The City

by Stella Gemmell

  “We know all your plans,” he went on, after a pause. “Your friends betrayed you. And you will all die, die slowly. Because they will come to this room, one by one, all the little plotters. They will throw themselves at me and break, just as all these small nations, these insignificant cities threw themselves at the City and broke upon its walls.”

  He seemed to have grown taller, and Fell felt like the child Arish before him again. He lowered his head and raised his hands to his face, covering his eyes from the pain and bafflement, trying to hide. In the distance he heard the sound of a gong beating brassily, over and over, echoing the pulsing pain in his head. He pressed his right index finger into the depression in his skull where the lance had caught him so long ago. Sometimes this gave him respite from the pain. He pressed hard and felt his mind clearing a little.

  Then he remembered why he was there. He looked up. The creature had turned his back and was striding back to the crystal doorway. Fell blinked hard, trying to force his way out of the miasma in his mind. He reached inside his jerkin, touching the smooth hilt of the dagger. His fingers were like thumbs. It would not come out. Then suddenly he pulled it clear and in one smooth movement, compelled by memory rather than skill, he threw the knife with all his strength and saw it thunk deep into the creature’s back.

  No one had stopped him. No one had moved. The emperor paused. He reached around, awkwardly crooking his elbow, and dragged the blood-stained knife from his lower ribs. He dropped it on the floor, and only then turned.

  “Don’t kill him. I want him alive and undamaged,” he ordered his warriors.

  Then he stepped from the room, and the soldiers seemed to breathe again. All around the walls they were stirring, as if from a dream of ice. Fell heard a whisper of metal on leather behind him, and he ran across the room and picked up the small knife, then turned to defend himself.

  Chapter 43

  The great wall of water from the broken dam roared down the hillsides, scouring the ground before it. Trees which had stood for longer than the ages of man were snapped off like twigs. The animals remaining in those parts, a few starving deer and scrawny foxes, ran before it but were overtaken, overwhelmed. Nothing was left in its wake but bare rock and dead earth.

  The Adamantine Wall had stood facing south, a symbol of power and arrogance, for more than eight hundred years. It was built when the young City was at its zenith and was a trumpet-blast of defiance to the kingdoms of the southlands, themselves wealthy with trade and proud with armies. It replaced the older Sarantine Wall, four leagues to the north, and was more than forty spans tall in places, wider at the base than the top, and with deep towers every hundred paces. It was built of limestone blocks, cunningly shaped to fit together without mortar. It had just one set of double gates, and was considered impregnable, for in all its thousand years it had never been breached.

  The soldiers on the ramparts that day were the last survivors of the 14th Celestine Infantry, called the Shovelheads. They had been on duty since daybreak, and were grumbling among themselves, as soldiers will. They complained about the poor food and the woeful lack of supplies, particularly armour and weapons. They resented manning a wall which clearly needed no one to guard it. They resented their commanders, the rain, the lazy pigging Sevens—the 7th Light Infantry, who had been due to replace them at noon but who unaccountably hadn’t turned up, and the cancellation of their ale ration. Most of all they resented the Nighthawks, whose place they had taken only a handful of days before when the horse-shaggers had been undeservedly promoted to the Thousand.

  They could not see the wall of water coming, for the grey cloud hung low over the City, and the rain cut visibility to a few paces. But they heard it, and one by one they fell silent. It sounded like thunder, but no thunder had ever grumbled on for so long. It sounded like the rumble of a cavalry charge, but even horsemen were not stupid enough to attack the City wall. When it finally broke through the cloud and mist before their eyes, they couldn’t believe what they saw and many of them died in ignorance.

  When the leading edge of the waters hit, travelling at twice the speed of a galloping horse, it was higher than the wall and everyone standing on the ramparts was wiped out in a heartbeat. The wall shifted, groaned, then crumbled in many places, although many of the towers defied that first blow.

