The Immortal Throne

by Stella Gemmell

  But it was a long time before Rubin learned all this, for he had chosen an uncommunicative teacher.

  Captain Starky had descended to the Halls after the deaths of his family in the spring plague fifty years before. He was a kindly man, though eccentric, even for a Dweller. He washed his face and hands every day, whether they needed it or not, in the fresh water other Dwellers valued only for drinking, and his long grey hair was coiled carefully into a bun, topped with a ragged green net.

  When, on the day they first met, the pair finally reached the cave the Captain called home, a boy came scrambling down from a high ledge to greet them. He was much younger than Rubin and he glared at him, eyes sullen and suspicious. The old man, more at ease now, stood and looked around him as if gazing across an ocean.

  ‘How’re we heading, boy?’ he shouted.

  ‘East by north, cap,’ the boy replied promptly.

  ‘Man the capstan and get under way!’

  ‘Ay ay, cap.’

  The old man nodded, satisfied, then scrambled up a crevice in the steep rock, finding handholds Rubin could not see. From a perch a good way up he beckoned and the two boys, watching each other uneasily, followed. For the next two seasons Rubin and the Captain and the boy, whose name was Brax, shared this cave high in the wall of Jack’s Tail Hall, a valuable home they defended successfully against all comers until the reivers came.

  The Captain was not mad, Rubin found, but he was half-deaf and, as everyone was half-blind in the Halls, he relied on the boys to sound the alarm if they were threatened. He found comfort in familiar words from his years at sea long past. He would awaken gripped by night terrors and Brax would recite a litany of phrases he had learned from the old sailor. ‘Officer of the watch, call my gig!’ Or, ‘Come alongside, damn your eyes.’ And the Captain would calm himself and sleep again.

  Starky spent much of his time carving intricate gaming pieces from odds and ends of animal bones and they were much prized by Nearsiders. Rubin had a set of six knucklebones the Captain had given him. He could feel rather than see the tiny depictions of birds and fish romping on the smooth white bone, and he wondered at the skill of an old man with crabbed hands and dim eyesight. Rubin prized them, but he was careless by nature and kept them loose in his pocket and they washed away one day when he was caught by a sudden downpour in the Little Hellespont. Once the Captain was gone he sorely regretted the loss.

  It was the Captain who gave Rubin his most valuable lesson about navigating the Halls, one which saved his life more than once when he wandered far from the Eating Gate, the great weir whose cacophony was a fixed point for a majority of Dwellers. Not long after they first met the Captain scurried up to Rubin, in his way, and yelled confidentially, ‘Back against the wall, laddie, back against the wall.’

  He pushed and poked Rubin until, reluctantly, the boy was leaning back against the rock wall of Jack’s Tail Hall.

  ‘See, laddie, back to the wall, that be north,’ he indicated with one crabbed finger.

  ‘North, yes,’ said Rubin, nodding, trying to move away.

  ‘Listen, laddie,’ Starky said impatiently, pushing him back again, ‘wind in y’ear.’

  The old man’s finger poked impatiently at his right ear and Rubin flinched.

  ‘Wind in y’ear!’ He stared into Rubin’s face intently, fingering his own ear. Then Rubin realized what he meant: in his right ear he could feel the faintest of breezes.

  ‘That’d be north,’ the Captain explained again, in case Rubin hadn’t taken his point. Rubin nodded his understanding.

  Every day his wits were challenged. He avoided death a hundred times, from sickness, slips in the dark, and the evil of men. Yet he did not run away. After a year or more in the Halls he began to think he knew all there was to know about life underground. He learned how to find most things he wanted – from a cup of fresh water to a cavalry sabre to a live hedgehog to make a tasty meal. He often found himself in peril, from flash floods or the sudden poisonous miasmas in the tunnels, or from roving gangs or the emperor’s patrols. But he was resourceful and quick to learn, and if a problem he met had ears then Rubin could always talk his way past it. His confidence grew and he felt himself a master of the Halls.

