The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (14 page)

The elders smiled and seemed to like that. They used the word
spakov
, which he committed to memory. ‘Do you fly them?’ Brynd asked. ‘How do you use them?’

They are used in battle, came the reply, much to Brynd’s delight. They also help to transport warriors to inaccessible places.

The soldier translated, ‘You would be happy, yes, to fly with the transport?’

Brynd eagerly nodded his answer. ‘I would indeed.’

The evening went on, with Randur remaining silent, observant, and Brynd wanting to learn more about these newcomers. If these people would be integrated with their own culture, then he would not
make them feel unwelcome.

After a couple of hours of exchanges, Brynd and Randur were escorted back through the camp, past all the exotic races and back to the hilltop where they were discovered. There, they picked up
their horses, and rode slowly back to the city.

It was the morning of his rest day, something that tended to be little more than a token gesture rather than a genuine opportunity to put his feet up. However, today he had
somehow found himself with a couple of free hours. He had left two of the other Night Guard soldiers in charge and their only orders were not to bother him.

He sat alone by the fire reading a book of social philosophy he’d taken from the Citadel’s library. Sunlight streamed in through the window of his personal chamber. This was a simple
place with a large bed in which he could stretch out fully, a few nicely designed pieces of dark-wood furniture, a stone floor, and a fire. The window, too, was an improvement, as it overlooked
Port Nostalgia and the sea beyond. Outside it was a calm day, with enough sunlight to suggest it might melt some of the snow.

It was good to get the time to think alone. It energized him. As soon as he stepped outside his door, the incessant questions and demands would begin. This side of the door he had a book and a
fire and that was all he needed.

Overall, things seemed to be shaping up well. He might have a decent army. A ruler was in place. There was a chance the city could be rebuilt if the money flowed well enough. From these embers,
something resembling an empire could be rebuilt. There had still been no word from Villjamur though. Had Emperor Urtica even received his message, and what would be the consequences of his
decision?

There were so many unknown variables that he felt he should just close his eyes and wait for the trouble to find him. The best he could do was make sure they were prepared for every
eventuality.

*

It couldn’t have been more than two hours before there was hushed activity outside his door. Brynd put his book down, stoked the fire, and sat back in his chair, waiting
for the knock that came just a moment later.

‘It’s unlocked,’ Brynd called out.

Brug poked his war-scarred and shaven head into the room, ‘Uh, commander – sorry to bother you while you’re off duty, but . . .’

‘It’s all right, Brug, you can enter.’

The thuggish-looking Night Guard soldier was speaking just outside the door and now stepped inside, his tribal-inspired neck tattoos more noticeable in the light of day.

‘Were you talking to yourself?’ Brynd enquired. ‘Has madness claimed you?’

‘No, not yet,’ he smiled. ‘There’s a garuda outside who says she’ll only speak to you.’

‘Send her in immediately.’ Brynd stood up quickly, anxious for a report.

Brug disappeared, gave some orders in the corridor and a garuda marched into the room. She was a brown-feathered soldier, with white plumage around her face and downy feathers over a tightly
muscled torso. She wore black breeches, held with a belt that carried two daggers on her hips, and she held her gold helm beneath one arm. Two massive wings were folded neatly behind her back.

‘Sele of Jamur,’ Brynd said, and the garuda returned the greeting in hand-language. ‘Name and rank?’

Wing commander Elish.

‘Have you brought news?’ Brynd demanded.

She seemed a little tired as she signed,
I have indeed, commander.
Her hand movements were intricate, her fingers graceful as they traced the forms of the military code.

‘You were sent to survey Jokull if I remember correctly,’ Brynd said, partially to remind himself because he had dispatched so many garudas recently.

That is correct.

‘What did you see there?’ he asked.

I have seen that Villjamur has collapsed.

‘Excuse me? Is this a translation error, wing commander? How do you mean “collapsed” exactly?’

