City of Hope and Despair (16 page)

  "Arise!" Ulbrax declared, attempting to invest in those two mundane syllables all the drama that the occasion demanded.

  He then stood back and waited, fascinated to discover what actually happened next.

  Nor was he disappointed. The cluster of stones surrounding the spoke began to glow. Ulbrax ignored the sharp intake of breath from the lad beside him and concentrated on the steady transformation. The outline of individual rocks began to blur, as if the rocks themselves were somehow melting and flowing into each other. As the process continued, the affected area slowly took on a recognisable shape: that of a large person lying down, half wrapped around the keystone in what looked to be a foetal curl. Once this form solidified, the figure stirred, raising itself into a sitting position and then standing in one flowing, graceful movement.

  Still the figure glowed, so brightly that Ulbrax would not have been surprised to see the grasses around the form char and wither or perhaps catch alight, but they seemed unaffected, so presumably the energy coming off the creature didn't involve a great deal of heat. Certainly Ulbrax couldn't feel any against his face. In fact, if anything, the figure seemed to emanate cold.

  "What… what is that thing?" stammered a voice from beside him.

  "Our ally, Wil. Nothing to be afraid of."

  In actual fact Ulbrax knew exactly what this was, but the knowledge would only panic the lad. Before them stood a Rust Warrior. The very last of its kind.

  Time's healing qualities ensured that the Great War was barely thought about these days; the decade-long conflict which had seen Thaiburley tested and totter was the dread of generations past and had little relevance to the folk of today, for all that its scars could still be found here and there dotted around the landscape. Ulbrax had a natural curiosity about all things relating to death and destruction so had made a point of studying the war. He knew the conflict's effect had been profound. Thaiburley had all but withdrawn from the world as a result, becoming insular and far less concerned with what went on outside the city's walls. Before the war, her ambassadors were to be found throughout the continent and beyond, their influence on politics indelible. During the conflict itself her armies bestrode the land, pitching into titanic battle after battle against an enemy that very nearly matched her, but which, in the end, had been completely crushed and wholly eradicated. Thaiburley displayed a lack of mercy that left some observers stunned. In the aftermath of that ferocious and debilitating struggle, it was perhaps only to be expected that the city withdraw behind her formidable walls to lick her wounds and recuperate. But she had never truly ventured out again.

  Both sides in that war had possessed terrible weapons and deployed fearsome troops: Thaiburley's Blade being pitted against the enemy's Rust Warriors – lethal and callous, engines of destruction said to be even less human than the Blade. Though formidable and greatly feared, the Rust Warriors had been outmatched and by war's end they had been utterly destroyed, stamped out to the very last.

  Well, last but one it would seem.

  Wil had taken a few steps back and raised a hand to shield his eyes, while even Ulbrax was forced to squint as he attempted to study the apparition. Nothing was clearly discernible beyond the shining nimbus, though he fancied something manlike lurked within.

  Then the figure raised a gleaming hand, pointing towards Wil.

  "Seth…?"

  "Relax, Wil, our new ally is just making sure it knows you, so you'll be recognised as a friend in future."

  As improvised lies went, that one sounded almost plausible.

  Radiance shot from the outthrust hand, enveloping the cowering lad. Wil's mouth contorted, as if he were screaming, though no sound penetrated the engulfing cocoon of light. Then it wasn't just his mouth but rather his whole body which started to twist and shift: this was Wil viewed via a cunning fairground mirror. The next instant he seemed to come apart; not in a violent anarchic explosion, but rather in something close to slow motion, as if sliced into the thinnest sections which floated off in wafer-like slivers, hundreds, perhaps thousands of them. Almost as soon as they appeared, these shavings withered and darkened, many already crumpling and disintegrating as they drifted towards the ground. The light around the space where Wil had been standing died, but in the glow still emanating from the boy's nemesis, Ulbrax could see that these drifting flecks had acquired a dark, reddybrown colouration, as if newly flaked from ancient iron.

  "Ah, so that's why they call them Rust Warriors," he murmured.

  The glow around the warrior started to fade, and Ulbrax was left facing a very human-looking figure, perhaps a head taller than him – tall for a man but not outlandishly so, certainly not enough to be called giant. He recognised the face, too. It was undeniably Wil's, though no one who knew the deceased lad could have mistaken this as the same person. The body was too large, too muscular, too imposing. Wil in a few years time had he performed physical labour every day during the interim, eaten well, and gained a bit of height along the way.

