The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (16 page)

‘When you have finished your next mission,’ Rika said, ‘I have commenced establishing laws and legislation so that we are set for rebuilding my father’s
Empire.’

‘Now might not be the best time to mention this,’ Brynd began. ‘I’d hoped you would have wondered why there are so many of the Empire’s people on the road. I
thought you had been briefed.’

‘No. No one has told me anything. Speak.’

Brynd told them about Villjamur. That it was no longer there. That citizens urgently needed to be evacuated, which is where he was going first thing in the morning.

Clearly distraught, Eir sat down with her head in her hands. ‘All those people, dead . . .’

Rika declared, ‘Which means we must rebuild as quickly as possible. We must harness the power of citizens to fight and to fund our efforts.’

Brynd wasn’t sure if he agreed with her or if it confirmed in his mind how she was developing into a deeply inappropriate leader. There were none of the qualities he hoped for. Perhaps she
had inherited her father’s madness.

‘I’m sorry to bring such news, but I’ll do everything within my power to see our people are brought to safety. I’ve seen to it that enough resources – both in terms
of personnel and rations – are being diverted accordingly. Ships have already set sail with cultist-enhanced grain, to cope with what may follow. I’ve dispatched messengers to
settlements with major ports to release all seaworthy vessels to our cause. I don’t quite know what to expect when we arrive, but hopefully all of this will catch up with us, and be enough to
guarantee survival.’

‘Shouldn’t you be there already?’ Rika demanded.

Brynd held his sigh from being too audible. Would the woman not give up? ‘I’m investigating swifter methods of transport, Lady Rika.’

‘Very good.’ Rika gave no further indication of her mood.

‘Look after yourself, commander,’ Eir offered, with a look of concern in her eyes. ‘You’ve done nothing short of help prop up the remnants of . . . of this culture. Stay
safe. We’d struggle without you.’

‘I haven’t scheduled any immediate plans to die just yet,’ he replied with a wide grin. ‘But thank you and, please, excuse me.’

He began to back out of the room.

When he reached the door, he heard Rika call out, ‘See that you do get them back and spend as little as you can. We will need what money we have to allow full integration with
Artemisia’s people.’

‘You’re keen to see integration is smooth?’ Brynd stepped back in the room slightly.

‘We shall see that we keep our promise – I feel our people, too, must pay their fair share of their own future.’

You, in your new guise, will make not only a poor leader, but also a dangerous one
, Brynd thought as he left the two sisters in peace. He continued along the dusty stone corridor, fuming.
With such reckless ideas, she’ll be usurped within days
.
I can’t allow that to happen
. . .

*

Tonight he could finally dispatch three soldiers on horseback to Factory 54 with the deposit of money to pay for the new Night Guard armour. What the group would do with such
cash was anyone’s guess, but by now he had realized these were not normal youngsters. They had acquired a knowledge beyond even some cultists. Perhaps because they were not like ordinary
cultists, he actually started to believe what they said.

Brynd paced back and forth behind windows at the front of the Citadel, quietly fuming at what had become of the Empire. His entire life had been spent building it up – to see it trashed so
quickly was frightening, he had to admit. The sound outside the window indicated his soldiers had returned. He looked down out of the window as they drew up at the front of the Citadel with a cart.
Dozens of vast crates were stacked on top; the soldiers began unloading them and hauling them into the Citadel. He went to see the delivered product and a few other Night Guard soldiers sauntered
in, curious as to what the commotion was about.

‘What’s in the boxes?’ Brug asked.

‘An experiment.’ Brynd opened one of the crates. Inside was the soft glimmer of their new black armour, each piece – be it a helmet or a breastplate – bore a white,
fist-sized seven-pointed star of the Empire. It was a nice touch.

Our very own shell
. . . A shudder went through his body at the thought of it: that the things which contributed towards so many deaths would now become their new form of protection.

It was an impressive development from the previous version he’d seen; they had worked quickly, too. He lifted one of the lightweight pieces of armour and placed it over his own head and
body. He adjusted the straps around his ribs. It fitted the contours of his body naturally and felt as if he was wearing nothing heavier than a waxed raincape.

