The City (69 page)

Balanced on the back of a dead man, he took a deep breath. ‘Wildcats to me!’ he bellowed, and from above he heard her answering yell, then another. His heart soared.

Then the flailing body of a warrior came arcing down, thrown off the landing. Fully armoured, he crashed in an explosion of sharp metal on to the soldiers around Fell. Several went down and for a moment there was a gap in the ring of steel.

Fell leaped lightly across the bodies of the dead and injured, jumped down and raced for the crystal doorway, on the track of the emperor.

Indaro hacked and slashed grimly, pain and exhaustion overcoming any residual grace. She parried a lunge, her blade cleaving the man’s neck, but a red-bearded soldier lashed out with his foot, spilling her to the floor. Desperately she rolled against another soldier’s calves and he stumbled over her, in the path of a killing sword-thrust from the red-bearded man. She jumped up, snatching a second sword from the carpet, and despatched him with a blow to the neck.

Broglanh was battling wildly against two warriors. Indaro stepped in to aid him, crushing the windpipe of one man, who fell choking. Spinning on her heel she plunged one blade into an attacker’s belly while blocking a slashing blow from another man. Broglanh despatched him with a disembowelling thrust.

The three of them had cleared the landing and were at the top of the stairs. Garret and Broglanh were starting to force their way down. They and the defenders could only stand two abreast and for a moment Indaro had nothing to do. She glanced down. It was a high, round hall, blood-red, and the winding stairs all the way round the chamber were full of soldiers. Far below, on the floor of the hall, another battle was going on. She looked down and blinked. Was that Fell in the centre of the battle? Then she heard the cry that lifted her heart – Fell’s familiar bellow, ‘Wildcats to me!’

Throwing her head back she screamed, ‘Wildcats!’ Fell was still alive, and they were coming to save him. She heard her two friends reply and saw them attack with renewed vigour.

Desperate now to get back into the battle, Indaro picked up a fallen sword and sent it spinning over their heads into the ranks of the defenders. She heard a clang of metal on metal and a cry of pain, and a soldier toppled over the edge of the landing, plummeting down to the floor far below. She heard the crash of metal and shouts of
anger. Elated, she smiled and picked up another sword. This time she aimed it and hit a soldier behind the two current defenders. He fell forward, knocking into the man in front of him, unfooting him, allowing Broglanh to slide his sword under the defender’s chin-piece. He lurched forward and Broglanh put his boot on the man’s shoulder and toppled him back into his comrades. Two of them fell and for a moment the defenders were disorganized. Shoulder to shoulder Garret and Broglanh moved down several steps.

Indaro ran back across the landing to the doorway and looked up the corridor. No one was in sight. Leaning on them, she pushed the heavy doors closed. They groaned as if unused to the movement. There was no way to lock or bar them on the inside, so she dragged three enemy corpses against them, hoping that was enough to stop the doors. She hadn’t the strength to do more.

She ran back to the staircase and looked down again at the scene on the floor below. Fell had disappeared now, and soldiers were streaming out through a doorway. Her mind screaming with frustration, with impatience to get back into the battle, she hurried down the stairs behind her two friends, who were fighting the fight of their lives. ‘Garret, step back, give me a chance,’ she shouted to him above the din. ‘I’ll relieve you.’

Garret gave no indication of having heard. She watched as he battled on, apparently tireless, invulnerable. He had been fighting, with only a scrap of food and little rest, all day yet he was uninjured. She found herself watching him in awe, mesmerized by the flashing blade, the graceful precise moves.

Then time seemed to slow. The air was bright with clarity, heavy with fate. She saw Garret’s sword strike an enemy blade. A spark arced between them. Then Garret’s blade snapped and Indaro saw one half fly up above their heads, tumbling through the air, unhurriedly, end over end. Garret, unbalanced, parried a second blow with the broken sword and tried to ram it home into the belly of his attacker. But the sword was too short and he had to stretch. Indaro watched as the other defender saw the chance and plunged his own blade under Garret’s armpit. It sank deep into the chest, seeking the heart. Broglanh killed the man instantly but it was too late. Garret crumpled to the bloodstained carpet. Indaro stepped over his body and was back in the battle.

Emly could scarcely believe it, but this was the strangest day of her eventful life so far and she was prepared to believe anything. Bartellus was growing visibly stronger.

