Indaro was lying on her back in the sunshine staring at the sky, her head resting on her folded red jerkin. She rejoiced at the sight of the gulls. Living on the coast for most of her life, she knew they fled before a storm. And bad weather, despite drenched clothes and sodden bedding, was better than the four days of inactivity they had endured under the relentless sun. She was hot and deeply bored, and even a torrent of rain would be welcome.
“There’s a storm coming,” someone behind her said.
Doon snorted derisively, and pointedly stared at the blue sky. Blond Garret, who always seemed to be within Indaro’s eyeline, argued, “There’s not a cloud in the sky.” Now Broglanh was no longer with them, Indaro seemed to have inherited Garret, an unwanted bequest.
The first speaker, whom Indaro identified from his voice as a stone grey northlander called Malachi, explained, “Seabirds are flying inland. If they’ve come this far, it’ll be an earth-shaker.”
Garret asked, “What’s an earth-shaker?”
It was a question Indaro wanted the answer to, although she would have never asked it herself. She was torn between admiration for people like Garret, who had no concerns about displaying his ignorance, and contempt.
“In our northland forests it’s a giant tree, which if it’s felled, makes a crash you can hear around the world.”
Apparently convinced, Doon scrambled up and started packing Indaro’s belongings in canvas sacks and covering their armour and weapons. Indaro knew the woman was glad to have something to do, and it made no difference to her if Malachi’s prediction was true or not. For four interminable days they had stayed rooted to the same spot. The enemy army had not moved either. She could not see them, but she knew it. When twenty thousand warriors started donning armour and preparing weapons, they could not do it quietly. Even from six leagues you could hear the sound like waves on gravel.
“Perhaps they’ll attack during the storm,” offered Garret. His conversation was mostly speculation about when the enemy would attack, or when they would attack the enemy. He had the startling ability to be almost always wrong.
“Do you think so, Garret?” Doon asked slyly, rubbing a layer of grease on Indaro’s helm.
“I would,” he said stoutly. “Catch us by surprise.”
“We five won’t be surprised then, thanks to you,” came a new voice, deep and hollow, and full of amusement.
Indaro lifted her head and craned round. Malachi, who was lean with cropped grey hair, crouched over a tiny fire which apparently produced no heat and only a wisp of smoke. Beside him was another northlander, barrel-chested, with bright ginger hair and beard in many braids. He returned her look, and winked.
“What are you doing here?” she asked the pair, sitting up and swinging round, glad of someone new to talk to.
Malachi coughed and spat into the frail fire. “Our company was slaughtered by horsemen in the last attack,” he explained. “Including our leaders. There’s only twenty of us left. We’ve been divvied up into other companies.”
“Welcome to the Wildcats,” she said pleasantly. “I’m Indaro. This is Doon.”
“Your body servant,” the ginger man commented, watching Doon go about her chores.
Indaro nodded. She had no intention of explaining that Doon was more friend than servant, that they had known each other since they were children and had grown up together, that she would give her life for Doon as readily as her friend would give hers for Indaro. And she was used to the sneers, and the tedious ribald jokes about the two women. They slid off her as though buttered.
“I’m Garret,” volunteered the blond soldier, unaware as usual of any nuance in the conversation. “You northlanders are said to be very fine warriors,” he added generously.
Both men glared at him, but Garret smiled in his friendly way. In that moment there was a faint, almost imperceptible, roll of thunder, far in the western distances. Malachi cocked his head and nodded at his colleague, vindicated.
“It’ll be an earth-shaker,” he repeated.
It began with huge widely spaced drops of water, “as big as Marcellus’ breastplate,” said Doon, falling on them, sounding on armour like distant gongs. She and Indaro scrambled into their poor tent, which was hardly big enough for two, and they peered out and watched the fat drops hit the dust, making it ripple. The thunder rolled towards them and when they saw the first lightning flash they glanced at each other, as excited as schoolgirls by the relief from the tedium.
The sky darkened and took on a weird greenish tinge, then the rain started falling in earnest, drumming on the canvas above their heads, quickly weighing it down. Thunder cracked overhead and a flash of lightning speared the earth right in front of them. They heard men shouting and the terrified whinnies of horses, then the sound of running hooves. They grinned at each other.
“Who’d be a horse boy?” Doon said without sympathy.
A sudden rivulet of water ran into their tent and Indaro felt it soaking greedily into her bone dry clothes. In their year in this embattled place they had seen all the weather there was to see, she thought, and rain wasn’t the worst of it. She peered out to check on how the others were faring, but she could make out little through the grey wall of torrential rain. The air became colder and darker; the thunder was almost continuous and the lightning made the air smell salty and metallic.
It darkened further and the rain came down even harder. Both women were soaked now, from rain dripping through the canvas above and rising round their ankles. The sound was deafening. They clung together, all excitement, all amusement, washed away. They just waited for it to end.
But it did not end. The rain clouds seemed anchored above them, the thunder and lightning yoked in place. After a while the rising water forced them to stand. They threw aside the useless tent and merely stood there in the wall of rain. It was hard to breathe without sucking in water. They felt they were swimming without sight of shore, disorientated. Indaro took up her helm and put it on to protect her from the rain, to help her breathe, then snatched it off again, for the sound inside was horrendous.
