City Of Ruin (59 page)

Brynd slumped back against the bed and pressed his face into his palms.

Brynd now had to wake up his unit in the middle of the night. Bleary-eyed and half asleep they shuffled to the obsidian room, where in near-darkness he told them of the murderous attempt on him, and the outcome. Their reaction was a stunned silence.

Did they believe him? Would they think he had killed Nelum because of their recently expressed differences?

‘Why would Nelum attack you?’ Tiendi asked. Only the woman dared speak.

‘You tell me,’ Brynd suggested, scanning the rest of them for signs of insubordination, for subtle expressions indicating anyone else out to get him. If he wasn’t careful, he could become completely paranoid. ‘He just came into my room with a weapon when he thought I was asleep.’

Brynd had already requested two of his men to help him carry in the body, carefully wrapped up in bed sheets. It now lay on the table, and Brynd pulled the sheets aside to reveal the corpse.

‘Fucking hell,’ someone gasped.

‘Shit.’

The bubbling beneath the dead man’s skin had worsened, leaving little to identify him except his uniform. His arms were bent out of shape, one of his legs so swollen that it had split his breeches open.

‘What could have caused such a reaction, commander?’ Lupus asked.

‘Whatever that blade was made from.’ Brynd gestured to the weapon still in the corpse’s chest. ‘Probably some hybrid form of poison – which was intended for me. I’m making no assumptions that he was working alone.’

Silently, members of the Night Guard huddled around the body, then some walked away as if trying to distance themselves from this hideous sight. One or two exchanged glances and Brynd examined their movements. Judging by their body language, this was as much a mystery to them as it was to him.

Tiendi persisted, ‘I don’t get it. Why did he want to kill you?’
Because I’m gay. Because I’m an abomination to his definition of
man.
Because his beliefs told him to?
‘I can only guess he didn’t agree with my decisions in some way.’

*

Ice-wet steps descended to the central courtyard of the Citadel. Layers of moss and lichen added to the gloom. Sombre and still shocked, the Night Guard formed a respectful line past which Brynd, Lupus, Brug and Mikill carried a stretcher bearing the silk-wrapped body of Lieutenant Nelum Valore. A few other people had gathered on the viewing platforms, peering down at this black-garbed troop of mourners.

Morning sleet skidded past his face as Brynd helped steer the remains of his old friend –
because that’s what he was, doesn’t matter what he’s done
– towards the funeral pyre. He was acutely aware of the questioning gazes of his regiment. Some of them had not wanted a traitor burned with dignity.

The line of soldiers stamped to attention, bringing their right fists to their chests. Brynd and Lupus steadied the front end of the black-shrouded stretcher bearing Nelum’s body, guiding it gently onto the head-high shelf, then stepped back in line with the others. Brynd gave the orders for the pyre to be lit. Someone applied a flaming torch to the base of the pyre and slowly the fire spread till it formed a beacon under the dark sky.

‘I hope your chosen gods will treat you well, lieutenant,’ Brynd whispered, staring through the shimmer of heat.

Lupus leaned towards him. ‘It was good, doing this. That is a good gesture, given what he tried to do.’

‘He was still a Night Guard, private. Still, ultimately, a good man.’

*

The best of what the Empire had to offer was lined up in a chamber overlooking the north face of the Citadel. In the distance the sounds of combat drifted ever closer, like an approaching storm. A sense of dread hung in the air, as Brynd watched Blavat the cultist arranging her display of vials on the stone table to one side. He scrutinized all of the little glass containers, already knowing the order in which they’d be selected. Each moment seemed to stretch out in time, as he kept getting tangled up in his own thoughts.

The rest of the unit was morose, standing with arms folded in a contemplative silence. Brynd reminded himself to work on their morale before the mission, since he needed their dedication, especially now.

Lupus volunteered to go first, his partner Beami standing ready to conduct the new augmentations. Lupus removed his shirt and lay down on the plinth, the others waiting and watching mournfully like he was preparing himself to die. Relics were made ready, metallic and crystalline devices lined up, plates attached to his head, then he and his partner shared a final glance before he was injected with extra life. He coughed a loud gasp, clenching his fists then fell to the floor. Beami gently helped him over to the side of the room, where he gripped his gut and rubbed his head.

Everyone stared in anticipation. He seemed completely alive and well and flabbergasted at his new-found senses. He described possession of enhanced qualities that made Brynd excited.

The others followed suit. One after another came Tiendi, Syn, Mikill, Brug, Smoke, Haal, Bondi, and the rest: injection, gasp, collapse, struggle upright, alive.

Then Brynd himself approached the plinth, baring his chest before the cultist. Cold metal penetrated his skin and a surge of technology exploded through his veins –

Like being plunged in ice-water.

Breath fled from his body and he felt his heart beat in a myriad of rhythms. In one instant he felt crippled, then the next, utterly healed. It was only a few seconds before the side-effects were overcome by the new enhancements. Brynd suddenly became quite aware of the changes in his body: the throb of muscle. His sense of smell was more acute, and his vision sharpened by a new quality that he didn’t yet know how to control.

*

Twenty minutes later, and Brynd requested an update of the current status of the citizens being held captive. The latest estimation was one thousand five hundred. The Night Guard was gathered around the massive table of the obsidian chamber feeling much darker and more oppressive than it had ever been. He related the data to them.

To Brynd’s newly enhanced vision, the outlines of people’s expressions appeared so acutely prominent that he could almost read their minds. Eighteen of them left, all in all, and Bohr-knows how many of the enemy. Brynd had to remind them just how much more efficient the Night Guard would prove on an individual basis, and that their extra enhancements might have made them near indestructible. Confidence and psychology were the key.

