City Of Ruin

by Mark Charan Newton

  The commander frowned, gave a discreet nod. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘What about you, commander? Not the prettiest town about for you either.’

  ‘No, but it still needs defending. This city faces military threats, and we’re here to oversee the defence operation.’

  ‘You surely don’t want me to help with that, do you?’

  ‘No. But one of our soldiers has gone missing, a Night Guard named Private Haust. He was tall, thin, blond, blue eyes – typical of the south-west islanders. He’d only been in our unit for a couple of months, and was incredibly proud to be serving here. There’s no reason for him to simply leave his post, especially with duties still to be carried out. He’d be thrown out of the army for ignoring them, yet he’s been missing for six days now.’

  ‘What took you so long to come here then?’

  ‘We’ve conducted our own searches for the first couple of days, but our resources are limited – and the local Inquisition claimed they were too busy, then someone mentioned an officer from Jokull in the city, without many cases to deal with. I applied gentle military pressure until we got your name and address.’

  For a moment Jeryd wondered how easy it would be for his present location to be given away to some clever sod from Villjamur. If they would even bother to come looking for him, of course.

  ‘And I’ve heard about other people who have gone missing, too – not just Haust. A surprisingly large number, in fact.’

  ‘They could just be getting the hell out of here because of the Freeze,’ Jeryd suggested, while considering his options.

  ‘Not that many without leaving some hint,’ the commander argued. ‘Most people in this city seem preoccupied with just getting through each day as it comes, rather than trying to escape the ice – or even the threat of war. Besides, where else would they go? No, from all that I’ve heard, they’ve simply vanished from their homes.’

  Jeryd asked him for the usual details about the missing Private Haust, seeking minor clues that might help out immediately. To his mind, every detail mattered. From what the commander said, it sounded as if this could have been a murder, yet there was not a lot Jeryd could do in a city as unruly as this, with so little to go on. People went missing all the time. From his experience, such disappearances were an all too common mystery.

  ‘This would usually be the sort of thing I’d send some of my men out to investigate,’ the commander explained, ‘but what with events in the north, and events anticipated in the future, we’re all too busy planning and training. I need someone else to trust on this.’

  ‘You’re a very suspicious man, I see,’ Jeryd said, approvingly.

  ‘I’ve reason to be. I don’t even trust our Chancellor – who’s Emperor now, of course. Apologies, I’m still not used to the overthrow of the Jamur lineage.’

  ‘We’ve something in common there, commander.’

  Jeryd remembered all too clearly the events that transpired in Villjamur. The information he himself had uncovered. The replacement of the Jamur family line with a new ruler. The conspiracies of the religious cults. How Urtica had moved from Chancellor to Emperor overnight, by cunningly manipulating facts and words, money and people.

  The albino smiled at him and nodded, confirming a shared opinion. Jeryd then decided that they had an agreement; that he would look into this matter first thing in the morning.

  As the lithe commander strolled off down the corridor, Jeryd shuffled back to bed in his controversial breeches, put his arm around Marysa, his curves moulding closer into hers, and began to contemplate just how the hell he was going to navigate his way around a city about which he still knew next to nothing.

  TWO

  A roll of thunder, loud enough to have been generated by an invading army, the noise from the auditorium could be heard well in advance of them getting anywhere near it, as Brynd Lathraea and Portreeve Lutto descended into the underworld of Villiren. Down here there were moments of such deep disconnection from ground level that Brynd wondered if he was strolling through some nightmare.

  Rank waters trickled across their path as the snow melted under treatment from above, and it began mixing with the sewage and something else he didn’t dare name.

