The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4)

by Newton, Mark Charan

  Although it obviously hadn’t been lived in for years, a little military efficiency had helped: a pile of broken furniture had been stacked outside, while other smaller pieces were being burned in a huge firebox against the far wall. There were flagstones for flooring and a large wooden table, at which Artemisia was seated. Three Dragoons paused, as they strode through the room, to salute Brynd and he returned their gesture.

  These were all signs of business as usual, that they were on top of everything.

  ‘Welcome, commander,’ Artemisia said. ‘Were the people who lived here once all, how is it said . . . dwarven? These buildings are not fit for children to stand in, let alone one of your human or rumel people.’

  ‘You help fight in a battle and a low ceiling is what worries you the most?’

  ‘It was a good skirmish, was it not?’

  She continued to examine the maps and various lists that were strewn across it, and he could see that she had been making notes.

  Brynd sat alongside her. Somewhere outside, he could hear someone busily chopping wood. The blue sky in the distance prompted his thoughts to the change in weather.

  ‘Tell me, the gate through which your enemy gained access to this world. How many of them are there?’

  ‘They are numerous, though many are located above the seas, so were of no practical use until the ice formed as a result of the cold being emitted.’

  ‘So though the cold weather – all this ice – isn’t natural here it’s far worse in the north. Is that anything to do with the Realm Gates?’

  Artemisia remained expressionless. ‘Of course, commander, it brings you the ice from our own world and expels it into yours. You think your world is cold? My comrades can dress lightly here. It is a paradise compared with ours, which has now become an endless winter. This is what it is like at the end of the world. The land there is almost utterly dead: we would perish if we remained there for another of your years. Our people had heard stories about a sun; those who sired me told me about it, many generations ago, and we do have certain texts that depict its path through the sky. But it was never anything like I have experienced here – so bright and red. When I first came through – long before I brought my ship, on a purely investigative quest – I spent the better part of a day watching your sun moving through the sky from one side to the other. There were no clouds that day. Its movements did not tire me. I sat, and I watched, and I marvelled. Then I returned to the gloom from which I came, to face the war that had been fought for generations; I knew then my elders’ plans were correct. We had to leave but, alas, it seemed our enemies were burrowing through time and space in their own way. Those Realm Gates indeed brought the ice from our world. So powerful is their effect it seems they altered your weather patterns, too.’

  ‘You’ve closed one up – the one on Tineag’l, with your ship, after the war in Villiren – and it became warmer then. We’re not in an ice age here, are we?’

  ‘Your scholars were all fools,’ Artemisia replied. ‘They would do well instead to open their eyes and observe the world.’

  Brynd had learned to look past her bluntness. It’s probably deserved and, if not, then it’s a welcome challenge. ‘Presumably if you’ve shattered one gate, you can shatter some more?’

  ‘It is possible, yes.’

  ‘If you want to stop them coming into this world, then it seems like a good place to start,’ Brynd added dryly.

  ‘We can do that – though it would only make a difference to your climate.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Our enemies have,’ Artemisia said, ‘all arrived anyway.’

  ‘In the sky-city?’ Brynd asked.

  ‘A crude term for the Policharos, but it is accurate enough. They are here in vast numbers, in that vehicle. Whatever happens in the near future will settle matters, finally, and it will occur here, in the Boreal Archipelago.’

  ‘Are you suggesting they’ve put everything in that thing? Their entire culture?’

  ‘It sounds improbable, commander, does it not? Yet it is truth. They, too, know there is precious little time in our own world. The elements have removed the luxury of choice. Our sources informed us that they had been making arrangements for a large-scale exodus, and that they had sourced a way of transportation for the whole construct, both through space and time, to this world. That action itself removed their biggest threat, Villjamur.’

  Brynd fought back his annoyance. He knew that the destruction of Villjamur was a trifling matter to Artemisia, and that she had probably seen more death than he had in his lifetime, but to him – to his people – it was a world-shattering event. ‘I take it this sky-city should be the focus of our plans? That we should somehow disable it.’

  ‘I can barely begin to describe its complexities.’

  ‘Try me,’ Brynd said.

  ‘As you observe, it is a city. It is a vast, complex . . . urban structure, well-fortified and containing uncountable numbers of roads, not to mention the housing there, that covers the majority of the surface. There are even structures made from the blackened bones of humans. They have built this for the purpose of redeploying an entire civilization, here on this chain of islands. They are, it seems, a significant step ahead of us. What’s more, they are now perfectly prepared to populate the island of Jokull.’

  ‘You know this is their plan?’

  ‘It’s a strategy for survival, commander. It is what you or I would both do. Admit it. Now that it has been cleansed of life, the island is theirs. What may happen is that just a few of the sky-city’s outer structures will commence to fall to ground, at first, whereupon they will form the basis of new cities – only to take the rest so that they can expand elsewhere.’

  ‘They can’t do that so quickly, can they?’ Brynd asked. ‘They can’t just fucking take an island like that.’

  ‘You have just witnessed them taking your island, have you not? Now, of course,’ Artemisia continued, ‘there is the matter of further invasions, the systematic eradication of your people. They will strike this island next. Then the next. They will not stop.’

