Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [190]
“Where are they? Through there?” Jeryd indicated a door at the far end of the same chamber.
Tryst nodded.
For a moment Jeryd considered what value Tryst still presented. Then he thought about his home, about the deadly threat to Marysa.
“Who’s behind all this?”
Tryst lay still. Not a flinch or flicker. Instead he stared past Jeryd at the ceiling, a glazed look in his eye as if he was already dead.
The old rumel looked down at Tryst.
He thought of his own wife.
He thought of the deceit.
Jeryd fired a bolt through Tryst’s eye.
Reloaded.
He took out his knife and slit the man’s throat before fiercely regarding the others. “We can take no prisoners. Remember, no witnesses.”
“Right,” grunted Fulcrom, turning away.
The stench of them came first. The crowd of prisoners had been held here for only a short while, possibly only a day or two, but without food and water. Hundreds of faces, the first wave of people destined to be poisoned, tilted toward the investigators without a sign of either expectation or fear—just resignation. Men and women with children in their arms, slumped against the walls or sprawled on the cold stone floor of the wide tunnel, with just the few rags and blankets they had carried with them for warmth, unaware they’d been brought here to die.
Jeryd walked around them, telling them of their situation. Told them of the threat. Did they understand him, did they believe him? Did they want to leave and enter the ice again?
Among them lay the dead, one or two with the living still clinging to them. Bodies turning blue with poison, bodies shriveling like fruit … One of his men was retching violently behind him, and Jeryd could hardly blame the man.
People began clamoring for food and water, but all Jeryd could offer them was their freedom—a concept that seemed to confuse.
“We have to get you out of here,” he called out repeatedly. Then, to Fulcrom, “Let’s open up the other end of the tunnel, wherever that is.”
Jeryd left two of his men by the door they’d come through, and eight of them now progressed through the crowd of refugees to investigate what lay ahead. The air seemed oppressive. Occasionally a woman would scream, and a man would groan.
They finally reached another makeshift door, metal and firmly closed. He knew a sentry would be posted beyond it, so they eased it open a fraction, then kicked it wide. Fulcrom’s crossbow bolt caught the single soldier who was already rising from his chair, then they rolled his body into darkness.
The further they progressed, the colder it became, and despite there being no light, Jeryd sensed they were close to the exit. Eventually they were making headway by touch alone along a narrow passageway, yet as long as they were in darkness, nobody could see them.
Then finally it came, freedom.
A burst of light and cold air, followed by the adjoining wastes of a refugee camp—a battered tent-city, dying fires, black silhouettes of trees on the horizon, wind wailing in across the tundra. And if you looked back you could see the outer wall of Villjamur looming, which these unfortunate people had been staring at optimistically for months.
“Go and lead them through,” Jeryd ordered to one of his men. “Force them, if necessary, if they seem unwilling to leave shelter.”
It took them an hour to get everyone out. The refugees came shambling out into the open, with obvious reluctance. They stared at the snow as if they had never seen it before.
Their joyous liberation was something of an anticlimax.
Jeryd, for his part, felt more depressed and exhausted than he had ever done in his life.
When the last child had trotted free, Jeryd dispersed his anonymous band, their Inquisition medallions being enough to see them safely past the soldiers at the gates.
Fulcrom now faced Jeryd, a look of misery upon both their faces, and they were searching each other to find the right thing to say.
“It doesn’t feel as good as it should do.”
“No,” Jeryd agreed.
“They could die even sooner out here,