City of Ruin

ELEVEN

'Lady Rika, you want to say a little prayer, or something?' Randur muttered. 'Might make the snow stop.'

He gazed out across the treeless plain, at a stolen glimpse of sunlight – at skies turning the colour of a rusted sword, providing the only distraction from the same bleakness they had travelled through for so long now. Pterodettes circled terns that circled pterodettes in avoidance manoeuvres. In such vast open skies there was nowhere to hide.

'From the sound of your voice,' Rika said, 'I assume you are having some fun at my expense, Randur.' Her black cloak rippled in the breeze, revealing an ornate medallion attached to the robe underneath, a reminder of the wealth she and her sister were once used to.

'Not much, if I'm honest,' Randur replied, catching a wry smile from Denlin.

Randur leaned on his sword as they sheltered from the constant snow under the porch of an old farmhouse. The building hadn't been lived in for years, but it was somewhere. Psychologically, points like this were essential havens on their map. Thirty days now, and most of them spent icy wet. Thirty days on the run from Villjamur.

They were fugitives, no less; he'd stolen these girls from certain death and angered an entire empire in the process, and to say he was now feeling paranoid was an understatement. On a rickety boat that lurched and lunged amid choppy waters, they'd skimmed north along the coast of Jokull, under nothing but empty skies and sea spray. They avoided ice sheets near Kullrun, then travelled south with mordantly cold winds chasing behind them, before landing with more luck than skill on the east coast of Folke the previous night.

Yet they were barely at the halfway point of their route. Villiren, a city located at the end of the next island north, was their target destination – though it seemed a world away.

Still, at least we're out of the fucking freezing water.

Folke: Randur's homeland. He knew it well, so was aware of the dangers to be encountered anywhere away from the major towns. Looking out across a snow-blasted landscape, with nothing ahead but biting wind, with only a few provisions and having not seen another person in days, the success of their journey seemed improbable at best. Patches of exposed land near the coast were so inhospitable that only moss and lichen could survive, but the territory itself was familiar enough to provide him with reassurance on a deep level that he wasn't really aware of.

Denlin briefed their companions, now that they were further inland. The old man's age and experience were useful out here, but Denlin now seemed to have an opinion on everything. 'Girls from a fancy background who have lost everything – money, family and whatever. You two are nobodies, now, right? What are you?'

'Nobodies,' they mumbled, sounding as if they had been berated for some petty misdemeanour, not fighting for survival in a deleterious landscape. Both were garbed in featureless brown furs, hoods flipped up for protection, travelling bags at their feet. Rika's once-elegant hair was now lank and dishevelled, leaving black tendrils clinging to her face. Unlike Randur's partner Eir – her hair was shorter, scruffier, her face more gently rounded than Rika's, but otherwise almost identical in appearance. This similarity gave Randur some concern – that he might make some inappropriate suggestion to the wrong sister, maybe slap the wrong behind. And get his face slapped back. Two times he had come close, two times he caught a fine detail at the last moment in time to make him stop.

'Because if you're somebody, you get your arse kicked,' Denlin declared. 'No, you get the crap thieved from your arse.'

'Does he have to be so crude?' Eir asked.

'It grows on you,' Randur grunted.

'Seen a lot, lad. I'm a man of the world, me.' Denlin faced him with this new-found authority, and this sense of command added a little dignity to his age-sagged face. His forest-green cloak, ex-military, was annoyingly clean, probably an old soldier's habit. When Randur had first met the old man, he could barely keep himself clean, could barely gather together enough money to buy himself a meal in the rancid taverns of Villjamur. Randur no longer hated being the best dressed, even out in the middle of nowhere, under these big island skies.

'This ain't the time to be nice and kind,' Denlin said. 'You got to speak the language of the wild.'

A movement in the distance.

'Well, using that same language,' Randur interrupted him, 'how do you say "There's a caravan of militants over there, and they're heading our way"?'

The old man turned to observe the approaching group. 'Good point, lad. Bugger.'

A horse-drawn caravan crested the hill, with a red symbol painted on its side: a crude image of an eagle on fire. Randur knew it to signify one of the rebel groups that cropped up now and then across the Empire, a crew of rascals that he'd encountered once before on Folke. They called for freedom from Jamur power, and refused to pay their taxes, but still managed to defile the good name of anarchism. You would hear about them cruising from town to town, seducing girls who were impressed with their half-baked philosophies stolen from others, more thrilled at outraging their elders' feelings than engaging in revolutionary activities. These young men liked to challenge others to fights, but it was only machismo, nothing more than posturing in taverns.

'Two horses at the front, one at the back, one to the side of the caravan and, more importantly, four armed men in ragged cloaks, all carrying big, fuck-off swords,' Randur observed. 'Reckon they're selling flowers?'

