City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [45]
‘I would hope we can stay away from more violence,’ Rika interrupted. ‘Astrid, I’ve seen enough of it.’ She lowered her head, as some kind of Jorsalir prayer began to form on her lips. The girl had spent years on Southfjords studying the Jorsalir religion under the guidance of a priestess of the goddess Astrid. It annoyed Randur, the way she’d turn to religion at times like this, when they needed no divine-intervention shit.
‘Lass speaks some sense,’ Denlin agreed. ‘No violence is needed, no cause for alarm. Better let me handle this.’
Denlin sauntered gingerly over to meet the approaching crew, a right bunch of Neanderthals judging by the look of them. When he was fifty paces away, after Denlin’s initial greeting, Randur couldn’t hear a word. The old man began to make all manner of gestures, pointing this way and that, laughing appropriately, hand on hips, and it was reassuring to see some of the other men lighten up and begin to smile themselves.
The momentum of the day changed in an exchange of glances.
One of them aimed a crossbow and shot Denlin through the eye and blood flamed across the snow. The old man crumpled backwards, while the gang looked on nonchalantly.
Rika gasped.
‘Get inside the farmhouse now,’ Randur urged. ‘Eir, if I fail, look after your sister. I don’t think this lot will be kind to her.’
Indignation contorted Eir’s face – she wanted to stay here to prove herself, he well knew, and she might yet have her chance, but he suspected she wasn’t up to killing again, not yet, despite her best intentions of being a hero. Eir opened the farmhouse door and, with a final glance back, ushered Rika inside.
Fucking hell, Randur thought. Denlin . . .
Saying prayers didn’t seem like such a bad idea any more.
Tuning out all his emotions, he focused on the task at hand, tugged aside his black cloak and gripped his sword handle with an edge of anticipation. Randur approached them with slow, measured strides, hoping not to be shot to pieces before he even reached them. He was aching to get away from here, trying desperately not to look at the dead corpse of his friend. Snow compacted underfoot, and the wind calmed, leaving an eerie ambience that protracted the walk towards them indefinitely.
‘A little unnecessary that, wasn’t it?’ Randur called out to the man sitting at the front of the caravan, an obese and swarthy figure in a brown cloak. Crumbs and stains were spattered down his front, and in one hand he held a bladder of wine. Probably pissed.
‘Military,’ the man grunted casually. He shrugged and held up his free arm. ‘Wore the cloak, so he had to go, didn’t he?’
Two other men manoeuvred their horses. Once the man at the rear was in place, they were surrounding Randur entirely. He just glared at the leader, suppressing his emotions. ‘He wasn’t in the army, not any more. He was retired for years and had only the other day fought against Jamur troops.’
‘We don’t like them Jamur soldiers, new or old, plain and simple. Far too many on this island at the moment. Basically, you gotta badge of the Empire, you int no friend of ours. We kill anything to do with the Empire. You got anything to do with them?’
‘Have I fuck,’ Randur lied. ‘Anyway, he wasn’t a real soldier. He stole that cloak to keep warm. Just trying to show off.’
‘Not what he told us,’ the fat man replied, sitting up with difficulty, ‘when we asked him.’
At least Randur couldn’t yet hear the click of a bolt being loaded. ‘He was merely an old man who liked to impress.’
‘He failed to impress me then. So, about the rest of you – what are you doing here? Them juicy-looking bitches made their way inside, they a good fuck or what?’
‘That is no one’s concern.’ Rage swelled within him, but Randur reined back his reactions. Instead he fed them some lines about how he and his companions also hated the Empire, that they had been taxed until they could no longer afford the lease on their lands, and how they now owned nothing, not a Drakar . . . and finally that