The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4)

by Newton, Mark Charan

  In memory of Frank Newton

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Mourning Wasp

  By China Miéville

  PROLOGUE

  Jeza left the city alone and headed along the coast on horseback.

  It was early, and her head pounded from a hangover. She was still a little dazed from all the cheap alcohol, furious with herself for having left her dagger somewhere under a table, and still contemplating whether or not her partner, Diggsy, was actually playing around behind her back. She should not have gone out, not with a dawn start ahead of her, but it seemed a good way of forgetting about those gestures, those second glances and the sudden in-jokes she didn’t understand.

  Jeza was an hour out of the city, far away from the comforting stone walls of her home, Factory 54, which she shared with a group of friends. She had left them there, too, deciding that this lead was one she should explore on her own.

  The road south, along the coastline, was quiet. To her left, the chalk cliffs rose up from the sea; down below the surf ground upon the rocks. There were few clouds, and the sun cast its long blood-orange rays across the skies. Jeza pulled her green woollen shawl around her shoulders more tightly. Her breeches were thick, as were her boots – a present from Diggsy for her recent seventeenth birthday – so at least she was prepared for the rawest of conditions. As it happened, just a gentle breeze was all that challenged Jeza and her mare that morning.

  One day, she thought, I’ll be able to live far away from the city. I’ll be able to be out here, with my relics and my theories, and not have to scrape a living in Villiren – what’s left of it anyway.

  The city was recovering, though – she had to give it that. Last night Jeza had been to one of the underground taverns, in a zone untouched by the recent battle, but one that had once again become dominated by gang types. The place had a post-war energy: those who had survived were too jaded by the heavy loss of life, or too euphoric from the victory, to care any more. Whatever a person’s background, they were offered cheap drink and decent music, and that was just the kind of night she had needed. Even so, if she wanted to forget about things then coming out here would have done just as well. The view was remarkable. To her right she could see the fields that fed the city with cultist-treated crops; there were farmhouses, little smallholdings, and forests opening out into tundra. Beyond, the hills faded into the blue morning mists. Everything here was untouched from the recent battle, which had focused solely on the city itself.

  Jeza rode for another hour at least. The sun banked. She scrutinized the horizon for any signs of the obelisk marked on her map, but it took a while longer before she could see a bleak structure puncturing the skyline.

  As she approached the obelisk, which must have been fifty feet high, she noticed a figure sitting at its base, and a horse munching grass nearby. Her heart beat a little quicker. She didn’t make a habit of visiting strange men outside the city, but she had a knife in her boot and a relic up her sleeve should he try anything.

  Stop it, she told herself. He’s just a tribesman – they’re as gentle as can be, despite what people say in the city.

  When she arrived and dismounted, she was surprised to see that they were both the same height, a little over five feet. His broad features and narrow eyes had a warmth to them; his skin was darker, presumably from spending a life outdoors. Long, black hair reached the shoulders of his dark waxed coat, and his breeches appeared to be of the same material.

  ‘You are Jeza?’ he asked sternly.

  ‘Were you expecting anyone else out here?’ she replied.

  His smile widened massively. ‘Good! You have some spirit. That will mean my trip won’t be completely dull.’

  ‘You speak Jamur very well,’ Jeza replied.

  ‘Do you think we nomads all talk in smoke signals?’ He whistled and his horse came trotting to his side. It was a beautiful brown mare, with no saddle or any decoration. ‘You have the coin?’

  ‘Sure.’ Jeza turned to her horse, and opened one of the saddlebags. She pulled out a heavy purse and tossed it across to him.

  He caught it in his left hand, assessed its weight, looked inside, then placed it in a pocket. ‘How does this young woman get money like this, eh? You mind my asking?’

  ‘I have a job. My group struggles along. We do a little work outside normal circles, try to sell our wares. Deal in relics to cultists who should know better.’

  He stared at her for a little while before nodding.

  ‘I don’t know your name yet,’ Jeza observed. ‘They never told me.’

  ‘It is better this way. I do not want word getting back that I have defiled a sacred site.’

  ‘So you work outside of your normal circles, too?’ Jeza observed.

  ‘I’m one of the few nomads who dare to do business with folk from Villiren. That is as wild as our people can possibly be.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried they’ll trace this back to you anyway?’

  ‘That depends,’ he replied. ‘I do not yet know what you intend to do at the site.’

  ‘We’ll do no harm, if that’s what you mean. We respect your people’s beliefs.’

  ‘Well, that is more than I can say for myself,’ he smiled, and with remarkable grace he leapt up onto the back of the mare. ‘Come.’

  *

  Their horses trotted at a steady pace away from the sea and into the hills inland. The sun was high now, the shadows short, the temperature climbing above freezing. They appeared to be heading to the peaks in the distance, but after his initial conversation the tribesman became taciturn.

