‘We had a friend,’ Thorum told her as she ate, still seated high above them. ‘She went to the White Palace back in the summer and we haven’t heard from her since. Her name is Mavalla. She was injured and alone. If you see her tell her we’re with the Fighting Forty-seventh.. We march on the Great North Gate with the dawn, if she wants to join us.’
‘I will tell her if I see her,’ Em said. She hoped they would not ask her why she was going to the Shield, and they didn’t.
‘How do you plan to get there?’ Wren asked, peering up at her.
It seemed a foolish question. ‘I can see it,’ Em said, pointing south. ‘You can see it from everywhere in the City in daytime.’ Even in the twilight they could see lights twinkling on its flanks.
‘But it is a long ride and the City is a perilous place,’ the woman said. ‘Plague is rife. And the captain won’t be the only one looking for a good horse.’
‘I will get there,’ Em said stoutly. Stalker’s last words to her had convinced her she must return the veil, and as soon as possible.
‘Ride the wall,’ Thorum suggested.
‘The wall?’ Emly looked up at the massive stone battlements. She wondered if he was joking. ‘Can you get a horse up there?’
‘All the Great Gates,’ the soldier explained, ‘have ramps or flights of shallow steps so you can ride up on to them. You’d be able to follow the wall all the way to the Paradise Gate then cut across to the mountain from there.’
‘Won’t they stop me?’ she asked, doubtful of the idea.
‘The walls aren’t manned,’ he told her, ‘apart from bands of watchmen. All able-bodied soldiers have been ordered to the gates where the enemy are trying to break in.’ Thorum chuckled. ‘You could probably ride all the way to the Seagate. I’ve heard that’s the way imperial messengers go.’ He looked to Wren for agreement and she nodded.
‘It will be dangerous,’ she added, ‘but not so dangerous as riding through the City streets, a lone girl on a valuable horse.’
‘Thank you,’ Emly said, suddenly energized by the plan. She grabbed the reins, eager to be off. But Thorum laid a hand on her stirrup.
‘Don’t start now!’ he said, concern in his voice. ‘It’s dark and you need rest.’
‘I’m running out of time,’ Emly told him. She felt a gathering menace at her back, forcing her onward. She thought of something Evan would say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
‘I need to get there as soon as I can,’ she told them. ‘I have to get to the empress.’
The two soldiers stared at her, no doubt thinking her deluded, but Thorum pointed to his right. ‘The eastward steps are along there past that white temple.’ He grabbed the rein before she could ride off. ‘The wall passes over the minor gates,’ he explained, looking hard at her to see she understood, ‘but when you reach the Great Gates – the Great North, Araby and Paradise – you’ll need to ride down off the wall. And you’ll have to be careful,’ he said, eyeing the long knife at Em’s side, ‘for there could be fighting at any of them. But it should be a fast ride to the Shield from the Paradise Gate.’
She nodded her thanks to them both and urged the warhorse forward. Rat’s feet of panic skittered up her spine. If Stalker was right and Hammarskjald could somehow use the veil against the City, she had to return it into Archange’s safekeeping, but she feared she might be too late.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
PATIENCE RACED EASTWARD under the stars, his big iron hooves striking sparks from the cold stone. It was as if he knew where he was going and he seemed as eager as Emly to get there. On the first stretch of their journey, back east to the Great North Gate, they had passed only one band of soldiers who yelled at them to stop but scattered as the great warhorse thundered by. Though tired and hungry Em felt safe up on the broad, empty wall. They were passing only empty fields to their right, and to their left the parapet protected them from any enemy outside.
She heard and smelled the battle at the Great North Gate long before she could see it. She eased the horse to a trot and approached with trepidation. Stopping for a moment to look over the parapet, she could see the dark stain of the enemy army crawling like black maggots round the base of the wall and the broken gate. She rode on. Soon the wall-top was crowded, defended by City bowmen loosing a stream of arrows down into the attackers. The stones of the wall were slick with blood, and dead and injured archers lay under the parapet. Some stretched out their hands for aid, pleading for water, but Emly hardened her heart and rode by with eyes averted.
