Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [81]
“Shit me,” Apium said, clambering off his bedroll, and nearly stepping on the dying fire as he scrambled to Brynd’s side. “Bollocks.” He brushed sparks off his cloak.
Brynd stood with hands on his hips, craning his neck to see through the overhanging trees. The other two Night Guardsmen approached them, but said nothing, just stared entranced at the massive light show above.
“What in Bohr’s name is that?” Apium muttered eventually. “D’you reckon it’s something to do with the Freeze?”
“Cultist work that, captain, without a doubt.”
Nelum agreed, “Indeed, this is nothing natural.”
“I said earlier something strange was happening all across the Archipelago,” Brynd muttered. “I don’t like it at all.”
“Always the cheery sort, aren’t you?” Apium said.
Brynd glanced across to Rika’s carriage. By now one hundred soldiers from the Dragoons were stationed protectively in a perimeter all around their camp, while pairings of troops patrolled further out. He was deliberately monitoring an hour’s journey in every direction, so if there happened to be any more draugr, they would be taken out quickly. Brynd wasn’t taking any further chances, either with his remaining men or his precious charge.
Two hours after the heavenly display had finally faded, a female private from the Dragoons guided her horse quietly through the forest toward them.
“Commander,” she saluted him, then dismounted.
The other three Night Guardsmen leaped to attention, then gathered around their leader.
“Yes?” Brynd eyed the solid young woman.
“Commander, your presence is requested urgently.”
“Apium, Nelum: stay here. Your life before the Empress’s.”
“Sir,” the two men said in unison. They drew their swords and took up position by the carriage.
“Lupus,” Brynd turned to the third, “come with me and bring your arrows.”
“Of course, commander,” Lupus replied.
The two jumped on their horses, followed the Dragoon into the darkness of the betula forest.
“Private, what’s the issue?” Brynd inquired as he ducked to avoid branches, his saber in hand.
“Those draugr creatures you warned about earlier. We’ve spotted some.”
“How many are there?”
“Approximately fifteen, it seems, commander—at the edge of the forest, on the Baering Moors.”
Brynd was above all determined to not let these creatures harm the new Empress. And furthermore he wanted to find out where they came from, what their motives were or who had sent them. He’d never heard of such a thing in the Empire, so why now, why on Jokull?
Through the trees, hooves thudding against the forest floor, twigs snapping as they brushed past.
They finally came across a group of Third Dragoons, the Wolf Brigade of around forty men, their helmets glinting in the light of the moon. Their official standard—a white wolf rampant, against a green background—leaned against a tree in the forest clearing. Brynd was reassured at the number of soldiers assembled.
Their sergeant stepped forward, a blond woman wearing the familiar black and green uniform of the Dragoons. She sheathed her sword, placed her wolf’s-head shield to one side. He saw her face was tracked with abrasions from the tribal campaigns she had led successfully awhile back.
“Commander Lathraea,” she said. “I’m Sergeant Woodyr. Has Private Fendur explained the situation?”
“She has,” Brynd confirmed.
Lupus jumped down, tethered both his own horse and Brynd’s to a tree.
The three of them then proceeded over to the edge of the forest. Quietly, she pointed. “Look.”
Brynd’s eyes narrowed.
Across the moorland, about a hundred and fifty paces away, stood a group of draugr, the moonlight from the moon Astrid casting bold, eerie shadows across the earth around them. Wind blew constant ripples through the short grass, but the draugr didn’t move, only their fluttering garments. It was an ethereal picture.
“They’ve been standing there, as if unwilling to move, for some time,” Woodyr explained. “At least half an hour now since we first discovered them.”
Brynd’s eyes grew accustomed to the scene, seeing the figures were dressed in rags, merely strips of cloth hanging