The Broken Isles

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.’

‘You mean like a dictator?’

Brynd laughed. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind, but it would certainly get the job done a lot quicker. I gave them good plans down on Y’iren; I thought it was all decided. Yet, every time I have a question or we make a refinement, Artemisia consults with the bloody elders. Meanwhile, down there, people are having their heads split open.’

‘At least they’re not our own people dying down there,’ Brug said, ‘not yet anyway.’

‘We’ll eventually need to stop thinking in those terms.’

‘They’re not our responsibility though, are they?’

‘They soon might be. Besides, they’re sacrificing themselves in huge numbers so both our races can survive into the future — I’d much rather chuck some of those scumbags in Villiren into another dimension to make room for people who are willing to shed their blood in such a way.’

Other Night Guard soldiers approached and most of them remained in companionable silence. There seemed to be nothing left to say any more. Everything had been decided. All that was left was to find Frater Mercury. They milled about for a few minutes, agitated, anxious, eager to get into battle.

Brynd headed back into the wooden cages to tend to the Mourning Wasps. They had been fed some liquid prepared by Jeza, though he was not sure what it was exactly. It seemed to satisfy their appetites. He felt a strange affinity to them; and though he might have been convincing himself of the fact, he felt they responded to him positively as time went on. He took the unusual step of placing his hand affectionately on one of their skulls; it was smooth to the touch, and through it he could feel the minute vibrations from their powerful wing muscles.

It seemed inherently obvious to Brynd why he was drawn to creatures that were so different. No, not different — unique. He could never escape the company of others, but he felt consistently isolated. Facing battles never bothered him for this very reason, and at the back of his mind was the niggling sensation that if he did die in battle, it would be no bad thing. Even before the arrival of other cultures, his faith in Bohr had been long eroded, so there was solace to be found in the fact that he might die and nothing would happen. Nothing, other than the fact that his corpse would burn, his ashes would be scattered, and the very fabric of his body go back to the earth. There was something comforting about that fact, especially when confronted with such uniqueness as the Mourning Wasps.

The Boreal Archipelago was full of weird wonders. It was about to receive even more.

There was a hubbub outside the cage so Brynd left the wasps, strode down the platform onto the landing bay. Artemisia was approaching, with Frater Mercury, half his face glistening, his expression as always hidden and out of reach. He was wearing a rich blue cloak and tunic with a fine gold stitching of bold shapes; around all of this were strapped thick metal objects.

‘Are those relics?’ Brynd asked Artemisia.

‘I still do not know what you mean by relics,’ she replied. ‘They are devices that Frater Mercury will use to terminate his life.’

‘And the lives of those around him, presumably,’ Brynd replied.

‘As confirmed earlier, yes.’

‘Is he still comfortable with killing himself for the greater good?’ Brynd asked.

I am, came the thunderous reply in Brynd’s mind. Frater Mercury seemed furious with those two words, a gesture that hinted at far greater powers — and dangerous powers, too.

‘My apologies,’ Brynd replied, to strange looks from his comrades, who must not have heard the comment. ‘Your suicide is a noble one, a gesture that will last for generations to come.’

I want it over now. No more. I have seen all I need to see. I am more than ever disappointed in the results of the experiment.

Brynd felt as though he’d let the man down, though it seemed irrational to think so.

They all prepared for the mission. Brynd guided down the Mourning Wasps one by one, until they lined up in a neat row. For creatures who could manoeuvre so well in the air, they seemed to cope awkwardly walking down the platform, their movements stuttering and clumsy. They were to be deployed into smaller cages, on the backs of smaller, more agile dragons — lithe, green creatures that appeared more like lizards — so that the intention of a smaller force heading into the sky-city would be disguised as best as possible. Their stance was crouched and alert, their wings massive and venous. As the last few Mourning Wasps were taken to their new transport, Frater Mercury moved towards one of them, his hands aloft. Brynd ordered to halt the movement of the wasps. Three of them stood there as Frater Mercury walked around them.

