Free The City by Stella Gemmell

anyone alive. At first the way they were following went down and down. The Halls became narrower and smaller, until they were merely tunnels. Bartellus was starting to believe they could go no deeper in the bowels of the City before feeling the flaming heat of the earth’s core when the Halls started soaring away again, high above the light of his torch. He wondered how deep they were, and how long ago these great chambers were built. He remembered what Archange had said about city built above city.
    ‘Do you know where we are?’ he asked the girl, though he guessed the answer. She shook her head.
    The Hall was dry and dusty, as if water had not touched the floors for centuries. Yet they were well below the level of the stormwater tunnels. How could a lower level be this dry? Shrugging to himself, Bartellus dismissed the problem from his mind. He was no architect, no engineer. Just a soldier.
    They pressed on, the girl still holding his hand, and before long one end of a lofty stone bridge loomed ahead of them. It seemed to span a wide dry way, perhaps a river once, Bartellus thought. Surely not a road? Though he raised his torch, he could not see how high it went, nor the length of its span. The huge steps started well above their heads. It seemed a bridge made for giants.
    ‘Shall we cross?’ he asked the girl. He had convinced himself that the child had an instinct for where they were going in relation to where they had been. She seemed confident, although Bartellus guessed that she too had never travelled as deep as this before. He was happy for her to make their decisions for them. It was their only communication.
    She looked around her gravely, then nodded.
    He bent down and picked her up, placing her on the first of the giant steps. Then he motioned her back and, as she retreated, he threw the blazing torch on to the step beside her. She jumped forward and picked it up and held it for him.
    He looked around. There was a pile of broken wood and large chunks of timber in one dusty corner, as if swept there by the giant bridgebuilder’s broom. He dragged two of the bigger blocks to the base of the bridge, then several sturdy chunks of wood on top, making two makeshift steps. If they were forced to come back this way they would be able to get down again.
    The steps of the bridge were too high for the child to climb, so Bartellus lifted her on to each one, then scrambled up himself. It was hard going, and when they reached the top he felt no sense of progress. They stood together in the echoing darkness. There was no sound, not even of rats. Since the storm Bartellus had had half an ear cocked all the time, listening for the sound of water. He imagined it now, a tidal wave rushing at them out of the gloom, scouring them off the bridge like motes of dust.
    But there was no sound, no water. Gathering his energy to go on, Bart took a last look around and glimpsed a white blur below them. His old eyes strained to see what it was, and he realized it was the shape of a woman, clad in pale robes, standing at the base of the bridge below them. He opened his mouth to call out, but his heart suddenly withered in his breast. The figure carried no torch. No one could survive deep in the Halls without light. Into his mind came the tales, told by Dwellers with fear and sometimes relish, of creatures in the depths they called wraiths. He shook his head at such nonsense.
    ‘Wait,’ he told the girl.
    But when he looked again the pale figure was gone. He looked about, peering into the silent gloom. The child watched him curiously. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
    They sat for a while, drinking the water Archange had given them, then they went on, climbing down the other end of the bridge. After that the way quickly started to rise, and it was their downward journey in reverse; first they travelled through high Halls, then the tunnels became mean and cramped, and damp. Soon they were walking along the side of a stream again, just as they had