Perhaps things would change. Before Brynd had left for deployment on Jokull, he had told Eir that, because of her request, he had secured a large loan from the banks to fund this hospital. What was more, they would be able to create hundreds of new jobs as well as serve the injured and sick. He said they might be able to build even bigger hospitals – because he would rather have a healthy working population that could help rebuild the city, than more bodies to heap on the pyres.
*
She headed out of the ward to find Randur, to see what he was up to. Today was the first time he had accompanied her to the hospital.
The corridors were surprisingly airy, a contrast to the dark and depressing wards themselves, and the tall windows facing towards the east brought in deceptively warm sunlight on the stone. She passed a few other nurses on her walk, and none of them could fully accept that Jamur Eir – of the royal lineage – wanted to help out. It had made socializing and blending in difficult. However, she had managed, so far, to keep news of her identity away from any of the injured or sick. It was only the guard, a soldier from the Regiment of Foot who had been sent here against her protests by Brynd, who gave any suggestion that Eir was someone different. Luckily for her, he kept himself mostly out of the way, and decided the best way to waste away the hours was to flirt with other nurses.
Presently she heard a clanking of swords echoing along the corridor, and she quickened her pace to see what was going on. As she entered a small antechamber, two nurses burst past her with expressions of disapproval on their faces.
There, in the antechamber, Randur was demonstrating various moves of Vitassi with his rapier to a group of four young children, each one clutching an old blade. They were mimicking him as he progressed through one of the basic series of moves.
‘Randur!’ she gasped.
‘Ah,’ he replied, and pressed his knuckles to his hips. ‘I’m afraid, my little brothers and sisters, that we must reconvene at another time.’
‘Oh damn,’ one little girl said.
‘Sorry, young maiden. Boss’s orders,’ he replied with a bow.
‘Randur,’ Eir snapped, ‘where did you find these children?’
‘They were hanging about the place waiting for their relatives to get better. They wouldn’t stop bothering some of the nurses, so I thought I’d relieve the ladies, so to speak, and educate these young ruffians in the finer arts of Vitassi. They learn pretty quickly at this age. The moves stick easily.’
‘That is not the point, Randur, it is hardly fitting for them to be running about with blades in a hospital, now is it?’
‘You’ve got a small dagger in your boot.’
‘That is not the point – they’re children, Randur, and it’s dangerous for them to be holding swords. What if they injure themselves?’
‘Well, they’re in the best place for it, eh?’ Randur said. ‘Anyway, these young things need to learn how to fight one day.’ He turned to the kids. ‘Come on, you lot, we can do this again tomorrow.’
Grumbling, the four children filed out, each one handing their rusted blade back to Randur, who then stood them in their rack in the corner of the room.
‘They’re no more than a few winters old,’ Eir said, quieter now.
‘What does winter mean in an ice age? They were grateful enough and they’d just be annoying the nurses otherwise. Besides, they will need to learn to protect themselves some day.’
‘This should only go on if their mothers and fathers are made aware of it.’
‘Sod their parents – what’s better than being able to protect themselves in a tricky situation?’
Eir took a deep breath. ‘What’s wrong, Randur? There’s no need to get angry about this.’
‘I’m not angry.’
‘Yes, you are. What’s wrong?’
Randur sighed and made a flamboyant gesture with his arms. ‘Nothing. It’s all right for you. You’ve got something to focus on now, haven’t you? You’re helping out and I approve. This is quite a change from the spoiled little girl sat inside the pretty castle on the top of a hill.’
‘You can contribute here if you want.’
‘It’s not really what I’m cut out for. I want to help with things, sure, but there’s a lot hanging over me.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yeah,’ he sighed, ‘for one. I’m scared of heading out there – she’s probably died by now anyway. That poison, even though slow, would have got to her by now. And even if not, what do I do – turn up and say I’ve not got a cure, that I’m a failure?’
