off to have a word with some contact or other, returning shortly afterwards with the necessary background information, and occasionally a little scandal.
Jeryd liked that quality, and had drawn the lad to his side quickly. He had to admit, it felt good to be around so many other rumel again – if only they could have met under different circumstances.
Suddenly, a scuffle broke out in his own ranks, and being the senior officer, he made his way across to investigate. Despite the new sword being so unfamiliar and heavy, constantly getting in his way, he did well to maintain his dignity as he approached.
'What the hell d'you think you're doing?' Jeryd called out to them across the street.
A rumel soldier was engaged in a brawl with a couple of humans. By the time others arrived to break it up, the young rumel had a broken nose and was bleeding heavily.
'What do you think you're doing? There's already a war on, without us fighting amongst ourselves.'
One of the humans, brushing himself down, yelled back. 'You rumel, you're the ones that's invading. You're the fucking enemy. We always knew there was something wrong with you lot and now look. A load of you hanging about with weapons. Fuck should anyone trust you?'
Bags stood by Jeryd's side, levelling a crossbow, but Jeryd eased him away. 'Get back, lad. That's just what they want.'
He turned back to the humans. 'We are defending Villiren, by order of the Empire. We are on your damn side, and you come here trying to harm us. As if this city hasn't seen enough death already.'
'Fuck you, rumel,' the human snarled and made offensive gestures, then ran off into the darkness. If things are this bad here, how bad will they be in the tunnels with Marysa? Bohr, I hope she's all right.
*
An elderly man tripped and fell, dropping his bags on the muddy floor. Marysa helped him to his feet then his family came to thank her. Soon they were lost again among all the others.
Slowly, they all shifted through tunnels lit occasionally by storm lanterns or torches. It was like some lower region of hell. Now and again there was a sound like thunder overhead, though the only clouds down here were those of fear and misery. To think, this was considered the safer option, she thought. I wonder how Jeryd is coping with the storm above.
As they shuffled forward monotonously, occasionally the network of tunnels would open out into a vast cavern, where the remains of some ancient settlement was in the process of decay. Towers and spires rose a good forty feet high, examples of perfect symmetry, punctuated by windows only visible now as bold shadows. In the light from the lanterns carried by Villiren's fleeing populace, these structures seemed both eerie and awe- inspiring.
Stunned and delighted, she recognized some of the architectural embellishments as characteristic of Mathema, therefore tens of thousands of years old. Never in all her years of archaeological study had she seen anything quite like this. Down here there was no rough weather to wear them down, which must explain their good condition.
If only I could remain here for a while…
Progress had been fine until the city's notorious gangs had arrived on the scene. Sauntering along in their hundreds, and pausing to fight with their rivals, they had become a constant obstruction. Marysa was disgusted that these fit and healthy men – and women – chose to flee their city rather than give help to the armies up above. Hoods hauled over their heads, garish masks to hide behind, they pushed their way ahead with no respect for others. They flaunted their weapons simply for the fun of scaring people, who were already frightened enough.
Up ahead of Marysa, a woman began wailing hysterically.
As she approached through the murk she could see a blonde woman huddled on the floor, cradling a young child in her arms.
Just then a man in a sinister red mask approached and crouched down to speak to the distraught mother. Marysa paused, feeling self-conscious about watching the pair, as people flowed around them with their carts and luggage.
Is he going to harm her?
'What happened?' the man asked.
The woman was silent for a while, refusing to speak. There was fear in her eyes, as if she recognized him, and after the man asked again she replied, 'My boy gets ill and we don't have any food and… now he's dead.'
'How old was he?' red mask asked softly.
'Two years in only six more days. We was going to have a nice time, just me and him. His father left…' She began to sob again, hugging her dead son to her chest, and rocking back and forth as if to soothe the corpse into an even deeper state of rest.
The man stood up, glancing briefly at Marysa and the others who had stopped to watch. A man behind grumbled at them to get out of the way.
Red mask's gang had now assembled, a sizeable outlaw regiment waiting for their commander to speak. They wore feral masks. Metal glinted beneath their well-made cloaks. Many of them looked young, under twenty at least.
'We're going back,' the man decided.
'Boss?'
The man spoke firmly, did not even raise his voice. 'We are going back.' He lifted up his mask to reveal handsome features, which surprised her. 'Give this poor woman some damn money and a decent cart and one of you – I don't care who – make sure she gets out to safety.'
'Why are we going back up there?' demanded the redhead. 'We do that, we all get killed.'
The boss grabbed the man's collar and lifted him up onto his toes. 'See the dead kid? How many more of those d'you think there'll be if people like us don't do something? I've changed my mind. Put word out, to round up affiliated gangs. Tell them, one of us goes down, we all go down together – that's what we're all about.' He dropped the fellow, shoved his way back through the other men. They looked at each other, shrugging. No one knew what to make of this change of plan.
'What difference can we make?' the redhead called out after him, but it wasn't any use.
The man in the red mask had vanished.
*
If they were going to do it at all, they would have to do it his way.
A hub of fifty or so Bloods soon became an aggregate of dozens: hundreds of masked fighters from the various gangs who, somewhere along the lines, had stopped caring only about themselves. Or maybe many of them had begun to understand just what it meant if they didn't have a home, if they didn't have others to intimidate, if they didn't have rackets to engage in.
They now listened only to Malum, and their own leaders backed down. It was futile even for them to oppose this acrimonious band. Reluctantly the military had handed over weapons and armour, realizing that this change of heart was in everyone's best interest. And, anyway, it wasn't their city, this wasn't their turf. It had always belonged to the gangs of Villiren and Malum wanted to keep things that way.
He was distantly aware of just how powerful he had become, but even that didn't matter at all. He was a shattered man, and didn't give a fuck if he got killed. People afraid of dying usually possessed something worth losing. It was possible that many of the other Bloods felt the same – all they had ever had was the gang anyway. They would do anything for him now.
He didn't know how it happened, but ever since he had seen all these people underground, especially since he had seen the children with their haunted faces and tenuous futures, he had managed to focus his anger on the things that were invading his city.
The Okun and those red-skinned rumel.
Dirty relics and illegal blades and outlawed poisons, the gangs began to use every nefarious piece of equipment they could get their hands on. Archaic systems were established, a no-leader culture despite their reverence for Malum, and as a result they became surprisingly well organized, a rough but self-sufficient fighting unit, with no need for Imperial direction. Some of the more primitive, barbarous types were in their element, able to indulge finally in killing as much as they could. There was something strangely poetic about the freedom they now operated with.
While the Okun possessed an instinct for knowing exactly what was coming, the red rumel made easier
