The darkness seemed to sharpen her hearing. She was aware of the hull creaking, and the scratching of rats. More distant sounds, of orders shouted and running feet, drifted to her. She fell to turning events over in her mind.
A nagging thought was that her old masters, the CIS, should have been watching the ports. Serrah couldn’t believe they weren’t, it was such a basic precaution. Yet somehow she’d got through unchallenged. She hoped it was plain dumb luck and not some elaborate trick. That was a path to paranoia and she forced herself to ponder other concerns, like where she might be going, and what she could do about food and drink.
She felt the ship weigh anchor, then the bumps as it scraped against the harbour wall. Free of restraint, the vessel bobbed gently from side to side. Small pieces of unsecured cargo slid back and forth on the hold’s floor. In due course the motion calmed and they were properly underway.
As best she could judge, something like an hour had gone by when she heard a new set of noises. She sat up, alert, grasping her blades. Through her peep hole she saw the glow of a subdued light and a pair of crewmen appeared, one carrying a hooded lantern.
Were they searching for her? Would they notice the storeroom’s open door? If the answer was yes, she determined to make a fight of it. Her grip on the blades tightened, though her palms grew sweaty. She remembered her misgivings at entering a place with only one exit, and started to regret the decision.
But the sailors weren’t searching. They didn’t spot the open door, and they made little effort to be quiet. One sat on a crate, the other rolled a barrel over and perched opposite him. They took out cob pipes and stuffed them with rough tobacco. She realised they were off watch, or simply skiving, and allowed herself to relax a fraction.
They passed a hip flask back and forth as they smoked and talked. She strained to hear their conversation, but caught only snatches.
‘…thank the gods it’s east we’re going and not north,’ one of them said.
His companion replied, but she didn’t catch the meaning.
‘Not according to my brother,’ the first man went on. ‘…some kind of… sweeps aside everything in his way.’
Again, she couldn’t quite hear the other man’s response, but its tone was sceptical.
‘…many in the barbarous regions, granted,’ stated the one she could hear more clearly, ‘but none…’ Frustratingly, he must have turned his head. Serrah pressed her ear to the crack. ‘…different, you mark me.’
She couldn’t get the sense of it. Then she heard a stray word.
‘…Zerreiss…’ It was a name she’d heard before, but where or when escaped her.
At least she knew they were travelling east, which was something. The rest of it was too disjointed to mean much, but she carried on listening.
She heard that name again, more than once, as their exchange droned on.
Zerreiss. Where
had
she come across it?
Serrah was trying to remember when exhaustion took her. She fell into a pit of sleep as dark and silent as a tomb.
10
The first glimmer of dawn. Sunlight lanced through the canopy of a great forest, making trees loom ghostlike in the dissolving mist. Silvery dew melted in the warmth, and birds began their morning chorus. The start of a day like any other.
Where the forest ended, pasture lands took over. Farmhouses surrounded by patchwork meadows, cottages sitting prettily on gentle hills. Herds of cows waiting to be milked, fields dotted with sheep softly bleating.
Abruptly, the birds stopped singing. The cattle fell mute. Even the drone of insects faded away.
The silence was so sudden, so palpable, it brought people out of their houses. Frowning women wiped their hands on flour-dusted aprons while youngsters clutched at their skirts. Men shaded brows with their palms to scan the landscape. In the fields, workers straightened, sunshine glinting on the cambered blades of their scythes. They all strained to see what might be causing the unnatural hush.
Very faintly, a sound could be heard.
It seemed to come from deep in the forest. Perhaps from beyond it. The farmers and their kin exchanged perplexed, uneasy glances.
As the racket drew closer they realised it consisted of not one sound but a mingling of many. And given the distance it appeared to be travelling, it had to be very loud. Then they were aware of a weak but growing vibration beneath their feet. Clouds of birds rose from the treetops, spooked by whatever was approaching.
In fright, the women gathered their children and pushed them indoors. The men armed themselves with pitchforks and axes. Everyone stared at the forest’s curving rim, for now they were sure that whatever produced the sounds was skirting its border. Movement could be seen through the trees.
Around the lip of the forest came a motley assemblage of mounted men, wagons, carriages and much larger structures of some kind, obscured by clouds of dust.
The more perceptive among the farming folk, the more worldly, guessed what was happening. But it was too late.
A lone rider came ahead of the rest. He slowed his frothing horse to get his bearings. Those looking on were too stunned to call out to him. It would have made no difference if they had; the pathfinder, which is what they realised he must be, didn’t even notice them. After a moment spent reckoning his course he spurred on, straight across their fields, scattering livestock. The onlookers began to shout then, and frantically waved their arms, but their cries were lost in the din.
Several score cavalrymen arrived with shining breastplates, standards aloft. Rare grandeur for this rustic backwater. As they chased the trailblazer, a detail of paladins at least a hundred strong thundered after them, maintaining strict formation.
Then the full torrent of chaos flooded in.
A disorderly mob of riders started to come by, many in diverse uniforms, their numbers impossible to count. Imperial guards mingled with watchmen and militia. Court sentries rode alongside detachments of army regulars. There were traders, peddlers, vagrants and chancers in the multitude; itinerant musicians, guildsmen, riderless horses, coach-loads of jovial harlots. Flags, lances and banners swayed above the throng. Bobbing in the flow were merchants’ carts, buggies, rigs and wizards’ chariots; wheeled cages housing exotic, roaring beasts, pulled by teams of oxen. The noise was indescribable.
The earth shook, and a thousand smells, from roasting meat to dung, permeated the air. Crops were flattened, trampled, churned to mush. Cattle stampeded, fences were levelled. Carried by the tide, haystacks unravelled.
But the farmers’ wrath gave way to awe and alarm when they saw what came into view next.
Dozens of fabulous floating mansions and chateaux, drifting like great ships in the ocean of humanity. Magnificent constructions of marble, granite, wood and stained glass, with lavishly decorated facades and twisting spires.
But for all their huge size and splendour they were dwarfed by the structure they surrounded. Like a bloated slug in a column of ants, it was mountainous by comparison. The gigantic hovering palace, an extravagantly embellished confection in marzipan pink, white, blue and black stone, boasted crenellated ramparts, flying buttresses, keeps and balconies. Its numerous towers, cut with arrow slits, were so tall the farm folk cricked their necks trying to see their tops.
Fantastical glamours flew over and about the tremendous palace. They took the form of winged men and horses, dragons, serpents, ladybirds the size of rams, and schools of giant, vividly coloured fish that swam in circles around the towers. Other glamours displayed the royal coat of arms and regal emblems; images drawn in fire on shimmering backcloths of gold.
The lesser palaces ploughed through lone trees and copses. They crushed hedgerows and demolished barns. Peasants ran for their lives as a floating castle clipped the corner of a farmhouse and brought it crashing down. The castle had an ostentatious watchtower, and its bell clanged at the impact.