by David Hair
‘What I saw was pain: genuine and still fresh. There was no vindictiveness, no malice, no race-hate, no cunning, just terrible, all-consuming pain. I saw that he suffered as a result of that decision, that he regretted it every day. “I thought I was saving lives,” he told me. “To stop them, I would have had to destroy the Bridge, my only option at that juncture. One hundred thousand men would have plummeted into the sea, and the link between Yuros and Antiopia would have been gone, perhaps for ever. Though I received assurances that the soldiers were there to guard the traders, I was doubtful. But what they did – the slaughter, the slavery – truly, I had no idea they would commit such atrocities.”’
Ispal ran his fingers through his thinning hair, sighing heavily. ‘This he told me, Ramita, and I believe him. I think he was trapped. He is not evil. He told me that he loved Hebusalim and had laboured to make it a paradise on earth. He built huge aqueducts, bringing water from the mountains and turning the landscape green. He built hospitals, where his magi tended the sick. He gifted a palace for the Dhassan Sultan made of golden marble, and built a massive Domal’Ahm, the largest in the north. His daughter founded an order of healers and his son created a public library, larger than that of the mughal. His Ordo Costruo were revered, some even believed them to be angels of Ahm. We had only seen their benevolent side. We had never seen a magi in battle. That was about to change.
‘The Rondian legions marched over the Bridge, but they were preceded from the air: windships had been massing out over the sea, beyond the horizon. No one even suspected they were there until they moved over the city at dawn on that awful day. Imagine it, daughters, all of those windships, hanging above us in the sky, bristling with men, and magi in flowing robes standing in the bows like figureheads.
‘At first people cheered, thinking this was a merchant fleet, the greatest ever, and that our fortunes were made. I thought so too at first – we were standing on our wagons waving to the ships, jumping about like children eager for sweets.
‘But Raz looked at me, and he said “Those are warbirds”, in a voice I will always remember. “Take care of Falima”, he told me and then he was up, pulling his tunic over his head as he ran across the camp calling to his men, “Arm yourselves, you slobs!” At first I didn’t understand, or maybe I didn’t want to. Then the Rondians struck. Catapults on their decks swung their arms and hurled burning pitch down on us, which exploded all about us. Tents and buildings and wagons alike burst into flames, trapping screaming men inside. As the ships came in lower, archers poured arrows into the crowds and the magi struck down the captains and anyone trying to rally resistance, pale-blue bolts of energy stabbing from the skies like lightning. It was dreadful. We were helpless.
‘I remember grabbing Falima to prevent her from following Raz. She fought me like a hellion. Raz entered his pavilion and as he emerged clutching his breastplate, buckler and scimitar, the tent behind him exploded. The concussion threw us against my wagon and when we could see again, there was a crater where the tent had stood. The shadow of a warship hung above us, a young mage at the prow, pouring fire from his hands into the stampeding crowd. As we watched he torched a crowd of traders trying to flee. Then it seemed that he saw me. He raised his hands, and I pulled Falima under the wagon, then all was heat and fire, the air blazing as sand melted to glass right where I had stood a second ago. Falima and I scrambled out the other side, and this time it was Falima pulling me away as I tried in my madness to rescue my silks!
‘We found Raz kneeling before the crater where his tent had been, staring at the blackened bodies in the hole. The air throbbed with the cries of dead and living. The warship above swung eastwards, towards the next camp, but others hovered overhead. Every direction seemed wrong, but Raz chose to lead us toward the city. As we ran we fell in with others, swarms of citizens and soldiers fleeing towards the city gates. For some reason we all imagined we would be safe inside the walls.
