City Of Ruin

by Mark Charan Newton

  *

  The next morning, Nanzi left him again for a day’s work with the Inquisition. Voland didn’t mind her choice of career, realizing she wanted to do her bit for the greater good. He could understand her motivation – here was a young lady who saw the bigger picture, and there was something to be said for that. It was why she so clearly understood that keeping the city fed was essential – also part of the bigger picture. How many people had they kept alive by now? Hundreds at least would have starved if it wasn’t for her nocturnal activities.

  Garbed in his long-sleeved undershirt, a white shirt, black breeches, and a leather apron, Voland strolled down to his abattoir, lighting wall-mounted flambeaus along the way. There could be no heating system here like in much of the rest of the city: it would make the meat reek as it went off.

  As far as private workspaces went, this was a large area, perhaps fifty strides wide. Before Voland had moved in, it was utilized for housing livestock – that was before the meat supplies ran out as the encroaching ice crippled surrounding smallholdings, followed by the larger, industrial farms who were not supported by cultists. That had meant the abattoir was a cheap property to purchase.

  It had been designed for animals to enter at one end then flow around narrow, curving passages, so they could never see what lay ahead of them or be able to turn around. Those complex lanes now stood empty, with only the echo of a smell to remind him of some poor animal shambling here dumbly towards its fate.

  There had been a separate area for slaughtering the beasts. During exsanguination, channels and gullies had carried excess blood into external drains, which in turn exited via a natural slope into the sea. Pullers were fixed to the wall for removing the hides. There were areas for collecting solid waste, which would be taken to the pig farmers south of the city, and a couple of large cauldrons for plunging carcasses to make the skin easier to remove. The coldest room of all was separate and deep, well away from the external walls, so that any bodies stored for a day or two might not rot too quickly.

  Nanzi’s latest haul lay waiting on the entrance table in the first room he entered. No sooner had he stepped into its cube of darkness than the Phonoi appeared. The Phonoi were his reward for a successful operation on the daughter of a landowner on Blortath. That place being near the cultists’ island, Ysla, Voland assumed they were based on some relic. The father had been a traveller and explorer, but never once said that the Phonoi were anything to do with the ancient technology. He had said folklore suggested they were simple spirits, from another time entirely, perhaps even another dimension. They would serve the owner of the lead box in which they travelled, now Voland, and upon release they would do whatever he wished of them, as if interpreting his thoughts. But he preferred to keep them free, surfing the air currents, in case anyone should venture down here and discover his activities. He could only imagine what damage they would do to intruders.

  ‘Good morning, Doctor Voland,’ they now said. The shapes swirled like the constituents in a drink being mixed, never really taking form unless they needed to.

  ‘Good morning,’ another cooed.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Grand, thank you,’ Voland replied.

  ‘Wonderful!’ they said.

  ‘Lovely!’

  ‘A lovely morning, too!’

  Voland said, ‘I haven’t looked outside yet. Is it snowing?’

  ‘No, doctor, no. The skies, they are clear today. It is as if the ice age didn’t even want to be here.’

  There was some wisdom in that. Voland, ever a practical man, could not accept the ice age – a strange phenomenon, and one that didn’t sit right with him. Sometimes there would be a warm current of air that felt more natural, as if that was what the weather should have been. Then it was beaten away by chill force.

  ‘Would you help me’, Voland enquired, ‘with the latest two? Nanzi brought them in last night.’

  ‘Of course, Doctor Voland, of course!’ The Phonoi assumed vague definition against the darkness of the room, only a fraction of light penetrating from outside, but it caught their form, their fabric. Now like wraith-like children, they swooped down on the corpses, a man and a woman, unwrapped them from Nanzi’s silk, then transported them, so that a less keen eye might think they floated across the room of their own accord.

