City Of Ruin

by Mark Charan Newton

  There was only one other rumel attending. The rest of the students were all humans of various ages. They were all here to practise self-defence due to increasing fear of a war. Or fear of the street gangs. Actually, she didn’t really know precisely why they were here, since no one ever spoke during their session, except the master. And even then, his comments remained terse.

  Her progress on to level three was to be rewarded by training in bladecraft.

  The master produced a short messer, and handed it over to her first, she having proved the best student. Marysa was utterly thrilled with the recognition, and she was rewarded with a moment’s rest while he again led two of the poorer students through the more simple techniques.

  She sat cross-legged on the floor and half-heartedly watched the demonstrations in progress.

  Well, this certainly made a change. Up till now she’d only ever excelled in academic work. Back in Villjamur she had specialized in antiquarian artefacts and architecture, more recently studying the preservation of ancient buildings. So far Villiren had proved disappointing, having cleared away most of its interesting structures in order to replace them with soulless, hastily constructed monstrosities. Only the Ancient Quarter and a little of Port Nostalgia still proved fascinating.

  But she couldn’t find a job – unemployment being high, which seemed odd for a city that shamelessly proclaimed its wealth. There were more beggars here than she had ever seen before, and living in such squalid conditions. Fortunately, she had some savings with her, though most of them were being spent on these lessons. Still, it seemed, at last, that it was all worthwhile. She was more confident. Her body seemed more agile than it had ever been – which was more than she could say for Rumex, letting himself go to pot the way he was doing. She was beginning to feel . . . sexually attractive, for the first time in a long while, and although she would never cheat on her husband, that seemed to matter. Just to feel good about herself.

  The master beckoned her forwards and challenged her with his messer blade. She didn’t know what to do at first, and was more than a little apprehensive at using a real weapon, but he began barking orders at her, telling her to extend or retreat her arm, to move backwards or forwards.

  ‘Not like that!’ he would snap.

  After ten minutes or so, she began to get a feel for the blade in her palm, growing familiar with its weight and how it moved through the air. In between his attacks he would stand by her side and correct her posture. Their blades soon clashed effectively. His constant instructions improved her techniques and, when it came to her turn again, after watching some of the others, she gave him as good as she got.

  After class, he smiled at her. He had never smiled.

  ‘Marysa,’ he whispered, and continued in a voice of extreme precision. ‘You may keep this blade.’

  ‘Really?’ she managed, a little breathless after her rigorous training.

  He bowed as he handed it to her the second time. ‘You have earned it. I only wish you could have been my student years ago – starting as a young rumel. I might have seen you become a master by this time.’

  ‘Thank you, master.’ Marysa returned his formal bow and accepted the weapon. Eventually he faded into his back room, behind the wooden slats and the paper lanterns.

  She examined the blade in more detail, noting the beautiful simplicity based on no era she knew of. Just simple steel, with a varnished wooden handle.

  Marysa owned her very first weapon.

  *

  Jeryd wanted a steak that night, and to hell with his diet. He was all this way away from home comforts, investigating crimes that were apparently unsolvable no matter how assiduously he applied himself, and most of all he now wanted to spend the evening with his wife, who he was beginning to miss more and more. As the months slipped by, since he had risked his life in Villjamur, he was becoming ever more the philosopher. On his deathbed, would he be wishing he’d spent more time at work or would he be regretting lost days with Marysa, either way a nostalgia for the never-was?

  Exactly. So tonight he would share a steak dinner, perhaps with a bottle of some cheeky little northern vintage, conversing with the woman he loved, then maybe with his personal appetites satisfied, he might be able to work on the crimes of the city more effectively. With that plan in mind, he set out along the streets on a quest for meat and wine.

  By its presence alone, the military had slowly crushed the spirit of Villiren, that was certain. Where, only a few weeks back, people had seemed sanguine in the face of an almost-certain war, the company of so many soldiers sifting through the lanes and among the populace brought a feeling of an occupied city. Locals were largely welcoming, but the sight of precision weaponry displayed in an open, brazen fashion was unsettling.

