The Immortal Throne

by Stella Gemmell

  No one could outrun the water. But with death at his heels Drusus found new energy and he ran after Rubin as the younger man raced towards the closest sanctuary, a temple of Rharata which topped a high flight of white steps. Rubin sprinted up the steps three at a time, his stride outpacing his exhaustion. He looked behind and was relieved to see the great wave had lost much of its momentum. But though it was now no more than hip-high it carried a lethal burden of tree branches and other flotsam. Rubin watched as people fleeing the wave were overtaken, disappearing into the brown wall of water, mud and debris. Two great roof timbers were sweeping towards Drusus, who had stopped after climbing the first few temple steps as if the small elevation would keep him safe. Rubin yelled out a warning and the drunkard looked round, then cringed as the beams grazed by him and smashed on the plinth of the statue of Rharata. Drusus, drenched and staggering, scrambled further up the steps. A floating barrel passed by, still churning out its freight of red wine to mix into the muddy sea lapping at the temple.

  ‘The gods have mercy on fools and drunkards,’ Rubin muttered to himself. He sat down suddenly, his limbs like lead.

  He thought of all the decent men he had killed, like Jan and Franken, the two Odrysian soldiers on the Crags of Corenna, and those he had failed to rescue, like Captain Starky. And now he had saved the useless hide of a drunkard, a blowhard and perhaps a spy whose death would certainly not be mourned and might well improve the world a little.

  ‘Thank you,’ the fat man said, gazing up at him. ‘I owe you my life.’ Fear, it seemed, had leeched away his drunkenness and restored his manners. Rubin nodded.

  ‘What has done this?’ Drusus asked him, his face a mask of bafflement.

  ‘The reservoirs.’ Rubin had made a leap of intuition. ‘I think the enemy has destroyed the dams and used our reservoirs as a weapon against us. And with the Adamantine Wall breached it is only a matter of time before they invade the City and reach the palace. You should find a place of safety, or seek out friends and family.’

  Galvanized by his own words, he got to his feet. He turned towards the Red Palace, far to the north-west, but the rain met the mist rising from the surging water and hid its pile of towers and domes from view. He made his way down the temple steps, treading into the murky water, now knee-deep.

  ‘Good luck to you, Drusus,’ he said, clapping the man on his meaty shoulder. ‘Go and defend your home.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Drusus asked.

  ‘In search of a friend,’ Rubin told him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  VALLA RACED DOWN a steep stone staircase, her boots sliding on the slick steps, chasing the shadow of the gulon.

  When she had first seen the creature, tearing out the throat from some unfortunate soldier, she had fled from it in fear, but it was much faster than her and Valla quickly realized it had no ill-will towards her. Why it had attacked the man was a puzzle, as was the beast’s motive. It had since stuck to her trail, gliding out of sight in the light of day, matching her pace, sometimes close to her heels like a dog, in the darker places. When she chose one of the palace’s myriad empty rooms to sleep in she had shut it out, unwilling to have it with her while she lay vulnerable. But when she awoke it was sitting in a corner, watching her with yellow eyes. She guessed it followed paths unknown to man or woman. And she became used to it.

  Valla had remained in the Red Palace by simply not leaving after she and Rubin had met Marcellus. She knew parts of the building well, including the scores of empty chambers in the north and east wings once dedicated to accommodating visiting dignitaries, now abandoned, covered with dust and rats’ droppings. So by day she chose a dusty room to idle away the time, sleeping and daydreaming, and by night she wandered the hallways, drifting like a ghost through the midnight corridors, through the lower levels where black water lay silent and gleaming, watched only by rats. She knew she could never fight for the City again, not with her crippled arm. She could not bear the thought of losing her connection with the Thousand completely, so she remained in a state of limbo – not wanting to stay but not daring to leave.

  She had been sorely tempted to go to Leona. She had not seen her friend, or any of the Warhounds, though by checking the duty rosters in Dashoul’s office under cover of darkness she had found they were now stationed in the Red Palace. She could not bring herself to call on Leona’s kindness, like a lost and injured pup seeking a home. For all Leona’s high status they had fought together side by side as friends and comrades, and Valla could not renew their friendship on any other terms.

