Suddenly the two soldiers were upon her. She leapt up, hovered momentarily with her hands pressing up against the brick ceiling, then she kicked one of their heads. Stunned, the man fell to the floor, and Lan landed beside him. She looked up as the other brought his sword down — she rolled to the left, before she spotted more agents approaching.
‘Vuldon!’ she screamed. ‘Tane!’
‘Come here, you freakish bitch,’ one of the agents sneered, reaching out for her while the remaining guard tried to grab hold of her. Tane arrived just in time, drawing his claws across the man’s throat: it blossomed with blood and he collapsed. The second agent stepped back alongside the soldier.
As Vuldon arrived and started unremittingly thumping the face of one of the other agents just behind, Lan moved to gaze inside the last cell in the corner.
There, hunched up against the wall, Fulcrom turned his bloodied face towards her.
‘Stand back from the door,’ Lan spluttered, trying to force it open — unsuccessfully. It was made from some alloy, a good inch or so thick, and with a complex-looking locking mechanism. She gripped the bars of the tiny window set into the door, and shifted her feet up onto the wall to one side. Then she began panting heavily, seeking her reserves of strength. As the fight raged on around her, she reached deep inside herself… then a few moments later released a burst of magnetism. In the blast, her heels piled into the stone, her arms stretched taut at the elbows and wrists, and she wrenched the door — still within its frame — bringing the two surfaces inch by inch apart. She relaxed and collapsed to the floor.
‘Vuldon,’ she moaned loudly.
The big Knight lumbered to her side and, with one palm against the wall, he instinctively pulled the alloy away from the stone — it seemed so easy to get in now that she had prised the surfaces apart.
Vuldon moved back to allow Lan inside, where she took Fulcrom’s outstretched hand.
‘How are you? Did they hurt you?’ she crouched beside him and her questions were answered well enough by just looking at him. His face was covered in blood, one eye had swollen shut. And…
‘My tail…’ he spluttered. Down to one side was his thick tail — severed, like discarded rope. Lan felt the tears seep into her eyes. ‘How could they do this to you?’
‘They wanted to know where you’d gone,’ Fulcrom said. ‘But I wouldn’t tell them.’
This was because of me? She gathered him in her arms and sat with her back to the wall, and she was careful not to squeeze him too hard.
From the doorway and silhouetted against the crack of light, Vuldon, completely unmoved, said, ‘I saw to them, Fulcrom. I got them for you. Every last one.’ She saw drips of blood fall at his feet.
‘Much appreciated,’ Fulcrom replied. He seemed unsure what to make of Vuldon’s state.
‘Are you bleeding any more?’ Lan asked Fulcrom, stroking his hair.
‘No… My tail… it’s probably no use to me any more…’ Fulcrom spoke between breaths, still with pride. ‘What is the plan?’
‘First we need to clean you up.’ Lan then informed him of the rest: the rogue cultists, the anarchists being close to victory, Ulryk’s position on the Glass Tower.
‘Ulryk,’ Fulcrom said. ‘He’s the important one here. Whatever he’s doing, we must follow him. I have a suspicion that, if the city is as you describe, not a lot else matters.’
*
Caley had fallen to the rear of the group, cautiously looking back to see if they were being followed — so far, they weren’t. Still they moved through darkness. Caley’s inability to see anything made him even more nervous than he should have been. He wanted to see his enemies. As they reached the large, winding stairway that led up to the fifth floor, Shalev whispered for them to stop. Two soldiers were stationed on the next floor, either side of the top of the stairs. There was no way of passing without being spotted — and that would be it, their cover blown, attention drawn, the Emperor ushered out of the building.
Shalev ordered them to huddle and she drew out another relic, threw it up — something flashed — and some weird netted material descended over their group.
Caley heard the guards at the top of the stairs.
‘That thunder?’
‘No, it’s lightning that makes flashes, idiot.’
‘That’s what I meant.’
‘Must have been.’
Through the material, Caley could see one of them move down a few steps to investigate. Caley’s heart thumped hard. The guard peered about, then returned to his post. ‘Nothing ’ere,’ he replied. ‘Urtica’s mad as old Johynn was. His paranoia’s getting to you.’
The Cavesiders shuffled up the stairs, smothered in the netting, and stood between the two soldiers. Satisfied there were no others around, Shalev rolled out under the netting and something else flashed on the outside. By the time Caley managed to squirm his way out, too, the soldiers were lying on the floor unconscious.
‘This is the level we need,’ Shalev whispered.
It was a vast place, full of wood-panelling and portraits of figures in regal clothing, and Caley was in awe of the ostentatious display. Shalev pressed her ears against each door as they passed, merely as a caution.
Around the corner: four more soldiers. Upon seeing them, the guards ran towards the Cavesiders but, using their crossbows, they shot the guards in the neck or face, while three of the anarchists dashed up to stop their bodies from striking the floor loudly.
Steering them silently to one side, Shalev pointed towards the largest door in sight. With a relic in her hand, Shalev tried the handles on the double door — with a remarkable quietness, as if she’d been well practised in the arts of burglary. To everyone’s surprise, the door opened easily, and in a hushed manoeuvre they flooded into the chamber.
Shalev activated a relic, which radiated a soft purple light across the room. It was vast, with rich carpets and a hearth that had long stopped giving out any warmth. There was a tall window at the far end, snow rattling against it. The sky was lightening ever so slightly as dawn dragged itself forwards.
Caley stepped towards a desk at the end of the room, and there he saw a leg poking out from beneath it. He ran around to the other side and called Shalev over. Everyone approached.
On the floor, the other side of the desk, lay Emperor Urtica — his throat was slit, a carving knife loosely gripped in one hand. Shalev moved in to take his pulse, tears in her eyes — tears of rage, Caley realized.
‘No!’ she cursed. Then it became a moan, a lament that she hadn’t had the opportunity to do this herself. ‘No, no, no, NO!’
Caley stepped back, afraid. Surely all that mattered was that Urtica was dead?
She picked up the knife from the Emperor’s dead hand, straddled his corpse and repeatedly hammered the blade into his chest and neck. Blood spat up as she withdrew the knife. ‘My family! My life! You took everything…’
A couple of the others tried to pull her off — she had transformed from the cool woman who had led them out of the depths of the city. Shalev eventually regained her composure, realizing what she had become. The now-mutilated corpse of the Emperor vaguely disgusted Caley. Everyone else looked at the body and then each other and then Shalev, who was covered in the Emperor’s blood.
A question lingered in the air, unspoken: Now what?
Caley stepped to one side, to where the Emperor’s hand pointed. Something had caught his eye. There, splattered by blood and almost hiding under the desk, was a piece of paper. Caley picked it up and opened it, but, embarrassingly, couldn’t recognize the letters scrawled across it. He noticed the official-looking insignias, and called for one of the others.
‘What is it, brother?’ The red-headed woman, Arta, came to his side, and examined it.
‘It’s been smeared in blood, but the rest — the rest seems OK,’ she said.