Brynd tried to sense whether or not Frater Mercury wished to communicate with those around him, but whatever went on in the man’s head now remained private. He seemed to recognize the Mourning Wasps. He touched their skulls with great respect and for the first time Brynd saw him appear like an ordinary human. His profound presence fell away: instead this could have been a man greeting his own dog at the end of a hard day’s graft. Even Artemisia seemed surprised at Frater Mercury’s gestures.

He gradually turned his attention away from them.

It will be, Frater Mercury said to Brynd, a great honour to travel with these creatures. Where were they found?

‘I believe they were excavated and brought to life on an island further up the Archipelago.’

For a moment Brynd felt as if Frater Mercury was not going to continue with his suicide mission; he felt his heart thumping in his chest as he waited for further communication.

I remember these the first time around, many ages ago, Frater Mercury said.

Brynd stared at the two halves of his face, waiting. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask them. How this figure could have lived so long was beyond Brynd’s comprehension — but then there were a lot of things he did not understand.

Artemisia stepped between them. ‘We must go now. The weather is in our favour.’

So it must be, Frater Mercury said, much less intense than ever before.

There was a dripping sound coming from somewhere. Wherever he was, the place was utterly dark. The ground was moving softly. . no, not the ground. They were somewhere else entirely. A boat, on water, drifting. . Fulcrom sat up and felt a stiffness in his chest, but that soon faded. He then felt nothing at all.

Lan was beside him. Sweet Lan, lying there peacefully. Fulcrom tried to remain as logical as possible, and examined her: there was a hole in her uniform where the sword had penetrated, but other than that she looked exactly as he remembered. Well, not exactly — her skin was far paler than before, almost giving off a glow in this darkness. He checked his own body, and he, too, had a sword wound in his chest, right above his heart. He checked optimistically for any sign of his tail, which had been cut off by Urtica’s men in Villjamur, but it was not there.

Bugger.

All around them was water, but the boat — a small vessel — was drifting in one direction, that much he could be sure of. Lan stirred and a few moments later she rose up to see what Fulcrom was describing. He explained to her what happened with Malum.

‘I can just about remember, though it’s a bit hazy. I wasn’t unconscious, but I was really, really dazed at the time.’

‘He kept good to his word.’

‘What?’

‘Malum. Once I clicked he was going to kill us, I had no choice but to persuade him to kill us in an appropriate manner and not burn our bodies.’

‘We’re dead then?’ Lan asked.

‘Or undead. I’m not so sure how to label the dead, now we’re one of them.’

‘Why did you do that? Didn’t you want our souls to go on to other realms?’

‘It would’ve meant we would be apart. I didn’t want that. It was — if you could believe it — a selfish gesture of love. I just wanted to be with you. Is that so bad?’

‘No, not at all,’ Lan replied. ‘Eternity together is certainly more meaningful than flowers.’ At least her sense of humour had followed her down here. . ‘So Malum hasn’t burned us, and our physical bodies are probably somewhere in the harbour in Villiren?’

‘Something like that. I can’t be sure, though.’

They both moved in close together, and regarded the distance where lights were flickering along a shoreline. There were spires there, glistening, and as they approached they could see people on the shoreline, one or two of them waving. The boat, through no control of Fulcrom, turned in the waters and began drifting in that direction. The water was black, the sky a phenomenally dark grey. There were no stars to be found, and clearly no sun, but it looked very much unlike the city of the dead under Villjamur. Just how many of these cities of the dead existed, Fulcrom had no idea. All he felt now was a continuation of that release from when he was killed, and an overwhelming sense of calm.

‘So where next, then?’ Lan asked.

‘Who knows? Wherever this boat takes us, I guess,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘Somewhere deep under Villiren. It doesn’t matter — we can probably handle anything now.’

In the cages, Brynd remained tense as the dragons lurched through the air. This transportation was far more erratic than the previous methods, but it seemed a trivial thing to be concerned about.

