Mortals & Deities (16 page)

A salty breeze blew across the bow of the two-mast brigantine as the captain ordered the sweep stilled and the guide ropes thrown overboard. Soon the ropes pulled taut as the underwater guides, the Mermidians, took them up and started to pull the ship into the harbor of Mocley.

Though Elith had seen many paintings and maps of the city, the sheer magnitude of it made her stare. Walls, like none she ever imagined, stretched high into the sky. One side ran away from her following the coast, the other cut inland until it curved away from sight. Spires and domes jutted up beyond the wall’s reach, and she could not believe that anything could stand so tall. Nothing in all her homeland compared to this. The rocky island shores of Komar provided much of the protection needed to discourage invasion. And the severity of the winter sea storms deterred anyone from erecting a building of more than a few stories tall.

The wind picked up and she pulled her cloak tight around her body. Not for warmth—the material was too thin for that—she did not wish for anyone on shore to catch a glimpse of her bare gray skin. Though everyone on board the
Hunter
was loyal not only to the Priests of Fatint, yet to her as well, she could take no chances of someone from the city seeing her. She knew she would draw the eye of the locals and start rumors flying if seen.

She knows this! As she knows each of the names of the crew!

Though she had not experienced another memory loss, Elith felt the need to remind herself of things she should not have to. She brought each crew member’s face to mind and ran their names once more through her head. Then, she ran the names of all the priests assigned to Mocley—those who traveled with her on this voyage and would care for her while she searched the city for the Mah’Sukai. She even remembered all the slaves whom she trained on since she was old enough to train. For some reason, Jarill’s face lingered in her mind when she reached his name.

She knew the Mah’Sukai was either in the city or surrounding countryside. A tingling had cascaded down the base of her skull the moment land came into sight. It would only be a matter of time before she found him. Bringing him back to Komar was a simple matter of stuffing him into a sack. Her training gave her the confidence to complete her task.

And she will not…
entice him
to come of his own free will!

Her mind wandered back to her last meeting with the Highest and she regretted not slapping the man. The knowledge of forgetting that, for the past fifty turns of the seasons, a ship sat manned and supplied, ready to set sail without delay the moment news arrived of a Mah’Sukai’s appearance upon the Plane of Talic’Nauth, frightened her more than she cared to admit. The fact that the man who spoke to her then—the most powerful man in all of Komar, save the Revered Father himself—had slipped from her memory even as they talked, turned her blood to ice.

“Shikalu?”

Elith flinched. Turning, she glared at the young priest standing next to her. Lost in thought, she had not heard him approach. At her glare, the priest bowed his head and cast his eyes to the deck of the ship, waiting. When she felt he had waited long enough, she cleared her throat. “Yes, Varin?”

“What are your orders?”

She continued to study him for a moment more. Varin Rayn, young to hold the title of Battle Priest, had risen fast through the ranks. His sandy-blond hair, uncommon for one born on Komar, made a stark contrast against his olive skin. Blood red robes, baggy at the shoulders and bulging out from the plate of mail breastplate he wore under them, flowed down, stopping just short of touching the ship’s deck. The silver and gold weave belt around his waist held a scabbard and sword that she knew he could wield with competence. His piercing green eyes held the same zeal for the Twelve as all the priests who accompanied her. Like most of the Battle Priests, he had been given to the Temple as an orphan—an orphan of the Twelve as they were called. She had known him for most of her life, though for fear of a repeat of what happened to her and the Highest, she held his image in her mind as well as his history. She realized she had stared at him too long when he began shifting his feet on the deck. “The Mah’Sukai is here in the city. She can feel him.” If this news affected the young priest in any way, he made no show of it. Glancing up to the sky, she guessed the sun sat about halfway past its zenith and dusk still lay a few aurns off. “She cannot move about the city until after nightfall. You will escort her to the villa where she can rest until then.”

