Nights of Villjamur lotrs-1

by Mark Charan Newton

  'Apium, Nelum: stay here. Your life before the Empress's.'

  'Sir,' the two men said in unison. They drew their swords and took up position by the carriage.

  'Lupus,' Brynd turned to the third, 'come with me and bring your arrows.'

  'Of course, commander,' Lupus replied.

  The two jumped on their horses, followed the Dragoon into the darkness of the betula forest.

  'Private, what's the issue?' Brynd enquired as he ducked to avoid branches, his sabre in hand.

  'Those draugr creatures you warned about earlier. We've spotted some.'

  'How many are there?'

  'Approximately fifteen, it seems, commander – at the edge of the forest, on the Baering Moors.'

  Brynd was above all determined not to let these creatures harm the new Empress. And furthermore he wanted to find out where they came from, what their motives were or who had sent them. He'd never heard of such a thing in the Empire, so why now, why on Jokull?

  Through the trees, hooves thudding against the forest floor, twigs snapping as they brushed past.

  They finally came across a group of Third Dragoons, the Wolf Brigade of around forty men, their helmets glinting in the light of the moon. Their official standard – a white wolf rampant, against a green background – leaned against a tree in the forest clearing. Brynd was reassured at the number of soldiers assembled.

  Their sergeant stepped forward, a blonde woman wearing the familiar black and green uniform of the Dragoons. She sheathed her sword, placed her wolf's-head shield to one side. He saw her face was tracked with abrasions from the tribal campaigns she had led successfully a while back.

  'Commander Lathraea,' she said. 'I'm Sergeant Woodyr. Has Private Fendur explained the situation?'

  'She has,' Brynd confirmed.

  Lupus jumped down, tethered both his own horse and Brynd's to a tree.

  The three of them then proceeded over to the edge of the forest. Quietly, she pointed. 'Look.'

  Brynd's eyes narrowed.

  Across the moorland, about a hundred and fifty paces away, stood a group of draugr, the moonlight from the moon Astrid casting bold, eerie shadows across the earth around them. Wind blew constant ripples through the short grass, but the draugr didn't move, only their fluttering garments. It was an ethereal picture.

  'They've been standing there, as if unwilling to move, for some time,' Woodyr explained. 'At least half an hour now since we first discovered them.'

  Brynd's eyes grew accustomed to the scene, seeing the figures were dressed in rags, merely strips of cloth hanging off their flesh, both men and women. 'Have they done anything at all yet?'

  'No, commander,' the sergeant confirmed.

  'Has anyone approached them?'

  'Not after your earlier warnings. We waited for you to arrive to assess the situation.'

  'I'm glad to hear it.' Brynd turned to Lupus, said abruptly, 'Shoot one.'

  The private walked to the very edge of the forest. With a clear aim at most of them, he nocked an arrow, brought it to anchor point. 'Any one in particular, commander?'

  Brynd tilted his head, said, 'Try that one.' He pointed towards the nearest motionless figure. 'Aim for the head. We know that a body shot isn't all that effective.'

  Lupus released the arrow. It whipped through the air and struck the draugr in the eye with a crack as the skull shattered. The creature fell to the ground under the force of the blow, twitched slowly, like a fish on dry land. None of the other draugr reacted. They merely remained stationary in the moonlight, staring ahead, or at nothing at all.

  'Cover me,' Brynd ordered. 'And, sergeant, line up all the archers you've got. Make sure they watch my back and keep the rest of those things away.'

  'Yes, commander,' Woodyr replied, and returned to her unit.

  To his left, the archers lined up against the fringes of the forest.

  Brynd made his way across the moor, stepping tentatively over the soggy grass, crept up to the creature that Lupus had just shot. Its skull had been split by the force of the arrow, the shaft still buried deeply. Stitching around the creature's neck, a black line evident across its blue-tinted skin. Brynd unsheathed his sword and poked at it, but it didn't respond, maybe it couldn't sense the touch of the metal against its skin. A worrying sign.