He held his helmet in his hands and examined the visor, staring at his own pale reflection. For a moment he felt the usual images of his past flicker into his mind, but then he began to empty his emotions once again. Dwelling on such things would mean his concentration would slip and he’d end up getting killed. His own Mourning Wasp — one of two in this cage — seemed to have been befriended by Frater Mercury, who slumped alongside it in the darkness of the cage, apparently communicating with it. Artemisia was attending to her own creature, a much smaller, red dragon barely any bigger than the Mourning Wasps.

Brynd felt remarkably isolated in the cage. He turned to Sergeant Tiendi, and even she seemed to be struggling in the violent flight of these dragons.

‘Is this what you hoped for, when you joined us?’ Brynd asked. She had only just become a Night Guard before the war in Villiren.

‘No, sir. It’s far better than that. We get to fly these wasps into an almost certain death situation.’

Brynd grunted a laugh.

‘Have you any idea what to expect?’ she asked.

Brynd kept staring at his reflection. ‘I told some of the others earlier to wipe their minds of expectations, because what we’ll probably see could be beyond comprehension or as quotidian as the place we’ve just left. It’s a civilian vessel, so I understand, but we’ve already seen the kind of evil it houses.’

Tiendi nodded, but remained resolute. ‘I’ll keep thinking in simple terms: we’re just deploying a bomb. Or, at least, a bomber who wants to kill himself.’ She indicated Frater Mercury. ‘What will his explosives do, precisely? They look no bigger than the kind of thing a cultist might use, but at that size it wouldn’t produce much, surely?’

Brynd glanced again at the small metallic devices strapped to Frater Mercury’s waist and chest. ‘I doubt they’ll be explosives in the conventional manner. He’s a person of incredible ability. No doubt he’ll be able to kill himself in the appropriate manner when the time comes.’

There was a small explosion somewhere nearby. The cage shuddered as the dragon plunged slightly, and Brynd gripped the rails while Artemisia pressed her hands against the roof for stability.

‘It is to be expected, commander,’ she called over, waving him back down to his seat. ‘These creatures are quicker. They have greater awareness. We will be quite safe.’

‘What’s going on?’ Brynd demanded.

‘We are being fired at, that is all.’

‘Are the decoys ahead of us?’

‘They are ahead and behind, and all around us. Our main strike force lies in the middle of the formation.’

‘How long now?’

‘A quarter of one hour at the most.’

Brynd put on his helmet and watched Tiendi do the same. They pulled their visors down and mounted the Mourning Wasps. Frater Mercury shuffled humbly underneath Brynd’s wasp, and he watched in amazement as two of the wasp’s legs suddenly scooped him up and secured him in place. Brynd placed his hands on the back of the wasp in a way he might do with a horse, and though it seemed absurd he felt it was necessary to ensure the creature felt some affinity with him.

Artemisia climbed onto her dragon. The three creatures lined up at the rear of the cage, facing outwards. They could feel the cage tilt as they began what must have been the final arc when they peeled away from the main squadron of dragons. Explosions came and went, noises bursting out of sight.

They were falling now, at high speed, gravity pushing Brynd back so hard he became instantly satisfied that the modified straps that the youths had made would hold him in place.

He positioned himself so he would be prepared to steer his mount. He looked across to Tiendi and she indicated her readiness with a salute. Artemisia remained totally fixed on the door of the wooden cage. Brynd indicated for the wasps to begin to hover; he felt the tiny vibrations of their muscles become something more distinct.

The dragon tilted. The door gave way to a crack of light, then a full-blown whiteness, then extreme winds, before the dragon levelled off to reveal their hideous destination.

Artemisia gave the word. Her dragon lunged out of the cage and the Mourning Wasps quickly followed.

