The Immortal Throne (2016)

by Stella Gemmell

  As the battle for the Notch ebbed and flowed far above, the stream of wounded soldiers passed in and out of the three large tents which housed the City’s injured. Some of them glanced at the thin pale figure, never moving, barely breathing. A few heard him muttering over and over through dry and cracked lips, ‘Marcellus.’ But Marcellus never came.

  Three days after the battle which had nearly taken Rubin’s life, the First Lord had gathered his lieutenants and three companies and departed, leaving the struggle for the Notch in the hands of the doughty Dragonard. Marcellus, it seemed, now had more important battles to fight, both against the enemy and at home in the City.

  The winter thaw hit hard and fast, and spring came early that year. The mountains rang with the sounds of running water, and wildflowers blazed their bright colours from the warming soil. Grey wolves which had crept down from the ice-crusted heights in the dead of winter started returning to their mountain fastnesses to bear their pups. Within the beleaguered City, men’s eyes turned to the weak sun and in hope they bent to planting crops in the fields of Garamund and the far northeast. Young foals, future cavalry mounts, ran joyfully in the water meadows.

  But as the spring weather warmed the land, so new life was breathed into the battle for the City. And the City was losing.

  To the south the last great Petrassi army destroyed the City’s Fourteenth Serpentine in a forty-day offensive and overran the oak-covered hillsides which furnished the City with timber for its ships and buildings and wheeled vehicles and, more gravely, seized the two reservoirs which held its water supply. And the enemy fleet which had successfully blockaded the City’s ports for more than a decade was buttressed by new ships from allied lands, and the blockade extended its grip southwards, so the City was effectively barricaded in by both land and sea.

  Then in the east, at the height of summer, catastrophe struck. The Third Maritime, the City’s premier infantry, unbeaten in the field for more than two years, was annihilated at the Battle of Salaba, surprised by a storm and ferocious flash flood. The legendary general Ren Thoring, commanding a combined Blueskin force, held an advantage of terrain when the storm struck. His army controlled a low eminence and this meagre elevation meant his troops recovered first when the waters began to subside. The City infantrymen were still floundering when the Blues hit them. More than twenty thousand City warriors were killed on the first day, and another thirty thousand in the following days of clean-up. It was the worst defeat of a City army since the Retreat from Araz. It left the City vulnerable on its long eastern side. And, for a while, the blow to the City’s morale seemed mortal.

  And through it all Rubin slept and dreamed.

  The sewers of the City, wider than its bounds, far deeper than its heights, had been inhabited time out of mind by uncounted thousands of wretched folk who called themselves Dwellers. They named the sewers the Halls, for beneath the City were hidden marvels of architecture, built in a long-ago age when the best builders and engineers in the world were engaged to construct the largest enclosed spaces yet known to man.

  The Halls were a place of danger and despair, yet they were also sanctuary to many who were fleeing the military, or the machinery of the emperor, or sometimes life itself. They were home to criminals and the unjustly accused, to deserters from the army and to sixteen-year-old girls and boys whose only other choice was to die miserably in an infantry line, but also to butchers and bakers, chandlers and spice and dye merchants whose livelihood had been ripped away as trade embargoes on the City had started to bite. They were home to the strong and, briefly, to the weak. To cannibals and their victims. To reivers. To wraiths.

  And, for two long years, they had been home to Rubin Kerr Guillaume.

  When he reached his majority, unlike his sister Indaro before him Rubin had not let himself be led from his home, meek and unprotesting, by agents of the City’s army – to endure token training and put on dead men’s armour, arm himself with their weapons and stand in an infantry line to live or die. He had certainly not, like many of his gallant young friends, marched proudly to that same grim fate.

  Rather, on the night before his sixteenth birthday, Rubin had written an apologetic note to his father and slipped out of a side door of the grey house on the Salient. Dodging the guards, he had hiked the length of the cliff, avoiding the road curving down towards the City and eventually finding the hidden stairway cut into rock. A grown man would have been reluctant to attempt the steep steps in daylight, but Rubin was at the height of his youthful arrogance. He had climbed down under the light of the moon and breakfast-time found him at the stream called Goatsfoot Beck.

