The City (71 page)

She nodded and he saw the fear lift a little from her eyes, for she now had a job to do.

‘What’s behind these doors, Darius?’

The warrior shook his head. ‘We are new to this, Shuskara. The Nighthawks have not been into the Keep.’

‘Dol Salida?’ Bartellus had brought him along in the hope that he might aid them, but the urquat master shook his head. Bart had no idea if he was ignorant or just unhelpful.

Surprisingly, Chevia spoke up. ‘It is called the Hall of Emperors, general. It is the centre of the Keep. All corridors lead to it. It is a high round room with a winding stair round the walls. At the foot is a doorway made of crystal. It is said to be the entrance to the Immortal’s own quarters.’

‘Good enough,’ said Bartellus, drawing his sword. ‘Open the doors.’

Men sprang forward and pushed at the doors but found them blocked from the other side. One banged on the carved wood in frustration. More stepped forward to lean on the doors and slowly they groaned open, pushing aside three corpses piled behind. Bartellus
stepped through. He was on a wide landing littered only with the dead and his spirits lifted as he realized that the emperor’s defences had already been breached. Had Fell been here, he wondered? An enormous stairway spiralled down from his right, circling the great blood-coloured chamber. It too was littered with bodies garbed in black and silver. Halfway down the staircase two warriors were battling soldiers of the Thousand, who were milling on the steps below them and crowded on the circular floor. As the general stepped forward the pair abandoned their battle and turned and raced back up the stair. As they came close he saw one was a woman. The other was Evan Broglanh.

Elation rose in him. ‘Broglanh!’ he shouted and the warrior halted, looking up at him with astonishment. ‘Nighthawks. These two are friends. Defend them.’

The two weary warriors escaped into the protection of the Nighthawks, who sprang forward willingly to oppose the chasing soldiers.

‘Hold!’ came a bellowed order from the floor of the hall and the defenders paused. The Nighthawks turned for orders to Bartellus, who nodded. As they watched, swords at the ready, a burly bearded warrior strode up the stairs towards them, stepping over and round the corpses of men and women as he came.

‘Where is Fell?’ Bartellus asked Broglanh quietly as the warrior approached.

‘He was alive when we last saw him. He went through that doorway down there,’ he pointed, ‘hunting the emperor, we guess. We were trying to follow him, to back him up. But there were too many for us.’

Bartellus smiled grimly, looking at the corpses piled up on the staircase and the floor below. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a very poor show, Evan.’

The commander of the Thousand approached them, his dark brows drawn together, his face red.

‘We have had enough bloodshed today,’ he said in a voice like waves dragging pebbles on the beach. ‘Warriors of the Thousand …’

Then, gazing at Bartellus, he stopped, shock and disbelief written on his face.

‘Shuskara,’ he breathed. ‘Of all men …’

And the murmur went round the hall, the name Shuskara passed
from mouth to mouth, the susurration echoing off the curved walls until the huge chamber seemed to resound with it. Bartellus let it linger.

Then, ‘Fortance,’ he responded, raising his voice so it reverberated off the walls. ‘It’s been many years. Are those children of yours all grown?’

‘All but two,’ Fortance said, sheathing his sword and climbing up to him, still frowning. ‘And all but two dead in the service of the City.’

Bart bowed his head gravely. ‘We are here to end all that.’

Fortance spat on the floor. ‘By killing my finest warriors, men and women who were once your comrades?’ He gazed at Broglanh and his flame-haired companion with venom. For the first time Bartellus realized this was the woman Indaro, whom he’d last seen with Archange in the depths of the Halls. So you
are
the swordswoman you claimed to be, he thought. But even as he watched Indaro slumped to the floor, her head drooping. He turned away, dismissing her from his mind.

‘The City is dying, Fortance,’ he said. ‘The war must end. Only the death of the emperor can ensure that. Marcellus is an honourable man. We all know that. He will be a just emperor. He will end the war and save the City.’

The old soldier said, ‘We are the emperor’s bodyguard. We do not turn our backs on our duty. One old man with a grudge and a bunch of rebel horsemen will not change our minds. Your men,’ he looked around at the Nighthawks contemptuously, ‘were recruited to defend the emperor too.’

‘These men,’ said Bart, ‘are the true defenders of the City. They are ready to fight for its future …’

‘By siding with the enemy?’ Fortance shouted, his face the colour of oxblood.