Brynd described the tactics:

They would now initiate Last Resort Storming. Because the warehouse was deep within enemy territory, a squad of garudas would drop them in, one bird for every soldier. They would swoop into a derelict street, half a mile to the south of their target location, where it had been reported there were minimal defences. Full-scale engagement had to be delayed as long as possible, therefore any interim combat would have to be swift and silent. Cultists could provide them with newly developed
Reykr
relics, a smokescreen tool. They would be armed with a sabre, a dagger, and a crossbow, and in small groups would penetrate in five locations, while garudas would blanket-bomb with
Brenna
three hundred yards north, to cause a distraction.

They would start under cover of darkness, but meanwhile there was still one other person Brynd wanted to speak to before the evening began.

*

He found her waiting as requested, in a dark annexe of the hospital, far enough away from the screams and howls of surgical horror. She was slumped in a chair at a table, a hot beverage beside her.

When he addressed her Nanzi looked up at him meekly, her hands still resting in her lap. Her eyes revealed the trauma of witnessing so many people in terrible pain. How could she ever be a killer, this woman who was little more than a girl?

‘Good afternoon, commander,’ she murmured expectantly.

Brynd nodded a greeting, then ploughed on. ‘With your . . . ability of transformation. What can you do with it precisely? I believe, you can ensnare several victims at a time.’

She expelled a bitter sigh. ‘You want me to fight, don’t you? You want the big bad monster to go to war on your behalf.’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’ Brynd divulged the details of his operation. ‘So you see, I’d like to make use of your skills, to secure certain vantage points that would help us infiltrate where necessary, then use your . . . secretions to hold back the enemy as we advance. And to aid with wounds, as you currently do.’

‘I will try,’ Nanzi agreed finally, then suddenly broke down in tears.

Brynd felt uncomfortable at this emotional outburst. She was a killer, nothing more, but he couldn’t let her see his resentment.

‘Look, after this war’s over, I promise both you and this Voland chap can leave as free people. You’ll have my word.’

She regarded him in wide-eyed incredulity. ‘I will do as you say.’

*

Armed and ready, the Night Guard lined up in neat rows in the Citadel quadrangle, while storm-torches flared and receded in the breeze. Brynd paraded up and down, calling out instructions, last-minute strategy. Then, in hand language he signalled to the garudas perched above.

They glided down, each landing behind a member of the Night Guard. They linked straps, binding man and bird together. Brynd gave some brief commands: the garudas spread their massive wings outwards, and the soldiers crouched in unison with the bird-soldiers, an awkward joint posture.

Then everyone leapt skywards.

*

Jeryd had received instructions to hold several streets situated on thestern side of the city, which seemed strange because this was practically now the invader’s turf. Clearly there was an operation about to take place, something big, but he didn’t know what. It was annoying how at times like this, even stray rumours got dissected as if they were encrypted orders.

Reading the entrails of gossip, that’s what you’re relying on, Jeryd. Why don’t you find a primitive tribesman and ask for a shell-reading?

The irregulars had managed to hold on to a street as the conventional military was pushed back, a professional regiment half slaughtered before his eyes. He felt proud of his rag-tag band of rumel – although they hadn’t suffered the brunt of that skirmish, they were holding their ground, so the position didn’t fall. Only the Okun had been tricky to deal with – with their daunting oneness of action, and they could somehow relay the irregulars’ position to each other so as to avoid their snipers. Which pissed Jeryd off immensely.

And now there was endless waiting, it seemed, and Jeryd didn’t know what for. The only clear instruction he’d had recently was to expect a visitor later that night, someone who’d contribute to implementing further orders.

Three hours since that message, and now long into the night. While drinking hot tea, snipers and scouts examined the neighbourhood for movement, when eventually a shrouded figure emerged from a side street. A couple of the lads went to investigate and escorted the newcomer over, cloaked and silent, to stand before their platoon leader.

Jeryd then laughed. ‘Nanzi, you murdering bitch. The hell are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been selected to help the Night Guard,’ she declared, her tone almost apologetic.

Someone behind him gasped and there followed a moment of stunned silence. The presence nearby of that regiment was profound, and had a profound effect on everyone’s morale. Jeryd’s curiosity increased exponentially.

‘Not in this shape, I imagine.’ Jeryd gestured up and down at her human form.

Nanzi shook her head. Jeryd shook his.

‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘Because of such low temperatures, they want rumel to guide me into position, and then to oversee the escape of the hostages.’

Jeryd held back his disbelief. ‘We’ve not had any official instructions yet.’

No sooner had he said this than a Dragoon came riding up to them, and jumped down from his grey. ‘Sele of Jamur, Lieutenant Jeryd. Sergeant Vígspár. I have orders for you from the Night Guard.’

As his mount’s hooves crunched on the debris, the sergeant confirmed what Nanzi had just said, and Jeryd listened carefully to the well-organized plan.

Vígspár rode away, and Jeryd immediately dispatched platoon members in search of carts to retrieve any injured hostages.

As the moment for action approached, he heard a communal gasp. He looked back to see Nanzi begin her transformation. She began juddering into shape, limbs unfolding, tufts of hair sprouting.

Within a minute she had contorted into the vast shape of the killer spider.

A couple of the rumel in the platoon cowered back some distance and Jeryd shouted at them, ‘Get back,
for fucksake
. We’re meant to guide this . . . thing into place.’

In the awed silence that followed, Jeryd inspected the dark street once again for movement, all the time waiting for the sound of
Brenna
devices detonating, forcing the enemy into fighting at night, against their will.

Then suddenly it came, a dull booming in the distance, and shortly afterwards, the faint but urgent response of the invaders being pressed into action, their battle cries.