‘You are a good enough fighter,’ Hammarskjald told him, ‘but you need all the blades you can carry against such as me.’
Broglanh smiled.
Hammarskjald attacked, but instead of backing away Broglanh sprang forward and to his right, then dived and rolled past his opponent’s flank. Hammarskjald pivoted on his left foot, moving his sword from right hand to left, ready to slam it into Broglanh’s back before he could recover. But as the big man spun on his heel the glass shifted under him a fraction and he twisted to recover his balance. His sword missed Broglanh, who spun and slammed his knife up to the hilt into the man’s side. He dragged it out and bounced back, watching.
It was as if nothing had happened. Hammarskjald regained his balance and, taking a lightning stride, lanced his sword at Broglanh’s heart at full stretch. Broglanh swayed but the blade sliced along his ribs. He spun away, ignoring the pain. Then he saw that the wound to Hammarskjald’s side, a wound that would have floored any other opponent, had slowed the big man a tad. A bloody stain was crawling through the cloth of his shirt. Broglanh sprang forward and stabbed like lightning at the man’s left arm, piercing deep into the bicep. Hammarskjald hesitated.
‘Finish him!’ he heard Marcellus growl.
Hammarskjald grinned and took the sword in his right hand. ‘I can fight as well with either, boy,’ he said.
Broglanh felt time slow. His blood was pounding in his ears. He took a deep breath of mountain air, feeling its virtue run through him. Then he darted forward and thrust at Hammarskjald’s heart. The big man’s sword flashed up, knocking Broglanh’s aside. He lunged at Broglanh, but again the soldier sidestepped and parried the blow, before whipping around and slamming his knife into Hammarskjald’s ribs for a second time. Hammarskjald bellowed like an ox and grabbed Broglanh by the shirt. They both fell to the floor, but it was Broglanh who scrambled up.
He wrenched his knife from Hammarskjald’s side and watched the crimson blood gush, then, standing above him, he plunged his sword through the man’s heart until the point ground into the marble floor beneath. Hammarskjald gasped, eyes rolling. Broglanh stood, watching the flow of blood from the two wounds. It slowed but didn’t stop. Wanting to be sure, he crouched and grabbed the ginger head and twisted it brutally, snapping the neck, feeling it crunch. Distantly he heard Thekla cry out. He stood up, chest heaving. He looked into the man’s face. Hammarskjald blinked.
Broglanh ran to the tribeswoman’s bag and pulled out the Gulon Veil. He heard gasps from around the floor. He bunched the thing up and thrust it in front of Hammarskjald’s eyes.
‘I had it all the time, big man,’ he said. ‘You were so easily fooled!’
He waited, and at last Hammarskjald’s eyes glazed over. Broglanh stood there still, watching, his sword ready.
Marcellus walked up beside him. ‘He’s dead, soldier,’ he confirmed.
‘Fell thought you were dead once,’ Broglanh replied, his eyes fixed on the body.
Marcellus chuckled, but his voice sounded deathly tired. ‘That was just a reflection.’
Broglanh closed his eyes, felt the heat on the back of the lids. He thought of Stalker, wondering briefly who it was he had killed. ‘Perhaps this is a reflection too.’
‘No,’ Marcellus said. ‘It is not.’ Broglanh turned to look at him and saw satisfaction in the man’s face.
‘Did you have it all the time?’ Marcellus asked him, nodding at the veil clutched in Broglanh’s fist.
‘No,’ he confessed. ‘I lost it. A valiant girl brought it back to the City.’
Then he walked across the blood-stained floor to Archange. As he knelt before her the pain in his shoulder and ribs cut into him and his knee almost gave way under him. He closed his eyes for a moment and the ground beneath him lurched. He sucked in a breath, willing away the pain and weariness, for he was not finished yet.
‘My lady, you have my sword and my life.’ Offering her the veil he looked at her properly for the first time. He thought she had aged, shrunk, since last he saw her in the summer.
‘I should have you hanged, drawn and quartered,’ she said mildly, taking the veil and clutching it to her. ‘Where is Emly?’ she asked.
