“I am one of those frail creatures.”
“And you will live, if you survive this day, until you are eighty or so. The people of the City live much longer than that.”
“How long?”
Marcellus paused as if to collect his thoughts. “Your friend Shuskara. How old is he?”
Is, Fell thought. Then it is true, Shuskara still lives. He felt determination kindle in his breast again. He said, “I don’t know. Seventy?”
“He is over two hundred,” Marcellus told him.
Fell shook his head but he could no longer summon the disbelief he once felt.
“And Indaro Kerr Guillaume?” Marcellus said.
“What about her?” Fell asked sharply. “Are you telling me she’s three hundred years old?”
Marcellus smiled. “No, she is what she appears to be—a woman in her thirties. I met her when she was a child, so I know.
“Do you not find it remarkable that she has survived years of battle when all around her have died? She recovers from wounds that would kill strong men.”
“I have survived longer,” Fell replied. “And, as you say, I am not of the City.”
“Yes, but you are a commander.”
“I lead my troops into battle.” He felt he was being judged.
“I am not questioning your courage, Fell. But you are not a common soldier. You are a legend among your warriors. They rally to you, and they love you. And they help keep you safe.”
Fell thought of a soldier running up to him with a breastplate, another throwing him a sword in the heat of battle. He admitted to himself it was true.
“What are you saying? That Indaro is one of you, a Serafim?”
“No, I am saying she benefits from the blood of the Families that flows in her veins, as do most of the City’s people. Her mother was an offshoot of the Kerr Family which spawned Flavius Randell Kerr, your late unlamented general. Her father Reeve, a Guillaume, is much older than Shuskara. If Indaro survives this day she could live a very long life. She is hard to kill.”
“She is a rare woman,” Fell said.
“Ah, I see you are fond of her. I would say that these days she is unique.”
“She has a brother.”
“Had a brother. Rubin is dead.”
Fell had guessed it, but Marcellus stated it as a fact.
“Do you know everything that happens in the City?” he asked.
“Far from it. For example, I don’t know the significance of the branded men. I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Fell wondered, Is there any reason not to, now, at the end of all things?
Marcellus said, “Ranul the messenger bore an S-shaped brand. As did your friend Riis. I suspect you once had one too.”
“Riis is dead?”
“Yes.”
“We were hostages together as boys,” Fell explained. “Riis and I, and Ranul. And others. The emperor ordered our friend killed, burned alive, in public. His name was Sami.”
Marcellus looked at him in wonder. “I never cease to be amazed at the strangeness of you primitives. You and Mason, holding on to rancour over all these years, conspiring to bring down a great City because of personal grudges.”
“I was a child,” Fell explained. He thought about it and said, “He laughed to see a boy die in agony. Such a creature should not be allowed to live, emperor or beggar.”
“Did others in the crowd laugh?”
“Yes. It was an entertainment. That’s why they were there.”
Then he said, “Tell me about Ranul. How did he die?”
“He tried to kill the emperor and came very close. It was eight years ago. He chose the guise of a Panjali messenger. They are a tribe who live in the arid plains in the far north-east of Odrysia. They keep to the old ways which includes a rigid caste system. Their messengers are holy men, raised from birth to undertake a sacred mission in times of great danger, when the tribe is in peril of its existence. They cannot read or write. Or speak—their tongues are cut out when they reach puberty. Traditionally, the messenger’s head is shaved for his mission, a message is tattooed on the scalp and the hair allowed to grow back before the man is sent to a foreign court. The foreign leader then has the head shaved again to reveal the message.”
“Ranul chose to have his tongue cut out?” Fell thought about the fat bully he had known, and the depths of hatred and determination which had made him follow such a path.
“It was the authentic touch which brought him into the emperor’s presence. He was almost successful.”
Fell asked, “How did he die?”
“I don’t know. I was not there. He was cunning and he fought bravely, I’m told. But he was gravely injured. He managed to steal a priceless artefact of the Serafim and threatened to destroy it. Araeon allowed him to escape into the sewers with it rather than risk its destruction.”
