Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [4]
The killer hunched over the corpse, panting, then concealed the box beneath his cloak.
Kapp was stunned by the incident. Apart from the wind sliding across the tundra, all sounds were improbably absent. Kapp felt an immense guilt, wanted to run. Had he actually contributed to murder?
As the remaining figure approached, Kapp experienced a sudden sense of calm. This was a cultist, or some official—you could tell by the medallion he wore around his neck. The rest of the outfit was elaborate, with the subtle red stitching of a small crest on one breast. The survivor was chubby, blond hair disheveled. Kapp watched in silence as the cultist knelt down before him, bloody scars webbing across his face in symmetrical perfection.
“Thank you, boy. Seems I owe you my life,” the figure declared in elegant Jamur. He took Kapp’s hand and shook it. Kapp was uncertain of the gesture.
“That’s all right,” Kapp replied in Jamur, dazzled by the man’s intense blue eyes. They seemed unnaturally feminine … and there was no stubble.
He reached into his pocket and placed an object firmly in Kapp’s palm. A coin, silver and heavy and stamped with strange symbols: a single eye, shafts of sunlight radiating from within.
It would probably be worth enough to buy his family home.
“I always pay my debts,” the cultist continued. “Should you ever need a favor, you can find me in Villjamur. Show them this. Ask for me and I’ll be found. Otherwise it’ll not buy you much. Some may not even accept it.”
“What’s your name?” Kapp said.
“Papus.”
“Why was that man hurting you?” Kapp nodded toward the bloodied body in the mud.
The stranger stood up, smiled in a way that suggested the whole story was too complicated to explain. “Because—among many things—I wouldn’t let him have sex with me.”
“I don’t get it.” Kapp frowned. “You’re a man. Why would he—?”
“A one in two chance, boy, and you still got it wrong. Still, I don’t get offended easily. The offer stands, should you ever need a favor. But first, I suggest you avoid this conflict. Go, take shelter in Ule.” Then with a harmless laugh, she jogged into the distance as cries of war began to spill across the tundra.
Snow and ice are isolating creatures.
But there is nothing as successful in this world,
no ruler, no king,
that creates the illusion that
the land is bound together,
as one.
Translation from Dawnir runes found
on Southfjords, circa 458 BDC
CHAPTER 1
GARUDAS SWOOPED BY, ENGAGED IN CITY PATROLS, WHILE CATS LOOKED up from walls in response to their fast-moving shadows.
One of these bird-sentries landed on the top of the inner wall of the city, and faced the dawn. The weather made the ambience, was the ambience, because the city forever changed its mood according to the skies. These days, there was little but gray.
The sentry was attached to Villjamur. He admired the citizens who were its fabric, from the slang-talking gangs to the young lovers who kissed under abandoned archways. All around were the signals of the underworld, discreet and urgent conversations in the dark. It was the only place he knew of where he might feel a nostalgia for the present.
His precise vision detected another execution taking place on the outer wall. Didn’t remember any being scheduled today.
“Anything you wish to say before we release the arrows?” a voice echoed between the stone ramparts.
The garuda looked on with dull satisfaction from his higher battlement. He ruffled his feathers, shivered as the wind built up momentum over the fortifications, a chill quietly penetrating the furthest reaches of the city, a token of invading winter.
The prisoner, some distance away, wore nothing more than a rippling brown gown. He looked from left to right at the archers positioned either side of him on the outermost wall, their bows still lowered to one side. Down at the city-side base of the wall in its shadow, people marched circles in the freezing mud, staring upward.
A thin, pale man in green and brown uniform, the officer giving the orders, stood further along the crest of