Broken Skies

by Amy Hopkins

  “Sorry, boss,” Carey said. “We were just so shocked… they’ve never attacked before.”

  “And how many do ye personally know, ye gobshite?” Garrett asked.

  Carey blushed. “We’ve seen one of those before. It didn’t hurt anyone!”

  “It didn’t have time!” Garrett yelled. “That remnant was on its ass like a boil before the stupid thing had time to move!”

  Carey thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “You want me to send a runner to Tahn?”

  “Ye’d best,” Garrett said. “Who’ve we got?”

  “Durrey, sir.”

  “Send ‘im here before ‘e goes.” Garrett flicked a bit of cracked shell off his pant leg. “Ye need a bath, lad,” he said to Marcus.

  Marcus swiped at him in response but followed Mack back to the watchtower. Behind the makeshift building, he scrubbed the worst of the muck off in a horse trough filled with clean water.

  Mack saw him gingerly lift his ruined shirt between two fingers.

  “You’ll want to burn that,” Mack cheerily pointed out. “That shit stinks now, but give it a day and you’ll think you’ve been fucking a month-dead remnant.”

  Marcus balled up the ruined shirt and tossed it at Mack. “Thanks for volunteering to clean it for me, buddy.”

  He ducked away before Mack could return the favor.

  Across the clearing, Garrett was talking to Durrey in a hushed voice. “Direct to the Master, ye hear? Not a word past yer lips until yer in a room with her, and Bette if ye can find her.”

  “Yessir!” Durrey flashed a quick smile and snapped a salute before taking off, bare heels kicking up dust as he sprinted towards Tahn.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to be sending kids running all the way back there alone?” Marcus asked. The question had bugged him since Clarke had arrived bearing her message the day before.

  “I’ve seen ‘em run past a damn pack, and leave ‘em wonderin’ who kicked up the dust,” Garrett said. “And it’s better than havin’ ‘em skulkin’ ‘round in the trees, hopin’ for a look. At least if they’re bein’ useful, we know where they are.”

  “I suppose,” Marcus said. “Still. Seems dangerous.”

  Garrett nodded, chewing on his moustache. “I don’t like it any more than yerself, lad. But we need fast legs, and the horses won’t stay more’n a few minutes.”

  “Speaking of terrified beasts,” Marcus said. “Where’s the local remnant brigade? I came out thinking they were lurking in the forest, just waiting to pounce on the next Skrima that tumbled through your big vagina.”

  Garrett shrugged. “They sometimes come, sometimes not. If they’re around, though, they rip the wee red bastards to shreds, with no regard for their own selves.”

  “That’s pretty typical for a remnant, though.” Marcus pulled his boots back on.

  “Not like this, lad. They’re crazed, out for the total destruction of the beasts. Not for fun or food, or even the hunt. It’s… different.” Garrett rubbed his face, then rolled his shoulders to loosen them.

  “Crazy,” was all Marcus could say.

  Garrett shrugged. “At least the little prick was easy to kill.”

  Marcus nodded. “One was. I don’t like to think about what we’d do facing an army of them.”

  Garrett spat. “Now yer just askin’ for trouble!”

  Marcus laughed. “You wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  Garrett raised his fist to bump against Marcus’s. “Aye, lad. Ye’ve got that right!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bette knocked on the door, nerves making her effort weak. She cleared her throat, straightened, and knocked again. This time, the sound was strong and clear.

  “Come in, Bette.” Julianne’s voice was muffled through the thick door.

  Bah, so much for a good impression, Bette thought. The mystic would have sensed her there… and noticed her fluttering anxiety. Still, Julianne had let her knock the second time. Bette could still make a good impression on Lord George.

  Though she’d spoken to him many times, it was almost always in battle. Or just before it. There had also been a few times when she had been covered in the blood and gore of slain enemies. That was when Bette was in her element.

  This scheduled meeting had been planned days ago, though, and had the feel of something more formal than her casual discussions with her superior.

  Pull yer knickers up, lass, she told herself. Ye always get yerself in a knot when it comes ta talkin’ to the big boss—and ye always come out on top.