  The City was a charnel house. Rubin could smell the blood and death from the moment he reached the edge of the Salient and looked down, unseeing in the night, on the hundreds of square leagues of brick and stone, marble and rock, wood and water which made up the oldest, the greatest city in the world. It was a place he had never entered, although he had lived within sight of it all his life.

  But he was young and believed he could overcome any adversity, for he was the scion of two great Families which had wielded power in the City for generations – although not, in truth, for the last several hundred years. And when he had found the narrow culvert he’d been told about, and stepped for the first time into the darkness of the Halls, he had done so with a courage which was both natural and born of pride in his rank and upbringing. And his cruelly limited experience of life.

  He lingered inside the entrance and cautiously breathed in the dark air. He coughed and spat. It was not so bad. He gazed around. The Goatsfoot, which had seemed so insignificant in the world of daylight, now thundered in a narrow man-made channel, filling his ears with sound. On one side of the waterway wide, shallow steps led down into darkness. Rubin sat on his heels and hauled out of his backpack a box of phosphorus sticks, stolen from the kitchens of his home, and lit the first of his precious torches. He knew he would have to replace them soon, but he was confident that by then he would have discovered the method of exchange among folk down here. He was confident of a great deal.

  With the lighted brand held high and his long-bladed knife, a gift from his sister, at the ready he took a shallow breath and set off down.

  He walked straight ahead for what seemed like hours but met no one, heard nothing but the sound of running water and the skittering of unseen rats. The smell got stronger. It was almost with relief that he saw a blur of light in the distance. He grasped his knife firmly, feeling the familiar grip of fine leather in his palm. Rubin knew he was no fighter. He had been told that by weapons master Gillard on many occasions. Rubin had never returned to the fencing lessons, though he learned some knife-fighting skills from Indaro and he knew he had speed, if only for running away.

  The moving torchlight jittered closer and Rubin halted, heart hammering in his chest. Appearing out of the gloom came three men, two thin and one stout and bearded. How can a man stay well fed down here, Rubin wondered with the part of his mind which wasn’t numb with fear. Perhaps this was a newcomer like himself. He put an affable smile on his face, although his chest felt as though a frightened sparrow were trapped inside and blood was pounding in his ears.

  ‘What’s your name, young fellow?’ asked the stout one as they halted across his path. He held a sword casually in his right hand. It was old and looked well used.

  ‘Adolfus,’ Rubin lied promptly. ‘I’m new here, good sir.’

  The stout man looked around at his friends, grinning. ‘We can see that,’ he said. ‘That’s a nice blade you have there. All new and shiny.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Rubin. ‘It’s shiny because I keep it so sharp, you see.’

  The stout man nodded gravely. ‘If you’re new,’ he said, ‘you don’t know the rules. We don’t allow no weapons down here in the Halls.’

  Rubin considered the array of swords, knives and cudgels the three men carried amongst them.

  ‘You have the advantage of me,’ he said. ‘You know my nam
e but I don’t know yours.’

  ‘You don’t need no names, son,’ said the man. ‘Just give me that pigsticker and your pack. Those nice new torches are worth more than gold down here.’

  Rubin stepped back a pace. ‘Then I would be a fool to give them up, wouldn’t I?’

  He had no idea how he could survive the encounter, short of fleeing. He knew he could outrun the men, but what would he do then? Go home? Admit to his father he had run away twice within one day? Never. He raised his knife, trying to summon what he had learned about defending himself.

  The stout man ran at him, his sword slashing at Rubin’s head. Rubin swayed from the knees and the tip whispered past a hair’s-breadth from his face. He stepped in, blade stabbing. The stout man was still moving forward and his own weight forced the knife deep into his stomach. It was a large target. The man fell to the ground, a ghastly scream dying quickly to a breathless mew. Rubin dragged the knife out and stepped towards the two others, who fled.

