Light was lost to the corners, so he found a coloured lantern and some matches to light it. Metal implements hung from the walls, and there was a dripping sound from the far end.
Suddenly he spotted several dark figures lined up against the wall to his right. He moved tentatively in their direction, before raising a hand to his mouth in shock. His tail became perfectly still.
Seven corpses were suspended with hooks driven through their throats, their tongues hanging out uselessly. They were naked and bruised, and streaked with dried blood. One was even skinless, the muscles and veins exposed horrifically. On the body at the far end, a rip in the throat caused by the weight of the body dragging on it suggested that it had been hanging there for some time.
Further along on a workbench stood two massive metal trays that reminded him of those he’d seen at Doctor Tarr’s mortuary back in Villjamur. He wasn’t surprised to find them full of internal organs, which he assumed could only be human. As he moved the lantern over them, they glistened slickly, confirming they were relatively fresh. An inert eyeball stared up at him and he drew back with a shudder.
None of this was set out as if to aid a crime investigation, however, with Jeryd being called in to look at some remains. These cadavers were destined for the dinner plates of ordinary people across Villiren, and it was possibly the most despicable activity he had ever witnessed. He was standing inside a human meat factory.
The smell was overpowering and he turned away, to prevent himself from gagging. Reluctantly, with a handkerchief over his mouth, he began jotting down notes and making sketches, detailing every horror on display.
*
In the dim light of the obsidian chamber, Commander Brynd Lathraea faced Jeryd across the table with a despairing smile. A small tray of refreshments had been brought to them, and Jeryd eyed the food suspiciously. ‘No thank you . . . I’m, uh, on a diet.’ I don’t trust anything now that I haven’t seen being prepared.
He had just informed the commander about the fate of the missing people, and what it probably meant about the missing Night Guard soldier, revealing every detail and nuance about the case.
‘I find this all rather difficult to believe,’ Brynd murmured.
And who could blame him? Jeryd spoke of the confessions. He showed the commander Voland’s journal, then his own notebook, tilting it sideways and pointing out the corpses and the various implements he had sketched.
‘Human flesh, distributed through the city? And, you suspect this was all at Urtica’s request?’
‘I do,’ Jeryd confirmed. He revealed the incident concerning the refugees back in Villjamur, where Urtica had arranged for large numbers of refugees to be eliminated; that because Jeryd had delved too deep into those affairs, he had had to flee to Villiren.
‘So, anyway, Voland basically admitted that he had a contract with Urtica. The guy is entirely honest about his own participation in the events. And it’s not just that – it seems the portreeve knew about it also, even supplying the names of political enemies he wanted eliminated, to make his life easier.’
The albino seemed to contemplate this information for some time, and Jeryd could have sworn the man’s eyes burned even redder than before.
‘I myself am having trouble contacting the portreeve at the moment,’ Brynd finally said. ‘No one seems to be able to find him. Those close to him suggest he’s already fled the city because of the bombs. It matters little, anyhow – I’ve taken measures ensuring full military control of Villiren. As for following up the allegations of corruption, unfortunately they will have to wait.’
‘So it goes.’
‘And, Nanzi, your aide – the girl who came in here all this time. You really had no idea?’.
‘She’s an utter psychopath. You know the two of them genuinely think they’re doing a good thing, right? They actually think this helps the city. Keeps everyone else alive. She helps the population with her work at the Inquisition, and in her head it’s the same thing as feeding them.’
‘A perverse logic,’ Brynd admitted.
An interruption to their meeting – a messenger entered the room to whisper into his superior’s ear, then left with urgency. Jeryd tried to read the commander’s expression, without success – this man did not give much away.
Brynd gave a sad smile. ‘I believe, investigator, that a more forceful attack on Villiren is imminent.’
‘You reckon you can save the city?’
Brynd located some deep place inside himself and stared into it. ‘Let me explain something to you: the portreeve has nurtured a terrible culture here. I’m not sure of his methods, but I’ve never witnessed more drug use, or known of more brothels. Thieves openly help themselves to goods on the stalls, people pay to watch violent acts in underground theatres. Lutto says that citizens are, on average, wealthier and healthier.’
‘I’d suggest those figures are skewed,’ Jeryd interrupted. ‘From what I’ve seen, the people on the streets have very little, while the gang members and dodgy traders continue to piss all their wealth up against a wall.’
‘The gangs control everything here, investigator,’ the commander said, ‘and the portreeve rewards them by leaving them to bask in their pleasures and vices, and to sell such lifestyles to the citizens.’
‘Barely any crime seems to get reported,’ Jeryd agreed.
The commander smiled, as if he had been leading Jeryd to say it was so. ‘And what does that indicate to you?’
Jeryd thought about this. ‘That most of the people in the city are criminals anyway, or at least condone this culture.’
‘So contemplate your question once again, on whether or not I can save Villiren.’
‘The city’, Jeryd concluded, ‘has already fallen.’
‘Yet we must press on, out of duty. If you have anyone you love, now’s probably the time to get them down to the tunnels and away to safety. I expect you yourself will still be able to fight?’
