Elves: Once Walked With Gods

by James Barclay

  ‘Not this time. I will go. I promised Auum. Don’t worry. This will work.’

  Serrin kissed Katyett’s eyes and moved swiftly out of the Ultan. Katyett stared after him, wondering how in Yniss’s name she was going to relate the news to her people. Wondering if her conversation with Serrin could possibly have taken place.

  The door to the warehouse was forced open and elves poured in, scattering through the huge space. Pelyn almost felt sorry for them. Still Tuali and Beethan fought each other though they stood amidst plunder that would see both through the next hundred days at least.

  The eighteen surviving Al-Arynaar had been quick, taking ship’s rope and climbing high into the roof of the warehouse. Ladders to the gantry had been destroyed. They were safe enough up here. Safer than in much of Ysundeneth.

  ‘Look at them,’ said Pelyn.

  ‘Just think what it’ll be like when the food really does run out,’ said Jakyn.

  ‘This conflict won’t last that long. And if it does, the TaiGethen will be waiting for them in the eaves of the forest.’ Pelyn shuddered at the thought. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the beetle. Methian was right. We need to muster our people. What’s left of them.’

  Above their heads, two skylights had been opened and ropes laid from the gantry bars all the way down to the ground at the far end of the warehouse. Even when Pelyn had paused to spit down, none of them below had looked up. So intent were they on their prize and their hate for each other, they had not paused to wonder where their common enemy had gone.

  Halfway to the beetle, she could still hear them. Pelyn kept her pace high, trotting much of the way from the packed dockside housing and only slackening off when they reached the first parades of shops and one of the minor fresh goods market squares. From here, the Gardaryn was a short walk and she slowed to listen to the sounds of the city as it grew further into wakefulness.

  Rain had begun to fall, but it was light and blown like a fine mist on an onshore breeze. The sight of those sails a day or so out from the harbour entered her mind. Whoever they were, if their intent was invasion or to raid the city, they weren’t going to be facing concerted resistance. They couldn’t have timed their arrival better if they’d . . .

  Pelyn broke into a run.

  ‘Come on. With me, Al-Arynaar.’

  She sprinted across the square, down Sailmakers’ Row and across the deserted Park of Renewal, in which several fires still smouldered in defiance of the rain, which was falling more heavily now. She tore down Beeth’s Crescent and into the southern piazza. The Gardaryn still stood open. Her people still stood guard outside it.

  ‘Yniss bless us, we aren’t too late.’

  Jakyn fell in beside her. ‘Arch Pelyn?’

  ‘Not now, Jakyn. I’ve just worked this all out. We can win this. We really can. All of you, with me. Come listen to what I have to say inside. Quickly.’

  Pelyn ran up the steps and into the Gardaryn. She headed across the chamber and over the stage into the offices behind, her warriors following her. She glanced into every chamber she passed, pulling up short at the central records offices, where Methian and three other Gyalan Al-Arynaar were still sifting through the sea of papers strewn about the floor. Some semblance of order had been returned under the eye of the veteran. He looked up, surprised at her sudden appearance.

  ‘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.’

  Chapter 18

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.’

  ‘Shorth’s majesty still holds sway but you can call on us if you need more security.’

  Telian let go Pelyn’s hands and smiled. ‘I suspect you are stretched to breaking already. The fifteen are here. Now, is there something we can do for you? Souls needing comfort as they move to the embrace of Shorth?’

  ‘I need an audience with Llyron. If she will see us, we can move more quickly towards a solution to this crisis. We can bring the threads together again under respected authority. Llyron’s authority in the absence of so many others.’

  Telian hesitated for a fraction. ‘Llyron does not normally grant personal audiences outside the days of observance.’

  Pelyn spread her hands. ‘You know what I am going to say to that. Telian, I must speak with her. The city is torn. There is still a chance we can properly restore order. Surely she will want to hear me.’

  Telian smiled. ‘I’m sure she will. Come with me. I cannot guarantee you audience but I’ll do what I can. So long as you’re sure this is what you want.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pelyn, a little confused. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Currently, certainty is everything. You should remember that.’

  Pelyn chose not to respond. She wasn’t sure how to answer such a comment. It barely made sense. Instead, she gestured for Telian to lead on. The priest of Shorth moved off around to the right of the altar, paused to bow at the foot of the throne and headed towards the temple’s right arm.

  Here, the priests and guests of the temple lived and worked when not required in the hall. They worked on cures for more ills than Pelyn knew existed, on new methods of surgery and of course on scriptures and services to better aid the travelling of souls to Shorth’s embrace.

