‘He could be useful. He could have his chance to help.’
‘You view him as a weapon,’ Artemisia said. ‘I know this. I can see this in the way you regard him.’
‘I think he can help save many lives,’ Brynd confessed. ‘He’s already done so, and yet you keep him here, like a caged bird.’
‘Poetic,’ Artemisia said. ‘But you want to use him to create ways to destroy our enemy, as we did, and this is understandable.’
‘Have you ever asked Frater Mercury what his wishes are?’
‘We know what it is that he wants.’
‘And that is?’ Brynd asked.
‘A release from it all,’ she replied. ‘He is tired of life. He has lived for an unfathomable number of years. His ascension from a life technician to god was merely the beginning of things. He was forced to leave this world and create a new realm, what I call home. He has seen his creations rise up and create mass violence on a scale he did not think possible. And he has done this as someone who had conquered Time itself, having lived on and on without end.’ Artemisia walked along one side of the light cage. ‘Convinced he had no future, he only ever had one dream, and that was to break free of our world to this one, his home, his past, so he might look upon it one last time. Now he has done that, of course, by methods that we were not aware of. Now there is nothing left for him.’
‘This is why you keep him in the cage then,’ Brynd observed. ‘We have a term for something similar in our world – it’s called a suicide watch.’
Artemisia looked to her elders sat within their raised, glowing antechamber, and then back to Brynd. ‘You are most perceptive, commander. We are watching, as you put it, to see if he attempts to end his existence – for we do not entirely know what will happen.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Brynd demanded.
‘Simply that,’ Artemisia replied. ‘He’s an entity of immense power. For him to end his life, our own technicians think that it would mean . . . that power would have to be redistributed.’
‘How do you mean? As in, he may explode?’
‘That may well happen,’ Artemisia said. ‘And it could be severe enough to cause great instability to his surroundings.’
Brynd eyed the man behind the light cage for a moment or two longer. It was true Brynd had hoped the man could help them, and now he felt only a deep sense of frustration. A key piece of his military operation had suddenly collapsed.
Brug suddenly approached Brynd’s side. ‘A word, sir.’
‘Go ahead.’ Brynd turned to him as Artemisia continued her slow pace around the cage.
‘You may recall some of the warriors of the Aes tribe when they undergo their birthing ceremony,’ Brug began.
‘What of it?’
‘Well, the birthing is rebirthing in that instance, of course, but the principle may remain the same: that of a possibility of a glorious birth in a new realm through the notion of sacrifice in battle.’
‘I still don’t follow,’ Brynd muttered. ‘Get to the point.’
‘If Frater Mercury wants to die and is going to explode, why doesn’t he do it in battle in order to help us?’ Brug grunted. ‘Better still if he’s in the middle of a thousand Okun.’
‘Better still,’ Mikill said, ‘if he can kill himself up in that sky-city thing, he may well bring it to the ground.’
Brynd let the thoughts move around his mind. It seemed perfect. Frater Mercury would get his wish to end his life, leaving the greatest possible chance for lasting peace behind, and the united forces would stand a better chance of wiping out the invaders on Jokull.
‘Excellent suggestions,’ Brynd whispered, and turned to Artemisia.
‘How does Frater Mercury view your enemy? Does he care for them in the same way?’
‘No. Do not forget they rose up against a vastly peaceful culture, bent on destruction – they would see all his creations destroyed. It is our understanding that he views them as he would a violent, murderous son or daughter. With sympathy, disappointment, wishing he had never created them in the first place. It is why he remained with our culture.’
‘In that case, could we liaise with you and your elders?’
*
They negotiated for the better part of two hours before the elders would even grant permission for Brynd to consult Frater Mercury.
Brynd stood before them – below them – staring up into their illuminated faces, sagging with age, as they painfully contemplated his requests. Artemisia and some of her colleagues mediated, and Brynd could never be certain just how much of her own feelings she was inserting into the conversation.
As expected, the elders were reluctant at first. A culture did not simply abandon its god so easily; however, the way Brynd presented the case, it was logical, almost irresistible for them to use Frater Mercury as a weapon in such a way, providing he agreed.
Problems were mooted from the off: ‘One simply does not drop him into the heart of the Policharos,’ they claimed, via Artemisia. ‘He might not want to die in such a way,’ they asserted.
Immediately it became clear that these people were unsure how to proceed after having treated Frater Mercury a certain way for so long.
They had kept him prisoner in the tallest structure in their home city, a cage he had built himself so that he might never escape. He had been given moments of freedom, of course, but these were strictly rationed. People came from far and wide to worship him. They offered prayers and asked if he could help them, be it for some pathetically trivial matter in their own lives, to more elaborate tasks like moving islands through the sky.
Brynd couldn’t be certain, but it seemed as if these elders – or whoever had imprisoned him – saw this not as a form of torture, but as an attempt to show how vital he was to people’s lives.
Brynd tried to understand why, if Frater Mercury was so powerful, he had not found some method of escape.