  Brynd glanced back at the forest, reassured at the metal glinting in the moonlight, the swords and arrowheads at the ready should anything happen to him. He walked on between the other draugr. Their heads were all tilted to one side, making them appear to be asleep – except he could see their eyes clearly reflecting the moonlight.

  He approached one of the creatures that looked like a woman, the long blonde hair stirring gently in the breeze. He scraped his sword down one arm, drawing black fluid from beneath the skin. The draugr didn't react, obviously couldn't feel any pain. Was this in any way a human after all? He realized that, whatever they were called, these creatures were not alive in any normal sense, but in all his years in Jamur service he had never seen anything like them.

  Returning to the fallen draugr, Brynd untied his belt, hooked it around the creature's ankles, dragged it back to the edge of the forest, his feet slipping on the grass, and all the time looking back to check that none of the others were now following.

  Sergeant Woodyr came forward to help him. 'What do we do, commander?'

  'I don't see these ones as a threat exactly, but I think we should shoot them all down. We'll need a barred caravan, then pile them in and bring them back to Villjamur. They can't be left standing out here. Make sure to cover them up so the public don't see them. There's enough panic in the city already.'

  'Sir,' she saluted, then gave her men the order to fire.

  Dozens of arrows were instantly let loose.

  SEVENTEEN

  Randur entered the complete darkness of the caves of Villjamur. It was the first time he'd ventured here, mainly because everyone had warned him of the perils. Too many unsavoury characters, they claimed. You'll get your head kicked in. Robbed. All the worst villains in Villjamur live there.

  And that was precisely why he was heading this way.

  It was the smell that got to him first, a rancid, surprisingly humid odour. The first street he came across was like those on the lower level of the main city, the same kinds of taverns emptying out drunken men and women who were clawing the walls to guide themselves home. Shops all closed, ghostly presences in the night. The few coloured lanterns burned steadily, however, in the absence of any breeze. Stray dogs pursued their solitary paths through narrow alleys. People walked by with hoods raised, giving them all a needful anonymity.

  Randur slid his hands into his pockets, could feel the jewellery, sharp and cool against his palm. He didn't know exactly how he should be feeling about his latest behaviour, but he would sell the stuff and use the money to pay Dartun. Surely granting his mother the gift of life counted as a positive moral act. He could be doing nothing wrong if he was saving a life. Lady Yvetta would barely miss those trinkets, and he would continue doing the same with many other women in Balmacara. I'm fine with this, he decided. Lady Yvetta was hardly going to expose herself by branding him a thief.

  An excellent plan had been initiated. Randur's fictional thief, the one that stole from rich lonely ladies, had been spotted. Or rather, Randur was spreading rumours to anyone who would listen about a short, fat, blond man that dressed in baggy breeches – crimes to fashion too! – who had been sighted on more than one occasion, slipping from windowsills into darkness. Randur even suggested that the culprit might have been loitering near Lady Yvetta's apartment the previous night. His tracks had to be covered. He had managed to blag himself this far through life – another set of lies would hardly hurt him. But from now on he would have to select his women and jewels with more caution.

  The further he penetrated them, the caverns became bizarrely higher. Some of the spires from the main city could have easily fitted under here. There was the eerie high-pitched sound
of bats echoing far off above, and there was a lot of thick smoke due to the lack of ventilation. How far back did this strange section of the city extend?

  He came across a fenced-off open section, like an excavation. It was about fifty paces by a hundred, stretching back from his path to the rock of the cave itself. By the light of a lantern stood a hooded man working with a shovel in his hands.

  'Hey,' Randur hailed him.

  The man stopped digging. 'Fuck you want?'

  'What's going on here? Archaeology dig?'

  The man laughed. 'Graveyard, mate. A new one.'

  'New one?' Randur echoed, resting both hands on the low wooden fence.

  'Yep,' the hooded man said. 'They've filled all the deeper holes down in the caves. Our esteemed Council raised funds for a building here to be cleared, so we could fill the land it occupied with the dead.'

  'Thought they always burned the dead. It'd save room, too, wouldn't it?'