  It was this Rubin, at the prime of his youthful pride, who met the brother and sister Elija and Emly, refugees from unknown terrors. They were too young to fend for themselves – little Em was only four and was speechless with fear – and he kept them alive and under his wing in the Hall of Blue Light for a long season. He had planned to stay with them until Elija was able to take care of them himself, or until he found another guardian for the pair.

  But then came the day he heard Captain Starky was in trouble.

  CHAPTER SIX

  VALLA HAD NEVER seen anyone think so much.

  She sat cross-legged on her straw mattress and watched the frail young man thinking. She had fed him thin stew, slowly and patiently, and now Red was gazing out at the late afternoon. He had not yet spoken, but had cleared his throat and coughed as if engaging long-unused sinews in his throat. And he looked around him, at the tent and the other soldiers, at her, and out to the world beyond. And he thought. She could see him thinking. She waited, eager to hear his story.

  Finally, as the sun started to set in the west, he turned his face to her and, clearing his throat again, croaked a word.

  ‘Marcellus.’

  She jumped up and went to his side, kneeling down beside him. His eyes were hectic and his cheeks flushed.

  ‘Marcellus,’ he repeated. ‘I must speak to him.’

  ‘Marcellus has returned to the City long since.’

  ‘Dragonard then. Bring him to me.’

  An officer, she thought. She had predicted he would be an officer. ‘Dragonard is dead. These thirty days,’ she told him. The death of their popular general had hit the Imperials hard.

  Red closed his eyes and was silent for a while. Then he looked out at the summer sky.

  ‘How long have I been sick?’ he asked.

  ‘Since winter. That’s half a year now. You were gravely injured. They all thought you would die.’

  He stared at her, despair in his eyes. ‘I had a message for Marcellus,’ he told her, voice faltering, ‘but it is too late now.’

  Then he asked, ‘What news from the City?’

  She looked at him helplessly, not knowing what to say. There was no news from the City. Or, if there was, nobody told her. But Red had closed his eyes and fallen asleep again.

  From behind her she heard a yell. ‘Valla! You’re wanted!’ Casualties, she thought, and leaped to her feet.

  By the next day Red’s improvement was remarkable. He could not stand, for his legs were weak from disuse, but he could sit up, and Valla was amazed by the amount he could eat, as if he was making up for the time spent in sleep. She brought him clean water from high in the stream, for she believed its crystal clarity would heal his body, and a little ale for strength.

  And he talked endlessly, as though making up for lost time in this too. He told her of his home on the cliffs above the City, and of his sister who was a warrior – a common infantry soldier, yet he was proud of her. When he spoke of his years in the sewers beneath the City Valla was disinclined to believe him at first, for such a life seemed implausible, but he filled his stories with a wealth of detail and tales which made her smile. And he told her of his audience with Marcellus, when he was dragged out of the sewers like a rat and stood, stinking, in front of the First Lord, and about his time as a spy with the Odrysians. The one thing he would not talk about was the vital information he needed to give to Marcellus – information which was, almost certainly, half a year too late.

  When he told her his name Valla remembered the third messenger, and the watchword Rubin, and she realized he was what he said he was, and that he was a hero.

  ‘Who is commanding our forces now?’ he asked her after a meal of bread and dried meat, picking crumbs off the thin blanket which covered his f
rail body. She had shaved him that morning and now she saw how young he was. His gaze was alert and he was interested in everything going on around him. His eyes were violet.

  ‘His name is Gaeta,’ she replied.

  He stared at her. ‘Of the Family Gaeta? Which one? Saul or Jona?’

  She shrugged. She had no interest in the City’s ancient Families, or in generals either.

  He sighed. ‘You’re a frustrating informant, Valla,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not here as your informant,’ she told him tartly. ‘I’m here to care for you.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he retorted. ‘You’re a warrior and should be back in the fight, not caring for the wounded.’

