The Taife

He listened to them draw near, and felt the hate well up inside him again, a blinding, bitter hatred. He could kill them all. He had counted them and they numbered twenty-three – men with swords and bows, horses and lances. In the past he would have slain them, either one by one, silently, so that in the end there was only a single terrified survivor to bear home the message: it is death to hunt the Taife. Or he could face them all at once, tear them to pieces in a welter of blood and broken bone. He had done it before.

But Sigan remained a tree.

It was a lesson he had learned. The more he killed them the more they came, the larger the hunting bands grew.

He watched them go past. One man, a stocky, bearded creature, came within a few feet. Sigan could smell him, feel the trickling workings of his small mind, the currents pulsing through his body and hear the swishing of his blood. He resisted the urge to reach out and kill. Satisfaction would have to be subordinate to survival, for now.

He waited until their noise and smell was gone, until only the sun and the wind filled the glade, and then he became himself again. He looked up at the sky and judged that there were four hours of light remaining. He would continue to head north, but carefully, keeping watch for more men. By night he would travel more quickly, using his long legs and inexhaustible strength to eat up the miles.

He climbed through the trees. He chose to travel just below the ridge line. There was good cover there and yet he could maintain a good pace.

The rest of the day passed without incident, and when night fell he moved up onto the ridges and ran as only the Taife can run, sure footed beneath the stars, the miles passing beneath his feet more quickly than those of any other creature. He was free of the men now. They could not chase him when he ran in the night.

Dawn’s first light saw him a hundred miles north of the hunters and weary from the run. He stopped by a small lake, climbed a peak and looked out across the land. He sensed nothing. The wind brought him neither man nor Taife, but he scented wolves, bears, deer, the nation of birds, pine and spruce, soil and snow. It was still a beautiful world.

There was a day yet, maybe two, before he reached the sacred place. He descended back to the lake shore and walked into the water until it half covered him. He drew power from the movement of the waters, calming the waves, and when the lake was placid he stepped out again and sat among the trees.

The animals came to him. The birds came first. A yellow finch alighted on the ground before him, hopping and cocking its head to look at him. It seemed unsure why it was there, but Sigan sat quite still, and it hopped closer and closer. It was joined by others. More finches, a tiny flock of sparrows, a woodpecker flew down and perched boldly on his shoulder.

Mice came out of the forest and played around his feet. Mustelids, their natural predators, followed, but did not prey upon the mice. Instead they danced with each other, twisting their lithe bodies, leaping through the air, running with their peculiar, undulating gait.

The larger creatures began to arrive. First there was a bear. Just one. It lumbered out of the woods, unnaturally calm, seemingly happy just to stand in the presence of the Taife. It didn’t approach, but stood a way off, just watching the circus of lesser creatures.

Wolves came next, a pack of seven. They trotted out of the woods into the throng of other beasts as though it was the most natural thing, and they sat with tongues lolling and gazed at the Taife.

For an hour or more Sigan sat perfectly still and the congregation of creatures grew. There came great stags with their does, eagles and hawks that alighted in the trees above, families of the small mouse deer, insects that filled the air with the sound of their flight, wild cats, and at last one of the snow cats that roamed the high hills, bigger than a wolf, powerful, white and silent. It sat by the Taife’s right hand and gazed up at him out of eyes the colour of a summer twilight.

It was enough. Sigan placed one hand firmly on the soil and raised the other, and they came to him, the smallest first, touching him just once and then departing, going back to their lives where there would be hunting and death. Within the circle of the Taife they were all safe, safe and blessed.

Time passed and only the snow cat remained. It was different from the others. The snow cats were an ancient race, proud, few and scattered. Sigan put his hand on the creature’s head and gently scratched the fur between its ears. The cat blinked. It would not have tolerated the indignity from any other creature.

What will we do when you are gone? It asked.

What you have always done.

Even to Sigan the reply sounded like a lie. When you are gone. It was not Sigan the cat spoke of, but the Taife, all of them.

We will come if you call, the cat said.

To what end?

To fight.