  'Aye, you're right.' The man began to chuckle. 'Only thing is, this place here is for murderers they've executed.' He leaned forwards conspiratorially. 'Burying them keeps their spirits trapped here. Can't have their foul spirits passing on to the next realm, can we? Ha! They'll be filling it up quick. Take it you've not been down this way much? Where y'headed, mate?'

  'I'm not sure exactly,' Randur said. 'I'm looking to sell something.'

  'Whatcha got?'

  'A few bits of jewellery,' Randur replied. 'Not on me now, though. Any dealers down this way?'

  'Depends. You won't get much cash down here unless you go, well… even deeper underground, if you follow. See, shops here in the caves ain't likely to hold much in the way of jewellery. Would soon get stolen.'

  Randur said, 'So, where do I go to find such a customer?'

  'That depends. You can look after yourself OK?'

  Randur peered into the hooded darkness concealing the man's face. 'I reckon as well as anyone in this city.'

  'That's the spirit, lad! Couple of taverns further in's what ya need. Probably a half bell's walk if you carry right on down this road. Look out for the Jinn or the Garuda's Head. You just tell the bar staff there that you're trying to offload some goods. There'll probably be some sort of brawl in there most likely.'

  'Thanks for that.'

  From under his soiled cloak, the man extended a bony hand that appeared utterly bloodless, as if he should have been lying in one of the graves himself.

  'Right,' Randur acknowledged, and reached into his pocket for a coin.

  'Much obliged,' the man murmured, and headed back to tend to his graves.

  *

  Deeper in, the houses became much more cramped together.

  Randur peered through lantern-lit windows in the crudely built shacks to see large families huddled together inside – cheek by jowl, as his mother would have said. Amazing that the sunlight would never penetrate this far to brighten their lives. The walls were so flimsy that every sound could be heard by the neighbours. What must it be like trying to sleep with babies crying all around them in the night? Not even gardens in which children could play, and the damp washing was strung up in front of their doorways. Everywhere monotonous shades of brown, grey, black. Surely if those refugees outside the city knew what it was really like to live in Villjamur then they would prefer to take their chances with the ice.

  The outline of a vague shape was stretching across the entire roof of the cavern. Something up there glittered faintly like starlight. But that would have been impossible.

  And it suddenly struck him how completely anonymous he was in Caveside. Despite his new position at court, he was now in an alien city where no one had heard of him. That gave him a peculiar sensation when he paced the muddy cobbles.

  Suddenly, from a building to his left, two men burst onto the street brawling. A cloud of alcohol followed as several men piled out of the tavern after them, cheering them on. Light from the open doorway spilled out on the grotesque scene. The brawlers cursed each other and rolled about on the ground. They punched each other's faces and grabbed each other's garments as if to frantically swap clothes.

  I reckon this must be one of the places I'm looking for.

  Someone from the crowd stepped forward and kicked one of the fighters on the head with a solid-looking boot. It snapped back, neck broken, its owner lying perfectly still. The other man got up, brushed himself down, patted the killer on the shoulder. Together with the gathered onlookers, who were muttering approvingly, they returned inside. Randur studied the inn's sign. He had indeed arrived at the Garuda's Head, a crudely whitewashed building, with a pair of external torches burning. As the corpse lay on the ground in a pool of blood, a banshee could be seen approaching in the murky light. Randur stepped quickly into the tavern.

  Everyone turned to stare as the stranger walked towards the bar, the sound of conversation dipped. Even with a shelf of candles distributed around the room, the place was barely navigable. The walls were plain, with little decoration, just the odd dull and faded painting of battle and hunting scenes mainly, the odd seascape. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling, wood panelling glowing behind. He tried to gauge the tenor of conversations, but all he could hear was the hushed mumble of men talking into their drinks.

  Randur leaned boldly against the wooden countertop at the far end of the tavern. Rough-looking types stared at him suspiciously through a cloud of pipe smoke. He could smell arum weed, lager, and fish being fried in some other room. The counter was littered with tankards and used plates that no one had bothered to clear up.

  Randur produced a knife from out of his sleeve, and slammed it on the counter followed by a handful of coins, which eventually rattled to a rest. 'Lager,' he announced to the grubby man standing behind the counter.