  But now the palace’s great brazen gongs were sounding an alarm and Valla moved with a purpose. She had no idea what the emergency was but she was glad to abandon the quiet, sleeping corridors and she headed, like all able-bodied soldiers, for the heart of the palace. The gulon scampered beside her boots.

  She halted at the foot of a staircase. Two warriors of the Black-tailed Eagles lay there. One’s throat was slit, the other’s heart pierced. Valla looked around. Nothing stirred. She dragged the breastplate off one of the bodies and, cursing her useless arm, managed to put it on. Grabbing a helm, she felt more like a soldier again and she raced towards the Keep, the imperial residence. Guarding the emperor was the first duty for all members of the Thousand, but she paused when she saw its green marble walls ahead. The only entrance to the Keep she knew was the Porphyry Gate, several floors above. She lingered, unsure how to get in. Then the gulon slid around her feet and scurried into a shadow in the wall. Following it, she came to a steep stairway leading downward. The gulon paused to check she was following, then dashed down into darkness. She grabbed a torch from a wall bracket and ran after it.

  At the bottom of the stairs she was still outside the Keep. Its slick green wall was to her left and crumbling, damp stone to her right. She looked for the gulon but could no longer see it. Had it led her on a quail hunt? She followed the low corridor, which was ankle-deep in stinking water, its walls dark and clammy and lit by an eerie luminescence. Finally, with something like relief, she heard the familiar noise of battle. She ran towards the clamour of voices and ringing steel and saw light ahead, and suddenly found herself in the Hall of Emperors, where the Immortal conducted his public business.

  It was a slaughterhouse and, like a slaughterhouse, it stank of death. The high, cylindrical space was filled with battling warriors, and bodies already lay on the circular floor and on the high, winding stairs. The floor was awash with blood and water and the din of battle seemed magnified in the lofty, echoing chamber. The air was thick and fetid and it sank over her like a noisome blanket. Each breath she took tasted of blood and rot and she bent over and vomited on the flooded floor.

  She wiped her mouth and looked around, bewildered. All the warriors, alive, injured and dead, were wearing the black and silver of the Thousand. She had no idea who was friend and who foe. And why were the centuries fighting each other?

  Then Valla spotted the axeman Otho, a familiar, powerful figure with his beard bristling from under his helm, cleaving his axe into an opponent. Her heart soared. She could not see Leona, but now she could make out other Warhounds, her old comrades. Drawing her sword, she leaped up beside Otho, pushing back her visor so he could see who she was.

  The axeman grinned at her, punching her on her good shoulder, and she launched herself at the enemy. They were clad as warriors of the Thousand, but bore an unfamiliar emblem, a bird in flight. Whoever they were, the Warhounds were fighting them and that was good enough. One staggered, dazed, towards her and she slid her blade under his helm and tore out his throat. She stepped forward and gutted a wounded man. A flicker of movement to her right and she ducked and swung, catching a warrior across the knees as he swung over her head. Valla laughed. She felt invincible.

  Then a soldier sporting the bird emblem ran at her, helmless, his face enraged. She swerved as he struck. His sword sliced at her neck. She brought her blade up, but too late. He caught her on her ill-fitting helm, ripping it off. D
isorientated, she dropped to one knee and the warrior raised his sword for the killing blow.

  In that moment the patchwork gulon appeared. On bloody paws it ran up the warrior’s armour and closed its jaws over his face. Even above the cacophony in the chamber Valla could hear the man’s shriek of terror as he dropped his sword to claw at the beast. She leaped up and thrust her blade under his arm, unerringly into the heart. The gulon jumped down, a piece of meat in its jaws, and ran off.

  Chest heaving, Valla looked around. The stench of blood and fear was as thick as mist in the air. She recognized the veteran Fortance’s burly body lying on the high staircase. She still could not see Leona. Her heart sank a little, but then a warrior stepped forward and she threw herself back into the fray.

  As he made his way across the flooded City Rubin pondered how to enter the Red Palace. Security had been tightened since the massacre in the Little Opera House and he was under no illusion that Marcellus’ insignia would get him past the zealous gate guards.

