The Immortal Throne

by Stella Gemmell

  Rubin sank down on the bed, his mind in uproar. ‘I thought,’ he said bleakly, ‘my sister fought for the City.’

  ‘She did,’ Elija said earnestly. ‘She saved the City.’

  Rubin snorted. ‘Does it look saved to you? Do you ever go down there?’

  Elija argued stoutly, ‘But the war ended because of them, Indaro and Fell and their friends. The Blues have all marched away. Indaro was a hero. You should be proud of her.’

  ‘She murdered the emperor yet you call her a hero,’ Rubin said scornfully. Elija did not argue but he turned away as if about to leave.

  Rubin did not want to fall out with his old friend. He asked, ‘How did you know I was here?’

  Elija slid his back down the wall and sat on the floor. ‘No one tells me anything, but eventually I get to hear most of the gossip. I heard soldiers talking, then I spoke to Gallan, your guard. It was Gallan who let me in here. I told him we were old friends. He’s a good man.’

  Then he asked, ‘What were you doing, sneaking around the palace?’

  Rubin told Elija his own story. ‘I came here to find my father,’ he finished. ‘And here I am, under sentence of death.’ The retelling of the tale had made him miserable. Why had he come here? If he hadn’t, he would never have heard of Indaro’s treachery. And he would not be about to die.

  ‘I will ask the empress to reprieve you,’ Elija said, but the words sounded tentative and Rubin was sceptical. ‘You say she cares little for you,’ he retorted. ‘Why would she pay any attention?’

  Elija face fell. ‘I can try,’ he said. He looked up at the window. ‘It’s nearly morning. I must go. I don’t want to get Gallan into trouble. I will come back if I can.’

  After he had left Rubin stared glumly at the pile of books. He didn’t have the heart to pick them up. The news about Indaro had crushed him. He had clung to the hope that he had been lied to, but there was no reason for Elija to lie and Rubin was forced to accept it was the truth. As the day of his death loomed, he tried to contemplate it with acceptance, hoping only that it would happen quickly.

  Nevertheless, the night before his dawn execution he lay sleepless, black thoughts fluttering tirelessly round his mind. When he heard the soft sound of boots in the corridor outside a gut-wrenching panic seized hold. He could not breathe. He could not move. The cell door opened and a soldier stood in the doorway lit by a lantern.

  ‘Rubin, come with me,’ he commanded.

  Rubin stayed frozen in place, and the soldier said more gently, ‘I mean you no harm. Come quickly.’

  Rubin saw it was Darius Hex. Curiosity forced its way past his terror, and he wondered if the palace’s senior commander would fetch him to his execution. He felt around on the floor for his boots, hope flickering weakly. Darius, unarmoured and clad in riding leathers, seemed to be alone. ‘Be silent,’ he said, handing him the lantern. This simple gesture – giving him a potential weapon – reassured Rubin more than words.

  The soldier led him at a swift pace through the labyrinth of the palace until they emerged suddenly into open air and Rubin saw they were in the great courtyard. It was seething with men and their mounts and lit by the hectic light of torches. Voices were hushed and horses reined in, but Rubin felt a barely suppressed charge. The men of the First Adamantine, the Nighthawks, had been confined in the palace for too long and their excitement was tangible as they made ready to ride. The air was icy cold and smoky with the breath of horses. Dawn gleamed pinkly in the east.

  At the sight of Darius the riders’ elation grew and there were brief bursts of laughter, quickly stifled. Horses shifted and snorted, eager to be off. Darius’ mount was brought up, saddled and packed with war gear. A second beast was led before Rubin, and he was handed a leather jerkin and a thick cloak which he pulled on gratefully. He speculated, not without concern, where he was being taken, though the morning chill and the prospect of riding were energizing. He took a deep breath of free air, redolent with the scent of horses and leather.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked as he mounted. As his foot met the stirrup the horse stood stock still, shifting its weight slightly once Rubin was aboard. The Nighthawks boasted that their horses were the best trained among the City’s cavalry.

  ‘The Nighthawks are riding to the Paradise Gate,’ Darius informed him, climbing into the saddle. He pulled on his gauntlets and looked around at the milling horses and riders with pride. The remaining men mounted and there was a moment of stillness, of thrilling anticipation.