‘Looks impressive. What’s it made from?’ Brug asked, rapping the armour.

‘Just a new alloy,’ Brynd replied. ‘Cultist enhanced – I’ve been doing a little digging into new suppliers. Here.’ He handed one over to Brug who seemed
braced for something heavier, and made an expression of surprise at its light weight. He marvelled at the texture, at the craftsmanship, and began testing it for rigidity. A few others filed in
behind him, curious.

‘Incredible,’ Brug said. ‘You can’t even see any joins. This thing robust?’

‘Why not try for yourself?’ Brynd drew his sabre and offered it to Brug. Rubbing the back of his shaven head with one hand, he took the weapon, then stepped back to take a more
formal combat stance. Brynd readied himself and tensed: just like Coren had done at the factory, Brug gave a tentative prod at first, poking the blade into the armour, then commenced with firmer
strokes. Having placed his faith in the technology, Brynd merely smiled. Some of the others began laughing – even Brug, who eventually stopped his assault.

‘What about more rigid tests?’ Brug enquired.

‘Give it a shot.’

Brynd lifted off his armour and placed it on a workbench. Several of them set about finding whatever blunt objects they could find in the vicinity and, with a breathtaking lack of logic, began
to hammer down blows on the armour hoping it would bend or dent.

Nothing.

Hardly any scratches, not even a minor indentation. Despite the muscular enhancements of the Night Guard soldiers, despite their cultist-treated weapons, it seemed very little could make an
impact.

Brynd used the moment of their quiet awe to inform them that they would be trialling it for tomorrow’s mission. ‘I would consider the conflict tomorrow to not be anywhere near as
intense as the defence of Villiren.’

‘Thank fuck for that,’ someone muttered dryly. A few awkward chuckles spread about the room.

Brynd smiled. ‘Though nothing’s ever easy, as you all should realize by now. Now, this new material replaces our current body armour – it’s made to similar specifications
as the previous design, so there should be no problem there. I know normally we give things a go in training sessions, but I think the potential of this could be vast. The only difference you
should find is that this is significantly lighter. You’ll not tire as quickly and you’ll have more mobility. You’ll be able to take just as many blows, if not more.’

‘Sounds like a no-brainer to me, commander,’ said Tiendi, the only female member of the Night Guard. Her shoulder-length blonde hair seemed a stark contrast to the more
aggressive-looking men around her, but she had been every bit their equal on the battlefield.

‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘I’m glad you think so too.’

‘Only,’ she continued, ‘are these only kitted out for men? Some of us, you know, are crafted a little differently . . .’

A few chuckles. ‘You’ll be relieved to know there’s one made with adequate room for your form. Now, are there any further questions about this or about the mission
tomorrow?’

There were a few predictable queries regarding the briefing he had given them earlier. Further questions about tactics and formations. Brynd encouraged them to think of such things, to take a
part in strategic planning and offer suggestions.

Managing soldiers was more than barking orders on the battlefield. These were the elite, the best fighters in the Boreal Archipelago, treated, trained and enhanced to be without peer, and they
needed to be prepared.

‘Right,’ Brynd concluded, ‘you should all get some sleep. We wake before sunrise. Supplies are all sorted – you don’t need to worry about that. I don’t
anticipate us being on the ground for long – perhaps a week at the most if things go wrong – but I’ve already dispatched several units of Dragoons by longship. It will take them
much longer to get there, but when they do they can relieve us and permit us to fall back. The mission is not territorial – I want to stress that. It is a rescue mission.’

Brynd watched them file out of the room, a mixture of expressionless faces and determination. No one at this level really looked forward to engaging in combat these days: at least, no one who
had survived and remembered the battle for Villiren.

Fulcrom didn’t think he could maintain optimism and reassure everyone for much longer. While the refugees and soldiers around him seemed calmed by his attitude, he
believed in his own words and gestures less and less as the hours went by. People considered him a leader – many still called him ‘investigator’, others recognized him from
Villjamur, though he wore no garb or symbols of the Inquisition and had left his medallion somewhere in the rubble of the city.

