The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4)

by Newton, Mark Charan

  They’re here at least . . .

  Brynd halted his mare, dismounted, and tied her to a broken tree stump.

  Randur followed suit, and then stepped alongside him. ‘Is this it?’ he asked. ‘Where are they meant to be? There’s nothing but snow and the odd dead tree.’

  ‘We’re not quite at the top of the hill,’ Brynd replied. ‘I want to walk there cautiously because I can hear them over the other side.’

  ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ Randur moaned.

  Brynd ignored him and marched a little further up the slope. The ground was frozen solid. It began to rain, gently at first, then came heavier drops – again, he noticed, not snow, but rain.

  ‘For fucksake,’ Randur said, drawing up his hood, ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t just ride to the top.’

  ‘Though this is a friendly visit, we need to see what they’re made of,’ Brynd replied, pulling up his own hood. ‘We need to see what they’ve got, what their capabilities are. And, most of all, we need to shut the hell up.’

  Brynd moved cautiously up the slope for a few minutes. He kept looking around for any signs of scouts, but he could see none. It annoyed him that they had no one guarding the perimeter.

  Randur followed, rather reluctantly, and whispered, ‘Hey, I think I can hear something now. What can you see?’

  As Brynd crested the hill, the scene down below presented itself slowly.

  Row upon row of yurts and tents stretched in precise rows as far as he could see. Fires, set within immense cauldrons, were burning at regular intervals, at intersections in the lanes. Meanwhile, strange shapes lumbered in the half-light, occasionally illuminated by the flames.

  Immense and ragged banners rippled in the evening breeze, each bearing exotic insignias, with strange shapes and curves to the designs. Meat was being cooked in aromatic spices that he couldn’t recognize, but which reached him even at this distance. And, all around this vast site, humans and rumels – with other, similar-looking life forms – were sitting in enclaves or standing to attention as they were addressed by some more senior official. Brynd estimated that there were twenty or thirty thousand warriors down there, and Bohr only knows how many beyond. Some wore bright armour, some were covered in dark cloaks, but what struck him was how similar they looked to people from his own world. Their attire was not more exotic than could be found among the cultures of the Boreal Archipelago – a fact that was both comforting and unnerving. It was as if there were some shared characteristics, some common essence between the two worlds. That seemed to confirm the new histories that Artemisia had provided. They were cultural cousins.

  Randur came up alongside him and, with his jaw open wide, managed to say, ‘Well bugger me. Would you look at that.’

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Brynd replied.

  ‘Well you wanted an army, chief,’ Randur said. ‘It looks like you’ve got one.’

  ‘Not quite. We’ve still got to persuade them to fight with us.’

  The two of them remained stationary as they examined the expanse beyond, contemplating just what this could mean, until something barked in a language Brynd did not recognize.

  He knew what that meant.

  Cursing to himself for letting his guard down and his senses slip, he held up his hands, leaving his sabre by his side, and suggested to Randur that he do the same. Then Brynd searched his surroundings in order to locate the source of the voice.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Randur asked.

  ‘It’s all right – they’ve scouts, and in a way that’s what I wanted to find out,’ Brynd muttered. He addressed the approaching warriors who he heard somewhere in the darkness. ‘I am Commander Lathraea of the Night Guard, senior officer of the military in this world. I have liaised with Artemisia in seeing that you were brought here.’ On noting no reply, he ventured, ‘Welcome to the island of Y’iren . . .’

  ‘Albino,’ came the strained reply, followed by whispers in a foreign tongue.

  ‘Can you see them with your fancy vision?’ Randur asked.

  Brynd scrutinized his immediate surroundings: the hilltop was dark, and he could only discern spindly bushes or the contours of the landscape. The voice, still giving orders in some strange tongue, was definitely coming from down the slope, but there he could only see crooked trees or lumps of rock or frozen mud. It alarmed him that he could not see them with his enhancements.