  As they accelerated around the innermost room, the Phonoi’s energy heated the cauldron, flames rapidly bringing the water to the boil. The two corpses were dropped in, momentarily, then hauled out again while Voland selected knives from the wall. They were both hung up from the ceiling, and Voland began his work of removing their skin, extracting the organs and offal, then choosing the finest cuts of meat. The most dangerous incision was the first, through the chest and downwards, because if you were not careful there was a danger of the blade slipping into a vital artery in your own thigh. With such an injury, many a man had bled to death on an abattoir floor. Attentively, he set to work.

  Two hours later, Voland had stored enough meat to feed an entire street for the week to come, off-cuts and steaks and offal all placed into separate containers. Once he had scrubbed the chamber and spruced himself up, he set out towards the iren. There, he would provide the traders with something they could sell cheaply. For the people. All via that young Malum character, of course; he was the main buyer, had contacts all over the city, methods of ensuring that this meat was sold to the needy. Voland would have felt better if he didn’t know about Malum’s other dealings. Drugs, protection from so-called tribal raids and other gangs, widespread theft, unnecessary violence. Distant rooftop executions. It was indeed very uncivilized, but all Voland could do was think about feeding the poorer sort, and maybe helping them to live for longer.

  He himself was doing a good thing.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Venturing through the thick shafts of betula bark, they rode into a vast clearing. Ruins were scattered over in one corner, shattered and snow-crested fists of granite, remains from a time he had no understanding of. Two decayed totems were carved out of this age-blighted stone, their giant, open-mouthed faces forever staring up at the sky. Birds perched on top of them, scrutinizing the travellers’ progress underneath.

  Beyond this growth of secondary vegetation there was yet more snow, with ferns or tufts of grass emerging. Their route through the forest had been shaded from the colder winds, so this was a significantly more bearable section of the journey, especially whenever the sunlight burst down, illuminating the intensity of the colours all around. It was about a hundred paces to the other end of this clearing where a sinister stillness lingered. It was if they were being perpetually watched. Maybe these were totems that have seen sacrifice in a previous era, Randur thought. Maybe we’re being followed by ghosts . . .

  He urged the sisters forward, while Munio lagged behind, forever glancing around himself.

  ‘Perhaps we should remain here for a while,’ Munio called out, searching for the sun. The skies had cleared momentarily, and the swordmaster was scanning the elements to interpret time and direction. ‘It’s about midday, and we’re well on course. Let us rest a little while. You young things set too speedy a pace for old Munio.’

  ‘I could still go on for a bit,’ Randur replied. ‘Ladies?’

  Eir nodded assent, silent and unreadable. She slid off the horse she shared with her sister and clasped the hilt of her sword. She seemed to be holding on to the blade as if that was all she had left. Every day she practised swordplay, every day she improved. Randur was impressed with how much she’d changed since leaving Villjamur. If only he could have something else to focus on other than worrying about her protection. His mind was falling apart without the distraction of other people and the busy city.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Rika declared, although she seemed spectacularly fragile. She wasn’t well-built by any means, and how she managed to cope out here in these harsh conditions was beyond him. Probably retreating into whatever castle she’s constructed in her head with all that
spiritual-discipline crap of hers.

  ‘I’m too old!’ Munio grunted theatrically as he sat down on a fallen tree. There was something unusual about his face as he peered between the trees, towards the sun, then back.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Randur asked.

  ‘Nothing, young Kapp.’

  Randur had been feeling paranoid for a while, and the old man’s anxious gaze did nothing to lighten this mood. A sudden rush of noise from within the trees, and Randur spun immediately, drawing his sabre. Nothing was visible but the vacant dampness of the forest, layers of dark brown and green, and the patches of snow.

  ‘Munio?’ Randur glanced around again. Munio remained seated, his face pressed into his hands.

  Breaking twigs.

  The clunk of metal.

  An arrow shaft thumped into the nearest tree, forcing Rika to jump back, startled.

  ‘Jamur Rika, Jamur Eir,’ the voice boomed across the clearing. ‘This is Sergeant Howls of the Eleventh Dragoons. A hundred soldiers of the Regiment of Foot surround you. Please, cooperate with us, and let’s be on our way.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Randur grunted. Imperial soldiers. How could they have tracked us out here? Eir gripped the hilt of her sword, ready to fight till the end, while Rika stood quiet and resigned.