  ‘Lutto is aware of the smell,’ the Portreeve of Villiren mumbled, ‘but in times of crisis, the odour of my fair city – that is to say, the Empire’s fair city, ha! – is the least of my concerns.’ He waddled like a duck through the dark and featureless passageways, arms splayed out either side of his rolls of fat, a candle in one fist, and he continued leading them ever downwards – towards the riotous din. At least Brynd now faced the man’s back, so he didn’t have to look at his mendacious face, with that strangely hypnotic wedge of moustache. He thought the man grew it just so people wouldn’t search his eyes for any residue of truth lurking in whatever he said. Lutto hadn’t quite taken the ultimate plunge into full stupidity but, judging from the few conversations they’d shared, there was such potential evident in everything he said. Behind that, however, something else lurked, a vicious and spiteful intelligence that was known on occasion to be tapped. Some whispered that it was actually Lutto’s wife, and indeed, how this man could successfully lead a city was beyond Brynd. He’d only been in Villiren for a few weeks, and already he was becoming distinctly annoyed by Lutto’s manner, his way of speaking, his way of treating people – of treating Brynd himself.

  ‘How far?’ Brynd demanded.

  ‘Such impatience. A soldier, I would have thought, should—’

  ‘How far?’ Brynd growled.

  ‘Apologies, commander. Not much further, just ten minutes, Lutto promises.’

  ‘You going to tell me sometime why you’re bringing me here in civilian clothing?’ A basic brown tunic, a dull grey cloak, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low, and Brynd had even smeared some dirt across his face to disguise his albino colouring.

  ‘Secrecy is essential, with some of these peoples,’ was all that the fat man muttered in response, and Brynd was used, by now, to the mysterious and elusive manner in which he spoke. It pissed him off immensely, but there was no getting away without the loaded sentences, the hidden meanings.

  And it wasn’t as if Brynd wasn’t burdened by a few secrets of his own.

  This little trip, Lutto had said, could be vital to the defence of the city, and Brynd was keen to examine all opportunities that he had before him. Preparing properly for a likely siege against an unlikely opposition was essential.

  This passageway reminded him of those in Villjamur, twisting and dark and apparently purposeless, although these were more recently built, the stone still sharp at the edges where time had not eroded them. Five minutes later and they had reached an even lower level, Brynd could feel it by a gentle shift downwards in the angle of the path. Rats flew across the ground ahead, chasing shadows. The odours of incense became intense, the noise of a crowd somewhere became defined, and Brynd’s heart beat a little faster.

  ‘Just about there . . .’ Lutto whispered, pointing.

  Through two featureless doors, and they were into the auditorium, a wide circle of stone seating stepping down to an arena in the centre, where there was a roped-off square about forty paces along each side. Pillars clearly separated the two rival tiers of spectators chanting and whistling, maybe four or five hundred of them already, and filling up quickly. Dozens of urns raised on pedestals burned violently with some kind of liquid fire, casting a surprisingly strong light, all the way down here beneath the city.

  Brynd looked on in disbelief. ‘Is this sort of thing legal?’

  ‘You soldiers!’ the fat portreeve laughed. ‘Always sticklers for the law. Lutto can assure the commander that everything here is permitted under our ancient by-laws.’

  Brynd glared at him. ‘By-laws, indeed – sounds spurious, that. I’ll take a guess that you yourself get a cut of the proceedings taken here?’

  ‘A minor tax, is all.’ Lutto smiled. ‘We must try to use some of this bad money for g
ood! If I shut it all down, then we would not be able to pay for some essentials, and then Lutto would have to spend all his time chasing stronger and faster men than himself.’

  You don’t spend much on such services, though, Brynd thought. I’ve seen the accounts.

  Enhancing the eldritch ambience of the place, there were perplexing, gelatinous light-sources fixed to spikes or grouped together in small cages, and now and then someone unseen would dowse them in water, whereupon the luminous glow would intensify and flicker and oscillate.

  ‘The lights, what are they?’

  ‘Biolumes,’ Lutto replied. ‘They are taken from the sea. It is a recent practice, and not something encouraged, for ecological reasons, but it cannot be avoided.’ Brynd had never heard of them. Lutto’s maw opened to say something else, but then he seemed to think better of it.

  As they took their places up at the back, Fat Lutto leaned closer to Brynd, and introduced him to how combat was performed this far north. ‘Malum is the man I want you to see, and then you will know why a meeting with him could be of use. He should be coming on very soon.’