  A twig snapped nearby, his attention shifted. Now he could see something: the rain was clinging to four opaque forms that were marching towards them. It was the water that defined their presence, the edges of their bodies, rather than the bodies being physically there.

  ‘I still can’t see anything,’ Randur said.

  ‘I see them.’ Brynd pointed towards the four water-covered shapes. ‘You might struggle in this light, but they’re very definitely there. Four of them.’

  ‘Fuck, I can see their footprints in the snow.’ Randur shuddered and moved to draw his sword.

  Brynd held back his arm. ‘It’s all right. Remember, they’re on our side.’

  ‘Don’t see why they have to creep up like this.’

  ‘It’s good,’ Brynd replied. ‘They mean business, and we need armies that mean business, instead of littering battlefields with their inefficient corpses.’

  Brynd held up his arms again and declared some basic greetings.

  The figures became quite still, before fading into existence. The hominids possessed dark skins that reminded him of his obsidian chamber for their faint sheen. With no discernible hair, and a strange headband bearing tribal symbols, they stood a good foot shorter than himself, and each one was clutching a dagger. They were lean and, unbelievably for the weather, clothed only in light bronze armour and baggy breeches. They must have been freezing, but they showed no signs of suffering. As they came nearer he counted five of them, all in all; their movements were fluid, and their muscles looked tough and wiry.

  ‘I am Commander Brynd Lathraea from the city of Villiren, representing Jamur Rika, an ally of Artemisia.’ He repeated himself a couple of times but could only hear the wind in the distance.

  Then he got a response: ‘You . . . both of you, come . . . Come with us.’

  Brynd couldn’t tell which of them was speaking, though their voices seemed warped and distressed. It might have been all of them speaking simultaneously, for all he knew. ‘At least we can communicate,’ he whispered to Randur, who looked petrified. Brynd addressed his otherworldly comrades once again. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding and smiling to make sure they understood. ‘We bring you no harm.’

  *

  ‘I thought they were meant to be on our side?’ Randur moaned.

  Marching through the rain at knifepoint, they headed down the slope towards the encampment. Even though they traversed the hill in a wide zigzag to make the descent easier, they still managed to slip occasionally on the mud. Each time they did, their captors showed no signs of concern. They merely waited impatiently for Brynd or Randur to stand up again, brush themselves down, and continue towards the camp.

  It seemed an eternity, that walk. Brynd realized that what he was about to witness was very special, and also that he was an ambassador for his entire people. Perhaps he should have brought Artemisia, but he had not anticipated an actual meeting – he only wanted to see them from afar.

  As they entered the fringes of the encampment, past the yurts made with thick fabric and enormous brass cauldrons, Brynd was overwhelmed by the noise and smells of this suddenly present civilization: the odours of unfamiliar food, and the harsh clamour of a new language. Here was a new city, of sorts, that existed on no maps.

  Brynd didn’t know where to look first. So many oddities presented themselves to him: beings of perplexing shapes, uniforms of subtle shades, markings etched across metal, insignias on flags. In addition to the creatures who had located Brynd and Randur, there were others wandering past them. They were some degree taller than the humans, green-skinned, long-limbed and remarkabl
y slender, with a smooth elongated face and two black eyes. They wore tight leather tunics and their light steps barely marked the mud and snow as they moved gracefully past.

  He did not know their customs, but, out of habit from dealing with tribespeople throughout the Archipelago, Brynd made sure not to lock eye contact with anyone, and asked Randur to do the same, so neither would accidentally cause a confrontation. It seemed to be an instinct not to offend anyone, but it was difficult as Brynd could not help but feel how these creatures were pausing to look and stare straight back at them. Here, they were the oddities – they were the exotic specimens on parade.

