A TaiGethen warrior ran into the street from the left, sprinting hard, sliding to a stop when he saw them.
‘Yniss bless us, we may just be in time,’ he said.
‘Pakiir. Run with us,’ said Katyett. ‘Tell me.’
‘They’re coming from all over. Crowding the temple piazza. Al-Arynaar are trying to hold them but they are too few. They mean to burn the temple of Yniss.’
Katyett’s body went cold.
‘Not again,’ she whispered. ‘Tais, run. Run hard.’
The sky towards the piazza was glowing with torchlight. Katyett ran alongside Faleen. The nearer they got the worse Katyett felt. They could hear the noise of the mob. She could almost taste the intent. A chant started. A line of the ancient tongue.
Chilmatta nun kerene.
Immortals die screaming.
She swore and pushed yet harder, forging ahead of Faleen. Still two hundred yards and more, and she could hear fighting. The clash of weapons. Screams of pain above the roar of the mob. An intensification of the mood. Blood was flowing. Elves were dying.
‘Up to the roof of Shorth,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘Let’s see what we’re up against.’
Pakiir was going to be proved wrong. They were not going to get there in time. Katyett heard a roar of triumph that could only mean the defence was broken. Immediately after, there was a whooshing sound and the stink of burning oil filled the air. The roar intensified.
Katyett tore around the back of Shorth’s Temple, pounded through the sunken garden with the yelling of the mob all around her, above her and ahead of her. She led the TaiGethen up the side of the temple, using the thick liana that grew there. She ran along the arm and down the body, pulling up at the temple’s edge and looking down on mass murder.
Rioters surrounded Yniss. Doorways and windows had been blocked by heavy drums and upturned wagons. Oil rained down on the building and torches were flicking into the fuel in their hundreds. The temple had caught with a ferocity that surprised even the rioters. Katyett could see those within the temple trying to beat their way out but the barricading was horribly effective. It rocked but did not fall.
Hundreds would be inside, believing themselves safe. But thousands were outside. Thousands.
‘We’ve got to get down there,’ she said. ‘Get those doors open.’
‘We’ll be overrun,’ said Pakiir. ‘Look at them. Look at their faces.’
Ugly, twisted fury. Some of them upturned to the TaiGethen. Fingers pointed up while dozens of others added more fuel to the fire, which had already set the roof alight. Paint was blistering. There was screaming from inside. The piazza was choked with elves, safe in their numbers, taunting the TaiGethen. Yelling their hate of the Ynissul.
Down at the edges of the apron a few Al-Arynaar still fought, trying to keep the rioters away. Three broke from the crowd, racing to the barricades to try to pull them away from the main doors. Forty elves engulfed them. She saw fists and feet fly in and the flash of a blade.
A bloodied Al-Arynaar body was lifted aloft and thrown onto the flames. A second was raised, still struggling. Katyett snarled. Pelyn. Fighting hard. The rioters dropped her. More fists and raking fingers went in.
‘Yniss save us. Tais, we move.’
Katyett backed up two paces, ran to the temple edge and jumped, her blades in her hands and the will to use them in her heart. Her leap carried her out over the narrow path between Shorth and the Yniss apron, over the heads of the rioters. She wouldn’t clear them all, that leap would have been prodigious even for a TaiGethen. She just hoped her arrival would be enough to cause a measure of disruption.
Katyett was coming down from a height of around forty feet. She yelled for space and saw elves begin to scatter. The heat down here was already intense. The screaming and yelling was an assault on the ears. The sheer violence of the atmosphere was a physical shock.
Katyett drew her arms across her chest in an X, her blades resting against her cheeks. She hit the ground immediately behind an ula who was pushing forward, desperate to gain himself some space. Katyett absorbed the impact throughout her body, crouching low then standing and bringing her blades back across her body to ready by her sides.
She ran forward while others landed behind her, shouting for space that none wanted to cede. Katyett found her way blocked almost immediately. She lashed out with a foot, catching an ula behind the knee. He pitched forward. Katyett ran up his body. She slammed the hilt of one blade into the back of an iad’s neck. She dropped unconscious. Katyett hurdled the body, feeling her feet on the temple apron.
