The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (3 page)

Artemisia moved past Brynd and marched right up to the archway as he gave instructions for the archers to line up in two rows extending from the archway, facing each other. Once assembled, they
stood silently, in the cold.

The commander was not all that convinced. Of all the possible outcomes, the most likely would be that nothing happened, that this was all some ridiculous fantasy, and there would, in fact, be no
extra military support coming his way.

‘How much longer must we wait?’ Eir asked out loud. She momentarily looked over to her sister, the Empress Rika, who remained impassive. ‘We may freeze out here –
it’s so very cold.’ The man behind her, Randur Estevu, placed his arms around her protectively and whispered something into her ear, which seemed to warm her up.

Brynd found their affection mildly nauseating. ‘I haven’t noticed.’

‘Your enhancements,’ she said, ‘escape your attention. You can’t feel a thing, I’d wager. Meanwhile our bones will turn to ice.’

‘We’ll take as long as it takes, Lady Eir,’ he declared. ‘Besides, it’s ultimately up to Artemisia as to how long we remain out here.’

The blue giant lumbered into view, bearing down on them. Brynd remained astonished by this alien woman who had burst into their world seemingly from nowhere, bringing the two Jamur sisters, and
offering them her aid. She was wearing typical clothing for these islands: breeches and undershirt, but she wore an overcoat cut for combat, with a body-sculpted, brown breastplate that was adorned
with a thousand minute symbols, none of which Brynd had ever seen in all his travels. Her hair was tied back out of her way, exposing over her shoulder the handles of her swords. She eyed them
curiously, as if she was about to say something patronizing.

Then Artemisia beckoned forth three cultists, two men and a woman dressed in black robes, who were carrying a trunk of relics. She gestured for it to be taken towards the large archway, and the
cultists trudged off hastily, their cloaks fluttering in the breeze.

‘I will know soon enough,’ Artemisia announced, ‘how long it is we must remain out here.’ Whenever she spoke, it seemed all those around her listened. She commanded
respect. Brynd wondered what her position was in her own world.

‘Have you all that you need?’ Brynd asked her.

‘For now,’ she replied.

‘If it carves a path in the wrong direction?’

‘You have your archers.’

‘And if it fails completely?’ he asked.

‘It will not.’

‘But if it does?’ Brynd pressed.

‘Then, commander, it will be because your cultists have tampered with the technology. The theory, as I have stated, is sound.’

Her skills in the Jamur language had improved rapidly, even if her attitude had not.

For the better part of thirty days, she been working with the city’s cultists; each night she returned to the Citadel in the centre of Villiren, where Brynd, Empress Rika, her sister Eir
and the Night Guard were garrisoned, and she brought them relics. For millennia, cultists had monopolized these remnants from the technological glories of the past, even though they often only
barely understood them; and now, for the first time, there were explanations as to their uses. Explanations both logical and full of absurdities. If only he could understand more of what she said.
He wasn’t interested in the theory, but their application – she was promising she could aid his army, and that was all he was bothered about.

So they had gathered in their numbers, here in the Wych Forest to the south of Villiren, to watch her apply this knowledge. What happened here would give Brynd some indication of
Artemisia’s true value to the people of the Boreal Archipelago.

The archway seemed to entrance her and Artemisia approached it with almost a religious fervour. As she retrieved a device from one of her pockets, Brynd stepped alongside her, under the gaze of
the archers on either side.

‘This is the archway then,’ Brynd grunted. ‘It looks a fine piece of architecture, but really – you honestly think this is the place?’

‘Your scepticism does not favour you,’ she replied.

‘You mean
does me
no favours?’

‘That is what I said. I would have thought that, by now, given all you have seen, you of all humans would be more inclined to possess an open mind.’

‘It’s my scepticism that’s kept people alive!’ he responded. ‘You’d do well to remember that.’

