Einarr turned a hard stare at him. ‘I’m glad to see you are thinking again at last, rather than being lost in wonder. We may be here on a friendly visit, but never relax your guard.’
Made surly by his deflated ego, Brann stared to the side. ‘It seems we cannot relax our guard anywhere these days,’ he grumbled.
‘Correct.’ Einarr’s tone was hard. ‘Be made wary by the unfamiliar, not distracted.’
The instruction was hard to follow, though. As they passed through the fourth wall, which had already dumbfounded the senses with a height and thickness that surpassed the unimaginable dimensions of the three that had preceded it, the vista opened to reveal row upon row of villas that rivalled those of the most affluent area they had seen before entering the citadel. Beyond them, a massive keep rose like the bluffs of a great cliff, shining as white as the curtain walls, the houses and every other vertical surface they had passed.
Despite Einarr’s warning still hanging in the air, the words were out of Brann before he knew they were coming. ‘It’s like a whole town within a city,’ he gasped.
Einarr sighed, and Grakk nudged Brann in amusement. ‘These buildings furthest from the keep are the servants’ quarters, while the more affluent properties belong to nobles of the highest order who are permitted to have a second home close to the centre of power.’ He seemed to particularly enjoy the boy’s desperate attempts not to react.
The Scribe led them to a wide and intricately decorated wooden ramp that rose at a shallow gradient and doubled back on itself over and over until it reached a yawning doorway around two-thirds of the way up the front of the keep. A few levels above the door, the wall facing them dropped back to form a massive terrace the full width of the building.
‘We have roads of this shape cut into our mountains,’ mused Einarr. He looked at Grakk. ‘I assume this will be for defence? They can burn it easily if they want to cut off this entrance. But what is the reason, when these lower doorways exist?’ He indicated a series of wide entrances at ground level.
‘The ground-level portals give access for the supplies and serving-slaves in peacetime,’ Grakk explained. ‘The lower levels are for storage and for the work of the slaves and have narrow passages that are easy to defend and hard to attack, and with lanterns rather than windows supplying light, while the doorways themselves have suspended above them slabs of stone, ready to be released were the keep requiring to be sealed. Furthermore, concreted bins above and behind the doorways hold rocks ready to be let pour into the alcoves of the doors to shore up the stone slabs.’
‘And the levels upwards from this door that seem to be our destination?’ said Einarr.
‘The province of the Emperor’s extended family and those they choose to accompany them. From that terrace upwards, they live a life like none other. There the corridors are wide, windows draw in light and air, and opulence serves both to enrich the lives of the ruling class to the extreme that they desire and to diminish the importance of those who visit. This is the heart of an empire, after all.’
Konall was unimpressed. ‘Not so easy to defend, then.’
‘They feel, young lord,’ Grakk said with a grin, ‘that if an enemy host has battled past four huge walls and the areas of massacre between, broken through to the lowest level of this keep while under attack from above and fought through several levels of narrow passages to reach this stage, they will be either too depleted in numbers and energy to resist the defenders or will be indomitable. Either way, one more stage of defence will not alter the outcome. And they like their opulent living.’
Brann looked at the tribesman, who had the appearance of a creature of the wilds but the words to rival a Scribe. ‘How do you know this, Grakk? Have you visited here often?’
Grakk smiled. ‘Never, young curious fellow. But there exists a place where all the knowledge of mankind is written and stored, and there I have been. Not recently, nor even as recently as long ago, but often.’
Any further questions were cut short by their arrival at the doorway, where a large platform afforded more than enough room for the bearers to lower their burdens onto broad boards that shone with the evidence of constant care. The eight slaves who had carried the party hardly seemed out of breath and, although impressed, Brann couldn’t help wondering if such impressive strength could not be put to better use than carrying people around a city.
Grakk seemed to read his mind. ‘It’s a better fate than finding themselves in the mines, quarries or war galleys,’ he said quietly. ‘There is always someone in a worse position than you, and someone in a better. It is life.’