‘Dead, I fear.’ The words clanged like a death-knell. Now the fight was over, the Gulon Veil back where it belonged, he was gnawed by dread. Was Emly truly dead? Had she succeeded in returning the veil to the City – the gods only knew how – only to die in the attempt?
The sound of sobbing came to his ears and he looked round. Thekla had thrown herself across Hammarskjald’s body. Broglanh turned back to Archange, who was watching her, her face unreadable. She gestured to one of the guards to take Thekla away.
‘I’m getting old,’ she confessed to her lieutenant. ‘I knew he had an agent in the palace, but I never suspected it was her.’
Broglanh no longer cared. ‘Lady, with respect,’ he said, desperate to depart, ‘I must find Emly and bring her back to the palace, alive or dead. I vow I will surrender myself afterwards.’
She nodded and he stood and fled the floor.
Far to the south, at the Adamantine Breach, Darius Hex watched with black despair as the enemy hordes poured through the City’s defences. His spine broken, his legs useless, he lay in agony, unable to do anything about it.
The Nighthawks had fought a valiant fight. They had battled steadfastly, their numbers slowly dwindling until they were too few to make a difference. Then Darius had ordered them to abandon their mounts and stand with the surviving defenders, who still held the breach despite terrible losses. Langham Vares was dead and Darius found himself commander of the embattled army.
He had been felled early that morning, as the sun rose behind a dismal mist. Though overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers he had fought on with sword and shield until an axeman had found his unprotected back. The man had been killed by Darius’ comrades, but the commander knew he would never stand again. At his order they had dragged him to the top of the broken wall overlooking the battle where he lay, in torment of body and heart. He was armed with a knife which he would use on any enemy soldier who came within reach, and maybe on himself in the end.
He had watched as the enemy army struck again and again, waves of warriors, careless of death it seemed, exultant in the victory they could see ahead. They were led by a tall, broad-shouldered man with braided hair and beard. Though he was not young, the warrior seemed invincible and Darius’ soldiers were defenceless against his mighty sword. He was bellowing his battle cry and, amid the horror, he almost seemed to be enjoying himself.
Then, his sword raised for a killing blow, he seemed to pause. Darius lifted a bloody hand to wipe his eyes. The big man stood motionless for a moment, and it was as if the whole world had stopped turning. Then three City soldiers lanced their blades into him and he fell, disappearing among the horde.
But Darius was sure he was dead before they struck.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
RUBIN LOOKED AT Marcellus, who stood staring out over the City, and wondered what he was thinking. In the past hours he had been diminished in Rubin’s eyes. He had been found wanting, squabbling with his peers and playing petty games for advantage whilst down in the streets honourable soldiers died. And as a warrior of legend he had been forced to stand and watch as two stronger men battled for the future of the City. Rubin wondered if Marcellus was capable any longer of feeling shame.
He followed his lord’s gaze and saw smoke rising in the south. They had only left the fighting there early that morning but it seemed like a year ago. He glanced up at the sun and saw it had passed its zenith and was starting its fall into the west. It had been a long day and it was far from over. Hammarskjald’s death, though so crucial here on the mountain, would make little difference down in the City. Tomorrow, or later this day if the empress decreed it, they would have to return to the battle.
Rubin heard the shuffle of boots and turned to see an old soldier, his face bruised and bloody, his arm in a st
ained sling, hurrying across the throne-room floor. He stared in bewilderment at Hammarskjald’s body as he passed, then he addressed Archange.
‘Lady,’ he said, bowing stiffly, ‘my apologies. The roof of my quarters—’
‘What news, Eufara?’ she snapped.
‘Only terrible news, empress. The Great North Gate and the Paradise Gate have both been overrun. The Adamantine Breach too; the defenders were overwhelmed. The enemy are loose in our streets, killing and burning.’ He coughed dust from his throat. ‘I have ordered the bronze gates reinforced. All available soldiers, every man and woman who can stand and hold a weapon, have been sent to defend them. I will go myself and—’
‘No,’ the empress ordered. ‘I want you here.’
The old man bowed his head.
Appalled, Rubin urged Marcellus, ‘We must go down and defend the gates. The enemy could be here by tonight!’