  The water, diminished but not halted by its attack on the Adamantine Wall, flowed on over and through the Sarantine Wall. It carried a lethal load of branches and other debris picked up on its way. Everyone in its path died. The houses and shacks of the poor in the quarters of Barenna and Burman South were swept away, and the people died, crushed by the weight of water or drowned. It dived downward wherever it could, flooding the sewers once again and destroying the final remnants of the ancient machinery there, drowning the last of the Dwellers, although there were few left to die. By the time it reached the Red Palace it was running out of power, and the guards there watched first with horror then relief as the wave lapped harmlessly against the wall beneath their feet.

  When they heard the sound of thunder they thought it was a distant storm and did not realise the Blues had unleashed the second reservoir.

  Fell spun on his heel and slashed the knife through the chin-piece of one soldier, slicing it on through the throat of another. Blood sprayed hotly over him. As the two warriors fell back he snatched one of their swords and revelled in the snarls of anger from their comrades. The Thousand were hampered by the command not to injure their prey, and he guessed their dread of their lord was so great they barely risked bruising him.

  But he knew it could not last long—sheer weight of numbers would bear him down within moments.

  He twisted, sliced and spun. He had to keep moving; he could not afford the luxury of a lunge, a thrust to groin or eye. He used the sword two-handed, keeping it always in motion, slashing, slicing, ripping.

  “Stop him! Stop him now!” a voice commanded, and he grinned to himself. He revelled in their frustration. He could hear curses raining upon him as they tried to reach him without grossly harming him. In the distance he heard the sound of a gong. Two gongs now, beaten in an alternating faster rhythm. He wondered if he were the cause of it.

  The hilt of a dagger glanced off his head and he stumbled. He could not fall. They would be on him in a heartbeat. He danced forward and sideways, slicing off half a hand, dodging back as the victim howled. He thanked the Gods of Ice and Fire that the Thousand kept their weapons so sharp.

  “Kill him!” he heard someone shout in rage, and the deep voice countermanded, “You know your orders.” Fell grinned in exultation. But then the same voice ordered, “Encircle him. Locked shields.”

  Surrounded and defended by the bodies of his enemy, he took the moment to snatch a shield from the floor and settle it on his arm. “Who’s next?” he asked. He looked round, then deliberately stepped up onto two piled bodies. He heard growls of anger at the offense, but they had their orders and he could no longer hope to lure them into coming at him one at a time.

  The warriors spread out evenly around him, locking their shields in a wall of metal. Inexorably they started moving in. He knew his brief run was over. They would bind him and take him through the crystal doorway to whatever hideous fate the emperor planned. But he could still kill the creature, given a moment’s chance.

  Suddenly there was a change in the air. Some of his attackers glanced up. Fell risked a look. At the top of the winding staircase the warriors of the Thousand had turned towards a new enemy. He heard the crash and slide of weapons, saw the sparkling glitter of moving metal. Then he caught sight of a flash of red hair, flowing like water in torchlight. Indaro!

  Balanced on the back of a dead man, he took a deep breath. “Wildcats to me!” he bellowed, and from above he heard her answering yell, then another. His heart soared.

  Then the flailing body of a warrior came arcing down, thrown off the landing. Fully-armoured, he crashed in an explosion of sharp metal onto the soldiers around Fel
l. Several went down, and for a moment there was a gap in the ring of steel.

  Fell leaped lightly across the bodies of the dead and injured, jumped down and raced for the crystal doorway, on the track of the emperor.

  Indaro hacked and slashed grimly, pain and exhaustion overcoming any residual grace. She parried a lunge, her blade cleaving the man’s neck, but a red-bearded soldier lashed out with his foot, spilling her to the floor. Desperately she rolled against another soldier’s calves and he stumbled over her, in the path of a killing sword-thrust from the red-bearded man. She jumped up, snatching a second sword from the carpet, and despatched him with a blow to the neck.

  Broglanh was battling wildly against two warriors. Indaro stepped in to aid him, crushing the windpipe of one man, who fell choking. Spinning on her heel she plunged one blade into an attacker’s belly while blocking a slashing blow from another man. Broglanh despatched him with a disembowelling thrust.

