City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [208]
‘No, that was when I cleared off to the army. Now I’m leaving the army for you. Think about how we could have saved ourselves so much time and effort.’
She smiled. ‘Well, now we’ve all the time we could want.’
One hand to the relic, one to him, and the Heimr began to pulse.
Time suddenly stretched o–u–t—
FIFTY-FOUR
An end.
But could you call it a victory if around a hundred thousand people had died? Was it really called winning when your own army was nearly destroyed?
Overwhelmed with exhaustion, Brynd had been sitting alone in the darkness of the obsidian chamber for hours. His muscles shivered as a spasm of pain flickered through his body, soon to be overridden by whatever trickery the cultists had developed. Sometimes a messenger would enter to update him, when Brynd hunched forward in his chair and stared at the floor as he listened to them. The few surviving garudas were still flying reconnaissance missions along the coast, but for now, it seemed Villiren held firm. Just then, Brug entered the room, and whispered that Haal had haemorrhaged in the hospital, and died.
‘When will it stop?’ Brynd sighed.
Brug left the room with a vacant expression, leaving Brynd alone again.
A breeze blew through the open window, disturbing his strategy papers and maps. He let them drift to the floor. No need for maps now. This city would have new streets, and new lines would need to be drawn. Lutto hadn’t been seen for days – the cowardly portreeve had probably fled the city long ago. Reconstruction was Brynd’s task for the time being.
Images of horror still burned into his mind’s eye: severed flesh, pools of blood, the tide of aliens clamouring over their dead . . . He had heard that other soldiers were experiencing fits as the ghosts of terror haunted their skulls. Grown men reduced to tears. There was nothing in the Empire’s military manuals to guide them on this point.
A lack of sleep had dulled his reactions, which was why it took him a while to notice the arrival of Jamur Rika, the former Empress. An immense figure beside her loomed over him, but if this was to be his fate, he was too exhausted to challenge it. A clamour of military indignation behind them confirmed that they had forced their way in.
Brynd did a mental roll-call of the muscles in his body, then sat up. He was more interested in the massive, weird-looking stranger beside the ex-Empress. What is it? He regarded Rika once again. ‘Shouldn’t you be dead?’
‘Shouldn’t you, after all that fighting?’ Rika replied.
‘Probably,’ Brynd said. ‘So how can I help you?’ Looking from Rika to the presence beside her, he noticed a slender young man with ridiculous hair shuffle in. He was accompanied by Rika’s younger sister, who looked considerably hardened since the last time he had seen her. She smiled at him, and he mumbled a greeting.
‘Who’s this then?’ A nod of the head indicated the odd figure. The creature must have been at least seven feet tall, wearing a uniform of some kind he’d never seen before. Its material seemed to be bolted together rather than stitched, and those blades she sported looked superbly crafted.
‘I am Artemisia,’ the giant figure replied.
And it was what came next that shocked him.
*
Context at last, or at least reasoning and understanding.
Artemisia explained that she was one of the Dawnir, though she didn’t look much like Jurro. She boldly declared she was one of the god-race. So began a narration of thousands of years of history, and Brynd was not used to being made to feel so ignorant.
*
Randur and Eir had found a room together, nothing fancy, but at least containing a bed. They lay down alongside each other. Randur was still reeling from what he’d seen today. The world was a dark place, but he still had a life to lead, still wanted to get Eir away from all this.
‘It’s not yet over, is it?’ he whispered.
She stirred beside him. Her fingers brushed his chin. ‘I wanted to stay alongside my sister.’
‘Do you still?’ He paused. ‘She’s not even the same person.’
But by now