The atmosphere was clogged with ash and smoke. The heat was incredible. She’d broken through the main rioter line. Directly ahead was the group of elves fighting the remaining Al-Arynaar. Pelyn struggled on. A big ula, a Beethan, had wrapped his arms around her midriff. She struck at him again and again with the back of her head while her feet lashed out, catching another square in the face.
Katyett ran straight into the melee, shoulder-charging an iad from in front of Pelyn. TaiGethen ran to either side, heading for the barricades, casting around for something with which to drag them aside.
‘Drop her right now,’ called Katyett.
The ula turned his bloodied face to Katyett. A contemptuous smile twisted his face. He turned instead towards the fire. Pelyn screamed, knowing his intent. So did Katyett. She took a single pace and thrashed a blade through the back of the man’s hamstrings. Simultaneously, Pakiir darted across in front of him, snatching Pelyn from his grasp as he opened his mouth to scream. He fell forward, head catching the burning barricade a glancing blow. His hair smoked, caught fire.
Katyett moved left to defend Pakiir. Pelyn was shouting to be let go. Pakiir complied. Pelyn hit the ground and was already turning back to the burning temple. Katyett saw the aching pain in her face, the singeing of her brows and hair. The smudges across her armour. Pelyn ran towards the front doors. TaiGethen who had been trying to break through the flaming obstacle bore her backwards with them as they came, beaten back by the sheer heat.
Rioters on the apron had begun to fall back. A TaiGethen foot whipped out, catching one in the gut, sending him sprawling. A jaqrui whispered away, catching another in the upper arm, forcing her to drop her blade. Al-Arynaar bodies littered the ground. Twenty of them. Katyett blinked away the stinging tears of smoke.
Out in the piazza, the fury was undimmed. Missiles were being hurled towards them and the temple. The building itself and all within it were lost. The roof had begun to collapse and the doors were burned in. Any screaming from within had ceased. TaiGethen still tried to breach the inferno.
Katyett felt tears on her face. The scene took on an echoing, unreal quality for her. Shouts sounded distant. Everything in her vision appeared to slow. She turned her head to see the flames towering into the night sky, pushing clouds of thick black smoke before them. Inside, three hundred and more Ynissul. Innocent elves. Bakers, potters, coopers, priests, healers. Children. Burned to death.
The Arch of the TaiGethen turned back to the crowd, letting the sight of her desecrated temple settle in her memory. She was aware of others joining her - Grafyrre and Merrat with those they had sought elsewhere in the city. Pakiir. Faleen. Standing in a line to stare at those for whom they protected the rainforest, for whom they had sworn to keep the elven people safe.
Wind was getting up. Picking at the clothing of the fallen. Fanning the flames in advance of Gyal’s arrival. Her tears would be bitter when they came. The gods would turn from the elves. Angry, betrayed. Their faith insulted, their mercy ignored. The elves would walk alone now. And the path would run with their blood.
A rumbling crack filled the night. Katyett swung round. The front of the temple of Yniss collapsed inwards on a carpet of sparks and threw up clawed hands of fire chasing a wreath of smoke. The symbol of the harmony in Ysundeneth, destroyed by malign hand.
This time when Katyett returned her gaze to the mob, seeing it confused, not knowing
what to do next, she felt it. The emotion she reserved for heretics. For thieves and, of course, for murderers. Hate.
And the TaiGethen existed to cleanse Yniss’s land of such vermin.
‘Tais,’ she said. ‘We strike.’
Chapter 12
A leader must at all times know the state of the body on which his subordinates gaze when receiving orders to risk their lives.
Takaar recoiled from the guarana as if it was burning hot. He blew on his fingertips before he could stop himself, realising a fraction too late what a ridiculous reaction it was. But he was hot. Burning up like in the worst clutches of a missiata-inspired fever. Sweat had burst out all over his body.
He sat back on the roughly made wooden chair in his bivouac, shivering and breathing hard. Unbidden, an intense sadness swept through him so hard it made him gasp. Like the anguished cry of a god, it reverberated in his mind and body. A shrieking disbelief. A horror from the darkness.
