The Broken Isles lotrs-4

by Mark Charan Newton

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Lan hunched over the hatch and tuned in to her powers; then, with a quick heave, she snapped up the hatch. It came loose, and the noise was discreet enough not to raise an alarm.

  After a few minutes, confident that they were unheard, Fulcrom poked his head into the opening: there was only blackness down below, but with enough daylight leaking in he could make out floorboards.

  ‘OK, let’s head in and leave the hatch open.’

  They both descended into Malum’s building, Lan more fluidly than Fulcrom, and they left the hatch half open so that they could see what they were doing. They found themselves in an attic space, with old fishing crates, nets, buoys and paintings all gathering dust. Some of the floorboards seemed rotten, and Fulcrom cautiously tested them with his foot before applying his weight.

  ‘So where next?’ Lan whispered.

  ‘We listen and we wait.’

  They nestled themselves in one corner and, from their position sitting on the floor, Fulcrom spotted a door. He gestured to it and, in hushed tones, said, ‘We can head through that if we want to hear more, but for now I suggest we just hang about for a while to see who’s around and find out what their plans are. Without the backing of a great force all we can do is spy on them and work out what they’re up to.’

  ‘Fun,’ Lan whispered sarcastically.

  ‘Hey, this is the dull side of working in the Inquisition — a lot of waiting around to see if something happens. It isn’t that glamorous.’

  ‘I’d better get used to it then,’ Lan replied, reclining with a sigh.

  A door slammed somewhere down below.

  Lan and Fulcrom snapped to attention, Fulcrom’s heart beating quickly now. Voices drifted up from below, commanding tones, precise instructions.

  ‘It’s him,’ Fulcrom whispered. ‘It must be.’

  ‘How long have we been here now?’

  ‘No idea.’ Fulcrom stood up, brushed himself down and looked up at the hatch. The sun had moved significantly since they had entered the building. ‘I reckon at least three hours.’

  ‘You were right, this is dull work.’ Lan joined him as they moved towards the door.

  Fulcrom pressed his ear against the wood.

  Malum. . we’ve got most. . east city.

  Killed ten soldiers already, bodies dumped in the harbour.

  When shall we start?

  More time. More numbers? We’ve thousands right?

  Military. . unguarded.

  Empress? Haven’t seen her for weeks.

  Fulcrom peeled back a minute later, when the people who had entered the building began laughing about something else.

  ‘Well?’ Lan asked. ‘I say we head down there and get them now.’

  ‘We don’t know how many are down there and how well armed they are. We’re not an army.’

  ‘So what? We can take them, surely. I’ve got my powers.’

  Someone shouted from underneath.

  Fulcrom watched in horror as Lan, almost bouncing on the spot to ready herself, suddenly put her foot through a floorboard: as she tried to rebalance herself, she engaged her powers, which worked against her. She flipped her head back and smacked it on a timber support with the full force of her enhancements.

  It happened so quickly.

  ‘Fuck.’ Fulcrom dashed to her side and was relieved to see that she was still breathing, although she had cut open her head on the sharp edge of the pillar.

  Footsteps on the stairway.

  Fulcrom glanced to the door and back to Lan. He tried to lift her up, to see if she was still alert, to see if she could tune in to her powers.

  Footsteps were now outside the door. There was a silent pause then the door was kicked open. Four men each carrying a blade ran forward into the room — and there were another two coming up, all of them tough-looking types that looked as if they knew their way around a fight.

  Fulcrom held up his hands as if to say something but a punch came to his face and the next thing he knew he was pressed against the floorboards.

  ‘What the fuck should we do with ’em?’ someone said.

  ‘Tie them up. Take the buggers down to Malum. He can decide.’

  Still dazed, Fulcrom felt the ropes binding around his wrists and twisted his head so that he could see Lan. She, too, was being bound. Together they were dragged downstairs by their feet, each step digging into his back. The two of them were shoved into a brighter, cleaner room that was sparsely decorated. There was a window overlooking the street, a few tables, a row of swords and a few bottles on the floor.