  They passed an area where enormous bronze chariots were lined in neat rows, some covered by mesh-like cloth to protect them from the rain. Brynd caught the briefest glimpse of one: an opulent carriage with spiked wooden wheels and polished metal glimmering in the nearby torchlight. Further along, black muscled horses – finer and more aggressive than any he’d seen before – were being led into larger and more impressive tents to shelter. Somewhere in the distance came singing, which moved along a harmonic scale, and then he heard drumming. Nearby huge sides of animals were being turned on spits as they roasted over fires. It took two of the tall, green-skinned creatures to turn each spit.

  Then, within a vast clearing, he witnessed perhaps the most resplendent sight he had ever seen.

  It was their wings he first noticed: immense, jagged and jutting into the air; and when caught in the cauldron fire they stood out clearly against the night sky. They reminded him of the Onyx Wings in Villiren, and were just as imposing – in fact, he realized he never knew the history of those statues. Could they have been related in some distant way to these creatures?

  Then, when Randur and Brynd came nearer, the creatures’ bodies could be discerned moving slowly, their pale underbellies revealed, with darker skin on top. Their heads were disproportionately smaller, relatively flat and squat with narrowed eyes, and within their wide maws were numerous, minute yet dangerously sharp-looking teeth. Each whole being was held in place by immense chains tied to posts the size of ancient trees.

  Dragons, he thought. The very stuff of mythology.

  There were five of them, at least in this clearing: beyond, chained to further posts, more could been seen drifting about, their wings extending and folding, possibly agitated they were not soaring in the air. Soldiers seemed to be moving around between them in a training regime.

  Brynd glanced across to Randur and said, ‘You’re unusually silent.’

  Randur stood agape, apparently not knowing what to make of all this.

  That would make two of us . . . he thought to himself.

  *

  Brynd and Randur marched for some time through the centre of the encampment and Brynd still could not take it all in. He required more time than a mere walk-through, more hours to sit and observe and perhaps engage in some kind of conversation with these people. And it was not just for the fact that this was an event in the history of his world; no, he needed to understand how they would function, how many of them there were – and, more importantly, what their strengths and weaknesses would be on the battlefield.

  He would find out soon enough, no doubt.

  Eventually they reached a wide, hessian-coloured tent, which bore insignias made from gold leaf, or something very similar. The very top of the tent contained a look-out platform: two or three soldiers stood up there, bipedal, hoofed, with human chests and huge, angular heels, and what looked from Brynd’s position to be bulls’ heads. Each was carrying a spear.

  ‘They must have gone to some lengths to cart all this stuff here,’ Randur suggested.

  ‘They were ready for war,’ Brynd said. ‘War should be all they know, judging by what Artemisia has told us, having fought against their enemy for millennia. These are people on the run.’

  They were led to a vast tent where dozens of warriors were seated in a large circle, on rugs made from animal furs. It was dark in here, with a glowing brazier in the centre burning spices, and standing around the perimeter were more of the bull-like soldiers with their spears gripped firmly in their hands. Whatever language was being spoken faded to silence on their entrance as everyone turned their way.

  The two of them were prodded forward, through a parting gap in the crowd. Brynd felt the thrill of excitement of new races, of new sentient species. He was concerned that he might say something stupid and betray his entire race. I hope they might be more forgiving of me.

  In the centre of the gathered warriors, several considerably older humans, rumels, and members from the other species were seated on cushions. Brynd couldn’t quite make out their faces in this light, but they were grey-haired and frail-looking men and women. Even one that possessed the head of a bull seemed aged and tired, a little frayed at the edges.

  Through hand gestures, Brynd and Randur were instructed to sit alongside them.

  There was another bustle of activity nearby and a young soldier was beckoned forward. He was a fine-looking man, lean and broad-chinned. Brynd felt an attraction that leapt across the cultural divide. His armour glimmered in the light of the brazier. He took off his helm and knelt before the elders. Words were exchanged. There was an announcement of sorts and Brynd suspected that they were being introduced to the other warriors.

