36 A Parade

‘WE SHOULD MOVE to the front row,’ Cathya suggested.

‘No, not a good idea.’ Aiyana was unable to keep the anxiety from her voice. ‘I told you, I don’t want her to see me.’

Rumour had spread that three legions had turned an ambush by the giants. By all accounts, Sarscha had fought her way to the city. There was even mention of giants taken prisoner. Aiyana had laughed at that one. Rumours did have a way of growing arms and legs, and all sorts of extra bits.

Sarscha had never known defeat. Now even the Nephilim horde couldn’t hold her back. Overnight, her sister’s reputation had grown to mythical status. The tale would ripen as it spread. The people didn’t just welcome their imperial marshal. They welcomed their saviour. The exemplars didn’t appear pleased, but the returning force outnumbered them despite heavy losses.

Aiyana bit back several curses, chiding herself for being foolish. She had wanted her sister’s return, to help defend the people. It just wasn’t what she’d expected. She didn’t hate Sarscha, or well, to be honest, she didn’t know what to feel. She just couldn’t deal with facing her now. If they succeeded in saving the city, there would be time enough. That her sister would survive was never a question in her mind. No one was tougher.

‘We’ve no choice,’ said Davard at her back, trying to make himself heard over the cheers and cries. ‘You can’t make it to the palace without crossing that bridge. We need room to move when there’s an opportunity. I don’t like crowds. You like crowds?’ The people, who had jostled them when they arrived, pushing and shoving, now made room as if on cue. Desool, hidden in a deep oversized coat and hood, looked threatening, as he took up position behind them.

Aiyana gave the spymaster a wry smile. ‘Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.’

The city felt weird. Not an apt description, but something was off. Order appeared restored, but Byrsa’s citizens moved as though lethargic, lost. Others looked ready for a fight. Soldiers in deep-blue cloaks and the blue feather of Byrsa used the butt spikes of their spears to enforce order. Others used the spear’s length of ash wood, forcing the rows back. Ten sydarags paced the thoroughfare, the sleek shorthaired mounts snapping at the crowd, serpentine tails whipping the air. Were they Liviana’s now too? Would they turn on their fellow legionaries? Would Liviana give such an order? No, but Andromeda might.

Exemplars patrolled the streets, in long blood-coloured cloaks. Those were definitely Liviana’s, and they didn’t look happy. The exemplar guard had swelled in numbers, and they watched the city’s inhabitants as though looking at beetles.

The Blue Palace had banned all trade, the city’s granaries under guard. Soldiers had to eat. The people looked as though they stared death in the face, but they also seemed to think her sister would save them. Aiyana wanted to help her people, and the fact they looked to her sister, a woman who’d ... no, she wouldn’t allow her thoughts go there.  

On the opposite side to where she stood, behind the line of richer spectators, was a bronze and wooden bridge. It was thirty-five foot wide and guarded at both ends by short brick towers and a compliment of soldiers. It led to the Mammon Quarter, and the palace complex beyond it. Aiyana couldn’t reveal herself, despite Sarscha’s return. There was no way to know how those guards might react. They could arrest her, or worse.

The Malk Bridge was the only crossing between the eastern and western quarters. The flow of the icy River Malk beneath was swift. Once, there had been three bridges, but the rich and powerful didn’t want Muckers and Proles infesting their streets. On an average day, pedestrians packed the lone bridge along with merchants selling wares from carts or wooden shops, though few could go further without a permit.

Visible beyond the bridge to the west were the white stucco buildings of the Mammon Quarter, and to the north the Hallow. The buildings there, mostly estates, rose in incrementing levels towards a broad flat-topped hill. The sun revealed glistening red and green tiled rooftops, patches of snow and frost untouched by its cold glare, and beyond a defensive grey wall, the blue basalt palace within. Liviana was there or soon would be. Paladin Rolandar, Governor of Byrsa, had long been a friend and supporter of Aiyana’s. She hoped he was out. That woman was waiting, her trap set, and Aiyana Todralan wouldn’t disappoint.