It wasn’t a confrontation, but she didn’t acknowledge his remark. The cultists lowered the trunk to the ground, and stepped aside as Artemisia loomed over it. Torches were brought
closer as she lifted back the lid to reveal what to Brynd appeared to be the contents of a junkyard in Villiren – bits of piping, metal sheets, all items that could be melted down into
something more practical like a sword. But there were stranger things there, too, wires and intricate compasslike gadgets, and materials he hadn’t seen before.

He muttered disapproval of cultist trickery, and left it at that. Now was not the time to criticize: she was, after all, going to help him, help Jamur Rika, and help what was left of the Empire.
Artemisia rummaged in the trunk.

‘I will commence the build,’ Artemisia announced, standing tall with two metal objects in her fists. She strode towards the archway and Brynd watched her work: at first she piled the
relics at each side of the arch, and further away she began placing small metallic domes at regular intervals, stretching back through the ruins. She began connecting each of them up with a long
cable, and then tied those around the arch. The process took the better part of an hour, and Brynd could sense anticipation and anxiousness from the archers.

Eventually, when Artemisia had rigged up an intricate latticework of wires, girders, poles and dials, it looked as if half the cathedral had almost been rebuilt out of this skeletal frame.

She turned to Brynd. ‘I am now ready for the first attempt.’

Brynd nodded and marched along each row of archers, giving sharp orders, seething at their lack of discipline as they listened lazily to him.

This wouldn’t happen with good honest army-bred soldiers
, he thought.
Still, it’s hired thugs or nothing.

Once the archers nocked their arrows, Brynd ordered them to regard the space in front of the archway and to wait on his word before firing. Then Brynd returned to his position alongside Jamur
Rika, who remained strangely stern-faced and emotionless. She was not the young woman he remembered from Villjamur, and these violent times had affected her deeply.

The wind groaned in the clearing. Dead trees rattled behind them.

Artemisia stood in the centre of the scene now. She unsheathed her immense blades and took both swords into one fist. Then crouched down to the floor, where she began tinkering with some small
device exactly as a cultist might. She called one of the cultists over, and the woman rushed forward, remarkably servile, then the two of them conversed in whispers. A moment later the cultist ran
back to make some minor adjustments.

Oh come the fuck on
, Brynd thought.
This is taking forever
.

The sound of static was faint at first, but increasing in volume. The fabric of the air surrounding Artemisia became charged: a fine web of white light could be discerned, like a ghostly net; it
became clearer still, hanging there – not a net, but some three-dimensional grid. Brynd peered around and could see this grid extended to the area they were now in, reconstructing the
cathedral ruins in light. He held up his hand and it passed unaffected through one of the glowing lines.

The lines of archers held tight, impassive at the spectral architecture. For several minutes they all stood there, waiting as if nothing had happened. The lines began to fade, the form of a
cathedral vanished into the icy night, and Brynd kicked his boot against a crumbling piece of masonry before marching up to Artemisia.

‘Nothing, then,’ he declared, but Artemisia stood staring at the archway.

He followed her gaze, and then he noticed that the darkness within the arch was different from that outside. Inside was an utter blackness, totally devoid of light, whereas outside he could see
the edges of branches and tree trunks picked out by torchlight.

‘An absolute nothing,’ Artemisia confirmed smugly. ‘This is, I believe, progress.’

‘Where’s this assistance then?’

‘I never said it would come naturally. I may have to enter through here in order to retrieve it. No one on the other side would have known of my summons. This is merely a
gateway.’

‘The descriptions of the other Realm Gates were different,’ Brynd said. ‘They suggested a purple mesh of light – this has nothing.’

‘There are different methods of construction – also, the light may be on the other side. This might only go one way. I would have to turn it around.’

‘You mean, go in? How can we be certain you’re not wasting our time – that you’ll go back to your world and that’s that?’

‘Dimension,’ she corrected. ‘It is the same world. Why would I waste my time coming here in the first place? If it works, then I will be back immediately. Time works
differently, I assure you.’

‘Go on, then,’ Brynd commanded. ‘We might as well get on with it if our situation is as bad as we think it is.’

