The City

by Stella Gemmell

  “Indaro Kerr Guillaume,” said the guard with her, stumbling over the last.

  “I knew your father,” the officer told her, though his face remained stone.

  The tension in her chest lightened a little. Then he added, “I never believed them when they said he raised a family of deserters.”

  Indaro’s voice came out dry and wooden. “He knew nothing of my…absence. He has disowned me, sir.”

  It was a lie and the man knew it. He nodded though.

  “My job is to win battles,” he told her after a pause. “I need all the resources I can get. I’m told you are an excellent swordswoman. I cannot afford to waste you.”

  He gestured to the guard then returned to his work.

  Sitting at the mess table Indaro covertly watched him eat. After a moment she realised he could not possibly recognise her among the hundreds of soldiers under his command. And what did it matter if he did? She sat back and flicked the dark red hair off her face. As she did so he raised his head from his food, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He gazed at her and nodded his head slightly before eating.

  He turned to her servant. “Something wrong with the fish, Doon?”

  “It’s bad, sir.”

  “Here.” He held out his hand. Doon stared at it like an idiot, then quickly passed him the plate. He sniffed it and cursed. “Garvy.” He barely raised his voice, but in seconds his aide appeared from nowhere.

  “Take this.” Their leader gave him the plate. “Whoever’s responsible for today’s food. Is it Bazala?” The aide looked blank; he clearly had no idea. “Whoever. I want him in my tent by the time I get back. In chains.”

  The aide nodded and turned away, holding the plate of fish.

  Fell Aron Lee looked around the table. “You know who I am,” he said. It was not a question. “I’m looking for volunteers.”

  Indaro had spent all her adult years escaping one intolerable situation only to run towards another. She had fled active service to escape the bowel-clenching horror of daily death and mutilation. She had walked away from her post in administration because she despaired of the pointless paperwork which tangled the armies in a net of impotent ineptitude. And it was self-loathing that had made her, finally and reluctantly, turn away from Archange and return to the war. And now she was walking towards a new, unknown challenge, a new test.

  They had all volunteered for the mission, though they had no idea what it was. Fell Aron Lee wanted two soldiers. He had picked Indaro and Broglanh. He told her to leave Doon behind, and as Indaro left the table with the commander she turned back and smiled at her, but Doon merely stared at her, caught, perhaps, between envy and concern.

  The two soldiers followed their commander across the darkening land. They passed glittering campfires and rows of sleeping soldiers, dark lumps on the monochrome moonlit earth. It was late and the camp was quiet. There was no carousing, no laughter, only the sounds of muffled snores and the whine of distant machinery. As she followed her commander through the darkness, Indaro’s legs felt no longer like lead. She was no longer bothered by the wound in her side. She could feel the blood thrilling through her veins at the prospect of a new challenge. Even a suicide mission would be better than another day of dreary slaughter.

  “You’re quiet,” Broglanh muttered.

  “I’m quiet?” she replied irritably. “I’m always quiet. You’re the one who never stops talking.”

  “What do you think it’ll be?”

  “Let’s wait and find out,” she told him, as if indifferent. But in her mind’s eye she was seeing a covert dash behind enemy lines dressed in a Blue uniform, the silent death of an enemy commander, an emperor’s praise, redemption.

  “They want spies,” he hazarded.

  “They’ve got spies.” Then she asked, smiling, “Who’d make you a spy? You can’t keep quiet about anything.” Broglanh grinned.

  When they came to the commander’s tent they were told to wait outside, and in a few moments one of the cooks came out. It was not Bazala, and he was not in chains, but his face was white as his apron was intended to be. He stumbled away in the dark, flanked by guards.

  Inside Indaro glanced around curiously. A narrow bed. An oak chest. A flimsy desk with three straight chairs. Boxes of papers. The only thing that stood out was a suit of dress armour on a rack, gold and silver glittering on red leather. Indaro imagined herself in such armour. Then she imagined Fell Aron Lee garbed in it, and she felt suddenly warm in the midnight tent.

  “Sit down,” their commander told them, gesturing at chairs, barely looking at them. “You are carrying a wound, Indaro.”

  How did he know? “A scratch, sir.”

  “Show me.”

