The Immortal Throne

by Stella Gemmell

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EVAN BROGLANH’S PLAN to join the Khan army did not work out as straightforwardly as he had hoped. He and Chancey tried offering their forged papers to a young captain they found barking orders at a sullen band of infantry. But the captain, promoted beyond his competence, had no idea what to do with two stray soldiers, veterans with hard eyes and a self-assured air, and a random girl. He directed them to the front of the army, telling them to report to one of the general’s aides. Evan had no intention of going within sight of Marcus Rae Khan, who would certainly recognize him, so the three moved instead towards the rear of the army where they made a place for themselves with the baggage carts, the whores and the Pigstickers, and a makeshift cavalry unit who gladly welcomed two expert riders with their own horses.

  As the long summer days drifted by Emly would spend her time walking at the edge of the marching horde, leading the warhorse if Evan was with her, or a baggage pony when he was away scouting. No questions were asked, no explanations given, but the three newcomers were accepted by the ragtail army. If they believed Emly was the young sister of one of the men, then so be it, she thought. Evan had not touched her with lust in his eyes since the night above the baker’s, and she might as well be his sister or his daughter, she thought ruefully. There were times when her body ached for him, but most nights, when she lay down to rest at the end of a day’s march, she would fall instantly to sleep surrounded by the comforting sounds of twenty thousand men and women, most of them armed and willing to protect her.

  She wondered sometimes why they were fleeing the empress and what would happen to them if the hunters found them, but her quiet existence in the White Palace seemed far away and long ago, and she was happy with this travelling life with Evan, even though she was seldom alone with him.

  Often during the day she walked with the yellow-haired whore Peach, who was the same age as her but who had an entirely different experience of life. Peach was a City girl, born in Barenna. Her mother was a whore too, her father a soldier, probably. As they walked Peach gave Emly the benefit of her accumulated wisdom on the subject of men and their needs. At first Em was pleased with her new friend, for she had never had a friend before, but after a while she started to think Peach’s life sad, her views entirely limited by what she could see over a man’s shoulder. The whore did not dislike men, for they were her livelihood, but she had little reason to value them. Like her sisters, she welcomed some of the soldiers, the ones that were clean and respectful, and avoided others, the violent and the slovenly. But the life of a prostitute in an army was a good one, Peach believed, for there was a constant supply of customers and therefore coin, and protection which her sisters in the City did not enjoy.

  ‘What of you, Emly?’ she asked, as they marched one day in the noontime sunshine. ‘You could do what I do. You’re skinny, but some men don’t mind that. They like the boyish ones.’

  Em shook her head. ‘I have a man,’ she said proudly, ‘but he is far from here.’ Evan and Chancey had ridden away at daybreak on some mission, so she was speaking the entire truth.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ asked Peach, and her blue eyes were wistful. ‘Is he kind? Does he look after you?’

  Em found herself without speech for a few moments, as she often did. The women had become used to her quietness by now, and Peach waited.

  ‘He is a hero,’ Emly said eventually. ‘He is a hero of the City. He saved us all, he and his friends.’

  Peach smiled. ‘They’re all heroes to me,’ she said slyly.

  Em looked up ahead. The marching horde seemed to be slowing. It was only midday, and she wondered why. At last they faltered to a stop, and she took the chance to run to the nearby stream and bring water for herself and Peach and for the little baggage pony she was leading. The girls sat down beside the trail, glad of an unscheduled rest. Em felt hot and sweaty and there was no shelter from the sun in the valley.

  The army had left the flat coastal plain behind and was travelling through increasingly mountainous country. Grey peaks spotted with dark green forest stood all around. They had marched up the slow slope of the valley and were now climbing a narrow defile, a pass bounded by rock walls and shale slopes. Because of the treacherous terrain and the fear of raids security had been tightened. The women and the baggage train had been ordered to keep up. But it had been a long morning and the young girls like Em and Peach found themselves dawdling to keep pace with the older women. And now they were trailing far behind the main body of the army.

