by Mary Gentle
‘I – don’t know. Don’t wait for me; I’ll find you.’ My shadow was long in front of me, slanting into the west. I ran towards the Citadel, found a path that seemed to skirt it, and followed that; breath sawing in my throat. Few people blocked my path. Stopping for breath, I thought, Where? and then heard the shouting of a crowd, and as I came round one buttress of that great sprawling complex of buildings, saw Crown Steps thick with Ortheans. Brown-robed priests kept the cliff-path from being a bottleneck. Evacuation, I realized; bent double, trying to catch my breath, and in that unguarded second thought Blaize and then Ruric and then straightened up, throat tight, and ran on.
Flagstones jarred under my feet. A blast of sound rocked me and I staggered, slipping to one knee. The stone was wet under my hands with dew. Roar of sound: a bass rumble that caught in the throat and chest, and crack! and I stood up, shaking, and leaned against the wall.
Dust drifted between me and the sky. A spatter of grit stung my cheek, so that I spun round and put my hand up and brought it away bloody: realized that I had the smooth grip of the CAS-IV stungun in that fist and thought, What the fuck use is that? and squatted down, back to the wall. Cold stone. The noise went on and on.
Dust, pale in the golden air. It caught in my throat and I coughed and spat, was for one second certain I would vomit; then leaned back again. Sound hit like a hammer-blow: I flinched. I must get up and move fifty yards along this wall and there are the Wellhouse gates. Move!
The dust-cloud billowed across the Square, that wide open expanse of space. There was sunlight shining on the blue vines that cloaked the cliff, and no one to be seen; jagged beams rising out of rubble that had been telestre-houses, those white façades that line the Square, and no living thing moving: only there – and I looked down at the flagstones between my feet, and not at the sprawled bodies. Come on, Lynne, move! I hauled myself up, the muscles of my legs shaking.
A high-pitched whine pierced the air, making me grunt with pain. Something down the far end of the Square moved, the flagstones shook, and a cloud of stone-dust rolled like a wave between buildings: the surf of it spattered against the Wellhouse wall, fifty yards down from where I stood. Why can’t I see them? Why can’t I see who’s doing this?
Easier to run than walk. I kept close to the wall, bruised my shoulder when I knocked against it running; and the air began to clear, blue and gold above me, and the fine dust sifted down and whitened my coveralls, showed the tracks of my feet; there was a silence so abrupt that I heard my own ragged gasps for breath, and then I was through the gates and into the Wellhouse courtyard.
‘Cassirur!’
Panicked, I thought They’ve gone and then I saw Ortheans in the arched doorway of the great dome, and slowed my steps as I came up to them. An exhilaration born out of fear began to grip me, and I grinned at the young female Earthspeaker who pulled me into the arch’s shelter.
‘Where’s Cassirur Almadhera? No, anyone will do, anyone who can help me get a message across to Kumiel Island.’
‘There isn’t time!’ She stared out, up at the sky; and flinched back. I shut my eyes in time: the laser-flare was scarlet against closed lids. When I could see through streaming tears, I said: ‘What about messages coming in? What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know. There is one bridge still, at Eastwall. Go while you can.’ She put up claw-nailed fingers before her face, membrane flicking to clear vision; and at last focused. Without another word she strode back into the Wellhouse.
Still on the crest of that exhilaration, I thought, Where else can I go? and moved a few steps into the courtyard. Two Earthspeakers passed without noticing a s’aranthi; a third, running, shouting words I couldn’t catch. Through the open gates in the high wall, I saw a flash of colour, realized it to be riders on marhaz, and ran on suddenly aching legs towards them. By the time I reached the Square they had passed, vanishing into dust and haze.
Weariness caught me. My fingers ached, gripping the butt of the CAS-IV, and I absently put the stungun back into its holster. What is useful for personal protection is no use when – and I lost the train of thought: crack! and again, and again; and I pressed back against the high wall. They must be firing from the ships still, and that’s the noise down at the harbour. And here? If they’ve destroyed the bridges, they’re turning their weapons on the city.