She found the steps leading downward and at the top she reined in, transfixed by the battle below. Now she was close up she could see the massive Great North Gate had splintered. Thousands of enemy soldiers had poured through, to be met by City warriors. The sound of clashing weapons was deafening and the screams of agony and stench of blood made her feel sick.
Patience stepped from foot to foot, anxious to be off. She steered him down the steps. She had planned to follow a wide circle around the fighting, but once she was down in the seething City again she soon found herself lost. It was chaos. All around her was a press of soldiers, hemming her in on all sides. Soldiers were marching towards the battle and struggling away from it. Some were on stretchers, although many of the most grievously wounded had been left to find the casualty stations alone. There was a fire somewhere and choking smoke drifted over them. Patience shook his head, his eyes wild, but she urged him on. A dozen times Em was tempted to jump down and help a soldier, blinded or crippled by hideous injuries. But she fixed her eyes on the eastward wall and reminded herself of her duty. There were more plague tents here, scores of them, and she found herself breathing lightly, fearing the miasma of sickness would enter her body.
A hard hand grabbed her foot. ‘Here, girl! Give me that horse!’
A wounded man, his face masked in blood, pulled on her bare ankle, trying to dislodge her. She dragged out the pigsticker and jabbed it into the back of his hand. He fell away, howling. She kicked Patience on, looking desperately for the steps. She could see the wall leading east and south but there seemed no way up on to it.
Then she noticed two men in uniform pointing at her, talking. They started pushing through the crowd, eyes fixed on her. If they reached her there was nothing she could do to stop them pulling her from the saddle. She smacked Patience on the rump, shouting at him to move on. He started shouldering his way through the press, his great bulk making a path away from the two men. An injured soldier went down under his hooves. Tearfully Em closed her ears to his cries and urged the stallion forward.
With a gasp of relief she spotted the ramp leading upwards on the eastern side of the gate and urged the warhorse towards it. The mob around her thinned, then she was free and she kicked the horse up the shallow steps, sucking fresher air into her chest.
At the top she looked back once, troubled. She knew little about the strategies of warfare, yet any fool could see the enemy was winning.
The lift-shafts inside the Shield of Freedom were a feat of engineering which only the Serafim, at the height of their arrogance, could have achieved or even considered. There had been seven major shafts, including the one from the Lake of Tears at the base of the mountain to the Serafia at its peak, and a handful of minor ones plus myriad maintenance tunnels. But when something isn’t used for a hundred years, or two hundred, or three, it is reasonable to close it off, board it up, brick it up, then, of course, forget it.
The lifts’ cylindrical cages and the hauling machinery at the head of each shaft had long since fallen, dropping one by one in a meteoric shower of rust and dust. Only the last remained, at the top of the highest shaft. It floated in the dark waiting, shuddering from time to time as if it knew its inevitable fate. It was the haunt of spiders and beetles and moths, yet the white-eared bats which swarmed through the mountain declined to roost there as if they knew such a nesting-place would be perilous.
When the soldiers came, hunting the assassins who had killed Dol Salida an
d Dashoul, they had peered into the lone cage to ensure it was empty. They hadn’t ventured inside. No one with any sense would step into the thing, which seemed ready to plummet at any moment. And it was a long way down.
Before midnight on the night after the new moon, there was a soft flurry of moths around the cage and Fin Gilshenan, sole survivor of the intruders, squeezed down from where, nestled in the narrow space between the top of the cage and the roof of the shaft, he had been hiding recovering from injury. He was about to embark on his final mission.
He lowered himself into the cage, which trembled a little, and stepped out on to the rock platform. He lit a lantern. His eyes smarting from the unaccustomed light, he reached up and carefully slid down from the top of the lift a long wooden box. He opened it, revealing variously coloured waxed tubes. He picked out two green ones then pushed the box back out of sight. Grabbing the lantern, he set off.
