The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (24 page)

But Malum read the information in disgust.

The notice was a piece of pro-alien propaganda from the military; it played on the fears of the populace and tried to appeal to their sense of self-preservation. It explained what was happening
with the alien peoples camped to the south of the city and that without their aid against the Okun – or worse – Villiren, and the whole island, might be destroyed.

How many of these posters were around the city, he had no idea, but the military were obviously trying to get the people to accept the aliens.

‘Imperial filth,’ he muttered to himself, and ripped the poster down, chucking it into a puddle.

Cheap tricks
, he thought.
I’m going to have to tear these down and raise my own game in the war to get people behind the gangs – and behind me.

Malum buried his hands in his pockets, and headed to an agreed meeting point outside a tavern.

Four members of his gang were loitering outside, one of them with a huge hessian sack at his feet. A black horse and a large, sturdy wooden cart pulled up a moment later, and the cloaked driver
nodded to Malum. One by one, his comrades climbed up onto the back of it, the final one hauling the sack and carefully lowering it on board.

‘We’re good to go,’ Malum called over to the driver, then hopped onto the back.

The cart turned in a large circle and rode south-west through the city.

*

An hour later, they found themselves in scrubland, just beyond the poverty-stricken district on the edge of Villiren. There was nothing here but snow, mud and a few copses of
trees. It was much colder in these exposed conditions, and much quieter, but at least the skies were still clear.

‘This’ll do,’ Malum shouted, and the cart drew to a halt. ‘Right, let’s get to it.’

The gang disembarked and began to set up the gear from the hessian sack. They unveiled a large harpoon catapult, one previously used for whaling, arranged it so that the tip pointed up into the
sky at an angle of around sixty degrees.

Malum asked for the harpoon to be loaded to test it out.

‘Let it go,’ he said, and one of his men released a harpoon with a
thunk
– it rocketed into the sky, almost out of sight, almost touching the base of a passing cloud,
before falling to the ground some distance away, beyond a copse.

‘I’m impressed,’ he said. ‘Good work, lads.’

They mumbled their thanks before loading it up with something else entirely – a relic they’d bought from a new cultist contact, a woman who worked from a rented apartment in
Saltwater. It was a thin silver tube, with a pointed end, and in many respects looked exactly like a harpoon. The only difference was that when this reached the highest point in the sky, it would
detonate, stunning anything within fifty feet.

‘How long till one comes, boss?’ one of his younger crew asked, a swarthy, grubby-looking guy not long out of his teens.

‘This is the route garudas take, and at least a couple come by after noon each day,’ he said. ‘We’ll just wait it out and fire when we’re ready. For now, just scan
the skies and the first of you to spot one gets drinks all night on me.’

*

It was the better part of an hour and Malum continued pacing around the mud, contemplating his strategy.

‘Hey, Malum! One’s coming now.’

Malum stood by the catapult and gave the instruction to fire when it was within range. The avian drifted in an arc towards Villiren, a stark silhouette against the bright sky.

Thunk
.

The relic was released and travelled right towards the bird – and, at its peak, the device gave a spark of purple light. The garuda immediately fell from its flight directly to the ground,
and the gang began hollering their excitement.

‘Nice work, now let’s get over there,’ Malum said. ‘Tie it up, get a sack over its head, and load it onto the cart. We deal with the questions in the city.’

*

As the moon broke free of the clouds that night, while Malum pored over his crude accountancy, he was informed that the garuda was now fully conscious. They had dragged the
brown-feathered creature underground, to one of their bolt-holes. There they stripped it of any Imperial armour, held back its arms, and his men laid into it, giving it several blows to the back of
its wings, before striking it repeatedly in its stomach.

The thing gave off a hell of a noise, and Malum called away his men. Gripping a lantern, he stepped closer to the creature, which was slouched against the stone wall. He noted its impressive
plumage and gently speckled face, its huge beak, muscular arms and torso.

