The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (39 page)

The lads seemed to like that. They hollered and cheered. They banged tables and shook their blades in the air.

That’s more like it
, Malum thought.

They were getting used to the flying. That morning, as the Night Guard ascended high above the Y’iren countryside on board the dragons, none of them vomited. They were
travelling in smaller numbers than before, to make room for the Mourning Wasps. Four travelled per cage, subdued by a small chemical treatment that Jeza had provided. There was a stimulant to wake
them fully before they were required to be used.

Brynd stood over them watching curiously. He was concerned with whether or not they could be used in battle and that his men had complete control. In his brief conversation with Artemisia that
morning, he had confirmed the tactics required for the forthcoming operation.

At this time enemy forces were preparing another sea invasion with the sky-city, aiming to slam into the coast of Folke with their trademark ferocity. Brynd’s and Artemisia’s
combined forces were making their way to that western coast at great speed in order to meet the threat. As for the enemy, they would comprise dozens of races, many of which Brynd hadn’t
encountered and, therefore, he couldn’t assess their strengths or weaknesses. This made tactical decision-making awkward: he could advise his own people on their tried and tested formations.
They had an advantage from knowing the best ways to navigate these islands, the most effective terrains on which to fight. He also communicated with Artemisia about the effectiveness of her people,
which made planning a little easier, but what they would actually face was still unknown.

Artemisia had conceded that command would be his – up until the point where he and his Night Guard soldiers would escort Frater Mercury into the sky-city.

Given Artemisia’s numbers and estimated figures for the enemy, there could be up to two million lives on the field of battle. By now, he liked to think his numbness to death, and the fact
that not all of them were humans or rumels, were the reasons that he was not intimidated by these numbers. Yet no matter how he looked at it, his decisions would probably contribute to the biggest
loss of life ever to have been witnessed on these islands.

Artemisia had given instructions to fly to a specific destination. Having studied maps of the island of Folke, she said that there would be a vessel in the sky above a particular coastal lagoon,
which was not to be attacked since it carried her own elders. There would be a docking platform on which the dragons would land. She stressed that the vessel was a place of great importance for her
culture, and that he was to think of it like a floating cathedral.

That place was where they were now headed and, despite the occasional gust of wind that rattled the cages, all was as calm as it could be. The Night Guard were looking resplendent in their new,
black armour – as intimidating a sight as any Okun.

*

The landing came suddenly. Brynd marched to the back of the container, as one of the others unlocked the hatch, unhooking the landing ramp, and opening it.

‘Bohr . . .’ someone in front of him muttered. ‘What the hell is this place?’

‘Artemisia’s so-called cathedral in the sky, I assume,’ Brynd replied cheerily. He marched down the ramp, into daylight, no longer surprised at the fact that nearly every new
experience these days left him in awe.

Some hundred feet long and just as wide, the platform was bordered by an ornate, green balustrade. It was large enough to fit at least five dragons and their dismounting troops and was crafted
from the same greenish stone, very much like marble. Brynd crouched down to assess the material and saw that gemstones had been pressed flat in its fabric. Beyond the balustrade, everything was
lost to cloud, so it looked as if they were on another world entirely. He turned around and gazed up a cliff face of architectural elements. He could understand why Artemisia had compared it to a
vast cathedral. Huge pillars disappeared into the cloud. Massively ornate gargoyles stood either side of long balconies, on which there were people in blue and red robes standing, observing them.
There were at least three arched doorways nearby, each one high enough to accommodate a dragon stretched tall. It was cold up here – and there was the groaning sound of a strong wind, yet
little of it seemed to reach the platform; it was as if they were protected from the elements, but there was no shelter.

Brynd turned to see Artemisia heading towards them, strapped up in full battle gear, her sword handles poking above her shoulders.

‘Welcome, commander!’ she bellowed. ‘Your arrival is an honour. This is
Ekkpolis
, our most important vessel.’

‘It’s enormous,’ Brynd replied.