  The soldiers had not been buying much in the way of provisions from the markets, relying instead on their own supply routes, so thankfully prices weren’t being forced too high.

  Activity in the irens carried on as normal. Some were already starting to take down the strips of coloured cloth denoting zones, wares, individual flair. Biolumes arranged in brine-filled trays continued to provide no end of curiosity for Jeryd – they had never had anything like them back in Villjamur. One stall offered an array of masks, in different shapes and colours and materials, and for a moment he even considered buying one to see what the fad for wearing them was all about.

  He came to one of the meat sellers, a portly man speaking in an exotic dialect, that Jeryd decided was a bastardization of Tineag’l and Y’iren grafted on a Jamur framework.

  ‘I’m after some steaks,’ Jeryd announced to him across the now sparse selection of fish and crustaceans. Hanging from the top of the overhead frame were two large trilobites, about two armspans in length, twisting this way and that in the wind.

  ‘Steak? We got steak. What animal you wanting?’

  Jeryd shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You any beef steaks – pork chops, even?’

  The man’s eyes settled on Jeryd for a moment, then he nodded, shifted to one side of his stall to retrieve something. When he returned, on the flat of his palm sat two fat, juicy steaks. ‘Just the thing,’ Jeryd confirmed, reaching into his pocket for a Lordil. ‘Keep the change.’

  The trader growled his appreciation after he inspected the coin, then he wrapped the steaks in paper and passed them across to Jeryd, who tucked them under one arm and continued on his way to buy some wine.

  *

  Later, with candles giving their shoddy apartment an aura of nostalgia, he thought he might make the dinner a success. It wasn’t ideal, this place, but with some good lighting and incense it could become rather romantic. You can make the most of any situation, Jeryd reflected, when you seek to instil a little romance. The good investigator is always up for any challenge . . . He’d even bought a biolume just for the hell of it, and the creature oozed gelatinously in a glass jar like a weird living lamp.

  He realized that he was even beginning to get attached to the place, and perhaps, with a little effort, he and Marysa might make love like they used to in the old times. Their relationship wasn’t quite as perfect as it used to be back in the day, some hundred and fifty-odd years ago, but since they’d repaired things between them a few months previously, they were at least considerably more intimate. They were starting to read the little gestures again, to hold eye contact a little longer. Gentle touches across the other’s cheek or ones directed against the side of the neck. Their relationship was being rebuilt in the little details, which made nights like this all the more important.

  In rolled-up shirtsleeves, his tail extended well out of the way for fear of splashing it with hot oil, Investigator Rumex Jeryd set about the task of making dinner for two. Marysa had begun to hum a tune in the other room while she stoked the fire, a song he couldn’t recognize, but it felt as if they’d begun dating all over again. Her body was becoming noticeably better toned with her martial-arts training, and she was now confident, said she could handle herself in any
physical confrontation, a claim that left her open to his innuendo. Though it also helped make him more conscious of his own expanding paunch.

  Who’d have thought an old coot like me could still feel like a kid falling in love at this age . . .

  He unwrapped the steaks and laid them sizzling in the hot pan. He turned to unhook some dried rosemary, which wasn’t as cheap as it should have been.

  Damn rip-off traders.

  Within a minute, something began smelling bad.

  He lifted the pan away from the stove immediately, and examined the steaks with his investigator’s eye.

  Marysa popped her head around the doorway. ‘They’re not done already, are they? You only just put them on!’

  Jeryd gave a bitter laugh. ‘Something’s not right with these.’

  She approached him, laid a hand on his shoulder, her perfume a pleasant contrast to the smell emanating from the pan. She said, ‘Has the meat gone off?’

  ‘No, I bought these steaks earlier, didn’t I, and they looked fresh to me. I mean, they weren’t dried out or anything.’ It then struck him that the smell reminded him of something – and not something from a wholesome source.

