Age of War

Chapter 57

Albrihn galloped down the long, straight path towards the haphazard bulk of the palace that sprawled before the greying sky. The trees that had once lined this boulevard had been hacked to pieces to make arrows, and some memory of a time when he and Vion had walked this way beneath a canopy of yellow-green leaves one fading summer came to him suddenly. It wasn’t the destruction of the trees that had brought an end to those days, but they seemed emblematic of what was happening, and what he’d lost. Atlas – and Atlantis – would take a long time to recover from this madness. The palace had no entrance to speak of, rather the terraces and verandas started to creep into the surrounding gardens and then, almost without realising, you found yourself in the airy embrace of the labyrinthine Imperial household. He drew up before a short flight of steps leading into a high rotunda, beyond which was a helical staircase disappearing into the depths of the building. Saffrey’s horse was tied to a pillar, listlessly picking at the brown grass. It was a fine animal, and Albrihn thought it a shame it was overshadowed by its ostentatious gear. He dismounted and allowed his own mount to wander free. He wouldn’t stray far.

Saffrey was long gone. Albrihn jogged up into the rotunda and looked up at the domed ceiling. A scene of orgiastic decadence was picked out in relief as white marble men, women and everything in between cavorted scandalously. The staircase led up to a gallery and a set of four arches opened onto raised corridors that wound in different directions beyond that. There was no sound of footfalls in the distance. He clenched and unclenched his fists, transfixed by indecision. He’d outmanoeuvred Saffrey in this battle, but that had been down to the man’s overconfidence. Now he was pitted against him directly, as surely as if they faced one another over a black and white queens board, and he found he was struggling to anticipate his plans. There was only one reason Saffrey would come to the palace: only one target he could have in mind. Albrihn was exhausted. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days. All his energy had been bent to organising his forces, trying to defend his home, wrapping his head around his rapidly-shifting future, mourning fallen friends. It was all too much.

He knew where Saffrey would go. It was exactly why he’d sent Vion where he had. Could Saffrey second guess even that though? Would he head for the obvious destination? Impossible to say. It was time to roll the dice, as Morrow would have said in one of her pre-battle speeches. He missed having his friends around him; having just a handful of veteran soldiers whom he knew he could rely on absolutely. He missed being part of a band of siblings, adventuring across the world, no concern beyond the next battle. That was over now. The Seventh were almost totally depleted, and their like would never be seen again. Now, he had to protect the other things that he loved. He couldn’t lose any more today.

He walked out of the rotunda. His horse was grazing a little way into one of the terraced lawns, seemingly content. He looked up at the palace with its columns, balconies, roofs, all heaped up on top of one another. How much time had he spent here? Not much, probably, when he thought about it. He could hardly say he knew his way around well enough to never get lost. But he knew how to get to one chamber in particular very well indeed. He couldn’t catch up with Saffrey, but he might be able to get there before the man went searching for his quarry when she wasn’t where he expected her to be. He started to remove his armour, tossing aside the breastplate, unbuckling the greaves and pauldrons, taking off the helmet and dumping it all onto the grass. It felt wrong to do that with something so precious, but he had no time to dally. He shrugged off his mail shirt even, then refastened his sword belt, ensuring his blade was free in its scabbard, an old warrior’s habit. Then, he took a running leap towards the closest wall of the rotunda and grabbed onto a knot of marble decoration. There was no shortage of handholds on the sides of the elaborate structure, and he began to pull himself upwards, rapidly scaling the exterior wall. Beyond that the way was more difficult, but direct. Inside the palace, the halls took a visitor in great sweeping whorls, offering stunning vistas but little opportunity for haste. Up here, there were no such limits. He attained the crown of the rotunda and began to run, heedless of the slippery stone and tiles beneath his boots.