‘She never expected you to cure her anyway. She packed you off to Villjamur thinking that was best in an ice age. And it was. You met me of course.’
Randur gave half a smile.
‘You know, your sister should be down here too.’
‘She has other things to think about.’
‘Yeah,’ Randur replied. ‘I’m sure she has.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I saw her, the other night, walking around the corridors of the Citadel muttering to herself. Seems as though she’s gone a bit crazy? It’s all because of this thing with Artemisia – it’s gone too far.’
‘You shouldn’t talk about her like that,’ Eir whispered.
Randur moved a hand to her shoulder. ‘You know as well as I do that she’s not the same woman any more. It’s as if she’s smitten by Artemisia and needs her presence, else she just can’t handle herself.’
‘Has Artemisia put her in some kind of trance, do you think?’
‘Who knows?’ Randur said. ‘We’ll never know what happened on Artemisia’s ship, will we? Rika thought that she was a god – despite the fact that most of what Artemisia stands for contradicts the whole Jorsalir thing. It could be mental – or, yeah, maybe Artemisia did do something to her.’
‘Why would she do such a thing?’
‘To help the alliance between worlds? To make sure Artemisia got what she wanted? It could be anything.’
‘I hope that isn’t the case,’ Eir replied. ‘We need Rika to be on her best form if she’s to take the helm of whatever Empire emerges from all of this.’
THIRTEEN
The western coast of Folke was a welcome sight. The sun was rising, illuminating the shoreline. A few birds skittered about the rocky shore before veering out to sea. A thin, flat layer of cloud drifted by above the land. The conditions were as calm as they could possibly be for a landing. Brynd put four of his Night Guard brethren on board, who had acted impressively in getting this hefty yacht cutting through the waters so efficiently. They were not natural sailors, but they had remembered their training manuals to the letter, and now the sails snagged tightly in the wind, and the boat lurched towards the east.
Brynd stood at the bow contemplating the island ahead, waiting to see signs of life.
The military had decided to stay until all civilians were on the sea-vehicles or some reclaimed vessel, and either were now at sea or on the island of Folke. The evacuation had been completed successfully and there had been no more attacks.
Brynd was grateful for that.
‘Sele of the day, commander,’ Investigator Fulcrom said. The rumel then yawned and stretched. ‘Time at sea certainly helps thoughts germinate, doesn’t it?’
‘Indeed, investigator,’ Brynd replied.
‘You seem troubled, commander.’
Brynd gave a wry smile. ‘I’ve been troubled for years; it doesn’t bother me any more.’
Fulcrom smiled. ‘Have you any more thoughts about what we’ll do next?’
‘I’ve done nothing but that. This much is clear to me: while the sky-city remains, I doubt we can form a peaceful future. We can’t build a new multi-racial culture, we can’t decide on how land is to be allocated. We can’t do any of this when we know what it can do. One island was cleansed even without its help, and now Jokull makes two . . .’
‘Frater Mercury can pull off a trick or two,’ Fulcrom said optimistically. ‘He could come in hand
y.’
‘You’re not wrong about him, investigator.’ Brynd now looked towards Folke’s coast. He could just about make out the forms of those enormous horses moving across the fields. They were now unattached to any vehicle and instead tromped about the landscape freely.
‘I noticed you had some assistance from . . . well, they were people not of our world. They’ll be useful again, surely?’
‘I’ve no doubts about that,’ Brynd muttered. ‘They’ve not just come here to fight. They want to share our islands with us, too.’
Fulcrom seemed to stare at Brynd for a while, blinking in the morning light. ‘You have doubts?’
‘I have doubts.’ Their ambassador has corrupted our Empress: yes, I have my doubts, Brynd thought. ‘We should prepare to land. Gather your things and,’ he added with a smile, ‘you might want to wake your lady, too.’
He pointed out Lan who was asleep on the deck, under a pile of blankets, the gentle breeze stirring her hair.
