City of Ruin

TWELVE

'Commander Lathraea, my son, please – come forward.'

Again, there had been that initial reaction he was used to – the realization that he was albino, that he was someone different. White-robed and reeking of musk, the old priest tilted the back of his hand upwards. Brynd removed his wax cape, folded it to one side, walked forward and knelt to kiss the offered hand. There were far too many gold rings on those aged fingers for his liking.

'A Night Guard soldier in my church,' the priest rasped. His face was lightly pockmarked, his eyes sharp. 'That is indeed an honour. And the famed albino, too…'

The church was more like a cathedral, really. It was filled with those ornate decorations that Brynd couldn't stand. Why did Bohr and Astrid, the creator gods, those epitomes male and female… why did they need such excessive finery? It suggested that these priests and priestesses extorted a lot of money from their followers merely to spend on ornate fripperies. Candelabras and crest mirrors and console tables of such craftsmanship. A thick red carpet bisected the cavernous stone-built room, wooden benches ranged on either side of it, where men and women of the city would come and pray segregated in their allotted areas.

'Priest Pias, the honour is mine,' Brynd lied. He stood up to face the old man directly. Thick wrinkles in the priest's face contradicted the air of a peaceful existence. His nose was bird-like, over lips that were unusually small.

'How can I be of help to you?' Pias's voice was commanding in the stillness of the large chamber. They walked side by side to one of the front benches, where the priest gestured for the commander to sit down.

Light leaked from the hundreds of candles in the vast space, creating a warmth and peace that seemed unnaturally potent. Incense burned at the rear, sandalwood, the flakes of smoke catching the light.

'I'm here to ask a favour,' Brynd said. 'You already know of our current crisis, so I won't bore you with the details.'

'Indeed,' Pias sighed. 'This is a grave matter, isn't it? And how are you coping?'

Brynd related the grim information in its true and honest form. 'I wonder how long we can survive against such a scale of attack. We've decided to request the presence of a lot of cultists to aid us in preparation-'

'That way lies insanity, commander. Cultists are untrustworthy and unsavoury individuals.'

Brynd knew how much the church disapproved of cultists, but he'd not been aware of this degree of vitriol. Saying nothing, he waited for the priest to go on.

'They mess with the universe on unethical levels. Of course, Bohr would not approve of their techniques, but they continually perpetuate lies regarding the functioning of this world, commander. You'd do well not to listen to their seductive suggestions.'

'These are desperate times, I'm afraid. I'm even having to seek the support of some of the street gangs.'

'Really?' The priest licked his fingers to slick down some errant strands of thin grey hair. 'I would not think that such criminals are much use to anyone.'

'Admittedly, but these are unusual times. Those street men are tough, and they might find some way to redeem themselves… in the eyes of Bohr and Astrid.'

'This is true.' Priest Pias gave a philosophical shrug.

'But what I'm after,' Brynd said, 'what I need is some guidance. You deliver some enthusiastic sermons here, so they say.'

'Ah, it has been known, yes. I am passionate about our Jorsalir teachings.' The priest smiled. 'But how could this be of any help to a military man?'

'Inspiration, essentially. I wondered if there are any references in the scriptures to ways of fighting for great causes. Because if the intelligence brought to my attention is correct, we're dealing here with great evil. You might even say something otherworldly.'

'A military man wishes for spiritual guidance against the forces of evil?' Pias could hardly contain his amusement.

Smug fucker, Brynd thought. 'Not precisely, Priest Pias. But are there such references in the scriptures?'

'Yes, of course. Although it is not as black and white as one might think. Well, the teachings of… the Hunter Saint in particular. His sermons suggested that Bohr and Astrid have demanded such action of our citizens in the past. To protect the realms of yore, in our vast, vast history. Many scholars suggest that inactivity on the part of previous civilizations – the Shalafars in particular – in the names of our creators, led to their eradication. "Because of Bohr's great mercy to us I appeal to you: offer yourselves as a living sacrifice to Bohr, dedicated to His service and pleasing to Him. This is the true worship that you should offer." '

'I've no wish for our people to be eradicated.' Brynd's gaze was met by the priest's.

'Nor have I.'

'Here's how things stand,' Brynd continued. 'If our suspicions are correct, this city will most likely fall unless every man and woman wholeheartedly fights for its survival. My soldiers will do all we can to stop them, but I fear the worst. This…' – he sought the word again, for emphasis, no matter how inaccurate it was to how he really felt – '… evil. This evil will stop at nothing, so I want the people to be willing to fight for their homes – for their very survival. If not that, then for some greater spiritual cause. Perhaps for a rebirth in a new realm, something beyond their present everyday existence. They need' – he hated to use the words – 'hope and faith.'

'You refer to the intervention of Bohr and Astrid?' the priest offered.

'I do.' Brynd despised how low he was having to stoop. People did what they did because they believed in it or else, at a very basic level, believed it would make them happier. Motivations were simple affairs, and he needed to rouse the citizens of Villiren to fight for something greater than themselves. 'It might also reduce our reliance on external bodies… such as cultists and the like…'

Priest Pias leaned back on the bench and stretched his arm out to one side. For a moment there was perfect stillness in the room.

