Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [52]
“So what are they doing here on Jokull?” Apium broke in. “How did they ever get on the Empire’s home island? With something as sinister as that coming ashore, you’d think some of the coastal guards would have noticed, eh.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, captain,” Nelum admitted. “I wouldn’t say that they’d feel constrained by water though. Perhaps they didn’t arrive, and were here to begin with.”
“It can only be cultist work,” Brynd said firmly. “You remember that figure we saw at Dalúk, captain?”
“Bohr’s balls,” Apium gasped.
“Eloquently put, captain,” Nelum said. “But I don’t see how—and I don’t see why?”
“How? They’ve found some relic that’ll do the job. But why? I can’t answer that.” Apium sighed. “Well, so much for a quiet night.”
Nelum frowned. “I can’t understand what they’re doing out here, and why they’re attacking us. It’s as if they attacked on some primitive instinct.”
“They’re even frightening off gheels,” Brynd observed. “And that’s saying something. All this blood and not one gheel in sight.”
“Commander,” Lupus hissed.
Brynd stepped alongside him, peering out into the darkness. “What is it, Lupus?”
“Over there, about fifty paces. Looks like Wing Commander Vish.” The private was pointing to the north, beyond the fringe of the copse, at a silhouette with wings protruding over its back.
“Keep me covered, private,” Brynd whispered, then stepped forward to meet the garuda. As Vish came closer, Brynd could see that he was dragging his left leg along with both hands. One of his wings hung out raggedly to the side.
Flesh had been removed in chunks from his torso as if devoured, and his feathers were slick and heavy with blood. Brynd kept the saber in his hand as he supported the garuda along until they were back in the glow of the campfire. There, they eased him to the ground and wrapped him in strips of cloth torn from a cloak to serve as bandages. Finally, Brynd used some of his medical powders to knock the garuda unconscious so he wouldn’t feel so much pain, and Nelum helped him stitch the wounds together.
I should’ve been more prepared. What the hell is happening here?
The wing commander bled to death during the night, his story untold.
Brynd took solace in the fact that he passed away without pain. No one else had slept at all through the night, and they burned his body the instant the sun rose. As they rode off across the sparsely forested sections of tundra they looked back to see a thin stream of smoke carrying the garuda’s soul away. The cold air was sharp against the dried sweat on Brynd’s brow. It was, at least, enough to remind him that he himself was still alive.
CHAPTER 9
INVESTIGATOR JERYD STEPPED INTO HIS CHAMBERS, BLEARY-EYED. THE SUN had been up for a short while, not that you could see it yet. His head was mostly clear—an impressive feat considering the amount of whiskey he’d imbibed. He never let it get too far and always knew when to stop. He’d seen too much of what happened to the lives of alcoholics to allow the same to happen to him. No, if you drank all the time, that meant you wanted to use it to control your life, as if that was the only solution, and Jeryd was not looking for control, merely one night of escape. Two hundred years of it had taught him that you could never control the world around you.
He slumped into his fine wooden chair with a grunt, and for a brief moment contemplated giving up his career. How had things come to this? His tail felt stiff, his body ached. As he rested his head in his hands he was staring directly at an envelope on his desk until it came into focus.
Marysa’s handwriting.
Fumbling with eagerness, he tore open the letter.
He read it anxiously.
She wanted to meet him for dinner at the end of the week at one of their favorite bistros.
He tossed the letter on the desk, reclined back in his chair. So she wanted to meet him? That was a start. The Bistro Júula was where he had first taken her for dinner immediately after they had been married in a Jorsalir church. A dimly lit place, with wooden