Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  “I am not prepared,” Paither responded, also repeating himself, “to stand by and watch the Mendales raze the Fifth Hill’s temple as they did the Fourth’s.”

  “They’ll have us where they want us, if we let their threats determine our actions.”

  “We’ll soon be determining their actions.”

  “We hope.”

  From the passage loud voices were raised in argument. Patrol leaders and prominent Defiers had been brought together here, too many perhaps; they were vying for precedence and were still inclined to look to Samalas for orders. It was natural enough, but it made Paither angry. He remembered how he had first thought of his new followers: the Suspicious, the Baffled, the Worshippers. Too many here were Samalas’s Own.

  The noise grew louder. Muttering a curse, Samalas made a move to the door. “Stop,” Paither said, and shouted, “Jessa!” His new page, the fisherman’s son, appeared.

  “Yes, relas?”

  “Tell those people I want that commotion out there to stop. Right now. Then come back.”

  “Yes, relas.”

  Samalas said, “How do you know these – foreigners, these Feimennas, will really follow Mejalna? How do you know she’ll be able to meet up with Renasii? We’ve had no message from him. How do you even know if she made it across the Valtah alive?”

  “I know,” he said deliberately, “because we agreed on it. She’s due to begin her push soon. We’ll launch our offensive at the same time. The Mendales will be hit on both sides at once. And in the meantime, which is to say tonight, we’ll drive them back from Reulas’s temple.”

  “You’re very certain of everything.” Samalas felt something behind Paither’s level gaze, a certainty that seemed to him a smugness. He wondered with dark anger what had passed between him and Mejalna, there beyond the river. Jealousy had taken hold of him; he begrudged losing, as he felt, Mejalna’s loyalty. On the other side of the desk, looking back, Paither saw a man who might have won her love for himself, if he had had the sense to really see her. They resented each other.

  Governor Nesmin had set the evening’s sundown as the deadline: if the Lindahnes did not turn in this “relas” of theirs, along with the remaining ringleaders of their criminal Defier group, another temple would be destroyed. Prudently, his warnings did not specify which temple would be the next target, but the aroused activity of the Mendales of the Fifth gave it away.

  Paither armed for the skirmish without fuss, though Jessa the page, nervous and adoring, kept dropping things. Samalas met him at the doorway, glancing curiously, but Paither’s eyes were veiled; he kept his thoughts to himself.

  The Mendales were expecting some kind of trouble, and had blocked the roads leading up to the temple with a contingent of horses. This was bad enough, but worse, to Samalas’s mind, was the relas’s insistence on drawing the locals, noble and common, into the fight. He disapproved of this tendency to count every Lindahne a soldier. Surely weak-minded civilians would only hamper them. His chosen Defiers could have handled it alone.

  At least each company would be led by a Defier, but some of these young officers would be in the uncomfortable position of giving battle orders to kinsfolk twice their age. His protests had been in vain; Paither was adamant, and confident, too, that they would enjoy an important advantage by relying on the locals’ superior knowledge of the landscape.

  Not that he knows the land, Samalas thought.

  Paither was determined to save the temple, but he had another motive in the action that he hadn’t confided to Samalas. He had a few theories on pitting civilians against professional soldiers, which could be of great use later; this small-scale battle would give him a chance to try them. He gave the signal to move out.

  The Mendales were bringing oxen up the Hill to the site, making a ceremony of it: the temple’s destruction was to be a public punishment, calling for drama. Paither’s company skirted their line on the south and vanished with the dusk into the trees. Samalas’s company met up with two more and approached from the north. The year’s first light snowfall had come the day before and then melted away; progress now was slow through the mud and undergrowth. The local guide chose an old hunting path that had never been mapped, and was unknown to the Mendales.

  Two full Mendale Bands had been deputized to the work of razing the temple. Sentries paced the clearing while the oxen teams were pulled into position. On the temple’s marble staircase, lit by torchlight, two chilhis were discussing destruction methods. A bonfire blazed to one side, ready to fire the brands that would be flung into the heart of the sanctuary.