  ‘It can’t be . . .’

  ‘What?’ Marysa demanded.

  ‘No, it just can’t be.’

  ‘What?’ she repeated, now irritated. ‘What do you think it is, Rumex?’

  Jeryd placed the pan very carefully on the table, and closely scrutinized the contents. ‘I remember a similar smell from funeral pyres . . . which suggests this meat is either human or rumel. I can’t be sure though – perhaps it’s just some unusual breed of livestock.’

  Marysa squealed in shock. ‘That’s vile, it can’t be hominid.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Jeryd put the pan aside. ‘But in the morning, I’m going to find out where the hell the trader got this from. As I’ve often said, the good investigator always follows his nose.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Streets were cold and narrow. The doorways of the stores were empty, apart from drunks or the insane hopeless.

  Brynd was intoxicated by his own nervousness. He carried none of the money Malum had asked for and he had come without telling the others. This was something he had to do alone. So what if he died; the prospect of death seemed to lessen the pressure of having to protect this city, the pressure of being what he was in a world that hated such beings.

  Brynd sauntered into an empty iren site two streets away from the Victory Hole tavern, a vast cobbled courtyard with three-storey buildings built up along each side, with only one or two windows showing lantern light. There was a chill to the air and he paused for some time, listening to the sound of his own breath.

  Someone hailed him by rank, the sudden sound resonating within the enclosed space. Malum was leaning against the wall over in one corner, arms folded, face hidden behind a mask. ‘You got my money, commander?’

  Flakes of snow were beginning to fall with a steady dignity.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I have: I have fuck all for you.’

  Malum showed no sign of agitation. ‘Then why’re you here? Got yourself a death wish?’

  ‘I’m here to clear my name, to prove myself more of a man than the likes of you, who don’t understand the concept of fighting on behalf of other people. Remember, cowardice takes many forms.’

  ‘Cunt,’ Malum grunted. Something changed in his tone then, some bitterness surfacing. Brynd could only see his mouth, how it had tightened. Malum whispered something into the darkness behind him. With his booted heel he pushed himself away from the wall, and strutted into the centre of the empty courtyard.

  ‘I bet you’ve probably not come alone, either,’ Brynd taunted, ‘too scared even to take on someone you consider beneath you. Shows how much of a man you aren’t. Confirms everything I’ve been hearing about you and—’

  ‘You’ve heard of my reputation?’ Malum suggested. ‘People fear me with good reason.’

  ‘I’ve seen you fight,’ Brynd admitted, remembering the man’s performance in the underground. ‘You act tough, but it’s sloppy technique, and I’m willing to take that on. Tell you what, if I beat you – you get your men fighting for the city. Besides, your little plan won’t work – we’re already dealing with any rumours about me you’ll spread. You’re not the only one with influence here.’

  ‘Too much talking,’ Malum grunted.

  Shadows against the wall: more thugs arriving. Brynd could smell arum weed, hear the shuffle of boots as they filed in.

  ‘You and me, or are you going to get your gang alongside you?’

  ‘They won’t fight as long as it’s just you and me.’

  A messer blade was shaken free from Malum’s sleeve, and just then his teeth seemed to alter strangely – two prominent fangs – now snarling from beneath his mask. Lunging forward, the man swiped the blade sideways across Brynd’s face, but he ducked, grabbed Malum’s arm, held it away, gave him a sound thump in the stomach with his free hand. Malum hardly reacted, merely absorbing the powerful blow. They separated and Brynd drew his sabre, twice as long as Malum’s weapon.

  ‘Hey, catch.’ A voice from the shadow, followed by a hurled sword. Malum caught it, and just then several torches were lit. Fifty or so of Malum’s men were leaning against the perimeter of the empty iren site, their faces hidden by hoods or masks. Eyes glimmered in the torchlight, and Brynd noticed how they all possessed unnatural fangs.