  It was very still in the steep defile, but they no longer had to suffer dust flying from thousands of hooves and boots for there was hard rock underfoot. The air was fresher up here, and clearer, and Emly looked forward to climbing ever higher. She hoped soon to see all the surrounding land and, perhaps, their final destination. She asked often how much further the army would be marching, but no one appeared to know, even Evan Broglanh.

  The baggage pony shied and whinnied as a loud landslip of rocks and pebbles rattled down the slope opposite. A soldier cried out and cursed when he was hit by a flying stone. Emly craned her neck but she could see nothing above them other than bare rock and a few scrubby bushes. Up ahead the army started moving again and she and Peach jumped to their feet. Em picked up the pony’s rope and stroked his nose to soothe him.

  Suddenly the still air was split by a woman’s scream. Em’s heart sprang into her throat. She and Peach turned back to where the sound had come from. There was another, lower cry – a deep, agonized moan.

  ‘Calm down, girls,’ a voice said cheerfully. A stout, red-faced woman glanced at them as she marched past, working her way back through the ranks. She was grey-haired and dressed all in sombre grey, but for an incongruous pink sun bonnet perched on her head.

  ‘Maura,’ she told them. ‘She’s early.’

  Em knew Maura. She was a quiet, dark-faced girl, newly wed to a soldier and happily pregnant for the first time. Her condition could be seen, but it scarcely made a bulge under her dress. Emly, who knew little about such matters, wondered if an early delivery was a good thing. She thought it might be, for the babe would be small and easier to push out. Curious, she started to walk back through the marchers in the stout woman’s footsteps.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Peach asked, grabbing her arm.

  ‘I’ve never seen a woman give birth.’

  Peach made a face – she had. ‘Then you won’t be any help,’ she said sensibly. ‘Bruenna has delivered a thousand babies. She’s the one Maura needs.’

  Em stood on tiptoe, looking for the pink sun bonnet, which had disappeared. Then, her mind made up, she handed the pony’s rope to Peach, who stood and watched as she ran back down the slope, darting past the whores and groups of grumbling oldsters, and skipping round the hooves of ponies and donkeys and the wheels of the slow carts they drew. She found the labouring girl by following her cries. She was not far off the main trail, in a shallow depression carved out of the rock wall. She was squatting on the ground, face streaming with tears and sweat, and as Em got there she lifted her head and howled like a dog. The midwife in the pink bonnet, Bruenna, was supporting her on one side and another older woman on the other. A platoon of soldiers stood around reluctantly as if uncertain whether to stay or go.

  When she saw Emly, Bruenna demanded, ‘Fetch some water, girl.’ Em ran to the stream and filled her water skin then rushed back to the women.

  ‘More than that,’ Bruenna snapped as she grabbed the skin.

  Em looked around her, then at the lingering soldiers. ‘Give me your helm,’ she said to one she recognized.

  The black-haired soldier merely stared at her and his comrades laughed. One veteran, grinning, said, ‘Do what the little girl tells you, Stern.’

  Stern unlatched and lifted off his helm and gave it to her with a wink, and she took it with a nod of thanks and ran to the stream again. Filling it with water she hurried back to the women and placed the helm carefully on the ground beside Bruenna.
The midwife looked at it and nodded.

  ‘Good girl,’ she said. She turned back to the labouring woman, talking quietly to her, encouraging her.

  Feeling helpless, Emly stood up and looked around. The last few heavily laden carts were driving past them, hurrying up the ravine in a loud flurry of shale and stones, the animals straining into their traces, huffing and snorting. Soon, she thought with a stab of fear, we will be left behind.

  After a while Maura’s pain seemed to lessen and she leaned back to rest against the rock wall. By then the final remnants of the ragtail army had passed them by and they were alone with their platoon of soldiers.

  Bruenna stood up painfully and rubbed her knees with a sigh. ‘We’re in a pickle,’ she said mildly, glancing at the sun which was just starting to fall down the sky. ‘We don’t want to be here come nightfall.’

  ‘We could stop one of those carts, make them come back,’ Emly suggested. ‘They could carry Maura.’