  The recent victory suddenly became quite hollow. Indeed, Brynd felt sickened and now stared glumly at the table. He had tried to view the situation as optimistically as possible, but all he was doing was dressing over a severe wound. ‘What do you suggest then?’ Brynd asked.

  ‘We should have a series of plans commencing with the massing of a combined army and ending with a confrontation against them – and sooner would be better, because then they will not have spread themselves across the various islands. They will be much more difficult to remove, if that is the case.’

  ‘How big would an army need to be to tackle them?’

  ‘I can bring the better part of half a million soldiers.’

  ‘Half a million?’ Brynd exclaimed.

  ‘It is not enough, I know,’ Artemisia declared.

  I was thinking the opposite . . . ‘Just how many people will we really need?’

  Artemisia raised her hands in a gesture Brynd took for a shrug, though she had not yet learned the subtleties of human interaction in this world. Perhaps it meant more in her own. ‘Twice as many, at least, for that is how many they will have with them.’

  ‘Is that the entire population you’ve brought with you?’ Brynd asked.

  ‘No. There are many people who are not born for war, just like in this world – more fragile races. What has arrived will make up the majority, but the others will be of little use just yet.’

  Brynd’s mind flitted across various problems. He began to think about where these creatures – no, these people – would reside, and then about how he might locate so many soldiers. There were, perhaps, a hundred thousand potential warriors he could find at the most – and most of them would be civilians. They would need training, armour and weaponry. The youths back in Villiren suddenly came to mind, and he felt a strong desire to see what they were able to provide.

  ‘You seem distracted, c
ommander,’ Artemisia said. ‘I hope you are still capable of assistance in these matters.’

  Brynd’s temper flared, but he wasn’t going to let her see it. ‘I’m simply contemplating the logistics of the operation, Artemisia. Now tell me, you’re a military ambassador, as such, though you’re a fine warrior also. Who will be responsible for planning this operation?’

  ‘You will be the senior representative from your world, of course.’

  ‘And from yours?’

  ‘I will consult with the elders and see who they deem suitable. It may be that they deem it suitable for me to continue as the point of contact, for I am relatively senior. I understand the subtleties of your culture better than they do, and can translate messages to them easily.’

  ‘You do that,’ Brynd said, ‘because—’

  There was a knocking at the door. Brynd called out; a soldier opened it and poked his head in. ‘Commander. Investigator Fulcrom is here, and he says he’s got someone rather important . . .’

  ‘Good, send him in,’ Brynd ordered.

  A moment later, Fulcrom strolled in and nodded to Brynd and there was a strange-looking individual in tow. Suddenly Artemisia was dropping to her hands and knees. Beside her chair she bowed deeply, her arms out straight, palms to the floor. He could not have imagined a more bizarre transformation of her character.

  ‘Well,’ Fulcrom said, frowning at Artemisia, ‘being a fan of evidence, I suppose all this might confirm Frater Mercury’s status as a god of sorts.’

  Brynd moved across to examine Frater Mercury, and Artemisia made no signs of moving from her position. ‘Frater Mercury,’ Brynd began, ‘welcome to the Boreal Archipelago. I must first thank you for saving many lives.’

  There was no sign on the individual’s face, faces, that his words had been registered. Brynd tried not to stare too much at the two perfect halves of his face. Alongside him, Artemisia finally clambered to her feet and stepped cautiously forwards. She began speaking to Frater Mercury in their native language. The noises were guttural and unnerving.

  Brynd cleared his throat and addressed Artemisia. ‘Perhaps we should get him back to the outskirts of Villiren. While we’re there, we can bring your elders together with Rika, and we can discuss the immediate future.’

  Artemisia paused but ignored him.

  Fulcrom moved beside Brynd. ‘I suspect they’ve a few issues,’ he whispered.

  Brynd took him to one side, out of Artemisia’s earshot. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I have a hunch, but it’s no more than that. Who’s the blue person?’

  ‘A warrior from another world,’ Brynd replied matter-of-factly. ‘One of the ones on our side.’

  ‘Right.’ Fulcrom seemed bemused and shook his head.

  ‘Out with it, investigator,’ Brynd pressed. ‘What’s your hunch about the newcomer?’

  ‘Frater Mercury – if he’s a god to this woman here – which I’m certain he is in a manner of speaking, indeed to all of us – then, in their world, I believe he was something of an imprisoned god. Part of the reason he broke out is to see what’s left of the world he abandoned before it was too late and his creations smashed it all up.’

  ‘So you think she’s persuading him back perhaps?’

  ‘He can probably hear what we’re saying, by the way,’ Fulcrom whispered. ‘He’s choosing to ignore all of us. He is, in many ways, like a child who wants simple freedom, out of curiosity more than anything else. I can’t understand much about him – considering he is meant to be connected to us – but I suspect he’s suffering inside. He feels the pressure of it all. Coming here was a release from those burdens.’

  ‘And yet,’ Brynd ventured, ‘you asking him for help in our world has already put more pressure upon him.’

  ‘It’s certainly possible.’

  ‘What state is his mind in?’