  With only a second’s hesitation, she lifted her jerkin. He stood and moved quickly to her side, peered, then nodded, satisfied.

  Fell announced, “You will leave immediately to join the Thousand.”

  Indaro kept her face impassive, but inside she exulted. The Thousand were the emperor’s personal bodyguard. Only veterans were hand-picked for that role, usually after some dazzling act of bravery.

  “This is not a promotion,” he added, watching their faces. “There has been some…wastage in the ranks of the bodyguard recently. You will join troops from other companies to buttress them on this one mission.”

  Indaro didn’t care. This was a chance to get noticed, to have her name remembered for something, other than desertion. She could feel Broglanh crackling with excitement beside her. She wondered how much it was costing him to keep from blurting out something stupid.

  “The emperor is presently at the Fourth Eastern Gate,” their commander told them. “He is to travel with the sunrise. He will go north-east to the Narrows. The Third Imperial is there, battling an Odrysian army twice its size. Reinforcements are being sent this winter, cavalry and some infantry from the Maritime, and the emperor is on a morale-boosting trip. I’m told.” He turned to his desk and rolled out a hard-used map. Indaro stepped forward eagerly. It was the first time, since she was in training, that anyone in command had bothered to explain anything to her.

  She squinted at the map in the gloom of the tent. The dark bulk of the City filled it on the left. Fell indicated the Little Sea at the top and the Narrows stretching out beyond. Indaro could make out the line of the City wall snaking down the length of the map. She looked for the Salient, her home, but it was not there. Too far west.

  “Where are we?” she demanded. The commander gazed at her without expression, then indicated a large space in the middle, blank but for some cross-hatching.

  “Are these forests?” she asked, pointing to dark patches on the right.

  “No,” Fell replied, “they are the enemy, soldier.” His finger moved down the parchment. “Odrysians, Fkeni here, some Petrassi, there are two armies of…”

  “All just Blues to us grunts, sir,” Broglanh said. He grinned at Fell, and his commander looked at him reflectively. Indaro thought something passed between them. Men and their bonding, she thought. Then Fell indicated a tiny drawing of a tower on the City wall.

  “This is the Fourth Eastern,” he said briskly. “You will have to ride hard to get there by dawn.” He took one hand off the map and it rolled up with a snap. He told them, “It is unusual for the Immortal to make such a journey. The situation must be dire. You will ride to the gate and join his bodyguard immediately. My aide has your papers. He will go with you.”

  The he sat back down at his desk. “Good luck,” he told them and, though she did not know the man, Indaro heard satisfaction in his voice.

  As the men filed out Broglanh lingered, and asked, “Why us, sir? I mean, I know we volunteered, but you came to our table.”

  Indaro could have kicked him. She kept moving towards the tent flap, willing Broglanh to follow her.

  Fell said coldly, “Because your commanding officer tells you, Broglanh.”

  “Yes, sir. And I see why Indaro would be wanted,” Broglanh went on, and I
ndaro heard an unfamiliar note of slyness in his voice. “She’s a sword master and you’d want that in the bodyguard. But me, I’m…”

  “Should I regret my decision, soldier?”

  “No, sir.”

  Broglanh turned and was trailing Indaro out of the tent when their commander volunteered calmly, “It should be obvious.”

  They turned and stared at him.

  “What do you both share?” he asked them.

  Indaro’s brain had gone numb. When they said nothing he shook his head. “You both bear Family names,” he said. “This increases your chances of being admitted to the Thousand. It is not just, perhaps, but it is so. Is that what you wanted to hear, Evan Quin Broglanh, that you have been chosen for this mission not for your bravery, or your keen intelligence, but for an accident of birth?”

  Broglanh said nothing, but he smiled and nodded.

  “Good luck,” Fell Aron Lee repeated, and turned away.

  Chapter 9

  They were given mounts and, with Garvy in the lead, they rode out into the quiet night. It was a long ride, following the City wall, always in sight on their left. Sometimes they rode in its moon-shadow; at others it was a dark ribbon in the distance. They rode through silent army camps and past settlements of the lost and desperate, people prepared to live on the front line, or to die, to clean up the mountains of debris an army left in its wake.