  Bette pushed the door open, a nervous grin plastered to her face. She walked over to the table, ignoring Julianne and Bastian. She spared the platter on the table loaded with fruit, bread, and ham an admiring glance.

  Bette gave Francis a polite duck of the head and dropped an awkward curtsy to Lord George.

  “Good mornin’, me lord.”

  Pleased that she’d pulled off the complicated maneuver, she dropped into the nearest seat. Curtsies were ridiculous at the best of times, but she was wearing her best pants. Last time she’d worn them, they’d been loose, but in her time as captain, the muscle she’d built made them tight across her backside.

  “Good to see you, Captain Bette,” George said with a kind smile. “No need for formality, though. I’ve always enjoyed your honest approach.”

  Relaxing a little, Bette reached over the table and grabbed a handful of plums from the bowl. “What’ve I missed?”

  “Not much,” Francis admitted. “We’re at a loss. You were filled in about the source of our new friends?”

  “Aliens from another world?” Bette snorted. “Aye. I don’t see what it matters, though. They’re pests, and the portal is a security issue. Both need to be dealt with.”

  “Pests?” Julianne asked. “They’re not that bad.” To prove her point, she sat Ardie on the table, patting his back until he unfurled and stretched out on his belly.

  “You have one tamed?” George asked, face lighting up. “Oh, do say I can give him a pat!”

  Julianne nodded, and Bette watched the old man reach out to gingerly touch the alien creature. Like a child with a kitten, he grinned and picked it up, cuddling it to his chest.

  Bette shook her head, but couldn’t help the tiny smile that touched her lips. “Oh, fine. They’re a wee bit cute.”

  Francis didn’t look appeased. “The varks seem benign, but what about your vision, Julianne?”

  Sobering, Julianne nodded.

  “Ye’ll have to explain that one to me,” Bette piped up. “Giant demons? Through that wee hole? Even the tiny beasties like yer pet there have trouble shovin’ their way through the split.”

  Julianne closed her eyes, brow wrinkling as she recalled the snatches of information Hannah had sent. “The rifts can grow and get stronger. Ours was much smaller than the one Hannah showed me.”

  Bette didn’t question how Julianne had compared the two. As far as she was concerned, the mystic’s power was absolute—and the less Bette knew about it, the better.

  Battle magic was one thing. Bette had even come to terms with the need for healing magic. But the events at Tahn had solidified her natural aversion to magic. All other forms of magic could just stay the hell away from her, thank you very much.

  “It’s no’ just the varks or the big spooky demon-lad ye think may come for us,” Bette said. “Somethin’ has the remnants in a dither, and they’re making a goat-cocked nuisance of themselves around town.”

  George let out a loud, undignified snort. “Goat-cocked,” he murmured. “Must keep that one in mind.”

  Julianne hid a smile, but Bette grinned widely. The old Lord had a love of vulgar curses, though she’d never heard him use one himself.

  “Bette’s right,” Francis said. He shrugged. “Seems like no matter what happens, we’re screwed.”

  “How bad is it?” Julianne asked. “I mean, I’ve seen the reports, but that doesn’t tell the whole story, does it?”

 
Francis shook his head. “It’s not just sightings. We’ve got people coming across what look like temporary camps, and we’ve had livestock disappear. It’s been a really rough winter.”

  Bette rested her palms on the table. “I’ve been doin’ what I can, and so have me soldiers. Night patrols only go so far, though, and with takin’ away me best fighters to watch that ass crack shittin’ out wee rock creatures, we’re stretched thin.”

  “I did offer to send some of my army,” George said.

  “Aye, ye did.” Bette’s expression darkened, her thick eyebrows lowering into a glower. “But ye either have to send me yer dregs or send decent men and leave those rough-headed shit-munchers in yer city.”

  George sat up at that. “What are you talking about?”

  Bette’s face flushed bright red. “I apologize, me lord. That wasn’t right for me to say, not when there’s no proof of anything what may have happened.”

  “Proof of what?” George asked, bewildered.

  Bette groaned. “Ach. I’m so shite at this diplomacy rubbish!”

