The City

by Stella Gemmell

  The only sounds were the warm wind from the south soughing through a jutting ribcage, flapping an odd scrap of dried cloth, sifting sand sibilantly across corroding metal plate.

  And footsteps, gritty on the parched ground.

  Her boots had been old when she first set out. They wouldn’t last her much longer. She watched, head bowed, as each one came into view, then slipped away, left, right, left, right. Each toe had once boasted an embossed figure—a snake and a scorpion. Where had they gone? Then she remembered these weren’t her boots; they had belonged to some nameless woman, her carcase ripped by the weapons of men and then used by wild creatures for food and shelter. Only her boots remained intact, their surface scoured by sand. Indaro had wrestled them off, then knocked them out, treading on the huge centipede that wriggled from one of them. They fitted fairly well. She had walked a long way in them.

  She was aware that someone was walking beside her. She feared it was Maccus Odarin and she turned her head away for she did not want to see him stumbling along on the rotten leg, did not want to see him die again.

  “Where are we going?” her companion asked cheerfully.

  With relief she realised it wasn’t Maccus, and she looked round.

  “Where are we going?” Rubin asked. His hair was longer than she remembered and she was shocked to see there were grey streaks in the red. How old was he, eighteen, twenty? She was troubled that she couldn’t remember her brother’s age, couldn’t even remember if he was older or younger than her.

  Now it was her father, Reeve, walking beside her. He was saying, “Vincerus, Sarkoy, Broglanh, Gaeta, Khan, and Kerr. Remember these names. They are your past and your future. They are your enemies.”

  She had heard these words often as a child.

  “They all fear Sarkoy and Vincerus,” her father went on, staring down, watching puffs of dust spurt up from the soil. “But only the Gaetas know the true power of the veil.”

  She woke with a start. The dream took a while to drift away, then she realised she should probably get up. But time passed, and still she found she was slumped on the floor. She pulled herself up to sit straighter against the wall. The wound in her side had stopped hurting. That’s either a very good or a very bad sign, she thought.

  The battle had started again. She could hear the clash of swords and shields, the agonising grunts of pain, shouts of encouragement, exultation and horror. She could smell fresh blood, and it was no longer hers. Men were milling around on the landing in front of her. She watched legs passing back and forth—legs clad in metal greaves and armoured kilts, legs in leather trousers, some in cotton or linen, some naked and hairy. She found herself counting them automatically, then stopped. It was not her job to count the toll. She wondered that there were no women among the warriors. She was the only one, it seemed. Then she remembered the Nighthawks were previously a cavalry unit. The City had few women riders. They weren’t considered skilful enough to ride and fight at the same time. Only skilful enough to be butchered in the infantry lines.

  She rubbed dirt from her eyes. Legs clad in silk, dark green silk were walking towards her. The silk shimmered in the hectic torchlight, and she wanted to reach out and feel the weight of it, touch the sheen of something other than filthy cotton and wool.

  The green-clad figure crouched down to speak to her and she recognised the youngster she had rescued from the wreckage of the emperor’s carriage. He was pale and fair. His eyebrows were gracefully arched above dark eyes. One eyelid seemed to droop a little, giving him a lazy air. He was unarmed. He was no more than sixteen.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked her.

  “I helped you from the Immortal’s carriage,” she replied, drawing back against the wall. The eyes were black and hot as pitch.

  “Did you know who I was then?”

  “No,” she answered, rendered stiff by his sinister proximity. She no longer had a weapon with her. And she noticed for the first time that she stank like a week-old corpse. She looked around but the milling soldiers seemed oblivious to the newcomer.

  He nodded. “Nevertheless, your intention was noble. So I will not kill you today.

  “You are injured,” he noted. “Are you dying?”

  “No.”

  “No,” he agreed, “you are probably not. You are Indaro Kerr Guillaume, and I really ought to kill you.” He seemed undecided.