'Are you yourself a religious man, commander?' Priest Pias asked.

'I have my moments.' Another lie. How could he connect to a belief system that helped outlaw what he was in secret?

'I shall contemplate your words, commander,' the priest said. 'If some great evil, as you say, is coming to this city then I hear your concerns. I shall talk to some of the other priests, and see what they come up with regarding our scriptures. For a greater good, as you say.'

'For a greater good,' Brynd echoed.

*

A cold night, again, as horses belted through the dark, their hooves slipping on ice. Two fiacres clattered by, the riders barely looking his way. Thugs loitered wherever streets intersected, converging in the language of the streets, that queer Jamur-tribal hybrid. Amongst these nocturnal scenes, he wondered vaguely what had happened to Private Haust, the young blond man who had disappeared.

Brynd was wearing civilian clothing, thick cotton layers, of an earthy brown colour, a hood so that he could hide his face as he walked, so he would blend into Villiren, even, as on the night that saw the underground fights, using a paste to darken his exposed skin, to hide the fact he was albino. Nothing he could do about his red-tinted eyes though, so he had decided to wear a full-face gnaga mask.

Constant stress was crippling him and the logistics of the military operation were overwhelming. Night after night, the other soldiers could unwind in taverns all across the city while he imprisoned himself with charts and reports, saw to the needs of thousands of others who remained ignorant of how he was serving them. He had slept maybe eight hours only over the last three nights.

Well, not this evening. Tonight he sought relief.

After exploring a few tip-offs, he was striding towards a certain featureless building, with a facade that could be found in any city throughout the Boreal Archipelago. Anonymous-looking. There were two men standing behind the door leading to his destination, big guys with daggers ready at hand. Behind them lay a dark corridor. A few discreet words were exchanged, tentative and searching sentences, then they let him in.

The first room was lit by just two cressets, on opposite walls, and a couple of tea-light candles set on each of the tables. Always the same, these places. Dark enough for the hypocrites to escape into their fantasies without ever being caught – which annoyed Brynd, since these might be the very same men ready to label others as being 'abnormal'.

Bender, queer, faggot.

Words loaded with a pain that burned inside his head. In his darker moments he could hardly blame them – there were times he could hardly tolerate himself. But such words were spoken every day with a casual thoughtlessness, often issuing from the mouths of those he worked with and trusted.

How could the world be so consciously loathing of such a natural emotion, merely on the word of some very old text? Other cultures, Brynd was certain, would not forbid such desires.

Shirt-lifter, mincer, fairy.

Was he a weak man? Was he weak for wanting sex, wanting to pay for sex? No. It was safer that way, a transaction which would secure his anonymity.

From behind a doorway, music drifted into the main bar. He poked his head in briefly, saw a violin player and a man clutching a small drum belting out a few folk rhythms, could smell the intense aroma of arum weed and spilt vodka. There were a few candles at the far end, nothing in between but shadows gliding through the darkness. His heart rate picked up, matched the intensity of the drumming. Sudden nervousness kicked in, and for a moment he considered walking out again, back to the barracks, ignoring this side of him like he had so often before.

In a fake accent, he asked someone nearby where he could go to pay for it. Directions were issued, gestures barely discernible in the dimness. He felt his way around the corridors until he reached where he hoped to be. A moment later, he'd chosen his man, one with oil glistening on his skin, slightly perfumed with patchouli, a scent aiming to relax him.

'Don't worry if this is your first time.'

'It's not.' Brynd tried not to laugh. How much cock had he sucked by now? He couldn't remember. He threw the man some Sota coins – and didn't even look at how many.

They found a room shrouded in darkness, with a decent enough bed, and everything proceeded by touch. Brynd liked that, his vision removed, it meant his other senses were heightened. Liked the feeling of not having to make decisions, of following someone else's orders. The man tried to remove Brynd's mask but a firm grip on his thick wrist thwarted the gesture. Instead, Brynd tilted it slightly to one side, and kissed him… and his primitive instincts dispelled that inert, empty sensation he felt with a complete stranger, because this was now a body at least, another man, more than he'd known in a while: meat and tongue and cock. This one was thuggish and direct, and Brynd tenderly explored the thick ridges of muscle moving against him, the thick arms around his waist. Fuck, that feels so, so good… Brynd turned, reaching behind his body, and eased the man's dick out of his breeches and wanked him until he was hard.

'You have protection I take it?' Brynd asked. A few movements to one side, and the man-whore was safe. A trustworthy establishment, at least. He made sure some oil from the man's torso acted as lubrication and, as he leant forwards on his knuckles, he purged his mind of thoughts.

*

Brynd departed with no attempt at conversation, no goodbyes, just headed back out through the confusing dark corridors – smacking straight into the cold night air of Villiren, back into his normal life. A quick fuck to relieve the built-up stress – or replace it with guilt, whatever.

As he left, he couldn't help but think he was being followed. Maybe it was his paranoia. These streets could do that to you, but still…

Was there actually someone there?

In the shadows?