Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [67]
The snow had begun to fall as hard as he had ever seen it, leaving the spire-crowded skies of Villjamur looking even more claustrophobic. By Bohr, this is enough to fuel those brats in Gamall Gata for several weeks now.
Despite the thick drifts building up, it was hypnotic, gentle. Beula began to cry quietly as if the snow itself had altered her emotional state, bringing on some primitive madness. Jeryd walked away to the other side of the room, as he always felt uncomfortable with the intensity and depth of emotions that humans seemed so ready to express.
He watched her crying at the window, framed by the snow falling outside.
CHAPTER 13
RANDUR STEPPED BACK WITH A FLAMBOYANT GESTURE, WATCHED EIR tumble to the cold floor, her sword slipping across the stone in a sideways fall. She cursed at him as she retrieved it.
“Pretty keen to inflict a wound, weren’t we?” he remarked. “And I didn’t realize you Imperial ladies had such a sweet way with words.”
Eir pushed herself up, panting heavily, much more than anger in her face.
“With Vitassi, you shouldn’t fight with the heart,” Randur reminded her, sauntering back to his starting position. “Such sentiments are likely to make you appear brave in your obituary, admittedly. You weren’t mindful enough. You weren’t in the moment. You let anger cloud your skills. Remember, it’s not all about the sword—that’s simply an extension of you.”
Eir eyed him with contempt, and he had left many bedrooms in the dawn light to be familiar with that look. She moved in to attack him again, but was then rapidly on the defensive as he forced her into a series of classic Vitassi postures. Metal clashed, boots scuffed on stone, noises so familiar to him, that at times like this he could often forget he was still even holding a sword.
“Good,” Randur said. “That’s much better.” He sighed as he pushed past her, then slapped her buttocks lightly with the flat of his sword, deliberately fueling her anger, working her into a rage, forcing her to get more control of herself. He tripped her up, and she fell forward.
“I hate you.” Eir’s lip began to bleed.
He walked over to retrieve her sword. “I’m not here to be liked. I’m merely here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed—an unlikely task, as it currently stands. And for the moment, you still need my help.”
“And you expect me to actually dance with you after all this humiliation?”
“No, you expect me to dance with you.”
She sat upright with her legs crossed, appearing to contemplate her bruises.
He offered his hand to help her up, but she ignored it and got herself on her feet once again. Randur handed her back the sword. “Well, anyway, your sword technique’s improving and I can see you’ve got some good potential. You could be fighting with the Dragoons within the month.”
She said nothing, began walking stiffly away, then she stopped, and he followed the line of her eyes to the window. A cold wind gusted into the chamber.
They stepped together to that opening in the thick stone walls which looked over one entire side of the city. The view was partially obscured by numerous bridges and spires. A thick fall of snow drifted down from the gray sky. In its smothering embrace, the horizon was no longer perceptible.
“So much of it,” Eir murmured, lost in her thoughts.
“Yeah,” Randur said, becoming lost in his own.
Dartun watched the young boy snatch the relic from the group of cultists. The lad had guts, he’d give him that. Those men weren’t from his order, and were simply holding the device out for all to see. Too cocky, too arrogant, not nearly careful enough. The fuckers deserve to lose it.
Dartun drew his fuligin cloak around him, absorbing shadow, then followed the boy who now ran in his direction, a scruffy little chap dressed in thick rags, obviously from Caveside. Darting down an arterial series of alleyways, the boy had soon lost everyone except Dartun.
Last night he had coughed so much he thought he would emit blood, and he had never felt like this before.
The cobbles were slick with snow in the sun since