  This time in silence, away from the distractions of the city, allowed Jeza to think of Lim, who was no longer with the group. His absence grew more profound each day. However, the group still felt near him, by reading his notebooks as if he was guiding them from another realm. He had been one of the most talented people back at the factory.

  Stop it, she told herself. You’re getting worse. You had your chance, but he’s dead. Besides, you have Diggsy now. Unless you haven’t . . .

  They passed through evergreen forests and thickets of spindly bushes, back into tundra and then up a gentle stone path towards the grey cliffs. Birds scattered from the treetops, arcing up out of sight. Snakes unfurled in the damp undergrowth, and she wondered how they could survive such cold conditions. There were wolves there, too, peering furtively from behind tree trunks.

  Knowing little of her guide, Jeza half expected to end up the victim of an aggressive, Villiren-hating attack, but none came. They headed up a slope and deep into this ragged cliff region. The tops of the hills were crowned with snow, but little of it had fallen here.

  And, as the horses navigated a path no wider than the width of a man’s shoulders, with a hundred-foot drop to her left, she was grat
eful for the lack of ice. Jeza clung on to the animal, her heart racing every time she caught a glimpse of the steep drop.

  ‘Have we much further to go?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Don’t be such a coward,’ the tribesman laughed. ‘They don’t breed you city folk to be hard, do they? Anyway, it is not far now. Did you bring your source of light, as requested?’

  ‘A light relic? Yeah, I brought a couple.’

  ‘Good. Because we will need it soon.’

  Wind buffeting them, they reached the mouth of a cave, a gaping hole some twenty feet high. Looking back, a beautiful vista presented itself. She could even see the obelisk now on the lip of the coast, the rolling farmland either side. In front of her, in the cave, there was only darkness.

  ‘We leave the horses here,’ he grunted.

  After she dismounted, Jeza reached into the saddlebags for her relic. It was a crystal object the size of her fist, which she had attached to an ornate brass pole. She bashed the crystal on a rock and suddenly it began to glow. Not being an authentic cultist, she did not know the name. It didn’t matter really – she simply referred to it as a torch, since it performed the same role as a flame.

  ‘I stand impressed,’ the tribesman said. ‘Bring it this way.’

  They entered the darkness of the cave. The torch picked out a pale, smooth stone, with a few markings that seemed to be writing.

  The rock became coarser and darker, with scars of minerals, or coloured by dripping water. As they headed downwards, the dark and damp became more acute. Then the narrow pathway they were on suddenly opened up in front of them as if they had entered a cavern.

  ‘What is this place?’ Jeza asked.

  ‘A burial ground, of sorts. Can you make your torch brighter like the sun?’

  ‘Well, that’s not particularly bright, but I can do that.’ She struck the crystal twice more against the nearest rock and pointed it in front of them.

  The cavern lit up.

  First, the tribesman paused to read something on one of the walls. He muttered something vaguely affirmative to himself, before pointing out some of the drawings to Jeza. ‘These are cave paintings,’ he said, ‘not dissimilar to the ones my own people once made.’

  She was shown diagrams of bizarre creatures, unlikely things spliced together – lions or tigers combined with fish.

  Jeza’s nerves grew agonizingly tense. ‘Will we be OK? We’re not under any threat of attack, are we?’

  ‘We will be fine!’ the man laughed. His voice echoed for several seconds. ‘People once lived in the caves, though no longer. They were only defending what was theirs – or protecting something that wasn’t.’

  ‘How do you know they’re not here any more?’

  For a moment he paused to contemplate her question. ‘I hide in these caves sometimes,’ he replied. ‘I am not always a welcome person in my own community, because of my dealings with your people.’

  ‘Because you make money from both of us?’

  ‘A man must make a living somehow,’ he replied, glaring at her.

  *

  The next room seemed even colder than the last. It was certainly smaller. Weirdly, there were tiny trinkets strewn along one side. Jeza brought the torch much closer, and could see offerings, prayer beads, strange feathered items, metallic cups, and weird scrolls that had crumbled to dust. There were markings on the wall, too, vast paintings now, with a variety of styles.

  ‘These don’t seem that old,’ Jeza said, crouching by the offerings.

  ‘They are not. When I first used this place as a shelter, I came across two women from a minor tribe, bringing items of honour to leave here. They were not the only ones.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they fear their gods, that is why.’

  Gods? Jeza could ask questions all day long. Nothing here seemed to make much sense.

  ‘Come and see this,’ the tribesman said, ‘and bring your light.’

  On the wall was an enormous painting. It was rendered with a thick black ink that had stood the test of time. There was what appeared to be a bulbous abdomen and thorax.

  ‘These lines here are wings,’ he explained, pointing to one aspect of the picture, between the thorax and abdomen.

  ‘Is this its head?’

  ‘No, there is no head on this painting.’

