Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [195]
“Finest backstreet smith in the city. They breed ’em tough, down Caveside. Tough metal. Tough men.”
Randur lifted the sword this way and that, then strode through a few moves, fetching glances from the landlord. “That’s a better weapon than any in Balmacara.”
“Of course,” Denlin said with a genuine satisfaction.
Randur returned to check the other sword was identical.
“Who’s the other sword for?” Denlin inquired.
“It’s for Eir,” Randur explained. “And now we’d better get going. We’ve got garudas to catch.”
It was difficult to judge when the sun was setting, since too many clouds obscured it. There was no snow, at least, which would make things easier for the garudas.
All available spaces between the two encircling walls were people-thick. Against normal practice the guards had let them in to watch this historic event. Much of the city had gathered, citizens leaning from every convenient window or balcony. Randur himself was standing with Denlin and the two garudas on a rooftop though the wind was so vicious it was likely to transform their bones to ice. In this light the garudas looked more decrepit than previously. One of them was missing feathers in places, and its beak was heavily scarred as if it had been tortured long ago.
The house belonged to a woman of the court he had spent a couple of evenings romancing, and she still succumbed to his charms. It gave the four onlookers a view of everything they needed. They could see all the three walls surrounding the city. On the outermost one, the two young women would be executed, and that was the one Randur had to get to. That wall was fairly narrow, which would work in their favor since only a couple of soldiers could come against him at a time.
“Den, why’re there so few guards?”
Denlin sniffed, scrutinized the scene. “You’re right, lad. Haven’t a clue. Perhaps there’s something going on somewhere else. Something not that good, I’d wager.”
“You reckon that explosion we heard earlier was anything to do with it?” Randur suggested.
“Who knows, lad. Rumor is that a house collapsed, so I doubt it.”
Randur explored his paranoia. “Another thing, have you heard a banshee scream recently? I haven’t heard anything for a day at least.”
“Perhaps no one’s died,” Denlin said. “Though I doubt that.”
A soldier garuda circled the city, seeming to cast a lingering glance their way, but with this many people about, they probably would not be the only suspicious ones to watch. Not in Villjamur.
Drums from somewhere, a slow beat, deep and low.
This was it then. Randur and Denlin braced themselves, and Denlin signed to the two garudas. He reached into his pocket to pluck out his horn.
They waited anxiously.
Eir and Rika were escorted forward from a doorway, guards in front, guards behind, ten in all. Two at the front held bows ready-drawn. The two women were bound by rope at the wrists, and were clothed in the same brown garments that all prisoners were forced to wear. As they commenced the long slow walk to their fate, people cheered or booed from below. Randur had heard about the poor excuse for a trial, the rushed legal procedures and could only speculate about what had gone on behind the scenes. Randur phased the distractions out of his consciousness, tried to concentrate on Vitassi, taking his mind somewhere where his emotions wouldn’t get in the way.
Deep breaths.
Denlin suddenly blew the horn.
Down between the walls, a fight started, people pushing and shoving toward a troop of soldiers stationed near the gates. Randur thought he saw one of them get his head sliced off. More cheers followed. A soldier on the top of the wall halted the grim progress of Eir and Rika. The crowds below seemed to drift in liquid form, pushing back and forth. One of the inner gates began to close, then for no clear reason, stopped halfway. The guards on the wall looked to each other for some kind of direction. The two archers were now pointing their bows down at the surging tide of people, awaiting instructions.
Denlin produced a bow of his own from under