The Crow

  He crept up the line of sleeping bodies, counting carefully, and when he reached the fourteenth, brushed her mind lightly to check he was not mistaken. She was sleeping with her face in the crook of her arm, her roughly cropped hair a matted tangle of short curls. Hem's throat constricted; he had loved Zelika's long hair. It would grow back... His heart pounding, he bent down and gently turned her over, preparing himself for the tremendous effort of lifting and carrying her. But then he saw.

  To stop himself crying out, he bit his lip so hard that it bled. It wasn't Zelika at all.

  It was a boy. A nasty, half-healed scar ran down the side of his face, puckering the skin around it and distorting his features. Hem recalled he had seen this boy before on their march through Den Raven, without taking much notice of him. Now he looked closely, Hem saw he had Zelika's stubborn chin, her long eyelashes, her delicate cheekbones.

  All this time, he had been following Nisrah, Zelika's brother.

  XXIV

  IRC'S STORY

  Hem didn't know how long he sat beside Nisrah in that dark room. The full knowledge of his folly burst over him: how he had been misled by his passionate hope, how he had suppressed his own doubts, how he had arrogantly refused to listen to Hared or even Ire. The Hulls could not have scried Zelika, because if they had, they would have known that he was also spying on the camp. They would have been looking for him. But instead, he had been accepted into Sjug'hakar Im without question: no one had entertained the least suspicion that he was not who he claimed to be. He had known that Nisrah was a snout, but it hadn't even occurred to him that the mindglow he felt might be Zelika's brother. He had explained away his own uncertainty, putting it down to his lack of skill, to the shroudings of sorcery. And yet, now, it was so obvious.

  He had endured unspeakable suffering, struggling through the perils of the Glandugir Hills and Den Raven and finally imprisoning himself in Dagra. He had endangered himself, Ire, and Hared. He might never see Maerad or Saliman again. And all for no reason.

  If there had been any tears in Hem, he would have wept, but he was too numb for tears. He was consumed by a choking bitterness.

  He was roused at last by a huge crack of thunder, so loud that he thought that the floor shook under his feet. Hem leaned forward and carefully bound Nisrah's hands behind his back with the leather thongs he had stolen in Sjug'hakar Im, and fashioned them into a lead. Then, grimacing, he picked him up. He didn't make any conscious decision to take Nisrah with him: it seemed to Hem that there was no choice. He couldn't simply abandon him, like the children in the Blind House, to a terrible fate.

  The boy didn't stir. He was unexpectedly light, worn by his hard life, and his body felt unnaturally hot. Hem swung him over his shoulder and walked to the door, listening for a moment to be sure that no guard waited outside. The barracks seemed strangely empty. He softly unlatched the door and left the room.

  He was in an empty corridor lit by flickering torches, with a wooden staircase at the far end. When Hem reached the stairs there came another long peal of thunder, and he clutched at the wall, feeling the building rocking beneath his feet. Perhaps there would be an earthquake; and a storm of the Dark itself was about to break over his head. In a sudden panicked rush he stumbled down the stairs, the noise of his footsteps blotted out by the thunder. When he reached the entrance hall, he saw to his amazement that it was also unguarded. Where were the Hulls? He didn't stop to speculate. He staggered to the door, and pulled frantically. It was locked.

  Throwing caution to the winds, Hem blasted the lock off the door with magery and ran out into the street as if there were Hulls at his very heels. He zigzagged around several corners until he entered a laneway empty of people, and finally halted, leaning against an empty, crumbling doorway, sobbing for breath.

  He put Nisrah down and wiped the sweat off his own face. The boy no longer seemed so light: Hem's back burned with strain and his legs were trembling. He couldn't carry him all the way out of Dagra, even if he knew where to go, and he had no confidence that the boy would come with him willingly. He wished uselessly for some medhyl, to give him some extra strength. What was he doing? He might have escaped the barracks, but he was still inside the biggest prison he had ever seen. And he was wholly lost.