  Elated, Rubin stood, heart pounding. It had been laughably easy. The stout man was so slow. How had such a sluggard survived down here? A sluggard and a bully must have some skills to survive. Rubin wondered what they were. He looked down at the man, who was panting weakly, his eyes rolling. He wondered if he should despatch him, but in the end he left him in the darkness, dying slowly.

  Will every day be like this, Rubin thought, a fight just to stay alive? But he was buoyed by the encounter, and he slashed the dank air with the knife and wondered now if he should have brought a sword. He felt ready to take on anyone.

  So it was with some dismay that the next people he met were a gang of seven thugs, all armed with swords, led by the two thin men, perhaps returning to avenge their friend. They emerged from the gloom like a small army, their way lighted by torches, nailed boots stomping on stone, metal and leather clanking and creaking. When they spotted Rubin they yelled and started running towards him, weapons flailing.

  Rubin turned and fled.

  He sprinted over wet stone, holding the torch high. He was faster than them, but not by much. He stumbled several times on the slick surface and once hit his knee so hard he feared he had broken it. The pursuers seemed more sure-footed and, glancing back, he realized they were gaining. His blazing torch was a beacon and, though he dreaded the dark, he knew he would have to ditch it. He picked his time. He recalled a side tunnel he had passed on his way inwards: he had noticed it because the more than fetid air from it had made him retch. He stole a look behind him. The men were close. Reaching the side tunnel, Rubin threw down his torch and plunged into darkness.

  Dividing their resources, three of the men dived down the passage marked by the downed torch while the others ran on up the main tunnel. They made a lot of noise, grunting and cursing, shouting to each other as they searched for the boy. They found the body of their friend, now good and dead apparently, and one of the thugs spoke loudly and inventively about what he would do to Rubin when he found him.

  But they didn’t find him, and after a deal more cursing they marched off, leaving their dead comrade to moulder in the dark. The sound they made echoed on, and it was a long while before Rubin found the courage to emerge. In pitch blackness he dragged himself up out of the water where he had managed to lodge his body upstream of a slimy bulwark. He was amazed the thugs had not searched for him in the channel. It was some time later before he learned that, for Dwellers, falling into the stream meant only death. This was so deep-rooted that even though the water at that point was fairly fresh, having recently come from outside, the ruffians never thought to look there.

  Shivering in his soaking clothes, and trembling still from the dread of being captured, Rubin hunkered down and considered his position. He still had his knife, but his pack was lost. And he was cold, hungry and in total darkness. All he could do, apart from retreating towards daylight again, was wait for someone to come along with a torch and either befriend them or follow them. His heartbeat slowly quietened, and he decided to sleep for a while. Groping along the rocky wall he found a deep niche and tried to make himself comfortable. He started to doze, his body warming a little, his fears receding.

  And then the rats came. He felt something move on his arm and he twitched, brushing it away idly as he dozed. Then tiny claws caught in his bare skin and he jerked awake, leaping up shouting, brushing real or imagined animals from his clothes and body. Shuddering, he leaned back his head and screamed at the top of his voice, relieving his feelings and scattering the rats.

  After that he had no choice but to keep moving inwards, fingering his way along the rocky wall, testing each footfall for crumbling steps or crevasses in his path. He was worn out but could not bear the thought of sitting down again.

  Days seemed to pass and still Rubin crept along, numb with exhaustion and fear. Then he heard a faint sound and stopped, holding his breath, heart banging. It was not the skittering of rats, but neither was it the stomp of marching men. He looked around, trying to work out which direction the sound was coming from, scanning for light. Then he detected a dim blur to his right and he blinked rapidly, seeking better focus. Yes, a moving torch. He felt along the wall, trying to find somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere, just sheer rock on one side, the stream on the other. As the light moved closer he could see there was just the one flame – perhaps three people at most. He wondered if they would be friendly.

