‘What was it?’ she asked, and he told her.
‘If I’d have intervened they would have taken me too.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly. I’d like to see what the commander has to say about this.’
‘They’re not messing around, are they?’ Lan whispered.
‘No, this is serious,’ Fulcrom replied. He eyed Malum, who was at the far side of the stage, continuing his diatribe.
‘Tell you what I’m going to do,’ Malum called out across the crowd. ‘I’m gonna repeat this little speech of mine on another night or two. Or three. Fetch your friends and family – and if they can’t make it, tell them all will be fine. I’m here. I’ll not let this city become some kind of military dictatorship or alien ghetto.’
The raucous cheer was louder than ever. People banged tankards on tables and stamped their feet on the floorboards.
After this settled, a few people began to ask what he’d do next?
‘All in good time, my friends. All in good time. I’m getting some of the old underground networks to unite. We’re starting to form a new network with some of the tavern owners and shopkeepers around the city – all nothing to do with the alien-lovin’ soldiers. We’ve got plenty of money on our side. We’ve got all we need to take our city back and protect it from aliens. Expect more news very soon.’
With that, he turned and walked off stage, leaving the crowd demanding more.
‘That guy knows how to play to an audience,’ Lan commented.
‘It all explains why he created that scene in the iren, anyway,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘We need to report back to the commander right away.’
TWENTY-FIVE
The military were packing up for the final time. People were bustling through the corridors on each level, carrying supplies, blankets, armour, swords, food – everything that said something big was about to happen. Fulcrom found Brynd surrounded by clerks and piles of paper.
‘You look busy,’ Fulcrom commented.
Brynd didn’t reply for a moment, simply staring at the papers before him on the table. ‘It’s war this time, investigator. This is it. This is the big campaign.’
‘Will you be gone from the city for long?’
‘I’ve no idea. It could be over pretty quickly. It could be a more sustained campaign but I bloody well hope it isn’t.’
‘Where’s the conflict?’ Fulcrom enquired.
‘It’s looking like the coast of Folke, if the surveillance is correct. There’s another coastal invasion being planned. If Folke falls, so does the rest of the Archipelago.’
‘I hope it goes as well as these things can do,’ Fulcrom replied.
‘Thanks, but I take it you didn’t come here to discuss that.’
‘No, I’ve found out who acquired the corpse of the monster in the iren, and why.’
‘That was quick.’ Brynd gestured to the chair opposite.
Fulcrom sat down to reveal his findings, from his dealings with the youths at Factory 54 to the meeting in the Partisans’ Club. ‘Those kids were probably quite innocent in all of this I believe. The girl – Jeza – felt pressured by Malum. She probably regrets ever having met him.’
Brynd had kept calm while Fulcrom related the information, but as soon as he recalled the threats that Malum had made to him months ago, his temper began to show.
‘You know who Malum is, I’m guessing,’ Fulcrom ventured.
‘I certainly do.’ Brynd sat back in his chair, made a steeple of his hands and contemplated his fury. ‘He was a vicious gang leader and used to be a powerful man – for his position. He tried a few tricks on us. If I’m honest, I hoped he’d died in the war, but I knew there were still a few issues with the gangs in some districts. It’s the gangs who rule the streets in this city, investigator – or so they’d like to think.’
‘What do you think of the meeting at the club?’
‘I’ve not got time to deal with it so I’m going to entrust this to you – but be careful. The man was once capable of great evil. Because of that, I’ll release what few guards we have left at the Citadel to be at your disposal, but tread carefully. I’ll see if we can spare fifty newly enlisted soldiers and have them patrol the streets, but that really is a maximum.’
‘Of course,’ Fulcrom said. ‘How many soldiers from the city are going with you?’
‘Nearly all of them – it has to be that way. We really do need every fighting man and woman for the battle.’
Fulcrom nodded and rose. ‘I’ll do my best, commander.’
‘I want to repeat: be cautious,’ Brynd replied. ‘Malum isn’t your typical criminal.’
The rumel smiled. ‘I’ve dealt with more than a few unusual criminals in my time, commander.’
*
‘Hey, Malum,’ the kid said, stirring Malum from his slumber.
Malum recalled his surroundings: he was sitting in a plush chair in an empty underground tavern. Everyone had gone home. The party had ended. It was just him and the embers of the fire, and the empty lager bottle that lay by his feet. He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head.
‘What is it?’ Malum tried to locate the kid’s voice, and his blurry vision eventually located the doorway, in which a blond kid was standing.
‘JC told me to tell you that the army’s leaving.’
‘What? Say that again,’ Malum demanded. His head didn’t pound these days, but the kid’s voice was dulled slightly.
‘The army is vacating the city.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re going to war, JC says.’
It took Malum a while to process this.
‘Tell JC to get the Bloods together, in here, tonight. What time is it anyway?’
‘Mid-afternoon,’ the kid said.
‘Fucksake,’ Malum muttered. ‘All right, let JC know that. Get them all here real quick. Tell them to sober up, too.’
*
Later, the tavern was rammed with his core gang members, a good few hundred of them. These were the remnants of the war – not that many, but enough to get the word about. They were his brethren, the people he could trust. They would do anything, kill anyone, if he asked it of them.
