Blood's Pride (Shattered Kingdoms) (44 page)

Aeda’s powerful wings flexed beneath Daryan’s feet: she was as intent on the pursuit as her riders. He tightened his grip on the saddle, ignoring the muscles cramping in his hands. Isa had assured him over and over again that he didn’t need to hold on, that the harness was enough to keep him in the saddle, but surely not when every downward stroke of Aeda’s wings tossed him up into the air, and every upstroke sent him crashing back down again onto the hard leather.

He leaned cautiously over to one side, trying to see the ground
below – they were flying so low that he could see individual people running through the streets as flames licked at their homes. He chewed his lip angrily. Left or right, it hardly mattered which way they went – what difference could they possibly hope to make? Even if they stopped this Dead One, what of the dozens of others who’d made it past Eofar’s defences?

‘He’s landing!’ Isa’s shrill cry flew back to him on the wind, and as she wheeled the triffon around yet again, he felt as if a heavy stone were rolling from one side of his stomach to the other. He tried shutting his eyes for a moment, but that was worse. But then the ground rose sharply beneath them and before he could catch his breath, Aeda had made an abrupt but not ungraceful landing in the middle of a narrow street. He started unbuckling the complicated series of straps, and when he had freed himself he swung his right leg over the saddle. The ground looked much further away than he’d expected, but he gamely pushed himself off with enough force to clear the hump of Aeda’s folded wing.

He landed in a sprawl in the dirt, and immediately caught a flash of light moving between two of the houses to his left.

He whirled back around, expecting to see Isa charging past him in pursuit, but she was still in the saddle and he realised with a sharp pang she was struggling to undo the buckles by herself. He started towards her, but she cried out in a harsh voice, ‘Go – don’t lose him!’

Without stopping to think, he plunged into the alley and soon found himself pushing his way through lines of drying clothes and dodging heaps of rubbish twitching with vermin.
It wasn’t until he neared the end of the alley that the fact that he carried no weapon began to feel important: the only thing he could to do against an armed Dead One was shout, and he probably wouldn’t be able to do that for very long. His mouth dry, his pulse racing, he burst out of the alley, to be greeted neither by a Dead One’s sword nor the leap of flames, but by half a dozen strangely dressed women – Nomas – who turned towards him with exclamations of alarm. All of them were carrying things: bundles that looked like clothes or blankets, small sacks and jars that exuded a pungent medicinal odour.

‘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.

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. he tried, lamely.

Anger sizzled around Daem in a white halo.

he pleaded.

He glanced at the rest of their pitiful little company, trying to divide themselves into groups to search for the people Frea had imprisoned.

he said, mistake for me to interfere, and I’m sorry. But I have to.>

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. he said.

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.

Daem’s tone deepened to something cool and comforting as he added,

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.

said Daem, but Rho walked past him to the triffon, each step tearing at his side. He felt Daem watching as he struggled to mount, and when he finally managed to get his leg over the saddle he couldn’t stop himself from crying out in pain. Daem stood silently, not helping him – not stopping him. Rho buckled himself in and took the reins in his hands, then sat there for a long, miserable moment, staring out over the triffon’s head and trying to think of something to say that would make this better.

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.