City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [103]
Eir brought over the cooked meat, her gold necklace glittering in the candlelight as she leant across the table. The food was burnt on the outside and undercooked inside. ‘Just another minute back on the fire and we’re ready,’ he said to encourage her – and also so he wouldn’t spend the rest of the night vomiting out into the storm.
Rika finished off her meditation, and engaged with Munio in ascertaining their route. She followed a thick line with her finger and asked, ‘Is this a road used by the military? I would rather we kept away from anywhere the army might be.’
Munio shook his head, staring down at the charts. ‘We have no choice except to cross it, but there are no soldiers in this section of the island. The road was mainly used for transporting ore.’
With a cautious pride, Eir brought the food from the fire again. ‘I think the wind has died a bit, Rand. Would you like to check to see if the storm’s eased and look at the horses?’
Randur sighed. Would you like to . . . ? was, it seemed, a common question in these close relationships – something he was so far unused to – and the actual answer was of course, No, I would not like to. I have just spent the last half-hour blocking out any thoughts of the bastard storm. I would rather stay warm and dry, thank you very much.
‘Yes, dear,’ he offered meekly, then shuffled through to the next room and over to the front door.
He kicked away two thick logs helping to secure it and unhooked the door. In the dim lighting of the glade stood several figures, glancing about. His heart flipped. He closed the door carefully, so it wouldn’t make a noise. Taking a peep through a gap in the wood, he could discern several people with . . . pure white skin? What on earth were they – albinos?
Another look: men and women, naked, very slender. They were clearly visible against the backdrop of the dark forest, but when they moved against drifts of snow, they were utterly camouflaged. Their movements seemed jerky. Behind them, the trees stirred loudly in the breeze.
He beckoned Munio immediately and gestured for the swordmaster to take a look. Crouching to see clearly, Munio gave a start of surprise when he saw them.
‘Ghosts?’ he gasped.
More came, ten in all now, and they began pointing and gesturing in hand signs like tribesmen out on a hunt, ready to kill – that was no reassuring omen.
‘Ghosts, my arse,’ Randur grunted. ‘Ghosts don’t communicate like that.’
‘And when, dear boy, have you ever seen a ghost do anything?’
‘Good point,’ he conceded.
There was a gentle sound over to one side, out of sight, then one of the horses was led forward into the open by two of the white-skinned newcomers. They gathered around the horse – primitive weapons in hand, crude spears and bows, axes crafted from stone – and suddenly the animal shuddered violently, staggered, and collapsed, blood spurting from the artery in its neck. With savagery, the alien people set out about severing the animal’s head from its body, their own skins reddening slickly.
Light was fast deserting the sky.
‘Shit, what should we do?’ Randur hissed, panicking. Defending their shack against those unknown beings seemed a daunting prospect, to say the least, but he was prepared to go out and fight. Without horses for transportation they would soon die out here in the wilds.
Munio eyed him harshly until he ventured a response. ‘We’re heavily outnumbered. And the four of us could just about fit on three horses . . .’
‘So your solution, O great swordfighter, is to sit here and do nothing while they eat all our transport. And then maybe us for dessert.’
‘You want to get us killed, Kapp—’
‘Stop calling me that! I’m Randur now. And I’m not going to just sit around and do nothing.’
Randur stomped into the other room to inform the sisters of what was happening. Eir hurriedly tied up her bootlaces, then picked up her blade. Rika’s face maintained the same calm demeanour as always.
He said to her: ‘You fancy helping us this time?’
She shook