The City by Stella Gemmell Page A

dawdling along, she snapped at them to pick up speed and hurried to the front, holding her torch high.
    Bartellus remembered the last time he had seen the emperor. He hoped fervently he would never see the man again.
    Up ahead Ysold marched along, setting a cracking pace, on a wide stone path bordering a low-running stream on their right. The six Dwellers had become strung out, with Em and Bartellus, holding a torch, as the dog-end.
    Suddenly Ysold cried out, and in the instant Bartellus saw swift movement to his left. He ducked and twisted, and a club swished past his cheek. He lashed out with his torch, catching someone a glancing blow. He glimpsed black shapes against the moving torchlight. The man who had attacked him was big and broad. He was also slow. As he lashed at Bartellus again with a club, the old soldier drew his dagger and, twisting, slashed the man’s forearm. The attacker dropped the club, his arm nerveless. He snarled and ran at Bartellus, head down. Bart, his back to the stream, threw himself sideways, letting go the torch. He hit the ground hard, and groaned as his knee shrieked in pain. He forced himself up. His attacker had fallen on the edge of the stream, and was levering himself up on all fours. Bartellus kicked him hard in the ribs and the man plunged into the flowing sewage and disappeared without a cry.
    Bartellus turned to find Emly. He could not see her, and hoped she had scurried into the dark. He could hear shouts and blows and scuffling, but only one torch was alight, and it was lying on the ground at the far end of their party. He could see a man with a sword raised, menacing a huddled shape on the ground. Bartellus reversed his dagger and threw it, with practised accuracy, into the man’s head.He dropped like a stone. Bartellus ran to the fallen woman, but she was dead.
    Another of their party, a fair woman, was being dragged away into the dark by a man armed with a knife. Bartellus retrieved his dagger and ran towards them, but the man saw him coming, and with a single sweep slashed the woman’s throat and dropped her, disappearing into a tunnel at his back.
    Cursing, Bartellus turned to the only other survivor, a youngster who was defending desperately against a man with a sword. The boy held a quarterstaff inexpertly, and was being forced back to the stream. He was wounded, and stooping painfully.
    Bartellus shouted and the attacker turned, his blood-drenched sword raised. Bartellus leaped at him, fury fuelling his old bones, and sliced at the man’s head. The man backed away from the blow and swept his sword up towards Bartellus’ belly. Bartellus twisted away awkwardly.
    ‘My sword against your knife, old man,’ grunted the black-bearded attacker, grinning.
    Bartellus said nothing. He took deep breaths, rallying long-unused skills. The two circled and the black-bearded man risked a glance around, seeking his companions.
    ‘No one can help you,’ Bartellus snarled, and for the first time in aeons he felt the thrill of battle rising in his chest. Strength coursed through him. Then time started to slow. He could feel the hilt of the dagger, comfortable and familiar in his palm, the texture of the rocky floor firm beneath his bare feet, and the strength in his shoulders and legs as he circled, balanced and ready.
    The bearded man lunged towards him, his sword thrusting for Bartellus’ throat. He was so slow that the old soldier almost laughed. He had all the time in the world to sway sideways, all the time in the universe to choose his spot and to ram the dagger accurately under the man’s armpit, seeking the heart.
    The man fell in the dust and was still as only the dead can be. Bartellus picked up the lone torch and thrust it into a cleft in the rock.
    ‘Emly!’ he cried, all strength suddenly gone, familiar fear returning. There was only silence, and he found it hard to breathe through the pain in his chest. He looked around. Ysold was gone, perhaps into the stream. Bartellus