‘This is true, yes,’ Artemisia said. ‘You are on the first of ten such landing . . . harbours? Bays?’

‘Landing bay would make more sense in Jamur.’

She nodded firmly. ‘Yes, landing bay. There are nine more, and this is the smallest.’

‘What is this structure precisely?’

‘It is where we accommodate the most important members of our civilization. Come, let us not talk out here. Bring your soldiers.’

‘I wanted to show you something first.’ Brynd took Artemisia back to one of the dragons and up the ramp to reveal his new weapons – the Mourning Wasps.

Artemisia looked impressed, which was saying something for her. Brynd explained that the Night Guard intended to ride the creatures instead of horses, and discussed the advantages this would
bring.

‘Narrow spaces, different altitudes, and all at high speed. I don’t think they cope well with long distances, but they’re certainly an improvement in all other aspects on our
usual military horses.’

She nodded, thoughtfully. ‘This will be useful, very useful,’ she said. ‘It may change our plans perhaps. We will talk more of this inside. We must now refine the final
tactics. These . . . Mourning Wasps’ – she stressed the name slowly, as if to commit it to memory – ‘will help us when we need to enter our enemies’ inner
sanctum.’

They headed back down the ramp and on to the platform. There, they progressed as one unit inside the
Ekkpolis
.

*

Once inside, it no longer felt as if they were in the air. What struck Brynd most about the
Ekkpolis
was not how alien it was, but how
normal
it appeared. Admittedly, there were sophisticated alien technologies obviously running in the background, but
the layout, structure and function was much like a grand building found in the Archipelago.

As Artemisia escorted the Night Guard soldiers through the main doors, they headed on to a large street, which led through apartment-style blocks. Here it was generally dim – lighting
coming from a few large torches and a thin skylight.

The buildings were made of varied materials, a stone like granite, but possessing more interesting textures; there were shimmering sheets of white stone, fat bricks with precious stones pressed
into the surfaces. There were ornate signs in a language Brynd could not understand, though he vaguely recognized some of the symbols from the military camps, so he guessed they represented clans
or families.

Clusters of humans, of all ages, peered over their balconies to watch the Night Guard as they were escorted past their homes. Further along there were stalls lining the streets, though there
were no basic goods to be found here – these were craft items, jewellery, decorations and the like. A few people meandered underneath beautifully textured awnings, but there wasn’t any
of the energy of their own irens; people wore morose expressions, there was no haggling, and barely any coin being exchanged.

‘Everyone looks so tired here,’ Sergeant Tiendi observed.

Brynd didn’t say anything in response.
Perhaps eternal warfare tends to
grate after a while
. . .

There were further city blocks, people crammed above each other in tight spaces; there was the drone of distant, indecipherable conversation. There were plenty of new aromas, too, sweet and
bitter, and he did not recognize them.

Brynd admitted to himself that he was disappointed with this place. He had expected the most exotic structures, the most baroque cityscape, confusing and baffling buildings – but there was
little of that. More unusual goings-on could be seen on the streets of Villiren.

No, this seemed a sanitized culture, as if the most conservative elements had been ring-fenced and shot up into the sky.

He told Artemisia his thoughts.

‘You are not entirely incorrect in your assumptions.’ Artemisia walked by his side, stooped slightly, muttering her words with discretion. ‘You must understand that the people
gathered here are our elites. These are the royal bloodlines, the assemblage of noble kin.’

‘I thought your culture more . . . democratic than this?’

‘It is indeed democratic for the most part. But the
Ekkpolis
is a relatively new vessel, the result of great expenditure, which has been partially commandeered by our military
rulers. The people here feel safer with protection and the military have a first-class vessel on which to base their operations.’

‘Why are all of the people here
human
?’ Brynd asked.

‘It is humans who have hoarded the wealth. Other races do not seem so bothered by coin and manage by other means. So it goes in your world, too, does it not?’

Brynd confessed that it did, more or less.