  Jeza stared at it, waiting for him to explain further, but he said no more. His tendency to give her limited information was frustrating. Did he need more money? she wondered. Did he need more time?

  ‘We are very close now,’ he said. ‘Over here.’

  She stepped to follow him and could then see he was now crouching beside a dark pit. ‘It’s in here,’ he said.

  She peered over with her torch. What lay in the pit astounded her.

  Several feet long from tip to skull, it shimmered in the half-light; the bulbous abdomen was still there, as was the thorax – but there was most definitely a head. Rather, there had been a head at one point – now a huge skull lay at an awkward angle in its place. Mentally she began comparing it to other creatures she had seen, remains that had been sketched by her own hand and others, in a vague attempt to speculate on family trees, at how these things had come to be in existence. What family was it from? What was its lineage? Were there any remnants of this creature today; did it live on in other things?

  But she drew a blank. Its presence stunned her.

  Jeza shook her head in disbelief, and gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Tell me more. What is it?’

  After a pause, he said, ‘People from my tribe call it the Mourning Wasp.’

  She breathed the name to herself, as if to confirm something so outrageous. ‘Morning as in the morning, or mourning as in grieving?’

  ‘The latter.’

  ‘It’s not a fake, is it?’

  ‘I may have an interesting reputation, but I do not deceive. What you see here is real.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘How it came to be here.’

  He eyed her for a moment, and he was impossible to read. His eyes reflected the light of the torch, almost startling her. ‘There are folk tales, dating back to the Age of Science, a period where great beasts walked the earth, and monsters were constructed purely to see how far people could push their cultist-like powers. The wasps began a normal existence, but they were made massive by science, yet still they bred true. After the experiments there were thousands of them, and they all fled – on their own. It was said with the skull they became more intelligent. Their sentience, their solitary existence, their prolonged life and their awareness of dying out led them to be very miserable. Morose. Depressed. They lost much of their energy. It seemed they had no purpose. They mourned for their independence from their form, and in their final days they grieved.’ He gestured to the remains of the Mourning Wasp. ‘This is the second specimen known, but the best preserved.’

  She regarded the remains of the wasp once again. Stubs remained where she assumed the wings would have met the creature’s thorax. The specimen was in incredible condition, though the arts of palaeomancy were not exactly predictable.

  ‘You think you can do something with this?’ he asked.

  Jeza scratched her chin. ‘I’ll need to bring the others here to help me take it back to the city. But I think I can, yes.’

  ONE

  Wind stirred the leafless treetops. Other than that, Commander Brynd Lathraea could hear nothing to cause concern, nothing out of the ordinary. Snow was settling deep in the Wych Forest.

  Still, at least this is better than being in Villiren.

  Just a few miles to the north, most of that city was now little more than a war-shattered pile of rubble. Each day since the fighting, soldiers had been discovering dozens and dozens of dead bodies, which were to be burned on pyres. His orders had been strict: this necessary evil was to continue until every citizen’s soul had been freed. It was a messy
business, but then the war had left a lot of mess behind. Entering through gates into this world, the Okun had made their way across the water aiming straight for Villiren, focused on the city’s destruction. Brynd organized Villiren’s defence and, though he could declare the operation a success, it didn’t much feel like a victory when so many thousands of Empire civilians had been torn apart.

  After that Brynd often preferred to be out here, to talk to the crows and run his hand along damp bark, rather than having to apologize to families for carrying their dead kin through the streets.

  But he was not here to relax; he was here for business. A figure could be discerned nearby, beside her waxed canvas tent, lifting a flask to her mouth.

  ‘Drinking on the job, sergeant?’ he called out.

  Sergeant Beale, one of the few surviving Third Dragoons, Wolf Brigade, dropped the flask. She peered around while grasping frantically for her sword. When her eyes settled on him, she didn’t relax at all – in fact, she seemed even more agitated. This was no surprise: Brynd was used to people’s reaction. He was an albino and his eyes were the colour of the sun. He was lean, with day-old stubble and a few inches of silvery white hair. His coal-black uniform, without armour, was immaculately clean and a sabre hung by his side. ‘I’m sorry, commander,’ Beale spluttered. ‘I swear I didn’t hear a thing. In fact, I haven’t for days. And I don’t drink on the job – honestly. Well, just enough to keep warm, sir, since I’m not getting much exercise.’

  Brynd reached down, sniffed the flask, then screwed the cap back on before tossing it back to Beale. ‘A waste of good vodka.’ He looked around the forest, before staring intently at her. ‘So you say you’ve seen nothing at all, sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Beale looked scruffy after five days in the mud and snow with little access to clean water. ‘A garuda whizzed by during yesterday afternoon, and I’ve circuited this part of the forest every hour, but all I’ve located is some ruins, sir.’

  Brynd strode casually over to her shelter and tapped the rope holding it between the trees. ‘That’s good work, putting this together. It’s held up well enough considering there’s little canopy cover.’