The Broken Isles lotrs-4

by Mark Charan Newton

  Wherever it was suspected that enemy soldiers were hiding — be they red-skinned rumel or Okun — experienced units of Dragoons were ordered in to root them out. Brynd didn’t want them killed unless they provided too much of a danger; instead he wanted them taken to underground holding cells where Artemisia could interrogate them. So far, only eight had been captured alive, with another seven killed as they attempted to flee. None of the captives had proven much use so far.

  Brynd explained to Eir how the city was being rebuilt and organized as they moved along the edges of Althing, and she listened without interrupting. He enjoyed talking to her; it helped to clarify things in his head, and he began to feel encouraged by the amount of progress they had made.

  Now and then, civilians in rags would approach, telling them that they had lost everything and begging for money. They were all ages, the youngest a girl barely out of childhood, the eldest over seventy. On the first two occasions, Brynd let Eir hand over a few coins from her purse, but after that he cautioned her.

  ‘Lady Eir, nearly everyone in this city has lost something — if not everything. If you keep opening your purse for everyone who asks for money, you’ll have nothing left.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, I’m probably making things worse.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be expected to know how many desperate people there are.’

  Brynd gave a gentle kick so that their horses moved at a swifter pace through the approaching crowd, all holding their hands out for change.

  Passing a greater volume of civilians, Brynd and Eir approached one of the few reopened irens, a vast and sprawling market situated in a relatively intact plaza.

  Under the late afternoon sun, hundreds of people milled about between rows of trade stalls. While things had not quite returned to normal, there were ad-hoc stalls here: those dealing in metalware to melt down into weapons, or clothing cut from hessian sacks, which had been provided by the military — some of them still bore the seven-pointed Jamur star beneath gaudy dye. Scribes were offering writing skills, some women were leaning against perimeter walls, openly offering their bodies. On one side the fish markets had come to life again, bringing much-needed food to the people of the city.

  ‘It might not look much at the moment,’ Brynd said, ‘but this is a vision compared with what it was like when you first arrived.’

  ‘I remember it well.’ Eir’s expression was unreadable. She looked impassively across the scene for some time without speaking. Then, she said, ‘When I left Villjamur, I had only positive memories of my father’s once-glorious Empire in mind. This is not exactly how the family dream went, I’ll admit.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were so attached to those dreams,’ Brynd said.

  ‘Neither did I until recently,’ Eir replied. ‘Still, I think I need to face reality, don’t you?’

  ‘Having escaped your own — very public — execution, traipsing halfway across the Archipelago to get here, and brought our only hope of an ally — I’d say you’ve faced reality.’

  ‘You’re very kind to me, commander — you always have been. I always found it easier talking to you than any of the guards who were attached to myself and Rika. Your loyalty to the Jamur lineage has been unquestionable. And now, even now. .’ She gestured to the thronging iren. ‘Even now you rebuild this in our name.’

  ‘Come. Let’s head down this road — there’s a lot more to see.’

  There were sectors of the city so badly damaged by the war that, after the clearance of rubble, there was nothing left but a skeleton neighbourhood. Stubs of stone were scattered irregularly throughout one region heading towards Port Nostalgia — or what was left of it.

  There was little to remind them that these streets were once inhabited.

  ‘This place saw the worst of the fighting,’ Brynd said. ‘And remember I told you about the huge being that emerged from the city and trailed out towards the sea?’

  ‘It came this way, then,’ Eir realized. ‘By Astrid, it must have been enormous.’

  ‘I never saw it myself,’ Brynd said, ‘and the reports that came in were inconsistent. Those who witnessed it first-hand suggested it was some primitive sea monster made of crackling light, though that sounds like an exaggeration to me. Whatever it was, though it nearly killed the Night Guard while we were saving people, it also took a chunk of the enemy forces occupying this sector of the city. It did us a favour, in the end. Somewhere we must have had some remarkable allies.’

  ‘Both fortuitous and. .’ Eir paused as she took in the scale of devastation.

