flamboyant balcony gardens, and past lichen-blighted statues. More military riders drifted in alongside Fulcrom, and warning bells resonated in the distance. Fulcrom shouted directions in the hope that the military would follow, but they didn’t — they were young and unskilled riders, almost injuring their horses as they pushed them around dangerously tight corners.
Up ahead, one of the insurgents suddenly turned around and, from some handheld device, launched back two purple bolts of energy. Fulcrom yanked his mare out of the way. The soldier to Fulcrom’s left had his arm burned; another’s horse crumpled under him when her leg was shredded by the light. Fulcrom pushed aside his fear: whoever they were, they needed stopping.
Across another plaza, the chase continued: wealthy women shrieked, and their husbands stood blinking dumbly in the light as their perfect morning was upset by the hubbub.
‘Out the fucking way!’ Fulcrom yelled, using his tail for balance now. Leaving the military riders behind, he nearly slipped off his saddle when his horse lurched to the left to avoid colliding with two basket-carrying women. For a moment he thought he had lost the four marauders, until he glimpsed them up ahead. They were moving now at a much slower pace, heading across a thin bridge.
He headed after them holding his breath; this wasn’t a pathway meant for horses. It was narrow and crumbling and stretched from one platform to another like some rickety plank. The cityscape spread open below him, the glorious spires and slick slate roofs, the baroque architecture, the massive structures of legend.
If he fell from his horse he would die.
His horse tentatively plodded along to the other side before he nudged it into a gallop again, on to precarious terrain where the cultist water treatments had begun to wear off. By now Fulcrom had worked out where the riders were heading: the Jorsalir Bell Spire. Where the Council was said to be in session.
The criminal gang had dismounted by a row of expensive terraced cottages, which were used for retired military leaders, great whitewashed structures with winter hanging baskets and thatched roofing. Another road sloped up and down along a high viewing platform that overlooked the tundra beyond.
Fulcrom slid off his mare and approached. The figures were hooded, garbed in similar featureless dark outfits.
Fulcrom drew his sword. ‘Strangers, state your business.’ His voice seemed lost in the city’s haze.
‘I’d stay away from here if I were you, brother.’ Fulcrom couldn’t discern who spoke due to the scarves protecting their faces. The accent was bass but curious — definitely affected by some distant island.
The speaker seemed to be at the centre of this group; he didn’t turn around.
‘What’ve you got there?’ Fulcrom approached closer and pointed to the sack in which the man who had spoken was rummaging.
The figure turned around and commanded, ‘Brother, I have warned you — keep back.’
A thought struck Fulcrom: they had not yet killed him, or tried to, and he knew there was little he could do alone against so many if they tried. These people want someone to witness this.
‘On behalf of the Inquisition, I demand you halt and show your faces,’ Fulcrom ordered. He withdrew his gold, crucible-stamped medallion from beneath his robe.
‘And how exactly are you going stop us?’ The figure reached into his pocket and flicked an item that landed at Fulcrom’s feet, some coin perhaps, but it disappeared instantly. Fulcrom instinctively leapt back, but nothing happened.
As he walked forward he collided with something… invisible. He spread his hands, testing the unseen force between him and the stranger, who was now laughing behind the scarf.
All Fulcrom could do was watch. Infuriated, he slammed the heel of his fist against the force, but again nothing happened.
‘Your name?’ Fulcrom demanded. He tried using his sword to strike the shield around him — the physical absence — but it merely bounced off the nothing that was between him and his target.
A moment later and he watched the group run across the bridge in a neat line with sacks tied back over their shoulders, their heads held low. They sauntered across the wide road between the crenellated walls towards the Bell Spire, which looked so high it threatened to puncture the clouds. Guards, stationed there today, approached them, but Fulcrom saw the assailants use the same trick they had on him, a disc to the guards’ feet, and then they, too, were caged by an impassable force.
So they weren’t killed either — what does this group want everyone else to see?
The group moved towards a huddle of Jorsalir priests, who tottered sheepishly away, and the gang then began to climb one of the walls with frightening agility, probably using relics to aid them. Two garudas flapped in to intercept them, but flashes of purple light punctuated their wings so badly that they plummeted out of the sky.
All Fulcrom could do was watch. He couldn’t be certain, but it appeared as if the would-be terrorists were leaving devices all around the base of the thick, conical spire. Frustrated, Fulcrom walked along the edge of his barrier, still prodding it to test for weakness in that direction, but he could only go backwards, and there was no other route to the Bell Spire that way. He rested his hands on the invisible barricade and gazed helplessly across to the brigands, his breath clouding before his eyes.
The figures climbed down from the spire, leaping near the base — and almost floating back to the cobbles. They stepped up on the edge of the crenellations, spread some rigid-looking rain capes and leapt down to drift across the sleet-filled cityscape with the grace of garudas.
A moment later and the base of the Bell Spire exploded; bricks scattered like startled birds, slamming into the surrounding structures and rattling onto roads. A thunderous crack like the wrath of Bohr split the bridge first, sending it buckling in on itself and crumbling down onto the level below. The spire leaned to one side, groaning, and eventually it twisted in upon itself, as masonry dust clouded up around.
The ruins collapsed down across Villjamur. Block and brick slid into this fresh abyss, and people screamed from every direction as dozens of bodies fell from the site of the Jorsalir monastery, and Fulcrom lost sight of them a hundred feet below. For a good minute he stared helplessly, refusing to believe that all he could do was watch. People swarmed down below, in hysterics. He wondered how many councillors had been in that building.
Fulcrom turned to head back the way he came, and the only way he could go, to try to reach the crisis down below, but he noticed many of the nearby banners had been somehow replaced whilst he was facing the devastation. There were no crests here any more, no flowers, no depictions of great creatures, no displays of wealth.
Only black rags rippled in this chilling wind.
TWO
A firework exploded and the sound sent the animals cowering in their cages and rattling the bars in a feral chorus. Lan strolled along the drearily lit dust-track underneath the arena, to check that the hybrids were not too distressed. It was freezing, and the sounds from the half-empty arena seemed hollow in a way that reminded her once again of the near-pointlessness of her life in the show.
To one side, a two-headed cat growled at her meekly. Lan paused and put both her hands between the bars to rub each skull, calming the striped beast. It scratched one nose against her hand in utter contentment. She glanced aside at the rows of bars that glinted dully in the light of several cressets. How did these poor creatures feel — trapped, barely witnessing sunlight, and with hardly any food?
That goes for both of us. Rations decreased every now and then; a cost-saving, Astli explained, against the dwindling revenues. Lan’s grey breeches and thick black shirt appeared rather loose on her these days. Not only because of the lack of good sustenance for the performers, but because she didn’t like to eat under the suspicious gaze of the others. How long could she keep this up for?
Her life was reaching an important crossroads: what was the point of the circus, now that it couldn’t travel? With the icy weather, people didn’t want to move far from their homes, let alone travel to the suburbs of Villtreeb, a town the fraction the size of Villjamur. Astli had chosen this spot to settle because it was the transport centre of the island of Jokull, a shanty town that had spawned where muddied roads met and parted. Traders and travellers still depended upon Villtreeb even in the Freeze. Astli had recently ‘released’ half the entourage, and the trickle of visitors these days was barely enough to keep them in business. A few girls had even been sold into prostitution, or