“What was it, this artefact?”
“The Gulon Veil.” Seeing Fell’s baffled look, Marcellus added, “Seemingly a woman’s trifle. In fact an object of great power. Its loss caused Araeon irreparable injury.”
“How did Ranul know of it?”
Marcellus’ face clouded. “He had inside help.”
Fell shook his head. “You value a piece of cloth so highly, yet each year you throw thousands of men and women into an unwinnable battle for an impossible aim. Yet you call us strange creatures.”
“We are all complex,” Marcellus told him with a trace of pride. “Mason said Araeon is evil. He is not, although many of the things he has done were evil. But he is also capable of great kindness, and compassion and, yes, regret. As am I.”
“What do you regret, lord?”
Marcellus gazed inward. “Killing the only person who ever loved me completely.
“Mason’s words reminded me,” he explained, “of something I had long ago forgotten. It was love that kept us here in the City with those who considered us gods. Yet I chose to kill my love to save my own life. Until this hour I had mourned her, and regretted her death, but I saw it as an unfortunate necessity. Now I wonder what my love was worth if I could discard it so easily.”
Fell felt cold loathing course through him. Here we are, he thought, standing above a ruined City, and the First Lord is mourning lost love, rather than grieving for all the innocents, men and women and children, and the loyal warriors who had died that day.
“Mason told me he wanted you to succeed Araeon,” he said. “He told me you would be a good emperor as emperors go.”
Marcellus stared at the floor. Then he shook his head. “He lied,” he said. “Mason had many talents, and one of them was his skill at reading men. In you he saw a warrior who believed in the concept of the honourable soldier. Your personal need for vengeance was not enough for you. So he gave you a higher purpose—kill the emperor and replace him with an honourable soldier in his stead.”
Marcellus stood silently, head lowered, shoulders slumped. Then he looked up, a hard decision made.
“Is that your only regret?” Fell asked formally. “The death of one woman?”
“It is.”
Fell raised his sword and formally Marcellus answered. The two men circled. The duel began with a blistering series of thrusts, parries and ripostes. Fell knew within moments he was outclassed but he remained serene—sure in the knowledge that, no matter what, his blade would find its home in the body of the man he faced. Back and forth across the roof the two warriors fought, their blades flickering in the sunlight. Three times Marcellus’ blade nicked Fell’s skin, twice on the upper arm, once on the cheek. A trickle of blood dripped to his chin. Marcellus was the better sword master by far, but Fell was fast and agile and his opponent could find no opening for the killing thrust.
“You are a fine swordsman,” commented Marcellus pleasantly. A flicker of doubt disturbed Fell’s serenity. Could this creature be killed? But he pushed it away and it dropped into the recesses of his mind. His whole existence had been a preparation for this moment, and he allo
wed a lifetime of training and a thousand battles to do their work.
Marcellus launched another attack. Fell blocked the blade, rolled his wrist and lanced the tip deep into his opponent’s right shoulder, slicing through muscle and ligament. The sword fell from his nerveless limb but with uncanny speed Marcellus’ left hand caught it before it hit the ground.
Without missing a beat he attacked again. Fell parried then spun away, seeking space and balance. Marcellus followed. His blade lunged towards Fell’s throat. He parried it then blocked another cut. Off-balance, he went down on one knee. He dived to his right, rolled and came up just as Marcellus swung his blade in a murderous arc. Two-handed, Fell brought his sword sharply up and sliced through the fingers of Marcellus’ left hand. Marcellus cried out and dropped his sword, falling to his knees.
Fell stepped back, breathing heavily, sweat dripping off his face and arms.
Marcellus groped for the blade with his disabled hand, but he could not pick it up. He raised his black gaze to Fell. Fell saw no regret there, no remorse. He spun his blade and threw it with all his might into Marcellus’ chest. It pierced deeply and stuck here, quivering. Marcellus groaned in anguish but did not fall. Fell walked over to him, and picked up the other sword.
