them.
‘So many problems.’
The melodious voices flowed over Sol, taking the ire from him. He lowered his blade. The Garonin were standing about five yards from him.
‘We underestimated you.’
‘Damn right,’ said Sol. ‘Lucky for you we weren’t all acting together. We’d have kicked your sorry carcasses right out of Balaia.’
‘We think not.’ There was a susurration that Sol took for laughter. ‘But we warned you that resistance forcing us to expend our resources would ultimately go badly for you.’
‘I do remember that. And since then we’ve seen all sorts of wonderful things and bigger and nastier weapons. And yet, when last I looked, Xetesk still stood and you were denied her Heart. And here I stand once again, ready to take you on. No one who stood before me then is alive to tell you about it.’
‘Ultimately.’ The whispered word was discordant and sent a shiver up Sol’s spine forcing him to hunch his shoulders. ‘So much has been expended. So many of our people gone because of your fruitless resistance.’
‘It is not fruitless.’
‘No? One wrecked city still stands. Another is ready to fall. Your land is no good to you. It was ever going to be thus. And yet still you thought to fight, though to accept defeat would have been the easier option.’
‘For you, perhaps. Your problem is that you have fundamentally misunderstood what drives us. It is the will to survive. The belief that we will survive, whatever the odds and however powerful the enemy. And we will. We will.’
Sol saw them hesitate. One of them even fell back a pace.
‘You have spirit but you do not have the strength to turn us aside.’ The melodious quality was back. ‘You think to find a new home. We will follow you and we will destroy you there. You cannot escape us.’
‘So you say.’
‘It is forever the way. We need new worlds to harvest. We do not allow interference. We demand compliance.’
‘Well, as my friend Hirad Coldheart would say, you can shove your compliance right up-’
‘However. We respect a worthy foe and a worthy ruler of men. You are both of these.’
‘I don’t care for your respect,’ said Sol, and he spat on the ground at his feet.
‘No? When you have the lives of so many in the palm of your hand. Lives we can snuff out on a whim.’
‘I’m aware of my task.’
‘But not perhaps of the risks you take. Watch and… believe.’
The Garonin all lowered their heads. Sol felt a rush of energy in the air about him. The space above him turned black. He stumbled, almost fell. Night had fallen. From horizon to horizon it was the most complete blackness. But there was movement within it. Images resolved slowly, coming into focus like the world through a bleary eye after a long night.
Korina. The central marketplace. The Rookery. His old inn, now under new ownership but maintaining the tradition. Sol smiled at the memories. But the picture was not right. The market was empty and rubble-strewn. The inn’s sign hung from one hinge and was split down its middle, ready to drop.
‘What is this?’
Sol could not keep the quiver from his limbs. Dreams he could understand. This was something utterly different. The image drew away, like he was rising into the sky. Korina was slowly revealed before him. The once- beautiful capital city, the place where he had fallen in love, reduced to ruins and populated by gangs of survivors searching for scraps.
He saw whole areas barricaded off and the people within them carrying bows and spears against those without who begged for entry. He saw a man being kicked mercilessly by a gang of other men, some in ragged rich clothes, as still he tried to eat the bread he gripped with both hands.
Higher he went, and the scene or one like it was played out over and over. Shapes came into the image on either side of his view, as if he were passing between two high structures. Quickly they were revealed for what they were. Garonin machines. Vydospheres. Floating in the skies above Korina. And not just two. As the image continued to expand, he counted nine in a circle around the city. Worse, on its borders stood foot soldiers in their hundreds. Just waiting to fall on the helpless and desperate thousands within.
‘We have their fate in our hands. They cannot get out. We can destroy them. We can wait for them to destroy themselves. Or we can set them free. It is the same for these people. Some friends, I think.’
The image switched, and Sol was transported to the wilds of Balaia. He didn’t recognise where but he knew the faces that dominated the image he was shown and that lowered down on him. It took all his strength not to sink to his knees.
Rebraal and Dila’heth.
Their faces were grey with exhaustion and fear. Their eyes were wide and their expressions were of helplessness and despair. He saw their mouths move and knew they were speaking to one another but he could hear nothing.
‘What are they saying?’
Sol tried to read their lips but the image was not quite distinct enough. Again the image pulled away. Not as high this time though it didn’t have to. A few campfires sent smoke spiralling into a grey sky. In an open space stood multiple cells of the TaiGethen and a fair-sized group of Al-Arynaar. Surrounding them, a very large number of Garonin foot soldiers. Two thousand at a quick guess. Too many even for the TaiGethen though the battle would be fierce and bloody until the bitter end.
‘They have come so far to reach this dead end. We were always watching them even if they did not know it. They are tired. They need rest. You will ultimately decide whether they should get it. We are not always unmerciful.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ demanded Sol.
Not a head rose. There was no acknowledgement of his question. He thought about rushing them, seeing if he could take one of them down, but it seemed so futile and his emotions were churning anyway. He wasn’t sure if he could hold his sword steady.
The Garonin showed him one more scene. It was of a huge fleet at anchor. Hundreds of elven vessels in the waters off Sunara’s Teeth. North Bay. Wesman territory. The decks of the vessels were crowded with people. Many of the ships appeared to be riding low. Many others bore the marks of battle. There was flotsam in the water. Above them hung six vydospheres. On the peaks of the mountains stood foot soldiers. On the plains behind, a war camp.
‘You thought we would not realise such a density of verrian could be taken by sea? These elves’ lives are already forfeit. Long have we searched for them and we have delighted in their demise. There are over thirty thousand elves on those vessels. They are dying slowly of course. It is not in our nature to be merciful to such vermin. Yet there may be room. There may be.’
The Garonin’s heads came up. The last image disappeared and the ivory sky returned. Sol sucked his lip, fighting against a rising despair. Again his sword began to feel light in his hand. He concentrated on the victory in the corridor and the familiar weight returned. And there was something else too. It gave him hope but he couldn’t figure out why. Something was missing. Something had been left out.
‘So you see, Sol of Balaia, despite your best efforts there really is no hope left. Even should you reach your mythical new home, there will be no living to take there; and no dead either, we will see to that. All you will have done is open fertile land for us to exploit. You have lost the war.’
‘So why are you wasting your time with me?’ Sol stood tall again and stared at them, each and every one. He raised his blade and pointed it at them. ‘Eh? So destroy them all. Harvest your fuel and go back to where you came from to waste it on an enemy you cannot defeat. What are you waiting for?’
There was more hesitation before the reply. Sol found strength in that too.
‘We are offering you and all these people salvation. It benefits you because no more of your people need die. It benefits us for the same reason. All you must agree to do is let us harvest unhindered now and at any point we choose.’
‘I trust you about as far as I would trust a madman with a rapier. How can you expect me to believe you will honour such an agreement, ludicrous though it is? Effectively to allow you free access to our lands in exchange for…
