City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [121]
‘Satyr,’ Artemisia whispered. ‘Do not move for your own safety.’ She edged over to the rim of the clearing. There, in the shadows, stood a bearded man that appeared to have animal legs. Two horns extruded from his skull, and his angular features displayed signs of laughter.
Artemisia unsheathed one of those massive blades and stepped after it, but in an instant it had escaped back through the foliage, bursting into the deep forest beyond.
She returned to the hanging rope, and there was a sudden urgency to her manner. ‘A minor inconvenience, but it worries me. It isn’t after you, it is after me, so we must evacuate immediately. You must hold on to this.’ She indicated the rope. ‘The fibre will adhere to your skin, so you will not slip off.’
‘What, you don’t expect us to go up there, do you? Wind’s strong enough to blow your arse off, I bet. Surely there’s another way of getting to . . . wherever the hell you want us to go? Can’t you suggest something else?’
Artemisia glared at him, eyes burning. Her body was still smeared with the blood of a hundred men. ‘Why?’ she grunted. ‘Do you even have a choice?’
‘Good point, that.’ Randur shrugged.
There wasn’t much else going for them, really. They’d narrowly escaped being carted back to Villjamur: a depressing enough fact. Now this killer had fallen from the skies only to slap soldiers about the forest clearing, and now she had established herself as the one giving the orders. Eir nestled alongside Randur as he took hold of the rope, his heart thumping. When he gripped it, there was a faint glow as his skin touched the fibres, some weird adhesive power making itself evident. She followed his lead, locking her hands in place, and the rope also writhed to fix a loop around their feet. I don’t want to do this . . . we’ve no idea what’s up there.
‘Aren’t you scared?’ he whispered.
Eir regarded him coolly. ‘We don’t have to automatically fear everything we don’t understand.’
‘Empress, you shall—’
‘Come with you, yes, of course.’ Rika stepped forward with compliance, took hold of the second rope, and placed an arm around Artemisia’s back, hooking her hand on to the base of her armour.
Eir gave Randur a glance to say, What’s that all about?
‘Perhaps she reckons she’s some sort of goddess,’ he whispered, not entirely sure that wasn’t the case. The only thing she’d ever shown much interest in was her periodic Jorsalir mutterings. It was ironic how she’d always moan – Oh can’t you function without all this killing? – and here she was, happily cuddling up to a seven-foot death machine.
Within seconds they were being hauled upwards.
Drifting far above the tree canopy, they watched it grow smaller, the clearing in the forest below them chequered white with snow and red with blood. Winds assaulted them, as the full panorama was revealed.
The latest bank of clouds had rolled away, heading across the island to the south, so a rare glimpse of hazy sunlight covered the forested landscape, showing them peaks and ridges, and towering plateaus streaked on their flanks with run-off.
Vertigo soon kicked in, and Randur felt queasy, yet his fingers would not budge from the rope. They were in fact utterly safe, but such reassurance only seemed to work on an intellectual level. Eir handled their ascent calmly, which was annoying. ‘Are you OK?’ he mumbled.
‘Of course. What a wonderful view!’ she replied. ‘Your island is a beautiful place, Randur.’
Behind him, Artemisia and Rika swung in close embrace, the blood from the warrior-woman now staining Rika’s outer garments. The material flapped in the breeze, along with Rika’s hair, but she herself remained still, her gaze focusing on Artemisia.
Something shot down from above, a streak of darkness so fast he hardly spotted it. Artemisia called out something in an incomprehensible, guttural language. Whatever it was darted up again, and began to fly around them in wide circles. It had a small furry body, with a paler