City Of Ruin (58 page)

‘I’ve nothing for you.’ Nelum dismounted and moved away from his horse towards them.

The cloaked man flicked open a knife and thrust it at him lazily, but Nelum batted his hand away, grabbed his wrist then broke his assailant’s arm across his knee. At that point the first thug jumped him with his own blade, drawing a faint line across Nelum’s cheek, before staggering away.

The man’s expression turned to surprise as he watched Nelum’s wound heal before his eyes. He began thrusting his knife aggressively, while Nelum darted this way and that, ducking appropriately. He then palmed the man’s forearm, sent the blade spinning from his grip, before he yanked the man’s wrist downwards and jabbed a vicious punch to his neck. He collapsed to one knee, clutching his throat.

A few of the whores further up the street laughed awkwardly before sashaying off into the darkness, and Nelum mounted his horse again, then rode away wondering just where on earth the priest had sent him.

*

He arrived eventually at a dilapidated shopfront adorned with a discoloured sign that read ‘Cheap Lunches’. Every other building up and down the street looked unlived in, redundant, yet he felt dozens of eyes observing him. Shutters covering windows, a boarded-up door, and Nelum was left wondering how he would get in. He dismounted, tethered up his agitated mount, then went around the back to find a door, on which he knocked loudly.

Eventually a hatch slid back, a pair of eyes regarded him, and someone asked his business.

‘The priest sent me,’ Nelum explained and, after a few more seconds of staring at those unblinking eyes, he added: ‘I’m here to buy some of your wares.’

The hatch closed, then the door creaked open, and Nelum was beckoned into the darkness by an old man wearing scruffy breeches. The place stank of either chemicals or cheap incense, and there was someone playing a piano in a far-off room, a gust of laughter accompanying. The man led him into a small but well-lit room resembling a grocer’s shop, with a counter and dozens of vials and bottles teetering on shelves – so much glass sparkling in the lantern light. Dozens of knives hung on one wall like rows of teeth of varying lengths. Ornamental masks lined another. Gemstones rested in boxes beneath the counter, amber, jade, topaz and a hundred varieties he didn’t recognize.

Nelum stared at the man and dropped several Sota discs on the counter. He was skinny with sallow skin, and his jaw narrowed dramatically to a point, which in this light made him look like he’d been cross-bred with a rat.

Laughter again from the other room.

‘I’m after some of your substances. Toxic substances in particular.’

‘Got all sorts here,’ the man replied. ‘What you after?’

‘Respiratory inhibitor,’ Nelum said hesitantly, remembering some textbook from his studies. ‘Cyanide, possibly?’

The man smiled, eyeing Nelum’s clothing, clearly realizing that he was a military man but still not commenting on the fact. This unspoken pact was reassuring. ‘That’s old school,’ he said. ‘An amateur’s choice. You’re a traditionalist, I see.’

‘Have you anything better then?’

‘ ’Course, lad. People come to me when they need a job doing.’

‘Well, I need a job doing
well
. Something to be injected directly into the bloodstream. And it needs to be tough, with no messing around. Distilled so it’s strong enough to kill many men.’

‘Bloodstream . . . Maybe haemotoxins? No, you might want to consider charged metals, but that can be slow – and usually it’s ingested. You want to be able get out quick?’

‘I do.’

‘Hmm. You considered a blade rather than toxins?’

‘That could be messy . . . I don’t want to be involved in a simple fight, not if I can help it.’

The old man turned and looked at the shelves like he was searching for something in particular. ‘
Clostridium botulinum
,’ he breathed, and turned round with a small knife, holding it reverentially in front of him. He placed it on the countertop.

Nelum was impressed with the filigree of work: it was the most ornate and uncanny knife that Nelum had ever seen, with a marblelike handle and gold edging. Dark substances oozed beneath what appeared to be a transparent surface – no, the blade itself seemed to be constructed from some form of liquid, yet one capable of holding its shape.

