‘Malum,’ Fulcrom declared.
The barman’s expression darkened in a heartbeat. He took a deep breath, considering his words, before replying. ‘You really a friend of his?’
‘We did a lot of trade together.’ Fulcrom decided to use his fear against him. ‘You don’t seem too happy with Malum. Maybe that’s something I should tell him when I catch up, that the barman at this establishment does not like him. . I know he’ll not like that.’
‘No, no, tell him nothing, please,’ the barman replied. ‘Look, you’re in the wrong part of town if you’re trying to get back in touch with him. Y-you can find him at the other end of the Ancient Quarter, round the nicer parts.’
‘Give me the name of a tavern,’ Fulcrom demanded.
‘Try the Partisans’ Club. Don’t tell him anything about this place.’
‘Sure.’ Fulcrom smiled. ‘Thanks for your time.’
Fulcrom and Lan moved through the crowd of customers, and eventually back outside.
‘This Malum’s reputation seems pretty terrifying,’ Fulcrom observed. ‘What I don’t understand is why someone who might be powerful, with a fearsome reputation, is operating behind the scenes at the iren. What do they hope to gain by such an act?’
‘Power, perhaps? Through fear. It’s the same kind of thing we saw in Villjamur all the time.’
‘Power through fear,’ Fulcrom repeated with a sigh. ‘This is how the world works at nearly every level.’
They moved their investigation to the Ancient Quarter and found the doorway to the Partisans’ Club, but it wasn’t open until much later in the evening. The district seemed much busier, the buildings having been less affected by the war. The large Onyx Wings towered up beyond the rooftops a few streets away. There were some taverns, a theatre, plenty of shopfronts.
Waiting for the Partisans’ Club to open, they took a break, choosing to sip tea at a large bistro with dark wood floors and large arched windows. After Fulcrom overheard mention of the incident in the iren, both he and Lan discreetly tried to listen to the conversations between the other patrons, to hear if Malum’s name was mentioned, but it wasn’t. People mainly talked about their mundane lives, about their small concerns, affairs between lovers, problems at work, gossip — nothing of value. So they just enjoyed the quiet moment in a warm building.
Stepping outside into the sleet, Lan pointed out a poster nailed to a noticeboard. ‘Take a look at this.’
He glanced at the headline. ‘“Aliens invade Villiren”,’ he read, in bold lettering that had begun to run in rainwater. ‘It looks like it’s advertising a meeting of sorts.’
‘Yeah, the date at the bottom. It’s for the day after tomorrow.’
Underneath the heading, it read: ‘There is a growing crisis south of the city. Aliens threaten our culture and our people. They want to take over our city and leave us out in the wilderness. They are creatures who have no respect for our ways. There are reports of them taking children from the Wastelands, for them never to be seen again. Unite, citizens, against this evil. Resist the tyranny that lurks around the corner. Come to the meeting in the basement of the Partisans’ Club and learn the secrets the military refuse to discuss. Learn about your future. Take control back. Free our people.’
Fulcrom read to the end of the poster and laughed. ‘This is ridiculous, right? No one can take this seriously.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Lan indicated a similar-looking poster across the street, nailed to the door of a closed butcher’s shop. Three scruffy-looking men were gathered around, reading it closely, nodding to themselves.
‘I think we should go,’ she said. ‘Let’s say that the scene in the iren was caused, as you say, to create the illusion something was coming into the city — this sort of meeting looks like the same kind of strategy, trying to whip the people into excitement over the issue.’
‘You’re right,’ Fulcrom said. ‘I guess Malum’s been a busy man.’
TWENTY — TWO
Brynd rode out through the morning mist with two other members of the Night Guard, out of the city’s southern limits and towards the alien encampment. The journey was becoming a routine, a well-trodden path, but that didn’t make his nervousness vanish. Each time he arrived there were more exotic creatures, more unfathomable languages, and the realization that somehow they all had to fit in to the fabric of the Archipelago.
His two companions, Brug and Mikill, were consulting him on the size of their own military. The latest figures showed that they had, somehow, built up a force of over a hundred thousand warriors in military stations and training camps assembling on Folke now, where they were undergoing an intense training regime as per the Imperial rulebooks.
‘This is good,’ Brynd called out. ‘This is very good. What about grain?’
‘Fine for the moment,’ Mikill said. ‘We’ve got the cultists working on speeding up the crops even further, which should guarantee future yields if this next campaign turns out to be a long one.’
‘Good. What about increasing the military force even further — alliances with the tribes, conscription, and so on.’
‘We’ve not had to resort to conscription yet,’ Brug replied. ‘My gut instinct tells me it’s a bad thing.’
‘Then I believe it is a bad thing,’ Brynd agreed. ‘I suppose a forced warrior is never a good one anyway, and will desert us at the earliest opportunity.’
‘As for the tribes,’ Brug continued, ‘several communities have offered to help — in exchange for gold.’
