Elves_ Once Walked with Gods Part 20

'I'm prepared to take the risk. Look at it this way. If we say we want to join the shiny new path and become Shorth's guardians, I've no doubt at all we'll be manacled to something and given mops, buckets and filthy rags as the first two centuries of our retraining. If Llyron wins, we'll spend the rest of our days as nothing more than slaves. She'll never trust us. We'll be the lowest form of life to her. Not Ynissul and not of mixed blood, though working in her temple.

'Give me a chance to speak, and I'll talk my way out of trouble or die trying. I'd prefer it that way. And if I can persuade whoever it is not to slit my throat, I'll be out there on the street. Back in the fight.'

Pelyn felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

'And if the Senserii stick you with an ikari blade under the eaves of the forest?'

'Then you may berate me when you join me in the halls of the ancients.'

The smile was joined by the faintest flicker of rekindled hope.

'You'd better not be wrong about this,' said Pelyn.

'Am I ever wrong?' asked Methian, his eyes sparkling.

'This would be a bad time for your luck to change,' said Pelyn. 'Jakyn, what do you think?'

Jakyn raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and shrugged.

'We should probably get some rest. Methian's planning a tough day tomorrow by the sounds of it.'

'Do we follow them?' asked Hithuur.

He stood with Sildaan and twenty human mercenaries at the mouth of Ultan-in-Caeyin. The bowl was deserted. No evidence that anyone had been here earlier in the day remained. Around three thousand Ynissul civilians and a small guard of TaiGethen had disappeared into the rainforest.

'No need,' said Sildaan. 'We know where they're going.'

'And the priests at Aryndeneth? We should try and warn them.'

Sildaan shrugged. 'They're smart. They'll blame me and say they are tending those who I have abandoned. Or they should. I can't help those who won't help themselves.'

'Where's Leeth?'

'Leeth took another path,' said Sildaan, not looking round at him. She began to walk from the Ultan back towards the bridge and the city. 'Come on. The fleet will be in the harbour in two hours. Plenty of Al-Arynaar to round up before then.'

Hithuur didn't move for a moment. He stared after Sildaan. She'd changed. Hardened. Was it really as Llyron said? That elves could never be other than the roots of their race dictated? Sildaan was playing the part all right. Cruel-eyed, chill of soul. Ten years before she had been so honoured to be accepted into the Aryndeneth priesthood and had talked only of spreading the harmony, of forging unbreakable links between the threads.

That was before she had been seconded to Llyron at the temple of Shorth in the forest. That was where it had begun for her. And she'd never lived on Hausolis. Never known the horror of war. She craved it. Hithuur was sick of it. Llyron had given him a path when he was at his most desperate in the days when it became clear his family were gone, lost behind the collapsed gateway. Hithuur believed in the lessons Llyron preached. But not in her method of achieving their aims. What he had led Jarinn into had sickened him. He didn't think he would ever sleep clear of nightmares again. He didn't deserve to.

Sildaan hadn't noticed he'd yet to move. He sighed and trudged after her. The leader of the men, Garan, the ugly big man with sores on his face and blood hate in his eyes, trotted past him and laid a hand on Sildaan's shoulder. She jerked herself free and snapped round to face him, pushing him away.

'Did I not tell you never to touch me, blink-life?'

Garan spread his hands wide. 'Hey. Relax. We're working together, right? I just want to check you're doing the right thing.'

'You're doubting me again?'

Garan's face took on a resigned look. Hithuur watched the exchange with growing interest.

'Without Leeth, who else can be your conscience?'

There was fire in Garan's eyes suddenly. Sildaan hissed through clenched teeth and spared Hithuur a brief glance, unhappy he was obviously listening. She walked away, beckoning Garan to follow. Hithuur smiled. His hearing was particularly acute. It was dry currently and there was little other noise barring the ever-present din from the forest. Nothing to distract him.

'Never mention him. Never use his name to get under my skin like the fly larvae under yours. Remember who pays you. Who keeps you alive.'