  Indaro’s eyes flickered across the floor seeking a weapon. There was a discarded shield an arm’s-length away. She could defend herself with it, kill him with it. He looked so delicate, his arms and legs thin and bony. But somehow she could not move, and he stood and walked away. She wanted to cry out a warning, but no one would hear her in the racket of battle. And he was just a boy. So she watched him gliding across the floor, weaving his way among the armed men, unnoticed by the warriors, as if invisible. He disappeared down the stairs.

  Bartellus stood watching the battle from his vantage point on the high landing. The Nighthawks were attacking the Thousand with renewed fury. They were ferocious fighters, only recently returned from three years in the field, he’d been told. Bart remembered riding with the First Adamantine decades before…

  “General,” Broglanh urged, “let me get in there.” It was not the first time he’d asked. He was crackling with energy, and Bart knew it was physically painful for the warrior to be doing nothing while men were fighting and dying paces away.

  “I need you with me,” he grunted. He glanced at the warrior. “That’s an order.”

  It was ironic. Evan Broglanh knew better than anyone that he was just a tired old man, the rags of the prisoner still sticking out from under his shiny armour. Broglanh had spent the last few weeks protecting him, dragging him from one unsafe place to another, cajoling him when he was desolate, forcing him to eat sometimes. He had been bodyguard, nursemaid and son to him. Now he was dutiful lieutenant and they both knew he would not shatter the fragile illusion of Shuskara’s authority by going against his orders. So Broglanh waited at his side, and fumed.

  Bart watched the crystal doorway far below. It was hours now since Fell had disappeared. There was no reason to think he was still alive. There was no reason to think he wasn’t. All the general could do was to keep the Thousand occupied. He did the sums over and over in his head. Three centuries of the bodyguard were out of the City, thanks to Saroyan’s last act. Indaro had estimated that Gil Rayado’s army had disabled the better part of a century. There must be two hundred or more dead in this chamber. Some would have been lost in the flooding and the palace collapse. Whichever way you looked at it they were running out of men. So far none of the common soldiery had been drafted in to take them on. Why not? Did the emperor and the brothers not trust them? Bart had no idea.

  A wave of weariness passed through him. He wanted very much to sit down. But he forced his knees to lock and his back to straighten and he looked on grimly as brave men died. The Nighthawks had battled their way down the staircase back to the point where Broglanh and Indaro had been when he first saw them. For the loss of forty or so of their number. Suddenly Bart was overwhelmed with the desire to wade down in among them and add his blade to the battle. He had done all he could do. It would be an honourable end. He hefted his sword and opened his mouth to speak to Broglanh.

  Then a cry came from the doors behind him, where injured men were stationed to watch the corridor.

  “They’re coming, general!”

  He swung round, old blood surging, as fresh warriors appeared. Broglanh leaped joyfully to the attack. Bartellus shouted an order and half the Nighthawks on the stairs turned and raced back up. As he waded into the fray Bartellus saw even Indaro had levered herself painfully from the floor.

  One of the newcomers broke through the first defence and launched himself at the general. Bart raised his heavy sword and parried the blow, feeling the jolt through his body, stumbling back under its power. As he fell to one knee the attacker raised his sword for a killing blow and Bart, with an ag
onised grunt, thrust his blade up under the man’s breastplate. The warrior fell and Bart climbed to his feet and hacked at the man’s throat until he was dead.

  He looked round. The position was hopeless. The warriors on the floor below, hearted by the reinforcements, were forcing their way back up the stairs and the Nighthawks seemed to have lost the power to stop them. On the landing more armoured men were trying to get in and the weary defenders were barely holding the line.

  Then there was a shouted order, repeated, echoing round the walls of the circular chamber, and suddenly their opponents backed off. The new warriors started retreating again, in good order, through the great doors. None of the exhausted defenders had the energy or the will to follow them. Bart looked to Broglanh, who stood, sword dripping gore, looking baffled. He returned the look, eyebrows raised. What new ploy is this? his gaze asked. The warriors of the Thousand pulled the high doors closed behind them and they heard the hollow grinding of some mechanism as they were locked.