  He looked up into the sky. The sun was setting, and its low rays shone redly under a ragged hem of cloud, so the thickening air seemed to be stained with blood. The narrow alley where he stood was thrown into deep shadow. Myriad forks of lightning lit the swirling vapors that coursed around the Iron Tower like feverish veins, and gusts of wind fitfully kicked up the rubbish that littered the street. Hem's skin prickled with sorcerous energies but, for the first time since he had entered Dagra, he felt small and insignificant: the sense of watchfulness had vanished, as if the awarenesses that were woven through the fabric of the city were intently focused elsewhere. The rolls of thunder were now almost continuous, and the ground trembled beneath his feet. What was happening here?

  He glanced at Nisrah, who was slumped on the filthy doorstep, still sunk in a drugged sleep. The ugly wound on his face had broken open, and a little blood and pus trickled from under his eye. Hem regarded him with no emotion at all: neither pity nor disgust nor fellow feeling. Nisrah was just a burden that he must take with him. He had no thought of leaving him behind; perhaps it was simply that he had to salvage something from the wreck of his hopes.

  He looked away, swept suddenly by a terrible loneliness. On a wild impulse, without any hope that he would be answered, he sent out a summoning to Ire. To his amazement, it was answered almost straight away.

  Where have you been? Ire hissed into his mind. I've been looking and looking...

  Hem was thrown by Ire's prompt answer and stammered, both delighted and suddenly fearful for Ire. I-I couldn't call before, he said. Are you in Dagra?

  Yes, yes, Ire said impatiently. Of course I am. But where are you?

  I don't know where I am, said Hem forlornly. I'm lost.

  There was a pause, and Hem momentarily thought that he had lost contact. But then the crow's voice came back, slightly muffled. Can you see the Big Tower? he asked.

  Yes.

  Bear away from it, with the sun at your sword hand. Wherever you are, you will reach one of those big roads, and they all lead to the walls, and the walls lead to the gate. I'll meet you there, at the gate. Listen for my call.

  But – Hem said, bewildered.

  I'll meet you there. It's hard to keep the mindtouch, there is so much bad magic here. I couldn't find you. I thought you were dead...

  As Ire spoke, a green lightning split the sky, bringing with it such a stench of sorcery that Hem reeled, his senses stunned. A big storm comes. Hurry... Ire's voice grew faint, and then vanished altogether.

  Frightened, Hem tried to mindtouch Ire again, but the city was howling with sorceries that burned his mind, and he couldn't hear him. The wind was picking up; the storm was almost upon them. He hesitated, then drew his shortsword and shook Nisrah violently, trying to wake him. The boy grumbled, pushing him away, but at last opened his eyes.

  "Get up," said Hem. Nisrah opened his mouth to object, but Hem jerked his bonds roughly, and the boy groggily got to his feet, staring at Hem with a bewilderment turning rapidly to anger.

  "What are you – "

  "Walk." Hem pressed the point of his blade against Nisrah's back. "Do anything dirty, I kill you."

  To Hem's relief, Nisrah sullenly did as he was told. He didn't know if he could struggle with Nisrah and still maintain a glimveil over both of them. They began to march down the alley away from the Iron Tower, into the darkening night.

  It wasn't easy to keep his sense of direction. Quite often Hem completely lost sight of the Iron Tower, and sometimes he and Nisrah seemed to be wandering in circles, picking their way along alleys that were little more than black, filthy crevices between high towers, only to come to a dead end or, worse, to find they were closer to the Iron Tower than they had been before. The ba
ckstreets of Dagra were unsettlingly empty: they passed occasional figures who glanced up into the flickering sky as they hurried to shelter, but that was all.

  Hem was past tiredness, past thought: he was a single intent, a determination to get to the gate, so he could meet Ire. He put out of his mind the question of what he would do once he was there; he had no idea.

  Nisrah walked before him, not saying a word. Once he tried to escape, crying out to a man who was passing by and throwing his body to the ground and rolling to break Hem's grip. The thongs tore through Hem's fingers, burning them; he flung himself after Nisrah and covered his mouth, ignoring the pain as the boy bit him. To Hem's relief, the passerby simply fled, thinking perhaps they were haunts, as he could hear voices but could see nothing. Hem was so angry that he wrenched Nisrah to his feet with no thought of how his bonds might be hurting him, holding his sword to his throat so it cut the skin.

