The City

by Stella Gemmell

  Chapter 14

  Is he dead?”

  Fell nodded.

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  He shook his head. “Not that one. All I know is the 17th are south of here. They were marching to meet them. We must keep moving west.”

  Indaro watched him bend to feel Queza’s pulse. If she never saw him again, that was how she would remember him, marking the living and the dead, mustering his resources, his face stone. She took another long swallow from a liberated waterskin.

  She had thought them all doomed when the Blues came straight for them, the officer on his horse, six men running. All she could think of was to take out the rider first, leaving six fit men against Garret and two soldiers who could barely stand. She could scarcely believe it when, having downed the officer, she returned, expecting to see her friends all dead, to find Fell battling alongside them. Where had he come from? Her bruised and battered mind believed he had risen from the earth, a fighting pit demon, or fallen from the sky, a vengeful angel. Then she realised he had been delivered by the enemy and, for the first time in that season and in many before, she offered thanks to the Gods of Ice and Fire.

  Now the Blues were all dead, and they were all alive. And they had water aplenty. The only problem was that the officer’s pony had bolted. Fell had sent Garret to look for it, but so far he had not returned.

  “Horse or no horse,” Fell told them, “we must make for the City tonight. We can fashion a good litter from their spears and carry Queza.”

  Indaro glanced at Stalker, but his face was expressionless as he tended a cut on Doon’s shoulder. The northlander said, “You’re wounded.” He pointed at Fell’s chest.

  Fell looked down. “So I am.”

  Indaro said stupidly, “Where’s your breastplate?” When he ignored her, she said, “Let me see to it.”

  He sat down obediently, tearing off the bloodstained rags of his shirt. She sloshed water over the wound, a wide shallow cut high above his heart.

  “Careful with water,” he grunted. “We’ve a way to go yet.”

  Then he sat back and closed his eyes as she prepared needle and thread. She worked right to left, knotting the stitches separately lest the wound be torn open again. There was an old scar on his chest, above the right nipple, and the sword had sliced through it. It was like the letter S, with a scant tail. It wasn’t a sword cut. She realised it was a burn, like a brand. She remembered Broglanh had one like it. Leaning in close, squinting slightly in the gathering gloom, Indaro felt breath brush her hair and glanced up. Fell was looking down at her, his face close to hers. Then he shut his eyes again and leaned back. There was a tattoo on his right shoulder, an eagle clutching a sword.

  “Is that Fourth Adamantine?” she asked him.

  At first he said nothing, then, “Yes.”

  “And the scar? Is it a brand?”

  But he said nothing, and she wondered why he was still so cool to her. Did he even now think of her as a deserter, just a necessary resource? What could she do to redeem herself? Then she realised the eyes were unfocussed. He was listening. She raised her head.

  Doon, who was sitting high on the lip of rock watching the land, sang out, “Incoming!”

  They all reached wearily for their swords, then Doon added, “It’s Garret. What’s he carrying?”

  It was a long branch, dry but sturdy, with a wide fork at one end. The soldier handed it to Stalker, then turned to Fell and said, “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t find the pony.”

  Fell nodded. “Any enemy?”

  “No. I saw birds circling a long way to the south. But nothing nearby, alive or dead.”

  Stalker padded the fork of wood with rags and settled his arm over it. The branch was just the right length for a crutch. Stalker grinned and slapped Garret on the back. It was the first time Indaro had seen the man smile. His ankle had been broken again in the battle and his foot was at an unnatural angle. Indaro was surprised the man could smile. She was surprised he could do anything other than lie down and cry.

  Fell asked him, “Do you want me to straighten that foot again?”

  The northlander glared at him. “No.”

  “Very well. Then prepare to march.”

  They walked through the night. It was moonless, but so starry Indaro could see their shadows on the dusty ground, ghostly in the semi-darkness. She looked up at the dead stars and they looked down on her, mocking their attempts to keep their fragile bodies alive for a few more heartbeats. Fell and Garret carried Queza’s litter while Indaro trudged alongside with a knapsack packed with the Blues’ food and medical supplies. Stalker struggled as best he could, while Doon watched the rear. Every now and then they stopped for these last to catch up. It was slow.