  Fulcrom breathed mindfully, trying to force away the pain. Stay alert, stay smart. .

  ‘So,’ came a strong, bass voice, ‘we have guests. Two more for the takeover, do you think?’

  There were a few chuckles from the others, as Fulcrom and Lan were levered upright and pushed against a wall. Fulcrom looked over to Lan to make sure she was OK, but she was still dazed.

  His vision settled on one man sitting back with his feet up on a large table. It was Malum. There was a blade resting by his boots. He picked up the blade and pointed it at Fulcrom. ‘You. What the fuck were you doing up there?’

  ‘We’re homeless lovers, sir. Looking for shelter. Times are tough in the city and we’ve fallen on hard times. Have a heart.’

  ‘Bollocks are you homeless,’ the man replied. ‘That medallion around your neck is worth a month’s rent for a start. Speaking of which, it’s one I haven’t seen in a while. Inquisition, right?’

  ‘I stole it.’

  ‘Give up, clown, it’s obvious who you are. The Inquisition is usually in the pocket of the gangs, or it was before the war, anyway, so I’m guessing you’re new stock, that right? Working for the albino?’

  Fulcrom nodded.

  ‘Hear that, lads? This is the albino’s last line of defence.’ They all laughed.

  ‘So what were you doing up in the attic. .’ Malum mused. ‘Hoping to listen in to my progress to report back to the albino, right?’

  Fulcrom simply gave a sigh in reply.

  ‘Well then. You know the albino isn’t around now, right?’ Malum stepped back to get a better look at his two captives.

  ‘He’s at war, trying to save people’s lives,’ Fulcrom replied defiantly.

  ‘I was thinking of leaving your heads for him as a welcome-back present.’ At that point, Fulcrom realized he would probably die, and he greeted the thought with utter calm and logic. ‘I had hoped for a more adventurous, braver end to things.’

  ‘Ain’t that always the way,’ Malum muttered. ‘No triumphant ending for you two.’

  ‘You know, I meant what I said when I said we were lovers,’ Fulcrom muttered.

  ‘What, you and the commander? I can believe that — isn’t that right, lads? Queer fuckers.’

  ‘No,’ Fulcrom cautioned. ‘Me and my companion. We’re lovers. That much is true. If you’re going to kill us, I just ask that you don’t burn our bodies.’

  ‘You think I’ve got the time for that anyway? You’ll end up in the harbour like everyone else.’

  That was a relief, at least. Right now, Fulcrom had to put as much faith in what he thought would happen next as he could manage. He tried to recall all that he knew of these matters. ‘Thank you,’ he breathed.

  ‘What the fuck for? Killing you?’

  ‘Please, a stab to the heart would be wonderful for the both of us.’

  ‘You’ve balls, I’ll give you that, inquisitor,’ Malum grunted. ‘See that?’ He announced to the rest of the room. ‘The man faces death honourably. No quivering, no pissing himself like some of the shit-bags you see around this city. Look upon this execution as a lesson in how to go if you ever get to this stage.’ Malum reached for his sword and ordered someone else to stand over Lan, a much younger man — almost a boy. Both of them pressed the tips of their blades above the respective hearts.

  ‘He needs to move down a couple of inches,’ Fulcrom muttered.


  ‘What?’

  ‘Your young colleague’s blade is too high to penetrate her heart properly. I’m guessing this is his first time.’

  ‘Oh, right, good spot,’ Malum agreed, and gave appropriate instructions to the nervous-looking lad before turning his attention to Fulcrom once again. ‘You got guts, rumel. You could have a place in my operation; we could do with a man like you.’

  Fulcrom shook his head. ‘I serve only the law.’

  ‘Principles, too,’ Malum laughed. ‘What a waste.’

  Don’t look at Lan now, Fulcrom told himself. Whatever you do, don’t look at Lan and remember you’ve tried your best. .

  The last thing Fulcrom noticed was Malum’s grinning face as he pressed the blade firmly into Fulcrom’s heart, instant pain, the daylight fading from sight, then a lightness. . utter freedom.

  A release.

