The Radiant War

Chapter 11b

     The people of the city were just as drab and grimy as the buildings. There were no colours to be seen on their clothing. Nothing but shades of grey. Maybe some of them had been blue or brown once, but the colours had faded and the ever present soot and smut got into everything. Many of them had hands black with coal dust. Those who'd made an effort to try to clean them still had black in every crease and under every fingernail, but most seemed not to have even bothered, as if it would have been just wasted effort.

     There was a fatigue evident in everyone he saw. They walked with heads bowed, staring at the ground in front of them, their hands hanging limply by their sides. It seemed to be a fatigue of the spirit rather than the body. Something that all the sleep in the world wouldn't have been able to touch. Do they commute? he wondered. Many of the workers in Helberion industrial cities lived in outlying towns, only moving into the city to work. It meant they could breathe clean air while at home and be surrounded by healthy greenery. He’d seen no sign of residential townships while approaching this city, though, and so had to assume that these people had to endure this environment twenty four hours a day.

     There was one escape, of course. Two, if you counted alcohol and opium separately, and he saw the unmistakable signs of drug dependency everywhere he looked. People with the glazed expressions of an opium haze in their eyes lay passed out by the sides of the street while uncaring people stepped over them. Then, as he turned the corner to pass the massive, grey bulk of a glue factory, he saw an expensive carriage pass by drawn by sleek, black horses; far too opulent to be the property of a factory boss. It had to be a drug lord. Grown fat on the misery of the working men and tolerated by the bosses because it kept the working classes too drugged and apathetic to rise up in rebellion. The Brigadier climbed back into the saddle of his horse and geed it into a canter. He suddenly felt a desperate need to be out of this awful place as quickly as possible.

     He heard a cry of pain and glanced sideways, into the darkness between two buildings. There was movement there, and he pulled on the reins to slow his horse while he got a better look. A man was being assaulted by three men. He was lying on the ground while they kicked him and hit him with pickaxe handles. Instinct got the better of common sense and the Brigadier jumped from the saddle and ran over, his hand going to the knife on his belt. None of them sensed his approach. None of them were watching their surroundings. They just assumed that they wouldn't be interrupted, that anyone who saw them would keep on walking in case they got the same treatment. It was that, more than anything else, that infuriated the Brigadier. These people were so downtrodden that they had almost forgotten that anything other than blind submission was possible, and it was that arrogance on the part of the muggers that proved their undoing.

     He struck the first man on the back of the head with the hilt of the knife, laying him out cold, then punched the second man hard on the jaw with his other hand. The third man pulled a knife, but the Brigadier rushed him, jumping over the man lying on the ground, and plunging his knife deep into his throat. The battle was over before the victim even knew what has happening and the Brigadier pulled him to his feet before the ruckus attracted attention from any passing guards. They wouldn't interfere in a mugging, unless they were bored, but a man showing defiance, showing the wrong kind of example to the people, would have been a threat they couldn't afford to ignore.

     His horse had gone, he discovered, and the man was barely conscious, so he slung him over his shoulder and carried him down an alleyway where he wouldn’t be seen by any guardsmen who might pass by. The first of the muggers was already picking himself back up, and when he saw that one of his fellows was dead, blood pouring from the gaping wound in his throat, he turned and fled, abandoning his other colleague who was still lying unconscious on the ground. The Brigadier watched him go, then carried the victim further away, knowing that, in some situations, a dead man could be more dangerous than a living opponent.