‘You don’t talk, we get that,’ he growled. ‘But we know that you fuckers can write.’

He nodded for one of his men to bring a piece of paper and a pencil, and placed it on the floor in front of the garuda.

‘We’ll be back in an hour,’ Malum said, ‘and in that hour you will have written down all the movements of the alien races that are going on around the city. I want to
know exactly what the threat is to Villiren,
where
this so-called threat is, but mostly I want to know if the Okun are anywhere near the city. And if you don’t, we’ll break off
one of your wings.’

As he walked away, he whispered to one of the more senior of his gang, ‘Make sure you dump the body out of the city when you’re done. We can’t have gossip of this getting back
to the military.’

The flight to Villiren was rough. A harsh wind came from the north, rocking the transportation cage so hard that even Brynd thought they stood a good chance of falling to their
deaths. Two rows of his regiment were facing each other in one part while, towards the back, men from the Dragoons sat hunched, holding on to ropes: they were above the wing muscles, and were
getting the most vicious treatment. It had been fine coming south, flying with the wind in their favour and almost gliding the last stretch. Things weren’t even this bad for an oarsman on one
of the larger Imperial longships. At least three of the Night Guard soldiers threw up and only Tiendi, the woman, seemed to be at all easy, moving around and talking to people as if this was some
cosy tavern.

A few holes in the roof of the vast, wood and metal cage permitted enough light inside to indicate that they still had a little while left before nightfall.

‘How long’s left, sir?’ Brug called across to Brynd.

‘About another hour at least, given these winds,’ he replied.

Everyone’s face was glum. They just wanted the flight over.
Understandable
, Brynd thought, as another blast of wind rocked the cage.

‘How are you holding up, investigator?’ he called across to Fulcrom, who was sat a couple of places to his left next to Lan. ‘Glad you accepted our offer of a ride
now?’

The rumel tried to laugh. ‘Well, it’s quick at least. It beats sitting on a horse for days or being tossed about on the waves for just as long.’

‘I’ll say,’ Brynd replied. ‘Lan, are you coping all right?’

‘I’m good,’ she replied. ‘I used to work as an entertainer – as far as I’m concerned, it’s the only way to travel.’

‘Are these otherworld people – are they OK with you using this method of transport?’

‘It was their idea,’ Brynd said.

‘Seem like good people, these ones,’ Fulcrom replied.

Another leading question
, Brynd thought.
He’ll do all right.
‘They’re certainly very positive in working with us.’

‘What happens when we get back?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘First we’ll ride into the city, and send outriders ahead to announce our coming. We’ll do the usual post-battle propaganda before briefing Jamur Rika on the latest
events.’

‘Would she not want briefing first?’

Brynd paused and contemplated a diplomatic response. ‘In an ideal world, yes . . .’

*

Not even boredom itself is as dull as this
, Randur thought.

He decided that he had found a new place
beyond
boredom, a part of the emotional spectrum that he would not wish on his worst enemies.

And what the hell has become of me?

As he so often did after dinner, he headed along the corridors to chat to some of the serving staff, to see if he could glean a little juicy gossip about the mechanics of the building; despite
his new-found position near the top of the remnants of the Empire, he still preferred to mix with people who had a few stories to tell, who had a little spirit about them, but there was precious
little gossip to be found. Apparently since the departure of the former portreeve of the city, everyone had been on their best behaviour.

He noticed tonight that Rika had eaten very little at dinner, but afterwards, when he was in conversation with one of the administrative staff, he saw Rika marching by with a strange pace about
her. His curiosity was piqued and he moved around the corner to see where she was going. She strode confidently along the stone-paved corridors on the ground level of the building, heading towards
one of the rear exits.

Now where’s that lass off to?

He threw on a thick cloak, managed to find his sword that he had stashed away, and decided the most productive thing to do would be to follow her.

What else
, he thought,
is there to do?

The element of subterfuge had brought a sudden burst of excitement back into his life.

