Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [134]
“An eye for an eye,” she said with satisfaction as, at the narrow opening of the alleyway, she crouched to deposit another device that fired a single sheet of purple light across the ground. The light disappeared to leave the snow untouched, deleting all marks of their presence there.
Snow continued to fall leisurely as if it had all the time in the world.
CHAPTER 30
“WHERE’S THE BIG FREAK?” APIUM SAID, BEFORE YAWNING AND STRETCHING with the grace of a tramp, astride his black horse.
“I take it you mean Jurro?” Brynd said, after considering for a moment that he himself was the freak, or maybe Kym—men who loved other men, and who’d be killed if discovered. He could never shake off the paranoia.
A unit of troops was assembling between the inner two gates of Villjamur. Brynd had ordered for twenty of the Night Guard, which included some new promotions from the best of the Dragoons, recruited after a little necessary training. There had been a night of induction, as cultists from the Order of the Dawnir used their skills to enhance the new recruits’ physical capabilities, their sight, their hearing, their resilience. Brynd had forgotten just what ministrations the Night Guard had to endure in their first evening joining the elite.
Brynd had ordered up a hundred men and women of the Second Dragoons, and a hundred of the First, all of them mounted on horseback and battle-ready within half an hour. Also he was waiting for a Dawnir cultist to join them.
The horses shifted on the muddied ground. The temperature having plummeted even further recently, Brynd wore several layers of clothing, with a fur cloak draped across his shoulders. He guided his horse in front of the assembled Night Guard. Like himself, they were uncertain as to what sort of combat they were expecting. No reliable news had materialized, no firsthand reports from trustworthy sources. All the information they possessed so far was recycled rumors of grotesque beasts tearing down towns and villages, mercilessly slaughtering everything in sight. As his troops chatted idly to relieve themselves of anxiety, the sound of hooves on the cobbled streets beyond informed him that support was now arriving.
The Dragoons were arrayed in full battle splendor, rousing an inevitable sense of military pride in Brynd. They came off the cobbles onto the snow-covered mud. Beneath their furs, metal glistened in the morning light: body armor and chain mail, nothing ornamental but simply designed for fighting with efficiency. Spears protruded over shields, swords hung at sides. Within moments they had lined up, awaiting Brynd’s commands. And through the gates rode a lone cultist, clothed elegantly in black. The magician rode forward with casual arrogance, bringing his horse up alongside Brynd’s.
“Sele of Jamur,” Brynd greeted this new arrival, noticing the cultist was female. She had a weathered face and sunken blue eyes as if she was prey to some addiction. Have they given me a magic junkie? he wondered.
The cultist returned the greeting. “So, when do we leave?” Her voice was weirdly elegant.
“As soon as our friend the Dawnir arrives,” Brynd confirmed. “Have you brought much of your technology?” Her horse was loaded with considerable baggage.
“Enough,” she replied, eyeing the gathered soldiers. “Why aren’t we sailing from the city docks?”
“Because ice sheets have already formed on Jokull’s northern shores, to some extent, and navigating those waters will be difficult. It will be much quicker to sail from the east side of the island. I didn’t catch your name by the way?”
“My name is Blavat, commander.”
“Well then, Blavat, it seems we are now ready to leave.” He nodded