  The three of them had cleared the landing and were at the top of the stairs. Garret and Broglanh were starting to force their way down. They and the defenders could only stand two abreast and for a moment Indaro had nothing to do. She glanced down. It was a high, round hall, blood-red, and the winding stairs all the way round the chamber were full of soldiers. Far below, on the floor of the hall, another battle was going on. She looked down and blinked. Was that Fell in the centre of the battle?

  Then she heard the cry that lifted her heart—Fell’s familiar bellow, “Wildcats to me!”

  Throwing her head back she screamed, “Wildcats!” Fell was still alive, and they were coming to save him. She heard her two friends reply and saw them attack with renewed vigour.

  Desperate now to get back into the battle, Indaro picked up a fallen sword and sent it spinning over their heads into the ranks of the defenders. She heard a clang of metal on metal and a cry of pain, and a soldier toppled over the edge of the landing, plummeting down to the floor far below. She heard the crash of metal and shouts of anger. Elated, she smiled and picked up another sword. This time she aimed it and hit a soldier behind the two current defenders. He fell forward, knocking into the man in front of him, unfooting him, allowing Broglanh to slide his sword under the defender’s chin-piece. He lurched forward and Broglanh put his boot on the man’s shoulder and toppled him back into his comrades. Two of them fell, and for a moment the defenders were disorganised. Shoulder to shoulder Garret and Broglanh moved down several steps.

  Indaro ran back across the landing to the doorway and looked up the corridor. No one was in sight. Leaning on them, she pushed the heavy doors closed. They groaned as if unused to the movement. There was no way to lock or bar them on the inside, so she dragged three enemy corpses against them, hoping that was enough to stop the doors. She hadn’t the strength to do more.

  She ran back to the staircase and looked down again at the scene on the floor below. Fell had disappeared now, and soldiers were streaming out through a doorway. Her mind screaming with frustration, with impatience to get back into the battle, she hurried down the stairs behind her two friends, who were fighting the fight of their lives. “Garret, step back, give me a chance,” she shouted to him above the din. “I’ll relieve you.”

  Garret gave no indication of having heard. She watched as he battled on, apparently tireless, invulnerable. He had been fighting, with only a scrap of food and little rest, all day yet he was uninjured. She found herself watching him in awe, mesmerised by the flashing blade, the graceful precise moves.

  Then time seemed to slow. The air was bright with clarity, heavy with fate. She saw Garret’s sword strike an enemy blade. A spark arced between them. Then Garret’s blade snapped and Indaro saw one half fly up above their heads, tumbling through the air, unhurriedly, end over end. Garret, unbalanced, parried a second blow with the broken sword and tried to ram it home into the belly of his attacker. But the sword was too short and he had to stretch. Indaro watched as the other defender saw the chance and plunged his own blade under Garret’s armpit. It sank deep into the chest, seeking the heart. Broglanh killed the man instantly but it was too late. Garret crumpled to the bloodstained carpet. Indaro stepped over his body and was back in the battle.

  She could scarcely believe it, but this was the strangest day of Emly’s eventful life so far and she was prepared to believe anything. Bartellus was growing visibly stronger.

  On the verge of death when she discovered him, the old man had neither slept nor eaten, and had drunk only a little stale water, yet his back was straighter, his gait more determined. Although she still held on to his arm, she wondered which of them was supporting the other as they hurried through the dungeons.

  It was the soldier, a Nighthawk he called himself, who had made the difference, she guessed. Bartellus seemed to respond to the company of warriors. The Nighthawk, whose name was Darius, said Riis had been arrested and taken to the Keep. At the news Bartellus looked grim.

  “Do you know why?” he asked, but Darius shook his head. “We were told he was charged with treason. The Nighthawks didn’t believe that and planned to rescue him before he was tortured. But then the limping one ordered me to accompany him to the dungeons. I went with him hoping to find Riis.”