The Scribe was waiting at the doorway and, on their approach, he turned without a word and led them into a world that drew a gasp of astonishment even from Einarr.
Grakk grinned. ‘The desired effect of the first impression has been achieved!’ But even so, his face showed his own admiration for the sight that greeted them.
The doorway opened onto a hallway the size of a town square, and extending above what looked like three full storeys. Two statues, each the size of a two-storey house, depicted in smooth white stone a lightly armoured warrior on a rearing horse, caught in the moment of thrusting a lance the size of a young tree, and his foe, a six-headed monster with each of the snake-like necks coiled to strike forward with massively fanged mouths. A large smooth black rock formed the boss on the warrior’s shield and gold gleamed on his helmet, bracers and greaves, sword hilt and the trappings of his steed, matched on the fangs and claws of the beast, while its many-faceted eyes were jewels of the deepest red.
‘So the fables are true,’ Grakk breathed. ‘Sometimes words on parchment cannot do justice to the wonder of reality.’
Hakon clapped him jovially on the shoulder. ‘The desired effect of the first impression indeed, oh wise one.’
Grakk still looked dazed. ‘I have a feeling it will not be the last impression we will have.’
They paced the length of the hall between the looming might of the statues, their boots clacking against tiles of alternate squares of white and pale yellow and the noise echoing off walls of a shiny white stone that, Brann saw on closer inspection as they neared the far end of the room, was streaked with veins, much like the strong cheese made in the southern parts of his homeland, though far more impressive.
A stairway the width of the Blue Dragon (again, he was measuring in units of ships, Brann realised) took them a third of the height of the chamber before it split right and left, the two arms sweeping round on themselves and meeting close to the ceiling where a golden balustrade edged a broad balcony that encircled the room, murals stretching the length of each wall in myriad colours.
Closer examination of the murals proved impossible at the summit of their climb as the Scribe took them straight forward through a wide opening into a wider corridor, rising at a gentle angle. Closely spaced windows, tall and slender and high-set, cast beams of sunlight onto a row of alcoves in the inner wall, each bearing a statue a little taller than a man. As they passed, Brann saw that many of them were actually carved in the likeness of men or women, while others were animals or even small trees or ornate flowers. All were in the same white stone as the two in frozen conflict in the hallway, and all were crafted to the same impeccable standard, down to the last crease at the corner of an eye or insect on a leaf.
The passage stretched for what seemed an eternity before turning abruptly, repeating the pattern. Each turn, sometimes taking them into the interior, sometimes back to the outer walls of the building, revealed more artistic treasures: statues, murals, tapestries the length of a bowshot, ornate weapons and armour, stuffed exotic animals – many of which Brann and, from their expressions, several of the others, had never imagined as existing – and carvings etched into the white veined stone of every wall.
Einarr spoke, directing his words at the back of the Scribe’s tattooed head. ‘We must have climbed a fair part of the building by now, Narut.’
‘The noble sir is correct,
’ the man said, his neck colouring at the use of his name. ‘We shall in time reach the highest levels, where the royal residences are located, though we will not, of course, enter that area, but pass it by.’
‘Of course not,’ Einarr agreed.
‘Immediately above the royal chambers are the rooms of state.’
‘Thank you, Narut.’ Einarr’s voice was amiable. ‘That is very helpful.’
‘As the noble lord commands.’
The royal floor was evident both from the huge doors – gold plate beaten into similar geometric intricacy as the frame of the first gate they had encountered – and the ten fully armoured warriors, as impassive as the statues they had passed, lined in front of them. Only their eyes moved, every movement noted as the small party passed across in front of them until they left the open hallway before the entrance. Their watchfulness was matched every step across the chamber by Torstein and Magnus, warriors’ instincts drifting their hands onto sword hilts and setting their shoulders with tension.
