Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

Now the bull-men readied themselves to charge into the enemy, tipping their spear-tips forward; they galloped onto the battlefield, closing the gap towards the thinned and broken lines, their speed phenomenal, then they ploughed into the advancing Okun with a sickeningly loud noise, smashing the black forms down, stomping on their bodies, slamming spears into faces.

While they rammed themselves forward, a few of the Okun managed to find gaps in the line and filtered through.

The commander was marching up and down the neat line of the Night Guard who now had their weapons drawn. A large humanoid suddenly lumbered alongside them, blue-skinned and holding two wide blades that seemed so large a normal human would have struggled to lift them. This figure posed nonchalantly next to the commander, who showed an acknowledgement of her presence with his sword-tip.

The Night Guard lifted their shields to their chests, and the Dragoons followed suit. They took a fighting stance. Fulcrom hoped they would hold the line but, surprisingly, the Night Guard began to edge forward while the Dragoons held the tight row behind. Spears-men stepped in and prodded the tips of their weapons through, and the Dragoons locked their shields to form a vast, spiked wall.

The blue figure strolled forward into the arena of battle, showing no knowledge of Imperial decorum. As the Okun approached, the blades began to whirl in its hands and with remarkable grace it cleaved into the enemy as if it was a sport.

At the same time the Night Guard broke away from their formation and engaged with the enemy in small clusters with swift, life-stopping moves; their blades sliced through the air at a ferocious velocity, finding postures and styles that Fulcrom had never thought possible. The speed and grace was breathtaking; they made warfare look like an art form. Some of the soldiers fought individually, each one surrounded by two or three Okun, yet still the enemy creatures seemed outmanoeuvred.

It was only when they were this close, some just a hundred yards away from Fulcrom, that he could see the Okun for what they were: grotesque creations, something between a hominid and crustacean. He shivered at the thought of having to fight one, yet here the Night Guard were making it look effortless.

Still some of the Okun broke through and proceeded towards the Dragoon shield-wall. The soldiers held their line firm as the Okun clattered into their armour. Fulcrom couldn’t see what happened — his attention was drawn to the air yet again. Arrows started to sail over their heads from different angles as the archers on the flanks fired randomly. The explosions thinned out the enemy’s next assault wave, stopping any chance that they could create much of an impact.

Having slaughtered the first wave of the Okun, the Night Guard regrouped. The very front line of Dragoons peeled off from the main combat zone, filtering back through the rows; a fresh line stepped forward. Fulcrom smiled at the efficiency of it all — those soldiers who had stepped from the front had their wounds tended to by military medics or cultists.

As the sun slipped lower, fading from the day, the Okun came again in dribs and drabs and small, vulnerable bands. The initial threat of their sheer mass had been nullified. It seemed a half-hearted effort at best and they were dispatched with the same efficiency as before. Row after row of Dragoons piled forward, seizing on islands of Okun, whilst the Night Guard themselves continued to fight like beings from another world.

The albino commander led from the very front, his presence on the battlefield unmistakable. Pale face caked in blood, and shifting back and forth with the agility of a dancer, he hacked and slashed his sabre into the gaps in the Okun shell, striking more vulnerable flesh. He exuded a confidence that Fulcrom admired and envied. All of Fulcrom’s fear had gone.

The adrenalin rush had dissipated as the minutes rolled by. He couldn’t tell precisely when it happened, that the threat was pushed back to the point where it was no longer a threat. Darkness came rather suddenly. Fulcrom looked up and noticed the sky-city had drifted slightly northwards, perhaps having hoped there would be nothing left here to see. A moment or so later a cheer started, somewhere at the far end of the defensive line, which progressed towards him.

Euphoria. .

‘They tell me you’re in charge around here,’ said Commander Brynd Lathraea. He wiped his face with a small rag, leaving a few smears of blood across his cheeks, but it was better than before. He was a handsome man, remarkably pale-skinned, with eyes so dazzling they unsettled Fulcrom at first. There were other soldiers in the distance, milling around, and signs of order were returning to the refugee convoy.

‘I doubt you can call it being in charge ,’ Fulcrom replied with a dry chuckle. ‘Most of this has seemed so completely beyond my control.’

‘It often feels like that, doesn’t it? But I can assure you that’s quite natural. The skill comes from eventually discerning the planned chaos from actual chaos. I’ve heard remarkably good things about you. It seems that without your leadership we may not have had any people left to defend this evening.’

Fulcrom didn’t know what to say. Had he succeeded? It didn’t feel like much of a success.

‘Do you think the Okun will return?’ he asked.

‘Not at night, I’d say,’ the commander replied. ‘We found from the defence of Villiren that their military activities took place during the day. I can’t work out their response to daylight — perhaps it has something to do with their biology — but such things ultimately work in our favour. Though I cannot vouch for any of their kin.’

Fulcrom nodded.

‘Walk with me,’ the commander requested. They turned and began trudging back up the slope, military personnel surrounding them. There were quite a few stretchers being carried to the hastily set-up medical tents with several dozen injured soldiers, some of them clearly not human.

‘Now tell me, Investigator Fulcrom — what the hell happened to Villjamur?’

‘When were you last there?’ Fulcrom asked. ‘A lot changed, even before we were forced to flee.’

‘I left before the Empress and her sister were set up for a crime they did not commit and were due to be executed on the city wall. They escaped. Urtica became Emperor.’

‘Is that the official story now?’ Fulcrom asked. ‘That they were in the clear?’

Brynd nodded. ‘As much as these things still matter, yes. We’re annexed from the Empire now,’ he continued, looking around, ‘but that is a situation which seems out of date considering there seems little from which to be annexed.’

‘That’s putting in mildly.’

Fulcrom gave as accurate an account as possible, starting with Urtica’s crackdown on law and order. ‘In the Inquisition, we thought it would be good — that we’d have powers to do our job thoroughly. The crackdown went rather far, though. The military upped their patrols on the streets and started harassing those from Caveside. Crime, ironically, started to rise.’

‘Soldiers shouldn’t be on the streets like that,’ the commander observed. ‘They’re not trained to deal with civilians in that way.’

‘I agree with you on that. Well, given the tensions in the city, things were bound to escalate. A woman called Shalev arrived in the city and organized the Cavesiders. She came from the cultist isle and she was remarkably efficient in targeting structures of power. The rebels became so efficient, in fact, that the Emperor panicked. He was beginning his programme of repairing the city and didn’t want a revolution on his streets — and so he created the Villjamur Knights.’