As he limped towards his destination his injured thigh gained strength and mobility with movement. While the deep knife-wound had healed sufficiently for him to complete his task, it had drained some of his certainty. One green flare – that was all he needed, he told himself angrily. An earlier Fin would have trusted them to work without question. But, like him, they had been lying in a cold, damp place for too long and he wanted to be sure.
He stepped out into the fresh night air and sucked it in. The sky was thick with stars, the moon just a thin sliver, as he had calculated. Inwardly he thanked the unfailing routines of the palace soldiery, who marked the watches, day and night, with the tolling of bells, which had helped him keep count of the days of his long recovery.
He was on one of the highest parts of the mountain, outside the palace walls, facing south to where his lord Hammarskjald would be watching on this starlit night. He pushed the butt-end of the flare into a crack in the rock. Fingers trembling a little he struck a phosphorus stick and set its fire to the fuse. Two long heartbeats of anxiety passed, then with an exhilarating whoosh the flare soared high over his head, showering green sparks, lighting the white walls of the palace with a sickly glow.
Blinded by the flare’s brilliance, he squinted towards the southern mountains. Slowly they came into view, silhouetted under the starlit sky. He waited, hardly daring to blink for fear of missing the answering flare. Would it be red or white?
He had last seen his lord more than half a year before when he and his comrades had set out on this mission. His every action since had been centred on this one night. By sending up a single green flare he’d signalled his continued presence but admitted something which shamed him – he had not found the baby as his lord had ordered. He was ready to suffer the consequences when the time came. It would not affect his work tonight, if he received the order to go ahead.
And there was his answer, much closer than he’d expected! A soaring red light climbed into the sky and hung there, spitting sparks. He breathed out his relief and grinned to himself in the darkness. Red for action, he thought. Red for blood.
Emly was crawling up the face of the Shield, desperate to reach something. Her shoulders and knees were on fire, her fingers stiff and numb as she clung to each tiny handhold. Rain drummed on her back and she was drenched through, her clothes dragging her down. With nerveless fingertips she probed the rock-face above, as she had done a thousand times before, feeling for another handhold. But this time there was none to find. The rock was sheer, implacable. The rain came down harder and threatened to wash her off the mountain. Scarcely able to see, she pulled out the pigsticker and dug it into a thin line in the sheer surface above her head, banging it in with her fist. Then she levered herself up to find the next hold.
When she reached the top, trembling with exhaustion and weak with relief, she flung one arm over the parapet and, shoulders screaming, rested for a moment. Then she pulled herself up, scrabbling with her toes, and got the other arm up.
She peered over. Waiting for her was a Fkeni warrior, black robes flying, shining sickle in hand. With ruined teeth he grinned at her and sliced the blade towards her face.
Em woke with a start, heart pounding, and nearly slid from the saddle. She shook her head to dispel the shards of nightmare, realizing she had to rest. She had been riding for a night and a day and now it was dark again. She could feel time at her back, urging her on, but she ached all over and she was worried for Patience, who had dropped to a slow trot, his head low. She reined him in and slid off, legs protesting. She hauled down Stalker’s pack and found the old, rusty cooking pot she’d seen him use. She unhitched a water skin and filled the pot and put it down for the horse, who eagerly pushed his nose into it and started sucking up water. It was the best she could do; she had no food for him.
She looked about them. Under the myriad stars the land was bright as day, but colourless, eerie. On one side dark fields stretched off into blackness. On the other, over the wall, was empty grassland. Ahead of them the wall went on, ever south, a broad, glinting road. She could hear nothing but the sough of the breeze and the thump of her heart. She closed her eyes and after a while the eager heartbeat slowed. The silent stillness was comforting. Trusting Patience would not wander, Emly lay down on the hard stones of the wall, laid her head on her old cloth bag, and slept.
Elated by the order to proceed, Fin Gilshenan returned to the lift and climbed gingerly up on top. It shuddered again. This would be the last time he would have to seek sanctuary there. By dawn his perilous hideout would lie in smithereens far below.