'I keep myself alive, Sildaan. That is my job. And I never forget who pays me. That is my livelihood. And you pay me to advise you as well as use my sword. So I want to know why you are letting a significant number of our worst enemy and three thousand Ynissul just wander off into the forest without a care. Out there they are going to have their minds set unshakeably against what you are doing. You say you aren't numerous.' He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'That has to represent a significant percentage of the total Ynissul alive today, doesn't it?'

Sildaan pushed her hand through her hair and shook her head slowly. Hithuur watched Garan bridle as she tutted.

'Well, that is why you can't advise me on anything other than how to kill with blade and magic, isn't it? You just don't understand the elven mind at all, do you? And certainly not the Ynissul mind.'

'That surprises you, does it?'

'Not at all.'

'So enlighten me. Help me see the light of your wondrous plan.'

Garan stared down at Sildaan, his aggression barely suppressed. Hithuur wondered for a moment who would win in a single combat. Sildaan was fast and slick with a blade. All the priests were though few chose to carry a weapon. And she had good open-hand skills. Better than Hithuur's certainly. But she was no TaiGethen. She didn't demonstrate the poise, agility or sheer speed of reaction.

Garan on the other hand was simply raw power. He'd find Sildaan surprisingly strong, but Hithuur could imagine that long sword in both of his hands and wondered if any elf could really deflect a well-aimed blow. It would be fascinating to find out. Hithuur wasn't at all sure he knew who he would want to win.

Sildaan pointed into the rainforest and then began walking again, Garan a pace to her left and eyeing her from beneath a heavy frown.

'Out there are three thousand and more ordinary Ynissul. Most of them have lived in the city ever since they arrived here or were born here. And those that lived in the forest have come to live here for a reason. These are not TaiGethen material. They are pampered iads and ulas who understand a roof over their heads, a mattress on which to lie and a hot meal whenever they choose to eat it, having brought all their lovely fresh food from the market.

'Imagine them now. They've been brutalised by other threads in the city. Beaten, raped. And they are the ones not murdered in the temple. Now they're being forced to run into the rainforest. There's danger in every branch and beneath every step. There's only leaves to shelter them when it rains, and for most a ground covered with crawling and biting insects and reptiles when they sleep, if sleep they can.

'They won't get enough to eat. Thirty TaiGethen cannot feed three thousand. They won't be able to drink until a pure stream is crossed. They left with nothing. A few clothes. The odd book. They are so underprepared it makes you look like a fifty-year veteran of the canopy.

'And, when they get to their sanctuaries, they'll find a few huts, an open fire and a whole lot of elves who don't want to be forced to look after them. They'll be fed roots, berries and monkeys. Given creaking hammocks. What a life, eh?

'So when I go to offer them the hand of friendship . . . One of their own, come to bring them back home, having cleared their city and ensured that none of those who hurt them will do anything more than grovel and serve them from here on in, who do you think they will follow? The TaiGethen, who will despise them for their weakness and lack of faith? Or me and Llyron and Hithuur? Elves who understand them and their true desires. Elves who can offer them a better life than the one they were forced to flee?

'The mathematics are not complex, are they, Garan?'

Hithuur had watched Garan's face unknot slowly and an expression bordering on admiration replace his earlier belligerence.

'And meanwhile, those Ynissul who might oppose you are out of the way and the TaiGethen are kept very busy indeed.'

'Now you're getting it,' said Sildaan, and she allowed herself a small smile. 'I told you I knew the elven mind, but I have to admit even I did not think it would all work as perfectly as it has so far. Pelyn serving herself up has been an unexpected bonus.'

'And what will this mighty warrior decide, do you think?' asked Garan.

Sildaan's hackles rose immediately. 'She could kill you very easily, Garan. Don't mistake her frame for weakness. Takaar didn't choose her to lead the Al-Arynaar for nothing.'

'I meant no offence.'

'But in answer to your question, I think it might be fun to drop in on Shorth on our way to the harbour and find out, don't you? What would you do?'

