Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [144]
And the undead were unloaded.
Two hundred, male and female, human and rumel, in varying states of decay came shambling through the water to reach the rock-shore. Their arms swinging by their sides, they seemed unaffected by the harshness of the weather, the gray tint of exposed flesh showing through what little clothing they possessed.
They marched in neat rows, this militia, to stand in several lines against the upper shore, their rags fluttering like crippled banners in the breeze. Unprepossessing as they looked, Dartun knew he needed this protection. Papus might come after him even here, and he did not know what lay waiting for him the other side of the gates.
Packs of dogs were fetched from the ships, ripping at the cold air in excitement. Following them came yet more of the undead, this time carrying equipment, parts of sleds to be assembled, weaponry and relics and minor armor. Dartun was pleased at such efficiency. This counted for nearly all of the Order of the Equinox, leaving only a handful of cultists back in Villjamur. He felt much safer now, the mere presence of his kin lifting his morale.
Throughout the morning he briefed every cultist in turn on what had been discovered on the island.
Brutal killings.
Alien species.
The grotesque filleting of the victims.
Theories were discussed, methods and solutions bandied about, but one thing was certain: they had to move quickly so as to be prepared for any attack. Dartun stressed the importance of marching across the ice sheets to find their new enemy’s location. He was convinced it would be at the Realm Gates, which represented a new level of knowledge entirely.
Later, dog teams began dragging the cultists—a bizarre train of magicians—along the coastline, the army of the undead jogging along to the rear, all heading now for the northern shores. There they would venture out across the ice.
To the possibility of new worlds.
CHAPTER 32
THE GARUDA FLIGHT LIEUTENANT COLLAPSED ON THE TILED FLOOR OF one of the highest-level rooms in Balmacara, a misshapen heap of ruffled feathers and shattered armor. Blood speckled his white facial plumage, and his arms quivered as he tried to regain an upright position. Today, Chancellor Urtica couldn’t be bothered with such drama.
“What’s your news, flight lieutenant?” Urtica resumed his meal of oysters and mussels as he regarded the sprawling form of the bird-soldier dispassionately.
The garuda crawled a little nearer to the fire, leaned up against the wall of the hearth so that the flame cast quick-moving shadows across his sharp features. Urtica looked up again.
Forgive me, chancellor, the soldier began in hand-talk. It has been a long flight from the war zone.
“Get on with it.” Urtica motioned with his fork for the soldier to continue.
Chancellor, I fear I bring bad news. The garuda’s gaze darted about with fear.
“Well I assume our occupation of Varltung has not been easy then?”
The garuda made a strange sound. Our forces never found the opportunity to advance by longship as planned. It appears that our invasion force was defeated by the ice. The army therefore had to progress by foot, but the ice was too weak to support them, sir, it collapsed under their weight. Many of them died during the night in the freezing waters. After that, local tribesmen came light-footed from across the island of Varltung, but our commanders would not accept their aid.
Although inwardly fuming at this devastating news, Chancellor Urtica managed to maintain an air of calm. “Tell me of these losses.”
We have only a few hundred men left from an initial force of four thousand.
“Only a few hundred,” Urtica mumbled, finally rising from his chair. This was an embarrassment beyond belief. He approached the hearth and reaching for a metal poker, began to slash at the fire, sending sparks showering upward. As the overseer of military assignments, this was an extreme and personal humiliation. Men could easily be replaced, couldn’t they, but such a failure would haunt his