“As the Shikalu commands.” Bowing, he rotated his hand from his chest, index finger pointing up, thumb pressed to the other three—the sign of the Inner Sanctum of the Twelve. It not only showed respect for her station—him having made the sign and not her—it also was the first step one used to identify oneself as a member of the Inner Sanctum. Everyone on board the
Hunter
, from the lowest deckhand to the captain, was a member. Varin waited for her nod before he turned to organize the men for their arrival.

The ship moved agonizingly slow as the Mermidians pulled it into the harbor and tied it to one of the docks. Humans scrambled in every direction on the wooden piers jutting from the shoreline. Yells and shouts, grunts and bellows—a cacophony of noise filled the area. Long ropes tied to wooden swing-arms lifted crates and sacks from, or dropped them into, the holds of ships. Stooped men carrying boxes or bags on their backs walked to and from the ships, depending on if the cargo was coming or going. Women with trays held in front of them supported by a strap around their necks, called out what they had for sale. Behind it all sat the panoramic view of the massive buildings within the walls of Mocley, creating a formidable backdrop. No different from the bustle on the docks of Komar, except here the men were paler of skin and fairer of hair. Her eyes wandered to the city once more.

The buildings are much grander than anything Komar has to offer.

As the gangplank slammed home on the dock, the captain, Master Ratilian, stepped before her. He made the sign of the Inner Sanctum while bowing his head. “Shikalu, my vessel will await your return.” Breaking protocol, he glanced up at her. “May Alza’Dysta see you to your goal with alacrity.”

Pursing her lips, she decided to let the transgression slide. “She thanks you, Captain Ratilian. Her hope is that your wait is not prolonged, and that soon you shall have their precious cargo in your hold and sail home for the glory of the Father.” With a nod of her head toward Varin, the dozen priests who had accompanied Elith on this voyage surrounded her. Letting her gaze pass one last time over the expanse of the city, she bowed her head, hiding her face within the folds of its hood.

With her hood pulled down, she could not see more than a pace in front of her and was forced to trust in her guides to lead her to her destination. With so many Humans crowding the area, she wondered if they would need to push their way through the crowd. However, the small group took long, unbroken strides as they left the pier and stepped onto the paverstone-lined streets. She assumed the citizens gave her small party of priests room to pass.

It is good to know that the servants of the Twelve are respected even here.

Walking along, surrounded by her guides, Elith drank in the city with the only senses she had at her disposal—her nose and ears. Wagon- or cart-wheels ground their way to their destinations. The aromas of their burdens—fish, spices, meat and muck—all mixed with the tinge of salt clinging heavy in the air.

Hawkers cried out their wares. “Pins and thread!” “Knives of the best steel!” “Fresh baked goods for the sweet tooth!” “Fish ready to fall off the bone!” “Ribbons for the ladies! Cloth of the finest quality!” “Boots! New or we repair!” “Leather belts and pouches! Leather vests!” “Get your meat pies! Meat pies from the freshest cuts!” This and so much more was offered. The bray of a donkey, whinny of a horse, or snort of an ox mixed in with the angry shout of a driver trying to make his way through the crowd. The yell for the driver to be careful echoed back. She drank it all in as the twelve Battle Priests guided her through this foreign city. This city of so much wonder and folklore.

A sudden dizziness gripped her and she stumbled. It was hot. Sweat dripped from her brow and she reached up to remove the hood that threatened to suffocate her. A hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. Out of instinct, she whipped her free hand up. Slipping her fingers around the thumb of her attacker, she spun, forcing the hand of her assailant to extend and his arm to lock out at the elbow. The hand belonged to a blond haired man in a blood red robe who grimaced at her sudden attack. Before he could reach for the sword that hung at his hip with his free hand, she snapped her knee into his face. He crumpled before her, though she paid him no mind. She was stunned to see that she was surrounded by men.

How did they get so close without her hearing them?

Dressed in the same red robes and each wearing a sword, the men stood on every side of her. Crouching into a defensive pose, she realized there were far too many for her to take alone. She would not escape this alive. She hoped she took several of them with her to the Aftermore before they killed her. For reasons she could not guess, they seemed stunned that she took out the first attacker so fast. Each man stood looking at her passively, even while barring any avenue of escape.

