29 Byrsa

Present Day

What should’ve taken a few hours to reach the city had become two days. During that time, a bone chilling cold had descended on the land. Bone chilling, that was, for a breather.

Threadfin shuffled towards Byrsa at the back of a ragged line. Hunted without mercy, he’d gone devoid of rest. The Nephilim had rediscovered their prey’s whereabouts, and had stood between him and the city. He’d almost abandoned Byrsa, but out there in its hinterland, he didn’t stand a chance. It felt as though his body might fall apart any moment, a pile of skin and bones all there would be to say he’d existed. It had taken all his skills to elude them as he had not dared touch his magic again.

Above a line of blue hills and mountains, behind him to the east, the moon appeared. A red tinge marred its yellow bulge. Soldiers herded stragglers towards the city. Darkness had descended an hour ago and the city’s garrison looked nervous. They would soon shut the eastern gates. The hastily repaired walls on this side would’ve given the most optimistic soldier pause. Byrsa’s walls were not as strong as Icarthya’s, although there was a defensive ditch between the outer and inner wall. The towers were large and round with artillery pieces too. However, some of the towers remained damaged.

Built hundreds of years after Icarthya, Byrsa was the second city. His father had neglected the repairs over those in the capital, never mind upgrading defences. Funds spent elsewhere, confident in the security of his rule. Byrsa’s own governor was said to have squandered a fortune.

Some waiting to enter bore horrific wounds. Carried on a stretcher was a woman, her face pale, and Threadfin caught a glimpse of bloodied stumps. The blanket covering her was splotched red. Wet snowflakes landed on blue tinged lips and eyelids.

Other men aided a soldier. Something had shredded his boiled leather armour as though paper. Open flesh quivered, strips of skin dangling from the wounds. It was as though an otherworldly whip had scourged him. The whiteness of his face suggested he wouldn’t last either.

Threadfin kept his head down. Am I really the one to save them? It occurred to him, by entering the city, he was condemning them all. In that moment, he didn’t feel too powerful. He would find a mount, and leave as quick as he could.

He kept in step with an old trader and his sons hauling a laden cart. About them folk dismantled tents or loaded wagons. There had been a market outside the city, and from the faded grass it seemed to have once stretched a half mile from the gates. Several torches mounted on the walls cast slithering shadows across the edges of a shantytown, which had grown around the market. He noted several wooden inns, whorehouses, and shops, all abandoned along with a jumble of slum dwellings off to his right. The Muck Quarter had bulged like a blister, spreading beyond the walls.

Placing a hand on the cart, he pretended to push, unnoticed by the men at the front. He tugged his cowl lower.

The blue-cloaked guards appeared to ignore the people, while chivvying them through the gates. It was clear they didn’t wish to remain outside. At least these were ordinary spearmen of the Actaeon Guard and not redcloaks. The cart hopped and rattled, copperware dented from the rough road. He entered Byrsa through the broad torch lit arch. The guards didn’t notice him. He didn’t think they noticed anyone.

Within a few minutes of his entering, they ushered in the last, shutting the iron gates of both inner and outer walls. A mechanism within the gatehouses drove heavy iron bars into drilled stone. A new response to a new threat, he supposed. He wondered if the gates would discourage a determined Nephilim assault. For that matter, would the walls?

At first, he continued pushing the cart, but caught himself and stopped. The trader and his sons became lost in the swell of refugees.

His first impression of Byrsa was surreal. It was similar to Icarthya in many ways and that alone made him stand and stare. He’d last seen these streets as a ten-year-old, when he’d held his sister’s hand inside a gilded carriage. His father had ridden out front, on a barded white sydarag. Ironically, an honour guard of exemplars had surrounded the carriage. His grandfather, Olen Quintus, had been imperator then. One of the few times he’d been outside the capital as a child.

Byrsa’s basalt paved streets were now littered and dirty. Someone had removed many of the stones, leaving treacherous holes. Few torches lit the street, but here or there was a brazier with glowing coals. Breathers in rags huddled about these, seeming desperate, dangerous.