The law of Endaine forbids it.

Then cast Endaine aside. Make a new one.

You know why the law was made. You, too, carry the story.

We do. We know, but we would not see the Taife pass from the world.

It may already be too late.

The cat stood, disengaging from his hand. It looked at him again and its eyes were almost black, a bitter colour.

If you call, we will come. With that it was gone, running into the paths of the forest, back up to the high lands where it hunted, silent and deadly among the snow and ice. Sigan rose to his feet again, heavy with the earth magic he had shared, and began to trek north as the sun descended. He would be at Endaine, the sacred place, before the sun set tomorrow, and then he would know if he was truly alone.

* * * *

It was a sunny day, but cold. What wind there was plucked at the thin cloth of Karel’s shirt, evaded the blanket wrapped around his shoulder and mocked the small fire towards which he leaned. He threw on another handful of sticks and watched the flames devour them.

“There’s nothing here.”

He looked up. It was Durr, his old friend Durr.

“What did you expect to find?” he asked.

Durr shrugged. “Something,” he said. “Anything.”

“You think we’re in the wrong place?” Karel asked.

“You got the location out of some crumbling book a dozen years ago,” Durr said. “It could be wrong.”

“Look around you,” Karel said. “What do you see?”

Karel stood, and together they surveyed the valley once more. They had made their camp high up on the north side where the sun could find them. There was a cave nearby where they could retreat from there rain, but from out in the open the view was impressive. The valley was lush, a patchwork of forest and pasture. In the distance they could see deer grazing by a silver lake, apparently untroubled by the presence of men. Somewhere among the trees a woodpecker drilled furiously and thrushes perched and sang on the edge of the pasture, competing with each other to produce the most melodious song.

“It is a wild place,” Durr said.

“It’s the nature of the Taife,” Karel said. “It is unspoiled, protected. This is Endaine.”

“Then where are the Taife? Perhaps it is true. Perhaps they are all gone.”

“I am more concerned about the time of year. Tomorrow is midsummer, is it not?”

“Aye, but you wouldn’t know it this far north.” Durr crouched down by the fire and held his hands over its struggling flames. He had a coat that Karel envied, a thick woollen coat stolen from a village drying line.

“No sign of the others,” Karel said.

“Hours yet,” Durr said. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t let them hunt here. There’s plenty of game.”

“If this is Endaine then hunting here would be the one thing certain to enrage the Taife. We cannot risk it.”

“So you say.”

“You are still sceptical,” Karel said. It wasn’t a question, really. More a protest because his friend still failed to believe.

Durr shrugged again. “We have nothing to lose. We’re dead anyway.”

It was true enough. Coming to Endaine was a desperate gamble. All seven of them were escaped slaves, and they could expect to die quickly if they fell into imperial hands again. The empire didn’t look kindly on their sort. Whether they found the Taife or not, they could not survive this far north over winter. They had little food, inadequate clothing even for this frozen summer, and when the snows came they would have to go south, and south was the empire. There was nothing else.

“So this is just another way of dying?” he asked.

Durr didn’t look up from the fire. “Better than being a slave,” he said. “What makes you think a Taife will talk to you anyway?”

“The book.”

“The book,” Durr echoed. “Always the book.”

“I told you everything, Durr,” Karel said.

“I didn’t listen. It was hope. Then, it was hope. This is reality.”

Was he right? Was all this in vain – the escape, the desperate running and hiding, the long and arduous trek north? Was Karel the only one who thought it was real? No. He could not accept that.

“The others believe it,” he said.

“Perhaps some do.”

“You followed me here. You all did.”

Durr said nothing. Karel left him squatting by the fire and went into the cave. All their things were there; meagre bedrolls laid out in the shelter of the entrance, the cold remains of the fire they’d lit the previous night. He sat with his back against the hard stone. The truth was that he’d been surprised to find this place. The words of the book, a book he’d never taken seriously in better days, were so scrambled in his memory that he had never truly expected to find Endaine. But now they were here. The one detail he was certain about was the slot canyon that led into the valley, and he’d found it, just on the line from the broken headed mountain in the east through the seven rocks on the river bank, just as the book had said. He had pushed through the thorn bushes, doubting every step, and he’d been ready to give up, ready to die, and then it was before him. The canyon was scarcely wider than his shoulders and when it had opened out into this lush valley he had been certain. This was Endaine, the sacred place of the Taife.

