City Of Ruin (32 page)

Stranger, though, was how last night he’d experienced weird dreams of fur-covered creatures – with wings – swooping down to stare at him; and when he lurched awake to see what the hell they were, there was only the eternal calm of the night sky above him. It had happened for two nights in a row now, as they sheltered among ancient ruins. Their ghostly presence disturbed him.

*

On the third day they joined old pathways that would die away suddenly into the overgrowth. They’d cut their way through two small, dead communities, then along open tracks between desolate logging camps, or scarred and ragged opencast minescapes. Rika and Eir both seemed eager to understand the Empire’s diverse territories better, and questioned why these communities were all abandoned.

Randur told them just what the Empire signified out here.

‘When the Imperial armies claimed this island hundreds of years ago they declared they’d impose infrastructure and order. They sent the local tribes packing – unless they were considered
civilized
, which, roughly translated, meant abandoning their old ways for those of Villjamur. Quite a few were also forced into slavery.’

‘I heard of prisoners committing serious atrocities against soldiers who merely asked them to work . . .’ Rika said, defensively.

‘Did you ever question, my lady, the source of your information? They were indigenous races who didn’t want foreign soldiers disrupting their communities. Empire folk claimed it’d ensure great wealth for everyone. Well, that great wealth was sucked off to the trading cities, primarily Villjamur and Villiren. And even then it mostly fell into the hands of the few people who controlled the forges, especially those manufacturing weapons of war. They made a fat pile of cash, and more war always meant more business. They relied upon constant warfare, in fact. In the real histories, ones that weren’t rewritten by Empire-employed scholars, the people of Folke were heavily repressed and their will broken through season after season of starvation. A few local rebellions brought more military here, and then, a few decades back, once the population had submitted completely, the formerly booming markets changed – or the Council collapsed them. Different metals were now required, and these original mining communities were killed off. Just like that. And large numbers of people were forced to leave the island. So that’s why you’ll see ghost towns all across this island, and maybe it’s the same on other islands, too, I don’t know.’

Munio remained utterly silent, already knowing this potted history.

‘And the people out here . . . are they angry with the Empire?’ Rika asked.

‘Probably just bitter these days, more than anything. But what can they do? They’ve no control over their own lives. But what annoys me, you know, was back in Villjamur no one had a clue about what was going on here. They just heard the party line about the fringe world from the Council, and never thought to ask questions. The news recovered was exaggerated or incorrect. They assumed that anyone who tried to protest or resist the oppression was simply encouraging evil. Those who objected to Imperial ways were branded terrorists.’

‘If you hate the Empire so much,’ Rika said, ‘why are you now helping me?’

‘Because Eir wants to help you, and if that’s what she wants, so be it.’ He looked across at his love, but she didn’t know what to say to that. He’d already sacrificed a lot for her. It was a dangerous way of thinking – and he knew it – but his love was all he had right now. ‘Besides, you personally have played little role in history, and you yourself know how tricky people in the Council can be.’

‘I believe I can change things,’ Rika said. ‘Once I’m back in Villjamur, back in power.’

‘Best thing you can do, if you ask me, is decentralize that power. Just give the people back the land that was theirs.’

Rika looked thoughtful, and they continued in silence.

*

Down faded paths suffocated by ferns, along steep hillsides with rocks jutting from them like black broken bones. Snow staggered in waves across this hiemal forest.

Near dusk on the fifth day, they decided to take refuge in the ruins of what appeared to have once been a hunting lodge. Constructed alongside a sheer cliff face, it was crowded with spindly ulex plants, and leaned outwards as if the rocks behind had become animated and were pushing it forward. Coloured pebbles were mixed in amongst the masonry, the windows were all long since shattered, and the door was broken – but at least it was shelter.

A storm came, sudden and rough, ripping up the landscape like a wild thing. They lit a fire in the old hearth using sulphur and lime, and Eir, without much idea of what she was doing, began to cook three hares Munio had caught earlier. That was despite Randur’s nervous suggestion that he should continue to look after culinary matters. Rika sat down cross-legged in a corner, soon in deep contemplation. While the old swordmaster scrutinized a map, Randur boarded up the broken windows as best he could, with some fragments of wood. It felt good to be doing this – making some progress, settling in. Jokes shuttled back and forth rapidly between himself and Munio, as they slowly rebuilt their relationship.

They lit lanterns. Inside there were remnants of ornaments, paintings, furniture, riding and hunting implements, but closer examination showed they had all been purposely damaged, leaving Randur wondering at the cause of this destruction.

‘What d’you suppose happened here then?’ Randur lifted a tin plate to examine the decay in the half-light. ‘There are even teeth marks in the metalwork.’

‘Someone must have been pretty hungry,’ Eir suggested. ‘Will our horses be all right, left outside in this weather?’

‘They’ll be fine,’ Randur said. ‘They’ve some shelter out back, and I’ve fed them amply. How’s our progress so far, Munio?’

‘Good,’ the old man said, his face unreadable. ‘Right on schedule.’

‘You sure it’s the most direct path?’

Munio turned and glared at him. ‘We must not stray from this route if we ever want to get there, let alone stay alive. Or do you still not trust this old mind?’

‘I trust you.’

‘Good. Now, do we have any wine left?’

‘You drank the last of it last night.’

Munio grunted, and began studying the map again. He had been very diligent in making sure their progress went according to his schedule, but where this sudden burst of efficiency had come from, Randur hadn’t a clue. Perhaps it was because all the wine had gone, and this was Munio’s natural state – sober and angry and driven.

Eir brought over the cooked meat, her gold necklace glittering in the candlelight as she leant across the table. The food was burnt on the outside and undercooked inside. ‘Just another minute back on the fire and we’re ready,’ he said to encourage her – and also so he wouldn’t spend the rest of the night vomiting out into the storm.