By this point, time had ground him down, they explained. Millennia came and went, and Frater Mercury was witness to all of it, to the repetitions of his creations: races would continue to wage war, to take what was not theirs, to fail to notice any obvious signs that their cultures were under threat. He watched them, passively, as if it were some enormous experiment unfolding before his eyes – and perhaps it was. Ultimately, he was a scientist, after all, and he had created these cultures.
‘What changed?’ Brynd asked.
Time began to run out and Frater Mercury was the first to see it, to read it in the elements. The sun was fading from the sky and soon the wars had reached their peak and the city in which Frater Mercury was held was being eroded by the advancing armies. The elders requested Frater Mercury’s aid to help prevent a staggering loss of life and, despite the apparent futility, he obliged and found himself trapped even further as the elders showed him just how dependent on him their civilization was.
Perhaps, the elders admitted, they had not treated him fairly, but they did it to preserve their culture.
‘So we both want to use him as a weapon,’ Brynd observed. He turned to the so-called god with an overwhelming sense of sadness. Beneath the veneer of magic and science, beneath the experiences of millennia, here was someone trapped by the very creations he’d given life to.
No, the elders continued, they wanted him to help save lives, not cause harm like a weapon.
Frater Mercury decided that with no future, he’d look to the past. He began to yearn for home, to return to this world – the one he was banished from so long ago due to their fear of his ways with science. He had created many races here, too, and pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable. Cultures could not appreciate him. Religions wished to banish him. People no longer accepted him and he was forced to flee, to our world, and brought his creations with him.
Later, after many wars, pathways of science opened up.
When, thanks to spies, the elders went on, their enemies learned of his scientific methods for breaking through dimensions with Realm Gates, they stole h
is secrets and mastered the arts. Armies came into this world, bringing slaughter to new shores, to Villiren.
All the while, someone began communicating with Frater Mercury. Somehow, during his few moments of freedom, he managed to communicate back and make it possible to walk away from it all.
And that was exactly what Frater Mercury did.
Now here they all were, facing a stand-off against the races that wanted to cleanse the Boreal Archipelago so it could be resettled by their own kin rather than working together for a peaceful solution.
As the elders stressed again, Frater Mercury should not be allowed to die – he could still offer some kind of help.
‘Your way is delaying the inevitable,’ Brynd concluded, ‘negotiating, settlement, asking small favours to keep people alive long enough to be killed by your enemy. With the proposed solution, it could end these skirmishes once and for all. Besides, if Frater Mercury wishes to die, he should have some say in the matter.’
On that, they eventually came to an agreement.
*
The cage was deactivated, the light fell away, and there was a sudden stillness in the building, but Frater Mercury showed few signs of acknowledging the change in his situation. The Night Guard soldiers stood to one side next to Artemisia, their arms folded, in respectful silence.
The elders, still illuminated, presented their question in their own language. Artemisia translated for Brynd: ‘Reverend Frater,’ she said, ‘we have entered discussions with the aged races, represented here by the white man. That’s you.’
‘Thanks for pointing that out,’ Brynd muttered.
Artemisia held out her hand, despite the silence that followed. Brynd wondered if Frater Mercury was talking only to the elders.
‘He just asked them if they have let him free. In a manner of speaking, they replied. They continue: “It is clear that you have made your wishes to terminate your existence fully over the recent . . . uhm, a unit of time equivalent to three of your years . . . If your wish still remains, then so may it be.” ’
Brynd watched Frater Mercury for any signs of a reaction. Suddenly a voice rushed into his head: Did you come here to free me?
He thought his reply back, not wanting to speak it aloud. Yes. But I ask one final act of sacrifice.
Can I die then? Will I be finally left alone?
Your sacrifice will be your death, Brynd replied, if I have my way.
Poetic enough, warrior.
‘He must be contemplating his option,’ Artemisia said. ‘The elders have asked if he requires more time to think on the issue, but he has replied already. They have mentioned you and they have mentioned the way in which his life will be terminated – with sufficient power to cause destruction. They are trying not to use the word suicide . . . He will comply.’
Brynd’s relief was genuine. He had his weapon, and the poor man could end his existence now that he had seen his home world.
‘That’s the easy part over,’ Brug whispered. ‘Now how the hell do we plan to get him up in that sky-city?’
TWENTY-THREE
As the sun reddened behind the clouds, the Night Guard rode back to Villiren. He noticed the distinct lack of snow in comparison with the first time he approached the camp. The landscape seemed far more desolate because of it, the melting snow revealing broken carts abandoned along the side of the road, or the occasional corpse with an outstretched arm. The soldiers rode in thoughtful silence. They had left discussions with Artemisia’s people in a profoundly positive manner – Brynd had negotiated what he wanted, to use Frater Mercury as a weapon, but the task ahead was now one of planning, strategy, logistics.
During the siege of Villiren he felt he had done enough of that to last a lifetime, but he had already begun ordering more soldiers to move across the island and then by sea to congregate on Folke with the others. That was where the threat was gathering, his garudas were informing him; it was on those shores that an invasion would come, it was where he had to send troops first.