‘She’s had a busy few weeks,’ Fulcrom chuckled.
*
Their boat was forced to navigate through thousands of vessels now abandoned a little offshore and, once through, they sailed the final stretch. Brynd and a handful of his soldiers jumped ashore in the shallow waters and waded the final few feet to land, carrying their weapons and supplies.
Brynd was pleased to see that the military had followed his plans and had everything under control. There were small encampments where names and details were being recorded for any families or friends on other islands, and for official records. Food parcels were being handed out. Tents were being set up in the fields just to the north. Two dragons were flying into the distance, presumably having just dropped off supplies of food or blankets. There hadn’t been much to come from Villiren in the first place – but it showed wonderful altruism that the suffering could find something to give the refugees.
To one side, Lan – the former Knight of Villjamur – landed gracefully. Brynd looked back at the boat where Fulcrom was tentatively disembarking.
‘Did you actually leap from there?’ Brynd called over.
Lan turned to face him. ‘Sure. It’s not that far. When you’ve spent a few weeks clearing the distance between the bridges of Villjamur, this is pretty simple stuff.’
‘And you can fight well?’
‘Well enough,’ she said. ‘Though I was trained more for one-on-one encounters.’
Brynd nodded. ‘We’ll certainly have use of you, miss.’
He turned to watch the shore, where he hoped to see some of Artemisia’s people. Sure enough – and to plan – they were there, carrying supplies and distributing them among the evacuees. To his surprise even Artemisia was helping, lumbering up and down the beach with piles of blankets.
Brynd spotted a shaven head approaching him, fellow Night Guard Brug. ‘Commander,’ he called, ‘everything is running to schedule. Aid is arriving regularly via dragon transport, people are now being treated for serious illnesses or wounds.’
‘What about the plans for resettlement?’
‘We’ve the three encampments here, with three more planned further inland. The Dragoons are heading there right now to set them up.’
‘We shouldn’t remain here for too long. I imagine this could become a front for another battle. The camps should be dispersed as soon as people are recovered enough to press on. Do we have any estimates of numbers?’
‘Somewhere between fifty-five and sixty thousand, at the last survey, but it’s hard to tell with so many small children.’
Brynd cringed.
‘That’s good, surely, commander?’
‘Good that we saved so many; bad that so many must have been killed in Villjamur or are still somewhere on the island, destined to join the dead. There were a good few hundred thousand in Villjamur and the caves alone, plus the refugees outside – not to mention the rest of the island. How many of those died, we’ll never know.’
‘Aye, sir. It’s saddening. We have a few large funeral pyres planned for those bodies that made it over with us. Out of respect, at least, we will get them out of the way tonight.’
‘Do it while it’s still light – you don’t want the people seeing the pyres at night or families will be wailing non-stop. I’d also like riders sent to all the settlements on this side of Folke – they should know what is happening.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘How are Artemisia’s soldiers coping?’
‘Reasonably well as it happens. Your idea for them to deliver and dispatch food aid was a good one – it seems the refugees have accepted their presence, even if they might fear them on first sight.’
‘The way people react to their fear will ultimately define our future,’ Brynd replied grimly. ‘It’s important that, at every given moment, someone from their world is seen to be standing alongside our military or is involved in medical or social assistance.’
‘You’re fully committed to the partnership then?’
‘I’m fully committed to peace,’ Brynd said. ‘You’ve seen the other option available to us.’
‘I wasn’t doubting your orders, sir. We’re all right behind the scheme.’
Brynd glanced at Brug. ‘Do I dictate too much?’
‘Pardon, commander?’
‘I’m no longer just making military decisions,’ Brynd replied. ‘I’m interfering with the matters of an emperor or empress. It is one of the key tenets of the Night Guard not to assist in creating a military ruler. And here I am, acting like one . . .’
‘You have the people’s interests at heart, sir,’ Brug said.