'You think we can take them, Rand?' Eir fingered a gold necklace, one of the few trinkets he'd rescued from the city. She had certainly grown in confidence since he had tutored her in swordsmanship back in Villjamur. Randur liked her new attitude – he longed to get a moment alone with her so they could explore their developing feelings. Truth be told he was gagging for it, but with her god-blighted sister and Denlin always hanging around, that wasn't possible.

'Wouldn't recommend it,' Denlin suggested. 'You two fancy yourselves something rotten since Villjamur. Think you're heroes after that display on the walls. Well, things is different, out here.'

'I would hope we can stay away from more violence,' Rika interrupted. 'Astrid, I've seen enough of it.' She lowered her head, as some kind of Jorsalir prayer began to form on her lips. The girl had spent years on Southfjords studying the Jorsalir religion under the guidance of a priestess of the goddess Astrid. It annoyed Randur, the way she'd turn to religion at times like this, when they needed no divine-intervention shit.

'Lass speaks some sense,' Denlin agreed. 'No violence is needed, no cause for alarm. Better let me handle this.'

Denlin sauntered gingerly over to meet the approaching crew, a right bunch of Neanderthals judging by the look of them. When he was fifty paces away, after Denlin's initial greeting, Randur couldn't hear a word. The old man began to make all manner of gestures, pointing this way and that, laughing appropriately, hand on hips, and it was reassuring to see some of the other men lighten up and begin to smile themselves.

The momentum of the day changed in an exchange of glances.

One of them aimed a crossbow and shot Denlin through the eye and blood flamed across the snow. The old man crumpled backwards, while the gang looked on nonchalantly.

Rika gasped.

'Get inside the farmhouse now,' Randur urged. 'Eir, if I fail, look after your sister. I don't think this lot will be kind to her.'

Indignation contorted Eir's face – she wanted to stay here to prove herself, he well knew, and she might yet have her chance, but he suspected she wasn't up to killing again, not yet, despite her best intentions of being a hero. Eir opened the farmhouse door and, with a final glance back, ushered Rika inside.

Fucking hell, Randur thought. Denlin…

Saying prayers didn't seem like such a bad idea any more.

Tuning out all his emotions, he focused on the task at hand, tugged aside his black cloak and gripped his sword handle with an edge of anticipation. Randur approached them with slow, measured strides, hoping not to be shot to pieces before he even reached them. He was aching to get away from here, trying desperately not to look at the dead corpse of his friend. Snow compacted underfoot, and the wind calmed, leaving an eerie ambience that protracted the walk towards them indefinitely.

'A little unnecessary that, wasn't it?' Randur called out to the man sitting at the front of the caravan, an obese and swarthy figure in a brown cloak. Crumbs and stains were spattered down his front, and in one hand he held a bladder of wine. Probably pissed.

'Military,' the man grunted casually. He shrugged and held up his free arm. 'Wore the cloak, so he had to go, didn't he?'

Two other men manoeuvred their horses. Once the man at the rear was in place, they were surrounding Randur entirely. He just glared at the leader, suppressing his emotions. 'He wasn't in the army, not any more. He was retired for years and had only the other day fought against Jamur troops.'

'We don't like them Jamur soldiers, new or old, plain and simple. Far too many on this island at the moment. Basically, you gotta badge of the Empire, you int no friend of ours. We kill anything to do with the Empire. You got anything to do with them?'

'Have I fuck,' Randur lied. 'Anyway, he wasn't a real soldier. He stole that cloak to keep warm. Just trying to show off.'

'Not what he told us,' the fat man replied, sitting up with difficulty, 'when we asked him.'

At least Randur couldn't yet hear the click of a bolt being loaded. 'He was merely an old man who liked to impress.'

'He failed to impress me then. So, about the rest of you – what are you doing here? Them juicy-looking bitches made their way inside, they a good fuck or what?'

'That is no one's concern.' Rage swelled within him, but Randur reined back his reactions. Instead he fed them some lines about how he and his companions also hated the Empire, that they had been taxed until they could no longer afford the lease on their lands, and how they now owned nothing, not a Drakar… and finally that the girls were both diseased and really weren't wasting anyone's time over.

'You look like you got cash by your fancy clothes.'

Randur snapped, 'Do you think we'd be all the bloody way out here, in the middle of fuck knows where, if we had any money?'

'Got a point,' the fat man grunted.

Something happened in the glances again.

Randur dived to his right, rolling under the shot of a crossbow, then intentionally spooked one of the horses so it backed into the other, and in the ensuing chaos he pulled both their shouting riders to the ground. One, two, he slashed the men's throats, then plunged behind the caravan, underneath it and through to the other side. There, Randur caught the final horseman by surprise, slammed his head into the wooden side of the carriage twice so hard that it splintered, and shoved his sword through the man's gaping mouth.

Up onto the carriage, then Randur hauled the fat man to the ground – the momentum increased by his target's excessive weight.

Randur aimed his sword point between the man's eyes.

