The Broken Isles

quality of the air and the direction of the ocean currents. They asked him about food and where they could store what he imagined to be their livestock. They wanted to know in which direction the sun rose and how frequent the tides were. There were questions on hours of daylight, what herbs or crops grew locally, what stone ‘grew’ nearby, and how many people lived on the island. They asked how many gods lived here, and questioned them about deities that Brynd did not know about.

Some of the warriors, later, came closer, many of them decorated in skulls he did not recognize, and wearing layers under their armour made from rough animal hide. They asked about his weapons — indicating the sabre by his side. They queried the material, on how it was held, and he showed them. He made sure to communicate around the translator through his smiles — it seemed important for them to know he was happy they’d come — and some of them smiled back. He would, after all, ask them to spill blood for the preservation of his people, too.

My people. . get that thought out of your head. You’re not the bloody Emperor.

Brynd plucked up the nerve to ask if these elders were the rulers of the incoming races, a question that could potentially cause insult, but they did not seem bothered.

‘We are. . approximately third, fourth, seventh, and tenth in command,’ the warrior explained.

Brynd nodded, glad he was not wasting his time, impressed at the seniority dispatched to the island. Brynd complimented them on their camp, on the impressive races and animals that stood outside, at the discipline and organization. He enquired about the animals that looked like dragons, expressing his admiration for them and wondered about their purpose.

The elders smiled and seemed to like that. They used the word spakov, which he committed to memory. ‘Do you fly them?’ Brynd asked. ‘How do you use them?’

They are used in battle, came the reply, much to Brynd’s delight. They also help to transport warriors to inaccessible places.

The soldier translated, ‘You would be happy, yes, to fly with the transport?’

Brynd eagerly nodded his answer. ‘I would indeed.’

The evening went on, with Randur remaining silent, observant, and Brynd wanting to learn more about these newcomers. If these people would be integrated with their own culture, then he would not make them feel unwelcome.

After a couple of hours of exchanges, Brynd and Randur were escorted back through the camp, past all the exotic races and back to the hilltop where they were discovered. There, they picked up their horses, and rode slowly back to the city.

SEVEN

It was the morning of his rest day, something that tended to be little more than a token gesture rather than a genuine opportunity to put his feet up. However, today he had somehow found himself with a couple of free hours. He had left two of the other Night Guard soldiers in charge and their only orders were not to bother him.

He sat alone by the fire reading a book of social philosophy he’d taken from the Citadel’s library. Sunlight streamed in through the window of his personal chamber. This was a simple place with a large bed in which he could stretch out fully, a few nicely designed pieces of dark-wood furniture, a stone floor, and a fire. The window, too, was an improvement, as it overlooked Port Nostalgia and the sea beyond. Outside it was a calm day, with enough sunlight to suggest it might melt some of the snow.

It was good to get the time to think alone. It energized him. As soon as he stepped outside his door, the incessant questions and demands would begin. This side of the door he had a book and a fire and that was all he needed.

Overall, things seemed to be shaping up well. He might have a decent army. A ruler was in place. There was a chance the city could be rebuilt if the money flowed well enough. From these embers, something resembling an empire could be rebuilt. There had still been no word from Villjamur though. Had Emperor Urtica even received his message, and what would be the consequences of his decision?

There were so many unknown variables that he felt he should just close his eyes and wait for the trouble to find him. The best he could do was make sure they were prepared for every eventuality.

It couldn’t have been more than two hours before there was hushed activity outside his door. Brynd put his book down, stoked the fire, and sat back in his chair, waiting for the knock that came just a moment later.

‘It’s unlocked,’ Brynd called out.

Brug poked his war-scarred and shaven head into the room, ‘Uh, commander — sorry to bother you while you’re off duty, but. .’

‘It’s all right, Brug, you can enter.’

The thuggish-looking Night Guard soldier was speaking just outside the door and now stepped inside, his tribal-inspired neck tattoos more noticeable in the light of day.

‘Were you talking to yourself?’ Brynd enquired. ‘Has madness claimed you?’

‘No, not yet,’ he smiled. ‘There’s a garuda outside who says she’ll only speak to you.’

‘Send her in immediately.’ Brynd stood up quickly, anxious for a report.

Brug disappeared, gave some orders in the corridor and a garuda marched into the room. She was a brown- feathered soldier, with white plumage around her face and downy feathers over a tightly muscled torso. She wore black breeches, held with a belt that carried two daggers on her hips, and she held her gold helm beneath one arm. Two massive wings were folded neatly behind her back.

‘Sele of Jamur,’ Brynd said, and the garuda returned the greeting in hand-language. ‘Name and rank?’

Wing commander Elish.

‘Have you brought news?’ Brynd demanded.

She seemed a little tired as she signed, I have indeed, commander. Her hand movements were intricate, her fingers graceful as they traced the forms of the military code.

‘You were sent to survey Jokull if I remember correctly,’ Brynd said, partially to remind himself because he had dispatched so many garudas recently.

That is correct.

‘What did you see there?’ he asked.

I have seen that Villjamur has collapsed.

‘Excuse me? Is this a translation error, wing commander? How do you mean “collapsed” exactly?’

Precisely that, commander. Villjamur is now a ruin. The many levels of the vast city have been destroyed. Buildings lay ruined. Bridges have been reduced to rubble. The city has collapsed — there is no one there left alive. I perched on a ruin in the morning sunlight looking over this new topography, and I saw nothing move at all. The only people who were there were dead, buried under stone or their bodies dismembered.

Brynd absorbed the report, breathing deeply to maintain a sense of calm. It seemed unthinkable that the jewel in the Empire’s crown was no more. ‘What happened there — and what of the populace?’

Something came from the skies, I believe. That thing is still there and it chases what remains of the populace across the island. It hunts our people. It hunts them still.

‘What did this thing do, and what is it?’

I am not sure entirely. I could not get too near as it is well protected. There are beings that fly around it to maintain safety. But it is a city like no other. It maintains its presence at altitude through ways I cannot fathom. From it, individuals of complex races are delivered to the ground. There, they create havoc in the towns and villages. To my knowledge they have moved across Jokull in what is a systematic act of genocide.

The people from Villjamur — those who survived what must have been a dramatic assault — are travelling at pace. It should be said that there is some hope — a plan of sorts appears to be in operation. Whoever is in charge has constructed strange land-crafts on which many of the refugees flee, though the rest continue on foot or on horseback. They are moving ahead of the slow-moving menace in the sky.

Well, this was at least a silver lining. ‘How many refugees are there?’ Brynd asked.