World's End (4 page)

The war-mage screams went suddenly deafening. The air was full of fire, of glowing orbs and huge whip-crack sounds. The Invia began to fall from the sky and land in burning heaps. Some who dived down came up with their feathered wings blazing. Shrieking, they made off through the roof's tunnels, which now hummed with deep booming notes like war drums playing.

With Aziel in his arms Eric began to run. But the despair he felt at the Invias' dying wails made him stop. He watched them being slain with tears streaming down his face. Aziel moaned in his arms as though the same sadness pierced through her faint.

As the last Invia was killed, larger shapes suddenly reared up among the war mages. A black spread of pinioned wings unfolded against the backdrop of their fire. A dragon trampled them, larger – though not by much – than that one Eric had seen in the woods conversing with Stranger. Eric glimpsed fiercely burning golden eyes on a large head rearing back like a
serpent's. Out from its jaws came a stream of many brilliant colours. The strange fire's light revealed a second dragon, smaller than the first, thrashing its head and tail through the crowd, trampling them, clubbing broken bodies to skitter across the bare cavern floor. One was hit so hard it slid a stone's throw from Eric and Aziel, body rolling like a tyre, its spine broken. The war mage's mouth still rasped and its yellow cat eyes fixed on Eric's as it came to rest, smoke pouring from its blackened horns. One hand extended, it said something unintelligible, then the light in its eyes went out.

Humans might have fled such a battle. But war mages did not comprehend their own mortality and knew no more fear of death than ghosts. They burned the dragons in turn with their own magic and fire, far less brilliant, but cast from hundreds of them at once.

Eric did not know whether either of these dragons was Shâ, the one Vyin had warned him about. But it was soon clear these dragons were in trouble. Hundreds of war mages were dead but there were as many still casting, hurling their fire against the dragons' hides. Holes were torn in their wings, the leathery flesh soon cut to hanging flapping threads. War mages climbed on their backs, straddled their necks, biting and clawing. Like a sinking ship the larger dragon fell, issuing a bellow of pain which dwarfed for a moment all other sound in the cavern, and left Eric's ears ringing. (He knew the sound was a cry for help; he heard also a note of reproach, like that of a loyal servant complaining he was sent needlessly to war and death.)

The remaining dragon fell in turn, rolling slowly over the ground in a way that seemed playful compared to the thrashing speed with which it had fought. Hungrily the war mages scuttied
over the bodies, still casting on them and clawing at them long after their heaving and rolling went still.

Eric carried Aziel away, not bothering to run. She moaned and stirred in his arms. There was less cold about her now and her normal colour had returned. ‘Aziel, come back,' he whispered, surprised at how powerful was this sense of duty to keep safe someone he didn't especially like.

Then he felt something
else.
Dread fell on him, a fear like none he'd known before.

The war mages had gone quiet after the battle, crouching to rest from their casting and let their bodies cool. But now all of them screamed at once. In Eric's arms, Aziel's eyes opened and went wide. Instinctively he put a hand over her mouth, which had opened to scream, then turned. He staggered back from what he saw, then fell, Aziel landing on top of him and winding him.

It fell from the cavern's ceiling. A rush of wind swept over them, wind cast up by wings spread wide behind the enormous dragon like vast sails. It was huger than any living thing Eric had seen. Poisonous shades were interwoven on its speckled hide from white to light brown to black, all glistening with the wet sheen of a snake with newly shed skin. Its open mouth seemed to grin. Its neck was short and bullish, its body squat, its head wider and flatter in shape than the other dragons'. Nor had it any of the others' elegance or almost feline grace. Beneath its legs hung a belly as bloated as a spider's.

Eric recoiled with as much revulsion as fear. The ground shivered and groaned as the thing landed. Those war mages nearest to it stood not much taller than the claw of its foreleg. Not sane enough to flee, they began casting on it. The dragon's eyes glittered, its mouth snapped open and a brief obscene sound came
out. The twisted rising note was at once mocking, inquisitive, indulgent, and many other things besides. All the war-mage fire and magic was snuffed out. They ceased their screaming and each one went still.