  As the first faint light touched the eastern horizon Fell called a halt and they all sat and drank water, Garret keeping watch. Indaro felt Queza’s neck, as she had done countless times before. Each time she expected to feel nothing, but she closed her eyes and concentrated, and after a while she felt the weak pulse of life, an irregular pitter-pat, pat-pitter. She looked up to see Fell watching her and she nodded, and Fell shook his head in wonder. She trickled some water into the woman’s mouth. On a whim she took Queza’s hand and squeezed it, trying to send some of her own strength into her. Still holding the hand she dozed off.

  She awoke to the dawn, a wonderful clash of coral and deep blue heralding the long days of autumn, her own time of the year. As a child she always looked to the ending of things. She glanced around. Everyone slept, except for Fell, who was sitting guard, dressed in his own uniform again. She wondered if he ever slept. Again she checked Queza’s pulse, then went over and sat with her commander.

  “How is your wound?”

  He shrugged; it was not worth mentioning.

  “Will we reach the City today?” she asked.

  “Barring enemy action, yes.” He held his gaze to the east.

  “Queza could survive.”

  “Maybe.”

  “She is small and light. Perhaps the blow from the spear did not penetrate so far if her body was pushed back by it.”

  At last he turned and looked at her questioningly.

  “I mean,” she explained, “a big solid man would have withstood the blow and the spear would have penetrated farther.”

  “An interesting idea,” he replied. “However, do not hope for Queza. Belly wounds are the worst.”

  They both knew it well enough, but this was a comfort zone for conversation. They were both experts in wounds and death, and the many agonising stages of dying.

  Keen to keep him talking, she offered, “My father told me that wounds often go bad because dirt on the weapon and pieces of dirty clothing are pushed into the body and left there to rot.” She added, warmed by the memory, “He told me to always wear a clean shift under my armour.”

  For the first time ever she saw amusement written across his face. The new lines followed unfamiliar pathways, and he looked like a stranger, one who was not necessarily a man of war.

  “When did you last have a clean shift under your armour?” he asked with a smile.

  She smiled too. Cleanliness was a foreign concept to her, as unfamiliar as cheesemaking or necromancy.

  “Last year, perhaps, when we were at that place with the orange trees and thatched houses.”

  “Copperburn.”

  “Yes. It was lovely there. The fallen leaves made the land look as if it was on fire.”

  He said, “Autumn is my favourite time of year.”

  He swallowed from his waterskin then handed it to her. She took a deep draught. She was going to make a comment about water, to keep him talking, but as she opened her mouth, what came out was, “Do you dislike all women warriors, or is it just me?”

  He frowned, his face becoming more familiar. “I do not dislike you. And I respect our women. They have proved their worth time and again. They do not have the brute strength of the men, but they are quicker, more agile, and often more ru
thless.”

  It was said that women were quicker to go for the groin. They would slice the genitals off an enemy with no compunction. Sometimes they seemed to enjoy it.

  He went on, “They suffer more wounds than the men, but the wounds tend to be less grave and they survive them better.”

  Indaro knew this. She guessed he was thinking out loud, and had the sense to keep quiet.

  “But I do not think women should be fighting this war. The enemy doesn’t use them. They despise us for doing so.”

  “The enemy don’t have to. And why do we care what the enemy think?”

  “We don’t care. But we should be aware. This is called intelligence,” he answered.

  “You were a soldier already when women joined the army?”

  “Long before. I remember when they first arrived. Most of them frightened, untrained. They were slaughtered in the thousands.” He looked down at his hands and she noticed for the first time that two fingers were missing from his left. She wondered what he was remembering. “It was pitiable,” he said. “Some of us swore it would never happen again, but it took a long time for the generals to realise women were worth more than to be used for the enemy to practise on before they met real soldiers.”

