by Evie Manieri
‘A man with a torch – a Dead One – did you see him?’ he demanded impatiently, as he looked around for the object of his pursuit.
‘No,’ said their leader. She wore a large silver medallion around her neck and the blue of her eyes was striking even in the darkness. He and Isa had been checking Aeda’s harness when the Nomas had arrived at their makeshift camp in the ruined palace in a riot of bright colours and chattering, incomprehensible voices, as if they’d come for a holiday rather than a battle. With only a few words from the Mongrel, they had quickly and efficiently formed themselves into armed companies, fire brigades and a host of other useful groups – and Daryan was absolutely certain that this imperious woman and her stealthy companions had not been among them.
‘Who are you? You didn’t come with the others, did you?’ he asked, something about them making him suspicious.
‘No,’ she confirmed, but she did not seem at ease. ‘We—’
But before she could continue a tremendous crash sounded from somewhere behind them and they turned in alarm to see a ball of flame shoot up into the air over the housetops and unfurl in a blinding arc of sparks.
‘Oh, no!’ he breathed. Cursing himself for getting distracted, he leapt down the street in the direction of the flames. He rounded the first corner and a woman darted out at him from a shadowed doorway, hissing ‘Daimon – thank the gods!’ As if the sound of his title were a signal, the district’s residents tumbled out of the shadows and bore down on him. They were carrying blankets for smothering the flames, pots and jars for flinging sand, brooms and rakes for beating. They pressed in close, their frightened faces seeking reassurance.
‘The Dead One, where is he?’ Daryan demanded, seizing the woman’s arm.
‘Over there.’ She pointed up the street to a doorway glowing brightly in the dark night; a moment later a house on the other side of the street collapsed inwards, sending a cloud of acrid smoke into the sky and exposing the burning interior. A black cloud of fury gathered over Daryan: this was his city. These were his people.
A muffled scream came from further up the street. Another woman lurched out of the smoke, this one half-carrying, half-dragging three small children. ‘Dead Ones!’ she shouted. ‘The Dead Ones are here!’
‘Get those fires out – don’t let them spread or we’ll lose the whole neighbourhood!’ he ordered as he ran towards the fires. Over the crackling of the flames he caught the unmistakable clang of swords, and he chased the sound around the burning buildings, through a tiny echoing alley and into a small square with a boarded-over well. A torch sputtered on the ground, and flames flickered in the doorways of the houses on either side of the square.
Isa was fighting a big, lumbering man with arms like tree trunks – but she had already backed him against the wall of one of the burning buildings. She battered at him relentlessly, the rapid blows coming at him from every conceivable angle while the man lunged and twisted in an almost comical attempt to defend himself. Daryan found himself flushing with stupid pride at her prowess. Just as he was about to call out to the other Shadari to come deal with the fires, Isa plunged her sword into the man’s chest.
The Dead One crashed back into the wall behind him, smacking his head against the stone with an unpleasant crunch; his arms jerked and blood welled out from the wound. He dropped his sword as his hands stiffened into claws and he writhed in pain.
She yanked at the blade, but Truth’s Might had sunk in so deeply that it took her three tugs to free it, and when she did, the blood poured out and pattered audibly into the dirt at the man’s feet. Then he crumpled to the ground, his unfocused eyes and slack muscles leaving no doubt whatsoever that he was dead.
Isa stood for a moment with her sword in her hand, breathing hard, looking down at the soldier’s body; then she bent down and methodically wiped the blood from her blade on the dead man’s cloak. Only then did she turn around to face Daryan.
And he saw a Dead One standing there in Isa’s place, with a blank face and a deadly sword: a cold, silent, remorseless killer. That’s what any other Shadari would have seen.
And in that instant the fantasy that he had been stealthily tending in the hidden corners of his mind for the last two days came crashing down: there would be no grand, glorious day when Shadari and Norlanders would celebrate their common victory. There would be no toasts of new-found trust, no speeches about new beginnings, no merry banquet where he and Isa would sit, side by side, in front of the entire world. There would be no time when the Shadari would be able – or willing – to forget what the Dead Ones had done to them.
‘Your face – what is it?’ she asked, sheathing her sword as she walked over to him.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, deflecting her question.
She nodded. ‘There are more. We must hurry.’
He had no idea where they were, but Isa turned with assurance and he followed at her side. They turned on to the street where they’d left Aeda, and the triffon lifted up her huge head expectantly as they approached.
‘Did you know him?’ he asked her.
‘Yes,’ she answered succinctly, and her eyes darted to his face, and then away again. ‘I had to kill him,’ she added.
‘I know.’