Precisely that, commander. Villjamur is now a ruin. The many levels of the vast city have been destroyed. Buildings lay ruined. Bridges have been reduced to rubble. The city has collapsed
– there is no one there left alive. I perched on a ruin in the morning sunlight looking over this new topography, and I saw nothing move at all. The only people who were there were dead,
buried under stone or their bodies dismembered.

Brynd absorbed the report, breathing deeply to maintain a sense of calm. It seemed unthinkable that the jewel in the Empire’s crown was no more. ‘What happened there – and what
of the populace?’

Something came from the skies, I believe. That thing is still there and it chases what remains of the populace across the island. It hunts our people. It hunts them still.

‘What did this thing do, and what is it?’

I am not sure entirely. I could not get too near as it is well protected. There are beings that fly around it to maintain safety. But it is a city like no other. It maintains its presence at
altitude through ways I cannot fathom. From it, individuals of complex races are delivered to the ground. There, they create havoc in the towns and villages. To my knowledge they have moved across
Jokull in what is a systematic act of genocide.

The people from Villjamur – those who survived what must have been a dramatic assault – are travelling at pace. It should be said that there is some hope – a plan of sorts
appears to be in operation. Whoever is in charge has constructed strange land-crafts on which many of the refugees flee, though the rest continue on foot or on horseback. They are moving ahead of
the slow-moving menace in the sky.

Well, this was at least a silver lining. ‘How many refugees are there?’ Brynd asked.

So far, estimates range from forty to sixty thousand.

Brynd looked at the garuda in disbelief. ‘As many as that? What condition are they in?’

Healthy, for what it is worth. They are stretched out over a vast area. It is difficult to make a precise calculation. More seem to be joining their mass each day and there are outriders and
those sourcing and distributing food. I was impressed with the organization. They have cultists with them, and a handful of Imperial soldiers.

‘Are there any signs of Emperor Urtica?’ Brynd enquired.

There are no traces of him or any form of government. I have seen no councillors and, as I signed, there were simply a few soldiers remaining with the refugees – they were the only
symbols of authority
.
When I flew over where Balmacara should have been located, much of the Imperial residence was not to be found. It was, presumably, in the crumbled remnants of the city.
I cannot see that Urtica would have survived.

‘That would explain the silence regarding my message to him,’ Brynd said, and wondered,
Did he ever read it before the city fell?
‘The refugees, where are they
headed?’

They are travelling in a direct line to the east coast. I would guess that their main aim is to stay ahead of their attackers. They are doing little more than trying to get away and
survive.

‘And when they get to the coast . . .’ Brynd said. ‘What do you think will happen?’

The wing commander made no movement of her hands, and remained impassive, awaiting instruction or question.

‘I’m asking your opinion now,’ Brynd said. ‘How urgent is their situation? How do you rate their chances of survival? Are there enough vessels that will help them leave
the island?’

I would say, commander, that unless they receive immediate military support and food aid, when they reach the coast their progress will be halted. When the presence in the sky catches up with
them, it will be unlikely that so many people will survive the onslaught. There will be more of Jokull’s people with them by this point. It would be a massacre.

Brynd nodded. ‘Thank you, wing commander. I would like you to make some sketches later – I’d like to get an impression of what this apparent city in the sky actually looks
like. But for now, take a night’s rest. Tell Brug that I’ve said you are to be provided with a chamber – you’ve earned it. And good work, Elish.’

Thank you, commander
. The garuda gave a tip of her head and headed out the door.

Brynd closed it behind her, and rested his head against the wood for a moment. Then, taking slow, deep breaths he picked up a pad of paper and a pencil, then sat back down in his chair, once
again in the warm glow of the fire.

There, he began planning how he would organize the rescue of this train of lost souls.

Over the next twenty-six hours they continued the process of refinement on the exoskeletal armour. Day became night, and still they continued to work on their plans. While the
others were working on the material, little Gorri did what he did best, concentrating on developing Jeza’s designs into something they could work with. He had come up with some variants on
the armour design. In a flurry of words he enthusiastically suggested his changes to her.