  She sat quietly, conscious of violent emotions as he recalled the past.

  “A woman should be a safe harbour for a man,” he said quietly, “a bowl of grain, a jug of water, a soft blanket before an open fire.”

  She felt anger rising, but she kept it to herself, and despite the insult of his words she was astonished he would speak so intimately to her.

  They sat together in something like companionship for a while, then she said, “My father was not a traitor.”

  “Your words are valueless. You would defend him if he were a traitor or not.”

  “He is my father. His blood runs in my veins. So you are right. But you would defend your own father. Sir.”

  He was silent for a while, staring to the east. Then he offered, “My veins run only with the blood of strangers.”

  He pointed in the direction he had been watching. “Look. Garret saw birds circling. I thought that was a cloud, but it is a cloud of birds. A big one. And they are coming this way. Carrion birds keep vigil over corpses.”

  “But corpses do not move.”

  “They also stalk the injured. Injured prisoners, perhaps, a lot of them.”

  “The Maritime, returning with enemy wounded?”

  He looked at her again, and his eyes were bleak as winter seas. “There is no Maritime, Indaro. The army was destroyed. We might be all that survives.”

  She sat there, dumbfounded, as he roused the others, and within moments they were walking once more through the new morning.

  They were within sight of the City walls when Queza died. Indaro was walking beside the litter when the woman gave a little sigh as if a hard decision had been made. Heart full of dread, Indaro stopped the two bearers and they stood, patient as dray horses, as she felt for a pulse. But the faint flicker had departed. The flesh was dead, though the body was still warm with the memory of life. The men set the litter down and they walked on, leaving Queza for the carrion birds.

  The rhythm of thundering hooves behind them was the last sound Doon wanted to hear.

  She was walking with Stalker, with Fell and Indaro ahead and Garret bringing up the rear. From time to time Fell would stop to allow Stalker to catch up. Doon wondered how long the northlander could keep going; it was taking all his strength to keep propelling himself forward on the crutch. And she marvelled that Fell could not see it would be better to let the injured man lead, setting the pace, rather than striding ahead then waiting for him with scarcely concealed impatience. He and Indaro make a fine pair, she thought. The woman can wait for nothing either.

  “I wonder what they’re talking about,” she mused to Stalker, not really expecting an answer.

  But after a few more laboured steps he asked her, “Is your commander a sword master?”

  “You’ve seen him fight.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. There are always rumours. Believe them or not. He is said to have a woman and child somewhere.”

  “We all have a woman and child somewhere.”

  “Speak for yourself. But he has no interest in Indaro. I think he dislikes her.”

  The man stopped and stared at her in disbelief. “That blow to your arse has addled your brains,” he snorted, then he moved on.

  She had no more time to think on it, for the sound of galloping hooves ended it all. In the last few hours Doon had allowed herself to hope: that they would survive and reach the City; that they all, even Stalker, would live to fight again. The hope washed away in a heartbeat as she turned and saw the silver pennant of an enemy cavalry detachment racing towards them across the darkening land. Thirty riders, maybe more. They would overtake them in moments.

  Garret had drawn his sword and was backing towards her. His face was white and she heard him mutter, “One more hour. Just one more hour.”

  It was hard to bear. Doon had feared she would die in the flood, then, as the Wildcats were slaughtered one by one, she had suffered an injury which could easily have killed her but which was mending day by day. Now, to be so close. But she knew the end when she saw it and she drew her sword and prepared to die. She had heard tales of what they did to women captives. She would not surrender and she would not lie down while blood still ran in her body. In a way it was a relief. The last years had been so hard…

  Fell Aron Lee, his face expressionless, ordered them to stand in line abreast, with Stalker in the centre, and he and Indaro on the flanks. Doon and Indaro looked at each other, and Doon saw acceptance in the other woman’s eyes. Doon grinned, then threw back her head and sang out the high ululating screech of her people. Fell glanced at her. He smiled grimly. She saw him reach into the breast of his battered jerkin and pull out the insignia of his rank, a silver square with four gold bars.

