The Immortal Throne (2016)

by Stella Gemmell

  The next blast knocked her feet from under her. Struggling up, she saw part of the roof had come down. Dawn light glinted above but she could not see where she was. She peered through the flying dust but recognized nothing. Then she saw the gulon, waiting for her by a dark hole in the rubble. It padded back and forth impatiently. It seemed to know where it wanted to go and she could only follow it, hoping it would lead her to the empress. It scampered ahead and she followed cautiously, climbing over fallen roof beams, squeezing through narrow gaps in collapsed walls. She saw no one, and she feared she might be the only soldier left alive.

  As the dust began to clear and she regained her sense of direction, she stopped, looking around. The gulon was going the wrong way. It was heading downward. ‘Stop!’ she ordered. The gulon halted then started pacing back and forth again. Valla was gripped by indecision. She needed to get to the empress but could find no way upwards. Another explosion rocked them and Valla crouched and covered her head as more debris and dust rained down. What is happening? she wondered. Is it the cannon Marcellus spoke of?

  The gulon whined and, knowing no better, she followed it. It had led her truly before.

  They worked their way through the broken palace, lit occasionally by shafts of dusty light, until they reached the mouth of a dark corridor. The gulon dived in without pause. Valla looked around, trying to work out where they were. There was less damage here and she realized they had reached one of the secret tunnels inside the mountain. Flickering torches still rested on wall brackets. She grabbed one and plunged in after the gulon. It led her along narrow paths, down steps, then up again into a wide cave. Valla raised the torch and looked around. It had been hewn out of rough rock, but the floor on which they stood was smooth. To one side was an open metal cage, big enough to hold several men, suspended from the gloomy ceiling. It hung above a hole, a great gash in the rock. Valla stepped to the lip of the abyss and looked down. Cool, dank air rose from below. She had heard about these shafts. They were very ancient and no one knew what they were for. The gulon scampered into the hanging cage, making it creak and sway slightly. The beast scrambled up the rocky wall behind it, sniffing. She wondered what it could smell.

  Then it snarled and Valla whirled round, drawing her sword. A small man, slender and straight, stepped out of the darkness. His skin was deathly pale and he wore a heavy bandage around one thigh, dark with old blood. He held a single lighted phosphorus stick. As she watched him, bemused, he bent down and, keeping his eyes on her, set light to something at his feet. It fizzed and seemed to crawl across the floor. She wondered what it was.

  The man drew two daggers and bowed to her slightly. Valla wanted to smile, but she knew any opponent must be taken seriously, however harmless-looking. He darted in.

  He was skilled, far more skilled than she’d anticipated. He was lightning fast and his technique was flawless. But she was the one with the sword and it took her only a few moments to disarm him, then slash his throat. He staggered back, blood gushing, eyes wide. He backed into the open cage and stood there holding his neck, dark blood spurting through his fingers. Then the fifth explosion sounded and the reverberation from the blast shook the cave, showering down rocks. The small man slumped to his knees. There was a frozen moment. Then the cage, freed at last to die, plummeted suddenly into darkness. It made no sound.

  Sheathing her sword, Valla saw the cage’s fall had trapped the gulon on a narrow ledge on the far wall of the shaft. The beast ran back and forth, its paws pattering, but it could find no way off. It peered down into the shaft then stared at Valla across the abyss, its yellow eyes hectic in the torchlight. It whined.

  There was no way she could reach it. She grabbed the torch from the floor and held it high. Looking around she saw a rusty metal pole lying discarded and picked it up. It was heavy but she thrust it across the open shaft and caught its end on the ledge. The gulon sniffed it. She called to the beast, trying to make it run along the pole, but it sat down. Anxious to reach the empress, Valla began to walk away but the gulon howled. She stopped and returned. She could not leave it. Finally it placed one paw on the rusty pole. Valla crouched, holding the end so it would not roll. Suddenly the gulon ran across the precarious bridge. Under the rhythm of its paws the far end of the pole bounced off the ledge. The beast would have pitched into the shaft but, stretching over the abyss, Valla grabbed it by its oily scruff, then by one front leg, and, its back paws scrabbling madly, she lifted it out to safety.