On the verge of death when she discovered him, the old man had neither slept nor eaten, and had drunk only a little stale water, yet his back was straighter, his gait more determined. Although she still held on to his arm, she wondered which of them was supporting the other as they hurried through the dungeons.

It was the soldier, a Nighthawk he called himself, who had made the difference, she guessed. Bartellus seemed to respond to the company of warriors. The Nighthawk, whose name was Darius, said Riis had been arrested and taken to the Keep. At the news Bartellus looked grim.

‘Do you know why?’ he asked, but Darius shook his head. ‘We were told he was charged with treason. The Nighthawks didn’t believe that and planned to rescue him before he was tortured. But then the limping one ordered me to accompany him to the dungeons. I went with him hoping to find Riis.’

Now the warrior walked ahead of them, the tip of his sword at the neck of the old man with the stick. Their pace was slow, dictated by Dol Salida. Bartellus had refused to let Darius kill the old man, and Em could feel impatience fizzing from the soldier. He was tall and lean and his reddish hair was shorn close to his head. He wore black and silver armour which glistened in the torchlight. He reminded her a little of Evan. She wondered where her lover was and whether he too had been taken by the enemy.

They had emerged from the dungeons and were walking the corridors of the Red Palace. Em gazed around her in wonder. The place was flooded. Water swished round their ankles, and they could hear sounds of thunder which was not thunder, for it seemed to come from within the walls, and distant screams and shouts and the crash of metal. The only people they saw were servants and the odd soldier, but they were all fleeing and had no interest in them. At one point they came to a part of the palace which had collapsed and they were forced to climb over broken walls and rubble. Sunlight shone down on them through a hole in the roof. The men looked around in amazement, not knowing what had caused the destruction.

Emly was walking in a dream state, from tiredness and fear and
disorientation. She had no idea where they were, or where they were going. When she saw the daylight she was amazed.

Bartellus called a halt and turned to her. ‘We are going to the Keep, Emly, if it still stands. Only death and blood await us there. We will find you a place of safety first.’

‘What about the Fourth Imperial?’ she asked him, clinging to their old plan.

The general looked embarrassed. ‘It seems I haven’t been keeping up with current events. The Fourth was disbanded two years ago.’ He smiled and she saw a glimpse of her father again, the man who had rescued her from the Halls. ‘We will find somewhere safe for you,’ he repeated. ‘No one will pay attention to one girl in all this chaos.’

‘Look around you,’ she told him with a hint of irritation. ‘The palace is falling down. Nowhere is safe. I would rather be with you, Father.’

He nodded abstractedly, the decision made, his mind already on other things. To Darius, who was waiting impatiently, he said, ‘How far are we from the Keep? I cannot tell.’

‘Moments,’ said the warrior curtly.

‘Keep well behind us,’ Bart told Em, ‘and if there is a battle run away. If we get separated, make your way back to the House of Glass.’

She gazed at him fearfully. ‘The House of Glass burned down,’ she reminded him.

He shook his head, annoyed by his erratic memory. ‘To Meggy’s house then. If it still stands.’

‘And if it does not?’

‘Then I will find you.’

But then it was too late for words, for they heard the sound of running, booted feet behind them. Bartellus and Darius raised their swords, but in moments they were overtaken by warriors in black and silver.

WHEN HAYDEN WEAVER
clambered over the rubble of the Adamantine Wall it had finally stopped raining and a watery sunlight shone on the ruins of the City, for the first time that winter. Hayden was not a superstitious man; he did not believe in signs and portents, but if he had then he might have seen it as an omen.

It was hard to believe two great waves of water had passed over these streets only that morning. The surfaces of stone and wood and brick glistened in the sunlight and were clear of people, animals, or debris. But the water had all gone, vanished into sewers and drains. When the wet roadways and avenues dried, perhaps in a few hours, it would be impossible to tell what catastrophe had happened here, to kill so many people and demolish so many of the buildings. Most of the corpses had been washed away, into canals and culverts perhaps, or rested silently in the homes in which they had drowned. Or maybe, Hayden thought, the City had already been empty, most of its people long dead on battlefields, the rest, children and young mothers and old crones, fled long since.