  Paither leaned forward, curling into a high-backed crouch, tensed as a cat before the spring. His uncle Temhas, squatting beside him, murmured, “They’re about to start,” in his ear. His hand crept to his swordhilt. He looked over his shoulder at his company through the gloom, gathering them in with his eyes. When he burst forward, crying out to the immortals, they were hard at his heels.

  The Mendale soldiers paused, whirled, and turned in confusion. A ranking barked an order. They fell into formation; the sentries pointed their spears and braced for impact. Every Mendale faced south to the attackers. Suddenly, behind them, a new menace whispered. Like birds borne on the wind, dark nets soared out on the air.

  The Fifth was a Hill of the Seacoast. The people were fishers, men and women alike with thick hard arms and shoulders, strong enough to pull in overloaded nets. Paither had taken advantage of this: though there were not enough weapons to outfit everyone, there were nets to spare. As ordered, Samalas’s companies came over the ridge as if they were casting for schools of giant fish.

  Many of the sentries were enmeshed in the nets and toppled to the ground. Horses tripped and stumbled. The oxen, trapped in rope, grew furious and spiked at anything with their horns, bellowing. Whips cracked. Paither’s company was cutting through the front line. Death screams rang out. He killed twice, without thinking, intent on getting through to the temple steps. You only think of what you have to do, Mejalna’s voice repeated suddenly in his mind. Nearby he heard a high-pitched, one-tone whistle, sustained and taken up by others. Alone among the Lindahnes he recognized it: a Mendale army signal. “They’re calling for reinforcements!” he shouted in warning. “This way!”

  He rushed along the periphery, his company scrambling behind him. An ox, net caught about its muzzle, ripped free of its standing post and stamped madly into his path. He dodged just in time. As he reached the foot of the main path the first answer to the whistles arrived.

  The Mendales blockading the roadways below heard the uproar and the call for help; they spurred their horses to the temple. Farther down the track, Lindahne villagers, waiting and hoping for some such opportunity, took to pursuit on foot. As the Mendale horses pounded into the clearing, nets were recast. The women closed in with hand daggers over the trapped prey.

  Rope snagged the legs of the front rider’s horse, bringing the animal down in a thundering crash just before Paither. He felt a rush of air from its flying hooves. A sword blazed out. The rider was on his feet.

  Their weapons and shields clashed together and they came face to face. He had time to see the eyes, wide with fear and determination, and the stubble of beard on the jutting chin, before he thrust again.

  His sword seemed to pause, then passed through firm flesh into the soft inner belly. Blood and entrail matter gushed warm and stinking onto his hands. His eyes met the dead man’s and saw a flicker of astonished life still clinging. As he drew back his sword the Mendale’s legs, deprived of controlling will, gave way and crashed the corpse to the ground.

  Paither staggered. He was out of breath, though the physical effort had been nothing. The Lindahne villagers had caught up to join the fighting, using tools, cooking knives and whatever else had come to hand. His own company was still with him. One cried, “Relas! What should we do?”

  “The temple!” he shouted back.

  The Mendale ranking, determined to do his duty and have his revenge
at the same time, had snatched a brand from the bonfire and was poised before the entranceway of the temple, ready to throw. Paither took him in the side, below the uplifted arm. The burning brand came down, along with the man’s heavy set body. Paither was knocked to the ground. Sparks sprayed up in his hair and seared along the back of his robe. Before he had time to feel pain dark fabric had enveloped him. Hands pounded on his body. “Easy, easy!” a voice urged. Then the cloak was lifted off and he stared up into his uncle’s face. “Thank you. That’s twice,” Paither said lightly, and got to his feet. Temhas blinked for a moment. Then he remembered a boy and a barn on fire. He managed a laugh.

  Paither called his archers and soldiers together and issued rapid orders. Somehow, above the din, he could make out Samalas doing the same. “Relas,” someone blurted. Another voice suddenly roared, “Here! It’s that royal! Over here!” The man, a wounded Mendale sentry whom they had taken for dead, propped up on one elbow to wave frantically at his companion soldiers, pointing at Paither like a hunting dog. “Get the lin royal!” One of the Lindahnes silenced him by finishing him off, but other Mendales answered. Paither dismissed it. Moments before, one of the chilhis had entered the temple. He ordered his company opened out into a protective ring before the stairs, to prevent any other intruders. As they moved into position, he stepped over the fallen Mendale ranking and dashed through the archway alone.