I wiped my mouth. Dust was gritty in my teeth; thirst an unacknowledged pain. The wind brought the smell of burning. The sun caught the pinnacles of the crag above the Square, and I stood in cold morning shadow, and then without any sense of decision began to walk out into the open. One bridge stilly at Eastwall. And so to reach the end of this wall and go down into the alleys, down the hill, would take me towards Eastwall (towards the noise of firing), would take me towards a bridge (away from the smoke of burning buildings; how fast does fire spread in a dry summer?) and out of the city.
Blaize, I thought. Ruric.
I stopped, now almost at the far end of the Square, still beside the wall surrounding the Wellhouse. Baked clay bricks cold with this early hour: I reached out a hand for support. Not a hundred yards away, telestre-houses made a wasteland of rubble and beams and dust rising into the sunlight; and the sky cleared milky blue, skeined across with bright pinpricks that are daystars, the signs of a hot, clear day. Is it possible to get back into the Citadel? The distant cliff-walk stood deserted. Is there any point? A few figures, tiny at this distance, could just be seen on the crag’s edge.
Ruric, I thought. Blaize.
The ground shuddered. I stumbled away from the high wall. Its shadow was long, blocking out sunlight. Broken bricks littered the flagstones, had in their fall ripped up a tangle of kazsis-vine, that wept a clear sap. I stood and stared up, tipping my head back so far that it made me dizzy. Will the ’thopter come back? That was hours ago. No, not hours; not half an hour – The daystarred sky blurred. Sound battered my ears: came from behind me, from the banks of the river; came from the distance, down by the harbour; came from everywhere at once. The stink of burning grew stronger, and I coughed.
Quickly, keeping some yards out from the wall, I walked to the end of the Square. I skirted rubble. And then, when I came to the end of the wall, stopped: a few yards downhill, more rubble blocked the alley.
If I stop, I won’t move again; I’ll be too afraid, I thought, and so I turned without breaking stride and began to walk out across the Square, heading out across that expanse of flagstones, towards the telestre-houses on the far side. The white, windowless façades gleamed in the sunlight – untouched? But smoke rose from somewhere.
Another silence: in it, far away, a voice screamed in animal pain – my palms sweated; I was almost glad when a sharp explosion blotted out the sound. Don’t think: move! A great tiredness weighed on me, and I stopped, and stared round.
Nothing moving but the drifting dust, and the plumes of black smoke that rise over the roof-tops … The sun cut through in shafts, slanting from the east; and I walked a step, and looked back, and stopped again. That is unchanged – the brown dome of the Wellhouse and, there, the cliff-walk and the pinnacles of the Citadel, high in the morning air, and the blue sky beyond – and I stand here, feet like lead, panting, dazed: What do I do now?
Sound blotted out the noise of burning, a roar so deep that I only felt it. It took the breath out of my lungs. I blinked against the flash of the explosion, and felt air hot on my face, and then opened my eyes again and found myself staring up at the grey stone walls of the Citadel. Something is wrong, I thought idly, and the rock and masonry began to peel apart like an opening flower and fall into the air, and part of the cliff began ponderously to slide down towards the Square and I turned to run.
37
Dust and Sunlight
Vomit tasted sour in my mouth. Something hard dug into my back and I flinched away, blacked out again – again? – for a second; and then I was leaning with my back against something, sitting up, and a thin bile down the front of my coverall. I moved:
nausea swamped me, it was some time before I recognized it as pain.
What –?
The blurred light came into focus. I stared up at golden air. Dust hung in suspension, gently drifting … blurred again: tears pouring down my face. With my right hand I fumbled for my belt-pouch, got it open, and crammed two painkiller tabs in my mouth: too dry to swallow and so I chewed, bitter froth at last letting me choke them down. Dust moving in the early sun, hazing in gold the heaps of rubble, broken masonry, spilled furniture, smashed glass … And my back was pressed up against a great slab of granite. Stone splinters littered the ground. To move – and I yelled: pain sickened me. But you’re not even marked. Pain settled: my right leg. Coverall torn slightly at the knee and I thought, How the hell –? and tried to push myself more upright and screamed.
The sound echoed. All else, silence.
You should be dead, I realized.