  Much of the time they journeyed across an empty land, where the great wall resembled the ruins of an old house left untenanted among green lawns. Sheep and goats cropped the grass in its lee, and the occasional tired nag turned to stare, as if in envy, as the warhorses cantered past.

  At one point in the night Garvy led them through a gate in the wall. Indaro looked up as the high timber doors opened for them. She had never travelled in these parts and had no idea where they were. They had seen not a soul for an hour. There were ancient runes carved deep into the stones above the gate. Garvy spoke to guards in an echoing stone courtyard, lit by flickering torches, presenting papers and quietly answering questions. The soldiers protecting this distant outpost seemed watchful and efficient, but as they rode on through Indaro looked down and saw eyes staring at them as if in envy.

  The three followed the wall inside the line of ancient stones until the next gate where, with the guards’ permission again, they crossed back to the outside. Indaro turned in her saddle and looked back, wondering at their diversion, but there was nothing to see, only innocent grassland and the moonlit wall snaking towards the horizon.

  It was close to dawn when they reached the emperor’s encampment. Their first warning was a cry in the darkness, then a troop of lightly armoured riders appeared in the gloom. Garvy called a halt and they waited tensely, surrounded by silent horsemen, the creak of leather and clump of hooves and snort of horses’ breath welcome in their ears after so many quiet leagues. Again papers were presented and questions asked, then the troop rode into the camp.

  “About time,” a gravelly voice said irritably. The speaker was a bushy-bearded warrior wearing the black and silver livery of the Thousand.

  “I’m Fortance,” he grunted at them. “We’re ready to leave. Fresh horses. Lively!”

  They swiftly remounted. Indaro saw Garvy turn away and ride off without a word. Then the Wildcats were ordered to the column and took their place behind a dark featureless carriage. Black and silver helms turned to watch them.

  Within a short while a group of dark figures hurried from a nearby building to the high carriage. There was a flurry of movement. Some climbed into the imperial vehicle and some out again, servants perhaps, she thought. Then one figure came out and paused, looking round at the waiting riders and fidgeting horses. He was tall, caped, with light hair which gleamed in the torchlight. He raised a pale hand and light flashed off a jewelled ring. Indaro could barely see through the helms and feathered plumes nodding in front of her, but she felt a thrill through her spine as she craned to glimpse him. The emperor dipped his head and disappeared into the carriage. Then the armoured door swung shut, and the troop moved off.

  Indaro realised the emperor’s bodyguard were flanked by many more regular troopers, maybe hundreds. She had often been accused of arrogance, but she could not help wonder what difference two Wildcats would make in this moving sea of armour and weapons. She glanced at Broglanh and caught his eye. He grinned at her, clearly delighted. She knew how he felt. They were moving forward, they had a clearly defined task, and were free, if only for one day, from the carnage of the battlefield.

  They rode at a trot, in close formation, through the dawn light. They were heading north. Indaro saw her moon-shadow bobbing on the armoured back of the trooper in front of her. Close on her left were hooded riders. She felt hemmed in, as if she were under escort herself, and she wondered how far they had to go, whether the ranks would ease out as they travelled. She felt a sensation of unreality, that she was riding just a few horse-lengths behind the emperor, the Immortal. She wondered idly if he was facing front, or sitting looking back towards her through the windowless walls of the carriage. The conveyance was pulled by a team of twelve. Indaro guessed it was heavily armoured. Despite that, she would have given a year’s pay not to travel in such a vehicle, a sitting duck for enemy action. If I were in charge, she thought, the emperor would travel by horse, with merely two or three protectors, while a decoy was sent by carriage with hundreds of guards.

  The company was opening out, and there was a horse’s length between her and the rider in front. Indaro felt she could breathe more easily. It was more than half a year since she had ridden, and it was good to feel the saddle under her thighs, the familiar movement, the noise of leather and the heavy breath of the horse. Her mind drifted to the riding lessons when she was small, the grey pony she called Mousey…

  Her eyes on the shiny armour in front of her, her mind in the past, she saw one of the horses immediately behind the carriage rear up as a sound like thunder exploded in her ears. The horse plunged screaming on its side, blood spraying from its neck, then another blast to her right threw horses and riders like rag dolls.

