Age of War

Chapter 52

The silent streets of Atlas were unnerving. Hadrin kept looking over her shoulder, expecting another surprise attack of some kind, but none came. The city was simply abandoned. The sun had set somewhere behind the grey wall of clouds, and now it was dark, and not a single light shone in any of the buildings. Atlas was a city that never really slept – there was always someone going about their business, whatever the hour – and to see it like this reminded her of riding through some ancient necropolis. The only sound was the rustle and clank of armoured soldiers all around her; the oppressive darkness smothered the usual chatter and gossip she’d have expected. That wasn’t the only reason of course: taking the walls had been a devastating undertaking for the army, and there were few amongst the host who hadn’t lost at least one friend to fire or arrows. This was not a victorious force riding triumphantly into a conquered city; they were more like huddled refugees, fleeing from a catastrophic defeat. Ahead, the white walls of the Imperial Enclave loomed above all but the very tallest towers. The braced gates were firmly shut, and the only light in the city came from the tops of the battlements, where torches shone weakly, their flames guttering in the wind. There was something deeply ominous about that great alabaster bulwark crowned with its faint orange lights. It seemed to stare her down, challenging her, taunting her, reminding her of those who had fallen on this long journey to this moment. The moment when she, a woman born and bred in this city, would enter it as an invader. “This isn’t right…” she murmured softly.

Falla, riding beside her, nodded, but he’d misunderstood her. “They must be knee-deep in shit in there,” he said, “a million people? Surprised we can’t smell them from here…”

She looked back at the Enclave. Something was amiss. She refused to believe that there wasn’t some other trick waiting for them. She’d underestimated Albrihn. That was usually the last mistake a general ever made – misjudging an enemy, that was. The problem, she could admit to herself, was that even now she couldn’t think of the man as her enemy. She’d first become aware of him as a brash young lieutenant in her regiment; a talented rider and a skilled swordsman. She’d been interested to watch the trajectory of his career, as he’d settled into a command role and continually excelled. She trusted him. She relied on him. He was one of her own. And she’d turned on him, and now she was laying siege to his army. This was the true test of any soldier though. Loyalty was all. Loyalty meant honour, it meant victory. Had she been loyal? To her own cause, yes. To the cause of those who believed that Atlantis and its survival was the most important thing. Hadrin was, above all else, a patriot. Since she’d been exposed to the philosophy of the Recidivists, that secret organisation threaded through every strata of Atlantian society, she’d felt it matched her own private beliefs. It gave words to something she’d only before known as a dim notion in her mind. Atlantis was strong, and strength came through stability. She was reminded of the old proverb of the foolish lord’s house: a lavish and intricate palace, built on the seashore to take advantage of the warm breeze, the view, the bathing or whatever. But no matter how well he built his walls, they always collapsed because they were set on shifting sand. A simple story, one told to children, but with a valuable lesson. Nothing, no matter how wondrous, can survive without solid foundations. That’s what the Recidivists believed: the foundation of Atlantis was strong and had been proven so by virtue of its millennia of endurance. To ensure it survived millennia more, it must be built upon, maintained, shored up against threats. This was, they (and she) firmly believed, the greatest civilisation in the world. To let it die for the sake of petty politics and changing whims would be a crime against all of humankind.

Hadrin was sincere in that conviction, and was prepared to kill and die for it, but even when reflecting on her justifications for leading this campaign, it was impossible to bury the guilt. She’d attacked her own city. She’d killed men and women whose only crime was remaining loyal to their oaths. She’d betrayed comrades she respected. And now…now they’d reached the endgame. Whatever happened, it would be done soon. That, at least, filled her with relief. She was a warrior, and war was her business – she’d never been so desperate to end one before. She finally rode into the wide plaza before the Enclave’s gates. The army was digging in, filling the surrounding streets, heaving war engines into place, settling down for what might be a long siege. The Chronusi, motivated by neighbourly rivalry as well as vengeance for the fallen, had assumed they were free to ransack the abandoned homes and shops. Saffrey had made it clear that wouldn’t be tolerated. He intended to be Emperor, and Atlas would be his capital. They laid siege to a fortress within a sprawling city, and any locked building was considered sacrosanct, so they camped in the streets like vagabonds. It seemed madness, but Saffrey was convinced he could still win over the hearts and minds of the Atlasians. Vion, he insisted, was on the brink of being overthrown. He alluded to his allies within the Enclave, to Recidivists hiding in the ranks of the foe. Hadrin wondered why, if his agents were so numerous, they hadn’t done more to help them already. Since the beginning, Saffrey had been telling her this would be simple, that it was just a formality, that their enemies were a corrupt band of indolent aesthetes. But they had paid for every stride of ground they’d taken so far in blood. Thousands lay unburied outside the walls, and the air was thick with calling crows, sounding eerie in the darkness.