City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [172]
*
Brynd watched the monstrous apparition fall slowly to one side, like a drunk keeling over at the end of a night. Whatever the thing was, it was no longer able to help them, but he was thankful to have had it on their side. The Night Guard were standing in a line along an observation platform of the Citadel watching the carnage in the snow. Some of them were eager to be deployed, but Brynd would only allow them to ride into combat when the first lines of defence were broken fully.
It was essential for him to retain an overview of the situation. Surveillance from garudas had confirmed that there were no enemy ships heading towards the settlements further along the coast. It meant that this was a blistering assault on the largest mass of population; and that, in itself, suggested their plan was to neutralize the place. Since there had been no attacks on supply routes feeding the city, they clearly did not anticipate a long-term siege. All-out annihilation was the enemy’s intention.
Brynd’s new plan was to force the Empire’s front lines as close to the invaders as was physically possible. He would smother them to prevent them from firing any more bombs, because it would mean too many casualties of their own – that was, if they had much in the way of morality.
Finally, a wave of garudas flew in from the east, carrying cultist-designed Brenna explosives, as he had instructed earlier. Ten avian soldiers entered the airspace above Villiren, and Brynd could see them modifying their flight paths to avoid dropping the devices on their own people.
They rushed towards Port Nostalgia and released the relics, and the explosions could be felt even up in the Citadel. The city rocked ten times, yet none of the garudas were shot down, retreating safely to the skies in the west.
Brynd’s hopes that their efforts would be lasting began to collapse when he counted at least another twenty-five enemy vessels approaching the harbour.
FORTY-FOUR
Investigator Jeryd was packing his belongings in their decrepit, dusty little hotel room. He and Marysa had spent a few good nights in safety here, and Jeryd had become strangely attached to the place, although he was aware such emotions were misplaced.
The blasts of explosions came and went in the distance, far enough away to not yet seem real, and occasionally there was the sound of a troop of soldiers or civilian militia trudging by under his window.
He could leave carrying only one small shoulder bag, and wondered where it might be stored when the time came to fight. Would there be rooms for those who weren’t in the traditional army? Would they all be expected to sleep in a dormitory? Would they be able to sleep at all? He assumed that this sort of thing would be well planned – Commander Lathraea seemed like a guy who knew what he was doing.
Jeryd checked his crossbow and slung it on the bed along with a bundle of bolts. He checked his various knives and placed them in his boots. He wore only a tight-fitting tunic, and folded his Inquisition robe on the bed. Would he even need it again after all this? One minute he was busy chasing criminals, the next . . . The change in circumstances had all happened so quickly.
Marysa joined him. He looked longingly at this woman he had loved for decades with such an emotion he felt a lump in his throat.
‘I want to go with you.’ Marysa clasped both his hands in hers.
‘No.’ Jeryd shook his head slowly, closing his eyes to block out her gaze. ‘It was me who dragged you all the way out here, into this mess. I want you to have a chance of getting away at least.’
‘But I can fight – I saved you, for pity’s sake!’
‘Marysa, I know you’re probably tougher than