Tears poured down my face, and every breath made me gasp. I felt the instant the painkillers began to hit, and opened my eyes (when did I shut them?) and felt sun warm on my wet face. My heart hammered. Even that movement made me feel sick.
I couldn’t turn my head. I saw, a few yards to either side, tumbled grey rock like some river ravine, but the sides freshly splintered open; and further off the beginning of demolished telestre-houses, and there, beyond a fallen wall, the roofs of the buildings built on the lower slopes of Easthill and I shouldn’t be able to see that from here. Still breathing as hard as if I’d been running, I looked down, careful not to move; one leg untouched, the other – the right leg – with only the smallest cut in the beige cloth. Pain burned, centred in the knee. It was a reflex action to try and bend – no, I thought, Jesus Christ, don’t!
Cautiously, I reached down. There was a tightness, flesh swelling under the cloth. Already? And then I thought: But how long was I blacked-out for? Not more than minutes? I worked my fingers into the rip in the cloth and, centimetre by centimetre, widened the tear. The flesh was puffy. Dare I touch it – and bit back another scream. I bruise easily: a bruise yellowed all the right side of my knee, and it was grazed and weeping blood, and how can that hurt this much? I thought. And knew: the kneecap’s broken. I rested my head back against the granite that supported me and swore aloud: my knee throbbed as if a hammer hit it. With shaking fingers I got out the pain-tabs from the belt-pouch. Two taken: six remaining. Without much thought I put one in my mouth and chewed. It made no difference.
Five or ten minutes passed? Fluid thickened my leg so that the knee was hardly visible, and the pain of it brought the sweat out all over me. How long have I been here? and then I ought to move, it isn’t safe here!
‘Help!’ The effort made me gasp. Mouth too dry: how can I be heard? I gathered strength, shouted in two or three Orthean languages. There was no answer. Nothing moved but the dust and smoke … and the faint sound of explosions. No, not faint; Christ, I thought, I can’t hear properly! That’s close – is it? I can’t stay here.
If you try to put weight on that knee, you’ll be unconscious, some pedantic part of my mind informed me. Think: you’ve had Service training. What to do? Think. Give it some support. Do something.
There is wood in that rubble and wood is splints, is something you can use, can tie round; nothing to tie it with – the belt, that’s it. If I can get there, it isn’t far –
I put both palms flat on the flagstones and lifted myself, moving sideways. Pain hit me. The nausea faded slowly, and I slumped back; not the way to do it … A cool breeze blew out of the east, bringing the smell of the river and the alleys; and the acrid taste of smoke. I bent forward and got my hands one under my thigh, one under my calf, lifted; moved the leg inches before pain made me hiss out a breath and rest; and then lifted myself another few inches sideways, to the limit of tension on my knee, and then bent forward and lift again … Inching sideways, sight blinded with tears; crying out because what does it matter who hears me? I want to be heard. Conscious of cold flagstones under my palms, of grit and rock-splinters; conscious that the stone was now warm, that I must be in the sun, and that I must rest.
A shadow crossed the ruins: a shuttle cruising low, and I looked up so sharply that the pain made me swear. Sun gleamed on the white hull and then it was gone.
‘Bastards!’ No more than a whisper: drowned out by the muffled crack! of an explosion. Is that near? I thought. No, I’m sure it’s not. It’s down at the harbour. It is.
The painkillers began really to bite. Is it so short a time? I thought. I won’t have much respite, I’d better do what I can now. I rested for a moment, licking my palms where I’d cut them; eyeing the nearest heap of bricks and timber. Too precarious even for someone who could walk … I leaned forward, getting my hands round the nearest piece of wood; and then stopped and with some effort tore both sleeves off my coverall at the shoulder-seams. Wrapping them round my hands gave me some protection against splinters. Every tug on a plank or brick jolted my knee; and I doubled up, noises wrenched out of me.
