Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [180]
“What do you want me to say?” Brynd grunted.
“You’re supposed to commend me on a good plan. At least this way my fat carcass will be worth something.” Then, seeing Brynd’s expression of dismay, “We’re fucking soldiers, Brynd, just pull yourself together.”
They shook hands, holding their grip longer than necessary.
“Now … fuck off out of here while you still can,” he wheezed, forcing a smile.
Apium said brief good-byes to the men, who stared in confusion. Then he accepted the brenna devices from Blavat, who quickly instructed him in their subtleties.
Into the darkness, he rode for a quarter of an hour until he was face-to-face with the enemy, with nearly every sharp breath seeming penultimate.
He unwrapped all the brenna devices. He dropped one to the ground, hearing it ping on the ice. He turned his horse sideways, dropping the others in as straight a line as he could manage, while the pain became unendurable. He deposited the last brenna device in the snow, knowing they were all linked up in whatever way Blavat had configured them.
From the clinking and rustling sounds, the enemy had begun to approach.
Sliding from the saddle, Apium gave the last-placed device a gentle twist at its top, barely able to see it in the pitch-black of night.
And with snow whipping against him, all alone in this bleak vista, with his lungs finally collapsing, he wondered vaguely what, if anything, would be waiting for him on the other side.
Behind them, the night sky lit up with an unholy fire.
The ice sheets rocked and lurched and cracked.
The survivors were now close to the longships, where a handful of Jamur sentries stood guard. All of them stood watching this last noble act of Captain Apium Hol.
Nelum realized exactly what had gone on, and silently placed a comforting hand on Brynd’s shoulder. A small gesture, but enough.
Tonight they had witnessed real heroism and who would have thought it would be Apium of all people. Chubby old Apium, more interested in carousing than soldiering?
No time for sentimentality. Brynd muttered a bitter prayer for his dead comrade and gave the command to head south.
CHAPTER 44
A FRESH LAYER OF SNOW, NOT THAT THE LANDSCAPE NEEDED IT.
That moment when it had just stopped.
A silence even the air appreciated.
The sun, wherever it was behind all those clouds, was setting—darker and quicker than Dartun had expected. They would make some form of camp here, a cluster of canvas tents pinned to the ice. But what comfort would sleep bring being exposed so far away from solid land?
He looked back at the map, then again regarded the terrain. They had traveled up the western coast without yet engaging with many forms of life. The remoteness appealed to Dartun. Maybe dying didn’t seem to matter so much when he was surrounded by an environment so detached from normal existence—it was like you were halfway there anyway. Dogs barked into the wind. His cultist followers remained dutifully on their sleighs. Dozens of the undead stood motionless, waiting for further instructions.
They were now crossing the ice sheets somewhere to the northwest of Tineag’l. Just a year ago and they would have been walking on water. Instinctively, Dartun knew that he wasn’t far from one of the Realm Gates.
Verain stepped up alongside, placed her hand on his lower back. Thick clothing, a fur hood, and beneath it all she looked so distant. “How long, do you think?”
“Not far. Two hours, maybe three.”
“Are you getting nervous?” she asked.
“Nervous? Why?”
“I don’t know … because of what we’re discovering. Because we have no idea what to expect on the other side of these gates—if they exist.”
“They exist,” he said. “They most definitely exist.”
“So why don’t you feel anything, Dartun? You seem to have switched off your emotions.”
Verain moved to face him directly, placed her hand on his arm in a tender gesture. “I no longer know what to make of you. You summon the dead to your side. You drag us all on an expedition to find another world. What am I supposed to make of it? You’ve stopped