  "I said, no dirty tricks," he growled in his ear.

  After that, Nisrah marched passively in front of him. Hem began to hate the sight of his slumped, stumbling back: it was one with his own hopelessness and degradation.

  As night fell over Dagra, a deep blackness relieved only by the increasing lightnings, Hem began to despair that he would find the gate at all. He was looking for the Street of the Weaponsmiths, through which the snouts had passed on their way to the barracks, but he seemed to be nowhere near it. Instead, they were wandering through an endless maze of many-floored brick buildings, smoke-blackened and foul with the smells of rotting food and human waste. The ground was now shaking continuously, like a shivering animal, and the weight of air was becoming unbearable. It seemed unbelievable that the threatening storm had not yet burst, so heavily did it hang above them.

  At last they turned into a wider street, and then stumbled out into one of the broad thoroughfares that radiated from the Iron Tower. At one end the cruel spike of the Iron Tower cut a black wound into the mountains behind. Unlike the backstreets, this road boiled with people. Hem cowered, gripping Nisrah tightly. Everywhere were ranks of soldiers holding flaming torches that threw grotesque shadows: Hulls on horseback, dogsoldiers, infantry. They stood on guard, as if ready for battle, but none moved; and their eyes shone redly through the shadows.

  Hem squinted, hoping to see the gate, but it was so dark he couldn't see the road's end. Gasping for breath in the dry air, he thought rapidly. The quickest way to the gate would be down this road: dare he risk creeping along in the shadow of the walls, under the very noses of the Nameless One's forces? And yet, if he went back into the tangle of alleyways behind him, he would at once get lost again, and might never find his way. He wavered, irresolute, for a long moment; then, taking firm hold of Nisrah, who stood dully beside him, plunged into the main street, hugging the shadows of the walls.

  He went as fast as he could, steering Nisrah in front of him. It felt too slow: he was encumbered by his prisoner, and despite the cover of the glimveil he feared being sensed by a Hull, and kept as far as possible from those he saw. He worried that Nisrah might try to escape again at any moment; among so many soldiers and Hulls it would be disastrous. He looked up at the sky desperately hoping that the storm would break; if it rained it would cover them more effectively than any glimveil. But the rain did not fall: the very walls seemed tense as strung wires, humming with unreleased power, and still the storm built up, still the city shook with its coming.

  At last, panting, he looked around to see where he was, and to his disbelief saw that the city gate was straight before him, not more than two hundred paces away. There were fewer soldiers there than farther up the road; his task would be easier now. By sheer blind luck, he had run into the road that led to the gate. For a moment he went limp with relief; then he took a deep breath, preparing to shepherd Nisrah to the gate, to find a place where they might both be hidden from Hulls and look out for Ire, who must have been waiting there for ages.

  It was then that things began to go wrong. He noticed that Nisrah was no longer slumped in front of him, but before he could think what that might mean the boy turned, and Hem saw, with a sudden chill, that his eyes had gone blank. The snouts must have been woken by the Hulls, and Nisrah was not beyond their sorcerous thrall.

  Hem was taken off guard as Nisrah snarled and kicked him in the shins, knocking him down. He was straining to burst his bonds, the muscles cording out on his shoulders with the effort, and he took no notice at all when Hem threatened him with his shortsword. Hem shouldered him forward roughly, but Nisrah stood his ground, still struggling to break the leather thongs. With a sudden snap they burst, and then, his wrists bleeding, Nisrah swung a fist at him. Cursing, Hem ducked the blows and tried to knock Nisrah over, so he couldn't get away: but the boy lashed out with his hands and feet like a maddened beast, and Hem was knocked against the wall and winded.

  Screaming for help, Nisrah got up and started running. He burst out of the glimveil a few paces in front of an astounded Hull that snapped to attention, grabbed Nisrah by the arm, and then glared straight at Hem, its red eyes burning through Hem's concealment. For a moment Hem was trapped by the Hull's malign gaze and stared stupidly back, like a rabbit at a fox, utterly unable to think or move.

