Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [181]
Her words pitter-pattered on, and he tried to ignore them. He was dying: that was the whole point, wasn’t it? But what did she mean, saying that he was already dead? Had he changed so obviously in the face of his sudden mortality?
Night, and a small fire had been built on the surface of the ice, transforming his cultists into strange purple silhouettes. The dogs had fallen silent, bedding down alongside the sledges so that the only sound here was of the wind, haunting and isolating. Undead men and women shambled in patrols around the periphery of the camp. Dartun explained his situation to Verain, and repeated his statement to the rest of the Order of the Equinox. He had never been clear about his immortality to them, but was now candid.
When Verain looked at him he felt for the first time in months that there was a connection. He had satiated her mind. They headed for their tent. As others chatted outside, in the light of fires that spat against the bleakness of the Tineag’l sky, the pair huddled together under the same blankets, finding a renewed interest in the details of each other’s bodies. Only since regaining his mortality did Dartun truly appreciate the texture and fragrance of her skin. Subtleties he had forgotten were rediscovered under his fingertips, his lips.
As his mouth now sought the warmth of her neck, there came a cry from outside. Dartun sat up, peering around the tent as if to locate the source there.
It sounded again.
One of his order in alarm or distress?
Dartun looked back to Verain, who reflected his alert gaze. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
They dressed quickly then headed out into the intense cold where he saw his order gathered in a cluster, on a hillock some way off. He trudged through the snow to see what they were all staring at.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Godhi, something on the horizon,” someone replied.
Dartun pushed his way to the front and noticed a strange glow where the earth met the sky. Directly north, a faint touch of white light shone like a warning beacon against the surrounding blackness. His heart started to beat quicker: could this be what he was searching for? But why could they see it now and not earlier?
“Fetch my maps,” Dartun instructed, still staring in excitement. Within moments, someone was thrusting the documents into his hand.
“Not only there,” Tuung observed. “To the east slightly, as well.”
Dartun’s gaze shifted to his right, where another line on the horizon was glowing. And suddenly he recognized them as a row of torches. There must be hundreds of them, at least an hour’s journey away.
“Looks like an army of some type,” he decided.
“Jamur?” Tuung suggested.
“Possibly,” Dartun replied.
“Do you think they’re heading this way?”
“How long have you been here watching?” Dartun inquired.
“Not long. Five minutes at most.”
“Let’s wait a little longer,” Dartun said, then turned to the rest of his followers. “Everyone get ready, round up the undead, put out those fires.”
He turned to study the first light. It could have been an atmospheric trick but he could have sworn the white glow there had aggregated into the shape of a doorway.
The scout returned, his light sledge fizzing to a halt. Four dogs panted heavily.
“So what did you see, lad?” Dartun raised his voice above the wind. His cheeks were stinging in the cold, so he brought up his hood.
“I couldn’t get very close, but that’s no Empire army.” Todi shuffled nervously on the ice. “Isn’t like any tribe I’ve ever seen, either. I could swear most of them were wearing some weird kind of armor that covered the entire body.”
“Did it look like some kind of shell?”
“Aye, I suppose it could, yes.”
“What else did you see?” Dartun urged.
“Rumel, too, but not so many of them, though there’s hundreds of the armored things. They’ve pitched a camp by the looks of it.”
“And the other light directly north?” Dartun demanded.
“Shaped like a door, just as you said,” Todi replied. “It’s big—about four men high.”