  ‘Has the empress reprieved me?’ Rubin persisted, wondering if Elija’s petition on his behalf had won his freedom.

  ‘No,’ the commander replied shortly, then he signalled his men and the Nighthawks started to stream out of the palace gates.

  They rode slowly down the Shell Path. It was perilous at the best of times and the violent storms had washed away long stretches. The riders passed teams of labourers, working by the light of blazing torches, who stood aside and watched them, leaning on their shovels. The Nighthawks clattered by and some of the workmen shouted to them, whether curses or cheers Rubin could not tell.

  At the base of the Shield they had to wait while Darius’ second spoke to the gatekeepers, then the great bronze gates cranked slowly open. Rubin looked around him, revelling in the prospect of freedom. He wondered if the Nighthawks’ commander was being sent to fight as punishment for the breach in the White Palace’s security.

  ‘Did you chase down all the intruders?’ he asked him.

  ‘One of them escaped. We are still searching for him,’ Darius replied, watching the gates. ‘Seven died, two captured.’

  ‘Did you get anything out of them?’

  Darius shook his head. ‘We questioned them but they just cursed us in their own tongue. In the end we took them to the top of the highest shaft.’ He shrugged. ‘The threat was clear, whether they spoke the City tongue or not: they would be thrown down the shaft if they did not give us information by any means possible. One was stalwart,’ he said, kicking his horse into a walk once the gates were open, ‘and was cast down. The other,’ he looked around as they trotted side by side through the base town, ‘he cried and grovelled when he saw his friend’s fate, but he could not speak to us, or would not. So he was thrown down too.’

  Rubin, who had climbed one of the interminable shafts, his body trembling with fatigue and fear, shuddered. ‘It is a terrible fate. Did Archange approve it?’

  ‘The empress was present throughout,’ Darius said, glancing at him coldly in the dawn light.

  Not far down the road the commander reined in his horse beside an old man trudging along alone, away from the mountain. When the man looked up Rubin saw it was his guard Gallan. Darius leaned down from the saddle and handed him a money pouch. The guard nodded and thanked him. He nodded to Rubin too as he rode past and Rubin saluted him. It was dawning on him for the first time that he had not been released. The guard must have been paid to get to a place of safety before Archange realized her prisoner had gone.

  ‘Why have you brought me with you?’ he asked Darius. ‘Am I being taken to die on the walls?’

  ‘Elija spoke to me,’ the commander answered, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘He told me you saved his and Emly’s lives when they were young. And were it not for them, Archange would not now be sitting on the Immortal Throne.’

  Rubin waited but that seemed to be all he was going to say, so he asked, ‘Does the empress know I’m gone?’

  But Darius ignored the question. He was standing in the stirrups, shouting to his troopers. Rubin could only assume he had been snatched away from under Archange’s nose. Had the Nighthawks also left the palace without her knowledge or permission? If so, it seemed Darius Hex was no longer in fear of the empress. Perhaps, Rubin thought, the soldier did not expect to survive to face her wrath.

  There was a stiff breeze coming from the east. Soon after they left the Shield they could make out the distant din of battle, although the Paradise Gate was a half-da
y’s ride away. Rubin had not been in battle since the lance-thrust had nearly taken his life at Needlewoman’s Notch, and the far-off sounds, the cries and clash of war, made his stomach clench. By midday the horses were closing on the gate and anticipation rose among the riders. Unlike Rubin, they relished the prospect of a fight. The atmosphere now became dense with the sounds of battle; the very air seemed blood-drenched. As the Great Gate came in sight they could see the frenzied activity around it. The gate still held and teams of men and women were hauling building blocks into place, forming a vast ring of stone inside the gate in expectation of the enemy breaking through.

  The Nighthawks pushed their mounts through the crowds, people falling back as the cavalry passed. At the base of the wall Darius dismounted and ran up the long flight of stone steps to the top – low, wide steps designed for horses to climb if needed. Rubin slid off his mount and followed, for he had not been ordered not to. At the top he found the wide battlements were crowded with armoured men and women, some slumped to the stones, weary from fighting, some still fresh and unbloodied. Children, boys and girls, were running among them bringing them water, fresh weapons and bandages, and collecting spent arrows for reuse.

