Mark Newton - City of Ruin

Another surprise to him was the heating system. Lutto had ensured that a network of firegrain pipes was constructed over the previous few years, admittedly with a little help from cultist technology. Channels of warmth were pumped like blood under the streets, through underground networks, through steaming pipes and up through the floors of houses in the wealthier neighbourhoods. Meanwhile outside, passageways and even main thoroughfares were doused by Cultist Water, a version of seawater primed with enhanced salinity, which was enough to keep the ice off for weeks at a time.

The garudas had now arrived, though only a few of them, who swept in investigative arcs to the north, along the fringes of Tineag'l, over the ice sheets that had almost bridged the islands; and sometimes pterodettes would coast lazily in their trails. These bird-soldiers never ceased to amaze: tall, and elegant yet surreal. When they flew in low one could see their dull armour, their feathers, in clearer detail, even the powerful muscles beneath their massive wings. Two or three times a day, Brynd would see the flash of Brenna devices, those explosive relics the cultists had devised to ensure the surrounding waters remained free of ice, so no enemy could traverse it on foot.

And now what? An endless wait, it seemed, as he discovered and observed further the idiosyncrasies of this strange city.

*

With Lupus in tow, Brynd was parading down from the citadel'attlements, heading towards the markets that lay between the district of Althing and the Ancient Quarter, where those Onyx Wings dominated the city skyline. From here the older styles of building could be seen: the original city, a mishmash of cylindrical towers and domes. This area was surrounded by a sea of flat roofing, only interrupted now and then by a large warehouse or a windmill.

Traders hastily erected stalls in the irens in the early morning, tying strips of coloured rags to indicate their territory, red or blue or green. Awnings were flipped into place and signs hoisted inscribed with esoteric symbols, in scripts of Jamur-tribal hybrid languages. Citizens themselves were hybrids, cross-breeds of the inhabitants of all islands of the Archipelago. But there were still some who clung to their island ways: Jokulites exhibiting awkward restraint and tentativeness at being this far east; Folkens behaving with spurious machismo or indifference. And derived from all cultures were thieves stealing the wares of others, seemingly nonchalant as they went about their business, of deftly pocketing whatever they could.

Villiren, rather than Villjamur, was the real commercial centre of the Empire. Metals came south from Tineag'l, meaning they were the first to get hold of the ore. Conspicuous qualities of goods therefore were manufactured here and distributed around the Jamur Empire, mainly to Villjamur, a city distant enough to never see completely what was going on here. Consumer items were branded according to the fashion they were made. Fabrics were woven in unique ways, specific colours, alloys that resonated at a given pitch, then sold on in the cities as desirable commodities. Branding, in fact.

Whether or not they were distracted by such a plenitude of trinkets, Brynd couldn't tell, but it seemed that the people here didn't care too much about the ice, let alone the threat of war. But that was the way of things: people concerned themselves with the small details rather than prophetic events.

This was no prison city: indeed what really made the difference was the absence of encircling walls, no sense of confinement. Buildings sprawled ever southwards, to dissolve gradually into farmland or forests. No tent city of refugees camped outside, like Villjamur. Nevertheless Brynd guessed they were probably crammed inside the community somewhere, hidden away within the large housing blocks, but well away from what was left of the old city.

Some of the traders had lit stoves so that passers-by would loiter around them for warmth and, given time, perhaps be tempted to buy something. Everywhere around them there was snow, on the roofs, on upturned crates, lining the walls of houses. People, garbed in furs and a few wearing masks, rooted through the stalls for the freshest catch of fish, and there always seemed to be a surprising amount of meat on display, given the city's circumstance, which was another thing Brynd couldn't fathom.

A small cluster of figures caught Brynd's eye.

The three of them were huddled next to a corner, examining something on the ground, while other citizens milled around them heading towards the iren or on their way towards the old harbour.

As the two soldiers now approached them, one looked up and saluted. She was a tall and lanky woman with a permanent expression of surprise etched on her face by age. Nevertheless pleasant-looking, she wore a tweed cloak with a muddied hem, and a fine-tailored tunic underneath, of the type of cut you just didn't see much any more. Under one arm was a battered old book, bound in brown leather.

She greeted Brynd. 'Sele of Jamur, sir!'

The other two looked up abruptly from their business. One man was chubby, with a moustache, a flat cap, and a serious look on his face; the other completely bald, stocky and savage-looking. Both wore layers of brown tweed, and neither of them reacted in the slightest to Brynd's unusual appearance, his albino skin, his red-rimmed eyes – as so many other people did.

'Sele of the day,' flat cap hailed, an older variation on the usual Empire greeting, and his voice was heavily accented from some place Brynd didn't recognize.

'Sele of Jamur. Can I check what the three of you are doing?' Brynd enquired.

The tall woman, clearly the leader of the group, stepped forward with an earnest smile. 'A little examination of old ley lines, dear sir.' Her voice was bass with age, and loaded with cheap charm. A quick gesture on her part steered Brynd's gaze towards a small tripod at the base of the wall, presumably a relic to judge by the metallic shimmer and the dials. At the top of it rested some kind of graded instrument, aimed at the faintest glow of red sun visible behind the clouds. These were cultists, surely.

'Nothing illegal, this?' Brynd asked, glancing towards Lupus. The private had his bow already slung across his shoulder, but he didn't think there would be need of it. These people seemed innocent enough.

'D'you hear that, Abaris?' She turned to flat cap, then back with her face creasing in smiles.

'Pah! Illegal, he says,' Abaris replied. 'Nah, nothing of the sort, lad. We're merely exploring some technology of the Ancients, ley lines and the like. Bit of lore stretches across this island – you know, myths and whatnot. All in all, we were rather hoping we could be of some use, given that the city might soon be having a few problems, like.'

The bald man remained utterly silent.

'We're from the Order of the Grey Hairs, sah!' Abaris confirmed. 'Last remaining cultists of various minor sects. United in the fact that, well… um, the rest of our lot are dead, more or less. Us old things is all that's left. And now at your service!'

Brynd and Lupus stared at one another, and the young private raised his eyebrows, stifling a smile.

'Do you reckon you can be of any use in the coming war?' Brynd asked. 'Can you hold a solid weapon well enough? There might be call for that, as we need everyone we can get.'

'Weapons have never been of much use to us, I confess,' the tall woman observed. 'But, we're not aiming on burning ourselves on a funeral pyre just yet, oh no. Here's our card, then. We've digs on the other side of the Ancient Quarter – so we're never far, should you need our assistance.'

'Very good.' Brynd smiled, placing the card in his pocket without really looking at it. 'Well, carry on. We may indeed need your help yet.'