Brynd staggered away from the corpse, brushing cold sweat from his forehead.
‘The hell was that thing?’ Lupus muttered, still dazed.
‘You held your breath, then.’ Brynd adjusted his belt and straightened his sabre. ‘I think it was . . . well, some outlandish grey reptile. A living bomb? Sounds ridiculous. I don’t understand how it could just explode.’
‘Maybe with those wings, it flew at high speed.’
‘That would certainly explain why we can’t see where it was launched from.’
‘It didn’t seem to mind killing itself,’ Lupus observed. ‘In fact, we both saw it laughing just before it detonated, so perhaps it’s not sophisticated technology, just some species we don’t yet understand. Which, to my mind, makes our military objectives seem a lot more attainable.’
Brynd nodded at this rare heartening thought.
The other Night Guard soldiers arrived, and Nelum slid off his horse to assess the scene.
Brynd related to the others what had happened.
‘Suicide bombs?’ Nelum muttered, examining the ground, the corpse, Lupus. ‘How can such beings exist?’
‘It’s not that many stages removed from dying for your own nation, is it?’ Lupus observed. ‘In fact – the motivation is the same.’
‘No, I don’t agree!’ Nelum snapped. ‘It is execrable if you ask me. There is no dignity in it, no honour.’
‘We’ll have time to assess such things later,’ Brynd interrupted, noting the expression on Nelum’s face. ‘Now, to the front line.’
*
As the Night Guard pushed on towards the front line, commandere issued along the ranks to allow the legendary regiment through. Men in Jamur uniforms were carried back, dead or dying, and Brynold himself not to look.
They stationed themselves behind the Sixth Dragoons, the best part of a hundred men blocking this main thoroughfare leading west into the Scarhouse district. Featureless walls towered on either side, sandstone structures, and here the street was about sixty paces wide.
As the noise level increased, reports were passed to him: so far, an estimated nine or ten thousand Imperial soldiers had been killed. This figure shocked Brynd, as there had never been so many casualties in living memory, especially so early into a conflict. The city had become a trauma factory.
Jamur longbow archers were stationed on rooftops, firing deep towards the harbour and into Scarhouse, while closer to the front there were men with shorter bows, sniper units to pick out individuals from amidst the throng. Many of them glanced down and saluted the Night Guard as they deployed. Brynd knew that the very presence of his warriors brought momentary hope to those around them.
A line of soldiers moved forward, their armour rattling as they shifted into line. This was a time to face the facts. There was only a unit of the Regiment of Foot in front of the Sixth Dragoons, and that formed the line of battle. Buildings had collapsed three streets across to either side, leaving only this gaping avenue into which the aggression of both sides was funnelled.
Brynd gave his unit the orders to secure helms and armour and, through the slits of his visor, he watched the men in front begin to move.
Beami stood at a window overlooking an empty street, a visual echo in her mind of the last time she had seen Lupus. In a wood-panelled room behind her, three other cultists were examining their aggregated relics, deciding how they could best be used. A fire raged in the corner, and one of the others told her to close the window to keep the warmth in. She did as she was asked, reluctantly.
What will become of Lupus? she wondered. Is he already dead?
The thought of him going to war left her quite numb, even though at the very start she had been involved in the fighting. And now it was Lupus’s turn to prove himself. Beami was so happy that they had rediscovered their love, even if only for such a short time. They had shared only the briefest of goodbyes at the Citadel gates, very aware of the other soldiers present, but in her mind it had seemed he would certainly return shortly.
Only now . . . now she wasn’t so sure.
‘Are you going to help us or what?’ one of the cultists called out to her, distracting her from gloomy thoughts.
She moved back to the table with its heap of technology, and focused her attention instead on finding a way to help the city.
*
A row of soldiers moved forward.
They watched as the Sixth Dragoons surged forward in organized lines, closing the gap quickly, then their horses went ramming into a unit of Okun positioned at the far end of the street, leaving nothing in front of the Night Guard now except cobbles and blood and snow.
Brynd looked on grimly as the ranks of Dragoons fought within the narrow urban spaces. Horses were speared, ripped open by the claws of the Okun, riders tumbling on to the ground. They rejoined the fray, on foot, only to be hacked apart again. And all the time, arrows continued raining from above, selectively picking off the enemy.
Soldier after soldier fell. The collapse of their unit was rapid, yet a small core of them burst through the opposite ranks, vanishing out of sight, and all Brynd could do was hope for their survival.
There was a brief pause, as the depleted enemy ranks drew up together. Not a single Jamur soldier stood between them and the Night Guard.
A line of rumel, garbed in dull-grey armour, hesitated at the far end of the street as if they could smell cultist trickery on the Imperial weapons. As Okun joined them, they combined into one line with an alarming symmetry, as if they were separate components from one alien entity.
Brynd wondered at the sentience that united them while the enemy staggered forward, with swords raised, every move in sync.
The Night Guard waited, then Brynd delivered some short, sharp commands, his words reverberating among the empty buildings.