But where were the Taife? The book had said midsummer, and he could not recall if it was Midsummer Day or just midsummer. It could make a difference. At that time they were supposed to gather here. It was the one time, the one place, where you could be certain of finding the Taife.

Durr came in. He looked sheepish.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

It was Karel’s turn to be silent. He studied his own feet. Durr’s doubt was contagious.

“It was the only hope we had,” Durr said. “You gave it to us, and it was a glorious dream, but…” he shrugged and gestured at the empty cave, the valley.

“… they’re not here,” Karel finished.

“It’s not yet Midsummer Day,” Durr offered.

“You’d think they’d be here by now, wouldn’t you, if they were coming?”

“You would,” Durr agreed. “But who understands the Taife? I’ve never seen one.” He sat down opposite Karel. “Anyway, the others are coming, and they’ve killed something, so at least we’ll eat tonight.”

Karel knew that this was as close to an apology as he’d ever get from Durr. In another time Durr had been a military man, an officer in the Hindaran army, when there had been a Hindara to have an army. He’d fought in the war, and lost. Durr had suffered more than most of them as a slave. He hadn’t taken to the life at all.

“I could do with another blanket,” Karel said.

“Tell me about the Taife again,” Durr said. This was an even greater apology.

“Big, powerful, magical so they say. But so much more than that.”

“Not just monsters then, like the Bourdains say?”

“No. They’re gods of a kind, for the animals, and they’re bound by law; the law of Endaine.”

“What does this law say?”

“It forbids them from making war, from killing men other than in self defence.”

“It hasn’t served them well, then.”

“True enough, but…”

He was interrupted by a cry from outside the cave. Durr was out in the open first, his hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The cry was one of alarm, of fear. When Karel reached the mouth of the cave and looked out he saw at once what had scared them. It loomed over the others like a nightmare, and they cringed away from it, their precious kill abandoned.

Taife.

* * * *

Sigan stopped dead at the end of the canyon. His nose did not lie to him, and it brought him wood smoke; wood smoke, blood and men; here in Endaine. It was an unbearable thing; that men should be here. But it was not just the men. With all his senses stretched he could sense nothing of the Taife at all. Endaine was empty, except for men, and wood smoke, and blood. He stepped forwards, not bothering to conceal himself. There was a group of five carrying a slain deer roped by its legs to a pole, and they were carrying it up the slope away from him, to a place where a fire burned untended. The men’s backs were towards him. He did not hurry, but strode silently, extending the claws on both his hands. He didn’t want them to see him until the last moment.

Stealth did not fail him.

He was only twenty paces behind them when one man heard a footfall and turned. The man stumbled and cried out. The others turned, too. They dropped the carcass of the deer, falling to the ground. Terror had stolen the strength from their legs. It was most gratifying to see the fear on their faces, and Sigan paused, savouring the moment.

“Mighty lord of Endaine,” a voice cried out across the valley. “We crave audience.”

Sigan’s razor claws stopped, his eyes lifted, and by the fire he saw two more men. It was a shock, a surprise. He had not heard those words for three centuries, perhaps more. No Taife had. It was an ancient invocation from the time before the hunting. His rage was dammed by curiosity. He walked past the cringing men and approached the one who had spoken. The man knelt, but with dignity, bowing his head. His companion did likewise.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Mighty Lord, I am called Karel Distark, born a free man of Hindara, and no enemy of the Taife.”

“Indeed, all men are my enemy, and you have killed in Endaine. It may not be pardoned.”

“The animal was killed beyond the canyon, Mighty Lord,” the man said, and Sigan knew it to be true, because he knew the colour of lies and did not see it in this man’s speech. This, too, was a wonder.