  Such inconsistencies were irrelevant, however, since nobody who'd known the real Wil was likely to meet this impersonator and make comparisons. Ulbrax had no intention of returning to Crosston or the Four Spoke Inn; he was leaving Seth behind for good. His sole focus was on catching up with the King Slayer and the boy, and now that the Rust Warrior had replenished its energies courtesy of Wil's body, they could set about doing so.

  The warrior's chameleon aspect didn't harm, either. It was going to be far easier travelling with a strapping lad at his side than it would have been with a faceless, glowing figure for company.

  He addressed his new companion for the first time. "My name is Ulbrax. You will respond only to my voice, and will answer to the name Wil."

  The tall figure nodded acknowledgment. Did Rust Warriors speak? He had no idea, but wasn't frankly bothered either way.

  "Good. Come."

  Ulbrax took one final look at the cosy glow of street lamps and unshuttered windows that marked Crosston, wondering briefly whether any there had noticed the great flaring of light on a nearby hillside. He could imagine the subject being remarked upon by some of the regulars at the Four Spoke Inn, with a shared frown and the odd stroke of stubbled chins, before they turned their attention to more pressing concerns such as the protracted dry spell in distant Angshé and the affect this was having on the price of soft fruit. A few days ago he'd have been there in the thick of it, discussing these weighty matters with the best of them, but life moves on. Ulbrax turned and strode away, the looming presence of the last Rust Warrior close on his heels.

ELEVEN

For the best part of three days after the body boys carted his mum's corpse away, he managed to keep hold of the home. On the third he lost it to a family – two boys older than him plus their mother and father.

  Tom had never known his own father.

  There were plenty of empty buildings scattered around the under-City but they were mostly falling down, dangerous, and in need of heavy investment in sweat and toil to make them habitable, which was why they were empty. His home was sound, so he knew it was only a matter of time before someone took it from him. Not that he went without a fight, but all that did was earn him a bruised ribcage and a smack around the face. They were too big, too strong, and too many. The knowledge that one of their boy's would have a peach of a black eye in the morning provided only minor consolation.

  He was seven or eight years old – Mum never had been too good at keeping count.

  He survived the first couple of days by scavenging scraps from the swill bins behind taverns, though little was thrown out in the City Below and pickings were meagre. At night he found an empty building and crawled into a dark corner of the only room which still had a bit of roofing in place, covering himself with a large sheet of rotting cardboard – a deconstructed, flattened-out box. He lay awake for hours, fearing that the bats or some other more formidable haunter of the dark would creep up on him while he slept and kill him without his ever knowing.

  They didn't, so the following day he was still alive to contest with an obstinate spill dragon for a knob-end of stale bread and a bone which still had a few scraps of fatty, roasted meat clinging to it. The flecks of meat he devoured hungrily, and the bread wasn't too bad once it had been softened with a sprinkling of water.

  Yet something, either the meat or stray saliva from the vindictive spill dragon, proved less digestible.

  Within hours of the paltry meal he was struck by crippling stomach cramps. Remembering his mum's advice, he headed for the nearest temple of Thaiss, making it as far as the threshold before collapsing completely. The temple leant him a cot while they nursed him back to health, and he recovered quickly. With the benefit of hindsight, he realised the Thaistess was almost certainly a healer, but that possibility escaped him at the time. The boy was overcome with gratitude, not to mention a desperate need to belong somewhere. He determined to stay and serve at the temple, but they cast him out as soon as he was fit enough, the Thaistess explaining that the temple was not the right place for him. She was probably right and almost certainly meant well, though he failed to appreciate as much at the time. Her acolyte, on the other hand, was a spiteful cow who made his brief stay as uncomfortable as possible. He left the temple resenting their rejection and harbouring a bitter hatred of priestesses and religion which was to colour his attitude thereafter.

  Returning to the life of a solo forager proved far from easy, and he was soon sliding towards starvation, ill heath and an early death, when he encountered a pair of cocksure nicks who seemed a great deal better off than he was. They proved to be members of a gang called the Blue Claw, and it turned out he was operating on what they assured him was their turf. After a tense moment which threatened to erupt into violence but somehow avoided doing so, with food again the cause of contention, he ended up going with them and was soon recruited into the gang; a move which almost certainly saved his life.

Tom blinked into wakefulness, sitting up and staring around, momentarily thrown by the absence of walls and the sense of space. "Wh… where am I?"

  The face of a Thaistess loomed above him, smiling. "You're with friends Tom, and you're fine, though you were tossing and turning a bit in your sleep. Troubled dreams?"

  He relaxed and sank back onto his sleeping mat as everything came flooding back. "In a sense. I was just remembering why I've always mistrusted Thaistesses."

  "Oh." Mildra looked disconcerted, as if not entirely sure how to respond. "And do you, still?"