  Brynd lunged forward following a modern technique he’d been working on, leading into the flank so that he was in control of the sequence. He swung for Malum’s ribs, then his shoulder, aiming to kick his legs away from under him, but the thug was too nimble, too clever, backing off at angles. Controlled moves from studied routines, swift and relentless. But Brynd slipped on the cobbles, then realized he was on the defensive.

  Malum became remorseless, slicing in at all degrees, a fusion of random styles to make the most of what he could snatch from the situation. The man was even trying to bite him – here was rage, nothing but pure, undisciplined rage.

  Their frenzied movements clattered across the confines of the courtyard. Malum made a lengthy slice, and Brynd jumped up to avoid his legs being taken out. Then as he landed he brought his heel to Malum’s thigh, pushing him backwards.

  Whistles and cheers at the periphery of his mind, the calls of encouragement from the gang members, Malum’s name yelled on all sides, and it spurred the thug on – his fury becoming more apparent in every thrust, retreat, thrust. Their swords rang out, metal skidding, till a sudden flick of a blade caught Brynd’s jaw and he stumbled backwards. Malum paused for breath. Blood had been drawn, but the wound healed in an instant. Brynd wiped it off with his sleeve.

  He could see the reaction by Malum’s open mouth. ‘That’s right, I’m enhanced. Or didn’t you know that? Still want to carry on?’

  While the animal-thug stood gaping, Brynd moved in once again, aiming for his neck. Again defended, again turned into an attack, but Brynd then forced Malum into a set of moves. Suddenly Malum twisted his ankle on the slick cobbles, stumbling and dropping his sword. Brynd kicked the weapon away, glaring.

  ‘Finish it, queer,’ Malum grunted.

  For a moment Brynd considered that, but threw his own sword away to one side. There were certain things he had to prove now. ‘We fight with fists. Or are you scared you’ll get aroused by close contact with a man?’

  ‘Fuck you.’ Malum lunged towards him and knocked him to the ground. Brynd smacked his head on the stone, but he immediately recovered, concentrating on the fight. He kneed Malum violently in the chest sending him sliding sideways. Brynd was already standing ready as the other shifted to his feet, and kicked him in the ribs, but Malum grabbed his foot, and sent them both tumbling. Malum leapt sideways but he was wearying by now and Brynd suddenly pinned him to the ground, then punched him hard in the face twice. ‘I’ll let you live if you get your men to fight!’ He couldn’t stop eyeing the man’s fangs.r />
  Brynd paused for a response.

  Malum’s face was scored badly across his lip. ‘Fuck. You. Queer.’

  Brynd lost control, punching Malum in the face repeatedly, but Malum merely laughed. Was the fucker insane?

  An arrow shot suddenly across in front of Brynd’s face, inches away, and skidded away across the cobbles. It was only then that he noticed the man’s gang advancing—

  – Then men on the opposite side of the iren, Night Guard soldiers, ten of them, running over to Brynd’s side. Lupus was there, hauling Brynd away from the gang leader, who was struggling to his feet. ‘You keep behaving like that, and you’re a thug just like them. You understand, commander?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re here to protect people of the Empire, not kill them. You are not here to exchange blows with a thug. You are a Night Guard soldier.’

  ‘I’m no hero, private. That much is clear.’ Heaving breaths. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Heard you were in a spot of bother, sir.’

  Brynd watched dumbly as his men formed a protective wall against the gang, tried not to feel sentimental as he realized how his men were standing by him.

  Malum shambled back into the midst of his gang members, wiping his broken mouth. Like two opposing tribes, the Night Guard and gang stared at each other across the courtyard.

  A bell rang abruptly, from the Citadel. Brynd instantly knew what it meant.

  Ignoring Malum, he turned to lead his troops back towards the barracks, at a run through the freezing night-streets of the city. More soldiers appeared, Dragoons, about twenty of them, and they were sprinting toward the docks.

  Brynd located their commanding officer and demanded a report.

  ‘Small attack unit, sir – a boat heading for Port Nostalgia. No more than ten of them aboard.’

  ‘The Okun?’