Across the river within the wealthier quarters, hills rose towards the Blue Palace. Here houses upon either side were in disrepair, ochre yellow or red stucco facades crumbling. A few had roofs of overlapping red tiles, others grey slate. These had shattered onto the street below. Most were wooden and suffered gaping holes. Some of the buildings also had lead gutters and pipes, which channelled rainwater into barrels, but those had iced over. Byrsa was under siege, no matter that no army camped outside.

He felt powerless, not a little tired, and lacking something. The crowd entering the city dissipated. He walked alone, gazing at the buildings, until he reached a broad square. On wide gallows lit by torchlight, bodies hung. These had to be deserters.

Below the creaking traitors, traders hollered beside anaemic carts selling mouldy cheeses, stone hard breads, and dogs or rats strung up by the neck almost in mockery of the deserters. Others bellowed high prices by rickety stalls, or haggled with prospective customers. There were shops too, wares sparse. It was late in the day for trading, but none showed any sign of going home. At the front of his forge, a blacksmith with huge sweaty arms paused his hammering to watch him go by. He saw a goldsmith and two younger men loading a wagon. Several hired toughs in leather armour and short swords stood around it. They watched him too.

Bread had risen to half a bronze dralan or a hundred coppers, half a week’s wage for a soldier and eight hundred scrips for a Mucker. Children dodged between stalls and carts, stealing. A rotten apple cost twenty-five copper dralans, one trader informed him, over ten times the original price. He described it as ripe.

Beyond the square, in Byrsa’s southern quarters, the streets were mud. Detritus covered the earth with the odd body, living, and not. Snow was patchy, there having been a few light falls, but most of it was trodden into frozen brown slush. There were a few inches of white on the rooftops. Soldiers prowled on sydarags. There were fewer torches and braziers here, the streets narrower.

He became aware of a pair of sydarags emerging behind him from a side street.

‘Lost?’ shouted one rider. Both soldiers wore segmented iron armour, stained blue, which was the colour of the Byrsa garrison, along with faded blue cloaks. Embroidered on the breast of each cloak was a blue feather upon a white background, the city’s sigil. Both men held a seven-foot iron tipped spear, slanted skyward, butts resting in a holder on the right stirrup. One wore a steel helm with nose and cheek guards.

‘Out stealing I bet,’ said the other. ‘We hang thieves you know. That’s after we gut ’em. You a thief?’

Threadfin shook his head.

‘Look at that face. On the streets up to no good all your life, I bet. Not from ’round here though. You a long way from home? You a mute or something? Did a Nepho eat your tongue?’

Threadfin felt relieved they thought him a lowlife. ‘I work for a copper trader,’ he mumbled, keeping his head low. ‘His name is ... Felps, ah, Podral Felps.’ Copper was no longer in demand, the trade considered mediocre at best since imports from Atlantis had ceased. It would explain his decrepit appearance.

‘Move it, thief,’ growled the first soldier, ‘before we change our minds and string you up. Haven’t hung anyone for a couple o’ days. Getting bored. Could stick that ugly head o’ yours on a spike.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed the other, ‘that last bitch didn’t half squeal, ’til we cut her head off. Do you squeal, thief?’ He gave a harsh laugh.

‘Like a stuck pig,’ answered Threadfin with a chuckle. Maybe they were joking. Soldiers possessed a dark humour. He hoped they were joking.

‘Careful,’ warned the first man. ‘We’re watchin’ you.’

They turned their mounts around.

‘See that face?’ said the second soldier.

‘Mother kissed a warg’s ass I bet.’

‘Master’s fist, more like ...’

Threadfin hurried on, making it appear he’d somewhere to go. He halted as something crossed his path. It vanished so quick, he wasn’t certain he’d seen it. Then, in his peripheral vision, something moved. When he turned his head, it wasn’t there. It remained as a ghostly apparition, always on the edge of sight. Had one of those ghosts followed him, or was his magic playing tricks on him? ‘Perhaps,’ he muttered, ‘I’m just going insane. Now, wouldn’t that beat all?’ He resumed walking, trying to ignore it.

Some of the wealthier inns would have sydarag stalls. He would steal one there. No way was he going near any garrison now.

The streets narrowed further. He broke into a hurried walk, until a tall figure stepped into his path from an arched alleyway.

