Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [2]
The mission briefing was simple:
Land.
Assist the forces approaching from the north.
Slaughter wherever possible.
In all the major towns and cities, any Froutan and Deltu prisoners were to be executed. As a lesson to prevent other tribes from uniting against the Jamur forces, the Emperor Johynn requested that no tribesmen should remain alive. This was an Empire island, had been for years. A simple statement, the Council would say, no point in rebelling.
Don’t fuck with Imperial strategy.
The island of Folke was a different environment to Jokull. Murky sandbanks and sand dunes expanded along the rest of the shoreline. Brynd was standing on top of the foremost dune, long reeds clawing at his knees. Lichens smothered a few stray boulders. Everything here was a fraction wilder—not like the civility of Villjamur. In the distance, dark smoke from the warning beacons drifted around Blortath, only a short journey away by longship. Unseen, two garudas circled the island, and Brynd was becoming impatient for their reports.
The cultist began to load the tide. Groundswells commenced, tips of the surf rolled and then leaned, the water groaning under pressure, waiting to collapse but instead moving further upward in some unlikely physics. And an alien noise as waves banked up sharply in a thin wall between the islands, waited unnaturally in the air—then launched themselves toward Blortath.
Brynd wrapped his cloak around him, glad for the extra shirt beneath his uniform, although the additional layers made his new leather vest feel restricting.
“Hardly a bloody battle, this, is it?”
Brynd looked back to see who had spoken. A line of the Second Dragoons stood motionless in their black and green uniforms, leaning on their long shields, viewing the wave that rolled into the distance. The men and women weren’t yet wearing armor, only the traditional brown cloaks, each with the Jamur star stitched in gold on the left breast. With them he had long stopped being self-conscious for being an albino human as well as their captain.
Among other things.
“And who said that, then?” Brynd asked.
“Me,” said a distinctively higher-pitched voice this time.
Muffled laughter.
Kapp Brimir, a boy native to Folke, started squirming his way forward between the soldiers. More of the other islanders were visible in the distance gathered around their fires. The first voice certainly couldn’t have been his, for Kapp was perhaps only ten years old. To avoid local uprisings, soldiers were told to be friendly with the local people before campaigns, but it was a difficult task with some of them. This boy seemed especially keen on annoying everyone. Kapp insisted on asking questions of any senior officers encountered around Ule: details about sword play, about how people dressed in Villjamur, about what they did for fun and did they dance.
“Yes?” Brynd said. “Your voice’s pretty deep for such a young age, and you can swear in Jamur, too? That surprises me for a native. If this isn’t much of a battle, just count yourself lucky. Were you looking for a full-scale war?”
“No.” Kapp stepped forward, stood right next to Brynd, looking up at the soldier. “Doesn’t seem very fair, though, using one of them.” He indicated the cultist on the shore below.
Brynd said, “You’d rather we all died, instead?”
Kapp shrugged, stared out to sea, played with a lock of his hair as if he’d already forgotten their conversation.
Brynd said, “You want to be a soldier?”
“No way.”
“Might be useful to learn how to fight one day.”
“I can fight already.” Kapp turned to face the unlikely tide again.
“Captain Lathraea!” someone shouted. It was the cultist, now wading up the sand without his relic. He was gray-haired, with birdlike features, a thin medallion strung around his neck, the symbol unclear in this light. “Captain, they’ve a cultist, too. They’ve got a bloody cultist!”
“Shit, how’s that possible?”
“I don’t know, but look.” He indicated the wall of water coming