‘Once the emperor is gone the Blues will withdraw.’

‘You believe that, you old fool?’ Fortance asked in amazement.

‘They have no interest in taking the City or killing its people.’

‘Then why have thousands of our people died today, drowned and washed into the sewers like rats?’

Bart was silent. He had no idea what the man was talking about, and his heart was filled with misgivings. But he kept his face unmoved, and Fortance went on, ‘And now a Blue army has breached
the walls and attacked Barenna and Amphitheatre. And you say they mean us no harm? Have you lost your wits, Shuskara?’

Bartellus was baffled. Nothing in the plan Broglanh had outlined for him had included a mass invasion of the City. He started to wonder if he had indeed lost his mind. But he dragged his thoughts back to the present predicament, ruthlessly ignoring that which he could do nothing about. There were two hundred or more warriors waiting for them on the floor of the hall. He had fewer than a hundred. They could not fight their way through. The defenders could not fight their way out. All Bart and his warriors could do was keep them occupied, and give Fell more time.

He sighed. ‘Return to your troops, Fortance. We will die on different sides this day.’

INDARO SUDDENLY NOTICED
she was sitting on the floor. Surrounded by soldiers who seemed to be on her side, her body had told her it was time to rest. The battle had not started. Bartellus must be reluctant to throw his few troops against a force twice their size, she thought. The grumpy old soldier from the Hall of Watchers. Who would have guessed I’d see him again?

With an effort she fumbled at the sword-wound in her hip and found it was leaking pale fluid. Its edges were red and angry so she pulled her tunic over it and put it from her mind. There was nothing useful she could do about it. There were other injuries, two gashes on her sword arm and a shallow cut across the top of her chest. They were all bleeding freely and her clothes were saturated and sticky. When she’d had a rest she’d staunch the bleeding then go and find Fell. She closed her eyes and realized her head was pounding. Had she been hit on the head? Probably. Suddenly she jerked forward and vomited on the floor.

A hand held out a water skin to her and she took it, gulping the warm water. It came straight back up again.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, ‘waste of water.’

‘Just sip it. It will sit better,’ the girl said.

Indaro looked up. She wondered who this child was. She was no warrior, obviously. She was tiny and pretty, with a heart-shaped face
which was familiar. Indaro guessed she belonged to the palace, or to one of the warriors.

‘I’m Emly,’ the girl whispered. ‘We met in the Halls. You gave me food.’

Indaro racked her muddled brains. ‘I remember,’ she lied. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I am with Bartellus. And Evan.’

‘Evan Broglanh?’ Indaro asked, totally confused now.

On cue, Broglanh crouched down beside her. Even in her feeble state Indaro recognized the adoring glance the girl gave the warrior. Ahh, she thought. Poor little girl.

Broglanh was unceremoniously rummaging through Indaro’s clothing searching for wounds. He found the deep one in her hip and frowned, and leaned forward, sniffing it. They both knew it was bad. He cleaned it with water and peered at it again.

‘Have you still got that pigging useless salve?’

She shook her head. ‘Everything we had got washed away. We had a bit of trouble getting here,’ she added, ‘while you and Fell were strolling in the front door.’ Broglanh stuffed clean bandage into the wound on her chest then stood and took something from the hem of his stained and dirty jerkin.

‘Here. Take this.’ He was holding out a round black pill covered with fluff.

‘No,’ she said, grimacing. ‘What is it?’

‘Poison pill.’

She glared at him. ‘You want to poison me?’

‘It’s a Buldekki thing,’ he explained irritably. Broglanh hated explaining anything. ‘Two pills will kill you, but one will put you in a long sleep. You can lie down in one of the empty rooms. They’re all abandoned. You’ll wake up feeling better.’

Or dead, she thought. She shook her head. ‘I have to find Fell. And there’s a battle to fight.’

‘You can’t even stand up. What are you going to do, bite their legs?’

‘If I have to.’ She leaned her head back against the wall and gazed around. She looked at Bartellus, then at the child, and her memory took her back to the Hall of Watchers.

‘Emly!’ she whispered, suddenly remembering the little girl she’d clothed a hundred years before.

‘Yes?’ The girl bent towards her, thinking she wanted something.

Indaro wanted to show she remembered her, but she could think of nothing to say. She saw Broglanh and the child exchange glances. They thought she was losing it.

