Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [3]
Brynd turned in time to see Kapp pushing back through the troops.
“I think I can stop it, or at least weaken it,” the cultist continued. “I’d get everyone inland, anyway.”
“Thought I gave the commands.” Brynd placed a hand on the sheathed blade by his side.
“This isn’t the time for ceremony, captain.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
“Have you seen the rest of my order?”
“Not for some time.” Brynd shook his head. “Can’t you lot keep a track of yourselves by using one of your own damn contraptions?”
“You’d do well to keep it friendly, brother,” the cultist snapped, then ran down the shore, skidding on the sand, and placed his device in the water again.
Brynd commanded the Dragoons to move back, and the soldiers retreated up to the plains.
To the north of the island, tribesmen were clambering up the shore on to the grass ridge, axes in hand, and how they had arrived unnoticed, Brynd had no idea, because the garudas should have spotted them, wherever the hell they were.
If that boy really wanted a battle, Brynd thought, drawing his saber, it’s bloody well on its way.
Kapp ran so fast it seemed as if he couldn’t stop if he wanted. The path was bounded on either side with broken buildings, and his feet thundered into the ground as he sped down Flayer’s Hill toward his home.
He stopped as he heard the first wave surge against the landscape, rocking it. Then he turned back to watch seawater frothing as it spilled over the crest of the hill, sparkling in the moonlight. The water wasn’t enough to fully breach the bank, but you could see that the next wave would. And he next heard shouting, then there they were, hundreds of the Emperor’s Dragoons changing direction, marching now to the north of the island.
That albino soldier was leading them, his weapon raised.
The troops began to line up on either side of him. They locked their shields together, began to beat on the massed metal. As Kapp ran into the distance and downhill, the last image he had of them was that they were a dominating force.
He no longer wanted anything whatsoever to do with them.
The tribesmen clambered over the shore in an endless stream, the whites of their bone-charms visible, their axes held high, their flesh barely covered by primitive clothing.
Nothing made sense. Only moments earlier, the Dragoons on his native island were about to take another neighboring island under the Emperor’s wing, but now it was his island that was suffering a coastal raid. Like burning insects, fires were scattering in Ule as people fled from the main town and out into wilder land.
Kapp had to warn his mother.
Arms aflail, he sprinted toward his home, a large wooden construct surrounded by a herd of half-asleep goats that swarmed away from him as he approached. He stopped when he heard a strange crackling. Frowning, he spun in a full circle to see where it came from, yet somehow it seemed to embrace every direction, fluxing through the air. He caught a glimpse of a spectral glow and headed toward it.
There were two figures beside a betula tree, both of them in black clothing, barely noticeable in this dim light.
One lay on the ground, a net of violet light surrounding him. The other stood above, a small metal box clasped in his hands, and it was from this the strange energy emanated. The one on the ground was screaming in pain, blood on his face. Kapp wanted to do something. It hurt him to witness someone in so much agony.
Scanning the ground for a fist-sized stone, Kapp picked up two knuckles of granite, then scampered in an arc to approach from behind. He threw the first stone, which hit the tree.
The standing-man turned.
Kapp threw the second stone that struck him square on the back of the head, and the man collapsed against the tree with a grunt of pain, dropping his box.
The net-light evaporated.
The injured figure suddenly rose, slashed a blade across the other’s chest, then drew it again across his neck. His victim collapsed to his knees, shuddering, his mouth agape in either confusion or surprise,