Mark Newton: The Broken Isles

After she dismounted, Jeza reached into the saddlebags for her relic. It was a crystal object the size of her fist, which she had attached to an ornate brass pole. She bashed the crystal on a rock and suddenly it began to glow. Not being an authentic cultist, she did not know the name. It didn’t matter really — she simply referred to it as a torch, since it performed the same role as a flame.

‘I stand impressed,’ the tribesman said. ‘Bring it this way.’

They entered the darkness of the cave. The torch picked out a pale, smooth stone, with a few markings that seemed to be writing.

The rock became coarser and darker, with scars of minerals, or coloured by dripping water. As they headed downwards, the dark and damp became more acute. Then the narrow pathway they were on suddenly opened up in front of them as if they had entered a cavern.

‘What is this place?’ Jeza asked.

‘A burial ground, of sorts. Can you make your torch brighter like the sun?’

‘Well, that’s not particularly bright, but I can do that.’ She struck the crystal twice more against the nearest rock and pointed it in front of them.

The cavern lit up.

First, the tribesman paused to read something on one of the walls. He muttered something vaguely affirmative to himself, before pointing out some of the drawings to Jeza. ‘These are cave paintings,’ he said, ‘not dissimilar to the ones my own people once made.’

She was shown diagrams of bizarre creatures, unlikely things spliced together — lions or tigers combined with fish.

Jeza’s nerves grew agonizingly tense. ‘Will we be OK? We’re not under any threat of attack, are we?’

‘We will be fine!’ the man laughed. His voice echoed for several seconds. ‘People once lived in the caves, though no longer. They were only defending what was theirs — or protecting something that wasn’t.’

‘How do you know they’re not here any more?’

For a moment he paused to contemplate her question. ‘I hide in these caves sometimes,’ he replied. ‘I am not always a welcome person in my own community, because of my dealings with your people.’

‘Because you make money from both of us?’

‘A man must make a living somehow,’ he replied, glaring at her.

The next room seemed even colder than the last. It was certainly smaller. Weirdly, there were tiny trinkets strewn along one side. Jeza brought the torch much closer, and could see offerings, prayer beads, strange feathered items, metallic cups, and weird scrolls that had crumbled to dust. There were markings on the wall, too, vast paintings now, with a variety of styles.

‘These don’t seem that old,’ Jeza said, crouching by the offerings.

‘They are not. When I first used this place as a shelter, I came across two women from a minor tribe, bringing items of honour to leave here. They were not the only ones.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they fear their gods, that is why.’

Gods? Jeza could ask questions all day long. Nothing here seemed to make much sense.

‘Come and see this,’ the tribesman said, ‘and bring your light.’

On the wall was an enormous painting. It was rendered with a thick black ink that had stood the test of time. There was what appeared to be a bulbous abdomen and thorax.

‘These lines here are wings,’ he explained, pointing to one aspect of the picture, between the thorax and abdomen.

‘Is this its head?’

‘No, there is no head on this painting.’

Jeza stared at it, waiting for him to explain further, but he said no more. His tendency to give her limited information was frustrating. Did he need more money? she wondered. Did he need more time?

‘We are very close now,’ he said. ‘Over here.’

She stepped to follow him and could then see he was now crouching beside a dark pit. ‘It’s in here,’ he said.

She peered over with her torch. What lay in the pit astounded her.

Several feet long from tip to skull, it shimmered in the half-light; the bulbous abdomen was still there, as was the thorax — but there was most definitely a head. Rather, there had been a head at one point — now a huge skull lay at an awkward angle in its place. Mentally she began comparing it to other creatures she had seen, remains that had been sketched by her own hand and others, in a vague attempt to speculate on family trees, at how these things had come to be in existence. What family was it from? What was its lineage? Were there any remnants of this creature today; did it live on in other things?

But she drew a blank. Its presence stunned her.

Jeza shook her head in disbelief, and gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Tell me more. What is it?’

After a pause, he said, ‘People from my tribe call it the Mourning Wasp.’

She breathed the name to herself, as if to confirm something so outrageous. ‘Morning as in the morning, or mourning as in grieving?’

‘The latter.’

‘It’s not a fake, is it?’

‘I may have an interesting reputation, but I do not deceive. What you see here is real.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘What would you like to know?’

‘How it came to be here.’

He eyed her for a moment, and he was impossible to read. His eyes reflected the light of the torch, almost startling her. ‘There are folk tales, dating back to the Age of Science, a period where great beasts walked the earth, and monsters were constructed purely to see how far people could push their cultist-like powers. The wasps began a normal existence, but they were made massive by science, yet still they bred true. After the experiments there were thousands of them, and they all fled — on their own. It was said with the skull they became more intelligent. Their sentience, their solitary existence, their prolonged life and their awareness of dying out led them to be very miserable. Morose. Depressed. They lost much of their energy. It seemed they had no purpose. They mourned for their independence from their form, and in their final days they grieved.’ He gestured to the remains of the Mourning Wasp. ‘This is the second specimen known, but the best preserved.’

She regarded the remains of the wasp once again. Stubs remained where she assumed the wings would have met the creature’s thorax. The specimen was in incredible condition, though the arts of palaeomancy were not exactly predictable.

‘You think you can do something with this?’ he asked.

Jeza scratched her chin. ‘I’ll need to bring the others here to help me take it back to the city. But I think I can, yes.’

Wind stirred the leafless treetops. Other than that, Commander Brynd Lathraea could hear nothing to cause concern, nothing out of the ordinary. Snow was settling deep in the Wych Forest.

Still, at least this is better than being in Villiren.

Just a few miles to the north, most of that city was now little more than a war-shattered pile of rubble. Each day since the fighting, soldiers had been discovering dozens and dozens of dead bodies, which were to be burned on pyres. His orders had been strict: this necessary evil was to continue until every citizen’s soul had been freed. It was a messy business, but then the war had left a lot of mess behind. Entering through gates into this world, the Okun had made their way across the water aiming straight for Villiren, focused on the city’s destruction. Brynd organized Villiren’s defence and, though he could declare the operation a success, it didn’t much feel like a victory when so many thousands of Empire civilians had been torn apart.

After that Brynd often preferred to be out here, to talk to the crows and run his hand along damp bark, rather than having to apologize to families for carrying their dead kin through the streets.