Roofs spread out around tower and temple in every direction, a maze of narrow streets between buildings of stone and buildings of wood and buildings of wattle and hide. Outside stood the famous elf-walls. Miles of them. Crumbling in places, shored up by man-built bastions and crowned by man-built battlements. But strong, still. Very strong.
‘We need to get in,’ Thorn was snarling, elf-bangle smouldering red as she glowered at the city like a wolf at a chicken coop. Koll wouldn’t have been surprised to see her drooling like one, she was that hungry for vengeance.
‘No doubt,’ said Mother Scaer, eyes narrowed to their habitual slits. ‘How, is the question?’
‘We still have elf-weapons. I say we crack Grandmother Wexen’s shell and prick her from the wreckage.’
‘Even with elf-weapons it will take time to overcome those walls,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘Who knows what mischief Grandmother Wexen could cook up in the meantime?’
‘We could shoot burning arrows over them,’ offered Rulf, patting his black horn bow. ‘Man-weapons will do for that, and we’d soon get a good blaze going.’
‘This is my city now,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘I do not wish to see it burned to the ground.’
‘Your city?’ sneered Mother Scaer.
‘Of course.’ Yarvi took his eyes from Skekenhouse and turned them calmly upon her. ‘I will be Grandfather of the Ministry, after all.’
Scaer gave a disbelieving snort. ‘Will you indeed?’
‘If Vansterland is to have the High King’s chair, and Throvenland the High Queen’s key, it seems only fair that Gettland should have the Tower of the Ministry.’
Mother Scaer narrowed her eyes even further, trapped on uncomfortable ground between suspicion at the thought of Yarvi raised up and ambition at the thought of Gorm enthroned. ‘We should have a proper moot upon it.’
‘Must people as wise as we really discuss the obvious? Must we hold a moot to establish that Mother Sun will follow Father Moon across the sky?’
‘Only fools argue over what they don’t have,’ murmured Koll. He seemed to be the only minister trying to smooth the way for Father Peace, and he hadn’t even sworn his Oath.
Rulf pushed his thumbs into his weathered sword-belt. ‘For weeks they were stuck outside our elf-walls. Now we’re stuck outside theirs.’
‘Bright Yilling made the mistake of trying to climb over them or dig under them,’ said Yarvi.
‘What should he have done?’ snapped Thorn.
Koll already knew the answer, even if he didn’t much like it. ‘Talked through them.’
‘Precisely.’ Father Yarvi took up his staff, and began to pick his way down the hillside. ‘The warriors can stay here. You stand on the minister’s battlefield now.’
‘As long as there’s vengeance to be found there!’ growled Thorn at his back.
Yarvi turned, teeth bared. ‘Oh, there will be vengeance enough for everyone, Thorn Bathu. I have sworn it.’
Before the gates of Skekenhouse the road was churned to a squelching bog, littered with trampled rubbish, with torn tents and broken furniture and dead animals. The possessions of folk who’d tried to crowd into Skekenhouse for safety. Or maybe those who’d tried to swarm out for it. Folly, whichever. When Mother War spreads her wings, there is no safe place.
Koll felt as if he had a rock in his throat. He’d hardly been more scared approaching Strokom. He kept finding himself creeping closer to Rulf and his shield, hunching down as the elf-walls loomed over them, the long banners of the High King and his One God hanging weather-stained from the battlements.
‘Ain’t you the one climbed into Bail’s Point alone in bad weather?’ grunted the helmsman from the side of his mouth.
‘Yes, and I was properly terrified then too.’
‘Madmen and fools feel no fear. Heroes fear and face the danger anyway.’
‘Could I be none of the three and go home?’ muttered Koll.
‘There can be no going back,’ snapped Mother Scaer over her shoulder, shifting the elf-relic under her coat.
‘Have no fear, friend.’ Dosduvoi hoisted the pole he carried a little higher, the South Wind’s prow-beast mounted at the top. ‘We have a minister’s dove to keep the shafts off.’
‘A pretty enough piece of carving,’ said Koll, flinching at a flicker of movement on the battlements, ‘but a little slender for stopping arrows.’
‘The purpose of a minister’s dove,’ hissed Father Yarvi over his shoulder, ‘is to stop the arrows being shot at all. Now be still.’
‘Halt there!’ came a shrill command, and their party clattered to a stop. ‘Three dozen bows are upon you!’
Father Yarvi puffed out his chest as if offering it as a good home for arrows, though Koll noticed he kept his elf-metal staff gripped tight in his good hand.
‘Put away your weapons!’ His voice could not have been steadier if he was the one atop the wall. ‘We are ministers, come to speak for Father Peace!’