Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

A light shower came and went, but brought no snow. Perhaps it was the coastal breeze but the weather seemed less and less like that of an ice age. There were much warmer spells of late and, though it was not necessarily anything more than a hunch, the signs of nature suggested it was more than that: buds were starting to show on dead-looking plants; new shoots had started to form. It made Brynd contemplate yet again whether the astrologers who made their predictions about the long ice age were simply wrong.

He continued along the muddied road that, thanks to the military, had already become well-trodden and slippery. Gloops of mud were thrown up at his black uniform, and he was forced to step up onto the grassier verge, clinging to the stone wall, so that he did not fall in the quagmire.

In the field opposite, cream and brown tents stretched as far as he could see, with little spires of smoke rising from inside them and out. Brynd paused to watch: it reminded him so much of the refugee camps outside Villjamur. There was so much activity here that it seemed some primitive city had been set up overnight. People milled about in between the rows. A priestess was holding her sermon against a small outbuilding. From the look of it, there were even a few people who had begun businesses — upturned crates and made temporary market stalls, and they were selling whatever bits and pieces they had managed to bring along with them.

Brynd continued on his way, until the muddied road went through a zone that had been sealed off, and was for military personnel only. To one side two young soldiers were slouched by a low, dry-stone wall, sitting on two barrels, muttering to each other. For a moment he tried to glean what they were saying about the refugees, and was soon disgusted at the subject.

‘. . One of them even offered to suck my cock for a few coins.’ They both laughed. In a heartbeat, Brynd stormed up to the soldier who spoke, gripped him by his throat and pinned him back against the wall. ‘And what was your reply to her then, soldier ?’ he snarled.

‘Commander. .’ the man spluttered. His face was covered in dirt, his eyes were wide. ‘I. . Nothing happened, commander, I swear.’

‘Sir,’ the other man said, ‘he’s full of nonsense. Don’t listen to his stories. .’

Brynd released his grip, listened to their measly excuses and took their names.

‘If you hear of anything like that going on, you come to me first,’ Brynd said. ‘These are our own fucking people — we serve them , or have you forgotten that?’

‘No, sir,’ they said in unison.

‘I’ll personally give a dozen lashes to anyone who abuses any of these refugees — in whatever fucking capacity that shows. I’ll cut your cocks off myself if I have to. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, commander,’ they said, both now terrified, and nodding.

‘Good. Get back to your units,’ Brynd ordered, and waved them aside. He watched them gather up their things and shamble into the distance. Of course, such abuse went on in the army — word spread quickly through the ranks — and there was little he could do to stop it, no matter how hard he had tried over the years. Those in power would always use it in inappropriate ways. He didn’t mind at all if the men, or indeed women, visited whores — he had done it himself, of course — but to abuse the Empire’s own people and take advantage of Villjamur’s desperate refugees was a line he would not cross. It was essential that the people trusted the military. Brynd continued into the run-down farmhouse, which was the new hub of operations.

Although it obviously hadn’t been lived in for years, a little military efficiency had helped: a pile of broken furniture had been stacked outside, while other smaller pieces were being burned in a huge firebox against the far wall. There were flagstones for flooring and a large wooden table, at which Artemisia was seated. Three Dragoons paused, as they strode through the room, to salute Brynd and he returned their gesture.

These were all signs of business as usual, that they were on top of everything.

‘Welcome, commander,’ Artemisia said. ‘Were the people who lived here once all, how is it said. . dwarven? These buildings are not fit for children to stand in, let alone one of your human or rumel people.’

‘You help fight in a battle and a low ceiling is what worries you the most?’

‘It was a good skirmish, was it not?’

She continued to examine the maps and various lists that were strewn across it, and he could see that she had been making notes.

Brynd sat alongside her. Somewhere outside, he could hear someone busily chopping wood. The blue sky in the distance prompted his thoughts to the change in weather.

‘Tell me, the gate through which your enemy gained access to this world. How many of them are there?’

‘They are numerous, though many are located above the seas, so were of no practical use until the ice formed as a result of the cold being emitted.’

‘So though the cold weather — all this ice — isn’t natural here it’s far worse in the north. Is that anything to do with the Realm Gates?’

Artemisia remained expressionless. ‘Of course, commander, it brings you the ice from our own world and expels it into yours. You think your world is cold? My comrades can dress lightly here. It is a paradise compared with ours, which has now become an endless winter. This is what it is like at the end of the world. The land there is almost utterly dead: we would perish if we remained there for another of your years. Our people had heard stories about a sun; those who sired me told me about it, many generations ago, and we do have certain texts that depict its path through the sky. But it was never anything like I have experienced here — so bright and red. When I first came through — long before I brought my ship, on a purely investigative quest — I spent the better part of a day watching your sun moving through the sky from one side to the other. There were no clouds that day. Its movements did not tire me. I sat, and I watched, and I marvelled. Then I returned to the gloom from which I came, to face the war that had been fought for generations; I knew then my elders’ plans were correct. We had to leave but, alas, it seemed our enemies were burrowing through time and space in their own way. Those Realm Gates indeed brought the ice from our world. So powerful is their effect it seems they altered your weather patterns, too.’

‘You’ve closed one up — the one on Tineag’l, with your ship, after the war in Villiren — and it became warmer then. We’re not in an ice age here, are we?’

‘Your scholars were all fools,’ Artemisia replied. ‘They would do well instead to open their eyes and observe the world.’

Brynd had learned to look past her bluntness. It’s probably deserved and, if not, then it’s a welcome challenge . ‘Presumably if you’ve shattered one gate, you can shatter some more?’

‘It is possible, yes.’

‘If you want to stop them coming into this world, then it seems like a good place to start,’ Brynd added dryly.

‘We can do that — though it would only make a difference to your climate.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Our enemies have,’ Artemisia said, ‘all arrived anyway.’

‘In the sky-city?’ Brynd asked.

‘A crude term for the Policharos, but it is accurate enough. They are here in vast numbers, in that vehicle. Whatever happens in the near future will settle matters, finally, and it will occur here, in the Boreal Archipelago.’

‘Are you suggesting they’ve put everything in that thing? Their entire culture?’

‘It sounds improbable, commander, does it not? Yet it is truth. They, too, know there is precious little time in our own world. The elements have removed the luxury of choice. Our sources informed us that they had been making arrangements for a large-scale exodus, and that they had sourced a way of transportation for the whole construct, both through space and time, to this world. That action itself removed their biggest threat, Villjamur.’