Elves: Once Walked With Gods

by James Barclay

  The two of them were staring at her with the pained expression of a wronged child.

  ‘What? You thought I’d fall over myself to bring you back to the bosom of the Al-Arynaar? Let’s get something straight so we don’t misunderstand each other out there on the burning streets. You two are deserters. The fact you saved my life means you have enough sense and decency to know you’ve made a big mistake. But I can’t trust you like brothers, can I? I can’t simply forget what you did. Nor what other deserters have done. So it’s up to you. Stand with me and try to win this fight and we’ll see where we are when it’s done. Or run into the rainforest now and throw yourselves on the mercy of Tual’s denizens, the Silent and the TaiGethen.’

  Tulan nodded. ‘I don’t think we’ll be running.’

  Pelyn smiled. ‘Good. I thought not. Now let’s go. Tell me where the Apposans have made their stand. I’m guessing south side. Probably at the Grans or maybe Old Millers.’

  ‘Creatures of habit,’ said Tulan. ‘Why them?’

  ‘Methian was podded and given to them.’

  Tulan hissed in a breath. ‘Pelyn . . .’

  ‘I know. But I have to try.’

  ‘We’ll go out the back. Avoid the Tuali mob.’

  ‘We do need them,’ said Pelyn. ‘Whoever survives. It doesn’t matter what they would have done to me. Not for now.’

  Tulan nodded. ‘But first things first, right?’

  ‘Right. And put on your cloaks, though Yniss knows you don’t deserve to wear them. I don’t want us looking like a Tuali snatch squad or whatever the hell you’ve been playing at.’

  They trotted down the stairs and out of a rear door, across a small private garden and through a back gate into a narrow alley. Tulan led. Ephran followed. Pelyn kept them both where she could see them. The sun was rising and hot but the sky was burnished with the foul colours of human magical fire mixed with the yellow of burning wood. The stench of ash was heavy in the air.

  Away from the immediate fighting, the city was strangely silent. The streets were deserted. Thread mobs were keeping their heads down. The majority, the shocked civilians wanting no part of it, would be in their homes - those that still had them. Or hiding wherever their thread was strongest, forced to seek refuge among those they despised for their actions.

  Pelyn sighed as she ran. It was so hard to see how there could be any resolution to this that would hold. You could glue a smashed pot back together but the cracks would always be visible, the pieces always prone to fall apart.

  The Grans was a densely populated area, favourite of forest workers and home to a warren of houses and winding streets as well as logging yards and a few construction businesses. The Apposans, followers of the oldest earth god, had always been the largest-represented thread there and had a long history of excellence in farming the forest and working the wood.

  But they were an aggressive thread, historically. Intolerant. They were also the shortest-lived, barring the Gyalans, with whom they had fought across the millennia over triviality after triviality. Coming out of a side street onto Yanner’s Approach, which led into the Grans, Tulan slowed.

  ‘They were in Orsan’s Yard last night, most of them,’ he said, pointing away over pitched roofs to where a thick column of smoke rose. ‘They may not be there now of course.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Pelyn.

  ‘We raided there last night, early on,’ said Ephran. ‘Retaliation for an attack earlier in the day near the Gardaryn.’

  ‘Terrific,’ said Pelyn. ‘So they’ll be particularly welcoming this morning.’

  Tulan moved quickly away into the Grans. Elves were in evidence here. Scuttling about, collecting water. Some children even played. Others made play of a normal life, but those that didn’t stop and stare at the cloaks were more concerned with the pall of smoke hanging over the docks. Surely some in the thread knew what was coming.

  Towards Orsan’s Yard, Tulan headed off the main avenue and wove deep into the warren. The yard fence stood tall beyond the end of the last row of houses and across a small patch of open ground where children were playing or watching the fires. There was a burst of laughter from within. It was genuine and heartfelt, accompanied by a smattering of applause and shouts of ‘Another.’ Pelyn drew up, surprised.

  ‘You’d think storytelling would be the least of their desires right now,’ she said.

  They crossed the open ground and hugged the fence around to the right towards the gate. There was a good deal of traffic in and out and the gate was guarded by blade carriers. They were spotted quickly.