  ‘Just fortuitous,’ Brynd added. ‘Everything that was here can be built again, more or less. They’re only buildings. The alternative was much less appealing.’

  A unit of Dragoons wearing bright-red sashes rode by quickly on horseback, five men in all, and another followed a few moments later, moving much more slowly due to pulling a cart. Each of the riders saluted Brynd as they passed and offered the Sele of Jamur, before moving on down the street.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Eir asked.

  Brynd considered the question. ‘We should follow them. I think you should see this as well.’

  They turned in line behind the Dragoons, pursuing their cautious route through the debris. The group continued for several minutes, eventually approaching the fringe of a more built-up region, one that had not been totally decimated. The terraced houses were largely featureless, flat structures, with once-brightly painted wooden doors now covered in dust and flecks of blood. Many doors had been scrubbed clean again by returned owners, though one of them still had an arrowhead embedded in the wood. One road was relatively clear, with a small pile of rubble in one corner.

  At the far end, where the Dragoons were now heading, a dust cloud floated above an end-terrace, which had recently collapsed. A few neighbours had clustered around to examine the damage without offering much help, but the Dragoons dismounted and began to clear them out of the way, before they set to work.

  Brynd and Eir came closer to see that half the end house had just buckled over. It was an area of about fifteen feet wide now reduced to a mound of stone, with broken furniture jutting out of the gaps. It wasn’t the first time this had happened since the war, and wouldn’t be the last.

  As the skies clouded over and the dust settled, the Dragoons set about climbing further into the debris. Four soldiers formed a chain along which they passed chunks of masonry. Brynd and Eir dismounted from their horses, approached the scene and offered their help.

  ‘Nah, you’re all right. We’ll have this sorted soon, commander,’ said a tall, bearded officer with a wry smile. ‘It’s our job, like.’

  With a remarkable nonchalance they continued the chain of operation, the heavy men grunting as they moved some of the heavier stone back first. Two of the other soldiers had run further along the street to flag for civilian assistance and, after returning unsuccessfully, one of them was sent on his horse to fetch more troops.

  Brynd turned to Eir. ‘This has been the main operation since the war — clearances of property, of streets, seeing that structures are safe. We tried to keep a log of all the progress, though it probably isn’t as efficient as I’d like.’

  ‘These are people’s homes, though. How do you log the emotional distress this causes?’

  He knew what she meant. He led a life of numbers and logic, and in the clean-up he couldn’t afford to take such things into account.

  A middle-aged woman with straggly brown hair and dressed in heavy, drab robes, burst forward onto the scene. She dropped her bags, and began to wail into her hands. Brynd watched as she sank to her knees on one side of the collapsed building, crying, ‘My boys, my boys.’

  Eir rushed over to the woman and knelt by her side. Brynd watched the former Stewardess of the Empire hold her as the woman emitted great, heaving sobs into her shoulder.

  Seeing Eir react to such raw human emotion, and so quickly, made Brynd contemplate whether the sheer scale of
these losses, or even the war itself, had began to numb his senses, and chisel away at his compassion. The Night Guard were enhanced in any number of physical ways, but the ability to offer a shoulder to cry on did not seem to be one of them.

  The soldiers eventually uncovered the dead bodies of two teenage lads and loaded them gently onto the cart. Their mother, with Eir still gripping her hands tightly, leant on the cart, pressing her tearful face into one of the boy’s dirtied, bloodied shirts.

  While this continued, Brynd walked along the street to knock on the doors of several of the houses.

  Two people answered, only one of whom knew the woman well enough to take her in. It was an elderly woman who seemed fit and healthy and sane, and Brynd told her what had happened, pressed a few coins into her hand, 10 Sota in all, and instructed her to buy food and look after the woman.

  As he returned to guide the woman towards this temporary sanctuary, he thought to himself, If I keep opening my purse like that, for every dead body, I’ll have nothing left. .

