Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [189]
In their silent progress another guard was dispatched before he could react. After compacting his body into a dark corner, they continued on toward the sound of voices.
Around another turning, there were two further guards, and the noise was increasing. Two shots: one soldier dead, the other merely wounded. Immediately the younger investigators rushed forward, swords out ready, while Jeryd and Fulcrom reloaded. The sound of clashing metal. When Jeryd arrived at the corner he saw his colleagues engaged in combat with three more city guards. Jeryd prepared to fire again but it was unnecessary. All three of the soldiers were soon dead, blood pooling around them.
We’re close now, Jeryd thought.
Again they hauled the corpses to dark corners. “Good work, lads,” Jeryd commended them.
Forward, again with weapons ready, to a well-used corridor. They passed an arm detached from its body, dried blood arcing up the walls in a manner suggesting an execution.
Another soldier was posted outside a closed door, and the look on his face said he didn’t want to be there.
Fulcrom’s distant shot wasn’t clean, so Jeryd was obliged to fire his at closer range, his bolt catching the man in the throat and throwing him back against the stone. Jeryd searched the body for a key to the door till Fulcrom pointed out that it wasn’t locked, merely bolted shut from the outside.
Into the room beyond.
Tryst looked up from the table, two guards hovering behind him. “What the—?”
“I might’ve known you’d be involved, you bastard,” Jeryd spat at him.
The younger investigators came swarming past him and the guards backed off, outnumbered. They dropped their swords with a clang and held up their hands. One of the investigators looked back to Jeryd questioningly.
“We can’t take any prisoners,” he sighed.
Swords were thrust below the breastplate of each soldier, and they fell to the floor in disbelief like drunks at the end of a long night out.
Jeryd stepped toward Tryst, who had now backed against the wall.
“So you’re an Ovinist, too,” Jeryd said sadly.
Tryst managed an uncomfortable nod.
Jeryd grunted a laugh. So his own subordinate was really working for Urtica. Somehow that didn’t surprise him. The depths this man had already gone to were ridiculous.
“How can you be here? You can’t. I mean—”
Jeryd thumped him repeatedly in the stomach. “What exactly do you mean? Don’t think I won’t rip out your fucking tongue if you don’t.”
Tryst eventually stammered something of a response. “I … set cultist devices to work on your house. They should have killed you.”
Jeryd glared at him. “You mean my home is rigged to do what exactly?”
“To explode … I didn’t want to. I was forced to.”
Jeryd thought immediately of Marysa sitting at home with Tuya.
“Why should I believe you?” Jeryd said. “After all your damn lies.”
“Jeryd, I really think you should go back home to see everything is fine. Forget about these refugees—they mean nothing to the likes of us. Just go and we can forget all about this. Come on, Jeryd, I know we’ve had our ups and downs.”
“Ups and downs? You bastard. You’ve betrayed me. You’ve betrayed yourself.” Jeryd lowered the crossbow, and Tryst relaxed. In one fluid movement, Jeryd swiped the weapon across his assistant’s face, knocking his head back hard against the stone. Tryst fell with a gasp, and Jeryd kicked him once in the stomach. “Now tell me what the hell you’re doing here. You’re obviously involved with killing off the refugees but how?”
His boot across Tryst’s throat, the crossbow aimed.
Tryst weakly indicated the table on which stood several bottles of liquid and some measuring instruments.
“Go have a look,” Jeryd urged to Fulcrom. Then, to Tryst, “How were you going to do it?”
“Toxin sprays and serums. Kills painlessly within the hour.”
“How many have you killed so far?”
“Only about fifty.”
Jeryd said, “And how many are left down here?”
“Hundreds, but thousands are to come at a later date. We wanted to get