  'You'll need more money than that,' the fat barman replied, wiping sweat from his cheek.

  Randur laughed awkwardly, pretended to rummage in his various pockets. He placed another few Drakar on the table. 'That's all I've got.'

  The barman counted the coins slowly before grunting what sounded close to an approval. He turned to one side to pull the drink. Having given that little display, surely no one would think Randur worth robbing.

  A grey-haired man propped to his right muttered, 'Pretty flashy blade that.' He indicated the onyx-handled knife that Randur had placed on the bar counter. 'You wanna be careful you don't get it taken from you. You can never be too careful in Caveside, like.'

  'I wouldn't worry yourself,' Randur replied defensively.

  'Just sayin', like.' The old man blew his nose into his hands, which he then wiped on his breeches.

  Randur frowned at this display. The man who had addressed him was so thin and starved-looking, he appeared half-dead. His cloak was in good condition though, and still a deep green. He wore several polished copper bangles and brooches, all bearing leaf motifs, and even his boots were particularly well-shined.

  Randur decided his neighbour wouldn't be able to give much trouble. 'Thanks for your concern.' The barman placed the tankard of lager on the bar. Having remembered his identity wasn't real, he felt safe in continuing the conversation. 'I'm Randur. Who the hell are you?'

  'They call me many things round here, young Randur…' the old man began. There was an authority in his voice, the sort that made you suspect some kind of prophecy was imminent.

  Randur waited for a moment as the man stared ahead aimlessly. 'Well, you going to tell me one of them at least?'

  'You can call me Denlin.'

  'Well, Denlin, what do you do exactly, apart from propping up this bar?'

  'Ex-soldier. Jamur Eighth Dragoons – and for forty years, too. Forty years of the military.'

  Randur sipped his lager casually. 'So, what did you fight with?'

  'Longbow and crossbow, lad. I was an archer by trade, before my eyes started failing me, that is.'

  'And is that why you quit?' Randur said. 'Your vision failed you?'

  'Wasn't that really,' Denlin said. 'I'm no dribber –
I can still bring down a garuda from the sky on a windy day.' He looked down at the beer-stained floor. 'Admittedly my vision's not what it used to be.'

  'Well anyway, Denlin the Archer,' Randur raised his tankard, 'here's to things not being quite what they used to be.'

  'You seem too young to be mouthing words like those,' Denlin muttered. 'Those're words only a man who's lived a bit should be saying.'

  Randur shrugged. 'You don't have to be old to know that life will throw a good deal of shit your way.'

  They clinked tankards.

  'So, lad, tell me,' Denlin said, a new froth of beer on his lips, 'what brings you Caveside?'

  Randur checked the barman was out of earshot. 'I'm looking for… certain people.'

  'Know a lot of people, me,' Denlin pressed. 'Who you looking for? Anyone specific?'

  'Look,' Randur decided suddenly that the old man could be a lead, 'I need someone interested in buying some stuff from me.'

  'Buying and selling, yeah? Hmm. You wanna be careful with your valuables round these parts.'

  Randur said, 'D'you know of anyone who might be into regular trading with me?'

  'Well that depends, lad,' Denlin said. 'Depends what needs trading.'

  Randur leaned closer to the old man. 'Look, I screwed a lady, and I took her jewels. I need to make myself some coin, and I need it quick.'

  Denlin burst into a hoarse laugh. 'Ah, I used to do a bit of that myself, lad. Ha! You sort of remind me of me.'

  I truly, truly hope not, Randur reflected, leaning back to examine him. That would not be a great reason to continue living. 'Anyway, can you help me out?'

  'Maybe, maybe not,' Denlin said. 'What's in it for me?'

  'One in every ten coin is yours,' Randur said. 'I've got a lot of jewels already, and I plan to have a lot more. You'll end up making a fair bit out of me.'

  Denlin nodded thoughtfully, then brought a pipe from out of his pocket already loaded with arum weed. 'You in some kind of trouble, lad?' He lit the pipe. 'Someone who wants coin this way has gotta be havin' some problems.'

  Randur shook his head.