She stopped, one foot already hooked in the stirrup, and asked, ‘Could you? Kill someone?’
‘Me? I don’t know how,’ he answered with a nervous laugh, but when her gaze didn’t waver, he continued, ‘I don’t know. To protect someone I loved? You?’ he added, softly. ‘Yes, I think I could – I know I could.’
Her silver-green eyes held his a moment longer. ‘I hope you never have to.’
Then she was back in the saddle and he was helping her with the buckles without being asked. Once she was secure, he moved to the back of the saddle and scrambled awkwardly into his seat. She took up the reins while he strapped himself in, and the moment he was ready Aeda sprang into the air.
The higher they climbed, the more horrifying the sight below them became: whole sections of the city engulfed in flames, panic-stricken figures running in all directions. The aerial battle continued in front of the temple.
‘It’s just like the Mongrel said,’ Daryan seethed. ‘They’ll either find Dramash, or they’ll make things so bad we’ll have to use him. Damn Frea!’
‘And the emperor’s ship is here,’ Isa called back to him. ‘Look over there.’
Looking out to sea he could just make out the faint glow of white sails beyond the harbour.
Isa looked back at him, her eyes shining. ‘Where do we go?’ she shouted over the noise of the wind, but before he could say a word the shockwave hit them, pushing them sideways through the air like an angry shove from the hand of a god. Daryan’s hands were torn from the saddle and he was knocked to one side as if he weighed nothing at all. He felt the boom in his ears, in his bones, in his head: every membrane in his body thumped like a drumhead. Beneath them, the ground slanted at an impossible angle.
Isa had been knocked to the side just as he was. She dragged her head towards him. Their eyes met. Together, they braced themselves for disaster.
Chapter Forty-One
Daem stepped out in front of the triffon on the blackened stone floor of the stables, his sword already drawn.
Rho stood there, trying not to breathe in the soot that their landing had swirled up into the air. He could never explain his reasons to Daem’s satisfaction – he couldn’t even explain them to himself.
Anger sizzled around Daem in a white halo.
Daem took a deep breath. After a moment’s hesitation he slid his sword into its scabbard and laid his hand on Rho’s shoulder.
Before he even had time to flinch Daem had landed a sharp, brutal blow to his purulent wound and pain snatched his breath away, blinding him even as he collapsed. He could feel the flesh splitting apart as the wound reopened, and then a warm, sticky wetness oozing out over his skin.
Daem knelt down by his side. He helped him to sit up.
Rho leaned helplessly against him, gasping for breath, but even through the agony he could feel the depth of his friend’s remorse.
Rho listened with his eyes closed, feeling the truth of it. Then he tried to stand. Daem took his arm and helped him up, releasing him once he’d got his balance and was relatively steady on his feet. The stables were dark, but there was light enough to see the streaks of black soot mottling their cloaks.
He whistled, and the triffon sprang into the air. As they spiralled up out of the temple and into the clear night sky he kept himself from looking down. He knew he’d see Daem, standing there looking up at him, and he couldn’t bear it.
He wheeled the triffon around in the direction of the city.
A great hollow boom sounded below him, muffled, but strong enough to resonate through his whole body. Then came splitting sounds, layered, one on top of each other, crackling like the sky torn apart by a frenzied lightning storm.
And then the screaming started, raking like claws inside his skull, like every nightmare, every helpless, frozen moment of dread he’d ever experienced.
The screams submerged into a rumbling, thudding roar and a cloud of matter rolled outwards from the temple, choking out the stars. At first it looked as insubstantial as smoke, but as it came towards him he saw the tumbling, heaving chunks of stone.
In a single moment, panic stripped away civilisation’s veneer and reduced him to a whimpering, unreasoning animal. The triffon bellowed in pure terror and flung itself towards the sea, thrashing its wings furiously and streaking over the black water with no concern for the rider on its back. Ahead, the night sky was clear and bright with stars, but fast overtaking them was the hot breath of chaos. Debris whizzed by on all sides, pelting Rho’s back, cracking against his bones. He pressed himself into the triffon’s neck; all he could do was to hang on.
After a while, the beast’s wing-beats lengthened. They were far out at sea by now, maybe too far for the exhausted triffon to return to the shore. Rho looked back over his shoulder.
The temple was gone.
There was nothing left but a jagged square of foundations, like a piece of pottery slammed against the edge of a table. The debris from the explosion had buried both the plain and the beach around the temple, and a cloud of dust hung over the site like a veil draped over a bloody corpse. He stared, stupefied. They were all dead – all of them. Daem … Daem, his friend, was dead. He could still feel the throb of his wound where Daem had struck him, but now he was dead. And Eofar, Frea, all the others that had been in the air – the sky was empty. They were gone. All gone.
