City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [184]
Finally, he would slit their throats and thrust his maw forward to drink their blood.
*
On the third night after the gangs had become embroiled in the fighting, some insane genius released from their cells all the cultistbred monstrosities, the ones used for arena combat, and his followers rode them through the narrow streets to plough straight into large clusters of the invaders. The enemy’s synchronicity didn’t deter the hybrids in the least. Unable to register any kind of fear, and bred without susceptibility to pain, these monsters did not suffer from any hesitancy.
Creatures many feet tall, endowed with multiple limbs, thick hides glistening with scales, advanced, all teeth and violence, to bombard the sturdy ranks of the rumel and Okun. They tore through whatever streets they cared to, sectors that had already seen days of fighting. They killed late into the night.
As Malum and his colleagues looked on from afar, tenement blocks were now being appropriated in the name of the gangs, and it wasn’t long before it was mooted that some of these buildings were no longer Imperial territory.
And by the next day they’d be designated as autonomous zones – pirate territory. The first such enclave lay in the heart of Saltwater, offering a fine view over much of the fighting, and during the next day it expanded into former enemy territory in Scarhouse. Such reoccupation of the invaded city – including the Shanties, Althing, Scarhouse, and the Wasteland – could potentially stretch for miles along the coastline.
This new realm would have no emperor.
FORTY-EIGHT
Some distance from the front line of fighting, Nelum again found Priest Pias in the Jorsalir church. This holy place was redolent with incense and history. Breathing it all in, it brought him great solace to be away from the pressures of war. It was somewhere he might find a moment of blessed silence.
A few days of combat had passed, but he found the priest still there, lighting candles in front of the opulent tapestries hanging at the far end of the church, whispering verses to himself.
The old man peered over his shoulder as he heard Nelum’s boots scuffing on the marble tiles. ‘Ah, my holy soldier,’ the priest called out, turning to regard the tapestry once again. ‘I am deeply happy to see you have survived – clearly, Bohr smiles favourably upon you.’
Nelum approached the priest and kissed the jewelled ring on his extended hand. Here indeed was a magisterial figure. ‘I’m surprised to find you still here. Wouldn’t it be prudent for you to leave the city?’
‘I find that in such troubled times, I am busier than ever. The shepherd’s flock swells in number whenever death is easier to envisage – it has always been the way of things.’ He gave a knowing half-smile. ‘People need comfort, so I am here to provide it.’
‘I can understand that,’ Nelum replied.
‘I have been hoping you might have news for me on your wayward commanding officer.’
Nelum paused, pondering the right thing to say. Every day he’d looked for the right moment to arise, but there were always too many others around. Even in the obsidian chamber they were rarely left alone together. Nelum had even tampered with Brynd’s saddle, loosening the girth so it would slip round during combat, but that hadn’t succeeded either. And he had meanwhile suffered his doubts, tested and questioned his motives. He could barely sleep because of the stress. ‘It isn’t easy, you know, waiting for the best opportunity. Sometimes I can’t help thinking it is not the right choice of action.’
The priest nodded, but Nelum could sense some dissatisfaction in his manner. A vague sense of shame washed over him. How could he let down a Jorsalir priest, of all people?
‘He’s a very effective warrior,’ Nelum offered, hoping the