In the perfect silence that followed the war mages were picked up in their hundreds. They spun through the air in a wide circle around Shâ's body. The curling wave of them went still, leaving all of them suspended motionless in the air. With each passing second they resumed motion, went still, resumed, went still.

Eric and Aziel ran. Both were all but mindless for that sprint while the great unclean beast loomed mountainous behind them, distracted by its new playthings. And yet only naked air was between it and them – it had only to turn its head and notice two small shapes fleeing across the bare stone floor. The distant collection of buildings they headed for seemed to get no closer. Neither of them paused to look back, but they heard the dragon's thumping footsteps, felt the stone shivering, and they could not tell whether it merely moved among its captured things or whether it pursued them. Eric was a child again, caught in a nightmare free of reason's limits, unable to wake. They both wept in helplessness as they ran. Now and then came more exclamations in Shâ's terrible voice. Eric caught only portions of each outburst's mocking meaning, but what little he understood was far too much.

It was surely just minutes but it seemed far longer, the time of running until the first of the structures they'd seen from afar came within reach. It had appeared they got no closer up until the moment their breath ran out and their run became an exhausted stagger. Then they were cowering behind a column made of the same stone as the cavern floor, shoulder to
shoulder, their hands pressed against its wide cool surface, coughing as they tried to catch their breath. Fine dust coated the cold stone floor they pressed their bellies upon. The stone still shivered from Shâ's footsteps.

Like storms which had skirted its land to strike elsewhere, Yinfel City was untroubled by the latest outbreaks of war. Its people had spent the days since Elvury's fall, and since the Wall's destruction, as if nothing much had happened at all, besides a dramatic rise and fall on the markets of various metals, crops, cloth, enchanted goods, potions, and so on. In fact, times were good. The city was flushed with Elvury's cash. Many merchants – some who'd prepared for Elvury's fall with uncanny anticipation – grew rich enough to begin eyeing off not just the nicer homes in the Third Section, but the smaller dwellings within Yincastle itself.

Refugees from Elvury kept trickling in steadily from the north. Most were allowed within Yinfel's gates to resettle, and charged a hefty one-off tax to pay for extra slum housing in the ghetto near Shield One. Failing the tax – and many did fail, having abandoned their wealth in the rush to flee – they were turned away, sent to fend for themselves in the outskirt farming villages. Once-wealthy hands were now required to dig through dirt for their keep.

The city itself was larger and grander to behold than Elvury
City; without the natural defence of mountains, its walls were by necessity very tall, made from slabs of enchanted black stone, guarded over by four enormous Shield Towers, two per gate. Yincastle, the massive crown in the city's middle, was inaccessible to all but the wealthiest, and money alone was not enough to live there. One had to have an insider's mind and morals too, and the ability to keep one's mouth shut on seeing something that would disturb the citizens below, should rumour escape. A few bloodline families – and those they now and then plucked from the civilian areas of the city – had kept the place to themselves for millennia, throughout all the wars no matter who won or lost. They'd held Yincastle for themselves long before Vous was conceived.

The city's two worlds were shut off from one another. The inner world was safe, if the outer world was fed and comfortable. If the outer world was fed, if there was enough amusement and gossip to sate their curiosities, why would they care how Yincastle was run? Why would they care who ran it?

Yincastle itself had many layers. The outer folk – newcomers grown excessively rich and therefore allowed in – were almost as ignorant of the place's inner workings as were those in the civilian realms. One learned to close one's ears and eyes to strange comings and goings through the high arched doorways. And to ignore the distant sounds heard from the high windows which glowed orange late at night. One learned to ignore rumours of underground chambers far beneath Yincastle, tunnelled so deep below that magic air existed there, and where improbable things were said to be done by the city's elite. It was true that every now and then, people vanished as if plucked off the prosperous streets. But the same, surely, happened in every city.