  He and Darius walked over to the parapet and looked out, then both ducked as a flight of arrows hissed low over their heads. Warily Rubin peered through the crenellations. He was shocked by what he saw. The enemy army sprawled like a stain over the eastern plain. It seemed to go on for ever and the sound it made was like the ocean breakers pounding the base of the Salient. Dotted among its ranks were tall wooden constructions, half-built siege towers. An arrow struck the stone close to Rubin’s head, striking sparks, and he dodged back. Looking around, he snatched up a discarded helm and put it on then leaned over again and looked down. Beneath him ladders were being thrown up – ten, eleven at a time, he counted – and a seemingly endless stream of attackers swarmed up them. The defenders were using heavy hooks to catch the tops of the ladders and push them off or drag them sideways with their burden of enemy soldiers. Rubin saw they waited until the last moment, when each ladder was full of men, before shoving it off.

  Further along the wall a band of enemy fighters had managed to clamber over and a pitched battle was going on. More defenders were racing to join in and the invaders were soon outnumbered; even as Rubin watched, the last was slaughtered or maimed, stripped of his weapons then thrown back over the wall on to his comrades below.

  ‘Darius!’ a deep voice bellowed over the clamour. Rubin turned to see a burly veteran with thick, grizzled hair and a heavy moustache. His arm was in a blood-stained sling and his face was pale and sweating with pain.

  ‘General Kerr!’ Darius shouted. ‘We’re here to help.’

  The general nodded. ‘Come with me.’

  He led the way into the Paradise Tower, into a dusty chamber lit only by arrow slits. The sounds of battle were muted inside the thick walls. There were piles of armour and weapons on the floor, and the only furniture was a flimsy table with a jug and cup on it and a sturdy chair, into which the general slumped. So this is Constant Kerr, Rubin thought, leader of the revered Fourth Imperial.

  The old man poured himself half a cup of wine, knocked it back, then glared at Rubin, looking him up and down. ‘Who’s this?’ he barked.

  ‘My aide,’ Darius replied smoothly. ‘How can we help?’

  Kerr coughed long and hard, then spat on the floor. ‘They are building siege engines, as you can see. My troops are doing a good job keeping their soldiers off the walls, and their casualties must be enormous, but if they can deploy towers taller than the wall they will have free rein to use their bowmen against us. We need to destroy those towers.’

  ‘Fire arrows,’ offered Darius.

  Kerr nodded. ‘Indeed. We are bringing up catapults to hurl oil against them. The fire arrows should do the rest and the Fourth Imperial has the best bowmen in the City. But we are running out of oil. And I have heard,’ he snorted, ‘that the supplies I demanded have been diverted to the Adamantine Breach.’

  Darius nodded. ‘The situation there is grave.’

  Kerr’s face reddened and his voice was raw with anger. ‘The situation here is grave! We are facing twenty, perhaps thirty thousand men. When they break through the gate – and they will do, you can be sure of that – this is where history will say the City falls. At the Paradise Gate. Under my watch! The enemy are not threatening the Breach yet. They have not even reached it. Ours is the greater need! We need oil, arrows and medical supplies. And we are fast running out of food. And water. If you truly want to help, go tell the empress our need is the greatest!’

  Darius was silent and Rubin looked at him. The muscles on his jaw were clenched with anger, but his voice was soft when he spoke.

  ‘I am not here as a messenger boy, general. I am here to fight for my City. And I will not go running to the empress asking for help at the Paradise Gate when the Great North Gate has been under siege for longer. And it still holds.’

  Constant Kerr swore and stood up. He clutched his bloody arm and his face grew pale. ‘We will hold!’ he spat. ‘But I will go myself and beg the empress, on bended knee if that’s what’s needed, for more aid.’

  ‘You will be wasting your time and your breath, Kerr. Do you think Aquila in the north and Vares in the south are not begging the White Palace for aid too?’

  The old man sighed and fell back in his chair. Rubin could see that, beneath the bluster, he was exhausted.

  ‘If the oil we need does not arrive before they finish their siege engines,’ he said, his voice bitter, ‘then we will use it for our funeral pyres.’