*

It wasn’t as cold as he thought it would be tonight, and the sounds of Villiren were enticing once again. His blood was pumping properly.

It felt good. He could hear the sea in the distance, grinding against the geological forms of the bay and harbour; he could hear people talking, glasses being smashed, dogs barking. Comforting
sounds for someone if they were used to them.

Quickly, he trotted down some steps, and around the corner where Rika had gone; there, he scanned the immediate streets for any signs of her.

He caught a glimpse of her – in that same dark, military-style garb she had taken to wearing. Her black hair had been cut even shorter, her skin growing abnormally pale, so she
wasn’t hard to recognize in the light of some of the ornamental beacons flaring around this district.

The place was less of a mess than before. Rubble was gradually being cleared by community teams; a lot of travellers provided cheap labour to help out with odd jobs around the city. Taverns were
doing a good business, too, which was a promising sign.

Citizens here seemed more of a threat than the average person in Villjamur. People there may have wanted a fight or two, but in Villiren the challengers looked as if they might actually win a
fight with him.

Rika seemed to have no destination in mind, just taking a random route around the city. Though the streets were no longer constructed according to any available map, she wandered about the place
as if she was drunk or overdosing on arum weed. She would head down one street, only to round a corner and head back along a parallel street. She took full circles and went down some only to come
straight back up as if she’d met a dead end – except she was free to pass through.

And this woman is to lead the new Empire?
Randur thought
. She can’t even lead herself at the moment. It doesn’t really bode all that well
.

Whenever she passed citizens, she would veer into their path and scrutinize them before lurching away again, leaving them startled and hurrying on.

Is she looking for someone?
Over the course of a few minutes, Rika became increasingly animalistic, he noticed: her stance might become a crouch, her walk would transform into a
scuttle.

Suddenly she disappeared from sight.
Shit!
He ran along the street down the entrances of every alley to see if he could spot her, but he found little but rotting food waste, cats, or old
men urinating up against the wall. He continued for several minutes and, as time passed, his search seemed increasingly futile. Eventually, assuming he had lost her, he decided to head back the way
he had come to the Citadel.

But then
there
, in one side street behind a destroyed theatre, where the old buildings of the Ancient Quarter met the debris of war, he spotted her hunched over in a corner. She was doing
something, but in this light he couldn’t quite see what. He walked to the end of the street and cautiously poked his head around the corner from a slightly different angle.

She had something in her mouth, and he thought for a moment that she might have been eating litter, but it was something far worse.

Randur was agog.

You are shitting me . . .

Rika was eating through an arm – one that was still connected to a corpse. She nibbled into it like a fevered fox. It seemed for a moment as if the ambient sounds of the city had fallen
away entirely, and Randur could hear the sounds of delight and little groans of pleasure that Rika was emitting as she dined upon the dead flesh.

And the victim was indeed dead – he had been a young male with blond hair, still in his teens by the look of it. The dead boy’s head tilted backwards and both his mouth and eyes were
open in an expression of sheer horror. His throat had been cut cleanly, marked by a line of blood, and a gore-covered blade lay beside his body on the ground. The sleeve of his coat had been ripped
or sliced open to expose his arm, and a cap had fallen to one side.

Randur was vaguely aware that it might be a good idea to tell someone about this, and soon, but he couldn’t help but stare at the gruesome display. He waited to watch enough of what was
going on to be utterly sure, to be confident that he was indeed watching the former head of the Jamur Empire chewing on human flesh.

Once the initial shock had worn off, Randur became entranced by her actions and tried to work out what she might be actually thinking. She was no longer normal – they all knew this –
but how could a girl of religious purity transform in such a way?

Rika continued for several minutes, hunched as she devoured the flesh. She had begun with the arm, then moved on to one of the boy’s legs, which, Randur supposed, were logical, fleshy
places if this was a wolf attacking, so was she genuinely hungry? He made the connection with her lack of appetite at dinner, though that was a bit vague.