The Scribe’s cold voice drifted back to them. ‘We approach the Throne Room of the Empire.’
The passage abruptly angled upwards towards another hall, this one with the carvings on the doors cut directly into the dark wood and inlaid with silver, the contrast startling. One guard stood each side but the doors lay open and the soldiers didn’t even twitch as the Scribe led them directly through.
The room was vast, the omnipresent white statues lining the left side in front of murals that populated the length of the wall, from floor to ceiling, with images of the tiniest detail and finished in gold leaf. A row of wide windows ran opposite, more like doorways as they stretched to the floor and appeared to give access to a series of balconies, and the ceiling bore from the near end to the far a map that seemed to show every stream and hillock of what Brann assumed was the Empire as it stood.
And the room lay empty.
They walked in at one end, facing in the distance a great throne of plain unadorned stone, with a simple white ceremonial canopy above it and two smaller replicas either side of it, their footsteps echoing in the silence. They stopped, forcing the Scribe to turn.
‘Narut?’ Einarr said. ‘Why is there no one here?’
The Scribe looked as if only his professional pride prevented him from sighing in disdain. ‘There are three throne rooms: the Throne Room of the Empire, where you now stand; the Throne Room of Sagia, which affords a more intimate setting; and the Throne Room of the Heavens, which we would now be approaching had you not halted our progress. I am surprised that your free man has not prepared you with this information. Now, if we may proceed…’
The last was too close to an instruction and too far from a request for Einarr’s liking. He casually turned to Grakk. ‘Indeed, Narut. Did you know of this, Grakk?’
The tribesman’s face was solemn. ‘I regret to say that I did not. My learnings have leant more towards the external aspects than the internal.’ Grakk nodded towards the outlook beyond the balconies where open dry land, cleared flat initially, turned to a scrubland of bushes and trees, all dry twisted wood and dry dark-green leaves, that stretched to the horizon.
Einarr raised his eyebrows at the sight. ‘I have never seen this side of the city in the past. The seat of the most powerful man in the world is directly exposed to that outside world?’
Grakk nodded. ‘The four great walls meet at the back wall of the keep, and that back wall does, as you say, face onto the ground beyond. However, the city fills the top of a bluff that is a long and gentle slope to the shore but which, on its landward side, drops sheer to the flat ground beyond. The rock of this feature raises the defences high above the reach of siege engines, ladders or towers and extends the range of the catapults of the defenders and is impenetrable to siege mining. It was a feat of magnificent and long-forgotten engineering skills merely to sink foundations into it. There are natural caverns beneath the citadel and city alike that were linked by tunnels cut in the time of the grandfather’s grandfather of the current Emperor’s grandfather’s grandfather, but not one tunnel leads to the land beyond.
‘Were an army to attempt to cross that desert, in their desperate state they would face the massed ranks of the Imperial Host on the cleared plain of the Tournament Grounds you see before you. That is why not only has no foe ever taken this citadel, but no foe has ever even attempted to do so.’
Einarr nodded. ‘Indeed. I can understand why. And if I am to request the aid of the Emperor, it is comforting to know his people have such an eye for military matters other than merely weight of numbers. So Narut, if you would care to lead us to the Throne Room of the Heavens, I would be most grateful.’
The tall man’s robes swirled as he whirled and stalked down the hall without further ado.
A wide opening in the left wall, slightly higher than a tall man but previously hidden by two statues of curious creatures that were men from the waist up but had the body and legs of huge cat-like beasts, became obvious as they drew closer. A broad and shallow stairway rose before them and turned right halfway up, blazing bright sunlight across their path as they started to climb. On reaching the second flight, the deep blue of the mid-afternoon sky filled the opening ahead.
They emerged on the rooftop of the keep. Exposed without mercy to the full force of the sun, the heat of the air struck as if they had walked into the brick wall of an oven and Brann’s eyes stung from the harsh brightness. It took a wipe of his sleeve before he could take in the view but, when he did, it took away his breath more than even the searing heat had done just seconds before.