  She made no response, but inwardly she smiled. For she had a plan now. If Rubin could convince this new general to let him return to the City post-haste, she could go with him as bodyguard. Rubin had laboriously written a message to the man and Valla had despatched it up to the Notch in the hands of a rider she trusted. She had no doubt Rubin’s words would be ignored at first. But when he was on his feet again he could speak to the general himself and she believed he would convince this Gaeta of the importance of his mission. A man with vital information for Marcellus could not be disregarded.

  Rubin was dozing again and she lay back on her pallet. The warm breeze, which often carried the sounds of battle and forewarned of casualties to come, was today blowing from the south so the afternoon was silent. Valla looked out at the hills and sky. The sky was white in the late afternoon, with small storm clouds on the horizon. There was a promise of rain in the air. She looked over at Rubin. He was asleep.

  She levered herself to her feet, trying to ignore the bolt of pain through her arm, meaning to go to tend to the dying. It was not a chore she relished but, like all soldiers, she was familiar with the many and cruel processes of death. She often wondered if she would prefer to be alone when she died, or to share a small part of the agony with a sympathetic watcher. Much as she thought on it she did not know the answer. She glanced again at Rubin, resolving to bring him soup when she was finished.

  On impulse she reached beneath her mattress and brought out her sword. It was a good blade. It had saved her life many times. Now it lay unused, except occasionally for killing vermin as they scurried into the tent at night to torment the helpless. Her dagger was the more useful tool for the task and she had become adept at skewering rats with it as they scampered between the shadows, but sometimes it was satisfying to swing the sword at one, to hear its bones crunch and see the blood fly. Rats were a constant nuisance, though less so than the flies in summer.

  She was about to slide the sword back out of sight when, in the corner of her eye, she saw movement outside the tent. She froze. A man’s helmed head was rising into sight from the scrubby bushes fringing the top of the cliff. She retreated silently into the shadows and unsheathed the blade. A welcome rush of battle-lust fizzed through her veins. She gripped the hilt and her palm welcomed the familiar feel of worn leather. She peered out to see a second soldier climbing into sight. Blues!

  ‘Attack!’ she yelled. ‘We’re under attack!’

  She leaped at them, dodging a thrust from the first man’s sword then slashing him back-handed across the neck. Her blade met stout leather, but the blow spun him to his knees and she turned and parried a blow from the second soldier. On the edge of her vision she saw the first man scramble up, then a third attacker rise from the cliff-edge.

  She heard the gong begin its loud, erratic clanging which warned the camp they were under assault. Behind her in the tent she could hear shouts of alarm and curses from the casualties. Then screams and the dull thwack of metal on flesh. They were under attack from both sides! She dared not look behind her, or at Rubin who lay helpless to her right. Her back felt vulnerable, protected only by the injured.

  She edged in front of Rubin, eyeing the three soldiers who were closing on her. The man she had hit on the neck was the least of them; he stumbled as if dazed. Another, brown-bearded and full-bellied, surveyed her useless arm and grinned.

  ‘Hurt yourself, girlie?’

  She smiled. Men often used words to bolster their confidence. And he could not see past her useless arm. He didn’t know she was a warrior of the Thousand. She realized at that instant that she was happy. Either she would survive this and live with pride, or she would die with honour. She genuinely did not mind which.

  She screamed and leaped forward, but she was out of practice and her balance was off. The bearded man parried her thrust and launched a double-handed blow to her head. He is so slow, she thought. Valla ducked smoothly then darted sideways, stabbing him in the groin. He clutched himself and fell keening to his knees, hampering the second attacker. Valla spun round and despatched the third with a deep slice across the throat.

  She stepped back and flashed a glance behind her, impatient to get into the main battle. The injured warriors had formed a ragged defensive line, the stronger guarding the crippled. But they were dying. Valla twisted back and deflected a murderous blow from the last soldier. As he swung his short sword to gut her, she swayed and the tip of the blade slashed past her hip. She darted in and pierced him in the eye. She snatched his short sword from his hand as he fell and flung it to Rubin, who was struggling, pale-faced and sweating, to get to his feet. She ran back to join her comrades.