‘Indaro.’ The space around her became crowded as Bartellus knelt down to speak to her. Broglanh pulled Emly away. ‘Indaro, you are everything you said you were,’ the old man told her. ‘I regret my harsh words to you when last we met.’

This sounded like a speech of farewell. Indaro had heard plenty of them before. Had given a few.

‘I’m not dying,’ she said, though her head was muddled and she was having trouble holding on to consciousness. ‘I’ll recover. I always recover.’

‘You did magnificently to get this far,’ Bartellus told her. He leaned forward urgently. ‘This way is barred to us. We need to get to the emperor by another route. Do you know the way?’

She shook her head, only taking in the first of his words. ‘I didn’t get us this far,’ she argued. ‘It was the boy Elija.’

She wanted to mention Fell, to tell the old man the warrior had been here and that they must follow him, but she couldn’t speak. She closed her eyes and darkness claimed her.

Fell Aron Lee was chasing down a winding stone stairway, following the emperor, following the reek of him. The crumbling stair became narrow and low, but the walls were lit by an eerie luminescence the soldier had never seen before. It was pale green, the colour of a drowned corpse. Fell did not question it. It helped him, for he had no torch, and he did not wish to think what caused it. He ran on down until he felt he was in the deepest bowels of the City.

Why isn’t this under water, a part of his brain wondered. Far above there was water lying everywhere. Here it was mostly dry. But the rest of his brain didn’t care. He knew the emperor was ahead – there was nowhere else he could have gone, no exits, no side tunnels. And eventually Fell would catch him, and this time he would make sure the creature was dead.

He was drowning.

He was falling through deep water, his body twisting in the strong currents. This is the way to die, he thought, not in the screaming agony
of shattered bones, torture, gangrene. Just calm and peaceful, dropping away, giving up, letting go.

There seemed to be no bottom and as he fell the pressure on him increased, leaning on his chest like a drunken whore. He started to feel panic, and he moved his limbs, trying to escape the weight, to find that peaceful place again. His head began to ache and his lungs felt ready to burst. He was holding his breath. Why was he holding his breath?

He was drowning.

Fell surged up out of the water, frantically pushing a dead weight off his chest. He gulped in great draughts of air, then he was choking and spluttering, for the air was thick and noisome and tasted like spoiled meat. He coughed and spat in the water. He was sitting waist-deep in blackness. He felt stone underneath and slimy water around him, and the filthy taste of the air told him he was in a sewer. He scrambled up, trying to get as far from the foul water as possible.

He was mystified.
How did I get to this place?
He shook his head to clear it, but the thick miasma pressing down on him dulled his thoughts. He had been running down a long stone stair. It seemed to go on for ever. He must have fallen, cracked his head, or been attacked. He could not remember. He bent down and groped in the water for his sword, and found it. Strength coursed through him.

His eyes were getting used to the dark and he could see the alien luminescence on the walls which had guided his way. He peered at it and put his hand to it gingerly but it was soft and disgusting and it moved under his palm like something alive. He snatched his hand away, shuddering, and looked around for the way out.

Something shifted stealthily nearby and he drew his sword on the instant, fear rising in his throat. Moving his head back and forth, seeking shapes in the gloom, he finally saw a deeper darkness in the grey around him. He blinked the grease from his eyes.

He drew in his breath as he saw a man, a creature, lying half in the water only a few paces from him. In the dim light it looked like an old man dressed in rags, with a long beard, and wispy hair plastered to his balding head. He seemed to be stuck to the wall behind him by thick ropes of slime which glistened like the walls. Fell felt his stomach revolting. The man lifted his hands to him in supplication and Fell took a step forward. The light thickened and now he could see the man was ancient, his face deeply lined and sagging like warm
wax. The bands of thick mucus seemed to be extruding from his body, holding him to the walls and the stone floor beneath.

There was a separate, sticky movement in the darkness and Fell could make out a second shape clinging closely to the creature’s side. It was a beast, a dog maybe, with big eyes and fangs which showed as it opened its mouth at Fell, hissing or snarling. The soldier saw it wore a thick collar which glistened in the dim light. It raised its head and licked the decaying face of its master. Then it turned and stared further into the gloomy lair. Fell followed its gaze and saw another soldier, in the uniform of the Thousand, lying drowned in the water. The gods help him, he thought.