It was in Yincastle's highest tower that the orange windows glowed at night, a place from which one could survey the entire city below, active as an insect hive in daylight, a sparkling nest of lights by night. Here, out of reach of any war machine, the smooth silvery bricks still bore drake-claw marks from a long past war, the same war which had made room for Yincastle's current elites.

Izven peered out through one of those very high windows now. The pulsing orange light behind him bathed the chamber in glowing warmth. Naked, his body looked soft and vulnerable as he surveyed the city's night lights, spread beyond him like a web full of struggling morsels he was in no hurry to bring closer and consume. The visitor he expected was late.

Behind him there was a clink of chains as Lalie shifted on the huge bed. She was not concerned about the chains clamping her wrists, the belt about her waist, nor indeed her own near nakedness. She had leeway enough to crawl about on the bed a good distance. She was released whenever she wished to relieve herself. She was fed luscious, beautiful meals – the best food she'd ever eaten in fact. Hot baths were insisted upon twice daily.

There were others here of course who did not enjoy the facilities as much as she did. They too were chained up throughout the chamber, to beds and couches, always frightened and wanting to return to their homes and families, not yet understanding there was simply no way that could happen after all they'd been through and witnessed here. Lalie was quickly tiring of their complaints.

This chamber – though it didn't bother her – had seemed quite peculiar at first. She had thought mayors were like stern parents: boring, straight in their ways, pushing papers around,
blathering about taxes and grain supplies, now and then parading in front of people like roosters proud of their feathers.

She was no stranger to some of the games men enjoyed, either. The high priest had used her for many peculiar sexual rituals, involving other women, involving Offerings. The trick was to understand your flesh was just a plaything of the spirit inside, the spirit already pledged and therefore owned by sleeping Inferno, who would one day waken and claim it. What happened to the flesh didn't matter, as long as the mind was undamaged. As long as the spirit stayed keen, pure and hot as a candle flame. Pure enough to be brought within Inferno's divine fire.

The sexual games played in this chamber had therefore been no shock to her, but she was surprised to find a mayor, along with his high officials and friends, so very preoccupied with them. All day, in this large, circular chamber, and in the other rooms adjoining it, the games went on and on. She had begun to wonder: did they even
bother
with taxes, laws, wars and all the rest? Was all that just a clever disguise?

The others held here were mostly women and girls, with just a few men for those with different tastes. A high official – some friend of Izven, some important guest of the city – would walk in and gaze about with the air of a person quite familiar with this fondly remembered place. They would sometimes disrobe, do whatever they wanted to any of the sexual servants on display. Or they'd ask for one – there were dozens in this chamber, many ages and sizes, mostly young and sleek, like Lalie – to come with them, somewhere private. The chosen ones would usually return, but sometimes they didn't. Those who came back often wore welts, bruises, cuts. Perhaps they'd be vomiting, pale, shaken, needing tending by the nurses.

Of course Lalie had known the minute Izven guided her out
of the Mayors' Command meeting at Elvury, reserving for her a place in his personal caravan, that his charity was not pure kindness. He made a good show of it, the half-bald, pot-bellied man parading her before as many of the other cities' officials as he could, practically spoon-feeding her like an underfed lamb he was caring for. No fool, she'd played along, peering up at him with eyes large and adoring. She'd expected to pay for the meals and shelter on her back or knees, to either Izven or one of his men. Such a prospect had mattered little to her, mere motions of the pretty suit her spirit wore, garments briefly crumpling here and there, at times even enjoyably.

At any hour of the day – mostly at night – the mayor would appear, would guide people in, some times whole groups of them. Izven had kept many guests from choosing her for their pleasure, all bar one or two whom he instructed to use her with care. This made her suspect he had something else in mind for her. She had remained here, after all, while many others had departed to make way for fresh arrivals. And he spent time speaking with her, but never with the others.

It was an honour, the mayor had explained, for her and these others to be chosen and brought here, even if they died in their duties – some of the mayor's friends had such tastes, that was all. He spoke to her of many things, seeming to enjoy his own voice. Of history he spoke, and of Otherworld, of magic.