Even if he still wore it around his neck, it would represent nothing. Any previous structures seemed irrelevant now. Existence fell into two categories: those who could muck in and look after
the others, and those who needed guidance. Some were using terms of leadership whenever they addressed him: boss, chief, sir. He waved them down and asked to be called simply Fulcrom, but they
didn’t stop doing it, and soon their expectations seemed to weigh down on his shoulders.

Their hopes became his burden.

He found joy in small things: children finding the time to play the odd game amidst these ruined lives. Or a puppy looking up from a basket being carried by an old man. A few entertainers
engaged in spontaneous juggling acts, lifting the mood of the crowd. Storytellers pulled people in around campfires in order to forget about the evils that tormented them. There were rumels, like
himself, and of all colour skins – brown, black, grey – helping their human companions, and vice versa, without a single hint of racial tension. There were people from immensely wealthy
backgrounds – lords and ladies, retired military officials, landowners – all reduced to poverty; the poor, trained by years in the caves, helped them out with advice on ways of looking
after themselves. It was, Fulcrom had to admit, immensely touching.

Occasionally something might fly overhead, too quickly for him to discern, but it was enough to cause panic on the ground. Enormous gouts of people would surge towards the woodlands or throw
themselves in soft snow, and all that happened was that more people would suffer from frostbite or pneumonia. And each day, a few more people would die.

*

Eventually, after many days trudging across the wilderness, two outriders returned to the convoy and brought their horses in alongside Fulcrom. A man and his daughter, both
well-built individuals, were protected by wax raincapes and woollen hats.

‘The coast, investigator, it’s the coast,’ the woman said. ‘It’s within reach. We’ll make it before sunrise if we continue straight on through the
night.’

‘If we take rest it will be well into the next day,’ Fulcrom called. ‘That means we’ll be exposed to attack for longer. We’ve been OK the last two nights, but I
don’t want to risk anything – we should expect an assault.’

‘People are tired, investigator,’ the man grunted. ‘Should let ’em get some rest.’

Fulcrom shook his head. ‘Many have been on transport, and of course they’ll be fine through the night. But the others will have to manage. I don’t want to risk the sky-city
catching up with us. We’ve gone two nights without an attack, without any sightings. I’m not a paranoid man, outrider, but I think it pays to be cautious. Could you live with the guilt
otherwise?’

‘No, no,’ the man said. ‘My apologies.’

He watched the two outriders turn and ride into the distance before disappearing into a dark forest. Soon it began to snow – yet again. Within the walls of the city it never seemed so bad;
out here, each fat flake seemed to press against his face with greater intensity.

*

The next hour was slow going. The dirt road crossed increasingly boggy terrain before leading them uphill. Fulcrom remained mightily unimpressed with this route.

‘This hill goes on forever,’ Lan mumbled from behind, squeezing her arms tighter as if to prompt him into speaking.

‘Sorry,’ Fulcrom replied glumly. ‘It’s the only route we can take. It’s the most direct way to the coast. It’s all we can do.’

‘I wasn’t complaining about your navigational skills, I was just saying,’ Lan replied. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I just wish we could hurry, but we can’t force people to go any faster. I want to get to the top of that hill as much as you do.’

‘Will we see the coast when we’re up there?’ Lan wondered.

‘I very much hope so,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘We should be able to see in every direction from the top, and maybe see how far behind they are, and if any more are on the
ground.’

They went on horseback alongside the lead land-vehicle’s front wheels, and far enough away so that the horse’s immense hooves would not crush them.

That would not be a dignified end, after all I’ve been through
, Fulcrom thought.

The convoy then moved through a landscape littered with spindly bushes and the occasional deep pool, which people stumbled into by accident. He pitied those that did, and pitied himself that he
could not help everyone. There were thousands of people behind him; how could he choose to divert medical attention to everyone who stumbled or caught frostbite?

These must be the decisions of a god, something he did not feel comfortable with. Besides, one god-like figure among them seemed enough. Frater Mercury, the being who had been brought through to
this world, seemed more like a statue than a god, as he perched on the lead horse. The figure simply stood regarding the vista: it must have been quite a view up there.