They seemed to be standing thigh-high in a river. The debris of the army camp—sticks and wood of campfires, straw and grain from the horse tethers, bits of food, clothing and tents—were swirling around their legs. The latrines had flooded and their contents had emptied themselves into the camp. The water was still rising, and Indaro started to feel fearful. She had never seen rain like this. Would it ever stop, or would they soon be swimming for their lives? She could no longer see Doon, only feel a firm hand on her wrist. She remembered Doon could not swim.
There had never been a storm like it, in all the City’s ten-thousand-year history. It swept in from the north-east one bright sunny morning and by the evening, when the deluge mercifully stopped, thousands had been drowned by the waters and tens of thousands were homeless. Homes were destroyed, those of the poor already barely clinging to life were swept away by the force of the floods, those of the wealthy toppled as their foundations collapsed. The rainwaters poured into the sewers, drowning everything that lived. Most of the City’s crops, vital to see the beleaguered citizens through the winter, were wiped out and entire herds of farm animals died.
At Salaba the river Kercheval broke its banks and flooded both armies. For decades the wide river had been fought over, sometimes one side taking it, sometimes the other. Often the armies were camped on opposing banks, staring at each other across the lazy brown waters. But at the time of the Great Flood both armies were camped on the south-east of the river.
The enemy had the slightly higher land, farthest from the river, at a place they called Barren Heights. The “heights” were barely six feet above the floodplain on which the City warriors were camped. But those few feet made a world of difference, an ocean. The City army was inundated, several feet deep, by the floodwaters. The soldiers had to swim for their lives, and those who could not swim, or had been so imprudent as to wear their armour, drowned in their thousands. T
he Blueskin army was flooded too, and drenched from above, and many of their soldiers drowned.
But maybe it was the superior position of the Blueskins, or their greater distance from the river, or perhaps their generals were just quicker to recover. But when the rain slowed and the Reds were still floundering half dead in the water…
The Blues attacked.
Doon had never felt such fear. One moment she was ankle-deep in rain, the next, rushing water was up to her chest. The river, which she had last seen lying placidly half a league from the army, surged through the centre of their camp, flushing them all off their feet like rats down a gulley.
Her head plunged under the muddy brown water, which flowed into her mouth and nose. She flailed her arms, spluttered as she found air, then panicked as she sank once more, weighed down by her heavy cotton trousers, leather jerkin and boots. She felt a strong grip on the collar of the jerkin and she was dragged up through the water. Her face came out into air and she sucked in a shallow lungful. She grabbed the arm holding her and breathed again, her feet kicking around, trying to find something to stand on. But then she and her rescuer were both hit by an armoured body, alive or dead, at hip level. She was knocked sideways, down into the water again, and she felt the reassuring hand on her collar ripped away.
Thick muddy water was all around her and she had no idea which way was up. Greyness entered her head and she felt consciousness leaving. In a way it was a relief. Better than drowning, she thought…
Then the last conscious spark deep inside her felt hands grip her shoulders and she was dragged out of the water again. A voice close to her ear screamed, “Breathe, Doon, keep breathing!” Her chest hurt and she was too tired to breathe. The calm cool darkness was captivating. Weakly she tried to pull away from the hot nagging voice.
Time passed sluggishly, and she found herself on her back, hard arms gripping her from behind. Her head was out of the water, her lungs open and free. She breathed luxuriously. A wave of water washed across her face and down her throat and she struggled feebly. But the arms held her tight and one hand shifted to support her chin, holding it out of the water as she was carried securely above the floodwaters.
Then she felt firm ground under her boot heels, and she scrabbled for purchase. The person holding her let go and she fell on her behind in shallow water. She stood up, limbs shaking, and looked around. She had been carried to a small rise in the land, topped by two flat grey boulders. It was under water, but the flood was only knee-high and the tops of the boulders stuck out. She was surrounded by scores of half-drowned bedraggled warriors, stripped of their armour, their weapons and strength.
“All right?” someone asked.
She looked round. It was the red-braided northlander who sneered at her for being a servant.
“Did you rescue me?” she asked, frowning.
“I saw Indaro drag you out of the water, but you both went under again. I saw you couldn’t swim.”
She found she still didn’t like him, though he had saved her life.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to sound heartfelt. She looked round. “Where’s Indaro?”
“She’s all right. She’s over there.” He pointed to the west and Doon saw Indaro kneeling beside an injured warrior. When Doon waved she nodded.
The northlander was turning away. Doon asked him, “Where’s your friend?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to look for him.”
She realised his arm was bleeding. “You’re injured,” she said.
He glanced down and shrugged.
“I’ll help you find your friend,” she offered, anxious to help him now.
He shrugged again, then nodded. “He answers to Malachi.”
“What’s your name?”
“Stalker.”