  ‘A good fighter then, this Malum?’ Brynd enquired.

  ‘He loves the golem fights, so it is said, and who does not? A chance for combatants to prove themselves. Now and then you will see one of the great underground cultists, Gento Dumond, Feltok Dupre, even the old golemist Ninety-Six – and they bring their talents and relics here to the side of a combat ring, such as this, where their misshapen golems transform themselves from stone into fighters. How they then go about it, tearing chunks out of each other and then change state back into stone, and sit calmly to one side – if they managed to survive. My word! Such stagecraft is one thing, but thrice yearly you see the cultists bring in something a little more exotic: weird relic-enhanced animal-hybrids, say. There are times, too, where mortal men have to prove themselves worthy, as aspiring gang leaders. They must step into the arena to face these things . . . these bizarre fuck-ups of cultist obsession. Look, here’s one now!’ Lutto gestured with one porky hand.

  Three figures wearing brown-hooded cloaks were busy pulling something from a hatch over to one side of the ring, where there was a gap in the seats, and as the trapdoor flipped open there arose a cheer, followed instantly by a collective intake of breath.

  Out shambled three awkward, grotesque creations, something halfway between a reptile and a man, their skin tinged green with tribal tattoos circling the major muscle groups, and each of them stood a good head taller than any man present.

  ‘What the hell are they?’ Brynd demanded in awe. ‘Lutto, what are these things?’

  ‘As I say, cultists create these breeds by whim. Delightful, are they not? The sheer inventiveness—’

  ‘Are they legal?’

  ‘Here in Villiren, yes, of course.’ The fat man pressed a palm against his chest, shaking his head. ‘Very clever, yes. They’re made only for fighting here, so it’s quite all right. These are the most impressive I’ve seen in a long time!’

  The three reptile men staggered forward in unlikely movements, exaggerated yet reluctant, sharp yet strained. Yanking at the ropes around their necks, they seemed to know that they were destined for the arena. Suddenly one slipped to the ground, as if it had forgotten the motions involved in walking, whereupon a man darted forwards with some metal object, shoved it into the creature’s mouth, twisted something, firing off a contained bolt of purple light, before retreating back into the crowd as the amalgam pushed itself off the dusty ground.

  Lutto explained, ‘Cultist,’ and Brynd nodded his understanding. They weren’t looking at anything natural here.

  Within the minute, the hybrids had all been handed weapons, scimitars and maces, and they began to communicate with each other in some primitive tongue, guttural noises replacing dialogue.

  They then moved apart, gripping their weapons, eyeing all around them with purpose. Screams and whistles arose as the creatures shifted into a position they were obviously familiar with, at three corners of the square.

  A single word was being passed around, just a whisper at first hidden among all the noise, then something more definite, taking form:

  ‘Ma-lum! Ma-lum!’

  ‘That chanting – what are they saying?’ Brynd demanded of Lutto.

  ‘They’re asking for their favourite fighter,’ Lutto declared. ‘The star of our little show!’

  ‘The one you brought me here to see?’

  Lutto nodded, his chins wobbling, sweat glistening on his forehead. The crowd’s violent incantation was eventually rewarded as a hooded figure emerged at the front of the audience. Two men removed his cloak and underneath the man was bare-chested. He must be freezing, Brynd thought, going about dressed like that with all this ice enveloping the city. Wearing only a pair of black breeches, he stepped under the rope, entering the square itself, and then Brynd realized he was also wearing a red mask concealing the upper half of his face. In fact, many members of the crowd watching were masked, more so than he had seen above ground. This was a cultural tic of Villiren that he hadn’t yet become used to.

  Malum took a short blade from one of the attendants: a messer, an armspan long with a single edge tapering to a turned-up tip. It was a weapon of choice for the common man, and perhaps this selection said something about him. Lean and muscled with tattoos flowing around his arms, his flanks, and around the base of his back. Black-haired, a few days of stubble on his face. There was something about his teeth, something distinctly savage, and this man looked as though he knew his way around a dark night like this.

