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.
EIGHT
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 h
e 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.
Brynd waved his hand, stood up and said, ‘I’ve got my own, thanks,’ and unsheathed his sabre. It glimmered briefly with cultist sorcery and the lad simply stared at it in awe.
‘Now we want you to strike Coren as hard as you can manage.’
‘Are you sure?’ Brynd asked. ‘I didn’t get to the top of the military without being fairly useful with a blade.’
‘Go on,’ Jeza said, ‘it’s quite all right. This is the whole point. Just use your blade the way you would do normally – on the battlefield or in a duel or whatever.’
‘But only on the armour,’ Coren laughed awkwardly, slapping his protection. His face turned sour. ‘No, really.’
Coren took a wide stance and held his arms out away from his body. At first Brynd made a quick, effortless stab towards him. His blade pinged off, and Coren did not move.
He beamed. ‘Go on.’
‘All right,’ Brynd said. First of all he walked around to see where the body armour was fitted, so that he wouldn’t injure him, and then he commenced with some more vigorous moves, striking the body armour in various zones, harder and harder, until he began to break sweat.
Coren stood there, his eyes closed, as Brynd continued this mock-assault. Brynd tuned in to his enhanced strength and began using the same force as on the battlefield. Coren hardly moved and the body armour did not even show signs of scarring.
Brynd ceased his attack, just a little breathless, and sheathed his sword. Once he regained his composure, he asked, ‘What material is this?’ and tapped the breastplate. ‘It’s not even dented.’
‘There’s more,’ Coren said. ‘See how light this is.’ He lifted the body armour off his torso with remarkable ease – for the same size piece of equipment made from metal, it would have required another to help with its removal.
Brynd asked, ‘Where did you get this from?’
‘We made it,’ Jeza said. Then she slowly explained the process behind its construction.
‘It’s made from Okun shell?’ Brynd asked. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘The concept . . . it’s abhorrent.’
‘No, no,’ Jeza continued. She walked around calmly and waved to test pieces. ‘One is the Okun shell, the other is a replica of its . . . fabric. We’ve used, um, what you might call cultist energy to re-create it. It’s not the same thing – you wouldn’t actually be wearing an Okun shell, far from it, and you wouldn’t even know it until you told someone.’
‘I fought against these things, you see. Relentless and brutal – like nothing I’ve ever witnessed before. They possessed such power and killed so many of us.’ His mind flashed to the combat within the narrow lanes of the city: blood spurting against high stone walls, soldiers being savaged, their remains being stomped into cobbles; then the smell of burning flesh on the funeral pyres night after night as innumerable souls were set free.
‘And just think,’ Jeza said, ‘if you were able to use such a negative in acting for good. This substance is tougher and lighter than anything the military currently uses, right?’
‘Right,’ Brynd admitted.
‘We could make this armour for you,’ she said. ‘We can’t promise in what quantity just yet, but enough to mean something.’
Brynd asked to hold the specimen and studied it in immense detail, tilting it this way and that, attempting to bend it with his strength. ‘If I gave specifications,’ he said, ‘if I provided samples of our own armour, the design and so on, would you be able to mee
t those requirements?’
‘Sure.’ Jeza looked across to the others, who remained silent during this discussion. ‘We’re even working on designs for other parts of the body, too – legs, arms, head.’
How could such young minds produce this quality of technology?
Brynd’s mind began fizzing with potentials. He imagined row upon row of soldiers equipped with this war gear; fast-moving ground troops who would be well-protected and more mobile than ever before. There would be less fatigue, fewer casualties.
Brynd extended his hand to Jeza. She looked at it for a moment, uncertain of what to do.
‘We’ve not yet talked money,’ Jeza said, and moved her hands to her hips. ‘But I’d be happy to do that as well.’
Brynd raised an eyebrow. Smart. Businesslike. Took guts for her to say that. ‘We’ll talk money soon enough. I need to speak to the accountants before I can make any offers. Be assured you have me on board. I’d like to visit again, very soon, and see what more you can offer. How soon can you make two more? A day, two, three?’
‘Now we know we can do that in a day easily. We’ve done all the hard work.’
‘Good, because this . . .’ he held up the armour again, ‘this could change things.’
NINE
‘Artemisia . . .’ Brynd called to her where she was stood on one of the balconies of the Citadel. The blue warrior-woman was staring out across the sea. It was a grey day, with sleet-filled skies and a rough surf. Whereas at street level the repairs to the fac¸ades of buildings suggested some sort of progress, from this vantage point much of the wreckage of Villiren could still be seen. Ruined building after ruined building rolled down to the shattered harbour front; many were devoid of interiors, others were propped up by scaffolding. It was in this region where Brynd had witnessed the ferocity of the other world meeting his own; it was hard to shake those horrors from his mind.
The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) Page 11