The Broken Isles

doubt we’re all doing the right thing by Artemisia, having witnessed what I have, and having been protected by her blades. But Rika’s a different person by a long way. And I just hope. .’

Brynd remained silent, hoping Randur might continue. The wind stirred, sliding across this bleak landscape.

Randur pushed back a lock of his long black hair, and flashed him a grin. ‘I bet after saving the city you didn’t anticipate handing over the reins of the Empire to such a bitch.’

Brynd grunted. ‘You should have more respect for the woman who leads so many people into this new era.’

‘Thing is,’ Randur replied, ‘how much respect does the woman have for her people?’

They rode on for the better part of an hour until the road petered out, becoming nothing more than a muddy trail. The lights of the city faded from view, and the darkness and silence of the countryside became something more complete. Stars were brighter and the temperature plummeted. It wasn’t long before all they could hear were the sounds of the horses’ hooves and the animals’ breathing.

They navigated east around the edge of the Wych Forest, and up a long, gentle slope that seemed to go on forever. Even at this hour, one of the moons cast enough light to suggest that nothing had been moving around here for days, not even any animals. The horses walked slower wherever the snow deepened; Brynd was careful not to injure them on this terrain. The further inland they travelled, clouds suddenly began to mass, obscuring the stars, and Brynd could smell the smoke from campfires some way off.

They’re here at least. .

Brynd halted his mare, dismounted, and tied her to a broken tree stump.

Randur followed suit, and then stepped alongside him. ‘Is this it?’ he asked. ‘Where are they meant to be? There’s nothing but snow and the odd dead tree.’

‘We’re not quite at the top of the hill,’ Brynd replied. ‘I want to walk there cautiously because I can hear them over the other side.’

‘I can’t hear a thing,’ Randur moaned.

Brynd ignored him and marched a little further up the slope. The ground was frozen solid. It began to rain, gently at first, then came heavier drops — again, he noticed, not snow, but rain.

‘For fucksake,’ Randur said, drawing up his hood, ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t just ride to the top.’

‘Though this is a friendly visit, we need to see what they’re made of,’ Brynd replied, pulling up his own hood. ‘We need to see what they’ve got, what their capabilities are. And, most of all, we need to shut the hell up.’

Brynd moved cautiously up the slope for a few minutes. He kept looking around for any signs of scouts, but he could see none. It annoyed him that they had no one guarding the perimeter.

Randur followed, rather reluctantly, and whispered, ‘Hey, I think I can hear something now. What can you see?’

As Brynd crested the hill, the scene down below presented itself slowly.

Row upon row of yurts and tents stretched in precise rows as far as he could see. Fires, set within immense cauldrons, were burning at regular intervals, at intersections in the lanes. Meanwhile, strange shapes lumbered in the half-light, occasionally illuminated by the flames.

Immense and ragged banners rippled in the evening breeze, each bearing exotic insignias, with strange shapes and curves to the designs. Meat was being cooked in aromatic spices that he couldn’t recognize, but which reached him even at this distance. And, all around this vast site, humans and rumels — with other, similar-looking life forms — were sitting in enclaves or standing to attention as they were addressed by some more senior official. Brynd estimated that there were twenty or thirty thousand warriors down there, and Bohr only knows how many beyond. Some wore bright armour, some were covered in dark cloaks, but what struck him was how similar they looked to people from his own world. Their attire was not more exotic than could be found among the cultures of the Boreal Archipelago — a fact that was both comforting and unnerving. It was as if there were some shared characteristics, some common essence between the two worlds. That seemed to confirm the new histories that Artemisia had provided. They were cultural cousins.

Randur came up alongside him and, with his jaw open wide, managed to say, ‘Well bugger me. Would you look at that.’

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Brynd replied.

‘Well you wanted an army, chief,’ Randur said. ‘It looks like you’ve got one.’

‘Not quite. We’ve still got to persuade them to fight with us.’

The two of them remained stationary as they examined the expanse beyond, contemplating just what this could mean, until something barked in a language Brynd did not recognize.

He knew what that meant.

Cursing to himself for letting his guard down and his senses slip, he held up his hands, leaving his sabre by his side, and suggested to Randur that he do the same. Then Brynd searched his surroundings in order to locate the source of the voice.

‘What’s going on?’ Randur asked.

‘It’s all right — they’ve scouts, and in a way that’s what I wanted to find out,’ Brynd muttered. He addressed the approaching warriors who he heard somewhere in the darkness. ‘I am Commander Lathraea of the Night Guard, senior officer of the military in this world. I have liaised with Artemisia in seeing that you were brought here.’ On noting no reply, he ventured, ‘Welcome to the island of Y’iren. .’

‘Albino,’ came the strained reply, followed by whispers in a foreign tongue.

‘Can you see them with your fancy vision?’ Randur asked.

Brynd scrutinized his immediate surroundings: the hilltop was dark, and he could only discern spindly bushes or the contours of the landscape. The voice, still giving orders in some strange tongue, was definitely coming from down the slope, but there he could only see crooked trees or lumps of rock or frozen mud. It alarmed him that he could not see them with his enhancements.

A twig snapped nearby, his attention shifted. Now he could see something: the rain was clinging to four opaque forms that were marching towards them. It was the water that defined their presence, the edges of their bodies, rather than the bodies being physically there.

‘I still can’t see anything,’ Randur said.

‘I see them.’ Brynd pointed towards the four water-covered shapes. ‘You might struggle in this light, but they’re very definitely there. Four of them.’

‘Fuck, I can see their footprints in the snow.’ Randur shuddered and moved to draw his sword.

Brynd held back his arm. ‘It’s all right. Remember, they’re on our side.’

‘Don’t see why they have to creep up like this.’

‘It’s good,’ Brynd replied. ‘They mean business, and we need armies that mean business, instead of littering battlefields with their inefficient corpses.’

Brynd held up his arms again and declared some basic greetings.

The figures became quite still, before fading into existence. The hominids possessed dark skins that reminded him of his obsidian chamber for their faint sheen. With no discernible hair, and a strange headband bearing tribal symbols, they stood a good foot shorter than himself, and each one was clutching a dagger. They were lean and, unbelievably for the weather, clothed only in light bronze armour and baggy breeches. They must have been freezing, but they showed no signs of suffering. As they came nearer he counted five of them, all in all; their movements were fluid, and their muscles looked tough and wiry.

‘I am Commander Brynd Lathraea from the city of Villiren, representing Jamur Rika, an ally of Artemisia.’ He repeated himself a couple of times but could only hear the wind in the distance.

Then he got a response: ‘You. . both of you, come. . Come with us.’

Brynd couldn’t tell which of them was speaking, though their voices seemed warped and distressed. It might have been all of them speaking simultaneously, for all he knew. ‘At least we can communicate,’ he whispered to Randur, who looked petrified. Brynd addressed his otherworldly comrades once again. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding and smiling to make sure they understood. ‘We bring you no harm.’

‘I thought they were meant to be on our side?’ Randur moaned.