  TWENTY — EIGHT

  Standing around the cauldron, they watched the battle unfold slowly. Brynd conferred with the Night Guard soldiers, who seemed embittered by their sudden distance — and who could blame them? They were the best of the best, and now here they were, simply watching from the sidelines, humbled by a sophisticated technology. They all knew it wasn’t right.

  ‘We’ll get down there,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll all have our chance.’

  When the engagement commenced, the members of the Night Guard soon forgot their bitterness.

  They gawked in amazement, watching from afar as the invasion fleet approached the coast of Folke. Channelling a viewpoint directly above the thick of the action, they stared as thousands and thousands of vessels ploughed straight into the shallow waters, running aground as predicted. Massive doors collapsed into the tumultuous surf, and out spilled thousands more Okun, soon pooling thickly, turning the shallows black.

  There to meet them were monstrous creatures, ploughing down the beach or rocky shores in vast swarms that backed up deep onto the land and out of sight. The numbers were so astonishing that the entire scene seemed fabricated, as if it was not happening, and for a moment Brynd contemplated asking to see what was going on from the landing platforms. But, as he recognized many of the landmarks along the coast, he realized this was quite real. This horror was most definitely unfolding on the ground.

  For the better part of half an hour, the tide of the battle ebbed and flowed, and it was difficult to ascertain what progress if any was being made by either side.

  Brynd glanced at the elders, and at Artemisia standing alongside them, and they were all conferring, gesturing to the maps on the table. Now and then she would stand alongside Brynd to ask his thoughts on troop movements, but it was always in relation to the topography or the weather, as if seeking his confirmation rather than making the decisions with him.

  ‘Do you feel aggrieved she doesn’t consult you much?’ Brug muttered grimly, as if egging him on for a scrap.

  ‘I don’t mind that so much. These are her people, after all. Her soldiers.’

  ‘Her corpses, at any rate,’ Brug replied. ‘Fuck knows how many have died in this first wave. At least they’re getting a chance at glory.’

  They both glanced down again, watching the scene remain almost exactly as it had been minutes ago. Line after line of creatures, each rank stretching for miles it seemed, piled in to prevent the Okun from breaching the shoreline and up onto the grassland beyond, but even there, waiting for them, would be more creatures.

  Whether it was because of his remoteness from the scene, or perhaps because these were not his people — they were not of his world — Brynd couldn’t help but think of the clean-up operation, removing this many bodies. There were already thousands, and the conflict had not yet lasted for more than an hour.

  ‘Commander, take a look at this,’ one of his men urged.

  Brynd faced the cauldron again. This time, something was flying over — a dragon perhaps? — dropping what appeared to be a liquid over the Okun. A moment later there was a flash. Fire exploded out in dozens of tiny plumes at first and then it became more intense, occupying more of the cauldron’s image, more of the scene on the shore — an inferno — while the flying creature moved further up the coast continuing to release fire.

  ‘I’d be surprised if anything survives that,’ Brynd said.

  ‘It’s annoying we can’t see the full scene,’ Sergeant Tiendi added.

  ‘This is frustrating, commander. When can we get down there to help out?’

  ‘You think we can help much here? Artemisia’s right, even though it pains me to say it. We’ll engage in our operation soon enough.’

  Indeed, the time did arrive for them to begin their operation. After what Brynd estimated to be another hour watching the repetitive carnage, Artemisia invited them around the table with the elders so that they might discuss the final moves. On the table lay maps and technical drawings, some on vellum, some on a slate-like material. Artemisia showed how they delineated the internal structure of the enemy’s sky-city. It seemed vast, a place of habitation much like the one in which they currently stood, as well as housing many separate units, limbs of civilizations ready to detach and drop to the ground. Its purpose was to transport a population through another world, driven by arcane powers that would — she claimed — take too long to explain.

  As a result, there were several central structures of importance. These not only housed the population’s noble blood and ruling individuals but also their sophisticated communications, as well as encasing the ‘drive’ that kept the city floating in the sky.

  ‘That means the most essential targets are clustered together,’ Brynd observed.