  With a nervous spring it pulled away from her and rolled over on the ground, then jumped up and dashed back into the tunnel. Valla smiled.

  She hurried over to the flame lit by the little man. It was still fizzing and creeping along a length of cord. She followed the cord and found it led to a bundle of cylinders tied together. Valla wondered what they were. She watched the moving flame then, as it drew close to the bundle, she stamped it out. As an afterthought she kicked the whole contraption down the shaft.

  She had turned to follow the gulon when a voice called, ‘Valla!’ She reached for her sword as a figure hurried into the light pool. It was Thekla, the empress’s granddaughter.

  ‘Valla, you must help,’ she cried, wringing her hands. ‘Help me rescue Archange!’

  Guilty that she’d been diverted, Valla sheathed her sword. Thekla gave a cry and bent forward as if in pain.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Valla asked her, catching her by the shoulders. ‘Are you injured?’ She did not see the thin dagger Thekla pulled from the folds of her skirts. The woman, a surgeon after all, stabbed her unerringly through the heart. Valla had no time to commend herself to Aduara. She was dead before she hit the floor. Thekla wiped her blade on the soldier’s jacket and sheathed it. Then, crouching down, she rolled the body to the edge of the lift-shaft and dropped it over.

  Fighting Knife was a mountain woman whose tribe, along with the Tanaree and Tuomi, had survived for millennia in the high peaks beyond the City’s plains. They called themselves simply Fsaan, the People. Once they had been a terrible foe. Their focus, their vigour, their sole appetite was hunting their enemies. But they had been conquered and enslaved and then, when the war pressed on the City’s resources, abandoned; and the few remaining pockets of the People lived a frugal, fragile existence deep in the Blacktree Mountains.

  Despite her name, Fighting Knife was a goat-herder, as her forefathers had been for as long as the oldest of old ones could remember. Her knife was used to cut the necks of her animals, when needed, not those of her enemies. But she was a fierce creature, and she had needed all the strength and ferocity she could muster when, in winter two years before, the last few People, starved from their homes and forced to flee the City’s blood-soaked armies, had made their way down from the peaks to seek succour in, of all places, the City.

  Each day Fighting Knife fought for her family in any way she could. She stole food and clothes in winter, butchered dogs and rats when she had to, and found occasional work, often on her back, but then a woman must use all her resources to survive. She knew her pearl eye, damaged when she was an infant, frightened City folk for they were ignorant and stupid. The People knew the pearl eye was a sign of mystical wisdom. Some days, if there was a chance of work, she wore a patch to cover it and sometimes she thought she would be better off without it altogether, for a missing eye or leg or arm was a commonplace in this war-tired place.

  Now she sat on the wall north of the Paradise Gate, far from the fighting, counting her takings. She looked at the eastern mountains, clothed thickly with tall trees, and, in memory, smelled the thick pungent sap and felt the springy mattress of needles under her bare feet. Her gods lived in the clouds that brought life-giving rain, in the sun which brought growth, and in blood which brought life. She had not forgotten them though she had walked away from their land, a decision she daily regretted.

  She had been eyeing the rider coming towards her, thinking it a rare thing to see a horse on the walls, and, as it passed her, rarer still to see a woman
on horseback.

  As she watched, thinking how reckless the rider was to venture so close to the enemy’s high towers, as if in answer the horsewoman jerked, then slumped in the saddle. The big stallion faltered to a halt paces from where Fighting Knife sat. The rider fell off like a sack of laundry. The horse trotted on, then stopped, uncertain.

  Fighting Knife stood and went over to her, blade in hand, though the woman looked dead and, besides, harmless. But someone who owned such a horse might own other things of value. She ran her hands over the body, looking for coin, but there was nothing. The woman, just a girl really, smelled of sweat and horses and fear. Her feet were bare like a pauper’s, like Fighting Knife’s own feet. The arrow had plunged deep into her side.

  Then the rider opened her eyes. ‘Help me,’ she whispered.

  Fighting Knife could do nothing. She looked at the blood pooling on the stones. A wound of that sort was always fatal. There were many worse deaths. The girl spoke again and Fighting Knife bent close.