‘Among the large warships were dozens of tiny little windships the Rondians call “skiffs”, each with a mage and a few archers. They were faster than the warships, and they swooped over us, attacking randomly. Some came close enough that we could see their faces clearly. They were so young, and almost childishly excited, like hunting quail for the first time. “Is this sport to them?” I remember Raz shouting angrily, waving his sword. The Rondian archers could hardly miss, the lanes were so packed. The noise became deafening as we were swept along, then we came to a sudden jolting halt and I remember an awful convulsion running through the whole crowd as we realised that someone in the city had shut the gates. I heard a roar of terror behind me as a skiff came straight along the lane, out of the rising sun. There was a figure in the prow, silhouetted against the light, arms raised. The lane ran between two- and three-storey stone buildings and we were jammed cheek to cheek. As the skiff came, the magi in the prow did something that made the ground shake and pulled the buildings on both sides of the lane down on top of the people. This mage was a woman, clad in red, and her mouth was open as if she were screaming too, in utter terror of herself. I saw buildings collapse behind her, falling like tiles on a game-board and crushing people by the dozens, as she swept towards us.
‘We were swept along by the crowd, everyone frantic to escape this terrible queen of destruction. People fell and were crushed. I clung to Falima as we stumbled over the bodies of the fallen, propelled helplessly towards the closed gates and towering walls of Hebusalim. Raz was carving a way through for us, hurling people aside, his shouts inaudible beneath the dreadful rumble behind us of buildings collapsing and the screams of the dying. Suddenly he darted sideways, yanking Falima and me out of the press and through the doors of a tiny dhaba. The crowd stumbled past, rushing headlong to their deaths.
‘Falima had hurt herself, but he had no time for that. “Come!” he roared, pulling her over his shoulder. He led us through the shop, past a frightened family cowering inside. “Out! Out!” he bellowed at them, never pausing as we ran into a back yard where, unbelievably, a donkey was staring at the sky placidly, chewing his feed. Then there came an awful crack, as if the earth itself were splitting, and the dhaba collapsed, falling away from us in a deafening smash. A blast of air knocked me sprawling into the donkey, which kicked my left shoulder, and I felt my shoulder-blade break, the most awful pain. The donkey found its feet and was gone, the gods only know where. The tumult moved on to the next building and the next, leaving all the world covered in swirling dust.
‘We choked helplessly, until the dust began to settle, showing us the extent of this horror. The whole row of houses were destroyed, collapsed by the woman-magus in the skiff as she soared by. Dreadful new sounds were audible: people trapped beneath rubble. Raz was kneeling, his arms about Falima. He looked at me. “Lakh-man, you live!” he coughed. “Ahm protect us. What have they done?”
‘What indeed! And why? What could possibly justify this carnage? What could they possibly want that they could not get by trading with us as friends? Where was the need for war? Where were Meiros and his Bridge Builders? Where were the gods, to see this dreadful crime and let it happen?
‘“We have to move,” said Raz, who seemed to me at the moment to be a demigod, so full was he of tenacity and courage. I felt I was in the presence of greatness, and this gave me courage. My shoulder was in agony, but I was determined not to be lacking. We climbed over the rubble, trying not to think of the hundreds, maybe thousands, trapped beneath. Behind us the Rondian skiff was running along the wall of the city, raining down lightning and arrows on the archers on the ramparts. Then it turned away from the wall towards us and headed for another alley, the one we were heading towards. We froze.
‘The red-clad mage woman was perhaps one hundred yards away, close enough to see clearly, and approaching fast. Her face was bone-white, her hair the colour of an orange. Behind her a tall, pale-haired man was shouting orders, his face composed. They swung to the mouth of the alleyway, just above the roofs, and the four archers starte
d firing indiscriminately. That alley was as packed as ours had been, and the people were still unaware of what she was going to do – they had not seen the destruction she had already wrought. Raz kissed Falima, told her to wait, and ran towards the alleyway that the skiff was about to destroy. I thought he had gone insane.
‘He leapt a fence in a superhuman bound, then made a great leap through the first-floor window of a house. I was stunned – I had heard of men and women doing amazing feats when they forgot their limitations, but to see it! Raz tore through that building, and still I could not see what he intended. He emerged onto a roof, as another awful crack! drew our eyes back to the head of the alley, where the mage-woman had begun to collapse more buildings. Raz had put himself in her path. Falima fought me to go after him, and with my broken shoulder I could scarcely hold her back.
