The City (70 page)

He saw some City warriors gathered together to form a fighting unit. There were ten or so of them, an elite infantry troop by their uniforms, most of them carrying injuries. The Petrassi cavalry, fresh and full of the zest for battle, fell on them and wiped out all but two. The pair, one with a half-severed arm, retreated to the ruins of a demolished building, shouting curses upon the Blues who were responsible for such an evil crime. One of the men would be dead within the hour, thought the general, the other would be winkled out before nightfall. The flooded City would be full of such small dramas, such acts of valour. No matter the courage of the invaders, they would never be the heroes of this day.

In the amphitheatre too, when they got there, they found a company of heroes defending a stretch of its walls, soldiers, both men and women, and a few wrinkled old men who should have long ago been consigned to the earth. The general waited, talking quietly to his aide, until his men had killed them all, then he rode in. Even Rosteval, experienced old boy though he was, flinched a little as a muddy child rose suddenly in front of him from the rubble.

‘Please, lord, help my mother. She’s hurt. Please help!’

Hayden stared down at him, his stony expression belying the surge of feeling in his breast. The boy was about eight, the same age as his own youngest, now safe with his mother. The general urged his mount on, but then turned in his saddle when he heard a commotion behind him. The boy had drawn a small knife and hacked at the chest of the horse following Rosteval. The animal, pained and startled, had reared and smashed the child in the face with its iron-shod hoof. The boy lay motionless in the mud. The company rode sedately past him and down into the huge bowl of the amphitheatre.

By the time the sun grazed the western horizon the Petrassi camp was bustling, tents raised, latrines dug, rations distributed. Everything had gone like clockwork, and there were fewer casualties than the general had bargained for. They would wait for dawn now, wait to see if Fell had been successful. He would hope for news of Gil Rayado and his army, but he did not really expect any. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, all would become clear.

The sun vanished from the rain-washed sky, leaving the golden gleam of dusk, as Hayden Weaver sat in his tent with three of his
commanders, and the ever-watchful Tyler. When all was dark Hayden stood, yawning, and dismissed them to their beds. He knew none would rest well, but all would get some sleep for they were soldiers and always slept when they could. The five men turned as a soldier came crashing through the tent entrance, almost stumbling to the floor in his haste.

‘General, sir, your brother is taken!’

The soldier was bloodstained and his face was grey and sweating. He could scarcely stand.

‘Where?’ Hayden snapped. ‘Tell me.’

Tyler thrust a chair at the soldier, Hayden nodded and the man sank into it, his legs giving way.

‘There were ten of us. Yellowjackets. Your brother, sir …’

‘Mason.’

‘Yes. He ran on ahead. We were trying to watch the terrain, but he seemed to forget us, so we just had to run after him. We were ordered to protect him.’ He avoided Hayden’s eyes and the general guessed what he thought of that mission.

‘What happened?’

‘We were lucky at first. Or the Rats hadn’t had time to regroup. We only saw civilians, and most of them were dead or drowned. Then we came to the palace. It was on the other side of a lake and Mason stopped there, on the shore. There was a building in the middle. As we watched the building, a round white thing, it just crumbled in front of our eyes and fell into the water. And then we could tell the water was draining out of the lake, inching down so fast you could see it. The men didn’t like that. It seemed like witchcraft. They didn’t want to go on, but Mason set off round the shore. So we followed him.’

‘How was he captured?’ Hayden asked impatiently.

‘Three men came to meet us, walked out from the palace. A lord, unarmed, and two armed men.’

‘They defeated the ten of you?’ asked Pieter Arendt. Hayden said nothing, but dread filled his heart.

The man shook his head and his face was puzzled. ‘The lord told us to put down our arms, and there was a buzzing in my ears and a pain in my head and I had to drop my blade. I had no choice. There was nothing I could do. It was sorcery, sir.’ He held his hands to his ears, remembering, and the general saw that blood had flowed from
them and was drying on his neck. ‘I blacked out. I don’t know how long for. When I came round the others, my comrades, were all dead. And your brother, sir, was gone.’ He gazed up at the general, puzzlement in his eyes. ‘
Was
it sorcery, sir?’

