Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

‘What’s going on here?’ Eir asked.

Brynd considered the question. ‘We should follow them. I think you should see this as well.’

They turned in line behind the Dragoons, pursuing their cautious route through the debris. The group continued for several minutes, eventually approaching the fringe of a more built-up region, one that had not been totally decimated. The terraced houses were largely featureless, flat structures, with once-brightly painted wooden doors now covered in dust and flecks of blood. Many doors had been scrubbed clean again by returned owners, though one of them still had an arrowhead embedded in the wood. One road was relatively clear, with a small pile of rubble in one corner.

At the far end, where the Dragoons were now heading, a dust cloud floated above an end-terrace, which had recently collapsed. A few neighbours had clustered around to examine the damage without offering much help, but the Dragoons dismounted and began to clear them out of the way, before they set to work.

Brynd and Eir came closer to see that half the end house had just buckled over. It was an area of about fifteen feet wide now reduced to a mound of stone, with broken furniture jutting out of the gaps. It wasn’t the first time this had happened since the war, and wouldn’t be the last.

As the skies clouded over and the dust settled, the Dragoons set about climbing further into the debris. Four soldiers formed a chain along which they passed chunks of masonry. Brynd and Eir dismounted from their horses, approached the scene and offered their help.

‘Nah, you’re all right. We’ll have this sorted soon, commander,’ said a tall, bearded officer with a wry smile. ‘It’s our job, like.’

With a remarkable nonchalance they continued the chain of operation, the heavy men grunting as they moved some of the heavier stone back first. Two of the other soldiers had run further along the street to flag for civilian assistance and, after returning unsuccessfully, one of them was sent on his horse to fetch more troops.

Brynd turned to Eir. ‘This has been the main operation since the war — clearances of property, of streets, seeing that structures are safe. We tried to keep a log of all the progress, though it probably isn’t as efficient as I’d like.’

‘These are people’s homes, though. How do you log the emotional distress this causes?’

He knew what she meant. He led a life of numbers and logic, and in the clean-up he couldn’t afford to take such things into account.

A middle-aged woman with straggly brown hair and dressed in heavy, drab robes, burst forward onto the scene. She dropped her bags, and began to wail into her hands. Brynd watched as she sank to her knees on one side of the collapsed building, crying, ‘My boys, my boys.’

Eir rushed over to the woman and knelt by her side. Brynd watched the former Stewardess of the Empire hold her as the woman emitted great, heaving sobs into her shoulder.

Seeing Eir react to such raw human emotion, and so quickly, made Brynd contemplate whether the sheer scale of these losses, or even the war itself, had began to numb his senses, and chisel away at his compassion. The Night Guard were enhanced in any number of physical ways, but the ability to offer a shoulder to cry on did not seem to be one of them.

The soldiers eventually uncovered the dead bodies of two teenage lads and loaded them gently onto the cart. Their mother, with Eir still gripping her hands tightly, leant on the cart, pressing her tearful face into one of the boy’s dirtied, bloodied shirts.

While this continued, Brynd walked along the street to knock on the doors of several of the houses.

Two people answered, only one of whom knew the woman well enough to take her in. It was an elderly woman who seemed fit and healthy and sane, and Brynd told her what had happened, pressed a few coins into her hand, 10 Sota in all, and instructed her to buy food and look after the woman.

As he returned to guide the woman towards this temporary sanctuary, he thought to himself, If I keep opening my purse like that, for every dead body, I’ll have nothing left. .

Brynd and Eir rode back in contemplative silence. Eir’s mood was different now, though he couldn’t tell how exactly.

‘Are you glad you came out here, to see all this?’ Brynd asked eventually.

‘ Glad is not perhaps the right word, but I am certainly grateful for what you’ve shown me. I’m happy you’re going about things the way you are — seeing that these people have jobs, houses and food.’

‘I’m not as alert to human and rumel needs as yourself, Lady Eir. You were very good earlier.’

‘Well, such emotional things probably aren’t necessary for a military man when you’ve so many other things to worry about; but you have compassion in your heart, and that is what these people so clearly need. Compassion.’

I’m glad someone thinks that , Brynd thought, as they neared the imposing Citadel.

‘If what Artemisia tells us is true,’ Eir continued, ‘if another war is genuinely coming, what will happen here in Villiren?’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Brynd said.

‘To these people, I mean. Will they be expected to fight again?’

‘Some will be more willing than others.’

‘And the rest of the island — the rest of the Empire’s citizens?’

‘I don’t know yet, Lady Eir. Although Artemisia’s people could provide significant support, we should plan for all eventualities, war or no war. Though I suspect that war is more likely.’

‘On which front?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Lady Eir. It may be that we have to mass an army to defend some other corner of the Empire, or it may happen in Villiren again.’

‘One final thought,’ she added.

Brynd indicated for her to continue, then steered his mare towards the cobbled road that led up directly to the Citadel. A unit of soldiers began to move forward but, on recognizing him, moved aside to let them through.

‘Please, no more of this Lady Eir. It hardly seems fitting any more. Just Eir will be sufficient.’

‘As you wish,’ he replied with a smile.

‘Commander,’ one of the soldiers called.

Brynd looked away to see a sergeant running towards him. When he reached his side he held up a letter. ‘This arrived when you were out, sir.’

Brynd took the letter, thanked the man and placed it in his pocket.

Night-time traditionally brought out the worst elements in Villiren, though the war had put a stop to most of that. When he had first arrived, Brynd had found underground drug dens, whorehouses importing kidnapped tribal girls, and a black market larger than the Imperial registered channel. Brynd could not concern himself with these matters; he had his mind set on the defence of the city. When the war came, this more colourful side of the city was forced to the fringes and beyond — out of sight, out of mind. But now the more insalubrious kinds of city life were finding their way back to the heart of things, where money and people met.

Brynd headed out on horseback along with two young archers from the Dragoons. They were riding towards a sector of the city right on the tip of where Deeping met what used to be the Wastelands, a former area of new growth that hadn’t lost its old moniker. There were rumours of illicit goings-on here, but he had other matters on his mind after reading the letter.

Brynd dismounted and tied his horse securely to an iron bollard alongside some former industrial works, while the two archers remained on standby, their eyes fixed on the surrounding shadows. The streets were wide and largely featureless, the buildings no more than a storey high for the most part, until they reached one area that appeared to be a row of large disused warehouses. Along this stretch of road, homeless people were gathering around small fires, their hands out for warmth, their faces illuminated by the flames.