  It was nearly pitch black within. A hard steady rapping sound echoed back and forth: the chilhi’s running steps. One bright flare of light – a bobbing torch – shone out and then vanished; the chilhi had reached the inner sanctuary. Paither ran forward, blind. His foot caught on something, a jutting slab of mosaic or marble, and he had to fight for balance. His shield, held out before him, clattered into hard stone. He felt along it and found the entrance arch to the sanctuary. The chilhi within lifted his torch. This was the sacred heart of the temple. It was small; the firelight flickered out and showed the enemies clearly to one another. Paither took in the piled-up hangings, the overturned altar, the kindling placed ready before the attack began, and the man about to touch off the conflagration. He had retained his shield but had no weapon. His eyes fixed with fear on Paither’s sword. Paither said, “Put down your shield.” The man gaped. He said impatiently, “Don’t force me to kill you. Put down your shield and step forward.”

  The temple’s walls muffled the outside din somewhat, but a new and harsher outbreak sounded through the entranceway. Mendales had broken through his company, pursuing the man pointed out as the lin royal. Paither had the sense not to turn to the sounds, yet the chilhi, taking heart from the nearness of his companions, suddenly threw both shield and torch at his head.

  He ducked the torch, which whizzed out and beyond, and knocked away the shield with his own. They were left in darkness. He thrust fast and hard into black air, striking out in all directions. Suddenly he felt contact, and the chilhi gave a great bellow. Air moved with falling weight. There were bubbling gasps from the ground, and then silence.

  The Mendales in the forecourt rushed the entranceway. He stood to the side, covered by the god’s darkness as by a shield, and took them as they came through. The opening was narrow, letting in no more than two abreast; they were blinded, and stupid with the anger of battle. As he dispatched the first pair, the others jammed together, shouting in confusion. He had little difficulty, until the very last: this one, tripping over the body of the man just before him, veered to the left beyond Paither’s first downward stroke. For nightmare minutes they both floundered in nothingness, swiping at unseen foes. A slash ripped across Paither’s thigh just as his sword made shivering contact. The Mendale did not cry out, but he knew he had killed. The smells of blood and rank sweat choked him. A stream of warm liquid poured down his leg from his wound.

  When his eyes cleared everything had changed. The sanctuary was lit up by hand-held torches. A dozen Lindahnes stood staring – at the temple wreckage, the relas white and bleeding, and the bodies strewn about the floor. Someone said, “Six, plus the chilhi over there.”

  The faces were as round and glowing to him as moons. He became aware of a settling quiet, within the walls and without.

  Samalas said, “We’ve won this one, relas. Our people have the Hilltop. Can you walk?”

  “Yes.” But he made no movement.

  The Lindahnes, without prompting, had righted the altar and were clearing the floor. Samalas watched in silence as the corpses were dragged away, and looked back in deeper silence at the relas. He was staring up. On the high wall of the sanctuary, illuminated now, Paither could see the divinity’s face, set in bronze and gold on white marble. Reulas, god of the poet, encircled by scrolls and featherpens, stared down with unknowable eyes on this mortal folly. He said, “The temple will have to be purified.”

  “I’ll find a priest in the morning, relas. Excuse me, but we’d better get your leg bound up. You’re losing too much blood.”

  Paither nodded. He suffered himself to be led away.

  The report of the relas’ feat was carried rapidly down the Hill, and arrived at the makeshift headquarters before them. It improved as it ran. Coming in to camp, Paither found he had cut down a dozen Mendales in hand-to-hand combat across the sacred altar. (Untold numbers of the Suspicious were promptly converted to the Worshipping.) His page, who had fought well and been sent on ahead as escort with the wounded, ran out to congratulate him. Between gasps of concern and compliments Jessa related that a man and woman had presented themselves at headquarters, and been stopped by guards. The woman looked Lindahne enough, but the man had strange darkish skin and cold animal eyes. Hajia, the young Nialian priestess, had spoken with them. She had only recently been released, after receiving Mendale justice for her attempted penetration of the First Hill’s temple. Since the purple-red stripes across her back had not yet healed, Paither had refused to let her take part in the skirmish. It was on her authority that the newcomers had finally been permitted entrance.

