Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  We're close now, Jeryd thought.

  Again they hauled the corpses to dark corners. 'Good work, lads,' Jeryd commended them.

  Forwards, again with weapons ready, to a well-used corridor. They passed an arm detached from its body, dried blood arcing up the walls in a manner suggesting an execution.

  Another soldier was posted outside a closed door, and the look on his face said he didn't want to be there.

  Fulcrom's distant shot wasn't clean, so Jeryd was obliged to fire his at closer range, his bolt catching the man in the throat and throwing him back against the stone. Jeryd searched the body for a key to the door till Fulcrom pointed out that it wasn't locked, merely bolted shut from the outside.

  Into the room beyond.

  Tryst looked up from the table, two guards hovering behind him. 'What the--?'

  'I might've known you'd be involved, you bastard,' Jeryd spat at him.

  The younger investigators came swarming past him and the guards backed off, outnumbered. They dropped their swords with a clang and held up their hands. One of the investigators looked back to Jeryd questioningly.

  'We can't take any prisoners,' he sighed.

  Swords were thrust below the breast plate of each soldier, and they fell to the floor in disbelief like drunks at the end of a long night out.

  Jeryd stepped towards Tryst, who had now backed against the wall.

  'So you're an Ovinist, too,' Jeryd said sadly.

  Tryst managed an uncomfortable nod.

  Jeryd grunted a laugh. So his own subordinate was really working for Urtica. Somehow that didn't surprise him. The depths this man had already gone to were ridiculous.

  'How can you be here? You can't. I mean--'

  Jeryd thumped him repeatedly in the stomach. 'What exactly do you mean? Don't think I won't rip out your fucking tongue if you don't.'

  Tryst eventually stammered something of a response. 'I . . . set cultist devices to work on your house. They should have killed you.'

  Jeryd glared at him. 'You mean my home is rigged to do what exactly?'

  'To explode . . . I didn't want to. I was forced to.'

  Jeryd thought immediately of Marysa sitting at home with Tuya.

  'Why should I believe you?' Jeryd said. 'After all your damn lies.'

  'Jeryd, I really think you should go back home to see everything is fine. Forget about these refugees - they mean nothing to the likes of us. Just go and we can forget all about this. Come on, Jeryd, I know we've had our ups and downs.'

  'Ups and downs? You bastard. You've betrayed me. You've betrayed yourself.' Jeryd lowered the crossbow, and Tryst relaxed. In one fluid movement, Jeryd swiped the weapon across his assistant's face, knocking his head back hard against the stone. Tryst fell with a gasp, and Jeryd kicked him once in the stomach. 'Now tell me what the hell you're doing here. You're obviously involved with killing off the refugees, but how?'

  His boot across Tryst's throat, the crossbow aimed.

  Tryst weakly indicated the table on which stood several bottles of liquid and some measuring instruments.

  'Go have a look,' Jeryd urged to Fulcrom. Then, to Tryst, 'How were you going to do it?'

  'Toxin sprays and serums. Kills painlessly within the hour.'

  'How many have you killed so far?'

  'Only about fifty.'

  Jeryd said, 'And how many are left down here?'

  'Hundreds, but thousands are to come at a later date. We wanted to get rid of them slowly so as not to cause suspicion. We've only taken the first batch . . .'

  'Where are they? Through there?' Jeryd indicated a door at the far end of the same chamber.

  Tryst nodded.

  For a moment Jeryd considered what value Tryst still presented. Then he thought about his home, about the deadly threat to Marysa.

  'Who's behind all this?'

  Tryst lay still. Not a flinch or flicker. Instead he stared past Jeryd at the ceiling, a glazed look in his eye as if he was already dead.

  The old rumel looked down at Tryst.

  He thought of his own wife.

  He thought of the deceit.

  Jeryd fired a bolt through Tryst's eye.

  Reloaded.

  He took out his knife and slit the man's throat before fiercely regarding the others. 'We can take no prisoners. Remember, no witnesses.'