Marcellus struggled to speak. He threw back his head and roared like a bull in anguish. The sound seemed to rise through his chest from the centre of his heart. He drew a long, gurgling breath. His face was purple but suddenly the colour drained away like water down a pipe. He became still. Fell wondered if he was dead. He bent his head close in. A sound came from Marcellus’ lips, and he strained to hear.
Marcellus whispered, “All gods die hard.”
Fell nodded. He straightened, swung his blade and sliced off his head.
“Not hard enough,” he said.
Deep in the bowels of the palace beneath them, in a place beyond torment and horror, Riis still lived.
He should have drowned. He lay submerged but somehow had fallen with his head rammed against a crumbling piece of stone. He moaned as he realised he was alive. His body was in agony, his mind teetering on the brink of sanity.
He could see nothing, but his ears detected a movement nearby and he flinched. The slosh of water was accompanied by a faint hissing sound. Riis tried to move, to pull away, but he was too badly hurt. He lay there in terror, helpless, waiting for the gulon.
A touch as light as a feather on his naked knee and, despite his injuries, he jerked in panic, trying to pull his leg away. His eyes were adapting and by the weak light of the lair he could see the shape close to him, sidling forward up his helpless body. Its breath hissed and he could feel its greasy pelt slithering on his skin. He forced one hand to move and flailed at the beast with it. He felt teeth graze his arm, then a sharp nip as it bit him. Compared with the pain in the rest of his body it was nothing, yet the bite focussed his thoughts and fired his determination. His one good hand grabbed for the beast’s snout but it bit him on the arm then retreated out of range. He kicked out at it but missed, and nearly passed out again as pure agony surged through his body. With a colossal effort he dragged himself up a little against the wall, his body screaming, his senses fading. He tried to breathe deeply, to gather his strength.
Time passed and he dozed, woke in a panic of fear, then drifted again. The pain was cradling him like a friend. He knew he was dying and he felt at peace.
Fell bent and picked up the severed head, then flung it with all his strength out over the battlements. Superstitious perhaps, but he wanted to ensure Marcellus Vincerus was truly dead. He looked at the torso. The blade had sliced between the pale bones in the neck. Blood had gushed briefly. It looked like the corpse of any decapitated warrior Fell had seen, and he had seen many.
He looked over to Mason’s body, small and hunched, a pile of rags. After all the lies, Fell felt nothing for him except indifference.
He turned his face to the sun. He still had his last task to do, his only task. He would descend again to the lair and slay the emperor. And any reflection of him he could find. Then he would join Indaro, if she lived, and leave this accursed City for good.
He made his way to the stairwell. He recalled that as he climbed it in the thrall of Marcellus it rose directly from the depths of the palace to this eyrie, no side-tunnels, no diversions. But when he went down he quickly came to a point where the stairs divided. He took the right, then right again when he had to choose. He came to a level corridor, which then started to rise, so he doubled back, but soon he was lost in a maze, ankle-deep in water again.
At last his grateful eyes detected a faint gleam of light. He stumbled towards it, sloshing through the water. The torchlight grew stronger and with a surge of relief he found he had made it back to the crystal doorway. Beyond was the Hall of Emperors and, perhaps, Indaro. He slowed and listened. There were no sounds of battle. Were they all dead? He stepped through the doorway.
The chamber was a charnel house. Hundreds of bodies lay piled on the circular floor and on the winding stairway. There were groans and cries from wounded men and women. A few exhausted warriors, dead-eyed, wandered among them despatching the gravely injured. All seemed to be wearing the uniform of the Thousand. Fell could make no sense of it. He saw a glint of coppery hair among the corpses and his heart lurched. He knelt and turned the body over but found it was a woman of middle years, with more grey than red in her hair. Her throat was slashed, her face serene.
He stood and looked around the chamber. He spotted Broglanh sitting on the stairs, his head in his hands.