  Neither man spoke for a moment, then the general said, ‘I hear there is plague in the north too.’ He gazed at Darius, his eyes red-rimmed.

  Darius nodded.

  The old man shook his head. ‘This is terrible news. We already have more than twenty dead and a hundred-odd sick. The sickness is swift and merciless and if it sweeps through our defenders the gate might as well be opened for their army to march through.’ He lowered his shaggy head as if defeated.

  Rubin and Darius glanced at each other. Rubin was wondering if the old general had the heart to lead the defence of the gate, but just then a soldier came clattering into the room. Kerr looked up.

  ‘General!’ the man cried. ‘A cartful of oil barrels is on its way from the Araby Gate. The commander there learned of our need and has sent all they have.’

  ‘Good man!’ Kerr sprang up, rejuvenated. ‘Let’s get those catapults up here and we’ll destroy their siege towers before sundown!’

  ‘But what if the enemy attack the Araby Gate?’ asked Rubin.

  The general almost smiled. ‘Then they will be sent oil by the next gate in line. The City works together best when it is in peril.’

  He clapped Darius on the back. ‘Will you join us, you and your troopers? Will you defend the Paradise Gate with us?’

  The commander shook his head. ‘No, general, the Nighthawks cannot fight behind a wall. We will ride south, for the Adamantine Breach – there the cavalry will make a difference.’

  ‘Very well,’ Kerr said, nodding. ‘I respect your choice. And if you see the empress . . .’

  ‘Yes, general?’

  ‘Tell her we will defend the Paradise Gate to the last warrior.’

  Darius and Rubin left the tower and stepped out into the din and chaos on top of the wall. They hurried back down the steps to where the Nighthawks waited. The commander took his mount’s reins and turned his blue gaze on Rubin.

  ‘The Adamantine Breach will soon be the most perilous place in the City,’ he said. ‘Come with us if you dare!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE WHITE PALACE was a strange place to be as the first gales blew in. Icy winds swirling round the lofty minarets and balconies made it unpleasant to venture outside and Elija confined himself more and more to the library where he listened to the hooting of wind in chimneys and the patter of rain on windows.
He was overcome by sadness. Now Emly had gone and Dol Salida was dead, he had no one left he could talk to. Rubin was awaiting execution, and all Elija could do for his friend was to ensure he had books to read.

  Then one night two things happened. Rubin escaped his cell and disappeared and Darius Hex vanished with the Nighthawks. The atmosphere in the palace changed. The Nighthawks had walked the palace corridors since Elija had lived there, but the warriors who stalked the halls now were strangers who stared at him with hard eyes as if to tell him he had no place there. He knew of the invasion from the north, the attacks on two of the Great Gates, but it seemed to have nothing to do with the quiet, routine world of the White Palace.

  The empress was seldom seen and her public duties were performed by her granddaughter and by Jona Lee Gaeta. Grey-eyed Thekla treated Elija as the soldiery did, as if he were an intruder. He thought she was probably right. He had been brought to the palace only because he was Emly’s brother. He was of no use to Archange and the empress had always seemed barely aware of him. He watched Thekla furtively, as did most of the soldiers, for she was a woman of transcendent beauty in a place where there were few women and most of those crones.

  Jona was amiable enough, though his black Serafim eyes made his gaze as disquieting as Archange’s. When he spoke to Elija, which he did rarely, it was always to ask questions – about Emly and Broglanh, of course, and about Rubin. Once he’d asked if Elija was loyal to Marcellus, like his friend Rubin. ‘I never met Marcellus and I was told he had been killed,’ was all Elija could say, and Jona looked at him as though he’d given the wrong answer.

  It was inevitable Elija be drawn to the complex of tunnels inside the mountain. Once these had been opened up and searched, the entrances were sealed again. The gate at the base of the Shield where the black-clad killers had broken in had been barricaded. Those now in charge of the security of the palace were confident it was impregnable. Elija was unconvinced and, as an intellectual exercise as much as anything, he took it on himself to test its weaknesses. The entrance to the top of one of the great shafts had been locked, not walled up like the others, and Elija knew where the key was kept.