The City (74 page)

Then a cry came from the doors behind him, where injured men were stationed to watch the corridor.

‘They’re coming, general!’

He swung round, old blood surging, as fresh warriors appeared. Broglanh leaped joyfully to the attack. Bartellus shouted an order and half the Nighthawks on the stairs turned and raced back up. As he waded into the fray Bartellus saw that even Indaro had levered herself painfully from the floor.

One of the newcomers broke through the first defence and launched himself at the general. Bart raised his heavy sword and parried the blow, feeling the jolt through his body, stumbling back under its power. As he fell to one knee the attacker raised his sword
for a killing blow and Bart, with an agonized grunt, thrust his blade up under the man’s breastplate. The warrior fell and Bart climbed to his feet and hacked at the man’s throat until he was dead.

He looked round. The position was hopeless. The warriors on the floor below, heartened by the reinforcements, were forcing their way back up the stairs and the Nighthawks seemed to have lost the power to stop them. On the landing more armoured men were trying to get in and the weary defenders were barely holding the line.

Then there was a shouted order, repeated, echoing round the walls of the circular chamber, and suddenly their opponents backed off. The newcomers started retreating again, in good order, through the great doors. None of the exhausted defenders had the energy or the will to follow them. Bart looked to Broglanh who stood, sword dripping gore, looking baffled. He returned the look, eyebrows raised.
What new ploy is this?
his gaze asked. The warriors of the Thousand pulled the high doors closed behind them and Bartellus heard the hollow grinding of some mechanism as they were locked.

He looked down. The Thousand were streaming away through the crystal doorway, leaving a floor covered with corpses and blood. The surviving Nighthawks looked bewildered as they watched the backs of the disappearing warriors.

‘Why are they leaving?’ he asked Broglanh, but the warrior was already racing down the staircase. Fell, the general thought.

But then Broglanh slowed and stopped. Bartellus saw that his eyes were on the crystal doorway where a lone man had appeared, dark-haired and slender, in the livery of the Thousand. He stepped forward gracefully, looking around with interest. He gazed up to the high landing, straight into the general’s eyes.

Only then did Bart recognize Rafe Vincerus, and horror froze his soul. All hope drained from him, replaced by black despair. How had he ever thought he could beat these people?

A low buzzing started in his ears, and swiftly a sharp pain started up at the base of his skull. Now he knew why all the warriors had been ordered away. Rafe planned to kill everyone in the chamber. Forcing his feet to move, he tottered to the edge of the landing. He opened his mouth but something like an incoherent squawk came out.

‘Shuskara!’ Rafe cried.

He must have been caught off guard, for the pain receded and
Bart managed to speak a word. ‘Coward!’ Then he cried, ‘You lower yourself by using your evil magics on fine warriors, Rafe.’

Rafe raised his voice. ‘So, Shuskara, you have finally emerged from your burrow. We guessed we would see you before the end. Marcellus predicted this day’s work was down to you.’

‘Face me like a man, Rafe, not some cheap conjuror.’

‘Gladly, traitor!’ Rafe bent and grabbed a sword from a dead man’s grip, then ran across the chamber floor and leaped up the stairs, bounding lightly over the black and silver corpses, past his injured warriors and those of his enemy. He had the strength and agility of a man of twenty summers and Bart knew he could not stand against him for more than moments. Despite this the old man’s heart swelled with determination. If he could give his troops a reprieve from this demon’s spells then perhaps …
Perhaps what, Bart?
In his heart he knew that for him there was no good ending to this day.

Rafe reached the wide landing and paused, addressing his opponent formally with his sword. Then he lunged, his blade aimed at Bart’s belly. Bartellus swayed awkwardly and the tip of the sword veered off his leather belt. He brought his blade down on Rafe’s neck. But he was far too slow. The warrior parried the blow easily then slashed at Bart’s legs. Bartellus felt a searing agony and almost toppled backwards. He stumbled back a pace. He felt sweat break out all over and his heart raced. Stay upright, he ordered his body. If you fall you are dead. Rafe grinned and slashed the air with the borrowed sword, then came on. Bart knew he was being toyed with. He snatched up an abandoned shield and settled it on his arm.

Rafe shook his head. ‘You should have stayed in your mousehole, old fool.’