Four Nephilim prisoners, she recognised as Emim from pictures in the libraries, came into view. She fought to keep her composure. Well then, the rumours were right. Fancy that. The tribal giants lumbered along the broad cobbled street, faces passive. Flanking them were sydarag riders and armoured guards with nine-foot spears.

For the first time, ordinary Icarthians saw the enemy. They spat and jeered, laughed, and cursed. They appeared to forget their misery, bound perhaps by a common hatred, or a euphoria that their legions had defeated these terrifying warriors. Aiyana had no such illusions. Her sister had indeed managed an incredible feat, but the horde still waited beyond the walls.

Thick chains restrained the prisoners, each linked to the one behind. In large open wagons trundled their armour and weapons.

The prisoners bled, pale and dark muscles dwarfing taut chains. The sight of their naked hides, the stench of their faeces and urine, their tortured teeth, and downcast eyes, began to quieten the crowd, or well, most of them. Sympathy for the conquered warriors grew in Aiyana’s heart.

She glanced at Davard, at Cathya and even Desool, and saw she wasn’t alone. These giants were nothing other than soldiers, ordered to battle. How were they different from the legionaries? These Nephilim, terrifying and destructive as they were, were not the enemy. She took no pleasure in seeing them bound, broken and bleeding, while that two-faced troll lounged in a palace.

Behind the prisoners came the triumphant march of warriors. Instead of full legions, led by legion marshals, were ragged squads led by lower rankers such as captains or sergeants. There were no complete cohorts remaining.

At last, she spotted her sister, a woman with blue-tinged silver hair, seated on a ... Grim-hooded warg of all things. She rode ahead of the fractured legions. Trust her to show off.

‘Got to hand it to her,’ Davard whispered in her ear. ‘I like her style. You like style, Yana?’

Aiyana turned and threw him a look to make him swallow his tongue and choke. His eyes darted about, searching for escape. She dismissed him from her thoughts. She needed to focus. How was she going to get across?

The marshal’s mount appeared as broken as the prisoners. Iron chains bridled the creature, which Sarscha held in gloved fists. They’d somehow captured it, and had broken its will. The how of it was beyond Aiyana. Instead of a sister, she saw a woman aiming to cement her position as a ruthless military leader. Perhaps Sarscha meant that statement for Liviana, but the thought didn’t make Aiyana feel better. It caused a stir among the people. Many forgot the giants.

Then she noticed a little figure on a cart, which rode behind Sarscha’s beast. Nipper seemed content and unharmed, but what was he doing up there? He was supposed to be in hiding. A commotion drew her gaze.

‘Look,’ said Davard, his voice carrying uncharacteristic fear or perhaps awe. ‘That Nephilim – he’s trying to escape.’

Aiyana smiled, kissing her ring, as all of Grim’s wrath broke loose. Guards rushed from various directions, as the prisoners discovered that chains made fine weapons once you got free of them. The crowds broke apart amid screams and trampling. It intensified closer to Aiyana’s group when Desool threw back his hood. The Nephilim prisoners had regained their spirit, or maybe they hadn’t been as broken as they’d appeared. Instead of laying waste around them, the Emim fled towards the eastern walls, drawing all legionaries after them, including those guarding the bridge.

What Aiyana had gained was the opportunity she’d hoped for, to get across the river.

‡

THREADFIN STALKED THE paved streets of Byrsa. He kept the hood of his grey cloak up and his head low. He wore a face covering, which was basically a rag, but the lingering dust from the bombardment made such garb plausible. At least, no one looked at him twice. He still wore his borderlands breeches and boots but beneath the cloak, and no one paid him any attention. Few bothered to look up from their own feet. Besides borderlanders weren’t unknown here. He did miss his coat though; that had been a good coat.

