James Barclay - Once walked with Gods

‘Pelyn? I assume the warehouse has been taken.’

‘Aye, but they’ll be slaughtering each other over its contents for the rest of the day.’

‘Shorth take the lot of them,’ said Methian. He looked past her at the faces crowding in behind her. ‘Brought me some help?’

‘No,’ she said and stepped inside the office, turning a circle as she spoke. ‘Listen to me, all of you. And get the word out to the Al-Arynaar at every post and station in the city. I want a muster in one hour at the barracks training grounds. If they aren’t dead or dying, tell them to be there. If their belief is wavering, tell them to be there and I’ll tell them why we are still going to return peace to our city.

‘Now listen. We may not have a lot of time. There are a dozen ships heading this way. They’ll be landing probably before dawn tomorrow. Whoever is on board has come to fight. To take the city. But think on this. Their arrival cannot possibly be a coincidence. They have been advised when to get here, and that can only be because people here in Ysundeneth have sent them word. I’ll bet any of you a hundred days’ pay that they were anchored less than two days from here. Probably at the Casolian Inlet.’

‘I don’t understand how this will help,’ said Jakyn. ‘Twelve ships full of fighters. If they’ve really crammed them in, there could be five hundred on board. That’s more than enough to take this city. We have less than half that.’

Methian put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh now, young reverent. The ships are only one side of this coin.’

Pelyn smiled. ‘So they are, Methian. But your question is good, Jakyn. Keep thinking and you’ll live through this. Five hundred, you say? Could easily be as many as seven hundred. And they could be bringing the magic with them that killed Jarinn and Lorius and crippled poor Olmaat.

‘But this city is sprawling and in chaos. To succeed in cowing the population and beating us, they will have to have inside information on where the threads have gathered, the key areas to take, our likely tactics. People who are here right now will be directing them. No one else can have the right level of knowledge to secure this place.’

‘So what can we do?’ asked Jakyn.

Pelyn chuckled. ‘People will start to believe I’ve planted these questions with you, young ula. We will do two things at once. We will seek those in Ysundeneth who work against us. We won’t be looking for mob leaders. We must think higher. Hithuur will be one and there will be others. Kill them and we deal a huge blow. And second, we will seed fear among the threads. Tell them what is coming through those they will still hear. Perhaps let them know of the cargo on those ships. Not the real cargo of course. We can be a little creative, I think.

‘Take this out to the Al-Arynaar in the city. Bring them all to muster. We can do this. Believe it as I believe in you. Decide among yourselves which way each of you will go. And be careful. Now go.’

Pelyn laid a hand on Methian’s shoulder and raised her other to stop Jakyn running out after his brothers and sisters.

‘You two I need with me at the barracks now. We’ve things to discuss in advance of the muster.’

Jakyn blushed scarlet. ‘My Arch Pelyn, I-’

‘Methian might die. I might die. I need you too. You might be young but they listen to you. They respect you. Think of this as your training for your next promotion. And stop pretending to be surprised. You know how good you are.’

The three of them headed back out onto the temple piazza. Pelyn could hear the shouts of mobs echoing from all parts. As usual, smoke smudged the skyline. There was the sound of breaking pottery and of clashing metal. Hoots and calls bounced from high walls. The sounds of the collapse of a society so surprisingly fragile, it took the breath away.

‘Pelyn, look.’

Methian was pointing towards the temple piazza. Pelyn feared seeing more flames but instead saw four columns of blue smoke funnelling into the air to be dispersed by rain and breeze. She gave a barking laugh.

‘The final piece of the plan,’ she said.

‘Is it?’ asked Methian.

‘When we have turned back the ships and captured or killed all the traitors, the people of Ysundeneth will want respected authority. It seems to me that Llyron, our blessed High Priest of Shorth, has just applied for that position. We’ve time to brief her before the muster if we hurry. Come on.’

Never over-think warfare. The temple of Shorth was the only building in the piazza that had suffered no damage whatever, though smoke from the destroyed temple of Yniss had stained the walls. Shorth appeared even more magnificent than before, rising from the ashes surrounding it.

Pelyn walked quickly across the piazza, breasting through the groups of elves gathering in front of Shorth. The temple was fashioned in a likeness of Shorth himself lying prone and rose forty feet from the floor of the piazza. Its main entrance was set in the centre of the head and accessed by a colonnaded path across the sunken gardens. A flight of white marble steps led up to the grand wooden doors in front of which twenty torches stood in two rows. Before the doors stood a quartet of Senserii, the hooded Guardians of Shorth.

Dressed in plain grey, they represented the gentle herders of souls whose faces were blank to hide the eternal sorrow of their grim task. Each carried a bladed staff, ikari in the ancient tongue. In the scriptures the herders used these to take the heads from the Arakhe, the stealers of elven souls.

The ikari were a ceremonial accoutrement but any who had seen the ritual combat of the Senserii knew their capabilities. Katyett rated the Senserii, all of them elves born of mixed blood, as more deadly than the TaiGethen. It was a shame they were so few, numbering no more than fifteen at any time in observance of the scriptures.

Pelyn strode across the moat and nodded at the Senserii, who stepped aside to let her past. She felt her hopes rising. It was so normal inside. So comforting and welcoming. She felt herself relax. Shorth’s priests were about their tasks as always. Indeed they would be hard pressed with the number of souls needing succour and prayer for their passage to the halls of the ancients.

The centrepiece of the grand hall of the temple’s body was the magnificent raised altar and stairway to the throne of the high priest. The altar was carved from grey-veined marble. It was a circle more than twelve feet in diameter, edged with carvings of entwined hands and resting upon the petrified bole of a mighty banyan tree. Its surface was carved with the scriptures of the dead, which the priests intoned on festival days, and it was reached up a flight of four heavy wooden steps, worn by the footfalls of centuries.

From the opposite side of the altar, a steep stair rose up twenty feet to the intricate wooden throne of the high priest. The throne was carved with a lattice of the limbs and faces of the dead. It was the place from which the high priest led the chants that opened the pathways to Shorth’s embrace. His were the last pair of eyes to gaze upon a soul as it rose from the chains of the living earth.

The three Al-Arynaar bowed their heads before the altar and waited for an attendant to come to them. They were not long in waiting.

‘Pelyn. Your presence graces us.’

Pelyn turned to the tall thin figure dressed in dark grey robes with a hood over her head. Her hands reached out and Pelyn took them both.

‘The grace is all yours, Telian,’ said Pelyn. ‘And I am glad you are alive and unscathed. So many are not.’

Telian’s face was grim. ‘We evacuated everyone to the Hallows of Reclamation but could not stay there. We are needed here. Now more than ever. All of us have returned. Llyron too. The pillars of smoke will rise until this trouble is over. All must know they can come to us when their loved ones fall.’