Then he saw her. She had already seen him and was making her way painfully down the staircase, leaning on the wall, her eyes fixed to him. One hand clutched her belly, the other listlessly held a blade which trailed and bumped on the carpeted stairs. She was thin and pale as a wraith, drenched in blood, and her legs seemed barely to hold her up. There was a hectic light in her eyes as she held him with her gaze.
He sheathed his sword and walked towards her. They met in the centre of the great hall, surrounded by the dead. Her violet eyes were locked on him as if fixing him to her forever.
“They were waiting for us,” she said calmly. “Someone told them we were coming.”
“You were a diversion,” he pointed out. “There’s no point creating a diversion if no one knows about it.”
She smiled.
“You’ve got blood on your teeth,” he said.
Behind her a young man appeared, walking towards them. Fell watched him over Indaro’s shoulder. He was scarcely more than a boy and was dressed in green silk, a stark contrast with the blood-spattered soldiers. The warriors had all stopped what they were doing to watch him pick his way around the corpses. They seemed frozen in place, unbreathing.
The boy kept glancing at Fell, a hesitant smile on his face, as if he knew him, as if he had something to say. He was very close before Fell realised he had eyes of the darkest pitch. One eyelid drooped slightly, as if he were about to wink. Fell tried for his sword, but his hand seemed to push through treacle. He opened his mouth to warn Indaro but had no words. She had her back to the boy and was only starting to realise something was wrong. Fell stared at the creature in despair, unable to drag his eyes away.
Indaro’s gaze cleared as she saw the thing reflected in Fell’s gaze. The hand that was limply holding the sword came up. She spun the blade to reverse it and, her eyes still fixed to Fell’s, she rammed the sword backwards with all her remaining strength into the creature’s chest.
When the beast came for him Riis was ready. He knew what to do. He felt a sliding weight on his chest and long teeth at his throat and he jerked back his head and grabbed the thing by the neck with his one good hand. His fingers met the wide gold collar protecting the animal’s throat. He pushed down panic and shifted his grip, allowing the beast to stretch across him. As he felt its teeth slide into his neck he squeezed with all his remaining strength. The beast thrashed around, then its teeth let go. It was hissing like a snake, its
breath foul in his face. He felt its claws raking his chest and legs as it tried to get away. He gritted his teeth and squeezed ever tighter. He visualised his hand gripped around the beast’s neck, even after his death. There was a cracking of bone, then he felt something give. He held on. The beast convulsed, and sighed deep in its chest. Then its body stopped moving. Riis waited, forcing himself to hold his grip. But the thing was dead.
Indaro’s blade moved very slowly, inching towards the Immortal’s breast. Araeon looked down, watching its progress with interest. Many people had tried to slide smooth metal into his body over the centuries. His reflexes were failing now, he recognised that, but they were still a thousand times faster than those of the primitives in the chamber. The blade was heading accurately for the descending aorta—remarkable considering the woman warrior was aiming by watching his reflection in Fell’s eyes. Reflection, he thought. Ironic. Araeon decided he would step to one side, wrest the sword from her grasp and cut her head off, in front of her lover.
With part of his mind, the part which, despite everything, remained logical and disinterested, he wondered if Marcellus had been right, that he had lost all human compassion. He was a little sorry Marcellus was dead; he had been a good friend, a valuable member of the Serafim team. But the day had been fast approaching when Araeon would have had to kill him himself. And the Bitch too. Then he could step up the war and the City would prevail. He would return to the Serafia. It could be defended. It would be his base of operations, as in the old days. And the Bitch’s get would be a comfort to him in his old age.
He felt the blade touch his chest.
Suddenly the disintegrating structure of his mind was pierced by a scream of terror. Deidoro! The gulon! He felt the last torment of his reflection as it gasped, a hand tight around its throat, throttling it, stopping its breath.
And in that fraction of a heartbeat Indaro’s sword drove through the emperor’s chest, through the great blood vessel and it burst asunder.
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