‘Raz Makani emerged onto the roof as the skiff surged forwards, buildings falling to either side as it passed. The noise of destruction and the howl of the mob assaulted my senses. Falima clung to me as we watched Raz. He was holding a length of timber and crouching down, and as the building beside his began to fall, he pushed off and began to run towards the skiff as it soared to a point before him. His own roof began to collapse. Falima hid her eyes.
‘Raz reached the lip of the building just as it began to topple and propelled himself through the air – it was impossible: he was carrying a piece of timber that would take four men to bear! Yet he flew straight at the skiff – I saw him strike it! The heavy spar he carried battered the entire crew, sending them straight into the close-packed mob below. I cried out exultantly, but the witch at the front did not even stagger. She saved the officer beside her too. Raz lost the spar, and sprawled against the mast of their skiff. Just the pale-haired officer and the witch remained aboard. Raz drew his scimitar and they crossed blades, he and the pale man, as the witch tried to regain control of the falling craft, which skewed sideways, veering towards Falima and I as they descended. I will never forget the sight of Raz Makani, raining frenzied blows against the Rondian’s straight sword, and the witch-woman shrieking as her skiff struck a high wall on our left and with a crunching sound plummeted to earth. The hull splintered with an almighty crash.
‘“Stay here!” I shouted to Falima and then I was clambering through the rubble towards the broken skiff. All about me Dhassan men were pouring through the still-standing buildings, people Raz had saved by his actions, dozens of them, snatching up weapons, spears or swords or knives or pieces of wood, desperate to strike back. My broken shoulder in agony, I clambered onto a shed roof and found the perfect vantage point as the Dhassans reached the mage-woman.
‘She was in great pain, but she pulled herself upright against the side of the skiff. I realised with a shock that she was very young, barely twenty. She had an angular face, with tiny freckles scattered over her white skin. Her loose-curled hair was bright gold, and streaked with ash. Beside her, the officer had stumbled to his feet and lifted his sword as the first of the Dhassans tried to leap the wall. The witch raised her hands and blazed a bolt of blue light into his chest. The Dhassan, just a youth with a stick, was flung backwards, but two more came, and again she raised her hands and sent a stream of flames at them, torching them as they came. One fell backwards, howling, but the other came down in the courtyard and the captain stabbed him through the chest. I was terrified, too afraid to move least her dreadful fires be turned on me, but I could not look away. The witch screamed to her gods and wave after wave of fire billowed from her hands as she charred man after man, but still they came, those Dhassans! A madness had taken them, now they had an enemy they could reach. Women joined the charging press, brandishing makeshift staves, and they died too, burned to a crisp. The incinerated dead piled about the walls of the yard. The officer cut down those few who got through. He fought like a cornered lion. And her: I could see every strained line on her face, and it was then that I realised a new thing: she was crying, weeping as she killed. She wasn’t even seeing the people she slew now; she was just staring at her hands as if she were appalled at what they were doing. As if they were not hers.
‘Then I saw Raz! He was lying inside the skiff like a corpse, but I saw him move. The Dhassans were still coming, climbing the smouldering dead with deliberate steps now, exhausted and impeded by their own dead. Men and women, a few soldiers, all moving like the walking dead of stories, knowing they were doomed, but attacking anyway. The mage-girl kept killing them. I realised one of her legs was injured, and her fires were less now. She was exhausted, using her last energies.
‘Raz struck! One second he was lying there, his hand straining towards his fallen scimitar, and then he was up and sweeping his blade at the witch’s neck. In that split-second she was helpless. She never even saw the blow coming, so consumed was she with her dreadful labour. But the blow never landed. The straight-sword of the officer interposed as he flung himself between Raz and her. She was batted to one side and I saw her shin snap in two even as the Dhassans broke and fled. Only one remained, a girl-child who had been clinging to her mother as she joined that awful assault. The mother was a blackened corpse now, but the girl walked on, too shocked to comprehend. The witch saw only movement and blasted away, and I could see her eyes widen, saw her desperately trying to retract her spell, but it was too late. The sight of that child broke her concentration – she had flinched when she should not – and the consequences were horrible: her own hands burst into flame.