  George clicked his tongue. “Well, then diplomacy can go and… lick a…” he racked his brain for a moment. “Can go lick a sandy dog turd!” George grinned and looked around the table, beaming in pride.

  Bette erupted into laughter. “Ye did good, there, me lord. Fair enough, I’ll tell it to ye straight.”

  “Please, do,” Francis said, voice tight. His eyes brimmed with tears as he did his best to hold back giggles.

  “The House of Friendship went and put out a notice, sayin’ those new fighters ye hired are banned. We heard from a trader—he wouldn’t say nothin’, except that it was past time, but he hoped those traveling’ the roads wouldn’t suffer for it.”

  George digested the information slowly. “But why were they banned? And why would the traders feel any repercussions?”

  Bette nodded knowingly. “That’s what he wouldn’t say, me lord. Shut right up, he did, when we tried to ask. And so did anyone else who happened to catch themselves facin’ the same questions.”

  George’s expression closed in, his face smoothing over into something bland, yet somehow very dangerous. “What else?”

  Bette shrugged. “Nothin’ else. That’s just it. Not a damn word since. We knew ye were comin’ here, so we wanted to talk to ye direct—we didn’t expect the bastards to come with ye!”

  “Of course, if no one will come forward it will be very hard to prosecute. We’re not even sure what the charges are,” Francis said. “Unless…” His eyes slid to Julianne.

  The mystic looked as relaxed as Lord George—or like a viper ready to strike. “Unless someone had the magical ability to find out what’s going on from the men themselves.”

  George jerked his head in a rough nod. “I know your people tend to avoid intruding on people’s minds uninvited—”

  “Oh, no,” Julianne cut him off with a wicked grin. “That only applies to people we like.”

  George smiled, but his face stayed cold. “Well, then. As soon as we finish here, I’d like to formally request you interrogate my men and find out what they’ve done to deserve such a reputation.”

  Julianne nodded. “That doesn’t help our immediate issue, though. If you like, I can contact Amelia—she’s the Chancellor of Arcadia. I’ve mentioned her before?”

  George nodded, but Bette grimaced. “You don’t think we should call on her aid, Bette?” he asked.

  Bette bit her lip. “I just don’t like the idea of relyin’ on someone way across the Madlands ta be runnin’ to our rescue every time we catch a problem.” Her eyes met Julianne’s. “And besides, doesn’t the lass have her hands full as it is?”

  “She’s busy, and short-handed,” Julianne admitted. “But she wouldn’t have offered if she couldn’t spare some assistance.”

  “Aye, and if a city that was half-burned to the ground barely a year ago can send help, what’s wrong with our own selves if we need it?” Bette asked.

  George gave a brisk grunt. “I feel the same, my girl. We’ve enough people in our lands—they may not be fighters, but they’ll need to be just that, if they want to protect their own lands.”

  “What about the outlying communities?” Julianne asked. “I know that Patrick came from one of them. Do you think we could send to them for assistance?”

  “You’ll more likely be asked to provide it,” Francis said warily. “If we didn’t have the might of Muir behind us, and the help and training Bette’s given, we’d be begging for soldiers to offer protection. That’s if we’d survived this long.”

  “Bah, ye built a damn wall heavy enough to keep out the worst of them,” Bette said. “And ye did that yerself.”

  Francis allowed himself a small grin at that. “Still, if there are small towns without a proper garrison, we may end up stretching ourselves thinner.”

  “If that’s what happens, that’s what we’ll do,” Bette said. Realizing she may have overstepped, she looked to George. “With yer permission, me lord? I don’t think ye’d be the sort to leave whole towns at the mercy of those rot-faced shit-eaters.”

  “Whatever it takes, Bette. We must keep our people safe!” George thumped his fist on the table. “If they aren’t under my protection, and they don’t have anyone else’s, we can’t let them suffer. Do what you must, but we will make the region safe.”

  Bette grinned, her adoration for their lord increasing. “Aye, me lord. If the small towns pull up as well as Tahn, they won’t need much but some trainin’ and a few lessons on weaponsmithin’.”