Chapter Forty-Two
Jachad woke up in hell, rocks prodding his flesh and cracking against his skull. He clamped his eyes shut, and a scream swelled torturously in his chest – but he couldn’t squeeze enough air out of his lungs for anything more than a helpless whimper, and he was afraid to conjure up even the smallest flame for fear of sucking up the last remaining gasp of air. He tried to move his arms and legs, but the effort only jostled the rocks against his bruised body and choked him with dirt. Panic squashed his lungs; froze his heart.
Alone, buried under stone and sand, he prayed to his father, far off on the other side of the world, and to the moon goddess Amai and to the Shadari star-gods to take his message there. He prayed to anyone who would listen, and he was still praying when they dug him out.
‘Damn! It’s just that stinking Nomas,’ someone growled.
Rough hands pushed away the debris until they’d freed enough of his body to be able to hoist him up out of the rubble. A dank, evil-smelling cloth was passed over his face, and then – ah, praise Shof – a flask of water was poked between his lips, and he drank.
‘That’s enough.’ The flask was yanked away from him, the supporting hands disappeared and he fell back against the rocks. ‘I’m not wasting any more time on this one. Come on.’
His dissatisfied rescuers departed before Jachad could produce even one syllable of thanks. He lay there blinking, watching the red flares in front of his eyes gradually fade away. He could feel no broken bones, and yet he felt shattered: a collection of parts that had never been meant to fit together.
After a while he got up, stiffly and painfully, and looked behind him. He remembered standing not far from the foot of the temple, looking up at the battle in the sky above him, trying to count the number of Eofar’s men still left aloft. Frea had succeeded in getting enough of her men through the line to set the city ablaze. Then he had seen one triffon streak to the ground with its rider slumped over in the saddle, somewhere out to the west. The pair had been far away but he had been certain it was Eofar – he had just begun to run in that direction when the world had come crashing down on top of him.
Now the temple slumped in the near distance like a dying thing, wreathed in the dust of its own smashed bones, its torn vitals exposed to an empty sky. Its destruction had effectively ended the battle, both on the ground and in the air. He could not see any living triffons anywhere; he didn’t know if they had all been killed, or if they had gone to ground. Now he could see ghostly figures drifting through the piles of debris, stumbling along with their heads bent down to the ground. Wounded of indeterminate race and gender sprawled amongst the rubble, and many Shadari survivors were sobbing and wailing and clawing at the piles of stone and dirt and detritus. He bore witness to their grief with a strange, emotionless pity. He still had a heart, and a mind, but there no longer seemed to be a connection between the two.
He thought that might be just as well, considering what he intended to do.
After a moment he made out men and women coming and going from one particular spot, and when he got there he found Omir distributing mining equipment to the stream of blank-faced volunteers. No one spoke more than absolutely necessary, and the atmosphere was as stifling as the smoke hanging over their heads.
He walked straight up to Omir. ‘The Mongrel – where is she? Has anyone seen her?’
‘
You and that—’ Omir began as a snarl, but stopped when he saw the look on Jachad’s face. ‘In the palace,’ he said, twisting the loose ends of a shovel’s leather-wrapped handle, ‘with Faroth.’
‘Just Faroth? What about Daryan?’
Omir’s eyes remained as motionless as if they had been chiselled into his face, but his mouth moved tellingly before he answered, ‘No one’s seen him yet.’
Jachad turned towards the city.
‘King Jachad,’ Omir called out to him. Jachad waited until the big man found the words he needed; in his still, dark eyes was a savage grief, a living thing that writhed and twisted, struggling to free itself. ‘Is it over?’
‘No,’ said Jachad, ‘but it’s about to be.’
He began picking his way over the uneven ground back towards the city. The terrain had changed completely; what had once been a flat plain of sand and scrub was now all heaps of broken rocks and smashed things that he avoided examining too closely. A weak, sanguine light shone in the sky overhead: not the dawn yet, but the light of the still-burning fires reflecting from the heavy clouds of dust and smoke.
He passed into the city streets where fires still smouldered everywhere. Whole neighbourhoods had been reduced to smoking ruins, and most of the landmarks had been obliterated or obscured. People moved about with an aimless confusion he found exhausting just to watch. As he neared the old Shadari royal palace the crowds grew larger. He made his way towards the heart of the ruin, to that same spot where the council of war had been held earlier in the day. Despite their numbers the people were eerily quiet, and the expressions on the faces around him were not the simple, mute fatigue he might have expected, but a feverish, wide-eyed uneasiness that needed only a spark to flare into full-blown hysteria.