From its hiding place he pulled down a second, larger box. It was heavy and difficult to manage on his own. That had not been the plan, after all. But he manhandled it down then dragged it out on to the area in front of the lift-shaft. He stood, catching his breath, looking back at the open cage hanging hollowly in the darkness like a devouring mouth.
He crouched and opened the box, its hinges grating loudly in the silence, and took out the sticks of explosive, tied in bundles. He had been told exactly where to place each one and the order in which to light the fuses. They were long fuses. He did not plan to die this night. He took one bundle out. Here, above the central shaft, it would be enough to bring down the main bulk of the palace when it exploded. He secured the rest in his backpack, then, grunting with effort, he set off.
He could follow the shafts and tunnels blindfold. The ways he used into and out of the palace were still unknown to its soldiery, though his lord knew them all. It was easy to evade the few palace guards that remained, and he eyed them with contempt from the darkness as they stomped by with loud boots and louder voices.
One bundle of explosive he tucked between the joists supporting the soldiers’ quarters, and one on the roof above. Always disable the soldiers first. Then another on the roof of the throne room. This was only symbolic, his lord had told him, but it would be a fine symbol. One he hid under the wall leading to the empress’s apartments. The final bundle was placed to bring down the white gates of the palace, symbolic again, but the shattered timber and rock would trap anyone trying to flee. The White Palace would collapse, destroying the last centre of power in the City.
When his lord arrived with the conquering forces there would be only bodies to greet him. And Fin Gilshenan, his loyal servant.
The Shield of Freedom loomed huge to Emly’s right. She had passed the Araby Gate without incident and now the Paradise Gate must, she hoped, be within reach. Beyond the battlements all was calm, just rolling grassland all the way to the mountains on the horizon. She had seen no sign of the enemy since they left the Great North Gate. The City looked peaceful too. They were passing above houses and streets. Though it was barely dawn people, horses, carts and carriages all seemed to be going about their daily business, apparently unmoved by the terror at the Great Gates. She wondered if they even knew about it. She remembered the empress telling her that the City was so vast that when the southern districts were flooded then invaded almost a year ago, people in the north hadn’t known about it for days.
She lean
ed forward to pat Patience’s neck. She knew the big warhorse could travel all day, but he had not eaten since before they entered the City. Once they came down from the wall she must find sustenance for them both. She wondered what would become of him when they reached the palace. Would he be sent off to die in the war? Was that his destiny?
The sun was still below the horizon when she saw they were nearing the gate. Sounds of battle reached her ears and dread gathered in her belly. She reined in and looked over the battlements. The enemy army was a dark blur on the grasslands. She wondered if they had broken through, as they had at the Great North Gate. As she rode closer she could see tall wooden towers standing close to the wall. She frowned, wondering what they were. In her tiredness she could only guess. Were they trying to reach the top of the wall? But they were too far away. In her muddled mind Emly could make no sense of it.
Her eyes were gritty and she had to keep reminding herself to hold on tightly. If she fell asleep would Patience know where to go on his own? She saw men running along the wall towards her, shouting and waving their arms. She kicked Patience into a canter. The soldiers grabbed at the reins but she passed them and rode on.
Something hit her hard in her side. Shocked and confused, she looked down and saw a feathered shaft sticking out of her. She wondered what it was. It was far too short to be an arrow. Then she felt herself falling, falling. Something hard smashed into her and she was claimed by the darkness.
The first two explosions brought down the soldiers’ quarters and woke everyone in the palace – those who still lived. Valla was thrown to the floor of her small storeroom and, in pitch blackness, body battered and mind bruised, she scrambled into her clothes. She had no idea what had happened, but her only concern was the empress. She opened the storeroom door and was hit by a wave of hot, acrid dust. Coughing and choking, she hurried in the direction of Archange’s apartments. Feeling her way, she stumbled over debris and bodies. She could hear the screams and moans of the injured. Something brushed her leg; she felt the gulon’s slick flank press against her and heard it cough.
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