  He found Ennilyn in the front room, where she was bathing Hajia’s wounded back before the fire. Nhy was sitting in the shadows.

  “You’re hurt,” Ennilyn said. Her hands, wringing a cloth, paused.

  “I’ll be all right, it only needs cleaning.” He bent to kiss her.

  Hajia lifted her head. “Relas? Did we –?”

  “We saved the temple. Right now we’re holding the entire southwest section and the Hilltop.” He eased himself on to the low couch beside Nhy; the two men raised fingers to lips and smiled at each other. He called, “Jessa!”

  The page looked in. “Relas?”

  “Send Samalas to me, please. No one else is to have entrance.” To Ennilyn he added, “You didn’t tell anyone where Nhy is from, did you?”

  “No, only Hajia here, but he’s frightening everyone who sees him. I did announce myself as your sister. No one seemed too surprised.”

  “Yes, we took care of that. Now I told Samalas, of course, about the Feimennas, but I don’t want it going further than that at the moment. I won’t have people arguing over legends and Great Cults when they should be preparing for war.”

  “I am sorry to be trouble,” Nhy said unexpectedly. Paither smiled at him.

  Samalas took his introduction to the stranger quietly, giving a non-commital smile. It broadened when he spoke to Ennilyn, reminding her that she’d deserted him on the First. She retorted, “Ah, but I sent you a better,” and indicated the relas. “Yes,” Samalas said; he sounded as if he meant it. “He nearly saved the temple single-handedly.”

  “Oh, come,” Paither protested. Suddenly he thought of his old dream: the line of enemy corpses, the sword too heavy to lift, a woman in mist, and a girl. He looked at his sister.

  Samalas said, “Relas, I’m going to have to cut your chiton here to bandage this up.”

  “It’s ruined already, that tear can’t be fixed. Ennilyn?”

  She looked up from under her dark brows. Her fingers continued to probe tenderly at Hajia�
�s ragged flesh. The two priestesses had met only hours before, and should have been strangers, yet Paither could see the bond of their divine calling. Nialian empathy. Perhaps if he gave it a name it would bother him less. An unexpected dull ache of jealousy throbbed in him.

  She was waiting. He said, “You went to our father’s home.”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you – did you find anything? Did you find what you were searching for?”

  She said to Hajia, “One moment,” and dried her fingers on a bit of toweling. Her cloak was draped over a footstool. With care she drew a small case from an inner fold. Kneeling, she presented it to him on her palms, like an offering, and lifted the lid.

  A green jewel on velvet, perfect, without flaw, unbreakable. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Samalas, who was crouching on the other side, sponging his leg, said, “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

  Hajia craned her head. “What is it?”

  “An Armasii stone.”

  “My father’s,” Paither said. “Where did you find it?”

  “He had locked it away. It was all sealed up.”

  Paither said, “They wouldn’t –” and broke off. At the touch of Samalas’s hands his wound flared with pain. When he had his breath he continued, “They wouldn’t let him into the temple after the, after the trouble started. Name of Armas, it sparkles like new.” The Feimenna flinched.

  “Excuse me, Mother,” Hajia said to Ennilyn, giving her – without need to consider – the title of high priestess; nevertheless, her voice held reproof. “A Nialian shouldn’t have possession of a jewel of Armas.”

  “True,” Ennilyn answered, surprised. She handed the case to Paither. “You keep it.” Their looks met, wondering. Both thought of their parents’ sin. “I found what I needed.” She went on to tell him of the Book, and their night of reading. As she spoke she dressed Hajia’s back, while Samalas wound a bandage across Paither’s thigh.

  Suddenly the Feimenna said, “Please, this way is better. If I to might.” His olive-skinned fingers took the bandages from Samalas and recrossed them handily. Samalas sat back on his heels.