‘You have armed men with you too!’
‘We will speak for Mother War if we must, and in voices of thunder.’ Father Yarvi gestured towards the armed men spreading out through the muddy fields around the city. ‘The warriors of Gettland and Throvenland surround your walls. The Breaker of Swords himself approaches from the sea. And behind us on the hill the sorceress Skifr watches. She whose magic laid low the High King’s army. She waits for my word. That you will agree to terms, and can have peace.’ Yarvi let his arms drop. ‘Or that you will not, and can have what Bright Yilling had.’
When the voice came the challenge had all drained away. ‘You are Father Yarvi.’
‘I am, and I have Mother Scaer of Vansterland with me.’
‘My name is Utnir. I am elected to speak for the people of Skekenhouse.’
‘Greetings, Utnir. I hope we can save some lives between us. Where is Grandmother Wexen?’
‘She has sealed herself in the Tower of the Ministry.’
‘And the High King?’
‘He has not been seen since news came of the defeat at Bail’s Point.’
‘Every victory is someone’s defeat,’ muttered Koll.
‘Just as every hero is someone’s villain,’ said Rulf.
‘Your leaders have abandoned you!’ called out Mother Scaer.
‘Best you abandon them,’ said Father Yarvi, ‘before they drag all of Skekenhouse through the Last Door with them.’
Another pause, perhaps the muttering of voices above, and a chill breeze whipped up and made the long banners flap against the elf-stone.
‘There is a rumour you have made an alliance with the Shends,’ came Utnir’s voice.
‘So I have. I am an old friend of their high priestess, Svidur. If you resist us, I will give the city to her, and when it falls its citizens will be slaughtered or made slaves.’
‘We had no part in the war! We are not your enemies!’
‘Prove yourself our friends, then, and play your part in the peace.’
‘We hear you spoke fine words before Bright Yilling. Why should we trust you?’
‘Bright Yilling was a mad dog who worshipped Death. He murdered King Fynn and his minister. He burned women and children in Thorlby. Over his end I shed no tears and harbour no regrets.’ Father Yarvi lifted his withered hand, his voice firm and his face open. ‘But I am a minister, and stand for Father Peace. If you wish to walk in his footsteps you will find me there beside you. Open the gates to us, and I swear a sun-oath and a moon-oath that I will do all I can to safeguard the lives and property of the people of Skekenhouse.’
After all the blood spilled it made Koll proud to see his master making of the fist an open hand. More voices whispered above, but finally Utnir seemed satisfied. Or satisfied he had no choice, at least. ‘Very well! We will give the keys to the city into the hands of your men!’
‘History will thank you!’ called Father Yarvi.
Koll realized he’d been holding his breath, and let it out in a cheek-puffing sigh. Mother Scaer gave a grunt in her throat, and shrugged her coat closed. Dosduvoi leaned down to Koll, grinning. ‘I told you the dove would keep the arrows off.’
‘I think Father Yarvi’s words were our shield today,’ he answered.
The minister himself was drawing Rulf into a huddle. ‘Gather your best-behaved men and take command of the gates.’
‘I’ve not many left,’ said Rulf. ‘Some of those that were on the South Wind with us have fallen sick.’
‘Those that rowed to Strokom?’ muttered Koll.
Father Yarvi ignored him. ‘Use what you have and see the defenders disarmed. I want good discipline and good treatment for all.’
‘Yes, Father Yarvi,’ said the old helmsman, turning to beckon men forward with one broad hand.
‘Then give the city to the Shends.’
Rulf looked back at him, eyes wide. ‘You’re sure?’
‘They demand vengeance for all the High King’s raids upon them. I gave my word to Svidur that she could have the city first. But let Thorn Bathu and Grom-gil-Gorm have their pieces of it too. That is the lesser evil.’
‘You swore an oath,’ muttered Koll, as Rulf walked off to give the orders, shaking his bald head.
‘I swore an oath to do all I can. I can do nothing.’
‘But these people—’
Yarvi caught Koll’s shirt with his withered hand. ‘Did these people complain when Yaletoft burned?’ he snarled. ‘Or Thorlby? When King Fynn was killed? Or Brand? No. They cheered Bright Yilling on. Now let them pay the price.’ He smoothed Koll’s shirt gently as he let him go. ‘Remember. Power means having one shoulder always in the shadows.’
End of the Rope
Father Yarvi might’ve said no fires, but something was burning somewhere.