Mark Newton: Nights of Villjamur

Water dripped all around them and the slightest breeze came from some concealed opening further along.

'Let's go,' Fulcrom hissed.

They shuffled forwards as one, Jeryd opening one of the pockets containing his crossbow bolts. His nerves vibrated, surprising himself that an old rumel could still feel intensely.

A single torch was fixed to the wall at the far end of the passage. Rat-shadows moved constantly, distracting the eye. Further along sounded voices, footsteps.

Jeryd and Fulcrom both held their crossbows up, ready to discharge. The investigators around them drew their short swords.

A soldier suddenly turned a corner, spotted them, reached for his sword, and just as he was about to open his mouth to raise the alarm, Jeryd loosed his crossbow. The man's head snapped back as the bolt struck him full in the face; he collapsed under the light of his own torch.

Jeryd reloaded, advanced to check upon the guard. The splattered blood on stone told him all. He nodded to Fulcrom, gesturing him forwards. At this point, the corridor angled to the right, leading into darkness.

In their silent progress another guard was dispatched before he could react. After compacting his body into a dark corner, they continued on towards the sound of voices.

Around another turning, there were two further guards, and the noise was increasing. Two shots: one soldier dead, the other merely wounded. Immediately the younger investigators rushed forward, swords out ready, while Jeryd and Fulcrom reloaded. The sound of clashing metal. When Jeryd arrived at the corner he saw his colleagues engaged in combat with three more city guards. Jeryd prepared to fire again, but it was unnecessary. All three of the soldiers were soon dead, blood pooling around them.

We're close now, Jeryd thought.

Again they hauled the corpses to dark corners. 'Good work, lads,' Jeryd commended them.

Forwards, again with weapons ready, to a well-used corridor. They passed an arm detached from its body, dried blood arcing up the walls in a manner suggesting an execution.

Another soldier was posted outside a closed door, and the look on his face said he didn't want to be there.

Fulcrom's distant shot wasn't clean, so Jeryd was obliged to fire his at closer range, his bolt catching the man in the throat and throwing him back against the stone. Jeryd searched the body for a key to the door till Fulcrom pointed out that it wasn't locked, merely bolted shut from the outside.

Into the room beyond.

Tryst looked up from the table, two guards hovering behind him. 'What the-?'

'I might've known you'd be involved, you bastard,' Jeryd spat at him.

The younger investigators came swarming past him and the guards backed off, outnumbered. They dropped their swords with a clang and held up their hands. One of the investigators looked back to Jeryd questioningly.

'We can't take any prisoners,' he sighed.

Swords were thrust below the breast plate of each soldier, and they fell to the floor in disbelief like drunks at the end of a long night out.

Jeryd stepped towards Tryst, who had now backed against the wall.

'So you're an Ovinist, too,' Jeryd said sadly.

Tryst managed an uncomfortable nod.

Jeryd grunted a laugh. So his own subordinate was really working for Urtica. Somehow that didn't surprise him. The depths this man had already gone to were ridiculous.

'How can you be here? You can't. I mean-'

Jeryd thumped him repeatedly in the stomach. 'What exactly do you mean? Don't think I won't rip out your fucking tongue if you don't.'

Tryst eventually stammered something of a response. 'I… set cultist devices to work on your house. They should have killed you.'

Jeryd glared at him. 'You mean my home is rigged to do what exactly?'

'To explode… I didn't want to. I was forced to.'

Jeryd thought immediately of Marysa sitting at home with Tuya.

'Why should I believe you?' Jeryd said. 'After all your damn lies.'

'Jeryd, I really think you should go back home to see everything is fine. Forget about these refugees – they mean nothing to the likes of us. Just go and we can forget all about this. Come on, Jeryd, I know we've had our ups and downs.'

'Ups and downs? You bastard. You've betrayed me. You've betrayed yourself.' Jeryd lowered the crossbow, and Tryst relaxed. In one fluid movement, Jeryd swiped the weapon across his assistant's face, knocking his head back hard against the stone. Tryst fell with a gasp, and Jeryd kicked him once in the stomach. 'Now tell me what the hell you're doing here. You're obviously involved with killing off the refugees, but how?'

His boot across Tryst's throat, the crossbow aimed.

Tryst weakly indicated the table on which stood several bottles of liquid and some measuring instruments.

'Go have a look,' Jeryd urged to Fulcrom. Then, to Tryst, 'How were you going to do it?'

'Toxin sprays and serums. Kills painlessly within the hour.'

'How many have you killed so far?'

'Only about fifty.'

Jeryd said, 'And how many are left down here?'

'Hundreds, but thousands are to come at a later date. We wanted to get rid of them slowly so as not to cause suspicion. We've only taken the first batch…'

'Where are they? Through there?' Jeryd indicated a door at the far end of the same chamber.

Tryst nodded.

For a moment Jeryd considered what value Tryst still presented. Then he thought about his home, about the deadly threat to Marysa.

'Who's behind all this?'

Tryst lay still. Not a flinch or flicker. Instead he stared past Jeryd at the ceiling, a glazed look in his eye as if he was already dead.

The old rumel looked down at Tryst.

He thought of his own wife.

He thought of the deceit.

Jeryd fired a bolt through Tryst's eye.

Reloaded.

He took out his knife and slit the man's throat before fiercely regarding the others. 'We can take no prisoners. Remember, no witnesses.'

'Right,' grunted Fulcrom, turning away.

*

The stench of them came first. The crowd of prisoners had been held here for only a short while, possibly only a day or two, but without food and water. Hundreds of faces, the first wave of people destined to be poisoned, tilted towards the investigators without a sign of either expectation or fear – just resignation. Men and women with children in their arms, slumped against the walls or sprawled on the cold stone floor of the wide tunnel, with just the few rags and blankets they had carried with them for warmth, unaware they'd been brought here to die.

Jeryd walked around them, telling them of their situation. Told them of the threat. Did they understand him, did they believe him? Did they want to leave and enter the ice again?

Amongst them lay the dead, one or two with the living still clinging to them. Bodies turning blue with poison, bodies shrivelling like fruit… One of his men was retching violently behind him, and Jeryd could hardly blame him.

People began clamouring for food and water, but all Jeryd could offer them was their freedom – a concept that seemed to confuse.

'We have to get you out of here,' he called out repeatedly. Then, to Fulcrom, 'Let's open up the other end of the tunnel, wherever that is.'

Jeryd left two of his men by the door they'd come through, and eight of them now progressed through the crowd of refugees to investigate what lay ahead. The air seemed oppressive. Occasionally a woman would scream, and a man would groan.

They finally reached another makeshift door, metal and firmly closed. He knew a sentry would be posted beyond it, so they eased it opened a fraction, then kicked it wide. Fulcrom's crossbow bolt caught the single soldier who was already rising from his chair, then they rolled his body into darkness.

The further they progressed, the colder it became, and despite there being no light, Jeryd sensed they were close to the exit. Eventually they were making headway by touch alone along a narrow passageway, yet as long as they were in darkness, nobody could see them.