There were abandoned stalls and shops that had once sold dried fruits and meats, Valtari olives, spices, and wine. Others had sold belts, boots, Paldanar silk, and weapons. There had been fishmongers and grocers, gold and silversmiths, weavers, and dressmakers. All shut and boarded. Regular trade had ceased. A stench of sewage and salt pervaded the air mingling with the dust. The bombardment had lessened, with the odd missile hurtling overhead. That, to his mind, didn’t bode well.

Soldiers looted bodies, searching for weapons, armour, and warm clothing, all in short supply. Ordinary citizens huddled indoors, perhaps wondering if the imperial marshal could save them after all.

In place of the usual traders, appeared opportunistic merchants, who never let a simple problem like a siege get in the way. Blacksmiths and other metalworkers and shoemakers had never been busier. There were wheelwrights, bowyers, and fletchers from Paldan, and laundresses, and singers, jugglers, and whores. Many who weren’t already established businesses used the looted shops. Others erected tents or stood in the street hollering their services from the back of a wagon, whenever a uniform passed by. A butcher hawked and spat, apron orange red. He chopped and displayed a variety of raw flesh, though much of it looked questionable. Most of the food in the warehouses was Tystrian grain. Fresh meat was in high demand by soldiers.

War created its own economy, which would last until the first giant breached the walls. Threadfin shook his head at the nonsensical breathers. He didn’t love them, but he no longer hated them, well, not exactly. Intense dislike was probably a good way of putting it. Besides, breathers smelled funny, all sweaty and pungent. He gave a slight shiver. It wasn’t anything Aiyana had said either. It was the realisation that people couldn’t help being what they were. He saw that although some were selfish or cruel, many were not.

Herring gulls wheeled overhead, their screeches a warning of danger to come. Crows perched on rooftops and battered walls, waiting. Feral cats, kecci and emaciated dogs wandered amid the rubble and stink of humanity. Many of these ended up over the butcher’s stall.  

Threadfin halted by the stiff form of a mother and baby half buried by rubble. His studded boots scrunched on splinters of pottery. The woman looked like she might have been wealthy, but whatever furs, gown, cloak, or jewellery she’d possessed were gone. He couldn’t help thinking of that woman by the canal in Lame, and of Tezcat. Grim’s balls, but he missed her.

This side of the river was wealthier. It didn’t matter. Death came for all. These were his sister’s people. She loved them, wanted to save them and he realised he wanted that too. If they all perished, he knew in his withered heart, she would follow them. By saving them he saved her. It was why he’d come back after all, and now, given she’d refused to leave, he had no choice.

The woman had held her young one to her breast. A missile must have struck the building as they’d run past. No doubt, there were others like her, hidden beneath the rubble. Threadfin felt a sadness for them. He saw how wretched these people were. They needed someone to watch over them. They needed a ruler who cared and Threadfin Todder was going to make sure they got her.

Moving on, he came upon a tumble of rock and warped glass fragments, shattered colours reflecting grey skies and orange peaks. He averted his gaze. There were scraps of torn silk, leather, and wool, bloodied and ownerless. Within the ruin of a house, huddled a knot of soldiers in green or blue cloaks.

He wasn’t surprised to find his eldest sister sitting with her troops. The squads sat by a fire, men boiling a dark stew in bronze or iron helmets. Flames licked broken table or chair legs, casting shadows among the toothed walls. A tangy scent rose from the blackened helms. Toppled in a corner was a twisted bronze bed. Part of the blackened roof lay open to the air, but there was enough upper flooring to give shelter.

Noticing him, Sarscha gave an irritated snort. Threadfin knew her feelings about her siblings. He thought he understood her better than Aiyana did. Sarscha was the eldest. She’d devoted herself to obedience and duty, never failing as daughter or leader, but still Aiyana had been favourite.

He stepped inside, and rested against a supporting wall. His father had known what Aiyana was, had even known why she had to take the throne. He’d agreed to send Threadfin into exile, not because of hate, but to protect him. I never knew him, he thought with sadness, and now, I never will.

The artillery remained sporadic. A miller’s roof collapsed. Another rock smashed the millwheel, wooden and bronze fragments cascading over the water.