‘Very well, I will return immediately,’ Artemisia replied, and simply marched towards the archway – and then into a void.

Gasps came from the archers, and Brynd had to admit his own surprise at her nonchalance at the act. Then again, if she had breached worlds before, it might be second nature to her.

People began murmuring, and Brynd could hear the question arise of how long they would stay out here in the cold. Bitter disappointment was apparent on everyone’s face; hopes began fading
as the minutes passed.

But no sooner had the gathered soldiers begun to murmur when the archway began to emit light. A grid began to form, one similar to those that Brynd had heard about out across the ice, where it
was thought that other races had infiltrated this world and gathered the invasion force that attacked Villiren. The purple lines of light bulged in hypnotic ways, as if a force were trying to push
from the other side. The lines of light peeled outwards.

Brynd immediately called for order, stopping the panic from spreading and dragging the archers back to attention and telling them to focus their arrow-tips at the archway, because something was
certainly trying to enter the clearing.

A moment later, a blue head pushed through – followed by its body.

It was Artemisia.

She appeared to be different, wore strange new clothing – dark armour with a red sun emblazoned on her chest.

‘Prepare,’ she muttered, and stumbled forwards.

Behind her, the gateway bulged again: this time in several places. Something pressed against it, then burst through – human hands, attached to . . . yes – human warriors. Brynd had
expected something stranger, given the nature of the recent invasion. He was almost relaxed at the familiar sight.

Then it struck him:
humans exist in this other dimension?

Clad in body armour and carrying circular shields and short, thick swords, warriors tumbled forward out of the gate, flooding into the clearing. They all bore the same emblem on their chest and
on the forehead of their regal-looking helmets: a hollow red sun.

Brynd turned to face his own military lines, ordering them to stand down: ‘Take ten paces back for space, keep your aim squarely ahead. Do
not
fire.’

His men shuffled back into the darkness as these otherworld soldiers continued flowing through the gates into the ruins of the cathedral, maintaining impressively precise ranks. There must have
been two hundred of them. Here was a mix of dark-skinned and light-skinned men, some bordering on albino, and they were all broad and muscular.

Artemisia approached him. ‘These are the elite of our warriors.’ The pride was clear in her voice.

‘Fine-looking soldiers,’ Brynd admitted. ‘Though I had hoped for more.’

‘There are many more where they came from,’ Artemisia replied. ‘Tens of thousands, though of a more inferior quality. I located the ones that could be spared immediately. More
will be brought soon enough. You should know I was gone from here for over five days in my nation. I also bring some news.’

Brynd nodded for her to continue.

‘Frater Mercury, our creator, has already, it seems, made it into this world.’

‘How? This is your ruler, right?’

‘No – creator not ruler. Our society is democratic – there is no one ruler, but a working, interchangeable council of elders. Frater Mercury’s work was in enabling us to
exist and to breed more, but he has only ever advised.’

‘What’s he doing in our world?’

Artemisia seemed for the very first time to show concern on her face. ‘I am not entirely sure. He had not . . . alerted any elders of intentions. It is a surprise to all of us. He has
since left only a handful of messages.’

‘I’m guessing you’ll need to locate him,’ Brynd said.

‘A possibility, yes.’

‘We’re going to have to combine tactics – your nation, and ours – if we’re not only to fight together, but also to live together peacefully. If you would head back
to your world,’ Brynd indicated the gate, ‘I would like to meet with your elders. They should speak with Jamur Rika. We should begin diplomatic discussions immediately.’

Artemisia nodded. ‘It could take a while to assemble them, but I will.’

To Brynd the obsidian chamber situated high up in the Citadel was becoming the nearest thing he knew to a home. As a soldier he could spend months away from the normal elements
of life: family or friends or the comforting familiarity of daily routine. The Night Guard had long replaced his family and friends; as for a home . . . well, being shipped from mission to mission
for more than half his life had long relieved him of any attachment. In that sense he shared more with the nomadic tribes of the Archipelago than with the people of this city.