  There were signs, in the faces of these old men, that this was an important moment, that they were just as nervous as Brynd. The kneeling soldier leant in to hear a whisper from one elder, then the man shuffled towards Brynd and, in a broken Jamur accent, one nowhere near as refined as Artemisia’s, said, ‘You were . . . tress-pass. On our camp.’

  ‘I meant no trouble. I came to see what was here – if you were established, if you had settled in your temporary home.’

  The soldier translated to the elder, before returning. ‘There should be official channels . . . We would make you a guest.’

  A relief. The discussion would not continue to be about their incursion.

  ‘Next time,’ Brynd replied, ‘we will remember.’

  As the soldier translated, Brynd turned to Randur. ‘What do you make of this?’

  ‘Honestly,’ Randur whispered, as if furtively, ‘they’re not all that . . . weird, or anything. I mean from Artemisia’s appearance, I had expected more. Even in her seeing-contraptions, the images of the cultures she showed us seemed darker. But I guess, up close, they’re nothing wilder than some tribes you get out in the sticks, or some of the strange folk you get rambling around the city.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Brynd replied. He felt both comforted and disappointed in the fact that this alien people were not utterly alien. As Randur suggested, many of their characteristics – respect for a group of elders, hierarchies, customs of welcome – all of this could be found in many tribes scattered throughout the Archipelago. Brynd had expected more, but he was glad of their vaguely familiar customs. It would make negotiations less intimidating.

  The translations continued back and forth. Brynd explained his minor mission: he came because he was curious, because he wanted to see for himself how many of them had come to the Boreal Archipelago. They, in turn, quizzed him on the geography of the island, of the people who lived here, of more abstract points like the quality of the air and the direction of the ocean currents. They asked him about food and where they could store what he imagined to be their livestock. They wanted to know in which direction the sun rose and how frequent the tides were. There were questions on hours of daylight, what herbs or crops grew locally, what stone ‘grew’ nearby, and how many people lived on the island. They asked how many gods lived here, and questioned them about deities that Brynd did not know about.

  Some of the warriors, later, came closer, many of them decorated in skulls he did not recognize, and wearing layers under their armour made from rough animal hide. They asked about his weapons – indicating the sabre by his side. They queried the material, on how it was held, and he showed them. He made sure to communicate around the translator th
rough his smiles – it seemed important for them to know he was happy they’d come – and some of them smiled back. He would, after all, ask them to spill blood for the preservation of his people, too.

  My people . . . get that thought out of your head. You’re not the bloody Emperor.

  Brynd plucked up the nerve to ask if these elders were the rulers of the incoming races, a question that could potentially cause insult, but they did not seem bothered.

  ‘We are . . . approximately third, fourth, seventh, and tenth in command,’ the warrior explained.

  Brynd nodded, glad he was not wasting his time, impressed at the seniority dispatched to the island. Brynd complimented them on their camp, on the impressive races and animals that stood outside, at the discipline and organization. He enquired about the animals that looked like dragons, expressing his admiration for them and wondered about their purpose.

  The elders smiled and seemed to like that. They used the word spakov, which he committed to memory. ‘Do you fly them?’ Brynd asked. ‘How do you use them?’

  They are used in battle, came the reply, much to Brynd’s delight. They also help to transport warriors to inaccessible places.

  The soldier translated, ‘You would be happy, yes, to fly with the transport?’

  Brynd eagerly nodded his answer. ‘I would indeed.’

  The evening went on, with Randur remaining silent, observant, and Brynd wanting to learn more about these newcomers. If these people would be integrated with their own culture, then he would not make them feel unwelcome.

  After a couple of hours of exchanges, Brynd and Randur were escorted back through the camp, past all the exotic races and back to the hilltop where they were discovered. There, they picked up their horses, and rode slowly back to the city.

  SEVEN

  It was the morning of his rest day, something that tended to be little more than a token gesture rather than a genuine opportunity to put his feet up. However, today he had somehow found himself with a couple of free hours. He had left two of the other Night Guard soldiers in charge and their only orders were not to bother him.