Chapter 60 - The 1st day of February, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
Major Harvey looked up warily, as the M113 passed under the city gates. It had been three months since they had departed the city. He had lost no men on that occasion and was determined to maintain that record. Ranks of faces looked down at him, reading everything from delight to horror. Men fingered spears and crossbows nervously, but no one made any move to stop them. What was it they always said about snakes? They're more afraid of you than you are of them.
Yes, but they could still bite you if you got too close.
He glanced back as they proceeded down the narrow city street, the smell of excrement, sweat and cookfires now mixing with diesel fumes as the convoy passed through. Behind him were two more armored carriers, followed by the first of his contingent's firetrucks. He could faintly see Mr. Abbott behind the wheel. The Westerosi were looking up in awe at the giant red fire vehicles. He saw some flinch when their sirens gave their unnatural scream.
They followed the vehicles ahead through the winding city streets. The wind was still howling. The latest reports had it exceeding sixty kilometers an hour, with gusts up past eighty. At this rate it would be blowing a hurricane soon. Was it some seasonal phenomenon? A surprise autumn storm? From what he'd heard, the meteorologists were still scratching their heads. Either way, the huge plume of black smoke now stretched off towards the western horizon, straight as an arrow.
Sooner than he'd have thought, they emerged into the city's central square. It was a clear area about the size of a football field, though usually dotted with market stalls and other paraphernalia. Today it was an armed camp. Some hundreds of Baratheon troops were hastily taking down tents and moving horses and carts out of the way of the convoy. At the far end, Harvey recognized a dark-haired figure that might have been Lord Renly, dressed in brilliant green and black, at the center of a knot of highborn Westerosi.
Smoke was billowing over them now, a thick plume that began maybe a few hundred feet above their heads. A few choppers flew overhead, rocking back and forth with the wind. Some would disappear into the plume and only emerge a good thirty seconds later.
They drove through the crowded space, ending up in the south-west corner. Other lines of firetrucks were branching off to the north. From the aerial shots they'd seen that morning, the fire was only a few hundred yards north of the square now. The Westerosi had been tearing down wooden houses and coating everything else with water to try and stem the blaze but had hardly succeeded in slowing its spread.
He heard the chatter of the firefighters on the radio, mixing with the military escort. A firetruck pulled up next to them. Mr. Abbott's head poked out.
"We're going to hose down these buildings, watch for embers, in case it jumps the square."
"Yes sir. We'll have your back" Harvey replied.
The trucks went forward, the carriers close behind. They entered a broad street which Harvey knew led up the hill to the local cathedral the locals called the Great Sept of Baelor. The trucks activated their hoses, laying down a thick sheen of water on the roofs and walls of the nearby buildings. Embers from across the square were indeed falling like a light snow. The Westerosi had been running about and stamping them out practically with their boots. The firefighters were rather better equipped, however.
Harvey and his squad jumped out at the next intersection. Several remained on the roof of the vehicle. Others stood around the firetrucks, fingering their weapons and looking nervously at the passing Westerosi.
Troops of sword and axe-wielding warriors were rushing about, heading for whatever skirmish was in progress at that moment with Lord Tywin's men. They continued to gawk openly at the Australian's vehicles, but still no one made any move to stop them. No fighting seemed to reach their street, for which Harvey was momentarily grateful. The radio chattered on the progress of the ongoing battle as well as the spread of the fires. Across the city, some teams were busily setting up more firebreaks, while others were laying down long strings of hoses that would reach all the way down to the river when complete.
And still the wind was picking up.
By late morning Harvey was starting to worry. The smoke overhead was growing thicker. The radio chatter reported the fire front as having reached the edge of the square itself. The wind was blowing a full-on gale now. It was getting hard to even walk down the street without clutching at something solid for support. The first batch of trucks had run dry and were heading down to the river to refill their tanks. Others were pulling up to take their place, their sirens screaming. Embers were raining down thicker than ever. Most fell harmlessly on the nearby rooftops and were quickly extinguished, but others were starting spot fires it took some minutes to quell.
He heard more radio chatter. Down the street, several crews were fighting a fresh blaze. There was a large structure with imposing walls of black stone, three of four stories higher than the surrounding buildings. Parts of the roof were starting to smolder. As it went up, Harvey noticed small teams of hooded Westerosi coming and going from a set of banded oak doors that looked to be the entrance. In their arms they held large woven baskets, which they were trying to hold with great delicacy despite the conditions. As Harvey watched however, one of them slipped on a wet patch of ground. The basket in his hands went flying. It fell on the cobblestones a few feet away, a handful of small jars spilling out. Two or three of them smashed, spilling a dark liquid.
