Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

He contemplated her words and crouched beside her. She had grown too thin on the road, but had since recovered: the colour had returned to her cheeks, there was more flesh on her bones, but her spirit was nowhere to be found. He had watched the girl grow up within the world of her father’s madness and, in his periods of rest from missions or more formal attachments in Villjamur, he had spent many days in her company. Those were simpler, happier days, of course, but he had never seen her quite like this.

‘I think you should see more of this city,’ he offered and, breaching all the code of manners which had been installed in him by her father, extended his hand for her to grasp. ‘You may find it inspiring,’ he continued. ‘You may find what you seek, right here. Come, I’ll show you now.’

She placed her hand in his, and rose.

They ventured out on two grey horses from the Citadel, him in the resplendent uniform of the Night Guard, her borrowing some drab military gear so that she wouldn’t stand out, and with a thick cloak around her. The horses plodded steadily down the long slope, their breath clouding in the air, and then on to the slush-strewn streets of Villiren.

The snow came and went, mixed with a little rain. Artemisia had suggested that it was the Realm Gates that affected the weather patterns in Villiren, though Brynd never queried this. There was too much to take in, but now he thought about it the weather never quite seemed to commit to the much-talked-about ice age.

As the two of them looked around the streets, Brynd noted that even though there were fewer people here than had been normal, there were still a surprising number of civilians milling about on the main road down towards the enormous Onyx Wings. So many buildings had been destroyed in the war that the three pairs of structures, each a couple of hundred feet high, now dominated the skyline of the city.

They rode in the direction of Althing, but Brynd’s idea was to arc around and back to the Old Harbour. If Eir wished to see the city, then he felt it important that she witness the worst-hit areas first.

The operation to repair the city was ceaseless. Brynd had ordered what was left of the army to more manual duties, which ranged from helping locals to board up broken windows, to organizing the clearance of rubble so that the streets were clear for transport. Carts would be loaded with materials, and any stones that could not be reused in construction were to be piled outside the city limits.

Corpses were often pulled out of collapsed houses. Now there weren’t as many and the city had already shared in collective grief they were taken to the southern tip of Villiren where they were burned en masse. This operation was now carried out each morning so that the brightness of the funeral flames would not show at night and undermine morale.

Wherever it was suspected that enemy soldiers were hiding — be they red-skinned rumel or Okun — experienced units of Dragoons were ordered in to root them out. Brynd didn’t want them killed unless they provided too much of a danger; instead he wanted them taken to underground holding cells where Artemisia could interrogate them. So far, only eight had been captured alive, with another seven killed as they attempted to flee. None of the captives had proven much use so far.

Brynd explained to Eir how the city was being rebuilt and organized as they moved along the edges of Althing, and she listened without interrupting. He enjoyed talking to her; it helped to clarify things in his head, and he began to feel encouraged by the amount of progress they had made.

Now and then, civilians in rags would approach, telling them that they had lost everything and begging for money. They were all ages, the youngest a girl barely out of childhood, the eldest over seventy. On the first two occasions, Brynd let Eir hand over a few coins from her purse, but after that he cautioned her.

‘Lady Eir, nearly everyone in this city has lost something — if not everything. If you keep opening your purse for everyone who asks for money, you’ll have nothing left.’

‘Oh. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, I’m probably making things worse.’

‘You wouldn’t be expected to know how many desperate people there are.’

Brynd gave a gentle kick so that their horses moved at a swifter pace through the approaching crowd, all holding their hands out for change.

Passing a greater volume of civilians, Brynd and Eir approached one of the few reopened irens, a vast and sprawling market situated in a relatively intact plaza.

Under the late afternoon sun, hundreds of people milled about between rows of trade stalls. While things had not quite returned to normal, there were ad-hoc stalls here: those dealing in metalware to melt down into weapons, or clothing cut from hessian sacks, which had been provided by the military — some of them still bore the seven-pointed Jamur star beneath gaudy dye. Scribes were offering writing skills, some women were leaning against perimeter walls, openly offering their bodies. On one side the fish markets had come to life again, bringing much-needed food to the people of the city.

‘It might not look much at the moment,’ Brynd said, ‘but this is a vision compared with what it was like when you first arrived.’

‘I remember it well.’ Eir’s expression was unreadable. She looked impassively across the scene for some time without speaking. Then, she said, ‘When I left Villjamur, I had only positive memories of my father’s once-glorious Empire in mind. This is not exactly how the family dream went, I’ll admit.’

‘I didn’t realize you were so attached to those dreams,’ Brynd said.

‘Neither did I until recently,’ Eir replied. ‘Still, I think I need to face reality, don’t you?’

‘Having escaped your own — very public — execution, traipsing halfway across the Archipelago to get here, and brought our only hope of an ally — I’d say you’ve faced reality.’

‘You’re very kind to me, commander — you always have been. I always found it easier talking to you than any of the guards who were attached to myself and Rika. Your loyalty to the Jamur lineage has been unquestionable. And now, even now. .’ She gestured to the thronging iren. ‘Even now you rebuild this in our name.’

‘Come. Let’s head down this road — there’s a lot more to see.’

There were sectors of the city so badly damaged by the war that, after the clearance of rubble, there was nothing left but a skeleton neighbourhood. Stubs of stone were scattered irregularly throughout one region heading towards Port Nostalgia — or what was left of it.

There was little to remind them that these streets were once inhabited.

‘This place saw the worst of the fighting,’ Brynd said. ‘And remember I told you about the huge being that emerged from the city and trailed out towards the sea?’

‘It came this way, then,’ Eir realized. ‘By Astrid, it must have been enormous.’

‘I never saw it myself,’ Brynd said, ‘and the reports that came in were inconsistent. Those who witnessed it first-hand suggested it was some primitive sea monster made of crackling light, though that sounds like an exaggeration to me. Whatever it was, though it nearly killed the Night Guard while we were saving people, it also took a chunk of the enemy forces occupying this sector of the city. It did us a favour, in the end. Somewhere we must have had some remarkable allies.’

‘Both fortuitous and. .’ Eir paused as she took in the scale of devastation.

‘Just fortuitous,’ Brynd added. ‘Everything that was here can be built again, more or less. They’re only buildings. The alternative was much less appealing.’

A unit of Dragoons wearing bright-red sashes rode by quickly on horseback, five men in all, and another followed a few moments later, moving much more slowly due to pulling a cart. Each of the riders saluted Brynd as they passed and offered the Sele of Jamur, before moving on down the street.