So do some tribal dictators, Brynd thought. Even if I consult the Night Guard, that’s a military ruling force making decisions. If Brynd felt awkward making decisions, there was a reason for it – people should indeed be deciding matters for themselves. Just not yet.
‘See to it that the Night Guard muck in with the aid until nightfall, and then we’ll head back to Villiren in the morning. It will do the people’s morale some good to mix with the regiment. And make sure you raise their spirits – just don’t let things get out of hand.’
‘With the poor wine brewed on this island, sir, I seriously doubt they will.’
*
Brynd made his way up towards the abandoned farmyard, which the military had commandeered as their local headquarters. It was a large, nearly decrepit, whitewashed building, positioned at the edge of an enclosure surrounded by high, dry-stone walls. Old farming implements had been left scattered around the place, tools that looked more as if they were used for torture than agriculture. Troughs were upturned or on their sides; the door of the vast barn had been discarded and, judging by the charring, long set upon by local youths.
A light shower came and went, but brought no snow. Perhaps it was the coastal breeze but the weather seemed less and less like that of an ice age. There were much warmer spells of late and, though it was not necessarily anything more than a hunch, the signs of nature suggested it was more than that: buds were starting to show on dead-looking plants; new shoots had started to form. It made Brynd contemplate yet again whether the astrologers who made their predictions about the long ice age were simply wrong.
He continued along the muddied road that, thanks to the military, had already become well-trodden and slippery. Gloops of mud were thrown up at his black uniform, and he was forced to step up onto the grassier verge, clinging to the stone wall, so that he did not fall in the quagmire.
In the field opposite, cream and brown tents stretched as far as he could see, with little spires of smoke rising from inside them and out. Brynd paused to watch: it reminded him so much of the refugee camps outside Villjamur. There was so much activity here that it seemed some primitive city had been set up overnight. People milled about in between the rows. A priestess was holding her sermon against a small outbuilding. From the look of it, there were even a few people who had begun businesses – upturned crates and made temporary market stalls, and they were s
elling whatever bits and pieces they had managed to bring along with them.
Brynd continued on his way, until the muddied road went through a zone that had been sealed off, and was for military personnel only. To one side two young soldiers were slouched by a low, dry-stone wall, sitting on two barrels, muttering to each other. For a moment he tried to glean what they were saying about the refugees, and was soon disgusted at the subject.
‘. . . One of them even offered to suck my cock for a few coins.’ They both laughed. In a heartbeat, Brynd stormed up to the soldier who spoke, gripped him by his throat and pinned him back against the wall. ‘And what was your reply to her then, soldier?’ he snarled.
‘Commander . . .’ the man spluttered. His face was covered in dirt, his eyes were wide. ‘I . . . Nothing happened, commander, I swear.’
‘Sir,’ the other man said, ‘he’s full of nonsense. Don’t listen to his stories . . .’
Brynd released his grip, listened to their measly excuses and took their names.
‘If you hear of anything like that going on, you come to me first,’ Brynd said. ‘These are our own fucking people – we serve them, or have you forgotten that?’
‘No, sir,’ they said in unison.
‘I’ll personally give a dozen lashes to anyone who abuses any of these refugees – in whatever fucking capacity that shows. I’ll cut your cocks off myself if I have to. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, commander,’ they said, both now terrified, and nodding.
‘Good. Get back to your units,’ Brynd ordered, and waved them aside. He watched them gather up their things and shamble into the distance. Of course, such abuse went on in the army – word spread quickly through the ranks – and there was little he could do to stop it, no matter how hard he had tried over the years. Those in power would always use it in inappropriate ways. He didn’t mind at all if the men, or indeed women, visited whores – he had done it himself, of course – but to abuse the Empire’s own people and take advantage of Villjamur’s desperate refugees was a line he would not cross. It was essential that the people trusted the military. Brynd continued into the run-down farmhouse, which was the new hub of operations.
The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) Page 16