Those words hit him like a low punch in the stomach. The situation had till now been on the periphery of his conscience – that he might actually have to fight – and being so concerned with the missing persons he had almost forgotten about the possibility.
‘I’m ready for anything,’ Jeryd lied.
FORTY
Malum’s life hadn’t always been as screwed up as it was now, though even as a kid he’d had it tough – his father walked out on his mother before he even really knew the man. There were a lot of young men in the Bloods in a similar position. Maybe that’s why such a band of men had formed in the first place, through looking to each other for some kind of guidance. It was why he had once tried so hard to be a good father . . .
He’d been walking across Villiren for hours now, and he still didn’t know for sure how far he’d travelled. The streets were empty at this time of day, pre-dawn, and it was only then that he realized he’d been awake all night. A sea fog blanketed the city, the lines of the streets and the few tall buildings hidden indefinitely.
He badly missed Beami – who’d have thought it? For the first time in his life he had been humbled and, like a fat blade, the experience had sliced him open. He wasn’t someone who was used to brooding about his wounds.
With the impending conflict likely to wipe out the city, he had probably lost any chance of finding her again. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, to remind her that he wasn’t always so malevolent – because he had to face it, that’s what he was at times: a man who manufactured evil. But he’d not had an easy life, what with his upbringing and . . .
Here it was at last, the street he’d once lived on. Not with Beami, no – but with his first love, deep in his youth, the girl he had spent forever trying to forget.
Back before he had been bitten.
He could not bring himself to think of her name . . . it was so long ago anyway.
And there was the house, which had once stood on the very edge of the Wasteland district. Now it was an integral part of the city, as if symbolizing
how Villiren had grown too far beyond his own life. The house he was staring at was just a crumbling, terraced cottage with pieces of marbles pressed into the masonry so that it glittered with different colours in the right kind of light. They were all like that, round here. Its door was painted a different colour now and it was inhabited by a different family.
But, once, this was home.
When someone has no future, he realized, they look in the other direction. The ghosts of his past emerged out of the fog, and he removed his mask to confront them, face to face.
*
This is where it ends.
He is as yet unbitten, a twenty-one-year-old father. Styl is there, his son of two years, laughing up at him. The little guy’s got the same colour hair and eyes as himself, the same smile. Crafted from the same wood, this one, people have told him. Malum has huge hopes for him, and wants to give him a future he can be proud of. Styl says he wants to be Emperor one day, and he speaks with such a spirit that you might think that it is really a possibility.
Hope: it is one of the reasons Malum works so hard at his small trading company. In a business inherited from his uncle, he distributes wares of all kinds around the city, and even dabbles in the ore market now and then. His wife is cooking breakfast in the morning sunlight, which streams through the kitchen window. She is intensely blonde, with full lips, a chatterbox who’s very sensitive to everything he says, and he loves her. Malum relieves her of the spatula, tells her she should go and relax in the warm bath. He kisses her on the collarbone, on her neck, then she heads upstairs, smiling at both of them.
Later in the day they’re walking as a family towards the commercial districts, looking to buy food for an evening meal with his business partner.
A unit of Empire military is coming down from the Citadel, apparently on its way to tackle a tribal uprising beyond the city limits, somewhere in Wych-Forest. Nothing serious, just a few hundred of them wanting revenge for the Empire’s confiscation of their ancestral lands. Malum crouches down next to Styl, stares at the streams of uniformed men on horseback along the rain-slick streets. Armour and weapons glint in the sunlight during this display of duty and courage.
Someone lets off a firework in celebration.
Suddenly several startled horses lurch, startled and mad, seeking escape from the commands of their riders. Some of them break free, and begin galloping towards the crowd. Malum remembers being knocked sideways, remembers his son screaming and then the sight of Styl’s face being crushed by hooves.
A spreading pool of blood.
A woman crying.
Anxious faces blurred through his tears.
Once the uproar has died down, he can barely bring himself to look at the devastating aftermath, at the pitiful remains of his son, and all he and his wife can do is collapse on the cobbles and wail.
The next evening he finds his wife has bled to death in the bath. Her wrists were slashed so crudely he knows she must have taken a long, painful time to die.
That is where it began.
*
Malum flicked a stone at one of the windows of the house, and it pinged off harmlessly. Was it any wonder he hated the military? He would never fight alongside them, no matter what the argument, no matter how much the Night Guard pleaded with him.
He had never risen above that day his life was smashed, where his dearest hopes had died. Eventually, after the witch had helped him, in his new-found bitterness, he turned his young trading empire into a criminal enterprise, channelling his anger.
His cadre had built up around him. They became his family and, eventually, they shared his blood. They stood by him without question, would carve open any enemy on his behalf.
After you see your son killed in such a way, and you find your wife dead from despair, you don’t care about much else other than doing whatever you can to capture whatever satisfaction you can from the world.
*
The city was beginning another day.