  ‘The veil,’ the girl breathed, ‘to the empress.’ Her face was pale as ice and her dark eyes were pleading.

  Her words meant nothing and Fighting Knife stood up. Perhaps she could catch the horse … The girl grabbed feebly at the hem of her skirt. ‘Please.’

  The woman crouched down again. ‘What you want?’ she asked reluctantly, for dying wishes were sacred.

  ‘There’s a veil, in my bag, it belongs to the empress,’ the girl told her haltingly, her eyes wide with pain and shock, her breathing agonized. ‘Take the horse. You must. Must. Please.’ Then her eyes closed and she said no more.

  Fighting Knife looked at the mountain where the empress lived. It was a long way. She eyed the horse and it eyed her back. She scrambled to her feet and walked towards it. It backed away. She put out one hand and made friendly noises as if it were one of her goats. She knew nothing about horses. One hand outstretched she walked up to the beast, which was trembling, poised for flight, and gently unhooked a battered cloth bag from its saddle. The stallion snorted and trotted away. Fighting Knife rummaged in the bag. Dirty old clothes. And at the bottom a shawl or scarf. She pulled it out. It was a bedraggled piece of cloth, grey and creased. She was about to drop it and walk away when a gleam of morning light caught her eye. She held it up and the sun came out at that moment and caught the warp and woof of it and she saw golden lights and intricate thread-work, then animals prancing in a circle, a dog, a horse, a fish. It was a marvellous thing and worth money, she guessed, eyes narrowing. Perhaps the empress would pay for it. The woman was said to be a shaman and might be grateful to Fighting Knife.

  Pushing the cloth into her own bag she set off. When she looked back she saw the big horse had returned to nuzzle the dead girl.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘WHY MUST YOU go to the white Palace, lord?’ Rubin asked in the early hours of that morning as he helped Marcellus don his riding leathers. Though his wound clearly pained him and blood still seeped through the dressings, he had declared himself fit to ride. He was leaving the defence of the Adamantine Breach in the hands of Langham Vares and Darius to head for the Shield of Freedom.

  Marcellus scowled, his face livid in the half-light of daybreak. ‘Do not question me, boy!’ he snarled.

  Rubin held his tongue and closed the lord’s soft leather jerkin over his blood-stained shirt and tied its straps.

  After a baleful silence Marcellus sighed. ‘Fate is dragging me there,’ he confessed, his face troubled. Beneath his eyes the skin looked dark and bruised. ‘I feel it in my bones and I am helpless against it.’ He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen sinews which would be sorely tested by the ride.

  But the battle for the City is here, Rubin thought. What can be more fateful than this time, this place?

  As if he had spoken the thought, Marcellus replied, ‘The Serafia is barely defended now. I fear Hammarskjald covets Rafe’s son and hopes to keep me distracted here while he steals it.’

  ‘The baby? Why?’ This was the first time Marcellus had mentioned the child. He had asked Rubin nothing of Fiorentina’s deliverance from the wreck of the Red Palace except the assurance that she still lived.

  ‘Because it is the offspring of a reflection, something which has never been seen before.’ Marcellus paused in thought. Every line on his face seemed deeply scored, his skin drawn tightly against his skull. ‘Some fear it will prove a monster. But I believe it will be more powerful than any of us.’

  ‘Hammarskjald plans to kill it?’ Who would be the monster then?

  Marcellus shook his head slowly. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘The wheel of history is turning and is crushing all our past certainties. If I knew what was in that man’s mind we would not be where we are now.’ He picked up his sword-belt. ‘Let’s ride.’

  Almost from the outset of their journey Marcellus’ temper shortened. Rubin glanced at him from time to time, for his face was ashen and slick with sweat. But any suggestion that he pause to rest was angrily rebuffed and Marcellus pushed them on.

  When, with the sunrise, explosions ripped through the White Palace and echoed across the City, the horses started and reared. Their riders struggled to control them. Marcellus spoke softly to his mount and the beast settled. They all looked up at the peak but it was shrouded in cloud. Marcellus pressed on.