  'Right,' grunted Fulcrom, turning away.

  *

  The stench of them came first. The crowd of prisoners had been held here for only a short while, possibly only a day or two, but without food and water. Hundreds of faces, the first wave of people destined to be poisoned, tilted towards the investigators without a sign of either expectation or fear - just resignation. Men and women with children in their arms, slumped against the walls or sprawled on the cold stone floor of the wide tunnel, with just the few rags and blankets they had carried with them for warmth, unaware they'd been brought here to die.

  Jeryd walked around them, telling them of their situation. Told them of the threat. Did they understand him, did they believe him? Did they want to leave and enter the ice again?

  Amongst them lay the dead, one or two with the living still clinging to them. Bodies turning blue with poison, bodies shrivelling like fruit . . . One of his men was retching violently behind him, and Jeryd could hardly blame him.

  People began clamouring for food and water, but all Jeryd could offer them was their freedom - a concept that seemed to confuse.

  'We have to get you out of here,' he called out repeatedly. Then, to Fulcrom, 'Let's open up the other end of the tunnel, wherever that is.'

  Jeryd left two of his men by the door they'd come through, and eight of them now progressed through the crowd of refugees to investigate what lay ahead. The air seemed oppressive. Occasionally a woman would scream, and a man would groan.

  They finally reached another makeshift door, metal and firmly closed. He knew a sentry would be posted beyond it, so they eased it opened a fraction, then kicked it wide. Fulcrom's crossbow bolt caught the single soldier who was already rising from his chair, then they rolled his body into darkness.

  The further they progressed, the colder it became, and despite there being no light, Jeryd sensed they were close to the exit. Eventually they were making headway by touch alone along a narrow passageway, yet as long as they were in darkness, nobody could see them.

  Then finally it came, freedom.

  A burst of light and cold air, followed by the adjoining wastes of a refugee camp - a battered tent-city, dying fires, black silhouettes of trees on the horizon, wind wailing in across the tundra. And if you looked back you could see the outer wall of Villjamur looming, which these unfortunate people had been staring at optimistically for months.

  'Go and lead them through,' Jeryd ordered to one of his men. 'Force them, if necessary, if they seem unwilling to leave shelter.'

  It took them an hour to get everyone out. The refugees came shambling out into the open, with obvious reluctance. They stared at the snow as if they had never seen it before.

  Their joyous liberation was something of an anti-climax.

  Jeryd, for his part, felt more depressed and exhausted than he had ever done in his life.

  When the last child had trotted free, Jeryd dispersed his anonymous band, their Inquisition medallions being enough to see them safely past the soldiers at the gates.

  Fulcrom now faced Jeryd, a look of misery upon both their faces, and they were searching each other to find the right thing to say.

  'It doesn't feel as good as it should do.'

  'No,' Jeryd agreed.

  'They could die even sooner out here, in this ice,' Fulcrom observed.

  The younger rumel was right. The Freeze itself would most likely kill them sooner or later. Now they were merely refugees once again outside the gates of Villjamur, and what could they do now?

  'Do you want to get back to your house?' Fulcrom suggested.

  'I should.' Jeryd shuddered. 'There's a danger that Tryst
might have been telling the truth for once in his miserable life.'

  'I'll go with you, in case I'm needed.'

  What a strange feeling it was to have a colleague thinking after his safety.

  *

  As the street wound its way upwards in a gentle arc, they trudged the cobbles doggedly feeling their thighs ache. Jeryd contemplated how old he was getting.

  Fulcrom suddenly pointed out a black trail of smoke wafting across the wind-tossed sky.

  Jeryd began to run up the hill, leaving Fulcrom pointing behind him, fearing the worst.

  Towards the smoke.

  Towards his house.

  Passers-by in the street stared at him because so few people ever ran these days, what with the constant snow on the streets. Even a dog barked in surprise. Then he fell on the ice, struck his knee on a cobble. Cursing, he pushed himself up and limped on.