Bartellus’ blade flicked out and caught him on the side of the head. It was a shallow cut but Rafe was annoyed. His face hardened and he attacked in earnest. Bart parried and blocked with desperation and was forced towards the edge of the landing. He stepped back clumsily, staggering above the high drop. His body was failing him, but his mind still worked. He allowed his head to droop. Rafe pressed forward. Bart stumbled towards him. As he had expected Rafe sent a lightning thrust to his belly. Bartellus stepped into it. Ignoring the explosion of agony he slammed his own blade under Rafe’s chin, seeking the throat. The warrior’s eyes widened with shock and he fell, blood gushing from his neck.

Bartellus stood for a moment, clutching his stomach where blood poured in a mortal stream. The chamber was deathly quiet. His heartbeat and his harsh breathing were the only sounds he could hear. Bart had all the time in the world. He thought of Emly and hoped she had found her brother. And his mind went back to the garden, to the two boys waving in the sunlight.

Then he toppled backwards off the staircase and plummeted to the stone floor far below.

INDARO STEPPED UP
. Rafe Vincerus was not dead, though blood gushed from his throat, and he crouched on the landing holding his hand to his neck seeking to stem the flow. As the woman moved forward a pace he looked up at her and she averted her gaze.
Don’t let them look into your eyes
, Mason had told them. Yet it seemed not to help, for her mind felt sluggish, her legs encased in iron.

He was only seven paces away and Indaro stared at her feet, willing them to move forward. One pace. Two. She risked a look. He had not moved and the blood was still gushing from his neck. He
must
be weakening. She prayed to Aduara that this man, this piece of meat, would spill all his blood as tribute to the goddess. Her head felt stuffed and full, her grip on consciousness was failing. Three paces. Four. She raised her sword.

She cast another glance at her enemy. Incredibly, he was standing now, his own sword hand raised.

She thought of Stalker and Garret, and all the men and women who had died this day on both sides of the battle. She thought of Bartellus, lying broken on the hall floor. And she thought of Fell. I will not be beaten by this thing, she thought.

She raised her sword in her right hand and Rafe batted it easily aside, and she plunged the knife in her left hand through his eye and into his brain.

On the tower high above her Fell and Marcellus turned away from Mason’s body and walked to the east of the battlements. Fell turned his face up to the sunlight, feeling its cleansing warmth. His mind was clear. Marcellus’ hold over him was gone. They stood together like old friends.

Fell needed to understand. ‘Who is the man I met in the Hall of Emperors?’ he asked.

‘That is Araeon, whom you call the Immortal, the emperor.’

‘Then what was the creature in the dark?’

‘Also the emperor.’

‘He can change his appearance?’

Marcellus shook his head. ‘You make it sound like a magicker’s sleight of hand. He does not put on a false beard. But he can appear different to others’ eyes.’

‘Can you?’

‘No, it is Araeon’s attribute. And he can create other … forms of himself. We all can. Although it takes a great deal of strength and Araeon’s has been waning for a long time.’

‘You
all
can? Who are you all?’

‘We are called the Serafim. We came to the City many centuries ago, Araeon and I, and Archange. And many others.’

Fell thought about it. Then he said, ‘Indaro told me she saw the emperor’s carriage destroyed by one of the Blues’ sorcerous explosions. Yet he lived. Can he be killed?’

‘We are not immortal, despite the title. We have blood flowing through us, as you do. We can die, as you can.’

‘Then …’

‘The man in the carriage, and the one you saw in the Hall of Emperors, were each a reflection. A real and solid reflection, one which lives and breathes, but would die if Araeon no longer lived.’

Fell had a vision of the emperor in his dark lair, hideously birthing creatures like himself. He shuddered and bile rose in his throat. He vomited on the floor, then wiped his mouth. Afterwards he felt calmer. It was some relief that after all the years of war the floodgates of his feelings had given way. There had been times over the years when he had longed to recover his powers of disgust.

Marcellus was watching him. ‘It repels you,’ he commented.

‘Of course.’ Fell asked, ‘What will happen now? To the City.’

‘Your small army has been trapped in the Hall of Emperors. They
will be despatched. The Red Palace will be uninhabitable for a long time. So we will retreat to the Shield, to our palace there, the Serafia. Then we will wait to see what Hayden Weaver does. We have plenty of time. We can wait him out. Or we will ally with the remaining Serafim and force him out.’

‘Remaining Serafim?’

‘We have taken on the burden of ruling for too long. It is time for others to take our place.’