  It took him far longer than he had hoped to get there for the going was hard, the way treacherous, littered with the debris of the flood. From time to time he looked over his shoulder, expecting to see enemy cavalry at his heels. But the only living things he saw were bedraggled survivors and the occasional straying donkey or goat. The water was disappearing, ebbing away, leaving mud and debris and bodies. The mist was starting to fade and a weak sunlight filtered on to the ruined streets. It was the first sunshine for a good many days.

  Well after noon the towers of the Red Palace at last loomed before him. Rubin was heading towards the Gate of Mercy, the southernmost entry to the palace, its two huge onion domes dominating the cityscape.

  He paused and squinted at the right-hand dome, which seemed to have a large bite out of its rounded profile. As he watched it trembled and collapsed, the thunder of its fall muffled in mist and water. Rubin saw he would have no difficulty entering after all for the gate was subsiding also. One stone pillar was leaning drunkenly towards the other, and the massive timber doors between them slowly crumpled like cheap wood. He remembered that the lowest levels of the palace had already been drowned in water and the entire building was collapsing into the strata of ancient cities which formed the Halls. Will this flood, he wondered, be the final blow which dooms the Red Palace?

  He clambered through the gap left by the collapsed gate pillar and into the courtyard beyond. There were no guards. There was nobody. Then came a terrible groan from far below and part of the stone courtyard disappeared, dropping away into depths unknown leaving a yawning chasm. Rubin turned and ran into the south wing of the palace. Once inside he stopped again and listened. There was no one about. The high-ceilinged corridors were silent, as if waiting. All he could hear was the muffled sound of running water.

  He had no idea how to find Marcellus in the vast, foundering building. He knew where his lord’s apartments were, but the man would hardly be there if his city was under attack. He resolved to head for the Immortal’s Keep at the heart of the palace. Marcellus would protect the emperor first, and muster his troops. As he made his decision a battalion of those troops raced towards him down the corridor, appearing from nowhere, their boots and armour clattering. But in the face of such catastrophe, he imagined they were not likely to bother with one lone civilian.

  He was wrong. Their commander – a cadaverous soldier with a scarred face – paused. ‘Identify yourself!’ he demanded as two of his soldiers stopped to grab Rubin.

  ‘I am Rubin Kerr Guillaume,’ he told them, struggling in their grip. ‘I’m a friend of the First Lord!’

  ‘Good for you,’ the commander said, as one of the soldiers cuffed Rubin round the head.

  ‘I must see Marcellus. I have vital information. Here, I have proof . . .’ He tried to reach into a pocket but the soldier’s hold on his arm stopped him. The man looked to his commander, who nodded, and he let Rubin pull out his insignia. The commander scanned it carefully, then stared at Rubin as if committing his face to memory. Then they let him go and ran on. After that Rubin avoided soldiers, though he saw many, all racing towards the Keep. Before long he could hear the distant clash of blades and the clamour of voices. He paused, undecided. He was curious to know what was going on, but curiosity had lured him into trouble before. It would be madness to try to join the fight: he was not in uniform and risked being despatched by some blade-happy soldier suspicious of anyone unknown. But he knew that wherever Marcellus was, so fighting would also be.

  At the next stair he came to he grabbed a torch from a wall bracket and plunged downwards, following the steps down two levels. Here the palace had long been abandoned to the waiting water. It was knee-high, but he splashed forward, knowing he was unlikely to meet soldiers down there.

  He was beginning to wonder if he had lost his way when, raising his torch, he recognized the bottom of the Pomegranate Stair, where west and south wings met. He was close to the Keep. As he reached the ornate stairway he heard men talking and stopped, his heart thudding. He held his breath, hardly daring believe his luck. Yes, he could hear Marcellus’ voice high above. He ran up the stairs, up many levels, and at the top found his lord with a group of senior officers. At first sight Rubin thought Marcellus drenched in blood. Then he realized that, for the first time, he was seeing him in armour. It was the colour of ox-blood and shone as though freshly shed. Marcellus glanced at Rubin as he spoke with his chiefs, giving orders, listening to opinions. He nodded slightly.