  The one-handed man she’d met by the stream was battling valiantly, but she saw he was fighting with his wrong hand – it was his sword hand he’d lost. She stepped up beside him just as he stumbled, pierced in the thigh. She killed his attacker then launched herself at the next Blue, slashing the tip of her blade across the man’s throat. She stabbed him through the back of the neck as he fell forward. She saw an enemy soldier raise his sword to kill a man lying helpless on the floor, both legs in splints. She ran over and slid her sword under the Blue’s arm, seeking the heart. He dropped like a felled ox and she spun back.

  But there were far too many of them and the defenders were all weak or disabled. Many of those who could fight had already been killed and the survivors were struggling to retreat towards the back of the tent, towards Rubin.

  A tall swordsman, lean and fast, was leading the attack and Valla sprang towards him, determined to defend the defenceless to her dying breath. He plunged his sword into the chest of a wounded man, then turned and saw her and nodded, accepting her challenge. She saw him note her injured arm, but she knew this man was not going to chat about it. He was happy to take his time while her comrades were dying around her so she leaped in, a darting penetrating blow to the throat. He glided back, perfectly balanced, and she realized he was a swordmaster. In times past she would have been equal to him, but not now.

  She attacked again and he deflected her blade and launched a blistering riposte. She leaped back too slowly and was pierced in her injured arm. The jolt of agony made her sick and dizzy. But she managed to attack again. She had little to give and knew she had only moments before he disabled or killed her. The melee around her receded and the sounds of battle became blurred.

  ‘Enough!’ a powerful voice roared, the sound freezing her bones and making her stumble to a halt. Her opponent paused too, and both looked round, puzzled.

  ‘Lay down your swords! This battle is over!’

  Marcellus! she thought. The First Lord had returned and all would be well. She had heard he could halt a fight with the magical power of his voice. A warm breeze blew through her heart, blowing away her fear and pain.

  Time seemed to slow and throughout the blood-covered tent warriors were sheathing their swords. Others just dropped them to the ground, grinning, happy to be alive. Enemies clapped one another on the back. Valla lowered her sword. What a good day it’s been, she thought. What were they fighting about? She couldn’t remember. Her head ached, but for the first time in days her arm was not paining her. She believed she could feel life flowing through it, warm and vital, and she knew now it would heal and she would be whole again. A bubble of l
aughter came to her lips.

  She turned to Rubin to share her joy. He was seated on the edge of his mattress, one arm supporting himself, the other outstretched towards the laughing soldiers. His thin body was shaking with effort and sweat poured down his face. Through the muffling haze of contentment Valla slowly realized something was very wrong. She frowned and walked over to him. What was the matter with him? The battle was over. He said something to her but his voice was weak and she had to lean down to hear.

  ‘Kill them!’ he whispered. ‘Kill them all!’

  As she gazed at him dumbly, slowly the thrall in which she was held faded enough for her muddled mind to grasp that Marcellus was not there. Rubin had done this. He had stopped the battle somehow, given them a chance of life. She shook her head, trying to clear it, trying to force her way through the conviction that all was well. Raising her sword with uncertain fingers she turned back to the enemy. As she lost sight of Rubin her confusion returned. What was she going to do? It was something important, but she could not remember. She looked at the bloody bodies of her comrades lying on the hard earth, the gaping wounds on men and women who still lived, unaware of their lifeblood gouting out on to the ground. She glanced doubtfully back at Rubin.

  All at once resolve rose in her and she ran back to her last opponent, the swordmaster, who was standing with a bemused expression on his face, and gutted him with two savage strokes. She plunged into the enemy ranks, hacking and slashing, throats, eyes and bellies, maiming and killing the dazed, unresisting Blues. But they were quickly coming round. There were shouts of anger and anguish, and the sliding sound of swords swiftly drawn. A clumsy swing caught Valla on her bad arm, she stumbled on a body, then she was down. And the City soldiers were still wildly outnumbered.