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘I think stable, but I don’t know him well enough, nor do I know what “normal” is for him. What I do know is that he’s almost an omnipotent individual – his involvement could mean you manage to get the future you plan for. If not, it could mean a future that none of us is a part of.’

  Brynd breathed deeply, weighing the investigator’s words in his mind. ‘I’ll let Artemisia finish with him, then I may try to get a few words with him – that is, if Artemisia will let me.’

  The blue-skinned woman’s voice was pleading, her words tumbling out of her mouth in a torrent he couldn’t understand. Eventually her sentences faded and Frater Mercury remained impassive to what she said. Artemisia sat back down at the table, and for the first time since he had met her she seemed quite disturbed.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Brynd enquired.

  She looked up at him. ‘We need to get back to the encampment as soon as possible. I will see to it that the dragons are brought here before nightfall.’

  ‘Are you taking Frater Mercury with you?’ Brynd asked.

  ‘Of course!’ she said with irritation. She rose up from her chair petulantly. ‘Unless you wish to return to Villiren via foot, Commander Lathraea, I would urge you to set straight your affairs here as soon as possible. Make what arrangements you will.’ With that, she marched back over to Frater Mercury, muttered something in their own tongue, before they both left the building.

  Brynd watched through the windows as they made their way along the edge of the wall and out of sight.

  ‘They may be from a different world,’ Fulcrom said, ‘but they’re certainly as temperamental as people from ours.’

  Brynd laughed, and found the thought vaguely comforting.

  FOURTEEN

  Jeza was keen to explore the nature of the Mourning Wasp before she resuscitated it. She had paid to gain access to what was left of the city’s private underground libraries. Knowledge was power, of course, and in Villiren you didn’t get something like that without paying for it.

  Information was barricaded within tiny rooms situated mostly in the Ancient Quarter, an area that had remained unaffected by the war, and they had been kept in good condition by either aged cultists or old scholars weighed down by nostalgia. She examined shelf after shelf for information on the Mourning Wasp, thick tomes coming apart at the bindings, all kinds of exotic books written in various languages, though she could only understand a couple of them. Some were in remarkably good condition – facsimile copies or translations made by scholars, and with useful annotations.

  Jeza had disregarded unreliable authors, researched others, but slowly began to piece together the origins of the Mourning Wasp.

  There were mentions of an enormous Pale Emperor Wasp, Vespa imperator khloros, by a scholar called Vendor Hast, which was the earliest mention of the creature. Hast’s scribblings seemed a little inconsistent, so she did not set great store by his theories.

  The most encouraging text was written by an Ysla-based academic called Venghaus, who had written on what he claimed was an encounter with something called the Mourning Wasp. He was more specific in his observations: saying that the creature’s overactive saliva gland secreted a substance that corroded its flesh, thus leaving it with a mostly skull-like appearance. He had suggested the use of ‘heavy clubs and cudgels’ for dealing with the pest – the numbers of people on his expedition had been halved upon contact with the species. Venghaus was the only writer to have made a sketch of the creature, hovering in the air. It looked both macabre and mesmerizing. Of the ability for people to sit on top of the wasps, as depicted in the cave paintings, Venghaus did not mention anything.

  *

  Despite the effects of the war, Villiren was still a busy city. The streets had begun to settle back into their old ways: bawdy bars kicked out those who were a couple of drinks the wrong side of the night, only for them to then go and piss their expenditure up against the wall around the back. People in long waxed coats began offering her dubious substances from the shadows, illicit fluids or bark scrapings, which could either heighten your experi
ence of the evening or do absolutely nothing, depending on the dealer you found. There were working girls here, too, though far fewer than before. They stood almost between the moonlight and the shadows, trying to catch the attention of passers-by. Behind them, their pimps loitered, knives tucked into their sleeves, waiting. Land trilobites had returned as well, their strange, shiny shells catching the light from windows as they scuttled into the alleys. Though these waist-high creatures had once found work carrying tools for the stevedores, ever since the presence of the Okun no one really trusted anything with an exoskeleton. Now trilobites could be found drinking from puddles or scouring mounds of rubbish for existence.

  The dark economy flourished.

  Any hopes Jeza had that the war might have purged such goings-on from the streets of Villiren had vanished. Nothing would stop these discreet forces. Yet despite the dangers, in spite of the rancid smells and questionable people, Jeza did enjoy these evenings. The bitter coastal breeze brought her to her senses after a long day spent cooped up in the factory. It made her feel alive. And there was a definite buzz around the group ever since their first genuine commission from the commander. A downpayment had come through and they were now in possession of the one thing they had craved for years.

  Respect.

  The manufacture of Imperial armour had not stopped when Brynd left the city on his urgent business. He said he would return promptly once a small matter was seen to, and she took the decision then to industrialize their process further. They opened one of the many unused rooms in the factory, cleared out junk and rubbish, and employed some friends of friends to kit out the place as a vast storage facility so it would become a warehouse for armour. It wasn’t long before they had the better part of a thousand of the new-style breastplates on the racks. The gang tested their work on other sections of body armour until they had enough examples to show Brynd. Then they started their first thorough explorations on the art of raising the Mourning Wasp.