Tundra soon became villages, melding into the southern fringes of Villiren, the Wastelands, where there seemed to be more hastily constructed shelters and crude housing being erected daily. Brynd also noticed there were small groups of people marching around the streets as though on a military drill. They wore no uniforms, but carried crude weapons, machetes or messer blades; and some even seemed to be taking look-out positions.
‘Is this some kind of civilian militia we’re unaware of?’ Brug muttered.
‘They’re probably still afraid the Okun will come back and want to defend themselves,’ Mikill said. ‘It’s quite natural.’
Brynd wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t ever hope to know all of what was going on in Villiren, but this didn’t feel right for some reason. ‘Wait here,’ he called to the others.
He pulled his horse to a slower pace, and nudged her nearer to the patrols. Tugging his woollen cloak around his uniform, he concealed anything that might suggest he was a military man. He even pulled up his hood to put his pale face into shadow.
One of the men looked up at him, a bearded fellow with a scarred face, dressed in little more than a bundle of rags. In his right hand he gripped a blade.
‘What’s all this?’ Brynd gestured to the unit of six other people. ‘Some kind of citizen militia?’
‘Sommat like that, yeah,’ the man muttered. ‘What’s it to you anyway?’
‘I wondered about joining up, that’s all.’
‘We ain’t no military and we don’t trust outsiders. Military don’t care about the likes of us. They make things worse.’
‘Really?’ Brynd said. ‘How so?’
‘Monsters,’ the man muttered. ‘They’re too busy inviting monsters into the city. It’s why we’re here.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Brynd said. ‘You mean the camp to the south.’
‘Aye, that’s right. You seen anything strange, traveller?’
‘Nothing at all out of the ordinary,’ Brynd replied. ‘There’s no reason to be afraid. But I thought they were our allies?’
‘That’s what the military wants you to think, get it? Don’t believe a word of what they’re saying.’
‘Why would the military lie?’ Brynd asked.
‘You ask too many questions . . .’ the man replied.
‘Well, I’m not from around here.’
‘The military wants us to believe anything so that we’ll be forced to live with freaks. Make us live in fear so we think it is the best choice. We don’t wanna be sharing our city with the likes of them, is all.’
‘But you’re not actually sharing anything yet,’ Brynd pointed out. ‘Nothing at all has come around here.’
‘You know an awful lot for a traveller,’ the man replied, eyeing Brynd with suspicion. ‘Nothing’s come in yet because there are people like us to stop them coming in.’
‘I’m sure the city’s grateful for your . . . protection,’ Brynd replied. ‘How many monsters have you stopped so far?’
The man didn’t seem to like that question, judging by his sour expression. ‘Ain’t the point – it’s about having a presence, like. Having men on the street so things can know not to enter these parts. Makes some of the families feel safer, too.’
Brynd nodded and decided not to press the issue any further. The man had decided to believe there was a threat and act in this way; nothing Brynd could say would change matters. ‘Good luck, then,’ he replied, and turned his horse back.
On getting back to the Night Guard, Brug asked him: ‘Anything the matter?’
‘Yes,’ Brynd replied, ‘we need better propaganda. They’re convinced monsters are going to come into the city and take what’s theirs. It bothers me.’
‘We know better than to believe nonsense like that, though,’ Mikill replied.
‘Sure,’ Brynd replied, ‘but they do believe, and what concerns me is why they believe these things so strongly.’
*
They headed into the Citadel where Brynd immed
iately called a meeting, in private, with Jamur Eir. He could put it off no longer.
Within half an hour she was sitting next to him in the obsidian room. She had just returned from the hospital, and there were still a few bloodstains on her clothing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t have time to change.’
Brynd waved her apology away. ‘Quite all right. I’ve seen more than enough blood on uniforms in my time. At least yours is present for a more constructive reason.’
‘Have you seen my sister at all?’ she asked. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time working, but I’ve not noticed her around the Citadel. And when I do ask someone, they put me off with one of your instructed answers.’
Brynd smiled awkwardly before explaining, with as much sympathy as he could manage, what had happened to her sister, the events outside the Citadel, and her new-found cannibalistic nature. He even explained the context that Artemisia had given him, of some failed union of their minds. She listened silently, though showed little in the way of shock.
‘So,’ Eir said calmly, ‘there is no way we can get her back to her previous state?’
‘It doesn’t seem so, I’m afraid. She is what she is now. Pardon my saying, but you don’t seem overly . . . concerned, Eir.’
She gave a huge sigh before standing up and moving to the window. It was night, so she couldn’t see much outside. ‘I’ve seen plenty of horrific things in the last few weeks, so perhaps I am numbed by such experiences. Although she’s not dead, it seems like I lost my sister long ago. What do you suggest we do about her situation?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Brynd replied. ‘One idea I had was to allow cultists to take a look at her. But one thing is obvious: she can no longer be head of the new empire.’
Eir looked at Brynd, as if she knew what he was about to ask her.
‘Which means we’d need someone else of the Jamur lineage . . .’
The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) Page 27