  The mount in front of her faltered, perhaps injured, and Indaro dragged out her sword, standing up in her stirrups to find the enemy. The emperor’s carriage was speeding away from the threat, the team of horses leaning into the traces, the bodyguard closing around from the front to compensate for the casualties at the rear.

  Then another, more thunderous, explosion in front of the conveyance flung riders and their mounts into the air. Panicked horses tried to run from the noise and the tall carriage slowed, lurched and stopped then, with infinite slowness, toppled over.

  For a moment there was empty ground between Indaro and the emperor’s carriage and she kicked her horse towards it. Then the earth rose up in front of her and an armed warrior appeared magically at her mount’s hooves. He thrust his sword at the horse’s belly and Indaro dragged on the reins, leaned down and chopped his arm off. He staggered, his mouth wide open in a scream. Indaro could hear nothing. She was deafened by the explosions.

  More enemy soldiers erupted from the ground, from hidden dugouts. Stiff from crouching in holes, they were unequal to an armed rider, and Indaro slashed and cut her way through sluggish heads and necks, trying to reach the emperor. Beside her she was aware Broglanh had been unhorsed and she glimpsed him fighting grimly, beset by enemy soldiers, one arm hanging uselessly.

  Through the swirling dust she saw someone crawling weakly from the broken door of the carriage, a beardless boy, injured but still moving. An enemy lanced a sword into her horse’s chest and it fell. She slid to the ground, sword still in hand, killed the enemy soldier, then ran towards the carriage. She helped the wounded youngster, thrusting a shoulder under his arm, wincing as his weight dragged on her injured side. She pulled him away and helped him to the ground in the inadequate shelter of a dead horse. She saw he was barely in his teens, his eyes dark and wide. He was dressed all in green silk and there was a random piec
e of wood stuck in his chest. She was surprised he was still alive.

  She turned back to the carriage, and spotted movement, someone struggling under the shattered frame. Then she saw an enemy soldier running towards it, fast as an athlete. Indaro slid her knife from its sheath and threw it at his head. It stuck in his neck and he staggered, but he managed to throw the missile in his hand before he fell. It missed the carriage and rolled under the hooves of one of the struggling horses. Indaro dragged air into her lungs, and raced towards it, but she had moved hardly three paces when there was a huge explosion and, in deathly silence, the black carriage was torn to pieces in front of her eyes.

  Indaro was hit by the soundless blast and was thrown to the ground, rolling, protecting face and eyes. Then she was up again and running to the wreckage. But there was nothing left there, just two twisted bloodied torsos, charred and broken. Her breath caught in her chest, and her heart felt pierced. The emperor. Her emperor. Dead.

  Through the whirling dust she saw Fortance. He was staring at the bodies. He had a head injury and the tears pouring down his face made tracks in the blood. Then he saw her and shouted soundlessly. He pointed to the east, where she could see enemy soldiers fleeing towards the sunrise, their work done. Fortance held his wrists together in front of him, nodding urgently at her. She understood. “Take prisoners.”

  Through the dust, among the dead and dying warriors and beasts, she saw an uninjured horse, a grey mare, wandering, trailing her reins. Indaro ran to the mount and grabbed the reins and took a second to stroke the mare’s nose, looking into her eyes, then she leaped on her back. She kicked the flanks and, well-trained, the horse chased towards the escaping enemy.

  On a small rise a group of enemy warriors were making a stand, surrounded by City soldiers. Swords thrust and hacked and clanged, but Indaro could hear nothing. Neither could the Blues. She cantered up behind them and slashed a warrior’s head from his shoulders with one cut. She saw her fellows shout out in triumph. She killed two more, one with a thrust to the chest, one skewered under the arm. The City soldiers, heartened, tore into the enemy with renewed strength. Indaro remembered Fortance’s order. When there were just seven enemy left standing, she gestured to her comrades, wrists together, until they nodded their understanding. As they bound their prisoners’ hands, she trotted the horse slowly back to the wreckage. The last few enemy, all injured, were being herded together for questioning later, when they had regained their hearing. But discipline had reasserted itself among the City ranks, and they did not need to hear orders as they set about tending the wounded, despatching the injured horses. A screen had been set up around the wreckage of the carriage and men of the Thousand solemnly stood guard. Too little, too late, Indaro thought.