‘Others like you?’ Fell said with distaste.

Marcellus chuckled. ‘Do not judge us, Fell.
You
are not like us, for you are not of the City, but we are not so different from your friends and comrades. We have bred with them for many centuries. Our life force runs strongly in most of the City’s people. In fact, we are more like them than
you
are. Do you know why the Blues hate us so?’

Fell grinned sardonically. ‘Because we destroyed their cities, killed their people and made a desert of their lands?’

‘Because we are not like them. People fear those who are different. If you sever the arm of a Blue he stops fighting, and if he is not treated quickly he dies. It takes more than that to kill a warrior of the City. You must have noticed, in your years as a warrior, how easily the Blueskins die. They are frail creatures, particularly under torture.’

‘I am one of those frail creatures.’

‘And you will live, if you survive this day, until you are eighty or so. The people of the City live much longer than that.’

‘How long?’

Marcellus paused as if to collect his thoughts. ‘Your friend Shuskara. How old is he?’

Is
, Fell thought. Then it is true, Shuskara still lives. He felt determination kindle in his breast again. He said, ‘I don’t know. Seventy?’

‘He is over two hundred,’ Marcellus told him.

Fell shook his head but he could no longer summon the disbelief he once felt.

‘And Indaro Kerr Guillaume?’ Marcellus said.

‘What about her?’ Fell asked sharply. ‘Are you telling me she’s three hundred years old?’

Marcellus smiled. ‘No, she is what she appears to be – a woman of around thirty. I met her when she was a child, so I know. Do
you not find it remarkable that she has survived years of battle when all around her have died? She recovers from wounds that would kill strong men.’

‘I have survived longer,’ Fell replied. ‘And, as you say, I am not of the City.’

‘Yes, but you are a commander.’

‘I lead my troops into battle.’ He felt he was being judged.

‘I am not questioning your courage, Fell. But you are not a common soldier. You are a legend among your warriors. They rally to you, and they love you. And they help keep you safe.’

Fell thought of a soldier running up to him with a breastplate, another throwing him a sword in the heat of battle. He admitted to himself it was true.

‘What are you saying? That Indaro is one of you, a Serafim?’

‘No, I am saying she benefits from the blood of the Families that flows in her veins, as do most of the City’s people. Her mother was an offshoot of the Kerr Family which spawned Flavius Randell Kerr, your late unlamented general. Her father Reeve, a Guillaume, is much older than Shuskara. If Indaro survives this day she could live a very long life. She is hard to kill.’

‘She is a rare woman,’ Fell said.

‘Ah, I see you are fond of her. I would say that these days she is unique.’

‘She has a brother.’

‘
Had
a brother. Rubin is dead.’

Fell had guessed it, but Marcellus stated it as a fact.

‘Do you know everything that happens in the City?’ he asked.

‘Far from it. For example, I don’t know the significance of the branded men. I was hoping you’d tell me.’

Fell wondered,
Is there any reason not to, now, at the end of all things?

Marcellus said, ‘Ranul the messenger bore an S-shaped brand. As did your friend Riis. I suspect you once had one too.’

‘Riis is dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘We were hostages together as boys,’ Fell explained. ‘Riis and I, and Ranul. And others. The emperor ordered our friend killed, burned alive, in public. His name was Sami.’

Marcellus looked at him in wonder. ‘I never cease to be amazed at the strangeness of you primitives. You and Mason, holding on
to rancour all these years, conspiring to bring down a great City because of personal grudges.’

‘I was a child,’ Fell explained. He thought about it and said, ‘He laughed to see a boy die in agony. Such a creature should not be allowed to live, emperor or beggar.’

‘Did others in the crowd laugh?’

‘Yes. It was an entertainment. That’s why they were there.’ Then he said, ‘Tell me about Ranul. How did he die?’

‘He tried to kill the emperor and came very close. It was eight years ago. He chose the guise of a Panjali messenger. They are a tribe who live in the arid plains in the far north-east of Odrysia. They keep to the old ways which includes a rigid caste system. Their messengers are holy men, raised from birth to undertake a sacred mission in times of great danger, when the tribe is in peril of its existence. They cannot read or write. Or speak – their tongues are cut out when they reach puberty. Traditionally, the messenger’s head is shaved for his mission, a message is tattooed on the scalp and the hair allowed to grow back before the man is sent to a foreign court. The foreign leader then has the head shaved again to reveal the message.’