City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [205]
‘Can understand that, more or less,’ Randur mumbled.
As the ship glided above the city, the devastation below was clear to see. The southern and eastern sections seemed largely unscathed. But as they progressed further most of the city was in ruins. At least the huge fortified Citadel was still standing, he noticed.
*
Plummeting, they fell from the skies about an hour after dawn, the cold wind buffeting and tugging them to extremes. Their descent seemed to last a lifetime, and it was Artemisia who touched down first, the others being more reluctant to let go of the ropes.
As Artemisia stared upwards, Randur followed her gaze.
For a moment the Exmachina seemed to adopt a new texture entirely, as if now made up of tiny squares, then it shuddered and shot off in a streak of light towards the north. The sky above was suddenly vacant, but Hanuman fluttered down like ticker tape, drifting and flapping earthwards before perching on what remained of the city’s rooftops. A distant thunder was heard. Randur wondered if the ship had already done what Artemisia promised.
The warrior woman unsheathed both massive sabres from over her shoulder and strode into the warzone.
*
Randur had never been to Villiren. He was stunned: the city had been crippled in a way he could not comprehend. Buildings leaned at bizarre angles, many now a haphazard lattice of timbers. Some streets were utterly silent save for the sea breeze rattling through them. Human and rumel remains nestled at the bases of walls, feral dogs or cats picking at the decomposing flesh. Across the accumulating snow, the red spray of death was everywhere. To one side, a rumel woman lay face down and naked, her throat slashed, and a crossbow bolt through the back of her skull. Randur half-expected Eir to show distress at the sight, but she had become hardened of late, and remained impassive.
The small group followed Artemisia through this apocalyptic nightmare, stepping over tiny gutters filled with bloodstained debris and ice. Groups of men with machetes lingered everywhere, whether civilian soldiers or looters, he couldn’t tell.
A cacophony of sounds and voices could be heard in the distance.
Eventually they came across a sector of the city packed with Imperial soldiers. A church spire had collapsed down on to its side, now covered in snow, and troops lined up either side of it. Some men at the rear turned towards Artemisia, and tried to stop her from advancing, but she easily brushed them aside. When she drew her sword Rika leapt in-between.
‘Who the fuck are you lot?’ one soldier demanded.
‘I am Jamur Rika,’ she replied.
He searched his mind for the correct protocol then gave up and stood back.
Artemisia pressed on through the military lines, which parted as if by her will; she was a good head taller than most of them.
Suddenly, a unit at the front were dispatched, peeling off then disappearing around a corner. In the distance, the sounds of combat continued.
They followed Artemisia as she went after them, preparing to launch herself into the fighting, and found line upon line of soldiers getting mown down as they pushed forward.
Randur could see the enemy for the first time, the Okun and red-skinned rumel, about seventy of them ranged ahead. Every one of them now turned in uniform motion to face Artemisia. There was a brief exchange between them in an alien language, after which there was a profound silence.
Then a deep explosion sounded in the distance, and everyone looked upwards as if seeking an explanation, And then, a few moments later, they felt a back-draught of warm air.
Suddenly the precise coordination of the enemy was visibly reduced to confusion. Their uniform thinking had been disrupted, and in frustration, red-skinned rumel in elaborate uniforms paraded up and down the lines, shouting orders, livid at this new state of play.
Artemisia smiled, the first time Randur