By the time I’d cleared three flimsy slats from the edge of the heap, my hearing was coming back. Every distant explosion made me wince. The sun was hot, even though it was early; and kekri-flies buzzed round me in the heat. At last I could turn my head far enough to see the Citadel – and stared: the morning sun shone now on a titanic stump of rock, a few layers of masonry clinging to it here and there. The northern sky seemed bright, seemed empty: I have always been used to seeing the Citadel there, and now …
I got two hands to my leg and lifted it, laying it down on the stoutest wooden slat – and that’s not so strong, I thought; not at all – and rested. Two other slats at the side. And take off the belt, and rip up cloth sleeves, and remember Service training – no! I rested. The dust made my lips dry. If you don’t do it now you won’t do it at all. I pushed one end of the belt under the slat, looped it round the two side slats, took a breath, and pulled it tight round mid-thigh. Where are my blackouts when I need them? It almost made me laugh: true hysteria. I knotted the first torn sleeve round the splints below my knee, feeling the support bite; chewed another pain-tab; tried to tie cloth over the knee and fluid swelling, and screamed. Tied it also below the knee.
You ought to be dead; you’re lucky you’re alive. Hold on to that thought.
Whatever caught me a glancing blow could have killed me, I thought; and it’s done more than break that knee, it’s smashed it, I’m sure of it. Jesus Christ, what am I going to do!
Move.
For minutes I stayed still, lying back on the ground, staring up into the depths of the pale blue sky, watching daystars. Not even an hour past sunrise. The light still comes strong and level from the east. Every splintered beam, every brick, every uprooted vine casts a precise shadow. Haze and dust blur the edges of vision, the air still golden with dust that sifted down, and I could taste the smoke of something burning; strain as I might, I couldn’t hear fire. Not close, then. No, but how close does it have to be, when all I can do is crawl?
I’m not sure I can even do that.
My hands smarted as I eased myself up into a sitting position. You’ll be worse cut yet, I thought, staring at the only clear way between sprawls of collapsed walls and buildings. And how for is it clear?
Doesn’t matter.
I tightened my belt, although it made my thigh throb. Anything to immobilize the joint – and yes, I can ease forward; can drag the leg, and it hurts, but I can do it, I can. God! Ah, stop squalling, you little fucker; move. That’s it: move.
Feeling dwarfed between fallen stone and rubble, I put my hands down and pushed; eased back a foot or so, grunting with pain; and if I had any humour, I thought, I’d laugh at me dragging myself along backwards, can’t see where I’m going, but no, I don’t feel like laughing. And there have to be people somewhere.
The wooden slats scraped on the stone as I pushed myself across the ground, bending double, lifting; trying to ease my leg. The sun was hot on my back. A feeling of sickness swept over me, and
I halted; then began again to drag myself slowly across the littered flagstones. The horizon became a shattered wall, jutting up into a blue sky. As I inched on, more came into view – the house split open, exposed to the air; there a first-floor inner window, part of a ceiling … Suddenly I looked down, concentrating on my hands. Better not to see some things. Better not to see a crushed arm covered with masonry, a gold stud still set into the skin between each slender claw-nailed finger.
Better to look down and see the flagstones, brace a heel and push and lift …
The rumble of fire grew so constant that I ignored it. Only when a shuttlecraft roared overhead did I look up, helpless, and shout and wave; but nothing happened, and I went back to that slow progress. Every few seconds I looked over my shoulder. Tumbled stone blocked one way, and here two or three buildings had fallen together – several bodies lay in the rubble, not moving. And part of a fallen wall.
When I turned my head back, and rested, and checked the splints, my hands left bloody prints on the cloth of my coveralls. Splinters of glass and stone … Frightened into effort, I hauled myself forward. The weakened cloth bandages parted. When I could see, through tears of pain, I picked up the lengths of cloth and knotted them together again, tied them, thinking, How long will this last? The sun now made flagstones and rubble hot. When I twisted round preparatory to moving, I saw there was no way between the heaps of rubble. No way at all.
I’d like to see this from the air. Cory will report it as ‘a simultaneous strike on the harbour and the Citadel’ – Jesus, they’ve flattened everything round here. How far?
I leaned forward, resting, breathing heavily. My coveralls were filthy. What I could see of my knee through the torn cloth was a pallid white, swollen with fluid; the bruises turning from yellow to black, and I thought, How can it look like nothing and hurt like this? If I could see how far this extends, I’d know what to do: go back, go forward, stay here – no, I can’t stay here. Wreckage burns. Well then …