‘Though I’d actually like to speak to a soldier, once we get this sold – and get the cash! – just to get a fully formed idea of the mechanics of how they’d use
this, you get me? The kind of ways they wanna use a sword and generally kick the shit out of the enemy, so I can get a better idea of how it’d work in action and, anyway, there’s no
point me shaping this for people only for them to hobble about in something they can barely move in because you might as well have them wearing an iron box!’

‘These sketches are more than fine,’ Jeza replied. ‘Really. They’ll be perfect for a prototype.’

While he continued talking at her, she took his drawings over to the
Haldorors
, and programmed in their various measurements, quotients and angles. They set up the relics to translate the
original into this more calculated form.

And it worked. First time.
Just like that
.

They had managed to modify the original breastplate into one that would fit over a human or a rumel. In a jubilant move, Coren donned the resulting piece of armour, which slotted crudely over
his head. It was a little bland – they would have to embellish it for future designs – but it did the job, and covered his entire torso successfully.

‘It’s bloody light, I’ll tell you that much,’ Coren announced. ‘Hey, who’s got a sword?’

Diggsy strolled forward. ‘Just so happened to have one on standby.’ He lifted something from a side-bench and unsheathed a dirty rapier-style blade.

Coren smiled. ‘Come on then,
Throngar
. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

‘Just be careful,’ Jeza said, hiding her head in her hands. After two sharp clangs and a burst of whooping laughter from Coren, she looked up.

Coren lurched back and forward as Diggsy struck him with the sword. Each time it glanced off harmlessly. Coren stood still with his arms out wide and Diggsy grunted as he thrust the tip of the
blade right at him. The sword made a dull thud on impact; Coren simply beamed.

‘We get our designs finalized, get the commander’s buy-in,’ Diggsy said, tossing the sword away. ‘I reckon we can make more of these than we think. We’d have to
test whether or not the later ones we produced were weaker than the original – one of the side effects is the redundancy of the original translated material.’

‘We’ll make another few examples then,’ Jeza said. ‘This didn’t take us all that long – let’s make some more. I want to see more than one sample to show
the commander. Meanwhile, let’s get a letter to him about this – tell him that we think he’ll want to see what we’ve got.’

The others got to work again, and Jeza looked at this recent organization and efficiency with a great deal of pride.
We’re really going to mean something to the city now.

*

Brynd sat opposite the group of youngsters, not quite knowing what to make of them. He had received their message and come all the way out to the factory as soon as he could
make it, this time leaving just the one archer outside the door for security. The message this time was curiously rather bold, suggesting there were big developments, and he came armed with huge
amounts of healthy scepticism.

If there was one thing these young cultists were likely to create, it was trouble, but he gave them the benefit of the doubt. Sitting down at a table in their workshop he felt utterly out of
place and wary that although not exactly an old man, he was certainly not a young one any longer. He also felt that he had spent so much time in such formal surroundings, in Balmacara or the
Citadel, that this kitchen–workshop hybrid, rammed with cheap plates and scraps of food, was mildly unsettling. He realized he was becoming a bit of a snob.

You need to get out on the road again
, he told himself.
That’ll be humbling enough.

The girl, Jeza, started to hold court again. She began with a little presentation full of sketches which he found endearing, but mildly annoying.

‘Please,’ he said eventually, ‘I’ve some urgent planning to get back to. May we get to the essentials? Your original letter promised nothing short of a
revolution.’

‘Indeed,’ Jeza replied, and nodded to two of the lads, Diggsy and Coren, who snuck off quietly. Jeza spoke briefly of the Okun, a race with which Brynd was uncomfortably familiar,
and the lads returned. One of them was wearing plain-looking body armour, the other, Diggsy, carrying a sword, which he handed over to Brynd with pride.