His lord did not reply immediately, then he looked slowly round and Rubin saw he was not downhearted. His face was grave but the fire of resolution blazed in his eyes. ‘No, boy,’ Marcellus declared, ‘there is another way.’ Turning to the empress, he cried, ‘Archange! We can still save the City if we use the veil. You can no longer deny it!’
Perched on the edge of her throne, she peered at him, eyes sheened with distrust. To Rubin’s surprise she rapped out a few words in a language he had never heard before, and Marcellus replied in the same. Then Archange sat back and sighed.
‘Very well,’ she said, reverting to the City tongue, ‘if there is nothing else for it. Though I believe it hopeless. And there must be five of us to even attempt it.’
‘The Gaetas claim to possess the arcane skills we need,’ Marcellus told her. ‘What have you done with Jona?’
Archange did not answer but she beckoned Eufara and at her word he sent two of his men running off. ‘I have sent for Giulia too,’ she informed Marcellus. ‘She will make up the five if you’re committed to this desperate course.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Rubin confessed, looking between the two of them. ‘Are you talking about this?’ He pointed to the bedraggled cloth the tall warrior had given Archange, which she held clutched in her lap.
‘This is the Gulon Veil,’ she told him, holding it up. Its folds smoothed out as sunlight lit the delicate lacework and the dull grey gleamed silver. ‘It is very old, as old as we are, and was once used to heal the sick and injured.’
‘But it has a greater, protective power,’ Marcellus added. ‘Five of us – five Serafim – might shield the City using its power. Its designers intended that in times of greatest danger—’
Rubin interrupted. ‘Then what are you waiting for? Why are you just talking about it? People are dying down there!’
‘Silence, boy!’ Archange snapped. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’
All Rubin’s weariness, his disgust at their feuding, his humiliation at Hammarskjald’s hands and his fear for the City rose up in an explosion of rage. He roared at the empress, ‘Don’t call me boy!’
The power and authority of his voice rolled through the air and armoured soldiers recoiled as if struck by a hammer-blow.
Archange nodded in mute acquiescence. ‘This is not something we do lightly,’ she explained, her voice persuasive. ‘The veil might . . . might,’ she emphasized, her eyes on Marcellus, ‘protect those with Serafim blood, but it is designed to cure disease and it will identify those without our blood as infected. It will destroy them all, invaders and anyone else. Are you prepared for that?’
‘But that would mean killing our own citizens!’
Marcellus shook his head. ‘Our blood is strong, Rubin. That is why people of the City live so much longer than anyone else in this world, why they are so hard to kill. Over the centuries the fittest – descendants of the Serafim – have survived and flourished. This plague of Hammarskjald’s is so deadly precisely because most City people have our blood in their veins.’
‘But,’ the empress added, ‘we would be attempting something which has never been tried before, and the veil is ancient now and damaged.’ She clasped it to her breast as if loath to be parted from it again.
Rubin asked, ‘Why hasn’t it been tried?’ He was thinking of the long war against the Blues.
‘Because its designers required that five Families of the seven agree to deploy such a potent force,’ Marcellus explained. ‘That consensus has not been seen in a thousand years.’
‘And because for centuries the emperor kept it for himself, as his own personal plaything,’ Archange added, pursing her lips with distaste.
In his heart Rubin felt hope flare, not only that the City might be rescued, but that the Serafim – himself included – might ally for a common good for the first time in a millennium. He felt he was at the fulcrum around which history was moving.
A guard clambered up on to the floor, prodding a shackled prisoner ahead of him at sword-point. The newcomer was dark and slender, his face cut and bruised. Blood crusted his clothes. As his shackles were unhinged, he looked at Hammarskjald’s body and his eyes flickered around those present, seeking answers.
‘Jona,’ the empress said stiffly, ‘it seems you were not, as I assumed, acting for Hammarskjald.’ From Archange this was tantamount to an apology.
‘No, woman,’ Marcellus declared, ‘he has always been my agent.’ With a glimmer of his previous good humour, he added, ‘It seems you have poor judgement when it comes to picking allies.’
