Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [135]
Brynd began to walk his horse forward to greet the creature.
“Commander Brynd Lathraea!” Jurro shouted across the intervening distance. Four crows sprung suddenly from the walls, and burst in a ragged flight away from the city as the Dawnir’s plangent voice echoed around the confined space between the gates. “Sele of Jamur! I have brought some clothing and some books to read on the way, but did I need anything else?”
“Sele of Jamur, Jurro. No, you’ll do fine as you are.”
The giant approached, casting a great shadow over Brynd. All the assembled troops stared in amazement at the creature’s size, its curious goatlike head, its tusks. By now a throng of citizens had also gathered, staring and pointing. You could hear the squeals of children as they set eyes on this curious piece of history. Few people there would’ve had the intelligence to recognize this apparition as the sole survivor of the Ancient race.
“Are you all set, Jurro?” Brynd inquired.
The creature paused to contemplate the question in a slow exaggerated manner. “Yes, I am. I’m looking forward to our little adventure.”
“You realize the danger of our mission?” Brynd warned. “This isn’t a holiday. You’re not obliged to—”
The Dawnir raised one massive, hairy hand to silence the commander, leaving Brynd vaguely insulted, though he knew Jurro meant no harm. “I have longed for years to leave this city, having almost been a prisoner at the Empire’s invitation for far too long. They kept me sweet with endless studies, but there is no use reading about the world from a book, when one can see it with one’s own eyes.” He prodded a chunky digit under his own eye, as if Brynd didn’t know what an eye was.
“Looks like we’re all set then.” Brynd pulled his horse back, and trotted alongside the ranks of the soldiers. They presented a solid display of the military force that had kept the Empire intact for generations.
Orders were given for the gates to open, and the Imperial troops rode out of Villjamur. Faintly, Brynd could hear the cheers of the populace left behind, as their troops set off to engage in some far-off battle. It seemed one of those patriotic reactions that had echoed through the ages. Or perhaps the people were cheering because for the first time in ages there was a tradition to cheer about.
As soon as the outer gate was opened, the refugees crowded around the emerging battalions. Overflowing feces from the latrines and smoke from pit fires combined to provide an intense odor, while behind them their tents stretched across the tundra like a city of cloth. Dogs ran in purposeless circles, ducking under hung-up washing that had frozen solid and didn’t even move in the wind. The muddied road to the east stretched right alongside this hellish encampment. Grubby men wrapped in innumerable layers of rags pawed at the horsemen pleadingly, while the sight of a mother carrying her dead child in a sling was almost too much to bear. Brynd suspected that his guilt at ignoring them would come back to haunt his dreams. Everywhere there was hopelessness.
“These refugees …” Chancellor Urtica stood at the window, focusing his gaze through the spires toward those camped outside the gates of Villjamur. “They annoy me somewhat.”
Tryst stepped out of the shadows. “You wish them to be eliminated now, sir?”
Urtica peered back at him, still gripping the windowsill. “Timing is everything, my dear fellow. Indeed timing is everything. Of course, I wish them gone, disposed of, because they’re a blight on the Empire. Remember this city is a city of legends. Long have poets written about the nights of Villjamur. We can’t have their like here, no.”
“And your plan?” Tryst asked. “Is this why you asked me here?”
“One of the reasons, certainly,” Urtica said. “But I also wondered how you were getting along with our little friend, the rumel investigator.”
“Not bad,” Tryst said. “He’s keeping very quiet about the murders. Makes me think he knows something. He doesn’t usually keep everything quite this silent,