Rise of the TaiGethen

Chapter 35

Serrin granted me an audience some eighty years after he was called to the ClawBound. He showed me the tattoos of the Aryn Hiil text on his back and chest. This, he said, was the pure expression of a Silent Priest.

From ClawBound and Silent by Lysael, High Priest of Yniss

Jeral was enjoying a decent night’s sleep in a hammock near a good roaring fire when the angry shouting disturbed him. He opened his eyes. It was full night. The argument was coming from his left, towards the forward pickets. He’d feared TaiGethen attack during the night and the wards were thick on the ground. Rested mages were ready to cast on anything that crossed the line.

He heaved himself to the ground and belted on his sword. He was joined by other curious soldiers as he walked towards the disturbance. This was high-level stuff. The raised voices were those of Lockesh and Sinese, commander of the second army. Their words were clear long before he saw their fire-lit silhouettes.

‘… know what is best for those under my command. You have no authority over me, Lockesh. Back off.’

‘We have cast all day. We have won the battle. Now your slacklipped charges are here dripping poison into the ears of my mages.’

‘They have a right to know,’ Sinese spat.

His was a tall and broad silhouette. A career soldier, but one for whom the line between command and care was too often blurred.

‘They have no rights,’ Lockesh sneered. ‘They are military mages. They do as they are ordered, the same as every soldier.’

‘I am astonished by your complacency. This is not some trifling matter. Mages could start falling from the sky, or be engulfed by their own flame.’

‘ If! If the Sundering should happen. It has not, and while it has not your mages will join battle with mine. They will fight.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. The camp is awake and hanging on your every word,’ said Jeral, nodding at Hynd, who was standing nearby looking, frankly, frightened. ‘Can I help at all?’

Sinese looked at him as he might look at a smear of shit on his shoe. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘I am Jeral, commander of the Ysundeneth army.’

Sinese tipped back his head and roared with laughter.

‘Some good news at last. A real soldier, by the look of you.’ His expression sobered. ‘But no doubt you’re also complicit in hiding the risk our brother mages face.’

‘No, sir. I am anxious to see this battle won before that risk grows any further. What’s happened?’

Lockesh waved a hand at Sinese. ‘In his wisdom, the general relayed Ystormun’s news to all under his command. His mages, he says, are now too scared to cast in case their spells consume them.’

‘The information is clear,’ said Sinese. ‘This battle must be won by sword alone.’

‘We heard different,’ said Lockesh. ‘We heard that the battle must be won at pace to avoid such risks. We have made great strides, but we must use our magical resources tomorrow.’

Jeral nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, General.’

‘Then put your own mages in the line of danger. Make them cast knowing every construct might bite them without warning.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Jeral. ‘So long as your blades are the first through the gates.’

‘That’s not going to be so easy,’ said Hynd quietly.

‘What? Why?’

‘My Lord Lockesh, if I may?’ Lockesh nodded and Hynd continued: ‘The damage is already done.’

‘What damage?’ demanded Jeral, suddenly feeling nervous. ‘Talk to me, Hynd.’

‘You have to understand how much of a mage’s ability is based on confidence in the unbroken flow of mana, and how dangerous it is if that flow is interrupted. We’ve all experienced it in simulations, and not all of us have come through them unscathed.’

‘But the flow isn’t interrupted, is it?’

‘Not right now,’ said Hynd. ‘But what about in the next moment, or the next? It eats away our confidence, and a mage worrying about the flow cannot make a solid construct.’

‘But you have to risk it, right?’ Jeral spread his hands. ‘Every time I pick up my sword I’m gambling that the enemy I face isn’t as good as me. Warfare is a gamble for every one of us. We need you.’

‘I’m just being honest,’ said Hynd. ‘I’ve seen the look on many of our mages’ faces. They feel betrayed that they weren’t told, and they’re scared of what might come next.’

‘But you, Hynd,’ said Jeral. ‘If I asked you to fly, you would.’

Hynd held his gaze for a moment before letting it drop and shaking his head.

‘I don’t know, Jeral, I really don’t.’

Jeral couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘All right, maybe flying’s a bad choice. An orb, then. You’d do that, right?’

Hynd didn’t answer.

‘Gods on a pyre,’ hissed Jeral. ‘I’ve got to have spotters and I’ve got to have ground casting.’

‘I cannot promise you much of either,’ said Hynd.

Jeral jabbed a finger towards the city.

‘That city is full of Sharps. Most of them aren’t soldiers but every one of them is a dangerous fucker who’s scared of nothing but our magic. We have to have an open field when we get inside. Right now they could hide around every corner and pick us off one by one. Without you we’ll lose hundreds of men winning this thing.

‘You have to help me. You have to clear the ground of cover so my soldiers, who have not turned into total cowards, can see who the fuck they are fighting.’

‘It is not cowardice,’ said Hynd.

‘What would you call it, then?’

‘I will cast,’ said Lockesh.

Jeral started. ‘My lord?’

‘I will cast, like any common mage. I have not lost my… confidence.’ He glared at Hynd. ‘Let it be known. I will lead any mage with the courage to join me onto the field come the dawn.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Jeral. ‘Every soldier is indebted to you.’