Over the roar of the wind, Harvey heard cries of alarm. Several Westerosi dived out of the way, as if fearful the basket or its contents might explode. When nothing happened, they slowly got to their feet. The man who had fallen stumbled over to pick up his basket. With great care, he began collecting those jars that were still intact. The hood about his face was whipping fiercely in the wind. An older man went over to him, shouting something angry. Harvey couldn't make out the words, but suddenly he felt uneasy. What were they evacuating with such care? He would have assumed gold or diamonds or the like, but diamonds didn't explode.
Harvey walked over towards the commotion, followed by his 2IC and a couple of aides. For once he was glad of the almost absurdly heavy combat gear the army issued, anchoring him more firmly to the ground. They passed a small cluster of firefighters. He noticed Mr. Abbott again, clutching a firehose aimed at the roof. The black stone walls were just a bit too high however, and the wind was whipping the stream sideways. Smoke continued to pour from the top of the structure. Approaching the pair of Westerosi, Harvey tapped one of them on the shoulder. The irate man turned around.
He was a small, wrinkled figure, probably past fifty, with a pale face that attested to spending a great deal of time indoors. He looked at Harvey like he was a ghost. He sputtered something incoherent.
"Sir, what's the problem?" Harvey shouted over the wind and sirens and the blast of high-pressure hoses.
"The…the substance!" the man said. He was dancing on his feet, as if fighting the urge to run.
"What?"
"The substance! We must move it elsewhere!" the man cried, louder.
"What substance?" Harvey asked, confused and increasingly irritated.
"The substance!" the man said, unhelpfully. "It must be moved at once! The roof…"
"What's your name?" Harvey asked, changing tack.
"I am Wisdom Hallyne, the Grand Master here."
"Grand Master of what?"
The man was looking at him like he was mad. "Of the Alchemists Guild. Do you not understand?"
For a moment, Harvey didn't. He was looking from the old man to his acolytes, hurriedly staggering off down the street with their laden baskets, to the great hall of black stone looming over them, to the teams of firefighters trying to save its roof. Finally, he looked down at the spilled jars. He noticed the color of the liquid. From a distance it had looked black as oil, but now he saw just a hint of green. Suddenly it clicked.
"Wildfire?" he shouted at the man. "This place is full of wildfire?"
"Yes! The substance! It burns!"
A hundred terrible thoughts went through Harvey's mind in an instant. He turned to his 2IC. The man was already tugging at the radio on his belt, calling in a report.
"How much?" he asked Hallyne sharply.
The man hesitated. "Yesterday, we had at least two thousand pots, though today…we have been trying…the fires…"
Harvey had already stopped listening. He looked up and down the street, crowded with figures and vehicles. Suddenly, he knew, he was standing at the center of a ticking time bomb. He threw dignity to the wind. He broke into a run and sprinted the dozen paces back to the fire crew.
"Wildfire!" he screamed as loudly as he could. The figures gave a start. Mr. Abbott whirled around to look at him. "What?"
"Wildfire!" he shouted in the man's ear. "Like at the Red Keep! He says the place is fucking full of it sir!"
Abbott exchanged a glance with his companions. He looked back up at the roof. "Then we need to put this out, pronto!"
"Sir, the whole thing could go up. This stuff…its meant to be like napalm."
"By all means, call it in major. We've got to put this out first."
Harvey felt like picking up the former Prime Minister and carrying him off own the street. For a moment he was tempted, then settled for jogging back to the rest of his company. His 2IC followed, talking rapidly into the radio. He half-overheard the conversation as the report was passed up the line. Their own M113 was parked a hundred yard on, a squad of men around it. Harvey started issuing commands. Down the street, a few carriers started reversing away from the flaming Guildhall.
The street was thick with smoke now, billowing up from the main blaze across the square. Despite their best efforts its children were fruitfully multiplying all over the city. This damn wind Harvey thought. For a moment he almost felt himself giving in to superstition. Was if it was an unnatural phenomenon after all? The day otherwise seemed remarkably calm. Above the pall of smoke were clear blue skies, not the great storm clouds he would normally have associated with such a gale. How queer…
His 2IC was still on the radio. The two of them were standing by the armored carrier, looking back on the Guildhall. Some minutes past. His company had retreated back a few hundred feet, though the fire crews remained where they were, tackling the blaze as best they could. Another truck blasted its way past, clearing the throngs in front of it. Its crew poured out to add their own hoses to the effort, but somehow it seemed forlorn.
It was then that Harvey heard it, clear even over the wind and sirens and everything else. A sound resembling a small avalanche, of some great mass suddenly falling out of its assigned place. For a moment it was hard to tell, for the walls of the structure were thick stone and not easily burnt, but a fresh plume of smoke and dust told him that some great segment of the Guildhall's roof had just caved in. Through the double doors came a fresh stream of men. The Westerosi were fleeing openly now, all caution gone. A fresh plume of dust hounded them down the street. For a moment, things seemed to quieten back down to a mere cacophony, but then there started up another roar, infinitely more powerful.