  Bruenna sniffed. ‘They’re traders, girl. If they stop it’s only to make themselves a sale. And do you think they’d throw off some of their sellables to make way for a pregnant whore? Besides,’ she added, ‘they’re in a hurry to catch up with the army.’ She looked at Em. ‘If you run, you’ll overtake them. One of them will find room for a little thing like you.’

  But Em shook her head and Bruenna sighed again and looked down at Maura.

  ‘How long will it be?’ Emly asked her.

  ‘As long as it takes. Half a day. Tomorrow. Or it might slip out like a silverfish within moments. It happens.’

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  The woman frowned at her. ‘I don’t know. Can you do anything?’

  Emly racked her brain. She could cook, she could ride a horse now, and she knew how to make coloured glass. She was learning to read and write. None of these skills seemed helpful to the labouring woman. Yet she was reluctant to leave, to run away and put their problems behind her.

  The other helper, a thin, elderly woman Em had seen before, eased herself up to standing, ruefully rubbing her back with both hands. She smiled at Em.

  Then, as she raised her lined face to the afternoon sun, an arrow thudded into her throat. Its black feathers thrummed slightly then it was still, as if it had always been there. In that long, silent heartbeat dark blood gushed briefly from the woman’s neck and she dropped like a stone.

  Em heard the swish of more arrows in the air, then a heavy blow on her back knocked her sprawling.

  Stern Edasson heard the arrows’ lethal flight before he saw them and he shoved the girl down on the rocky ground behind his soldiers. He raised his shield, leaned over and tipped the water from his helm and crammed it on his head.

  ‘Arrows!’ the useless officer warned, far too late, as more thudded into them, hitting only the leather of their shields, the metal of their helmets.

  Riding down the shale slope opposite were two Fkeni bowmen, gripping their mounts with their knees and loosing shafts with astonishing speed. Their well-trained ponies were sitting back on their haunches, hooves sliding on the shifting shale, while their riders leaned back with them in perfect balance.

  But the bowmen won no more victims and as the ponies reached the foot of the slope the Pigstickers charged. Stern lanced a spear into one bowman’s side. The Fkeni’s pony reared and bolted as another spear jabbed it in the chest. The rider fell forward on to its neck and he clung on as the pony galloped back down the ravine. The second pony stumbled and fell to its knees as the warriors attacked and its rider was pulled off and swiftly butchered.

  Looking around, Stern saw the officer had been holding position at the rear the whole time. Once the threat was over he stepped forward.

  ‘You,’ he pointed at Stern, ‘take this pony and ride to the army with all speed. Bring back a cart for the women. We need to leave here. Quickly.’

  Stern sighed to himself. The man’s a moron, he thought. ‘Leg’s broken,’ he replied shortly. ‘It’s not going anywhere.’

  The officer turned to look; the pony’s slender foreleg was at an angle, the bone poking through the brown hair. He said nothing as a soldier led it limping to the threshold of the shallow shelter, then drew a razor-sharp blade. The pony shuddered and collapsed. The officer might be a fool but Stern did not have to tell him its carcass would furnish small protection against further attack. And he did not have to be told such an attack would inevitably come if the wounded Fkeni made it back to his friends.

  The officer – what was his name, Carralus, Caius? – had been attached to their unit as they left the City. He was younger than most of the Pigstickers, with a pale, round face and fierce freckles. Stern had already learned that the man knew less about battle tactics than the Fkeni’s dead pony, and now it seemed he was a coward too. Officers like him – usually sons or nephews of someone with influence – tended to die quickly in battle, often at the hands of the enemy. Stern knew the other soldiers would look to him now, and the burden lay heavy on his shoulders. Their situation was impossible. Even if the pregnant woman died right this moment they’d be unlikely to catch up with the army by nightfall.

  He saw the girl scramble over to the woman with the arrow in her neck, but Stern knew she was dead, her rheumy eyes already filling with dust. The fat midwife was speaking gently to the girl in labour, but the whore was wide-eyed and delirious and seemed unaware of what was happening. Her face was pale as ice over water, and he could see that her dress and the cloth she lay on were drenched with dark blood.