Malum stood on the bar and regarded them all. Like he had done on stage, he waved for silence and it duly came. ‘It’s come to my attention that the military is leaving the city. I thought there’d be a thousand or so soldiers in the city – turns out there are less than a hundred left. I’m sending out scouts to confirm this, but this new situation changes my plan somewhat.’
‘We sending out raids on the aliens now then?’
‘No,’ Malum said, ‘not immediately. We’ve always sought for this to be a free city from the Empire. Only when it’s free of military and Imperial rule will we get to do what we want. We get control then, and we can only do that if the people want the same thing. We’d hoped to start doing this across the city after the war, but it didn’t really happen like that, did it? No, because the military got there before we did. Effectively, there’s one place we need to occupy to make Villiren what we want.’
There was a stony silence in the tavern. No one knew what to say.
‘The Citadel,’ he concluded. ‘With all the soldiers heading to war, this leaves the Citadel unguarded.’
‘It won’t be completely unguarded though, will it?’ someone called.
‘Probably not, no. There are most likely going to be a few units on the streets too. But we’re never going to get a better chance to take the place, are we?’
‘What, we just take it?’
‘We just take it. Like a repossession, break things down from within. Without the same level of defence, it’ll be like walking in. Any soldiers on the streets, we’ll slaughter – we’ll overwhelm them. It won’t be that easy, obviously, but if we’re ever going to do it, now’s the time. Once we’re in the Citadel we can loot the place and burn what we can’t take.’
‘But that Jamur lass is still going to be there, isn’t she?’<
br />
‘Probably, unless she’s going with the military,’ Malum said. ‘If she is, we could keep them hostage, or hang their body parts on the outer limits of the city – like the old days. Either way, they’re not going to provide much of a challenge against a few thousand of us.’
‘Where are we going to get a few thousand from?’ came another voice. ‘There’s barely a thousand of the Bloods left.’
‘We put the word out. We make offers of sharing the spoils of the Citadel with the people – whoever would like to help us. They’ll accept that. Tell everyone that the aliens will soon be coming. We unite what’s left of the gangs under one common aim: to reclaim Villiren while the commander’s at war, to take the city for our own, to stop aliens coming in. Who knows, the commander might die while he’s at it, meaning there’ll be nothing to trouble us afterwards. And when the military does decide to come back – depleted after the fighting – there’ll be nothing here for them. The people are already on our side.’
‘We doing this for the people or for us?’
‘For us, of course. We need the people to be on our side so we can take what we want. But everyone wins, think about it. This is the chance to make the city ours. To free it from the Empire, let people do what they want, make their own rules. Meanwhile we can live like kings and make sure there’s no aliens at the same time.’
The lads seemed to like that. They hollered and cheered. They banged tables and shook their blades in the air.
That’s more like it, Malum thought.
TWENTY-SIX
They were getting used to the flying. That morning, as the Night Guard ascended high above the Y’iren countryside on board the dragons, none of them vomited. They were travelling in smaller numbers than before, to make room for the Mourning Wasps. Four travelled per cage, subdued by a small chemical treatment that Jeza had provided. There was a stimulant to wake them fully before they were required to be used.
Brynd stood over them watching curiously. He was concerned with whether or not they could be used in battle and that his men had complete control. In his brief conversation with Artemisia that morning, he had confirmed the tactics required for the forthcoming operation.
At this time enemy forces were preparing another sea invasion with the sky-city, aiming to slam into the coast of Folke with their trademark ferocity. Brynd’s and Artemisia’s combined forces were making their way to that western coast at great speed in order to meet the threat. As for the enemy, they would comprise dozens of races, many of which Brynd hadn’t encountered and, therefore, he couldn’t assess their strengths or weaknesses. This made tactical decision-making awkward: he could advise his own people on their tried and tested formations. They had an advantage from knowing the best ways to navigate these islands, the most effective terrains on which to fight. He also communicated with Artemisia about the effectiveness of her people, which made planning a little easier, but what they would actually face was still unknown.
Artemisia had conceded that command would be his – up until the point where he and his Night Guard soldiers would escort Frater Mercury into the sky-city.
Given Artemisia’s numbers and estimated figures for the enemy, there could be up to two million lives on the field of battle. By now, he liked to think his numbness to death, and the fact that not all of them were humans or rumels, were the reasons that he was not intimidated by these numbers. Yet no matter how he looked at it, his decisions would probably contribute to the biggest loss of life ever to have been witnessed on these islands.
Artemisia had given instructions to fly to a specific destination. Having studied maps of the island of Folke, she said that there would be a vessel in the sky above a particular coastal lagoon, which was not to be attacked since it carried her own elders. There would be a docking platform on which the dragons would land. She stressed that the vessel was a place of great importance for her culture, and that he was to think of it like a floating cathedral.
That place was where they were now headed and, despite the occasional gust of wind that rattled the cages, all was as calm as it could be. The Night Guard were looking resplendent in their new, black armour – as intimidating a sight as any Okun.