Without hesitation Harvey reached out a hand for his 2IC. Clutching the man's shoulder he shoved him to the ground. The two of them just managed to dive behind the M113. From behind it came a flash of green, followed by a scalding blast of heat. A moment earlier and they would have been dead, or at least in for a lengthy stay at the burns ward at the Alfred.
For several long seconds they huddled behind the machine as the sounds of catastrophe went on. Around them, the rest of his company were sheltering behind their own vehicles. Harvey agonized, thinking on the coming headcount that would ensue. For one guilty moment he thought back on the jokes they had told each other before coming through the Ring. Don't none of you die in there. You wouldn't believe the paperwork.
Finally, something close to silence fell. His heart pounding more then he would ever care to admit, Major Harvey peered back up the street.
The Guildhall of the Alchemists was gone, and so were the fire crews…and Mr. Abbott.
######
Lord Yohn Royce felt the ground shake, and wondered for the hundredth time what was happening outside.
The cell was not quite as cramped as might have been the case, a stone square perhaps eight feet across. There was a simple, hard wooden bed with a decently think woolen blanket and his very own bucket to piss in. He had it to himself, something he was not sure could be said of any other 'guest' in this place. A well-thumbed copy of The Seven-Pointed Star was usually his only company, though a Septon would bring him his meals three times a day and oft stand outside the bars and talk with him while he ate. Demands to repent for his sins and swear fresh fealty before his holiness were not the most interesting topic of conversation, but after a while Lord Royce was half-thankful for the company. Occasionally he picked up tidbits of news, though it was seldom good.
Sounds rarely penetrated this far underground, but there had been more exceptions in the last few days. Outside must have been cacophony. He knew Tywin Lannister was attacking the city, but precious few other details. Since yesterday he had smelled smoke. Some great portion of the city must be burning. He wondered for his sons. Were they somewhere outside, part of the siege on this place? There must have been a siege. He could hear the horns and drums sometimes at night, and his meals had become decidedly leaner in the last fortnight, though the Septons continued to deny any such predicament.
The latest shaking had barely died down when he heard fresh footsteps racing down the corridor. He looked up to see Septon Raynard, a member of the Most Devout. He had only seen him three or four times during his imprisonment, usually to discuss something important. The Septon seemed far from calm today however. His plump face was sheened with sweat and his white robes didn't look like they'd been washed in many days. He was blubbering something as he approached his cell, looking around wildly. Lord Royce realized he had tears in his eyes.
"Septon?" he said, rising from his bed, startled.
"It's over!" the man cried, despondent. His eyes barely met with his prisoner. He clutched the bars like a drowning man. "Its all over! This is the end!"
"What do you mean?" Lord Royce demanded.
This is the end! The Stranger…he comes for us all!"
"Let me out of here" Royce demanded, suddenly sensing the opportunity. "If this is the end, then let me be. Let me see my sons again."
Raynard looked at him a moment, as if seeing a stranger. With a sob, he reached into a pocket in his robes. After a few moments searching he secured a key. His hand shaking, he shoved it into the lock. With a click it came open. Royce pulled off the lock and shoved the bars aside, for a moment triumphant. Raynard took a few steps back as the Vale Lord loomed over him. There might have been a time that Royce would have struck the man immediately, but something stopped him then.
"What do you mean…the end?" he demanded.
"This is the end…" Raynard repeated. "The city…it burns. The flying men are here. The Stranger guides them. His holiness had decreed…"
"Where is he?" Royce asked sharply. He was already stomping off down the corridor, his boots smacking on the rough stone. "Where is the High Septon? I demand to see him."
"He is above" Raynard replied, following after him now like a lost child. "With the king."
"The king?" Royce asked, pausing a moment at the foot of the stairs.
"Yes, King Tommen, the first of his name. Joffrey is dead."
"And what of Robert?"
"I…I do not know" Raynard admitted.
There were three levels of dungeons below the Great Sept. His cell had been in the lowest one. Royce now headed back up below ground. He passed others on the staircase. Some appeared to be newly released prisoners like himself, heading up towards freedom. Others were fleeing back below ground. As he ascended, the smell of burning grew stronger.
He came up to a small corridor branching off from the main sept. The scene was chaos. Warrior's Sons and Septons, Septas and Silent Sisters. All were rushing about, dignity gone. No one tried to stop him as he made his way into the main Sept.