They rode straight for the enemy, eating up the intervening distance, first a hundred yards, sixty, thirty, twenty, Brynd kept speeding towards them, constantly thinking Don’t look at the dead, don’t look at the dead. They barged into the enemy lines, their horses rearing up and savagely trampling the first row of rumel. Bodies crumpled under the impact; heads exploded on the cobbles, then Brynd slipped off sideways from his saddle, as his horse collapsed on the blood-slick streets. The animal struggled to its feet, skidding desperately on the ice, then bolted away to safety.
Other Night Guard had merged into the mass of bodies and relentless screams filled his ears, and then something scraped against Brynd’s arm, ripping his uniform, drawing blood. Confident in his augmentations, Brynd stepped aside and lashed out again and again, striking left and right, reacting solely on instinct, while thinking Fuck I can barely see a thing.
Okun armour split like eggshells as his blade impacted, and he cleaved an arm here an arm there. Grotesque faces flashed in and out of focus, but there were also rumel almost identical to the ones of the world he was so familiar with, and suddenly this alien army became distressingly real. He recognized the fear in them, too, and the sudden hopelessness, but he parried and chopped-spun-blocked his way through.
A pause to try to assess the scene: whereupon he called out for various tactical routines. In response, his soldiers filed in around him on horseback, pushing forwards, and sweeping past. They continued the slaughter, feeding his body the adrenalin he needed. His relic-doctored sword sliced so easily through armour. A blade in, blood out, then rip the creature’s spine. Something turned, a weapon narrowly missed his head. He ripped into it, wrenched sideways, spilling offal on to his arm.
By now he could feel his face covered with sweat and blood.
Don’t look at the dead.
A street packed with bodies, grunts, metal clanging on stone. Exhaustion.
The constant blur of motion removed any coherency from the scene, but very quickly he saw that he was at the rear of the skirmish. Most importantly, up ahead the Night Guard was forcing the enemy line back efficiently and quickly. They were decimating the columns of the foe.
Snipers based on rooftops continued their onslaught relentlessly till hundreds of red-skinned rumel and Okun lay dead on the ground, and any still showing signs of life were picked off one by one.
Combat edged away. The density of enemy bodies decreased. The Night Guard finally halted and moved aside. Barricades were instantly hauled into place, ordinary soldiers sprinting forward into position.
A calm settled over the scene. This storm had passed, and Brynd collapsed breathless to his knees on the freezing street. Feeling totally disconnected from the reality of what had just occurred, he flipped up the visor of his helmet.
After a moment’s respite he was able to assess the damage to his unit – amounting to just a single casualty. The dead man was Brox, only thirty years old; his neck was savagely gashed and his body had been trampled.
The street looked as if it had been spliced straight out of hell and into Villiren. Body segments and discarded armour littered the place. Walls in the distance were charred with flame damage. One of the Dragoons had descended into shock, and was huddling shivering against a wall; blood was splashed against pale stonework behind him.
There were several injuries to his soldiers, but the rest of his team had survived. The lighter wounds were already beginning to heal before his eyes and the medics could soon see to the others. Every one of them should be ready to fight again soon. He eyed sadly the remains of four of the black horses, then gave the orders for them to be added to the nearest funeral pyre.
In the uncanny silence, a battle line had been redrawn. The mission considered a success, the Night Guard withdrew back into the city.
*
Evening arrived, and the battle front had held firm exactly where hilite troop had left. Brynd’s eyes reflected the flames of a funeral pyrs he watched it carry the soul of Brox to the heavens. One of hiegiment had just informed him that the mood of the city had beeifted, that people were now feeling optimistic.
Brynd wasn’t so confident himself, but now decided the enemy were not totally alien; he had raised hopes of perhaps negotiating with them. Prisoners would need to be taken from their ranks, and somehow used as bait for opening channels of communication.
Still, neither side seemed to engage in activity during the night, which was fine with Brynd because they certainly wouldn’t be able to defend the city efficiently in darkness.
After retreating into the Citadel, he was alarmed to learn that yet more ships had been sighted cutting south through the waters. Was there no end to this offensive? And what the hell did they want with the city in the first place?
In the obsidian chamber, arranged around the vast table, the Night Guard held a council of war. They ate hastily provided food and someone had brought in ale, though none of them touched a drop. There were lingering silences as they nursed their bruises from earlier, all the while mourning a comrade.
Smoke, as usual, commented about the plight of the horses. Syn seemed to relish the opportunity to fight against new techniques. Brug spoke diligently about the enemy’s weaknesses.
‘How long can we last?’ Nelum asked. ‘What happens if we’re eradicated? They all seem to fight as one coherent, slick organism, as if they can communicate telepathically with each other. What can be done against such a level of organization? If we fall, the city’s doomed.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Lupus argued. ‘The Dragoons have held the front since earlier.’
Then the idea of further augmentation was again mooted, and in principle everyone seemed eager to seek advantage. Towards the end of their discussion, a new report came through that civilians had been recently rounded up by the enemy and were being kept in a fishing warehouse behind the Shanties. No one knew if they were to be slaughtered, or would be taken from the city as hostages. At least a hundred had been snatched so far.