  Brynd and Eir rode back in contemplative silence. Eir’s mood was different now, though he couldn’t tell how exactly.

  ‘Are you glad you came out here, to see all this?’ Brynd asked eventually.

  ‘Glad is not perhaps the right word, but I am certainly grateful for what you’ve shown me. I’m happy you’re going about things the way you are — seeing that these people have jobs, houses and food.’

  ‘I’m not as alert to human and rumel needs as yourself, Lady Eir. You were very good earlier.’

  ‘Well, such emotional things probably aren’t necessary for a military man when you’ve so many other things to worry about; but you have compassion in your heart, and that is what these people so clearly need. Compassion.’

  I’m glad someone thinks that, Brynd thought, as they neared the imposing Citadel.

  ‘If what Artemisia tells us is true,’ Eir continued, ‘if another war is genuinely coming, what will happen here in Villiren?’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Brynd said.

  ‘To these people, I mean. Will they be expected to fight again?’

  ‘Some will be more willing than others.’

  ‘And the rest of the island — the rest of the Empire’s citizens?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, Lady Eir. Although Artemisia’s people could provide significant support, we should plan for all eventualities, war or no war. Though I suspect that war is more likely.’

  ‘On which front?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Lady Eir. It may be that we have to mass an army to defend some other corner of the Empire, or it may happen in Villiren again.’

  ‘One final thought,’ she added.

  Brynd indicated for her to continue, then steered his mare towards the cobbled road that led up directly to the Citadel. A unit of soldiers began to move forward but, on recognizing him, moved aside to let them through.

  ‘Please, no more of this Lady Eir. It hardly seems fitting any more. Just Eir will be sufficient.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he replied with a smile.

  ‘Commander,’ one of the soldiers called.

  Brynd looked away to see a sergeant running towards him. When he reached his side he held up a letter. ‘This arrived when you were out, sir.’

  Brynd took the letter, thanked the man and placed it in his pocket.

  Night-time traditionally brought out the worst elements in Villiren, though the war had put a stop to most of that. When he had first arrived, Brynd had found underground drug dens, whorehouses importing kidnapped tribal girls, and a black market larger than the Imperial registered channel. Brynd could not concern himself with these matters; he had his mind set on the defence of the city. When the war came, this more colourful side of the city was forced to the fringes and beyond — out of sight, out of mind. But now the more insalubrious kinds of city life were finding their way back to the heart of things, where money and people met.

  Brynd headed out on horseback along with two young archers from the Dragoons. They were riding towards a sector of the city right on the tip of where Deeping met what used to be the Wastelands, a former area of new growth that hadn’t lost its old moniker. There were rumours of illicit goings-on here, but he had other matters on his mind after reading the letter.

  Brynd dismounted and tied his horse securely to an iron bollard alongside some former industrial works, while the two archers remained on standby, their eyes fixed on the surrounding shadows. The streets were wide and largely featureless, the buildings no more than a storey high for the most part, until they reached one area that appeared to be a row of large disused warehouses. Along this stretch of road, homeless people were gathering around small fires, their hands out for warmth, their faces illuminated by the flames.

  There was a warehouse at the end with a large double door, on which the number 54 was painted crudely in white. The building was vast and reminded Brynd of some of the industrial fishing units near Port Nostalgia — just like the one in which he and some of the Night Guard had nearly died. It had a gently sloped pyramid-style roof, with ornamentation at the top.

  This must be the place, then, Brynd thought as he approached.

  He banged three times with the ball of his hand and waited, peering around into the gloom. Then he waited a little longer, watching a dog trot from one side of the street to the other before it disappeared into the darkness.

  Eventually, after a clang of bolts, Brynd found himself facing a slender young man in his late teens or early twenties, with short blond hair and a wide smile. He stood a little shorter than Brynd, and was wearing what looked like overalls. His face was smeared with grease.

  I’ve come all the way out here for this youth?

  ‘Hey, it’s the Night Guard commander,’ the lad beamed. ‘Can tell by your eyes. Glad you could join us, man. You got our message, right?’