'Take my chances with Llyron, I think.'

'I thought so. I suspect Pelyn will not be so craven. Want to make a wager?'

'With one who knows the elven mind so well? I think not.'

'You know, I'm not sure if I'm disappointed or not,' said Llyron. 'I commend your beliefs and your courage. And I will of course pray for your souls, which will undoubtedly find mercy and warmth in the arms of Shorth. I just think it's all a bit of a waste.'

Pelyn said nothing. She, Methian and Jakyn had said all they had to in the depths of the night. They had prayed, made plans and spoken the words that needed speaking. Now there was nothing left but silence and a chance to wonder a little at Llyron, whose tone suggested they'd merely decided not to attend a minor function.

The three of them lay on the floor of the hall, just in the shadow of the doors. They had been stripped naked and then sewn into their cloaks such that only their faces were visible inside their hoods. Ropes had then been wound around them to ensure there would be no escape.

'It used to be called "podding", you know,' said Llyron. 'I looked it up last night. The guilty elf was taken into the forest and left lying on the floor much like a seed pod fallen from a tree. Usually, it was the ants that got to work first. Beetles, leeches and flies too, of course. Biting lizards. Snakes were always fun, and then, inevitably, when the scent of blood and fear soaked the air, the panthers and dogs and monkeys would appear.

'It was a very imaginative punishment. An able deterrent. Sort of a live reclamation, don't you think? One I might well reintroduce. Still, the ants and snakes won't concern you. Just the big sentient predators. Now then. Jakyn. You, I think I will give to the Gyalans. That works. They're routinely bitter and you're a strapping young Cefan. Methian, it has to be the Apposans, doesn't it? Why is it that earth and rain never really got on?

'Pelyn, it's the Tuali for you. I understand you slaughtered a few of your own on the harbour yesterday. They are going to be terribly upset with you, don't you think? I did consider the Beethans, but you know, they wouldn't even give you begging-for-your-life time. They'd just butcher you on the spot.'

Llyron paused to shake her head at all three of them.

'I trust you are extremely uncomfortable. Just remember, this is as good as the rest of your lives are going to get. Your carts are waiting for you outside.'

Chapter 20.

A general places his army at risk whenever he stops to think again.

Each of them was loaded onto a separate ox-drawn cart and propped in a seated position. Before long, the carts containing Methian and Jakyn peeled away to their destination ghettos. Senior priests were in attendance. Pelyn continued down towards the Park of Tual, where the thread gathered before setting out to raid other parts of the city.

Pelyn supposed she should have been flattered. The grand red carriage carrying Llyron led her cart. The banners, the guard of Senserii and the instantly recognisable figure of Llyron drew two things like flies to a fresh corpse. Deference from every thread and an ever-growing crowd of curious onlookers, some clearly putting their differences aside to find out what was going on.

Public drives by the high priest of Shorth were rare in the extreme. The death of the high priest of Yniss, under normal circ.u.mstances, and the Festival of Departed Souls were the only ceremonial appearances. She could of course be seen at the Gardaryn during debates but the myth and aura surrounding Shorth's high priest was the most enduring of the elven psyche.

Iads and ulas walked along behind Pelyn's cart. It wasn't long before the more curious moved closer to try and work out who she was and why she was trussed so comprehensively. It was a short step from there to the first volleys of spitting, abuse and threats. Of course they had no idea what faced Pelyn, but her lack of anxiety in the face of their promises only served to further enrage the more determined.

The Senserii and walking priests made no move to deflect the abuse. Indeed they made s.p.a.ce for those who wished to get close and only moved to stop the regular attempts to do her physical harm.

From within her pod, Pelyn had plenty of time to stare out at the naked hatred and see their decision for the folly it truly was. After an emotional conversation with Methian and Jakyn, they had convinced each other that they would cow the baying mobs that faced them with reason and reality.

The hard facts of an enemy fleet approaching, an Ynissul betrayal and men walking tall on city streets. Empathy with those who had a common enemy but needed direction to see it. It would be a small miracle if any of them was allowed to open their mouth to do anything other than scream in agony.