  Eventually a figure emerged under the uncertain glow of a guttering torch. It was a small man edging along with a strange rolling gait. He looked harmless. His light was failing; as Rubin watched from the darkness he stopped and pulled a fresh brand from his sack, and lit it expertly from the dying one. The man was watching his feet as he crept along, moving the torch back and forth to illuminate the damp, treacherous ground in front of him.

  Gripping his knife, Rubin took a deep breath and stepped into the light-pool. In the wink of an eye the small man turned and was scuttling back along the pathway for all he was worth.

  ‘I won’t hurt you!’ Rubin called. ‘I mean you no harm!’

  The man kept running, but he was old and Rubin knew he could catch him. Besides, he thought, he could follow the light. As if in response to this thought the man threw down the torch and vanished. Rubin ran to it and gratefully snatched it up, feeling the warmth of another hand on the rough wood. He stood quietly for a moment.

  The scuffling sound of running feet had stopped and there was silence. Rubin walked slowly forward, alert for sound or movement. He did not fear the old man but was, on the contrary, anxious for company.

  ‘I mean you no harm,’ he repeated to the waiting darkness. ‘I’m seeking information.’

  There was only silence. ‘I have gold,’ he lied. ‘I will give some to you for information.’

  The silence thickened and there was no sign the Dweller would trust him. Then from the blackness to his right the man suddenly sprang out, his spindly body hitting Rubin’s, his fingers grasping frantically for the torch. Rubin pushed him off with ease and the oldster stumbled to his knees and tried to scramble away. Rubin dropped the torch and lunged at him, desperate not to be left alone. He grabbed the man’s skinny neck. The Dweller was twitching and shaking, whether from fear or illness Rubin could not tell.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he assured him. ‘I need help.’

  The old man was clad in layers of filthy rags which felt slick with grease under Rubin’s hands. His face was pale as wax. He glared at Rubin with black button eyes but appeared exhausted. He could do no more than look around, ensuring his sack was still there.

  Rubin cautiously let go of him and grabbed the torch then leaned back against the rock wall, trying to look unthreatening. ‘My name is Rubin,’ he said.

  After a while he added, ‘And then, you see, you say your name.’

  His new companion peered at him suspiciously. Then he startled Rubin by suddenly shouting, ‘How’re we heading, boy?’

  Rubin frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he answere
d. Then, ‘I was hoping you’d tell me, sir.’

  The man kept looking around fretfully as if expecting an army of Rubin’s comrades to come storming down the tunnel.

  ‘I’m alone too,’ Rubin said, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way. ‘Answer me one question and I’ll give you light for your torch.’

  ‘You got bones, boy?’ the old man bellowed, and Rubin realized he must be deaf. He had no idea what the man meant and, it seemed, the man could not understand him. He shook his head.

  ‘Answer me one question,’ he repeated, shouting back. ‘Tell me where I can go to rest in safety.’

  The old man said nothing but he climbed slowly to his feet and picked up his sack, peering into it as if he feared Rubin might have looted it. Then he beckoned Rubin to follow. They quickly left the main pathway, following a narrow crack in the rock. They came out in a new tunnel, then his companion suddenly plunged down a steep stairway and Rubin followed close behind. He was worried lest he be left alone, even though he still held the torch. The smell thickened as they descended and he vomited the meagre contents of his stomach. The old man glanced behind, then scuttled left and disappeared down a near-vertical stair, leading ever down.

  Rubin paused for a breath, feeling he was at a turning-point. He could still go back and, perhaps with this old man’s help, find the way out to daylight, to the comforts of home. But by now the emperor’s men would have arrived at the Salient, seeking him for the army. And if they could not find him they would certainly return.

  So he gritted his teeth and, saying a silent farewell to the life he’d known, he followed his new friend down into the hell of the Halls, walking beyond light and hope to a world where despair squats like a toad, eating brave boys for breakfast.