  *

  Fulcrom arrived a moment later to find the old rumel on his knees in the snow, in front of the debris of his home. Fragments of wood were strewn across the entire street in countless splinters, broken bits of furniture were smouldering, roof tiles and shattered glass lay everywhere, and where Jeryd's house once stood, there was now merely a ragged hole.

  Fulcrom walked over and placed his hand on Jeryd's shoulder. The old rumel was gently pawing at some fleshy remains.

  Fulcrom cringed. It could once have been a foot.

  A young investigator approached, a grey-skinned rumel not long signed up.

  Jeryd tilted his head towards him as if he could offer him his life back.

  'Were you first on the scene?' Fulcrom enquired.

  'Yes, sir. My name's Taldon, and I've been here a quarter of an hour. We've searched the remains and we've found one body so far, but no one could have survived this. The damage is immense.'

  Jeryd began to shake violently. Fulcrom released his shoulder, gestured for Taldon to go.

  'I'm . . . I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry.'

  The old rumel merely sobbed, clutching at the snow like a child. Fulcrom couldn't believe this. After all Jeryd had done for the city over the years, to receive such recompense. Because of Tryst. Or Urtica?

  'If the chancellor wanted you dead, Jeryd,' Fulcrom advised, 'it's probably not too safe to hang around here long. He might still be out to get you.'

  'A moment,' Jeryd sobbed. 'Just give me a moment.'

  'I'll take you home with me. Then I'll look after it all, OK.'

  A scream, a female voice calling. Marysa came running through the snow.

  Jeryd looked up as she ran towards him, her hair bouncing.

  The two of them hugged each other so tight they might have become one entity, and still Jeryd would not let her go.

  At last, through his tears, he asked her, 'How did you . . . survive?'

  'It was those kids with the snowballs. They smashed a window and I went out to chase them away down the street.' She began to cry too, perhaps imagining for the first time what could have happened to her. And Fulcrom loved this irony, that Jeryd's tormentors, the Gamall Gata kids, were responsible for saving his Marysa.

  There were about eight of the same kids now hovering nearby, though empty-handed now. And Jeryd smiled at them, waved, then he laughed through his tears.

  The kids shrugged, a little confused, and a blond one shouted, 'Sorry about your window, Jeryd. We didn't do the rest though, we swear.'

  'I know,' Jeryd said, a peaceful smile on his face. He began to chuckle, tears in his eyes. 'Don't worry, I know.'

  Fulcrom wondered about the woman, Tuya, who was presumably dead - no one could have survived an explosion like this. From what Jeryd had told him, she'd led a lonely life, and he felt sorry that there was no one to mourn her, no one to even know she'd been killed. How many faces must she have seen in the night? There were hundreds of thousands of people in Villjamur, and hardly any of them would have meant a thing to her. He felt a pang for her exit from the world, despite having never known who she was.

  People moved on, and the Gamall Gata kids trotted off, all apart from the blond and redhead, who stayed for a little while longer, looking on as the snow fell in thick, heavy streaks whilst Jeryd and Marysa remained in the cold, clutching each other as tightly as they could.

  Kneeling in the wreckage of their lives.

  Interview with Chancellor Urtica, to be nailed to the door of every tavern and Jorsalir church by order of the Council.

  HISTORIAN: Thank you for seeing me, chancellor. Can you just confirm, for posterity's sake, why you've organized for an interview to be issued across Villjamur?

  URTICA: Certainly. We're about to organize the executions of the Empress Rika and her sister tomorrow, and we will be starting the Empire afresh. I have been selected as the only candidate to go forwards and construct the new era - an era of more open politics, with nothing to hide. What more suitable a manner to do this than with interviews? With pamphlets circulated around bistros, taverns and whatnot, I can communicate with the people. I am, after all, a man of the people. So it is a new kind of leadership, and it is time the people had honesty from their leaders - not as before with a madman and then a murderess!

  HISTORIAN: Well, that certainly sounds encouraging. Now, could you tell us a little about the strange circumstances surrounding Rika's exit?