Takaar held his head in his hands, his tears falling onto the ground between his feet. He sobbed and wailed, the emotion uncontrollable, surging within him like flood water over rocks. It flung him back to the days of realisation following his fleeing of the Tul-Kenerit. And further back to the morning he had found his father murdered in his sleep by Tuali rebels.
That day, through the grief, he had sworn to unite the threads so that no other elf should suffer as he suffered. Today, he had no such direction but the pain was of equal intensity. More so because he was lost.
‘What do you want of me?’
His cry set birds to flight and silenced for a moment the hoots of monkeys and the rattling of lizards and frogs.
No one wants anything of you barring your death. Why do you ask the gods? They have long since turned from you.
‘Then why do I feel this way?’
It is merely your guilt come to remind you of your crimes. Accept it. The leap to your salvation is near.
Takaar shook his head.
‘No. Not me. Messages. Messages through the ground and through the air. Calling to me.’
Listen to yourself. Messages coming to you through the ground? Absolutely. And monkeys dress you every morning.
‘Get away from me, get away from me!’
Takaar got up and ran. Branches, leaves and thorns caught at his face and arms. He ducked his head and put his arms ahead of him, crashing through the undergrowth. The heat within him was unbearable. The sick pain and intense grief and fury overwhelming. His heart was thrashing. He couldn’t drag in a breath deep enough to satisfy him.
He burst through the last of the brush and slid to a desperate stop on the edge of the cliffs down to the roaring River Shorth. He was gasping, shaking and crying, unable to control his emotion. Such a crime, but he didn’t know what or where it had happened. His senses were completely deluged, drowning his directional ability.
‘What are they doing, what are they doing?’
Takaar clutched at his knees and rocked back and forth, pleading for the heat and sorrow to ease.
A familiar pose. Roll a bit further forward, why don’t you? It’s merely the entire elven race reminding you of the scale of your betrayal. They will rip themselves apart. Destroy each other. Leave nothing to remember them by. All because of you. All because you ran. All because you are a coward.
Takaar sobbed hard, taking in shuddering breaths and dripping snot from his nose. He knew it was true. And he knew he was helpless to do anything about it.
Run. Run. It is all you have left.
Takaar stared into the forest, tempted to do exactly what his tormentor suggested.
‘Shouldn’t I just kill myself, as you desire?’
No point now. Too late.
Takaar caught his reflection in a pool of water sitting in a shallow dip in a rock. He laughed and recalled the reflection in his beloved mirror. How could an elf become two such different people? A beard crudely hacked but still long and black, full of lice and insects, dead leaves and pieces of food. Hair he dealt with similarly but that defied his attempts to tame it. It sprang from his head so fast he felt the gods pulling it themselves, just to taunt him. A mass of tangled knots, thick and hot around his skull.
Takaar frowned. He had never thought to try and shave it. He looked at his hands. They shook like they always had on and off since he had arrived here ten years ago. Ah, yes.
‘Is that me?’
Yes. Shameful, isn’t it?
And it was. Takaar tore his eyes away from his reflection. Still the pain was in his heart but the heat had lessened, giving him some small relief. He stood up and stared away along the glory of the Verendii Tual, where the delta flowed into the ocean.
He had knives that needed sharpening.
Aryndeneth was quiet but for the uncomfortable sounds of men readying for departure. Their smiles of relief did not disguise the ugly promises of violence they uttered. Sildaan had closed the temple doors on the blood that still stained the stone before the statue and pool and on the memory of the expression on Auum’s face.
Sildaan walked around to the rear of the temple, ignoring the men stowing the last of their gear into backpacks, sharpening swords and inevitably scratching at their heads and bodies. None of them looked healthy despite the poultices, infusions and balms she had given them.
She carried on into the forest and knelt to pray to Yniss at the Hallows of Reclamation, blessed ground where the dead were laid out to be retaken by the forest. In front of her, already partially hidden by the voracious vegetation and feasted on by Tual’s denizens, were her faithful priests and her dear friend Leeth. Nearby lay nine TaiGethen. Flesh blackened by the sick force of human magic and lying on a carpet of bones picked clean and washed white.