The rain had stopped and the water was receding as she watched. She guessed the river was going back into its bed. As far as the eye could see there were huddled, dead and half-dead warriors, many wounded, most disorientated by the strength and ferocity of the flood. Corpses of men, women and horses floated in the deeper waters, all slowly making their way back to the river. Floundering among them were soldiers trying to make their way to safety. The higher ground where Doon stood was rapidly becoming crowded. Some had climbed up on the flat boulders and lay there as if drowned. Everyone alive was covered with mud, and most of them were injured. It was as bad as the aftermath of any battle she’d seen.
Doon started picking her way among the living and the dead, staring into faces, trying to find the northlander Malachi. It was hard to recognise anyone under the layers of mud. She wondered if she would know Malachi if she saw him. She remembered he had short grey hair and was wearing a northlander’s variation on the red City uniform, embellished with a beaded belt and fur-edged waistcoat.
She found a woman she knew well, half conscious and in danger of drowning. She dragged her higher, then found the woman’s legs were crushed. She held her hand until she died, then stood and went on. The air was getting lighter and she could see better. She found she was walking on firm ground again. At last she found him. Malachi seemed uninjured, and he was binding another man’s leg in a splint. The injured soldier, a youngster, barely sixteen, was unconscious.
“Is he alive?” she asked, squatting down beside them.
Malachi glanced at her. “He passed out. It was a nasty break.” He sat back and sighed. “Infection’ll probably kill him.”
“Stalker’s looking for you.”
“That old woman.” Malachi grinned. “So you’re his servant now, are you?” He stood up and looked around, as if searching for more wounded.
Doon flushed. She knew he was joking, but she was still irritated. She knew she had a reputation for humourlessness, so she managed a thin smile.
At that moment there was a sudden silence. The dull, mud-muffled sounds around her all stopped. Everything slowed. She saw Malachi stop and turn. He looked straight at her, his mouth moving. For a second more she could hear nothing. Then his words reached her, hollow and unreal.
“They’re coming!”
She turned to the south and saw a line of warriors bearing down on them. They were charging through muddy water, which was slowing them, but they were still coming on. Doon stared for a moment, unwilling to believe her eyes. How could they be attacking? They’d been hit by the flood too. Then she cast around for a sword. All their weapons lay deep in mud and water. All she had on her was the knife at her waist.
A Blue far in front of the line came charging at her, shouting his battle chant, a spear aimed at her midriff. But he was sluggish, hampered by the slippery mud, and she swayed easily away from the spearpoint. He cannoned into her and she drove the knife in under his breastplate, then ripped sideways with all her strength. As he fell she grabbed his sword from its sheath.
It was a broadsword, too heavy for her, too long, but she held it steadily with both hands and advanced on the enemy. She sucked in her breath, then screamed her high ululating battle song. Malachi turned to her briefly and grinned, a sword ready in each hand. Then the wave of warriors hit them.
It was a battle such as she had never known before, a battle in slow motion. Both sides were handicapped by the water and thick sticky mud, but the Blues had somehow managed to get themselves armed and organised with astounding speed. The City warriors were groping around in the knee-deep water, trying to find swords, breastplates, spears and helms. Meanwhile they were being attacked by waves of Blueskin soldiers.
Doon found that the plain they’d been fighting on for a year, apparently flat as a griddle cake, was in fact ridged and pitted and under the churning water it was pocked with holes ready to trip and trap boots.
She saw two enemy warriors coming her way and lurched towards them, the heavy sword raised. The first Blue had not adapted to this slow battle and he tried to swing his sword at her head. His feet slithered in the treacherous mud and he stumbled to one knee. The other soldier planted his feet first then lanced his swo
rd at Doon. She parried clumsily then took one hand off her broadsword, grabbed her knife and thrust for his eyes. She missed and pierced his neck instead. Blood fountained and he fell, clasping the gaping wound. The first soldier was on his feet again. Doon lunged at him, but he sidestepped and parried the broadsword, sending a riposte which slammed into Doon’s jerkin, glancing off the heavy leather and missing her hip by a hair’s-breadth. But the force of his blow unbalanced him and as he fought to get his feet under him she raised the big sword and brought it down on his unprotected head, shattering his skull.
Doon looked round for some idea of which direction the battle was going. It was impossible. Everyone was plastered with mud, and she could not tell if someone was an enemy or friend until they were close up. She had lost all sense of direction and had no idea whether her friends were in front of her or behind her. On top of that, the sun had come out again and a warm mist was rising all around.
Then relief flooded through her as she heard the familiar bellow, “Wildcats to me! Reds to me!” Her heart soared. Fell Aron Lee was alive and rallying his troops!
Pausing only to pick up the two spare swords, she started making her way towards her commander’s voice.
Fell lay on his back in the darkness, hands clasped behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, waiting for dawn. It was the height of summer, and he calculated he was facing due east, so when the sun rose it would appear between his boots. Not that he would still be resting by then. As soon as the sky started to lighten the Wildcats would prepare for the next enemy attack.
The sky was moonless, the air around him hot and black as pitch. His uniform was still damp against his skin, although half a day had passed since the deluge. Earlier in the night they had seen the pale blur of enemy campfires, but they had made no fires themselves. They were too exhausted to stand, to think, to do other than lie down where they were and sleep the sleep of the half dead.
The City Page 13