Calen,’ said Takaar. ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you.’

Calen ignored him. He had a savage bearing. One ear was ripped and its tip hung out, broken. He wore dark clothes and a pale brown leather coat. His hands were latticed with scars and there was an ugly tear on his forehead.

‘Pelyn,’ he said. ‘We were worried about you. What are you doing with this coward? He abandoned you long ago. You’re with us now.’

Pelyn tensed to move and Takaar tightened his grip.

‘She’s fine right where she is. We have business with the Ixii, and then you and I must talk about the defence of Katura.’

Calen laughed. ‘The Ixii are weak and hide in their hovels while those of us who remain strong keep them safe. You talk to no one unless I say so.’

Takaar glanced over his shoulder. The Ixii stared on, most not knowing what to think.

‘Oh?’ said Takaar. ‘But Pelyn is governor of this city, is she not?’

A ripple of mirth ran through the Tualis. Takaar shook his head and turned to the Ixii.

‘Let me tell you why I am here and why you must come with me.’

‘There are ten bows trained on your back, Takaar,’ said Calen. ‘You will turn and respect me.’

‘Shoot, Calen,’ said Takaar, not turning. ‘Will they all hit me? Or will some strike Pelyn or the Ixii you say you protect. Will you stand there when they rush you to avenge a murder? Shoot.’

Calen did not give the order. Instead he called on his people to advance. Takaar smiled, continuing to ignore the Tuali and to address the Ixii. He could sense the swirling potential of the Il-Aryn in them. He had to make them feel it for themselves.

‘You will know nothing of the Il-Aryn. It is a power that runs through you, which you can harness to make you stronger. I have been studying it ever since man took our cities and I have teachers waiting to help you learn to use it. You have nothing to lose. There is a world of wonder awaiting you, should you free yourselves, and if nothing else, I am offering you a way out of the slow death you face here.’

The point of a sword pricked the back of Takaar’s neck.

‘Don’t make this difficult,’ said Calen. ‘I had to force Lysael to leave and I will do the same to you. It is over.’

Takaar dropped to his haunches, spun and stood, one hand grabbing Calen’s sword arm, the other placed over his face. Takaar fed the Il-Aryn along his arm, focusing it to a fine point and seeing, in his mind, a surging pale crescent that spun to a blur. He gave it freedom.

Fire encased Calen’s head. The Tuali screamed and clawed at Takaar’s hand, his strength already failing. The flames blackened his flesh in an instant and scored the hair from his head. His body juddered and twitched as the heat seared through his skull and into his brain. Steaming blood exploded from his eyes and mouth while his ears melted.

Takaar closed his hand, crushing Calen’s skull into fragments. His body, smoking from the neck and what remained of his head, dropped to the ground. Takaar wiped his hand on his trousers and looked at the Ixii, who, like the Tualis and Pelyn, had backed away from him.

‘Who wants to learn how to do that?’