‘Yniss, hear me. Shorth, hear me. Protect the souls of these recent dead and use them to further your work, your glory. Make them see as I pray you make the living see. Your armies must stand with me. Elves cannot live as one. The threads cannot be compromised, cannot be muddied or mixed. Order must be restored. Order under your glory.
‘The lineage of the gods must be reflected in your people. We Ynissul, merciful and kind, will rule the elves again. Peace will be ours. Forgive my actions. I live only to do your work and to see your people flourish in your land. The blood that is spilled will feed the prosperity of the future.
‘Your temple will be cleansed. All trace of man will be expunged. All that I do, every choice that I make, I make for you. Bless my hands, bless my eyes and guide me. My soul is yours to take. Hear me.’
Sildaan stayed kneeling for a while, one hand in the earth, the other upturned to the sky. The buzzing of flies around the bodies and the crawling of the undergrowth comforted her. Renewal, revitalisation, reclamation. She bowed her head to the Ynissul dead and rose smoothly to her feet.
Garan was waiting for her and she fell into step beside him as he walked back into the temple village.
‘I need to tell you something about your erstwhile TaiGethen friend and his priest. They are travelling in separate and interesting directions.’
Sildaan raised her eyebrows. ‘We don’t need them muddying our plans any more than they have already. Track them. Kill them if you can. Your men up to that task?’
‘I have men particularly expert in that field.’
‘Good.’ Sildaan cast an eye over her shoulder, back to the recent dead at the Hallows. ‘Good.’
‘Guilt getting the better of you, is it?’ he asked.
‘I have no guilt. Only regret that these fine elves could not open their eyes and see the truth.’
‘And you call men brutal.’ Garan paused in the centre of the clearing. To the right, near the temple’s rear doors, stood the group of twenty-five warriors and mages. Garan gestured left. ‘And what about these? Wouldn’t death be kinder for them?’
Sildaan sighed. A handful of terrified temple workers and three priests who tended them. Priests who believed in Sildaan’s way and had not had the misfortune to encounter Sikaant
.
‘They have committed no crime. They are Yniss’s people. There is no suffering and my priests will see to their welfare.’
Garan shook his head. ‘Your choice but if it’s any help—’
‘It isn’t. These are my people. Am I not paying you enough to keep your opinions on my business to yourself?’
Garan chuckled. ‘You could never pay us enough to fight with you in this hellhole. But that is our negotiation mistake, not yours, eh? Just don’t be late with the wages.’
‘Oh yes. Alone I may be, but without me you aren’t just lost in the rainforest, you’re lost and unpaid. Fight well, Garan. Earn your pay. Reassure me we will meet the balance of your force where and when we must?’
Garan began walking towards his men. Their muttering ceased and they looked to him, expectant.
‘Shoulder up. We’re leaving. I hear Ysundeneth and the coast are blessed with cooler breezes and a glorious lack of biting insects and leeches. Just three days from here too. Are you with me?’
His men cheered, laughed and shrugged packs onto their shoulders, secured weapons belts and tied shoelaces. A few dabbed at sores, blisters and boils.
‘You may only have birds, runners and boats to get your messages through this ridiculous country; we have magic. My mages can speak to our ships as if they were standing on deck themselves. Communion we call it, and you will find it a keystone in your precious victory.’
Sildaan raised her eyebrows. ‘You can really do this?’
‘Care for a demonstration?’
Sildaan stared into Garan’s face. There was no hint of malice in his eyes. No hint of a lie. For the first time in days, she felt able to relax a little.
‘It will be demonstration enough if your sails are in the harbour when we arrive in the city.’
‘Why thank you for your faith in me.’
‘Do I have much choice?’
‘Not really. But that is no reason for us to feud. One thing, though: while I can guarantee my force’s timely arrival, can you assure me your people in the city will have done your bidding?’
Elves: Once Walked With Gods Page 12