The flood water had done most of its damage in the south of the City, between the two great walls and the Red Palace, some ten leagues distant. The palace itself, already fatally weakened by the collapse of the drainage system, or so the general’s engineers advised, was expected to topple under the ferocity of the floods. But, squinting against the growing light, Hayden could see that it
still stood, although some of its towers and minarets seemed to have vanished.

‘Mason?’ He looked around for his brother, who knew more about the City and its buildings than any man living.

‘He headed for the palace,’ said Tyler.

‘And you let him?’ asked Hayden angrily.

‘He is not under my command, lord,’ said the aide with his customary cool courtesy. ‘He was going alone. He would not wait. I sent a platoon of soldiers with him.’

Hayden nodded. Mason had sped down from the camp with a troop of light cavalry, the Petrassi’s crack troops, riding hard to be the first to breach the wall. Hayden had followed with the heavy cavalry, intent on building a bridgehead within the Sarantine Wall before the bulk of the infantry arrived. He was not surprised his brother had forged on towards the palace. It was not part of their plan but, as Tyler said, his brother did not answer to him. Hayden was only annoyed that he had not anticipated the move and stopped it.

Until this moment the brothers’ plans had been the same – to execute the emperor with the connivance of disgruntled City warriors, and to deal a lethal blow by unleashing the dams. But they had long disagreed on how the story would be played out next. Mason wanted the City destroyed; he would be satisfied only if it were razed to the ground. He had personal reasons for that and Hayden respected them. But Hayden and Gil Rayado both believed the death of the emperor, and a massive show of force by the allies, would be sufficient to force the City to surrender. Marcellus was a reasonable man who, when he saw the City was at its enemies’ mercy, would sue for peace. Hayden and Gil were the military leaders so ultimately Mason had to defer to them. But he wasn’t happy about it. He wanted not only the emperor dead but the Vinceri too, and Hayden guessed where he had gone.

But he could not afford to think about Mason any longer, so he did not.

The first scouts were already returning with news of the amphitheatre which, in his forward planning, the general had designated his base of operations. The walls were largely unbreached, it was slowly draining of water, and it would be usable before nightfall. Hayden nodded. He turned and looked to his troops. Already several thousand were mustering in the large open place between the two
walls. Rubble was being cleared and cavalry horses were being led in, single file, through a breach in the Adamantine Wall.

Tyler opened a folding table in front of the general and the familiar map of the City was rolled out. His senior men gathered round, jostling for space, and Hayden took a quick head-count. All present who should be.

‘This area,’ he said, pointing at the map, ‘is the part of the City we predicted would be hardest hit by the water. Barenna, Amphitheatre and part of Burman South. Pieter,’ he gestured to Arendt, ‘take your horsemen and create a forward line on this boundary here.’ He ran his finger along the line of buildings they had already discussed. ‘If the geography is radically different from what we predicted, take your own initiative. Kill any City soldiers you find within the perimeter.’

‘And civilians?’

‘Let them leave the zone.’

Hayden sent part of his heavy infantry behind Arendt’s cavalry to secure the forward line. There the forces would stay until they received word from the palace – perhaps an offer of surrender.

His horse Rosteval had been brought up, and he mounted and rode slowly towards the flooded amphitheatre. He knew this part of the City as well as if he had lived there all his life, though he had never entered the walls before. The sunlight was getting stronger and steam was starting to rise from the glistening stone of roads and walls. All around him women and children were creeping from buildings, fleeing the advancing soldiers, or lying helpless in the sodden streets, injured and begging for aid. He realized why he had not seen them before, for they were plastered with mud and were the same colour as the stone around them. He saw a child, a girl, he thought, it was hard to tell, her legs crushed by a fallen wall, looking up at him pleadingly as he passed high above. He hardened his heart. This was not the first time he had watched the anguish of non-combatants. Innocents always suffer in war, and enough Petrassi women and children had died on the swords of the City’s warriors. But even so this weapon they had used, the unleashing of two great reservoirs, was an atrocity which sat ill with him. It would help end the war, if Fell Aron Lee’s mission was successful, and even if it was not, but it seemed a high price to pay. His brother had spent decades looked forward to stalking the ruins of the City, sword in hand, but he had a personal feud to
fight. Hayden Weaver was just a soldier, and deep down he believed only other soldiers were fair targets in wartime.