  ‘Al-Arynaar. You are not welcome here,’ said a guard, a short Apposan with thickly muscled forearms and powerful fists gripping axe and sword.

  Pelyn walked in front of the brothers now. She hitched her cloak back to reveal her sword but did not make a move to touch it.

  ‘You have one of my people. I’ve come to get him back. I want no fight with you. The Apposans are my friends.’

  The guard beckoned to two others, both powerful, stocky ulas, and sauntered towards her. He spat to the side.

  ‘Tuali? And you don’t want a fight? Should have told that to your brothers and sisters last night. We’ve eight dead and twenty injured. Still. Only three of you this time.’

  He hefted his blades and moved up. Tulan and Ephran moved to her flanks. She made a calming gesture and walked a pace ahead of them.

  ‘Your fight is not with the Al-Arynaar,’ she said.

  ‘Wrong,’ said the Apposan.

  He ran the last couple of paces and swept both his blades out to in, chopping towards her neck. Pelyn stepped inside the strikes, blocked both his arms with hers, and straight-kicked with her left leg into his gut. The Apposan doubled over. Pelyn smacked the heel of her palm into his forehead as he came up, knocking him onto his back. She dropped to his side, her sword from her scabbard and at his throat.

  ‘I have had a very bad night,’ she said. ‘I am tired and my temper is short. Give me Methian. Alive.’

  The Apposan’s hands were off his weapons and in front of his face, palms out to her, pleading. Tulan and Ephran were in front of the other two guards. All other action had stopped. Children stared, their games forgotten. Pelyn bounced to her feet and held a hand out to him.

  ‘I am not your enemy.’

  After a pause, the guard took her hand and allowed himself to be pulled upright.

  ‘Methian?’ he said, almost bleeding gratitude. ‘He’s inside. He’s very much alive, I promise you.’

  ‘Good. Then lead on.’

  Pelyn tried and failed to hide her relief. The guard, with Pelyn uncomfortably close to him, led them inside the yard. It was busy. A big central fire was burning and various pots and trays hung on tripods or on Y-staves over the embers at its edge. Ula and iad were busy making spears and crude arrows.

  With Tulan and Ephran walking with the other two gate guards, the small party approached a ring of around forty Apposans, standing and seated, listening to a single voice. Their arrival brought an abrupt end to the story. Faces turned, weapons were drawn and the ring opened.

  There sat Methian on a log with his cloak for a cushion and a steaming mug in his hand. He wore leather trousers, a thick wool shirt and a short leather coat. Tree farmer’s clothing. He was barefoot, but a pair of battered boots stood next to the log on which he sat.

  Pelyn smiled and shook her head.

  ‘They were supposed to murder you,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, but Llyron doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does. Three of my daughters partnered Apposans. One of my grand-children made me this infusion. Guarana and clove. Lovely, it is.’

  ‘Only you could be that lucky,’ said Pelyn. ‘You could have told me last night.’

  ‘Shorth has ears everywhere,’ said Methian.

  Around them the Apposans were relaxing. Methian helped them out.

  ‘My friends, this is Pelyn, Arch of the Al-Arynaar and defender of us all from ourselves. And these are T
ulan and Ephran.’ Methian stared at them but chose to say nothing more. ‘Lower your weapons, please. This is cause for celebration. What happened to you, by the way? The Tuali weren’t there or something? Or did you escape by hopping very quickly?’

  The Apposans laughed. Weapons were lowered. Pelyn sheathed her sword. The gate guard pushed past her and marched back towards his post.

  ‘They have other things on their minds right now,’ she said. ‘And anyway, unlooked-for help came my way.’ Pelyn raised her eyebrows.

  Methian nodded. ‘Nice clothes,’ he said.

  ‘You too. What have you told them?’

  ‘The truth. We know men are coming. The Apposans are heading into the forest.’

  ‘Good,’ said Pelyn. ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘I am, for what it’s worth. I am Boltha. ’

  An old ula stepped forward. His face was a mass of wrinkles and his eyes sagged along with the tips of his large ears. His hair was thick and grey except at the crown, where it was thinning. Pelyn had seen him around the city. He was a financier or a banker, she thought. He probably owned half the yards here.