‘I merely wish to get this done and to be able to walk out of here alive.’

‘Great,’ said Jeral and he punched Hynd hard on the shoulder. ‘Then we’re done.’

‘Not quite,’ said Sinese, clearly raging at Lockesh’s seizure of the moral high ground. ‘I would speak with you, Jeral, about a proper chain of command.’

‘Knock yourself out, but I’m not going to start reporting to you.’

Dawn arrived, and those few on the ramparts were afforded a view that would take the heart from many. With those first rays of sunshine pushing the shadows of night back into the forest, the enemy had emerged from the eaves of the forest to stand in ranks that stretched across the width of the blackened open ground.

Auum, with the bruised Pelyn beside him and a handful of TaiGethen spread along the ramparts to either side of the sundered gates, looked at the force ranged against them and could only pray for divine intervention.

Below Auum, the gates had been re-erected. Carpenters had patched the timber, and steel plates had been reattached, but it was no more than a token effort and the humans would know it.

‘They’ll come on hard and they won’t stop until their work is done,’ said Auum. ‘Are your people ready?’

Pelyn nodded. She was rubbing at her arms and her voice shook but not from fear.

‘A few have fled across the lake, looking for sanctuary in the heights above the quarry, but most have stayed. These are city people, proud people, and they know no other life. They’ll stand and fight when they must.’

Auum had ordered the city evacuated behind a line to the rear of the hall of the Al-Arynaar. Katurans were hidden in the ghettos to the south of the city and scattered among the buildings in the outer circles. Only the TaiGethen prowled the areas nearer the gate, tasked to attack mages wherever they could once the invasion began. They had built many street barricades, but all of them were wooden and none would stand up to more than a couple of castings.

The archers were hidden on the roofs and upper floors of the tallest remaining buildings. There was no shortage of arrows and poison, but the mages and shields would have to be taken down before they could be effective.

‘Here they come,’ said Auum.

The human army began to march. Auum watched them until they stopped to prepare their barrage.

‘Fall back. Let them use their spells. We can do nothing here but offer them targets.’

The defenders dropped from the ramparts and the Al-Arynaar dispersed into the depths of the city to stand with their nominated militia groups. The TaiGethen gathered to pray in the lee of the walls. When they were done, Auum faced them.

‘Sell your lives at a high price if you have to sell them at all. Look to your brothers and sisters. May Yniss guide your every footfall. Marack, Illast, Acclan, Thrynn, take your cells to the west. Keep low, strike and run. Merrat, Grafyrre, Merke, Oryaal, Corinn your cells go to the east. Ulysan and I will free-run as decoys. If we can kill the magic then we can still win. Tais, we move.’

Auum took Ulysan and ran down the main street, past the gutted and shattered buildings of the Gyalan, Ixii and Tuali ghettos and up to the outer of the four circles. The main street ran directly into the marketplace, but within the circles the alleys and side streets provided good cover. Much of the first circle facing the gate still stood, but enough buildings had suffered significant damage to persuade Auum not to hide there for too long.

A whistling and roaring filled the air. Auum watched orbs and ice boulders soar high over the walls and come smashing down in the streets just beyond the gate. Only three mages flew in the sky. Castings smashed into the fragile gates and pounded the walls to either side.

From beneath an awning that hid them from the spotters, Auum and Ulysan saw the gates disintegrate and the remains of the gatehouse rock on its foundations and tumble outwards, ripping holes the size of carts in the walls to either side. Orbs flew in again and again, melting the thin metal, popping lines of rivets and blasting stone to fragments.

Abruptly, the focus changed; the humans had seen something. The walls to the west of the gate were targeted hard. Other spells arced over the same section of the walls to land squarely in the Gyalan ghetto. Houses blew apart, timbers flew high into the air, spinning through clouds of splinters, clay and mud. The walls burst inwards, ice boulders crashing through them and flame orbs consuming the wood, between them creating a gash thirty feet wide.

Through the gap, Auum could see the humans begin their charge on two fronts.

‘Ulysan, with me.’

The TaiGethen pair ran behind the barrier of the first circle. Castings were dropping all around them, rattling the ground beneath their feet, sending clouds of dust billowing along the tight streets and filling their noses with the smell of burning and the foul stink of magic.

‘Take the next right,’ said Auum.

An ice boulder drove into the building directly in front of them. Auum pushed Ulysan left and dived to the right as timbers exploded from the sides of the building. The boulder tore straight through, front to back, and cannoned into the building across the ring. The whole structure collapsed, sloughing into the road, covering everything for twenty yards around with thick freezing dust.

Auum wiped the blood away from a cut on his cheek and rubbed his hand on his trousers.

‘Ulysan?’

Auum worked his way through the clogging dust. He saw a pile of debris shift and Ulysan emerged from it. Auum helped push away the wood and muck and dragged his friend back to his feet.

‘All right?’

‘You saved my life,’ said Ulysan.

‘You’ll get plenty of chances to repay me, I’m sure. Let’s get west.’