They had stepped out onto the precise centre of the roof area. Directly ahead of them, far ahead and almost at the edge of the roof, sat five thrones on a raised dais, one large, the rest uniformly smaller and all replicas of those in the room below. But, this time, they were occupied.
The Scribe led them into the space between them and the thrones. While it lay empty but for a line of warriors standing before the dais, to either side a throng, garbed in a multitude of colours that reminded Brann of the meadow of wildflowers that sat behind his village, stood silently behind a further row of warriors. All in the crowd wore fine robes similar to those of the Scribe, some with long, loose sleeves and others that ended at the shoulders; on closer inspection, he saw that the lack of sleeves matched the presence of a slave chain around their necks. Some of the free men and women wore tall, slender, brimless hats; some had a soft fabric wound intricately around their heads and ending in a veil-like gauze that hung across their faces; some were bare-headed. All appeared to follow one fashion or another, with no style of clothing seeming to attach to one gender or the other, and every one of them exuded wealth.
The soldiers were identical to each other in garb. Over light, pale-coloured tunics, sleeveless vests formed of overlapping horizontal strips of shining metal encased their torsos, while identical metal strips hung loosely from their waists almost to their knees. Each rounded helmet, extending down their cheeks and over the back of their necks and with a grill across the mouth and nose to leave only the eyes clearly exposed, was topped by a plume of green bristles. Each held a tall shield that was rounded at the top and arched at the bottom and a stabbing spear roughly his own height, much like Brann’s people had used to hunt boar but with a narrower head. A broad shortsword and a long slender knife were strapped at either hip. Short or tall, broad or narrow, each was clad the same as his neighbour. Behind the dais, a row of archers stood, their armour identical to the other soldiers and one arrow held ready should the occasion demand it.
‘The statues!’ Brann gasped. Despite the imaginative range of beasts, plants and people at leisure, and other than the giant statue in the first hallway, every stone soldier he had seen had been identical to those he saw before him in the flesh.
Exasperation filled Konall’s sigh, but his voice was quiet. ‘It has taken until now to see it? Did you not listen to your friend the tribesman? They do not have warriors. They have soldiers.
All are part of the whole, and must act as one. There is no scope for exploiting opportunities. That is their way. All is ordered. All is for the Empire.’
Grakk coughed pointedly behind them, and their conversation ceased.
The silence as they walked towards the thrones was overpowering, the oppressive atmosphere heightened when the first soldiers they passed moved to close off the rectangle behind them, with the crowd pressing in behind. Those to the sides were unmoving, so when Brann’s attention was caught by a figure keeping pace with them, he was intrigued. Reminded of the first time he had clapped eyes on Konall what seemed a lifetime ago, he watched but, wary of alerting the person to their discovery, he let his gaze wander over the crowd in general. He caught sight briefly of someone around his height but with a slightness and grace of movement that indicated a woman beneath the dark-blue robes and matching veil.
Unable to watch more closely without staring, he returned his attention to the way ahead. Their steps quickened as, with their goal in sight, the dire memories of the events brought about by Loku in the North seemed to sweep over the group. Exposed to the watching crowd and staring at the line of thrones, the ground was taking an eternity of frustration to cover. Frustration, but also mounting excitement, as the opportunity to enlist the help of such power drew closer with each rapid step. The exotic alien sights that had met his eyes since he had stepped from the ship, and which had built to this crescendo, filled him with a burning and breathless anticipation. He may have had to endure horrors and terrors to reach this point, but there was no denying that his fate had brought him to an experience that he could never have imagined, were a whole tribe of storytellers to try to describe it to him. Here was he, an apprentice miller from a small village on what seemed like the other side of the world, walking into the court of the fabled Emperor of the mightiest Empire their world had ever seen. Forcing himself to breath, he dared to look at the ruler himself as they approached.
Hero Grown Page 3