  Now the warrior walked ahead of them, the tip of his sword at the neck of the old man with the stick. Their pace was slow, dictated by Dol Salida. Bartellus had refused to let Darius kill the old man, and Em could feel impatience fizzing from the soldier. He was tall and lean and his reddish hair was shorn close to his head. He wore black and silver armour which glistened in the torchlight. He reminded her a little of Evan. She wondered where her lover was and whether he too had been taken by the enemy.

  They had emerged from the dungeons and were walking the corridors of the Red Palace. Em gazed around her in wonder. The place was flooded, water swished round their ankles, and they could hear sounds of thunder, which was not thunder for it seemed to come from within the walls, and distant screams and shouts and the crash of metal. The only people they saw were servants and the odd soldier, but they were all fleeing and had no interest in the trio. At one point they came to a part of the palace which had collapsed and they were forced to climb over broken walls and rubble. Sunlight shone down on them through a hole in the roof. The men looked around in amazement, not knowing what had caused the destruction.

  Emly was walking in a dream-state, from tiredness and fear and disorientation. She had no idea where they were, or where they were going. When she saw the daylight she was amazed.

  Bartellus called a halt and turned to her. “We are going to the Keep, Emly, if it still stands. Only death and blood await us there. We will find you a place of safety first.”

  “What about the Fourth Imperial?” she asked him, clinging to their old plan.

  The general looked embarrassed. “It seems I haven’t been keeping up with current events. The Fourth was disbanded two years ago.” He smiled and she saw a glimpse of her father again, the man who had rescued her from the Halls.

  “We will find somewhere safe for you,” he repeated. “No one will pay attention to one girl in all this chaos.”

  “Look around you,” she told him with a hint of impatience. “The palace is falling down. Nowhere is safe. I would rather be with you, Father.”

  He nodded abstractedly, the decision made, his mind already on other things. To Darius, who was waiting impatiently, he asked, “How far are we from the Keep? I cannot tell.”

  “Moments,” said the warrior curtly.

  “Keep well behind us,” Bart told Em, “and if there is a battle run away. If we get separated, make your way back to the House of Glass.”

  She gazed at him fearfully. “The House of Glass burned down,” she reminded him.

  He shook his head, annoyed by his erratic memory. “To Meggy’s house then. If it still stands.”

  “And if it does not?”

  “Then I will find you.”

  But then it was too late for words, for they heard the sound of r
unning, booted feet behind them. Bartellus and Darius raised their swords, but in moments they were overtaken by warriors in black and silver.

  Chapter 44

  When Hayden Weaver clambered over the rubble of the Adamantine Wall it had finally stopped raining and a watery sunlight shone on the ruins of the City, for the first time that winter. Hayden was not a superstitious man; he did not believe in signs and portents, but if he had been then he might have seen it as an omen.

  It was hard to believe two great waves of water had passed over these streets only that morning. The surfaces of stone and wood and brick glistened in the sunlight and were clean, and clear of people, animals, debris. But the water had all gone, vanished into sewers and drains. When the wet roadways and avenues dried, perhaps in a few hours, it would be impossible to tell what catastrophe had happened here, to kill so many people and demolish so many of the buildings. Most of the corpses had been washed away, into canals and culverts perhaps, or they rested silently in the homes in which they had drowned. Or maybe, Hayden thought, the City was already empty, most of its people long-dead on battlefields, the rest, children and young mothers and old crones fled long since.

  The floodwater had done most of its damage in the south of the City, between the two great walls and the Red Palace, some ten leagues distant. The palace itself, already fatally weakened by the collapse of the drainage system, or so the general’s engineers advised, was expected to topple under the ferocity of the floods. But, squinting against the growing light, Hayden could see that it still stood, although some of its towers and minarets seemed to have vanished.

  “Mason?” He looked around for his brother, who knew more about the City and its buildings than any man living.

  “He headed for the palace,” said Tyler.

  “And you let him?” asked Hayden angrily.

  “He is not under my command, lord,” said the aide with his customary cool courtesy. “He was going alone. He would not wait. I sent a platoon of soldiers with him.”