*
The landing came suddenly. Brynd marched to the back of the container, as one of the others unlocked the hatch, unhooking the landing ramp, and opening it.
‘Bohr . . .’ someone in front of him muttered. ‘What the hell is this place?’
‘Artemisia’s so-called cathedral in the sky, I assume,’ Brynd replied cheerily. He marched down the ramp, into daylight, no longer surprised at the fact that nearly every new experience these days left him in awe.
Some hundred feet long and just as wide, the platform was bordered by an ornate, green balustrade. It was large enough to fit at least five dragons and their dismounting troops and was crafted from the same greenish stone, very much like marble. Brynd crouched down to assess the material and saw that gemstones had been pressed flat in its fabric. Beyond the balustrade, everything was lost to cloud, so it looked as if they were on another world entirely. He turned around and gazed up a cliff face of architectural elements. He could understand why Artemisia had compared it to a vast cathedral. Huge pillars disappeared into the cloud. Massively ornate gargoyles stood either side of long balconies, on which there were people in blue and red robes standing, observing them. There were at least three arched doorways nearby, each one high enough to accommodate a dragon stretched tall. It was cold up here – and there was the groaning sound of a strong wind, yet little of it seemed to reach the platform; it was as if they were protected from the elements, but there was no shelter.
Brynd turned to see Artemisia heading towards them, strapped up in full battle gear, her sword handles poking above her shoulders.
‘Welcome, commander!’ she bellowed. ‘Your arrival is an honour. This is Ekkpolis, our most important vessel.’
‘It’s enormous,’ Brynd replied.
‘This is true, yes,’ Artemisia said. ‘You are on the first of ten such landing . . . harbours? Bays?’
‘Landing bay would make more sense in Jamur.’
She nodded firmly. ‘Yes, landing bay. There are nine more, and this is the smallest.’
‘What is this structure precisely?’
‘It is where we accommodate the most important members of our civilization. Come, let us not talk out here. Bring your soldiers.’
‘I wanted to show you something first.’ Brynd took Artemisia back to one of the dragons and up the ramp to reveal his new weapons – the Mourning Wasps.
Artemisia looked impressed, which was saying something for her. Brynd explained that the Night Guard intended to ride the creatures instead of horses, and discussed the advantages this would bring.
‘Narrow spaces, different altitudes, and all at high speed. I don’t think they cope well with long distances, but they’re certainly an improvement in all other aspects on our usual military horses.’
She nodded, thoughtfully. ‘This will be useful, very useful,’ she said. ‘It may change our plans perhaps. We will talk more of this inside. We must now refine the final tactics. These . . . Mourning Wasps’ – she stressed the name slowly, as if to commit it to memory – ‘will help us when we need to enter our enemies’ inner sanctum.’
They headed back down the ramp and on to the platform. There, they progressed as one unit inside the Ekkpolis.
*
Once inside, it no longer felt as if they were in the air. What struck Brynd most about the Ekkpolis was not how alien it was, but how normal it appeared. Admittedly, there were sophisticated alien technologies obviously running in the background, but the layout, structure and function was much like a grand building found in the Archipelago.
As Artemisia escorted the Night Guard soldiers through the main doors, they headed on to a large street, which led through apartment-style blocks. Here it was generally dim – lighting coming from a few large torches and a thin skylight.
The buildings were made of varied materials, a stone like granite, but possessing more interesting textures; there were shimmering sheets of white stone, fat bricks with precious stones pressed into the surfaces. There were ornate signs in a language Brynd could not understand, though he vaguely recognized some of the symbols from the military camps, so he guessed they represented clans or families.
Clusters of humans, of all ages, peered over their balconies to watch the Night Guard as they were escorted past their homes. Further along there were stalls lining the streets, though there were no basic goods to be found here – these were craft items, jewellery, decorations and the like. A few people meandered underneath beautifully textured awnings, but there wasn’t any of the energy of their own irens; people wore morose expressions, there was no haggling, and barely any coin being exchanged.
‘Everyone looks so tired here,’ Sergeant Tiendi observed.
Brynd didn’t say anything in response. Perhaps eternal warfare tends to grate after a while . . .
There were further city blocks, people crammed above each other in tight spaces; there was the drone of distant, indecipherable conversation. There were plenty of new aromas, too, sweet and bitter, and he did not recognize them.
Brynd admitted to himself that he was disappointed with this place. He had expected the most exotic structures, the most baroque cityscape, confusing and baffling buildings – but there was little of that. More unusual goings-on could be seen on the streets of Villiren.
No, this seemed a sanitized culture, as if the most conservative elements had been ring-fenced and shot up into the sky.
He told Artemisia his thoughts.
‘You are not entirely incorrect in your assumptions.’ Artemisia walked by his side, stooped slightly, muttering her words with discretion. ‘You must understand that the people gathered here are our elites. These are the royal bloodlines, the assemblage of noble kin.’
‘I thought your culture more . . . democratic than this?’
‘It is indeed democratic for the most part. But the Ekkpolis is a relatively new vessel, the result of great expenditure, which has been partially commandeered by our military rulers. The people here feel safer with protection and the military have a first-class vessel on which to base their operations.’
The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) Page 30