‘What the hell do they want with gold?’ Brynd asked. ‘They’re usually after nothing but bone, meat and fabric when they’re not fighting.’
‘They’re becoming savvy,’ Brug replied, smiling. ‘They say they want to stockpile gold, to buy food and clothing in the new culture. And — get this — property. Some are willing to surrender their nomadic ways.’
‘How can they know of the new plans?’ Brynd asked.
‘They’re not stupid,’ Brug replied. ‘They’ve got trackers all over the island reporting back.’
‘How many does that add to the force then?’ Brynd asked.
‘Between twenty to fifty thousand, if the negotiations go well. We’ve promised them the gold, but it’s up to you whether or not we actually do that, or if it goes. . missing.’
‘We’ll keep to our word,’ Brynd replied.
‘Sir?’
‘We will keep to our word,’ he repeated. ‘Just let me know in future before you give away what’s sitting back in those vaults.’
The soldiers arrived at their destination with the sun high above the encampment, casting a red-orange glow across the scene. Rows of tents now stretched to three times as far as when Brynd had seen them first, and it was more than just an awe-inspiring sight: it was a hugely intimidating one. This was a civilization that had just inserted itself alongside his own. Though they had — and would still — fight side by side, the thought struck Brynd that they might one day disagree. And then what?
They were met by a unit of human guards, which — as it was explained to them in crude and broken Jamur — was a gesture of welcome. The men wore red tunics and bright armour, with the sun emblem etched into the surface. Other than that, they wore stout boots, but little to ward off the cold. It didn’t seem to bother them.
‘How many humans live in your world?’ Brynd asked optimistically.
‘Some millions,’ came the reply. ‘Fewer after the fighting.’
The men marched them through to meet with Artemisia. It surprised him, then, just how similar military camps smelled. There were now sturdier, more permanent-looking structures than tents: wooden temples crafted in elaborate designs, with all sorts of banners and insignias across the framework. People drifted in and out of wide lanes; patrols of foot soldiers — humans and rumel and the more exotic shambling creatures — which seemed to enforce a reassuring sense of discipline. There were metalworkers and weapons manufacturers, cooks and priests, in fact there
were so many shared similarities between the cultures it was strange to think that they had been separated for so many millennia.
Eventually they met with Artemisia in one of the wooden temples and, as they were sitting on cushions around an ornate brazier, the group partook of sweet-flavoured drinks. Guards surrounded them in a circle, but it didn’t seem at all threatening. Time stretched out. There was patience and consideration to the ceremonies. Artemisia stared into the flames of the brazier before issuing her greetings in full.
‘So the white-skinned commander visits today,’ she said. ‘Welcome. How shall we begin today’s discussion?’
‘What did you do to Rika?’ Brynd demanded.
‘I am not sure that I follow you fully, commander.’
‘Recently we have caught Jamur Rika engaged in very strange behaviour. Not only were there reports of her eating flesh, but we found her scaling the external walls of the Citadel in Villiren. We are now forced to keep her imprisoned — for everyone’s benefit — in a cell, like a common thief.’
Artemisia nodded slowly.
‘She’s insane, now, and we’ve very good reason to believe the origin of the problem was on your ship.’
Artemisia remained silent, her blue face impassive. She lifted her cup in huge hands to drink from it. ‘It is that Randur Estevu who speaks too much.’
‘He told us what we needed to know. Now, could you please share with us what is going on with the woman we supposedly both want to lead our cultures?’
‘It is partially, I believe, my fault. And partially, I believe, her own.’
‘Go on.’
‘When I collected the group, I intended to secure her trust, which I did. But I was also under instruction to make what. . there is no translation, I believe for this, but a comparison would be something like “mind-bond”. It would have made sense for all concerned to be bonded — in our minds. One of instantaneous connection.’
‘You and Rika, this is? Why her?’
‘She was, according to our intelligence, the most important person in your world, someone with whom we could openly negotiate. We had previously tried making connections with her father, though he was. . unreceptive. Rika needed to be mind-bonded to me so that we could secure a peaceful path forward. However, what I did not understand is that she believed me to be a goddess, or something equivalent or related to one of the ones she worshipped. She possessed an improbable amount of faith, a strong — or weak depending on your understanding — mental capacity. I did not realize quite how dangerous it might be to mind-bond with someone of such religious fervour. Whenever someone who is mind-bonded is kept apart from the person to whom he or she is bonded, it creates difficulties in normal circumstances, though nothing more than uncomfortable. . yearning.’
‘How does one mind-bond exactly?’ Brynd asked.
‘It is similar to a sexual ritual, but one only of the mind. There is penetration from one mind into the other, a release, a union. It is common in many of our cultures to do this. There is no physical connection.’
‘So what’s gone wrong in Rika’s case? Why has she transformed suddenly?’
‘Two things, I believe. One as discussed — the issue of her faith. Her mental state was not right to begin with; there was something inherently unstable in her mind. Perhaps it is hereditary. When she is away from me, she has obviously crossed a mental threshold and gone too far in her ways. Her mind has now changed her. The second issue might be merely that I conducted the ritual incorrectly.’