The marshal had ordered defensive positions on the eastern side. Archers from Paldan lined the battlements that remained, along with sword and axe men. Wooden hoarding replaced incomplete sections of the wall. Dark skinned warriors had arrived with Sarscha from Tystria and other cities, along with cohorts from Lamedon and Tiral, among them Valtari slingers and spearmen.

His sister took a moment to look at each soldier. Some sharpened blades, mended or oiled their armour. Others used short knives to scrape mud from studded boots. A mulch of slush and human waste covered the paved streets of the Mammon Quarter.

Sarscha Todralan was the one real leader left. Legion Marshals Begnar and Pontus had died in the ambush, and Paladin Acart during the retreat to the capital. Paladins Julius and Ralan were missing along with other officers.

From the circles beneath her eyes, it was clear she felt the strain. From what they’d experienced during the ambush, she knew the odds better than anyone. The rumours suggested but a fraction of the horde had attacked them.

‘Scouts have reported Nephilim gathering to the east where the walls are weakest,’ she announced. ‘It looks like this is the big one. They’re here to crush this city, but they won’t stop here. They will march on Icarthya too. They will destroy us all, unless we stop them.’

The imperial marshal looked into each face, including the ravaged visage of her brother. There was despair and weariness in many, and Threadfin wondered what she saw in his. He felt despair, but for different reasons. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for Sarscha at all. It was just, complicated.

‘I don’t know why they’re attacking us,’ she continued. ‘I don’t have answers and it doesn’t matter. I do know we can win. If we hold the Mammon and Hallow Quarters, the river will act as a natural barrier. The Malk is deep, fast, and icy cold. They would be vulnerable during such a crossing, that’s if the fat scum can swim. To do that, they’d have to remove armour and be vulnerable to archers. Instead, they’ll seek to cross via the Malk Bridge. We must hold that crossing. They will take the east side, but we will not allow them to go further.

‘We are soldiers of the Actaeon Guard. If anyone can hold them, we can. We gave them a bloodied nose on our way here. Now, we will give them the deathblow. They’re not invincible. They’re flesh and blood. Yes, they’re bigger, but they bleed and die like anything else. They will learn to fear us.’

One or two soldiers looked up, hopeful. Another laughed but Sarscha didn’t appear to notice. A man raised his hand, a grizzled veteran who’d fought several campaigns.

‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Sarscha.

‘We should tell ’em,’ he croaked, ‘whether we believes it ourselves or not. Won’t lie to ’em. Never ’ave done and won’t start now. Those Nephos are being driven at us, by the Grim’s own spawn if ever I saw one. Returned from scoutin’ northeast an hour ago, and I saw it and Nica here seen it too. Big as a house and covered in black fire. You too,’ he said to another, ‘haven’t you?’

‘Imperial Marshal,’ said Threadfin, after a moment of silence, ignoring their stares, but checking his hood was low enough. ‘What he says is correct. We need to acknowledge what we’re fighting. It’s not just the Nephilim. There’s more going on here.’

His sister glared at him. ‘You’re right,’ she then sighed. ‘I’ve seen other reports and all claim the same. No, no I can’t explain it.’ Crouched over the fire, she raised her palms to its warmth. ‘All I know is we’re here to defend Byrsa. We’re going to do that. We’ve plans in place to deal with ... that thing. Next time you spot that spawn of Grim, kill it.’

No one spoke.

‘Kill it,’ she repeated and smiled. ‘After you do that, kill all the others. Kill the bastards. Maybe then after you’ve killed enough of them, those fat ugly brutes will tuck those useless wings between their legs and hobble home.’

It earned a strong bout of laughter. After she left them, their talk turned animated. A recruit demonstrated just how to kill a spawn of Grim. You put a spear right through the eye. It couldn’t survive that, right?