  Soldiers faded in through the forest foliage, cracking back small branches.

  A moment later, a lean and stubbled soldier approached. He appeared to be in his forties, with close-cropped dark hair dappled grey. Standing over six foot, his face was every bit that of an experienced veteran, pockmarked and scarred, and with eyes that said he had no time for messing around. ‘Munio?’ he said to the swordmaster. ‘You’re free to go, of course. One of the privates will see about your reward.’

  ‘Uh, sarge?’

  ‘Yes, Felch?’ The soldier turned impatiently to one of his comrades, a significantly younger and more cautious character.

  ‘Spot of trouble on that front. He’ll have to take credit notes because we, uh, forgot to bring all the money from the barracks.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, just deal with it, someone,’ Howls muttered despondently.

  Munio wouldn’t make eye contact, wouldn’t let Randur see his face. The old man held his face firmly lowered in his hands.

  The realization dawned on Randur. ‘You fucker. You hand us over, for what?’ Randur made as if to strike him before one of the soldiers stepped in to restrain him, pinning his arms behind his back. Randur strained to break free, his muscles stinging with pain. ‘How much were our lives worth to you, you wanker?’

  His wrists were clamped in manacles, as were Rika’s, while Eir was soon stripped of her sword.

  ‘You said a man can change, young Kapp,’ Munio mumbled, his gaze still to the ground. ‘You can never completely change who you are. I will take my place in this world as a bastard, willingly, and for that I can . . . I can only apologize.’

  ‘Money’, Howls interjected, ‘is a great leveller, but you three are too young to understand that just yet. Right then, from here you’ll be taken to Villjamur to face charges. I think you’ll know what’s likely – you’ll be slaughtered on the outer wall of the city – and Urtica has asked to perform the task himself this time. I believe, his words were “This is personal”, which means we must keep you alive for the time being.’

  ‘You realize’, Randur muttered, ‘that we’re innocent in all of this.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Howls replied. A smile. ‘Go into any gaol and they will say the same thing.’

  Just then a bass groan seemed to deconstruct the air around them.

  Suddenly a man – or something resembling one – landed in their midst, collapsing down to one knee to break his fall. His impact with the ground could be felt by all. The figure remained there for a moment longer, head down as if in prayer, a dark cloak enveloping him.

  Lithely, he stood up, clearly taller than any soldier there. Seven feet at least, he had long black hair, and his skin was a pale blue, his cheeks so sunken they seemed stuck to the bone. As he scanned his surroundings his eyes resembled two lumps of charcoal. He turned to reveal that he was dressed in exotic military clothing, a metallic X binding him across the chest. Casually, the new arrival withdrew two sabres from over his shoulder, fat blades that were twice as long as any Randur had ever seen, let alone used.

  Soldiers all around unsheathed theirs in response.

  ‘You are Jamur military?’ this apparition asked, a grating tone that was almost painful to listen to.

  ‘Uh, technically, it’s Urtican military now—’

  ‘Very well. It matters little.’ The speech was slow, as if the intruder was practising the Jamur language from scratch.

  ‘True. A different wax seal on our orders, mainly.’

  ‘Quiet, Felch.’

  ‘Sorry, sarge.’

  ‘We’ve no business with you, whoever you are,’ Sergeant Howls grunted, advancing slowly towards the stranger.

  ‘Leave these individuals – the females. Be on your way. No harm will find you.’

  ‘Impossible.’ Howls scowled. ‘We have orders from Emperor Urtica himself to return these prisoners to Villjamur.’

  ‘If that is the case,’ the stranger appeared to be in deep thought, ‘then I will have to eliminate you.’

  Randur was bemused by the creature’s arrogance. Who the hell is this thing, trying to save us? Not that he was complaining, assessing the size of the bugger. Rather have him on my side in a scrap . . .