  The garrison town at the base of the mountain appeared abandoned. Rubin halted his mount and stood in the stirrups, looking around, shocked at the change in so few days. The wooden shacks looked deserted, the paddocks lay empty and wild dogs slunk in the shadows. And the great bronze gates lay wide open, unmanned. Marcellus said nothing but his face was dark as he rode through and ascended the Shell Path. At the top the gates of the White Palace lay broken as if by a giant hammer-strike, and beyond Rubin could make out only ruins. Dust hung thickly in the still air and through it he could see dead or injured soldiers laid out in the great courtyard. Nothing stirred. He wondered what had caused such devastation and if anyone could have survived. He thought of Valla and Elija and was filled with fear.

  As they trotted their horses into the courtyard Rubin heard orders bellowed within and armed guards came running through the swirling dust to challenge them. They were blood-stained and dirty; some carried injuries, and their eyes were red and raw, but they lined up across the riders’ path ready to defend the broken palace.

  ‘What happened here?’ Marcellus demanded, drawing rein and sitting up straight for the first time in hours. He eyed the defenders one by one, then barked, ‘Laudric! You know me.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ replied a burly, thick-bearded soldier, stepping forward. ‘It was around dawn, lord. We heard loud thunderclaps, then there was a monstrous earthquake.’ He looked at his comrades for support. ‘We fear the gods are angry.’

  Marcellus snorted. ‘Why are the bronze gates undefended?’

  ‘The guards down there deserted like dogs.’ Laudric coughed then spat on the ground. ‘It was two days ago; the people of the base town started fleeing, the whores and the pedlars. They’d heard rumours that the Paradise Gate had been breached and they ran from fear of the enemy army and the plague they bring. The gate guards, they disappeared the next night.’

  ‘Cowards!’ Marcellus growled. ‘Were they hunted down?’

  ‘No, lord, we don’t have the numbers. We were ordered to stay and guard the empress.’ He cleared his throat of dust. ‘Lord, we have been ordered—’ he began, his face reddening. He grasped his sword-hilt and glanced at his comrades again. ‘We have been ordered to arrest you, lord.’

  Marcellus laughed shortly, though there was little humour in the sound. ‘City soldiers desert the Shield and go unpunished – but you have orders to arrest its most loyal son?’

  But before Laudric could reply, Marcellus held up his hand. He smiled and lowered his voice, the tone becoming warm and gracious.

  ‘Laudric, you have served the City for a lifetime.’ The man’s eyes were fixed on his lord’s. ‘You fought in the ranks
of the Fourteenth Serpentine, as did your father Arrian and your grandfather Beran, whom they called Bloodhand. There was a day, on the field of Saris, when I led the Fourteenth. Remember?’ Laudric nodded and his hand dropped from his sword.

  ‘Do you really want it to come to this, on this day of days when the City’s future is on the brink? Do you really want a fight between your men and mine?’

  ‘No, lord.’

  Marcellus waved his hand and the dazed, battered guards shuffled to one side, doubtless relieved. He kicked his horse on and the beast pushed past. As they crossed the courtyard, the mounts snorting and blowing, Rubin could see that the palace’s outer buildings were in ruins but the main body still stood, though badly damaged. Walls were cracked and canted, the graceful bridges and balconies had fallen, as had some of the roofs, it seemed, for piles of broken beams and shattered tiles lay in their path. There had been a fire too, for some of the stone walls were blackened and smoke mingled in the air with the dust. Soldiers were clambering over the debris, heaving up timbers and levering stones. As the riders watched a body was dragged from the ruins, but it was crushed and lifeless.

  ‘What has done this?’ Rubin asked, but Marcellus made no reply.

  The horses could go no further and the men were forced to dismount. In front of them was a mound of debris, the remains of the soldiers’ barracks. There was no way past it other than over the top, yet the rubble was still shifting treacherously. As they watched, a chunk of stone the size of a small house toppled over on one side, crashing into a hefty roof beam which rolled, picking up other material, starting a landslip which slid off the mountain, the sound of its crash echoing from the rocks below. Soldiers climbing the pile froze as it fell then stolidly resumed their work for, it seemed, there was no other option.