Traders headed to the irens rolling their carts along by hand. Citizens were moving about their routines, some in masks, bustling about, getting on with their own lives. Bitterly, he noticed a unit of Dragoons trotting past the end of the street. He looked up at the house one last time and then turned to disappear into the fog, wishing that he might be lost forever in its mass.
FORTY-ONE
Few people were blessed or cursed enough to have their own moment in life, a window of time in which they were the centre of the world and everything revolved around them. Tonight Brynd had a whole city waiting on his every word and, no matter what he said, there would be bodies littering the streets on a scale no one would comprehend.
The mute bombs had changed the texture of the city, the spirit, the geography. Now thousands of people were gathering around the barracks and the Citadel demanding action and protection. Portreeve Lutto had vanished completely. Villiren was Brynd’s to control.
With the Night Guard lined up behind him, Brynd addressed the citizens of Villiren at regular intervals for half a day, from a platform high up on the Citadel walls, one that offered too much grandeur for his liking. The crowd huddled below, or amid the thick stone arches and pillars. His throat was raw from repeating his message into the cold wind:
‘There is no need for you to panic,’ he lied.
‘But what do we do?’ came the reply. ‘Tell us what to do.’
Years of yielding to the will of the portreeve had left these people with no self-sufficiency. He issued instructions for those unwilling to fight to head underground, into the escape tunnels. ‘We are to roll the city out past the Wasteland district and into the wilderness, establishing temporary villages beyond Wych-Forest, the other side of the Spoil Tower and Vanr Tundra, or sheltering in disused mining networks. We have ensured basic supplies to cater for this temporary solution. The military stationed on the perimeter of the city are now being brought in, unit by unit, tens of thousands of soldiers, most of the Empire’s available resources. We will ensure the stability of the city within.’
Out of this city of several hundred thousand residents, the citizen militias just managed to match the official military presence. There were forty thousand extra people willing to fight, and a total force of, he estimated, eighty thousand. Over the past few weeks, Brynd had ensured the blacksmiths were developing enough weaponry for them. Citizens only now signing up were attached to their own regiments based on the streets they lived in, neighbourhood comrades, with military personnel to guide them through their basic training. Sadly, hardly any of the gangs had opted to join, and none of them were the most violent sort, the few thousand truly skilled civilian fighters in the Bloods or the Screams.
Ten cultists had enlisted, which surprised Brynd because they rarely cared for anything other than their own arcane practices. He herded them in a room together with Blavat to try to discover what might explain the nature of the bombs, then to develop useful technology to help them fight the enemy as equals. He was quickly impressed with Beami, who had taken charge of the group, and a meeting was organized for the morning, so that they could brief him on their findings. She warned him that he might not understand the sheer complexity of techniques on offer. Miffed by the usual arrogance of these people, he decided he would never properly understand what cultists got up to anyway.
That same evening Brynd leaned against the ice-cold battlement, and necked a shot of vodka for warmth, to relax. And with one eye fixed on the horizon in case . . . just in case. In this bleak weather, there wasn’t much to see.
Just what was the enemy’s motivation? Assuming these Okun had come from somewhere not part of the Boreal Archipelago, why had they needed to invade and wipe out the population of Tineag’l?
*
A key piece of information came to Brynd, just after dawn.
Marine vehicles of an unknown variety had been spotted by garuda surveillance. They were not longships, and were thought not to be constructed of wood. No sails or visible crew either, merely
a dull humming sound as they thundered their way across the narrow channel towards the city. Garudas confirmed that the vessels were moving slowly, even pausing mid-crossing so that more of them could gather. They massed like a school of titan sharks, twenty by the beginning of the missives, then fifty by mid-morning. But they had not yet reached the city, and that was the main thing. It meant he still had time.
Brynd ordered his elite troops to assemble within the hour, and dispatched messengers and criers to all the northerly districts of the city.
Bells tolled across Villiren.
FORTY-TWO
Randur stood on the deck, wincing into the light. To his surprise, he did this a lot, staring into the red sun. There were vague comforts to be discovered in deep contemplation, and up here he felt he had found time to slow himself down and grow up a little. How his life had turned so bizarre and out of context, he didn’t know, and he vowed to seek out a quieter existence in future. All he needed was a place by the coast, maybe a decent local tavern in which to lose the years. Enough of the constant pressure; maybe those people in that tavern back on Folke weren’t so wrong in their attitude after all.
Under the dying rays of the sun, the Exmachina continued drifting above the cloud base, heading towards the mountains soaring up through it from the southern coast of Y’iren. They pierced the cumulus, icebergs in the sky.
Then Randur noticed something different from the panorama: one of the taller peaks appeared to be peeling fragments from its highest ridge. Vast clumps of earth were breaking off and hanging in the sky alongside. And some impossible force was keeping them afloat.
‘Artemisia,’ Randur called out to the empty deck.
A moment later, a hatch burst open and the woman-warrior came up to him. He didn’t even need to say anything. She tilted the end of her telescope and sighed. ‘This is something to cause concern,’ she decided, then dashed back along the deck.
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