  ‘You’, Howls sneered, ‘against a hundred Imperial soldiers?’

  ‘It seems unfair. Yes. But I have warned you. Do not say that I have not given you a chance to submit to my will.’

  ‘Fuck this,’ Howls grunted, then gave a series of quick, sharp orders to his men.

  A flurry of activity from the soldiers as they moved effortlessly, with a programmed discipline, along the perimeter of the clearing. Their ranks soon totally obscured the blue-skinned figure, all except for its head. Dozens of arrows began snapping through the air, and Randur could see the edge of the immense blade the stranger had brought with him as its swing-arc became a silver blur.

  Everything seemed to happen slowly.

  A staccato pinging of metal rang out, and a first line of ten soldiers surged towards the stranger – before they fell rapidly, their bodies ripped and broken. Randur had never heard so many men screaming at once. They moved forwards, they died. This stranger was a deadly presence.

  The creature’s blade flashed horizontally, severing two heads. Soldiers on the opposite flank paused in terror.

  Blood flecked the snow ever more densely, as further men collapsed, some even dying as they sought retreat, their backs carved open, their spines severed. Without discipline, they now attacked in twos and threes, but gained little ground on the creature, the reach of its blades being so great.

  Randur watched in horrified awe.

  Screams eventually faded. It didn’t take much to realize what was going to happen. Randur almost willed the next two men to flee, but, with both weapons gripped in one hand, the creature picked up one of the soldiers by the throat with the other, crushing his windpipe with one fist, while he skewered his blades into the stomach of the second. The man dropped lifeless to the ground, the other fell apart in two separate sections.

  Several soldiers could be seen retreating into the darkness of the forest, and then there fell a perfect silence, not even allowing the sound of bird-call. Randur peered around for some sign of Munio, but the coward had already made his escape. Munio Porthamis had always been – and perhaps would eternally be – a fucker.

  Randur’s heart throbbed as the blue-skinned man turned to face them. With precise steps that showed no regard for the varying depth of snow, the large figure advanced towards them. Don’t say anything stupid, Rand. Not now – not ever.

  Their rescuer paused before them, Randur seeing its features clearly for the first time. Its skin was the same shade as purpling dusk,
and the eyes lacked pupils so it was difficult to know who it was looking at. There was a gesture made towards the two girls, and Eir stepped in front of her sister.

  It said: ‘You are heirs to the Jamur lineage?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Very well. It has taken me far too long to track you down since you fled the city. I am Artemisia, an agent of the Truwisa.’ They stared blankly at him. ‘My words mean nothing to you?’

  The women shook their heads, and all Randur could do was stare at the blood drenching the stranger’s clothing. Underneath the blood, glimmered material like silver chainmail, yet it was clearly some type of embroidered fabric. Deep cuts severed the material at the sleeves, and there was a gash across the creature’s chin and several scars across the cheeks and forehead, but whatever it was it gave no signs of being in pain, and it seemed perfectly at ease amid the human wreckage.

  ‘At least it is not my own blood,’ the being grunted, following Randur’s gaze. ‘Or yours, for that matter.’

  ‘True,’ Randur admitted. ‘It’s just that . . . you know, we’re, uh, not quite sure what to think of some man just falling out of the sky.’

  ‘I am female . . . And maybe it is best if you do not think of anything for the moment. Now, let us move further into the clearing.’

  ‘Perhaps’, Randur suggested, ‘you could help get rid of these chains first?’ The creature leaned over, and with an effortless tug pulled the metal apart.

  ‘Very kind,’ Randur said, stunned at the display of strength.

  They stepped across the fresh graveyard, where limbs lay ripped and broken all about them, a glade of the dead. Rika could not bear to lower her gaze.

  ‘I have been following you ever since Villjamur,’ Artemisia repeated. ‘All in all, this escape of yours has upset my plans greatly. Had you remained inside your little city then the task would have remained simple. As it is, I have had to follow your trail. It has not been easy.’