‘Is there any way of reversing the bond?’
‘No — unlike sexual bonds, mind-bonds may not be withdrawn quite so easily. You say she has transformed?’
‘Her face is distorted, she’s grown more feral, she’s feeding on flesh.’
‘An animalistic path,’ Artemisia concluded.
‘And that’s it then?’ Brynd said. ‘You simply ruin the leader of our people and that’s that?’
‘Please, you must forgive me. I did not know this would be the way of things. It very rarely is. I was acting under instructions to bond, to connect, but this is most unfortunate. You have my sincere apologies.’ She seemed quite matter-of-fact about the whole business. ‘But, you mention she is your ruler, yet you, commander, are the one who does most of the organizing. It is you who is more like the Emperor.’
‘Nonsense,’ Brynd scoffed.
‘I do not believe you felt Rika suitable for the task in hand. I could sense such things.’
‘Only because you changed her in the first place.’
‘For that I have apologized. It was an act not from malice but from one of seeking union — that, you must understand. I assure you it was accidental, and please remember that myself and my people are at your service.’
Brynd tried to calm himself. It would do no good to continue the conversation in a fury. He wondered if cultists could help Rika regain her former self? It was probably worth a shot at some point, though for now it seemed he had to find a new ruler — and it would not be himself, he would not become a military dictator.
Brynd mercilessly processed his options. Did Artemisia’s confession change the relationship between their cultures? No. Could he trust Artemisia on the matter? It seemed she was at least telling the truth, for whatever that was worth any more. How important was Rika? He cared for her, of course, from a sense of duty and nostalgia, but the people of Villiren had not exactly taken a shine to her — and they did not so far have the opportunity to do so. There was nothing lost there, at least.
‘Jamur Eir,’ he announced. ‘She will make the transition to being leader of our nations. The blood lineage is there, enough to keep the establishment satisfied.’
Brynd glanced to Mikill and Brug, whose expressions seemed positive. Brug leaned over and whispered, ‘She’ll be compassionate. That’ll come in useful when we need to be hard with regards to rations or taxes.’
‘Besides, I do understand your current pain,’ Artemisia continued.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It may well be that we are experiencing a similar crisis with our creator.’
‘No, it is really best if I show you,’ Artemisia said. ‘It is not the sort of thing that can be explained.’
The level of security around them increased; whereas before there were no more than ten soldiers, now there seemed to be an entire regiment surrounding them. They were escorted down a long, straight avenue between the tents, and one thing that struck Brynd was just how clean and organized everything was. This was military discipline at its finest.
Artemisia walked alongside them, which was to Brynd an important gesture. Orders were given and the military escort separated, allowing a path to open up to the right. It led to yet another wooden structure, this one significantly more sturdy-looking than any of the others. There were yet more guards stationed here, different insignias, a more intimidating air.
‘What’s this place?’ Brynd asked.
‘Our destination,’ Artemisia replied. ‘When you enter, you must not say anything until spoken to; you will not comment on what you see.’
The three Night Guard soldiers nodded and continued behind Artemisia down a small set of stairs to a vast room. Although the building was constructed from wood, the walls appeared blackened and contained specks of light, like some kind of projection of constellations. At the top, to the right, a row of this culture’s elders were seated within a ghostly white light. In the centre of the room, however, Brynd could make out an enormous enclosure — except there were bars of translucent purple light that seemed to shimmer where bars of metal ought to have stood. Every now and then something would crackle and spark off onto the floor a few feet away.
Inside this prison of light sat Frater Mercury. He was perched on a stone slab and the light from the bars reflected on the metallic half of his face.
Brynd tried to remember what Fulcrom said, and communicate via his thoughts, to enquire if the man was OK being treated in this way.
‘Are you here of your own will?’ Brynd muttered, but Frater Mercury did not look up.
‘He cannot communicate with you from within this cage,’ Artemisia declared.
‘He’s your god, right?’ Brynd asked.
‘He is our creator and we respect him as thus,’ Artemisia replied.
‘Why are you keeping him prisoner?’ It seemed absurd for the being who had crafted her civilization to be held behind bars.
‘Our elders would dispute the term “prisoner”,’ she replied.
‘It doesn’t seem an appropriate way to treat your creator — surely he’s too important.’
‘We keep him here, in this way, for precisely that reason. He is too important to our culture for him to wander off like some idle youth. We do not want harm to come to him — and he would be in great danger if our rivals captured him. You have witnessed what he is capable of — so you understand why we wish to keep him safe.’
‘Safe,’ Brynd whispered, glancing at Frater Mercury once again. He tried to understand and respect their culture’s decision, but failed.
‘Besides, he is reluctant to go anywhere. We know he is disappointed with our people — with all his people — for having taken our respective paths, despite his efforts many thousands of years ago to broker peace. He has tried it all, long before you and I were born. He is a tired man.’
‘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.’
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