‘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 Tulan 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.