‘Greetings, Todralan,’ said a male voice, ‘though I hear it is, Todder, these days.’

Threadfin hesitated, unable to make out any features, these streets in deep shadow. Maybe these were Aidari. ‘How do you know me?’

‘We’ve been waiting for you. Come with us.’

He took a step back. If he were to run, would this person chase after him? Would he get away? Would the soldiers help him, or them? ‘Where am I going to?’

‘Back there,’ gestured the figure into the gloom of the alley.

‘You know, I don’t think I will. I’ve got somewhere else to be. Don’t like dark alleys. Give me the creeps, like strange folk who don’t introduce themselves. Rude is that.’ Why, oh, why couldn’t he watch that mouth of his?

The stranger stepped towards him. A torch flared into life. Looking into that face, Threadfin knew he was in trouble. It was the eyes. You could always tell a breather’s intentions by their eyes. The man had close cropped white hair and a narrow face, but the eyes were hard. He wished he’d paid closer attention to Scatter’s lessons, his powers as distant as his destination. He needed a reflective surface. Those eyes were as dry as biscuits. None of them wore anything suitable, no bared blades.

He turned to flee, but stopped short. Two Icarthians and a red-haired Raddhonar, the human sort not the giant, barred his way. Few folks from Eladaldor, except for merchants, came this far north, and this Raddhonar didn’t look like any merchant.

‘Where are you going?’ asked the first man.

‘Ah, have to find someone.’

‘But you have found someone.’

‘Wasn’t looking for you. Too ugly, need someone prettier.’

The man laughed. ‘Used to having everyone jump at your command, eh?’

‘No, not really.’

‘You’ll find none of that tripe here.’

‘Well,’ he said, not caring if his mouth got him in trouble since he seemed knee deep already, ‘I didn’t exactly think you were going to put out a nice spread and a show, a nice Valtari red ... it’s the simple touches that make a difference you know. We lord and lady types like to be wined and dined after all. Foot rub is a nice added touch by the way. My toes are aching.’

A blow rocked his head hard, and then someone shoved him from behind. The white-haired man turned, stalking beneath the archway and Threadfin followed, having no choice. He sidestepped bodies crouched in the gloom. A hacking cough to his left made him jump and a blackened hand grasped at him. He jerked away and hurried on. ‘Where are we going?’ he called out.

Exhausted, he wondered if he cared. They reached the entrance to a tall, dilapidated stone building where others emerged from the gloom. One was a man with a torch and a short knife, the blade blackened.

Another was a woman in a red cloak, holding a shortened spear with a vicious butt spike or lizard killer. By the torch light, its barbed iron tip also appeared blackened. They knew of his talent, and were taking no chances. ‘Hello, Threadfin,’ she said. Lithe and tall, her shoulder length hair was golden white. ‘Remember me?’

His gaze roved as he spoke, seeking something reflective, a puddle, for the love of the Spectrum above, anything. ‘I saw you, cut to pieces.’ He remembered her body, still kicking, but covered in blood outside the healer’s gurd. Niyala was Canaan Pen Luthus’ creature.

The exemplar smiled, and it was anything but pleasant. ‘I almost died, but Canaan reached me just in time. He has such wonderful gifts. Sorry to disappoint.’

‘Speaking of which, he’s taking his sweet time,’ said one man.

‘He’ll come,’ Niyala snapped, before smiling at Threadfin. ‘Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep each other company until he arrives.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Threadfin with a thumb jerked towards the white-haired man, ‘because your lad here offered me a foot rub.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Niyala went on, ignoring his wayward mouth. ‘We’re not going to kill you. We have another use for you.’ A man behind her produced iron shackles, also blackened. ‘You’ll be wearing these. Don’t make a fuss now, or matters will turn ... unfortunate.’

‘Step closer,’ said the man with white hair, giving him a hard shove. ‘Your foot rub awaits, Deader.’

Threadfin made to step towards them, willing, complicit, and beaten.

Ducking to the left, he ran.

‘Grim’s balls – Gurg, stop him!’

Pain erupted in Threadfin’s head and he toppled forwards. Pain also bit deep into his flesh, and then the nothingness swallowed him whole.