Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [162]
At the start they had come in ones and twos, the refugees, in small and optimistic groups. Some came for the opportunities Villiren presented with the Freeze clamping down on their livelihoods in the wilds. But then people started to arrive in volume, families crammed on hazardous vessels, not a few of them drowning in the ice-cold waters.
Their stories were all the same.
The Claws, or the Shells. That was what the invading race had been labeled by locals. Either way, the news was the same: entire families, then hamlets, then towns, and more, wiped out in the course of just a night. Large numbers of people had gone missing. Some were killed, with their skins ripped off. It seemed only the young and old were spared capture, but ended up dead. The invaders were hideous to observe: walking crustaceans that showed no regard for life. And no one knew where they had come from.
Brynd listened to these stories in silence, vaguely aware of the irony that many tribesmen had once spread similar tales of the invading Imperial forces through the ages.
But this was a crisis far worse than he could have imagined. This threatened not just the Empire, but all human and rumel life indiscriminately.
“All you’re telling me,” Brynd said finally, “this is absolute truth. None of it’s your usual exaggerations?”
“Exaggerations?” Fat Lutto affected to look mortified.
“Well, there’s the time you spread gossip that some of the Kyálku had sailed across from Varltung to merge with the Froutan and provoke a rebellion on the Empire’s shores—all so that you could charge protection money throughout Villiren and Y’iren? Remember that?”
“Such accusations! Lutto is hurt!”
“So why didn’t you send any further messages?”
“To be honest, no messengers dared leave the city.” Lutto placed a fat hand on Brynd’s shoulder. “You may think it isn’t often I show anxiety, but I have never seen such a crisis. We’ve already accepted a few hundred into our city, but more are waiting on Tineag’l, trying to make their way across the ice sheets. More will die.
“And within months the ice sheets will be too much to disperse. A path will be formed directly between Tineag’l and Y’iren. Leading right to this city. What then?”
Brynd said, “I’m surprised you haven’t made a run for it already.”
“You joke, of course, Commander Brynd! But, there is safety in these walls. This is a fortress city, after all, with many skilled fighters.”
“I want you to tell me every possible thing you can about the position of these refugees on Tineag’l, which of their settlements have been attacked and where they intend to sail from. Can you manage that?”
Fat Lutto nodded, his chins wobbling. “To save our city, I’ll do anything.”
Brynd ensured that his military were properly housed for the night at one of the empty garrisons at the northern periphery of the city, overlooking the crowded harbor. They were to be kept off the city streets, as Brynd knew only too well what kind of trouble they might get into.
The Dawnir, Jurro, was provided with a chamber all to himself, seeming happy enough to spend his evening alone with his books. The last thing Brynd wanted was a panicking city assuming a savior of sorts had come to the rescue.
Hopefully the operation would be straightforward enough, though Brynd wasn’t certain as to the enemy’s capabilities. The next morning he ordered that all the empty boats abandoned in the harbor should be reclaimed, tied together, and then be towed by several Jamur longships to the southern shores of Tineag’l in preparation for evacuation.
As he lay awake that night on a makeshift bed in the garrison dormitory, even through the thick walls and above the snoring alongside him he could hear the faint sounds of laughter and debauchery from the city beyond. It made him wonder how life could go on in this way with a crisis looming that could soon be tearing the population’s lives apart. How much did they know of this threat?
Unable to sleep, he finally pushed his sheets aside, dressed himself in his uniform, went