‘She knelt in the sand, staring wide-eyed as her hands became blackened pieces of bone. The child shrieked and fled. All this distracted the officer, and Raz stabbed, his blade piercing the man’s mail and thrusting right through his belly and out his back. Raz twisted and wrenched it clear, bellowing in triumph as the man fell. The witch turned, her eyes wild, her hands just stumps. She must have been in agony, but she pulled some last reserve from her very soul. Her hands were useless, but her eyes flashed and fire poured from them, two funnels of awful heat and flame that flung Raz backwards, his robes alight.
‘That broke me from my trance. I leapt down and kicked my way through the fences into that dreadful arena. The witch was bent over, her head bowed, her shoulders shaking. Her hair hid her smoking face. The officer was trying to crawl to his fallen sword, clutching his belly. Raz was rolling about, beating the earth. I ran to him, keeping well clear of the officer. The witch heard me and looked up, and I nearly screamed: where her eyes had been, there were now two blackened craters. She had burnt out her own eyes delivering that last dreadful gout of fire. She whimpered a name: Vann. Her officer’s name, perhaps, for he had found his sword and was dragging himself to her side.
‘That sword he pointed in my direction. The threat was clear – but I wanted only to aid Raz. I threw myself onto him, beating at his burning robes, until he went still. When I could look at him, the sight was dreadful, but he was alive, and a hero, had there been any there to acclaim him. I turned him over and looked for something to succour him. There was a water-trough against the wall. I crawled to it, cupped my hands, though the pain of using my left arm was immense, and carried a few drops to him. All the while the officer watched me, one arm around the witch. Her lips were moving and pale light was forming in filigrees around her hands and those blackened pits on her face. I remember feeling utter terror, that she would repair herself and tear me limb from limb, but she didn’t. She slumped against the Rondian.
‘To my surprise, he spoke in Keshi. “Here,” he said, and pulled off his helm and tossed it to me. “Water.” I was stunned, but I filled it and bathed Raz’s burns. I drank some myself, then on an impulse I filled it again and placed it just within his reach, though I couldn’t explain why. He fed it to the girl-witch, who murmured something, looking at Raz strangely. She said a word I didn’t know: Dokken. I learnt it means “dark” in their tongue. What she meant I have no idea.
‘Had I called for aid, they would both have been taken, but I would almost certainly have died, and so would Raz
. I am not a hero like him, so I remained quiet as a mouse. The only thing I found courage to do was to ask the officer, “Why?” He just shrugged. “Orders.” Orders. I felt sickened. They had no more idea why they were killing us than we did. I stared at him, aghast, and he looked back at me, clearly in dreadful pain – his belly wound was one of those that kills over hours and days – And he muttered, “Sorry,” finally; “I’m sorry.” Then the witch said something, and his attention focused back on her. She was shaking uncontrollably, but a web of light was still crawling over her skin and face, and I could see cuts and scratches vanishing, and the bones in her leg knitting together – it appalled me, somehow. She touched his belly, and the light spread. His breathing became less ragged. Then she sagged and stopped, just her chest rising slowly, her mouth open, her breath hissing.
‘The Rondian tossed the helm back to me and said, “More water. Please.” I wanted to fling it away, to hurt him, but instead I filled it and carried it to him. If I had been a hero, maybe I could have snatched away his sword and slain them both – but I didn’t. I helped him drink, and we talked a little. His name was Captain Vann Mercer; he was the son of a trader and had come here as a child with his father, selling furs. He asked me of my home. It was surreal, to talk with an enemy about home while all about us the city was being destroyed, but for a time we were alone in the world, the only survivors. He told me the witch was just eighteen and would likely be blind for life. His voice told me he was in love with her, would care for her regardless.
‘Finally, a shadow fell over us, another skiff, and before I knew it, there were Rondians all about us, carrying the witch and the captain to safety. I thought they would kill me and finish off Raz, but the captain said something and they left us. Then they were gone, up into the air.’