  ‘His name?’ Brynd wanted confirmation.

  ‘He is Malum, leader of a gang called the Bloods, and considered the most powerful man in the city’s underworld. The Bloods have hundreds, possibly thousands of men in their ranks. Lutto himself has had dealings with him several times – best to get these types on one’s side, no? That way Lutto is in control, too.’

  Malum took his place in the fourth corner of the square, barely glancing at the three reptilian hybrids that occupied the others. The face painted on his mask looked as if he was contemplating some far-off fury.

  Eventually someone rang a bell and a relative hush fell on the crowd. A man called out the rules, so far as they went: anything goes, last man standing wins, no pause for rest. Let it begin.

  Another ring of the bell and the crowd roared and Malum was instantly alert. He strode forward, immediately holding his messer blade out ready for action. He took a defensive stance as the three hybrids approached simultaneously, their guttural communication with each other drowned out by the furore amid the audience. For a moment, the green-skinned beasts looked down on him as if to consider their next move. Then one slashed out with a mace, Malum leaned back deftly and another moved in with a sabre. Malum never retaliated, seemed content to roll to one side or the other, and there was something about his manner that said he was reading these creatures, observing how they moved. The third hybrid screeched then lunged at Malum with his scimitar. The human fighter ducked and slammed his blade quickly and methodically into the creature’s stomach, then withdrew to the sight of black blood dripping down. The creature stared at it in disbelief, and turned to face its quarry once again. But before it could think further, Malum had raked his messer blade across its throat. It collapsed to one knee, eyes bulging, then fell forward to the ground. The other two hybrids wasted no time in stumbling forward, and brought their weapons crashing down on Malum, who simply spun backwards and out of their way. Using his astonishing speed, he manoeuvred past them, and clipped his blade across the heel of the one with the mace. It screamed, buckled to one knee as blood surged across the dusty ground. The crowd cheered and Malum smiled, holding his sword out to the auditorium. He was enjoying this, was arrogant even as he considered the two creatures again.

  The one with the sabre began to slash at him with force in a combination of moves, and Malum seemed to struggle for a moment before he wedged his blade into the creatu
re’s flank. The following slash of the sabre would have brought off his head had he not changed position. There was something disturbing about his speed, which seemed almost inhuman. Malum’s muscles flexed, tendons bulging, his torso glimmering with sweat and still he grinned.

  Brynd couldn’t be sure if it was a trick of the light, but it almost looked as if he had fangs.

  The creature with the mace was now limping at the perimeter of the ring, and as it presented its back to Malum for a moment, the man sprinted up to it and dug his blade in and along the spine. As he wrenched it down further, the cross-breed collapsed and began to spasm. Another cheer arose, another one down. Malum turned back to regard the last creature, clearly the best fighter of the three.

  He ripped into it with all his skill and poise, dazzling all with artistic flourishes to the way he moved. Right then he might as well have been operating in some different dimension of time.

  The hybrid received a gash to its arm, then to its flank, then to its face, and it began to wilt like a dying flower as Malum forced it stumbling back over one of its fallen comrades. Finally, Malum severed the hand that held the sabre clean off its arm, and drove his messer blade through its chest. A second or two later, it shuddered into stillness.

  Malum stood there, breathing heavily, covered in unnatural shades of blood, then turned to face the cheering crowd and let them know by his stance that his position had been well earned, absorbing impassively the shouts and whistles coming from all around, as if to tell them not to ever question his worth. He even began to lick at the blood spattering him, as if savouring the taste.

  Someone shouted, ‘Next – you and you,’ and two men pushed themselves up from the front row, massive triangular-torsoed figures, eyeing each other in readiness for bare-knuckle combat.

  ‘Interesting,’ Lutto declared, ‘that no matter how sophisticated a culture we achieve, there is always need to prove how tough people can be, no? So, I assume you’ll now wish for me to arrange a meeting, commander? You think he’ll be of use?’