‘It was not magic, soldier,’ Hayden replied. ‘The alchemists of the City have discovered a herb which, when burned, causes people to fall asleep. We must guard against it.’ It was a well-rehearsed lie, and the soldier seemed reassured. Hayden told him, ‘Now go, see to your wounds.’

When the injured man had left Hayden stood in silence for a moment.

Arendt said, ‘Your orders, general.’

The general stirred. ‘My orders stand. This changes nothing.’

Arendt said, ‘We assume the man was allowed his life to bring you this news.’

‘Of course – but if Marcellus thinks it will provoke me, he is wrong.’

There was nothing more to say and the commanders, all men grown old and weary in the service of Petrus, gratefully left the tent for their beds. When only Tyler was left, the aide picked up his half-full wine glass and subsided into a chair.

‘Do you want my opinion?’

‘No, boy, but it has never stopped you before.’

‘I think the emperor is dead and that was Marcellus’ last throw to save his own skin. He plans to ransom your brother for his life. And Mason walked into it.’

When Hayden made no reply, the aide went on, ‘The City is falling apart.’

‘We unleashed two lakefuls of water on it, remember?’

‘But the emperor would not let the palace fall, if he still lived. He has the power to prevent it.’

Hayden rounded on him. ‘What do you know of the emperor’s powers, boy?’

‘Only,’ Tyler replied, unmoved, ‘what I learned by listening in on the counsels of the rich and powerful.’

Hayden shook his head. He said, ‘This makes no difference to our plans.’

‘Will you send a team after your brother?’

The general shook his head. ‘Mason’s fate was sealed forty years ago. He is already dead, or dying. We will not see each other again.’

He thought of his family, his wife and three boys, now living safely far in the west, guests of an old king who ruled a windswept isle coveted by no one. He had last seen Anna nine years before, and it was more than twenty since he had last walked the mountains of his native land. Petrus had been conquered, ravished, by the City a century before and Hayden and his brother were born and raised in the high, forbidding eyries of tribesmen who had no interest in who owned the nation of Petrus, only defending their own high passes and mountaintops with a ferocity which had convinced the City to leave them alone. Thirty, nearly forty years ago the City armies had started leaving the land, first bequeathing a strong military presence, then a string of garrisons, and finally quitting for good. The Petrassi, those few who remained, had to fight for their land all over again, were still fighting, with waves of invaders who swept down from the colder, grimmer countries of the far north, lured by Petrus’ green plains and rich river valleys.

The general looked at young Tyler, slouched comfortably in a chair, the empty wineglass drooping from his fingers. He asked him something he had never asked before, for to even speak the words seemed like tempting fate.

‘What will you do when our wars are over?’

The aide looked up and Hayden realized he was no longer a young man, but middle-aged, with gaunt cheeks and clouded eyes.

‘I will stay with you, general.’

‘And if I dismiss you?’

‘I have nowhere else to go.’

‘Will you not return to Petrus?’

‘I cannot return there for I have never set foot there. I have fought in more countries than I can remember, but not in Petrus. And I have no family that I know of. There will be no one to welcome me home, nor home to go to.’

The warriors of the Thousand looked identical in their black and silver armour. After a while Indaro started to believe she was killing the same soldier over and over again. When a woman leaped up the stairs to meet her, over the bodies of her friends, Indaro was almost relieved. The woman was tall, but she was still half a head shorter than her comrades. She had fierce blue eyes and a livid scar across one cheek.

‘Woman,’ Broglanh muttered from her right, telling Indaro he’d noticed, though his eyes never moved from his own opponent, a black-bearded giant. Indaro knew what he was thinking. The woman soldier, with her shorter reach, would need to move closer to get to Indaro, and would be an easy target for Broglanh’s sword if Blackbeard gave him a half a moment.

Indaro and Broglanh had the advantage in this battle in every way but one. They had the height, two or three stairs above the defenders, and they were not impeded by the dead bodies of their friends, or indeed by the live bodies of comrades pressing forward behind them. Indaro realized the defenders were losing their discipline in their eagerness to get at them.

Their problem was that they were both weary beyond reason, Indaro especially. Her mouth was filled with dust, her eyes with grit, and her body ached all over. She was finding it hard to keep her focus and had already suffered two more minor injuries to the arms as well as the wound in her side.