  Bartellus looked down. The Thousand were streaming away through the crystal doorway, leaving a floor covered with corpses and blood. The surviving Nighthawks looked bewildered as they watched the backs of the disappearing warriors.

  “Why are they leaving?” he asked Broglanh, but the warrior was already racing down the staircase. Fell, the general thought.

  But then Broglanh slowed and stopped. Bartellus saw his eyes were on the crystal doorway where a lone man had appeared, dark-haired and slender, in the livery of the Thousand. He stepped forward gracefully, looking around with interest. He gazed up to the high landing, straight into the general’s eyes.

  Only then did Bart recognise Rafe Vincerus, and horror froze his soul. All hope drained from him, replaced by black despair. How had he ever thought he could beat these people?

  A low buzzing started in his ears, and swiftly a sharp pain started up at the base of his skull. Now he knew why all the warriors had been ordered away. Rafe planned to kill everyone in the chamber. Forcing his feet to move, he tottered to the edge of the landing. He opened his mouth but something like an incoherent squawk came out.

  “Shuskara!” Rafe cried.

  He must have been surprised, caught off-guard, for the pain receded and Bart managed to speak a word. “Coward!”

  Then he cried, “You lower yourself by using your evil magics on fine warriors, Rafe.”

  Rafe raised his voice. “So, Shuskara, you have finally emerged from your burrow. We guessed we would see you before the end. Marcellus predicted this day’s work was down to you.”

  “Face me like a man, Rafe, not some cheap conjuror.”

  “Gladly, traitor!” Rafe bent and grabbed a sword from a dead man’s grip, then he ran across the chamber floor and leaped up the stairs, bounding lightly over the black and silver corpses, past his injured warriors and those of the enemy. He had the strength and agility of a man of twenty summers and Bart knew he could not stand against him for more than moments. Despite this the old man’s heart swelled with determination. If he could give his troops a reprieve from this demon’s spells then perhaps…Perhaps what, Bart? he thought. In his heart he knew that for him there was no good ending to this day.

  Rafe reached the wide landing and paused, addressing his opponent formally with his sword. Then he lunged, his blade aimed at Bart’s belly. Bartellus swayed awkwardly and the tip of the sword veered off his leather belt. He brought his blade down on Rafe’s neck. But he was far too slow. The warrior parried the blow easily then slashed at Bart’s legs. Bartellus felt a searing agony and he almost toppled backwards. He stumbled back a pace. He felt sweat break out all over and his heart raced. Stay upright, he ordered his body. If you fall you are dead. Rafe grinned and slashed the air with the borrowed sword, then came on. Bart knew he was being toyed with. He snatched up an abandoned shield and settled it on his arm.

  Rafe shook his head. “You should have stayed in your mouse-hole, old fool.”

  Bartellus’ blade flicked out and caught him on the side of the head. It was a shallow cut but Rafe was annoyed. His face hardened and he attacked in earnest. Bart parried and blocked with desperation and was forced towards the edge of the landing. He stepped back clumsily, staggering above the high drop. His body was failing him, but his mind still worked. He allowed his head to droop. Rafe pressed forward. Bart stumbled towards him. As he had expected Rafe sent a lightning thrust to his belly. Bartellus stepped into it. Ignoring the explosion of agony he slammed his own blade under Rafe’s chin, seeking the throat. The warrior’s eyes widened with shock and he fell, blood gushing from his neck.

  Bartellus stood for a moment, clutching his stomach where blood poured in a mortal stream. The chamber was deathly quiet. His heartbeat and his harsh breathing were the only sounds he could hear. Bart had all the time in the world. He thought of Emly and hoped she had found her brother. And his mind went back to the garden, to the two boys waving in the sunlight.

  Then he toppled backwards off the staircase and plummeted to the stone floor far below.

  Chapter 47

  Indaro stepped up. Rafe Vincerus was not dead, though blood gushed from his throat, and he crouched on the landing holding his hand to his neck seeking to stem the flow. As the woman moved forward a pace he looked up at her and she averted her gaze. Don’t let them look into your eyes, Mason had told them. Yet it seemed not to help, for her mind felt sluggish, her legs encased in iron.