FORTY-SEVEN
Just after sunset, there had been a minor skirmish: two rumel enemy scouts were constantly checking the state of a deserted plaza, a tentative step to sense the depth and breadth of Imperial lines.
But the red-skinned rumel didn’t realize they were already being watched by the Rumel Irregulars One. They crouched by the bomb-wrecked ruins of what was once a bakery, making a final inspection before darkness fully descended.
Right, that’s as close as you’re coming, you bastards.
From his hiding place behind a thick barricade of rubble, Jeryd leaned over and signalled the order to fire. In relative silence: crossbow bolts were suddenly let loose, skimming across the cobbles, shattering the window of an overturned fiacre, then hammering into the two scouts. One target was struck in the arm, the other clipped in the thigh before both fell to one side, raising shields as they dived for cover. Once safely out of sight, the two rumel sprinted to safety, pissing Jeryd off immensely. He had wanted at least one prisoner, so they could extract further information. Or even just to see what they were made of . . .
He couldn’t decide how he felt about the presence of these differently coloured rumel. Seeing them changed the texture of his world. It unsettled him, having to contemplate how his own race might have a history bigger than he’d previously thought.
*
Dusk became darkness, into his third night of the war now.
Bored shitless, Jeryd leant on the barricade, pointing his crossbow into the darkness beyond. Nothing had moved for some time. Moonlight skidded off the surface of shining cobbles at this point where Althing, Saltwater and Scarhouse converged.
His orders were to hold this position and should an attack seem imminent overnight, to relay an immediate warning to the Citadel. Such communication might make the difference between the city staying in Jamur hands or falling to the invaders.
‘It’s fucking freezing out here, and not so much as a rat has farted tonight,’ he grumbled to Corporal Bags of Rumel Irregulars One.
‘Aye, sir,’ the young brownskin rumel replied. ‘Better that than fighting, yeah?’
‘Guess you’re right,’ Jeryd conceded.
The son of a fellow Inquisition officer, Bags himself was a barber who seemed to know half the residents in Villiren. And when it came to those he didn’t know about, Bags would tap the side of his broad nose and scamper off to have a word with some contact or other, returning shortly afterwards with the necessary background information, and occasionally a little scandal.
Jeryd liked that quality, and had drawn the lad to his side quickly. He had to admit, it felt good to be around so many other rumel again – if only they could have met under different circumstances.
Suddenly, a scuffle broke out in his own ranks, and being the senior officer, he made his way across to investigate. Despite the new sword being so unfamiliar and heavy, constantly getting in his way, he did well to maintain his dignity as he approached.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ Jeryd called out to them across the street.
A rumel soldier was engaged in a brawl with a couple of humans. By the time others arrived to break it up, the young rumel had a broken nose and was bleeding heavily.
‘What do you think you’re doing? There’s already a war on, without us fighting amongst ourselves.’
One of the humans, brushing himself down, yelled back. ‘You rumel, you’re the ones that’s invading. You’re the fucking enemy. We always knew there was something wrong with you lot and now look. A load of you hanging about with weapons. Fuck should anyone trust you?’
Bags stood by Jeryd’s side, levelling a crossbow, but Jeryd eased him away. ‘Get back, lad. That’s just what they want.’
He turned back to the humans. ‘We are defending Villiren, by order of the Empire. We are on your damn side, and you come he
re trying to harm us. As if this city hasn’t seen enough death already.’
‘Fuck you, rumel,’ the human snarled and made offensive gestures, then ran off into the darkness. If things are this bad here, how bad will they be in the tunnels with Marysa? Bohr, I hope she’s all right.
*
An elderly man tripped and fell, dropping his bags on the muddy floor. Marysa helped him to his feet then his family came to thank her. Soon they were lost again among all the others.
Slowly, they all shifted through tunnels lit occasionally by storm lanterns or torches. It was like some lower region of hell. Now and again there was a sound like thunder overhead, though the only clouds down here were those of fear and misery. To think, this was considered the safer option, she thought. I wonder how Jeryd is coping with the storm above.
As they shuffled forward monotonously, occasionally the network of tunnels would open out into a vast cavern, where the remains of some ancient settlement was in the process of decay. Towers and spires rose a good forty feet high, examples of perfect symmetry, punctuated by windows only visible now as bold shadows. In the light from the lanterns carried by Villiren’s fleeing populace, these structures seemed both eerie and awe-inspiring.
Stunned and delighted, she recognized some of the architectural embellishments as characteristic of Máthema, therefore tens of thousands of years old. Never in all her years of archaeological study had she seen anything quite like this. Down here there was no rough weather to wear them down, which must explain their good condition.
If only I could remain here for a while . . .
Progress had been fine until the city’s notorious gangs had arrived on the scene. Sauntering along in their hundreds, and pausing to fight with their rivals, they had become a constant obstruction. Marysa was disgusted that these fit and healthy men – and women – chose to flee their city rather than give help to the armies up above. Hoods hauled over their heads, garish masks to hide behind, they pushed their way ahead with no respect for others. They flaunted their weapons simply for the fun of scaring people, who were already frightened enough.
City Of Ruin Page 41