The great dome was starting to fill with smoke. Through the crystal-glass windows all he saw was black. The gardens around the Sept must have been aflame. A column of Warrior's Sons passed by, carrying wooden buckets. Some of the contents sloshed onto the marble floor. A few knights and members of the Most Devout were trying to shout commands at their underlings, but whatever order there was appeared to be quickly breaking down.
Lord Royce strode down the aisle of the Smith, one of seven that met in the center of the great space. A large crowd of people were kneeling before the great gilded statue of the Father. The High Septon, broad as ever, was at their front, surrounded by the faithful. Right next to him was the figure of a small, plump boy. His hair had clearly been shaved and was only just started to grow back, but it was visibly blonde. Royce would recognize one of the royal children anywhere.
A few Warrior's Sons still stood around his Holiness, apparently steadfast in their faith. Clutching spears, a couple moved to stop him as he approached. Absent a weapon, he was compelled to stop. "Your holiness!" Lord Royce cried. The boy, Tommen, looked at him. After a few moments the High Septon did the same.
"Your holiness! Your…grace? What is this madness? We must get out of here!"
The High Septon seemed to shake his head sadly. He went back to his prayers. The Warrior's Sons continued to bar his path.
"We must get out!" Lord Royce boomed. "This place is burning!"
"The Stranger comes for us all, my lord" one of the Warrior's Sons said, with unnerving calm, the point of his spear a foot from his face. "Only those who are true of heart will be spared. The fires of eternity are coming, not just these feeble flames. You must repent."
"Get out of my way" Royce thundered. He gave up on the High Septon for the time being. He hurried down the Maiden's Isle, towards the entrance hall, but thick black clouds were already pouring from it. He stopped at the doorway, coughing from the smoke. Men were throwing buckets of water on the blaze, but the inferno was already spreading. Doors and tables, bookcases, Myrish carpets and silk tapestries, even the colored globes that hung from the ceiling, all were going up with terrible speed. It looked like all the entrances to Baelor's had previously been barricaded, and now the debris was catching like straw before it could be cleared again.
Coughing fiercely, Lord Royce retreated back into the main sept. Others were trying to shove their way past, looking for some escape, but there was no obvious route to safety. Royce was weakened from months of captivity, but he was still able to force his way into another side chamber. The smoke was thick in here too. A silent sister collapsed onto the floor, her vows now broken by great, rasping breaths. Others were already tripping over her. Prayers mixed with more earthly cries for help. The panic was spreading.
From somewhere now he could hear more shouting, and the clash of what sounded like steel on steel. There were demands for others to move aside. Despite his bulk, Royce was practically being carried along by the crowd. He soon found himself back in the main sept, near the statue of the Crone.
Looking around, he vaguely registered armed men pressing into the sept. Voices were shouting for blood, for quarter, for mercy. A Warrior's Son went down in a splash of red. It was all confusion. It was hard to tell friend from foe amid the smoke now, though he noticed the sigil of a red crab emblazoned on some of the attackers, then a seahorse, and even a falcon. Before long he had spotted the familiar black iron studs on bronze. He heard a voice. Even over the Stranger's own din he recognized it at once.
"Father! Where are you?"
"Andar?"
"Father?"
Coughing, Lord Royce managed to break through to his son. Andar was staring at him through a helm of silvered steel. Two paces behind, his brother Robar limped along, shoving begging brothers out of the way. A score or more of armed men followed in their wake. For the briefest moment, Lord Royce embraced his eldest.
"Father! We must leave this place! We must go!"
"No! We must…cough…The High Septon…cough cough…Tommen…cough is here!"
"Father?"
"Get him…cough…We must…cough…get him out!"
Lord Royce stumbled across the sept, tripping over benches all but obscured now by the smoke. The High Septon's party didn't appear to have moved. His sons took up station either side of him, while the rest fought their way across the room. With what little discipline was left, Warrior's Sons rushed to defend their leader. A sort of clumsy melee followed, both sides finding it increasingly hard to breathe, let alone fight.
Lord Royce had some time to wonder if this was truly a good idea. What if the rumors were true, and Tommen wasn't Robert's son after all? He wished he had pressed Lord Stark more firmly for details, there'd hardly been any time after he'd returned to the city. Still, the boy did not deserve to die here. The High Septon too…the man may have grown old and soft and corrupt, and seduced by lies, but he was still the living embodiment of the Seven, here on Earth. He would carry the man out if he had to.
He was still thinking these thoughts when another great rumble began, the loudest of all. Lord Royce looked up, just in time to see the great marble arches give way. Instinctively he held out a hand, managing to clutch his son's shoulder. There was no time to exchange any more words. They had time only for the most fleeting of looks, father to son, as the roof of the Great Sept finally caved in and several hundred tons of stone and crystal and glass rained down upon those still inside.