  Before the Hull could move toward him, however, its attention switched away from him, and it turned sharply toward the Iron Tower. Involuntarily Hem followed its gaze and saw that the entire tower was sheathed, from its base to its bitter summit, in a ghastly flame, first shimmering with the decaying green of a corpselight and rapidly growing brighter, until the whole tower blazed brightly as an infernal, frozen lightning. The soldiers yelled and stamped and clashed their weapons against their shields, and at first Hem thought the ground shook with their noise, until he realized it was shaking by itself.

  The flame died as suddenly as it appeared, but the interruption was enough for Hem to free himself from the Hull. His glimveil was now broken. Nisrah was standing by the Hull, its bony fingers clamped around his upper arm: he took no notice at all of the Iron Tower. He was screaming obscenities at Hem, his face distorted with fury and anger, his face a mask of blood where the scar had broken as they had struggled. Even in that flash of time, Hem wondered if he could still rescue him; but the Hull was turning again with deadly intent, and he panicked.

  Hem heaved the breath back into his body and took to his heels, dodging and weaving through ranks of soldiers, too fast for those who reached out to clutch him. At first he ran in sheer panic; but once he had escaped the burning chill of the Hull's gaze he remade his glimveil with a word and began to work his way determinedly toward the gate. His only thought now was of Ire, that he might see him before he died. He had no expectation left that either of them would survive – even if he made it to the gate, even if he managed to meet Ire. What could they do then? He was long beyond hope now.

  Out of nowhere, it seemed to Hem – though they must have burst from the side streets in an ambush – the road was suddenly swirling with the bloodguard, the giants of Imank's personal forces, and he found himself at the edge of a raging battlefield. Driven by sheer instinct, he twisted and ducked around struggling knots of fighters, trying not to trip over bodies that were writhing on the ground. Then, as if they obeyed an order that Hem couldn't hear, the Dagra soldiers began to run away from the giants, toward the Iron Tower, screaming and howling. There was a noise like the screech of stone in terrible anguish, so loud that Hem thought his ears would burst, louder even than the soldiers and the rising howl of the wind and the great crashes of thunder that might not be thunder at all, but the sound of towers falling. For now the ground was shaking so much and buildings were bulging strangely, their walls rippling as if they were curtains of silk: surely that was a turret falling out of the air and smashing into the road, arcing eerily like a slow fountain of stone, crushing the soldiers in front of him before they could even throw up their hands or cry out...

  And then at last the storm burst over him in bolts of hail and freezing rain, and out
of the sky came cold things of winged flame whose livid, undead faces made Hem utterly lose his mind with fear. He ran like a witless insect through a chaos of rain and stone and wind and blood, not knowing where he ran, not knowing anymore even who he was.

  When Hem came to his senses, he found he was lying on a mess of rubble, in a silence that seemed as deafening as the noise that had preceded it. I must have tripped, he thought with wonder. He couldn't remember how. He opened his eyes, which had been jammed shut, and at first thought he must be blind: it was so dark that he could see nothing. Water fell on his face from the sky, and he was shivering with cold.

  His body ached all over. Slowly he checked his arms and legs. Miraculously nothing seemed to be broken. He sat up and tried to see where he was. He was in some kind of pit. Maybe, he thought, that's why it's so dark.

  On his hands and knees he crawled up the rubble, making little landslides of pebbles and rock that made no sound at all. He peered over the edge of the pit.

  At first, all he saw were blobs of red flame swimming in darkness. He shook his head, blinking, and tried to look again. Where was he? He could recognize nothing around him. Gradually, as his eyes adjusted, he made out the jagged mass of the Dagra mountains against the lighter clouds, and then the spike of the Iron Tower; but he couldn't recognize anything else. The Iron Tower seemed to be on fire. Other points of flame moved about crazily in patterns that made no sense: he blinked again and realized they were people carrying torches.

  Still nothing made any sound.

  I lost Nisrah, he thought emptily. He ran away. It was all for nothing...