Pelyn would have shrugged but there was no room for such an extravagant movement. Her limbs were cramped and the pain in her left calf was constant and deep. Her back was bouncing against a spur of metal in the back of the cart and she had the most excruciating itch in her scalp.

She looked to her left, watching the buildings pa.s.s by as she sat, back to the direction of travel. She noted the spires of the Gardaryn away to the right, climbing above the sculpted buildings of the Glade, Ysundeneth's most wealthy residential district. Close now, then.

The Glade thinned into the artisans' district, nicknamed the Mural. Next it was the central fine goods market and that small and beautiful square bordering the Park of Tual. Pelyn could smell ash and burning meat. They mixed with the scent of the sea and the more unpleasant odours of rot and mould. A good downpour would dampen them all but it seemed she was to be murdered before the sun rose on a stultifyingly dry morning.

The carriage and cart rattled across the market square. Senserii and priests closed in around Pelyn. Words were barked. Threats were made by the hooded guards. The following crowd, now numbering well in excess of five hundred, stopped as one. Pelyn watched them fidgeting and looking anew at one another. Beethan moved away from Gyalan. Apposan from Cefan. She almost pitied them but felt instead the stickiness of saliva on her face and wished instead for a riot.

'Shorth take you all,' she muttered.

The cart came to a jarring stop. She felt the driver and his mate jump down. From the park she could hear a good number of voices and the crackling of a fire. The driver and mate appeared at the back of the wagon and unchained the tailgate. They grabbed the bottom of her sewn cloak and pulled. Her head b.u.mped hard against the timbers of the wagon bed and sc.r.a.ped over the iron rivets above its axles.

They stopped short of letting her drop straight to the muddy churned gra.s.s and picked her up one side each, marching her upright to where Llyron was standing before a now-silent group of Tualis. The sight of her brought a storm of abuse and a surge forward only curtailed by the mirror move of five Senserii.

Llyron held up her hands for quiet, the only Ynissul who could walk unhindered in Ysundeneth, let alone issue orders that would be obeyed.

'Shorth's blessing be upon you all, denizens and worshippers of Tual. My temple is open and welcoming to all at these times of conflict and anger. I am desolate for the pain unleashed by the denouncement of Takaar and pray hourly for its swift and peaceful resolution. Resolution I feel is close, though I doubt any of you can see it. And I bring to you a gift as night gives way to dawn and Shorth gazes down with relief on those still walking our land. While he rests, I of course may not.

'Shorth blesses every thread, and in his temple all are equal and loved. Shorth takes to his embrace the souls of all who fall, the good and the wicked. It is he who judges the dead. And it is I who must judge those who defy the will of Shorth. Such defiance has been shown by Pelyn, Arch of the Al-Arynaar.

'And, as is allowed under my powers, I hand her back to you, her people, to dispense the justice you see fit for heresy, for traitorous actions against her own thread and for the simple murder of those merely wanting food for the bellies of their children.'

Pelyn barked a laugh. 'She will betray you! She is in the thrall of men. She-'

The foot of a staff slammed into her gut, doubling her over. Her minders kept her standing.

'She ordered Lorius's murder. She is the cascarg. Please.'

The driver's fist took her full in the mouth, splitting her lip. The crowd cheered. Llyron raised her arms and c.o.c.ked a smile at them.

'Defiant to the end, eh? Now, where is the leader among you? Pelyn will be handed only to a recognised authority.'

The crowd quietened. Elves looked over their shoulders. A gap was made and one stepped forwards. Pelyn stared at the face of her executioner.

Helias, Speaker of the Gardaryn.

Less than a mile into the rainforest and the complaints had reached such a pitch that Katyett called a halt to the march, which had only ever been slow to grinding. She tried to sympathise with them. She tried hard. But walking up and down the ridiculously long, straggling column of the unready, the unfit and the frankly unworthy, she could see the damage to her forest increasing and the will of her charges bleeding away like a slash to the jugular.