  There was no salute, no signal of respect. ‘Would I be here otherwise?’

  ‘True, true. Hey, come in, it’s freezing outside.’ He backed away and let Brynd walk in. The door closed with a thud behind, and the young man bolted the door.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Brynd asked, his voice echoing.

  ‘Diggsy,’ he replied.

  ‘Funny-sounding name,’ Brynd said.

  ‘That’s just what the lads call me. Real name’s Thongar Diggrsen.’

  ‘I can see why they call you Diggsy.’

  ‘Hey, you’ve got a sense of humour. Was beginning to think you were all po-faced.’

  You would be, if you’d seen what I’d seen, boy.

  ‘Lead on, Diggsy,’ Brynd gestured. ‘I’m keen to see what all the fuss is about and hope that I haven’t wasted my time traipsing across the city for no good reason.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Diggsy turned and walked down a dark corridor. Though Brynd could cope with the poor lighting, how Diggsy was finding his way in front of him was a mystery, but the lad seemed to move as if the passage was committed to his memory.

  Something didn’t make sense: why was someone so young occupying a factory? Was it his home? The building smelled like a blacksmith’s workshop, of charred materials and molten metal. There was also the tang of cultists down here, too, that weird, unmistakable chemical odour from messing with things people shouldn’t.

  ‘How long have you been working here?’ Brynd enquired.

  ‘Now that’s a question,’ Diggsy replied. ‘Way before the war, if that’s what you mean. Pilli’s father was one of those ore-owning types, and she knew this building of his — like quite a few others — wasn’t being used at all. Anyhow, Pilli’s good stock — not like her father — and so this has become our headquarters for the most part.’

  ‘Headquarters? So are you part of an official order?’

  ‘Ha, no. Hell no. We don’t like to get involved with other cultists. They can be shitting well poncey if you ask me. All about structures and etiquette and whatever. That’s not our kind of thing — we prefer to live by o
ur own rules, in our gang.’

  ‘How many are in your. . gang, then?’ Brynd felt the situation was growing increasingly absurd. The way this Diggsy talked, his mannerisms and nonchalance, his references to his social circle, suggested this was all going to be a complete waste of time.

  ‘Depends on when it is. We lost one in the war. Got the odd seasonal, but that dried up a year back. Oh, watch the corner here — it’s a sharp one.’

  ‘I see it. You didn’t want to join in the war effort yourself?’ Brynd asked. ‘We had people far younger than you.’ They turned to the left, along a narrow corridor, the sound of their feet occasionally scuffing along the smooth stone.

  ‘We were too busy, to be honest. Sounds lame, doesn’t it? But seriously, once you see what we’ve got, I think you’ll understand.’

  Diggsy’s voice suddenly gave off a lot of reverb. They had entered a large chamber, lighter with a lot of energetic conversation and laughter at the far end. Brynd could smell arum weed mixed with cooking meat. There were four, maybe five people there, and they turned to face Diggsy when he hollered out to them.

  Diggsy turned back to Brynd, gestured with wide arms, and smiled. ‘Welcome to Factory 54. I think you’ll like it.’

  Brynd looked around to take in the scene. All around the walls and hanging from the rafters were bipedal structures, things made from junk that looked like immense hanged men. They were metallic and flesh and perhaps even something else, with leathery attire and what looked like massive trays on the floor. ‘By Bohr. .’

  ‘Aw, this is nothing,’ came a girl’s voice, a young redhead with a slender frame and freckled face. ‘This is the shit that doesn’t work. We’ve been trying forever to get things to work, but life isn’t that easy to manufacture. Isn’t that right, Diggsy?’

  Brynd eyed her and Diggsy. Judging by her look towards the lad, there was a history between them, that much was certain.

  Brynd stepped closer to the large trays, which contained weird-looking brown fluids. ‘Could someone bring me a flame over? I’d like to see this as clearly as possible.’