  ‘I’m honoured to meet you,’ she said. ‘Everything Methian will have told you is true. Men are rampaging through the city and are in the pay of Llyron and Aryndeneth priests. They’ll pick this city apart bit by bit. Stay in the forest. Don’t be tempted back until I or the TaiGethen come for you. You’re heading to Katura Falls?’

  Boltha shook his head. ‘Not so far as that. We aren’t running; we’re waiting on opportunity, if you see what I mean. We’ll hole up at the Olbeck Rise.’

  ‘Good. And can we call upon you if we need to?’

  Boltha smiled. ‘An axe can fell a man easier than a tree.’

  ‘Appos and Yniss protect you. I won’t forget this.’ Pelyn turned back to Methian. ‘Jakyn.’

  Methian nodded. ‘He’ll be fine. He’s smart and the Gyalans are less embittered than Llyron believes.’

  ‘We need him.’

  ‘I know where they’ll be,’ said Methian.

  He stooped to put on his boots.

  But Jakyn wasn’t fine.

  The entrance to the museum of Hausolis was characterised by an ornate wooden arch, under which a stone footpath ran to the wide stairs that led up to the doors of the building built in the likeness of the keep of Tul-Kenerit. The Gyalans had chosen it as their base, standing as it did in the heart of their district.

  Jakyn was bound to the arch by his arms. Above him hung crossed flags depicting rainfall on upturned palms. Jakyn’s naked body glistened with his blood. Gyalan guards stood either side of him, paying him no heed. But Jakyn was long past begging if indeed he ever had. Pelyn could see the method of his torture and murder.

  Cuts. Hundreds of them. Covering every part of his body. From mere scratches to deep gashes. His nose had been cut off, as had both of his ears. His lips had been slit along their lengths. He had been castrated. His nipples and eyelids had been removed. Every humiliation had been visited upon his body. His eyes being put out would have been the last abuse.

  The Gyalan way. Or it had been. As they approached, Methian walked ahead. He strode up to the two guards.

  ‘Welcome, brother,’ said one. ‘Though I can’t extend the same greeting to your others.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Methian. ‘A true ceremonial klosil. Proud of it, are you?’

  The guard smiled up at Jakyn’s body.

  ‘Pity you weren’t here. He squirmed and screamed. Called for his god. Not loud enough, eh? I put that one across his forehead. A second smile, right?’

  ‘Mind if I add my own?’ asked Methian.

  Pelyn tensed. The guard grinned.

  ‘Always room for more.’

  Methian drew the Apposan blade on his left hip with his right hand. In the same movement, he carved it up through the guard’s body, the tip tearing through his shirt, slicing up through his chest and thudding up to split his lower jaw and tear his throat apart.

  The guard stared at Methian for one stunned moment before clutching at his neck and falling back to writhe until death. Methian had his blade at the other guard’s neck before he could bring his makeshift spear to the ready.

  ‘Gyal wreaks revenge on such as you. Shorth hears her and your soul is already promised purgatory. This elf. This fine young Cefan ula that you murdered in agony, was a friend of mine. Cut him down. Gently and with respect and reverence. And if you drop him, I’ll drop you.’

  Chapter 25

  There is beauty in a kill worked by the hands of the TaiGethen warrior.

  ‘Enough fire,’ said Sildaan, coming to Garan’s shoulder.

  The man looked round at her, a smile on his face. The attack on Ysundeneth had advanced incredibly fast. Not a blow had been struck by steel. Elves ran in fear of the magic of men. Over five hundred mercenary soldiers and mages had disembarked. They were well organised, powerful and ruthless.

  They were advancing on three fronts, spreading in a wide arc across the north of the city and tracking south. Some of the mages were flying - in defiance of all Sildaan knew or could readily accept - and they provided a simply massive advantage. Able to overfly every thread base, every pocket of potential resistance and direct mage fire with stunning accuracy.

  ‘They need to know we can’t be stopped. We want them to run before us, don’t we?’

