City of Ruin

FIFTY-FOUR

An end.

But could you call it a victory if around a hundred thousand people had died? Was it really called winning when your own army was nearly destroyed?

Overwhelmed with exhaustion, Brynd had been sitting alone in the darkness of the obsidian chamber for hours. His muscles shivered as a spasm of pain flickered through his body, soon to be overridden by whatever trickery the cultists had developed. Sometimes a messenger would enter to update him, when Brynd hunched forward in his chair and stared at the floor as he listened to them. The few surviving garudas were still flying reconnaissance missions along the coast, but for now, it seemed Villiren held firm. Just then, Brug entered the room, and whispered that Haal had haemorrhaged in the hospital, and died.

'When will it stop?' Brynd sighed.

Brug left the room with a vacant expression, leaving Brynd alone again.

A breeze blew through the open window, disturbing his strategy papers and maps. He let them drift to the floor. No need for maps now. This city would have new streets, and new lines would need to be drawn. Lutto hadn't been seen for days – the cowardly portreeve had probably fled the city long ago. Reconstruction was Brynd's task for the time being.

Images of horror still burned into his mind's eye: severed flesh, pools of blood, the tide of aliens clamouring over their dead… He had heard that other soldiers were experiencing fits as the ghosts of terror haunted their skulls. Grown men reduced to tears. There was nothing in the Empire's military manuals to guide them on this point.

A lack of sleep had dulled his reactions, which was why it took him a while to notice the arrival of Jamur Rika, the former Empress. An immense figure beside her loomed over him, but if this was to be his fate, he was too exhausted to challenge it. A clamour of military indignation behind them confirmed that they had forced their way in.

Brynd did a mental roll-call of the muscles in his body, then sat up. He was more interested in the massive, weird-looking stranger beside the ex-Empress. What is it? He regarded Rika once again. 'Shouldn't you be dead?'

'Shouldn't you, after all that fighting?' Rika replied.

'Probably,' Brynd said. 'So how can I help you?' Looking from Rika to the presence beside her, he noticed a slender young man with ridiculous hair shuffle in. He was accompanied by Rika's younger sister, who looked considerably hardened since the last time he had seen her. She smiled at him, and he mumbled a greeting.

'Who's this then?' A nod of the head indicated the odd figure. The creature must have been at least seven feet tall, wearing a uniform of some kind he'd never seen before. Its material seemed to be bolted together rather than stitched, and those blades she sported looked superbly crafted.

'I am Artemisia,' the giant figure replied.

And it was what came next that shocked him.

*

Context at last, or at least reasoning and understanding.

Artemisia explained that she was one of the Dawnir, though she didn't look much like Jurro. She boldly declared she was one of the god-race. So began a narration of thousands of years of history, and Brynd was not used to being made to feel so ignorant.

*

Randur and Eir had found a room together, nothing fancy, but at least containing a bed. They lay down alongside each other. Randur was still reeling from what he'd seen today. The world was a dark place, but he still had a life to lead, still wanted to get Eir away from all this.

'It's not yet over, is it?' he whispered.

She stirred beside him. Her fingers brushed his chin. 'I wanted to stay alongside my sister.'

'Do you still?' He paused. 'She's not even the same person.'

But by now Eir was asleep, and he didn't blame her.

*

Later still, seated around a table with Rika's entourage and the female god-thing, Brynd finally composed his thoughts. As commander of the military, he still had a job to do, and forces to command. Whether or not he followed Imperial law, he could see himself writing a history of his own. The weight of decisions burdened him – his mind had already been taken to breaking point because of the war, but now… now was a time for rebuilding.

According to orders, he ought to have had Rika arrested, but in present circumstances, that didn't seem to matter so much. Besides, Artemisia had broken the arm of the last guard who had tried to restrain her – so tough measures didn't seem all that prudent while he was still weighing up his options. Besides, he did not trust Urtica.

'Here's what I propose,' Rika announced, placing both hands on the table.

'What you propose?' Brynd echoed. 'You're currently a prisoner of the Empire.'

'You already know me, commander, so you can rely on my word.' Rika explained the events of their capture, and their journey to Villiren.

'Just tell me what you propose,' Brynd interrupted, 'and I'll tell you if I can trust in it.'

'I want to detach Villiren from the Empire, for the military here to switch allegiance to me. We need to take Villjamur – but then comes the difficult part. We must form an alliance with the alien nations in Artemisia's world, allowing their gradual repopulation within the Boreal Archipelago, living alongside human and rumel. It is only when we accommodate Artemisia's culture that we will have the resources to resist any further attacks. Can you seriously tell me we'd all survive on our own?'

Brynd replayed the horrors of the war through his mind.

'The main gateway through which the Cirrips – what you call the Okun – arrived has been disabled temporarily,' Artemisia added. 'They may repair them soon enough. We have an unspecified amount of time to act.'

'Essentially,' Brynd said, 'you're suggesting our cooperation is your only hope?'

'We are each other's hope,' Rika argued.

'As I have been saying,' Artemisia intervened. 'Let us seek peaceful solutions from now on. Peaceful integration is the only answer.'

This was a head-fuck, all right. Did Brynd even have a choice? 'It could take a while to get things straight,' he said eventually. 'The city's a wreck. The army is depleted. We'll need to rebuild. Yet you just plan to take Villjamur? Do you have any idea how well protected that city is?'

'Once the alliance has been declared,' Artemisia suggested, 'I may well be of assistance in that matter.'

*

When nothing more could be said, they left Brynd alone with his thoughts. Left in solitude, he went over to the window overlooking the city. There were purple-blue skies to the north, something he'd not seen in a long while, and a warm breeze gusted over Villiren – it seemed like an omen of what he'd just learned. Pyre smoke trailed up from distant quarters of the city, and seabirds had returned to scavenge. You won't find much there.

Brynd strode out of the obsidian room and went back to his private chamber. The place was still a mess after Nelum's attempt to assassinate him, though at least the bloodstains had been removed. Exhausted, he collapsed on the bed, breathed deeply and pressed his head into his hands.

There was probably no choice, he realized. What Rika suggested made some sense, though pulling apart the Empire which he had served all his life felt instinctively wrong. But these were different times, and the islands faced change whether they liked it or not. If he was to make a beneficial impact on the Boreal Archipelago, it would be by helping in its reconstruction – though he had no idea of the outcome after alien cultures had been introduced. And after the battle raging across Villiren, he felt he could take on anything now.

Shaping cultures, Brynd thought, finally closing his eyes. This must be what it's like to be a god.