  He was only seven paces away, and Indaro stared at her feet, willing them to move forward. One pace. Two. She risked a look. He had not moved and the blood was still gushing from his neck. He must be weakening. She prayed to Aduara that this man, this piece of meat, would spill all his blood as tribute to the goddess. Her head felt stuffed and full; her grip on consciousness was failing. Three paces. Four. She raised her sword.

  She cast another glance at her enemy. Incredibly, he was standing now, his own sword-hand raised.

  She thought of Stalker and Garret, and all the men and women who had died this day on both sides of the battle. She thought of Bartellus, lying broken on the hall floor. And she thought of Fell. I will not be beaten by this thing, she thought.

  She raised her sword in her right hand and Rafe batted it easily aside, and she plunged the knife in her left hand through his eye and into his brain.

  On the highest tower high above her Fell and Marcellus turned away from Mason’s body and walked to the east of the battlements. Fell turned his face up to the sunlight, feeling its cleansing warmth. His mind was clear. Marcellus’ hold over him was gone. They stood together like old friends.

  Fell needed to understand. “Who is the man I met in the Hall of Emperors?” he asked.

  “That is Araeon, whom you call the Immortal, the emperor.”

  “Then what was the creature in the dark?”

  “Also the emperor.”

  “He can change his appearance?”

  Marcellus shook his head. “You make it sound like a magicker’s sleight of hand. He does not put on a false beard. But he can appear different to others’ eyes.”

  “Can you?”

  “No, it is Araeon’s attribute. And he can create other…forms of himself. We all can. Although it takes a great deal of strength and Araeon’s has been waning for a long time.”

  “You all can? Who are you all?”

  “We are called the Serafim. We came to the City many centuries ago, Araeon and I, and Archange. And many others.”

  Fell thought about it. Then he said, “Indaro told me she saw the emperor’s carriage destroyed by one of the Blues’ sorcerous explosions. Yet he lived. Can he be killed?” he asked simply.

  “We are not immortal, despite the title. We have blood flowing through us, as you do. We can die, as you can.”

  “Then…”

  “The man in the carriage, and the one you saw in the Hall of Emperors, was a reflection. A real and solid reflection, one which lives and breathes, but one which would die if Araeon no longer lived.”

/>   Fell had a vision of the emperor in his dark lair, hideously birthing creatures like himself. He shuddered and bile rose in his throat. He vomited on the floor, then wiped his mouth. Afterwards he felt calmer. It was some relief that after all the years of war the floodgates of his feelings had given way. There had been times over the years when he had longed to recover his powers of disgust.

  Marcellus was watching him. “It repels you,” he commented.

  “Of course.” Fell asked, “What will happen now?” He gestured. “To the City.”

  “Your small army has been trapped in the Hall of Emperors. They will be despatched. The Red Palace will be uninhabitable for a long time. So we will retreat to the Shield, to our palace there, the Serafia. Then we will wait to see what Hayden Weaver does. We have plenty of time. We can wait him out. Or we will ally with the remaining Serafim and force him out.”

  “Remaining Serafim?”

  “We have taken on the burden of ruling for too long. It is time for others to take our place.”

  “Others like you?” Fell said with distaste.

  Marcellus chuckled. “Do not judge us, Fell. You are not like us, for you are not of the City, but we are not so different from your friends and comrades. We have bred with them for many centuries. Our life force runs strongly in most of the City’s people. In fact, we are more like them than you are.

  “Do you know why the Blues hate us so?” he asked.

  Fell grinned sardonically. “Because we destroyed their cities, killed their people and made a desert of their lands?”

  “Because we are not like them. People fear those who are different. If you sever the arm of a Blue he stops fighting, and if he is not treated quickly, he dies. It takes more than that to kill a warrior of the City. You must have noticed, in your years as a warrior, how easily the Blueskins die. They are frail creatures, particularly under torture.”