  ‘I want them subdued not panicked. And I want enough of the city left standing to reallocate. Call off the mage attack. Round up prisoners. We need this quarter sealed then move on to the Gardaryn. When we take that, we all but have the city in our grasp.’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss.’

  Garan raised his eyebrows, a measure of dissent Sildaan just about tolerated. The man shouted orders in the ugly speech of the north. Mages started falling back behind the line of mercenary blades. A unit of a hundred, led by a bilious lieutenant with a massive scar right down the centre of his face, ran on ahead of the main force. Mages flew above them.

  Sildaan shook her head. ‘And what did you order them to do?’

  ‘Exactly what you asked. We’ll force those seeking shelter ahead left, back onto the dockside and into one of the least damaged warehouses. I’m sending archers and swordsmen ahead to do house to house up in the . . . What do you call it? Never mind, anyway up the Path of Yniss a way. And we have our right flank moving in on your friend’s group. We just need his confirmation.’

  ‘Helias is not my friend.’

  ‘Tell him that. That’s him, isn’t it?’

  A small group of elves had walked into the Path of Yniss, the wide and winding tree-lined avenue that crossed the city north to south, broken by buildings and monuments in places but nevertheless the spine of Ysundeneth. Helias led them, five in all.

  ‘Let them approach,’ called Sildaan. Garan repeated the order in his own language. ‘Helias. You’ve brought guests.’

  Helias spread his arms. ‘A little personal security, my priest. The streets are dangerous.’

  ‘But getting less so by the moment. Who are these?’

  ‘Advisers, guards.’

  ‘Fine, and not necessary now.’ She waved a hand at Garan. ‘Move them somewhere, would you?’

  ‘Helias, I must protest,’ said one, a haughty iad with a long knife pushed through her belt. ‘This Ynissul cannot—’

  ‘I think you’ll find I can do anything I want, Tuali.’

  The iad snatched her knife out. Garan stepped up and cracked a fist into her chin, knocking her cold.

  ‘The rest of you be quiet,’ he said. ‘Where do you want them?’

  ‘Do I look like I care overmuch? You’re in charge of holding pens.’

  Garan signalled and six of his warriors came over. A few more words and they moved to Helias’s people.

  ‘You won’t be hurt,’ said Helias. ‘It’s for your own safety.’

  They were led away muttering curses at him and Sildaan.

  ‘You know that might
not actually be a lie,’ said Sildaan.

  ‘What should I do?’ asked Helias.

  ‘Your people are in the agreed location?’ she asked.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And Llyron’s athletic little gift?’

  Helias smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant event for any iad to witness. ‘She awaits my pleasure. Just tell your muscle to leave the houses around the park undamaged.’

  ‘Good, then you can go where you please. Go back and do what you want to her or, if I were you, I’d save that for another day and get to Shorth. Llyron will keep you safe enough.’

  Helias blustered. ‘I’m not walking alone that sort of distance.’

  ‘Then walk with us. Just keep out of my way; I have work to do.’

  ‘Don’t treat me as some sort of lower-thread minion.’

  ‘How else would you have an Ynissul priest treat a Tuali?’ returned Sildaan. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your rewards and your position. Until then, I’d . . .’ Sildaan touched a finger to her lips.

  ‘You need me,’ Helias said. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  ‘You are as inevitable and irritating as blisters in new boots. Run along.’

  Helias shot her a glance that Garan noted with raised eyebrows before shouldering his way through the mercenaries on his way to the gods knew where and cared even less.

  ‘Someone else to keep your eye on,’ Garan said.

  ‘He is nothing. Alone, he has no strength to fight. No courage. Let’s move on. I want to set one particularly large fire before the rains come back.’

  Pelyn watched the men flying in the sky on what looked like wings made of nothing but smoke and shadow. She’d seen them dive and climb. They could fly at some speed too. Very agile and yet totally corrupt by all the laws of every elven god. And they presented a huge problem.

  They’d returned to the house at the side of the Park of Tual. Hundreds of Tualis were gathered in the park. They stood in groups, talking, sharpening weapons and waiting, she presumed, for Helias. They were going to get something quite different, and Pelyn wanted to be there to witness it. Tulan had planned an escape route and he and Ephran were waiting downstairs.