  The officer marched over to them. ‘We must move this woman,’ he said to the midwife. ‘My troops will make a litter of their spears and carry her.’

  Stern was watching his face, anxious and pale. He’s not a moron, he thought, he is just frightened of making decisions, frightened they will be wrong, frightened of pain and of death.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ the midwife told him. ‘See all this,’ she gestured at the blood soaking the ground. ‘You can’t move her. You’d kill her.’

  ‘We’ll all be dead if we stay here.’

  The officer’s words were undeniable. Stern and the other veterans watched the man with detached curiosity, wondering what he would say next.

  ‘If we remain here, will she survive the . . . er . . . birth?’ he asked, feeling his way towards a decision.

  The midwife shrugged and turned her face away. The officer looked around at his soldiers who regarded him without expression. There was no help there. Stern knew they all wanted to press on and catch up with the army before sunset. If the Fkeni came back they could never survive the night. And the tribesmen had a unique way with death . . .

  Yet they all thought of themselves as heroes and couldn’t march off and leave the women. And the little girl with the heart-shaped face belonged to the tall Wildcat veteran. There was no way Stern could look into his cold, pale eyes in the future if he abandoned the girl to torment and slow death. But if enough tribesmen attacked them, then that would be the fate of them all.

  Still the officer said nothing so Stern took pity on him.

  ‘We can protect this area,’ he offered, and the officer turned to him with relief in his eyes. Stern jogged over to the other side of the mountain trail and looked up.

  ‘There’s nothing up above us but sheer rock,’ he called. Then he walked slowly back, looking around him, collecting the Fkeni bows as he came.

  ‘They can only come at us from front and sides. They’ll come up the trail. This,’ he gestured to the slaughtered pony, ‘will give us some protection from their shafts.’

  ‘We’ll need a fire,’ said the officer, looking around as if one might be in sight.

  ‘The light of the fire will draw them,’ Grey Gus growled at him, contempt in his voice and eyes.

  ‘They won’t need a fire to draw them,’ Stern argued. ‘If the injured one got back, they’ll be coming. You can be sure of that. But a fire will steal our night vision. The Fkeni won’t be sitting around staring into a campfi
re if they have a battle ahead.’

  He handed the officer the two black bows. The man looked at them for a long moment. Then, ‘Arrows!’ he ordered. ‘Collect all their arrows. Quickly now. Just the whole ones.’

  Stern spoke to him quietly. ‘Broken arrows can still kill,’ he said.

  ‘And the broken ones,’ the officer added. ‘Quickly.’

  Stern sighed again. It was going to be a long bloody night.

  There are seven of us, he thought. Six really. He couldn’t count Officer Quickly. For all Stern knew, the man might be a ferocious fighter but he’d seen no evidence of it. So Stern had three veterans – Benet, Gus and Quora. Once night fell, at least Benet’s poor eyesight would no longer be a drawback. Quora was the steadiest. He should charge her with protecting the women, yet he was reluctant to waste such a fine warrior in the back line. He would see that the officer volunteered for that duty. The two last soldiers were young and untried. They were also brothers, Cam and Farren Cordover. They’d both attacked the Fkeni riders with gusto and without hesitation, and he hoped for much from them.

  He looked up at the sky. Thin clouds were coming in from the north, which meant no stars, no light except for the thin sliver of the old moon cradling the new. He thought about it.

  ‘Collect brushwood,’ he ordered. ‘Twigs, dry leaves, tumbleweed. Only the driest.’ The soldiers set to with a will.

  Stern looked at the back of the shallow shelter where the girl and the midwife were sitting on either side of the whore. The midwife was staring into the distance, perhaps sorting through old memories, trying to distance herself from their plight. The girl was clearly frightened, her eyes darting around, unable to settle. Stern considered giving her a weapon, but decided she’d be useless in a fight. She’d probably kill herself before she injured any of the enemy.