The humans are quite clever in some ways, though they had elven help. Cascargs. Someone to tell thread from thread. Even though they had us all cornered, the ones they hadn’t already slaughtered, they still searched every building again, unearthed every hiding place.
They separated out the thread elves they didn’t want, the Ixii, Gyalans, Orrans, Cefans… and they murdered them. We managed to shelter a few but it was pitiful really. We were so helpless.
I remember so much screaming and crying. You know I don’t know how long it all took? I know we were all hungry and thirsty and herded here and there like pigs. They were dividing us up, you know? That was the clever part. Deciding what jobs we would do. Because that determined where we would live… exist.
I detest every cell that makes up their bodies; I wish the torment of Shorth upon them. But I can do nothing but respect their organisation and their attempts to divide us, flawed though they are. Funny really. They didn’t realise what a great job we’d done of dividing ourselves already, did they?
We built our own prisons then, each group. They’d mixed the threads to stop blocks forming and they made sure no group so much as saw another, let alone spoke. First we had to clear the ground. We know some were placed in the old Salt quarter, some in the Warren. Some were lucky and stayed up at the Grans. We had to clear the old boatyards, because they were closest to the river jetties and to the barges heading upstream to the logging areas.
Makes sense, there’s no denying that. We never see the rest of the city these days, unless we’re being herded to the Park of Penitence for an execution. That’s the Park of Tual to you, I suppose. At least they manage that properly. They picked the most hideous of the ancient kills of course. One of yours, I think. The old Ynissul sentence of Ketjak. Once they’ve staked out and eviscerated the poor victim, they take bets on which species begins to eat the entrails first and how long the unfortunate survives when the feasting starts.
It’s so quiet. Sometimes there are ten thousand of us and all you can hear above the rain are the victim’s screams and the taunts of a few humans. You’d think our silence was out of respect, but those who speak lose their tongues so you can understand a certain reluctance to speak, no?
Still, we have other methods of communication. The humans have never worked out the hand or head signals. Nor do they seem to notice the marks we make in the dirt or on the pens. We don’t know how much the other groups pick up but we’ve gained the odd bit of information that way. Appos knows, we have enough time.
I don’t know how much good communicating has done us. We know we all have the same conditions… latrine block, single dormitory, open-air kitchen and bamboo fence. One way in and one way out and all the fencing laced with wards that either shout or explode.
Anyway…
We live in the old boatyards because we work the trees, Appos, Beeth and Yniss forgive us. There are groups who work the timber for transport; build whatever it is Ystormun wants; farm the fields; work on the docks… you name it. Any manual labour. Ours is logging.
And there is one group that services the humans. Sometimes one or other of our group is taken. We used to think they were killed but we realise the truth now. Iad or ula, man’s tastes are as depraved as they are godless.
We live in filth because they won’t give us enough water to wash, only to drink. We are hungry because the food they give us is insufficient and of the poorest quality. We sleep on sacking and dirt. We cannot even all sleep inside because the space is so limited. Our young ones are sick from the day they are born — we would not procreate but for the fact that Ystormun punishes us if too few are born into his workforce. We can only hold to the belief we will be freed.
That belief is being challenged. More men are arriving every day and often they are not soldiers or mages but workers. They will take our tasks eventually and then we will be superfluous. Ystormun does not want the elves to survive. We are only slaves until we are of no use, until there are enough invaders here to take our place. No one knows how long that will take.
Ystormun has only made one mistake as far as I can see, beyond not sweeping the forest to find and kill all who escaped the cities before they were closed. He thought that mixing the threads would weaken us, stop power blocs forming and lessen the chances of an uprising. For a decade, he was probably right. Not now. He has done more to strengthen the harmony between the threads than Takaar did in a millennium. Funny, isn’t it? We gather strength from each other, we pray together and we suffer together.
And we wait. We wait for you, we pray for you. You will come, won’t you?
Auum listened to it all as if he were walking in a dream. Only at the last did Koel’s desperation leak through. The two of them had walked a way into the canopy, and Auum indicated they should return to the clearing.
‘How many logging gangs are there?’ asked Auum.
‘Thirty. We are destroying the forest much faster than it can regrow. Beeth screams his pain. Appos roars his fury.’
‘But not at you. At man.’
Koel shrugged. ‘We could refuse to raise our axes.’
‘No, you couldn’t,’ said Auum. ‘I see that now. Gather your people. Let me speak to them before you go.’
Back at the clearing, the gang was making ready while food was being prepared. Barges had sail canvas ready to fill. The smells of roasting meat floated on the light breeze. Koel called his people to him, and Auum watched them come: Apposans, Beethans and Orrans for the most part but two he recognised as Ixii. Their exhaustion was plain in every pace they took and in every stumble on the uneven ground. All of them wore the same expression, one which told of an inescapable fate approached with courage. Auum’s heart swelled with pride.
‘It is for you that I do what I do each day,’ said Auum. ‘The strength of the elven race lies in our spirit and our faith. In a hundred and fifty years they have not broken your spirit. And in that same time you have learned to love elves of every thread.
‘I am proud that I have met you and spoken to you. And I shall speak of each one of you in my prayers. I shall use your strength and your determination to inspire all free elves I meet. Your story will be told throughout the rainforest.
‘But even as my spirit soars with the dream of freeing you, I must urge you to remain strong. Do not lose faith, even in the years that might pass before you are freed. We know we can beat them blade on blade but we have no answer to their magic. Until we do, we cannot hope to rid Calaius of man.
‘Speak, any who will.’
For a time there was an awkward silence but then a hand went up. Others followed. Auum picked one at random. He was a Tuali, sunken-eyed and pale with a fever.
‘What was it that attacked the masters?’
Every other raised hand was lowered. Auum gave a rueful smile. In their captivity they had missed the evolution of a whole new breed of elf.
‘You knew them as Silent Priests, though even then they were seen rarely enough. Now, they call themselves the ClawBound. They have reverted to nature and run with panthers.
‘Today’s attack followed a human raid on Aryndeneth. Many good elves were killed, elves who had been training to help free you. But the ClawBound do not take orders from the TaiGethen. They exist to cleanse the forest, to return it to its pure state.
‘To them, humans are a disease, a fungus that must be eradicated from the canopy. And while they would never harm an elf themselves, they are deaf to the consequences of their actions. They understand what we are trying to do, and why we are waiting until we have sufficient strength, but man crossed a line when they attacked the great temple of Yniss and we could not stop the ClawBound.’
A mutter ran through the gang. The sentiment was plain, but Auum could not understand much of what was said. Koel helped him out.