He turned to the newcomer. ‘The Gaetas profess to know the mystery of wielding the veil,’ he said. ‘The City is overwhelmed by invaders and by plague. If ever it were needed it is now.’
‘It’s never been done,’ said Jona, frowning, looking around at them. ‘And we would need five Families of Serafim. Five different sources of einai—’
Marcellus interrupted, addressing the empress again in that alien tongue. She nodded.
‘I have sent for Giulia,’ she told Jona, ‘and this is Reeve’s son Rubin.’ The three Serafim turned their dark gaze on him and he sensed the power in them like a brewing storm. He hoped he was equal to whatever would be asked of him.
‘I need the casket,’ Jona said, nodding towards the box Rubin was still holding, and he handed it over. Jona looked at it intently, running his hands over its gleaming wood.
The second guard returned and spoke to Eufara.
‘Empress, the lady Giulia has gone!’ the old man reported. ‘Her servants say she departed the Khan Palace before dawn.’
‘Alone?’ she demanded.
‘No, lady, with the boy Elija, and a woman and baby.’
Marcellus cursed long and fluently, then glared at Jona who was examining the casket as if unwilling to meet his eye. Archange looked between them, her eyes glinting with, what? Curiosity? Amusement? Rubin felt strong undercurrents shifting among the three. There was a great deal here he still did not understand.
‘Is this the baby Hammarskjald wanted?’ he asked. ‘Fiorentina’s child?’
Marcellus nodded distractedly, his normal poise rattled. Rubin wondered why. If the City fell, then even the Khan Palace would eventually be overwhelmed. Surely Giulia was taking mother and child to a place of safety?
Impatience spilling over, he put speculation behind him and raised his voice again. ‘Each moment we waste, people are dying! I’m tired of hearing you talk. Now is the time to act!’ he urged. ‘Giulia may be gone, but whether we are five or four we must try. We are the City’s only hope!’
A day before, even hours before, he would not have dared speak to them like that. But he had learned a great deal about the Serafim and his respect for them had been fatally undermined. He glared round at the three, daring them to disagree. Anger flickered across Marcellus’ face at his words, but he nodded. Jona followed his lead.
The empress sighed and said, ‘Very well. We will attempt it, though I fear the consequences for us all.’
Broglanh raced from the throne room and down thr
ough the palace, barging past the soldiers clearing passageways and stairs. He had already forgotten the greatest sword-fight of his life. His only thought was for Emly. The whore had told him she was dead, but he had to see for himself. He knew Archange had the power to heal her, if only he could find Em and bring her to the palace. He leaped down a last flight of steps and out into the courtyard. It was deserted save for bodies laid in rows.
‘Evan!’
In spite of himself, he turned when he heard her voice.
She came to him forlorn and dishevelled, her glorious hair dusty, her gown in disarray. She walked across the courtyard, holding her hands prayerfully at her breast.
He watched her as she approached, searching inside himself for emotions. But he felt no more for her than he might for a thieving whore who had rifled his pockets as he lay in a drunken stupor.
Thekla walked across the stones barefoot, face cast down, then she gazed up at him and he was transfixed. She was magnificent. His heart yearned for her. She was not the wrongdoer but the victim. Hammarskjald had seduced her, abused her and betrayed her. For long heartbeats he was held in her thrall.
‘Please . . . Evan.’
She gripped the bloodied knife she’d hidden between her palms and thrust it at his neck. She was quick but he was quicker. He snatched it from her, cutting her hand deeply, and the blood flew. She gasped, the picture of a woman hurt, her eyes huge with dismay. But now he saw clearly through her duplicity.
Broglanh grabbed her black curls, wrenched her head back and punched her. She fell to the ground but was up again like a cat. Blood on her mouth, she screamed her hatred at him. She lunged forward and tried to gouge his eyes. He grabbed her arm, but she bit deeply into his hand and he let go with a curse.
She was panting, her face contorted, eyes crazed with hatred. ‘I’ll kill you!’ she screeched, her voice thick with fury. She tried to smash a knee into his groin then got her fingers to his throat. He caught hold of her wrists, ripping her hands away. Screaming with frustration, she whipped her head round and sank her teeth into his neck.
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