Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

‘Nice work, now let’s get over there,’ Malum said. ‘Tie it up, get a sack over its head, and load it onto the cart. We deal with the questions in the city.’

As the moon broke free of the clouds that night, while Malum pored over his crude accountancy, he was informed that the garuda was now fully conscious. They had dragged the brown-feathered creature underground, to one of their bolt-holes. There they stripped it of any Imperial armour, held back its arms, and his men laid into it, giving it several blows to the back of its wings, before striking it repeatedly in its stomach.

The thing gave off a hell of a noise, and Malum called away his men. Gripping a lantern, he stepped closer to the creature, which was slouched against the stone wall. He noted its impressive plumage and gently speckled face, its huge beak, muscular arms and torso.

‘You don’t talk, we get that,’ he growled. ‘But we know that you fuckers can write.’

He nodded for one of his men to bring a piece of paper and a pencil, and placed it on the floor in front of the garuda.

‘We’ll be back in an hour,’ Malum said, ‘and in that hour you will have written down all the movements of the alien races that are going on around the city. I want to know exactly what the threat is to Villiren, where this so-called threat is, but mostly I want to know if the Okun are anywhere near the city. And if you don’t, we’ll break off one of your wings.’

As he walked away, he whispered to one of the more senior of his gang, ‘Make sure you dump the body out of the city when you’re done. We can’t have gossip of this getting back to the military.’

The flight to Villiren was rough. A harsh wind came from the north, rocking the transportation cage so hard that even Brynd thought they stood a good chance of falling to their deaths. Two rows of his regiment were facing each other in one part while, towards the back, men from the Dragoons sat hunched, holding on to ropes: they were above the wing muscles, and were getting the most vicious treatment. It had been fine coming south, flying with the wind in their favour and almost gliding the last stretch. Things weren’t even this bad for an oarsman on one of the larger Imperial longships. At least three of the Night Guard soldiers threw up and only Tiendi, the woman, seemed to be at all easy, moving around and talking to people as if this was some cosy tavern.

A few holes in the roof of the vast, wood and metal cage permitted enough light inside to indicate that they still had a little while left before nightfall.

‘How long’s left, sir?’ Brug called across to Brynd.

‘About another hour at least, given these winds,’ he replied.

Everyone’s face was glum. They just wanted the flight over. Understandable , Brynd thought, as another blast of wind rocked the cage.

‘How are you holding up, investigator?’ he called across to Fulcrom, who was sat a couple of places to his left next to Lan. ‘Glad you accepted our offer of a ride now?’

The rumel tried to laugh. ‘Well, it’s quick at least. It beats sitting on a horse for days or being tossed about on the waves for just as long.’

‘I’ll say,’ Brynd replied. ‘Lan, are you coping all right?’

‘I’m good,’ she replied. ‘I used to work as an entertainer — as far as I’m concerned, it’s the only way to travel.’

‘Are these otherworld people — are they OK with you using this method of transport?’

‘It was their idea,’ Brynd said.

‘Seem like good people, these ones,’ Fulcrom replied.

Another leading question , Brynd thought. He’ll do all right. ‘They’re certainly very positive in working with us.’

‘What happens when we get back?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘First we’ll ride into the city, and send outriders ahead to announce our coming. We’ll do the usual post-battle propaganda before briefing Jamur Rika on the latest events.’

‘Would she not want briefing first?’

Brynd paused and contemplated a diplomatic response. ‘In an ideal world, yes. .’

Not even boredom itself is as dull as this , Randur thought.

He decided that he had found a new place beyond boredom, a part of the emotional spectrum that he would not wish on his worst enemies.

And what the hell has become of me?

As he so often did after dinner, he headed along the corridors to chat to some of the serving staff, to see if he could glean a little juicy gossip about the mechanics of the building; despite his new-found position near the top of the remnants of the Empire, he still preferred to mix with people who had a few stories to tell, who had a little spirit about them, but there was precious little gossip to be found. Apparently since the departure of the former portreeve of the city, everyone had been on their best behaviour.

He noticed tonight that Rika had eaten very little at dinner, but afterwards, when he was in conversation with one of the administrative staff, he saw Rika marching by with a strange pace about her. His curiosity was piqued and he moved around the corner to see where she was going. She strode confidently along the stone-paved corridors on the ground level of the building, heading towards one of the rear exits.

Now where’s that lass off to?

He threw on a thick cloak, managed to find his sword that he had stashed away, and decided the most productive thing to do would be to follow her.

What else , he thought, is there to do?

The element of subterfuge had brought a sudden burst of excitement back into his life.

It wasn’t as cold as he thought it would be tonight, and the sounds of Villiren were enticing once again. His blood was pumping properly.

It felt good. He could hear the sea in the distance, grinding against the geological forms of the bay and harbour; he could hear people talking, glasses being smashed, dogs barking. Comforting sounds for someone if they were used to them.

Quickly, he trotted down some steps, and around the corner where Rika had gone; there, he scanned the immediate streets for any signs of her.

He caught a glimpse of her — in that same dark, military-style garb she had taken to wearing. Her black hair had been cut even shorter, her skin growing abnormally pale, so she wasn’t hard to recognize in the light of some of the ornamental beacons flaring around this district.

The place was less of a mess than before. Rubble was gradually being cleared by community teams; a lot of travellers provided cheap labour to help out with odd jobs around the city. Taverns were doing a good business, too, which was a promising sign.

Citizens here seemed more of a threat than the average person in Villjamur. People there may have wanted a fight or two, but in Villiren the challengers looked as if they might actually win a fight with him.

Rika seemed to have no destination in mind, just taking a random route around the city. Though the streets were no longer constructed according to any available map, she wandered about the place as if she was drunk or overdosing on arum weed. She would head down one street, only to round a corner and head back along a parallel street. She took full circles and went down some only to come straight back up as if she’d met a dead end — except she was free to pass through.

And this woman is to lead the new Empire? Randur thought . She can’t even lead herself at the moment. It doesn’t really bode all that well .

Whenever she passed citizens, she would veer into their path and scrutinize them before lurching away again, leaving them startled and hurrying on.

Is she looking for someone? Over the course of a few minutes, Rika became increasingly animalistic, he noticed: her stance might become a crouch, her walk would transform into a scuttle.