  ‘The dangers,’ Artemisia suggested, ‘of centralized power.’

  She pointed out the main access routes — inevitably the hardest part was getting inside, but once they were there, it was much like any other city, with roads and pathways, bridges and so on.

  ‘And Frater Mercury?’ Brynd enquired. ‘If he is to become our very own weapon, before he self-destructs, we presumably need to get him as close as possible to the central districts?’

  ‘It is indeed the case. Your wasps,’ Artemisia continued, ‘will certainly help. I did suspect we would have to travel on foot, in the shadows, which would have been a painfully slow option. Now if we can gain speed. . Will there be room for me? No. Perhaps I need to see what fliers we can spare to go with us. Frater Mercury will need transporting.’

  ‘He can ride with me,’ Brynd said, ‘or failing that, I’m almost certain the wasps can carry small loads underneath them.’

  ‘This is good. .’ Artemisia said. She whispered to the elders in their exotic language, and eventually they nodded their agreement, and seemed sadly satisfied with the notion.

  ‘Which is the best route inside?’ Brynd enquired. ‘If possible, we should commit it to memory.’

  ‘I had previously anticipated,’ Artemisia said, spinning one of the maps towards Brynd with a huge hand, ‘that we would take this road here.’ It was marked red on the map, a complex, almost spiral circuit that led towards the centre of the structure.

  ‘How many miles is that — in our equivalent terms?’

  ‘It is. .’ Artemisia said, ‘about five miles. It is not, admittedly, the most direct route, but it is one that provides the most secrecy and shelter.’

  ‘This is a big structure indeed,’ Brynd breathed. ‘But surely if we breach their defences, they’ll be aware of our presence, and there won’t be much shelter at all? We’ll be hunted.’

  ‘This may be so. We are calculating they will be distracted sufficiently by events on the ground.’

  ‘That’s too much of a risk,’ Brynd said. ‘We have the Mourning Wasps. We have speed on our side. Surely there’s a more direct route that doesn’t involve us dicking around waiting to be killed?’

  Artemisia appeared confused by his choice of words before regarding the maps once again. ‘You could be correct in your statement, if I understand it. You wish for us to simply strike quickly, deploy
Frater Mercury and get out?’

  ‘It makes more sense, don’t you think?’ Brynd asked despairingly. How could such an advanced culture have such weak military ideas?

  Brynd’s mind was flitting with last-minute logic at such a rate that he didn’t recognize time passing by. The Night Guard soldiers remained at the periphery of his vision, of his mind, committing the route to memory. He had to take a step back and breathe quietly to himself to regain composure. Don’t let the pressure get to you, he warned himself. Think how far you’ve come. To lose control now would be catastrophic.

  The plan was simple. Artemisia’s people would provide cover in the sky while the Night Guard and a few other creatures would bust their way into the enemy complex.

  Dragons and garudas would patrol the skies outside the city, acting as decoys, distractions, eliminating whatever enemies came their way. There would, Artemisia explained, be aerial combat, so the Mourning Wasps would have to travel over great heights to retreat, something he had not yet tried out. Despite the awkward stares of his regiment, he dismissed the point — he had to put his faith in them. There was no other choice in the matter.

  Out on the landing platform, Brynd stood gripping one of the ornate rails, looking down on the scene below. The structure was drifting lower, through the cloud base, and towards their enemy — now he could see the swarms on the island of Folke.

  Everything appeared abstract from this height. Breathtaking numbers drifted across the landscape, dark tides changing the face of the island permanently. Further out to sea, the ships still lined up to pummel the island.

  ‘Normally I couldn’t wait to get into a scrap,’ Brug muttered, appearing at Brynd’s side. ‘We feel invincible, with our augmentations, don’t we? Almost immortal, dare I say it. Seeing that down there, I’ve never felt more humbled. It was frustrating in there, too, going over things again and again. Don’t they ever just fancy a good fight instead of being so aloof?’

  Brynd said: ‘I nearly lost it. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t let on — but sometimes I wish there was just one person making the decisions.’