  It was the paradox of the Shorth devotee that while their primary role was succour for the dead and comfort for the grieving, the desire of each and every one of them was in prolonging life. Llyron had once joked that her key focus was on rendering herself unemployed. She was the only Ynissul in the order and had been a surprising appointment on the death of the Beethan incumbent four years before. Jarinn had known about her elevation even if he had not known about the many others that had raised the ire of Lorius.

  Telian led them past pale-painted walls hung with tapestries depicting the many faces of Shorth’s glory, the peace and beauty of death and grand imaginings of the halls of the ancients. The arm of the temple was a far plainer affair. The work of Shorth required no distraction. Timber and stone walls were unadorned and doors to cells, chambers, record rooms and laboratories were simple timber and iron affairs.

  The air was cool and the quiet of the temple was intensified by the energy of effort. Pelyn had never been down this arm, only the left, where bodies were brought for blessing and dressed for transport out to the hallows. The Chambers of Stillness would be full today.

  Telian led them to a door almost at the end of the arm. A side door back into the piazza was the only other beyond this one.

  ‘Wait here.’

  Telian opened the door, on which was carved the embracing symbol of Shorth, and walked inside, closing it behind her. Whatever the tenor of the conversation, it was very brief. The door opened and Telian gestured them inside, closing it to leave the three Al-Arynaar alone with Llyron, high priest of Shorth.

  Llyron was seated behind a wide wooden desk covered completely with parchment, book and scripture. She was using a magnifying glass to examine a passage involving delicate, faded images.

  ‘Such magnificent work,’ said Llyron. ‘You must all examine this text. There’ll be plenty of time before you leave, I’m sure.’

  She raised her head and favoured them with a broad smile that made her eyes sparkle and warmed the otherwise chill and austere chamber. Llyron was a particularly tall Ynissul, with soft features somewhat at odds with those typical of her thread. Her ears were tiny and flat against her head, her nose slender and long and her eyes less angled. She was beautiful but severe. An artist’s ideal of the two faces of Shorth.

  Pelyn led Methian and the terribly nervous Jakyn in opening her arms and bowing her head. She spoke while studying the faded rug on which she stood.

  ‘I am honoured and grateful you have agreed to talk to us,’ she whispered.

  ‘Come, Pelyn, these are not days for protocol. The Al-Arynaar are revered here. You can look at me when addressing me. Always.’

  Pelyn looked up. Llyron was moving from behind her desk, her plain white robes caressing its gentle edge and wafting air beneath a few of the papers on its pocked and scarred surface.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Speak, child of Tual. Tell me of your plans.’

  Pelyn took a deep breath to prevent herself from gabbling.

  ‘We still have an opportunity to stop this conflict before damage to the harmony becomes irreparable. There is a fleet heading this way. I’m certain traitors within the city will meet it. I aim to stop them. Find them and kill th
em. We know Hithuur is one such and we will uncover others if you back us.

  ‘Use your voice. The threads will listen to you and act on your words. You can loosen tongues. Make fingers point. If they do, I can do this. Even with the few Al-Arynaar I have, I can do this. Will you help me? Help us?’

  Llyron inclined her head. ‘You come to me in the role of saviour of Ysundeneth. But Ysundeneth does not need saving. Nor yet the wider population of our great people. Salvation is all around us.’

  Pelyn glanced at Methian to make sure she had heard Llyron’s words correctly. Methian’s mouth was moving soundlessly as it did when he was confused.

  ‘I don’t understand. The threads are disintegrating. They are ripping each other apart out there. Literally in some cases. And they have murdered every Ynissul not taken to safety by the TaiGethen. Forgive me but this is not salvation, it is slaughter.’

  Llyron’s smile had faded.

  ‘In his heart an elf is still a predatory pack animal. It is in his blood and in the basest of his desires. He only vaguely understands the necessity of a fair and equable society or the need for tolerance of others.’

  Pelyn’s heart skipped painfully and her body cooled. Beside her, Methian was rigid. Jakyn was trying not to breathe at all. Llyron continued.

  ‘You cannot spread a timber floor upon the crater of an active volcano. Takaar’s thousand-year experiment is a failure. There are those of us who prayed fervently for the day he failed. The day the threads turned against him. And now they have. Elves have voted by word and action. They do not need the closeness of other threads. They do not need the abhorrence of inter-thread union. Only Shorth can save those innocents born of such filthy depravity. They need order. They need authority, not idle chatter in the beetle. They need the old order restored. As it was before the War of Bloods. As it was when we enjoyed our longest period of peace. Enter.’

  Pelyn glanced behind her at the door. It opened and Telian came in followed by three of the Senserii, by Sildaan the scripture priest from Aryndeneth, Hithuur and six men. Some of the men wore armour. Others did not.