The Hidden City

rabble in the streets, however, were ignoring him. The army was streaming along the cobbled streets of ruined Natayos toward the main gate, pushing, howling, jamming together and struggling to get through that hopelessly clogged gateway. Beyond the gate, Elron saw winking torches streaming off into the surrounding jungle. What in God’s name was going on here?
    Then his blood suddenly froze. He gaped in horror at the glowing figures emerging from the side-streets of the ruin to stalk implacably along the broad avenue that led to the gate. The Shining Ones who had depopulated Panem-Doa, Norenja and Synaqua had finally descended on Natayos!
    The poet stood frozen for only a moment, and then his mind moved more quickly than he’d have thought possible. Flight was clearly out of the question. The gate was so completely jammed that even those who had already reached it had little chance of forcing their way through. Elron dashed to his writing-table and swatted his candle with the flat of his hand, plunging the room into darkness. If there were no lights in the windows of this upper floor, the horrors that stalked the streets would have no reason to search. Frantically, stumbling in the darkness, he ran from room to room, desperately searching for any other burning candles that might betray his location. Then, certain that he was safe for the moment at least, the one known throughout Astel as Sabre crept back to his room to fearfully peer around the edge of the window-frame at the street below.
    Scarpa stood atop a partially-collapsed wall issuing contradictory commands to regiments that evidently only he could see. His threadbare velvet cloak was draped over his shoulders and his makeshift crown was slightly askew. Not far from where he stood, Cyzada was saying something in his hollow voice—an incantation of some kind, Elron guessed and his fingers were weaving intricate designs in the air. Louder and louder he spoke in guttural Styric, summoning God only knew what horrors to face the silent, glowing figures advancing on him. His voice rose to a screech, and he pawed at the air, frantically exaggerating the gestures.
    And then one of the incandescent intruders reached him. Cyzada screamed and flinched back violently, but it was too late. The glowing hand had already touched him. He reeled back as if that almost gentle touch had been some massive blow. Staggering, he turned as if to flee, and Elron saw his face.
    The poet retched, clamping his hands over his mouth to hold in any sound that might give away his presence. Cyzada of Esos was dissolving. His already unrecognizable face was sliding down the front of his head like melted wax, and a rapidly-spreading stain was discoloring the front of his white Styric robe. He staggered a few steps toward the still-raving Scarpa, his arms reaching hungrily out toward the madman even as the flesh slid away from those skeletal, outstretched hands. Then the Styric slowly collapsed to the stones, bubbling, seething, his decaying body oozing out through the fabric of his robe.
    ‘Archers to the front!’ Scarpa commanded in his rich, theatrical voice. ‘Sweep them with arrows!’ Elron fell to the floor and scrambled away from the window. ‘Cavalry to the flanks!’ he heard Scarpa command. ‘Sabers at the ready!’
    Elron crawled toward his writing-table, groping in the dark.
    ‘Imperial guardsmen!’ Scarpa bellowed. ‘Quicktime, march!’
    Elron found the leg of the table, reached up and frantically began grabbing at the sheets of paper lying on the table-top.
    ‘First Regiment—charge!’ Scarpa commanded in a great voice.
    Elron knocked over the table, whimpering in his desperate haste.
    ‘Second Regiment—’ Scarpa’s voice broke off suddenly, and Elron heard him scream.
    The poet spread his arms, trying to gather the priceless pages of ‘Ode to Blue’ out of the darkness.
    Scarpa’s voice was shrill now. ‘Mother!’ he shrieked. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ The resonant voice had become a kind of liquid screech. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ It sounded almost like a man trying to cry out from under water. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ And then the voice wheezed off into a dreadful gurgling silence.
    Clutching the pages he had found, Sabre abandoned his search for any others, scurried across the room on his hands and knees, and hid under the bed.
    Bhlokw’s expression was reproachful as he shambled back across the night-shrouded gravel. ‘Wickedness, U-lat,’ he