They spiralled out into the sky, the Night Guard on wasps, following Artemisia’s silhouette, wind buffeting their descent. Brynd attempted to absorb what was going on around him — amidst the clouds, hundreds of creatures were spaced apart in rows, at varying distances, engaged in combat, and down below what he initially mistook for land was the dark scar of the Policharos — the sky-city. He glanced over his shoulder to see the Night Guard lined up behind him or drifting from the other cages, joining his ranks, alongside people who looked very much like Artemisia, on reptiles identical to her own. The sound of the wind managed to block out much of what was going on; he could not hear the cries of the dying or the clash of weapons — this was a kind of warfare he was totally unfamiliar with.

Directly above, dragons were engaged in skirmishes with similar-looking animals; missiles or bombs were exploding far away, and Brynd couldn’t be certain whether or not they were like the mute bombs or something more hideous. Tucked safely underneath his wasp, lay Frater Mercury.

Artemisia guided their large group in a graceful arc to the left, down towards the Policharos. It loomed into view, black and elaborate in detail. Little flickers of light shot across spires at the top; huge spiked structures leered out on multiple levels; there were platforms on which he could see tiny figures, some of them firing into the sky. Massive alien beings — or possibly statues — stood on others, looking out onto the battle.

Their attack force dashed towards the underside of the Policharos, but not quite all the way. They halted on one of the lowest levels, where there was a void amidst the black architecture. Artemisia levelled out and Brynd steered the wasp accordingly. Another glance to check everyone was following and then straight in towards the void, which turned out to be a doorway beyond a landing platform that headed into the Policharos.

As they flew in low over the platform, Brynd relaxed slightly, before steeling himself for what lay inside the sky-city, which had brought so much death to his world.

*

Walls and buildings appeared to be impossibly tall, lurching up into the blackness above. There were slits of green and purple light scattered around that appeared to be windows, but he was moving too fast to really know. Though Artemisia led the group, it was so dark in here that the benefits of having memorized the way were obvious. They hovered a few feet above the ground and sped along a winding route; their formation changed so that Brynd, carrying Frater Mercury, was at the centre of the group. Surrounded by Night Guard soldiers, he didn’t have to worry too much about attacks from any direction, so he could concentrate on their surroundings.

They passed through what he took to be civilian areas; there were hominids, but not humans or rumels, alongside taller, fatter, more grotesque and exotic creatures, whose own noises were weirdly animalistic. Everyone here was panicking. Groups of figures in military-style uniform emerged onto the scene but only after the attack group had passed. As his eyes settled into the darkness he could see buildings defined against the black roof; tall structures that must have been over forty storeys high.

A noise behind drew his attention to two-legged creatures lumbering at the rear, and gaining on their group, but Artemisia’s people had this under control; in an instant they peeled back from the flight pack, withdrew their swords and hacked at their pursuers’ legs. He heard a faint scream blend into the distance before they were too far out of range. Then artillery — arrows and spears — began to whip by above his head at a ferocious velocity. Artemisia reached down to her side, picked up a small glass sphere, held it above her head and crushed it; immediately there seemed to be a field of translucent light around them and the projectiles aimed their way clattered against it before falling uselessly to one side.

The group rounded several corners at high speed and after that there were long straights; the surroundings were a blur; only the looming buildings in the distance remained in focus. If Brynd remembered correctly then they’d only have a short distance to go now, possibly another mile.

The drones of the wasps prevented him from hearing the attack that suddenly occurred: three metallic dragons crashed into their force field; one of them seemed electrified with static and fell away, taking with it their defences. The other two dragons attacked and dispersed their group. At least two of the Night Guard were sent reeling and clattering to the ground. Brynd looked down to note the area in the hope that he might pick them up on the way back.

He could not stay and fight but had to go straight on and hope that as many of his own could keep up with him. A glance over his shoulder and he saw there was no right flank now. It had been totally decimated — three of the Night Guard and one of Artemisia’s lookalikes gone.

The group quickly re-formed around Brynd and his precious cargo. There seemed to be some kind of bell being rung. Lights flashed close by. Strange objects lurched in and out of view. He had no idea what was going on at times. It was all happening too fast to register. Artemisia still led the way, true to her word, and all he could do was follow.