  URTICA: I'm very sad to see that a woman would want to do something like killing her own people. It was simply wrong. I found out about it, of course, and I investigated further - it was clear that Rika and Eir had signed a document requesting the refugees be killed. The Inquisition followed it up, of course. The Council decided that this level of deception is unacceptable, so I did what I could to save thousands of lives and my efforts were rewarded by the Council.

  HISTORIAN: Will you therefore be letting the refugees in as a peace offering in these dire times?

  URTICA: Unfortunately no, the refugees suffer from dreadful diseases that could harm our people. And it is suggested there are tribal terrorist factions amongst them who wish to penetrate the city in order to destabilize our democratic ways. We cannot permit such a risk. Unfortunately, this might also mean that we must conduct more searches on the streets of the city - in such treacherous times, we must join together in purging Villjamur of such evil, tribal radicalism.

  HISTORIAN: There were rumours of a botched military operation on the far side of the Empire recently. Could you enlighten your subjects as to those events?

  URTICA: These are searching questions! I shall remain honest with you: several regiments of our brave soldiers were crossing an ice sheet when a savage band of Varltung warriors used cultist trickery to destroy them. Our troops didn't stand a chance. As a result, I will be declaring open hostilities against all Eastern tribes and, as soon as is possible, we might initiate a full-scale invasion.

  HISTORIAN: Some people have suggested that your missions to the Varltung islands might be merely to claim more resources. What do you say about this?

  URTICA: It is utter nonsense.

  HISTORIAN: Has your ascent to the most senior position of the Empire been challenged in any way?

  URTICA: Well, it's important to remember that I was in a hugely senior position even within the Council. Perhaps second only to the Empress in terms of role. Due to this fact, that I helped to save thousands of lives, and also that several other Council members supported me for Emperor, the majority vote was with me. We are not a barbaric people - of course the matter was debated heavily, and this is a democracy we live in, after all. I was the chosen one.

  HISTORIAN: Chancellor Urtica - soon to be Emperor Urtica - thank you for your time.

  URTICA: Thank you.

  FORTY-SIX

  Randur tramped along the streets of Caveside, collar flipped up, head down, a couple of bags slung over his shoulder. He was a totally focused man. His ribs still ached from the beating he received from the soldiers in Balmacara. The dogs that ran around his feet were skinny to the point of death, with no energy even to b
ark and he knew that feeling all right, was himself close to it right now.

  He approached Denlin's house, then stopped and stood looking at the door. If he was the religious sort he would have said a prayer right now, because things were that bad. He couldn't believe what had happened, how his life had changed so quickly. One moment she was in his arms, amid the dazzling pinnacle of wealth and society, all elegant postures and smiles, the focus of everyone's gaze. And now she was locked away with an order of execution hanging over her.

  Randur didn't believe for a minute that she was guilty. She didn't have it in her, and he knew her almost better than anyone. And he couldn't believe her sister capable either. This had the trappings of a set-up, but it was outside his control. You couldn't fight directly with people that well connected, with that much influence. His problem now was how to get her out of there. If he succeeded, from that point on he'd be a hunted man, so he had to get himself well clear of Villjamur too.

  He banged on Denlin's door, glancing across the decaying structure of the house. There were architectures in this city that were beyond his comprehension, astonishing in either their complexity or simplicity, employing layers and techniques that were alien to more recent craftsmen.

  The door creaked open. '. . . fucking knocking at this time? Oh, Randy lad, what can I do you for? You look right pissed off.' Denlin, standing in white night wear, waved him in.

  Randur said nothing as he passed through the doorway and dumped his bags on the table. 'You alone?'

  'No, I have several of the most sexually active women in the city keeping my bed warm,' Denlin muttered as he closed the door.

  Randur sat down at the table.

  'What's wrong then?' Denlin took a seat opposite him, poured himself a cup of water from a jug, gesturing for Randur to help himself. The young man shook his head.