‘Using this won’t be pretty, since
Botulinum
causes extreme paralysis and physical distortion. One of the most toxic substances I deal with. Myth has us believe that people used this to stop themselves from ageing – insane to believe that, but I’ve heard funnier things about the past . . . This is called a botulinum blade. Fabricated from the poison itself.’

‘How can I trust that it works?’

‘Who knows what they got up to in times gone by – but they was darker folk than in our own day. Now, wait here.’ The old man stepped away to the back and Nelum was left with only the sound of laughter eerily drifting somewhere in the distance. He eventually returned with a steel cage, inside which a fat rat scampered aimlessly. Beckoning Nelum closer, he sat the cage down and poked the strange blade between its bars. The rat merely brushed up against the tip of the blade, but instantly it began to shudder, then convulsed, its entire body contorting and blisters forming under the fur. It finally collapsed on its side and Nelum realized it had died, but its body was still reacting violently to the toxin.

‘I’ll take it,’ Nelum declared.

When the old man described a phenomenally high price, Nelum was forced to reach for a second purse of coins. The blade was wrapped up and boxed and slipped under Nelum’s cloak, before he left the broken-down building to find his horse.

*

A knock on his chamber door, and Brynd jolted awake to find he’allen asleep across his missives. Zones across his shoulder and necad become bitingly stiff from the combat.

A messenger shuffled into the room, announcing more bad news.

There had been confirmation from the scouts that the enemy werndeed taking prisoners. Over a thousand citizens of all ages were noocked up in a warehouse somewhere in the west of the city, anhips were lining up to transport them to the north.

*

Later that night, Brynd asked Nelum to meet him in the obsidiahamber to discuss a possible mission to the warehouse. Lupus watanding by the far wall, studying maps of the area that the enemad captured.

The central table seemed increasingly an extension of Brynd himself, so much of his business was now conducted from here. This wasn’t soldiering any longer, it was administration.

After explaining the news in detail he rested on his elbows and peered across at his lieutenant. The man seemed more agitated than he’d ever known, and it seemed he had not listened to a word just said. Brynd knew this to be totally out of character for him.

‘Part of the Night Guard’s duty is protection of the Empire’s subjects,’ Brynd said, by way of reminder. ‘It seems there are many innocent civilians imprisoned and waiting to die, and I believe we must devise a way to get them out of there with minimal loss of military personnel.’

‘Agreed.’ Nelum frowned at the table. ‘I’m sure I can come up with a strategy.’

Brynd wanted to do that himself, but as a gesture to Nelum, he backed down. ‘If you wouldn’t mind. So long as absolute stealth is integral to—’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Nelum snapped.

Ungrateful bastard
. ‘Lieutenant, you need to show some more respect for your commanding officer.’

A pause, as Nelum searched his mind for the right words. ‘I find it difficult, is all. I think the stress of this campaign is getting to me.’

‘Getting to
you
?’ Brynd stood up suddenly, tipping his chair to one side. ‘You think
I’m
not fucking stressed? I know exactly what you mean, lieutenant. But you remain under my command. Is that fucking clear?’

Nelum’s eyes betrayed his rage.

‘Indeed, commander.’

At that point, Brynd suspected he had lost any future support from his second-in-command. He realized that Lupus was facing them now, wide-eyed and uncertain how to act. ‘As you were, private,’ Brynd ordered, and Lupus turned silently to face the maps again.

Brynd moved to pick up his chair and brought it calmly to the table. ‘The only question is how we do this. I suggest it needs to be a night mission, because although witnesses say the Okun can be active after dark, it seems they prefer not to fight then – and neither do our own forces – but at least we Night Guard are enhanced. Somehow, we’ll need to penetrate a zone that lies deep within enemy ground, without being seen.’

‘We could use the garudas,’ Nelum suggested eventually, and Brynd liked that idea.