“But you are a man,” he said. “Raise your head and let me see your eyes.”

The man did as he was told, and Sigan saw fear, but it was not the abject terror of the others. It was appropriate and controlled. Yet these were poor specimens of humanity. The one who spoke was dressed in little more than rags. His face was thin and his skin blotched.

“What are you, Karel Distark?” he asked.

“I am nothing,” the man replied.

“Then what were you, and what would you to be?”

“I was a free man, an engineer, an architect, a thinker. My city was captured by the Bourdain Empire, and so I became a slave, an owned man. I ran away from my captivity with these others, and have come here seeking common cause with the Taife. I would be your ally.”

Sigan looked at the man. An ally? Better to be allied with the grass. What could a wasted creature such as this offer him? “I need no ally, Karel Distark,” he said.

“A servant then,” the man said. “Let us serve you.”

“I need no servants.”

The man raised his head, and Sigan saw something new in his eyes, a steel that had not been present, and also, for the first time a little pride and even scorn.

“We are the hunted, you and I,” he said. “The same people hunt us both. We offer ourselves to aid you in the war against the hunters.”

“There will be no war,” Sigan said. “There cannot be. Endaine forbids it.”

“Then cast Endaine aside,” the man said.

He was surprised to hear an echo of the snow cat’s words spoken so soon, and by a man.

“Endaine is the only thing that preserves your life,” he said.

“That and curiosity,” the man said. It was a perceptive remark, and unexpected. Sigan studied the man again, but found nothing about him that hinted at deceit or dishonesty. The offer, such as it was, was genuine.

“I cannot cast aside the law of Endaine,” Sigan said. “All Taife must stand together in such a decision, even if I were to wish it.”

The man looked past him into the valley of Endaine.

“Unanimity does not seem to be an issue, Mighty Taife, much as it grieves me to say it.”

Sigan knew that he was ignorant. He understood the ways of the wild, of the wolves and the snow cats, the mice and the eagles, but of men he knew very little. Perhaps there was some advantage to be gained here, some truth that he could use. He was curious, too, about this man who had led the others to Endaine. How had he found it? Was it possible that there were still men abroad in the world who respected the Taife as this one seemed to? He wanted to know these things.

“What is this Bourdain Empire?” he asked.

“The hunters, Mighty Taife. They hunt you, they hunt me. No other nation hunts the Taife for in truth the Bourdains hunt everything. They hunt other nations as much as they hunt the Taife. My own sweet Hindara fell prey to them, my wife and children were taken from me, my house given to another.”

“And you wish me to make war upon this empire, these Bourdains? I myself am a hunter.”

“You hunt as we do, Mighty Taife, out of need.”

“And this empire?”

“They hunt for sport.” The man paused, there was something concealed there, Sigan knew. He could see Karel Distark weighing his words before he spoke. “The head of a Taife,” he said eventually, “is a highly prized trophy.”

Sigan felt the hatred rise up inside him again. A trophy? But this was what the man wanted him to feel. He pushed the hatred back down.

“You seek to move me with anger.”

“I speak the truth.”

“You speak part of it. You choose your words with care, Karel Distark, but anger is no argument against Endaine. It will not sway the Taife.”

“You are our last hope,” the man said.

Again there was the echo of the snow cat. He was also his own last hope it seemed, but there was still time. Others might still come. He wondered what the man meant by ‘we’. This small band? It was an oddly persuasive argument for Sigan. Tradition held that man, too, had once been part of the great family, and that they had shared earth magic with the Taife, come into the great circle with the rest of the world. It was a tale that was difficult to believe, considering the monsters that men had now become. But if these men sought his protection, if they could still share with him as other creatures could, then he was bound in some way to help.

It would have to wait. He must first see if any others came.

“I grant you leave to remain in Endaine for this night,” he said. “In the morning I will come again to this place and we will see what words the night has spoken in my ear. We will see.”

He turned and left them, bounding down the slope towards the trees and the lake, and his heart was greatly troubled.

Copyright © Tim Stead 2013

Back