Without giving them time to react, she launched herself at the nearest two. It amused her that neither reached for their weapons. The first, she slammed her foot down on the side of his knee, breaking it and driving the man to the ground. His scream echoed in her ears even as she spun, smashing her now flat and rigid hand into the second man’s windpipe. Cartilage crushed, a look of horror and shock filled this second man’s eyes as he staggered back, holding his ruined throat before he fell to one knee.

The rest of her attackers backed away. Still, none of them drew sword. It was then that she took a moment to look over her surroundings. She stood in a large open area in front of a spacious, beautifully constructed building. Marble pillars radiated out from an entrance stairway that led to a set of massive double-doors. Where she stood reminded her of a courtyard. Paverstones lined the area not covered with grass or manicured shrubs. A distant nagging in her mind begged her to think about how she had gotten here. She ignored it. It was not important. Surviving was all that mattered, and the men still outnumbered her ten to one.

The blond man, the one who had attacked her first, rose from the ground. Blood flowed from his nose that jutted to the side, and an odd smile graced his face. “I had forgotten how explosive you are, Shikalu. Though, I am not sure why you chose this moment to remind us.”

It was obvious the man addressed her, however, she did not understand why.

Why would they surround her and not attack?

She glanced around at the building, certain she had never been here before.

Why bring her here?

The blond man took a tentative step toward her, one hand lifted in front of him, though not in a threatening manner. “Shikalu? You seem…distracted.”

Shikalu. That is not a name, it is a title.

Memory snapped back. Looking down, she watched the man she had hit in the throat gasp and convulse one last time before he fell still.

Gowan. His name is Srit Gowan.

The man next to him gripped his ruined leg, wincing in pain, though he did not cry out. Glancing around the courtyard, Elith knew where she was. “This is a villa. She is in Mocley.” She recognized it from a painting she had studied back at the Temple.

The Temple, yes. In Komar.

The young blond priest, Varin was his name, cut his eyes to the dead man on the ground and then took another tentative step closer to Elith. “Yes, Shikalu. We have arrived at the villa. You do not seem well.” Fear filled him now. She had no doubt in that. He had the look of a man who did not know what to do next. “Come, let me see you to your rooms.”

With one more glance at the two men on the ground, Elith let her guard drop and stood straight. “It has been a long journey. She would like some rest before she starts her search for the Mah’Sukai.”

The priest motioned for one of the others to pick up the injured man. “Take him to a Shaper and see that his leg is mended as soon as possible.” Turning, he headed for the stairs. Elith did not follow, however. Instead, she knelt next to the man she had killed. She had not known Srit Gowan well. They had trained together a handful of times, and he had seemed like a good man. Looking down at his face, his lifeless brown eyes staring into nothingness, she realized that now she would never know what type of man he was. Again, she did not understand why she should feel any loss for this man. Each priest in her entourage was ready to pass into the Aftermore—some even eager. Still, she committed Srit’s face to memory, like she had the three slaves back in Komar. It was the
why
she did this that nagged at her as she stood up. Why should she care? Because his death had been at her hands? That made no sense. She had killed for the first time when she was only seven winters old. Many had died at her hands since that first time. “
‘To die in the service of the Twelve is to die with purpose. Seek ye always your purpose’.
” The line from the book of the Twelve was one she had heard hundreds of times and had never given it any real thought before. It was a line that new recruits to the Inner Sanctum recited often. It gave them an understanding of what they were doing—made them comfortable with the end they all faced in the service of the Father. Yet, for the first time, she called up the entire story the line came from. It was the story of a warrior in Bathane’s army, a captain. The story told of the captain’s family, of his wife and son. Of the time of his twin daughters’ birth, and how the captain regretted missing so much of his son’s life. How this captain went to Bathane to ask for release, even if for a short time, to be with his new daughters. It was Bathane who had said that line to him, just before he struck the man down.