  He grinned. "Not as much."

  "Good."

  He wasn't given much chance to lie around. The morning began with another training session at Dewar's insistence and to Tom's delight. He really looked forward to these lessons and had to concede that maybe Dewar wasn't all that bad after all.

  Even so, as this third lesson started, he felt obliged to ask their self-appointed leader, "Not that I'm ungrateful or anything – I really appreciate this – but I can't help wondering why you're doing it."

  Dewar stared at him in way that seemed to say "don't think for one moment it's because I like you", though what he actually said was, "Four days from Thaiburley, two days out of Crosston, and we're all still alive. I'd like to keep it that way if I can. Simple as that. Now, raise your blade and stiffen up that elbow! Your arm's flapping around like a piece of soggy cardboard."

Ulbrax sat on his horse and considered the ill-assorted trio before him. At his side, the Rust Warrior – whom no horse would carry – remained unmoving and unconcerned.

  At least Ulbrax could appreciate the irony of the situation. He had gone to a lot of trouble to hire men much like this to kill the King Slayer and his party, who had doubtless passed through this area unhindered not long before, while here he was with three desperate men blocking his path to the front and three more behind. Men who required no hiring whatsoever.

  "Where were you when I needed you?" he muttered.

  "What wasat?"

  "Oh, nothing," he assured the speaker – a particularly ugly specimen who looked capable of scaring most victims into submission with a single glower. So far, Ugly had been the only one to speak. Maybe his two companions couldn't – words being such troublesome things to formulate, after all.

  Ugly grunted. Beside him stood a stick-thin shiftyeyed fellow who seemed incapable of standing still, forever twitching like a weasel on hot coals; that worthy sniggered.

  "Now, we don't wanna hurt no one," Ugly assured him unconvincingly. "But me friend 'ere has a gammy leg and finds walking tough." He indicated the twitching weasel. "So if you just wanna get offa that horse o' yours and leave it with us, we'll let you be on yer way. Oh, and to show what considerate souls we are, we'll even take some o' the heavier stuff from yer: ye know, weapons, coin, any jewellery, that sort o' thing; just so's ye don't tire yerselves out with all the walking."

  Weasel cackled at this, while the shoulders belonging to the big bear of a man on Ugly's other side – the thug holding the axe – shook in obvious appreciation.

  Ulbrax held the reins casually in one hand and felt almost as unconcerned as he was attempting to appear. He leant forward a little and smiled. "I don't think so." He then turned to the figure beside him. "Wil, be a good lad and clear the road, would you?"

  The Rust Warrior stepped up instantly. The big bear was closest and the first to react. He gave a snarl and raised his axe high, ready to cleave this impertinent man in two. He never got the chance. Wil's fist drove into the bear's stomach, travelling so far forward that it looked as if the warrior was somehow reaching inside the man to squeeze his intestines. The bear doubled up, eyes bulging and axe forgotten. Wil's left had then shot out, gripping the man's neck and twisting to produce an audible snap. That same hand caught the falling axe and, all in the one motion, swept it around to crush Ugly's skull, improving the man's looks no end as a good part of his face came away in a shower of blood and brains.

  Ulbrax was having a struggle to control his horse, which was clearly spooked by the unfolding situation, so he missed the stroke that took Weasel's hand off at the wrist, alerted only by the man's agonised scream and the amount of blood pumping from the severed limb. He controlled the mount sufficiently to move it to one side of the trail where it wouldn't block the path of the ongoing mayhem, and looked back in time to see the Rust Warrior lift the injured man and fling him at the onrushing trio of brigands. Weasel hit sideways, catching one of the three with his legs, causing that one to stumble and pause and step to the side, while striking another full on, bringing him down in a tangle of limbs and blood and cursing.

  The third charged on alone.

  Ulbrax was delighted at this unlooked for opportunity to watch his Rust Warrior at work, and had to admit to being impressed by what he'd seen so far.

  The brigand came straight in, either brave or stupid, face snarling beneath an unkempt beard, roaring defiance, and sword raised high with intent. Wil's axe met the man's blade with such force and speed that Ulbrax saw it only as a blur, while the resultant clash was loud enough to make him wince. He felt certain that one or both weapons must shatter beneath a blow like that, but in fact the brigand's sword simply went cartwheeling into the trees, steel evidently more resilient than the man's grip, however determined.

  The Rust Warrior didn't pause, bringing the axe around in a sweeping arc which took his opponent in the side, crushing ribs and tearing through muscle and organs as the blade exited through the chest, dragging gore and blood in its wake. So much so that Ulbrax hastily urged his mount back a few steps for fear that some of the muck might reach him.