Auum raced down the next street and back towards the walls. He veered left, away from the main road. Castings were still falling but there were fewer now as the advance gathered momentum. He could see archers on the ramparts, firing down on the enemy. While he watched, two elves were hurled back, shafts jutting from chest and eye. The rest dispersed back to the second fire points.

They ran back into the Gyalan ghetto. Full of low houses, straight but narrow streets and a ceremonial fire pit at its heart. Auum heard elven voices. The ghetto had been flattened in a wide area stretching halfway to the western walls. Flames climbed high into the air and grey smoke pillared up into the sky. Turning a corner, he saw Acclan and Kepller kneeling to either side of a body.

Auum sprinted up, Ulysan in his footsteps. Acclan looked up, tears making tracks in the dirt of his face. Dysaart was dead. He’d been Acclan’s second for three hundred years. A hero among the TaiGethen.

‘He didn’t even have the chance to fight,’ said Acclan. ‘Ice hit him in the back of the head. There is no honour in that.’

‘Not for men, but there is for elves.’ Auum reached out hands to the two survivors and brought them to their feet. ‘We have all lost those we love. The enemy have breached the walls behind you. They attack us on two fronts now. Fight for him.’

The four of them moved off, Kepller limping heavily, favouring his right foot. Auum saw blood staining his left calf.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I can fight.’

Three corners later he had to make good on his words. The ghetto was levelled beyond the breach. Spells flashed through it, creating space into which men were pushing. Archers breasted the broken timbers prepared to shoot. Auum kept his Tais just out of sight. Enemy soldiers boiled into the streets of Katura here and through the gates.

‘Drop back to the next corner; I’ll draw them on to you. We’ve got to take out those mages.’

Killith kicked the Sharp again. And again. The slave had long since stopped moving and had never once cried out. She’d stared at him just the once and even had the temerity to spit blood from her ruined mouth onto his boot, but that was all he’d got from her.

‘Feeling better?’ Pindock asked from his seat on a fallen log.

His ridiculously lavish personal security team was scattered among the trees just in case a spider got a bit aggressive.

Killith thought for a moment.

‘No,’ he said, giving the body another kick just to see it judder. ‘At least, not yet. I’ve had all night to think about it followed by a good breakfast of slimy tuber soup, and my plan is to drink Loreb’s stash of wines and spirits and then kick every Sharp I lay eyes on to death as my part in the war effort. Once I’ve done that, I’ll figure out how to kill that fucking upstart Jeral.’

‘Good luck with that. He’s under Lockesh’s wing now, isn’t he?’

In the distance the sound of thousands running, fighting and dying and the detonations of spells carried through the forest. Closer to, they could hear bored soldiers pacing and what was presumably a heavy stumble over something hidden in the leaf litter, not an uncommon event in this ridiculous place.

‘Poison does not respect the influence of mage lords.’ Killith looked down at his boots. They were smeared with blood and dirt. He sat down, dragged them off and threw them at an aide. ‘Clean them. Good to have a shine when you’re taking revenge, I find.’

The aide stooped to pick up the boots, muttered a curse and dropped them again.

‘Are you-’ began Killith.

The aide wasn’t looking at him; he was staring beyond him and a stain was spreading across his groin. Killith turned. Pindock was already whimpering and trying to scramble away though he must have known there was no escape. Somewhere nearby, a soldier was yelling for help.

‘Stand with me, Pindock. At least pretend you are a man.’

Killith had never feared death, but then he’d never faced it all that closely before. And now the certainty of his was upon him, he felt relief at not having to face the questions of his masters back in Balaia. His one regret was that he didn’t have his boots on.

So Killith faced them without flinching in his threadbare stockings and with his sword in his hand because he would not want to be found empty-handed. The elves had emerged with such poise that he even felt guilty for standing there. This was their forest, their land.

Killith watched them close in on him and the three men who had chosen to stand with him. Eight of the painted and tattooed elves, with their panthers in close attendance, stood in his arc of vision, and more were moving to encircle the larger encampment if the cries he heard were any guide.

Killith brought his sword to the ready, held in two hands and across his body. A panther leapt on him the next instant, its jaws clamping onto his shoulder and bearing him down into the leaf litter. The air was punched from his body and his sword sprang from his hands. He reached out for it and laid a hand on its hilt. It comforted him.

From where he lay, Killith saw the ClawBound running forward. Pindock screamed and begged for mercy. His wailing carried on and on, his life extended to voice the sum of his agony.

Killith fought to rise but a figure dropped onto his chest. The elf stared at him as if he were a museum exhibit, curious but unmoved by what he saw. He said nothing but brought his hands to Killith’s face and slashed both his cheeks with his sharpened fingernails. Killith jerked and cried out, unable to stop himself.

The elf pushed his chin back, driving his head into the mud. The next fingernail sliced his forehead open. Killith shouted out for him to stop, that this was not what he deserved: to be a message, left like all the others, breathing but too hideous to look upon.

Only then did the elf pause to shake his head.

‘Then you are fortunate,’ he said in elvish plain enough for Killith to grasp,‘that you will not be breathing when they find you.’