*

They headed along increasingly empty roads. Admittedly, the further away from habitation they marched, the more interesting the architecture became, but it still felt
perfunctory to Brynd, as if the buildings were mere shelters. There were a few other races – some small, interesting creatures with complex body shapes and bizarre faces, engaged in menial
work, polishing some of the surfaces, carrying items that looked like building materials. The streets were curved as gracefully as a river’s meander, passing through minimalist decor. Soon it
became nothing more than a path between pale, glossy walls, with thin slits for windows, which overlooked nothing but patches of cloud. The walls met at the top in a vast arched ceiling. There were
no other markings, nothing else to suggest they were going somewhere important.

They arrived in a small antechamber, which again was minimalist in style. Artemisia ushered them through a white door, then another. The soldiers found themselves in a room around fifty paces
wide, with a large, black table upon a raised platform, around which Artemisia’s elders were seated, along with other people garbed in military-style clothing, one human wearing bright-silver
chest armour and a sour expression. The elders regarded the Night Guard pensively.

At the other end of the chamber, Frater Mercury was seated in an immense glass-like throne. Around the room were large, golden cauldrons, each with levers and dials, and when he passed one Brynd
peered in to see a clear liquid inside with steam rising. The floor tiles they walked upon were almost porcelain-like in their appearance, but they remained strangely soft underfoot, like a
luxurious carpet. The white walls contained designed panels here and there; whether they had function or not, he didn’t know.

The man in silver armour, grey-haired yet still young-looking, marched down to Artemisia, and began to speak in hushed tones. His uniform was interesting, not dissimilar to some of the more
ancient costumes from the Boreal Archipelago: a white tunic over which he wore stylized armour that had been moulded to look like a muscular chest and boots of dark brown leather.

Artemisia turned to Brynd. ‘My people wish to confirm our plans.’

‘Of course,’ Brynd said. ‘How shall we continue?’

‘Stand by any one of the cauldrons,’ she instructed.

Brynd turned to his comrades and shrugged. They peeled off in small groups to stand around the vessels.

They were tall objects, reaching to just under Brynd’s ribs, and they were at least several feet wide. On closer inspection, the fluid within was not transparent, it was mirroring what was
above. Brynd saw his own pale features reflected, though his face was distorted slightly by slow ripples passing across the liquid. ‘What should we be looking for?’

Artemisia was looking at the elders, who were conferring and gesturing to their table. Were there maps on there?

Suddenly the liquid began to bubble slightly, then simmered, though Brynd could feel no heat from the container. He looked at the expressions on his comrades’ faces, and they were as cool
as his own.

‘Look down into the cauldrons,’ Artemisia called.

The liquid began to change tone – its mirror-like qualities dissipated, and in their place appeared images of small black dots.

‘What are we looking at?’ Brynd enquired.

‘These are the . . . Boats?’ she looked to Brynd for confirmation of the word and he nodded. ‘These are being sent out, as we converse, across the waters towards the coast of
Folke.’

Brynd looked down again into the liquid. He could now see that while there was a cloud around the perimeter of the cauldron, the liquid was in fact the surface of the sea, and there were
hundreds of small dots. ‘Just like Villiren,’ he breathed. ‘Where did the boats come from, another Realm Gate?’

‘Not this time. These were contained within a limb of their vessel.’

‘So the enemy has launched their offensive already?’

‘They have indeed.’

Brynd’s heart skipped a beat, but he wanted to be sure. ‘How are you acquiring such . . . such pictures? Moving ones, of that.’

‘We have our . . . surveillance beings, not dissimilar to your garudas. They are equipped in a fashion that means what they see is transmitted to these cauldrons.’

‘What size is this force?’

‘There are approximately ten thousand ships heading to the shore in the first wave, and one of your hours behind them lies a second, larger wave. Our estimates suggest the first will
arrive in two hours.’

‘Most of our forces will take another day to meet us. They’re currently protecting towns situated further from the coast, where the populations are dense.’