Rika finished off her meditation, and engaged with Munio in ascertaining their route. She followed a thick line with her finger and asked, ‘Is this a road used by the military? I would rather we kept away from anywhere the army might be.’

Munio shook his head, staring down at the charts. ‘We have no choice except to cross it, but there are no soldiers in this section of the island. The road was mainly used for transporting ore.’

With a cautious pride, Eir brought the food from the fire again. ‘I think the wind has died a bit, Rand. Would you like to check to see if the storm’s eased and look at the horses?’

Randur sighed.
Would you like to . . . ?
was, it seemed, a common question in these close relationships – something he was so far unused to – and the actual answer was of course,
No, I would not like to. I have
just spent the last half-hour blocking out any thoughts of the bastard storm. I would rather stay warm and dry, thank you very much
.

‘Yes, dear,’ he offered meekly, then shuffled through to the next room and over to the front door.

He kicked away two thick logs helping to secure it and unhooked the door. In the dim lighting of the glade stood several figures, glancing about. His heart flipped. He closed the door carefully, so it wouldn’t make a noise. Taking a peep through a gap in the wood, he could discern several people with . . . pure white skin? What on earth were they – albinos?

Another look: men and women, naked, very slender. They were clearly visible against the backdrop of the dark forest, but when they moved against drifts of snow, they were utterly camouflaged. Their movements seemed jerky. Behind them, the trees stirred loudly in the breeze.

He beckoned Munio immediately and gestured for the swordmaster to take a look. Crouching to see clearly, Munio gave a start of surprise when he saw them.

‘Ghosts?’ he gasped.

More came, ten in all now, and they began pointing and gesturing in hand signs like tribesmen out on a hunt, ready to kill – that was no reassuring omen.

‘Ghosts, my arse,’ Randur grunted. ‘Ghosts don’t communicate like that.’

‘And when, dear boy, have you ever seen a ghost do anything?’

‘Good point,’ he conceded.

There was a gentle sound over to one side, out of sight, then one of the horses was led forward into the open by two of the white-skinned newcomers. They gathered around the horse – primitive weapons in hand, crude spears and bows, axes crafted from stone – and suddenly the animal shuddered violently, staggered, and collapsed, blood spurting from the artery in its neck. With savagery, the alien people set out about severing the animal’s head from its body, their own skins reddening slickly.

Light was fast deserting the sky.

‘Shit, what should we do?’ Randur hissed, panicking. Defending their shack against those unknown beings seemed a daunting prospect, to say the least, but he was prepared to go out and fight. Without horses for transportation they would soon die out here in the wilds.

Munio eyed him harshly until he ventured a response. ‘We’re heavily outnumbered. And the four of us could just about fit on three horses . . .’

‘So your solution, O great swordfighter, is to sit here and do nothing while they eat all our transport. And then maybe us for dessert.’

‘You want to get us killed, Kapp—’

‘Stop calling me that! I’m Randur now. And I’m not going to just sit around and do nothing.’

Randur stomped into the other room to inform the sisters of what was happening. Eir hurriedly tied up her bootlaces, then picked up her blade. Rika’s face maintained the same calm demeanour as always.

He said to her: ‘You fancy helping us this time?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Randur. It’s just not my way.’

Smiling to himself, he nodded his understanding. Soon he was standing by the door with the other two, ready for combat. Randur opened it and the white-skins immediately, simultaneously, turned to face him. Some of them had dark stains around their mouths where they had gorged themselves on raw horse flesh. Their heads tilted and twitched unnervingly.

‘Now what?’ Eir whispered. ‘It’s so hard to see them in this light.’

‘The young lady has a point,’ Munio said. ‘You didn’t think that through, did you? Rushing into combat, as always . . .’

‘Shut up.’
He’s just as bad as Denlin was
. . .

The figures came closer, then fanned out, weapons ready, forming a rough semicircle around the door of the hunting lodge. As they loomed nearer Randur could see them more clearly. They possessed absolutely no pigmentation, and their prominent veins were a clear network visible beneath the pallid surface. Their eyes possessed some disturbing quality that made them actually glow blue. They were humanoid, and frighteningly so in some ways – their movements and their mannerisms and their interactions. A figure in the centre with long colourless hair tried addressing them in a guttural and esoteric language. It sounded like the casting of a spell.

‘That horse was ours!’ Randur shouted, not quite sure what else to say. He pointed his hand to indicate the remains of the horse.

Tips of trees rattled in the wind. He held out his sword and aimed it at the spokesman. ‘Leave us. Just go.’

The figure, now clearly a woman, took several phenomenally slow but light steps forward as if the terrain provided an awkward surface to move on. When she was only an armspan away from Randur, she spoke to him directly, although again he couldn’t comprehend any of the arcane sounds uttered. Those blue eyes seemed as if powered by relics. Red trickles streaked her chin and neck like she was salivating the dead horse’s blood. Her stare totally captivated him, whether because she was so utterly alien to him, or because there was some deep mental power keeping him transfixed, he couldn’t tell.

Randur wrenched his gaze towards Eir, then back again. He did not know what to do next. There was a deep tension filling the air, as if millennia of time had been breached.

‘Who
are
you?’ he breathed.

The white woman raised her axe and suddenly Randur found himself on the defensive, whipping his blade through her extended wrist. A scream worse than that of any banshee ripped apart the evening air and stilled the weather. The others began to crowd in with their weapons.

As they surged on the three defenders, Randur waded into the melee. His opponents were not strong, almost flouncing away before him, but somehow these creatures always managed to block out his line of attack and push his sword away.