  The grey troopers rode around them, whipping up dust. At a word from Fell, the five backed into a tight circle. Doon watched the horses striding past her, circling, leather creaking, horses snorting, bridles jangling, the smell of the animals tickling her nose. She hefted her sword, feeling the dampness in her palm, her dry mouth. At an order the riders stopped and turned towards the five. Spears were levelled and they stood in the centre of a ring of metal points. Doon took a deep breath.

  Fell raised his insignia aloft. The gold gleamed in the sunlight.

  He called, “I am Fell Aron Lee, commander of the 2nd company of the 14th regiment of the Maritime Army of the West. I demand honourable treatment for these warriors of the City.”

  The enemy leader sat high in the saddle on a great warhorse. He and his mount both wore grey armour, and his helm was silver and graceful, with a grey plume atop. He reached up and took it off to reveal a long dark-skinned face.

  “We have been looking for you,” he told Fell.

  Indaro stared in surprise as the grey leader beckoned to one of his riders. They conferred for a moment and the other dropped back. Moments later they saw a messenger galloping, not east to where they had come from, but west towards the City. Indaro watched his dust-trail, baffled. Then, at a word, most of the riders dismounted, easing their backs, stretching their legs, swigging from water bottles and talking in low voices. The leader climbed down, leaving ten riders still mounted, lances and swords at the ready.

  Fell ordered his warriors to sheathe their weapons and rest, and they all sat, uneasily at first then, despite themselves, relishing the idleness. Time crept by and night drew on. Fires were lit and a grey trooper asked them if they needed water, but Fell shook his head.

  “What’s going on?” Doon asked impatiently. Indaro knew she hated uncertainty, was always happiest when there was a plan to follow.

  “I don’t know,” Fell replied.

  He leaned back on his elbows, and Indaro saw a flicker of pain
cross his face.

  “Let me dress your wound,” she said softly.

  He nodded, and she dragged over the bag of medical supplies they had taken from the dead platoon and pulled out a fresh dressing. He took off his jerkin and opened the borrowed shirt.

  “Lie down,” she ordered, and he lay back and stared at the stars. Sky blue eyes, she thought and, despite their hopeless situation, she felt a warm glow in the pit of her stomach. Her traitor body, offered this unaccustomed rest, told her what she needed was the release of sex. Wonderful, she thought. Good timing.

  “Why did you join Archange?” he asked her, taking up their previous conversation as if nothing had happened in the meantime.

  She concentrated on cleaning the wound, aware his eyes were on her. At last she explained, “My brother Rubin disappeared into the sewers. He was younger than me. He despised the war. He refused to fight and said he would rather side with the Blues.”

  Fell raised his eyebrows, and she added, “I know what you’re thinking, but he was no coward. That is what everyone said, but it is not true. But he felt the war was wrong and, like you, that women should not be serving. When I last saw him, when I was home on leave, he told me what he was planning to do. I tried to dissuade him, for his own sake, and for our father’s, and mine I suppose. But he would not listen and when he disappeared I knew where he had gone. So I followed him. It was not the best decision I ever made.” She smiled ruefully. “I had no idea what the sewers were like, how many hundreds of leagues of darkness and terror, the thousands of desperate people living down there. It was a nightmare. And there was so little chance of finding him in the dark. Then I met Archange.”

  “A traitor to the City.”

  “Archange is no traitor. She is more loyal to the City than…any of us.”

  “The only reason she has lived this long is because she is Marcellus’ sister.”

  Indaro hid her surprise. Then, realising it scarcely mattered, she said, “I didn’t know that. Have you ever met her?”

  “Just the once.” Then, reverting to their previous subject, he asked, “Was your brother ever found?”

  She shook her head. “I like to think he survived and is now living in safety somewhere, and my father knows and is content to conceal him. And I know that these thoughts are treasonous. But, if we are to die…Anyway”—she shrugged—“I don’t suppose it matters now.”