*

Hours had passed and still it wasn’t the right time – it seemed thae’d never find the right time. Sleep had so far avoided him, as Neluet his concerns and angst continue to ricochet around inside his head.

He pushed himself up, got dressed, picked up the case containing thotulinum blade. He unwrapped the curiosity and held it before him, marvelling at the technology involved.

The two men he shared the room with – Brug and Haal – would be out of the way for the next few hours, wading through the messages and directives in the report.

Which meant Brynd himself should be taking this opportunity to get some sleep.

How dare the albino talk to him like that – in front of Lupus. There was no respect from Brynd, no appreciation of how Nelum’s mind liked to work. He wished to shut out all distraction in order to formulate this operation, and all the commander did was offer annoying assistance. Nelum needed no help
. No, if there is ever a time to do it, it’s now
.

He pulled up a black hood to keep his face in shadow, then headed outside. Soft footsteps on the flagstones, as he moved along the corridors with the blade ready in his hand. There was hardly anyone else up at this hour, and he felt himself more on edge than he’d ever known. His senses were sharpened by his desire not to get caught, every sound alerted his gaze, every flicker of light ahead challenged him.

Four doors along on the right was Brynd’s room – the commander preferring to sleep apart from the rest of the men. If this had not been a time of war, there would have been night sentinels stationed along the corridor, but now every single soldier needed to be fresh to fight.

Nelum took a breath to steady his nerves, and listened for any sound of movement inside. His grip on the door handle was so gentle, almost caressing it open, without a sound.

He slunk inside.

There, at the far end of the room, lay a man breathing to the rhythm of his dreams. The milky light of the moons filtered through a tiny round window high up on the wall and, as his eyes rapidly adjusted, Nelum could make out clearly the form of the commander on the bed.

A pale face turned slightly, and the words were whispered suddenly: ‘I wondered how long.’

The chink of metal unsheathing, and Nelum moved fast. Brynd must have kept a blade ready by his pillow.

They fought desperately in the dark. In an instant they were locked together, gripping each other’s wrists, muscles stinging, then Nelum felt two sharp blows connecting with his ribcage before he managed to headbutt Brynd away, with a heavy grunt.

After their separation there was a pause, as each of them waited for the other to strike.

Nelum lunged again, his blade skilfully slicing back and forth, forcing Brynd to topple forwards. Nelum kicked his opponent’s legs under him, but Brynd gripped Nelum’s ankle then raked a knife across his shins. Nelum managed to twist himself away but the agonizing pain had him writhing on the floor as the commander began to retaliate.

Nelum managed to grab and deflect Brynd’s wrist, sending the commander’s knife skimming across the floor. He then kneed Brynd in the stomach. The albino grunted, forced himself upright in an instant. He aimed a punch at Nelum’s cheek – something cracked – and now it was Nelum’s turn to feel pain. Brynd slammed a sideways kick across his knees, bringing him buckling back to the floor again.

Brynd punched down on to his neck.

Nelum’s breath escaped him rapidly. He gasped for air, holding the toxic blade up uselessly. Then, as he reached for his damaged throat, the knife in his hand slipped . . .

*

Brynd watched Nelum’s face flicker like a stroke victim’s, then it contorted dramatically. His limbs collapsed into abnormal postures, and he began juddering movements. He arced his spine and tried to scream, but only gasps and saliva emerged. The muscles on his face began to twitch hideously, as his skin bubbled and blistered. Then after what seemed far too long, Nelum fell still.

Brynd struggled to one side and lit a candle. Some strange blade made of alien technology was partially lodged in Nelum’s chest.

Dear Bohr
. . .
What is in that knife?

Nelum’s skin had turned a vibrant red, his body so deformed that Brynd could barely recognize him. For a moment, Brynd’s breathing came in short, sharp gasps.

Why did you have to come after me, Nelum? Just because of your damn beliefs and prejudice?
They had been comrades for years – close enough to know each other’s quirks. How could Nelum have planned to kill him, after all they’d both been through?