A unit of troops was assembling between the inner two gates of Villjamur. Brynd had ordered for twenty of the Night Guard, which included some new promotions from the best of the Dragoons, recruited after a little necessary training. There had been a night of induction, as cultists from the Order of the Dawnir used their skills to enhance the new recruits' physical capabilities, their sight, their hearing, their resilience. Brynd had forgotten just what ministrations the Night Guard had to endure in their first evening joining the elite.
Brynd had ordered up a hundred men and women of the Second Dragoons, and a hundred of the First, all of them mounted on horseback and battle-ready within half an hour. Also he was waiting for a Dawnir cultist to join them.
The horses shifted on the muddied ground. The temperature having plummeted even further recently, Brynd wore several layers of clothing, with a fur cloak draped across his shoulders. He guided his horse in front of the assembled Night Guard. Like himself, they were uncertain as to what sort of combat they were expecting. No reliable news had materialized, no first-hand reports from trustworthy sources. All the information they possessed so far were recycled rumours of grotesque beasts tearing down towns and villages, mercilessly slaughtering everything in sight. As his troops chatted idly to relieve themselves of anxiety, the sound of hooves on the cobbled streets beyond informed him that support was now arriving.
The Dragoons were arrayed in full battle splendour, rousing an inevitable sense of military pride in Brynd. They came off the cobbles onto the snow-covered mud. Beneath their furs, metal glistened in the morning light: body armour and chain mail, nothing ornamental, but simply designed for fighting with efficiency. Spears protruded over shields, swords hung at sides. Within moments they had lined up, awaiting Brynd's commands. And through the gates rode a lone cultist, clothed elegantly in black. The magician rode forward with casual arrogance, bringing his horse up alongside Brynd's.
'Sele of Jamur,' Brynd greeted this new arrival, noticing the cultist was female. She had a weathered face and sunken blue eyes as if she was prey to some addiction. Have they given me a magic junkie? he wondered.
The cultist returned the greeting. 'So, when do we leave?' Her voice was weirdly elegant.
'As soon as our friend the Dawnir arrives,' Brynd confirmed. 'Have you brought much of your technology?' Her horse was loaded with considerable baggage.
'Enough,' she replied, eyeing the gathered soldiers. 'Why aren't we sailing from the city docks?'
'Because ice sheets have already formed on Jokull's northern shores, to some extent, and navigating those waters will be difficult. It will be much quicker to sail from the east side of the island. I didn't catch your name by the way?'
'My name is Blavat, commander.'
'Well then, Blavat, it seems we are now ready to leave.' He nodded towards the gate. The Dawnir hovered there nearly having to crouch under it.
Brynd began to walk his horse forward to greet the creature.
'Commander Brynd Lathraea!' Jurro shouted across the intervening distance. Four crows sprung suddenly from the walls, and burst in a ragged flight away from the city as the Dawnir's plangent voice echoed around the confined space between the gates. 'Sele of Jamur! I have brought some clothing and some books to read on the way, but did I need anything else?'
'Sele of Jamur, Jurro. No, you'll do fine as you are.'
The giant approached, casting a great shadow over Brynd. All the assembled troops stared in amazement at the creature's size, its curious goat-like head, its tusks. By now a throng of citizens had also gathered, staring and pointing. You could hear the squeals of children as they set eyes on this curious piece of history. Few people there would've had the intelligence to recognize this apparition as the sole survivor of the Ancient race.
'Are you all set, Jurro?' Brynd enquired.
The creature paused to contemplate the question in a slow exaggerated manner. 'Yes, I am. I'm looking forward to our little adventure.'
'You realize the danger of our mission?' Brynd warned. 'This isn't a holiday. You're not obliged to-'
The Dawnir raised one massive, hairy hand to silence the commander, leaving Brynd vaguely insulted, though he knew Jurro meant no harm. 'I have longed for years to leave this city, having almost been a prisoner at the Empire's invitation for far too long. They kept me sweet with endless studies, but there is no use reading about the world from a book, when one can see it with one's own eyes.' He prodded a chunky digit under his own eye, as if Brynd didn't know what an eye was.
'Looks like we're all set then.' Brynd pulled his horse back, and trotted alongside the ranks of the soldiers. They presented a solid display of the military force that had kept the Empire intact for generations.
Orders were given for the gates to open, and the Imperial troops rode out of Villjamur. Faintly, Brynd could hear the cheers of the populace left behind, as their troops set off to engage in some far-off battle. It seemed one of those patriotic reactions that had echoed through the ages. Or perhaps the people were cheering because for the first time in ages there was a tradition to cheer about.
As soon as the outer gate was opened, the refugees crowded around the emerging battalions. Overflowing faeces from the latrines and smoke from pit fires combined to provide an intense odour, while behind them their tents stretched across the tundra like a city of cloth. Dogs ran in purposeless circles, ducking under hung-up washing that had frozen solid and didn't even move in the wind. The muddied road to the east stretched right alongside this hellish encampment. Grubby men wrapped in innumerable layers of rags pawed at the horsemen pleadingly, while the sight of a mother carrying her dead child in a sling was almost too much to bear. Brynd suspected that his guilt at ignoring them would come back to haunt his dreams. Everywhere there was hopelessness.
*
'These refugees…' Chancellor Urtica stood at the window, focusing his gaze through the spires towards those camped outside the gates of Villjamur. 'They annoy me somewhat.'
Tryst stepped out of the shadows. 'You wish them to be eliminated now, sir?'
Urtica peered back at him, still gripping the windowsill. 'Timing is everything, my dear fellow. Indeed timing is everything. Of course, I wish them gone, disposed of, because they're a blight on the Empire. Remember this city is a city of legends. Long have poets written about the nights of Villjamur. We can't have their like here, no.'
'And your plan?' Tryst asked. 'Is this why you asked me here?'
'One of the reasons, certainly,' Urtica said. 'But I also wondered how you were getting along with our little friend, the rumel investigator.'
'Not bad,' Tryst said. 'He's keeping very quiet about the murders. Makes me think he knows something. He doesn't usually keep everything quite this silent, though.'
Urtica said, 'You suspect he'll find the murderer?'
'I'm certain of it,' Tryst said, hoping he could mask the fact that he himself had caught her already. Once he had finished with Tuya, he'd make sure she was arrested and executed, but meanwhile he had his own schemes to pursue. Yes, timing was everything. In the meantime he didn't want to consider his actions a betrayal of Urtica's trust.
'I have received numerous requests from the Inquisition hierarchy about permitting Investigator Jeryd into the Council chambers for extensive questioning sessions. I am, however, wary of allowing such a move.'
'Certainly not, chancellor. I have taken moves already to ensure that Jeryd is sufficiently distracted.'
'Good.' Urtica scrutinized Tryst till the Inquisition aide felt nervous. 'Tell me, as his assistant, what do you yourself know about these murders?'
'Very little,' Tryst lied, 'because there isn't much to go on. It seems each councillor was hunted down with a purpose. By some savage creature, in each case.'
'Creature, you say.' Urtica's expression revealed surprise. 'Hmm, these are indeed strange times. I have had reports of the dead rising up to walk amongst the living… but that is strictly between you and I.'
'Of course, chancellor. Of course.'
'Our military operations must not be declared openly, though news will filter out eventually.'
'Who do we fight?' Tryst asked.
'The Varltungs. I'm slightly concerned not to have heard any further intelligence yet. The routine garuda flights have stopped. Not only that, but we've thousands of stinking refugees outside our fucking gates, living in their own sodding filth and disease. It's only a matter of time before their diseases reach into the city itself.'
'You have schemes in mind, sir?'
