The Broken Isles

So far, estimates range from forty to sixty thousand.

Brynd looked at the garuda in disbelief. ‘As many as that? What condition are they in?’

Healthy, for what it is worth. They are stretched out over a vast area. It is difficult to make a precise calculation. More seem to be joining their mass each day and there are outriders and those sourcing and distributing food. I was impressed with the organization. They have cultists with them, and a handful of Imperial soldiers.

‘Are there any signs of Emperor Urtica?’ Brynd enquired.

There are no traces of him or any form of government. I have seen no councillors and, as I signed, there were simply a few soldiers remaining with the refugees — they were the only symbols of authority. When I flew over where Balmacara should have been located, much of the Imperial residence was not to be found. It was, presumably, in the crumbled remnants of the city. I cannot see that Urtica would have survived.

‘That would explain the silence regarding my message to him,’ Brynd said, and wondered, Did he ever read it before the city fell? ‘The refugees, where are they headed?’

They are travelling in a direct line to the east coast. I would guess that their main aim is to stay ahead of their attackers. They are doing little more than trying to get away and survive.

‘And when they get to the coast. .’ Brynd said. ‘What do you think will happen?’

The wing commander made no movement of her hands, and remained impassive, awaiting instruction or question.

‘I’m asking your opinion now,’ Brynd said. ‘How urgent is their situation? How do you rate their chances of survival? Are there enough vessels that will help them leave the island?’

I would say, commander, that unless they receive immediate military support and food aid, when they reach the coast their progress will be halted. When the presence in the sky catches up with them, it will be unlikely that so many people will survive the onslaught. There will be more of Jokull’s people with them by this point. It would be a massacre.

Brynd nodded. ‘Thank you, wing commander. I would like you to make some sketches later — I’d like to get an impression of what this apparent city in the sky actually looks like. But for now, take a night’s rest. Tell Brug that I’ve said you are to be provided with a chamber — you’ve earned it. And good work, Elish.’

Thank you, commander. The garuda gave a tip of her head and headed out the door.

Brynd closed it behind her, and rested his head against the wood for a moment. Then, taking slow, deep breaths he picked up a pad of paper and a pencil, then sat back down in his chair, once again in the warm glow of the fire.

There, he began planning how he would organize the rescue of this train of lost souls.

EIGHT

Over the next twenty-six hours they continued the process of refinement on the exoskeletal armour. Day became night, and still they continued to work on their plans. While the others were working on the material, little Gorri did what he did best, concentrating on developing Jeza’s designs into something they could work with. He had come up with some variants on the armour design. In a flurry of words he enthusiastically suggested his changes to her.

‘Though I’d actually like to speak to a soldier, once we get this sold — and get the cash! — just to get a fully formed idea of the mechanics of how they’d use this, you get me? The kind of ways they wanna use a sword and generally kick the shit out of the enemy, so I can get a better idea of how it’d work in action and, anyway, there’s no point me shaping this for people only for them to hobble about in something they can barely move in because you might as well have them wearing an iron box!’

‘These sketches are more than fine,’ Jeza replied. ‘Really. They’ll be perfect for a prototype.’

While he continued talking at her, she took his drawings over to the Haldorors, and programmed in their various measurements, quotients and angles. They set up the relics to translate the original into this more calculated form.

And it worked. First time. Just like that.

They had managed to modify the original breastplate into one that would fit over a human or a rumel. In a jubilant move, Coren donned the resulting piece of armour, which slotted crudely over his head. It was a little bland — they would have to embellish it for future designs — but it did the job, and covered his entire torso successfully.

‘It’s bloody light, I’ll tell you that much,’ Coren announced. ‘Hey, who’s got a sword?’

Diggsy strolled forward. ‘Just so happened to have one on standby.’ He lifted something from a side-bench and unsheathed a dirty rapier-style blade.

Coren smiled. ‘Come on then, Throngar. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

‘Just be careful,’ Jeza said, hiding her head in her hands. After two sharp clangs and a burst of whooping laughter from Coren, she looked up.

Coren lurched back and forward as Diggsy struck him with the sword. Each time it glanced off harmlessly. Coren stood still with his arms out wide and Diggsy grunted as he thrust the tip of the blade right at him. The sword made a dull thud on impact; Coren simply beamed.

‘We get our designs finalized, get the commander’s buy-in,’ Diggsy said, tossing the sword away. ‘I reckon we can make more of these than we think. We’d have to test whether or not the later ones we produced were weaker than the original — one of the side effects is the redundancy of the original translated material.’

‘We’ll make another few examples then,’ Jeza said. ‘This didn’t take us all that long — let’s make some more. I want to see more than one sample to show the commander. Meanwhile, let’s get a letter to him about this — tell him that we think he’ll want to see what we’ve got.’

The others got to work again, and Jeza looked at this recent organization and efficiency with a great deal of pride. We’re really going to mean something to the city now.

Brynd sat opposite the group of youngsters, not quite knowing what to make of them. He had received their message and come all the way out to the factory as soon as he could make it, this time leaving just the one archer outside the door for security. The message this time was curiously rather bold, suggesting there were big developments, and he came armed with huge amounts of healthy scepticism.

If there was one thing these young cultists were likely to create, it was trouble, but he gave them the benefit of the doubt. Sitting down at a table in their workshop he felt utterly out of place and wary that although not exactly an old man, he was certainly not a young one any longer. He also felt that he had spent so much time in such formal surroundings, in Balmacara or the Citadel, that this kitchen-workshop hybrid, rammed with cheap plates and scraps of food, was mildly unsettling. He realized he was becoming a bit of a snob.

You need to get out on the road again, he told himself. That’ll be humbling enough.

The girl, Jeza, started to hold court again. She began with a little presentation full of sketches which he found endearing, but mildly annoying.

‘Please,’ he said eventually, ‘I’ve some urgent planning to get back to. May we get to the essentials? Your original letter promised nothing short of a revolution.’

‘Indeed,’ Jeza replied, and nodded to two of the lads, Diggsy and Coren, who snuck off quietly. Jeza spoke briefly of the Okun, a race with which Brynd was uncomfortably familiar, and the lads returned. One of them was wearing plain-looking body armour, the other, Diggsy, carrying a sword, which he handed over to Brynd with pride.

Brynd waved his hand, stood up and said, ‘I’ve got my own, thanks,’ and unsheathed his sabre. It glimmered briefly with cultist sorcery and the lad simply stared at it in awe.

‘Now we want you to strike Coren as hard as you can manage.’

‘Are you sure?’ Brynd asked. ‘I didn’t get to the top of the military without being fairly useful with a