  The man who'd been delayed by Weasel's flailing legs now faced the prospect of going one-on-one with the Rust Warrior. He clearly considered the odds carefully and didn't like what they totalled, because he took a few hesitant steps backward before turning around and running, dropping his sword in the process.

  The warrior hefted up the heavy battle axe as if it were a feather-light trinket and flung it at the hastily retreating brigand's back. The axe flew like a bolt from a bow: true, straight and fast, smashing into the man before he had gone more than a dozen paces. Ulbrax couldn't have said which part of the weapon actually made contact first and didn't bother trying to work it out. The axe struck with enough force to shatter the runner, sending him tumbling to the ground with blood gouting from his mouth while limbs and body twisted at impossible angles.

  The Rust Warrior strode over to where the final wouldbe robber was disentangling himself from the still-moaning form of Weasel. The warrior swatted away the man's hastily reclaimed sword, grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up, so that he dangled from one outthrust fist, toes almost scraping the ground.

  As on the hillside the previous evening, the warrior started to glow; a radiance which spread along his arm to envelope the other man, whose body started to distort until it came apart in myriad dried-blood slivers. The glow faded and all that remained was a snowfall of rusty motes, while Wil's face was gone, to be replaced by an altogether more worldly-wise and menacing visage.

  Ulbrax sighed, thinking that he'd probably stick with the name Wil, otherwise this could soon get very confusing. He'd been eager to put the Rust Warrior through its paces and had wondered how long before the thing would need to feed again and replenish its energies. Now both concerns were dealt with. All in all, a very rewarding encounter. Besides, he'd grown increasingly tired of having to look at Wil's fresh-faced innocence.

  Almost as if acting on a whim or in response to some casual afterthought, the warrior trod down heavily on the back of the Weasel's neck, crushing vertebrae as he pressed him into the dirt. Following a convulsion, a strangled squawk and the single twitch of an eye, all sound and movement at ground level ceased.

Tom was amazed at how quickly his body had adjusted to the rigours of regular walking. Since that first day he'd found the going a lot easier and the aches and pains had grown progressively less, though how much of that was due to Mildra's ministrations he couldn't say. The Thaistess seemed to have recovered fully, and now spent more time on her feet than she did in the saddle, though she admitted to being glad that Beauty was there. He had a feeling she would have sat on the horse more often but chose to walk in order to keep him company; a kindness he was grateful for since, lessons aside, Dewar clearly considered Tom unworthy of anything as comradely as conversation.

  On the outskirts of the first sizable town they'd encountered since Crosston, they stopped to chat with a family headed in the opposite direction, or at least Dewar did. Tom had already noted that their leader could be polite to the point of charming when he wanted something – information in this instance. It was only when you got to know the man better that the joy of his true personality shone through.

  The father did all the talking. He had been striding beside a pair of oxen which pulled the family's covered wagon, and greeted them cheerily. His wife sat on the wagon itself and held the reins, while constantly trying to shoo their inquisitive daughter back inside as the girl kept scrambling forward to peek at the strangers. The wife's glare made it abundantly clear that she didn't trust them in the least, though Tom didn't feel singled out. He had a feeling this was her standard approach to all outsiders, and he wondered if she'd been like this even before the arrival of her daughter. Evidently her mistrust hadn't yet rubbed off on the girl in question, who could be no more than five or six and seemed determined to ignore the instructions of her over-protective mother, treating them all to a cheeky grin before being forced back out of sight again.

  Tom had caught most of the exchange, but once the family moved on Dewar filled them in on what he'd learned in any case. "The town's called Sull, and we're going to have to take a ferry to cross a tributary river which feeds into the Thair here."

  All of which sounded simple enough, but the reality of Sull itself proved to be anything but. Once they'd worked their way through a confusion of narrow streets and more people and barrows and carts and animals than they could possibly have anticipated, the party arrived at the ferry port, to be confronted by a broad and powerful river of mud-brown water, and a flat-decked boat. The water was flowing with daunting speed and the old boat – all that would be standing between them and the rushing torrent – looked frail and inadequate in comparison. Boarding had already begun, and they joined the short queue of people and occasional horses that were still waiting their turn. Beauty took some persuading, but eventually Dewar was able to lead her onboard. Tom's vote was with the horse, and had he been on his own he would undoubtedly have found an excuse not to step onto the deck; but with Dewar, Kohn and Mildra there beside him that was never going to be an option. The few seats were quickly taken, though the ferry was far from crowded, leaving the four of them to cluster around Beauty near the aft of the deck. Kohn drew a few stares and whispered comments but not many, suggesting that he wasn't the first Kayjele to pass this way.