'Don't you kill me!' he spluttered, as a dark stain of urine bloomed at his crotch.

'Right, you fat bastard,' Randur grabbed a clump of greasy hair, 'give me one reason to believe that the world would not be a better place without you.'

'I… I…'

'Sorry. You've failed to impress me.' Randur stood up, and ran the near edge of his blade across the man's throat.

He let him bleed slowly into the snow, lying on his back, his legs quivering. The horses merely stood there, their breath clouding the air.

Randur walked over to Denlin's body, crouched down to cradle the old man's head, staring at the gaping wound in his friend's face. The snow all around was polluted with blood that spread out in vast stains highlighting the carnage.

He then went back to the farmhouse, headed straight across to the far end of one empty room, slumped in the corner, and slung his sword clattering across the floor. 'Well, we've got ourselves some well-behaved horses, some food, and a fat pile of coin,' he announced. 'That's progress.'

He rubbed at his face vigorously, felt an absurd urge to weep – from the continuing pressures, the tension, the relief of not dying, he wasn't sure why.

No glory here, no get-the-girl.

Rika and Eir shuffled out from the dimness of the interior, clearly hesitant as to how to begin a conversation after that display. Randur could see pity in Eir's face. He couldn't be sure if she was appalled at his brutality or not, if she even witnessed it. She should be used to it, though, after seeing the butchery that occurred when he liberated her in Villjamur.

Rika said, 'Did you really have to kill them?'

Closing his eyes, he breathed out slowly, then to Eir he said, 'Not very grateful, this one, is she?'

'Is Denlin…?' Eir began.

'Dead. Very much so.' Randur slid his knees up against his chest, and Eir crouched next to him, her hand resting on his arm, but he looked right past her, out through the open door, and across the scene where his friend had been dispatched so casually. He began to shiver.

*

Under a blood-red sky, Rika offered to perform burial rites for Denlin. Randur didn't know what to say to her offer, and merely grunted some form of approval. Praying was what she did, generally, other than being dull company and seeming ungrateful for her rescue.

Well, not exactly ungrateful, but hoping for everything to be accomplished with religious purity. Saving the day couldn't be achieved so cleanly.

Bugger that. She could freeze her arse off out here on her own, and see how long she'd last. Essentially, it dawned on him, he was here solely for Eir, doing whatever she wanted to do, and he was fine with that. It gave him some direction, a sense of purpose. Being back on Folke for the first time in months, he felt the urge to ride across the island to Ule, where his mother lived, to check if she was all right. He knew that when you couldn't see the future, people tended to gaze longingly towards the past. So he now considered travelling to that town on the south coast where he'd grown up. Learned to dance there, learned to fight under the local skills, Vitassi, an expertise that had given him the advantage so many times.

From hunks of wood wrenched from the farmhouse walls, they constructed a pyre on which to burn Denlin's body, so as to carry his spirit away to the higher realm. Having wrapped him carefully in cloth, the fire was then ignited. The flames burgeoned up the timber pile, and gnawed into the old man's corpse, till the fire spat sparks right across the evening sky.

As he listened to Rika's soothing incantations, they seemed to touch him on some deeper level he was unaware of. Randur hadn't had much time for religion in his past. Too busy chasing girls around the villages, too busy dancing in fire-lit shadows. There were too many pleasures on offer in life, surely, to become occupied with stilling your natural urges, and contemplating what came next. Especially in Vill-jamur, where he'd travelled pretending to be someone he wasn't, there were even more ways to be distracted.

Yet he had to admit that Rika's vaguely melodic prayers were luring him in some ethereal way. 'What are you chanting about? Must admit, I've not much of a clue about your Jorsalir stuff.'

A look of happiness fashioned itself in her face. 'When the two gods, Bohr and Astrid, male and female, created this world, they created other ones too. Different worlds, some parallel, but many on higher and lower plains of existence. Gods and half-gods engaged in petty combats, there at the top of existence. Godhood is a good life, supposedly, but they are never satisfied, and always competing. There are even ghost realms occupying that layer on top of ours, Randur – prisons for those trapped in some harsh memory. Which is why being in this present realm, despite its joys and hardships, because of its joys and hardships, is ideal for spiritual development.'

He grunted at that point, though not exactly disapproving. 'What about Denlin?' Randur asked. 'Where's he going to end up, then? One of these other realms?'

'Yes, and my prayers are intended to help him reach a good realm.'

Did it matter any more? Denlin was dead, just dead.

Eir and Rika stepped back into the farmhouse for the night, leaving Randur alone outside to brood, staring into the flames. Denlin had helped him so much – by selling on the jewels that Randur had seduced from the grasp of rich old ladies, and thus brought in a lot of money for the two of them. They'd become colleagues of sorts, and a firm bond had developed from the need for each other's presence.

Somewhere in the dark distance, a wolf called, the creature heightening Randur's sudden sense of isolation from the world.

Thank you, you old bugger.