Threadfin followed her outside. The sun had lowered beyond sight, behind the mountains, leaving a red-orange aura above the peaks. The rain had eased but the artillery continued. Rocks the size of huts hurtled over the city, two landing in the streets. Most missiles fell across the river on the eastern side. One almost hit the bridge, raising a fountain of water. Others crashed into buildings with a thunderous crunch of stone.

She wheeled on him. ‘Don’t ever undermine me again. Do you understand? I don’t care what you are. I don’t want to know what that monster is out there either. You forced me into a corner back there. I had to speak the truth because of you.’

‘What’s wrong with the truth? Soldiers depend on what they see and understand, and fear what they don’t. They’re going to learn all about truth soon enough.’ He wondered how much Sarscha did or didn’t know.

His sister sighed, looking weary. ‘Truth is dangerous. All the soldiers defending this city know what a Nephilim is. They know it can bleed and die, and just need reminding. Giants are tough opponents, but they’re not invincible. How’re those soldiers supposed to kill a, a spawn of Grim, or whatever it is?’

She at least, should know the truth. ‘He’s in Liviana’s power. She’s—’

‘I told you,’ Sarscha snapped, ‘I don’t want to know. I lost a third of the Thirteenth and half of the Ninth. Those survivors added to the First here, come to just under eleven thousand to hold off a threat hardly dented. They destroyed the darag units I’d brought with me from Tystria. A handful left, good for scouting but naught else. The legions’ supplies never made it through. At least there are food stores here, but that’ll have to be given to the people. I’ll be lucky if I don’t face a revolt from my own soldiers.

‘Not to mention that bitch Avitus has her private army eyeing up my soldiers like wolves looking at mice. All that is enough to be getting on with, don’t you think? Now, go away and leave me do my job.’ She turned and stalked away.

Threadfin almost let her go. ‘I can kill him, and Liviana. Sarscha, I can end this and save this city. I can save your soldiers.’ Well, not all of them. He wasn’t a miracle worker. What he was, remained to be seen. He didn’t feel as confident as he thought he sounded, but he didn’t think she’d want to know that. ‘Let me take command of some of your troops. We need a coordinated plan. You and I both know no one will survive if we don’t destroy him. This doesn’t have to be a last stand, Sarscha.’

She halted, and looked back at him. ‘All we’ve ever believed has been a load of grolg shit, am I right? All those thousands of useless prayers?’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, as I always thought. Well, I think I won’t be afraid to die, since the world appears to have gone to hell anyway.’

‘You still hate us, after all these years. You’ve never forgiven us for what we are.’

She marched back towards him, her face a thunderhead. ‘You know nothing about me or how I feel.’

‘That’s just the problem, isn’t it? Look, what happened back then, I never meant to, I mean, I ...

Her anger vanished. ‘It ... was a long time ago. A lot’s happened since.’

‘Aiyana, she wanted to, you know—’

She surprised him by placing a hand on his shoulder. It was perhaps the first time she’d ever touched him. She looked him in the eyes, something she’d also never done. ‘I don’t hate you, Threadfin, and I don’t hate my sister. I despise you for taking what was mine.’ She removed her hand and took a step back. ‘I’ve thought about you over the years. For a time, I was afraid of you. I’m not now.’ She sighed. ‘How can the undead rule over the living? How can you ever understand us? You don’t even like us, do you?’

Threadfin decided not to answer that, his feelings on the subject muddled.

‘Okay, I’ll give the order. You can co-ordinate with my second, Rollic. I’ll send him to you. He ... knows how to keep his mouth shut.’ For a moment, Threadfin wondered what she meant, but then he understood. Oh, right.

She hesitated, her face softening. ‘I don’t know if you and I will see each other again. If there is any justice at all, neither of us will survive what’s coming.’ Turning, she strode away through the ruins, and falling rocks.

‘Well?’ asked Podral, appearing at his side from nowhere. ‘How did it go?’

Threadfin didn’t turn, but he felt the others there waiting, all except Davard. He was glad they were with him. ‘You know,’ he whispered, staring after his sister, ‘I really don’t have a bloody clue.’