The woman warrior snarled and lanced her sword towards Indaro’s neck. Indaro swayed, then took an extra step back as if unbalanced. The woman pressed forward and lunged at her belly, knee bent, arm extended. In the instant Broglanh swapped his sword to his left hand and thrust it under the woman’s armour where it gaped at the back of her shoulder. At the same time Indaro stepped neatly behind Broglanh’s stretched body and brought her own sword down two-handed on Blackbeard’s helm. The big man sagged at the knees. Broglanh stepped back and, with a grunt of satisfaction, beheaded him. The armoured corpse toppled backwards, and Indaro kicked the injured woman down the stairs. She and Broglanh moved downwards two more steps. They glanced at each other. Indaro felt a surge of energy course through her.

Then, from behind, came the sound they had anticipated with dread: the pounding of a mailed fist on the great doors. Indaro knew the piled corpses would not keep them closed for more than a few moments.

‘They’re coming!’ she said urgently to Broglanh.

‘I hear them,’ he said, lashing his sword across an opponent’s face.

She glanced over the edge of the staircase to her left. They were close enough to the floor now to jump without breaking their legs, but dozens of warriors down there were waiting for them, swords at
the ready. She heard a ripple of excitement. The Thousand knew this fight was nearing an end.

‘Whatever we’re going to do, let’s do it fast!’ Broglanh muttered, parrying a lancing sword-thrust.

‘When the doors open, we’ll go back up. Try to fight our way out.’

He looked grim, as well he might. If they turned and ran back up the stairs they would have a few seconds’ head start on the warriors below them. If there were more than three or four at the doors they would be caught between the two groups and cut down like dogs. They heard the groan of the doors opening.

‘Now!’ she cried, and they both turned and leaped back up the staircase. They had fought their way halfway down, and as they raced up again, side by side, the soldiers of the Thousand shouted and cursed behind them.

It was as she feared. The great doors were half open and warriors in black and silver were pouring through. She and Broglanh were stuck in the middle, and death or capture was certain. Should they let themselves be taken?

‘Broglanh!’ she shouted and he stopped, close to the top of the stairs. If they threw themselves over now they would die from the fall and probably injure a few of the defenders. She opened her mouth to speak.

‘Broglanh!’ It was a deeper, male voice echoing her own cry. Broglanh stared upwards, amazed.

‘Nighthawks! These two are friends. Defend them.’ The voice was that of an old man, but it was firm and authoritative. It was also familiar, Indaro thought.

Framed between the doors stood a shabby old man, dirty and unshaven and dressed like a beggar. Beside him was a slender child. Around them these new soldiers of the Thousand had stopped at his command. Indaro blinked. Nighthawks?

The Nighthawk century, which had overtaken Bartellus and Em in the corridor outside, were heading for the Keep, seeking to rescue Riis. Darius quickly told them who Bartellus was, then turned to him.

‘We are all with you, Lord Shuskara. We plan to save our leader, but if you order it, we will kill the emperor first.’

A veteran, thin and grizzled, approached Bartellus hesitantly.
There was the light of respect in his eyes that Bartellus had not seen for a decade. ‘My name is Chevia, general,’ he said. ‘We fought together at the last Battle of Araz. I was with the Pigstickers, the Fourth, in the final valley.’

The memory came back to Bart in a vivid flash. ‘I remember, Chevia,’ he said. ‘We holed up in that cave for three long days. We all thought our hours were numbered then. How’s the hand?’

‘Good as new,’ said Chevia, grinning, showing a hand with just two fingers. He was clearly pleased to be remembered.

‘Will you stand beside me this day, soldier? Whatever it brings?’

‘Yes, lord.’ Chevia looked round. ‘We all will.’

There were nods of agreement and a few shouts from among the Nighthawks. As Bartellus looked around them he saw that many were men grown old in the service of the City. He felt his eyes prickle and he cursed himself. The last thing they needed now was an old man’s tears. He searched for Emly and found her standing beside Darius, looking lost.

‘Warriors,’ he said, ‘this is my daughter Emly. You will guard her as if she were your daughter too, or your sister. Em, keep to the rear and warn us if more soldiers come.’