  George sighed. “I do hope we don’t bite off more than we can chew, but I can’t leave innocent people as remnant fodder. Still, if we can find a way to close the—”

  Shouting in the street cut Lord George short. As one, the people in the room shot to their feet. Bette yanked her sword from her belt and ran for the door, then paused. “Julianne?”

  The mystic’s eyes were already white. “Go!” she urged Bette.

  Bette burst out of the door to find a crowd of people milling about. She shoved past two men, then pushed a woman out of the way to see Sharne, one hand around a soldier’s throat.

  “And next time, I’ll slit your throat instead. Hear me?”

  The soldier smirked. “Like to see you try it, love. Think your little farmboy soldiers can take on all of us at once?”

  Sharne stepped back, letting the man free. “You think we can’t fight.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement delivered in a flat voice.

  The soldier laughed, and a smatter of chuckles in the crowd made Bette notice who was watching. Most of those present were Lord George’s hired hands.

  Julianne watched as the men shuffled. She recognized those who were Patrick’s men—they moved back, hands on weapons as they eyed their fellow guardsmen with outright suspicion.

  One in particular caught her eye. Thumbs through his belt loops, he looked on with a smirk, a glint of fire in his eyes. It was Patrick—and he wanted this fight to break out.

  “Fight? I’m not gonna to fight you, love. I’m gonna fuck you!”

  Bette surged past the edges of the crowd, reaching Sharne a moment too late. The wet smack of a fist in a jaw rang out through the shocked silence at the soldier’s words.

  The peace broke in a wave. The crack of fists was echoed by cries of support from the crowd, some in favor of Sharne and others egging on the man who had her in a headlock.

  The soldier dropped Sharne to the ground and straddled her.

  Bette felt the blood drain from her face. Ohhhh, shit on a stick. This wasn’t going to end well.

  The soldier ground his hips on Sharne, who lay still. She looked up, eyes wide.

  “Like that, bitch? A good fuck will loosen you up, you tight-snatched whore.”

  It was all Sharne could take. She bared her teeth in a ferocious grin. Then, in a blur of movement, flipped her attacker over so that he was flat on his back, Sharne kneeling over him, spear in hand.

  “Yo
u need a dick to rape a girl, love.” She ground her knee into his groin, pressing harder when he squealed in agony.

  Bette sighed. “I knew it’d end bad.”

  She watched as Sharne lazily grabbed the arm of a man who tried to pull her off. A moment later, he was on the ground next to his friend, though this one had the sense to cross his legs.

  Sharne kicked him in the head, buying her enough time to deal with the third man. She parried his sword strike with her spear, tripped him, and stabbed his thigh. “You’re lucky that wasn’t your cock,” she spat.

  When two more soldiers made to join the fray, Bette stepped in. Sharne faced off against the man she’d head-stomped, while Bette stood at her back, sword raised.

  The crowd exploded. Townspeople screamed and ran, while others did their best to fight off armed soldiers with fists and baskets. A small handful of soldiers turned on their own as Patrick’s men launched into the fray, protecting the citizens.

  Bette rammed her sword into the gut of a leather-clad fighter, grimacing at the waste of a life.

  She slapped her pommel at someone’s temple, and grinned as he crumpled to the ground. Two men came barreling at her, and she ducked and rolled, coming face to face with Patrick.

  “Bout time someone showed that pig-fucker some manners,” he grunted, then lunged towards Bette, sword out.

  She yelped and threw herself to the ground. Blood squirted on her arm, and she darted a look up to see Patrick sliding his sword from the chest of one of his own men.

  “What the fuck are ye doing?” she yelled. “I’m in me good pants! Don’t bleed ‘em on me!”

  Patrick laughed and nodded. “Fair enough.”

  He spun and ran, dragging away a soldier flicking his fist. Jessop was reeling away from him, cheekbone split.

  Bette growled but turned away, satisfied the offender would be dealt with. She caught sight of Mary, the tavern-owner. The wrinkled woman thrust a metal baking tray up as a blow glanced off it, then shoved the hard edge forward.