  Finally he commanded, ‘Go to your troops, and remember the emperor’s orders. No enemy will enter the Red Palace but over the bodies of our warriors!’ The officers hurried off.

  ‘Come, walk with me,’ he ordered Rubin, turning and setting off at the double with his bodyguard at his heels.

  ‘What are you doing in the palace, boy?’ he snapped. Rubin saw deep lines of strain on his face. He had never seen his lord in peril and Marcellus seemed a different man from the one he knew. He could feel the power rolling off him like ocean breakers and Rubin saw, for the first time since the day they met, why Marcellus was so feared.

  ‘I came to warn you, lord,’ he cried, matching his long stride. ‘The Adamantine Wall has been breached!’

  Marcellus cast him a fleeting look. ‘I know.’

  ‘Has the enemy reached the palace?’

  ‘The enemy was already within our walls. We have been attacked from beneath our feet – they have wormed their way up through the sewers, Petrassi and Tuomi and some renegade City soldiers. And the Nighthawks have mutinied.’ Marcellus spat on the floor. ‘A Petrassi army has entered the south of the City but they have not reached the palace. Not yet.’

  ‘An invasion through the Halls?’ How is that possible, Rubin wondered, recalling the stifling darkness, the terror. ‘How many?’

  Marcellus shook his head, dismissing the threat. ‘A handful only. They have been despatched. But that is not my concern.’ Marcellus stopped and turned to him, his black eyes gleaming eerily in his ashen face. ‘This is clearly a well-executed plan. We have been betrayed, both within and without.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IN THE HALL of emperors Leona gutted an opponent then stepped back to draw breath. She could feel blood trickling down her skin from a wound in her flank. Her left hip was injured and the leg wasn’t moving freely. She shook off the pain and fatigue and looked about her. Black-armoured figures were fighting on the floor of the chamber and up the stairs. It was harder than ever to tell who was who under all the blood. She tore off her helm so she could see.

  Rafael Vincerus was lying dead on the stairs, a sight she thought she would never see. Like Marcellus, Rafe was believed to be indestructible. The enemy leader was also dead, lying beneath the high landing, his body broken. Somehow he had fooled the rebel Nighthawks into believing he was the hero Shuskara, but Leona could see he was just an impostor, some old man with rags sticking out from under purloined armour. Yet the Nighthawks were fighting like demons, backed by other u
nidentified warriors. Leona knew her task was to kill them, or at least prevent them getting to the Crystal Gateway, the entrance to the emperor’s private rooms. She accepted that she would most likely die in the endeavour.

  She saw a tall, rangy soldier in a red jerkin duck beneath the wicked blood-slicked blade of Otho’s axe and plunge his sword into the axeman’s belly. Otho went down, his great body crumpling to the floor. The swordsman looked around for new prey, spotted Leona and turned towards her. A Wildcat, she thought. She’d heard they’d all died at Salaba. Yet here was one fighting alongside the treacherous Nighthawks.

  Their swords clashed and Leona was forced back. In that brief moment she knew he was too skilled for her. She swayed to avoid a slicing cut to the belly and brought her blade up to pierce the warrior’s armour under the arm, but he dodged at the last moment. She went after him, forcing him back in a flurry of moves, her heart surging briefly. But he rallied and sent a lightning thrust to her neck which sheared off her throat armour. She twisted and riposted, grazing his cheek as he spun away. He came back, darting his sword at her neck again and she swayed and blocked him – and his blade snapped. He leaped back, looking around for another sword among the dead and dying, but they were all broken. He stooped to snatch up a shield and drew out a long knife as Leona stepped towards him.

  In that moment, ‘Broglanh!’ a voice screamed and a soldier on the staircase flung the swordsman a fresh blade. He stepped back gracefully and snatched it from the air by the hilt and in the same smooth movement brought it down on Leona’s unprotected head. She ducked sideways but the scything blade caught her on the injured hip and she went down on one knee, paralysed by pain.

  She looked up at the pale-eyed swordsman, helpless for a heartbeat. He punched her in the face with the shield then raised the sword for the kill. Dazed, she could only watch as the world slowed, and all she could hear was her own breathless panting and the blurred sounds of metal on metal, metal on flesh . . .